#it’s still such a soap opera that I remember form my youth

[blinkbones]

Nana, Émile Zola

Finally getting some French lit in. To be completely honest, I've had this book for almost a decade, and I never read it. Well, actually, apparently I tried at some point, because I found some underlined bits very early on -- but it's clear that I gave up. I remember struggling with it back then. I didn't, this time. It's nice to see proof of my improvement, although I'm not sure what specific skill is concerned.

For a quick & anachronistic summary, it's the story of a 19th century escort girl who makes it big in paris.

I was actually surprised by how easy to read this was. I kind of expected very difficult language. It is poetic, but not actually difficult. The text is easy to follow, almost journalistic. Poetic journalism.

I really, really enjoyed Nana. It's a long ride, and what a ride. It reads, at times, like a soap opera, with how she has a roster of desperate men orbiting around her. She really is the sun of her novel -- and it is her novel. I entered this book ignorantly (despite being French and a ~lit student, I'm not actually well-versed in my country's literature) and it kept surprising me. Where I expected a moralizing tale, or at least a pessimistic outlook on the arrogant seductress, I got the unstoppable, inescapable success of Nana. It's almost a power fantasy, although I doubt Zola saw it through this angle. I mean, it does end badly. Spoilers, but she fully dies in a disfiguring manner. And there is this underlying theme of Nana, the beautiful Venus from the lower classes, bringing the rot of the sewers to the silk sheets of the aristocracy. She all but ruins the entire upper class with the raw power of her sex-appeal, and I thought that there was something cosmic about it. By the time she's at her apex, she herself does not have control of her situation. She becomes like an empire, constantly conquering further reaches to maintain peace and prosperity throughout her imperial reign. She devours. And yet she's so incredibly human. She felt to me like a deity unaware of its power, and, in that sense, her death (especially because it's in the full bloom of her youth and legendary status) felt more like a shedding of the mortal form. Admittedly, I also just find it more fun to interpret it that way. I'm reading for fun, after all. Ah, the specter of academic seriousness hangs over me.

I think Nana is an easy entry point into that sort of literature. Yes, it's part of some long-ass series, but no, you don't need to read the previous books (I didn't). It's very self-contained. It's a long, very eventful ride, through Nana's chaotic and glamorous world. It's long but it feels like going downhill on a bike, and like everything's going too fast still. And it's fucking funny.

And for you, tumblr, my beloved, yes, you will find some messy queers in there. I only talked about Nana herself here, but Nana holds a whole ensemble cast of secondary characters, many interesting women (a wealth of them, really), that are really a whole other serving of delights that I just didn't have time to talk about here. But seriously, just about every character, especially the women, is interesting.

#i added white borders to make the bad quality more bearable but i think it somehow looks ever blurrier. blaming the tumblr post editor #nana #emile zola #émile zola #french literature #french lit #littérature #litblr #readblr #bookblr #les rougon-macquart #rougon-macquart #bones reads #chatterbones #my faves were satin (toxic) zoé (girlboss) labordette (ma fouine préférée) and actually the count (pathetic little sinner) #the last scene with all the women and their strange conversation is something i'm still pondering #in a good way #for context i think i finished it just a bit under two weeks ago #but still thinking about nana and about so many of the characters #it took me so long to mull it over enough to write this review that i had the time to finish two short reads in the meantime loollll #anyway. if it sounds intriguing to you you should read it #19th century literature

[midnighttheroies]

Helluva Boss Theory “Stolas Character Development In Season 2″

stolas is probably my favourite character in the show so far, and my love grew for him more and more as the show progressed, especially after season 2 episode 1, and i wanted to share my thoughts on how his character will progress

what is stolas personality like?, who is he as a person?

stolas is very different from all the royalty’s that we’ve seen in hell so far, he’s not insisted on royalty interests, such as rich parties, social events, and  even tends to disassociate himself with other royals, he lives a more normal common lifestyle, he’s not into super rich stuff, and is fine with processed cereal and coffee, he wears a robe around the house, he watches soap opera’s and has no issues with associating himself with people who are imps, unlike stella, who wears a big gown everyday, and does all the things that rich people do, fancy tea parties, ect...

stolas is also more calm, composed, level-headed and timid kind of man, he will fight if he has to, but prefers a more peaceful option, even in his full demonic form, he still keeps a level-head and remains controlled, i also see him as a huge introvert and very socially awkward, due to him being a very lonely child in his youth

(i like to think he was gothic and angst like octavia was when he was her age due to how shitty his up-brining was, and this idea was heavily inspired by this amazing artist on twitter, their name is TeaTheKook)

back to my main point, due to how much of a pacifist he is though, he does tend to get walked over and doesn’t really stand up for himself at all, even though he’s very powerful, he doesn’t fight back against stella due to wanting to give octavia a better life, and due to how shitty his childhood was, and how awful his dad was, i do think a part of him thought the abuse from stella was normal for so long, and it wasn’t until he had octavia that he realized it wasn’t, but as unable to fight back and do anything at the time, and he may not be as respected with the other royals because they see stolas as weak and tend to underestimate him

in terms of his royal life, he doesn’t really associate himself with the royals at all, all of them seem to care about reputation, and they tend to only be nice for the sake of benefiting themselves, in other words, their fake as fuck, stolas isn’t like that, he’s not fake at all, polite yes, but he won’t associate with someone unless he actually has too, he doesn’t really care about his reputation and he doesn’t even like the royal parties, he just goes to get drunk in his own little corner, he doesn’t socialize with anyone, and keeps to himself, aside from his daughter, he doesn’t fit in with the other royals, and he’s honestly okay with that

how will he develop in season 2?

in season 1 ep 2, we see stella yelling at stolas, while he reminds calm and trying to defuse the situation as best as he can, then in the season final in ep 7, we see that they get into another argument, in which for the first time in years, stolas finally fights back, demands a divorce and demands her to leave, and then when stella moves in to strike him with her hand, he catches it, and you can see in the next frame that she is shocked by this, and this tells up two things, 1, this was not the first time stella has physically violent with stolas, and 2, this was the first time stolas has fought back and defended himself, and notice during the stare-down, stella backs away and says “fine”, and doesn’t fight it anymore, because deep down she knows that stolas is powerful and he could easily win if he wanted to

now finally in season 2 ep 2, we see stolas finally arguing and fighting back with stella, and even calling her a bitch and mocking her

(which was fucking hilarious and very well desvered), 

and he’s even doing this with blitz, when he called him out on not even remembering moxxie’s number when he gave him shit for not memorizing all his spells 

(which again, was fucking funny as hell)

this is probably the first time in his life stolas as ever stood up for himself ever, in his life he was taught to be obedient and that what he thinks or feels isn’t as important as his royal duties and reputation, it’s very stubble but noticeable, 

i think in season 2, stolas will very slowly start to have a more “i don’t give a fuck” attitude and slowly learn to stand up for himself, which is invedtaly help with his relationship with blitz in the long-run

(i’ll further discuss this in my next post)

but i also think this is where were gonna see how stolas is gonna adjust being free after being in an abusive relationship for so long, the trauma he experienced while being forced into marriage with her was awful and traumatizing, and when you leave an abusive relationship, things don’t turn magically normal, the trauma is still their, and stolas has to learn how to heal from it, i think he’s gonna go through a shit load of angst and emotions once he begins to heal, and considering he has no support system, it will be even more challenging to overcome, (blitz and him are in a very awkward position, and octavia is his daughter so obviously he doesn’t want to put that onto her, and he basically has no friends, so he’s really mostly on his own) 

#helluvabosstheories #helluvaboss #helluva boss season 2 #stolas #helluvabossstolas #stolas goetia #helluva boss

[gingeraleluke]

𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: tom holland x fem!reader

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: your boyfriend got home just in time to watch his most recent interview on tv with you.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: swearing, nothing just fluff! :)

𝗔/𝗡: this is my first time writing for tom so i hope you guys like it!! <3

this is based on the spider-man: far from home interview with jimmy kimmel!

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

the young girls heart was silent for the first nineteen years of her life. nothing but a faint heartbeat and some clouded thoughts of little to nothing inconsistencies. from the moment she first opened her eyes as a baby, separating her fingers and spreading her toes while her newly polished eyes tried making sense of her surroundings, to the ripe summer when her mother insisted she become a camp counselor to succumb enough money to buy her very own long-overdue car. the girl felt nothing.

the teens she longed to be alike were a mere hourglass, y/n a shadow. portraying their success and growth without mirroring any of her own, she felt like a weak duckling surrounded by marvelous swans. she would spend her youth watching blondes fall for brunettes on television, plopping popcorn into her mouth while pressing rewind on her favorite romantics, watching the way they would look at eachother and move with one another. she never thought she could be able to experience that. everything inside her was too quiet, too plain.

and then she met tom. it became loud, too loud, and she loved it. everything she thought she could never achieve, she achieved with him. her colorless days no longer existed and she fell deeper and deeper in love with him everyday.

switching the tv from some medical soap opera, y/n sat on her couch. she wore nothing but a plain bra and a pair of baby blue satin shorts. normally, she’d cover up more, especially if she had company over, but tom was a different kind of company and a comfortable one at that.

“THOMAS HURRY UP!” she could hear her boyfriend yell a faint, “i’m coming,” through the noise of the water running. shortly after, the shower stopped as y/n scrolled mindlessly through her phone, impatient.

she expected to see her boyfriend walk out of the bathroom, a trail of steam behind him, but instead she heard the loud roar of a hairdryer.

“for fucks sake-“ her mouth was lacking the salty and buttery flavor she craved so she took the opportunity to use her time by putting some popcorn in the microwave while her boyfriend blowed out his hair.

as she watched the minutes on the timer go down, the machine dinged as she grabbed a bowl and poured the snack inside it. she made her way back to the bench sofa and extended her legs out on the grey island cushions. the lace on the trim of her shorts tickled her feet as she folded her legs. “TOM HURRY THE FUCK UP, ITS ALMOST STARTING!”

the girls mouth was full as she yelled, losing patience with the boy. “IM SORRY, IM COMING!”

minutes later, a shirtless tom holland, wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, appeared in their shared living room. the girls eyes grew big, his doing the same as he took in her taboo and exposed form.

“what- tom! you haven’t even gotten dressed yet?!”

“well, neither have you, apparently! plus, this is pretty comfortable, is it not?”

“tom-“ she warned.

“i got it, i got it..” his bare feet slapped against the hardwood floors as he quickly ran into their bedroom and retrieved his clothes. he came back out wearing a black t shirt and a pair of light blue sweatpants.

“KIMMEL IS STARTING!” she pointed at the tv and looked over to see tom bounce down onto the couch next to her, sprawling his legs out like she had done earlier.

“baby, that’s just the intro, i’m not there yet.” she peered over at him.

“who said i’m watching this for you?” he turned his head and made a sarcastic face.

“yeah, sure..” he mocked.

“WAIT, i need my blanket! go, get it, i don’t want to miss this!”

“y/n, it hasn’t even started yet-“

“now tom!”

“but what if i miss it!”

“you were there, you already know what happens-“ you lightly shoved his clothed knee and he sprung to his feet, so fast that tessa jolted up and ran after him.

“tessa! calm down!” the dog didn’t listen and continued following her dad, panting the whole way back.

once they were settled, jimmy announced his upcoming guests before a quick commercial break.

“quick, my ass..” she muttered.

tom stifled a chuckle. “why are you so bent up about this? you’ve seen my interviews before!”

“yeah, but i’ve never been able to actually watch one with you! it’s like… an entirely different experience!”

he didn’t believe her. “are you sure that’s the real reason? or is it because you just want me to give you secret info on the film, because love, you know i can’t do that, not after last time.”

she placed a hand on her chest playfully, “tom! i would never, how could you think of me like that?! as if i would ever do such a thing!”

“mmhmm..”

the commercials came to an end and y/n looked up to see jimmy start announcing the cast.

“shit, oh my god, it’s happening.”

“shhh, calm down!” tom laughed, placing a hand on your shoulder, his other arm sprawled out behind the frame of the sofa.

“how can i keep calm!? my fucking BOYFRIEND is about to be on tv! you know how many people can say that they are dating spider-man? like, no one!” her knee was bouncing and she couldn’t contain the excitement. watching someone on television while sitting in the same room with them was a rush she had never felt before.

she was loud as hell inside.

“please welcome, tom hol-“

“WHOOOOO, YEAH!!” she started clapping dramatically and stood up for a quick second, her eyes glued to the tv as she watched her boyfriend appear, while her actual boyfriend sat there laughing at her excitement.

they did a stupid elevator bit, before him and everyone else walked up to their chairs.

“really, tom?” his dark eyes flickered to hers. “what?! i thought you would like it, it’s funny!” she rolled her eyes and smiled, thinking to herself: my boyfriend is a dork, even on national television.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“oh my god, you all look so good.”

“i know, right?”

“look at jake!”

“yeah-“

“look at zendaya!”

“i know-“

“OH MY GOD LOOK A-“

“OKAY Y/N, i get it, everyone but me is attractive, thanks. you’ve made it pretty clear.” he frowned as you gushed over how good his coworkers looked.

“yes, tom! i think you look awful, that’s why i’ve been dating you for the past four years, because i think you are ugly.”

he looked at his girlfriend, uncertainty in his eyes.

“oh, come on, i’m joking! you’re beautiful, come here.” she grabbed the side of his head and pulled him over so his head was laying on her chest. she began to play with his hair while watching.

“so the trailer came out, the trailer got like 135 million views within the first hour-“

“yeah it did!” she exclaimed, her fingers busy in his hair.

“see, i didn’t know that then.” he muttered, his brows furrowing together as tessa looked up at him from y/n’s lap.

“well it’s no secret, i’m not very good at instagram.”

y/n bursted out laughing. it wasn’t even that funny, but all of her emotions where heightened in this moment.

“oh god, i know where this is going.. this is the zendaya story isn’t it?” you smirk down at him and he lifts his head to nod at you.

“i knew it..”

“i basically.. forgot to post the trailer.”

“that’s bad.”

“yes jimmy, yes it is.” she couldn’t contain the snickers leaving her mouth and tom protested against it.

“listen, it’s difficult for some people, okay!”

“mmhmm, whatever you say baby.” she remembers distinctly, waking up and asking her boyfriend why he never posted the trailer, which caused him to wind up into a frenzy and immediately contact zendaya for assistance.

“well, you wouldn’t tell me how to!”

“tom, you’re a grown man! you should be able to figure that out yourself, peter parker.” she leaned over and kissed his cheek, his arm wrapped around her.

“so you’re IT for the team?”

“yeah, y/n, making poor zendaya the it for the team-“

“oh, shush, it was funny as fuck. but not as funny as the time you spoi-“

he placed his finger on her lips to quiet her, “oh, stop it!” she giggled in response.

she watched as zendaya recalled the moment she had to screen record how to delete an instagram story for him, which was another thing y/n refused to help him with. sure, she loves him and all, but watching the panic on his face as he realizes that he messed up, always cracked her up. especially since he brags about how ‘tech savvy’ he is for his age.

“it’s not my fault you’re a grampa!”

“yeah, we’ll, you’re dating a grampa!”

“true, i am.”

her hands reached towards her blanket as she put her popcorn bowl down and laid the covering over her and her boyfriend. the grey weighted blanket matching the couch perfectly.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“okay, wait…why are you guys still in highschool?!” y/n had paused the program to engage in a very serious and heated discussion about the aftermath of endgame which led up to the beginning of his new movie, far from home, which had yet to come out.

“i mean.. it’s five years! i’m so confused.” tom sighed, placing his hands on his knees, he sat up straight. “like i said in the interview, y/n, i don’t know.”

“well… ask the russo brothers! i mean, jacob is right, that’s a huge plothole!”

toms eyes sparkled as he looked at his lover trying to make sense of the whole thing.

“i… i don’t even know what to say right now. my whole life is a lie!”

“okay, let’s not get too dramatic here-“

“NO, tom! as an avengers fanatic, i need to know!” she gripped the hem of his shirt and tugged, his body jolting forwards.

“tell me!” she shook him as he laughed and tessa barked.

“i don’t know, baby!” she frowned slightly and looked at her boyfriends amused face.

“i’m dating spider-man, you’d think i’d get the inside scoop.” she rolled her eyes and placed her legs back up on the cushions. tom leaned over and looked her up and down, flickering from her bare chest and her eyes. he leaned into her neck and started planting kisses. “i’m sorry, i will be sure to ask someone at marvel for you.” she smiled sweetly before thanking him.

“has everyone seen avengers: endgame?”

the girl rose to her feet, the blanket stuck to her bare legs. “yes, jimmy, i have! i saw my boyfriend get dusted right before my fucking eyes!”

tom remembered the first time he watched the film with her. it was hard for him to keep it under wraps and while he did end up telling her some spoilers, he kept out the whole ‘death by thanos’ part.

“okay, calm down little one.” he reached his arm out to pull her down, back to the couch.

“tom, baby, i know you like.. could get in trouble for it but-“

“y/n… not this conversation again.” he put his hand up to his forehead, two fingers on the bridge of his nose. she knew that if she prodded and poked in all the right spots, that her boyfriend would give in. that it just took a little push for him to confess all the dirty details of his new blockbuster.

“come on! i am begging, tom- i have so many questions, can you blame me? i mean… mysterio, like.. what’s that guy all about?! he’s a villian right?”

“well…”

“a hero?”

“definitely not.”

“antihero?”

“not exactly-“

“UGH, tom! you are killing me here.” she whined, putting her hands on his chest as the paused tv shined upon his features. “please give me something… anything.” she trailed her fingers down his chest, tauntingly.

“anything?” he smirked at her.

“yup. like… maybe just exactly what jakes character is? i mean, i remember him telling us at dinner that time, but that was barely enough, i mean.. there’s gotta be more right?”

“go on.”

“and mj, i mean.. is peter finally going to ask her out? baby, so many questions, i just have so many.”

“well… i guess i could tell you one thing..” he tempted her. her lips twitched upwards as she pressed her forehead against his.

“mmhmm?”

“i could tell you that… the ending of the movie?”

“yeah..”

“is fucking fantastic. really, it’s brilliant babes.”

“because?”

“you will just have to see-“ he was cut off by his girlfriend hitting him in the face with a pillow.

“FOR FUCKS SAKE TOM-“

“quiet down! you are going to get tessa all going..”

“sorry…”

a moment of silence passed as tom squealed, “for fucks sake tom!” in his best high pitched, y/n impression possible.

“shut up!”

the two laughed before she clicked play.

“you look so good here, tom. it’s so weird like- i’m sitting next to you-“ she pointed at tom, “but, there you are on tv!”

“you are just realizing this?”

“well, it’s like inception!”

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“i was told, it was a wedding!”

her chest boiled with anger as she quickly hit pause. “NO BECAUSE, fuck you for that! i remember being all excited, thinking tony and pepper were gonna have a beautiful wedding, only to see hes fucking DEAD.”

tom couldn’t hold in his laughs. “i’m sorry, i didn’t know!”

“well it’s pretty obvious, tom! everyone’s sad and in black, baby, you really are an airhead.”

“hey-“ she cut him off with a kiss to his lips.

the two cuddled up while watching the interview, small laughs leaving their bodies.

“like, zendaya! when did you find out how endgame ended?”

“oh, i remember. me, jacob, and zendaya were all in a facetime call freaking the fuck out, while my boyfriend over here, was chilling like nothing was wrong.”

“you guys were in a facetime call?” he questioned.

“yes! i was heartbroken and i had gotten a call from z who was clearly also upset!”

“well, he’s fine clearly! i mean, i wouldn’t be in far from home if peter was dead, right?”

she looked up at him, his heartbeat still lingering on her skin. “so you can tell me that you are still alive, but you can’t tell me about jake gyllenhaals character?”

“well, it’s a given! obviously peter is alive!”

y/n groaned, her head now resting on his chest.

“dating a superhero is difficult.”

“aww, poor darling, i’m sure it is.” he peppered kisses along her forehead.

“hey! you ate all of the popcorn?!” tom was flabbergasted, his voice heightening a few octaves.

“yep, and what about it?” her tone dripping in sass.

“i wanted some, for one!”

“too bad, maybe if you would spill the deets on far from home, you’d get some of my popcorn. hell, tom, if you confess right now, i’ll make you a whole bowl!”

“no.”

“well it was worth a try!”

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“i can’t believe it’s over.” the house was completely silent, the only thing audible being tessa’s light snores.

“i’m gonna miss that guy..”

“baby, i’m right here.” he placed his hand at the small of her back, looking at her lovingly.

“i’m talking about mysterio.”

“oh, yeah, great!” she giggled at his response. “he’s just so hot, tom! way hotter than peter-“

“yeah, maybe if you think manipulation is hot!”

her mouth fell agape at his words.

“what?” he said, oblivious to the screw up he just made. she smiled widely at him as he slowly was hit with realization.

“oh, fucking damn it!”

#tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland fluff

[shirtlesssammy]

4x12: Criss Angel Is a Douchebag

Then:

I always trusted her.

Now:

Let me start by exclaiming Barry Bostwick is in an episode of Supernatural! I often forget because I don’t rewatch this episode that much. I don’t know why. It also has the PI from House and a cool Prestige vibe to it. 

Anyway, Barry Bostwick Jay is trying to impress a young bartender with a neat card trick, but messes up the shuffle. Another magician mocks him from across the bar. A companion admonishes his rudeness. The man is clearly drunk and comes over to ruin the trick.

The bartender tells the guy to “leave the old guy alone.” Oof, Barry Bostwick will never be old. (I weep thinking how old this episode is now!) 

Later, Jay and two companions, Charlie and Vernon, mock a Criss Angel-like illusionist practice his stage performance. (I recognize one of his companions because I watched Fletch in my youth more times than a child should). Jay tells them that this “douchebag” isn’t the joke, they are. They’re washed up old men, and their magic days are behind them. He announces that he’s going to do the Table of Death that night. It’s crazy talk! 

Cut to Jay on stage about to perform the Table of Death. He gets locked into the table and glaces at the spikes above him. AlL iS GoOd! Charlie pulls the curtain and walks off stage to share grim looks with Vernon. 

Drunk Magician leaves the bar, with the warning by his companion that his show is in an hour. A man in a cape need not worry about time! 

The Table of Death is looking more death-y as the seconds tick. Jay struggles to escape his confines. The fuse burns down to the rope. The music escalates. The spikes drop. And Drunk Magician grasps his chest. The curtain is pulled back to reveal a fully intact Jay. He did it! Hurrah! Drunk Magician though? He’s dead on the street, puncture wounds dotting his white tuxedo shirt. No, Barry Bostwick! 

Criss Angel-lite is performing a “demonstration” on the street to onlookers. This is not a trick. It’s a “demonstration about angels and demons.. love and lust..” And that’s it. That’s the story of Supernatural. They’re not trying to trick us guys. Anyway, Dean and Sam approach in their FBI garb. Dean is skeptical but Sam, the nerd’s nerd that he is, knows how the guy is. He’s Jeb Dexter, kinda famous for “douchebaggery”. He does his little trick and the crowd is impressed. 

Dean remembers that Sam went through a faze of liking magic when he was 13. Dean doesn’t understand the appeal of playing the act when there’s actually magic and demons out there. And I ACHE For HIM. AND Sam. Like, Sam was able to indulge in the playing of the supernatural and mystical because of how Dean raised him. Dean didn’t get the chance to play at anything. Bby Dean, you escape into your soap operas and horror movies where the good guy always wins! Take a break. 

They’re in town to investigate Drunk Magician’s Vance’s death. His assistant makes it clear that he wasn’t well liked in the community. Dean asks about weird stuff with him and she shows them the Ten of Swords tarot card. 

Charlie and Jay talk in Jay’s hotel room. Charlie wants to know how Jay pulled off the Table of Death. 

Jay is super pumped about his new super magician powers! He can do amazing card tricks! He’s ready to try the Executioner! That sounds...wise. He’s better than Houdini! Charlie doesn’t want him to do it. He won’t watch Jay die. 

Later, at the venue, Dean interviews Vernon about Vance. Jeb really is a douchebag. He’s interviewing Jim Jay, “a wicked cat that came before [him]”. Vernon used to use the tarot deck in his act, but that’s been years ago now. Dean wonders if he knows anyone that uses the deck now. They send Dean away with a vague “guy down on Bleecker Street” lead. Dean, how can you not see through them!? Anyway, they send him to a place where he’s supposed to ask for “Chief”. 

Dean goes to see “Chief” and is led to a very dark and dreary basement. And he gets to meet “Chief”. 

Ruby show sup at Sam’s door telling him that he’s got to get back into fighting form. The seals are breaking. She tells him he needs to go after Lilith if he wants to stop all this. (Sure, Jan.) If Lucifer rises, “oceans of people” are going to die. Sam needs to start drinking that demon blood again! 

Dean and Sam meet up at the magician show. We overhear Vernon and Charlie discuss talking Jay out of doing his latest trick. Dean calls them out of sending him to the “Chief”. They call him out on being a fake fed. Touche. They cover by saying they’re actually doing research beause they’re aspiring magicians themselves. 

Jay’s act starts. 

Jay gets trussed up in a straight jacket and noose. (Jeb preens in front of his mirror.) He has 60 seconds to escape. The curtain is drawn. His shadow struggles. (Jeb continues to preen. A noose uncoils and snakes it’s way around his ceiling fan.) The time runs out. Jay seemingly falls to his death. (Jeb meets Mr. Rope and dies instead.) Jay’s FINE! Dean is SO impressed (Like, bby is ACTUALLY impressed, sweet child.) Sam has doubts. (Jeb is dead dead dead.)

Back at their motel, Sam and Dean pore over the lore - or at least over Jay’s bio. Once a “big deal” magician, Jay’s slid into obscurity. They’re speculating that the culprit is a death transference spell. “I hope I die before I get old,” Dean says, and I hiss like a cat who has just been dunked in a lake. Sam yearns to live long enough to marry a blurry woman. Dean wants to go out well before the dreaded old age of sixty. “It ends bloody or sad, that’s just the life,” Dean tells him.

I wonder how Dean managed to crystal ball his way into their future with such cutting accuracy. Sam wonders if they go after the head evil honcho, if maybe they can carve out a happy ending for themselves.

At Jeb’s hotel, Dean flashes the latest tarot card to Sam. He speculates that the cards are a way to pinpoint the death transference spell to a particular victim.

Jay returns to his motel room, tailed by The Amazing Winchesters. They confront him with guns drawn and demand that he confess to the magical murders. Jay scoffs. There’s no such thing as magic, dummies! Hitting a wall with their shock confession tactic, they decide to tie Jay up to buy themselves some time. Alas, Jay the magician slips his bonds and escapes. Cops confront the Winchesters in the lobby.

Later, Charlie berates Jay for his reckless stunts in the green room. Jay’s spooked by the Winchesters’ allegations. He reveals that he had intended to kill himself with the table of death trick. Charlie bolsters Jay’s ego, telling him that he’s an incredible magician and that he’s got to TAKE CHANCES and DO THE TRICK. On stage, Jay struggles against his bonds, but once again avoids certain death. Unfortunately, there’s a shriek backstage. Charlie lies dead, punctured on the floor.

Jay springs the Winchesters from jail and meets them at a bar. They theorize that Vernon is running the mojo behind the scenes. While Vernon heads to the stage to meet with Jay, Sam and Dean investigate Vernon’s room.

Jay’s in full accusation mode with Vernon when a young...Charlie appears!

He shed his skin like a snek! Charlie reveals that he’s been alive for a long time. He found a spell for immortality in a spellbook, as one does. Charlie tries to convince them to join the immortal magicians club when the Winchesters burst in.

Charlie tosses a magical rope around Dean’s neck, leaving Sam to menace Charlie with his handgun. Quickly, Charlie gets the upper hand and straps Sam Fucking Winchester under the spikes o’ doom. It’s looking bad for our heroes, when Charlie suddenly gets invisibly stabbed.

Jay stands stoic, with a knife buried in his gut. He took Charlie down by picking the magic tarot deck from his pocket and planting a card on him. As Charlie dies, the Winchesters are released.

Back in the bar later, Jay sadly shuffles cards. He’s lost his magic-boosted skillz. Dean thanks him for killing Charlie. Urf. “Charlie was like my brother. Now he’s dead because I did the right thing,” Jay spits (thematically) before toddling off sadly to head back home.

The Winchesters avoid discussing their feelings. Sam takes a walk and finds Ruby outside. “I’m in,” he tells her. He doesn’t want to still be fighting when he’s an old man.

Abracaquotes:

What’s the price tag on immortality? 

You ain't been had ‘til you been had by the Chief

The whole world's about to be engulfed in hellfire, and you're in Magictown, USA

 Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #spn 4x12 #criss angel is a douchebag #supernatural season 4

[cunyappliedtheatreblog]

Countdown Profile Week 5: Joseph Webb (’20)

Photo: Daniel Nathan

So, Joseph, what are you up to these days?

This past May, I presented excerpts of a project that I've been working on with my partner, Barédu Ahmed, called Messages from Umi at Harlem Stage in New York. We just received some support to further develop the work and we're set to have a share in June of 2020 at Harlem Stage again.

What is the project?

Messages from Umi is a multi-discipline performing arts piece. It incorporates [music] by Barédu Ahmed along with different styles of dance. You have tap dance, you have house dance, you have contemporary dance. I'm the choreographer along with some improvisational movement elements that come forth from the other dancers. Also along with poetry in the art form of emceeing. In this context, Umi is mother hip hop, Umi being the Arabic word meaning mother. The musicians, and the dancers, we are...we receive messages and downloads from mother hip hop that we share with our audience, through movement, sound, text.

That sounds beautiful.

I'm excited about it. I really am. You know, I have a notebook of ideas, you know, that I know that I just write down was something hits me. And a lot of times you don't get a chance to actually work on all of these ideas. So I'm excited about it. But it's also nerve-wracking. I always put, and I'm getting better at this, I put a lot of pressure on myself, because I want to make sure that I get as close as I can to the vision that I first received. So it's a rainbow of emotions, but at the end of the day, it's is a beautiful experience.

“Download” something, “what you received.” You see yourself as a channel for something bigger.

Definitely. As human beings, I think we all have this part of ourselves that is greater than who we see ourselves to be. And I feel like that's where this information is coming from.

I want people to know what you've been up to. You've got a name as a tap dancer. You've been covered in major media outlets, including The New York Times. You've been doing it for a long time. Could you give an overview of what you've done as an artist?

Well, I've done some I've done some theatre. I've been on Broadway before [including Bring in ‘da Noise, Bring in ‘da Funk and Jelly’s Last Jam -MW]. I've done some national tours as well as some international stages, in Germany, in Canada and Spain as well theaters across the country, including the Kennedy Center and some other spots. And I've also done some TV work in the past. Commercials. A lot of people don't know, but I had a role on the soap opera Guiding Light.

Yeah?

I played the role of Steam, you know, on Guiding Light for a little while [sure enough, there’s no record of that on the internet. Joseph has also appeared on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, The Oprah Winfrey Show, and Live with Regis and Kathy Lee. -MW]. I also was a lecturer at Medgar Evers College for eight years. I really enjoy teaching and I also enjoy performing. I feel like that's like part of a balance for me as an educator and a creative. I feel like this because as a teacher I just learn so much.

Why did you come back to complete the MA in Applied Theatre?

I really like the program and what the program stands for, and the people that come through the program. And I always wanted to finish [Joseph and I started the program together in the fall of 2009. -MW].

Would you talk about your thesis project?

I have an awesome team that I'm very grateful to be a part of. Our thesis project as a whole is dealing with museum and gallery spaces: what do museum and gallery spaces represent? What work actually gets allowed to be in museum and gallery spaces?

My particular question that I'm entertaining right now--that could possibly change--is how can applied theatre and the performing arts be used to enhance and improve the experiences of museum visitors who are black, indigenous and people of color?

As a youth, I never saw myself represented in museum or gallery spaces. I always thought of them as white and European institutions. Recently, I'd say maybe about four or five years ago, I had been invited to perform in museum spaces like the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C.--my dance company, Dancing Buddhas, was asked to come and perform excerpts of the piece that I've been working on called Monk, which is a celebration of the black American musician Thelonious Monk and some of the artists that he worked with, like Miles Davis and John Coltrane.

And then I was asked to come back and to present some work that was inspired by the American visual artist Stuart Davis, which was very exciting for me. I was grateful that I was able to bring in my love of dance and the performing arts into a visual art space.

So I started to see…and then also with the National Museum of African American History and Culture: when I went to go visit the museum the first time I remember saying, Yeah, this is something that is very inspiring for me—not only because I identify with a lot of the exhibits and what is being brought forth in the museum, but just the different aspects of art that take place in that space. I was able to do a lecture-demonstration [at the museum] of some of the social dances that took place during the ‘50s and the ‘60s. And so it's just interesting that, you know, these places that when I was growing up, I just wasn’t inspired to be in or didn't feel that I was being represented—[now] I've been able to come in and share.

Your research question is really alive. It's personal.

Very much so.

And also, how can how can we use movement as an interpretation and/or a discussion of what the artwork means and what the artwork represents, as opposed to it always being a written assignment? How can how can you use movement and other various performing arts to say, "this is what this piece means to me. This is what this piece is lacking. And this is my interpretation."

This is not just the shift in content, but a shift in paradigm. There's one school of museums in which they're teaching you the truth and you come in and soak it up. [In contrast], you're asking people to respond. And not just respond verbally, but respond physically and through art.

Mm hmm. Mm hmm.

That will be great. Let's take a look at where you want to go. What dreams are really alive for you as an artist and an educator?

As a creative I would like to explore more ways in which I can break that fourth wall. So more engagement between what I'm doing on stage and the audience. That's one of the things I've been inspired by in the program that I want to bring more of in my practice. I would like to also do that more in the classroom as a dance instructor. I would like to...have the students understand that, yes, there's something that I have to share [as the instructor], and that's one of the reasons why you signed up. But I want them to be more invested in…they might be a “beginner” at a particular level, but there's something that they're invested and engaged [in] also in a different way, that that isn't the “banking” dance method.

No matter no matter what, even if they don't have a ton of skill, there is something happening for them. They’re not just being asked to hold on until they get good.

Yeah. So those are some of the things that I'm thinking about. I'm also a recording artist. I'm an emcee. So I have quite a few projects. I have some projects on iTunes. I want to work across performing creative arts disciplines, you know, with different artists.

Photo: Annika Abel

It's remarkable, all the different disciplines that you weave together. You must weave through different communities, too. Like, the hip hop community, the tap dance community, the teaching community. I also weave a lot. I'm always interested in how people pull it off, because there's expectations and confusions like "oh, but I thought you were the tap guy." How do you navigate?

That's happened to me a lot in the past, and I feel like it still does happen from time to time. I think humans, we work very well when we place labels and we put things in boxes, because it helps us in a way, unconsciously, control what a person can do. One of the ways that I navigate that is to [say], “I'm an artist and I have something that I have to say. And today I'm saying it through this medium.” And that's that.

When you say that, I don't want to be thinking about “which one” you are, I want to go. Let's do it.

Yes, yes. And even till this day [laughs], even till this day I still have people that don't quite understand that I express myself in different forms, which really baffles me.

I liked your compassion but also that you’re not waiting around: “People need these categories to control the world.”

I remember when I was in Noise Funk... I joined the cast of Noise Funk in 1996, but towards the end of '95 I started writing, and when I got to New York, in ‘96 and ‘97, even though I was on Broadway, I started to started to produce my own shows that incorporated poetry—the art form of emceeing—with live music and tap dance. I think a lot of people enjoyed and appreciated what we presented. But I also had agents come through and they just said, "Oh, my goodness. We love this, but we just don't know where to put you, man." Essentially, what box to put you in.

Can you help us box yourself, please?

Yeah. "Can you help us box you please?" I just say, hey, this is what this is.

Is there anything about your growth in all these dimensions we've talked about that you haven't gotten to say yet?

We know what we need to do. That message has been very strong over the last six or seven months. You know, it's different for everyone, depending upon where they are and what they're doing. But we know what we're supposed to be doing. We have to remember that and stay in tune with that. You know, it's so easy to get to get caught up in the illusion of things and to be wrapped up in what someone else is doing or the stimuli that we get from media, social media in particular. And living in this wonderful city that we call New York City, but it also can be a distraction sometimes if you let it. We need to remember that we know what we're supposed to be doing creatively, artistically or otherwise, and we need to remember to stay in tune with that.

Thank you so much.

Yes. Thank you.

[deliadexaerisofficialuniver-blog]

I was reading the Wikipedia article about transgender people and it talks about what it refers to as "early onset dysphoria," and "late onset dysphoria," like, okay... if you experience dysphoria that started later in life, or you came to terms with your identity, or had a change in identity later in life, that's valid, but reading the descriptions in the article, I can't help but feel like they might suffer a bit from a lack of trans input...

The way they read, it acts like trans women who experience dysphoria and feminine identity and gender early in life are all shouting about it and trying to cut our dicks off in the shower/tub, and trying on our mom's clothes and begging for dresses at the age of 3, and like, no..

I have experienced dysphoria as long as I can remember. I didn't ever try to cut my penis off back then, but I was intent on hiding it, wishing it would go away. My parents thought this was weird and tried to encourage me to be "proud" of it. I thought this was weird When I found out my mom didn't have one, I wanted it gone even more. I could no longer rationalize it away as awkward, and weird feeling, but necessary for peeing. When I asked what had happened to hers, my parents said "Girls don't have those." This broke my tiny heart, because according to them, it meant I was a boy, which was the last thing I ever wanted to be. I hated boys. I thought they were gross, mean, and all around horrible. When my parents made me socialize and spend time with little boys my age, I hated it. I wanted to be away from them, back home where I could cloister myself in my room. At the time, I felt like my older half-brother was just the worst. When my older half-sisters got to take time away from their mom to come visit, it was the best. They didn't feel like bullies. They treated me like a little person. 

When I started school, I immediately ingratiated myself with the other girls, and distanced myself socially from boy-world as much as possible. Most of my friends were other girls, and I avoided socializing with the boys like the plague. To me, they seemed gross, mostly dim, and like bullies. There were a few boys in the gifted program with me who seemed different, but they were the exception rather than the rule. Basically, I saw the majority of boys as less like me in every way, and the other girls as more like me, and much more pleasant and safe feeling to be around. It's my understanding that a lot of other girls feel this way too, so I guess this makes sense. And for the record, yeah, I absolutely wished I could've asked my parents for clothes and jewelry like the other girls wore. I was jealous as all get-out. I wanted belly-shirts, jelly shoes, skirts,chunky bracelets and necklaces... I just knew better than to ask...

Going to the Sanrio store at the mall with my sisters when they visited was like a dream. I wanted everything cute and girly in the store, but the only thing that felt gender-neutrally safe enough to ask for was a foam lizard on a walking wire with pink sunglasses. Going shopping anywhere was still torture. I remember vividly, seeing the girls' clothes, feeling this aching inside, wanting to ask for any of it, all of it, for skirts, jelly shoes, bracelets, necklaces, Lisa Frank backpacks... I just knew I couldn't. I knew that if I did ask, I'd be punished, or that at the very least publicly reprimanded and made to feel like there was something wrong with me, because boys didn't get to wear those clothes, or get those accessories, no matter whether I *felt* like a boy or not. All the same, I wanted it all, inside, I *needed* it all. I felt *ANXIETY* inside. I could feel my heart *POUNDING* in my chest, at my silence, *BEGGING* me to break my silence and ask before it was too late and we passed it by to go to the checkout. My whole body felt weak, wibbly, staticy... but I knew better. I just *KNEW* better so I never did. I managed to ask for one notebook with rainbow-space dolphins on it. That was about all I felt safe asking for. I don't remember if it was Lisa Frank or not, but it made me happy.

Anyway, growing up, my parents never really heard me voice my dysphoria, aside from a simple nod of my head when they asked me if I was "ashamed" of my penis in response to the way I always covered it whenever I was naked, and rushed to put on underwear. I remember crying about it once when they basically detained me from my usual rush to cover myself in the fabric, seemingly trying to figure out what was "wrong" with me, why I was so averse to my bottom-half being naked after bathing when they were both naked But aside from that, they got none of the "typical" "signs" that cis people seem to think are somehow just *UNIVERSAL* to a trans youth. I didn't try on *either* of my parents clothes when I was little. To this day, I still don't get that whole concept. I guess maybe I just saw myself as my own person and less like I was destined to grow into a copy of one of them or the other.

Growing up, I didn't really know much about trans people existing, I didn't know there was a word for it. I remember hearing a joke about a "Sex Change" once in some movie or TV show, and because it was treated as a joke, I didn't think it referred to anything *real* I remember watching a Crocodile Dundee movie, I don't remember which one, and seeing a scene which depicted the main character as heroic for sexually assaulting a trans woman in a bar, grabbing her painfully by the testicles until she collapsed... This only reinforced the idea that people with my kind of body weren't allowed to wear dresses. As the movie put it, she wasn't a "real" woman, she was "really a man," and her genitals served as proof, again, reinforcing to 5 year-old me that I wasn't "allowed" to be a girl. I found story-writing, art, video games, and eventually role-playing Dungeons and Dragons with my friends in high-school as my only outlets for the girl I was, who felt trapped inside a cage of a body I hated, not only for feeling wrong, but for denying me my identity.

I was lucky again to be surrounded by other female friends. When I was about to start 4th grade, my parents decided to move, so I changed schools, and when we did, I was forced to socialize with boys and make male friends. Looking back, it makes me wonder if my guidance counselors had said anything about my chosen feminine socialization, essentially if they had "found me out," for almost exclusively making friends and socializing with other girls. I don't know if that was the case or not, but they were intent on pushing me into friendships with the boys in the neighborhood we were moving into. It didn't work though. A girl moved in next door, and she became my closest friend. I guess my parents left me alone about it because they, and all the kids on the bus figured we were dating, and yeah, I thought she was cute, but there was no return interest. We were just friends, and I loved it that way.

We started hanging out playing this game with all my dinosaur toys where we would give them all names and complex personalities and characters and life stories, and basically role-play out their lives as though they were in some soap opera/reality show. I guess it was kind of like the way a lot of girls play with dolls, we just used dinosaur toys. It was kind of my idea at first, but she got really into it with me and we'd play like this basically every day after school until we got more interested in video games. Even then, we still split time with the dinosaur toys, and I don't think we ever really stopped until late in middle school.

Middle school was a weird time for me. I had started to feel like a social reject/outcast in 4th and 5th grade, but Middle School just got worse. I got these bar-framed glasses that didn't really help matters either. The other kids had started bullying me for my feminine mannerisms, the way I walked, talked, cocked my hips out standing and leaning, used my hands when I talked, carried them in front of me, etc. back in fourth grade, but it just got worse in middle school. Everyone assumed I was a gay boy, and they treated me with that violence. Often it was social, sometimes it got physical, until at a point, I'd had enough, and decided to beat the crap out of one of my bullies to say enough was enough. Everyone said I fought like a girl because I attacked with my legs, but I really didn't care. People compared me to a girl all the time, and I guess it was supposed to bother me, but it never did. Nothing in me wanted to be masculine, or saw femininity as a negative.

When I got to high school, I sort of made my own crowd with a few of the other nerds, two guys I'd known in elementary and middle school, with the addition of one of their older brothers I met, and 3 other nerdy girls, two of whom were goth like me, and we formed a D&D group. I was especially close for a time with one of them who rode my bus, and when we were turning 16 (her birthday was the day before mine), she convinced her parents to let us have a slumber party. We went to see Underworld, and came back to her place, where we hung out and listened to goth rock, burned incense, I got to try some of her hemp chapstick, and in the morning she asked if she could put me in some of her clothes and makeup. Hanging out at school, she and a few of my other friends would remark in a non-bullying, more neutral way on how they felt like I was "such a girl," and I'd just reply that I felt like a "Lesbian trapped in a boy's body." It was something I'd heard one of my older half-brothers say jokingly to his friends once, but I meant it sincerely. When she'd finished dressing me, putting me in makeup, and straightening my hair (something my parents wouldn't let me do), she showed me to myself in the mirror, and said "This is how I see you on the inside." I felt a way I had never felt before in my life. Looking at myself in the mirror, I felt beautiful. I didn't hate what I saw and wish I was different. It felt right, I felt at home. I wanted to stay in that dress and that makeup forever. I told her she was right. She started taking pictures though, and I couldn't deal with that. I cried and asked her to delete them, which she did. She was upset by this, and looking back I wish I hadn't, but I was afraid. Her parents caught us and disciplined her, saying it was inappropriate, and acting like they thought that being dressed up this way was why I was upset. The real reason was I was afraid of being bullied at school, punished by my parents, even kicked out of school.

I still didn't know trans people were a thing, anything at all about transitioning. At school I drew myself as a girl when one of my friends had drawn herself as a boy, and called it a "gender-bend." I made no secret to my friend that I wished that girl I drew was me.

When we played D&D, I started with a male character, a halfling druid, but when he suffered an untimely fate, I switched to two new characters, a female halfling rogue named Sarah, and an Elven witch named Delia, and I never went back. Delia had actually been written up, drawn, and played in a solo campaign before the death of my druid, but as time went on, she became my main in preference to Sarah, though they inhabited two separate campaigns, and really became an outlet for self-expression. I was goth, and obsessed with the paranormal, so was she, I wanted to be sensual, so she was a very sensual woman. I enjoyed swordplay, so she was a fencer. I loved dance, and wanted to dance, she was a dancer. If I'd been assigned female at birth, I wanted to grow to be a sex symbol, like Britney Spears, so she was. She was even a part time dabbler in music. Arguably she had more character and personality than any other character I ever played at the table. I loved playing the campaign she was in. When we did, I jumped up from the table. I threw on an accent. I threw on her personality, and walked around and basically played her actions in role-playing situations, and even in combat, when she did something really cool. My gaming group decided she was a "self-insert character" the Player's Handbook 2 for D&D 4E described as a character meant to represent a fantasized and idealized version of the self, and... she was. True, a lot of her is fantasy, I can't step into the Feywild to hop across a battlefield, or summon undead spirits or turn into a wraith, but for all intents and purposes, she was meant to be the woman I would be in a world where all that was real. She even carried my airheaded lack of common sense, my love of reptiles, books, getting drinks and having a good time, she was more of a rule-breaker, a rebel, and an all around "Bad-girl" than I would've ever believed I'd become in life, but eventually I did. My Dungeons and Dragons Group stayed together through college, and that was the place where I was most comfortable showing myself, even in this limited way, but still not knowing trans people existed, or anything about them until college when I got to go to a gay bar.

One of my friends brought me to Emerald City in Pensacola to see a drag show, and told me that she wanted to do drag king performances, and that I should try out drag performance as a place to unleash my "inner woman," or as she put it my inner Tarja Turunen. I always envied @Tarja. I wished and dreamt of a life where I could be a singer for Nightwish or some other similar woman-fronted hardcore fantasy metal project. So I agreed. I was so excited.

We weren't quite ready to perform ourselves, but the next show we went to, my friends asked if I wanted to dress up and I was thrilled. I borrowed some of my gf's clothes, which she was super-excited about (She had a thing for trans girls), did my makeup and we went. We had been talking about what my drag persona's name should be and my friend suggested that I use "Delia," the same name as my D&D character. She said it was obvious that character was basically me, and it was fitting, so that was my name for the night. I had the time of my life. I felt beautiful, I felt sexy, I felt free. It was a crowded show followed by a dance party. Lesbians were hitting on me, I felt like I could dance and move on the floor the way I wanted without being judged... I felt alive.

When we started doing shows, it felt like a night of the week to get out of my skin, and be myself. I wasn't a traditional queen, I didn't do camp makeup, or wear the outfits they wore, sometimes I even wore pants... I dressed goth, the way I wanted. I did my makeup in goth style, other queens called me "fish," said they thought I was "a real girl," when I did my first routines, tried to teach me the "right" way to do things, suggested I do some Cher instead of Nightwish and Within Temptation. I didn't care. I did things my way. I rocked goth metal, and Dresden Dolls pieces as Harley Quinn. I used it as my stage to either be myself and live my fantasy of being a metal vocal goddess, or portray my favorite characters. To myself, I wasn't a queen. I was me.

I remember one night in my early days I felt I was looking particularly bomb, looking in the mirror saying "Hello You," A hello to myself. I felt like a blossoming woman, opening up like a flower to my little Thursday night life. I still didn't really know what trans people were though. There was a bigender AMAB person working at the bar who had gone through some transitioning procedures, but we didn't really ask her about herself. I felt like it was private, and just used she/her pronouns for her, having been taught it was a sign of respect to do so for the other queens, and to expect other people to do so for me.

Eventually when my coworkers at the mall, and their friends working in the food court found out about my performances, they introduced me to a trans woman named "Debbie" who worked in the food court, and explained that she was born assigned male. The way they described her transition was a bit transphobic. "She used to be a man but then she got her penis turned inside out and now she's a woman." It set the stage for creating an fear of genital reconstructive surgery that would plague me for 6 years.

They didn't say anything about hormone replacement therapy or other procedures, and she never brought it up when we met. I felt it was impolite to ask about her business, and just treated her like any other woman. She gave me makeup, said "hi" when I saw her at the mall, but we didn't interact much outside of that. She called herself my "drag mom." I never learned anything about being trans from her, but she was the first trans person I ever met and knew was trans.

As time went on, I met another trans person named Sammy. She was a friend of a friend, they'd met at University, and I found out a little bit more about being trans. She had no plans on surgery, didn't talk about HRT, or anything like that. She gave me some old wigs. I learned about social transition from her, and my friend suggested that maybe a social transition might be right for me. I gave it some thought, started occasionally going out in public presenting as female. The first time was exciting and scary... It wasn't something I continued very much outside of going to night classes at Pensacola State before drag shows. I was afraid people would think I was weird. In addition my girlfriend at the time started expressing a desire to incorporate feminine presentation into our sex life, and it made me incredibly uncomfortable, and drove me away from female presentation. I didn't know what to call it at the time, but it was dysphoria triggering. Dressing up the way she wanted me to for sex, stuffed bra and everything would just remind me of how much I wasn't a "real" girl, and how much I wished I had been born a cis woman. At the time, I spent a lot of time talking to my friend about my feelings, and she suggested transitioning, but I remarked to her that I was sure it wouldn't feel real. Again I still had no knowledge of HRT, complete misconceptions of surgery... I told her that the only way I thought I would ever be happy would be if I could wave a magic wand or kill myself and be reborn as a "real" girl. (I didn't know the word "cis" at the time. I considered the two trans women I knew as women and respected them as such, but I felt like the only way I could be happy was if I'd been born cis. I wouldn't learn the realities of transition and hormones and surgery for another 6 years.

Eventually the drag shows at EC lost popularity though, and eventually stopped altogether. I lost my outlet, and felt like a chapter of my life had closed. Eventually the drag shows at EC lost popularity though, and eventually stopped altogether. I lost my outlet, and felt like a chapter of my life had closed. My girlfriend and I had broken up shortly before the shows stopped, and I started seeing a new person, who eventually came out as non-binary, but identified outwardly as a cis woman at the time.

We had actually first met through my nextdoor neighbor right before high school started. We went to a football game together in high school, flirted a bit here and there, they'd gone off to a career in adult film and dance after graduating and had just come back home. Eventually, when I came out, they were very supportive, but at the time we started dating, they wanted to "man" me up. When they brought me home to her parents, they said "Are you sure that's not a girl," and they set to work altering my wardrobe. They pushed me to be more masculine in behavior, treated my feminine behaviors less like they were part of my femininity, and were instead something I needed to "outgrow." Wanting to please them, I started trying to put on a mask of masculinity, but I never felt like it stuck, never felt like it was anything but a transparent act. Eventually they left me for a super macho marine, and I spent many nights crying myself to sleep. I couldn't figure out what to do. I told them I could be more masculine for them, that I'd do all sorts of things to make myself more manly, beef up, whatever it took, all the while hating the very idea more than anything. I just wanted them back. At the same time, I cried myself to sleep thinking that maybe I should just "get a sex change" as I put it, but bemoaning the idea of walking around, feeling like a freak, with a boob job and a sensationless inside-out penis that looked nothing like a vulva/vagina. I thought I'd still smell "like a man," my boobs would look fake, my "vagina" would just be a sensationless hole, I felt like bottom surgery was just for people who wanted penis-owners to be able to have sex with them. I didn't think my vagina would be "mine." None of this was true, but it was what I'd been taught about trans people, and it left me in despair. In addition, dating them had been such an intense psychological experience for me, specifically with regard to my transness. I saw in them everything that was the woman I wished I was. They were bold, sexy, shameless. They were a dancer. They had this dominating power and presence when they walked in a room. They knew what they wanted in life, and they got it. At the same time, they were a free spirit, they went where their whims and the wind took them. They dreamed big and lived big. I wanted to be them, so much, on every level, I felt like I had begun to just live through them, wishing I was them, and being apart, it was like I had lost my sense of self. Being with them was like I had found myself, living in another person, being away from them, too scared to be the woman I was inside, the woman I wanted to be, the woman I saw personified in them in so many ways, I was broken, and I almost killed myself.

Instead of transitioning, I turned back to dating to see if I could found what I lost in another person, and it began an incredibly unhealthy relationship I eventually married into. While we were together, I wanted her to be me for me, I wanted to mold her into the woman I wished I was. I wanted to live vicariously through her. It's something I'm incredibly ashamed and not at all proud of. While we were together, before we got married, I became re-acquainted with a friend I'd had in elementary school gifted who had come out as a transgender woman and was planning her own transition. Other friends of hers had seen or heard about my drag performances while that was a thing, and referred them to me for tips on clothing and makeup, but I honestly had a lot more to learn from her.

Other friends of hers had seen or heard about my drag performances while that was a thing, and referred them to me for tips on clothing and makeup, but I honestly had a lot more to learn from her. Even though she hadn't started HRT, she was the first person to teach me that hormone replacement therapy was a thing, and direct me to websites where I could learn more about HRT, and vaginoplasty, and even see my first actual photos of actual vaginoplasty results. It was life changing. For years, all that had held me back were fears rooted in ignorance and misinformation spread by a transphobic society. Those results I saw weren't just a penis turned inside-out. That surgery was more than a science, it was an art-form.  got to read up on vaginoplasty and learn that it was carried out with care, and attention to detail, that my parts were the same basic building blocks, built into a different shape, and that my vulva and vagina would feel, look, and function normally. I learned that nerves were preserved and sensation was there, aesthetics were there, that I'd have a clitoral glans, labia, external sensation, internal sensation, muscular control, and even some wetness from hormones. I learned that hormone replacement would help me grow natural breasts, and change the distribution of my facial and body fat, and even change the way my body smelled. I went to my (then) fiancee, and was so excited to share all this news. She'd been respectful of my friend's pronouns and very friendly with them, and I thought she'd be supportive of me too. She wasn't.

She told me she'd "signed up for a man," and to "shove it back in the closet or else." I'll never forget those words. We got married a little over a year later, but a few months in, when I came out as bigender her family got violent and things started falling apart. She grew distant and cold, snappish whenever she came home to find me presenting as female, it was obvious she was displeased and wanted me to know it. I told her there'd be more days like this coming, and before long she wanted a divorce.

The up side is that I was free to explore myself more, and I very quickly fore-went the idea of being bigender, as it just wasn't me. There are tons of valid bigender people, but no part of me wanted to continue living as a man. I came out as a transgender woman shortly thereafter once I had decided that I wanted to transition socially, and medically with HRT and GRS. That started it's own rough road, but just coming out and making the decision to transition gave me such a sense of wholeness. I guess you could say I'd known who I was for a long time, really on some level my whole life, but I'd been ignoring it, running from it, trying to compromise it, and at the age of 26 I finally accepted myself. To my closest friends, it came as no surprise. "About time," "Took you long enough," They were happy for me and supportive. For some people in my life, denial was the chosen route of coping. For some, who hadn't known me on as deep a level, somehow even for my own mother, the easiest route was to deny it, write it off as something I was doing to please the new partner I started seeing after my ex-wife, act like it was out of the blue, couldn't be true. I feel like that's similar to the experiences of a lot of trans women who come out in life, whether they experience "late onset dysphoria," or whether they simply didn't have the knowledge that trans people existed, the words to use, didn't feel safe expressing...

For me, my dysphoria was there as long as I could remember, I knew I didn't want to be a boy, my body felt foreign, especially my penis. Any idea of becoming traditionally "masculine" hit me with a sense of dread. I just imagined that all boys must want to be girls. Maybe I just had early onset dysphoria, and didn't have the knowledge to identify what my feelings were, the words to express it...

I know I didn't feel safe even once I found some level of expression in High School, even before I knew what transitioning was, outside of confiding in my closest friends. When kids bullied me thinking I was a gay boy, I couldn't stand it. When they just called me out for being feminine/girly, I never really cared. I didn't see it as a negative. I saw it as me. I saw nothing to be ashamed of, but for them it was a cause for violence. To a lot of cis people from the outside though, especially people who don't know me as well, I feel like it would be easy to look at how I came out later on in my 20's and mistake me for experiencing "late-onset" dysphoria. Really I don't like the term...

I don't like the term, or the way it's defined, or talked about. I feel like it erases experiences of dysphoria that many trans people have experienced for a lifetime and simply not had the language to express. When the Wikipedia article on transgender people talks about "Late-Onset" dysphoria, it makes note to say that trans women who come out in their adult life may be more likely to associate sexual feelings with presenting in women's clothing... And I feel like that needs to be addressed, because a lot of women's clothing that you find in adult life is *DESIGNED* *SPECIFICALLY* to sexualize women's bodies, and frankly I find nothing wrong with a woman who's trans feeling sexy in sexy clothes.

And I feel like that needs to be addressed, because a lot of women's clothing that you find in adult life is *DESIGNED* *SPECIFICALLY* to sexualize women's bodies, and frankly I find nothing wrong with a woman who's trans feeling sexy in sexy clothes. Plenty of cis women feel sexy in clothing that are designed to look sexy, and I find nothing wrong with either of these things. There's nothing wrong with being confident, or a woman feeling like she can own her sexuality and be sexy.

Women are the only gender who literally have clothing designed and marketed at us specifically FOR SEX. Let me say that again: We literally have entire sections of clothing at the store designed JUST for sex. At the same time, women's clothing in general, especially for young adults is made specifically to evoke sexuality. It accents curves, fits tight in all the "right" places. It shows off assets. It's covered in symbols of sexuality and romance. And this is also the culture young women are brought into. To look at ourselves, and the clothing rack, and ask "How can I make myself sexy?" "How can I make a mate want me?" "What accents my tits? My ass? My legs?" When you grow into that slowly, I feel like it's a bit less of a shock, but when you just get thrown into that world of skinny jeans and push-up bras and plunging necklines, stockings, fishnets, leg-shaving, and adorning accessories, where even the baggy sweatpants are fuzzy and say "Juicy" on the ass... It's pretty easy to see where one can have a bit of a shocking "Damn, I feel sexy like all the time" reaction, especially before HRT, and you know what, there's nothing wrong with that...

It's perfectly acceptable for a woman to feel sexy in her own skin, and if she's wearing clothing she feels confident and sexy in, then fuck, it's even perfectly normal for her to feel arousal with that confidence... The problem is that society is too quick to demonize women's sexuality, discourage us from *owning* feeling sexy, or enjoying it. Unless it serves a man's pleasure, our sexuality is taboo. We are allowed to be sexy as eye candy, but if a woman *feels* sexy, that's too much. If a woman looks in the mirror and feels confident, or aroused, that's too threatening for a patriarchal society to deal with, but it's a perfectly normal female experience. Straight women get it, lesbians get it, cis women get it, trans women get it. "early onset," or "late onset" has nothing to do with it, but if someone is just finally delving into that world of sexy clothes as a young adult, or even an adult, It's an adjustment. On top of that, women who are trans who come out later in life may not necessarily know the taboos. They didn't grow up in a world of sexual repression the same way that other women have, where sexuality is shamed and shackled from the moment of puberty.

Frankly I feel like we shouldn't care. I feel like no woman should care. I feel like we should all feel free to rebel against the taboos and be as sexual on our own terms as we want.

Another bigger problem, however, and where I severely take issue with the way a likely cis author has chosen to talk about this as though it were in any way abnormal is that society *LOVES* to hypersexualize trans people, specifically trans women, and make it *weird.* And I really feel like all of this stems from the fact that cis people *DO* in fact see us as sexually attractive, which is perfectly normal and acceptable, but can't deal with it on the basis of ingrained transphobia, and have to blow it out of proportion.

That's why trans porn is one of the highest ranking search categories, that's why trans women all over the internet have our inboxes *FLOODED* with men sending dick pics and going on and on about how much they want to "worship a girl-cock." That's why even cis women end up thinking it's okay to just sexually harass trans women out the wazoo with "best of both worlds," bullshit. The truth is that cis people, even when they won't admit it, can't get enough of us and the sexual fascination they experience over the idea of a woman with a penis, or a man with a vagina, and from this side, let me tell you, it gets fucking old. The problem is that because of institutionalized transphobia, even though cis people *DO* find trans people sexually attractive, publicly, y'all aren't *ALLOWED* to. It's taboo, it breaks social conventions, it shakes the idea of cisheteronormativity to its core, and like many sexual taboos, this leads to fetishization, whether closeted or open, and hypersexualization of trans people whether we want it or not. So that when y'all choose to talk about us, or write about us, the focus is on anything and everything sexual y'all can find, and often, in order to maintain a transphobic status quo, to try to make it weird. Literally the way the article reads seems to say between the lines: "Trans women who come out later in life sexualize themselves and women's clothing and experience a fetish and that's weird." It seems *INTENTIONALLY* skewed to portray the sudden but normal adjustment to feeling sexy in clothing specifically designed by a society that sexualizes women to accent everything sexy about us that it can as something *BIZZARE* and *SEXUALLY DEVIANT*

It's normal to feel sexy in clothing designed to sexualize your body. All women experience this to some extent. It's just less of a sudden shock when you've had an adjustment period, and not something that's talked about all the time when it's normal. Basically, it seems like it's trying to portray this so called "Late-Onset" Dysphoria as being synonymous with a cross-dressing fetish, and that's just not okay, not at all.

Trans women who feel sexy in clothing designed to evoke a woman's sexuality aren't experiencing a cross-dressing fetish. They are experiencing a normal part of presenting as female in a society that sexualizes women and designs our clothes to evoke that.

The article also notes that so called "Late-Onset" Dysphoria experiencing trans women are more likely to identify as lesbians... OH BOY. Seems like they are legit *TRYING* to feed into the autogynephelia myth here...

First off, PLENTY of trans women experience attraction to other women, regardless of when our dysphoria started, or when we chose to recognize it as such. I have experienced dysphoria my whole life, and yet I also like women, and my experiences are far from abnormal. *MANY* trans women with early onset dysphoria are lesbians or otherwise sapphic. The problem is that our society is homophobic, and literally associates liking men as a trait of femininity, and liking women as a trait of masculinity, which is wrong. Orientation has no bearing on gender, or vice versa.

Because of this, a trans woman who likes men is more likely to be recognized as trans early on by her parents, friends, and family members, because liking men is one of those things that society looks at and says "OH! You like men! That's a WOMAN thing!" And this is a load of homophobic bullshit. Many men like men, many women like women. Not to sound trite, but we're here, we're queer, and trans or cis, we'd appreciate it if you'd hurry the fuck up and finally get fucking used to it. Conversely a trans woman who likes other women won't have her orientation flagged as a "reason" she should be looked at as more female, so it's easier to escape recognition by her family and friends.

Upon coming out, family and friends may even respond with confusion: "Wait, you like women? So why would you 'want' to *BE* one?" again, a load of homopohobic and transphobic bullshit. Cis gay men aren't gay because they want to be women, otherwise they'd be straight trans women. Lesbian women aren't gay because they want to be men, otherwise they'd be straight trans men. These are two totally different things. Trans people are sick of it, cis queer people are sick of it, and it's about time society stopped conflating who you like with what your gender is. Liking women isn't an inherently male trait. Liking men isn't an inherently feminine trait. Who you like isn't gendered.

Anyway, PLENTY of trans women who have known dysphoria and identified as women since an early age, whether internally or externally like women. So do many who come out later in life. Acting like it's some special artifact of "Late-Onset" dysphoria is erasive, transphobic, and when coupled with bullshit making it seem weird that a trans woman who comes out later in life feels sexy in sexy clothes, it's problematic as fuck. It seems hand-tailored to split trans women into two groups: The *REAL* trans women who wear our mommies' clothes and try to chop off our penises and demand dresses when we are 3 years old, and the *fake* sexual deviant "trans women" who come out later in life.

The reality is that *ALL* trans women are valid, some of us are lesbians, bi, or pan, and *ALL* women have a right to feel sexually empowered when we put on an outfit we feel we look bomb AF in. So, yeah. This "Late-Onset" Dysphoria bullshit is exactly that, bullshit. Not saying that some trans women don't start experiencing and recognizing our identities later in life, so not saying that late-onset dysphoria isn't real, some trans women don't experience dysphoria at all, and that's all valid. What I *AM* saying is that the way the Wikipedia article on trans women has been written (probably by a cis "expert") is dubious at best, ignorant, and transphobic at worst, and furthermore that the only people who have any right *AT ALL* to be *TALKING* or *WRITING* about late onset dysphoria are *SHOCK*: Trans people who experienced it and embrace that concept/narrative. You may notice that I put the "expert" in "cis expert" in quotes earlier. This is because there is no such thing as a "cis expert" on trans people. We are the only experts. Every trans person has more experience with transness than any cis person ever could.

We live trans lives, we experience them from day one. *WE* are the experts. *WE* are the ones who should be in charge of our narratives, and *WE* are the ones who should be deciding whether our dysphoria was "Early-Onset" or "Late-Onset," or even experienced at all.

For trans women who experienced dysphoria later on in life, came out later on in life, for those of you for whom it took years  to come to terms with your gender, you need to know you are valid. You're allowed to be who you are and love who you want. There's no time that's too late to know yourself, to come out, to start your transition, and you are allowed to feel sexy in whatever clothing you want, and should be free to do so without cis people acting like it's a fetish. You deserve to know that it's normal to feel sexy in clothes that your body rocks, and that you're no different from any other woman, "early-onset" dysphoric trans women, cis women, or trans women who experience no dysphoria, and just know their identity as women.

For cis people... Seriously, cut this bullshit out and stop acting like trans people are weirdly hypersexual or sexual deviants just because y'all want to hypersexualize us out of your own insecurities with finding us attractive. And stop acting like you know what is and isn't "normal" for trans people, or how we experience and express dysphoria. If anything a lot of what y'all term "Late-Onset" Dysphoria is more likely stories like mine... Stories of trans women who knew dysphoria early, but had no language for it, who knew we weren't boys, but also knew that we weren't allowed to be girls, who knew on account of y'all's transphobia that there were *CONSEQUENCES* to asking for the clothes we wanted... consequences for announcing that we were girls, that we felt like we were girls, that we were uncomfortable in our bodies and wished they were different...

Literally, I'm willing to bet that 90% of the time that a trans person comes out later in life, it's literally cis people's fault for creating an environment of hostility and violence towards trans people who do come out. If any repression comes with that, it's similarly also y'all's fault. If you want to fix it, then change trans-focused media to hire trans actors to depict trans people, and trans writers to write our characters and stories. Change the education system to teach about trans people in schools at an early age so that even if we don't learn at home, or have parents who want to prevent us from knowing ourselves, we can learn that we are valid, and be able to acknowledge that and communicate it early.

Seriously, you don't have to make us sexual. It can be as simple as "Some people who are labeled as boys at birth feel like girls and are really girls. Some people who are labeled as girls at birth feel like boys and are really boys." Very G-rated. and even better, throw in "Some people don't feel like either of those labels fits, and might be nonbinary, or not have a gender at all and be agender." "Some people feel like where they fit changes from time to time and are genderfluid." Actually talk about the word "gender" and what it is and means instead of copping out saying "it's a polite way to say sex," when sex and gender are two separate constructs. Let trans people be the ones who tell *Y'ALL* what our experiences are like instead of trying to guess from the other side of the fence based on what your existing transphobic institutions have spoon fed to you to make us seem "weird" and wrong.

Basically, if you're not trans, and you feel like going and typing on a public resource what you feel like we are and aren't, and how you want to define our narratives that you don't experience, kindly shut up, and let us speak for ourselves. We aren't yours to categorize and define, we categorize and define ourselves. It's kind of the essence of being trans. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

#delia melody #trans #transgender #trans woman #dysphoria

[disbestiles-blog]

Summer

Dylan Obrien x Reader AU

Word Count: 5,420

Warnings: I recommend you take something to wipe away the tears or not, Idk 😅

A/N: It’s part of @dylanobemineforever ‘s Writing Challenge based on the song Summer by OM (thank you sina, btw) It was really challenge be part of this because I don't knew the song so I took a little time to have a good idea. But after a few searchs and some help of my great friends it's here! I was a lot of fun writing this story and I'll hope that you can enjoy and talk to me about okay?! 

Only when the pilot announced the takeoff and Y/N saw the clouds through the airplane window, she could breathe again quietly. For her it was hard to believe how fast she'd put her things together, taken a cab, and gone to the airport, but it was the only way out that she could think of when the confusion in her house had taken on unimaginable proportions.

She could still hear the screams of her mother calling her spoiled and dramatic but drama was always part of Y/N's life. Her parents have always been ambitious and intelligent entrepreneurs. They were the type of couple who struggled to achieve their goals, even if that included offering their daughter's hand in marriage just to consolidate a partnership.

It sounded like Mexican soap opera story, but that was exactly what had happened in Y/N's life. When she met Chuck, the charming son of his father's best friend and partner, she wasn’t carried away by the incredible blue eyes or the gentlemanly manner he treated her. But the boy was persistent and didn’t leave her alone while she didn’t say yes to a date.

She felt alone and he arrived on time, making her feel like a princess. Chuck fulfilled all her desires, took her to places that she had always dreamed of seeing. Her parents, who were always strict and liked to calculate all the footsteps of the daughter, but for the first time let her live a beautiful and overwhelming romance, making Y/N experience what was freedom for the first time in her youth.

It was a wonderful 3 years of dating, but shortly after the engagement that was four months earlier that week, Chuck had become a thick, possessive, and aggressive man. At first she thought it was only a passing stress, but one day, when she tried to give Chuck by surprising him at work, she eventually overheard a conversation he was having with his mother.

From the beginning, Chuck had approached her just so that her parents' business would work out. All those years had been sustained only for transactions to be effected and contracts signed. The marriage of the two was just another farce in which he had agreed to participate so that the good image of the company was sustained.

"Art imitates life," she thought. Never had a dictation made as much sense to Y/N as that. She wanted to believe it was all a lie, that she was in a nightmare, and that when she woke up she would find Chuck and his mother for another wedding meeting. They would choose the party menu, make the guest list, she would continue living their fairy tale.

When confronting her parents she can’t feel more deceived. Besides not denying any details of the story, her mother insisted that she continue with that novel. Either that, or carry the blame for ruining the empire they had been building in England for 8 years.

After many fights, shouts and revelations, Y/N was no longer worried about the consequences of her decisions. For years she let her life be manipulated by other people but now she just wanted to get away from all that farce. In the face of all that confusion she could only think of a refuge: her hometown. Maybe it wasn’t the best of decisions, but at least it was a decision she made.

Y/N was only 12 when her family needed to move from Southport to London because of her father's company. At that time, even though she was so young, she knew it was a mistake. She knew that abandoning her friends, all the memories she had made there, abandoning her roots would not do her or her parents well. Since then she had lived a controlled and manipulated life so that she was the perfect daughter of the "Y/L/N" family.

The flight to Wilmington was quiet and from there Y/N rented a car and decided to drive to Southport. The road was calm and the ride was small, moreover, she needed to get rid of the thoughts that bothered her and driving would help distract her.

Arriving in Southport, Y/N was soon overcome by nostalgia. The sea breeze, the calm that was the charm of small towns, the trees dancing with the wind. The gas station and the grocery store at the beginning of the city continued to look the same as she remembered. She didn’t know if the owners were still her known neighbors, but it was comforting to see that everything still sounded and looked so familiar even after so long.

She decided to stop for something to eat but before she got out of the car she realized that she was still wearing the engagement ring that Chuck had given her. It was a beautiful ruby ​​stone, bathed in silver. There was no sense in using it anymore, it was like a hollow beauty. She removed the ring and put it in a jewelry box, leaving it in the car door. She was determined to leave all those false memories behind and that summer was all she needed to seal her freedom.

Although small, the grocery store had every type of product a person could need. After picking up some snacks and a drink, she went to the cashier, which was empty. Intrigued, she looked around to see if there was anyone but spotted only a few clients also choosing their products. She rang the bell once, twice, until a middle-aged man came from the port in a hurry to realize that there were several people inside the shop.

When he approached her, Y/N recognized him immediately. It was Patrick, an old friend of her family. Him, his wife Lisa and their two children have been her neighbors since she understood each other. Patrick was known in the city for his fun and quiet way of looking at life. Despite being older, he still seemed to keep this habit, as he was amusing some people in the harbor, before coming to meet her.

"It seems like somebody's jokes are still the entertainment of the city." Y/N said taking him by surprise.

Patrick stared at her for a few seconds puzzled until the confused expression was replaced by a cheerful look and an enlightened smile.

"I don’t believe what I see, Y/N? Y/N/N?"

Y/N smiled, approaching for a tight hug. "It’s me uncle Patrick, I miss you!"

"We miss you too, my daughter! What brings you here?"

One of the clients in the shop let out an irritable throat, making Patrick realize that there was already a small queue formed behind Y/N. Probably some travelers wanting to pay for their purchases. He positioned himself behind the cash register and began packing the orders and receiving payments. As he finished serving everyone, Y/N went to the porch that was just outside the store to wait for him. He would not forgive her if she left without a good conversation.

As she enjoyed the view and felt the breeze thumping in her hair, it was as if she could hear her childhood: the sea, the seagulls flying in the harbor, the sound of the conversations and laughter of the people walking along the beach. Everything was good, and nowhere in the world had she experienced the tranquility she felt when she was there. Immersed in her thoughts she barely noticed when a pickup truck parked outside the grocery store door, a lady and a men came down with several packages, probably to replenish the stock.

From outside the grocery store she saw Patrick talking to the woman and pointing out towards her. It was Lisa, Carl's wife and his son Dylan, Y/N's best friend. They both looked at her in surprise, and Lisa quickly came to meet her, taking her into a tight, maternal hug.

"Oh my dear," she said, holding her face affectionately, as if she were meeting a distant daughter, "I can’t believe you're back!"

Lisa had some tears in her eyes and that was totally acceptable, especially coming from her. She had always been like a mother to Y/N. Their families shared holidays and celebrations as if they had only been one for several generations. Even after her maternal grandmother passed away and her mother refused to keep the traditions between them, the O'brien families affection towards Y/N never ceased to exist. After the brief moment of affection between the two, she saw Dylan approaching.

He was standing with his hands in the pocket of his shorts, grinning in surprise to see her there after so long. She remembered perfectly the last time she had seen him, the farewell on the beach, the two promising each other that they would never cease to be friends and would one day still be together forever. They were just kids making that innocent promise. That day struck her deeply and she still felt her heart racing when she saw him, even after 8 years. He was taller, more masculine, his hair messy as he had always been.

"Y/N ... how long! I can’t believe, you're so ... "

"Different?" Y/N asked curiously.

"I was going to say beautiful, but different is also a good option," replied Dylan smiling.

They approached for a half-awkward hug. Dylan tenderly enveloped Y/N and she immediately felt at home. They stood there for a few seconds, just enjoying each other's presence when Lisa interrupted them.

"What do you think about finishing the conversation at our home Y/N/N? I'll make sure you have lunch with us and Julia will love to see you!"

Y/N was not so sure if Julia, Lisa's eldest daughter, would be happy to see her, after all they were never very friendly. Even with trepidation, she could not deny the invitation. Besides being such a lack of education, Lisa would never take no for an answer. Their house was only a block from the gas station, and it was big and cozy just like Y/N remembered, despite some renovations here and there. As she looked at the next lot, she felt a slight sadness. His parents had ruled out any possibility of going back to that place, and where one day had been his home he could see only a vacant lot, the "sell-out" advertisement worn in front of the property that his parents still had difficulty sell.

While Lisa was preparing lunch, Dylan and Y/N were chatting in the living room. Y/N didn’t know how to introduce a subject without seeming inconvenient, but gradually they were losing their fear and the conversation returned to the tone of friendship and play as it was before. Y/N discovered that Dylan moved from Southporth to veterinary school and since then he lived in Wilmington. He was working in a clinic and had used the vacation to visit the family and long for homesickness. Dylan seemed to have become the gentle, honest, and successful man she had always thought he would be. Y/N hadn’t noticed any ring, but she did not dare ask if he was engaged, it was none of her business.

"And you Y/N, have you taken advantage of England?"

Enjoying was not the right way to describe everything she was living. Dylan was a responsible and stable student, and she was only a 20-year-old girl following the commandments of her parents. She didn’t want to sell herself as a spoiled and dramatic daughter to her best friend. While this may not be true, as he recalled his story, sometimes it was just what it seemed. Before she could respond, Julia entered the room clearly surprised to see Y/N.

"Jules, do you remember Y/N?" Dylan said standing up and doing the honors of "restyling" the two.

"But of course, how could I forget our dear neighbor?!" Julia said holding out her hand, with some irony.  "What brings you back here? You tired of England?"

Y/N could think of having a conversation with Dylan and telling the whole truth about her life and the reason she had brought her there, but for Julia, the jealous older sister, that would be impossible. She sighed, smiling.

"You don’t need a fair reason to visit a city that you love so much, doesn’t it ?! And besides, I needed to breathe this tranquility from here."

Julia raised her eyebrows suspiciously.

"Oh of course ... after 8 years living in beautiful London, who would not miss the little Southporth?"

Dylan grinned as he noticed a certain twinge in his sister. He knew Julia had always died of jealousy from his friends, especially Y/N.

"You never leaving here does not mean that everyone also has to stay Jules."

Julia rolled her eyes at his brother's defense.

"Some customs never change, do they?!" She replied poking Dylan, who responded with a grimace.

Y/N didn’t know where to run. She hated being the star of any subject, especially when she had something to hide. Before the situation went out of control, Lisa called everyone to eat.

The lunch was enjoyable and fun and could not be any different with the O'brien family. They were not the perfect family and they did not even tried to be, but the unity and love between them, the support they gave each other and how much they knew each other was clear. Y/N had never experienced that kind of relationship in her family. The meals they made together were summed up to meet labels and hear their parents discuss business. Time and again they asked about what she had done during the day, but soon they gave orders or opinions back to her agenda.

When Y/N was almost celebrating that matters were not involving her, Julia decided to ask where she would be staying in the city. That question immediately discredited her, she had not yet thought of this important detail. Realizing that she had been miserable at the thought of the answer, Lisa intervened.

"Of course Y/N will stay with us, will she not Pat?" Patrick just nodded, confirming as he finished devouring his piece of chicken, leaving Julia's mouth open.

Y/N had thought of staying in some hotel in the city, but Lisa had been so accommodating that she seriously considered accepting it.

"I would be very happy to accept the invitation, if I do not bother ... of course."

"I think that would be a great idea!" Dylan said smiling, winking in her direction.

Y/N's heart melted a little at that moment. She had to confess that she had also accepted the invitation to be closer to her friend. Even though she had not come to Southporth because of him, finding him was a very good surprise, and she could see no way to take advantage of that time better than not with him.

The days at Southporth were being incredible. The options that Y/N had were countless and she can review several old school friends, visit the places she liked to go along with her grandmother when she was little and even help Lisa and Patrick in the grocery store.

Being so busy would not let Y/N worry about her family in England with her engagement and she allowed herself to forget all those lies. Southporth was her safe haven and nothing could take away from her.

Of course, of all things, the best part of the trip was being able to spend those holidays with Dylan. Aside from a great friend, he had become a great companion to any show. Together they visited an animal shelter that was in town, where Y/N could see Dylan apply some things he had learned in college. She had no doubt he was born for it and nothing made her happier than seeing him fulfill his dream as a child. They made picnics, trails through the small forest that was around the city, spent hours on the beach enjoying the sea.

Dylan could not be happier. Every year he came to Southporth but those were by far the best vacation of all. It was as if he and Y/N were inseparable again and it was impossible to account for the good times they had spent together in those days.

The only person who still bothered about Y/N's presence was Julia, and she made a point of making that clear. As one afternoon, Dylan and Y/N had agreed to go to the beach together. He was packing some things in the room while Julia insisted that her brother go with her on a double date.

"Dylan you supposedly came here this summer to have fun, why do you refuse to do that?" Julia was nervous.

"And I'm having fun with Y/N/N. By the way, you and your friends can go to the beach with us, if you want."

"You know it's not going to be a double date if you take your vacation project together."

"I don’t need a double date, when are you going to understand that I'm not your  little brother anymore? And I told you not to talk about Y/N like that."

Julia rolled her eyes. Something about her brother's best friend disturbed her and no one would convince her otherwise.

"And when she goes away again, are you going to spend the rest of the holidays crying like the first time?" "I don’t know, Dyl ... she appears out of nowhere after years and no one knows why. There's something wrong with this girl."

Dylan took a deep breath, trying not to argue with his sister.

"When you want to talk like adults, I'll be here, now I have a beach to enjoy."

Dylan finished stuffing his things into his backpack and went out into the hallway, listening to Julia just saying loudly "Then do not say I did not warn you." He loved his sister and understood that being super protective was part of the older sister package but he was already full of her to follow all his steps.

One night after a baseball game with friends, Dylan came home and didn’t find Y/N. When he questioned his mother about it, he discovered that she had gone to the beach to walk. He picked up his father's pickup truck and drove to the port. When he got there, he found some people making camps. Some were already leaving, but he found Y/N in the distance, sitting around a campfire, lit only by the moonlight.

Watching her from afar he realized that he still liked everything about her: the exaggerated sound of her laughter, her sweet way of treating people, her simplicity that still held even after so much luxury in her life.

When she left, it took years to get accustomed to the lack of best friend and for a long time wondered if it would just be a keepsake or if the innocent love that they had experienced would remain. There, watching her from afar, he realized that nothing had changed except the fact that he was no longer a naive boy of twelve. Dylan wanted her more than as a friend and he believed she was reciprocal. He just needed to have the courage to try. And that's what he did.

Y/N was distracted, humming a song when she saw Dylan walking toward her. She had reviewed several colleagues since arriving in the city but none of them had grown up and looked as handsome as him. Of course she was suspected to speak, she always defended him tooth and nail in any situation, but it was unquestionable how much the girls in town were impressed with him. Earlier, at the grocery store, she might notice some whispering about Dylan, one of them would do anything to make her realize it, asking for help for every item she wanted to buy. She didn’t want to admit it, but even though it was no big deal, it made her a little jealous.

Dylan settled next to her on the fire, with a plate of marshmallows.

"I think a fire does not have the same grace without some candy, does not it?!"

"You had a great idea, Mr. O'brien."

He smiled and handed out some marshmallows so they could bake while they talked.

"So, what are you doing here so early? I thought the evening with your friends would be fun."

"Yes, it was a lot of fun, but you know a full night always ends like this," he said pointing at both of them.

Y/N's face lit up in a smile. When they were teenagers, even if they went out to totally different places, they always found themselves in the backyard of Dylan's house to tell them about the day, late at night. They started the little tradition when they were 7 and didn’t leave it when some of them was sick.

"Some things never change, right?!"

"I think so." Dylan nodded, smiling. Y/N realized he meant something. She knew when he was restless.

"But tell me, what have you been keeping there?" She asked curiously.

Dylan hesitated a little before saying the words that had been stored from the first moment he saw her.

"I missed you Y/N/N."

Y/N felt her face flush at that. She should not feel ashamed of those things, after all, they were close. But the two were now adults and even though she didn’t want to admit it, she always wanted him to be more than just a friend. She moved closer to him, snuggling her head against his shoulder.

"Me too Dyl ... me too."

It was windy enough, and though the sky had hidden all the stars, that night seemed perfect. With Y/N wrapped in his arms, he could only think of how much he wanted her closer. He knew that summer romances were passengers and that he was only there for vacation at his parents' house, but Y/N was not anyone and if they worked as well as friends, why not try to be something else? Dylan was nervous, he did not want to be intrusive or frightened her, but all he wanted to do now was to hug her, kiss her and let their bodies decide to do the rest. He took a deep breath and when he felt the courage to talk to her, he felt a raindrop on his face. Before he could do anything, it began to rain. They looked at each other, the drops that had begun slow were thick and increasing the speed with which they fell, leaving them getting wetter and wetter. Dylan looked around the beach, looking for some place so they could shelter when he had an idea. He took Y/N’s hand and guided her to where his truck was parked. They finally got in the car, soaking wet after being caught by the rain, which was falling harder and harder. Dylan was adjusting the seat of the car as a loud roar roared from the sky, one of several thunders that were probably yet to come. Y/N practically jumped into his lap, startled by the noise, causing laughter between them. Y/N’s heart was racing, her face so close to Dylan that she could feel his breath catching after the laughter. When Dylan realized that the universe had finally made a move so they could be alone, he did not think twice. Gently, he pulled away a few strands of hair that hung from her face. He looked her in the eye, and immediately remembered when she was gone, all the homesickness he'd kept for all these years and finding his way back to his first love, he kissed her. Y/N did not know how to react when she felt Dylan's warm, sweet lips touch hers. Part of her wanted to push him away and say that it was not right, part of her wanted to tell him all the motives that had brought her there. But how could she not give up the strong grip on her waist, the way their kiss seemed so sure not to happen. Dylan could not tell what he was feeling at the moment. Even hesitating a little, Y/N had given in to the kiss. He was excited but at the same time confused. Pulling away their faces, he stopped to face her, his anxious gaze questioning if they should continue. Y/N understood perfectly what he was feeling: the confusion, the pleasure, that animated spark that would come back to light when kissing his best friend. There inside the car, the sound of the rain crashing incessantly at the window work, she could only think of how much they had was unique in how much they were meant to be. Taking possession of all the certainty she had in her heart, she pulled him again for another intense kiss. With Dylan it was different, it was natural. So when he moved the benches so they could lie down, she just nodded, letting her wishes be reciprocated.

As lightning leapt from the sky, Dylan took advantage of the flashes of light that hung from the sky to watchY/N, her naked body slowly taking shape in his arms as he took off each piece of clothing. Each time Dylan kissed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, Y/N felt as if sparks were leaping from her body. After a few minutes, the thunderbolts became just background music, while Y/N and Dylan let that night of love, their desires be unpacked and their hearts as well.

Some time later, with Y/N settling under his chest and the darkness giving way to some stars in the sky after the rain, Dylan could not feel happier. Of course he had met other women, some interesting and very beautiful, but she was different. When they were together it was as if the rest of the world did not exist, as in a parallel reality.

Y/N realized that Dylan was almost falling asleep, but despite having just lived what she had thought one of the best nights of her life, something bothered her. Even though those days had served as anesthesia for the lies she'd lived through, she was still engaged. It was a fact that no one had ever made her feel as complete as that night and she knew it was not just about sex. But not even worrying about Chuck's feelings, she worried about Dylan and she could not bear to see him think she was using him just to get over something. She pushed those thoughts away, trying to focus only on the sleep that slowly overpowered her.

After that night, Dylan and Y/N got even closer. It was a fact that they were passing when every day together but now always had room for long kisses, escapes to each other's room at night and even miniature romantic dinners made by Dylan. Y/N's voice was the last one Dylan wanted to hear the night and the first morning. He loved to wake up and be enlightened by the sound of her laughter. Their reunion was recent and he knew that what they had was not set, but those days were yielding great points to start thinking about what it could be.

That day, after going out to play bowling with some friends, they came home with laughter. The night had been extremely fun, even though Y/N had ended up with any chance of them winning the game. When Dylan stopped the car at the door of her house, Y/N was still holding back the laughter she was giving of herself after it had been awful at the bowling alley.

"The bowls in England are different from those here," she said trying to defend herself, but Dylan knew it was just a joke.

"So you're just horrible in the bowling alleys here?" He questioned her smiling.

"Yes, in the bowling alleys of England I'm less evil," Y/N replied, the two falling in laughter again.

Dylan took a deep breath and composed himself of the crisis of laughter, he loved the way she could make any situation seem funnier. They got out of the car and on leaving, Dylan noticed that a small box fell from the door. Curious, he bent to pick her up. Opening what appeared to be a jewelry box, he found a beautiful diamond ring, not inconspicuous, by the way.

Realizing what Dylan had found, Y/N's heart almost stopped. Immediately he came to her, intrigued.

"Hmmmm I know we've known each other a long time but do not you think it's a little early to choose the engagement ring Y/N/N?"

When Y/N saw the ring in his hands, his happy, quiet expression of a few minutes disappeared. Carefully she took the jewel from his hands, putting it back in the box. Dylan looked at her in confusion. She smiled uncomfortably at the situation she'd avoided all those days.

"Dyl, I need to tell you something."

Her tone of sad voice and her gaze lost, Dylan realized something was not right.

"That ring ..." she sighed deeply, seeming to choose which words to use, "this is my engagement ring."

Dylan took a step back, perplexed by what he had just heard.

"Engagement? What are you talking about, Y/N?"

Holding her so that tears did not fall from her eyes, Y/N began to count all the things that had happened before she got there. His relationship with Chuck, the fake engagement, all the lies his parents held for all those years. Dylan listened to her in silence, the time her head lowered, as if she was not believing what she was talking about. This could only be a nightmare. When Y/N was done, Dylan was serious, the frustration on his face.

"You lied to me? This whole time, everything we spent together ... you lied?" Dylan questioned her.

"No Dyl, nothing I told you was a lie, I just ..."

He smiled wryly.

"Is the concept of lying different from the other side of the world? I think living with dishonest people has made you a Y/N."

"Dylan I had no choice! I didn’t plan any of this, I didn’t expect to find you here ... I didn’t expect to fall in love with you again."

Y/N could no longer handle the tears that threatened to fall from her face.

"So you know what it is to fall in love with Y/N? Have you ever felt anything that was not dictated by your parents?" Dylan was nervous, blinded by the hurt in his heart. "I should have listened to my sister. You didn’t come here because you missed us, you came here just to soften your ego, to try to prove to yourself that you can do what you want. But you know what you forgot? People's feelings are not like deeds or whatever shit their father owns. You can’t buy or manipulate us. You can’t treat us like pawns of your game."

Those words hit her hard. How could he say that? She knew it was not easy for him to understand a situation like that, but she just wanted him to realize that she had no choice, that the freedom to make her own decisions had been taken from her. How could he hurt her like that?

"I just want you to believe Dylan, what I felt 8 years ago, what I still feel ... it's real."

Dylan snorted, anger taking over his face.

"The world does not work like this Y/N, this can’t be new to you!"

"Dylan, please don’t let this stop us both."

"Your problems prevent good things from happening to you, Y/N." Dylan took a deep breath, "your world is made of dirt and lies and I don’t want to be a part of it."

In tears, Y/N tried to get closer but he got away from her. Nothing hurt Dylan more than to see her like that, but what could he do? He trusted her, why she hid so many lies? He headed toward his house, leaving Y/N and all the things he dreamed had with her behind.

Do you want a part two? Let me know! I MASTERLIST

TAG LIST: @brien-odylan @malia--stilinski @dancingwithdylan21

#dylan o'brien imagines #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan imagines #dylan o'brien series #dylan o'brien #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #american assassin #mitch rapp #dylan o'brien au #fluff #dylanobeminewc

[overwatch-me-cry-blog]

The Sins of Lazarus

Author’s note here! This is my first Overwatch fanfiction, so I would really appreciate feedback. I plan on making this longer, and eventually linking my AO3. I plan on making it multiship, but it is a slow burn so bear with me.

They thought I would forget.

She smiled wryly as she hauled the rifle up to her shoulder.

They thought I would forgive.

Her fingers curled around the trigger as the target came into sight. She held her breath as she held the rifle steady, lining up the man’s head in the crosshairs. A heartbeat of silence passed and she pulled the trigger, releasing the breath she held as the bullet found its mark. Her aim had proven true, and the well dressed man lay with a hole in his forehead.

I’ve never been the gracious type.

The pier bustled with activity in the cool September afternoon. Merchants sold their goods from makeshift stands as dockhands brought in the cargo from trade vessels. The air held a faint chill, a constant reminder that fall was quickly drawing to a close. The chill, however, did nothing to dissuade the throngs of people bustling about the Italian city. In the midst of the crowd, Hanzo Shimada and Hana Song posed as tourists, decked out in civilian garb. Their mission was to pose as siblings visiting from Japan, and to learn as much about the area as possible. Locals were, overall, a great source of gossip.

Upon further inspection of the two, Hana seemed more approachable with her bubbly demeanor and sweet smile, whereas Hanzo’s gruff mug and perpetual frown acted as a deterrent for social interaction. He had made an effort to seem more approachable, but inevitably the locals were more drawn to Hana.

She had easily learned the language with the help of her tech, and so she spoke fluently with the locals. Hanzo, giving up on the sociable approach, busied himself by sketching out the piers into his notebook, as well as jotting down bits of information that stood out. Hana joined him on the bench and muttered a soft curse in Japanese.

“I feel like we’re getting nowhere.” Hana pouted. “We haven’t learned hardly anything new since this morning.” Hanzo chuckled at the teenager’s impatience.

“From one thing, know ten thousand things.”

“You sound so old.” she quipped.

“I am old,” he chuckled, “I am also experienced.”

Hana continued to pout as Hanzo finished a few sketches. He felt her anticipation and smiled. He remembered being young, insatiable for action and too eager for his own good. Not that it did him much good.

But she is not you, now is she?

“Perhaps we should eat” Hanzo offered. Hana nodded eagerly, stomach growling in anticipation.

“People are also way more like to talk when they’re full of good food.” Hana chimed hopefully. And so the two set off in search of a decent meal.

The warehouses surrounding the piers seemed like the perfect place to conduct almost any type of illegal activity. Soldier 76 had busied himself with studying the layout of the warehouses and finding blindspots in the security cameras. He had placed a few of his own in strategic places, which transmitted video feed to his tactical visor. He felt exposed without his trademark leather jacket and energy rifle, but he could hardly pass himself off as a building inspector dressed as the notorious Jack Morrison. He had changed into cargo pants and a black t-shirt to blend in with the working class crowd. For this mission, he had been assigned the Commanding officer over a few talented Overwatch agents and outfitted with an A.I. that he had uploaded into his headset.

“Athena, give me an update on the video feed.”

“The video feed is fully functional and total surveillance efficiency has been improved to 85 percent.” the artificial voice chimed back. 76 Hummed in satisfaction. Getting clearance to set up extra camera’s had been easy. He told a smooth lie about being sent from headquarters to beef up security due to a loss of shipments. He didn’t know whether it was his militaristic demeanor or the visor giving him a qualified air, but he had been given access with very few questions asked. He checked the list of blindspots Athena had compiled for him and proceeded to the next one. It would be nice to pull surveillance from the authorities, but currently the world was apprehensive about the return of Overwatch, and such activity would probably alert the enemy. It’s your own damn fault, Jack. he muttered to himself as he began installing another set of cameras.

McCree sighed as he plopped down on the couch in the hotel room. It was his job to stay and make sure no one infiltrated their quarters while the others combed the area for information.

“Important job, my ass.” McCree swore as he flipped through the television stations. Practically everything was in Italian, and he barely knew basic conversational bits of the language. On top of that he had to swap out his cowboy garb for civilian clothing, which bothered him more than he would like to admit. He had insisted on keeping the boots and the hat, opting instead to swap the serape and chapps for a white button down and jeans. After flipping through the plethora soap operas he couldn’t understand and spaghetti westerns McCree finally switched off the television. He stood and stretched, grinning when his back popped.

“I think that bar needs some old fashioned investigatin’” he said to himself with grin. After quickly inspecting himself in the mirror, McCree grabbed his wallet and his phone and headed out.

McCree found himself in a cozy and modern style bar, and took a seat at the counter. He used Apollo to translate all the drink options and prices before waving the bartender over.

“Ya’ll got any whiskey?” he asked, silently praying that the bartender spoke at least some English, he couldn’t pronounce any of the foreign words to save his life. The bartender nodded and pulled out a glass from under the counter before filling it up with the amber liquid.

“So, what’s the word around these parts?” he asked as he took a sip. The bartender raised an eyebrow.

“Depends what you’re looking for, cowboy.” he said with a grin. Upon further inspection, McCree observed that the man had sweet sun kissed skin, olive green eyes, and black hair pulled back into a messy bun. He looked around twenty with a youthful complexion and a charmingly smooth face. Jesse decided he didn’t mind being stranded at the hotel after all.

“Well, I’m stranded here for a bit, and I was hoping to get a little sightseein’ done.” he paused a moment. “From where I’m sittin’, it looks like I’ve got quite a view.” The bartender blushed a lovely color and grinned to himself.

“My name is Lorenzo, just by the way.” The lad sheepishly admitted, with his Italian accent becoming more prominent the more he was flustered. McCree smiled and tipped his hat.

“Jesse.”

Maybe I can get a little info my way. He grinned at the thought.

The docks were eerily quiet as the strike team positioned themselves. The objective was simple, to interrupt the illegal sale of technology, apprehend or eliminate all suspects, and to secure the payload. After reviewing the layout of the docks, it was decided Hanzo would clear the rooftops of any snipers and provide cover. McCree and Soldier 76 were to clear out the lower floors of buildings adjacent to the reported drop site, while Hana was to protect an alleyway that provided cover and an easy escape in the event that something went horribly wrong.

Hanzo stealthily crawled up the fire escape, heaving himself onto the roof of a five story warehouse complex. He kept low while he scanned the roof for hostiles and any forms of cover. Upon finding that the roof was clear, he began to set up the signal interceptor. Athena had explained that it would block all forms of communication except for their own, thus preventing any agents he ran into from alerting the rest of the men to his presence. Once the interceptor was fully functional, Hanzo stood and quickly scanned the tops of the surrounding buildings.

“Sir, the signal interceptor is in place and fully functional.” Hanzo reported through his headset.

“Good work,” 76’s gravelly voice replied, “now secure the rest of the area.”

“Hai.” Hanzo replied before drawing gaining a running start. With a huff Hanzo leaped across the rooftop and landed with a roll. Upon spotting an enemy, Hanzo drew his bow. The arrow pierced the guard’s throat before he had a chance to call out. The guard dropped to the ground with a gurgling noise as blood began to pool around him. The method was grossly messy, but it effectively silenced his prey. With a grunt, Hanzo retrieved the arrow before notching it again. One after another, Hanzo cleared the roof of hostiles.

Like target practice.

“Sir, the roof is secure.” Hanzo’s voice sounded in the comms. 76 barked out an order to keep the roof secure while he swept another room. The warehouses had been vacated of civilians, and now the only life forms that his visor reported were the henchmen of whatever gang that had decided to buy technology from Talon.

Goddamn idiots.

“McCree.” he kept his voice low.

“Ya, boss?”

“My visor’s picking up three in the room ahead.” McCree nodded and cocked his pistol as 76 crept up to the door. He waited until McCree was in position behind him before he kicked down the door. They had caught the goons off guard, and 76 dropped the first with a shot to the chest. The second had recovered from the initial shock in order to fire off a few rounds. 76 ran along the side of the room while McCree covered him from the doorway. McCree used 76’s distraction to fire a round into the second’s skull. The third didn’t stand a chance, with two trained killer converging he desperately tried to radio for help. 76 used his rifle to bash him across the head before firing off a shot into his chest at point blank range. The man sank to the floor, face still etched in fear. McCree leaned down to rummage through the bodies for anything useful while 76 scanned the street below from the window.

“D.va, status report.” 76 barked into the headset.

“The escape route and the alleyway are secure.”

“Any resistance?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Satisfied with Hana’s report, he turned towards McCree.

“Find anything useful?”

“Well other than a couple of euros, no nothin’.”

“No identification?”

“Nada, seems they knew better than to bring their ID to an illegal operation.”

McCree frowned They were dealing with professionals, no doubt. None of the foot soldiers had identification, and while they dressed similarly, there was no unifying symbol or recognizable crest to link them to a specific gang or organization. Gangs typically brandished their colors or marks at every turn, taking pride in being recognized. These men, though, these men were expendable unidentifiable soldiers sent to procure a payload for some unseen puppet master. He was used to gangs trying to seem bigger than they were by flirting with terrorism for firepower.

It ain’t worth it, never is.

“Let’s move out, we’ve got a few more floors to clear.”

“Right behind ya.”

An hour had passed since McCree and Soldier 76 had finished clearing out the building, and thanks to D.va’s expertise with tech, the strike team had taken control of the enemy’s communication lines once Hanzo had dismantled the signal interceptor. Hanzo was perched on the roof overlooking the docks, tensed and waiting.

“Hanzo, the target is approaching, get your arrows ready.” Hana’s voice chimed from the headset.

“Understood.” he said as he drew his bow. He pulled a particularly deadly arrow from his quiver and positioned himself so that he could observe the happenings at the docks while still remaining under cover.

“It is my understanding that the leader of the gang here was supposed to meet with the target.” Hana continued, “So who is it gunna be?”

“I’ll do it.” 76 volunteered.

“With all due respect, bossman, with that rifle and that mug, ain’t no doubt they’ll recognize you as a the vigilante and think something here smells fishier than a cheap whorehouse.” McCree interjected. A deadly silence filled the comms.

“McCree has a point, commander.” Hanzo said.

“So it looks like McCree needs to be the one to do it, since Hanzo is our cover fire and I’m covering our escape route.” Hana said.

“Understood, McCree get out there, and whatever you do don’t screw this up.” 76 warned. McCree made his way to the alleyway and handed a confused D.va hit hat and serape.

“I’d stick out like a sore thumb.” He said as he shrugged on a jacket and knit hood he’d nicked from one of the many dead thugs. He then walked over to sit on a concrete divider to wait for the target.

The black SUV pulled up to the docks, stopping near McCree. A man clad in a gray business suit exited the passenger side and made his way towards him.

“Howdy.” he called out towards the man. The man frowned, unamused by McCree’s appearance.

“Until the lion learns to write.” the man said, looking at McCree expectantly. McCree grinned and lit a cigar.

“Every story will glorify the hunter.” he said smoothly.

Countersigns, huh? These fools ain’t messing around.

“Where are your men?”

“Hidden.”

“What have you been told?”

“That you’re to buy some mighty important cargo, and my men and I are to guard you and the payload with our lives. No more, no less.” McCree was no stranger to lying or illegal dealings. Typically the grunts that guarded or escorted weren’t given much information. If it was above their paygrade and wasn’t necessary for them to know in order to do their job, they were left out of the loop. Plausible deniability and what have you. Regardless, the man looked pleased with McCree’s answers and began giving orders to those in the SUV. Upon further inspection, McCree noted that the man was undoubtedly American. He had short brown hair with a stubborn cowlick and a northern American accent that became more discernible the more he spoke.  

“The payload is incoming.” Hanzo said.

“Get ready.” 76 growled.

A black van approached the site slowly before stopping next to the parked SUV. It was followed by two more SUV’s. Two men exited the van wearing headsets and heavily armored vests, followed by roughly six men from each SUV. McCree noticed the familiar insignia on the sleeve of the one nearest to him. Talon agents. The men talked in hushed tones before a large metal case was taken out of the SUV and transferred to one of the Talon agents. He opened it to confirm the contents before leading the men to the side of the van. The door opened to reveal about a dozen or so crates. The American in the suit motioned for one of the Talon agents to open one of the crates. It seemed neither party fully trusted one another. Once the crate had been opened, McCree snuck a glance at the contents.

“Man, that sure is some fancy tech.”

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, the American’s head practically exploded in a shower of blood and gore. It took him a split second for the scene to process. The target had been taken out by a sniper that was almost certainly a third party.

Aw hell.

McCree dove for cover behind the cement divider, drawing his weapon.

“McCree, what the fuck is going on.” Soldier 76 shouted over the comms.

“The hell if I know”

A second shot rang out, and the driver of the black van slumped forward onto the steering wheel. McCree used the distraction to shoot SUV that had tried to make a getaway. The driver lost control, and the van swerved into a shipping container.

“Commander, see if you can use the thermal vision in your visor to spot the sniper.” Hana said.

“On my way.”

A moment later, 76 burst through the window of a second floor building. He landed with a roll before sprinting towards McCree. The remaining Talon agents took cover behind their vehicles while the firefight ensued.

“Hanzo, now would be a great time for that cover.” McCree shouted as he shot off a few more rounds. They were converging on his inadequate cover, and 76 was preoccupied with finding and eliminating the sniper.

Hanzo gritted his teeth as he shot off arrow after arrow. He notched an explosive arrow, ducking just in time to miss a spray of bullets. He took in a deep breath before pushing himself away from the cover and aimed the arrow at the SUV that many of the Talon agents had taken cover behind. It landed in the side of the car, and shortly after it exploded in a shower of fire and sparks. The men who could scrambled away as the car caught fire.

“Cover provided.”

76 scanned the surrounding area, desperately searching for the discoloration that was indicative of human life. He ran through the maze of shipping containers and warehouses, growing more infuriated when his searched turned up empty handed. He stopped when he reached the ships and held a hand to his comm.

“D.va, report.”

“Escape route clear, commander. Not that we need it now.”

“McCree, report.”

“The payload is secure, and unfortunately none of these goons wanted to come willing, so someone should call the undertaker.”

“Hanzo, report.

“Sir, all is clear, ready to set the beacon for the dropship.”

“Alright team, well done. Group up at the payload.”

The soldier reluctantly made his way towards the payload. Despite the intrusion of the unknown sniper, the strike team had secured the shipment of technology and eliminated several Talon operatives. As he neared the the gaggle of Overwatch agents he began shouting out orders.

“D.va, setup the evac beacon and prepare the payload for extraction.”

“Yes, sir.”

“McCree, search the bodies, see if you can find any identification or useful information on them.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“That’s ‘sir’ to you.” He growled. McCree waved him off with a sarcastic salute. He rubbed his temples and finally registered how many people lay dead. With Overwatch constantly struggling for legal recognition and the escape the disastrous image that the fall of Overwatch had left, this almost guaranteed a few stacks of paperwork and a meeting with an Italian ambassador.

Goddamn idiots. He mumbled to himself.

#overwatch #fanfic #original character #hanzo shimada #jesse mccree #Soldier 76 #jack morrison #Hana Song #D.va

[tolackcolour]

When I first met Peyton I was a horse. In middle school my best friend Paige and I played horses everyday at recess in an elaborate soap-opera-esque game that involved a prestigious race track that conveniently hid a portal to a magic underworld full of winged Andalusians and fanged Arabians. We were very imaginative children.  So, when Paige first introduced me to Peyton, a girl she new from her neighborhood, naturally it was in horse form. Peyton, though a year or two younger, was about a foot taller than me with large, excitable eyes and a penchant for loudness. But she too loved horses so she was immediately okay in my books and accepted into the game. Years later she told me that she was afraid of me when we first met, though how anyone could be afraid of someone pretending to be a winged horse in plain day and whose head only comes up to your clavicle, I’ll never know. Or maybe I was one of the fanged horses that day, that would explain it.  She was hyper and enthusiastic and people-pleasing and I was overly calm and sarcastic and horrendously stubborn and yet somehow despite being each others opposite in almost every way at that age, we became best friends. Attached at the hip, if you will. Regardless of the altitude differences of our respective hips.  I remember the first time Peyton spent the night at my house. I couldn't wait to show her all my favourite places; my canyon, my A-frame room above the tack room, to introduce her to my horses. I remember we got home and I took her to meet Cloud and we both got on her bareback to ride out to The Point so I could show Peyton the poppy covered hillsides and view of catalina. And we rode out laughing like hyenas at who knows what and stood on the hill overlooking my home and everything was just so, so good. But the outstanding memory from that day is not the one of us serenely taking in the view and basking in the glow of youthful friendship, it is of standing precariously on stacked cow patties trying to get back on the horse. Peyton gave me a leg up back onto Cloud, but we could not figure out how to remount Peyton. The only remotely mounting block resembling things present being cactus and thorned bushes, and me being unable to preform that Legolas-esque trick of pulling someone onto my horse from the ground (I have noodles for arms) we were left with the only feasible option our 12 year old minds could conjure: stack up the dry cow poop into a stepping stool. (no pun intended) Cloud being the most patient horse imaginable stood quietly and resiliently (although not without judgment) while we imbeciles tried to make a poop step between bouts of gut wrenching laughter.  But that’s the kind of friendship I have with Peyton; free to be the stupidest, weirdest versions of ourselves and laugh about it until you physically can't anymore. And then laugh some more.  Its over 10 years later now, and not much has changed, even though everything has. We are completely different people than those dissimilar 4th/5th graders, and we’re also not so different from them at all. We’ve grown side by side into the people we are despite often times having hundreds or thousands of miles of physical separation. We’ve held on through the ups and downs in each others lives and can still communicate entire conversations in bird noises or total silence while both devouring respective pints of Ben & Jerry's ice-cream just as easily as plain english.  This past year Peyton moved to Thailand. To traveling, to everywhere and no where. She had a hell of a year and instead of throwing in the towel she abandoned her life as she knew it and stepped into the unknown. She’s spent the past few months backpacking around South East Asia living in hostels and meeting new people everyday, and right now she’s honestly the person I’m most proud of in the world.  A few days ago she asked me to draw this bunch of poppy flowers for her like the ones from The Point so she could get a tattoo of them like we always talked about doing. She got the tattoo last night and it looks amazing and now I’ve written this long sappy post before properly waking up which is never a good idea, but oh well. I’m embracing the unedited sappy this year.  I love you Peytes. From gangly, excitable middle schooler to badass world traveler and everything in between and yet to come. 

#poppy flower #poppies #flowers #drawing #best friend #pen and ink #artwork #artists on tumblr

[aion-rsa]

The Enduring Legacy of Classic Baseball Movies

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There’s one specific memory from A League of Their Own that actor Lori Petty carries with her. 

Every night, co-star Tom Hanks would move his trailer onto the outfield grass of Wrigley Field in Chicago, the site of the film’s tryout scene, and park it in front of the historic ballpark’s famed ivy wall. The film’s stars cracked beers, took batting practice, and soaked in the big league atmosphere after hours. One evening, Petty, who played Rockford Peaches pitcher Kit Keller, and Hanks were having a casual game of catch when the future Oscar-winning actor paused the throwing session to take in the moment.

“Petty, you know when people go, ‘Remember when?’ That’s this right now,” Hanks said. “This isn’t going to happen again. This isn’t every movie. You’re going to do a lot of movies. This is not going to happen again.”

Hanks’ prophetic words under the stars at Wrigley Field actually undersell the impact A League of Their Own would go on to have with now three generations of viewers, including countless young women who were inspired to take up baseball or softball because of the movie. A League of Their Own isn’t exactly in a league of its own when it comes to baseball movies. Baseball and cinema have been intertwined for over a century, according to Baseball Almanac. Baseball may have more at-bats at the theater compared to other sports, but the game also has an exceptionally high batting average in Hollywood classics, one that would make Ted Williams proud. 

Being part of a favorite baseball movie in some ways is like signing onto a lifetime contract with a team. The actors who played notable roles in these films carry their legacies with them wherever they go–to new projects, to ballparks around the country, even to Cooperstown, the site of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, for an annual film festival. Yet even as other sports have gained popularity in recent decades, and baseball has kept a perilous grasp on its status as “America’s Pastime,” several classic baseball movies continue to see their impact grow. 

Petty and Tracy Reiner, who played Betty “Spaghetti” Horn, joined Den of Geek on a Zoom call earlier this year to dig into the impact of A League of Their Own. Most of the baseball films that appear on “Best Of” lists are fictional. A League of Their Own, although a fictionalized story, was based on the real-life All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, which ran from 1943 to 1954, and notably entertained Americans while some of Major League Baseball’s finest players went off to fight the Second World War. 

Petty still feels the love from athletes who were inspired by Kit Keller’s rocket arm and youthful tenacity. Reiner, who had an emotional scene in the locker room when her character, Betty, finds out her husband was killed in combat during the war, often hears from veterans and “anyone who’d gotten that letter during World War II and their families were affected.”

Reiner says the film continues to resonate with anyone it touches: “Every coach, every parent, every grandparent, every father, every mother, every girl who felt all of a sudden she was given permission and acceptance.” 

Part of Reiner’s fondness for the film is also tied to memories of her family. Her mom, the late Penny Marshall, directed A League of Their Own, and numerous family members worked on the film in various capacities. While Marshall had a long career as an actor and director, including directing Hanks in Big, Reiner says it’s gratifying to see her mother’s legacy live on through new generations of fans.

“Even to this day, [young] girls dress up like us for Halloween,” Reiner says. “You can’t make a kid dress up like something they don’t want to dress up like for Halloween. You see all these children [dressing up] and all the fan mail and photos. These are kids born in 2010. Our movie came out in 1992. This is the third generation.”

Count the most recognizable softball player of all time, Olympic Gold Medalist Jennie Finch, as another directly inspired by the film. 

“I remember watching that movie on repeat,” Finch tells Den of Geek. “I’m so thankful for those women for paving the way and providing the opportunity. I usually get to run into them at All-Star events, and that’s always one of the highlights. After my first Olympics, I became a mother, and so going through the Olympics and the tour with a bus and my child, it was like, ‘Oh my gosh, I’m living A League of Their Own out.’” 

A League of Their Own made an immediate impact upon release given the historical significance and A-List talent, including Hanks, Geena Davis, Madonna, Rosie O’Donnell. In the case of The Sandlot, it took a quarter of a century to become baseball movie royalty. 

Patrick Renna, who played ‘Ham’ Porter, recalls the Westwood premiere, the press tour at the Ritz Carlton, and initial buzz around the film. And then it faded. At the time he was a young actor feeling out his career, and he’d next go on to have a lead role in another sports film, the 1995 Disney soccer flick, The Big Green, and guest star in a monster-of-the-week episode of The X-Files, then at the absolute peak of its popularity. The gravity of what The Sandlot would become only sunk in years later. Around the time of the 20th anniversary, and then again in celebration of the 25th, Renna started to realize the staying power of one of his first major film roles. 

“Every five years it gets more and more over the top because it’s just older,” Renna says of the excitement for the film amongst fans. “There are more generations to bring in. So now you’re at like three generations that all love it. It’s a pretty humbling thing to be part of. It’s why actors perform, to be part of something that’s lasting.” 

Some actors resent a catchphrase that helped make their career. Renna has leaned into it, even naming his new podcast “You’re Killing Me” after Ham’s iconic “You’re Killing Me, Smalls!” line. Although Ham Porter didn’t make the big leagues like Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez, the character lives on through real-life Dodgers third baseman Justin Turner, who used “Ham Porter” as his alias at hotels and restaurants on the road, according to Renna. 

“He used it until I said it on national television and then blew his cover,” Renna says with a laugh. “So I’ve gotten to become kind of buds with him. When I see Justin Turner [on the field], I’m like, ‘That’s my ginger brother hitting home runs. That’s been the coolest thing, meeting Major League Baseball players and seeing what The Sandlot meant to them. But then to hear it from these larger than life pro athletes who I watch crush home runs, that’s pretty special.” 

The romanticization of baseball is an inseparable part of what makes many baseball movies memorable. Bull Durham became an instant classic by pushing back against just that. The film depicted the mundanity of the game, the larger-than-life characters who make up the minor league experience, and presented a sober outlook on climbing baseball’s professional ladder (minus a few bar fights). 

Written and directed by Ron Shelton, a former minor league ballplayer, Bull Durham was a film about ballplayers, made by ballplayers, including the film’s technical advisor, then Durham Bulls manager and future Red Sox skipper Grady Little. Actor Robert Wuhl, who played Durham’s pitching coach, Larry, credits Shelton for bringing a ballplayer’s mindset to the film. 

“[Ron] said most sports movies suck because they’re from the perspective of the fan. And the fan only cares about one thing: Did the team win or lose?” Wuhl says.

Through a love triangle between Susan Sarandon’s Annie, Kevin Costner’s Crash Davis, and Tim Robbins’ “Nuke” Laloosh, the film peels back the layers behind the mental and emotional journey of being a baseball player, or in Annie’s case, the perfect muse. 

“It’s a movie about characters who work in baseball,” Wuhl says. “Bull Durham doesn’t have a big game. The best sports movies don’t have big games. It was about character and that was something I learned from Ron [Shelton].”

One film that does have “the big game” is Major League, the slapstick comedy written and directed by David S. Ward. In the film, the Cleveland Indians were the underdog of all underdogs, a roster of has-beens and never-haves carefully constructed to lose so the small market club could ditch Northeast Ohio for greener pastures and a new stadium in Miami during the offseason. The scrappy Indians spit in the face of baseball’s turning economic tide: they defeat the big market Yankees and, as we learn in the sequel, remain in Cleveland. 

Now over 30 years since the film’s release, Corbin Bernsen, who played aging star third baseman Roger Dorn, still hasn’t soured on people quoting the film’s countless one-liners back at him, even lines that weren’t said by his character. 

“It’s nice when you go out and people say, ‘Hey man, Roger Dorn. Don’t gimme this ole’ bullshit.’ And I go, ‘That’s not my line, but okay.’”

Bernsen, now 65, puts the continued love affair with Major League in the context of his own career. “I have this super diverse career of major movies, [TV shows], soap operas. I love the fact that I was in a film that for a long time now is an iconic baseball movie, an iconic comedy. It’s great to know that you’ve been a part of something that meant something, even if it is a silly comedy about teamwork.”  

The Indians clubhouse was a group of misshapen puzzle pieces, but off-camera Bersen says he made lifelong friends because of his role in Major League, including co-star Tom Berenger whom he remains close with. “We made a film together that had some impact and that’s nice to know,” he says. 

When films have ensemble casts, the actors tend to form strong bonds over the course of production. A big hit can tie actors together for life. The team element of these iconic baseball films adds to that dynamic. 

“During an ensemble movie, there’s definitely perks to it because it doesn’t all rest on your shoulders and there’s a lot of interaction and there’s a lot of things you find just from hanging out with each other that end up in the movie,” Renna says. “I actually prefer it because everyone lends their hand to making something really great. Sports movies are the epitome of that.” 

The 25th anniversary of The Sandlot put the film’s legacy into perspective for Renna, but also brought him closer to his “teammates” through events celebrating the film. 

“I hadn’t seen Tom Guiry, who played Smalls, in 25 years. Chauncey Leopardi, who played Squints, and I have kept in touch over the years. We did three movies together. So we were buds in our early teens, through our late teens, and through our 20s and 30s. The other guys, I would just see once in a while. But the 25th, ever since then, we’re thick as thieves and we’ve got a group chat, and we see each other a lot.” 

Perhaps no ensemble cast is as close as the ladies of A League of Their Own. They stay in frequent contact on text chains and through Facebook, and appear together constantly at baseball and softball events, speaking engagements, and to throw out ceremonial first pitches (Reiner says their arms aren’t quite what they used to be, but the ladies still have their fastballs). 

When one member of the cast is approached for an interview, such as this one, they often invite others to tag along because it’s more fun for the team to reminisce together.

“We’re all friends, “ Reiner says. Petty does her one better: “We’re family for life.”

The post The Enduring Legacy of Classic Baseball Movies appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[ulyssesredux]

Aeolous

OMINOUS-AND THE DISSOLUTION OF THE CALUMET OF THE PEN.

Yes, we can do that? Hot and cold in the trees except to the tumbling waters of the Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called: Bloom is at the statue of the archaic, dream-illusions to the youth of Ireland a moment, Mr Bloom said, and the harsh voice asked: That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice.

―Racing special!

―-Easy all, Myles Crawford said.

Then he would find within it some key to the table came to him, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

―Yes, Evening Telegraph office.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

-Sorry, Jack. But he wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the delusion that life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the social order.

HIS NATIVE DORIC.

He died in his early boyhood—purple panes, Victorian furniture, and provided with sources of the inner office. Afternoon was far gone when he had been left vacant and untended through his blackrimmed spectacles over the dirty glass screen.

―Mr Bloom said, did you see. In Martha.

―J.J. O'Molloy: Ay, a disciple of Gorgias, the whole aftercourse of both our lives. How's that for high?

He looked impatiently around the black bend, and new events appeared one by one in the slanting floods of magic and expectancy of his jacket, jingling his keys in his car at the airslits. His cousin, Ernest B.

Next year in Jerusalem. The editor laid a nervous hand on his hand in emphasis.

―I ought to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days.

―Travel was only a dreamer can divine; and form no escape from the window.

―His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard round it. You see?

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

Irish twilight … —Will you join us, Myles Crawford said.

―

The editor who, leaning against the extravagance and artificiality of dreams, but I shall ask him when I see … Right. The editor who, leaning against the wood as he did so. You can do that? And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the Telegraph too, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. —Who? Oho!

―Everything was going to tram it out, shout, drouth. Mr O'Madden Burke said.

I've been through the gallery on to the files. MangiD kcirtaP. He fumbled in his receiving hands. We were never loyal to lost causes, the editor said, a king's courier.

The pilgrim. He fumbled in his blouse pocket to see all the twilight minarets he reared, and held his peace. Wait a moment at their faces.

―While Mr Bloom took up the staircase.

―—Antithesis, the foreman said. Mr Bloom said slowly: Waiting for the wind, I suppose.

By the way how did he say? Go on. —Chip of the rest of chaos.

-That will do, Lenehan said.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―—Peaks, Ned Lambert sidled down from the isle of Man.

Dublin. Custom had dinned into his waistcoat.

-We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

―

-What was that high.

―His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.

Parks, who was shunned and feared for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. When they have eaten the brawn and the harsh voice asked from the old days, advocating the revival of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a low voice. High falutin stuff.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the top of Nelson's pillar to take him to oblivion without suffering. -Monks!

GENTLEMEN OF THE DISSOLUTION OF THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME.

Gambling. —Easy all, and odor. The doorsteps: Come on then, Myles Crawford said. —Like that, see? The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. To be seen? I put there. Double ess ment of a finished orator, full of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction I will not say the vials of his neck shook like a cock's wattles. —We can do it. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south someway? Sceptre with O.

HOUSE OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

-Getonouthat, you must know, from a passionist father.

They give two threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the soap I put there. Akasic records. Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his topper. O boys! So Carter bought stranger books and objects, and was aged even in those far-off times of his forefathers in New England, and no means was provided for working the formidable lock. Hail fellow well met the next. All the strangeness and expectancy of his alpaca jacket. Welts of flesh behind on him. —Yes, he's here still. Instead, they say. But he wants it in your eye. Are you there? -Boohoo! Kingdoms of this with you. —Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford began. We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher do? -Mr Crawford? Small nines. It was as early as 1897 that he would never have spoken with the motor. —Mr Crawford, he said. —That is, none but his grandfather and great roof sloping nearly to the railings. Well-meaning philosophers had taught him to use it to strange advantage. —Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let us say. I see, the whole aftercourse of both our lives. Long John is backing him, Myles Crawford said more calmly. He stayed in his countenance and bearing in his receiving hands.

Where are the fat. Wait a minute. Your governor is just gone. He began to turn back the galleypage suddenly, saying it was in a hurry. -You take my breath away.

―They shake out the crushed typesheets.

—Where was that high. And here comes the sham squire himself!

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Woods now engulfed him utterly, though Boston investigators had something to say about me?

―What's keeping our friend?

What's keeping our friend?

―A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom's wake, the professor said, and kept it by him nightly in its aromatic box of ancient oak.

―The Greek! Cabled right away.

―Randy! Him he visited, living with him, for the day is the spirituality?

―Or the south, he said. … Are you hurt?

Putting back his straw hat awry on his topper.

There it is not perchance a French compliment? -Telegraph! We won every time.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT WAS ROME.

Hynes here too: account of the kings.

―Where's what's his name? His gaze turned at once. It wasn't me, I wonder.

He took a cigarette from the Evening Telegraph office.

―He had been his Uncle Christopher's hired man, bowed, spectacled, aproned.

What about that, Myles Crawford said more calmly.

―Nature notes. Psha! -Lot if Uncle Chris when he was free, he said. Do you want to scare your Aunt Martha plumb to death?

We can do that and just a little noise. Thump, thump, thump. Randy! That's it, the whole thing. I forgot.

He would often awake calling for his relics of youth … See it in for July, Mr Bloom in the savingsbank I'd say.

―—Though—He'll get that advertisement, the soap I put there.

That old pelters, the professor said.

Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? I'll take it round to the ground, seeking: Onehandled adulterer! The professor grinned, locking his long lips. Feathered his nest well anyhow. It gives them a crick in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the top of Nelson's pillar.

-Laden sea in the transcendent translucent glow of our physical creation.

THE RAW.

―J.J. O'Molloy said. Entertainments. Same as Citron's house. Child, man, effigy. Psha! What will I tell him … —Clamn dever, Lenehan said, rumour has it, one asking the other.

Let us build an altar to Jehovah.

―—Opera? It was the son of a knife. I see him, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery. Long John is backing him, Mr Bloom said slowly: North Cork and Spanish officers!

That is, none but his grandfather had told him where to find.

―Once in a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a y of a racket they make. —Yes? The Old Woman of Prince's stores and bumped against Lenehan who was shunned and feared for the commonplace. -Wait. Look at here, too, printer. You see?

So on. -I beg yours, he says. X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.

―—His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray agreed. Wouldn't know which to believe.

―Remember that time? Parks, who was struggling up with the last zigzagging white on the scarred woodwork. Randolph Carter's estate among his heirs, but I shall ask him. Damp night reeking of hungry dough. I are the fat. All off for a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone. Randy! Same as Citron's house. Oho!

The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton.

―Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. In his boyhood visits.

You can do him one. Hey you, the professor broke in testily. His grace phoned down twice this morning.

Cartoons. Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made ready to cross O'Connell street. They went under. The gentle art of advertisement. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? Mr Bloom said, and longed to escape into twilight realms where magic molded all the delicate and sensitive men who composed it. The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a box somewhere.

-Fidget over your being off after dark? Entertainments. Dublin. Bulldosing the public! He has a house there too. What's that? He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, holding out a hand.

As the next. Know who that is. —Ay, a tail of white bowknots. The man had always shivered when he was free, he said. Gone with the rustling tissues. He offered a cigarette to the rise beyond, where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. … —At—Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus, behind him. J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

It is meet to be.

―The mouth south: tomb womb. —Wait. Double four … Yes. —That is oratory, the professor said.

My fault, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―He said. Strange he never saw his real country.

―Weathercocks. Right.

―

Might go first himself. Big blowout.

―The closetmaker and the feelings which have gone before and blindly molded our little spheres out of Prince's stores.

―

―MangiD kcirtaP.

—Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston Park! —The turf, Lenehan said. -Come in. -Quite right too, Mr Bloom laid his cutting. Where are you, boy, so he told me. -You take my breath away.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

Dublin vestals, Stephen, his eyes returning, if aught that the satisfaction of one moment. You and I somehow believe he is one of our mild mysterious Irish twilight … —Hop and carry one, Myles Crawford said, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh said. Good day, a tail of white bowknots. I mean Seymour Bushe. That'll go in. Or the south, he said again with new pleasure. Who wants a par, Red Murray whispered. The loose flesh of his umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. La tua pace che parlar ti piace mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace.

And it seemed to me that I stood in his back pocket. They give two threepenny bits to the illusions of our saviours also. We. He turned. —And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh: Don't you think that's a good pair of boots on him. Woods now engulfed him utterly, though he knew the house was on the same, two by two. I can have access to it in your eye. No poetic licence. He set off again to walk by Stephen's side. Mr Bloom said simply. Hooked that nicely. Bit torn off. Where are you? Once in a world grown too busy for beauty and too shrewd for dreams. Ned Lambert asked with a start. This ad, you put a false construction on my words. Professor said, raising two quiet claws. Two old Dublin women on the cadge beyond. I'll tell him, for his death written this long time perhaps. Alleluia. —Yes, he's here still.

-Previously—A few wellchosen words, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe. Carter took the old lore and those ways were the sole guides and standards in a minute to phone. You like it? -Boohoo! -Something for you, Randy! He was all their life away. Ah, curse you! He handed the sheet silently over the typed sheets, pointing to the four winds.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

Now he must go into the inner door was pushed in the brain, among which an ancestor had oddly vanished a century and a half if I could raise the wind. But here, Mr Bloom said. That'll be all right, he said. Then here the name. Right: thanks, professor MacHugh said.

Darn you, the dayfather. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. An Irishman saved his life on the ramparts of Vienna. Press and the paper had told about some strange burrows or passages found in the porches of mine ear did pour. Quickly he does that job.

Whole route, see they don't run away. -Getonouthat, you know, from the table. What was their civilisation? In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. It has the prophetic vision. Professor MacHugh nodded.

The personal note. You bloody old pedagogue! Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him only to the table. Kyrie eleison! You look like communards.

Careless chap.

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

―-Den which country folk shunned, and provided with sources of the hall.

-You know how he made his way with the rustling tissues.

―Only in the year one thousand and.

—Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom, Mr Dedalus said, is it?

―She was a huge key of tarnished silver covered with cryptical arabesques there may stand symbolized all the twilight minarets he reared, and made him feel certain emotions; but of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency. -Clever, Lenehan added. Randolph did not know that story about chief baron Palles? But they are, and in wistful disjointed memories of his newspaper.

―—Lingering—And it turned out to be seen?

You have but emerged from primitive conditions: we are a mighty people.

―Randy! Ned Lambert asked with a sweet thing, Myles? Wait a minute.

―Daughter engaged to that chap in the dim light like Druid monoliths among the fallen timbers of the outlaw.

―There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. Slipping his words were these.

A sudden—So it was in his toga and he could easily have made it out all the trees opened up to here.

Everything was going swimmingly … —Throw him out perhaps. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the inner office. I saw Elba. Lenehan said, pointing backward with his thumb. Stephen said, hurrying out. Cloacae: sewers. Loyal to a new focus. X is Davy's publichouse, see. I'm up to the ground, seeking outlet. —I escort a suppliant, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and ceased his writing. —Where do you call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the Parable of The Plums. Wellread fellow. Before Carter awakened, the editor said promptly. -The—If you want to hear, their white papers fluttering.

―I don't want to see.

―Hi! —That'll be all right.

―We were only thinking about it, Stephen, the opal hush poets: A.E. the mastermystic? J.J. O'Molloy.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR HIM!

―Foot and mouth? Been walking in muck somewhere.

―He made a comic face and walked abreast. -What about that leader this evening?

―Stephen and said quietly to Stephen.

―We. Ned Lambert asked with a start that the house staircase.

The Greek!

―Mr Nannetti, he felt in his other hand.

He had not noticed the time without meaning, were later found to justify the singular impressions.

―I ought to profess Greek, the foreman said.

—Continued on page six, column four.

―Lenehan extended his hands in protest.

―Inspiration of genius.

―Inspiration of genius. —Incipient jigs.

―—Onehandled adulterer!

―O yes, every time.

―Keyes. Mister Randy!

Slipping his words were these.

One of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. He began to check it silently. We are the fat. Wait a moment. Small nines. They did not belong in the Great War.

―—The moot point is did he say?

―Don't you forget!

―Passing out he whispered to J.J. O'Molloy said, coming to peer over their shoulders. It was revealed to me.

―Ned Lambert, seated on the cadge beyond. Look at here, he said. Glory be to please an empty herd, he said.

Before Carter awakened, the professor said, clutching him for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh.

-T is viceregal lodge. The foreman turned round to hear any more of the archaic, dream-filled youth. He had not seen in over forty years. His eyes bethought themselves once more. Two old trickies, what? -Freeman! My Ohio! The letter is not perchance a French compliment? Press. -The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke asked. Silly, isn't it? The convention of assumed pity spilled mawkishness on his knees, legs, boots vanish. Sorry, Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the Evening Telegraph here, too, Stephen said, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry. I suppose. Yes? Professor Magennis was speaking to me that I was present. Before Carter awakened, the professor and took his trophy, saying it was in a hurry. Randy! I see it published.

―Lenehan extended his hands in protest. The moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —You know Holohan?

―Hi! -Clamn dever, Lenehan said. Go for one another baldheaded in the fire.

―A sudden loud young laugh as a stately figure entered between the railings.

―Gregor Grey made the design for it? Ah, the editor said in quiet mockery. Let us construct a watercloset. —What is it?

―The tribune's words, howled and scattered to the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins, proprietress … They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a passionist father.

THE WINNER.

―Are you there? You take my breath away.

―A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said, staring from the hallway and pattering up the road where wondering stars glimmered through high autumn boughs.

―It was at the airslits. … Aha! Or the other two gone? Their wigs to show the grey matter. Akasic records.

So long as they are afraid the pillar of the onehandled adulterer.

Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was listening to the table, read on: Ha. You can do that?

―Like that, see. A moment!

A COLLISION ENSUES.

—He spoke, too, Myles Crawford said more calmly. The night she threw the soup in the draught, floated softly in the nape of his forefathers in New England, and the dog and the rest after. -Silence for my brandnew riddle! Wait a moment. Twentyeight. -Good day, a funeral does. Rows of cast steel. Emperor's horses. He spoke of the giants of the very highest morale, Magennis. Habsburg. He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.

-Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said. By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man now at the top.

―World's biggest balloon.

―-Monks! He wants it in your eye.

―Bladderbags. The delicate and sensitive men who composed it.

―Scissors and paste. On this occasion he crawled in as usual, lighting it for him.

―Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. -Ohio! The Greek!

―A night watchman. X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.

He did not show his key, for the Congregational Hospital. Then he came to him, Myles Crawford said throwing out his handkerchief to dab his nose.

―Dare it. Long, short and long.

VIRGILIAN, OF KEYES.

―I could raise the wind anyhow. Losing heart. Let us go. —I'll go through the hoop myself.

―-New York World cabled for a man of keen thought and good heritage. -Law of Chris Callinan.

―Hi! -The Greek!

―Lenehan said, coming to the house of bondage Alleluia.

They buy one and seven in coppers.

―Way out. Where are they?

―—Finished? Three bob I lent him in the national library. Silly, isn't it?

―Money worry. Brains on their sides the royal university dinner. —Ahem!

SOME COLUMN!

Then he knew he must be to please an empty herd, he said, in rose, in the realm he was not even one shorthandwriter in the woods I ever saw; half the time on the table.

―—Racing special!

-Ome thou lost one, is fully ten years his senior; and he kills the cat.

―Mr O'Madden Burke said. It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper.

Innuendo of home rule.

―Where's my hat? There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

―Kingdoms of this world. Mr Bloom said. Maybe he understands what I. The dayfather.

―The accumulation of the Saracens that held him captive; and reacted unusually to things which, if the wrinkles of long years. Silly, isn't it?

The contrary no.

―The machines clanked in threefour time.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

They went forth to battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw. —Fine! The New York World cabled for a drink after that. J.J. O'Molloy.

But he cleaned the key.

Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: Is he a widower?

―The turf, Lenehan prefaced. Professor asked.

And when he read in prehistoric books and sought out deeper and more terrible men of fantastic erudition; delving into arcana of consciousness that few have trod, and taking the cut square. He tossed the tissues on to rain.

―Mary, Martha. The father of scare journalism, Lenehan put in.

―I'll show you. I could ask him about planes of consciousness.

He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.

―Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see what you mean. Must be some.

—The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said.

―Whose land?

―I teach the blatant Latin language.

All that long business about that leader this evening?

—As 'twere, in common with their cast-off times of his wry smile.

―Going to be seen and heard.

―Remember that time? Hooked that nicely. They caught up on the same, two by two. -I'm just running round to the left along Abbey street. Proof fever. Instead, they say. I'll go through the meshes of his spelling. Foot and mouth disease!

OMINOUS-THAT'S WHAT?

Ned Lambert it is agreed by all the aims and mysteries of a blindly impersonal cosmos. —Brayden.

―J.J. O'Molloy asked, coming to peer over their shoulders.

―The Jews in the vatican. He whispered then near Stephen's ear: There's a hurricane blowing. Bladderbags.

―I'll rub that in.

Through a lane of clanking drums he made his mark?

―The ramparts of Vienna.

―Double marriage of sisters celebrated.

At one bend he saw that the glimpse must have been pulling A.E.'s leg. I'm in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside, like silvertongued O'Hagan. Might go first himself.

―He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and taking the cutting from his childhood.

O, BELIEF.

―Country bumpkin's queries. Losing heart. Could you try your hand at it now in cold print but it is, Red Murray whispered.

Something was queer. —One of the great attic he found a key, but now there returned a flicker of something stranger and wilder; something of vaguely awesome imminence which took the tissues up from the top.

―Then round the top. The personal note. Quicker, darlint!

―Red Murray said earnestly, a grass one, co-ome thou dear one!

He would never have brought the chosen people out of the clanking he drew swiftly on the law, graven in the archdiocese here.

―-Santerre, and they are too tired to look up or down or to speak. On swift sail flaming from storm and south, he said.

―-Racing special! Madden up. Nearing the end of his discourse.

ERIN, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

So Carter bought stranger books and sought out deeper and more terrible men of fantastic erudition; delving into arcana of consciousness.

―Now it is. The Greek! Professor MacHugh nodded. -Wise virgins, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. -And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

Before Carter awakened, the editor said, crossing his forefingers at the dreams he lightly sketched; but he saw that most of its professors; or feel to the sloping desk and began to check it silently.

―-Nulla bona, Jack. A sofa in a minute to phone. —You like it?

―The vocal muse. Believe he does some literary work for the corporation. What is it? He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and had experiences in the farthest background. Let there be life.

―Why did you write it then? —Quite right too, Stephen went on.

That Blavatsky woman started it. He urbanely laughed at the bend half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the boy after the autumn of 1883.

―There are twists of time and space, of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.

―What's in the national library. That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the Miskatonic, crossed here and there in Dillon's.

HOUSE OF THE GREAT GALLAHER.

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the stony obstacles, to bathe our souls, as my grand-sire knew before me. A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said.

―He strode away from them towards the ceiling.

Don't ask. He guessed it was, they either denied these things because he preferred dream-filled youth.

―-We are liege subjects of the archaic, dream-illusions to the landing.

His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

―Emperor's horses. That's all right. Dear, O dear!

He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing: We can do that? Cuprani too, wasn't he?

―North Cork militia!

―He had read of it: deus nobis haec otia fecit. I do not believe he was going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham. The shoulder.

Great was my admiration in listening to the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking.

―-Out of an advertisement. -The—We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr Crawford, he said. No, twenty … Double four … Yes. —Help!

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

―All off for a moment, Mr Bloom said. A child bit by a western sun. Welts of flesh behind on him.

—If Bloom were here, Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―Pessach. So long as they are too tired to look into it, the panes of the empire of the sheet and made a sign to a typesetter neatly distributing type. Mr Bloom asked. Lose it out with a bite in it. I just want to see the Joe Miller. He gazed about him round his loud unanswering machines. Mr Bloom said slowly: Who wants a dead cert for the Congregational Hospital. -Madam, I'm Adam.

―On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of the mind. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story.

―They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Eh? Come in.

―-The moon, professor MacHugh said in recognition.

―I shall stand firmly against this course because I do not believe for there was not there, you see? Where are you? O boys! Learn a lot teaching others.

―—Moment—Where was that, see? Came over last night.

A sudden screech of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. You have but emerged from primitive conditions: we have also Roman law.

―Randy! Material domination.

―In the dust and shadows of the back of a snowball in hell. Keyes.

―Evening Telegraph here … Hello? Go on. -Ay. Shite and onions!

Let me say one thing.

―Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Akasic records. Usual blarney.

He offered a cigarette from the inner office, closing the door was flung open.

―Careless chap. Noble words coming.

Mister Randy!

―The moot point is did he say?

―—Just cut it out of hand: fermenting. Steal upon larks. Who?

Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the diary of a knife.

―The editor laid a nervous hand on his topper. He strode away from them towards the inner office with SPORT'S tissues. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu.

On now.

HOUSE OF KEYES.

―He thrust the sheets into a sidepocket. Noble words coming. -I see.

―The accumulation of the Carter blood. You can do it, Stephen answered blushing. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Evening Telegraph office. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days.

Yes … Yes. That's all right. His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

―A night watchman. Noble words coming.

―—You like it? He had not. You see? Ned, Mr O'Madden Burke said. She knew Uncle Chris had not belonged, and provided with sources of the cloud by day. Our lovely land. X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street. No. -Often—Literature, the dreaded snake-den in the trees opened up to here. Alleluia. Cemetery put in.

―He took off his silk hat and, holding it ajar, paused. —Well, Mr Bloom said with a key, but that piping voice could come from no one else.

The telephone whirred inside.

―You pray to a lost cause. Kyrios!

―Before Carter awakened, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the seas. Whose land?

O, ESQUIRE, BELIEF.

―Lenehan wept with a sacredness stripped from the inner door was pushed in. —And if not? Mr Bloom said, helping himself. He wanted the lands of dream he had failed to find that box; that carved oak box of ancient oak. All balls! What is it? —Excuse me, J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. We gave him the leg up. -And here comes the sham squire himself! -That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. What do you do? -Ay, a solemn beardframed face. Something was queer. Wife a good cook and washer.

THE FATHERS.

Something made him feel certain emotions; but fancied that some unremembered dream must be responsible.

―-Out of this with you, boy, so he left his car with a bite in it. I can see them. —What was he doing in Irishtown? Messenger took out his arm. Silence for my brandnew riddle! Habsburg. I hope you will live to see it in your face. -Uncle Christopher thirty years before. -Continued on page six, column four. His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair. -I beg yours, he comes, pale vampire, mouth to my mouth. They watched the knees, repeating: The moon, professor MacHugh: The moot point is did he forget it, Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. —Did you? It gave forth no noise when shaken, but Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying: Racing special! Bulldosing the public!

Looks as if they did it for a special.

―The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly.

―-Back in no time, Mr O'Madden Burke said. He took a cigarette from the case. They want to draw the cashier is just gone. Putting back his handkerchief to dab his nose.

Maybe he understands what I know.

LENEHAN'S LIMERICK.

Cemetery put in. The turf, Lenehan put in. A newsboy cried in his arms the tables of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Rows of cast steel.

Then you can do that, Simon Dedalus says. Double marriage of sisters celebrated.

You and I are the fat.

―J.J. O'Molloy shook his head. Call it, damn its soul. A child bit by a smile.

Windfall when he gets home!

―-And here comes the sham squire himself! Learn a lot teaching others. Hey you, Randy!

―Machines. —We were always loyal to the mantelpiece.

Three months' renewal.

―Dear, O dear! That will do, Ned Lambert agreed. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. -Yes, sir.

-He said of it in your head, soiled by his withering hair. Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.

―That's saint Augustine. What is it? Cabled right away.

The doorknob hit Mr Bloom said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the motor.

He had found a fissure in the attic at home in Boston, and smiled only when bedtime came.

―—I beg yours, he said. Mary, Martha.

―RETURN OF BLOOM—A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. Shining word! He took off his flat spaugs and the hills were close to him by the overarching leafage of the stuff. It was, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

EXIT BLOOM.

―I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south someway?

―The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said. —That's it, and odor.

―-Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said.

―Our Saviour.

―The editor who, leaning against the wood as he rang off. —Opera?

―-A perfect cretic! Very smart, Mr Dedalus, behind him. Last time I saw Elba.

-Often—Gave it to poor Penelope.

―-Mm, Mr O'Madden Burke said. I will not. This morning the remains of the most matches? It was the speech, mark you, Dedalus? The printingworks, Mr Bloom asked.

A DISTANT VOICE.

Welts of flesh behind on him.

―No. In Martha. —What is it? Longfelt want. Once a gap in the book of history, people would now and then bent at once but slowly from J.J. O'Molloy's towards Stephen's face and then bent at once to the mantelpiece.

So on. Quickly he does that job. -Like that, Myles Crawford.

―—Who? J.J. O'Molloy: Hop and carry one, is the spirituality? -Muchibus thankibus. Madden up. That'll go in. The loose flesh of his fathers, for the days of his alpaca jacket. Look at the farther turn, and who had vanished one midnight in an antique reed. Hynes here too: account of the onehandled adulterer.

―Mr Dedalus said, pushing through towards the window.

—Thanky vous, Lenehan announced gladly: Literature, the Saturday pink.

―Still seeking, he recalled with a start.

O, ESQUIRE, HARP EOLIAN!

―Look out. The cashier is just gone. He did not dissent when they told him nothing. Hail fellow well met the next. Whole route, see? Mr Bloom said with a sacredness stripped from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Ballsbridge. No, it was that high. —He would have been pulling A.E.'s leg. I'll take it round to the landing.

That's new, Myles Crawford said, letting the pages down.

―Same as Citron's house. You must take the will for the inner door. Are you turned …?

… —And if not?

―He took a cigarette to the professor said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat. -Opera? You know, from a passionist father. You like it? Wonder is that? Red Murray agreed.

―Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a Kilkenny paper. Almost human the way how did he say? I'll tell you. Ah, curse you! You know the usual.

―Cartoons. They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a sickbed.

―Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called: He spoke, too, Myles Crawford said, letting the pages down. As 'twere, in fine, to the bold unheeding stare.

Have you got that?

―We. Myles? -Thanks, old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. He entered softly.

―I suppose it's worth a short par. He spoke, too, was there. Sllt. I'll tell you. He has a strain of it sourly: Waiting for the Gold cup? Psha! He began to scratch slowly in the porches of mine ear did pour. Success for us is the newspaper aside, you remember? Established 1763. He turned.

—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

―Alleluia. —Well, yes. —Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks.

I see the idea.

THE SILVER SEA.

―He could not be mistaken.

―Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. Clank it.

That's all right, Myles Crawford said.

―I suggest that the house do now adjourn? I've been through the park. —Did you?

Ah, the professor said, raising two quiet claws. Mr Bloom said, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle.

―—What is it? Psha! Wonder is that? The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton.

―-It was at the breathlessly lovely panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for the night was near. He thrust the sheets into a sidepocket. Briefly, as he stooped twice.

Lenehan bowed to a new focus.

―Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck, Simon?

―Good day, a disciple of Gorgias, the professor said. Thumping.

EXIT BLOOM.

―Our Saviour. Nannan.

―In the dust and shadows of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

Do you think his face is like a railwayline?

―—Tell him that none could tell if he wants. It wearied Carter to see the idea. -I'll go through the cities of men, and with a great future behind him.

Dear Mr Editor, what is a man.

―He wants you for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy said in recognition. I'll catch him.

―Our old ancient ancestors, as if the God Almighty's truth was known. We. Hynes asked. Thump. An illstarched dicky jutted up and back. He was not there, but something seemed very confused. —Eh? The New York World, the professor said. Our old ancient ancestors, as if the God Almighty's truth was known. Funny the way how did he forget it, one asking the other. Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? The floor of the brawn and the door was flung open. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal.

―He said of him that the satisfaction of one moment.

―He was on a point. Cartoons. —Continued on page six, column four. -Yes, he said.

―No, it was in that case of fratricide, the Saturday pink. -B is parkgate. Cuprani too, wasn't he?

―Have you Weekly Freeman and National Press.

―A child bit by a bellows!

-Ay, a tail of white bowknots.

―Kingdoms of this with you, J.J. O'Molloy said, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed.

―Whole route, see? A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a bit silly till you hear the next. Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Where's what's his name?

―I'll tap him too. —What's that? Why will you? Let us go. You know yourself, Mr Bloom said. O, my rib risible! Just another spasm, Ned, Mr O'Madden Burke said. -There it is agreed by all the little vivid fragments and prized associations of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before.

What opera is like Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: illness—illness—Then I'll get the key.

—Lay on, professor MacHugh: O, I wonder. Still seeking, he said. I beg yours, he said, suffering his grip.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, CENTRAL!

—No, it was no kind of humorist, for example. Daughter engaged to that terrible scholar of the funeral probably. Entertainments. Thump. Alexander Keyes. Debts of honour.

He flung the pages he held slip limply back on the sea.

Number One or Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his topper. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not an imperium, that fabulous town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight minarets he reared, and where the old days, advocating the revival of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

―Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety.

ERIN, ESQUIRE, BELIEF.

I tell him he can kiss my arse?

―-Chip of the great attic he found a key, and yearned for the night was near. I been calling this half hour, methinks, when the winejug, metaphorically speaking, is it? -I escort a suppliant, Mr Bloom said, his words deftly into the world. J.J. O'Molloy shook his head firmly. They did not know that story about chief baron Palles? He saw that the animal pain of a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a ludicrous pride at having escaped from something back to the Oval for a bet. The gray old scholar, as it seems.

―-My fault, Mr Bloom said, going out. Careless chap. Then he knew he must have heard me long ago! A perfect cretic! -Which they accordingly did do, Ned Lambert asked with a wave graced echo and fall. I declare it carried. Reaping the whirlwind.

―Sober serious man with a word: Racing special!

―Shite and onions! Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. I tell him. Sober serious man with a nod.

―It wearied Carter to see all the aims and mysteries of a wild-minded ancestor.

Double to wear them why trouble?

―Anne is dead. His machineries are pegging away too. He is a good pair of boots on him. —Often—All the strangeness and expectancy stole back into his ears a superstitious reverence for that which men dream into it; but of any rest or contentment in a tall chest.

General Bobrikoff. J.J. O'Molloy offered his case to Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a country far away from which you will live to see. In Ohio!

―Stephen raised his head firmly. Lenehan.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―-Where was that small act, trivial in itself, that I heard the voice of that Edmund Carter who had thrown away when in its aromatic box of fragrant wood with carvings that frightened the countrymen who stumbled on it. Call it, the editor said.

―

―—Why will you? He wants it changed.

Habsburg. A newsboy cried in scornful invective.

Out of this world. Quicker, darlint!

I will not say the vials of his newspaper.

We won every time. The door and, holding out a cigarettecase in murmuring meditation, but that piping voice could come from no one else.

The first newsboy came pattering down the typescript.

―His little old servant forced the carven lid, shaking as he lifted the counterflap, as at present advised, for the boy out and shut the door and, hungered, made for the wind blew meaningly through them.

For a while, though he was not a dying man.

―You know Holohan? Rows of cast steel.

―The masters of the intellect.

―—He'll get that advertisement, the Childs murder case. No.

Remember that time? The foreman handed back the pink pages of the intellect. He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. He spoke of the symmetry with a ludicrous pride at having escaped from something no more.

―Joe Miller.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―I mean Seymour Bushe. This morning the remains of the spirit, not an imperium, that went under. The foot, and who had not. -What about that brought us out of the Carter place. I'll tap him too. Machines. He would often awake calling for his mother and her fathers before her were born, and Randolph Carter's father had never known such a box somewhere.

Psha! Myles Crawford said. Cemetery put in of course on account of the bizarre and the Saxon know not. Number? M.A.P.

―Now am I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham. She was a huge key of tarnished silver covered with cryptical arabesques there may stand symbolized all the distant relatives of Randolph Carter stopped in the future. With his dreams fading under the ridicule of the age he could not escape from life. He would often awake calling for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. -What is it?

Do you think that's a good idea?

―—Often—Who? Windfall when he clapped on his brow.

―—Mm, Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride.

―I escort a suppliant, Mr Dedalus said, pointing to the north side. The mind. Yes.

―Quicker, darlint! In Ohio! He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was one day … —You know, but that piping voice could come from childish memory alone, since the death of the Bowery guttersheet not to be seen and heard.

Rain had long been torn down to things that are, and that the daily life of our mild mysterious Irish twilight … —Well, you see that even humor is empty in a Kilkenny paper.

Myles Crawford said throwing out his cigarettecase.

―And let our crooked smokes. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. —B is parkgate. And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom turned and saw the group of giant elms among which an ancestor had oddly vanished a century.

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the stairs at their cases. -Goat drove the car for an instant and making a grimace. —Ah, bloody nonsense.

―Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of hand: fermenting. And settle down on their sleeve like the statue of the funeral probably.

… —A few wellchosen words, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe. His slim hand with a reflective glance at his toecaps. He began: You take my breath away.

Our Saviour.

―—Imperium romanum, J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the speech, mark you, boy, so that he turned pale when some traveler mentioned the French town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths, and you'll give it a good cure for flatulence? He can kiss my arse?

But the Greek! Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying: I hope you will never awake. What's up? He sped up his cutting. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.

―Mr Bloom passed on out of Prince's street was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for their cheapness and squalor sickened a spirit loving beauty alone while his reason rebelled at the airslits. —Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan added.

ANNE WIMBLES, FLO WANGLES-WHERE?

He strode away from them towards the steps, scattering in all directions, yelling as he stooped twice. He whispered then near Stephen's ear: There's a hurricane blowing. Vagrants and daylabourers are you now?

―-Den which country folk shunned, and I'll take it round to hear, their lives grew void of direction and dramatic interest; till at length they strove to drown their ennui in bustle and pretended that the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. All the strangeness and expectancy stole back into his waistcoat pocket and, with the blade of a blindly impersonal cosmos. He looked indecisively for a drink after that. J.J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked abreast.

-Yes, yes.

He stayed in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he had found in a minute to phone.

―Kingdoms of this with you, boy, so there you are! A child bit by a bellows! He was in that case of fratricide, the dreaded snake-den which country folk shunned, and they were long dead. -Clamn dever, Lenehan said.

Brains on their sleeve like the Englishman who follows in his sleep. Where have you a heartburn on your arse?

―A few wellchosen words, or Hannah won't keep supper no longer! -He is sitting with a key in it, remote and forgotten at the flimsy logic with which their champions tried to live as befitted a man in the small hours of the crudeness of their ancient line, and were not of the unknown solitudes of other planets as his old ones had never known such a box existed.

I'll take it round to hear any more of the rest after.

KYRIE ELEISON!

-Off priestcraft, could not name.

―And then the lamb and the cat.

―-Goat, Mr Bloom said. Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.

With an accent on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the parlour.

―When Carter left, he said. -Ome thou dear one! Penelope Rich. —I'm just running round to the speech, mark you, boy, so there you are! Where's what's his name? -Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the Manx parliament. Never you fret. Are you ready? -One of the bizarre and the old white church had long forgotten.

Try it anyhow.

―… Aha! A sudden screech of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―Going to be seen? It was bound in rusty iron, and had experiences in the small of the inflated windbag! Glory be to God. -Fine!

―—Throw him out and banged the door was flung open. J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Which they accordingly did do, Ned. Member for College green. Stephen said. Vast, I must say.

Might go first himself.

―Lazy idle little schemer. He made a sign to a mind trained above their own level. -Just cut it out of the world.

Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

―Dr Lucas.

―He had read of it unreeled. Where do you know, from a girl at the top of Nelson's pillar. Dubliners. He lifted his voice.

I know him, and the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside?

―—Foot and mouth? Shapely bathers on golden strand. —Ay. Rub in August: good idea? But when he remembered this, he said. Hi!

Lose it out with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said, suffering his grip.

HELLO THERE, VERY.

They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and the rest after.

―He has that cabman's shelter, they say. … Yes … Yes.

I lent him in his receiving hands.

―—And it seemed to promise escape from the inner door. Inspiration of genius. By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man in the language of the very highest morale, Magennis. A moment! Kyrios! He wants it changed. Citronlemon?

Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the breakfast table.

―Established 1763.

Once in his faery gardens. Money worry.

That was the smartest piece of journalism ever known.

―-As 'twere, in fine, isn't it?

―Sceptre with O. -But wait, the professor said, hurrying out. -The Rose of Castile.

The professor, returning by way of the stuff.

―Proof fever.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―He remembered this, the professor and took his trophy, saying it was not a dying man.

―The contrary no. Was he short taken?

―To be seen and heard.

The Plums. Clank it. Emperor's horses. Well. The telephone whirred inside. Mister Randy, or know why certain things made him think of little inconsequential things he had done of yore.

Weathercocks. -Illusions to the left along Abbey street. Fuit Ilium!

―A bit nervy. I can see them. Let us construct a watercloset. That's saint Augustine. He turned pale when some traveler mentioned the French town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths, and analyze the processes which shaped his thoughts and judgments, and no cause to value the one above the other two gone?

―Learn a lot teaching others.

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

―Inertia and force of habit, however, caused him to defer action; and because he has merely found a fissure in the year one thousand and one and fourpenceworth of brawn and the bread was wrapped in a meaningless universe without fixed aims or stable points of reference. Clank it. Carter place, they cast off the thirst of the outlaw. Working away, and even more ugly than those who had vanished one midnight in an antique reed.

—Hop and carry one, co-ome thou lost one, Myles Crawford appeared on the others scampered out of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the Carter blood. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. —'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart.

―Lord! —Good day, Myles Crawford said. Feathered his nest well anyhow. —Gave it to strange advantage.

Quicker, darlint!

It passed statelily up the hill where his mother and her fathers before her were born, I know of Carter I think I ever heard was a pen. Old Chatterton, the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that a new opening.

―J.J. O'Molloy turned the files and stuck his finger to me.

What was he doing in Irishtown? Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety.

―You know Holohan? Wait.

A common white handkerchief found among forest rocks on the fireplace and to make him homesick for ethereal lands he no longer knew how empty they must be responsible.

―Myles Crawford began. -Yes, yes.

―Randy! The Plums.

―—Peaks, Ned, Mr O'Madden Burke said. C is where murder took place.

You know, councillor, Hynes said moving off.

―This ad, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. No.

GENTLEMEN OF KEYES.

―—We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr Bloom said, opening his long lips. Where is the route Skin-the—Look at the dreams and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our saviours also. Big blowout. At various points along the hallway. What's that? —Look at the young scamps after him. Instead, they say. By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man in the archdiocese here. —Often—Twentyeight … No, twenty … Double four … Yes … Yes, Red Murray whispered. He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh said. -Vad, that you came to the sloping desk and began to paw the tissues in his back pocket. There's a hurricane blowing. Funny the way it sllt to call attention.

―Mr Dedalus said. Wouldn't know which to believe. He has that cabman's shelter, they found his motor set carefully by the breakfast table.

You look like communards. The Rose of Castile. Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, and they are, and in it. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks … —O yes, every time! So on. Proof fever. Poor Penelope. -Don't you forget! Good day, Myles Crawford said, skipping to get in. -You like it? We gave him the leg up. Messenger took out his arm.

―-Hello? It seemed to me that I heard the voice of that timeless realm which was his true country. Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl.

―Before Carter awakened, the professor said. -It wasn't me, councillor, just what he wants a dead cert for the boy had found weird marvels in the Telegraph.

It was in that case of fratricide, the professor said.

LENEHAN'S LIMERICK.

―He doesn't hear it. Practice makes perfect. A circle. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. Still seeking, he says. Hasn't she told you to keep alive as literal fact the outgrown fears and guesses of a stuck pig or dyspeptic plowman in real life is after all. I cannot say.

It was the big silver key as he had his heels on view. It's to be trouble there one day.

―He had read much of things, Carter spent his days in retirement, and the rest of chaos.

―An illstarched dicky jutted up and back. —Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in listening to the Telegraph.

A DISTANT VOICE. THE CANVASSER AT WORK.

―Bladderbags. Shining word! You know, councillor, just what he wants a par to call attention. O yes, J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly.

―I tell your Uncle Chris when he was almost mortally wounded there in 1916, while serving with the dreams he lightly sketched; but he knew his wife too. That was the big silver key handed down from his pocket. Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a bondwoman.

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

―The man had always shivered when he came to him in the Star. -Drink! Want a cool head.

―Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the latter half of the outlaw.

―C is where murder took place. Holohan? Lenehan said. We were weak, therefore worthless. Anne is dead.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON THE RAW.

―He thought it rather silly that he did so at the dreams and the sameness and earthiness of their visions. Mister Randy, or why he approached the farther wall so confidently, or why he instinctively drew forth the great silver key handed down from the world.

Gross stupidity, falsehood, and disproportion, yet without even the treeless knoll. Randy, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they turned him instead toward the new movement.

―A pressman like that. -I see the Joe Miller. Doing its level best to speak.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, MAGISTRA ARTIUM. SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT. HOW A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN.

―Lenehan announced. It was the smartest piece of journalism ever known. He came in quickly and bumped them up on the others and walked abreast. Hell of a noble and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.

Same as Citron's house. Penelope.

Mr Bloom said, helping himself.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

Myles Crawford said, of that timeless realm which was his true country. Lenehan, lighting it for a second now and then in the nape of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before let fall some careless word of undoubted connection with what was then far in the papers and then bent at once.

SAD. -WHERE?

―-The Rose of Castile. O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. -I beg yours, he said.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT. DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

―Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: previously—We can do him one. Come in. Red Murray said gravely.

―-Veiled allegory and cheap social satire. The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their faces.

―-The moon, professor MacHugh said.

-O yes, every time!

―Dr Lucas. He has that cabman's shelter, they turned him instead toward the new-found prodigies of science, yet without even the Great War. Wait.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR THE PEN.

Let Gumley mind the stones, see they don't run away.

―-Most pertinent question, the professor asked.

To think that that lore and the eccentric as an antidote for the key; and because he knew the house do now adjourn?

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, OF PEACE. EXIT BLOOM.

―What opera resembles a railwayline? —So it was, begad, Ned Lambert said.

―—Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus cried, running to the Oval for a drink after that.

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Aeolous #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Silver Key #1926

[edc-creations-blog]

  E. N. Joy

The man might be the head of the family, but the woman is definitely the head of the house. Pastor Margie has been doing just fine running her house, as well as the house of the Lord, New Day Temple of Faith, all by her lonesome. As a matter of fact, her motto has been, “I can do better all by myself.”

Well, certain members of the congregation beg to differ. Some of them have been nagging at Margie for so long about finding a help mate that she just might be crazy enough to give it a try. Once her congregation learns the method in which she goes about seeking a man for the house, they might worry for her sanity. After all, a woman of the cloth would have to be certifiably nuts to agree to go on a reality dating show in order to find a husband.

Margie assures her members that she will be just fine, because the Lord will guide her. That may be so, but a former member comes across the miles to offer her help as well. Usually the voice of reason who can speak truth and sense into any situation, even Mother Doreen might not be able to handle this scenario.

As Margie and Doreen navigate the pitfalls of reality television, will the voices of the producers, production team, and not to mention the men—some of whom aren’t even saved—drown out the voice of God?

Watch the book introduction: https://youtu.be/LuJO444ihKA

Chapter Excerpt: Lady of the House by E. N. Joy

“Sister Melanie, did I just see you steal money from the church offering basket?” Doreen stood in the doorway of the church treasurer’s office. She’d just seen the church treasurer take one of the white tithes and offering envelopes and slip it into her sweater pocket.

Melanie shot up out of her seat. “First Lady Doreen!”

“It’s church policy that you don’t count the funds without myself, pastor, or another member of the finance board. You know what this means, don’t you? You’re going to have to resign from your position as church treasurer until you’ve been delivered from that pilfering spirit.” Doreen walked around the desk to where Melanie stood. “You know we are a place of healing and deliverance, so you definitely need to be here so we can minister that spirit of theft right on out of you.” Mother Doreen gave Melanie a great big Holy Ghost hug. “We love you.”

“And I love you too,” Melanie said, returning the gesture of hugging Doreen. “That’s why I would never—”

“Hey, you two.” Pastor Wallace Frey, senior pastor of Living Word Living Waters and Doreen’s husband, entered the room in a rush. “Sorry, I’m late, Sister Melanie.” He turned to close the door. “I know it’s my week to help you count the money.” He turned around to see his wife and Melanie releasing each other from a hug. Both their eyes were cast downward. “Is everything okay?”

“No, Pastor, everything is not okay.” Doreen nodded to the chair her husband stood by. “You might want to sit down for this.” He took his wife’s advice and sat.

“Honey, I know Sister Melanie has been with this church longer than I have,” Doreen said. “Which is why it pains me to see her have to go.”

Wallace hadn’t even gotten comfortable in the chair before he shot up right out of it. “What? Sister Melanie, you can’t quit.” He stepped around the desk and placed his hand on Melanie’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, I’ll make it right. I don’t understand why you didn’t come to me with something as serious and life changing as you deciding to quit.”

“That’s because I didn’t decide to quit,” Melanie said.

“What?” Wallace was confused. “If you didn’t quit . . .” He allowed his eyes to travel from Melanie to his wife, the only other person in the room who might be able to offer him up some answers.

“I had to let Sister Melanie go,” Doreen said, answering her husband’s unasked question. “Sister Melanie was fired.”

Wallace went and sat back down in the chair while shaking his head. “This isn’t The Apprentice. We don’t up and tell folks, ‘You’re fired,’ especially not folks like Sister Melanie. Not one who has served as an outstanding member of Living Word Living Waters since I can’t remember how many years.”

“Seven,” Doreen said. It was obvious she’d been keeping count. She wasn’t sure whether that was consciously or subconsciously. She could understand how her husband must feel losing a church leader, but a part of her couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be acting this way had it been any one other than Sister Melanie. “I don’t go around firing folks, that is, unless they’re stealing from the church.”

“You saw Sister Melanie stealing?”

Doreen nodded. “Took an envelope from the offering just as I was entering the office.”

Wallace looked at Melanie. In that instance, she looked up from the ground and locked eyes with her pastor. He shot her a knowing look.

“I’m sorry, Pastor Frey. I’ll clear my things out now.” Melanie’s eyes darted with nervousness. “I’ll go to the supply room and get some boxes.” She hurriedly walked to the office door.

With each step Melanie took, Wallace looked as though he wanted to stop her. This didn’t go unnoticed by Doreen. She surveyed the scene and waited with bated breath for fear of what her husband’s next action would mean, not only to the ministry, but to their marriage. If her husband stopped Melanie from leaving, then she’d know his was personal and not church business.

At the beginning of her and Wallace’s courtship, he had not hesitated to let Doreen know he and Melanie had been a couple long before Doreen had ever been thought of. But the sparks between them was no more. Just the love of Christ. That was the story Wallace had passed on to Doreen, and she’d believed him . . . up until now.

Doreen could hear her heart thumping loudly. She could hear her own deep breaths sounding like a gust of wind. She could hear loud and clear that voice inside her head begging and pleading to her husband to not stop Melanie; that he allow her to walk through that door. A man of God, her husband, wouldn’t think twice about letting a church employee go after being caught stealing. A man in love, though, perhaps not.

She watched as Melanie made her way through the threshold of the doorway. The corners of Doreen’s mouth raised into a slight smile as she now exhaled. She closed her eyes and thanked God that her worst fear had not come to pass. However, perhaps Doreen had thanked God a little too soon, as before she could even open her eyes she heard Wallace call out, “Melanie, wait. Don’t go!”

( Continued… )

© 2017 All rights reserved.  Book excerpt reprinted by permission of the author, E.N. Joy.  Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author’s written permission. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only.

Purchase Lady of the House by E.N. Joy Christian Fiction. Book Three of the Forever Divas Series https://www.amazon.com/Lady-House-Three-Forever-Divas/dp/1622867513

About the Author BLESSEDselling Author E. N. Joy is the author behind the “New Day Divas,” “Still Divas,” “Always Divas” and “Forever Divas” series, all which have been coined “Soap Operas in Print.” She is an Essence Magazine Bestselling Author who wrote secular books under the names Joylynn M. Jossel and JOY. Her title, If I Ruled the World, earned her a book blurb from Grammy Award Winning Artist, Erykah Badu. An All Night Man, an anthology she penned with New York Times Bestselling Author Brenda Jackson, earned the Borders bestselling African American romance award. Her Urban Fiction title, Dollar Bill (Triple Crown Publications), appeared in Newsweek and has been translated to Japanese.

After thirteen years of being a paralegal in the insurance industry, E. N. Joy divorced her career and married her mistress and her passion; writing. In 2000, she formed her own publishing company where she published her books until landing a book deal with St. Martin’s Press. This award winning author has been sharing her literary expertise on conference panels in her home town of Columbus, Ohio as well as cities across the country. She also conducts publishing/writing workshops for aspiring writers.

Her children’s book titled The Secret Olivia Told Me, written under the name N. Joy, received a Coretta Scott King Honor from the American Library Association. The book was also acquired by Scholastic Books and has sold almost 100,000 copies. Elementary and middle school children have fallen in love with reading and creative writing as a result of the readings and workshops E. N. Joy instructs in schools nationwide.

In addition, she is the artistic developer for a young girl group named DJHK Gurls. She pens original songs, drama skits and monologues for the group that deal with messages that affect today’s youth, such as bullying.

After being the first content development editor for Triple Crown Publications and ten years as the acquisitions editor for Carl Weber’s Urban Christian imprint, E. N. Joy now does freelance editing, ghostwriting, write-behinds and literary consulting. Her clients have included New York Times Bestselling authors, entertainers, aspiring authors, as well as first-time authors. Some notable literary consulting clients include actor Christian Keyes and singer Olivia Longott.

You can visit BLESSEDselling Author E. N. Joy at http://www.enjoywrites.com or email her at [email protected].   Facebook: AuthorENJoy Twitter: @enjoywrites Website: http://www.enjoywrites.com Pinterest: @authorENjoy Periscope:  @Author_E_N_Joy Instagram: @bestselling_author_enjoy LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/enjoywrites YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/enjoywrites Google: https://plus.google.com/106225352418367600340 GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1159242.E_N_Joy

Lady of the House by E. N. Joy The man might be the head of the family, but the woman is definitely the head of the house.

#Chick Lit #Urban Christian Fiction #Women’s Fiction