Marjorie Ford - Blog Posts

🌚 - Miss Misery - 🌝

A Lackadaisy fanfic by GentleLass

Prelude

It was a splendid morning. Wind gently blew, leaves slowly swayed and the sun shone up in the Italian sky. A wonderfully blue sky, that wonderful sky underneath which Marjorie had grown up and that she had loved so much. Just like she had oh so loved the green and blooming prairies, among which she now ran, happy, thoughtless as ever, without a worry in the world. She was just a five-year-old, her dress was but a white lace, and the only accessory she was forced to drag along herself were her golden eyes that perfectly reflected the fervent sun of her motherland. No shoes, corsets, girdles, bows or hats to hinder and weighten her movement. She was free, absolutely free to run and jump and sme and play, by her own rules. And indeed she ran and laughed in the flowers, sprinting like bats out of hell. To her right, a flock of swallows crossed the soft clouds, returning after a long winter to flee from another; to her left, hares jumped fast towards North, almost as if challenging her to a race. And Marjorie of all people certainly wouldn’t have backed from a challenge, so she started running towards their direction, faster and faster. But the closer she got, the more the sound of their jumps became loud, louder, loudest, deafening. Until she got so close she started to feel the ground shaking underneath her feet to the rythm of their furious jumping…

… the Ford Model T roughly steered again thanks to the rough driving of Nicodeme, and the dream ended. Marjorie returned to her 30 something years of age (you don’t ask that to a lady!) , she returned to the corset that was twisting her guts along the cars’ brusque movements, to the shoes that squished her feet and to the skirts hindering her movement. The sky, as blue as it had been, turned grey and threatening, and the clouds returned to thicken into dark hoards of smoke. The sound of footsteps on grass was replaced by squealing and derailing of wheels on wet mud, and the girl’s laugh were soon covered by the flurry of water. Ah, Missouri. The land of humidity and swamps and just… wet.

Wet, Marjorie thought with a grimace of displeasure. That wouldn’t get along well with her heels, if not for the length of them, then the cost. She didn’t do that often - no, not wearing costly shoes in the least likely of occasions, that’s something she always did, if only for some twisted form of sadomasochism, subconscious and mostly unknown even to herself, but very evidently much explored - I meant, grimacing. Changing expressions, or just emoting. Her mind and soul weren’t empty, just… mostly unknown, as said, and as such she knew her looks where the easiest way to get her own - ‘with a smile you’ll get to the world’s heart when you yourself don’t even own one’, her father used to say. And she took those words to her… whatever is it that beats inside her chest (Marjorie drunkenly laughed “Bolero’s the only percussion inside me!” more than once), wearing a smile like you wear an accessory, an accessory like any other, interchangeable, replaceable, and most of all, material and meaningless when it came down to what truly matters. And indeed, when she thought nobody could see her she let it down like it mattered nothing to her, because it didn’t. When she thought nobody could see her… Marjorie snapped her gaze in a violent way that clashed with the fluffy fluttering of eyelashes, immediately baring her fangs as if out of instinct - whether a violent one or something else, it’s up to you to decide: the smile of Marjorie Ford can be as much that sewed shut of a doll, as it can be that cackling and threatening of a hyena. She smiled, and for a second she believed that the person who could see the smile would think the same thing and smile back, too, and the interaction would be just that easy and would go down just that smoothly. Just two people politely smiling at each other, no commitment, just smiling for the sake of smiling.

But alas, it couldn’t. We don’t always get what we want, much to Marjorie’s dismay. The eyes that looked at her now were anything but polite; they didn’t have the sparkle of amusement and kindness that should accompany a smile, they were cold. They were unyielding. They were all that were Marjorie’s own and more, but they didn’t match hers. She saw it. She knew he was seeing it too. She felt it. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t. His face remained a mask of pure indifference. It seemed to mock her, mocking her with its icy, hard eyes, mocking her as his lips never curved into a smile. The smile that was so obviously forced on her own lips froze, and it faded reluctantly, slowly, trembling, and the collapse was much more natural and spontaneous than the raise of it. Mocking her, mocking her, mocking her with his lips that never rose from the stern line - no, no Sir, with those serious and even respectable looks, the ostentatious diligence he dedicated to his work, the spontainety of his frown, while she was constantly fooled by her own decievment and the illusion of beauty surrounding it, and it made her angry. And anger’s the ugliest feeling of them all, and Marjorie’s supposed to be the most beautiful of them all, because what else did she have to offer? No friends, no family, no prospects. Certainly not a husband. She was alone with her feelings and desires. No friends, no family, no prospects. That’s how it is, isn’t it? You’re alone, Marjorie, and alone you stay - the truth that is so deeply engraved deep inside your bones, like iron bars of a rib-cage around… whatever it is that beats inside your chest (“Samba and Rumba!”). So Marjorie smiled and it felt like a sneer instead, but she didn’t stop smiling. She kept the expression frozen as the car’s brakes screamed in surprise and the tires screeched and the wheels hit the ground, until the other person fell for it, or just got tired of watching her, and looked away.

Tired of her, tired of her, tired of her— —no, NOT again. It’s just not worth so much worry. Marjorie took a big breath, realising she had been holding it all the while, and sighed. Rolling her eyes and abandoning her head against the window, and letting the usual numbness overtake her, her natural state of mind just as vague, and dull, and bleak as the view outside opaqued by the rain.

Boredom is the most sublime of all feelings, as it afflicts only those with a sensible and refined soul, too selective to be swayed by small flashes of petty emotion.

Souls that inevitably end up disheartening and brutalising: out of boredom, in fact, one can commit actions that are vile and dangerous, or degrading and not very sensible. Marjorie knew a bit too much of it for comfort, on both accounts. She knew too much of the evils caused by human greed and the pleasures provided by selfishness. She knew enough, really. Enough to know she has no reason to expect anything better from life, enough to know that she has no need for any better, and the world will provide her everything, and everything only if there is no resistance on her part.

That’s why she didn’t say anything when she recieved that hard, and frankly uncalled for, stare, from the man sitting as distantly from her as he could in the relatively crampled space of the Ford Model T, just as intent as she was in drowning out the cackling and growling voices of the two hijackers on the front seats.

And to think he could have even made for an acceptable partner in crime, at least compared to those other two… animals… currently fighting for the steering the wheel… if only hadn’t he been so… so…

So Heller.

The bland interest aroused by Mordecai’s manner waned in a matter of seconds as Marjorie’s probing eyes lingered on the strict and austere mien, observing with a certain disgust the blatant disdain and unpleasant disposition he shamelessly displayed against all manner of common courtesy and efficiency in work interaction.

Not that she minded him being rude in the slightest; he was, after all, a fellow employee, and therefore beneath contempt, for the sake of her own making things easier and less committed for herself if anything. No. No, it was because she could see, she knew - the glint in the other’s eyes, the stiffness of his posture and the rigidness of his features, the scowl he bestowed upon her after the first glance, after the first few sentences - this man didn’t like her. At all. No, he probably disdained her as much as she disdained him, in fact. And she didn’t like it - Marjorie didn’t like the taste of her own medicine, but yet again, nobody does. That was something completely beyond her control, a reason more to not like it.

But also a reason to ignore it: again, this game was just not worth the candle. It doesn’t mean anything, because it never does. It was was a game. Life is just a game. A game of pretend and lies, a game she played over and over and over again, trying to fill her stomach with a fake satisfaction and a fake smile, hoping that it might fool someone into giving her whatever it is would actually satisfy her - what exactly, not even she knew.

WOAHHH hey there!!! I’m just publishing this prelude to my Lackadaisy fanfic - Miss Misery - here, because I frankly can’t be bothered to learn how to properly operate AO3. AS ALWAYS I lingered a little *too much* on whatever it is that is happening inside this madwoman’s head… I hope it isn’t too boring, and I swear I’m trying to put a little more action into the other chapters. Hope it gave a little insight into this PUZZLE of a woman’s thought process behind her chaotic and seemingly irrational way of acting and aroused your interest to soon read more.

Comments and constructive critique are more than welcome!

Marjorie Ford Fanart!

Finally finished some art of the wonderful Marjorie Ford, owned by the one and only @gentlelass !

I had heard that you were feeling pretty blue lately, so I wanted to make you a lil something to help cheer you up, and as a thank you for your previous work featuring my boy Edward when I was feeling down and out. I hope you enjoy, and have a great rest of your day/night! 😊

vvv Unedited version here vvv

LOOK AT THEM ! LOOK NOW !!

I can’t get over how people draw Ash- She looks amazing in your style! The cutie !

Third batch of Lack-ocs done!

Åse/Ace Olaug Årud belongs to @acesandocs

Marjorie Ford belongs to @gentlelass

Elizabeth Scott belongs to @akosisab

And last but not least, Aisling 'Ash' Mayfield belongs to @annlytical

Bonus art of Marjorie and my oc Angelique conversing over drinks (most likely in the Savoy's suite).

As always, have an excellent day/night! ✨

As recompense for your crimes, I'm obliged to ask for 24 and 29 on the question sheet plz 😌👮‍♂️ (even when I had stolen it from someone else first 🤫)

- 🥂Petty Hedonism🥀 -

Uh, yeah, my first q&a in Tracy's style (more or less)! For the record the first picture is my very first attempt at self insert in a comic, please don't be too harsh on me lol.

As pertaining the second question, no. 29, "What is the stupidest thing she has ever done because someone dared her to do it?", I didn't draw anything, but I'd say a large number of senseless endeavors with... you guessed it, the Savoy siblings, yet again. It's always them.

Of the likes of, throwing knives - only problem being, that Margo herself was the one having knives thrown at her like a circus performance. And she was giggling like a blushing schoolgirl, too. Or going rowing with a shirtless, barefoot Nicodeme in a swamp hosting crocodiles as its fauna. Or having voodoo love symbols carved in unnamable places of her body by an overeager Serafine (yes, I do will descend into further details about this in another post sooner or later).

But even after it all Marjorie's still alive and well, isn't she? And as they say, 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger'.

Or just batshit crazy in Margo's particular case, but she's not the only one. Margo, we feel you.

-🤍 Marjorie Ford, the woman behind the smile 🩷-

Hey there!

YUP,

after the embarrassingly LONG time of two months and 19 days after the opening of this silly Tumblr blog and the introduction of Margo’s cute character on the Lackafandom scene, I FINALLY finished her character sheet for all of you sweet folk to witness my delusional fantasies of blood-streaked glamour and romance!

Why did this take me so much time? Simple. As usual, I can’t use Ibis Paint X, and draw digitally with my smol fingers on my equally smol and silly phone.

As such an inept as I am, the background of Marjorie’s illustration is in fact NOT product of my dubious artistic skills: I downloaded it from a free stock of ‘aesthetic garden background, wallpapers and illustration’ I found on Trailsandfreedom.com .

No, I swear I am not being paid to advertise them or anything, I merely feel the urge to leave credits with my pesky moral code nagging at my conscience.

Here is the original picture, on which I then dared to add some filters to get the dull coloring I wanted.

Also, here is the original pencil sketch of Margo’s, this time proudly produced by myself only:

She’s supposed to be sporting some fancy Victorian-gothic style dress, hat and parasol to recall of Mordecai’s own elegant fashion sense. I didn’t add any gloves because at the beginning I wanted her to, like, sting herself with the rose to draw blood and symbolise the assassination business and all that jazz.

And, nada, that’s the end of my interminable poem of thought process! I hope this gave some proper insight on Margo’s otherwise mysterious character, and it it managed to entice your curiosity about her, feel free to nag me in my asks!

-GentleLass.

Hey there.

I know this isn't mainly a social platform of writing, and if you don't care for reading my long-ass bullshit, you're free to scroll. But I was very eager to post here a summary of my Oc, Marjorie's Ford life since her birth to when she first joined the Marigold Gang, at least for that couple of people who will care enough to bother reading, since I've always left you in the dark about most of her past up until now. I will make a storyboard with actual drawings to make it more interesting to the eye at some point, but it'll take long, so for now, enjoy what I have to offer.

The recurring year is 1894, and yet another baby girl is born under the prosperous (not for too much longer) Kingdom of Italy. But not just any child, falling short of aristocracy in terms of wealth: daughter to the Opera singer Caterina Casiraghi (Ford) and the handsome but opportunist American notary who snatched the Italian beauty as soon as he saw her, Christian C. Ford. Second to nobody in her own home but her older brother, Malcom Ford, Marjorie was still spoiled and pampered from all sides, and for a while, they were happy. 

But of course it was too good to be true, and soon enough Christian's misdeeds came biting back to him, after a life time of biting more than he could chew: the notary and most of his official possessions burnt to ashes in a fire, and although the cause was officially concluded to be an accident, his family knew in their hearts it was nothing but arson: between what remained of the man's belongings, in fact, the wife found multiple letters of a minatory nature coming from some unspecified shady client of the man's, that he had evidently proceeded to ignore. The widow, left on her own with a man to bury and two children to raise,  had no choice but to roll up her sleeves, and the broken family spent the next six years of their lives incessantly hopping from place to place, partially for the matron's role she played in different courts across all Europe as a requested and appreciated soprano, partially to avoid meeting the same early end as the late father and husband may his killers spot them if they stop in a single place too long.

Such circumstances weren't the most normal for the youths to grow up in, and the siblings came out as... not any normal really: while the weight of responsibility hung on the eldest's shoulders, stuck in the role of the "man of the house" and becoming gloomier with each day, the younger could only long to receive that much attention. Daughter unsuitable of inheriting anything, too young to get married to another rich man, and with a voice too small to follow her mother's footsteps into the world of Opera, she soon veered towards theater, her frame, just as small as her voice, nimble and agile, her movements graceful, her scenic presence lovely as she had learnt to emulate from her mother. Still feeling the psychological pressure that was truly only inside her own head from being both female and the younger child, where she couldn't follow her mother's footsteps she instead followed her late father's, soon adopting less-than-savory methods to get ahead in her career, eliminating the competition before it even got the chance to become such.

All prestigious careers however have as much of a raise as they are doomed to have a fall, and in 1914, when the Great War officially broke out, the entertainment business collapsed, specially fields as frivolous as dancing and singing, and the next thing which dropped at dizzingly fast speeds was... the Ford Family's bank account.

The Ford widow, ever the loyal mother and wife, used the last funds she had to send her children to their fatherland America like many other immigrants of the time to seek luck and a better life, and we all can imagine what happened to her, next.

The sole survivors of the Ford Family, at this point aged respectively 21 and 23, were soon separated yet again, however: not any more than a few weeks after they had successfully disembarked in Mexico, in fact, the Italian government spotted them, demanding that Malcom  came immediately back to motherland to fight in the army along all other male, able-bodied Italian citizens of age. The boy, after a lifetime of accepting responsibilities, had it drilled into his very subconscious by this point to always answer the call of duty without question, and so he did one last time, taking leave from his sister and all the money they had left. He wrote his sister letters and send her more money for some time, directing them to Mexico City where he had left her. After a while however he stopped receiving answers from her altogether, an no sibling ever heard from the other ever since.

This is because Marjorie after some months of permanence in Mexico, working some gigs here and there, plus the money she was receiving from her brother, finally saw an opportunity to build a new life all for herself, where she would be the sun, the star of the scene, rather than a mere moon in the backlight of not one, but TWO suns in her case, both mother and brother. Having been a nomad all her life Marjorie never learnt to truly form bonds and emotional attachments to people, always knowing she'd lose them as soon as she had to move yet again; hence the loss of her mother and the betrayal she inflicted on her brother never weighted much on her mind, or so she tells herself. She traveled all the way up to Missouri, where she soon started working as a maid at a certain Maribel Hotel, where a "kind", if sorta odd fella by the name of Asa Sweet welcomed her in his den in exchange of a mere few favors which would cost Marjorie nothing but a constant smell of bleach on her person, due a variety of reasons, and the sanity she had already long lost anyways.

Opportunist sociopath born out of heritage, of circumstances and most importantly of the intrusive thoughts of inferiority inside her own head nobody ever bothered teaching her the strength to fend off, the rest is history.