I'm also just a girl

standing in front of a girl asking her to love me. A capable writer (capablish hands).

[weltenwellen]

Marya Hornbacher, Waiting

[julienbakr]

taking the face punch like a champ by flirting with the medic

[occasional-owl]

[villanellesource]

#Rare Villanelle gems you probably missed.

[macperalta]

[oniricat]

let’s split up gang! 👻

[adampvrrish]

anne sexton // richard siken// margaret atwood // virginia woolf

[tvandfilm]

I would be dead without you. Like, a lot.

HARLEY QUINN (2019 – )

[ultrafacts]

For any writers: http://er.jsc.nasa.gov/seh/SFTerms.html

For more facts, follow Ultrafacts

[greatfulldedd]

.

[smashwolfen]

@space-australians Feels like this would kinda fit your blog, specially for writers who want to make up weird human space shenanigans involving a ship and alien crew and what not.  Maybe someone can write about how a person fixed a specific part in the dumbest way possible using the right words XD

[space-australians]

Guys, NASA is cool.

[emperorsfoot]

If you scroll to the bottom of the page, they have a whole list of articles and pages to help sci-fi writers. NASA is the best! 

[nunyabizni]

NASA decided long ago that the information they collect (for the most part) belongs to humanity so they make as much of it available as they can. Their image galleries are without parallel and all of them are free to use however you like.

[colubrina]

[hilarioushumorfromouterspace]

[waltzinglikeitis1698]

BTW "conquered" is just stolen with brute force. Just a term created in the 14th century by the very people who conquered & colonized. And that's the 🍵

[ninaahelvar]

hand touching? in my period drama? bitch i’m about a faint

[mycroftrh]

Thank you Maine Millennial for this efficient summary of Leverage

[thelovers-thedreamers-and-me]

[tcm]

I Could Have Danced...Danced...Danced All Night By Theresa Brown

No one can show sensual longing or manic desperation like Jennifer Jones. It’s all on full display in Vincente Minnelli’s MADAME BOVARY (‘49). For my money, Jones is one of the most underrated actresses of the classic era. Now, if you listen to the film’s trailer, the narrator will describe her as:

“Emma Bovary, this corrupt, loathsome, contemptible creature…this woman of insatiable passions…this monstrous creation of a degenerate imagination.”

That’s a bit rich. I’m not trying to sugarcoat anything, but I’ve got to go the “glass half-empty / glass half-full” route with Emma. I disagree with what the narrator describes; I think she is a fascinating example of the lengths a woman will go for happiness in mid-19th century France, where all cobble-stoned streets are paved with roadblocks for women with few avenues for success laid out unless through a man. I think all women can relate to Emma, especially the women in the time period this MGM film is released. It’s 1949 and men have been coming back for their jobs after the war and Rosie the Riveter has to go back into the kitchen to bake cakes.

Emma’s lot in life as a peasant’s daughter offers no advancement in class and society, though she is “cruelly” blessed with uncommon beauty. (Jennifer Jones is absolutely beautiful!) Being fed romance novels and poetry in the convent, nothing is preparing her to make a living. Seeds of an unrealistic view of life are planted. When she’s back home, she’s like an 1850’s teenager with posters on her wall from Tiger Beat magazine – dashing illustrations of being swept away by love. Her view of reality is a bit skewed. When Charles, a new local doctor (Van Heflin) arrives to care for her father, it’s love at first sledgehammer for him…and an escape hatch for her. He is the first of several men she seduces and uses via withholding before submitting.

She’s terribly unhappy in her new married life. She gives it the good ol’ college try, fixing up their humble abode, charging materials from the local merchant – the start of living above her means via the merchant as ‘pusher’ who provides all…but then demands payment aka blackmail. Charles, the doctor/husband, cannot give her what she truly craves: riches, high society, passion. “Craves” is an understatement and his love for her is not enough. In one of her manic moments of breaking down, she desperately implores:

“Charles, I want a child. I want a boy, Charles. A boy grows to be a man. A man can be free. If he doesn’t like his life he can change it. If there’s anything beautiful, if there’s anything grand anywhere in the world, he can go out and find it. I want a baby, Charles. I want a boy.”

How sad. I’d love to say it’s the desperation of motherhood fueling her mania, but it’s really the desperation of wanting to escape. No suburban housewife could ever put herself in those shoes, right? Emma’s only hope is to live vicariously through a baby son.

So, of course, fate hands her a daughter.

Fate also gives Jones and Heflin an invitation to a fancy dress ball—the impetus of the story hence my title—where the die is really cast for her. See, it’s one thing to wish for things you never had. But when you are given a taste of something that is snatched away, can life be any crueler? Minnelli crafts a pivotally fantastic scene at this ball where not only is the full Monty of Emma’s beauty revealed, but it serves as a metaphor for so many things.

With its stunning production values, the scene is opulent and men can’t take their eyes off her. She’s sought for dances. But poor Charles is shunted off to the sidelines, never being allowed entry into the inner circle of the elite to spoil Emma’s illusion…delusion. He’s even looked down on by a waiter, while Emma is elevated to the belle of the ball. And right then and there, she is suddenly swept off her feet by the handsome and rich Rodolphe played by the drop-dead gorgeous Louis Jourdan in only his fourth American movie. Did I say gorgeous?! She is living the dreams she dreamt…being the center of attention, picked to dance by the handsome ‘prince.’ That whole dance sequence of Minnelli’s is a dizzying scene, serving as a sexual stand-in. And when the windows are broken…

Her beauty is her only currency. She seduces men. She pays the price for that. One man tells her:

“I am a fairly courageous man, Emma but I was afraid of you. You ask for something that consumes while it burns…that destroys everything it touches. I didn’t want to be destroyed.”

Should a woman be satisfied with her lot in life? She is trapped, with fleeting escapes that lead her right back where she started. Things close in on her. She’s in over her head. Everything is about to come crashing down on her. Jones does a fine job portraying a woman who is coquettish, calculating, seductive and trapped. She got me wondering if she could have played Blanche DuBois in Kazan’s capable hands. She only made 27 movies. She was a five-time Oscar nominee, winning her Best Actress Academy Award once for THE SONG OF BERNADETTE (‘44). She’s as different there as she was in CLUNY BROWN (‘46), as she was in the overwrought DUEL IN THE SUN (‘46), as she was in LOVE IS A MANY SPLENDORED THING (‘55) or as she was in my personal favorite, LOVE LETTERS (‘45). There’s a quality of vulnerability, sensuality and mania about Jennifer Jones. Yeh, I’m a fan.

I’ve finally come to respect Van Heflin though it took a long time. (Better late than never.) He could play so many different shades of men, I have newly come to appreciate him in SHANE (‘53), THE STRANGE LOVE OF MARTHA IVERS (‘46), ACT OF VIOLENCE (‘49), THE PROWLER (‘51), EAST SIDE, WEST SIDE (‘49) or his Oscar-winning performance in JOHNNY EAGER (‘41). In MADAME BOVARY, he’s besotted by her, defeated by her, stern with her and wants to care for her. But ultimately, she is too much for him.

The movie is peppered with character actors we all know, like Gene Lockhart, Henry Morgan, Ellen Corby and John Abbott. Like my good friend always says about classic movies: Everybody worked. And you need only to IMDB director Vincente Minnelli to see the depth and breadth of his talent. He could direct a film taking place in modern times as with UNDERCURRENT (‘46) or the turn of the century like in MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS (‘44). He could do comedy as with THE LONG, LONG TRAILER (‘54); drama with THE BAD AND THE BEAUTIFUL (‘52); and the light touch of musicals like in CABIN IN THE SKY (‘43), AN AMERICAN IN PARIS (‘51) and his Oscar-winning GIGI (‘58).

Hope you make the time to watch MADAME BOVARY. You can live vicariously through her, so you don’t make the same mistakes she made.

[waltzinglikeitis1698]

@attebuoy You and me. Let's go. I can and still will drop kick you.

[e-seal-deactivated20210319]

Necromancer that doesn’t know they’re a necromancer and thinks they’re just a really good emt

[raimagnolia]

That is the funniest thing i have ever read

[ofgeography]

the thing was, she wasn’t going to be able to pass the recertification exam, and she couldn’t figure out why. annabelle studied. she practiced. she pulled out every trick and shortcut she’d learned during her two years as an EMT and none of it worked. she just – she didn’t get it. it made no sense.

“wake up,” she urged the dummy, pressing her hands to the pulse points on its wrists. “come on. what the fuck.”

“yeah, i don’t think that asking nicely is going to do the trick,” hank said, his eyebrows raised. his helmet, the special one they’d decorated for him with craft supplies from michael’s when he’d gotten promoted to firestation chief, sat askew on his head. “i can see now why they didn’t pass you.”

annabelle rolled her eyes. “it’s a psychological thing,” she said. “it’s like, you give the brain an instruction and it follows naturally. and the pulse-point thing always works. i don’t know why it’s not, like, in any of the books, but i swear to god it’s worked for me every time.”

it was true that annabelle had the best record on low body counts, which was good because she was the smallest person on the team not counting Georgie, who was a corgi. jake and lillian were always making fun of her for having been the shortest of their whole rookie class. but it hadn’t ever been a problem before; annabelle rarely had to carry anybody out, because she was good enough at getting them on their feet.

but none of that would matter if she couldn’t pass her stupid recertification exam, because they’d take her badge and she’d have to go be, like, a doctor or something.

hank blew out a long breath and sunk down to where she was kneeling on the station floor in full fire gear, giving CPR to the practice dummy, whom they called dierdre. there was a little light that went on when you’d saved its life. it had been a dull gray for an hour now.

“look, AB. i know you’re a good firefighter, and i know you know how to deliver CPR. just do it like you do it during an emergency. you’re overthinking it.”

“but this is what i do during an emergency!” annabelle cried, throwing her hands up. “i put my hands on their pulse points and i use psychological mumbo-jumbo and they just get up and walk!” 

hank blinked. “…really,” he said, voice flat. “people who’ve been inhaling smoke for half an hour just … get up and walk.”

“the brain is an incredibly powerful organ,” said annabelle, shrugging. “look man, i don’t know, okay? but it works. i haven’t had to actually do CPR in like a year and a half.”

he gave her a long, quiet loo and said, “well….huh,” before pushing himself back up onto his feet and frowning off into the distance. “keep practicing,” he said after a minute, and left her there.

-

hank switched her team.

“what the fuck, man,” she said, sliding into the truck next to him as the sirens went on. “i can’t get CPR on one fucking dummy and suddenly you don’t trust me to do my job without supervision?”

carl and bethany very carefully did not meet her eyes in the rearview from the backseat. bethany pulled a magazine from beneath the seat and said loudly, “look, carl, jennifer aniston and brad pitt are getting back together.”

“thank christ,” said carl. “i’ve been really worried about jen.”

hank gave annabelle the flat look that had gotten him promoted to firestation chief in the first place, the one that said i’m your dad and you don’t want to disappoint me. as always, annabelle wilted underneath it, sliding down in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. it was a difficult feat in full gear but she wanted him to know she was feeling sullen.

“i trust you completely,” hank told her, his voice a light scold. “i want to see you in action so i can help you figure out what’s going wrong with the dummies. sometimes it’s hard for the brain to accurately remember everything that happens during a crisis.”

annabelle rolled her eyes. “i told you,” she said. “it’s just – it’s the same thing every time, I’m not like, blacking out.”

“great, then i’m about to learn a cool new trick,” hank said serenely, and pulled the truck out of the lot. annabelle kept her gaze focused out of the window, watching the city pass as carl and bethany talked loudly about which celebrities were dating which other celebrities and who wore what better. she tried to swallow down the nerves that tightened her throat. maybe the dummy was right. maybe she was doing something else and didn’t remember it. maybe the last two years had been a fluke and she had no business being a firefighter. maybe she was about to get fired.

there wasn’t a fire, though the alarm was going off. instead they found a bag of smoking popcorn and the collapsed heap of a forty-five year old bachelor type, down to just his boxers and a pair of slippers with llamas on them. he had no pulse. 

hank held carl and bethany back, directing them to deal with the smoke from the popcorn; annabelle he pointed toward the resident with a jerk of his chin. 

she sighed, kneeling by his side. she pressed her hands flat to his heart and then dragged them across his chest and down each arm, to his wrists. with her thumbs on his pulse point, she hissed, “let’s go, man. up and at ’em. you’re not meant to die in your underwear while cooking popcorn, come on.”

she held her breath for a few moments, conscious of hank’s eyes on her, and let out a long sigh of relief when she felt his pulse jump beneath her, watched his eyes flicker. “what the fuck?” he asked, voice a croak. “what happened?”

“you gotta eat more vegetables, bud,” annabelle told him, and looped his arm over her shoulders to help him get to his feet. she was so relieved she could have wept, but instead met hank’s eyes with a challenging glare. see? she thought. i told you. “let’s get you to the ambulance.”

-

“the bad news is that you have a lot of practicing to do if you want to pass your recert,” hank said without preamble, showing up at her apartment. she didn’t think she’d ever seen him in jeans before. it was weird. “the good news is i understand your problem now.”

annabelle stepped aside, beckoning him in. “what problem?” she demanded. “it worked! you saw it work. that’s the opposite of a problem.”

hank shrugged. he handed her a trifold that he’d clearly printed off at home. it said so you think you’re a necromancer. annabelle blinked down at it, and then up at hank, and then down at the trifold again. “i … don’t understand what’s happening here,” she told him honestly. 

“i’m not in the community and they’re kind of cagey, so i can’t really tell you a lot,” hank told her, stilted and visibly uncomfortable. “but i have a cousin who is, and um, i just want you to know that this doesn’t change anything. you’re still who you’ve always been and you have my complete support. we’ll figure out how to get around the recert. maybe i’ll – i can put you on admin duty to give you time to study. we’ll say it’s because of an injury.”

“hank,” annabelle said, with some urgency. “hank, this flier says the word necromancer.”

“yes,” agreed hank, looking relieved. “oh, good, you’ve heard of it already. i thought i was going to have to have the whole your body is changing talk.”

annabelle shook her head. “no, i – hank. you know that … um, you know that necromancy isn’t real, right? people can’t bring other people back from the dead. that’s crazy.”

“annabelle, not four hours ago you instructed a dead man to stand up and he did.”

“okay, he wasn’t dead, obviously. he was almost dead, at best.”

“no. he was dead.”

“i felt his pulse! it was very faint!”

“you called his pulse. no one else would have felt it, because it wasn’t there except in response to you.”

“hank, what the fuck.”

he shrugged. “read the flier,” he instructed. “and bring dierdre home with you. you’re going to have to practice a lot if you want to get recertified, considering you haven’t one time had to use any of the skills you learned the first go around.”

he bussed her temple as he went by, letting himself out of her apartment with a friendly wave. annabelle looked down at the flier in her hand with a frown. when she unfolded it, the first page said, everyone’s necromancy journey is different, but most people discover their gift by accident. have you ever brought a pet back to life? touched an elderly relatives hand and seen some of the color flood back into their face? or perhaps, more subtly, been able to keep cut flowers alive long past their purchase date?

annabelle looked at her kitchen table. she’d had the same vase of tulips on it since she moved in, three years ago. it was true they periodically started to wilt, but she usually just changed their water and they were fine, popping back up one after the other as she slid them into the fresh vase. 

“well shit,” annabelle said, letting the flier fall from her hands.

[waltzinglikeitis1698]

Kicking The Bucket List

It's late.

Everything happens when it's late.

You're too young to stay in until you're not.

But it's always too late to go out.

So you don't.

You text her.

"It's Natalia."

As if that is the answer to everything.

As if that could fix everything. 

A conversation lasting three minutes-- A conversation had with someone else.

"Wrong. Number. Sorry."

It's Natalia and I'm asking a question with no prelude. And I'll most likely follow up that question with another question. I would ask you if you want to do something stupid.

Something stupid as in remaining friends. Or more like becoming friends again.

My first question would've been if you still had your bucket list. A bucket list we made together. I still have mine. Do you remember writing them in a red pen on the back of a greasy take out bag? I do. I remember a lot of things.

My next question probably would have been, "Do you want to help me check something off of my bucket list?"

Out of all the reasonable hopes and too big dreams, I wanted us to do something together. I wanted to break bread in the form of breaking skin.

I wanted a tattoo reminder of the friendship we had.

I probably won't talk to you next time in class.