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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

Text

Rise

Merlin prompt for you, you mystical purple dragon! I am absolutely obsessed w/your vulnerable Arthur fic 'Collapse': Arthur has been going through a particularly bad spell of symptoms with his heart when there's word of enemy mercenaries camping in Camelot's forests. He wants to go with the knights to fight them off, and Merlin pleads with him not to.

Thanks nonny for the prompt!

Read on Ao3 Part 1: Collapse

Pairings: Merthur can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3479

The first time Arthur collapses in the middle of the training ground Merlin’s heart leaps into his throat. He barely hears the roar of the other knights over the rush of blood in his ears as he scans the field, looking for something, anything, and rushing to Arthur’s side.

In other words: Arthur has a heart defect that none of them knew about. He and the rest of Camelot have to learn how to deal with it.

That’s the last big blowout they have for a while. Arthur gets up after a few moments, stretching a little awkwardly and wrapping his arms around Merlin’s waist when he overbalances. Merlin coaxes him gently into his chair and fetches another quill, settling it in his hand and seeping the remnants away.

“No,” Arthur says when Merlin goes to throw them out, “keep them.”

Merlin pauses, his hand already outstretch to throw it away. “Are you sure?”

“I want to keep them.”

“…alright. Where should I—“ Arthur holds his hand out— “okay.”

Merlin doesn’t ask any more questions, just gets back to his chores. Pick up the laundry basket, tuck the sheets into the corner of the bed that always seem to come untucked first. Pull back the curtains, tie them tight. Check Arthur’s armor for repairs, not that there’s been as much need for that lately. Tuck the sheet in at the corner again. Dip outside to carry the basket to the laundresses. Come back with lunch. Sit Arthur down and have him eat.

“Sit with me,” Arthur says softly, catching hold of Merlin’s sleeve.

“I have to go get the—“

“Please?”

“You’re shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that I can’t say no to you when you say ‘please,’ aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Merlin sighs as he sits, watching as Arthur immediately digs into his own food with a gusto he hasn’t seen since…well.

“What,” Arthur asks, his mouth half-full, when he glances up and catches Merlin smiling at him, “is there something on my face?”

“…I haven’t seen you happy like that in a while.” He reaches out to pat Arthur’s collar back into place. “It makes me happy.”

Before, Arthur would scoff and turn back to his food, or if he were extremely happy, he’s toss something playfully at Merlin and say if he did his job better, he’d see Arthur like this more of the time.

Instead, Arthur just smiles softly and the food turns bittersweet in his mouth. After a moment, he picks up a goblet of pear juice and slides it over to Merlin.

“Here, you should eat too.”

“I’m not that—“ the protest dies on his tongue as Arthur gives him a look— “well don’t hog all the sausages.”

“Oh, going back to stealing my sausages, are we?”

“It’s not stealing if they’re going to a more worthy cause.”

“Putting aside the fact that you are skinny enough to be blown over by a draft of wind—“

“Oi!”

“—that’s not how stealing works.”

“How would you know?”

“The hours I just spent drafting laws and reading the resolutions say that’s how I know.”

“Prat.”

“Idiot.”

“Pass the apples?”

“Green or red?”

“Red.”

“Good. Green’s my favorite.”

“I know.”

It’s not easy but it’s getting better.

The knights, even though they still train as hard as they ever did, have altered their own routines in a way even Merlin disbelieves sometimes. Here’s the thing; Merlin knows the Knights of the Round Table. He knows they would die for their king in an instant and their loyalty rivals even that of Merlin’s sometimes.

He just didn’t realize they were as willing to live for Arthur as they were to die for him.

Out of all of them, Gwaine’s change is the most significant. He barges into Arthur’s chambers with a disrespect that almost shoulders Merlin’s insubordination out of the way. Gwaine waltzes in, plants a tankard of mead on the table, and props his dirty boots not he polished wood like it isn’t Merlin’s job to clean it.

“No, no,” Merlin sighs when Gwaine tracks mud all the way in, “please, ruin eight hours of work in two seconds, be my guest.”

“Thanks, Merlin,” Gwaine says with a wink.

“What is it this time, you forget something?”

“Oh no, I’ve just got some questions for the man that thinks it’s a good idea to not give the men a day off for the rest of the week.”

“You’ve just had two days off,” Arthur says with a sigh, rubbing his forehead, “and I’m also fairly certain you were groaning about having too much time off two days ago.”

Gwaine shrugs. “Well, I’ve reconsidered.”

Merlin rolls his eyes as Arthur starts bickering with Gwaine. Of course, he knows why Gwaine’s doing this.

Gwaine and Arthur have never seen eye to eye on a lot, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean the two men aren’t fiercely loyal to each other. Arthur is the first noble in a long time to earn Gwaine’s respect, and Gwaine is the first man who has absolutely refused to be anything but honest with Arthur. It’s refreshing for the both of them,

“If you can explain why you’ve been going through shirts like Percival goes through sleeves—“

“You try squeezing that man into chainmail without a bucket of lard!”

“Where did you even get a bucket of lard?”

“Wait,” Merlin interrupts, staring hard at Gwaine, “is this why the kitchen’s food has been—“

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Did you seriously—“

“You’ve got no proof.”

“You just said—“

“I said no such thing.”

“Will you even—“

“Let you finish?” Gwaine grins broadly and takes a huge bite of an apple. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re a menace,” Arthur sighs, chucking another apple into Gwaine’s open hand, “and the kitchens should ban you from the halls.”

“Oh, you know he and Percival will just be in the vent with a hook on the end of a string.”

“Wait, that was you?”

Percival isn’t as brash as Gwaine, nor is he as openly talkative as the rest of the knights. Instead, he starts picking up shifts as Arthur’s guards outside his door. Merlin gets a chance to see him more often as he’s no longer training with the knights, and Percival is always close by if Arthur needs to talk to one of his knights directly. Originally, there was some push back from one of the stewards who said that it was, er, ‘unbecoming’ of a knight to ‘demote’ himself to guard duty.

That didn’t last long.

Come on, it’s Percival. The man’s a horse-and-a-half by himself.

Arthur won’t say it out loud, but Merlin can see by the way his shoulders relax when they hear Percival outside that he’s happier when Percival is close. It’s hard not to feel safe around Percival, really, it is. Not only is the man easily twice the size of most would-be attackers, but he’s steadfast in a way that few men are. He’s never shy about offering his own insights when he feels they’re overlooking something important, but he chooses his words carefully. Most men of Arthur’s will say what they mean, Percival means what he says. There’s a difference there—not a big one, but a difference.

“Sire,” Percival says as Arthur calls him in, “Merlin.”

“Hello, Percival.”

“Ah! Percival! Just in time.” Arthur stands up from his desk. “How is the report coming?”

“Very well.” Percival sits down, all creaking chainmail and armor, on the chair nearest the door. “I’ll have it into you by next week.”

“Have you spoken to the other guards?”

“I have. You were correct.”

Arthur nods, looking down at the desk and furrowing his brow. “The new regimen should be about ready to go by then…of course you will look it over before it is implemented.”

“Of course, sire.”

“Well,” Arthur says, clapping his hands, “you must at least join us for a drink.”

“I am still on—“

“There is no one better to keep me safe while I am having a drink,” Arthur interrupts softly as he starts to pour, “than Merlin and one of my most trusted knights.”

And if Percival starts to go a bit red from the drink a little faster than normal, well, no one’s about to say anything.

Lancelot offers counsel as often as he can. Merlin’s never one to turn away one of the knights at the door, nor is Arthur one to ignore the trusted word of his inner circle. Lancelot is by far the most…unchanged by the adaptation. He still addresses Arthur with the same tone as he did before, as though they’re all pretending that Arthur is taking an extended leave of absence. It’s nice, the stability of normality that keeps them all a little saner.

“And what of the people,” Arthur asks when Lancelot finishes giving an overview of the patrols that week, “do they seem…discontent? Upset?”

“On the contrary, Sire.” Lancelot shifts in his seat. “Ever since you have taken power and drawn back the guards, the people are happier. They walk about the streets with less fear, they trust the guards’ presence more in their space.”

“Good. And the provisions?”

“Those who could not sustain themselves before have an easier time cultivating a crop. With the assurance that the citadel will not leave them to die, they have time to ensure their own success.”

Arthur nods. “And we have had no issues with people taking offense to the offers of help?”

“None whatsoever.” Lancelot bows his head. “If I may, sire, this is the most prosperous I have seen this kingdom in all the years I have been here.”

“We are our people’s servants as much as they are ours,” Arthur says with a decisive nod, “we fail our duty if we do not support them.”

“Wiser words never spoken.”

Merlin’s doing his own little internal victory dance in the corner. The thought of Uther’s rage-filled face seeing his son meticulously undo everything he’s strived so hard to accomplish is enough to make him grin out of pure spite. And a good helping of pride.

“What’re you grinning about over there,” Arthur says suddenly, “you win a wager?”

“As a matter of fact—“

“No, no,” Arthur says quickly, “don’t tell me. I’m not getting swooped up in Gwaine’s mess again.”

Lancelot rolls his eyes. “I’m still finding hay in my chain mail.”

“Me too.” Arthur shoots a glance at Merlin. “You’d think it’d be better cleaned.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “If you think you could do better, then by all means.”

Lancelot hides his snort in his goblet.

When Arthur is allowed to go outside—with Merlin by his right, of course, and at least one of the guards a few paces behind just to run for Gaius if need be—he typically goes down to visit Gwen and Elyan in their father’s forge. Since the…change, Elyan asked permission to take a more active role in the blacksmithing aspect of their family. Morgana, as was to be expected, allowed Gwen to work at the forge with a smile and a favor: Morgana’s armor, sat unused since Uther forbade her training, was to be repaired and ready for her to use.

There were no objections, not that any would’ve lasted long.

Elyan meets them at the door of the forge, smiling and wiping sweat off his brow. “Good to see you two, glad you could make it.”

“Always happy to come see you,” Arthur says, clapping him on the shoulder, “by all means, show us what you have today.”

“Just small improvements, Gwen’s got the big things.” Elyan takes them through to the storage area, where the heat from the forge doesn’t threaten to sear their eyebrows off. Merlin’s learned his lesson. “Adjusted breastplates for the archers, different gauntlets for Percival, and a leather tunic designed to increase insulation for the colder months.”

“And you say you haven’t done anything.”

“Oh, just you wait until Gwen’s done.”

Sure enough, Gwen emerges a moment later, tired and sweaty from her time near the open fire, but a triumphant grin on her face. She waves when she sees Arthur and Merlin. “It’s done!”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “Morgana’s armor?”

“Well, it’s got to wait a little bit until she can actually try it,” Gwen huffs, setting her tools aside, “but yes. That should be the last big step.”

Merlin rushes forward to seize her in a hug. Elyan just chuckles. “That’s our Gwen.”

Arthur nods. “That’s our Gwen.”

“Alright, alright,” Gwen mumbles, “enough. You’re all worse than Morgana.”

“Oh, no, she’s going to do much more than we are.”

“I know, I know.” Gwen’s hands fidget a little. “…I know.”

“Alright,” Elyan says quickly, what else did you need to see?”

“Right.”

Then there’s Leon.

Merlin can’t really do much but watch those two, when they walk through the halls together, when they sit at Arthur’s desk and talk, when they stride in council meetings with Leon at Arthur’s left. They’ve known each other since, well, since Arthur was a boy.

There are secrets between them, secrets Merlin would never dare ask of them, that pulls them together in a way that no one else could ever hope to understand. And that paints everything they do now in a fine shade of gray.

Merlin can see the way Leon looks at Arthur. It’s the way he’s seen Gaius look at him sometimes when he thinks Merlin isn’t paying attention, or the way he remembers his mother looking at him. He can see the way Arthur looks at Leon, the way Merlin looks at Gaius or Gwen.

He sees the clever way Leon is always right next to Arthur whenever any of the lords come to visit, ready with a hand hidden beneath the cloak or a quick word when Arthur needs a moment.

Leon is the only person aside from Morgana that Merlin trusts enough to leave in Arthur’s chambers, alone.

Speaking of which, there’s probably a reason Uther never let Arthur, Leon, and Morgana be alone in the same room, other than his arrogance and dismissal of Morgana as a woman.

Between Morgana’s sharp wit and diplomatic skill, Arthur’s stubbornness and determination, and Leon’s knowledge of exactly how to make the court do what they want, it’s only a matter of time before cruel laws are being overturned and the people are happier than they’ve ever been under Uther.

Camelot prospers under Arthur’s rule, not because of his proficiency with a blade, but his duty to his people.

That doesn’t mean it’s not without struggles.

When the first patrol goes out around the border, Arthur’s heading for the armor cabinet before Merlin can stop him. He opens it and starts pulling on his tunic, only to look around and realize Merlin’s not there.

“Well? Help me get it on.”

“You’re not going, Arthur,” Merlin says softly.

“What? Of course I am, it’s the border trip.”

“I know what it is,” Merlin says, walking a little closer, “and you’re not going.”

“Give me one reason why you think I shouldn’t go!”

As a response, Merlin simply nods toward Arthur’s hand on the cabinet door. Sure enough, as soon as Arthur looks, they can both see it’s starting to shake.

Arthur swallows heavily.

“…it’s just a ride,” he mutters after a moment, “it’s not a fight.”

“You don’t know it won’t turn into one.”

“The border patrol is safe.”

“Patrols are never safe.”

“I have to go,” Arthur explodes, looking at Merlin with such ferocity that Merlin almost takes a step back, “it’s my duty, I have to—to—“

Merlin winces and rushes forward. He catches Arthur as Arthur starts to slump, politely ignoring the muffled curse when Arthur remembers that he can’t shout anymore.

“I have to,” Arthur mumbles brokenly, “I have to go…I have to go…”

“Shh, shh,” Merlin hushes, “come on, breathe.”

“I’m fine.” Arthur waves him off before Merlin can tell him that he is not, in fact, fine. “I just—I—it’s—“

He slumps.

“Arthur?” Merlin quickly switches his grip, cupping Arthur’s face in his hand. “Arthur, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you.”

Merlin breathes a sigh of relief. “Alright. Then tell me what’s wrong.”

“Aside from the fact that I can’t even bloody shout anymore?”

“Aside from that.”

Arthur closes his eyes, letting Merlin lean him back against the cabinet. After a moment, he opens them again.

“For as long as I can remember,” he mumbles, “I’ve—there’s…there has always been one thing I can do to protect my kingdom.”

Merlin listens, crouching down in front of him.

“If I can…if I can just be there,” Arthur continues, his brow furrowing, “if I can be there, if…if I can see what happens, if I can—if I can be another pair of eyes, ears, hands…then that’s enough.”

Outside a horse brays.

“If I was just a someone who saw, who could—who could try and make sure things got better because I was there, then—then that was enough.”

Arthur swallows and his eyes glisten.

“And here, I can be here. I can still stand up for those who cannot stand for themselves, I can support my knights when I can’t fight alongside them.” He glances toward the window. “But out there…when they leave…I can’t be there.”

“They can take care of themselves,” Merlin reminds gently.

“I know they can, I’ve never doubted that for a second.” Arthur looks down. “But I don’t know if…”

“If what, Arthur?”

“If I could stand not letting them be seen.”

Oh.

Merlin swallows heavily. Arthur…courageous, noble, silly Arthur.

“You see them in how you listen,” Merlin says instead, “in how you trust their judgment and seek their counsel. You see them in how you let them barge into your quarters and how you make sure they aren’t afraid to tell you when you’re wrong.”

He takes a breath and leans closer, watching Arthur’s eyes follow him.

“You see them in the way you still take Gwaine out for a drink,” he whispers, “you see them in the way you take Percival’s side in arguments, in how you never let Lancelot believe he’s any less than deserving, in the way Elyan gets to run his family’s forge with his sister by his side.”

Arthur tilts his head.

“And you see them in how Leon has never loved Uther the way he loves you.”

Arthur surges forward and bundles Merlin clumsily into his chest.

“You see them,” Merlin promises breathlessly as he clutches Arthur back, “and they see you, I promise, I promise.”

They stay there, curled up on the floor, until Percival knocks and immediately goes to fetch the others. Gwaine storms right over and scoops Merlin up in his arms, laughing when Percival immediately has to come over and grab Arthur too because they won’t let go of each other. Elyan sets a fire going as Lancelot tugs down a series of blankets and pillows from…somewhere, Merlin’s not quite sure. Leon has a word with the guards outside as they settle in front of the fire.

“Are you alright, sire,” Lancelot says softly, “do we need to get Gaius?”

“Merlin?”

“No,” Arthur mumbles as Gwaine checks in on Merlin, “no, we’re—we’re fine.”

“What happened?”

Merlin gives Arthur a nod. Arthur sighs, buries his head in Merlin’s shoulder, and explains, mumbling most of it into Merlin’s tunic.

“You’re an idiot,” Gwaine murmurs as he finishes, ruffling Arthur’s hair, “if you think that’s what makes us follow you.”

“You’re all here for Merlin, I know.”

“As true as that may be,” Gwaine says, ruffling Merlin’s hair too, “if we were just here for Merlin we’d’ve dragged him off ages ago.”

“You could try.”

“The point Gwaine is trying to make,” Elyan says, shoving Gwaine’s shoulder, “is that we’re here for you too.”

“And that means we won’t think any less of you. For any reason.”

Percival nods at Lancelot’s words, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Your world is my world.”

Arthur glances around, not believing the words he hears from his knights, only for his gaze to land on Leon. Leon kneels down behind Merlin and pats Merlin’s shoulder. With one last squeeze, Merlin moves away.

Leon opens his arms. “I’ve seen you grow,” he says, “through Uther, through Agravine, and through yourself.”

Arthur stares up at him, wide-eyed.

“I’ve seen you fall, Arthur,” Leon whispers, “but I’ve also seen you rise.”

It takes only a little nudge from Percival before Arthur’s hugging Leon as fiercely as he can.

“Alright,” Gwaine claps, “now, have I told you lot the story of the great tavern fight in Mercia?”

“Several times.”

“Just yesterday.”

“You told me three hours ago.”

“Ah, but I have yet to tell you of the other great battle of Mercia. You see, the lass had just brought me this incredible wedge of cheese…”

When the stories have run out and their cups have run dry, and Elyan and Leon have made the beds in front of the fireplace as comfortable as they can—including dragging Arthur’s truly ridiculously big mattress onto the ground too—the knights bed down, around their king.

Camelot has never been safer.

#merlin #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #arthur pendragon #merthur #merthur fic #fic #dragonbabbles

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kadehenry · 3 years

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A Funeral Homily on the 5th Anniversary of A Suicide

Five years ago a friend committed suicide. I wasn’t the closest circle of impact, so for a long time I thought perhaps there was not space for my grief as well. I wanted to make sure we had centered the people most directly impacted.

But over the last five years I’ve come to recognize that in doing so I also did my own heart a disservice. So, while in seminary, I wrote this homily. It is what I wished I could have said, had I been a person who spoke at her funeral. It was an attempt to sketch out the space I thought one could hope to hold when addressing such a broad group of people as those who gathered, both in person and online, in a space many were uncomfortable with and mistrustful of.

This is belated. It is not enough. And it doesn’t change the things we’ve lost. But it is also my testimony and a bearing of witness. And for those reasons, I share it here.

===

When I head the news of Bryn’s passing, my first reaction was “God fucking damnit.” In some ways that still feels like the most honest response.

The news crashed over us like a tidal wave, leaving devastation in its wake. Even as some of us sprung into action, others were paralyzed. The shock and disbelief are tangible. For some of us, the overwhelming feeling is numbness – an oddly clinical detachment and a hyper-focused engagement with the details, because knowing everything feels safer, maybe saner, or maybe just helps us feel at all. For others, it’s rage and a sense of powerlessness and betrayal. How could she do this to us? What could we have done differently? Could this have been prevented? And for some of us, this new loss brings back to the surface other deaths that we were still laying to rest.

Grief takes many forms, and as we gather here together this evening I want to affirm to you the holiness of your grief. Bryn was deeply loved, and she had a profound impact on so many of us – of course she is deeply mourned as well.

===

Bryn was not always easy, but she was hard to resist. She could be soft and introspective, and then turn on a dime and cut into you with a razor-sharp wit. She loved and fought with women in equal measure, and she played boys like autoharps, deftly plucking out the melody she wanted with a skill that made them hum along, thinking it was their own tune. Will anyone ever again wear sundresses and cowboy boots so well?

She was witchy and mercurial; I never wanted to cross her. No matter how close I thought we were or might have been, that just seemed like certain destruction. And she was unapologetic - at least in my experience - about her choices and her feelings. She didn't shy away from the things that had made her who she was, and she didn't back down once she'd decided to scrap with you. Hell, sometimes she initiated it.

But she also cared deeply about people. She loved hard and fiercely.

And so it is perhaps appropriate that the last thing Bryn said to us was, “Be kind to each other.”

Now I confess that, because I’m a theology nerd, when I saw those words I wondered immediately if they were scripture. Bryn was a Christian – she and I talked a lot about faith – the faith we grew up with and the ones we’d found or fashioned or reclaimed for ourselves.

But I know that’s not reality for a lot of people in this room. For a lot of us, church has been primarily associated with violence and pain. Being in one now as we grieve Bryn’s loss doesn’t do much to change that perception.

Still, I am reminded of the words of that rhinestone femme prophet, Dolly Parton: “People just overshoot trying to find God. They're going outside and trying everything. They don't realize that it's right inside themselves.”[1]

Whether or not you are a person who resonated with God as Bryn named her, I believe that the in the act of all of us being here today, we bring a radiant, collective queer divinity to witness to Bryn’s life and death. And that communal divinity is big enough to hold all of our grief, rage, numbness, and despair.

For some of us, that will feel like church. For others, it will mean something else entirely. And that’s okay, because faith or no faith, we’re here because of Bryn, and because we believe there’s something about that togetherness that is more powerful than our isolation.

[Be kind to each other.]

So I looked it up – that phrase – and it turns out it’s from the book of Ephesians, which is in the Christian New Testament.

I can’t say for sure that she meant to quote scripture in her final words to us, but reading them in that context I have to say the whole thing is very Bryn – in one way dark and funny, and in another, the kindest and most compassionate thing to leave us with.

Because you see, Ephesians 4:29-32 goes like this:

Let no unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building up the one in need and bringing grace to those who listen.

And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, in whom you were sealed for the day of redemption.

Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, outcry and slander, along with every form of malice.

Be kind and tender-hearted to one another, forgiving each other just as in Christ God forgave you.

It’s not exactly what I was expecting. And also, it’s perfect.

Bryn, the saltiest, shadiest, wryest and most wonderfully acerbic of high femmes, quoting scripture that speaks directly against those qualities.

And at the same time giving us another kind of way to be with each other, even and especially in grief.

To be kind to one another - standing alongside each other and holding each other even as we reel in the wake of her death.

To be kind to each other – leaving space for grace, and the many ways people grieve, and also reminding each other that we will never fully understand why this happened or be able to logic it away.

To be kind to each other – forgiving ourselves and others for our shortness and our shortcomings in the days to come. Her death is not anyone’s fault, except perhaps, as Sarah said, the fault of a State that failed her.

Bryn’s words are a rejection of the very isolation she struggled with, and the demons that she grappled with, and ultimately lost to. Her words urge us to turn us towards each other, even if she couldn’t in those final moments.

She wouldn’t have given us these words if she didn’t know they’d be hard, but also that they could save us. Like all of Bryn’s best works, they have that perfect balance of sharp-edged truth and artful fiction, just to make it go down easier.

We could read her words as a fiction, an impossibility, a platitude. But we could also take them seriously. Pick them up and live them as a mantra. Build the kind of home, peace, and rest we know she always wanted for herself and for all of us.

Bryn rests now in power, and we, the living, are left to treasure all the pieces of glitter she left lodged in our souls. May we shine more brightly for each other because she has been a part of us.

Amen.

[1] “16 Quotes by Dolly on Faith and Family.” Southern Living, www.southernliving.com/culture/celebrities/dolly-parton-quotes-religious?slide=299010#299010.

#suicide #loss #death #community #queerchristians #queerfaith #queerclergy #transgender #homily #funeral

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djinmer4 · 6 years

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Rasputin’s Model 3/? (Lovecraft AU)

“This is fascinating. Here, the two of you need to take a glance at this.” Kitty and Jubilee shared a glance. They’d come for Jubilee’s follow-up appointment, not to participate in one of Hank’s experiments. Still, McCoy was definitely one of the saner adults around, it probably wouldn’t hurt to look.

“Beast, what should we be seeing here?” asked Shroud. The scientist had set up a terrarium in his lab, with about a dozen small plants.

“Do you remember the blood samples I took from you earlier this month Kitty?”

She nodded. “You said all the tests showed up negative, and that you couldn’t see anything unusual under the microscope. Just that all the cells had turned black for some reason.”

“Yes, then you told me about Jubilee consuming some in your spar. Given Ms. Lee’s sudden onset porphyria, I wondered if there might be a causal relationship. So I exposed some Brassica Rapa to your blood. Now look.” Kitty and Jubilee didn’t know what Brassica Rapa was, but they would lay money down that it wasn’t supposed to look dark brown, purple and black with red veins, nor have spikes growing everywhere nor be moving around. Hank dropped a pair of beetles in, and two of the plants stabbed the insects and dragged them into their pots.

“Despite demonstrating no other alterations than refractive spectrum, your blood has developed mutagenic properties. I do believe that consuming it has caused Jubilee to evolve a secondary mutation. Jubilee, you should spend some of your leisure time in the Danger Room, to see what other abilities you are now expressing.”

Kitty turned and walked out of the room. Beast watched after her, dismayed. “Kitty is quite good at interpreting my explanations on a regular basis. Did she not understand this time?”

“Probably better than I did,” said Jubilee. “But what I got out of it is that I’m turning into a vampire because I swallowed some of her blood, is that right?”

“That’s vastly oversimplifying but essentially correct on the main premises.”

“Right then. I’ll go talk to her.” When Jubilee got out, Kitty was right there, on the floor, curled into a little ball with her face smushed against her knees. The younger Asian girl sat right next to her. “You know it’s not your fault, right? I don’t blame you.”

“From the sound of things, you should. It’s my blood that made you this way.”

“You didn’t even know anything had happened when we sparred. Just promise me you’ll be more careful where you bleed in the future.”

“I will.” Kitty looked up at the other. She hadn’t cried, but Jubilee could tell it had been a near thing. “We should go back and listen to the rest of Hank’s speech.”

Jubilee helped her up. “Yeah, I hope he’s got a solution for how to keep this from spreading. Otherwise, you’re going to end up behind a desk again.”

Piotr had a new canvas this time. No black paint, no velvet. This time, it wasn’t going to become a new image of horror. Something light. Or maybe holy. Yes, that was it, he’d paint a cathedral.

He kept to lighter paints, white, gold and ivory, with just a little dark red and black to show the background and the sky. The stars he didn’t bother to pattern, just letting the white fall where it will. He also drew a small figure, clearly human, carrying a torch to illuminate the interior details of the cathedral.

“Painting again? Living on the wild side are we?” Shroud must have just finished her workout and showered. Her hair was still damp, but her clothes smelled clean.

“This time I didn’t let my imagination run away with me. Just man, exploring cathedral at night.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll look. But if this turns out to be one of your horror scenes, I’m going to have to ask you to stop for a while.”

“Nope, completely innocent.” Kitty came around and smiled. “Oh, I don’t recognize anything at all!”

She spent a few minutes admiring the painting, careful not to touch the still wet paint. But the longer she looked, the less she smiled until she almost seemed fearful. “Piotr, what type of structure is this supposed to be again?”

“Cathedral?”

“Why does it appear to be made from bodies?”

“какие?”

“Look at the pillars. Look at the lintel above the door. They’re all in the shape of people!”

“I don’t- maybe it’s carved like that. Some houses of God do that! Or maybe it’s ossuary so people could still be with church!”

“One face is turning away from the light. Another has eyes open and it’s pupils following. A third is smiling at it. I don’t think statues would be carved at just the right angle to react to a torchbearer.” Now that she had pointed it out, he could see the same things. And some others- “Is that a tail on the wanderer?”

It was. A tail and tentacles reaching back and forth from the wanderer to his lighted staff. Piotr resisted the urge to just throw a bucket of paint on his work.

“I think I should stop painting for a while, Katya.”

“I agree.”

“I don’t know what it is, Paige.” Beast grasped the younger girl’s hand carefully between his gloved fingers. “From your description, I thought it was cancer but all the tests came back negative.”

“Is it some sort of parasite maybe? Something I picked up from our last mission in space?”

“No, the tests state that it’s still your body. Still your own DNA.”

“If that’s true,” she wailed. “Then why am I developing tentacles!?!”

“I don’t know. Did you happen to spar with Kitty before this occurred?” The blonde shook her head. She hadn’t seen the other girl since before the mission in Germany went to hell (literally).

“Then all I can recommend is that you cease the use of your mutant ability for now. You said the blot increases every time you dispense with your epidermis. Maybe if you discontinue its use, the canker will recess.”

“But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” She ended up so hysterical that McCoy had to sedate her.

Scott ignored the whispering. Careful observation had proved the voices were all in his head. None of them sounded like the people he lived with, so it was easy to distinguish the paracusia from reality.

The rivers of blood flowing down the walls and the corpses covering the ground were much more difficult to discount.

“Jean a quick scan, please. Have all of the AIM agents been neutralized and is everyone alright?”

Phoenix raised her hands to her head and closed her eyes for a second. “McCoy reports few injuries to the students and staff. Darwin and Marrow each got shot but received First Aid, and the operation to remove the bullet from Marrow was a success. Darwin has healed himself and is currently assisting in the clean-up. All other injuries were along the lines of bruises and broken bones, so he says everyone will be as good as new in a few weeks.”

She frowned. “Most of the AIM agents have been neutralized and are here except for three. Rogue is bringing an unconscious agent down from the roof, Iceman-” Someone ran by them, dumping a frozen body on the ground. “-killed his target. And Logan is chasing the last one into the woods.”

“Well, let's dump these guys into their van.” Scott followed words with actions, while Jean assisted with her telekinesis. Once that was complete, he and Jean followed Logan to pick up the last one.

When they got there, they saw Logan hunched over the body of the AIM operative. “Jean, do I hear chewing?”

She frowned, then activated up her fiery halo. “Yeah, I hear it too. Logan. Logan!”

No response.

“Wolverine, report!” Scott’s voice cracked in the air like a whip.

That caused the Canadian to respond. He dropped the body on the ground, jumped up and turned to face them, giving Scott a professional salute. “Yes, sir. At 2000 hours-”

Neither Scott nor Jean heard a word he said. Instead, they stared at the body Logan had been cradling. They could clearly see the bite marks, that started at the throat then went down the chest until they reached the torn open belly. From the ragged hole, the bitten off entrails were also visible.

Jean averted her eyes from their teammate, but Scott kept his gaze on Logan, his hand hovering by his visor. “Logan, what you just-”

“Logan? Who’s Logan?” The genuinely confused look on the shorter man’s face stopped Cyclops words in his throat.

Scott took a deep breath and coughed to regain his composure. “Jean, have Kitty and Piotr call Yana as soon as we get home.” The redhead nodded, stunned into silence.

#lovecraft #X-men

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houseofvans · 7 years

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ART SCHOOL | JONNY ALEXANDER (Detroit, MI)

Inspired by his love of the outdoors, artist and Head Screen Printer Jonny Alexander’s work incorporates Nature, landscapes, and its objects/processes, creating large open landscapes to cross sectional terrestrial islands sometimes floating in space, surrounded by oceans, or inhabiting surreal terrains. Devoid of humans and human interactions, his visual narratives do, however, reflect his own “existential quandaries” or spotlight the human consequences to the environment as in a 2016 mural he created with the Pangeaseed: SeaWalls Murals in New Zealand. We’re super excited to chat with Jonny about his art school experiences, his love of the outdoors, as well as his work ethic and tenacious attitude, all in this session of Art School.

Photographs courtesy of the artist

Introduce yourself. Jonny Alexander / Currently in Detroit, Lived all previous years in California. I’m a painter, muralist, printmaker and Head Screen Printer for 1XRUN in Detroit

If you weren’t a painter, what do you think you would have ended up doing professionally?

Well, I kind of am doing something else professionally besides / as well as painting. I work full time as the Master Printer for the publishing company and gallery 1XRUN / Inner State in Detroit. I am also a full time painter… so I guess that means two full time jobs haha. The Screen Printing is consistent and structured employment and the painting is sporadic in payment but constant in development.

We’re glad you’re a painter and an artist though, can you tell us about your journey? What was art school like for you? What were some of the best things you took away from that experience? What were you glad to get away from, once you graduated? How was life after school for you at the time?

I’ll do a quick rundown of pre-college art. 9-13 years old I got introduced and started writing graffiti with neighborhood skateboarding friends. With high school friends we also skated, we weren’t doing graffiti but drawing weird shit in sketchbooks and starting to screen print t-shirts in the garage. Cut to college I moved from San Diego to Northern California and went to CSU, Chico, which is about 3 hours northeast of San Francisco. I went into college thinking I didn’t want to study art cause it might kill the enjoyment of making it, but I was wrong about that. I took courses regardless though and was introduced to the world of Printmaking. I only knew screen printing, but I took an intro course that had me doing etching, woodblock printing, screen printing, monotypes etc. I was pretty intrigued with the process. I realized that being in other classes was just taking time away from working on art. So I went full on into a Bachelor or Fine Arts with an emphasis in printmaking.I recognized from going through school studying art that the experience is honestly what you make of it. No one is going to teach you style, no one is going to teach you really how or what to paint or draw or make. But they will give you the fundamentals and above all the time and deadlines to produce as much art as you can. That was really what I got most from it. It gave me a really strong work ethic; it pushed me to form a strong studio practice and to produce work. It also, if you are lucky, gives you a strong community of peers to bounce ideas off of and pushes you with healthy competition to get better. What I did like getting away from was some of the real intense academic push to defend everything you make. I don’t want that to come off the wrong way. I genuinely cherish conceptual art and having meaning and depth to what you make, understanding what and why you are doing something and the context in which it lies in the grand narrative or art history. But I found myself chasing ideas into weird places that didn’t even feel like art to me. I would think myself out of a painting or print because I couldn’t conceptualize it, instead of just making it and moving on. I enjoyed the freedom when I finished school of just making a painting to make it. If only for its aesthetic, color or composition without heavy weighted conceptual arguments attached. It helped me to work faster and really push forward in developing my style.

Life after school was fruitful and painful. Lots of uncertainty with the newfound freedom, lack of structure and lack of employment but also a lot of fun. My girlfriend of 4 years broke up with me shortly after we finished school. Shortly after that I quite my crap job at a pizza place, took all the left over house paint I had and went into the rural hills of Northern California and started practicing painting murals. I painted 4 murals in 4 weeks on abandon structures. I was heartbroken the whole time but working my ass off, using my tears to wash my brushes after a long day painting. Haha But really that was the bootcamp I put myself through to break ground on painting murals. Less than a year later I was an assistant to my friend Tavar Zawacki who is a longtime artist who goes by the name ABOVE. He took me out to Detroit to help him with a Solo Exhibition with Inner State Gallery / 1XRUN. About 8 months after that I was moving from California to Detroit to be 1XRUNS Head Screen Printer. It has been almost two years now that I have been here. Side note: The girlfriend of 4 years that broke up with me after school, we got back together a little later on….Hey Bertha I love you

Having acquired a degree in printmaking, what aspects of that particular skill set proved to be super helpful or maybe gave you a different approach to painting as an art form? Or how have you used your printmaking skills to inform what you do as a painter?

One thing that was helpful, as I had kind of mentioned earlier is that it led me into the job I hold with 1XRUN today. It is a pretty useful trade to have and I see myself being a print maker and screen printer for years to come. But in terms of my art practice printmaking definitely helped develop my drawing style. Printmaking also broke down layers for me as well. To make a screen print you have to lay down colors in a specific order. It is a pretty methodic and regimented order of operations. This method of a layering process has come into my painting practice and really into my mural practice. It has helped me to think about how colors “stack” if you think of them as layers. I think it helped me to be able to translate my smaller more time consuming paintings into larger murals by way of simplifying the approach.

In terms of your paintings the landscapes, the natural environments, and the colors of nature – are heightened in a way. As if the viewer is often experiencing a different type of hyper landscape. Could you tells us a little more about these “psychedelic landscapes” and how these visuals came about?

Psychedelic Landscapes was a joke between my friend Ian Roffe and myself in school. Haha I think the real root of it is from my upbringing as a child. Growing up in San Diego my parents could have taken us to Disneyland or something like that but instead we spent all of our family road trips going up to the Eastern Sierras. Going to National Parks or almost every other weekend spent up in the local mountains in San Diego fishing, hiking and camping. I was always picking up rocks and sticks and looking at the patterns in them, collecting them, doing some “organic hoarding” that I still do to this day. I also grew up surfing by myself. None of my close friends picked up surfing so again I spent a lot of time roaming the cliffs and rock formations of some of San Diego’s coastline. I think all that naturally filtered into my paintings. I was really into some of the surrealist painters like Dali and Max Ernst in my younger years so that love of large open landscapes was really appealing. I think it has been a common thread throughout my art making and has just evolved and transformed over the years.

Your paintings often depict geological layers / structures and other aspects of the natural world. What natural structures or landscapes have influenced you the most and what about them most captivated you and percolated into your works?

Rocks man….goddamn rocks. They are so cool. There is so much variation in them. In the texture, the color the way they crack and fold. The way that erosion goes to work on them over years, it’s just some very beautiful patterning. There is also good metaphor for me in rocks and mountains. Rocks are really old material compressed together over vast amounts of time and buried deep in the earth. They have some wisdom to them for that reason. I titled a piece a number of years ago, “The Wisdom Rocks of Old are the Souls of the Past” which kind of sums up that thought. Mountains also though, they are the pushing up of these old chunks of earth and we can climb up them to see beyond what we could from the ground level maybe to get clarity or furthered vision. I think there is metaphor to see in all nature if you are looking for it. I think that is why I have continued to use it in my paintings over the years. Most of my paintings don’t have people in them so I rely on nature and objects to create narratives referring to existential quandaries I have. I read this quote years ago, which I think is pretty nice and applicable. “The finest workers in stone are not copper or steel tools, but the gentle touches of air and water working at their leisure with a liberal allowance of time”. - Henry David Thoreau

Who are some of your top 5 favorite contemporary artists? 5 favorites of all time? I would have to say… Interesni Kazki Aaron Glasson & Celeste Byers (good friends) Michael Reeder Saner Pat Perry James Turrell Salvador Dali Caravaggio Andy Goldsworthy Radiohead

What are your top 5 materials? Is there a medium you haven’t yet tried, but are looking to learn? Acrylic Gouache Micron and Radiographs Waterbased Screen Printed Gradients Wood Panels built by my friend Craig (For real if you want to buy heavy really nicely made wood panels DM this guy @chejka ) I have painted with oils a couple times but would like to start making some oil paintings and getting some real nice smooth gradients

We gotta find out - What are your favorite Vans?

Love me some Sk8-Hi’s, always been a sucker for high tops, cause they feel good on my feet and look cool with pants and can also make you look like a goofy shit when you wear them with some short shortz.

Being a lover of the outdoors, where’s a place you’d love to go for artistic inspiration and why?

That’s a tough one. There is a ton of places…so lets go for a list? Right? Never been to Zion or Bryce Canyon, plan on going there in the next year. Andes in Peru South Island of New Zealand Iceland (including small plane flights over all the crazy land formations) Yellowstone (Not in peak season maybe go in late fall) The bottom of the Grand Canyon Patagonia, Argentina Um… Probably a lot more places But mainly I’d like to go to most of those places to see some intense and awe inspiring natural beauty.

What’s a question you’d like to answer that you’ve never get asked in terms of art? How do you formulate ideas and what is their lifecycle? (It would be a really long and disjointed answer, but fun to talk about.

I read that you often love painting outside at the beach or just outdoors. What about painting in the outdoors do you enjoy? And when you can’t paint outdoors, what is your studio like? (What do you put in it for inspiration?)

I think I have to change that previous statement about liking to paint outdoors. I think I may have talked about that before I ever really had a proper studio. For most of my life my “studio” has been whatever bedroom I lived in at the time. That was very cramped and limiting. So I used to just go out somewhere and set up and work on stuff, which was really fun. But now that I have been living in my loft in Detroit for 2 years, I really love having a nice open space to work. I have a nice big table, I have panels to paint lying around, I paint upright on the wall, which is nice for my back as apposed to sitting in the sand at the beach. I love having space to sit all day and paint, cause I find I need at least 4-8 hours to really sit and have a successful session painting. My studio does have quite a few plants around, some weird organic hoarding trinkets and always music or a podcast floating through the air. I do still carry a sketchbook with me wherever I go and like to do some drawing outdoors, but I find I am usually too preoccupied with what is going on around me to just look into my book.

You’ve been doing a lot of large scale paintings and murals in the last few years. What was the your favorite large scale work, and what were the challenges (if any) and how did you overcome them? What’s the best advice you’d give to someone working large scale?

I had a lot of fun about a year ago (March 2016) with the Pangeaseed: SeaWalls Murals for Oceans project in Napier, New Zealand. The challenge as it is with murals is the weather. It rained 3 out of the 5 days we were supposed to paint. Which, when using brushes, is a big problem. You can get away with spray paint in some light rain, but liquid house paint with a brush just won’t stick. Besides that it was a really fun piece to work on, it had a definite message to it about sea level rise and the causality of it coming from us humans consumption habits. I also got a lot more comfortable using spray paint on this mural. Previously I had barely every used it, I worked mainly with brushes, but I was able to practice and get much more comfortable with cans. Advice I would give to someone is to have a plan of attack. As I had said before about thinking of it in simplified layers, that really helps. Day 1 for me is usually getting the sketch on the wall nice and proportioned how I want it. Day 2 I fill in all the large flat area of colors and then all the rest days it just tightening things up and doing all the detail and line work.

What advice if any, would you give upcoming artists or folks who want to become artists?

Don’t wait for opportunities to come to you. You’ve got to be very tenacious and dedicated to it and you have to sustain that momentum for a very long time. I have been at it for years now and I still have so much I need and want to do. Also be wise about splitting up time between creating the work and getting the work out to the world. A bunch of painting stuffed under the bed should see the light of day. You kind of have to be the artist, manager, content editor, prompter etc. I think that’s all I’ve got. Well maybe just be genuine and don’t rip off other people work or chase trends, try to be authentic and people can appreciate that. And network! Go meet people in your artist community!!

Finally, what projects or shows do you have that you’re excited about coming up? I just had a piece in the “Paint It Forward” Exhibition at Cass Contemporary in Tampa last month. I will be showing at Inner State Gallery’s LAX/DTW show curated by Thinkspace in the summer. I have some fun things coming up in my studio working with a friend who does Neon here in Detroit. I am supposed to be painting a mural in Kiev, Ukraine at some point this spring or summer with a project called Art United Us, which will be my largest mural to date. I am also looking for any murals projects the world has to throw at me! Thank you for your time!

Follow Jonny Website: http://jonnyalexander.com Instagram: @jonnyalexander

#vans #vans art #jonny alexander #painter #detroit #interview #art school

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andersonguy-blog1 · 7 years

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"Nobody cares about human beings, everybody cares about money"

I have no vested interest in a leader of a country, or a potential leader of any country. I will not humiliate humanity by respecting nationalism. If I were able to vote to abolish politics and 'become one' I would but this is not on the polling cards. I don't entrust in any government, maybe if Corbyn spoke of world peace and the effort in becoming one and abolishing nations (and politics), something no government has ever said, then I would listen a bit more carefully. But he has no interest in peace and unity the only reason I'd vote for him is cause he ate some strangers pringles and laughed about it. But I can't vote for him because he believes in nationalism, and I don't, nationalism is the curse of humanity and it is the reason militaries exist. Without military how can nations fight? Without separate nations why have military? Some pledges Jeremy Corbyn has suggested - tax the rich, improve NHS and housing and all the same stuff you usually hear. But some of the things I would do to abolish world famine are - - I would never buy clothes again, I'd use all the clothes I have for the rest of my life if it meant the money could be used to defeat starvation - Im okay with being taxed more to defeat starvation - I'm okay to wait a few more hours in casualty if it saves millions of children dying from lack of food - I'm okay to never own a home to abolish world famine. But just because I would do the above doesn't mean I'm necessarily going to do anything about starvation, I might but world greed is the problem not you or i individually. And when people care more about their child being able to get a university degree over a homeless child sleeping on the street in India you can see why politics is so important to so many. As stated by worldhunger.org 'Poverty is the principal cause of hunger.' There is enough food in the world to feed every single being and there is enough money to go round so before we have the privilege of cutting the costs of student debt we should look at preventing a human being from dying the worst kind of death. Not just our nation but all nations. It seems to me insane that the pledges of all the potential parties are inconsequential to the problems that exist worldwide. And it seems even more insane to segregate this piece of land into a nation because as soon as it's a nation it gives rise to the typical outlook to the problems of this world 'it's not our responsibility, we are a separate nation'. There is some truth to this - it's not our fault individually that there is famine and we are not personally responsible but we are collectively responsible and if a truly beautiful human being had the say over where money and resources went then we would have no choice but to live a little more frugally, a little less luxurious. And if it meant that we can all eat throughout then how wonderful for some, how annoying for many they lose their luxuries. A little pause in proceedings to talk about something I found earlier dating back to 701-800 years old. Even back then people were becoming identified with form/feeling superior by heritage. MOKSHA जाति नीति कुल गोत्र दूरगं नाम रूप गुण दोष वर्जितम् | देश काल विषया तिवर्ति यद् ब्रह्म तत्त्वमसि भाव यात्मनि ||२५४|| Beyond caste, creed, family or lineage, That which is without name and form, beyond merit and demerit, That which is beyond space, time and sense-objects, You are that, God himself; Meditate this within yourself. ||Verse 254|| — Vivekachudamani, 8th Century AD (701 to 800) Moksha has been defined not merely as absence of suffering and release from bondage to saṃsāra, various schools of Hinduism also explain the concept as presence of the state of paripurna-brahmanubhava (the experience of oneness with Brahman, the One Supreme Self), a state of knowledge, peace and bliss. The meaning of moksha in epistemological and psychological sense has been variously explained by scholars. For example, according to Deutsche, moksha is transcendental consciousness, the perfect state of being, of self-realization, of freedom and of "realizing the whole universe as the Self" And to finish, some more of Osho on the matter - "I am against nations because I don't see any need for there to be nations. Why can't the whole planet earth be one single humanity? - which would be saner, more scientific, more easily controllable. Right now things are such that you can only say we are living in an insane world. Every three months the common market in Europe is dumping so much food in the ocean... mountains of butter! Last time they had to destroy so much food that the destruction cost was two hundred million dollars - it is not the cost of the food, it is the cost of destroying it. And just nearby in Ethiopia, one thousand people were dying every day. What kind of humanity are we living in? Half of humanity is dying in poverty. Every six months, America goes on throwing billions of dollars worth of food into the ocean, but they will not give that food to Ethiopia or to India or to any other country where people are starving and dying. Nobody cares about human beings; everybody cares about money. These money-minded people cannot be called sane: that food has to be destroyed; otherwise the market prices will fall, and they don't want their prices to fall. They want their prices to remain stable, so the food has to be destroyed. If the whole world is one, things can be very simple. At one time Russia was burning wheat in its trains instead of coal because coal in Russia is costlier, and they had an overproduction of wheat. In India, people were dying because wheat was not available. Coal we have enough of, but you cannot eat coal. If the world were one, then the coal from India could go to Russia and the wheat from Russia could move towards India. There is no need to destroy mountains, exactly mountains of butter. And why did they have to destroy it? Before, they had been selling it to Libya. In Libya, butter was available at half the price of butter in Europe. The butter was coming from Europe, but they were selling it at a throw-away price, just to get rid of it. Otherwise they would have to arrange dumping it and that takes money. Just to save that money, they were giving it to Libya. But President Ronald Reagan started going insane against Libya for no reason at all, bombed the poor country, bombed Kadaffi's three houses, killed one of his daughters - for no reason at all - and pressured Europe so that all the supplies that they were giving to Libya would be stopped. Mountains of butter collected in Europe. Now you need space, cold storage... so the old butter had to be thrown into the ocean for the new butter to come in. There is no need of nations. These are the hangups of the past. And if there are no nations, there is no need for armies. Right now, seventy percent of the budget of every country goes to the military; seventy percent to the military which does nothing except left, right, left, right, polishing their guns, their shoes, their buttons - that's all they do. And all over the world, seventy percent of the budget goes to the military and whole countries have to live on thirty percent of their budget. If the nations disappear, one hundred percent of the budget is available for the whole country - because the armies are useless. Right now there is no problem of there being any war with any planet. With whom are you going to fight? So what is the need to polish your guns every day? to polish your boots, and morning and evening, left and right? All these idiots who are doing this can be put into creative work. I don't want any nations in the world. The world is one single humanity. I don't want religions in the world. Religiousness is enough, more than enough. As religions disappear, millions of monks and nuns who are just parasites.... They do nothing. With religions disappearing, all these people can be put into creative work. There is no need of monasteries, there is no need of churches, temples, mosques. All these houses of God - and there are millions of men who don't have any houses, who live their whole life on the street. The houses of God are empty - there is no God. All these houses of God can be made available to the homeless. All these monks can be put into creative work, all the armies can be put into creative work. And when there are no more nations, all dirty politics will have to disappear. Different arrangements can be made for managing the whole world - a world government based on merit, not dependent on votes. In the whole world there are thousands of universities. The world government can be left in the hands of the universities, and all the universities should choose their best people for the world government. An education minister should be a man who really understands education and who can bring new forms of education into the world. Many departments of government will have to disappear, there will be no need. For example, the defense ministry - defense against whom? The universities could choose the most meritorious people - the Nobel prize winners, the great vice- chancellors, the great artists, the painters, the poets. There could be a different kind of government which is not dependent on the vote of a sleepy humanity, of those who don't know what they are doing. And we can make this world really a Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve will not have to go back to the Garden of Eden. And one day you will hear a knock on the door - God wants to come in! Because you have managed to create a far better garden than his old one. But we can keep that garden too, as a museum piece." Osho, copyright Sermons in Stones

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Hypnotized Ch.2 (Trixya)

AN- Thank you guys for the super-duper nice response I got from chapter one. This one is from Katya’s POV, and I decided to skip calling them ‘Brian and Brian’ just for the sake of not confusing myself, haha. Also, TW- Mentions of drug addiction and thoughts of weight loss. I think that’s it. Please excuse me if I missed anything. Happy readings, my doves!

Katya wondered whether or not he would ever have those feelings of wanting to ‘jump on pink clouds and shit diamonds’, or, what saner people than himself would describe as love. He had never been in a serious relationship with anyone, unless you counted the girlfriends he had before he was officially out of the closet. He loved them dearly, but even then, if you were to disregard the fact that he wasn’t really into women – he still felt a sense of wanting to get away whenever someone would get too close to him. That had coloured the rest of his dating life in the aspect of him only getting laid on occasion, but never meeting a solid boyfriend.

He had endured several conversations with his mother on why that was, because all she really wanted for him was to find someone that could carry him forward when he didn’t have the strength to do it for himself. Where he saw opportunities to live his life on his own premises, she saw bitter loneliness. When he laid in bed, really having to get up to meet Alaska in approximately two hours, he stayed under his sheets – trying to find an answer as to why he had functioned the way that he had for his entire adult life. He guessed that his depression and social anxiety had always played a big part in it. He was the type of person that could really be described as an introvert. Sure, he had made a career out of preforming in packed clubs and bars, but the price he had to pay for that he made up for abundantly in being alone when he got home. If he had a boyfriend, his personal space would be severely compromised. He had seen that possibility with quite a few men in his time, but since it hadn’t ever gone somewhere – it seemed unnecessary to dwell on it.

Then there was of course, his addiction. He had spent so much time being ashamed of who he was – and frankly, not really seeing a way out of his self-made misery. Being a drug addict wasn’t fun, which was of course pretty obvious to anyone that didn’t do drugs, but when he had looked himself in a mirror and realized that he was deteriorating before his very eyes; that was when he knew that he had to change. This time, it would be for good. He wanted to be someone that at the very least stood a chance of finding happiness, but as it turns out, the remnants of his addiction would forever be lurking by his side.

At the end of the day, he simply had no idea how anyone could stand to be around him as much as a relationship required. That was of course, before he had met the ever so fabulous Trixie Mattel. Whilst they were shooting Drag Race, they had gotten increasingly closer. Brian would lurk around in the hallway of their hotel, waiting for his friend to sneak him into his room. They would gossip about the other queens, Katya would talk about his life – and there it was, the blooming friendship that they had turned into a business opportunity.

He had known quite early on that he was attracted to the younger man, but had dismissed it as just wanting to fuck him. Nothing had ever prepared him for the bomb that was to come, when he had realized that there was so much more than just horniness that lurked within his chaotic mind.

“Okay, if we’re definitely sharing a bed – I want to apologize in advance for any snoring or sleep talking.” Trixie chuckled before he slipped under the sheets of their large bed. Katya had already crept under there, having wrapped a towel over his otherwise naked body before he had laid down. There was nothing like taking a shower after a gig and then slipping into a big, comfy bed.

“I’ll have to warn you as well mother, underneath this damp towel, I am completely naked.” Katya replied in his ‘Maureen’-voice that always made Trixie giggle. This time, he snorted and laughed tiredly. “I’m literally so tired that I don’t even care. Just don’t accidentally slip it in when I’m sleeping.”

This made Katya wheeze with laughter as he imagined that particular scenario in his head. He turned in the bed so he was facing Trixie, a wide smirk on his face. “This is the time where we’re supposed to share secrets and express radical religious values.”

Trixie turned around to face him as well, brown eyes meeting blue ones. They were both leaning down on their hands, which probably made the entire situation seem more innocent than it actually was. They had shared a bed before, which had never been a problem since nothing had ever happened. But this time, something seemed different. Katya could see in Trixie’s eyes that he was up to something. That same objectivity that he usually treated Katya with seemed to be gone, based on the looks that he was giving him; they were alluring and curious.

“Okay, I’ll play. I thought you looked really beautiful tonight.” Trixie murmured, which made Katya blush involuntarily.

“Well, thank you. The elderly hag still has some game.” Katya joked, trying to lighten the mood. He knew that getting into something with Trixie probably wasn’t the best idea. Then again, he had never been one to deny himself anything. So, whatever invitation he thought he got, it was in his nature to be drawn towards it.

“Could you cuddle me? I’m feeling lonely and desperate.” Trixie asked, making Katya furrow her brows. He knew that it might turn out to be a bad idea, but nonetheless, he opened his arms up and let the other Brian crawl into his embrace. Trixie leaned his head underneath Katya’s chin and sighed with contentment when Katya let his arm drape over him and draw him close to his chest. “Are you trying to wife me up? Because it’s working.” He mumbled, not so much an innocent question as it was an attempt to decipher what was happening.

“I don’t know if I could marry someone with so much integrity and grace – I’d feel inadequate.” Trixie replied with a snort, her usual dry sense of humour returning. Katya smiled to himself and drew the queen closer to him. “Go to sleep before you use up all of your big words, you cunt.” He muttered before dozing off.

He woke again when he felt a small hand drawing circles on his hip. He peeked one eye open and saw that Trixie had leaned back, now staring right at him with big, dark eyes. “Fuck, you scared me.” He gasped, wanting to know what was worth nearly giving him a heart attack. He had always been very skittish and extremely wired, so the slightest thing threatened to make him jump out of his skin.

“I just want to try something.” Trixie replied huskily, and then started to lean in. Katya stared in awe at his friend as he got closer and closer, not really knowing what to do. The only thing he did know for certain was that he did not want to deny himself some intimacy, so when Brian Firkus’s lips touched his own, he immediately kissed him back with equal fervour. The kiss was short, but incredibly sweet. When Trixie pulled away, Katya immediately missed his touch. “What was that for?” he inquired, a thin brow cocked to mark his confusion.

Trixie rolled his eyes and then leaned in to press another chaste kiss to his friend’s lips. He pulled away just enough in order to murmur quietly: “I really need this right now.”

That was all he needed to hear. They spent the following hour just lying there in each other’s arms, kissing and giggling. It was a wonderful evening, but they didn’t speak of it the next day. There wasn’t any need to; they knew that it was just a matter of two friend’s enjoying the company of one another when there wasn’t any trade around to fill that position. Just two friends. Nothing more.

Over time, Katya had begun to get more and more attached. He knew that he shouldn’t have let Trixie kiss him the other day, but he was still unable to deny that man anything. He genuinely hoped that they would have a real chance of trying to figure out what they were once Jack was out of the picture. He had nothing against Trixie’s boyfriend, in fact, it was quite the contrary. He actually liked the guy. Had he not, he would have let the plastic fantasy have his way with him, right there in his own hallway. But that wasn’t who Brian McCook was anymore, it couldn’t be. So there he was, twenty-four hours had passed, and he was still waiting for a confirmation that they were good to go. Trixie had sent him a text, saying that he had to wait until Jack got back from work. How it had turned out, Katya had no idea. He honestly didn’t know what to do if it didn’t work out in his favour this time around.

After he had dragged his body out of bed, managed to throw on a pair of clean black jeans and his ‘Madonna’ t-shirt, he headed out of the door to meet Alaska. They had agreed to meet up at the closest Starbucks as they had a lot of formalities to go through with their podcast. Katya was enjoying the fact that he got to do all sorts of things after being on TV, but it felt strange to be involved in something with a brand new person. Alaska wasn’t new in his life per se, but they had never worked together in anything other than drag shows. Well, there was always that time where he lost the crown to her, ‘but that’s neither here nor there’ he thought to himself with a smirk. As he strutted down the streets, he lit up a cigarette to take a few puffs as he headed towards his target.

Alaska, or Justin, was already there when Katya arrived. He had no idea why anyone would say that Justin wasn’t attractive as a man. He loved Alaska dearly and thought she was sexy as hell, but Justin had this confident aura that Katya envied. “Hello there creature of the night.” Katya greeted his friend as he sat down at the small, outdoor table that Alaska had picked out for them. Katya smiled as she saw a barista approaching them with two huge Frappuccino’s. His friend knew him too well. “I figured that I might as well just order for you. You’ve gotten so skinny lately I feel like shoving straight up fat down your throat.” Alaska remarked in her raspy voice, prompting Katya to huff as she took a gulp from her frozen drink.

“I thought I should start giving Violet a run for her money.”

Truthfully, Katya hated the way he looked. After he had been on the road for so much, the small amount of weight he had been able to put on just fizzled away. Now, he worked too much to get a grip on his diet. Someone like Violet or Pearl managed to look sexy as hell despite of her fragile figures, but Katya felt like he was too old for that. He was nearly thirty-five years old, his body wasn’t supposed to look the way that it did. He also enjoyed flaunting curves as Katya – that was beginning to be a difficult thing to accomplish, pads could only do so much. When all of his costumes had begun to look droopy, he had lost his will do sew them in any further. It didn’t help that Trixie was constantly on his case about it, Katya suspected that the younger queen had begun to get suspicious if there was something else going on.

“So, how’s life? Are you and Brian getting along?” Alaska asked curiously. Katya had wanted to confide in someone that knew both him and Trixie, but the result was that Alaska asked him about it constantly.

“We are like two dysfunctional peas in a pod. Well, at least I hope we still are.” Katya replied with a shrug, not really sure if he should tell Alaska what had happened the other night. By the looks of his friend, however, he was probably not going to be able to keep it from him.

“Did you have another fight? Fuck.” Alaska exclaimed, shaking his head at his friends’ nonsense. “No, we didn’t have another fight. We, uh, quite the opposite, actually.” Katya rambled and then took another sip of her drink to collect his thoughts.

Alaska cocked one of his brows and chuckled. “You whore.”

Katya let out a wheezy laugh, flailing his arms around. “No, no, no! I was good and stopped it, I promise. He’s still got a boyfriend, so there’s that. Please don’t tell me that I’m being shady, because I didn’t start it and he promised that he would end it with his guy, so I’m just waiting for that call and – “Katya barely noticed that he had gone on a long tirade before Alaska interrupted him mid-rant:

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that, even though I live for Trixie, it wasn’t that long ago that he completely shattered your heart. He outright told you that you needed to find someone else to ‘claw onto’ or some shit like that. I don’t know, just set some standards for yourself. Don’t be that compliant.” Alaska sighed, apparently not holding back for the sake of Katya’s feelings. People rarely did.

Of course, in some way, he knew that his friend was right. Katya rarely made a case for himself, which in turn resulted in him often drawing the short straw from different relationships. It was true of course that Trixie had hurt him really badly, but none of it seemed to matter when he finally got the confirmation that he wasn’t being crazy or ‘just Katya’ – it was reciprocated, and the younger man did feel something for him. In light of that, Katya knew that he needed to defend his love. “I get where you’re coming from, but trust me – it’s going to be okay.”

———————–

Later that evening, Katya was getting ready for a gig. She still hadn’t heard a word from Trixie, and now she was beginning to feel incredibly anxious. She should have known that this would happen, because nothing would ever work out in Brian McCook’s favour. Trixie had probably changed his mind, again, and Brian would be alone – yet again.

A few hours later, the crowd was roaring at her. When Katya was on stage, she liked to think that she was a real, biological woman. She often claimed that to be the case whenever she was in drag, but especially when she was in her true element; which was near a crowd. After having just finished a song, she prepared to spout some final words of wisdom when she saw a familiar face in the crowd. Standing right there, next to one of his friends was Trixie. Brian Firkus was officially in the building and it drove Katya to the brink of insanity. They locked eyes over the crowd, and Trixie offered her a tired smile.

Katya had no idea how she should feel. Unfortunately, she was not given a lot of time to digest it all before she realized that the crowd was waiting for her, so she snapped out of her trance. What came out of her mouth after that was something ill-advised, improvised and just all around impulsive:

“You know who else is in the building? We’ve got the one and only legend, icon and star in her own mind; Trixie Mattel!” Katya shouted into the microphone, which made the crowd go absolutely wild. She could see Trixie roll her eyes and smile awkwardly at the people that turned around to greet her.

“Ha, oh my God. Sorry Tracy. Listen, you guys…” Katya drifted off, noticing that all eyes were on her again. There were two ways that this could go. Either, she could control herself and say something sweet – or, she could go into a deeply embarrassing rant that would most likely make Trixie angry. She chose the latter.

“Barbara, I did do it. I did try to… fuck her. You’d better believe it.” After that, a long rhapsody of her attempts to sleep with Brian Firkus just flew out of her mouth. She admitted that she had nearly succeeded, and noticed in that moment that Brian was making his way out of the crowd. Desperation now came into play, as Katya had no intentions of making the possible love of her life leave the room.

“I am willing to Thelma and Louise it off that fiscal cliff with that ho’ any day. She’s the one I think of when I get out of bed in the morning, and I go ‘whyy’ and then I think of her and I’m all like ‘why not? Whatever, it’s fun, yeah’.”

She had hoped that this would make Trixie stay, and it seemed like she succeeded in her attempts as the brown eyed man swirled around and laughed at her words. Katya winked to the crowd and then took a bow. After she had entered her dressing room, the process of taking Katya off had never gone quicker. She needed to find him. After Katya had thrown on his grey sweatpants and zipped up a green hoodie over his chest, it was time to go out the back. Once he did, he strode out in hopes of locating his friend.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and assumed that it was a drunk fan that wanted to get a picture with him, which was typically the case. He sighed and turned around, ready to tell the person that he was a little busy at the moment, when he saw the object of his desire. Trixie stood there, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Hey.” He greeted Katya, who just stood there, looking sufficiently sheepish.

“Hi.”

“So you’d actually toss yourself off of a cliff with me? That seems excessive.” Trixie retorted, crossing his arms over his toned chest.

“As the kids say, it’s just an expression. I wasn’t expecting to see you, I thought you had bailed on me again.” Katya pointed out, wanting to remember Alaska’s cautionary words and keep his guard up. Trixie cocked his head to the side and studied Katya’s stand offish exterior.

“I had a long night. Jack didn’t get home until late last night, and then we spent nearly four hours just fighting and crying. He left this morning.” Trixie explained, sadness washing over his features. Katya felt awful for Jack, he really did, but a flare of hope rose in his chest at the words that were coming out of Trixie’s mouth. Given the circumstances, the flare was kept relatively small for protection – but it was still there.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What did he say?” Katya asked, not really knowing what else to say in a situation like that. He didn’t want to expect anything.

“He told me that he was disappointed in me, and that he thought he knew me better than that. He questioned the fact that I would get into something with you, given your background…” Trixie explained, making Katya feel like the smallest man on the face of the earth. The fact that people still held his past against him felt like a punch in the gut. He understood that Jack was upset and obviously did not need to feel any form of responsibility for Katya, but it still hurt. He remembered the time when Vicky Vox had gone after him, claiming that he needed help more than he needed stardom. Because all she saw was a drug addict in recovery. Nothing more, nothing less.

“… And I told him that had nothing to do with it. I don’t care. I am pissed that you talked about that just now, but I’m going to let it slide for a bit because right now I really just want to kiss you, take you home and fuck your brains out.” Trixie continued, making Katya cough out of surprise. He knew that he shouldn’t. He should do this the ‘right’ way, but nothing could stop him from rushing forward and engulfing Trixie in a deep hug.

He leaned his head back and pressed his lips forcefully to Trixie’s own. The kiss was different this time. Nothing was holding them back, so Katya had no qualms about biting down on his lover’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. He heard a small low, guttural moan emit from Trixie’s throat, which only spurred him on even more. He slipped his tongue in and pressed Trixie even closer to his body. It felt like they had been standing there for forever when Katya finally drew back from their embrace and waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

“Oh fuck yes.”

#trixya #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #fluff #tw drug addiction #slight angst #hypnotized #rpdr fanfiction #canon compliant

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limejuicer1862 · 5 years

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On Fiction Wombwell Rainbow Interview

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

Andrew David Barker

was born in Derby, England in 1975. He is a writer and filmmaker. He is the author of The Electric and the novella Dead Leaves. As a filmmaker, he wrote and directed the cult, post-apocalyptic indie feature, A Reckoning,in 2011, and has recently made the short films, Two Old Boys and Shining Tor. He lives in Warwickshire with his wife and daughter, trying to be a grown up.

andrewdavidbarker.com

twitter.com/ADBarker

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write fiction?

I’ve just always loved stories, and I’ve always had ideas for stories. I had a pretty poor education though and I was still pretty much learning to read and write when I left school. I spent my 20s educating myself and novels for very much part of that education. I didn’t read a novel voluntarily until the summer I left school. That was Clifford D. Simak’s Out of their Minds, a fantasy novel from 1970. This led me to outline my own fantasy, adventure novel and me and my friend Ben Waldram spent the next five years or so trying to write it. It was set in the afterlife and the project grew large and unwieldy and was certainly beyond my capabilities to finish it. I learned a lot working on that project though. Plus, I was always distracted by other creative pursuits. Filmmaking was, and sometimes probably still is, just as interesting to me as writing novels, so I was always trying to make films as well when I was younger. Me and my mates made our big hit when we were in college in 1993 – an anthology horror called Tales from Hell, which is about as good as you can imagine. Stephen King was a big influence early on. But I also read David Gemmell, and Clive Barker, and Sue Townsend’s Adrian Mole, which also had a big effect on me. I was interested in genre, but also interested in stories that existed in worlds similar to the one I grew up in. Certainly judging by my first book, The Electric, the balance between the two has never left me. That book deals with movies and the supernatural, but also exists in the world that I grew up in.

2. Who introduced you to fiction?

Early on it was my mum. She liked horror fiction and tales of the supernatural. My love of a good ghost story comes from her. She read James Herbert and had books by Aleister Crowley on the shelf. She still loves a good ghost story. My friend Ben, who I mentioned earlier, also introduced me to fiction, and without his influence and excitement for reading and writing stories, I probably wouldn’t have become a writer.

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

I’m not really. I suppose I was when I was younger. I never really thought I’d ever be published. I was conscious of my lack of education and was always frightened someone cleverer than me would pull my writing apart. I used to think that because I was from a working class background I had no right becoming a novelist. I thought of writing novels as an elitist thing – something only the privileged get to do – and it most cases it very much is, but I forged on anyway. I am intimidated by the brilliance of say, Cormac McCarthy or Dickens, but I’ve learned to live with all that now. You can never be that good, so why worry about it? I no longer care about any of that stuff anymore because I’m just doing my own thing. My background and experiences and the way I see the world make me who I am as a writer – they give me my identity, my voice, for want of a better word, and I wouldn’t change any of that now.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

Like many writers I still have a day job. I’ve always had to have another income. I feel that if you are able, in this day in age, to get up every morning and afford to write all day, every day and still pay all the bills, then you are in a very privileged position indeed. No art form really pays anymore, unless you are really flying. So I work and I have to carve out time every day to write. I have a family and a job and mostly I don’t get started until gone eight o’clock at night. After a day of work and being a parent and a husband there’s not much juice left in the tank by eight, but I have to discipline myself to do it. Some nights it works, some nights it doesn’t. I’m working on a novel at the moment so my routine is to work Sunday to Thursday in the evenings and also very early on Saturday mornings. I give myself Friday and Saturday nights off. That’s it. If I wasn’t working I would write in the mornings all week as that’s my preferred time to write, but I have to just do what I can in the time I’ve got.

5. What motivates you to write?

The excitement of a good story idea and being with the characters I create. It’s that simple. I don’t write for money because as I’ve said making money out of this stuff is impossible, certainly on my level. So I do it because I love it. I feel good once I’ve written, feel great in fact. I think writing makes me a better person, certainly a saner person. I can handle life better when I’m writing. I’ve attempted a lot of other creative pursuits. I’ve directed films and played in a rock band, and although I did love those things, they did not give me the same sense of satisfaction as writing a good page does. I remember when I finished writing The Electric, my first novel; I could hardly believe that I’d done it. At long last I’d written a novel. That feeling was like nothing else.

6. What is your work ethic?

To try and finish everything I start. After Dead Leaves came out in 2015 I attempted and abandoned two novels in the space of a year and a half. This ground me to a halt. It knocked my confidence and sent into a kind of limbo for a while. 2018 has been the year I was determined to turn things around. I wrote and directed two short films, Two Old Boys and Shining Tor, and wrote the screenplays for two other shorts directed by other people, One, Nine, Three and Endling, and I wrote a small collection of ghost stories, which I hope to get published in 2019. Making these shorts, actually completing the work and having them screened in front of an audience was thrilling and energising. More than that though, I’ve been successful in getting an Arts Council grant to write a novel, which is just incredible because I’ve never had any help or backing before. So I’m back at work on a novel, writing as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast truth be told, but I am doing it and I am going to finish it. Finishing a project is the key to everything.

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

Stephen King is still an influence. He’s a master storyteller. He has an identity that just draws you in and his characters are great. I always remember the characters more than the monsters. 8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why? Magnus Mills is my favourite British novelist; Paul Auster is my favourite American novelist. Although that could all change next week. They both write about characters and worlds I understand. I also greatly admire Haruki Murakami for his balance of the fantasque and surreal and the deeply personal. I’m always looking for someone new to inspire me. Books are very personal things, much like music. It has to connect. I don’t see one thing as being high art and other being low art. The Great Gatsby speaks to me as much as The Shining. They’re both great books that speak of the dread, honesty and darkness of the human heart. Magnus Mills speaks to me because I know blokes like the ones he writes about; I’ve grown up with them, worked with them, and he’s one of the very few working class writers out there that is genuinely from the world he writes about. So there is a real honesty about his work. Honesty and heart are the things I look for, I suppose.

9. Why do you write?

To make sense of the world and to make sense of myself.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?” Just write. Take to the time to develop yourself and only submit or put something out there when you are a hundred percent sure of it. That said, I’m still learning. I’ve only ever been published through small presses. I’ve never had an agent or even had an agent interested in me. I hope to change that, but I’m not pushing it. The work itself is what I’m interested in. If you’re in it for fame and money and power, then forget it. It has to be a pure love, otherwise, what’s the point? You might get fame and money – there are a few lucky ones that fall through the net – but more than likely you won’t, and you’ve got to be fine with that. Keep writing, keep submitting, keep getting better.

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

Well I feel like a novelist again. It’s taken a while. I’ve been making short films for the most of this year and writing short stories, but now I’ve cleared the decks of all that stuff and am only working on the novel until it’s done, which will be in the spring, all being well. My novella, Dead Leaves, has just been reissued in a new paperback through Black Shuck Books and I’m hoping to work with them again at some point. Moves are also being made on the production of an audiobook for The Electric, something I’ve been wanting to get done for years, so I’m very excited about that. Hopefully that’ll be out early 2019. As for the novel, it’s a departure in that the first two books are in first person and were told in the timeframe of only a couple of days, whereas this one is in third person and covers a decade in the lives of the protagonists. There are movies, of course – they seem to be my thing – and working class characters struggling to stay afloat, but there is also love, and a lot of heart. I’m trying to dig deep on this one. We’ll see.

On Fiction Wombwell Rainbow Interview Andrew David Barker On Fiction Wombwell Rainbow Interview I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

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