Richard Siken / 红月 Red Moon (Detail) - Huang Guangjian/x / can’t we just leave the monster alive - TXT / ’Ariel’ by Aneleh, published in the tide rises, the tide falls journal / Yves Olade, from When Rome Falls; Bloodsport, 2017 / Jane Hirshfield, Assay Only Glimpsable for an Instant
Wonktober day 17 - Disintegration + hylictober day 17
i finished the main drawing late last night + i felt like making something showing off gibbys full outfit lol
i would like to state that in my hylics fanon thing the only reason people initially liked gibby before he yknow, yeeted their brains was because he was attractive
im not going to say what killed him there, because reasons
the reasons being that it was brutal and Not Nice
Also damn I guess some people really liked him enough to just like, reanimate his corpse huh Post link
Incest, revenge and dark magic in the Odeon’s new production of Electra and Orestes
LONDON, ENGLAND
THE STORY of Electra and Orestes is hardly one that needs embellishment to keep its audience awake through its five acts. A stomach-churning tale of revenge and honour, greed and vice and love in all its twisted forms, following the rise and fall of Orestes and his sister Electra as they plot to take the throne and avenge their father Agammemnon, Sophocles’ classic play makes even the raunchiest of our plays look tame by comparison. Indeed, classical scholars frequently complain that our modern stage tends towards censorship in its stagings of Electra and Orestes.
Aristochanus Marlowe’s adaptation of Electra and Orestes, then, should please those that criticize the bawdlerization of this play’s modern productions, with its unflinching approach to this bloody tale of revenge. In this adaptation, Electra and Orestes’ closeness to each other takes on a sinister turn, the incestuous undertones of the original text amplified in an impassioned monologue delivered by Orestes to his sister as they plot their revenge. Michael Blishwick’s Orestes is fierce and pathetic by turns as he wrestles with self-doubt and unsurety under the looming shadow of the throne; and the vile crime they are about to commit. But it is Camille Plautin who is the star of this show, in a memorable performance as Electra - strong-willed and proud yet frail, consumed by this need for revenge borne of what is later revealed to be an unhealthy bond to her father she persists in clinging to.
It is after Electra inveigles Orestes into pledging himself to revenge their father by any means, however, that we truly reach the heart of Marlowe’s adaptation. Fearing that they may be found out and executed, Electra makes Orestes promise that he will agree to do anything to keep himself alive. Once he has sworn this, in blood and with an Unbreakable Vow, Electra tells him that he must kill her and make a horcrux in which he may place half his soul. Orestes is naturally horrified and refuses. Ms Plautin’s Electra is at her very best here, raving and weeping, threatening and mocking, savage and tender, calling his love for her false until Orestes yields unwillingly. Maria Vyayetskaya is truly magnificent as Clytemenestra as she attempts to reason with her son, half-mad with grief and guilt and still covered in his sister’s blood. Nothing will stop Orestes however, and by the end of the play the stage is slick with blood and a body count that rivals that of Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
Critics will decry Marlowe’s decision to include a portrayal of the creation of a horcrux on stage for all the bad memories it will undoubtedly awake in the audience. There are some who might even go so far as to claim that it may give people ‘ideas’. The actual process barring Electra’s murder, however, is not shown directly on stage, but is hinted at indirectly through an intricately performed light and shadow play. Mr Marlowe himself believes that it is necessary for the public to face their fears and misgivings about horcruxes and other dark magic. As he puts it, it is in the dark that dark magic truly festers and not under the bright lights of the theatre stage.
There are those who may also lament the glamour that this particular adaptation of Electra and Orestes brings to the matter of revenge and revenge killings. Certainly neither Electra nor Orestes are punished or even chastened for their single-minded pursuit of this morally reprehensible goal. They have missed the point of this play. The answer lies in the odd glance, in cracked voices and in the harsh bright lights and the stark white sets, reminiscent of the wards at St Mungo’s, that Mr Marlowe has chosen for this production. The play meticulously picks at the inconsistencies and the emptiness of the tragic lives of these two siblings; venomous tentacula that grow sickly as the bright lights strip away the pretenses and the masks, leaving empty eyes and profound despair behind in a harsh and unforgiving landscape that mirrors the hollow emptiness of Electra and Orestes’ souls. Mr Marlowe gets to the heart of the tragedy of Electra and Orestes in this adaptation, looking beyond its bloody ending to pick apart their fractured souls. The Odeon’s latest offering truly does show us that dark souls fester in the dark and not in the harsh light of the stage.
Electra and Orestes is running at the Odeon theatre until February 8th.
TOP 50 FEMALE CHARACTERS (as voted by my followers) #34. katherine pierce (the vampire diaries) “Humanity is a vampire’s greatest weakness. No matter how easy it is to turn it off, it keeps trying to fight its way back in. Sometimes I let it.”
-dizziness -passing out -severe weakness -numbness -weakness on one side of the body -low blood pressure -severe abdominal pain -chest pain -nausea and vomiting
Warning: This fic deals with the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. It will contain blood, smoking, and descriptions of a battlefield. Reader discretion is advised.
Inspired by the phrase: “Buddies in Bad Times.”
Mars at Rest
Waterloo, Belgium; 18 June, 1815
Cracking against flint, a match sparks and burns, breaking the deathly silence.
Prussia brings the flame to his pipe, lighting the tobacco, watching it glow red before he inhales that woody, calming scent, letting it fill his bloodstream and permeate his mind. It doesn’t do much to dull the throbbing ache of his muscles, bruised and overtaxed, pricking in sour protest of every shift and gesture, but it quells the final itch of caution, a nagging leftover from the battle, dying out at last. Shutting his eyes, he exhales, long and slow, then turns to gaze upon the shattered countryside.
The field of victory is never a pretty sight.
Belgium’s rolling hills are riddled with bodies, military uniforms dotting the landscape in navy, crimson, and black. A few fires are smouldering here and there, dark smoke billowing off of charred grassland and wool fabric, torn flags rippling from the heat. Among the dead, like phantoms, riderless horses stand quiet, their heavy heads hanging low; sad statues lost without their masters. Dusk soaks the scene in a strange, muted haze, with clouds catching the sunset and blazing as they sink below the earth.
It’s a familiar view and Prussia idly wonders how many battles he has witnessed in his abnormally long life. Hundreds? Thousands? The uniforms and weapons may change, but in his memory, the conflicts all blend together in a sea of blood, a churning stew of grisly images stretching back to the Crusades. The shock and horror long ago morphed into tepid acceptance, better suited for survival, because when staring down a brigade of stampeding dragoons, there is no time for doubt, and the field of failure is a far worse sight than this.
Turning his back to the sullied terrain, Prussia puts his hand on a short, crumbling brick wall, barely more than a fence now, and hops, throwing his boots over the side to perch atop it. His tendons sting, a mild jolt of pain shooting up his wrist, but he ignores it; he rarely listens to his body, anyway.
“You look like shit,” Prussia tells his exhausted ally.
Barely upright, England is sitting on the ground, leaning against a broken cannon wheel that got stuck in the rubble. Coat draping his shoulders, he holds his bandaged side, red seeping through, and still manages the strength to glare up at Prussia, putting those impressive eyebrows to good use.
“And whose fault is that?” he grunts, voice dry and hoarse.
“My best guess would be France,” Prussia teases, popping the pipe between his teeth.
