#folkangel

[breakwreck-blog]

          Fillie calls him every other weekend and it never gets easier. Same bar, same payphone, same how’re you doin? and how’s yer ‘amma? and it never gets easier. Every time he hears his voice it is deeper; he has a girlfriend; he has a car; he is older and the little boy he had the privilege of loving fades further from sight. Such is life, he’s been told.           Walter asks about his eldest, his rebellious namesake.           He’s out fighting crime, Fillie says, he’s a superhero now.           A woman across the bar watches him work through it, the only one privy to the way his mouth screws up, the tautness in it as he says his goodbyes. The haze of a bar can be deceiving and Walter, two whiskeys in, lets it fool him and take his legs to the seat at her side. “Aw, I don’t mind it,” he says, slurring gently but firm in his words. The silence falls again and Walter drags his fingertips through the condensation on the bar top. There’s almost a smile on his face. “Seems my boy’s a superhero.”

@folkangel - CONT. FROM HERE

[rugcut-blog]

         ‘ you changed your nest. ’ obvious a transition as it is from the last time their paths crossed, she has fun making like it requires skills of deduction to figure this out. (olive had been in town a while back, caught the lightning bolts by lucky, lucky chance.) ‘ it looks sharp. ’

@folkangel​,  sc.

[maisellous]

@folkangel​ · starter call.

Standing next to Edith isn’t exactly making Midge feel overdressed, but she definitely feels flashy and much too pink. That’s largely her dress’s fault – fuchsia is the colour of the summer, after all, and anyone who’s even heard of Edith knows her penchant for simple, neutral colours. Midge flattens out her skirt a little nervously. This is rare for her, but Edith Walls is a big name in the way Lenny Bruce is a big name, only Edith’s never bailed Midge out of prison or vice versa, so she can’t lean on that familiarity.

     “Do you ever get nervous?” It’s not an out-of-nowhere question but it sounds like it, in the abrupt way it leaves her mouth. “I mean, before you get up on stage. It’s as if, all the way there you’ve never been so confident, nothing could possibly go wrong, and then just before they call your name it’s like you’ve forgotten you even have feet, never mind how to walk.”

[jeebys-blog]

@folkangel ( meme ) #62 : december 1963 (oh what a night), frankie valli and the four seasons.

His suit is second-hand and a little ill-fitting on him; it didn’t seem like the right time for dress blues, anyway, considering Edith’s penchant towards anti-war sentiment. Snafu feels underdressed and out of place and doesn’t recognise anyone else here except her. He bought a bottle of wine because he thinks that’s what you’re supposed to do but he’s holding it low, hidden. It’s cheap.

Maybe he’s come into this too negatively. There’s a bare percentage of white people here and none of them are looking at him like they don’t know why he’s here. But it makes him feel better if he singles himself out.

Someone over his shoulder, nearby, laughs. What a night! Late December, back in ’63... Snafu tunes out, and scans the room for Edith’s curls. “Uh, here.” He holds out the bottle to her, plaintively.

[paradicelost]

     “    oh, i’m sure he didn’t !    “  though, it’s hard to imagine at all what franklin could have said of him. hank has no doubts that franklin has told edith the positives about him, of what he had given up in favor of his siblings not going without. it almost makes henry seem like a myth in a way, which hardly affords him the comforts of human characteristics. he’s smiling at edith now and inwardly laughing at how she looks more at home in his own home than he does. everyone always does. 

     “    well, miss edith...i think he’ll hardly believe it.    “  henry drops his already quiet voice to the appropriate conspiratorial level. it’s hard not to be charmed by its southern dusting.  / @folkangel. / x.

[jeebys-blog]

“I was going to invite you over for a dinner I’m hosting. I’ve purchased four lamb shanks that I’ve been simmering in a broth of red wine and rosemary.” [chants lamb shanks lamb shanks ---]

game night sentence starters | accepting

Snafu does better where it’s warm.

The skin on the back of his neck is prickling in the cold. He has his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket – too thin for northern climes, but he doesn’t own anything thicker – and his shoulders hunched in where they’re usually pulled back. It makes him look smaller.

He looks at Edith sidelong. They’re walking side-by-side in a could-be-anything sort of way, and occasionally like the second hands on two imperfect clocks their legs will fall into rhythm, moving at the same time for a step or five before they fall out again. She looks more comfortable in this weather, but then it’s not unusual for her. Her bones have been growing this way her whole life; it makes sense.

Edith is talking about lamb shanks. Red wine and rosemary. He could eat.

     “Hostin’?” He inclines his chin a little. You host a party; you host a people, plural. He can’t imagine her inviting him because she thinks he’ll make a nice addition to the table. Maybe she wants him to bring Sledge, who’s bashful and complementary and actually appreciates her music in a way that Snafu can’t, because he can say nice things without sneering. Maybe she has thirty seats at her table and only twenty-nine guests and she wants things to be nice and even.

He whistles. “You really hit the bigtime, huh, Edie. Hostin’ dinners now.” The first time he met her she’d seemed pathetic in a way that he’d only known himself to be. It was a point of familiarity, of understanding. Now it’s like there’s a wedge between them, or more accurately like it’s been there all along, and it’s only now that he’s noticed it. It’d make his lips twist into a scowl if he wasn’t smirking at her. “Lamb shanks. Real fancy. Why you want me there, you need someone keepin’ you humble?”

That’s not a no, but it’s not a yes either. He wants to see if she’ll push it, first. No, no, I’d like for you to come. I really mean it. Please do come, there’s more than enough for you. He kicks a bottle cap and it skitters furiously down the street, rolling off the sidewalk and dropping between the slats of a drain.

[paradicelost]

‘ good things happen when you get out of the city . ’ HANK

maniac / accepting !

@folkangel

     there is nothing calculated about henry nichols beside the one thing: his effort to minimize his range of effect, to shrink himself smaller than he is. he is not one to want to come off as large or looming, to be the vision of something or someone that could cause another living being terror. and so, he sits across from edith, eyeing her warmly, and looking humorously drawn into himself.

     “    is that so ?    “   henry asks, and though the words would be rife with challenge on somebody else’s tongue, henry’s tone portrays it as nothing else other than gentle curiosity. he considers himself a man that is incredibly sheltered. much of his life and time has been dedicated to looking over his siblings. it leaves little room for soul searching or world traveling. when it’s edith walls telling him this, henry thinks he ought to believe it for the truth. when he shares a smile, it is very small. a very untimely crackling flame of a thing that fizzles out quickly.

    “    i think i’d like to get out of the city sometime, ma’am.    “ 

[kutterups-blog]

          Alan’s heart beats steadily, a trusty old machine bringing him back to lucidity, letting it wash over him like a warm blanket. His hands seem to shake a little less. Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s the vulnerability the drugs afford him, but Alan let’s her touch him without protest. The space he carefully protects is finally open to her and all he can do is sigh. No fuss is made. His spine shifts and his back bunches like his insides are looking for a place to settle but soon his body quiets.            He’s quiet when they pull off, almost unable to speak. Letting the moment pass puts his mind at ease and he shuffles around in his seat, cradling his head to one side. “Hard,” he says clearly, as if to explain himself, “it’s huuuuhard sometimes.” She’s right, it’s just a bit of grass, he tells himself, rubbing his knuckles against his forehead. Alan’s thankful Edith is a tolerant woman.            Seeking out her gaze, Alan confesses, “I thought-thought this cou-cuh-cuh-could make it better-better.” Something like mirth colors his tone. “Uh-Uh-mmmmmm, not my-my finest hour.”

@folkangel​ - CONTINUED FROM HERE