Putting these two idiots on af this year <3
#ryland grace#phm#rocky the eridian#project hail mary spoilers



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Putting these two idiots on af this year <3

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January 10th, 1946
One year. Itās been one year.
That doesnāt feel real to write. It canāt possibly be true. How can it be one year since Charles was killed, when he died just yesterday? When he died last Tuesday and four weeks before that and two months ago and every day since that terrible notice arrived.
It canāt have been a year because the loss is as fresh as if I had been told moments ago.
Though, thinking of that day nowāwhen I learned that heād died and that I was listed as his next of kin in the same terrible momentā¦it hasnāt been a year, has it? It was January twenty-third that the telegram came. I lived in ignorance for thirteen days. There was a period of nearly two weeks in which the deed had been done, the shell had been dropped, and yet I knew nothing. He was still alive then. For thirteen days he was alive in my mind. Sometimes I wish it could have stayed that way, that theyād never alerted me and that the war had never ended, and I could exist in a perpetual state of hope he would return. What a rotten, selfish thought.
But have I not earned the right to be selfish? The universe has been unaccountably cruel to me, ensuring that his letter only arrived afterā
It should have been a gift, that letter. I should have been able to hold onto it, to fill my head with the glimmering possibility of how we would greet each other in victory.
But instead I received a confession from a dead man. I donāt even have a body to bury, just a stray dog tag pulled from the wreckage in Belgium, and yet I have his final words. Words that should have signified the start of something, not the end.
What an awful trick he pulled on me. Watch The Great Chambers disappear. Glance over here at the promise of a spectacle, his affections laid bare, and by the time you look back over, heāll have vanished. Except I experienced the illusion in reverse and misdirection is neither thrilling nor effective when you can see the strings of fate that are being used to hang a man.
Iām writing a lot of nonsense. Iāve been doing little else, this past year. Perhaps I need to go away, stop pretending like Iām any use to anyone. Perhaps I should go away for a long while.
After her husband died, I gave Mrs. BowmanāVirginia, I should say, weāre friends enough nowāa sizable amount of money. Enough to take a year off. I wish I could say it was a purely generous gesture, but even at the time, I was so terrified of losing him and I couldnāt bear to look at her. She put on a brave face, far braver than I would have managed, but seeing her every day at her desk, continuing to do what began to feel like the utterly pointless work of our profession, while her one true love laid dead in a battlefield somewhereā¦it was too much of a reminder of what he was risking, being over there.
In any case, whatever the motivation, I was able to do her the kindness of giving her a year to grieve. No work, no concerns, justā¦time. To be honest, I could have probably given her several more years, butāand, again, I am ashamed of thisāwhen she came back and found me as the broken man I am, I took solace in the horrific partnership we now share. She understands what Iāve been through, more than anyone in my life, and was plenty aware of myā¦varied affairs, to put it one way, to blink an eye at my becoming a widower to another man.
Though, no, that isnāt quite right. That implies there was once a time in which I could claim the privilege of being something more to Charles than a bosom friend. Would that make all of this better or worse? Would his absence be easier to bear if I could recall those close and happy times in the way that Virginia reminisces about her honeymoon? She wasāisāunderstandably overwrought with her loss, but whenever she speaks of Roger, it is with such fondness. She loves him so deeply, remembers him with such warmth, and meanwhile I am sometimes so furious with Charles that I canāt even see straight.
But I miss him. Thatās the worst part. Iām so goddamn angry, Iām bitter, Iām buried underneath the oppressive sadness of grief, but mostly I just miss him.
I miss his laugh, which Iād gotten good at pulling out of him. I miss the way he was so particular about things, how he almost never let me win an argument, even if I could tell he knew I was right and was simply debating me for the sport of it. I miss how gentle his voice could be.
I miss his hands. Strong and littered with scars, all the more beautiful for the stories behind them. I donāt have any photos that do them justice. Not that any photograph could do any part of him justice. I suppose I should just be grateful I have a decent collection.
I wish Iād gotten him on film, properly. Not just the test reels heād tolerate when I bought myself whatever new camera came onto the market.
Thereās one in particular I took that captures him in the act of smiling. Not just any smile either, but the special one he has had when he was trying not to smile at me but couldnāt help it. Iād brought my camera to DC and made him stand in front of a cherry blossom tree. He was so bashful at the time, trying to get out of being my subject, but he looks so pleased in the footage. He looks like a film star. Handsome and charming and alive.
Thank goodness I went into the movie business. I canāt imagine Iād have even that if I hadn't. But I do need to be careful with the film. I worry about wearing it out. For as long as I can watch him flicker into motion, brought into shape by light and movement, I can keep him alive.
Good lord, Virginia is right. Iāve become so terribly maudlin of late. Perhaps it really is time for me to pull up stakes and wander the world for a while. God knows I donāt have anything keeping me here. Just a wonderful friend going through her own process of mourning, a beautiful house I canāt stand to be in, and a thriving movie studio that brings me absolutely no pleasure.
And I have years and years ahead of me. Endless decades of my perpetual life without him in it. He told me heād never be lonely as long as I walked this earth and I didnāt say a word. I didnāt tell him that it was the same for me. I didnāt make him promise that heād never leave me in a world without him.
There is so much I didnāt say. Iāve spent the last year reflecting on all the conversations we never had and I would do anythingāwould perform any kind of black magicāto speak to him again.
I would trade it if I could. I would trade the immortal nature of my life to live an ordinary one in a world that still houses his soul.
Iāve survived near-death at the hands of my own illusion, war, fire, a sinking shipāso much that should have killed me. At times Iāve even looked forward to discovering what else I am capable of surviving.
But how on earth am I meant to survive this?
[from the personal diary of J.S. Fogg]
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August 5th, 1944Ā
Dear Charles,Ā
The time that has elapsed since your last letter would have me concerned if every other friend I knew with someone over there wasnāt in the same boat. I suppose itās difficult to move that much mail across the world, but I do hope to hear from you soon.Ā
There are, in fact, many more people in my life who I can relate to on this particular point than I expected. Mrs. BowmanānĆ©e Spencer; she and her beau got married just before he shipped off, I canāt remember if I mentioned thatāoften speaks of her frustrations at not hearing from her husband. And it feels silly to admit, but I half feel the same. Not that Iām some sort of war wife sitting at home, but in that I have been used to a particular cadence of communication with you. Yes, weāve gone many years without speaking, but that hasnāt been the case for decades. Ever since we both got telephones in our homes, weāve spoken at least once a week and Iām sorry to say that Iām having a difficult time recalling the particular pitch of your voice.Ā
I hope youāve made some friends over there. If memory servesāwhich it often doesnāt on this particular subjectāthat camaraderie was one of the few bright spots in the war. Though I canāt say Iāve kept in touch with many of those fellows. Then again, not many of them came home. How did we get here again, Charles? How have we not learned? When I think of those men I served with, I picture the old men they must be now. Except that wouldnāt be the truth. Many of them would be in their fifties, hardly senior citizens. And yet it feels as if surely it must have been long, long ago that the world nearly fought itself to ruin.Ā
I hope things arenāt as bad over there this go around. Though I suspect theyāre worse. I wish I had some idea of where you were beyond just āthe Western Frontā. I know that, even if you cared to tell me, it would be redacted before it ever reached me, but having traveled the continent so much myself, it would be some comfort to picture you in familiar places. Then again, Iām sure those landscapes look much different now.Ā
But on to happier subjectsāif it makes it through the various checkpoints this package will no doubt go through before it reaches you, you should have a carton of Sweet Caporals in your hands. I have no idea if youāre able to get them where you are but my guess would be that any pleasure is in short supply. I hope this provides some degree of relief, even for a moment.Ā I keep thinking of being on my patio and you
Smoke them, trade them, share them with your men. Whatever you do, I hope you think of me do it safely.
Until I see you again, I am,
Your friend, John
[a letter received by C.X. Chambers]
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No appreciation for Foggās sense of humour š
1941 DECEMBER 7Ā PMĀ 4 13
MOVE YOUR TRIP UP. COME TO LOS ANGELES IMMEDIATELY. WORLD MAY BE ENDING.Ā
WE WONāT BE ABLE TO STAY OUT OF IT NOW.
[a telegram received by C.X. Chambers]
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September 20th, 1939
Dear Charles,Ā
What an absolutely rotten world we live in. When this year began, I never would have anticipated that, nearing the end of it, half of Europe would be at war. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps I was being naive in assuming weād learned our lesson. At the very least, I hope our country has learned its lesson and will act more swiftly than we did twenty years ago. Though I wonāt be holding my breath.Ā
Not that I want to go to war. It would be my preference that we never feel the need to deploy our military ever again. But then I remember all we lostāall the death and destructionāand I drive myself to madness thinking of what could have been if weād thrown our might into the fray at an earlier stage. And this already feels much the same, though this time, itās as if thereās a palpable anger, a sense of revenge. This cannot lead anywhere but into hell.Ā
What are we to do, Charles? Iām not sure I can bear to experience the toils of war again, but Iām equally uncertain that I can simply stand by and watch. You contributed off the battlefield back then, and contributed quite a lot. I would like to think I could support the cause in some similar way, but Iāve never had the knack for science in the way that you do. For chrissakes, Iām a movie producer.Ā
Then again, I know just how much the ghoulish results of your own work plagued you and do so even now. I know weāve never discussed it, not deeply, but war truly does make men commit horrible acts. Or perhaps that is merely an excuse and it is only the weakest men who succumb to the vagaries of violence against his fellow man. Perhaps I am a weak man.Ā
What if we said ādash it" to the whole business? What if we packed up a few bags, just the necessities, hopped on a boat and pushed off into the Pacific? We could find a little island somewhere Iām sure, one that has never seen the depravities of humankind. We could build a better life there, you and I. After all, we hardly require what an ordinary human needs. Have you ever seen how long you can go without food, Charles? There was one week during the war when rations were particularly low. I gave mine to a younger man who had never left his small town before going to the front and whose eyes were permanently wide. And I discovered we can go quite a while without even feeling the pangs of hunger.Ā
We could do it, I think. Run away, separate ourselves from society in a way that reflects just how separate we already are. Maybe we canāt die of hunger in the trench, but there are other, awful ways to die. And, despite it allāall my years and adventuresāIām not ready yet. Iād rather find a sunny spot and drive each other crazy for years to come. Wouldnāt that be better? If we could just run away? What do we need except for each othā
[an unfinished and unsent letter from J.S. Fogg to C.X. Chambers]
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1938 OCTOBER 31Ā AMĀ 9 02
JACK. DID YOU HEAR WELLES BROADCAST? MADE ME LONG FOR THE DAYS OF ILLUSION. CXC
1938 OCTOBER 31Ā AMĀ 9 36
C. HEARD AND ADORED. TRICKS THROUGH RADIO IS GENIUS. CAUSED QUITE A STIR. J
1938 OCTOBER 31Ā AMĀ 10 10
REACTION MUCH EXAGGERATED. ILLUSION CAN STILL DELIGHT EVEN IF KNOWN AS TRICK
1938 OCTOBER 31Ā AMĀ 10 42
BROADCAST BELIEVABLE THOUGH. MEN FROM MARS. WEāVE HAD STRANGER
1938 OCTOBER 31Ā AMĀ 11 10
ARE YOU CALLING ME A MARTIAN?
1938 OCTOBER 31Ā AMĀ 11 53
IF YOU ARE I AM
1938 OCTOBER 31Ā AMĀ 12 10
AT LEAST I AM IN GOOD COMPANY
[a series of telegrams exchanged by C. X. Chambers and J. S. Fogg]
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July 14th, 1937
Well, it is officialānothing was salvageable from the fire. The films are hardly the most important concern of the whole ordeal, not when a young boy is still recovering from severe burns (and how I do hope he recovers swiftly), but I do mourn the loss of some of my older, earlier attempts at filmmaking. Not to mention, all the other films that were stored there. In his letter, or at least the letter his office sent, Kent said that they hoped to recover silver from the remnants, so thatās something.Ā
I imagine Fox is seethingāanother black stain on his already tarnished legacy. Iām sure this would have still happened under his, or anyone elseās, regime, but Iām sure heās furious all the same. I would write to him with my condolences, but Iām not even certain of where heās living these days.Ā
In any case, it hardly needs to be stated that I will be making my own arrangements for storage from now on. Which means I need to figure out some kind of solution for the eastern seaboard. Or maybe the Los Angeles warehouse will suffice. A problem for another day.Ā
Though perhaps I am the true problemāafter all, this isnāt the first time that a fire has destroyed something precious of mine. A fact of which Charles was very quick to remind me. It was the damnedest thingāhe called me at home the moment he heard the news and asked if I was alright. He called me, on my telephone in my home in California, to ensure that I was safe from a fire in New Jersey. I suppose a man doesnāt think straight when confronted with the fear of losing a friend. Why I would have been at a film storage site on a random Friday in July, I canāt fathom, but then again Charles didnāt seem particularly clear-headed when I answered.Ā
I must say, I was touched by his concern, even as I found it a bit baffling. Heās been very distracted as of late and we havenāt been communicating at our usual cadence. The state of affairs in Washington sounds particularly tangled at the moment, but I canāt help but wonder if his relative reticence has more to do with the recent nuptials of one Miss Eudora Hale. Or, I should say, Mrs. Eudora Phelps as she is now and will forever be known.Ā
Despite his protestations, I have always suspected that Charles carries a torch for the young woman, one kept in his care and his care alone because of some misguided notion of being too old to marry someone of her age. I have always understood his concern of outliving a spouse, but Miss Hale Mrs. Phelps has always been a bright woman of great intellect and, I think, could have been entrusted with the truth and left to make her own decisions.Ā
Whatever his feelings on the matter, it is too late for Charles to do anything about it now. And I canāt say Iām sorry for it, even if I feel a pang of sympathy for my brother in immortality. I like Eudora very much, having met her several times through the years, but despite her mind and beauty, I never thought she and Charles were the right fit. This Phelps fellow seems far more appropriate. I just hope that Charles sees that someday.Ā
[from the personal diary of J.S. Fogg]
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