#all pieces of classic literature are flooding out of my head

[heir-of-the-chair]

"My child is completely fine"

Ma'am your child reads classic literature for fun.

#they are not fine #dark academia #light academia #chaotic academia #academia aesthetic #classic lit #classic literature #greek mythology #the illiad #I'm gonna end up tagging so many things here aren't I... #the odyssey #the picture of dorian gray #uhh... #all pieces of classic literature are flooding out of my head #jane austen #I've never actually read dorian gray or anything by jane austen but I just got Emma from my aunt and uncle! #adhd #my child is completely fine #the heir speaks

[littlemisspascal]

Ezra’s Journal Entries #1-3

Fandom: Prospect / Pedro Pascal

Pairing: Ezra x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1,269

Summary: You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

Warnings: angsty fluff, Ezra’s dealing with the aftermath of the Green, language, 1st person POV (Ezra), dialogue in italics because that’s just how I chose to do it, no beta so all mistakes are mine

Author Note: I know I said Death and Angel would come out next, but I got such a inspiration high and the words came out so quickly I just told myself screw it and decided to share what I have. If anyone thinks this is a series worth pursuing, let me know. If you don’t, well, just be gentle please 💖

Cross-posted on AO3

Entries #4-6

Look for additional notes at the bottom.

My name is Ezra. 

I have my mama to thank for that. Time has erased her face from my memory, but her voice is ingrained into the tissue of my brain the same way these words are inked on this parchment. She was a bonafide believer that the meaning of a child’s name influenced the course of their destiny. When I was no taller than the height of her waist I learned my own name’s denotation: help.

It’s just a tick too ironic, isn’t it? To be destined to help others when I can’t help my own self. I gave the Green far too little credit. It didn’t just pilfer my arm to satisfy its ravenousness, it greedily stole my sense of purpose too. 

Every night I thank the deities you didn’t accompany me there. If the Green had taken you...

I know how worried you are about me, little love of mine. When I look at you, I find you already looking back, a sweet smile gracing your lips even as concern burns in your eyes as an eternal flame. From day one you’ve always been looking at me, seeing every disgraced flaw and scar—even the invisible ones carved into the darkest edges of my soul. Kevva knows I’ve never been capable of concealing anything from you, but fuck if I don’t wish I could sometimes.

You’re asleep now as I write this, tucked against my side in the vacant space my arm once occupied, drooling on my shirt. I love you so much it hurts. A black hole in my chest perpetually aching to be filled by your presence. And as we venture once more into the starry sea, our ship gliding past the imaginary wings of Noctua, I find myself recalling a theory you once told me many cycles ago about humans being made in the womb with stardust infused in their bones, linking them to the universe. You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

And it’s undoubtedly selfish, but all I could think of in that tender moment beyond kissing you was how I didn’t want an eternity spent together with our cosmic bodies intertwined. 

I want longer.

Soon after we awoke and each consumed a slice of bush bread bought during our recent docking at Kamrea, you fiddled with the channels on the ship’s radio, hoping to hear news from your homeworld but cursing when you only heard static. Then, without an ounce of forewarning, music burst out with an almighty scream through the speakers at full volume, flooding the whole compartment with a woman’s warbling. It was the same crusted Vayok song that merc Inumon blared in my ears during my last night on the Green, every note an individual needle piercing my skull, impossible to ignore.

Reality deserted me, leaving me to sink to the depths of the abyss within my mind where all I could see was Cee’s pale, disturbed expression as she looked to me for guidance. I remembered how my tongue felt clumsy in my mouth as I tried my damnedest to negotiate our transport, thinking if I could just piece together the right sequence of words, if I could just get their lingering eyes off of her, then maybe, maybe we’d have a chance at salvation. 

The memories coalesced, overlapping and blurring and mixing out of order. Each one was drenched in spilt blood.

Then your pinky wrapped around mine. The touch was soft yet firm, the action childlike in its innocence. It was such a jarring contradiction to my mind’s violent narrative, my consciousness was hurtled back into the living quarters of our ship as a result. You didn’t say anything when you saw I returned to you. Instead, you swallowed down the questions lodged in your throat and led me by our entwined fingers back to our bed.

There’s a plant back home called a dandelion, you told me with my head resting in your lap, a far better comfort than any pillow could provide me. It’s the only plant in the galaxy you can see the sun, the moon and the stars when you look at it. That’s not why it’s my favorite though.

I asked how it had won your heart’s favor if not due to its resemblance to the celestial bodies, then immediately found myself mesmerized by the smile that lit up your face as you peered down at me. My chest cavity tightened as I was filled with the profound longing to be able to suspend time, if only so I could stretch this moment to match the length of our separation, if only so I could erase the old and replace it with the beautiful new.

Dandelions grant wishes, babe. Anything you wish for with your whole heart, it will be yours to have.

I told you I wouldn’t wish for anything—nothing else in the galaxy could compare to the prettiest, wisest soul I’d ever encountered in all my years traversing it. You saw right through that lie with the same confident ease you see through all my masks and diversions, but—for the second time in the span of an hour—you held your tongue.

This journal’s as good a place as any to admit the honest truth. So here it is: I wish with the entirety of my bloody, beating heart I could be the man you deserve, little love of mine. 

When you read, whether it be a book or the flight manual, you have the precious habit of mouthing the words. I don’t think you have the faintest notion you’re even doing it, which makes it all the more endearing to watch.

My brother had a similar habit, always nose deep in the yellowing pages of classic literature, except he had a proclivity to spoil the plot when he talked in his sleep. I remember there was one particular novel he returned to often, sometimes reading from beginning to end, other times seeking out specific segments he’d underlined in bold, black pen. It was a rather dreary tale about war and rivalry and the process of determining one’s own identity. I became so exasperated with my brother’s obsession I considered shredding it on more than one occasion, only to immediately hate myself for entertaining the thought.

It was only after his death—twelve whole cycles, in fact—that I summoned up the will to open the front cover. Seeing his name scribbled in the corner, cursive and neat and so utterly him, nearly had me tearing the book in half, overcome with a vicious rage I had never known prior nor have I encountered since. But by the almighty grace of Kevva I reigned it in, chaining it to the agony and fear imprisoned within the confines of my rib cage, and turned the page.

There was one segment underlined not once, but three times, nearly bleeding ink onto the page behind it. When I close my eyes, the words are tattooed on the backs of my eyelids, as haunting as they are comforting.

So the more things remained the same, the more they changed after all. Nothing endures. Not love, not a tree, not even a death by violence.

The author lived and died centuries before my brother’s inception, that is an inarguable fact. 

But I know those words were written for him all the same. 

Notes: 

There is an actual theory humans are made of stardust ✨

The Sater within Prospect mention the Currents as being responsible for bringing Ezra and Cee to them, so I imagine them as similar to the Fates/Moirai in Greek mythology.

Noctua is a real life, extinct constellation that is Latin for owl. I thought within this Prospect universe it could exist as a type of landmark or coordinate. Plus I love owls 🦉

Crusted is a term from Prospect Ezra uses. Equivalent of damn. I think there’s something funny about how they use creamy as a positive adjective and crusted as negative.

Vayok is the alien language Inumon speaks within the movie, so I decided to write the song she blares as being sung in the same language

Bush bread is referenced in a deleted scene by Ezra, but a google search revealed to me it’s also a real life type of bread too

In the same deleted scene Ezra references that he has a brother. I haven’t decided his name yet/if he will have one

The book and quote Ezra refers to in #3 is John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. One of the few required reading books I liked back in high school.

The quote about dandelions being the sun, moon and stars is based on the legend of how dandelions came into existence. I always thought it was beautiful.

Series Taglist: @insomniamamma

Permanent Taglist: @promiscuoussatan, @melobee, @randomness501, @absurdthirst, @captain-jebi, @artsymaddie, @happiestsparkleofall, @disgruntledspacedad, @gallowsjoker, @aerynwrites, @vintagesaph, @sylphene, @chibi-yuki, @freeshavocadoooo, @stilllivindue2spite, @pointy-sharp, @leilei-draws, @over300books, @theocatkov, @oh-no-a-whovian, @you-and-i-deserve-the-world, @lin-djarin, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @coaaster, @waywardmando, @thisshipwillsail316, @grogusmum, @asta-lily, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @tacticalsparkles​

#ezra #ezra prospect #Prospect #ezra x reader #ezra x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ezra's journal #prospect fanfiction #ezra fanfic #my fic #my writing #pedrostories

[wisteria-lodge]

authoritarian badger primary + snake secondary

Sorry if this is the improper channels, I just created my first ever tumblr account to follow you haha I would love help with sorting, you’re quite astute and it would be such a service to me as I’ve struggled for years with it, despite (or perhaps because of) reading so many posts about it! I’m much better at speed-reading randos, than I am at categorizing myself.  

I was that classic gifted underachiever.

ugh, I hate the word “gifted.” I’m so pleased that it’s falling out of favor in education circles.

I felt bad for some of my teachers, because I knew they probably blamed themselves. To make them see I appreciated them, I would study their teaching methods, and then give them positive feedback. I was the kid who would sleep through English, then write a collection of stories about the teachers, infusing classical literature and mythological references, performed them in the cafeteria, and sold them for lots of money to the students.

You sound like you were probably bored. Look, don’t feel bad about your teachers. Some students are just Anakins. High ability, low emotional maturity. We know that all we can do is give you guys a safe space until you figure yourselves out.

I wrote about my incompetent Math Teacher, Mrs. Malatestinic, as the Malatesting-Sphinx, an awful creature that posed mathematical riddles she herself did not understand. She didn’t like that (I failed math by 1 percent that semester lol), but when the math department heard me reading, he gasped sharply, his face went bright red and he started shaking in a way that looked life stifled laughter.

… this is your second, like, vengeance narrative? (slept though english class > made $$$ selling writing) (wrote hit piece about teacher > department head secretly agrees with you.) And you haven’t said anything that has anything to do with the Sortinghat Chats System???

I have almost no practical skills of my own (I find it hard to even change my lightbulbs, so I sometimes pee in the dark)

You must have some very understanding roommates.

but I pride myself on my interpersonal pixie dust. I seem to cheer people up, and I like to think I have a keen eye for people. One of my favourite compliments was when a young woman told me I had an almost supernatural ability for making others feel seen.

Okay, so a very social secondary, I can work with that. Going with *not Badger* as a hypothesis, since you almost seem to get kind of a kick out of not being exactly useful.

I naturally bond groups around me wherever I go, and I notice without this sort of found family dynamic in my life (a little team/group/family) I get depressed. I have fused my entire being with my job and have become a sort of mascot/face of the business, and despite not actually being the highest ranked/most senior employee.

… and we have a Badger primary.

I wish I was gentler, but my love for my people is pesky and meddlesome and I worry some day people will tire of me. I get overly involved in people’s lives (even when they ask me not to get involved, I take that as code for “I wouldn’t want to bother you, but secretly I wish you would get involved”).

I’m everyone’s unofficial therapist. This big mouth gets me into trouble sometimes, especially when I attack the powers that be on behalf of the underdog (something I can never resist)

Oh ouch. Yeah, that is some exploded, Authoritarian Badger right there. You get involved in peoples lives when they tell you to stay out? You view yourself as a universal therapist and righteous defender of those who cannot defend themselves? You write like you’ve got all the answers, and everyone else in your life is scared, or helpless.

I once flooded a grouchy old lady’s apartment by accident (ADHD) and then when she called to scream at me, she ended up telling me her whole life story instead.

I know this is the Badger secondary in me, but did you like… help fix the apartment? Untreated water damage can lead to black mold.

And yet, I cannot keep a secret to save my life, people should not be telling me things! My mom and boss often warn me about burning bridges. I know this is true in theory, but sometimes I just get triggered.

Impulsivity is something that people with ADHD can struggle with, but I can’t link it to a specific secondary.

I was bullied and abused a lot as a child/teen, but I never believed I deserved it, only that I lacked power, so I had to dig deep and outwit my opponents. I find story arcs of clever but physically underpowered oddballs like Mulan and Tyrion very satisfying for that reason! I tend to be a bit of a con for the cause at times—I toy with people and can be a bit of a “storyteller”. My saintly double badger mom strongly disapproves of this tendency in me, and half teasing, half scolding calls me Harold Hill (The Music Man).

Snake secondary, for sure. 

I have an awful petty flaw of never forgetting a slight! When the people I love/invest in betray me, I am devastated, and that disillusionment can fester into hatred under extreme circumstances. Darker still, when people cross a certain line morally, they seem to forfeit their personhood in my eyes. Gloves are off, and since I’m kind of an empath I basically have all the destruct codes to people’s souls.

That is… the dehumanizing aspect of a Badger primary in full swing, which has been a through line this whole time. The math teacher was incompetent, so it was fine to mess with her. The old lady was grouchy, so flooding her apartment wasn’t a big deal.

Some examples of my dark fuckery (if tldr, skip to final paragraph 😊):

I will cut this out, actually. There are a *lot* of revenge narratives here, some of them get pretty dark, and in my opinion… these are situations where you either went too far or shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. I guess they re-affirm the ‘I know best’ of the Authoritarian Badger, and the improvisational problem solving skills of the Snake secondary.

Um yes, so sorry about how long this is, every time I went to edit it down, it got longer! I understand if you don’t have the time or inclination to read, let alone analyze all this! But at least it helped me a little to write it all out. Please know I love your posts, you’re brilliant! I will lose entire days  studying and obsessing over your posts. Thank you for everything!

You’re welcome. And don’t take any of this too badly. Badger primaries get Authoritarian streaks sometimes, it happens. And if you’re worried that “people will tire of you” - I will say, as someone who has known quite a few Authoritarian Badgers. I didn’t get tired of them, I got exhausted, felt condescended to, and it was an all around unpleasant experience. 

#submission #sortinghatchats #badgerpri #authoritarian badger primary #snake secondary #snakesec #sortme #wisteria sorts

[apocalypticwafflekitten]

Bells Will Be Ringin’

Darth Maul x Reader, but this time it’s Christmas (Life Day) A/N: Hey! I’m back with another story for Maul! I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get another story out! I have a couple requests that I’m working on, but since it’s Christmas Break for me, I should be able to get them out pretty quickly! Requests are open by the way! Feel free to send them in!   

Also, I may come back in and do some editing on this piece in the next few days. I want to get it out now so I have time to work on other requests during break!

Original Idea/Summary Thingy: Christmas Blues^TM, but there’s a happy ending, so it’s okay! 

Warnings: None unless you count a sad and mildly bitter Maul. 

Word Count: 3356

(P.S. I listened to “Please Come Home For Christmas” covered by The Eagles while writing this, so feel free to feel that vibe if you wish. I also absolutely stole the title from the first lyrics and then found a way to work it into the story.)

The snow fell in fleets of faint flakes. And he felt his heart fall with them.

It wasn’t that the snow wasn’t beautiful. Rather, it was what lay beyond the flurry that made his heart sore. He felt the icy breath of loneliness drop beneath his collar as he rested his chin on his hand and peered out the window. 

You were there. Just beyond the pane of glass. He had to swallow his heart at the sight. You looked beautiful, reaching up to catch a flake on your fingertips. He couldn’t keep his gaze from lingering on your lips. Your bright smile warmed his chest, and he wished for nothing more than to be out there with you.

But something gold caught his eyes. And his heart clenched. His brother walked beside you, and you smiled even brighter when he showed you the flake that had landed on his fingertip. A sorrowful sigh slipped from Maul’s lips as he watched you walk with his brother.

Savage had been the one to meet you. You had bumped into him while chasing after your rouge scarf that the wind had carried away, and Savage had kindly snatched it out of the air for you. He’d see you in passing afterwards and invite you into the palace for tea. That’s how Maul met you. You were having tea with Savage, and he had walked in on the two of you.

From the moment he saw you, he was enamoured; enraptured.

Savage properly introduced the two of you and you started spending a great deal of your time with them.  

And Maul fell hard.  

Everytime Maul hung out with you and Savage, he could feel himself growing weaker and weaker for you. 

Eventually you would get invitations to the palace from Maul himself. It was usually on weeks where Savage was off dealing with the syndicate, but there were occasions when you would come to see him on your own regardless of whether Savage was gone or not.

You’d talk about everything with him, and more often than not, he’d open up about himself in return. But rather than focusing on his plans or other bigger things in life, you learned that he loved a sweet chamomile tea, or a rich mulled wine in the cooler months. He had grown an interest in Mandalore’s classic literature, and there was something inexplicable about the city’s architecture that put a glint in his eyes. It was wonderful to see him talk about the things he liked. It seemed like he didn’t get to do that often, and the way he lit up when he got going about his passions made you smile big and bright. 

Upon the cool stone of his throne, Maul drowned himself in memories of you. The bit of bitterness that sprouted when his brother wrapped a hand around your shoulder melted away when he thought of the times you would laugh at something he had said and use his shoulder to keep yourself up.   

Your touch always left a soft tingle on his skin, even when you only touched his shirt. Your hand was soft and the way you held this hand when you comforted him had such a gentle strength to it. Your fingers were featherlight on his skin, but he had never felt as though stronger hands had held him. Not that he had had much experience in the area. Still, your touch was enough to send his heart reeling for hours. 

“If only her lips could grace my skin.” 

“She’d never do that and you know it. Besides, she loves another doesn’t she?” 

Your ringing laughter sent a jolt through Maul’s heart as you entered the palace,  “Savage! Put me down!” You giggled as Savage passed through the glass doors.  

“But Miss (Y/L/N), You’re tired! You said so yourself! A tired lady shouldn’t have to walk herself home!” Savage laughed along with you. 

“Yes, but a Lady also shouldn’t be slung onto your back and carried around like a rag doll!” 

You both burst into fits of laughter and Maul only watched and silently yearned from his seat. He wanted that; to cause you happiness in that way. But he was left to the seat of Mandalore’s throne; governing and making deals while you enjoyed the snow flurrying outside.   

“Maker how I wish I could leave for a day. Just to be with her. No deadlines, no time limit. Just her, a warm fire, and the snow outside. Is that so much to ask? Savage is gone next week, perhaps-”   “Hey Maul!”  you greeted with cheer, once again jolting him back into reality. 

“Hello Miss (Y/L/N),” Maul returned, “It’s lovely to see you today. Enjoying the snow?”  

“Yes! It’s beautiful outside! Albeit a little cold, but Savage and I are going to sit by the fireplace in the south sitting room to warm up if you’d like to join us.” You offered. 

“I’d love to, but I’m afraid I can’t today. I still have some meetings to attend, and there’s some paperwork that I have to get through after that.” He answered with remorse, and a look that seemed to say ‘I’m sorry’.

“Oh,” For a second Maul thought your face fell and a pang of guilt shot right through his heart, but you began to speak again with an optimistic lilt to your voice, “Well, if you happen to have the free time, you’re welcome to join us!” Your lips meet in a smile, and Maul’s chest floods with reassuring warmth. Gosh was he thankful for the dark hue of his skin. 

“I just may if I can.” Maul smiled back and waved as you walked off with Savage, once again laughing at something he said. 

“And now begins the fun part.” Maul muttered to himself sarcastically as he stood to leave for his next meeting. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

As soon as his last meeting was over, Maul whisked himself down the hall, headed for the one place he wanted to be: The south sitting room.  

“The paperwork can wait. She’s more important.”

His hearts thrummed in his chest at the mere thought of cozying up with you next to a fire; getting to feel your warmed skin against his. It was a dream he couldn’t hope for more.

“A little to the left.”   

“Oh. Yep....right......there” You breathed out as Savage worked a knot out of your shoulder. 

Maul’s hearts dropped.

He heard your voice from behind the door to the sitting room. You sounded so happy, so pleased. He would have been happy to hear you this way were it his crimson hands soothing the stiff muscles beneath your skin.   

But the hands kneading your back weren’t crimson, nor were the tattoos the same. They were gold, and soft, and gentle; so very much unlike his own.  

Maul cursed himself at the sight of you sitting on the floor between Savage’s legs, reveling in the released tension and relaxation f a nice massage.

“That feel good?” Savage asked sweetly, “Not too hard?” 

“Absolutely not. It feels amazing.” You close your eyes and lose yourself in the warm feeling of his hands working a little below the base of your neck.  

“Good” Was Savage’s rumbled reply.   

Maul took a step back before leaning against the opposite wall. 

“That’s right. She’s someone else’s. Maker, how could I have been so foolish? Of course she loves Savage over me, I mean, who wouldn’t? Why would she ever-” 

No. He had to stop for his own sake. 

So Maul stood straight and turned towards his office. At least he had paperwork to do. That could keep his mind occupied instead of wallowing in regret for the night. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The paperwork did nothing to quell his thoughts of you. He couldn’t stop thinking of how happy you sounded in Savage’s hands. How pleased you had to have felt. Why couldn’t he do that? Why couldn’t you love him?

“Would you like some tea?”   

Maul looked up from the hundreds of pages of contracts and negotiations on his desk to see you standing in the doorway to his office with two mugs of steaming hot tea.  

“I’d love little else more right now.” He replied, letting out a long sigh, and stretching his aching back.  

You handed him a mug, and sat across from him, looking out at the snow behind the glass of the large window beside you.  

“How’s the paperwork going?” You glanced over to the thousands of sheets of paper littering his desk, feeling sorry that he had to go through all of that. 

“It’s uneventful. For the most part, it’s to do with the syndicate and their insatiable requests. It’s very repetitive.” He paused for a moment before quietly speaking up, “It’s nice to have your company.”  

You gave him a warm smile while a blush creeped it’s way up your cheeks. 

“I’m happy to hear that. I like spending time with you.” You admitted, looking to your mug in the slightly tense silence. 

There was a long moment of silence following where Maul’s pen scribbled against the paper, and you looked from the place where the pen and paper met, to his hand, to the curve of his cheek and the red of his skin. Your eyes dared to look at and linger on his lips. He muttered something through a sigh and you couldn’t help the way your heart clenched.

But then he moved. He looked up and you darted your eyes to a random building on the skyline and the snow that was starting to spill over the edge of the roof.  

“Look at her.” 

“Even when she’s not trying she’s beautiful.”  

Maul watched as you looked out the window. He could sense a tenseness in your muscles, but he was distracted by the way the silver light glinting off the snow lined your face, and the way you gently lifted your mug of tea to your lips, letting the steam billow to the ceiling as you sipped the drink. 

“Hell, she’s just looking at the snow and I can’t look away.” 

“Maker, those lips....” 

“If only...” 

“I’m so excited for Savage to see what I got him for Life Day.” You smiled out the window, trying to play off your nerves, hoping he hadn’t noticed you staring.  

“What?” He asked, quickly looking back to his paper as you leaned on his desk.  

“I said that I was excited for Savage to see what I got him. I worked pretty hard on it, and I want to know if he likes it.” 

That snapped Maul from his state of admiration. A sprout of something bitter burned in his chest. He remembered what he had seen through the doorway this afternoon, and clenched his fist with a quiet growl. 

“I’m sure he’ll like it. Your lover is appreciative of anything you would make for him.” Maul barely tried to hide the bitter envy in his tone, and yet, you didn’t seem offended. 

But you did look up at him with a quirked brow. 

“My lover? Maul, what do you mean?”  

And for the smallest second, in the teeniest of amounts, a little pang of hope surged through Maul, but he took it with an air of caution.

“I mean my brother. He’s your lover is he not?” He dared to ask, hearts beginning to race, beating against his chest. 

There was a moment of silence before you burst into giggles that grew to full blown laughter.

No matter what Maul could have expected, he was not prepared for you to laugh at him. Still, as confused as he was, he was silently hopeful of your response.

“Oh of course not!” You couldn’t breathe you were laughing so hard, “I mean, sure, he’s handsome, but he’s just a close friend,” You paused for a beat, looking to Maul before looking down to your mug, “Besides, I’ve got my heart set on someone else.” 

Maul’s eyes flew up to your face. His heart was in his throat and his grip on his pen tightened. 

“So, you’re...you’re not in love with my brother?” Maul swallowed thickly. He needed to know if he heard you right.

“No, I uh..I-”   

This was his chance.

“I love you.” Maul rushed out without a second thought, “I love you so much. I know you probably don’t feel the same, and whoever you hold affections for is the luckiest man in the galaxy, but I can’t hide it any longer. Maker, I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you, and-” 

He cut off when he saw the huge smile on your face. 

Before he could move or try to explain himself, you rushed around his desk and threw yourself around him, hugging him tighter than you ever had before. 

He stood stalk straight for a minute, tensing at the feeling of your arms around his neck.

“Did I just....? I just told her? Like that?.....And now she’s.....she’s....” 

He felt your arms squeeze him tighter, and as if on instinct, his arms wrapped around your waist and held you pressed against him, his nose burying into your shoulder.  

“I love you too.” You whispered into his ear, hugging him even tighter, and pressing your cheek to his.  

You felt Maul pull away from you, and he looked deep into your eyes. He took a moment to watch the wide-eyed, curious look on your face. He could see the billions of questions racing through your mind, and he felt his heart beating just as fast. And then his eyes looked to your lips. He couldn’t help it. You were so beautiful, and your lips were so tempting. He felt a dragging pull in the Force, and he could barely hold himself back. 

“Please let me kiss you.” Maul all but begged.  

You smiled up at him, a surge of happiness flooding your signature, as your eyes brightened, and a blush warmed your cheeks.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”   

Maul’s face fell, brows scrunched in confusion.

“I....I said that out loud?”  

Your smile grew even larger if possible as you snorted a laugh from behind your hand. 

Peeking up at him once you’d composed yourself for the most part, you let our a little chuckle with your response.

“You did.” 

Your wide smile and, admittedly adorable, laughter only fueled his embarrassed panic.

“Oh, I-I-I’m so-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...I’ll just...” 

Your gaze softened as you reached out and took Maul’s hand in yours. You held it there in front of you for a moment, gaging his response before lifting it further. He silenced as he watched you lift his hand slowly to your lips. His breath hitched at the first sting. Your lips kissed the tip of each finger, sending ticklish tingles shooting up through his hand into his wrist. You were slow and caring, and that gentleness he had come to love about you, it was there too. 

His chest heaved with labored breath, but when you looked up at him he swore his hearts stopped. Your wide, bright eyes looking at him like that...a shiver darted down his spine, and he had to swallow his heart for the second time that day.

“Please kiss me Maul.” You whispered to him, voice full of want. 

Before he had time to think, or rationalize, he slammed his lips to yours, reveling in the soft, plush feeling of your lips on his. He held you close to him, pressing your body to his as your lips moved together.  

He was on fire. His body was warm and every new kiss was the smallest sting to your lips. Even his fingertips burned a little. But it felt good.

When you pulled away, his lungs jolted for breath, begging for him to breathe for even a second despite how breathtaking your soft, gentle lips where.  

He looked to you with wide eyes and you did the same. 

You stood there for a few seconds, looking at his eyes at first, then looking to his lips.   

They were so soft. So...fiery. 

“Maul...” Your voice cracked out of a whisper, eyes still trained on his lips.

“Y-yes dear?” His voice was breathy and curious. 

You broke fro your daze and looked away from him.

“I...I know I said that I love you too, but I want you to know that I...I fell for you the first time I met you. You were so handsome and beautiful. I..I don’t know what it was but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” You huffed a laugh, looking down to where you held his hands, “I used to worry that you would find me creepy because I stared so much. But you were so beautiful. And I remember the first time I heard your voice. It was so soothing, and I swear I melted right then and there.”  

You paused for a moment, remembering back to those days. You smiled and looked anywhere but his face, eventually landing on the fire crackling in the fireplace across the office and the warm orange glow that lit up the room now that the sun was set.

“And then I got to know you. It took some time, but I loved getting to know the little things about you. Even the smallest idiosyncrasies, like the the way you crack your knuckles before you get to work, or the way you purr quietly when you drink a good cup of tea. It all added up to a person who was more than their scary reputation. You weren’t the ruler of Mandalore to me. You weren’t a feared Sith Lord. You were just like another person. You were my friend, and in time, I wanted more than that. I fell in love with you, and I...I just feel...right when I’m with you. I want to be with you.”

You huffed a nervous laugh and looked back to his hands. You took a moment to admire the crimson hue of his skin and the black tattoos that adorned them as you tried to hide the burning blush that was growing across your cheeks. 

Maul was hesitant, but he hooked one of his fingers under your chin to lift your face to his.  

You were met with wide, teary eyes, and a huge smile. 

Maul didn’t have any words to describe how his hearts ached with astonishment. To think that someone loved him that way; that you saw him that way, without fear or worry. You wanted him. You really wanted him. After all this time. It was him. Not another Mandalorian, not his brother. Him. He couldn’t help the toothy grin that spread across his face, and the pure love that bloomed in his chest. He wanted you to know what that meant to him, but he didn’t know how to say it, so instead he pressed his lips to yours once again, hoping that you would feel the strength of his adoration and love for you.  

You held the sides of his face as your lips locked together once more. In that moment, when his soft, fiery lips took yours again, everything in the galaxy seemed to shift, and you felt at peace with his arms wrapped tight around your waist. 

You pulled away from him to rest your forehead against his.  

“I know you know, but I love you. To the stars and back.” 

“I love you too my dear. To the stars and back.” 

The two of you sat in this embrace for minutes which grew to feel like hours. 

But amidst the firelit darkness and your sweet embrace, silver chimes rung through the city. Beautiful bells sang out the twelfth hour, announcing the beginning of a new day to all who were awake to hear.

Maul looked down to you with a content smile. 

“Happy Life Day my darling.”  

You smiled joyously into his neck. “Happy Life Day Maul.”  

And with one more kiss, the two of you started the happiest holiday of your lives. 

Tags! 

@justalittlecloud​ 

@fanficsforheartandsoul​ 

Let me know if you would like to be tagged in any of my future stories! My ask box and DM’s are always open!

#darth maul #darth maul x reader #darth maul imagine #Yay! Holiday Stories! #I really like this one #let Maul be happy #I just think he's neat

[choruscas]

suptober day 11: rock & roll

please let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list! (or removed if you prefer) it tags you in all my short stories like these so you never miss them!

also, sorry that you’re seeing the earlier days in your feeds! i forgot my writing ipad when i went on vacation this weekend, so I’ve been trying to make up the days i missed! i should catch up soon, i’ve just been incredibly busy!

(based on a true story)

Castiel stared at Dean’s laptop, completely in awe, smiling pridefully at himself. The electronic screen of the computer illuminated on his face, making his eyes grow tired because of the past research he’s been doing in the middle of the night.

Dean would be so happy!

Now all he had to do was wait for him to come back to the bunker.

Trying to figure out how to not be bored — something that has happened to him since he turned human; a very monotonous thing — Castiel looked around the library, searching for some type of book to read.

He found one and sat down in his original seat. He hoped ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ would be a good choice. If not, then maybe he could give it to Dean and hopefully he would like it.

-

Turns out, it was not. Castiel had read it in approximately ten minutes and it was the most weirdest piece of literature the ex-angel thinks he’s ever read.

The imagery of burning it in his head, he stood up to go and do so. However, once he stood up, his Led Zeppelin (curtesy of Dean) t-shirt clung to him with sweat. Although it was late January, it was still hot as fuck in Lebanon.

“Cas!” Dean called out. “I’m back! Are you here?”

Castiel could hear the smile in his voice. Placing down the book, Castiel closed his eyes to zap over to Dean on the indoor balcony.

Oh yeah. No powers.

He awkwardly waited for Dean to walk down the steps, and then he ran to the bottom as Dean jumped in his arms.

“Hey, baby...” he muttered into Castiel’s neck. “Missed me that much?”

Castiel nodded his head up and down. Thumbing Dean’s hipbones, Castiel tried to pick him up but he couldn’t.

Too weak.

Dean noticed that Castiel acutely tried to, but he wasn’t successful, and he noticed the flicker of guilt in his boyfriends eyes.

“Cas...”

“I... I have a surprise for you!” He changed the subject quickly, smiling.

“You do?” Dean replied mischievously, smirking. “What is it, angel?”

Castiel hated when he was called angel. It just wasn’t true. He has been an angel, a seraph, for his whole life and just recently, it was all stripped away from him.

However, Dean, the love of his whole life, has helped him more than anybody or anything has to him. He loved him with his whole being and would go to the ends of the universe for him. He was more beautiful than all the galaxies and supernovas and sunsets and sunrises that Castiel has ever seen.

Although Dean had another thing in mind.

“Come to the table...” Castiel smiled, holding Dean’s hand. Hand holding was Castiel’s comfort when he was stressed out, especially when he hasn’t seen Dean in over twenty-four hours.

Dean saw the book and his eyes widened.

“Cas—“

“Yes?”

“Are you— did—“ His face was probably the shade of a tomato, he was that embarrassed,

“Yes I did!” Castiel smiled at the computer, the website still on.

“I’m not—“ Dean muttered, his hand shaking.

“Huh? You don’t like it?”

Dean hung his head and rubbed a hand through his hair tired, “Angel, ‘m not into that stuff.”

“You’re not into rock and roll? I thought that was something you really liked...”

A switch flicked in Dean’s mind and he looked at the screen of the computer. Two picture of tickets were on the screen and the initials said “CCR” at the top.

For January 24th.

His birthday. Tomorrow.

“Cas— you... you’re fuckin’ with me!” The hunter’s eyes widened to the size of the sun. No way in hell did he get CCR tickets! “You got us tickets to see fuckin’ Creedance Clearwater Revival!?”

He paused. “Yes! Yes I did, Dean!” His eyes wrinkled and Dean’s favorite gummy smile appeared on his face.

Dean wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed Castiel with such force that it toppled him backward onto the table. Humming satisfactorily in his throat, Castiel pushed the book off the table as Dean straddled his lap.

Creedance Clearwater Revival was one of Dean’s favorite bands, and Cas knew that. Fortunate Son was an absolute classic and Dean could not wait to see them in a concert,

The same thing went for Dean to Castiel. He was his everything and would go his limits, life or death, to be with his angel.

The next morning was Dean’s birthday and Castiel had woken up with grogginess. He hardly got any sleep (for many reasons) but he was determined to make Dean breakfast.

Dean, last night, had told Castiel that to start with he thought the surprise was fucking ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ and Castiel heartily laughed to that. No way in hell. However, placing a chaste kiss on his favorite pair of lips, Castiel told him otherwise.

Breakfast was burnt but Dean still ate it with a smile on his face and butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

-

Later, was the concert and Dean was telling Castiel all the facts he knew about CCR.

“CCR is an absolute fuckin’ classic, baby. You’re gonna love it. John Fogerty’s been doin’ rock ‘n roll since he was eight years old!”

Dean rambled on about the band with one hand on the wheel and the other hand in Castiel’s. The concert was about an hour away and Dean had downloaded the virtual tickets on his phone (Sam had to show him how to) so they couldn’t get lost like paper tickets could.

Fortunate Son played on one of Dean’s mixtapes and he began jamming out as he prompted Castiel to dance along too.

Singing the lyrics while Castiel guessed them, they laughed until tears came into their eyes.

Not only were they the love of each other’s lives, they were also each other’s best friends. Nothing else mattered but each other.

Dean, wearing a CCR shirt that he had quickly bought at the store since he didn’t have one, he hopped out of the car and opened Castiel’s door just so he could swoop down and steal a kiss. They loved to call those types bandit kisses.

“Hey! Now I need one.” Castiel complained and stepped out. Dean almost drooled.

He was wearing black jeans that may or may not have fitted too tight (on purpose, thanks Dean) and an over-large AC/DC shirt with a pair of sunglasses. People flooded in the outside mosh pit, and Dean warned him about the dangers of moshing, and how to avoid being punched in the face. Noticing the angel’s nervous smile, Dean smiled bigger.

Listening intently to his boyfriend, Castiel nervously nodded. However, Dean knew his angel’s worried face and placed a heart-melting kiss on his lips. Smiling together, they went into the crowd.

Dean looked around and saw that in the middle of the stage, the logo of Cross Canadian Ragweed was placed on top of it.

Oh.

“Cas...”

He peered around and saw multiple people dressed up for a country rock band, not rock and roll. Upon further inspection, Dean and Castiel stuck out like sore thumbs.

Suddenly, the lights on the concert stage turned on and people cheered and clapped, and even Castiel did.

“Baby, no—“ Dean chuckled, grabbing a tiny fistful of the hem of Castiel’s shirt, tugging at it to get his attention.

Blue simmering in Castiel’s eyes like diamonds, he turned around and had the biggest smile on his face. “Aren’t you excited?!”

“Babe, this is Cross Canadian Ragweed! Not CCR!” He had to scream over the crowd who started to rile up.

“You mean I didn’t get you the right ones?!” Castiel painfully yelled back. He looked as if somebody had kicked his little puppy.

“No! But it’s okay!” Dean pulled his waist toward him, their noses touching and their lips ghosting against each other.

“You’re so beautiful, angel.”

“I’m not an angel, Dean.”

“But you’re still mine. Clipped wings or not...”

Their lips met.

Although Castiel wasn’t perfect, the night was and so was his birthday.

Cross Canadian Ragweed pretty much sucked ass, but holding Castiel’s hands and kissing him whenever possible was his favorite thing to do.

However, he was perfect in Dean’s eyes no matter what he did. Or didn’t do.

(tags below)

@potato-painter

#suptober #suptober20 #deancas #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #human!castiel #cross canadian ragweed #creedance clearwater revival #based on a true story

[issa-me-addy]

Better Than Words (OC x Bucky Barnes)

Move In Day 

PART THREE/?

A/N: Day 2 of my posting several days in a row to feel something about this goddamn fic and again a kind reminder that this takes place in an AU after Spiderman: Homecoming (also after rewatching it I realize that in this AU they did not locate upstate they are still in the original Stark -> Avengers tower in the city) where the Avengers have reassembled and the following all live in the Avengers tower: Tony, Pepper, Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Wanda & Vision. Peter Parker’s identity is still intact and he spends his free time training at the Avengers tower under his ‘Stark Internship’. 

also here is my masterlist! 

Word Count: 2686

Warnings: fluff, mild angst, and slow burn 

Eventually, they cruise into the faculty parking lot and Steve pulls into the spot right next to them very shortly after. 

The four all grab one box to start, just so Maya can unlock all the doors and show them exactly where the classroom is. They proceed into the building, up the stairs, and all the way down the long hallway and in through the second to last door to the right. 

It was obviously very underwhelming for Nat, Steve and Bucky to see blank walls, a mess of 40-odd something student desks and other miscellaneous things left by the previous teacher. But Maya’s heart swelled and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. 

She walked up to the school provided desk and dropped the box in her arms so she could float around the classroom to truly take it all in. The three followed her lead, dropping all their boxes and waltzing around the room as well. Steve reached up and touched the flag hanging in the corner while Bucky messed with the several maps that sprung down from above the white board. As for Nat, she walked across the wall filled with windows, opening all the blinds and pulling on the strings that let them fly up, flooding the room with sunshine and then brushing the gray dust away on her pants. All the while, Maya continued to dance around the room, admiring every bit of it from the hole filled ceiling panels to the pale marbled floor tiles. 

After a few minutes of complete awe on Maya’s part, Nat suggests that they start bringing things up. 

“We can just bring everything up for you,”  Nat suggested, “You can stay up here and start unpacking. Unloading the cars won’t take long anyways.” 

“That would be great! I’m gonna start moving some stuff around to fit the new furniture.” 

Nobody wasted any time. The three Avengers made their way out of the classroom and Maya started moving the provided teacher’s desk to the back of the room. 

Said teacher’s desk and chair were placed in the far left corner for storage and potentially a future TA, and without even stopping to think Maya got started on rearranging the student desks. She started by roughing out half of them and parting a distinct path down the center,

After realizing how exhausting this was already proving to be, Maya stopped and to her enjoyment, the three were already coming back upstairs. 

Despite being kind of winded already from moving the desks around, Maya still convinced herself that it really did get harder to breathe when she saw Bucky walk into the room. 

But who could blame her? This was the first time she really took the time to notice his metal arm. It was difficult not to stare, considering it was holding a 90-some pound box steady on his shoulder, the plates shifting and making very low humming sounds as they did. And all the while his right hand was still managing two full boxes of books. And to Maya’s disbelief he carried all this weight as easily as if the boxes were filled with feathers. 

Bucky floated in and plopped the books down on the closest student desk and then asked, “Where do you want the desk?” 

Maya was still staring a bit, so much so that Bucky had to clear his throat to elicit an answer from her. 

“Sorry! You can just drop over there,” she pointed now to the far right corner that you could see from the doorway. “Thanks, James.” 

He nods and drops it before turning his heel straight back to the cars. 

Nat drops down the box she was holding and nods her head at Maya. “Were you staring at Bucky?” 

Maya automatically shook her head. “No, I wasn’t staring. I just never really look at his arm, I guess,” she said softly. 

“You get used to it,” Steve chirped in, dropping four boxes full of books. “But a lot of girls stare, Maya. Anyways, the arm adds to the broody thing he’s got going for him.” 

Nat laughed a bit. Maya did too but hers was pretty forced due to the fact that her mind was filled with more thoughts of Bucky’s arm.

It was after a quick glance back at all the desks that Maya decided to wait until they were done bringing everything up to the classroom so that she could ask Steve or Bucky to move them for her. She took the downtime to assemble her new desk chair. 

By the time she was half done with the chair they had brought every last book and box into the classroom. 

“Alright! What next, boss?” Steve asked, setting down the last box. 

After clumsily finding her way to her feet, Maya brushed off the dust from the butt of her pants. “Um, Nat, can you start alphabetizing the books by author? And then you guys can help me rearrange the chairs.” Her feet carried her towards the messy sea of chairs. “I want to split them in half and create an aisle down the center of them, and then have both sides facing the aisle, so like, facing each other.” 

After a few minutes of trying to go back to the chair, Steve and Bucky kept having more and more questions. Steve decided it would be best if he finished the chair and Maya just gave Bucky more explicit directions. 

Despite feeling conflicted about being “alone” with Bucky, Maya managed to give him direction and they got it done fairly quickly. 

By the time they were done, Steve had finished the new rolling chair and was sitting in it, his legs stretched out in front of him and reclining slightly. He tested out the wheels and grinned as he rolled smoothly towards the door. 

“Ooooh, that is nice! Mind if Buck and I take this thing for a spin?” Steve asked, grinning.

“Go ahead,” Maya laughed, as Bucky’s face lit up, automatically following Steve out of the room. 

Maya decided to start organizing the pieces for her new desk so she could have one of the guys help her afterwards. She didn’t get very far in this task before she was whipping her head up at the sound of Steve’s whooping. 

To her surprise, Steve was sitting on the chair with his legs up, zooming down the hall a little too fast and was always shortly followed by Bucky running up behind him. This happened maybe half a dozen times before they switched spots. 

She couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of Bucky, his hair disheveled and his knees tucked up in front of him with a smile on his face, flying past the open doorway. 

It was after they switched back that Maya and Nat heard a slam. They both got up and went to the doorway to find Steve on the floor at the end of the hall, the chair tipped onto its side and Bucky running up towards him, practically doubled forward with laughter. 

“Are they always like this?” 

Nat snickered, “Oh yeah. And you would think that Tony’s the one that hates it but you should have seen when Pepper caught them with a rolling chair and one of Tony’s glove blasters. They were using the glove to propel themselves down the longest hallway we have. She was so livid, she literally sent them to their rooms.”  

Maya’s brow rises and she laughs before sticking her head further out into the hallway. “Steve, you good?” 

“Never better!” He calls out, getting up and bringing the chair and Bucky back into the classroom. 

-- 

After Steve and Bucky built Maya’s desk, she left all her things in a pile on the desktop and decided to leave it for later so she could help Nat and the guys organize all the books instead. 

The duration of this book organization was predominantly teasing Steve for not having the alphabet memorized. This joke continued on for a longer than reasonable amount of time.

The minority of the book alphabetizing was Maya telling Steve everything that he missed about literature since he froze. 

“Stevie here was always the bookworm,” Bucky shared. “Would rather read than go on the dates I set up for him.” 

Steve shook his head slightly, “All the girls you ever brought around were there for you, Buck.” 

Maya didn’t know about Steve’s physique pre-serum so this was kind of hard to believe. Despite this, she thought about Bucky and the way his voice sounded when he called her doll. She believed in the concept of Bucky being a ladies’ man after relishing in the memory of his velvety voice. 

“What kind of things did you read Steve?” Maya asked, changing the subject out of sheer discomfort caused by thinking about Bucky taking two girls home. 

“The classics, some of Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Hemingway. I was pleasantly surprised to see how well Tolkien’s series went off! I made Buck watch all the films with me when I found out about them.” Steve beamed. 

Maya got excited to hear about his liking of Tolkien and got talking about her favorite fantasy series. She raved about Harry Potter, which Steve was very skeptical about in the beginning. She also raved about contemporary work and how fantasy has started to merge with science fiction in the last decade.

For the duration of this conversation, Nat and Bucky simply listened to Maya ramble on about her book collection and Nat giggled when she warned Steve about the Twilight series. 

“Stephanie Meyer’s best work had to be The Host. Great sci-fi and significantly less teen angst.”

“I promise you, Harry Potter is worth reading. It’s an easy read but still deeply enjoyable. The characters are lovable and it's definitely a world you can submerge yourself in when this one just isn’t cutting it, you know?” 

By the end of it, Maya had convinced him to give Harry Potter a chance. She sent him home with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and a few classics he missed while he was in the ice including Fahrenheit 451, Lord of the Flies, and Where the Wild Things Are. 

After marking Steve down for having these books, giddy about her new library system, they were done for the day.

And with that, they filed out, Maya locked the door and they made their way down to the cars once again. 

--

“Are you guys sure you can’t do dinner tonight?” Maya asked. 

“Sorry, shortstack, no amount of books you own is going to replace a real workout.” Steve gave Maya a bit of a side hug squeeze before walking towards the driver’s door of Happy’s SUV. 

“I’ll ride back with Maya and just meet you guys back at the tower,” Nat chirped, climbing into the car. 

“Thank you again!” Maya called out. 

“No problem, doll,” Bucky hummed, as he waved goodbye closing his door behind him

-

Once they were on the freeway again Nat asked, “So not Steve… but maybe his best friend?” 

“Natasha! You really don’t quit do you?” Maya rolled her eyes.

Nat hesitated for only a moment. “No, I don’t. You should really know that about me.” She paused to laugh. “I do think the Steve thing was just cute but Bucky-- you and Bucky have tension.” 

Maya rolled her eyes. “No!!! There is no tension! You are totally misreading it.” 

“I know what tension is. And you guys have tension. Even Bucky noticed it.” Nat grinned to herself. 

“You are so full of shit!” She made sure her tone was playful but she just prayed that Nat wasn’t looking at her because she felt her cheeks begin to flush. “James didn’t say anything to you about me, did he?” 

“You’re going to have to ask him yourself, sweetheart.” Nat teased. 

“Stop! I don’t even know why he calls me that. And doll? Does he call everyone these names?” 

Nat shook her head, “He definitely doesn’t call me any pet names, but that’s because he called me princess once in the ring and he regretted it shortly after.” 

Maya laughed at the thought of Nat kick dropping Bucky onto the floor of a boxing ring. “I don’t even know James. And I severely hope you’re joking about him thinking anything of me.” 

“Okay, okay. He didn’t say anything about tension. But he does think you’re weird-- well, not weird per say.” 

Maya groaned a bit, knocking the back of her head against the headrest. “Absolutely nothing you’re saying is making me feel better about seeing James ever again. Ever.” 

“He didn’t say anything bad! He just thinks that you don’t like him. He feels like you avoid addressing him,” Nat explained. 

“I don’t avoid him! I just don’t know how to talk to him. I feel like he only really talks to Steve and I didn’t want to overstep and make him uncomfortable.” 

“No, Maya, it’s fine.” Nat patted her shoulder. “I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. But Bucky’s also not wrong. You’re not your same chirpy self when he's around. You kind of get quiet, like you’re thinking about every move you make.” 

“Well, I kind of do! He makes me uncomfortable. Not in a bad way! I just-- The only things I know about James are the things that were in the news, and those were obviously all… horrible really. Of course, I also saw a few pieces about when he came back and joined the Avengers initiative, but I still can’t wrap my head around everything he’s been through.” 

All of the things that Maya said were true. She remembers being in grad school, watching the news and being introduced to this new character: The Winter Soldier. It was appalling, having to find out that he was nothing but a pawn in some grand scheme that did nothing but cause pain-- Learning that he had to live with the things he did, despite not having any control over it was difficult for Maya then and difficult to think about again now. But the fact of the matter is that Maya never thought this moral war would actually be relevant to her. And now here she was, becoming very invested in her friendships with several super humans and renowned heroes. 

The other thing to take into consideration was that she was attracted to Bucky. She had to stop herself from thinking about all the bad things he was capable of. This was especially important when she got well ahead of herself, thinking about what it would be like to develop her own relationship with him. And aside from the physical attraction, another part of her couldn’t help but daydream about all the stories he had to tell. The 40s, the war, HYDRA, The Avengers. As a person who dedicated her life to loving stories, she couldn’t imagine how blissful it would be to hear some firsthand from Bucky himself. 

Nat nodded, her smile fading as she had to face the reoccurring realization that Maya was a risky person to befriend. “I understand. Truth be told, we don’t really mix with the non-vigilante types anymore.” 

Maya scoffed softly, “I mean, yeah, I figured. That’s why I was so nervous about asking to spend time together outside of Corners, and then when you teased me about Steve and I-- well, I’ve just been confused.” 

“We have too! It’s been a moral conflict really. We don’t want to put you in any danger, of course, but I don’t know. I guess, you just give us a glimpse of what normal life is like, and it's really refreshing.” 

A small smile creeped onto both the girls’ faces. 

“Well, I’m glad I can give you guys that. I genuinely enjoy spending time with you guys, too. You’ve made the move a lot easier on me, to be honest.” 

“I’m glad. Since we’re being honest-- I think you’re in too deep now. We’re not going anywhere.” 

Maya couldn’t help but grin and be ecstatic about the fact that she had friends to rely on in the city. 

-- 

TAGLIST: @asuperconfusedgirl @amisutcliff

#addy writes #better than words #mcu #marvel #bucky #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu au #marvel au #bucky au #bucky barnes au #mcu fic #marvel fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #reader x bucky #reader x bucky barnes #bucky x oc #oc x bucky #wow i'm in love with james buchanan barnes

[passivenovember]

6, 8, 12, and 20 for the writing asks!! Because you are awesome!

You’re so kind, what the heck <3

6. What character do you have the most fun writing? Billy. Hands down; his mannerisms and the way I imagine his thoughts come together is, like, so easy for me to envision. 

8. Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read? Depends. I’m not very good at writing smut, I wish I was though I’m working on it because HUNNY I love a good bum fuck as much as the next guy. I love reading poetic works. Specifically “Killing Boys,” by mrharringtons, comes to mind first--that kinda prose, where a lot of it can be left to interpretation. My writing (I’ve been told) is like that. Maybe it’s just my theatre roots coming out lol, but I want my readers to interact with the piece and have theories and shit. 

12. Do you want your writing to be famous? No, lmao. For one my writing isn’t good enough to get famous and two; I do it because I enjoy creating stories. Just for the sake of getting lost in something. One person could read it and enjoy, and I’d write novels for that one person. Numbers don’t mean anything to me.

20. Tell us about your writing that you really want to ramble about? Super Dark Times. Always that fic--not my most popular (swallowtail holds that trophy), but I’m so proud of the direction it’s going and all the painstaking hours of worldbuilding that I’ve put into it. I worked hard on re-writing S2 so it includes scenes that I felt were missing. Did a lot of work on Billy & Max’s relationship, had Billy encounter the Mind Flayer in several scenes throughout to indicate that what happened in S3 wasn’t a coincidence. After Starcout Billy dies and Steve is trying to raise him from the dead. I’ve included a lot of symbolism from poetry and classical literature, since Billy’s a writer, and it sort of follows the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Steve is being visited by Billy in his dreams and he’s doing everything he can do bring him back to the land of the living. It’s dark and lengthy and fucking annoying but I’m proud of myself for that one lol. The thirty regular readers that I have on that fic are so kind, so willing to go wherever I lead them, and for a while I was debating abandoning it because radio silence can be a little discouraging. However, the second I mentioned calling it quits I got a flood of messages on both AO3 and Tumblr demanding that I finish it out. Writing online is weird--no one says anything about your work but they still read it and enjoy. Super Dark Times is not perfect, someday I want to go back and revise but I’m proud of it regardless.

I try to keep my head up lol 

thank you <3

[chanceuseladynoire]

Snow Angel

I started posting my fourth work. You can read it on AO3 here.

Rating:General Audiences 

Category: F/M 

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug 

Relationship: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug 

Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, Sabine Cheng, Tom Dupain, Alix Kubdel | Bunnyx, Tikki, Plagg 

Additional Tags: Time Shenanigans, aged-up, Fluff, Angst, Kidnapping, Searching, Getting help from unlikely places, Adrien has gone a little crazy, Adrien is in denial, lost kitty, Bunnyx _really _needs to get a lock for her burrow, Miraculous Wish, Relationship Advice, Worried Friends and Family, Season 3 Spoilers, Chat Blanc Episode Spoilers - Freeform

Summary: Where is Marinette? It is a popular question this morning and Adrien is starting to worry. The 17-year-old lycée student (and teen heart-throb supermodel) can't do anything about it, but perhaps a certain cat-themed superhero can pick up her trail.

*Warning: Season 3 Spoilers Ahead*

Chapter 1: Missing

Adrien dropped his school bag next to his usual desk, took his seat, and waited for class to start. He scrolled through his calendar on his phone. Only three photoshoots this week, and the regular piano, fencing and Chinese practices. A chemistry quiz today, history paper due on Friday. It was actually shaping up to be a pretty light week. He might be able to sneak in a few more patrols with Ladybug.

Or perhaps get Marinette to slip one of Paris’ favorite heroes a few cookies on her balcony. Either option sounded fine to him.

Speaking of Marinette, where was she? Class was going to start in two minutes. She’d been making a special effort to squeak into class five minutes before the final bell since starting their second year of lycée and no longer having the luxury of living across the street from school. She probably overslept again.

The seconds ticked by. The bell rang. The history class started. The desk next to Adrien remained empty.

He didn’t start to worry until class ended and there was still no sign of the bluenette. Adrien hoped she wasn’t ill. She had seemed fine yesterday.

He could text her and ask if she was okay, but he felt that might be overstepping. Besides, he didn’t want to disturb her if she was feeling unwell. He decided to try the next best thing to messaging Marinette directly.

[Adrien] Hey. Have you heard from Marinette this morning? She wasn’t in class.

A reply popped up almost instantly.

[Alya] I haven’t. Give me a sec.

Adrien pocketed his phone and walked down the hall to his calculous class. He set his phone on his desk and unpacked his tablet and stylus. The phone’s screen lit up a minute before the bell rang.

[Alya] She’s not answering her phone. I’ll try the bakery next.

[Adrien] Thanks. Class is about to start. I’ll check back in with you later.

Adrien pushed the budding sense of unease away as the teacher began lecturing about integrals.

With his math class over, Adrien once again packed up to move to classical world literature. They were studying Shakespeare’s sonnets. He was gleaning so much glorious material for Chat Noir to use later. It was almost better than his Sunday night ritual of scouring the internet for new cat puns and memes. Almost.

Adrien did his best not to bump into anyone on the stairs as he headed down to his next classroom with his attention focused on his phone.

He had received six new texts and a missed call in the last hour.

[Alya] I talked to Sabine. She hasn’t seen Marinette since last night.

[Alya] She assumed that she just missed her leaving this morning.

[Alya] Mari still isn’t answering her phone.

[Alya] She wasn’t in our French class last period.

[Alya] Let me know when you see her. Okay?

That uneasy feeling from earlier had lodged itself in the pit of his stomach and was growing.

He typed a quick promise to Alya that he would notify her when he saw their friend.

The missed call and sixth text were from Mme. Cheng.

Adrien rounded the last step and stopped out of the flow of traffic before opening the text. The squirming feeling in his gut was getting worse.

[Mama Cheng] Have you seen Marinette this morning? Alya just called and no one seems to have seen her since last night. Tom and I are starting to worry.

Adrien failed to notice his foot tapping out a nervous staccato against the floor tiles.

[Adrien] I haven’t seen her this morning either. I will have her call you the minute I do.

He pressed ‘send,’ hoping that his optimism in stating ‘when’ not ‘if’ he sees Marinette was not unfounded. He didn’t want to start thinking that way.

He stood there, staring at his phone, trying to decide what to do, as the halls emptied and the next period of classes began. He felt Plagg start nudging his hip from inside his book bag. It was the final push he needed.

Adrien hurriedly stopped by the school nurse and told her that he wasn’t feeling well and asked to be excused from his classes for the rest of the day.

The nurse took one look at his pale face and agreed to let the rest of his teachers know of his absence. Having a reputation for being a model student had its advantages.

Adrien walked out the front doors of the school as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. As soon as he had the freedom of the pavement outside, he ran to the shadows of the nearest alleyway.

Usually Plagg talked to Adrien from wherever he was lounging at the time, but as soon as they were hidden from view, the kwami of destruction phased through the bag and floated at eye level. His tail was flicking back and forth agitatedly. He crossed his stubby arms over his chest and narrowed his toxic green eyes at his holder.

“Well, what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?” Plagg drawled exasperatedly, but Adrien could read the subtext after four years of partnership. His kwami was worried.

He finally had a name for that feeling crawling its way up from his stomach and grasping at his throat now. Fear. It was definitely fear.

“Plagg, claws out!”

----------

Five minutes later Chat Noir landed on Marinette’s balcony with a soft flump.

Nothing looked out of place, but something... wasn’t quite right. Chat couldn’t quite put his claw on it just yet.

He moved the information to the back of his mind to let his subconscious work out whatever it was. His attention turned to the skylight hatch leading to his friend’s bedroom. He eased the door open and poked his head inside.

Still nothing seemed amiss. Her bed was unmade (not uncommon with how quickly she usually needed to leave for school after hitting snooze on her alarm four times). Bits of pink fabric were strewn across her sewing desk and pinned to the dress form in the corner. Pictures of her friends were taped to the walls. It all looked perfectly normal for her room.

Chat Noir dropped onto the loft, careful to land next to the bed to keep his boots from dirtying her bedding. That’s when it hit him—the thing that was out of place.

There was an unfamiliar scent in Marinette’s room.

He sniffed around the bed. It smelled mostly of pleasant things that he associated with the young designer, like vanilla and sugar. Underneath the comforting scents was another, unfamiliar one.

Chat Noir wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. It smelled... cold. It was like the sharp sting of ice on a bitterly cold day when the wind bites at your ears and nose and burns your cheeks with snowflakes like shards of glass. The scent stood out in sharp contrast to Marinette who smelled like everything warm and comforting.

He took a few minutes to sniff around the rest of her room. He didn’t pick up the foreign scent anywhere except near the bed. He did find Marinette’s phone under her bed. It was on silent and the battery was nearly dead. She had forty-six missed calls and messages. Chat was willing to bet that most of them were from Alya.

He left the phone where it was and pulled himself back up to the balcony.

The icy scent was on the edge of the hatch door. He also smelled it on one of the many potted plants surrounding Marinette’s oasis. Whoever it was must have brushed against the leaves.

The intruder had entered through the skylight from the balcony, just as Chat Noir had.

A string of events started taking shape in his mind. He didn’t like where they led.

A stranger had come to Marinette’s balcony, let themselves into her room, and taken the girl from her bed.

Someone had kidnapped Marinette.

----------

Chat Noir spent the rest of the afternoon sniffing around rooftops near the Dupain-Cheng bakery in an ever expanding radius. From time to time he dropped to ground level as well, but that didn’t seem right for some reason and he inevitably returned to the roofs.

After a few hours, he got lucky. (No one was more surprised than him since good luck was not his forte.)

Someone in a building to the south had left a pool towel hanging out to dry on a balcony railing. A brush of odor on the colorful material matched the one locked in Chat’s scent memory.

He continued searching to the south. He had never put so much effort into tracking before. Why hadn’t he thought to practice before now?

An hour later, he found his next clue. He followed the scent along a straight line of roofs at a full run on all fours. Chat’s mind presented him with two pieces of information as his claws dug into the roof tiles and his legs propelled him forward.

First, the scent was getting harder to follow as more time passed. Second, Chat knew of only three groups who took routes like this. None were great options.

He slid to a stop at the end of the roof line and stood easily on the edge. His breathing was labored and he could feel his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. Anxiety and exertion were flooding his system with adrenaline. Chat’s tail twitched behind him just as Plagg’s had before transforming that afternoon. A low growl slipped past his clenched teeth.

He’d lost the trail.

Chat needed help. He opened the map feature on his baton and searched for Ladybug’s icon. She wasn’t there. It was a long shot anyway. They usually weren’t transformed this time of day unless there was an Akuma attack. Fortunately he hadn’t had to deal with one of those today. Chat could only handle one crisis at a time.

He switched his baton to phone mode and called his partner. It went to voicemail.

“Ladybug, I’ve got a bit of a situation here. Do you remember Marinette Dupain-Cheng? I think she may be a friend of yours, but that’s not important right now.”

He did his best to keep the strain out of his voice. Ladybug didn’t want an update on his emotional state. She only wanted cold, hard facts.

“Look, I think she’s been kidnapped. No one has seen her all day. I went by her house to check if I could find anything and picked up an unfamiliar scent. I’m tracking it south through the fifth arrondissement right now. And, LB, I’m tracking it across the roofs. We might be looking at an akuma or sentimonster, though it’s been pretty quiet for one of Hawkmoth’s games. There’s a possibility it might be a—another miraculous holder.”

He paused for a moment to let that sink in.

“Anyway, call me when you get this. I’m going to keep looking. Bye.”

Chat Noir ended the call and continued his pursuit.

Frustration outweighed his anxiety hours later as the sun started to set beyond the Paris skyline. He hadn’t been able to pick up the trail again. He tracked it as far as he could, but he lost it.

He groaned as he slid down a brick wall protruding from the roof he was currently on. He sat on the plaster and released his transformation. A crackle of bright green energy washed over his body and Plagg sprang from the ring. Adrien handed him a piece of Camembert before the grumpy little cat could ask.

“How’s it going, kid?” Plagg asked, then tossed the chunk of smelly cheese in the air and swallowed it whole. Normally with him it was eat first, ask questions later.

“I lost the trail.” Adrien thunked his head against the bricks behind him. The small pain this caused was a slight comfort in the face of Adrien’s disgust with his tracking skills.

“I know, kid. But, honestly, you did great. It wasn’t an easy scent to find. I’m impressed that you were able to follow it this far.”

If Plagg was trying to comfort him and willingly handing out compliments, it really was the end of days.

Adrien appraised his old friend. “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

Plagg stared off to the south. Adrien was sure the little glutton had heard him, but was declining to comment.

Plagg had always seemed partial to Marinette. Adrien didn’t know why. His kwami had never met the girl, but he did seem to bring her up more than Adrien’s other friends.

“Let’s go, kid. There’s nothing more we can do tonight, and I’m sure Pantsuit is wondering where you are by now.”

Adrien pushed himself to his feet. He had no idea what he was going to tell Nathalie, but he didn’t really care right now. Maybe he would do something crazy and try telling her the truth that one of his friends was missing and he had been out all day looking for her. Telling Nathalie the truth. He scoffed. There was a concept.

“Plagg, claws out.”

#Snow Angel by mostlovedgirl #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fan fic #adrien agreste #marinette dupain-cheng #adrienette #marichat #ml season 3 spoilers

[shazyloren]

The Dragon Club: Chapter 4 - Wine and Dine

Summary:  Jon Snow is an online blogger who gets an interview with the sort after Daenerys Targaryen, the Editor of Valyrian, a multi-million dollar fashion magazine. He'd heard so much about the silver-haired and silver-tongued woman and he running of her business; he would have to be smart to get anything more than five minutes. Will he be safe walking into the Dragon's lair or will he get thrown to the Lions?

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12018519/chapters/27290892

------

Daenerys glared at the TV as E! News reported the sensational news of Jon Snow's blog. It was two days after their fiasco interview and Dany woke up seething after receiving phone call after phone call from news outlets wanting her comments as had phoned Missandei (who was back at work and healthy) to cancel her meeting that day and that she was going to work from home on editing the March issue of Valyrian (February's was coming out in two weeks so she needed this one in the back by the end of the week). But she couldn't concentrate as she received a message from her brother telling her to turn the tv on.

"Sensational news coming out of Valyrian magazine today as respected Journalist, Jon Snow, releases a candid and honest report of meeting Editor-in-chief and owned Daenerys Targaryen. It comes just a week after the scandal of former employee Doreah's reports that the multi-millionaire owner is an 'evil piece of work'. The following reports contains flash photography..."

Dany grinned her teeth as she seethed at the TV.

'A Hot Head at best, vindictive at worst; Daenerys Targaryen's attitude to simple questions over the scandal that rocked her magazine is to dodge furiously and lash out as her volatile nature supersedes her ability to talk like a normal adult'  The Journalist said as he wrote a 2000 word essay on his impressions of the Editor-in-chief. It wasn't all bad for the 26 year old however, there were high praise for her love of fashion that says she claims comes from her mother, Rhaella, who is seen with her here at Elton John's New Year's eve bash last month. He also says she has a fine taste in literature, which can be seen by her extensive knowledge on Chaucer..."

Daenerys turned the TV off immediately. She'd been told by Missandei that his blog was the number 1 trend on twitter currently and he was receiving praise for his piece from critics. 'Hot head at best' he'd said of her; he had been very rude of her which she had expected; just not like that.  She wasn't a bad person; and Doreah was not her fault; she had just lashed out at the wrong time and now Valyrian was going to pay for it. There would be boycotts from people buying her magazine.

"Stupid Bastard" She grumbled as she threw all her paperwork on the floor in anger. "I'm not a horrible person, I'm not a Horrible person"

She suddenly found herself trapped; wishing she was allowed out of her home into the open world. She wanted to breath in the cool January air, she feel the breeze as it rolled over her skin, not to feel the papers and books of her work or look at the workings of people's articles on her computer screen. She sighed, it's no use. She just sunk back into her desk chair and began to pick up the papers which she had thrown down.

Throwing herself into her work; it wasn't until her cleaner and cook let themselves in a 17:00pm that she realised she needed to get ready for her dinner guest that would be arriving soon. She closes down her files and tidies the papers on her desk. She nodded to her helping hands and retreats to her beauty closet to get ready for the company that will be joining her. She stares at the dresses and fabrics in front of her; Wang, Versace, Chanel, McQueen, Chloe and many more. She can't help but be drawn to a white number which was a custom made dress her mother made for her many years ago.

"You're the one" She whispered as she began to change; her pale milk like skin revealed from underneath her jumper and trousers she'd been wearing for the day. She took the white dress out and smile. A figure hugging bardot topped dress which had a fashionable cape added. It had a slit up to the thigh in the left side which when paired with silver strappy heels meant she looked a lot taller than she actually was. Getting into the dress and calling her cleaner in to help zip it up at the back she fashioned it with a dragon choker.

She heard the doorbell ring then and after putting her hair into a fashionable ponytail; she walked to the apartment entrance where her five guests were waiting already, her eye catching that of her assistant Missandei who looked like she'd got changed in her car from running the office for a day. A low whistle sounded out from one of them. "Hello all"

"Thank you for having our company once again Daenerys"

"It is my pleasure, Sir Tyrion" She smirks as she pokes at her guests recent knighthood from the Queen of England. "Dinner will be ready soon, please come into the guest lounge where we'll have some win"

Dany often thought of her life three years previous. When she'd spoke of her wish to leave her father's company and start her own fashion magazine he'd thrown her out of their house with £2000 only and two bags of clothes. She only could have the internet on her phone from wifi spots in Cafe's so she started an online blog called 'Valyrian' but laid it all out like a magazine and when people came into the cafe's she'd tell them about the site and got people interested. She soon got ads on her site and within the first year she had a backer willing to invest in a printed version of her site. And that had been Tyrion Lannister, Sir Tyrion.

"It's been a bit of a strange day for you I could imagine" He commented as they entered the Lounge, a large smile present on his face. "Hot-headed at best and Vindictive at worst, what did you do to the poor man?"

"Didn't give him the information he wanted" She commented back, immediately going for the wine that her cook had laid out for them. "A rather inquisitive soul; a love of classic literature. I thought the interview was going well and then the issue of Doreah came up. I panicked and threw him out"

"A shame, one would have thought you'd have learnt to keep a cool head by now but alas you are your father's daughter" Varys spoke to her. He'd been apart of her father's business for 10 years as his right hand man but had recently fallen out with him. So now he runs communications in Daenerys' instead. Another reason her father despises her.

"I am not my father" She raised an eyebrow at him.

"And thank god" He laughed as he too sipped the wine.

"If it had been me; I'd have locked the door and told him he wasn't allowed to leave until he promised to write a fluff piece" Daario, her friend of 2 years spoke. She'd met him while working in the Coffee shops, he'd been an aspiring weightlifter and now worked the nightshift of security while Jorah, who was drinking the wine quicker than he could pour it on the sofa, did the days. Daario had always had a thing for Daenerys and three or four times they'd ended up in bed together but for her it had been nothing more than a fling.

"And what would that have accomplished? Jon Snow is a well respected Journalist he'd have just told the world she tried to coerce him into lying and her reputation would've suffered even more" Tyrion was a very intelligent man, and he nearly always had a solution for when things went pear shaped. "You need to be smarter than him"

"Do you propose something?" Daenerys was intrigued.

"Twitter was flooded with opinions and mislead comments about this article, you need to get on social media. Make a twitter and ann instagram. People need to see you as a person who is human and not a cold hearted bitch you've been portrayed as in the papers. Yes you have a temper on you; but it does not come out often"

Daenerys blinked. She'd never bothered with social media herself. She'd keep an eye on competitors and used it in that sense, but her own account? "I am unsure about this,  Tyrion. If I do this now; people will know it's a direct response to his article!"

"Good; people will realise that you've gone to great lengths to actually go about doing something. They'll become intrigues in you and your magazine and the prints will increase once again. Let's do it now while we're flowing on wine as to not lose our coverage, where's your tablet?"

And so for the next thirty minutes until dinner was served all six of them, Daenerys, Tyrion, Daario, Missandei, Varys and Jorah argued over what to put on her account as handles and display pictures. There was a lot of back and forth but after much disagreement Daenerys decided to name her account 'The Dragon Club'. "The Dragon Club? You mean the horrible name you tried to give this dinner us six have once a week?"

"It's not a horrible name; it's good" Daenerys retorted as she finally signed up to twitter and Instagram. "Now what do you propose I do? I don't take photos, I'm not particularly funny. This was a horrible idea!"

"You are very dry, Daenerys. Tweet the journalist; if he's on there" Daario suggested and for once Tyrion agreed with him. "Be nice obviously, but follow me first"

Daenerys followed her own company and then followed the five guests in the room who were online (Jorah didn't bother). She then searched for Jon's account and saw the last thing he tweeted 'Thank you for the positive feedback on this article, it's good to report honest subject matter'. She mentally found herself getting fired up again and she didn't think she could contain it as she stared at his words on her tablet screen. But taking a deep breath she replied to his tweet. 'No legacy is so rich as honesty'.

It was at this that she was interrupted by her cook to say dinner was served. Her mind was all on talking to her guests about their lives; Missandei had just moved in with her boyfriend Jacob, also known to most as indie singer Greyworm. Tyrion had recently lost his wife Shae and was talking of how her parents had come to Tyrion with some of her stuff they wanted him to have. Varys had received an invite from Dany's brother Rhaegar for Elia's 40th birthday party next week and Jorah's niece had made him wear fairy wings at her 11th birthday party. They were all getting along swimmingly and it wasn't until they moved from the dining room back into the guest lounge that she saw lots of notifications on her phone. She'd have to turn them off later.

Checking to see all the fuss, she saw Jon had replied to her and followed. 'Shakespeare' was all he'd said. But it was still enough to make Daenerys smile.

Perhaps she may be able to sway him round.

#jon snow #danereys targaryen #jon x daenerys #jon x dany #jon x dany fanfic #fanfic #jonerys #jonerys fanfic #jonerysfanfic #got #game of thrones #au #modern setting #the dragon club

[onethousandcentipedes-blog]

all our bruised bodies // touken

this is a touken one-shot I wrote several months ago, during the cochlea arc, exploring my angst-ridden headcanon of touka’s imminent confession. obviously the current timeline and recent events conflict with this, but hopefully my attempt at characterization respects each character’s personal identity and development. 

1680 word count // m for language // excerpt:

Her eyes are still fixated at the ground. She wishes she could unearth the cold concrete to resurrect the impenetrable barricade that surrounded her heart and revert back into an impulsive, foulmouthed teenager. Times were simpler, almost four years ago. He would still play martyr, withhold his true feelings and lie to her face, but at least then she could alleviate some stifled frustration. Spit an insult, break a finger.

But memories of exposing his most vulnerable, humiliating feature — screaming, never come back — loiter, caught in the cobwebs of her mind, in places too unkind and uncomfortable to go back and dust them away.

She cannot repeat the same mistakes that creep into the forefront of her brain at night. The same mistakes she curses herself over, sometimes for hours and sometimes in passing.

“I — love you,” she finally concedes, voice hardly stronger than a whisper and with no more conviction than a shallow breath.

It hurts. It hurts and he hates himself and he would rather count the amputated fingers and toes scattered across a bloodstained checkerboard — he would rather gouge his fucking eyes out — than look into hers, reddening and brimming with saline iridescence.

It hurts because he abandoned someone who recognized the demons of loneliness hidden behind olivine eyes and strained smiles but — for some reason he could never possibly understand — loves him — a hideous, repugnant, worthless fucking insect — anyway.

It hurts because she is patiently awaiting his response and running away sounds much more appealing than confronting his feelings — he doesn’t understand them anyways because he is irrevocably fucked up and she deserves everything he is not  — but she is so, so beautiful.  

“Touka-chan.”

His voice cracks. Everything hurts.

He should feel happy. After all, the entire objective in abandoning her almost four years ago was ensuring her safety, protecting her from afar so there would be someone to welcome him back once he finished finding answers. And here she is, crimson coursing through veins and chest trembling in erratic breath. She is alive and so, so beautiful.

If he were impulsive or somewhat confident, perhaps he would cradle within the rough of his palm the swell of her flushed cheek. Or instead, he might lace their fingers together and massage her thumb with the underside of his. Maybe he would embrace her, drape his arms around her slender frame and pretend this insignificant action could shield her from everything wrong in the world — protect her heart from suffering any further — even though he is weaker and her grief is of direct consequence to his wretched existence. But he cannot summon enough courage to even return her eye contact.

Observant, her solemn gaze falls, trying to trace crevasses in worn concrete — distracted, ineffectual. The lines decorating her face are suddenly magnified, short stories of hardship and heartache. It hurts, watching her strength crumble because of him: a hideous, repugnant, worthless insect. But he is scared — no, terrified.

He is absolutely, pathetically terrified. The prospect of someone loving him makes his stomach churn. Bile is crawling up his throat like one thousand centipedes and he feels incapacitated by oscillating waves of nausea. He is so sick — nauseous and haunted and fragmented — and he cannot give her anything she deserves. She does not deserve his tormented soul. She does not deserve the itch occupying his subconscious, annoying and manipulative and hell-bent on his suicide. She does not deserve someone plagued by descending numbers, someone debilitated by worsening eyesight and agonizing migraines, someone weak enough to forget everything — everyone — once important to him.

So against every strained muscle in his aching heart screaming, just love her, he steels himself.

“I — uh, well, Touka-chan — I don’t think…”

She captures a hand subconsciously rising to touch his chin. Her hand clenches tightly around his, desperately like he is threatening to disappear again any second, and for a moment, her knuckles resemble the whiteness of his hair. She returns his hand to his side and doesn’t let go. Her dainty fingers cannot wrap around his palm completely.

Her eyes are still fixated at the ground. She wishes she could unearth the cold concrete to resurrect the impenetrable barricade that surrounded her heart and revert back into an impulsive, foulmouthed teenager. Times were simpler, almost four years ago. He would still play martyr, withhold his true feelings and lie to her face, but at least then she could alleviate some stifled frustration. Spit an insult, break a finger.

But memories of exposing his most vulnerable, humiliating feature — screaming, never come back — loiter, caught in the cobwebs of her mind, in places too unkind and uncomfortable to go back and dust them away.

She cannot repeat the same mistakes that creep into the forefront of her brain at night. The same mistakes she curses herself over, sometimes for hours and sometimes in passing.

“Please,” she whispers. “Tell me the truth. I… I think you at least owe me that.”

With the gentle breeze of her voice reaching him — her sweet inhalations and exhalations and the tender movement of her lips against each syllable hitting his face like a hurricane — a dam inside of him ruptures. The feelings he so desperately tried suppressing and the tears he didn’t realize were brimming his eyelids surge outwards in a fierce tide. He should say something. He needs to say something. But his throat is flooding and his body feels so cold and he is drowning in the tears streaming furiously down his cheeks and —

And suddenly, she pulls him into a tight embrace. She pulls him out from beneath his perpetual raincloud and shelters him within her arms, engulfing him in the strong aroma of dark Arabica roast, and even though his body is shivering, he has never felt so warm. He wonders momentarily whether this warmth is emanating from her frame or radiating from deeper within. She has always been fierce and passionate.

He notices a slight dampness on his shirt but when he tries to gently pry her away, she defiantly nestles her head deeper into his sternum.

“It doesn’t matter who they think you are or who you say you are,” she cries and although the fabric subdues her words, the pain in her voice seeps into the honeycomb-like matrix of his bones. “Somewhere deep inside, you’re still that useless idiot who believed me about overflowing the coffee, who loves shitty classic literature nobody else can understand, and — and dammit, Kaneki — you would still rather run away than stay with the people who care about you.”

Her shoulders wrack with sobs and shudder with hiccups.

“I — I waited for you,” she chokes out, and now that she’s admitted it, her tongue moves without inhibition. “I waited for you everyday and — and — and if you have another stupid martyr mission to run off to, at least come visit every once in a while, you piece of shit, Kaneki. I know that’s a lot to ask, especially if you… if you don’t feel the same —”

Kaneki shoves her away with an abruptness, an urgency, even he was not expecting. He seizes her shoulders with an unnecessary firmness. His entire gastrointestinal tract feels like it’s been riddled with small, innumerable cuts and acid is oozing from each perforation. The acid, diffusing into his bloodstream, circulates throughout his limbs, like the corrosive creature he is. It’s disgusting, really, how he could make someone so precious feel so infinitesimally small.

She haunted him — abysmal amethyst eyes with unbelievable sorrow — petite frame with unimaginable strength — trembling pink lips with unwavering grace, thanking his compliment of her coffee. He spent months pining after her, following a brief and otherwise unimpressive first encounter. But that brief and otherwise unimpressive first encounter ignited a trail of gunpowder winding all throughout his circulatory system and detonated in the center of his chest. She stirred something awake deep within him, and he couldn’t even remember her name.

But even years prior, still a pathetic boy refusing to consume and completely ignorant about the wrongness of the world, she was beautiful. Mercurial, volatile  — but beautiful. She was beautiful in a dark alleyway shoving a bloodied arm down his throat, and she was beautiful in a dark chapel arranging her bloodied mouth against the base of his throat. For every ounce of attraction he once felt toward Rize, there was something stronger — something different he couldn’t recognize — he felt toward Touka.

Her eyes widen, crystalline amethyst perforated with saline and uncharacteristic terror that makes his heart cease beating immediately. She must think that he — that he pushed her away because — because he doesn’t — no, surely she knows, doesn’t she?

“Kaneki.”

Her voice cracks. Everything hurts.

It hurts. It hurts and she never learned a goddamn thing and it would’ve been better to stay silent — it would’ve been better to shut her goddamn fucking mouth — because anything is better than looking into his eyes, widening and tumultuous with unrequitance.

It hurts because she thought he recognized the evil spirits of sadness hidden behind amethyst eyes and  — for some reason she could never possibly understand — she tried — a sad girl trying desperately to quell his and her own loneliness — anyway.

It hurts because his grip on her shoulders is growing uncomfortable and running away sounds much more appealing than confronting his feelings — of course he doesn’t love her because she is irrevocably fucked up and he deserves everything she is not — but he looks so, so sad.

“I’m — I’m sorry,” she whimpers, “I should have known better — I should have known —”

She is interrupted because suddenly, he pulls her into a tight embrace. The strength with which he clutches her is suffocating. He is suffocating her, but like hell would she sacrifice his closeness to inhale an atmosphere not designed for ghouls anyway.

“I — uh… I’m a little messed up…  But if you want — this… I am willing.”

Her breathing halts abruptly, body tense. The coursing of blood in her veins slows, palpitations of her heart pause, firing of her neurons cease. Every exposed inch of epithelium becomes littered in goosebumps, chills reverberate down to the marrow. She has never felt so cold. Then all at once, everything resumes with renewed fervor.

Her fingers clutch at his shirt, too shaky to manage a sturdy grip, and she raises onto tiptoes to touch her forehead to his. His eyes close, mind and body exhausted. They maintain balance atop the delicate tightrope beneath them for several seconds, breathing too shaky and lungs too unreliable to trust their voices.

“I don’t know very much about this,” he admits. He rocks his forehead back and forth against hers, the morning fog of a headache beginning to cloud his mind.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispers, afraid her voice would flee if she tried speaking any louder. “Come inside, Ken. It’s time to rest.”

#tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul:re #tg:re #fanfiction #fanfic #kirishima touka #kaneki ken #touken #kanetou #anime #manga #lowkey going to fucking weep whenever touka starts referring to him by first name #touka calling him ken is one of my kinks

[allofbeercom]

After the Circus by Patrick Modiano – extract

Read an exclusive extract from the Nobel prize winners mysterious, romantic classic set on Parisian streets filled with dreamy unease and quiet menace now available to English readers in a new translation by Mark Polizzotti

I was eighteen, and the man whose face I dont recall was typing up my legal status, address, and supposed student enrollment as fast as I could state them. He asked how I spent my free time.

I paused for a few seconds.

I go to movies and bookstores.

You dont just go to movies and bookstores.

He cited the name of a café. No matter how often I repeated that Id never set foot in the place, I could tell he didnt believe me. Finally, he contented himself with typing the following:

I go to movies and bookstores. I have never been to the Café de la Tournelle, at number 61 on the quay of that name.

Then more questions about my activities and my parents. Yes, I took literature courses at the university. There was no danger in telling him that lie: I really had enrolled in the program, but only to prolong my draft deferment. As for my parents, they were both abroad and I had no idea when theyd return, if ever.

Then he mentioned the names of a man and a woman and asked if I knew them. I answered no. He told me to think very carefully. If I didnt tell the truth, there could be serious consequences. The threat was delivered in a calm, indifferent voice. No, really, I didnt know those two individuals. He typed my answer, then handed me the sheet, at the bottom of which was written: Seen and agreed to. I didnt bother looking over my deposition and signed with a ballpoint pen that was lying on the desk.

Before leaving, I asked why Id had to submit to that interrogation.

Your name was in someones address book.

But he didnt say who that someone was.

Well be in touch if we need you again.

He saw me to the door of his office. In the hallway, on the leather bench, sat a girl of about twenty-two.

Youre next, he said to the girl.

She stood up. We exchanged glances. Through the door that hed left ajar, I saw her sit down in the same chair that Id occupied a moment earlier.

* * *

I found myself back on the quay. It was around five in the afternoon. I walked toward the Pont Saint-Michel, thinking that I might wait for the girl to come out after her interrogation. But I couldnt just loiter about police head-quarters. I decided to bide my time in the café on the corner of Boulevard du Palais, where it meets the quay. And what if she had gone in the opposite direction, toward the Pont-Neuf ? The thought never occurred to me.

I was seated near the window, my eyes fixed on the Quai des Orfèvres. Her interrogation lasted much longer than mine. Night had already fallen when I saw her walking toward the café.

As she was passing by, I tapped on the window with the back of my hand. She looked at me in surprise, then came inside to join me.

She sat down at my table as if we knew each other and had made a date. She was the first to speak.

Did they ask you a lot of questions?

My name was in someones address book.

Do you know who?

They wouldnt tell me. But maybe you can shed some light.

She knitted her brow.

Shed light on what?

I figured your name must have been in that address book, too, and they were questioning you about the same thing.

No. With me, it was just to give evidence.

She seemed preoccupied. It felt like she was slowly forgetting I was there. I kept silent. Then she smiled. She asked how old I was. I said twenty-one, making myself three years older: legal age, at the time.

Do you have a job?

I deal in used books, I said randomly, in a tone I tried to make convincing.

She looked at my face, no doubt wondering if she could trust me.

Will you do me a favor? she asked.

* * *

At Place du Châtelet, she wanted to take the metro. It was rush hour. We stood squeezed together near the doors. At every station, the riders getting off pushed us onto the platform. Then we got back on with the new passengers. She leaned her head on my shoulder and said with a smile that no one could find us in this crowd.

At the Gare du Nord metro stop, we were carried along in the flood of travelers heading for the commuter trains. We crossed through the train station lobby, and in the checkroom she opened a locker and pulled out a black leather suitcase.

I carried the suitcase, which was rather heavy. It occurred to me that it contained more than just clothes. The metro again, same line but in the opposite direction. This time we found seats. We got off at Cité.

At the end of the Pont-Neuf, we waited for the light to turn red. I was feeling increasingly anxious. I wondered how Grabley would greet us when we arrived at the apartment. Shouldnt I tell her about Grabley, so that his presence there wouldnt catch her off guard?

We walked past the Hôtel des Monnaies. I heard the clock on the Institut de France chime nine p.m.

Are you sure no one will mind if I come to your place? she asked.

Nope. No one.

There were no lights in the apartment windows facing the quay. Had Grabley gone to his room, on the courtyard side? Normally he parked his car in the middle of the little square that forms a recess between the Hôtel des Monnaies and the Institut, but it wasnt there.

I opened the door on the fourth floor and we walked through the foyer. We entered the room that had served as my fathers office. Light fell from a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. No furniture left, except for an old couch with dark red leaf patterns.

I set the suitcase down next to the couch. She went to the window.

You have a nice view . . .

To the left was one end of the Pont des Arts and the Louvre. Directly in front, the tip of Ile de la Cité and the small Vert-Galant park.

We sat on the couch. She looked around her and seemed amazed by the sparseness of the room.

Are you moving out?

I told her that, unfortunately, we had to vacate the premises in a month. My father had gone to Switzerland to live out his days.

Why Switzerland?

It really was too long a story for that evening. I shrugged. Grabley would be back any minute. How would he react when he saw the girl and her suitcase? I was afraid he would call my father in Switzerland, and that the latter, in a last gasp of parental dignity, would try to play the noble paterfamilias, lecture me about my studies and endangered future. But he was wasting his time.

Im tired . . .

I suggested she lie down on the couch. She hadnt removed her raincoat. I remembered that the heating no longer worked.

Are you hungry? I can go get something from the kitchen . . .

She sat on the couch, legs folded under her, resting on her heels.

Dont go to any trouble. Maybe just something to drink . . .

The light in the foyer had gone off. The bow window in the wide front hall leading to the kitchen lit the room with pale glimmers, as if there were a full moon out. Grabley had left the light on in the kitchen. In front of the old dumbwaiter stood an ironing board on which I recognized the trousers of his glen plaid suit. He ironed his own shirts and other clothes. On the folding table, where I sometimes took my meals with him, was an empty yogurt jar, a banana peel, and a packet of instant coffee. He must have eaten in. I found two yogurts, a slice of salmon, some fruit, and a bottle of whiskey three-quarters empty. When I returned, she was reading one of the magazines that Grabley had let pile up for several weeks on the office mantelpiece, risqué periodicals, as he called them, for which he had a great fondness.

I set the tray down in front of us, on the floor.

She had left the magazine open next to her and I could make out the black-and-white photo of a naked woman, seen from behind, hair tied in a ponytail, left leg extended, right leg bent, her knee resting on a mattress.

Interesting reading matter youve got . . .

No, those arent mine . . . They belong to a friend of my fathers.

She bit into an apple and poured herself some whiskey.

What have you got in that suitcase? I asked.

Oh, nothing much . . . Some personal effects . . .

It was heavy. I thought it was stuffed with gold bricks.

She gave me a sheepish smile. She explained that she lived in a house not far from Paris, near Saint-Leu-la-Forêt, but the owners had come back unexpectedly last night. She preferred to leave, as she didnt really get along with them. Tomorrow she would go to a hotel, until she could find a permanent place to live.

You can stay here as long as you like.

I was sure that Grabley, after his initial surprise, would have no objections. As for my father, what he thought no longer mattered.

Are you getting sleepy?

I intended to give her the upstairs bedroom. I would sleep on the office couch.

I led the way, suitcase in hand, up the small inner staircase to the fifth floor. The room was as sparsely furnished as the office. A bed shoved against the back wall. The nightstand and bedside lamp were gone. I switched on the fluorescent lights in the two display cases, on either side of the fireplace, where my father kept his collection of chess pieces, although these had disappeared, along with the small Chinese armoire and the fake Monticelli canvas that had left a discoloration on the sky-blue paneling. I had consigned those three objects to an antiques dealer, a certain DellAversano, for him to sell.

Is this your room? she asked.

Yes.

I had set the suitcase in front of the fireplace. She went to the window, like before, in the office.

If you look all the way to the right, I told her, you can see the statue of Henri IV and the Tour Saint-Jacques.

She gazed distractedly at the rows of books between the two windows. Then she lay down on the bed and removed her shoes with a casual flick of her foot. She asked where I was going to sleep.

Downstairs on the couch.

Stay here, she said. I dont mind.

She had kept on her raincoat. I turned off the lights in the display cases. I lay down next to her.

Doesnt it feel cold to you?

She moved closer and gently rested her head on my shoulder. Lights and shadows shaped like window grates slid across the walls and ceiling.

Whats that? she asked.

The tour boat passing by.

* * *

<img class="gu-image" itemprop="contentUrl" alt="The" cafe aux deux magots in the saint germain district in 1960. the rue de rennes in the background, on the left. FRANCE – JANUARY 01: The cafe AUX DEUX MAGOTS in the Saint Germain district in 1960. The rue de Rennes in the background, on the left. (Photo by Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images)” src=”https://i.guim.co.uk/img/media/fcfee192d71e0a16e7c185fc0366fd431d4f7db2/0_0_3508_2339/master/3508.jpg?w=300&q=85&auto=format&sharp=10&s=f330ada83013e1a7d2d29fafec406923″/>

Photograph: Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images

I awoke with a start. The front door had slammed.

She was lying against me, nude inside her raincoat. It was seven in the morning. I heard Grableys footsteps. He was making a phone call in the office. His voice grew louder and louder, as if he was arguing with someone. Then he left the office and went into his room.

She woke up as well and asked what time it was. She told me she had to be going. She had left some belongings in the house in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt and wanted to collect them as soon as possible.

I offered her breakfast. There was still some instant coffee in the kitchen and one of the boxes of Choco BN biscuits that Grabley always bought. When I returned to the fifth floor with the tray, she was in the large bathroom. She emerged, dressed in her black skirt and pullover sweater.

She said she would call me early that afternoon. She didnt have any paper on which to jot down my number. I took a book from the shelves and tore out the flyleaf, on which I wrote my name, address, and phone number: DANTON 55-61. She folded the paper in four and shoved it in one of her raincoat pockets. Then her lips brushed mine and she said in a low voice that she was grateful and was looking forward to seeing me again.

She walked along the quay toward the Pont des Arts.

I stood at the window for a few minutes, watching her distant silhouette cross the bridge.

I stashed the suitcase in the storage closet at the top of the stairs. I laid it flat on the floor. It was locked. I lay down again and breathed in her scent from the hollow of one of the pillows. She would eventually tell me why theyd questioned her yesterday afternoon. I tried to recall the names of the two people the detective had mentioned, asking whether I knew them. One of them sounded something like Beaufort or Bousquet. In whose address book had they found my name? Was he just trying to get information about my father? Hed asked which foreign country my father had gone to. I had covered his tracks by answering Belgium.

The week before, I had accompanied my father to the Gare de Lyon. He was wearing his old navy blue overcoat and his only luggage was a leather bag. We were early, and we waited for the Geneva train in the large restaurant on the upper level, from which we overlooked the lobby and railway tracks. Was it the late afternoon light? The golden hue on the ceiling? The chandeliers that shone down on us? My father suddenly seemed old and tired, like someone who has been playing cat and mouse for far too long and is about to give up.

The only book he brought with him for the trip was called The Hunt. He had recommended it to me several times, because the author mentioned our apartment, where hed lived twenty years earlier. What a strange coincidence . . . Hadnt my fathers life, in certain periods, resembled a hunt in which he was the prey? But so far, hed managed to elude his captors.

We were facing each other over our coffee. He was smoking, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He talked about my schooling and my future. As he saw it, it was all well and good to want to write novels, as I intended, but it was safer to earn a few diplomas. I kept quiet, listening to him. Words like diplomas, stable situation, profession sounded odd in his mouth. He pronounced them with respect and a kind of nostalgia. After a while, he fell silent, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and shrugged.

We didnt exchange another word until he climbed onto the train and leaned out the lowered window. I had remained on the platform.

Grabley will live with you in the apartment. Afterward, well make a determination. Youll have to rent someplace else.

But he had said it without any conviction. The train for Geneva lurched forward, and at that moment it felt as if I were seeing that face and that navy blue coat pull away forever.

At around nine oclock, I went down to the fourth floor. I had heard Grableys footsteps. He was sitting on the office couch in his plaid bathrobe. Next to him was a tray carrying a cup of tea and a Choco BN. He hadnt shaved and his features were drawn.

Good morning, Obligado . . .

He called me by that nickname because of a friendly wager wed had. One evening, we had arranged to meet in front of a cinema on Avenue de la Grande-Armée. He had told me to get off at the Obligado metro stop. The stop was really called Argentine, but he refused to believe it. We had made a bet, which Id won.

I only got two hours sleep last night. I made my rounds.

He stroked his blond mustache and squinted.

Same places as usual?

The very ones.

His rounds invariably started at eight oclock at the Café des Deux Magots, where he had an aperitif. Then he crossed over to the Right Bank and stopped at Place Pigalle. He stayed in that neighborhood until dawn.

And what about you, Obligado?

I put a girlfriend up last night.

Does your father know?

No.

You should ask him if its all right. Im sure Ill be getting a call.

He imitated my father when he wanted to appear serious and responsible, but it rang even less true than the original.

And what sort of young lady is she?

His face took on the unctuous expression with which he suggested, every Sunday morning, that I go to Mass with him.

First of all, shes not a young lady.

Is she pretty?

I saw on his face the smug, flattering smile of the traveling salesman in some random station bar who over a beer tells you how he got lucky.

My girlfriend last night wasnt too bad either . . .

His tone became aggressive, as if we were suddenly in competition. I no longer remember what I felt at the time, with that seated man, in the empty office that looked as if it had been vacated at a moments notice, its furniture and paintings pawned or repossessed. He was my fathers stand-in, his factotum. They had met when very young on a beach on the Atlantic coast, and my father had corrupted this petty bourgeois Frenchman. For thirty years, Grabley had lived in his shadow. The only habit he retained from his childhood and good upbringing was to attend Mass every Sunday.

Will you introduce me to your girlfriend?

He gave me a complicit wink.

We could even go out together, if you like . . . Im fond of young couples.

I pictured us, her and me, in Grableys car as it crossed over the Seine and headed toward Pigalle. A young couple. One evening Id accompanied him to the Deux Magots, before he headed off on his usual rounds. We were sitting near the windows. I had been surprised to see him greet in passing a couple of about twenty-five: the woman blonde and very graceful, the man dark and overly elegant. He had even gone to talk to them, standing next to their table, while I watched from my seat. Their age and appearance marked such a sharp contrast with Grableys old-world manners that I wondered what fluke could have brought them together. The man seemed amused by what Grabley was saying, but the woman was more detached. Taking his leave, Grabley had shaken the mans hand and given the woman a ceremonious nod. When we left, he introduced them to me, but Ive forgotten their names. Then hed told me that the young man was a very useful contact and that hed met him during his rounds in Pigalle.

You seem pensive, Obligado . . . Are you in love?

He had gotten up and was standing in front of me, hands in the pockets of his bathrobe.

I need to spend all day at the office. I have to sift through the paperwork from seventy-three and move it out.

That was an office my father had rented on Boulevard Haussmann. I often used to go meet him there at the end of the afternoon. A corner room with a very high ceiling. Daylight entered through four French windows overlooking the boulevard and Rue de lArcade. Filing cabinets against the walls and a massive desk with an assortment of inkwells, blotters, and a writing case.

What did he do there? Each time, I would find him on the telephone. After thirty years, I happened across an envelope, on the back of which was printed the name of an ore refining company, the Société Civile dEtudes et Traitements de Minerais, 73 Boulevard Haussmann, Paris 8.

You and your girlfriend can come pick me up at seventy-three. Well go have dinner together . . .

I dont think shes free this evening.

He seemed disappointed. He lit a cigarette.

Well, anyway, call me at seventy-three to let me know your plans . . . Id love to meet her . . .

I was thinking I had to keep a bit of distance, or else wed have him on our backs nonstop. But Ive never been very good at saying no.

This is an extract from After the Circus by Patrick Modiano, published on 21 January by Yale University Press at £10.99. Visit the Guardian Bookshop to preorder it for £8.79.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/after-the-circus-by-patrick-modiano-extract/

[taupetrilobite-blog]

I’ve always wanted to be an American writer of sorts. Growing up reading classic literature by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Maya Angelou, Steinbeck, and so many others inspires a young girl. In order to be an American writer, one should possess a certain knowledge of America which is hard to do if you haven’t traveled the country extensively. I was fortunate enough to be of a family that quite enjoyed traversing the land we are native to and that only sparked my fascination. That is my inspiration for picking up, packing up, and setting out on long multi-day road excursions- I’m lucky enough to have found a friend that thinks very fondly of doing the same. America is so much more than a set of landscapes strung together by invisible lines and waterways, it’s a conglomerate of its people as well. To truly know America is to know the people that live there which is why it is so important to meet the locals, learn what makes them unique in their little niche of this expansive country.

Day 3 began with exploring old American Civil War battlefields in Chattanooga. Grounded by the earth where men put behind them their lives for a cause they thought so highly of, the air was thick with their everlasting presence. From there it was on to Atlanta to sink our fangs into some lip-smackin’-good soul food, original recipes by Gladys Knight. Atlanta is a gorgeous city, and we were not ready to part ways, so we did what most young 20 somethings do and found a bar. Moondogs, our bar of choice, is a piece of Atlanta I wish we could bring home to Milwaukee in our suitcases. The most friendly bartenders I’ve ever had the privilege of being served by and there was so much to do! After a few drinks and a lot of socialization, we were back on the road headed to Florida for cave diving and manatee swims.

Ginnie Springs Florida is a quiet piece of heaven on earth. With waters clear as crystal and blue like aquamarine, these spring fed waters are a natural polished gem hidden away from tourism in the state of Florida. The waters are a warm 72 degrees year round and are home to naturally occurring caverns, carved by the river. I used to come to this privately owned campgrounds as a little girl with my sister and my dad. Our dad taught us to snorkel and all about diving and by the time we put our toes in the water, the desire to reach the bottom of those crevices was like a fever itching in our blood. In my mind I can still feel those clear waters rippling through the pull of my tiny child sized fingers. I can feel the current gently tugging my hair behind me. I can see my sister with the cast of her broken arm hovering above me in the crystalline wake of my swim. Swimming in those same waters today brought back this flood of memories. In an area that remained the same for so many years, I had such a varying experience. Sharing this secret and special place with someone I have such tender and special memories with, like a sister, was inspired. I hope to one day chronicle these boundless memories in such a way it becomes my very own American classic literature but until then I have to live it over and over again, in my mind and in life, till I get the story just right.

#Ginnie Springs #Florida #America #road trip #memories #American classic literature #sister #best friend #adventure #explore #snorkel #free dive #scuba #underwater #caves

[ecotone99]

[RF] Santino's Interview

Brisk October air ruffled the leaves on the trees and flowed between the towering buildings as Santino strutted down Market Street in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. Men and women in suits littered the busy sidewalks as they paced hurriedly to work, but none looked quite as good as Santino did that cool morning. Sporting a fresh shave and haircut, a pressed navy blue suit with an equally blue tie and his polished Italian leather shoes, Santino looked and felt like the finest young professional the city had ever seen.

If there was every day on which Santino needed this confidence, it was today. In just one hour, he would head to the 31st floor of the tallest building on Market to interview for the sports agency firm he had longed to work for since his days as an undergrad slaving away at his legal studies coursework. Night after night he had worked tirelessly to assure his papers were perfect, leaving no t uncrossed or i undotted. When he wasn’t focusing on his coursework, he spent hours in the depths of the university library studying for the LSAT, a test he needed to ace in order to earn admission to a Top-14 law school. The remainder of his time was spent interning at a local court nearly an hour away from his off-campus apartment. Though the commute and workload exhausted him, he knew the experience he was gaining would give him a great leg up on the other applicants. Sure enough, he was right.

Through his hard work and dedication, Santino nailed the LSAT, maintained a perfect 4.0 GPA and earned himself an admission to the law school of his dreams.

Throughout his time in law school, he worked as hard as he ever had, excelling in his classes and spending hours on end interning for one of the most esteemed sports agents in the area. After graduating summa cum laude, he scored nearly perfect on the California Bar Exam and returned to the golden state where the air was warmer and the girls were prettier. After weeks and weeks of perfecting his resume and cover letter and gathering recommendation letters from his professors and employers, Santino submitted what had to have been the most robust application the firm had ever received. Then, he waited.

And he waited.

And he waited.

As morning turned to day and day turned to night, Santino incessantly watched his phone for any email or phone call from the firm. He even went as far as sleeping with his phone ringer on full blast at night, just in case they called him at one in the morning to schedule an interview.

With each passing day, Santino grew restless. It crossed his mind to submit other applications in the meantime, but he decided against it because he saw it as settling. Santino was the best candidate out there, and he would aspire for nothing but the best.

So he waited.

In order to preserve his sanity and keep his mind off the application, he had to find ways to occupy his time. Every morning at precisely 5:30a.m. he would wake up and prepare a breakfast consisting of two eggs over easy, one scrambled, three egg whites, two pieces of sourdough toast garnished with gluten-free margarine, a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a bowl of strawberry yogurt mixed with granola, two chicken-apple sausages and a bowl of Frosted Flakes, washed down with a cup-and-a-half of black coffee, two glasses of filtered water from his parents’ state-of-the-art Kitchenaid refrigerator and a smoothie consisting of a banana, two spoonfuls of Skippy super chunk peanut butter, twenty grams of vanilla protein powder, a cup of blueberries, exactly three strawberries and a light drizzle of organic honey. Once he finished his feast, he washed his dishes and headed straight out the front door and over to his local 24-Hour Fitness where he engaged in a rigorous workout regimen consisting of stretching, running on the treadmill, weightlifting, swimming and more stretching. When his workout was completed, he went back home to prepare his parents’ breakfast, which was the least he could do considering they were letting him live in their home rent-free. After his parents were fed and their dishes were cleaned, Santino would sit under the shady tree at the park down the street where he read classic literature, sipped on an iced green tea and let the summer breeze caress his skin. When he finished his reading, he headed back home, studied NFL and MLB statistics and practiced negotiating contracts based on those stats.

Santino usually finished these activities by one in the afternoon, at which point he would settle on the couch for a midday siesta.

The rest of Santino’s day was typically spent playing solitaire, making hip-hop beats for his friend José, reading the Bible, Quran, Talmud and The Book of Mormon, dominating online strangers in virtual chess, brushing up on his Southern Italian cooking skills and studying more sports statistics.

For a while, this laundry list of activities kept Santino preoccupied and did a fairly decent job of keeping his mind off his job application.

Until it didn’t.

After about the second day of this routine, Santino once again grew restless and was engulfed by anxiety.

Why haven’t they responded? he asked himself.

Did I sound too eager in my cover letter? Too cocky?

Do they not like Italians?

After days and days of insufferable torment, Santino had had enough. It was time to call the firm’s human resources department and ask if they had received his application. He had been reluctant to do so because he didn’t want to appear desperate. But at this point, he was desperate and had nothing to lose.

After finding the firm’s HR phone number, Santino poured himself a glass of room-temperature water to clear his throat and hit the “call” button. As the phone rang, he took a deep gulp of his water and repeated through his head, Sound confident; not cocky. Confident, not cocky.

“The Chang Corporation, this is Clarice. How may I help you?” asked an energetic voice on the other end of the line.

Caught off guard, Santino choked uncontrollably on his water and spit it all over himself.

“Uhh, hi!” he squeaked embarrassingly. “I mean, um, hello,” he stated in a forced tone much lower than that of his regular speaking voice. “My name is Santino Rigoli and I’m calling to inquire about the status of an application I submitted several weeks ago.”

“Okay, Mr. Rigoli,” Clarice responded. “Give me one second and I’ll pull up your application.”

Silence flooded the phone line and Santino nervously paced his kitchen floor, with each passing second looming like an eternity. What if the application hadn’t been received? Or worse, what if it had been received and they had simply discarded it?

“Well, Mr. Rigoli,” Clarice said after some time, “It seems we did receive your application and its status is listed as ‘Under Review.’ I’ll tell you what, though. I’m going to go ahead to transfer you over to DeSean Holman, who is one of our hiring managers, and he can give you further details on what to expect with your application from here on out.”

“Oh, wow!” Santino declared a little too excitedly. “Thank you so mu-

The line clicked and Santino was now listening to Country Roads, Take me Home, by John Denver. After fighting the urge to shout “West Virginia” about eight times, the music stopped and a strong voice took over the line.

“DeSean Holman, may I ask who’s calling?”

“Hello, Mr. Holman, my name is Santino Rigoli and I’m calling in regard to an application I submitted to your firm several weeks ago. I was just told by your receptionist that it was under review, bu-

“Well if you know it’s under review, then what more can I do for you at this time?” Mr. Holman asked impatiently.

“Um, I just wanted to se-

“You just wanted to see what was taking so long, is that right?” Holman asserted. “We have processes here, son, and you need to respect that. Business doesn’t get done at the snap of your fingers. It takes time, and you need to respect that and let us do our job as we see fit.”

Santino was shooketh, rattled like a snake. Before he could muster up the confidence to apologize for being too forward, Mr. Holman began speaking once more.

“But you know what, kid. I will say this: you got ambition. Too many kids your age, man, they’re complacent. They’re not hungry. They would have waited for months on end before we got back to ‘em. And if we didn’t? Oh well. And that’s the problem with you millenials; you expect stuff to come to you. But not you, Sanchito.”

“Santino,” he corrected him.

“That’s what I said, Dorito. But look, you’re not like those other kids. You’re hungry. You wanted something and you went for it, and that’s the type of ambition we’re looking for at this firm. And shoot, I have your resume right here in front of me, and I can tell you’ve got that ambition.”

In just a matter of seconds, Santino had gone from nearly throwing up to smiling like a priest in a boys’ daycare facility.

“I’ll tell you what, Sergio. We’re gonna bring you in for an interview. Tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. sharp. I want you in a full suit, tie and all. You come prepared with your resume, references and any other materials you find necessary. Check in with Clarice on the 31st floor and she’ll take you to Mr. Chang’s office where he’ll conduct your first round of interviews. Got it?”

Nearly in disbelief, Santino had to bring himself off Cloud Nine and confirm he understood the details of the interview. After thanking and saying goodbye to Mr. Holman, he hung up the phone and hurried to his room where he spent the next several hours preparing for his interview.

​

The next morning, Santino shot out of bed at promptly 5:37 a.m., downed two tall glasses of water, performed 50 consecutive push-ups and hopped in the shower. Once he was clean, he ate a banana, ironed his suit, shined his shoes, sytled his hair, brushed each individual tooth as if he were polishing Michelangelo’s “David” sculpture, gathered his interview materials and headed out the door.

He arrived at the West Dublin/Pleasanton BART station at 7:01 a.m. and boarded his train almost instantaneously. Scheduled to arrive in San Francisco’s financial district at 7:58, he was afforded nearly an hour to rehearse his prepared responses to any questions his interviewers might throw at him. Right on schedule, the train stopped and Santino deboarded and rode up the escalator to Market Street. Despite the plethora of spectacles and distractions Market had to offer, Santino was not fazed. He was in the zone, locked and loaded, ready to go.

Conveniently, the Chang Corporation’s office was located right next to the BART station and would take less than a minute for Santino to reach by foot. The problem, however, was that he was 57 minutes early. He didn’t want to check in with Clarice too early out of fear of seeming too eager, giving the impression that he was desperate. Of course, he was desperate, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is that he didn’t seem desperate.

As Santino thought of ways to kill some time, he remembered there was a Peet’s Coffee just around the corner of Market and 3rd Street. Suddenly he realized that in the midst of all his excitement that morning, he hadn’t even remembered to brew his morning cup of joe. Not that he needed the boost of energy, for his enthusiasm had him feeling plenty energized. Still, a little jolt of java couldn’t hurt, right? After all, he certainly looked the best he ever had, and he was willing to do whatever he could to feel his best too. So with his chest puffed out and his chin held high, Santino strutted down the sidewalk with a sexy swag and rounded the corner onto 3rd Street.

Immediately after rounding the corner, Santino collided into a careless woman who spilled a piping hot cup of coffee onto his white shirt and all over his face and hair. To make matters worse, she was holding a breakfast burrito that exploded all over Santino and drenched his clothes in bacon grease, avocado and copious amounts of Tapatio. With his mouth gaping in shock, Santino was overcome with horror and wore an expression that looked as if he had seen Harvey Weinstein.

“I… uh… you…” he stammered, desperately searching for words he could not find.

“What in the hell is the matter with you?” the woman yelled as if it wasn’t her inattentiveness that had caused the collision. “Flying around the corner like that, not watching where you’re going! This is unbelievable; I have to be at work soon!”

Still, Santino couldn’t find his words. Perhaps there were no words to express his despair.

“This is unbelievable,” the woman spat as she swiped away egg particles out of her long, black hair. “Unbelievable. How am I going to show up to the office like this?”

She continued her angry tirade as she stormed off into the sea of people and out of eyesight. Stunned, soaked and covered in filth, Santino stood hopelessly on the sidewalk as he watched her disappear.

This was how it ended. He couldn’t walk into his interview with coffee stains on his shirt and face with hot sauce and avocado smeared on his jacket all the way down to his shoes. He looked terrible, and he felt even worse. It wasn’t even 8:30 and all the clothing stores were still closed, so that threw out the possibility of him swapping out his wardrobe. This was the look Santino was stuck with, covered in grime from head to toe. Moreover, there was no way he could muster the confidence to conduct an interview now, at least not a decent one.

As he crouched into a seat on the cafe’s patio, Santino thought about all the steps he had taken to reach this point. All those hours spent in the university library studying for exams and mock trials. The sleepless nights spent reading and memorizing penal codes. The times he sold his belongings when he was short on rent. All the time and money spent on his commutes to his internships that paid little to no wages. So many sacrifices made, all for nothing.

“No,” Santino said softly. “This isn’t how I go down.”

Santino Rigoli was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a quitter. He thought back to those trying nights when his will was tested and his limits were pushed. Although giving up had crossed his mind several times, he had never seriously considered it. It wasn’t who he was. Santino was a go-getter. An ambitious and talented individual who always worked hard to achieve success. He hadn’t sacrificed years of his life and taken on tens of thousands of dollars of debt to be stopped by a little coffee stain and some egg yolk. He ate those problems for breakfast. No, Santino Rigoli was a competitor, and he was going to overcome this challenge just like he had overcome all the others. He had a story to tell, and it was time to start writing it.

Quickly, Santino got up out of his seat and hurried into the cafe to freshen up. He grabbed a handful of napkins out of the dispenser, dampened them under the bathroom sink faucet and began wiping away whatever food residue he could. The scalding coffee had left his face quite red and would perhaps later resemble a serious burn, but all he could do now was splash cold water on it and hope for the best. His hair was dampened and the gel he molded it with had nearly entirely lost its hold. Thankfully his Italian ancestors had granted him dark, sleek hair that looked stylish even when messy, so that was the look he was going to roll with.

When he finished freshening up, he still looked sloppy but at least he knew he had done the best he could. It was now 8:41 and he had to leave the cafe if he wanted to check in with Clarice exactly 15 minutes before his interview.

As he marched down Market, the autumn air cooled his singed face and the foliage on the trees glowed red and orange overhead. When he reached the building, he managed to secure an elevator all to himself, rode it straight to the 31st floor and approached Clarice at her desk.

“Hi, Clarice?” he began. “My name is Santino Rigoli, you and I spoke on the phone yesterday. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Chang.”

Clarice looked up from her appointment book and brushed her bushy hair back with her hands. “Mr. Rigoli, you’re here early,” she said with a tone of satisfaction. “Thankfully, Mr. Chang is…” She stopped her sentence once she noticed Santino’s appearance. Though she saw how dirty he looked, she decided against saying anything as not to hurt his confidence. Thankfully, she was quick enough that Santino didn’t notice. “Mr. Chang is ready to see you right now, so you won’t have to wait. Please follow me.”

With that, she arose from her seat and led Santino through the Chang Corporation’s office, which was a breathtaking space characterized by cool, earth tones and high ceilings.

“Will Mr. Holman be conducting my interview as well this morning?” Santino asked in a strong, professional tone.

“DeSean is actually out meeting with a client today,” Clarice responded. “He’s working on a big contract right now and felt his time would be best spent focusing on that. But let me tell you, DeSean was very impressed with the initiative you showed yesterday, and he made sure to let Mr. Chang know that.” Trying not to reveal too much excitement, Santino let out a half smile and expressed his satisfaction with a simple nod.

The two continued walking to Mr. Chang’s office in silence, and Santino couldn’t help but stare in awe of the facility as they passed through it. All along the walls were life-sized images of athletes represented by the firm. Record-setting contracts were framed on full display in the most visible places. To Santino’s left he saw a trophy case containing an NFL MVP award, two MLB Cy Young awards and an NBA Rookie of the Year award. To his right, he saw offices, state-of-the-art coffee machines, ping-pong tables, massage chairs, a weight room and a cafeteria that served gourmet cuisine ranging from smoked salmon to grilled bison. Straight ahead stood a gorgeous waterfall that fell from the ceiling down into a shimmering sapphire pool in which koi fish swam.

This is it, Santino thought. This is where I belong. I am going to work for the Chang Corporation.

Inspired, he envisioned himself working in one of the building’s offices, eating at fine restaurants with professional athletes and charging their meals to the company credit card, attending important sporting events and setting record-breaking contracts of his own.

It all starts with this interview, Santino told himself. This is going to be the best interview of your life.

“Okay, Mr. Rigoli, here we are,” Clarice said encouragingly when they approached a large pair of mahogany doors. “Mr. Chang,” she said as she knocked lightly on the door. “Santino Rigoli is here for his interview.”

“Ah yes!” sang an older gentleman’s voice from the other side of the door. “Please, Clarice, send him on in.”

“Well, Mr. Rigoli, best of luck to you,” Clarice smiled before she turned around and headed back to her desk.

Confident, not cocky, Santino reminded himself.

As he pushed the door open and stepped onto pristine cream-colored carpeting, he discovered Mr. Chang’s office was just as grandiose as the rest of the building. The ceilings arched high overhead and the walls were lined with wooden shelves holding dozens of knick-knacks ranging from collector’s edition baseball cards to decades-old bottles of wine. Mr. Chang’s fine mahogany desk sat approximately 20 feet from the room’s entrance. Cool and collected, Santino closed the door behind him and strided toward his interviewer.

“Mr. Rigoli,” Mr. Chang stood up, revealing his tall stature. “It’s a pleasure to have you here.” Although Chang was an older gentleman with gray-turning-white hair and a fair share of wrinkles on his face, he possessed a surprisingly strong frame and boasted the energy of a very young man.

“Please, Mr. Chang. Mr. Rigoli is my father. Call me Santino,” he responded charmingly.

“Well then, Santino,” Chang chuckled. “Go on ahead and have a se…”

Just as Santino was about to place the folder containing his resume on the desk and have a seat, Mr. Chang stopped his sentence and fixed his gaze on Santino’s shirt. He then moved his eyes from his shirt and scanned Santino’s entire torso and what he could see of his pants.

It’s okay, Santino thought. You knew this was gonna happen. Just play it cool and win him over with your confidence.

“I see you’re rather fixated on my attire, Mr. Chang,” he began. “I do hope you won’t call the fashion poli-”

“What in the hell are you wearing, son?” Chang asked in a tone full of disappointment. Santino’s stomach sank slightly.

“You see sir, I was ju-”

“You see? Yeah, kid, I do see. I see that you look like a wreck. What in the hell is the matter with you? Did you get into a food fight before you came over here?” Now rattled to his core, Santino knew he had to act fast.

“I, uh, I kn-know you see, sir. Th-the thing is, I-I-”

“I-I-I-I,” Chang mocked him. “I rolled around in the garbage before I came up here? I used coffee as cologne this morning and combed my hair with hot sauce? What in the hell is the matter with you?” Santino gulped. He was mortified beyond anything he could have imagined.

“Mi-Mister Chang, listen. I-”

“Listen? You’re telling me to listen? No, you listen to me, buddy. You come in here dressed like a slob, you can’t explain yourself and stammer like an idiot, and then you start barking orders at me in my own office? Do you know where you are, or who I am? This is the top sports agency in the world, and I am its founder and CEO. And you have the nerve to come into my office and tell me what do? No. No, I don’t think so.” Seeing his hopes and dreams burst into flames before his very eyes, Santino shook and stood silently, waiting for Chang’s wrath to come to an end.

“You know,” he continued. “This is the problem with you kids nowadays. You don’t have standards. You think that can just cruise to success without facing any trials or tribulations, that you can just enjoy the benefits of hard work without actually putting in the work.”

Santino felt as if his throat was closing. Rage and despair rose within him. Nothing Mr. Chang said had even remotely applied to him. Santino did put in the work, and he wanted to continue to work hard. If Mr. Chang would only hear him out.

“Sir, if you would please just let me spe-”

“No!” Chang barked furiously. “Don’t you dare interrupt me. You had your turn to speak, and you stuttered and insulted me. Now, I speak and you listen. I’ve seen kids like you before. You come in here acting like a hot shot with your fancy degree from this big-name school and act like that will serve as your free pass to do whatever you want to do. Well, guess what, pal? That’s not how it works here. You show up covered in filth, talking like you own the place and expected to get offered a job on the spot. Well it’s not gonna happen. I want you to get outta my office and escort yourself out of my facility, right now.” Chang looked on his desk and saw Santino’s folder. “And what’s this, your resume? Take it with you. I wouldn’t even be able to read it anyway because it’s probably soaked in coffee just like the rest of you. Get out.”

Santino sheepishly took the folder out of Chang’s hand, turned around and escorted himself out of the room without saying another word. On the way out, he thanked Clarice for showing him around and waited in silence for the elevator. Once outside, he walked down the steps leading to the BART station, boarded his train and headed back home.

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[topfygad]

Gothic Hotels (and Songs by R.E.M., Part 2) — The Agenda by Tablet Hotels

It’s Halloween, so we’re taking a look at hotels with Gothic architecture, a style synonymous with the mysterious and macabre. Why did we also include songs by R.E.M.? The answer may shock you.

Earlier this year, we wrote about some of our favorite Southern hotels, comparing them to songs from one of our favorite Southern bands, R.E.M. So why write about R.E.M. again? Well, the band actually saw the first story, liked it, and asked if we’d do a part two. Not since Coppola and The Godfather has anyone had such a good reason to make a sequel.

There’s hardly been a better time to talk about “scary” hotels, either. This is Halloween week, of course, and it’s also the week that R.E.M. releases the 25th Anniversary reissue of Monster, their terrifyingly titled ninth studio album. But instead of another list of haunted hotels, we’re focusing on the style of architecture most commonly associated with things that go bump in the night.

Gothic architecture secured its association with the spooky and supernatural in the 18th and 19th centuries, when writers like Horace Walpole, Edgar Allen Poe, Mary Shelley, and Bram Stoker chose Gothic castles and abbeys as the backdrop for their stories of darkness and death. An entire genre of horrifying literature became known as Gothic fiction, and an entire mode of architecture was never viewed the same again.

R.E.M. has crossed paths with the Gothic label as well — especially during the first half of their career. With a sound driven up from underneath Georgia’s genteel facade, the Athens natives were considered a sort of modern musical counterpart to the Southern Gothic literature of William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor. Sonically and thematically, their music reflects the murky and eccentric spirit of the region, underscoring its postbellum tensions and investigating its idiosyncratic characters.

And so, without further ado, enjoy this selection of thirteen hotels with Gothic architectural elements, paired with some of R.E.M.’s most Southern Gothic songs.

Follow along with our R.E.M. — Southern Gothic playlist on Spotify or Apple Music.

The Qvest

Cologne, Germany

“Wendell Gee” — from Fables of the Reconstruction, 1985

The 19th century obsession with Gothic elements comes through loud and clear in The Qvest. Now a hotel, the 1897 building initially housed Cologne’s archives and a public library. In keeping with the reigning aesthetic in those days, a neo-Gothic influence touched just about every element in the construction: ribbed vaults, lancet windows, hood moulding, tracery, and an overarching verticality all remain visible today. Similarly, all the elements of R.E.M.’s Southern Gothic signature come through in “Wendell Gee,” one of the band’s most under-appreciated pieces of musical mastery, and the final track from their darkest and most overtly South-saturated album.

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  1898 The Post

Ghent, Belgium

“Strange Currencies” — from Monster, 1994

“Strange Currencies” might not feel at first like a song with Southern folk roots, but imagine it without Monster’s trademark distorted guitars and you begin to hear the swagger and sway of classic country-blues. It’s the kind of plaintive-yet-hopeful ballad that R.E.M. perfected throughout their career, and it’s paired on this list with 1898 The Post, a hotel that’s equally the shining example of a genre. The old Central Post Office in Ghent was completed at the turn of the last century, and while its neo-Gothic style makes it look much older than that, a brand-new renovation has this beautifully preserved structure ready to host guests in the current century and beyond.

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  Bryant Park Hotel

New York City, New York

“Carnival of Sorts (Boxcars)” — from Chronic Town, 1982

Starting with the gargoyle on the cover, R.E.M.’s debut EP Chronic Town oozes a dark, peculiar, and highly literary Southern Gothic vibe. And “Carnival of Sorts (Boxcars),” with its calliope intro and images of clandestine railway activity, all but revels in the murky mood. Gargoyles don’t make an appearance on the Bryant Park Hotel, despite its home inside the American Radiator building, a strange and imposing black-gold gothic skyscraper that towers above the midtown park like something out of a comic book — or out of Ghostbusters. Penthouse guests might be safe from that movie’s statues-turned–terror dogs, but the hotel does look down on the New York Public Library, where other ghost-busting scenes were filmed.

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  Kruisherenhotel Maastricht

Maastricht, Netherlands

“The One I Love” — from Document, 1987

“This one goes out to the one I love…” — the instantly recognizable first line from R.E.M.’s 1987 hit sets the stage for a song that practically drips with heat and humidity. This song, as much as any other, announced to the world that R.E.M. was a contemporary sonic interpretation of the steamy South found in the plays of Tennessee Williams. Kruisherenhotel Maastricht is another thoroughly modern interpretation, this time of a fifteenth-century Gothic monastery. Designer Henk Vos transformed the original monks’ cloisters into handsome hotel rooms that are anything but ascetic, and even the relatively undisturbed spaces are deeply altered by the introduction of sleek furnishings and bits and bobs by the likes of Le Corbusier, Philippe Starck and Marc Newson.

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  Conservatorium Hotel

Amsterdam, Netherlands

“Country Feedback” — from Out of Time, 1991

The Conservatorium is a radical repurposing of Amsterdam’s Sweelinck Conservatorium building — its soaring institutional spaces and ornate century-old neo-Gothic construction transformed into a contemporary design hotel. Offering a focus on pop music alongside more traditional conservatory studies like classical and jazz, there probably was a surprising bit of guitar feedback heard in the Conservatorium during its time as a music school. There’s a bit of feedback heard in “Country Feedback” as well, wandering almost incongruently in between and around more traditional country sounds like pedal steel guitar and organ, adding the right amount of frustration and edge that the song’s cryptic lyrics cry out for.

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  Ace Hotel Downtown L.A.

Los Angeles, California

“So. Central Rain” — from Reckoning, 1984

Legend has it that “South Central Rain” refers to massive downpours and flooding in R.E.M.’s home state of Georgia in 1983. The band was apparently out on tour, and wasn’t able to check in on family members because the storms had knocked out the phone lines. Specifically, the legend asserts, they were in Los Angeles, which is the reason for this hotel-song pairing, and not because of L.A.’s South Central neighborhood. For the Gothic connection, look no further than the United Artists building, a 1920s Spanish Gothic Revival tower and theater that is the current home of Ace Hotel Downtown L.A.

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  SINA Centurion Palace

Venice, Italy

“Oh My Heart” — from Collapse Into Now, 2011

Michael Stipe wrote “Oh My Heart” about post-Katrina New Orleans. His lyrics can sometimes be impenetrable, but not here. This is very clearly a song about resilience in the face of tragedy and persevering into the future so we can continue to honor the past. There are no New Orleans hotels on this list, but maybe that would’ve been too cute. Instead, we turn to another timeworn city fighting back against Mother Nature and climate change: rising sea levels have led to regular flooding in Venice, the home of Centurion Palace and its postcard-perfect Venetian-Gothic exterior. The former convent is located in one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city, which has survived everything from World Wars to the Black Death, and we’re confident it will survive its latest challenge.

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  Chicago Athletic Association

Chicago, Illinois

“Oddfellows Local 151” — from Document, 1987

Long before a recent renovation converted it into a stunning boutique hotel, the Chicago Athletic Association was a private club for the city’s (male) movers and shakers. Dating back to the final decade of the 19th century, this Venetian Gothic landmark hosted the kinds of government and business elite that “Oddfellows Local 151” suggests are at least partially responsible for the plight of the characters in the song: the homeless population that was left behind by the political and economic machines of 1980s America. Document was an album filled with fiery passion as R.E.M. found their political footing — no more so than on this, its closing track.

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  High Line Hotel

New York City, New York

“Swan Swan H” — from Life’s Rich Pageant, 1986

Chelsea’s High Line Hotel makes its home in an imposing red-brick Collegiate Gothic seminary — and its designers, the local duo Roman and Williams, managed to created an enormously fun hotel in what was an otherwise solemn environment. R.E.M. pulled the same trick, but in the opposite direction, with “Swan Swan H.” At first glance, this song about the Civil War appears to be a celebration of freedom, but as it progresses the true cost of a destructive moment in American history becomes more clear. And while the lyrics reference wooden beams of a presumably different sort, for the purposes of this list, we’ll think about the ornate ceiling of the Hoffman Hall event space, pictured above.

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  Le Chateau Frontenac

Quebec City, Canada

“World Leader Pretend” — from Green, 1988

A century-old Gothic Revival castle high on a bluff over the St. Lawrence river, Le Château Frontenac is Québec City’s most famous landmark, and has hosted some of the world’s most famous guests. Musicians, movie stars, and titans of industry have walked its halls, but powerful politicians may have left the greatest influence — suites are themed after heads of state who have stayed at the hotel. According to Michael Stipe, “World Leader Pretend” was the most political song of the band’s career up to that point, and it might continue to be so today. After clashing with Donald Trump over his unauthorized (obviously) use of “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine),” the band followed up by contributing “World Leader Pretend” to an anti-Trump compilation.

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  Chateau Marmont

Los Angeles, California

“Drive” — from Automatic for the People, 1992

The Chateau Marmont was constructed to the specifications of the Loire Chateau Amboise in France, and scattered throughout are certain reminders of the French late Gothic Flamboyant style. But though inspired by France, this particular chateau and its infamous scenes of Hollywood decadence could only exist in Los Angeles. Likewise, “Drive” is a song that could only have come from R.E.M. With an echoey atmosphere as haunted as the hallways of the Chateau, the song drives forward slowly and madly, calling out like a pirate radio station in the middle of the night, seeking to empower the youth through rock and roll.

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  St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel

London, England

“Life and How to Live It” — from Fables of the Reconstruction, 1985

In R.E.M.’s hometown of Athens, Georgia, there once lived a man named Brev Mekis. Suffering from schizophrenia, Brev split his house into two totally different apartments, each with its own unique furniture, books, clothing, even pets. To suit his disparate personalities, Brev would periodically switch back and forth between his two lives. After he passed away, discovered inside the house were hundreds of identical copies of a book he had written called: “Life and How to Live It.” The great Gothic structure at St. Pancras has a split personality of its own. On the one hand, it is a lavish, luxurious hotel. On the other, an introduction to a busy, full-functioning rail station. Taken all together, it is the ideal of a grand European railway hotel.

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  Borgo dei Conti Resort

Perugia, Italy

“Find the River” — from Automatic for the People, 1992

Borgo dei Conti Resort is a deeply romantic place. Originally built as a fortress in the 13th century, the estate was remade into a noble home some 500 years later. Surrounded by acres of gardens and lawns and parkland, the building is a dramatic example of 19th-century neo-Gothic architecture, still as imposing as ever today. On its sprawling grounds, you’re likely to find some of the herbs and fruits mentioned in “Find the River,” a song that celebrates life specifically because death is always present. Despite the heavy themes, “Find the River” is a gorgeous and uplifting song. It closes out an album full of radio hits, and is equal to or even better than each of those more well-known singles. All of this is coming your way.

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  source http://cheaprtravels.com/gothic-hotels-and-songs-by-r-e-m-part-2-the-agenda-by-tablet-hotels/

[kenzymirror]

Story of a scavenger who lived at Ojota Dumpsite for 10 years, discovered by BBC reporters and now wastes recycler Agatha Emeadi For 36-year-old Eric Obuh a.k.a Vocal Slender, who hails from Agbor in Delta State, the world, indeed, is not a bed of roses. The divorce by his parents prescribed untold hardship for him and his siblings, but providence was later to take care of him. Today, he is a big-time recycler, musician just as he is into huge charity works. Through determination and willingness as he scavenged and lived at the Ojota Dumpsite for 10 years, Eric kept his mind on turning his life around one day. Read also: Painful lives of Jalingo street kids And, indeed, luck smiled on him one day when God used some BBC reporters to locate him. That encounter later led to his winning the African Google Competition worth $25,000 (N4 million in 2012) from the dumpsite, which made him promise to give back to the society through his NGO called Love Ghetto Foundation. He told his captivating story to Sunday Sun. Hear him: The beginning It was not my wish to live at the dumpsite, but that was where life challenges pressed me to, but I made the best use of the site. Working as a scavenger while living at the Ojota Dumpsite for 10 years is the reason I am into recycling today. Now, I know what we did at the site then was a chain of production. We picked wastes, buyers buy from us, sell to other buyers, who also sell to agents, these agents sell to the Chinese and Indian companies for recycling. The various plastic bottles that are thrown away carelessly are used to make hair extensions, foam and other forms of plastic moulds. Aluminium and steels are dissolved into liquids to make pots and other things. It is alarming that Nigerians do not have recycling companies as much as expected which is another way of creating jobs. At 13, my parents separated and remarried to other spouses who didn’t like to live with children from previous spouses. My siblings and I were left on our own and life became nasty, brutish and short according to Thomas Hobbes an English scholar. My thoughts and memories lingered around criminality because of the fear of the unknown. But I would wave such thoughts aside telling myself that any hidden thing is not worth doing. I remember how my dad would provide for us and go through our books each day when the going was good. All that came to an end when the new wife berthed in the house. My father later lost his job and lost the little gratuity that was paid to him to dupes. It got so bad that he could not renew our rent at Ajegunle in (Ojo) Ajoromi Local Government Area. Feeding was also difficult and the onus was survival of the fittest for all. Our quest for survival My elder brother and I saw a fallow land behind our compound and picked a seed of pumpkin (Ugu); the seed germinated, developed and became our biblical mustard seed. In no time, we started selling heads of Ugu leaves within our environs and the over populated Boundary Market in Ajegunle. Light came back to the family and daily meals returned and we had course to smile again. Seeing the progress we made then, the owners of the land drove us away out of jealousy and our dreams were shattered. It did not stop us from dreaming big. Another opportunity came when other boys in the neighbourhood started mini-poultry with numerous healthy chicks, but we did not have money, so we bought a fowl that was almost dead; our fowl survived and brought forth over 80 others; but we lost them all to our neighbours when we were finally driven away from the house where we attached ourselves because we were not real tenants and did not have anywhere to take them to. Going back to our village in Delta State and return back to Lagos With no home in Lagos, the next option was our village in Delta State. We arrived at a near farmstead without light and spent seven months there and were all out of school at this point in our lives. It was not easy in the village; we boldly came back to Lagos without any accommodation in mind. Our first port of call was a Church at Ajegunle since there was no accommodation. My brother and I were driven away after sometime. I still remember how my brother and I relocated and slept at Wilmer Bus-stop for the first six months while our biological parents slept on beds and in homes. My interpretation was that my father was in a situation where he could not help himself anymore. In all these, school was a thing of the past coupled with the fact that we lost all our books to flood years ago. At the bus-stop where we slept, my brother took to dancing, while I took to singing. My brother’s friend from the dancing group allowed us to keep our clothes in their apartment while we all slept in a nursery school in the neighbourhood. During mild disagreements, our friends rained abuses like ‘you people are born throw way, ‘If anything happen to una, no case.’ I was taken aback and was stretched in ravaging anger. I refused to swallow such hard bitter pills at just 15 years old then. I will not fail to tell you that God sent a Good Samaritan who fed us at least twice a day. Life as a scavenger While still leaving on the streets with my brother, my friend introduced me to scavenging of metals, irons, slippers, nylon and plastics for recycling. We scavenged from Ajegunle to Okokomaiko, Orile, Obalende and Lekki, though not in one day, but all these were done on foot. Now, scavenging started for me as a hobby while my brother was a bus conductor. We were able to pull our resources together and rented a room apartment. I insisted we must get our own room following the insult we received from our friends. All of us began to live together as suffering siblings. I went to the village and brought my little sister who couldn’t come back with us then. Most tenants died in that building except our room. We became afraid and scattered again as siblings. A friend of mine introduced me to a huge dumpsite at Ojota in 1999. The dumpsite was where the real business was for scavengers, it is either you start from there or close the day at the dumpsite. How do you make money from scavenging? No, I did not make money because over a thousand people would be struggling for just a piece of an item. At times, in a whole day, one could make N1,000 or thereabout. Could there be a way to stop scavenging? Yes, if recycling organizations would take their work seriously, employ the scavengers and be sure of their safety, no scavenger would live at the dumpsite again. Dumpsite is a story on its own. I lived there, slept there, worked there and visited Ajegunle studios once a week. I built a place where I lived. All sorts of people, including university graduates, able-bodied men and women, mad people and domestic animals, all live together at the dumpsite. God guided my feet and I personally chose to be a different tenant at the dumpsite. I read books that changed my life at the dumpsite. Since I do not go to Ajegunle every day for my music, sometimes when there is no work, I would buy candles to read books. It was on the dump site that I read great books like ‘The Biafran Revolution’ written by Alexander Amadi-Igbo, ‘Because I am involved’ written by Chief Chukwuemeka Odumegwu-Ojukwu,‘My Command’ by former President Olusegun Obasanjo,‘The Five Majors, Why we Struck’ by Wole Ademuyega. Other books that I read on the dumpsite include, ‘Rebel against Rebel’, by Njoku and books that told the history of the First and Second World Wars, including great encyclopedias. There are a lot of Christian novels and literatures at the dumpsite, especially ‘Open Heavens (a publication of the Redeemed Christian Church written by Pastor E.A Adeboye.) But the books that really turned me around were philosophical and classical books. I read great Greek philosophers like Pythagoras, Dominions, Plato, Socrates and Aristotles. Nelson Mandela’s ‘Long Walk to Freedom’ was a few of the books that I laid my hands on and it really changed my views about life. I also read so much about the great Albert Einstein who said that ‘imagination is better than education’. That statement made me think and I said to myself that if imagination that is a free gift from God is better than education, then why can’t I use it. ��Things Fall Apart’ written by Chinua Achebe, The Gods are not to blame written by Wole Soyinka was at the dumpsite. I have not forgotten all the Shakespearian books that I encountered at the site. It was also at the dump that I read the Bible, Koran, Occult books, Ancient Rosicrucian known as Amorc. It was at the dumpsite I named myself ‘Vocal Slender’ an acronym for (Voice of One Crying for African Freedom, Slender because I was very skinny then). The numbers of talents that are being wasted at the dumpsite are quite alarming. Real ICT wizards are at the dumpsite. The same scavengers gather phones, televisions, radios and many condemned household property; they fix them for personal use or sell them. Even now that I have left the dump, I cannot remember how many books I have read so far because my education ended abruptly, but I know that knowledge is power. While the dump is a world on its own, everything in life is about the mindset. I had my dreams intact. If one was not careful on the dump, the fellow would become a victim of the dump. For someone who lives on the dumpsite, going into crime was the easiest thing to do. With Plato’s great works on imagination, instead of embracing delinquency at that age I began to dream big, how I would travel all over the world and become a great man. I streamlined my association with fellow Ajegunle scavengers because of my talent as an artiste while still residing at the dump. My challenges at the dumpsite The first challenge I experienced at the dumpsite was being confronted with the fear of the unknown. Dumpsite is a jungle where I saw with my eyes and listened with my ears. One might be backing a truck that is coming with speed to dump the refuse; all you would hear is ah! The truck has rolled and crushed one person and it ends there. People have lived on the dump and became mad. People on the dumpsite were faced with the challenge of self-defeat and their only source of survival would be drugs and Indian hemp. If I was not strong-willed, I could not have lived and survived there because we lived in a negative world which dominates the thought. At times, police would just come and open fire from every nook and cranny at the dump, labelling everybody armed robber. Odua People Congress (OPC) could also come and raid the dumpsite. When all these happened then, I never witnessed any; it was a true testimony that God was with me while living at the dumpsite. When I come back, other residents would tell me what happened because it’s either I am in a studio or in Ajegunle. I do not know how God created me; I was not easily influenced by the lifestyle in dumpsite, I never smoked Indian hemp or joined my mates to go for women of easy virtues. With my experience on the dumpsite, I advise parents to support and train their children. Family challenges brought most people to the dumpsite. Urge to go into music The urge to do music was there for me, but there was no support or sponsor. Music was reigning big with the likes of Daddy Showkey making waves in Ajegunle then. The first day I made a little money and went to a studio in Ajegunle I saw Tuface, Plantation Boys, Arzardous and Poplyn, all working on their different albums, I felt in love with the environment and wished to be there one day. I know, I have the talent already, but money was the only challenge. I told myself, since I am alone in this dream, I would go back to the dumpsite at Ojota and work for just one year and my music would be a big hit in town, but it took me 10 solid years to achieve that. My breakthrough at the dumpsite One day as I was entertaining my friends with music at the dump; some were beating drums for me and dancing, among the crowd were some few white men who fell in love with what I was doing and after the entertainment, the white guys followed me and told me that they would like to work on my records at a studio station in Egbeda. I opted for a film shoot while entertaining and not while scavenging. They pleaded with me to shoot while scavenging and singing. I succumbed because God has a purpose for my life. It was later I got to know that the ‘white guys’ came from British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) London to do a documentary at the dumpsite. Nigerian reporters saw scavengers at the dumpsite while BBC reporters saw talents that could be moulded. They were with me for four months doing documentary on me and when they left I also forgot about them. After some months, BBC called me that some people were interested in my story, I was a little bit skeptical before a promoter flew in from London and my Owpa became a hit in London and it sold for over N600,000, which they gave to me while on the dumpsite. Another promoter also came and took me to Basket Mouth and a jingle was promoted, he took me to London and I performed at a beauty pageant at Estuary Hall with a capacity of over 30,000 seated audience. I began to wonder who I was for BBC to fish me out of the dirty murky waters of a dumpsite. God used BBC, one of the biggest world media to announce me. After the documentary, I did some other interviews with other foreign media. I also won the Google African Connect Competition and Google rewarded me with a handsome sum of $25,000 (N4 million) then. When it was announced, over 3,000 people applied for the competition, it was zeroed to 100, to 40 and I was finally chosen among the last five standing. Life’s transformation has started for Vocal Slender. What a boy! Other opportunities I am like a prodigal son who left his father’s house, but later came back. I have studied the lives of musicians and discovered that no musician sings for long. That is why I fell back on scrap and recycling; I am an ambassador of a recycling company and preach the message of recycling. Instead of throwing away sachet water, plastic bottled drinks, give it to us for recycling. I have forgiven my parents who abandoned us Life has taken a tremendous turn around, my father has died, and my stepmother who wept for her sins when life turned around positively for me has also died. I attended her funeral here in Lagos, but did not travel to the village for her burial. I have also forgiven my biological mother who turned her back on her four children; but I do not have motherly feelings and love for her. My sister is married with children; I am also married and blessed likewise my brother. We are all fine now.   The post From refuse dump to wealth appeared first on – The Sun News. The post From refuse dump to wealth appeared first on kenzymirror.com. from WordPress https://ift.tt/2umAs6g via IFTTT

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Astrology Contents.

However this actually doesn't matter how you spell that due to the fact that chaise lounges are actually classic pieces of furniture that will enhance basically any type of location - indoors or even out. This brings our company to the best from all the Nostradamus myths, which is the fallacy that Nostradamus created a manual of astrology prophecies. The manner by which Gayatri Concept preponderates is actually the exclusive attribute of word designing embedded in it. Due to unfolding of the analysis Rajarshi Vishwamitra was right away elevated to the growth from Brahmarshi.

There are actually indications that the word Kabbalah," the acquiring," right now the label from the whole entire religious beliefs, resided in earlier times the foremost label of guide that Nostradamus' publication covers. The Spring season Festival that occurs in China at the start from the Chinese New Year is just one of the moments when the demand from gold in China is actually very high as well as gold as well as jewelry purchases go up considerably. Another explanation early lifestyle spruced up in disguises was actually for objective of productivity. The ancient Romans believed that the Aquamarine was spiritual to Neptune, the god oceanic, having brokened coming from the gem boxes of sirens and washed onto shore. Just as a person has to possess principles and moral market values instilled in his attributes or even great publication should include suitable relevant information, in a similar way the marble to be made use of in property decor has to possess particular qualities which will definitely produce that the best choice for mosaics. In the ancient times, vocals of the wizardry, sorcery and witchcraft were often taken as a weatherglass just before any type of kingdom or even empire will definitely have any kind of process, act or admonishments prior to entering fights, slight or even major jobs or even day-to-day regimen of an empire. That ingredients were actually imported even in ancient times presents the relevance from fragrance. It was during the course of middle ages opportunities that the principle of consuming together while assembled at dining-room dining tables originated. The thinkers which will certainly direct our team through these troubling but rarely apocalyptic times are going to be those who educate our company how to determine undesirable truths in the midst of problems and how you can show both care as well as cunning. However a considerable amount of historians have actually proved that the secret indicators from zodiac are actually pretty much older dating back to the early opportunities of individual creating. In reality, old women were all thought about more desirable if their hair were long and also thick. That was not that only Classical women had an enthrallment for hairstyles, the Classical men were certainly not also far behind either; one of the most typical hairdo that many Greek males in early opportunities sported was - brief and also curly. A spear factor, likewise known as spearhead, was actually rated as the chief item utilized in the battle of ancient Asia as well as Europe. The ancient storytellers from intimate fallacies the good news is kept the elegance from Celtic society. Historical Greeks additionally took advantage of saffron to lighten the shade of their hair, so about additionally boost the type. Old literature, artefacts and also buildings are being actually looked into upon and being actually studied to possessing any kind of proof pertaining to the conference from the historical individuals with these aliens. Angels are additionally aspect of Jewish and Islamic faiths and also a number of other religions and societies going back to old opportunities. Underneath Lake Baikal's mattress is actually an old cemetery matured around 5,000 to 8,000 years old. For this certain design, the old Classical females used to secure their hair all together and constituted a knot at the back. Buddha may be invested with a massive amount from details, effects and also definition; they develop and also they are actually provided lifestyle. In early times the word Dowsing was actually used just for the hunt of springtimes of water or metallics as gold. In old times, Sapphires were thought to be defensive against rivalry, as well as versus poisoning. However in Australia where the historical as well as the early division of mankind appeared the Aboriginal individuals do not have any type of expertise about the timeless doubles, the fallacies discussed by a bunch of societies were emerged off the north when the humanity stretched coming from Africa almost 75000 years back. The old Sumerians, one of the oldest societies which accentuated feet with arm bands, put on ankle joint links as an indicator for wide range of her other half. I am actually certainly not going to point out so much more listed here, apart from that this publication gones on my (very short) listing from ultimate must-reads for any person that is interested in spirituality and also our origins. In early opportunities this was actually essential to remove bacteria and louse coming from the heads from people utilizing the brush. Baseding on the historical kabalistic content, the secret from the five steels ring excellence is that at the particular time of the creation from the ring along with these five steels, Jupiter's effect is summoned forth. The beginning of pizzas actually started in ancient opportunities, and as mentioned previously, was actually a lot more for feature in comparison to exciting. The old people made use of points like weeds and also florals to earn top quality perfumes. Till you have lived in another nation, you'll possess no idea from exactly how fortunate our company remain in South Africa to have the gorgeous moderate climate we have got. However it is known that during the very same time, the twin superstars were actually recommended as Gilgamesh and also Enkidu due to the ancient Babylonians. Historic files signify that the historical Egyptians placed decrease blooms in flower holders. This write-up defines how the early globe watched water, from the flood beliefs of Assyria and the Bible, to the sustainably created water off artesian aquifers in Classical times. For more information regarding yellow pages london (my webpage) review our web-site. When there were actually no surgeons or procedure theatres folks made use of to experience with stones in their gall bladder or even renals, in early opportunities. Stylish methods of luck informing currently existed and dated back to venerable times when old ascendants simply relied on the positioning of the superstars, moon as well as the earths were actually the only noticeable methods from contemplating and reflecting the future. Gould decided on the 48 historical constellations and 40 that had been created mainly in between 1500 and 1800 to fill up spaces left behind due to the ancients. The Early Greeks were loaded with wonder when they to begin with beheld the splendid landscapes from the asian Persian Kings. Redford (Akhenaten, LJ 11/1/84) presents a research study of the political, cultural, and also spiritual relationships one of the peoples from Egypt, Assyria, as well as the Levant during the 3000 years coming from the Paleolithic duration to the devastation from Jerusalem in 586 B.C. What recognizes this study is the per spective of an Egyptologist which ap proaches the subject from historical Egypt and also Israel without the standard preconceptions and also emphases found in the research studies rising off scriptural research studies scholars.