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liliannadelaphinehartifelt · 29 days

Note

Hi there,

Saw your post about Cajun/cowboy Alastor and OMG! I don’t have many ideas other then maybe he plays poker for souls or something like that and maybe a reader comes into town and is just as good at poker as he is. And he cannot seem to win, leading him to become mildly obsessed over winning their soul.

Thats all I have as I don’t know much about cajun/cowboy stuff.

I’ll let you know if I have any other ideas!

Thank you!

Alastor - [ ACE OF HEARTS ]

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A/N: Omg, I love your take on cowboy Al! It got me thinking about it for days. I have never played poker, so I had to watch multiple YouTube videos to understand the game while writing this. Hopefully, it came out accurate enough! Also, this is a very, VERY traumatic/smut-heavy fic I'm working on, so please be aware and know I don't endorse anything I write.

WARNINGS: [ NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ MATURE THEMES ] + [ FEM READER ] + [ GUN PLAY… ] + [ SLIGHT DUB CON….eventually.] + [ SLIGHT/IMPLIED AGE GAP ] + [ MENTIONS OF GORE/BLOOD/CANNABILISM ] + [ KIDNAPPING…sort of?.. ] + [ PARENTAL PHYSICAL AB*SE…eventually..] + [ ANGST/TRUAMA…]

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**Cowboy Alastor** is known for his record of killing, is a skilled bounty hunter, and is far from a decently moral one. Everyone assumes his motives, guessing who his next target is and if he’ll ever feel guilt for what he does to them.

He doesn't.

What kind of demon would he be if he did…

Besides, the people he kills owe him in one way or another, all in debt to the red demon by their stupidity and lust for life, so he feels nothing for them when the time comes for the price of their deals to be paid.

Alastor arrives for them in the dead of dry nights, taking their last breath with a single bullet to the head or a clean cut across the throat. Their pleas do little to affect his decision.

“A deal is a deal…”

He reminds them that escaping a bloody end is impossible, already solidified by their selfish desires, and no amount of begging will change his mind. They curse his name, glaring at the grin on his face as he draws nearer with deathly intent in his eyes, and it only grows as he derives pleasure from their refusal to cooperate.

The riches, the riding, and the roughness he endures daily are nothing compared to the satisfaction he gets from killing. Others may deal in chasing oil, farming land, and cattle, but he stakes his fulfillment in the business of blood.

**Cowboy Alastor** dabbles in gambling when he's not off-striking deals with lowly souls or wreaking havoc on those he deems deserving.

Every city south of New Orleans with a bar or saloon welcomes his visits and not by choice.

Those who don't meet his standards or demands of hospitality drop from the face of the earth at his will, burning to a crisp full of the dead occupants who so lightly offended him, and never to be rebuilt out of fear he'd return to demolish it again.

He surely would, but no one has yet to test the theory in fear of a painful death by his hands.

Alastor leisurely travels the expanse of Louisiana's countryside, partial to riding wherever the wind blows, but he’ll always return to the rumbling city of New Orleans.

Whether for personal reasons or because his beloved mother wished to see him, it becomes second nature for the deer demon to reside there randomly. It was his hometown, after all, and he preferred the taste of whiskey from a familiar place over foreign alcohol in far-off dusty taverns he'd never visit again.

The saloon he fancies sits opposite the central townhouse, a tall building at the end of a main street that never seemed to rest.

Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar

Summer nights brought out and drew in more people, filling the bar with patrons who knew of his deeds and those who’d only heard scarring stories about him through the ladder. The knowledge of a red reaper roaming the towns of Louisiana varied, but their fearful respect of him was abundant the moment Alastor stepped foot into the bustling bar.

He was there, in good spirits for the most part, but still an impossible threat they couldn't brush off.

**Cowboy Alastor** greets the silent patrons with a sly grin, tipping his hat to the fear-stricken owner who eyed him from behind the packed bar.

“Don't let me interrupt the fun, Cher. I'm not here to cause you trouble… that's if you're kind enough to indulge me.”Alastor chuckles, not waiting for a proper response from anyone as he stalks over to his usual spot in the smokey parlor.

A group of cattlemen stiffen in their seats as he walks by, all grabbing their drinks as swiftly as possible before leaping up from their table to avoid him, and their skittish actions cause Alastor to laugh as he settles into a particular backroom booth.

It was customary for people to keep their distance from him, some deterred by his striking appearance while others simply didn't want to risk involvement with a known killer. He saw nothing wrong with their aversion, glad that his reputation proceeded him, but there were those single few who saw him as a challenge rather than a threat.

Poor fools…

Mortal or not, he ran into them regularly, welcoming their duels like a bored child getting a new toy to destroy, and though he knew they'd fail to win against him, he'd never turn down a good game.

Ever…

**Cowboy Alastor** lets the saloon wind into chaos again, humming along to the melody of music and rowdy singing while getting comfortable in his secluded spot.

His hat rests low on his head, shielding most of his red gaze from those who look his way, only leaving the view of his Cheshire smile and effectively signaling his oddly calm demeanor. Alastor slipped his riding jacket off, tossing the tailored burgundy clothing across the back of the booth, his leather and suede black gloves following suit.

“What a day it's been…” he mumbled while flexing his long fingers, relaxing his posture while leaning back and rolling his neck until a soft ‘pop’ was heard.

Consequently, the tension tangled in his limber body from riding all day unraveled. Alastor sucked his teeth at the feeling, licking his lips as a satisfied groan left them, and just as he sat forward again, the owner hurried to his table with a bottle of alcohol and a tray of cigars.

“Your usual, Al,” he split out, setting the items in front of him with shakey hands, and Alastor clicks his tongue at the nervous tick. He'd come to this bar for years, and the old man still trembled in his boots around him. The poor fool wouldn't dare admit his fear either, rushing off as soon as he reached for the bottle, and though some might consider his retreat rude, Alastor found it amusing.

Flattering, even.

**Cowboy Alastor** drinks slowly, letting the whiskey burn his tongue and drowning the malt taste with languid drags from a cigar.

Eyes scan over him, women whisper about him lustfully under the rowdy music, and the men keep their senses about them with happy trigger fingers.

Because as they say: “Red Reaper, Red Reaper. The devil's solemn deal keeper. Beware him & the hell he seeks…”

Alastor imposes his intensity, grinning at those who stare too long, watching the women who drink him in with an equally sultry stare, and daring the men to throw a bullet his way with a knowing smirk. He invites trouble, waiting for it like a preying snake in tall, dry grass, but after some time, he assumes no one in the saloon will accept his invitation.

That is until you step in, looking lost among the worldly thrills of a bar but unafraid to venture further into it with an air of certainty surrounding you.

**Cowboy Alastor** makes no move to approach you, laid back as ever, as he observes the gentle way you speak to men who drunkenly approach you. They make offers to dance, almost crowding your more diminutive form as you trail to the bar.

“Sorry, boys, but I'm here on business, not pleasure. Now, run along..” you wave them away playfully, purposely flirtatious but avidly stern.

He expects them to continue bugging you; you're a doll, after all, prettier than most women he's seen. However, the men retreat politely, leaving you be as the owner approaches your side, and you immediately turn to hug him despite his apparent concerned expression.

Alastor observes the exchange closely, reading your lips perfectly while sipping at his drink, and it's all too easy for him to assess the situation.

The daughter of a businessman returns home after finishing school in the north, wanting to visit him at work as a pleasant surprise, but he's far from happy about a young lady like yourself being out late at night in a place like this.

You're too mannered to be seen around the patrons, it's dangerous for you to ride alone in the evening, and your father isn't pleased you intend to stay out to celebrate your school completion.

He tells you it's best to go home, that he'll come with you, but you insist on staying and remind him, “I'm not your little girl anymore, Daddy!..” The older man can't seem to rein you in, having to drop the lecture as a small brawl breaks out in the corner of the saloon, which draws his attention immediately, and this leaves you to wander the scene freely.

A perfect time for Alastor to reel you in close and personal…

**Cowboy Alastor** whistles when you walk past his area, catching your attention with a short, soulful melody, and you quickly notice him in the dim back room.

“Hi there, lil’ lady. Searchin' for somethin'?” He inquires playfully, tone bordering sensual, and his grin slipping into a closed smile as your gaze settles on him.

You’re curious, not scared of him like most are, and the moment he speaks to you, questions race through your head.

Who is he?

How have you never seen him here before?

Why, in God's name, is he sitting away from the masses?

Is he a rider, a hunter, or maybe a convict?

It was hard to tell from a distance, so without a second thought, you flashed him a gentle smile, gradually approaching where he sat, “Hello, and who might you be, sir?” You chirp a greeting, resisting the urge to bite your lip as he stares into your wandering gaze.

Alastor assumed you’d been away from the South too long to realize who he was, that your father's earlier warning didn’t sprout from overprotectiveness but rather fear of his presence.

You didn’t see him as a threat, nor a danger, but a new face in an old town.

He chuckles, putting out his cigar after taking a particularly long drag from it, blowing smoke past his lips with a coy hum. You blink as the convoluted air fans your face, unbothered by it and itching for a taste of tobacco yourself. It’d been a few years since you’d let loose, not allowed to frequent bars or act unladylike in the limelight of northern modesty.

“A loyal patron, but it’s been some time since I’ve paid this place a visit.” He answers you politely, an odd trait that most men only reserved for themselves but refreshing to experience.

“Oh, well, that’s nice to hear, but your name is what I would like to know.”

A tender smirk stretches your lips, a red hue dusting your cheeks as he tips his hate apologetically before uttering a response, “Alastor Hartifelt. A pleasure to meet you, Miss…” he pauses, quirking a brow at you expectantly, and you take a moment to analyze him further.

You've heard your father utter his name many times before your departure to the north. He'd described him brutally, having less than pleasant things to say about bounty hunters in general but especially about the man in front of you now. You'd heard people talk of his deeds, deals, and evil.

He was dubbed the ‘Red Reaper’ for a good reason, lurking around in the bitter nights and drawing blood from one poor soul or another in his travels.

Supposedly, he was a terrifying monster, but you'd always found beauty in the demented. It was one of the reasons your father had sent you away, but fortunately, the influence of the posh upper class did nothing to change your consciousness.

Besides, the rumors had failed to mention how attractive the red reaper was, let alone dashing. He seemed nice enough hadn't flashed his weapon, threatened, or catcalled you disrespectfully.

So, you found no harm in telling him your name, “Y/n L/n. It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Hartifelt.” You blink slowly, drowning in his red eyes, unconsciously swaying where you stood, back to a wall that hid your presence near him from your father's eyes and the curious stares of others.

Alastor glanced at the space beside him, silently asking that you join him, but unlike most women, he rarely took an interest in, you didn't move until he asked you outright.

“Would you care to join me for a drink, Miss L/n? I'd like to have your company for a while..”

He doesn't speak any louder than needed, using every bit of charm he has to lure you in, and you let him believe he's succeeded with a sensual laugh and purring laugh.

“Why, I thought you'd never ask..”

**Cowboy Alastor** asks a lot of questions. Subtly gathering information about you that he has no use for.

You give him answers; some are lies, others are indiscriminate truths, but you can't bring yourself to be completely honest with a stranger known for his cunning. He keeps your glass full, pacing the liquor with you, reveling in your gentle laughter after every sip, and softening faster and faster the longer you conversed.

You kept your wits about you as best as possible, inviting his fleeting touches but never going further than whispering in his ear or tapping a finger under his sharp chin when he'd stare too long.

Alastor didn't mind your soft hands on him, nor your lingering gaze and confident provocations. He absentmindedly returned the gestures just as boldly.

Your fifth glass of whiskey was running low, and without a hint of hesitation, he refilled it alongside his own. You watched as the amber liquid filled each glass, utterly relaxed as he spoke to you tenderly, “You say your father sent you far up north. May I ask why?…”

He peers at you, sliding the transparent glass into your waiting hand, and you chuckle wryly while taking a sip. “Daddy says it was for my good. You see, my mother is a stickler about manners, and I didn't have much of any growing up. Ironic, seeing as I was raised well enough.” you paused, frowning at the memory of your strict but loving mother.

She was lovely to look at and kind most of the time, but her ambitions for you outweighed her patience. Alastor noted the haunting sadness in your eyes but said nothing as you continued, looking out into the crowd of patrons fussing about as you did.

“My mother died a few years back, leaving daddy to handle me, and when he realized he couldn't manage the business and a daughter, he sent me away. Couldn't blame him either; I was getting into trouble left and right and had some bad habits on the rise, too.”

His ears perked at the words ‘bad habits’ leaving your lips, naturally drawn to knowing a mortal's darkest secrets, so he pressed for clarification.

“Bad habits, you say? I couldn't imagine a sweet thing like you havin’ such things.”

You scoffed, glad your cheeks were flushed from the alcohol buzz to mask the blush his comment invoked, “Well…I did. Still do if I'm honest.” you admit in a hushed tone, knocking back the last of your drink before glancing his way.

“It's hard to resist doing things you're good at.”

Alastor leaned back into the seat, drink in one hand, the other fixing his hat so it sat back on his head. The adjustment gave you a peek at his fluffy red hair and the distinctive blood-marked x on his forehead. You thought to ask what the mark meant but saved the question for later, as he agreed with your statement.

“Very true, ma chere. Although I'm one for killin’, your passion may not be so grizzly and easier to alleviate.”

“My father thinks gambling is just as bad as killing. It doesn't matter if he's addicted to it himself or not. If I do it…I'm the devil's daughter in his eyes..” You roll your eyes, an action that jolts a nerve Alastor hasn't felt in years and subconsciously doesn't ignore.

“Gambling? That's your unproper poison?” he narrows his gaze as you nod lazily, a few ringlets of your hair falling from its pinned-up style as you do, resting on the skin of your shoulders and neck.

Soft.

Your locks look soft and silky to the touch, tempting him to run his fingers through it, across your skin, and, god forbid, under your dress.

A heavy breath settled in his chest at the possibility, a familiar rush coursing through him as you moved your lips to speak, “Yes. I see a stack of playin’ cards, and I just can't help myself. I got rather good at playing too but when you beat everyone in town at it people start to be less kind about your reputation.”

You laugh, attempting to make a light-hearted joke but ultimately grimacing at the mention of lousy sportsmanship from others. You couldn't help winning a challenge in poker, and many saw the talent as disgraceful, which prompted I'll rumor about you.

“That's a shame, sugar. Everyone deserves a chance to play a good game of their choosing.” he feigns concern, meeting your curious eyes as you shift to face him, “Everyone except me if my father has anything to say about it. Still, I suppose it's best I let it go…” you sigh, grabbing the bottle of whiskey to pour another shot.

Suddenly, you freeze, feeling his body heat invade your space. Alastor tilts his head down close to yours, breathing in your scent discretely before pressing his lips to the lobe of your ear as he mutters into it, “Why don't you play a game with me, chere? One lil’ round for fun… right under your daddy's nose, hm?”

The burn of excitement seizes your body, a shakey breath leaving your lips as his voice settles in your mind, inviting you to indulge his offer. That same heat pooled in your core with every second he spent in your space, inhaling the scent of bourbon and sweet sugar cane grass he rode through radiating off him, words just as inviting and addictive.

For a horrifying, well-feared killer, he sure did entice a woman like any natural-born gentleman…

It was a deathly combination you knew he often used, killing or not, and though it'd be wise to avoid his idea, you didn't want to risk missing an opportunity for the thrill.

It'd been so long, too long, and what's the worst that could happen?

Losing to him?

You'd never lost to anyone before, and you were confident that fact wouldn't change -even going up against the Red Reaper himself.

**Cowboy Alastor** relishes when you utter a ‘yes’ to his offer. His grin widens menacingly for a split second as he sets his glass down next to your empty one, conjuring up a meticulously detailed deck of playing cards and placing them on the table.

“You can choose which game we play, sugar…”

Alastor shifts away from you, letting you regain your composure and watching as your delicate fingers reach for the top card of the deck.

“Poker. A favorite of mine..” You didn't think twice before answering him, admiring the red and black ace in your hand, wondering where he acquired such personalized playing cards.

“Poker it is then, chere,” he smirks wickedly, removing his hat entirely to set it on the table before gingerly plucking the card from your hold and sliding to sit opposite you while dishing out equal amounts of cards between you.

Your eyes light up under the oil lamp's golden hue, studying the flick of his hands as he worked, trying hard not to wander up to his piercing gaze. Afraid he'd immediately see your attraction to his nimble hands, well to him in general, and use it against you somehow, so your focus remains on the hand dealt and not him.

As you both plucked your respective set from the table, studying the cards intently, you asked the singular most crucial question every poker match was built on.

“What will the bets be,” Your innocent inquiry earns sultry laughter from him, filling the air, raising feverish chills on your skin as he stares at you through half-lidded eyes.

“I prefer bargains of the soul, my dear. The use and price of one's existence is always more valuable than money, don't you agree?”

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A/N: Don't be mad AT ME, GUYS, PLEASE. I HAD EXAMS LAST WEEK. I'm SORRY FOR DROPPING OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH… sort of, but I'm back now (please do hate me :((( ). Uh, so I might merge “Down in the Dust” with this because both stories kinda originated in my brain at the same time. However, since this is a request, I wrote a two-part tangent smut as a sort of prequel to the other fic! Also, the phrase “Save a horse. Ride a cowboy” will be unironically used…I'm sorry (I'm not lol) ❤️

[ BONUS CONTENT + ] VOLUME WARNING!!! 🗣️

Fun fact: In the South, we have a rule that if you take a cowboy hat and end up wearing it, they catch you with it (preferably in the mutual interest of getting to know each other). That cowboy gets to fuck you (hopefully, but technically you're initiating a flirting game wearing their hat, lol). It's a cute concept and one any Cowboy Alastor enthusiast should think about. ❤️ credits to the creator.

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hometoursandotherstuff · 11 days

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Beautiful 2011 lakefront estate in Columbus, IN. Has 6bds, 11ba, $22.5M. But, you have to really like rustic and want to live in Indiana, and I know that I posted it before. It was listed for $30M in 2022, and taken off the market b/c it didn't sell. So, they reduced the price and it's back on the market again.

I mean, really, look at this. I don't usually like rustic, but this is magnificent.

The waterfall is 2 stories high and there're koi fish in the pond.

It's open concept. Look at that ceiling and how the metal poles project out of the wood beams to hold the chandelier.

This is spectacular.

Can you imagine if that glass broke?

The kitchen is huge. Love the island and look at the size of those logs.

Nice dining room. I like the stone floors, too.

Cozy family room with a fireplace.

The primary bedroom is carpeted and has a fireplace.

Huge en-suite bath with lots of river stones.

The home office is right off the bedroom.

Up in the mezzanine.

The secondary bedrooms are beautiful and some of them have terraces.

One of the other 11 baths done in stone.

The rec room has a bar with a gaming area.

The bar is central to all the gaming areas.

Lounge and 2 bowling alleys.

The pool room has saloon doors.

Indoor golf area.

Down by the lake.

They have photos of all the animals on the 415 acre property, which I would love, but of course, they're talking about hunting.

Don't even think about killing my babies.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/10285-W-Youth-Camp-Rd-Columbus-IN-47201/102834747_zpid/?

#lake estate #rustic homes #estates #mansions #architecture #houses #house tours #home tour

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cubzikbuilds · 9 months

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Saloon

The saloon on the central square will be a great place to relax with foamy drinks or nectar after a hard day at the ranch in the company of friends and acquaintances. -------------------------- Салун на центральной площади будет прекрасным местом для отдыха с пенными напитками или нектаром после тяжёлого рабочего дня на ранчо в компании друзей и знакомых

-cc free -Chestnut Ridge -20x20 -lot type: cocktail bar -Dont forget bb.moveobjects on :)

SpeedBuild / Download

@sssvitlanz @s4realtor thanks!

#ts4 #ts4 build #ts4 building #cubzikbuilds #ts4 screenshots #ts4 download #ts4 lot #симс 4 скриншоты #симс 4 дом #симс 4 строительство #симс 4 #симс #симс 4 участок #ts4 horse ranch #ts4 community lot

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ghostofskywalker · 9 months

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Where You're Meant to Be - 1

Will Turner/Fem!Reader

Words: 1,928

Summary: After being taken prisoner aboard the Flying Dutchman, you resent the men who have accepted your soul as repayment of another's debt, especially the Captain. It doesn't matter one bit that he's the most attractive man you've ever seen, not at all.

Flower and Meaning: frangipani || the strength to withstand tough challenges

Chapters: one || two || three || four

Note: my august work for the @yearofcreation2023 :) pirates of the caribbean have completely taken over my brain at present so this was so much fun to write!!

Year of Flowers Masterlist • Will Turner Masterlist

The ship was an ugly thing, if you did say so yourself. Now of course anyone would be critical of a ship they were currently being tied to the central mast of, but this one was especially unappealing. The sails looked to be made of woven seaweed, rotting as it hung limply from barnacle-encrusted masts, and the dreariness of the boat was only surpassed by the terrifying nature of its crew. There was an emptiness to the men’s eyes that you couldn’t describe, and although your captors were no longer part of the sea by their appearance, you could feel the strength of their rage with every rock of the boat.

You had heard the stories, you knew what this vessel did and who its previous master was, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hold too much sympathy for the men who were tying you to the mast of their ship. They may also be trapped here, but at least they were able to move freely around the deck, while you were essentially nothing but a decoration against the wood.

You also held a special contempt for the crew because they were the reason you were here. While your life was nothing special and you worked in a nearby saloon serving beer and rum to all the questionable men the traversed through the doors, you enjoyed the fact that you resided on dry land. Now, your latest whirlwind romance had been nothing but a trick, and you were traded away to settle a debt with the devil that kept this ship moving. You hadn’t even met the current captain, and you had quite the barrage of insults planned for when you did. What kind of lowly piece of scum accepts another’s soul in place of the one that made the deal in the first place?

You could feel the ropes around your wrists tighten as you heard the sound of heavy footsteps echo across the floor, and the mysterious captain of the Flying Dutchman was revealed. Unfortunately for you, words of battle had already left your mouth before you got a chance to see how attractive he was. “I demand you free me this instant, you arrogant swine!”

And by heavens was he attractive. With long hair that was kept out of his face by a gray piece of fabric, a single gold earring that shimmered in the moonlight and the bone structure that could only be described as beautiful, you suddenly weren’t feeling as combative as you were before. How dare he not be the grizzled, old, and decaying figure you were imagining from the moment you set foot on this boat? How dare the man who makes all the decisions around here, the one who had very clearly ruined your life, be so attractive? This just simply wasn’t fair.

The captain let out a short laugh, and your eyes searched his face, taking in the way his hair fell across his shoulders and trying not to let that change your opinion of him. “And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you took an deceitful deal, and I was caught in the crossfires,” you responded sharply, refusing to let him intimidate you. “If there was any heart left in your chest, you would be searching for the man who tricked you into wiping his debt clean, not lashing me to this post and moving on with your life!”

Another laugh, and this time the crew members on board joined in. “You see dearie, Will Turner ain’t got no heart,” one of the men said as he stepped up closer to you, and the pungent smell of his breath was enough to make you gag. “Not anymore at least.”

The captain, whose name you now knew, spoke before you had a chance to respond to the crewman’s strange comment. “It doesn’t matter,” he said sharply. “The deal’s been done, and that’s it.”

The conversation was done after that, it was clear that this man did not have any patience for you, and he moved along the ship. You however, did not take the affront lying down, and you continued to spit insults at every passing sailor, including the (unfairly) handsome captain. They all ignored you, and you were starting to wonder how on earth you were going to get out of this, because you had no intention of spending the rest of your life in what could only be described as hell.

After a while, your anger morphed into a refusal to speak to anyone. When the captain offered you food, you took the bare minimum, the entire time wondering where exactly you stood in the cycle of life. If the stories were to be believed, all of these men were dead, condemned to crew the decaying corpse of the Flying Dutchman as she sailed the seas for eternity, but you weren’t dead (well, as far as you were aware). And yet you seemed to be protected, and when the boat fell beneath the waves, you could breathe. You refused to believe that it could be anything else but the heart of the ship itself, because there was no love lost between you and the Captain.

Will Turner may be devastatingly handsome, but the two of you traded insults every time you spoke. You didn’t expect him to try to be your friend, but you would prefer it if you were allowed to walk free on the ship for more than just a few moments each day. The ship was nowhere near land, where were you going to go? Even if you did manage to make an escape without anyone realizing, you would only be dooming yourself, and then you would end up tethered here for real, the very thing you wanted to avoid at all costs.

***

It felt like weeks had passed since you were first brought aboard, but the reality of the situation was that it had barely been three days. The sharp claws of final judgment had not yet sunk into your flesh, even though you felt like you should be dead by now. Each day you watched as the creaking ship supervised the movement of departed souls between the realms of the living and the dead, looking empty and lost as they boarded small boats of their own and joined the procession alongside those who died on land.

At night, the ship traveled the seas, and sometimes you were able to make yourself believe that this voyage was normal, and that you weren’t trapped here, serving as collateral on a ship of the damned in the place of a man who did nothing but lie to you from the moment he first said hello. The stars that twinkled above you were a reminder of the good and beauty in the world, and even though you knew little of the constellations an d their meanings, you picked out shapes yourself, assigning them whatever significances happened to catch your mind at the time.

It was during one of your heavenly searches that you were surprised to hear footsteps coming towards you. It seemed that the Dutchman never needed a crew member to keep watch at night, because in all the time you spent here, you had never seen another vessel (even the vessel that had brought you here was a crewman’s lifeboat). There must have been someone at the wheel, but you were facing away from that area of the ship, and had no way to know whether or not anyone was there.

Annoyed that someone was interrupting your time alone, you looked down from the skies and glared right at the Captain. “What are you doing here?” you asked, a biting tone to your voice that he must have known all too well by now.

But instead of the usual retort, Will Turner smiled. “I couldn’t sleep. What about you?”

“Very funny,” you deadpanned, nodding down to your tied wrists. “I think you already know the answer.”

“I could untie you,” he said, seemingly out of nowhere.

You almost burst out laughing. “Wow, I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, I almost believe you.”

“Do you really think so little of me?” Now his voice had a tinge of sadness to it, and you genuinely wondered if something was wrong, because this did not seem like the same man who had traded insults with you every time he passed, that had allowed for another man’s debt to be paid with your soul.

“Do you really expect anything more?” you asked. “Or have you forgotten the entire reason I am here?”

There was a stretch of silence before he responded. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But I would like to make it clear that it wasn’t I who chose to accept the deal, but a member of the crew in my place.”

“But surely you could have sent me back.”

The ropes holding you to the mast of the ship fell away as he untied them, and then he responded. “That’s what I had every intention of doing,” he said. “Until you yelled at me the first time we met.”

“So?”

“Clearly you’re not a pirate, because then you would know that no self-respecting captain would allow his reputation to be called into question the way you did to me.”

“You’re right, I am not a pirate,” you huffed, sitting down on top of a crate. “And I would like to return to land, Captain.”

“Very well,” he said. “But please, call me Will.”

Deep down, you expected more of a fight, and it seemed almost too good to be true. “Why the change of heart?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been stuck on this ship for days, we’ve been nothing but rude to each other, and all the sudden you’re untying me and telling me I can leave? It seems odd, that’s all.”

He sat down on a crate across from you, and you were able to look at him again. “I know what it’s like to be trapped on this ship, and I never intended for that to be your fate. No debt has been paid, and eventually I will claim the soul of the man who thought he could cheat death by sending another in his place.”

There was a genuine emotion to his voice, and you actually believed in what he was saying. “Thank you,” you said, a smile crossing your face.

The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes before Will got up. “Why don’t you go get some sleep? I have a room separate from the others.” You stared at him with a confused look on your face, and he laughed. “I feel bad enough for trapping you here, the least I can do is offer you a bed to rest in. I don’t use it all too much anyway.”

He didn’t take no for an answer, and soon you were stepping into a small room below the deck of the ship. You could hear the cacophony of snores that signaled where the rest of the crew slept, but this room was completely empty, except for a decent sized cot, a small desk, and a couple bottles of rum in the corner. Compared to rough wood the ship was made of, the slightly scratchy bedding felt as if you were falling asleep on a cloud, and soon you had drifted off to dreamland, wondering whether or not this was all a dream.

If it was, you didn’t really want to wake up.

- end of part one -

Series Taglist: N/A

if you want to know when i post a new fic, follow my library blog @ghostofskywalker-library!

#where you’re meant to be fic #will turner #will turner x reader #will turner x you #pirates of the carribean x reader #pirates of the caribbean fanfiction #orlando bloom x reader

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carsthatnevermadeitetc · 1 year

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Lancia Dialogos Concept, 1998. A prototype for a retro-styled flagship saloon with a re-configurable interior featuring front seats that swivelled through 180º to face the rear passengers and rear hinged back doors with no central pillar. The production Lancia Thesis which was based on to the Dialogos lacked all of these features.

#Lancia #Lancia Dialogos Concept #Lancia Dialogos #luxury car #flagship #suicide doors #concept #prototype #design study #retro style

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newyorkthegoldenage · 9 months

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The Central Park Casino, late 1920s. Built in 1864 as the Ladies' Refreshment Saloon, it was torn down in 1930 at the insistence of Robert Moses.

Photo: Bettmann Archive/Getty Images/Fine Art America

#vintage New York #1920s #Central Park Casino #Central Park #Robert Moses #vintage NYC

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againstthegrainphoto · 7 months

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Lesser Care, Closed Tear, French Police.

#what even are goth band names these days #lesser care #closed tear #French police #againstthegrainphotography #yes music productions #central saloon #seattle #band #goth #new wave #post punk #new camera #this was a ✨LEARNING EXPERIENCE✨

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nicklloydnow · 7 months

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Judge Holden by Rob Wood (2021)

“The judge is clearly no ordinary mortal, but at times it is suggested that he is more of a god than a demon. Sitting half-naked in front of the fire, the judge is described as a "great pale deity" (92). Later, the judge appears as a statue of some godlike being or idol. His eyes, like a sculpture's, are "empty slots" (147). Sitting on the ground with "his hands rested palm down upon his knees," the judge seems to be engaged in deep meditation 147). Rick Wallach argues that here the judge " incarnates the attributes of an oriental deity." Specifically, "the judge's poses suggest Shiva," whose "visage, like Holden's, is always serene amid the carnage he engenders" (128-29). The men seated around the judge grow wary of this meditative state, "so like an icon was he in his sitting that they grew cautious and spoke with circumspection among themselves as if they would not waken something that had better been left sleeping" (147). The implication is that the men grow fearful in the judge's presence, because they sense something otherworldly and malevolent.

The judge is situated somewhere between the demonic and the godlike, a position that corresponds to the Gnostic view of the god of this world. As Hans Jonas explains, the Gnostics believed that demons known as archons "collectively rule over the world" and "are also creators of the world, except where this role is reserved for their leader, who then has the name of demiurge" and "is often painted with the distorted features of the Old Testament God" (43-44). The human spirit is "a portion of the divine substance from beyond which has fallen into the world; and the archons created man for the express purpose of keeping it captive there" (44). The demiurge and his archons conceal the existence of the divine source, or the alien God, in order to keep human beings imprisoned in the cosmos. Thus Gnostic theology identifies the biblical God, Yahweh, as a demon, responsible not only for the creation of the world but also for the obscuration of divine Reality. By conflating the creator God and the devil into one entity, Gnostic theology creates a new kind of deity, whose simultaneously demonic and godlike characteristics are reflected in the multifaceted enigma that is Judge Holden.

In "Gravers False and True: Blood Meridian as Gnostic Tragedy," Leo Daugherty argues that "gnostic thought is central to Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian" (159) and perceptively identifies the judge as one of the Gnostic archons, or perhaps even the demiurge himself. Daugherty writes that like the "archons, Holden also possesses all the other characteristics of Yahweh as the Gnostics saw him: he is jealous, he is vengeful, he is wrathful, he is powerful and - most centrally - he possesses, and is possessed by, a will" (163). The "Earth is the judge's" (164), writes Daugherty, and, indeed, the judge is described as seeming "much satisfied with the world, as if his counsel had been sought at its creation" (140). Christopher Douglas draws attention to McCarthy's use of "as if," arguing that it "marks the failure of traditional realist language to evoke the larger theological design behind the events of the novel and the impossibility of linguistically imagining the design that McCarthy suspects must lurk behind the amoral nothingness of the world" (13). Thus, far from dismissing the judge's participation in the creation of the world as a hypothetical fantasy, McCarthy's "as if" actually gestures toward the ineffable and unutterable reality of this vision.

Sitting in a saloon, the judge is depicted "among every kind of man, herder and bullwhacker and drover and freighter and miner and hunter and soldier and pedlar and gambler and drifter and drunkard and thief," but though he "sat by them," he remained "alone as if he were some other sort of man entire" (325). Once again, we may apply Douglas's reading to McCarthy's characteristic usage of "as if," identifying it as a linguistic marker pointing to a "larger theological design" rather than a simple exercise in hypothetical rhetoric. Although the judge seems perfectly at home in the crazed, blood-soaked world of Blood Meridian, it is continually suggested that he is somehow not of this world. This is yet another of the judge's paradoxical attributes that can be resolved in the light of Gnostic thought. Gnostic texts often refer to the world as the "inn" in order to emphasize the concept that the pneuma lives in temporary exile from its true home. The archons can be thought of as "the 'fellow-dwellers of the inn' though their relation to it is not that of guests" (Jonas 56). Hence, just as the archons inhabit the realm of the manifest world without being human, the judge walks among men while being no ordinary mortal. Furthermore, the judge's existence is not limited to the so-called Wild West of the 1850s, for he was also "among the dregs of the earth in beggary a thousand years and he was among the scapegrace scions of eastern dynasties" (325). This suggests that the judge cannot be limited by time, place, or social hierarchy; his existence stretches back to distant times, distant lands, and infiltrates all levels of human society, from beggar to king.

Most disturbingly, the judge seems to possess no beginning and no end. In a fit of ether-induced delirium, the kid experiences a revelation regarding the judge's mysterious lack of origins: "Whoever would seek out his history through what unravelling of loins and ledgerbooks must stand at last darkened and dumb at the shore of a void without terminus or origin and whatever science he might bring to bear upon the dusty primal matter blowing down out of the millennia will discover no trace of any ultimate atavistic egg by which to reckon his commencing" (310). The kid's vision reveals that the origin of the judge cannot be uncovered through genealogy, nor scientific enquiry; any attempt to do so will only lead one back to the primordial void, the chaos that precedes the existence of the cosmos in the creation myths of countless traditions. Similarly, the judge has no final destination; in the final paragraph of the novel he is dancing an eternal dance, reminiscent of Shiva's cosmic dance of destruction: "He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die" (335). Ordinary sleep is a minor prelude to the great sleep of death and the immortal judge is eternally wakeful.

Harold Bloom comments on the judge's lack of origins in How to Read and Why, but he curiously argues against a Gnostic interpretation of the passage. Despite the fact that Bloom identifies McCarthy as a Gnostic - "Faulkner is a kind of unknowing Gnostic; West, Pynchon, and McCarthy in their different ways are very knowing indeed" (237) - and is prepared to admit that "McCarthy gives Judge Holden the powers and purposes of the bad angels or demiurges [sic] that the Gnostics called archons," he inexplicably goes on to insist that McCarthy is actually telling "us not to make such an identification," because "any 'system,' including the Gnostic one, will not divide the Judge back into his origins. The ultimate atavistic egg' will not be found" (Modern Critical Views 4). I agree with Bloom's assertion up to a point, namely that the supernatural nature of the judge is such that he surpasses the limitations of the human mind and thus cannot be limited to any one system of thought. Nevertheless, certain aspects of the judge's nature may be illuminated by references to the various spiritual and philosophical traditions that have attempted to address the problem of evil. This is the line of argument adopted by Steven Frye, who argues that the judge's purported lack of origins should not discourage us from interpreting the literary figure in the context of various systems and traditions, including, but not limited to, "Judeo-Christian cosmology and typology, scientific materialism with its often purely atheist implications, the continental philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, philosophical nihilism, and the fascinating conceptions of ancient Gnosticism." Frye argues that Judge Holden "is by no means a patchwork creation of competing philosophical configurations, but a distinctive artistic embodiment of darkness that stands apart but nevertheless draws on these various perspectives" (Understanding Cormac McCarthy 79). He adds that "it is perhaps more fruitful to consider that various notions of evil, literary or philosophical, partially illuminate rather than define his nature" (91). I would argue that although Gnosticism is not the definitive system through which one may arrive at an understanding of the judge, it is nevertheless a particularly useful one due to its preoccupation with the evil manifest in creation.

Furthermore, McCarthy subtly alludes to the judge's connection with Gnostic archons in his esoteric subheading to chapter 15, "The Ogdoad" (204). The heading refers to a scene in which the Glanton gang stumbles upon eight decapitated heads arranged in a circle. "The heads were eight in number . . . and they formed a ring all facing outwards. Glanton and the judge circled them and the judge halted and stepped down and pushed over one of the heads with his boot" (220). According to A Dictionary of Gnosticism, the ogdoad (Greek for "group of eight") is the "eighth sphere, above the seven planetary spheres" and "may be considered to be the sphere of the fixed stars, but may also be associated with the home of Sophia [the Gnostic personification of wisdom], or the demiurge, or in simpler cosmologies the home of the true God" (A. Smith 177). According to these "simpler" Gnostic cosmologies, the cosmos is ruled by seven archons, whose kingdoms are hierarchically arranged in concentric circles around the manifest world.In what is known as the "Ascent of the Soul" - a teaching common to both Hermeticism and Gnosticism - the souls of the dead must pass through the hebdomad (Greek for "group of seven"). During this process "all passions and vices are given back to the various spheres from which they were derived in the soul's original descent." Afterward, the "essential man' proceeds to the Ogdoad (Eighth) where he praises the Father with those who are there" (Pearson 279). In other words, the perfected spirit ascends to the "eighth realm," thereby returning to its divine source. By knocking over the eighth head, the judge reduces the ogdoad of the alien God to the hebdomad of the archons. If one considers the ogdoad to be the realm of the alien God, then the judge's action is symbolic of his denying transcendence to those who would seek to escape from the manifest world through spiritual development.

The very title of "the judge" carries connotations of biblical judgement, a concept that strengthens his resemblance to the demiurge and the archons. Harold Bloom writes that Judge Holden "seems to judge the entire earth" and the name Holden "suggests a holding, presumably of sway over all he encounters" (Modern Critical Views 4). The judge seems to be obsessed with bringing every animate and inanimate thing in creation under his jurisdiction. When asked why he shoots and stuffs birds, catches butterflies, presses leaves and plants between the pages of his ledger book, and sketches artifacts - often destroying the originals after their image has been recorded - the judge replies, "Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent" (198). This statement would be absurd if uttered by a mortal man, but chilling if uttered by an archon bent on keeping all things imprisoned in the fetters of manifest existence.

This reading also illuminates the judge's desire to have "the existence of each last entity . . . routed out and made to stand naked before him," so he might be "suzerain of the earth." When asked what a suzerain is, the judge replies, "He is a special kind of keeper," one who "rules even where there are other rulers," because his "authority countermands local judgements" (198). Once again, the judge's emphasis on judgment links him significantly to a Gnostic portrayal of Yahweh. Similarly, his insistence that he be the supreme ruler recalls Yahweh's commandment: "Thou shalt have none other gods before me. . . . Thou shalt not bow down thyself unto them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God" (Deuteronomy 5:7, 9). As the Gnostics were quick to point out, Yahweh is actually unwittingly revealing the existence of another god, "For if there were no other one, of whom would he be jealous?" (qtd. in Pearson 66). Like Yahweh, the judge's insistence on being the sole ruler subtly suggests the existence of other "principalities," "powers," and "rulers of the darkness of this world" (Ephesians 6:12) with which he competes for supremacy.”

Most telling of all, however, are pronouncements the judge makes with his hands placed on the ground: "This is my claim, he said. And yet everywhere upon it are pockets of autonomous life. Autonomous. In order for it to be mine nothing must be permitted to occur upon it save by my dispensation" (199). Robert Jarrett explains that "dispensation . . . is a key term in evangelical Protestant theology, referring to the different covenants regulating the relations between Jehovah and man" (Cormac McCarthy 78). It is by such a "dispensation" that a "terrible covenant" (126) was formed between the mortal Glanton and the sinister, Yahweh-like Holden. Leo Daugherty also links this passage to Yahweh, arguing that "Judge Holden's power is not yet complete, since his will is not yet fulfilled in its passion for total domination" and that "this was also necessarily true of the Gnostic archons, just as it was true of the Old Testament Yahweh" (163). According to Gnostic thought, the demiurge and his archons must exercise their tyrannical rule in order to prevent the trapped fragments of the divine from returning to their source, for if all divine fragments were liberated, there would be nothing left to animate the dead matter of the cosmos. As Kurt Rudolph explains, "the powers which rule the world, the Archons . . . try to impede the [spirit's] return in order to prevent the perfecting of the world of light and thus protract the world process" (172). The archons are powerless in exerting their dominion over those who possess gnosis, or what the judge calls "pockets of autonomous life." Thus the judge knows that he will never be suzerain of the cosmos unless he can keep every living thing imprisoned in the manifest realm.” - Petra Mundik, ‘A Bloody and Barbarous God: The Metaphysics of Cormac McCarthy’ (2016) [p. 35 - 40]

“Satan, avenging angel, albino monstrosity, or hyperrealist of paradise lost, the judge remains the most morbidly captivating character in Blood Meridian. He is reminder alone that the American west was at times a holocaust of Manifest Destiny and white supremacy, the devil's genocidal shibboleths.” - Kenneth Lincoln, ‘Cormac McCarthy: American Canticles’ (2010) [p. 87]

#mccarthy #cormac mccarthy #blood meridian #judge holden #bloody and barbarous god #mundik #petra mundik #gnosticism #harold bloom #metaphysics #shiva #demiurge #archon #satan #devil #kenneth lincoln #canticles #manifest destiny #shibboleth

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sassydefendorflower · 7 months

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👀👀👀

Okay so... buckle up!

It's the late 1920s! New York City!

Emily Prentiss is a burned out socialite living below her means by day - and a hitman under the name of Mr. Reynolds for the Irish Mob by night. (No, she's also not quite sure how that happened)

One of the men she frequently works with/for - Ian Doyle - has a new hit for her: Raphael. Raphael is one of the best bookies out there, and almost the entire New York underworld uses him to do their taxes, sort their winnings, and cut the loses - but Doyle suspects him of being overly loyal to the Italians, so he wants him taken care off.

Hopefully in a way that won't tie back to him - instead he would rather look forward to a gang war, an opportunity to become an even bigger fish in this pond called NYC.

Spencer Reid is a nervous looking librarian working below his intelligence level - and Raphael, the shifty and rather successful bookie. He was found by Rossi - head of one of the big Italian families controlling the East Coast - and trained by the former bookie Jason Gideon to become one of the best. And he is. His side-business pays for his mother's care - and for Rossi's silence.

(back in the day, if you wanted information you played chess against Jason Gideon in Central Park and he'd do your books for you and trade some information - Gideon still plays chess in the park, but these days it's mostly for his own amusement)

David Rossi came from Sicily to Long Island to New York City - and he brought his family's power and influence with him. Under the cover of Emma's trattoria Rossi knows how to find people, exploit them, and make them work for him. He also knows all about good food and company, and the loyalty only a family can offer.

That's how he met Aaron Hotchner after all. Hotchner used to be the only good cop on the Upper East Side and then he started investigating the Russians. One hit on Hotchner's wife by a hired French gun, and Aaron Hotchner was a widower - one well placed tip about the whereabouts of said Frenchman from Rossi and Hotchner was a murderer. Luckily, Rossi cares about family, and so he offered Hotchner a deal: become his insider in the NYPD and Rossi could make the evidence of his crimes go away.

Hotch was just desperate enough to accept it.

(this was ten years ago, by now Rossi has to admit, that they're actually friends)

One of their favorite meet-ups? The speakeasy managed by Derek Morgan, former PI, current bootlegger. It's neutral ground, no gang or mob violence allowed if you want some piss-warm whiskey and a glass of beer, so all kinds of people end up in the former hair saloon.

When Derek Morgan was young he wanted to become a cop - and then his dad got shanked and nobody cared because he's black and suddenly... so he became a PI instead. Then the recession hit his mom's small business and suddenly his family had to get creative to make some money. But his aunt had always had a knack for homemade liquor and one thing led to another...

That's also how he got his bartender: the delicate Jennifer "JJ" Jearau. Five years ago, JJ left her small town in Pennsylvania to marry Lieutenant William LaMontaigne only to reach New York and find him murdered. Going back to the hell that was small town Pennsylvania wasn't an option, so she hired a PI - and when her trusted PI turned bootlegger, she became the woman behind the bar.

They were pretty sure a mob hit had killed her betrothed anyway - and Derek knew one day soon Will's killer would walk through his doors and JJ would get her justice.

Garcia married into the Puerto Rican part of New York quite on accident, but soon found her calling in trading information and favors - nobody would ever suspect the bubbly librarian of anything uncouth, especially since Garcia worked mostly on her own. She had no aspirations to become some big fish, mostly she wanted to be left alone and comfortable, with a measure of good friends by her side.

That's probably also why she introduced Emily Prentiss to her colleague Spencer. Both were miserably lonely people, and hey, maybe they could be miserably lonely together.

(what she kick started was a beautiful friendship and also one of the biggest misunderstandings in the history of the New York mafia - you see, neither Emily nor Spencer realized that the other had some secrets of their own)

Rambles enough? I do have some plot ideas (there's enough set up for like three plots just in this backstory) and other characters to include. (Elle is definitely a member of a gang, and unlike Garcia she does want to become a big fish) (Jordan Todd is a liar, so when she needs help she finds the best liar in town: JJ) (Seaver knows things and Rossi would rather keep her silent) But so far this is all I have for an AU I will probably never write :D

AND THANK YOU SO MUCH IRIS!! <3 <3 <3

[send me a "👀" and I'll ramble about an AU that i will probably never write]

#fanfictiongreenirises #love you iris <3 #ask game #ask and answer #criminal minds #cm #spencer reid #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #david rossi #penelope garcia #jason gideon #1920s AU

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bubblesandgutz · 1 year

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Every Record I Own - Day 759: Modest Mouse This Is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About

It’s been five months since I’ve written one of these album posts, mainly because 2022 was such a busy year. When I made my last album post on August 1st, I was still talking about my favorite albums from 2021. While I enjoy talking about current music, I think I get more enjoyment writing about music that I’ve had plenty of time to sit with, and consequently, I felt like I was running out of things to say about new releases.

I wasn’t sure how to dip my toes back into this project. Then on New Year’s Eve I got the news that Jeremiah Green passed away.

I’m sure Modest Mouse meant a lot of different things to a lot of different people. And for most people, their impression of the band starts around 2004 with their big hit “Float On.” For me, Modest Mouse will always be that curious local band from the early ‘90s.

A quick recap on Seattle in the ‘90s: Nirvana blew up in the fall of ‘91, and their success helped turn the spotlight on Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, Screaming Trees, and Mudhoney. Seattle was suddenly seen as a hub of underground rock music. But the reality is that we were a geographically isolated city with restrictive liquor laws and the Teen Dance Ordinance, a law that made all ages concerts virtually impossible. Rock music in Seattle was for the 21+ crowd. If you were a kid and you liked going to shows, you had to go to the youth centers out in the suburbs, or you had to go down to Tacoma and Olympia, or you religiously attended the one tiny all ages venue in the sketchiest part of downtown, The Velvet Elvis, that was strangely exempt from the ordinance on a technicality (namely, it had fixed seating, so you couldn’t “dance”). There was a distinct generational gap between the crowd that saw Nirvana play at the Central Saloon the summer before Nevermind came out and the local teenagers who picked up guitars in its wake.

Botch started playing in ‘93 and by the end of ‘94 we were playing shows at The Velvet Elvis. We were also playing spots like The Old Fire House in Redmond and Ground Zero in Bellevue, the suburban youth centers that held weekly concerts for the underage crowd. Some weeks you’d get a touring acts like Neurosis or Rocket From the Crypt, but we were so far off the standard touring circuit that most of the time you just got local bands.

Modest Mouse was a name we saw around a lot. The name sounded a bit twee for our tastes, but we knew their drummer Jeremiah had been in a hardcore band called Drown, and he’d been an early fixture at The Old Fire House. Despite the small nature of the underage scene in Seattle and the crossover in our musical interests, I wouldn’t hear Modest Mouse until Botch went out on our first tour in ‘96. In San Francisco, we played at the famous Epicenter Records. The bill was Modest Mouse, Scenic Vermont, Trial, and Botch. There were maybe 20 people there. But man, Modest Mouse fuckin’ ruled. They could be sweet and pretty one moment and screaming over distortion and feedback the next. We all became fans that night.

There was so much I identified with in their music. For one thing, it felt like every song started with a nugget of an idea---a solid verse/chorus structure---and then drifted off into some noisy exploratory jam session. It didn’t feel far off from what Botch was doing in that regard. We’d start a song with a couple of riffs that worked together, and we’d just jam in the basement until the rest of the song fell into place. It’s funny... I just assumed that was how every band wrote together. That’s what Fugazi and Drive Like Jehu did, after all. But in hindsight, I think it was a very unique approach, or at least it’s one that’s fallen out of favor with newer bands. When I listen to those early Modest Mouse songs, you can feel the excitement of a band bouncing ideas off of each other, letting happy accidents turn into whole new parts.

There was something else that really resonated with me about those early Modest Mouse records. There was a sense of wonder with the western landscape, a fascination with geography, and a sense of loneliness and alienation when you become uprooted from your childhood home. It was all there in their record titles---Interstate 8, The Lonesome Crowded West, This Is a Long Drive. I’d only moved to the Northwest in ‘92, so I felt uprooted too. But there was also this new appreciation for wide open spaces. After living on an island you could drive across in a couple of hours, it boggled my mind that you could just get in a car and drive for several days and still not see the other side of the continent. Modest Mouse’s music captured that excitement for the open road and the possibilities it offered.

This Is a Long Drive had come out just a few months before that SF show. This album, along with the Broke single, got a lot of plays in our camp after playing with them. National success for Modest Mouse was still somewhere on the horizon, but by the time summer was over it felt like they were taking off regionally. They sold out a show at The Velvet Elvis that fall. I didn’t even know bands could sell out The Velvet Elvis back then. Sure, it held maybe 125 people, tops, but I didn’t realize there were 125 kids hip to the weird art house theater tucked in an alley in a grimy part of downtown.

By the time The Lonesome Crowded West came out, they were a national act. A year or two earlier you’d only hear their music at friend’s houses or on the local college radio station. Now you heard their music in coffee shops, bars, and record stores all over the States. They belonged to the world.

Weirdly enough, my only interaction with Jeremiah would happen years later. At some point in the late ‘00s, after the success with Good News For People Who Love Bad News and his brief hiatus from the band, I was at a grocery store in Seattle with a mutual friend. “You guys know each other, right?” the friend asked in lieu of a proper introduction. We both shrugged and smiled, introduced ourselves, both saying “yeah, I know” in response. We were the same age, had come up in the same scene. I’d gone in to work a shift at The Old Fire House Teen Center the day he stopped by to talk to my boss about quitting Modest Mouse. We were in the same musical orbit, likely going through the same growing pains at the same stages of our lives, which is probably why their music hit me the way it did.

RIP Jeremiah Green. Thank you for the music.

#everyrecordiown #modest mouse

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