The Adventures Of Lord Roman - Chapter 4: Blinking Over the Brink

The Adventures Of Lord Roman - Chapter 4: Blinking Over the Brink

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A laugh that sounded like a bubbling cauldron, if a bubbling cauldron had the timbre of a hundred helium-induced sheep shouting, tittered into the dank cell where Roman lay. He responded with weak moans that successfully expressed a mixture of fear and how little faith he had in the character entering the room. By now the skin on his wrists beneath the straps were red, almost blistering. He grit his teeth and pushed his chest upwards, closing his eyes as if to ping out of the situation into some imaginary paradise that straining with all your remaining strength teleports you to.

The erratic tittering came closer. A shlink of chains hit the floor by his head, followed by a heavy metal clunk. He winced, as a rough, cold object touched his forearm. He dared not open his eyes. "Please. Please. Please," he whispered, "just leave my Franklin."

The cold sensation that had been travelling down his upturned forearm halted and the cauldron of sheep overflowed with a flock of laughter. Then Roman convulsed in agony; a blood-illuminating scream teared like a pterodactyl ripping out of his chest. In his rage and panic filtered vision he saw a giant pink peanut with the painstaking smile of a cheap doll. Its pupils rattled in its sheer-white eyes like a dishevelled fly trapped inside a lampshade. Whether or not the creature really was a peanut was far less important to Roman than the fact that it was gouging out the tendons in his right arm with a rusty meat hook. It chirruped like a vibrating hummingbird on ketamine all the while.

In a moment of clarity, Roman knew he was going to die. He knew that this was it.

His face lay back in the pale square of moonlight and gave up a sort of sick overwhelming allowing. He stared into the moon, which seemed to have grown five times its normal white size, and his vision became as crystal clear as when he were five years old. The hacking pain of the peanut remained in his flayed arm, but it was felt alongside the clocktower corner in Arfandol at the age of 17, watching her screw up his letter and turn away for the last time; the desire to get a good sniff of Mrs. Raibu's fresh apple pie at the age of 6, but being sent to lie in the dog kennel in the rain after he tugged the tablecloth and it smushed on the floor; holding the stamped letter from the king at the age of 8, learning that his father had died somewhere thousands of miles across the ocean and would not be returning.

The closest things to what he experienced next is a breath, the word everything and the word nothing. Asmaraj con Junifer mon Ploon agade non secule paaafways to other mun strukcha own haaf gud melondeys wisk u\z inna ho ho hold up vommnisch misky weay bu bulloon volt vamp dutrashank abla no.. //sd//f////wetr/t//g/g/g//g//ライブg/gs/dseropiti][][][425][34p56970]a]]a]a]adofifopoii-11111-----11110000010 10 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 0 10100100100//////23//30--0-2-34-#'[#[#;#[;#;'?/.,/ hhhd///ds===d sand 6 befoa hopns I looked info gauurgh bage trah ckksss peee ckckck eeeeng mmmm eeeeee owt und chuk eeeeng mi doun. Ah ah ah ahahahah I caaaaaandfsdfn held torumbsh before long I'll be yurong forhistro blak and I watch the bin men chucking the rubbish into the back of the lorry with awe while I hold my dad's hand. I sit in the living room holding a baddie from Biker Mice from Mars and a toy motorbike made of plastic that looks like toxic waste. I sit in assembly and use my imagination to escape. At night, staring at the glowing star stickers on the ceiling above my bunkbed, I glimpse a man with black hair writhing on a raised door in a dank cell being tortured by Mr. Blobby from the TV. I don't like it, so I try to push the thoughts in a different direction. I'm listening to my granddad tell me the joke about the Scoddish min howh who alwyz etz ceez samwichzzz ev ee nn thg he hates thammmmmm bloghran fahuthe hgald icuiperlu po235#//# fa#/#/#/'#'#2345/2///?/23.4#.2/////g/g/g/g/g///h/h/h/h/hh//h/h/hh//h/h/1=-=1==1-0-1-1-1--1-1-1110000011111000 1001 10 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 01001 0101 10 12-- 10 1-0--0 1-310249-=34004-535605=6788/////g/g//g/g/g/g//g/gggggggggg/////g//g/[[[[[]][[[hdfhuihhieho duo sa l latin swr iis t t t t t aa sf arrhjhj a aarrrghhh a arggrhga a sou eru peeeling p epepeelling pieeelinjg a change of hartyyy decisions to be made after ransacking Roman's arm, the peanut creature's effervescing laughter subsided. Roman gulped huge and heavy breaths of air, eyes trained onto the moon wider than they'd ever been. The pink peanut undid the straps around his limbs and peeled him off the torture device. Then the peanut hoisted him over its shoulder. Roman coughed a chunk of blood up, which the peanut beast caught in his free hand and threw into the square patch of moonlight behind him, before closing the door to the cell.

Cover Image Credit: Kissanime

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The Historical Reenacting Stigma

It's a dying art that can keep our history alive

Last year I wrote an article entitled "A Trip To 1887" where I discussed a group of people that are very close to my heart, not only for their importance in my life, but what they, and I am doing to preserve United States History. After I published this article, I found myself having to defend a social norm for one of my classes which allowed me to delve deeper into the harsh stigma that exists in the world of Historical Reenacting.

Martin Luther King Jr. once said “We are not makers of history. We are made by history.” There is a scene in the movie “Sweet Home Alabama”, the 2002 comedy starring Reese Witherspoon that immediately comes to the minds of many individuals when they think about the term “reenacting”. In the scene, the main character, Melanie Smooter, is seen walking into a field full of older men dressed in Union Civil War Uniforms. Melanie calls out to find her dad amongst the bodies, one man stands up and answers her, and then proceeds to fall back down on the ground.

The hobby of historical reenacting is, for the most part, extremely misunderstood. This particular movie isn’t just the only movie scene where the stigma has been placed on the hobby that is historical reenacting; it has been misunderstood through the media as well as from a political standpoint for what it actually is; it truly is an art form that can change the world and keep what we know about our past for future generations.

What I question is why this stigma exists in the first place. Why do people question or give you weird looks when you explain what you do when you tell them you are a historical reenactor? Why is something that has been a hobby for so many years still so misunderstood in the first place?

Contained inside the reenacting community is a group of people who can be key to keeping the history of the United States alive and well, and allow it become something that people now, and in the future can enjoy. For this reason, I believe that this stigma should be removed, and more effort should be put into understanding the significance of the hobby of historical reenacting. My father has been a part of the historical reenacting community for over twenty years.

Throughout his long time career in the world of reenacting, he has taken part in creating the law in the state of Oklahoma that allows historical firearms in the classroom for educational purposes, been involved in the production of a few historical Hollywood films, and presented numerous historical programs to children and adults of all ages. At the same time, he saw his hobby belittled across talk shows and movies, and saw law suits against historical reenactors and other organizations for “bringing back conflict that was once dead” and “bringing back firearms that should be made illegal.”

When I was seven years old, I joined this community. From this moment, I was introduced to some of the most special and influential people in my life, and began to understand just how important the hobby is to history of the United States Of America. As reenactors, you aren’t simply putting on a piece of clothing, but you are preserving and sharing the history of our country.

Authentic historical reenactors, or those who take the hobby seriously put hours upon hours into the details of their clothes, accessories, and presentations, among other things. They spend their time reading books about the era they wish to recreate, watching films and documentaries about the era, and doing other forms of intense research to make every detail of how they portray their particular area of focus exactly right.

In fact, most reenactors who put careful detail into their “kit”, or their complete outfit and accessories oftentimes find amateurs who lack the authenticity towards the era to be somewhat disrespectful of the hobby itself. This applies to those who call themselves reenactors but have spent very little time researching the era they are portraying. When I thought about my hobby that is so near and dear to my heart, I was able to flip the card and turns the lens on myself.

Although I have been a part of the reenacting community for most of my life, I have never understood the concept of Cosplay. I didn’t understand the concept of dressing like a superhero and attending conventions with others dressed like other superheroes or other television characters.

Although historical reenacting is a different caliber and idea then cosplay, I could see the similarities between the idea of cosplay and reenacting. Both cosplayers and reenactors put lots of efforts into trying to make sure they look perfect down to every detail of their outfit. Like reenactors, they try and research everything they can about the character they are portraying.

Reenactors and cosplayers are actually very much alike, and I have realized that need to give more credit to cosplayers then I have in the past. Historical reenacting truly is an art form.

Cover Image Credit: Gene Childers

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A Way Too Late Review Of James Franco’s “The Disaster Artist”

One of the best movies of the year tells the story of one of the worst movies of all time.

In 2003, the world was first able to experience one of the worst movies ever. This cinematic disaster represents the ultimate symbol of the concept of something being ‘so bad that it’s good.’ I am speaking, of course, of Tommy Wiseau’s terrible masterpiece “The Room.”

“The Room” tells the story of a successful banker named Johnny. Everything seems to be going well in his life until his fiancee Lisa and his best friend Mark start having an affair. The majority of the film consists of strange sex scenes, hilariously awful dialogue, and random plot points that are introduced once but then never come into play again.

The man behind this brilliant piece of work is the one and only Tommy Wiseau, who wrote, directed, produced and starred in “The Room” as Johnny. This movie has developed a devoted cult following because of how hilariously bad it is, and one person particularly inspired by Tommy was James Franco, who decided to make his own movie about the making of “The Room,” thus leading to one of the best films to come out in some time, “The Disaster Artist,” which was released this past December.

In true Wiseau fashion, James Franco directed the film and starred as Tommy Wiseau. His portrayal of Tommy is spot-on, successfully capturing Tommy’s long, dark hair and his not so great grasp of the English language.

As a side note, I know that it is already January and movie reviews generally come out right when a movie is first released, but I am breaking the mold this time, hence my “way too late” review of this movie.

“The Disaster Artist” tells the story of how Tommy Wiseau and Greg Sestero (who plays Mark in “The Room”) met in an acting class in San Francisco, then became close friends and decided to move to Los Angeles together to try and make it in the cut-throat world of show business. Greg is able to land an agent and finds a little bit of acting work, but nothing too exciting, and Tommy cannot seem to get anywhere at all. So, frustrated by the competitive world of Hollywood, Tommy decides to write and direct his own movie for him and Greg to star in, and the story of “The Room” begins.

Tommy Wiseau payed out of pocket to finance the film, and the cost of the production is said to have been somewhere around $5 million. Nobody knows how Wiseau got the money, just like nobody knows how old he is or where he is originally from. He is very private about these things, even insisting he is from New Orleans, although his accent suggests somewhere more like Eastern Europe.

In “The Disaster Artist,” James Franco is brilliant in his portrayal of Wiseau, and his brother Dave Franco stars as Greg Sestero in another great performance, although James manages to outshine every other performance in the movie by far.

The best part about “The Room” was all of the incredibly quotable lines that Wiseau’s character says, and “The Disaster Artist” adds a whole new list of Tommy Wiseau quotes to the bunch.

“The Disaster Artist” is brilliant, hilarious and tells the honest story of two dreamers coming to Hollywood to try and achieve greatness, and sort of succeeding. The movie is good enough to stand on its own, but I would definitely recommend watching “The Room” first for maximum enjoyment.

It is easily one of the best movies I have seen in a long time, and ever since watching it I feel the need to say just about everything in Tommy Wiseau’s voice.

Cover Image Credit: Niner Times

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