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notbecauseofvictories · 1 year

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My best friend and I had a call recently---she’s back with her family for a bit helping out with some hometown stuff. As part of the stuff, she’s been going through a (deceased) relative’s scrapbook, compiled in the American Midwest circa 1870-1900 and featuring mostly cut-out figures from the ads of the day.

She talked about how painstaking this relative’s work was. (Apparently the relative was careful to cut out every finger, every cowlick; this was by no means carelessly or hastily assembled.) But she also she talked about how---the baby on the baking soda ad is ugly, it is so ugly, why anyone would clip this heinously ugly illustrated baby and paste it into a scrapbook? Why would you save the (terribly told, boring) ghost story that came with your box of soap?

(Why include these things in the first place? we asked each other. ”There’s a kind of anti-capitalism to it,” she mused.)

And we discussed that for a bit---how most of the images, stories, artists, and ads were local, not national; they’re pulled from [Midwestern state] companies’ advertisements in [Midwestern state] papers, magazines, and products. As a consequence, you’re not looking at Leyendecker or Norman Rockwell illustrations, but Johann Spatz-Smith from down the road, who took a drawing class at college.

(College is the state college, and he came home on weekends and in the summer to help with the farm or earn some money at the plant.)

But it also inspired a really interesting conversation about how---we have access to so much more art, better and more professional art, than any time in history. As my bff said, all you have to do to find a great, technically proficient and lovely representational image of a baby, is to google the right keywords. But for a girl living in rural [Midwestern state] of the late 1800s, it was the baking soda ad, or literal actual babies. There was no in-between, no heading out to the nearby art museum to study oil paintings of mother and child, no studying photographs and film---such new technologies hadn’t diffused to local newspapers and circulars yet, and were far beyond the average person’s means. But cheap, semi-amateur artists? Those were definitely around, scattered between towns and nearby smallish cities.

It was a good conversation, and made me think about a couple things---the weird entitlement that “professional” and expensive art instills in viewers, how it artificially depresses the appetite for messy unprofessional art, including your own; the way that this makes your tastes narrower, less interesting, less open.

By that I mean---maybe the baby isn’t ugly! Maybe you’ve just seen too many photorealistic babies. Maybe you haven’t really stopped to contemplate that your drawing of a baby (however crude, ugly, or limited) is the best drawing of a baby you can make, and the act of drawing that lumpen, ugly baby is more sacred and profoundly human than even looking at a Mary Cassatt painting.

And even if that isn’t the case....there was this girl in [American Midwestern state] for whom it was very, very important that she capture every finger, curl, and bit of shading for that ugly soap ad baby. And some one hundred years later, her great-something-or-other took pains to preserve her work---because how terribly human it is, to seek out all the art we can find that resonates with us, preserve it, adore it.

It might be the most human impulse we have.

#I of course went on a tangent about henry darger because I love darger and he was also pulling/tracing/finding inspiration in local ads #I was also thinking of the scenes in banshees of inisherin where gleeson plays the fiddle in the bar and the woman sings #clearly not professional! nowhere near mozart.#but you know what? those people are making art. they are engaged in the most human thing you can possibly do #my mother once talked about how when she was growing up in the chicago area the irish immigrants would sing and play at parties #and her mother (one generation removed from immigration) would scoff #because who did they think they were! they weren't professionals. they were making a spectacle of themselves.#''and then it died out. no one sings and plays at parties anymore'' she said quietly #celestial emporium of benevolent knowledge

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meljayne · 5 months

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I met some of the ghosts and gave my print of the Captian and Havers dancing in the style of JC Leyendecker. I also got to see their costumes and talk to Martha and Larry. It was an awsome event where I got to meet some other lovely ghosts fans and even give them cards of my art!!

Ben was first in line, so he saw the prints and I asked him to sign one of them. He also signed the book while I was telling him about the painting and giving him his own copy. I told him that I liked him in Me and You (because I cannot stop myself) and double science (which is a radio drama he wrote and starred in from like 2008) and he LIT UP when I mentioned double science (see below)

And then I was going to talk to Martha but the person in front of me was still talking to her and then Larry got a look at the print in my hand (because we didn't want Ben's signature to smudge) and he was like "Wow, that's amazing, did you paint that?" and he took it from me to have a look at it before giving it back, and then I told him that my favourite minor Yonderland character was Kendall, and he was like, oh, yes. And that I also really liked his elder character, especially the "if I would have known how loud winning would be, I would have chosen a different side" and "Oh, and I want to be a woman." Truly icon behavior, and he seemed to agree with me.

And that was how i spent an incredibly special 3 minutes of my life. It was kind of a hard day, being back in London for the first time since 2020, but they made it all better. I wish I could have met Martha properly, but seeing them all smile made it all worth it.

#bbc ghosts #bbc ghosts cast #bbc ghosts at foyles #my art #art #bbc ghosts fanart #bbc ghosts signing #ben willbond #martha howe douglas #laurence rickard #larry rickard #them there #six idiots #i totally called that larry was gonna say oh wow and i was right #me irl #if you saw me (I was the one in the moomin mask) then come say hi!#bbc ghosts captain #i was dead on with the colour of his suit #the captain

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possibly-a-table-or-just-gay · 4 months

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MY MASSIVE SCHOOL ART PROJECT IVE BEEN WORKING ON FOR LIKE SIX WEEKS!!!!!

The brief was a linoprint design with the prompt of "Hometown" :D

Translations under the cut:

HOME TOWN

Drawing of a two-headed dog: I took a lot of inspiration from shows and podcasts like Gravity Falls and Canp Here And There, where surrealism and strange happenings are the norm

Drawing of an Irish Elk: *I scribbled it out bc it contained information about where I live specifically, which I don't want online for obvious reasons*

Acrylic painting of an ice cream cone: I like the warm and cool shadows and how the left side is facing the light while the right is in shadow

PRIMARY SOURCES

*under the left drawing of lichen* Dry

*under the right drawing of lichen* Fresh

RAVENS AND CROWS

*top left* Ravens tend to be bigger than crows, and a lot fluffier. Jackdaws look very similar to crows, but while ravens & crows have dark eyes, jackdaws have very light eyes

*bottom left* crow feather ➡️ seagull feather➡️ swan feather➡️

SCOTT CHRISTIAN SAVA

*top right* Scott Christian Sava is traditional artist from New York who mainly uses gouache and watercolour and has amassed a large following from sharing his process on platforms like Tiktok and YouTube. He has said he was heavily influenced by JC Leyendecker, Marvel comics and the Art Noveau movement.

*above the manatee* One thing I really like about his art is the way he uses blotchy shapes to show light and shadow, and how that makes his paintings feel like something out of a storybook.

*in between the manatee and the unicorn* I also like the use of shapes and patterns in the background of his work to frame the subject, almost like a stained glass window.

*above the unicorn* Samples of paintings from his "National Animals" series, and my attempt at painting the national animal of Ireland in this style

#art #art project #my art #i make shit sometimes #school art #scott christian sava

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mushiimune · 6 months

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Some more old stuff (also 2022) featuring Bill and Darcy! I used to have so many hcs for them that I just never got around to sharing.

Like Bill calling Darcy "Birdie" because Darcy's suit reminds him of a canary. It also reminds me of a canary. projection ftw

I took inspo from Leyendecker's work for them, I thought it was fitting ^^ these too were originally posted on TBB.

intro | first post in this collection

⭑ linktree ⭑

#my art #newsies #fanart #newsies fanart #art #drawing #sketches #repost #old art #newsies broadway #newsies musical #musical fanart #livesies #broadway fanart #bill hearst #darcy reid #bill newsies #darcy newsies

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the-idle-woman · 2 months

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Black Wings at Midnight

Shyly sharing my first Hannibal fanfic: a reimagining of Seasons 1-3 set during World War II in Britain. It comes complete with vintage-style illustrations and links to suggested listening (ranging from Handel to 1940s' swing).

See below for the summary, and under the cut for an extract.

When former detective Will Graham is pulled away from his intelligence work at Bletchley Park in 1942, to consult on a hauntingly familiar crime scene, he feels alive for the first time in years. But when his life begins falling apart, he finds himself thrown into a complex dance of trust and suspicion with the man assigned to help him: an aristocratic Lithuanian flying ace and peacetime psychiatrist, whose intentions are anything but clear…

If you do decide to give it a read, I hope you enjoy it, and would love it if you took the time to leave a comment. Hearing people's expectations and thoughts as they read has been the most enjoyable part of sharing this online. Thank you all, and sending hugs from London.

From Black Wings at Midnight: Chapter 3

‘May I come in?’

The voice is deep, with a warm lilt of an Eastern European accent. Crawford’s eyes brighten and he rises from the desk with what Will considers unseemly haste.

‘Aha! Now here’s a familiar face. Come in, come in, old chap. Pull up a chair. This is Will Graham, who I mentioned on the phone. Brilliant mind. Brilliant.’

Will scowls at the praise and turns in his chair, prepared to be combative. He has no great love for the airmen of the RAF. They are nothing more than overgrown public schoolboys, with their chummy nicknames and their maverick flair. In their presence, Will feels his carapace stripped away, exposed as an awkward provincial with a clumsy accent, a different breed from these sauntering gods of the sky.

The newcomer does little to dispel his prejudices. The flattering RAF uniform makes most men look good, but this fellow seems to have stepped straight out of an advertisement. J.C. Leyendecker in the flesh, Will thinks bitterly, feeling short, and dark, and rustic.

Nothing about this man is rustic: dark blond hair parted with almost surgical precision; a broad chest and shoulders beneath the blazon of the RAF wings; trousers ironed to crisp perfection; tie perfectly centred. Everything about him screams money, from the scent of his cologne to the small gold signet ring just visible on his little finger.

After spending long hours digging into the minds of the Nazi commanders, Will can’t resist a snort. Good God, how they would love you!

Light brown eyes linger on Will for a moment, already looking amused.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Graham. I apologise for interrupting your colloquy, but Jack is an old friend. I was delighted to hear he was visiting us. May I?’ He gestures to the unused chair before the desk and Will raises a shoulder minutely, neither inviting nor repelling. He settles for glaring across at Jack. He doesn’t wish to spend any longer here than necessary, and he certainly doesn’t want to play third wheel to some back-slapping reunion.

‘Will,’ says Jack, ‘this is Flight Lieutenant Hannibal Lecter – or should I say Dr Lecter?’ The two men exchange a twinkle of camaraderie and Will stifles a desire to stab the table with his pencil. ‘We met before the war,’ Jack continues. ‘Dr Lecter has a private psychiatry practice on Harley Street, and helped us with a profile for the Bethnal Green Killer in ’38.’

Will remembers the case. It wasn’t long after he’d been signed off, still gathering together the shreds of himself in the nursing home. He allows himself a glance sideways.

‘Strange to swap the comforts of Harley Street for a wet field in Hampshire, Dr Lecter. Get tired of listening to rich old ladies?’

‘I “got” patriotic,’ Lecter says gently. ‘My country was invaded last year. Lithuania,’ he adds, for Will’s benefit. ‘I have not lived there for many years, but old affections still linger: a sense of duty, if you will. I learned to fly when I was younger’ – Of course you did, thinks Will bitterly – ‘so why not put my skills in the service of my adopted country?’

‘And he’s become quite the terror,’ Jack says cheerfully. ‘Give him a Spitfire and he’s absolutely fearless. They say Göring’s offered a bounty to anyone who brings him down.’ He dismisses Lecter’s gesture of modest denial and turns back to Will. ‘When I heard he was stationed here, I thought it’d be helpful to have his thoughts – and his support too, of course.’

‘Convenient,’ Will says under his breath, studying his fingers. He feels Lecter’s eyes lingering on him with something that’s uncomfortably close to satisfaction. For a moment he entertains himself, wondering whether he loathes fighter aces more or less than psychiatrists. It comes out as a balance. The airmen are more irritating, but he has bitter personal experience of his own with psychiatry.

‘Come now, Jack,’ Lecter says, ‘you are not being completely honest with Mr Graham.’ He leans a little closer, offering Will a lungful of his expensive cologne, and his voice drops, as though this is a secret to be shared between them. ‘Jack has asked me to have a few conversations with you before you start on this case. Just to help prepare your armour for the field of battle, as it were.’

Will’s eyes snap up to Jack Crawford, who has the grace to look embarrassed.

‘Will, I’ve read your files. It’s my job to make sure you’re fit for duty. I want to help you in any way I can.’

‘I don’t find it helpful to be covertly psychoanalysed!’

‘This is not psychoanalysis,’ Lecter says placidly into the awkward silence, ‘merely a common interest. You have nothing to fear, Mr Graham. Besides,’ he adds, straightening his cuffs, ‘I am not a psychoanalyst. Freud may have some interesting principles, and Jung has made many valuable insights into my field, but I do not ride under their banner. Biological psychiatry is very different from asking you to tell me your dreams.’ Dark eyes dart up and catch Will’s just as he makes the mistake of looking up. Something coils in the pit of his stomach. ‘Though I have no doubt your dreams must be a fascinating place.’ …

‘Just a conversation,’ Will hears himself say.

‘But of course.’ Lecter shrugs in a Gallic fashion. ‘And we can give dear Jack a good night’s sleep. Just a conversation or two among friends.’

‘Associates,’ Will snaps back. Lecter laughs as if he has said something delightful.

‘God forbid we should become friendly. Come with me to the mess, Mr Graham. Let’s get some tea.’

Will feels wrong-footed. He wants to prod; to offend; to get under Lecter’s skin and force him to feel even the faintest echo of Will’s crippling discomfort. He feels like a parcel passed from Jack to Lecter, a fragile curiosity to be wrapped in cotton wool and discussed in lowered voices. He feels lonely and patronised, and because, to his deep-seated disgust, he finds himself wanting Lecter to like him, Will lashes out.

‘I doubt we’ll be friends, Dr Lecter. I don’t find you that interesting.’

A hand falls on his shoulder. To Jack, frowning in his chair, it’ll look comradely, a way to show that no offence has been taken. To Will, the touch is unsettling: part warning, conveyed through the grip of fingers far stronger than he’d anticipated; and part protective caress. I don’t, Will repeats doggedly in his head, find you interesting.

‘Ah,’ Lecter says softly in his ear, ‘but you will.’

#hannibal #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannigram

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spacecapart · 1 year

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Took a break from work art to indulge the massive Torchwood nostalgia kick I'm on right now and draw myself a self-indulgent Jack in the Leyendecker-esque style I've used a few times before.

I love this guy dearly, great big irrepressible, unkillable queer space disaster that he is, truly one of the Characters of All Time, and it's a crime and a travesty that it's been nearly five years since I last drew him.

(Drawn with alcohol markers, coloured pencil and a little bit of coloured fineliner.)

#captain jack harkness #jack harkness #torchwood #doctor who #john barrowman #torchwood fanart #doctor who fanart #mine: fanart

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palmofafreezinghand · 6 months

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thanksgiving of 1921

Esme encourages Carlisle and Edward to celebrate Thanksgiving for the first time in their supernatural lives. on ao3 here.

November 1921.

Esme held the yarn hank in either one of her hands, the fiber stretched taut between her hands, as Carlisle sat in front of her, winding the yarn into a working ball. It was a scene Carlisle thought greatly resembled J.C. Leyendecker’s painting, Lovebirds.

Carlisle had been attempting to teach her to knit for a few weeks; he was not the first, and judging by how she took to the skill he was confident he would not be the last, to embark on this endeavor.

During that particular evening’s lesson, Esme had snapped three metal knitting needles and managed to knot a skein in such a knot it should be impossible. Rather than unknot the tangled yarn, and make them both miserable, Carlisle decided to start from scratch and unpackage a new hank. Perhaps, he was making the lesson too difficult, although he hardly thought casting on was a difficult step.

“Carlisle, I must admit I admire your determination, ” Edward laughed as he walked into the living room, flipping through a new book of sheet music.

Edward had given up teaching Esme how to play the piano — correction how to play the piano well — she had played throughout her childhood. Six missed notes, failure to keep proper tempo, and a few harsh words made Edward realize he would rather be Esme’s friend than have an enemy who was a skilled musician.

“Esme, I admire your self-restraint even more.”

Edward had been Carlisle’s student on multiple occasions and had wanted to kill him every single time. It was impossible to learn from someone who was perfection personified and had expectations higher than Heaven.

“He’s quite charming when he’s attempting to teach me,” Esme grinned. “He gets this concentrated look on his face…” she trailed off, although Edward could still hear her train of thought.

“Gross,” Edward muttered, nose wrinkling as he set the sheet music down on his piano.

“You find me charming?” Carlisle asked with a smirk, leaning forward in his chair.

“Not when you acknowledge it,” she said, leaning forward as well so their faces were a half foot apart. Eyes at the same plane engaged in one of their typical staring contests, thoughts disgusting in their mutual adoration.

“You two are insufferable,” Edward groaned.

“Shall I remind you, we were both happy to never confess our feelings for one another but you insisted on playing matchmaker,” Carlisle recited, it was his typical defense for whenever Edward ranted and raved about the relationship he arranged, which was often. “Furthermore, you walked into a room you knew we were both in.”

“I thought you two deserved to be happy. I did not realize it would come at my expense,” Edward countered.

Edward’s back was to the couple, only able to see them through the other’s eyes, but he immediately turned around when he saw Esme’s face fall, clouded by Carlisle’s nauseating mental commentary about her eyes and how deeply she felt her emotions.

She was looking at the ground, “Are you truly unhappy about… this?” She motioned to herself and Carlisle with her hand. She thought the word ‘relationship’ but was unable to muster the courage to verbally acknowledge it as such, doing so would leave room for Carlisle to deny they were in one which she was confident he would do. The thought would be comical if it were not sad.

“No, Esme,” Edward said sincerely. “I am perpetually a teenager and by nature must complain about something. You have prohibited me from complaining about this eternal damnation and have left me no choice but to complain about your love.”

Esme’s jaw dropped slightly, her eyes widening, and brows raising. “We have not used that word,” she whispered as if Carlisle could not hear them and was not currently looking at her with a similar look of shock.

“You have not?” Edward stammered. The two had certainly thought it thousands of times. Even a telepath would be able to see they loved each other, could they not recognize it?”

“We have not,” Carlisle said. ‘Who’s trust are you betraying, Edward?’ Carlisle mentally asked, knowing quite well he had spent the better part of that morning waxing poetically about his unconditional love for the woman sitting across from him.

‘You promised me you would not tell him,’ Esme thought.

Oh no. They could only expect so much from him, truly did they think he could keep every single thought they had hidden away forever? Although, asking for him to keep their largest secret seemed the bare minimum.

Edward’s anxious spiral was abruptly cut off by Esme’s infectious laughter, Carlisle’s boisterous laugh joining not long after.

“Oh, look at his face,” Esme said between laughs, squeezing Carlisle’s knee.

“That was quite fun,” Carlisle grinned, “he was so worried.”

“Are you two done?” Edward grumbled, turning back to his instrument.

“We apologize,” Carlisle said.

“I don’t, it was awfully humorous.”

Edward sighed, beginning to play scales he no longer needed but worked on simply out of tradition. “You two have used that word?” He asked quietly.

“Oh, he said it before I even kissed him.”

“And quite a few times after,” Carlisle said. Edward was unsure of the movement Carlisle made with this line but was unfortunately quite aware of the effect it had on Esme.

“I amend my previous statement, your happiness is my torture.”

“We love you,” Esme said in a sing-song voice.

“And each other,” Carlisle smiled.

“That’s enough.”

“Apologies,” Esme said, drawing her hands back to herself, something Edward knew only through Carlisle’s pathetic mourning of the touch. “How was school?”

“Fine enough. I will admit I am thankful I do not have to attend classes for the rest of the week.”

“Why not?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving,” Esme said to herself. “Is that this week?”

“Yes, three days from now,” Carlisle said gently, in the same voice he used when teaching her to purl and every time she forgot something.

“I never know what day it is anymore,” she laughed, but Edward could feel the pain behind the sentiment. ‘The year has gone by so quickly.’

“Today is Monday, the twenty-first of November,” Carlisle said.

“Thank you.”

The three returned to their tasks, Carlisle and Esme rewinding their yarn, Edward attempting to attack his newest sonata.

After ten minutes or so of comfortable silence Esme spoke. “I know you do not celebrate Christmas,” she said, repeating a lie Edward and Carlisle had crafted previously that month. It was an effort to not pressure her into celebrating before she was ready since the holiday was mere days before the first anniversary of the worst day of her life. “Do you celebrate any other holidays? Birthdays, Easter, Thanksgiving, anything?”

“Thanksgiving?” Edward scoffed. “The day of feasting on foods we can never eat.”

“It is a day for gratitude and spending time with loved ones,” Esme corrected him, hazy flashes of large family dinners in her mind. “As well as eating an absurd amount of apple pie, but I can not do that anymore so focus on the first sentiment please.”

“You wish to express your gratitude this year of all years?” Edward asked dismissively. Her eternal optimism was cloying at best.

‘Edward,’ Carlisle mentally scolded. It had been a careful balance — one neither man was confident they were on the right side of — managing a harsh tone and the rich devastating history that had been suddenly introduced into their lives.

“I see no reason not to be thankful. I am alive are I not?”

“That is up for debate,” Edward said, glancing back at her with a smile, assuring her his tone was one of familiarity, not anger or disdain.

She rolled her eyes in response, turning her attention to Carlisle. “I do not know how you managed living with someone so depressing all these years.”

“Do not discredit his influence on my worldview, Esme. His thoughts put my anxiety to shame.”

“There, you have something to be thankful for,” Esme laughed. Her mind was still focused on vague memories of moments spent with her family, helping an older woman, possibly her grandmother, in the kitchen, and playing games in the yard with her brother and cousins.

“You can not truly wish to celebrate Thanksgiving,” Edward blew air out of his nose. “What would you suggest we do to commemorate the holiday, Esme? Feast on deer laid out on our finest china, drink a squirrel out of crystal flutes?”

“Perhaps it was a foolish idea,” Esme muttered.

“I did not think so,” Carlisle said, speaking for the first time in minutes. Edward was unable to discern by Carlisle’s thoughts if he was saying this to appease Esme or if he was truly unable to recognize any of her ideas as foolish. “I am working on Thursday evening but I do not have to work on Tuesday and Wednesday. Perhaps we could travel up North to hunt? It may not be an apple pie but it could be a nice change of pace.”

“Truly?” Esme asked as if Carlisle had offered such a plan simply to tease her.

“If you would like, I think it might be an enjoyable trip.”

“Oh, that would be lovely!” She leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, one hand coming up to caress his jaw.

Carlisle mentally thanked God he was unable to blush. “Truthfully I have never celebrated the holiday before, but I have been fascinated by its evolution over the years. I think it could be a fascinating endeavor, even if our celebrations must be slightly untraditional.”

“Your first Thanksgiving!” Esme smiled, clasping her hands together.

“This is an absolutely foolish plan,” Edward groused.

“Edward, please say you will accompany us,” Esme pleaded, taking a seat on the edge of his piano bench, her back to the piano.

Edward paused for a moment as if there was ever a possibility he would not attend the trip. “Not without complaint,” he finally said.

“But you will?”

“I will,” he muttered, transitioning to a piece he knew Esme found ‘far too angry.’

Less than twenty-four hours after the group of three had hatched their plan they were gathered in the foyer, preparing to traipse out into the wilderness to celebrate a vampiric Thanksgiving.

“Are the coordinating outfits necessary?” Edward grumbled as Esme stood on her tiptoes to slip a rust-colored beanie on his head.

In the hours that had passed since Carlisle, and a reluctant Edward, agreed to go on a holiday hunt, Esme and Carlisle had made a breakthrough in their knitting lessons. Overnight, Esme was able to create a simple rectangle, albeit a quite lopsided triangle. She had utilized these rudimentary knitted shapes to make a hat for Edward, a scarf uneven in width for Carlisle, and herself a pair of mittens with no thumbs.

“It’s a tradition,” she beamed, pulling at the hat so it lay well. He could see the memories of Thanksgiving of her childhood, a time for hastily finishing winter preparations. Each year her mother would comb through the family’s winter wardrobe and find a way to replace what was missing or outgrown, either by crafting or clever sourcing.

“Do you have any other traditions you are going to force us to indulge in?”

“I object to the word force,” she said pointedly.

‘Edward, please be nice. For some reason this appears to be important to her,’ Carlisle thought from his bedroom, where he was changing into a sweater that better matched the scarf Esme had given him.

“I will admit I am interested in tasting turkey,” Edward admitted, attempting to be nice about the silly plan.

“Poultry is an acquired taste,” Carlisle said, fetching both his and Esme’s unnecessary coats from the closet. He slipped her coat over her arms and onto her shoulders. She shot him an appreciative smile, tying her belt.

“Have you ever had beef?” Esme asked as Carlisle opened the front door, holding it open for them.

“Once, I was quite desperate. I do not recommend it.”

Esme laughed, stopping mid-step as she passed Edward, finally noticing what was tucked under his elbow. “What is that?”

“A football,” Edward admitted quietly. “My cousins and I would play every year before dinner. I thought… perhaps the three of us might want to throw one around.” He kicked a piece of dust with the toe of his boot.

“Oh you sap,” Esme laughed. “This is an absolutely foolish plan,” she mocked in a voice that did not sound like him at all, no matter what Carlisle thought.

Edward tossed the ball at her, attempting to quiet her teasing, but she caught it at the last second, tossing it back to Edward as she bounded down the front porch steps. Perhaps this would not be so torturous.

#esme cullen #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #my stories

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