#;; kind of thinking that corrupted essence makes it harder for him to move his body properly--

[alealueur]

( from pandreo )

“Your hands are shaking. You need to stop.”

MEME ┊accepting.

Was... the battle over? Alear could barely tell over the sound of the loud echoing of his pulse in his ears. He knew he was quite low to the ground, likely on his knees at this moment, and he knew that everything outside of him felt so strangely far away. His breaths were labored and his limbs felt like they were weighted down, anchored and unwilling to move, yet no matter how much the exhaustion hit him, he could not seem to let himself submit to the screams of his mind and body telling him to let the darkness take over. Thoughts wordlessly swirled through his mind, and Alear couldn't make sense of what had happened during the last few phases of that ambush in which a corrupted attempted to run off with a ring.

The noise around him and red filter over his field of vision were slowly fading away, but the manakete still found himself struggling to calm down. He was a mess, for lack of better words. Did he... ? He must have—he must have temporarily lost himself. But why? Didn't the Emblems' miracle restore him to how he was before he died (to the state he was before Veyle had revived him as part of a last ditch effort)?

All these questions were making his head hurt.

It wasn't until a gentle pair of hands cupped around his numbed ones that Alear realized he was gripping the sword he was holding as if letting go would mean the end. It was only then he noticed the sickening amount of blood the blade was covered in, some dried, some still fresh. Slowly bringing himself back to the external world, he assessed himself—there was much more blood staining the clothes he wore (what a disgrace to the meaning behind such a clean color—he didn't want to end up the same as his old self, slaughtering for the sake of survival), and it seemed even his face had been caught in the blood splatter from the streaks of red he could vaguely see out of the corners of his eyes.

Had he gone into some sort of rampage like the very beings he feared? Or was it his true nature as a fell dragon that prompted him to destroy like—

Your hands are shaking. You need to stop.

Ah, his internal plights were showing. Of course—he had not been good at hiding his feelings since the day he awoke from that thousand year slumber.

The divine dragon could only watch deflatedly as the pair of hands carefully pried his blood-stained fingers off the hilt of his sword. When one hand was successfully pried away, the owner of those other hands took a moment to take the sword from him in its entirety and set it aside.

Lifting his gaze from the floor, Alear finally realized just who was reaching out to him. A uniformly grey uniform with bold red accents, messy orange hair that threatened to constantly block his golden eyes from view— Pandreo. Why was the sight of him so comforting right now? The priest was only here to do the routine check-up for injuries after battle, so why did this simple act seem to... (what was he even trying to say?)

Taking a breath to center himself, he attempted to force the thoughts out of his mind, ❝ Pandreo, do you mind...? ❞ Actually, he had no idea what he wanted in this moment, so he let his question fade into silence without any indication of what he might have wanted to ask. Did he want to be comforted right now? He wasn't sure; he wasn't sure of anything right now. He wasn't sure if he could even ask after what he had probably done—not that he had any recollection of what transpired (he was too afraid to ask).

Furthermore, the healer had his duties to tend to. He was likely not the only one Pandreo had left to check on. As there wasn't as many healers as wounded soldiers, he could not be selfish and take up more of his time. Shaking his head and lowering his gaze once more, he took back his implications and suppressed the desire to hold onto Pandreo's hand (he didn't want him to leave; he didn't want to be alone and left to think), ❝ Nevermind. You should make sure everyone else is alright. ❞

[kob131]

I can actually show you how with some other examples in Fixing RWBY.

Let’s start small- The onsen scene. Not the fact that there is an onsen scene (even though RT doesn’t do fanservice usually so this is just odd) but the moment where Neo disguises herself as Jaune to go into the men’s side to be with him. Generic anime stuff, right? ‘Haha, person is in gendered side they’re not suppose to, funny!’ Except that this kind of scene is done in one of two ways- A. The person is a pervert and the character promptly gets punished for their perversion, usually by getting beaten up. Or B. Character is in the wrong side by accident and they’ll be beaten up due to a misunderstanding (or be subverted and forgiven, with the subversion being the humor).

The jokes are set up this way because being in an onsen is a personal thing. You are naked and vulnerable, it’s VERY easy to violate your privacy and your space in this situation but people trust that you aren’t going to do so. By violating this space, you are committing a very serious crime and are looked down upon.

But not Neo! She just gets to be with her man despite them supposed to be GOOD GUYS. One of whom has OZPIN, a VERY moral man, in his head. All because ‘ahaha, me like ship!’

Moving back a bit- the joke about Ren and Weiss’ genders to Roman. The joke is that Ren isn’t a brickhouse and Weiss lacks big boobs, traits often used to identify men and women so ‘of course, Roman makes a mistake! Classic anime joke!’ 

But again, consider WHY and HOW these jokes are usually used. The traits we use to identify men and women aren’t exclusive to the genders aside from a few examples. So if you take away those examples, it becomes harder to identify one’s gender and it can be embarrassing to get it wrong. The issue with these moments are simple- Ren and Weiss lack ONLY the aforementioned traits. Other traits, like Ren’s deeper voice, Weiss’ facial features and both’s body types- they would easily inform someone that they are their gender, to say nothing of how they dress.

Contrast this with, say, Mordred and Astolfo from Fate/Apocrypha. They both dress and act more like the stereotype of the opposite gender (Mordred wears heavy armor and is highly aggressive and Astolfo wears feminine clothes and acts girly) alongside having less clear appearences. Ren nor Weiss act more like the other gender nor do they dress that way- There is no reason for Roman to assume as such aside from ‘haha, anime joke!’

Going beyond the onsen scene- Let’s take his change with Raven. He changes Raven from someone who didn’t think through her plan due to a character flaw, tying all her actions together to...lady who bury Relic because forever war. While she kills and murders people for her own selfish desires (not living a civilized life). The point with Raven in the original was to shoot down the idea that consolidating power was anyway to stop Salem and that someone in her position isn’t some noble Anti-Hero doing the dirty stuff to avoid the corrupt Ozpin and evil Salem- she’s a coward too scared to fight unlike the heroes.

But he changed it because ‘That everyone headcanon!’

And finally- Putting Ozpin in Roman’s body.

Think about Roman’s character. The way he’s voice acted, the way he’s animated, the lines he’s given, his design. They all indicate to the audience that Roman is suave, in control criminal who loves what he does. Then take Ozpin in all those same respects- Ozpin is a moral but flawed man who lost faith in people, a take on what Ruby would be if she lost her innocence. In essence, her predecessor and prototype.

Now tell me- in what way are these two characters compatible?

In what universe would Roman risk letting Pyrrha go to give her some kind of chance to consider her options and not pressure her continuously for his own survival, if not out of sadism? In what universe would Ozpin help a terrorist organization blast open a hole into one of the four major cities in the world to kill untold scores of innocents without so much as batting an eye?

In what universe is a criminal who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself and Neo AT ALL compatible with a man who spent hundreds if not thousands of years trying to preserve the lives of others?

Trick question: They AREN’T compatible characters. Aside from gender, general body type and some vagueness about control- Nothing unites Roman and Ozpin. Even the reason why they lie make them incompatible since Roman lies for his own benefit and Ozpin lies out of his own mistrust of others.

But ‘Roman so cool! He must be main character!’

No one questions this shit because they get what they want from it. Nevermind how it actually works in practice- They feel pandered to so it’s a-okay!

Because you can always call your critics ‘fanboys!’, as if you aren’t acting like the delusion of CRWBY you have.

You could not pay me to willingly read a Rwby rewrite written by a bunch of weebs who have almost no experience writing actually. I would rather remove my own eyes.

[herstarburststories]

Booze and Boobs

Kinktober Day 19: Boob Fucking

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

A/N: Dean Winchester loves women's bodies and I think this is beautiful... It also turns me on. This fic took a bit longer aka days to be written because piece by piece, but I'm happy because it helped me to get to a certain writing mood again! Also, two nicknames here came from @superbadassnatural smart brain.

Warnings: nipple play, dirty talk, boob fucking

Tenderness is a rare gift when you're a hunter. It's even more sporadic when you are dating Dean Winchester. Not that he isn't gentle with you, no — his tough hands always caress each inch of you as if they aren't covered in bruises, a sweet contrast. Yet, the world is ending every weekend, or a case's showing up, or one of the boys is dying. Therefore, moments like this are made to be burned in the back of your mind, and enjoyed like a lifetime.

Dean's laying on top of you, his hand resting against your chest, arm around your waist. You have one leg intertwined with his as your fingers run through his short hair. The breathing is calm. Surprisingly, not because someone knocked you or Dean out, or you two got too drunk to have a light sleep. Both of you just happen to have a good day, and now are enjoying the end of it in bed, tangled with each other.

Yet, Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. Old or not, as Jack so lovely points out, he still got the essence. Don't get him wrong, relaxing is definitely something he enjoys doing with you, especially when you play with his hair so good. But there's another part of you that doesn't let him slide into sleep despite how comfortable he is.

Your breasts.

The green eyed hunter always loved boobs. Big, small, whatever. Any color, any size. If a chick got a pair of boobs, he'd be trying his luck with her. Now, Dean doesn't have to run after them, and this position only makes it better.

He's laying on your chest, while you are wearing one of your summer pajamas, the red one with a large cleavage. God bless Kansas nights, he thinks to himself, moving a bit while he glances at your boobs. Your breathing causing Velma and Daphne, as he calls your boobs despite your complaining, to go up and down slowly. Dean can't help but imagine getting between them and making his cock follow the movement— nice and squeezed between your breasts in a good tittie fuck.

The eldest Winchester leans in, loving the heat of your chest against his cheek before he kisses your right boob. Dean's so close to your heart, he can almost discern your erratic beating once he kissed there again. A chuckle leaving his lips, gaining a soft groan from you.

He doesn't stop there, sneak fingers pulling your pajamas shirt down as he starts spreading pecks all over your breast. Sweet kisses soon melting into longing licks, which only appeared to turn into sucking. Dean wants to leave marks, he always does. That man can be possessive when he wants, and the thought of hickeys that he made with his own mouth showing on your skin when you are wearing one of your usual tank tops only makes the crotch in his pants harder.

“Dean.” You moan, both hands pulling his head to your breasts to the point Dean found himself buried between your boobs. This is it, he accepts, I'm in heaven. Heaven of boobs.

He blows on your sensitive nipple, getting a whine of yours back. A lopsided grin on his expression when he notices how much you want him, just like he wants you. His plump lips surround your already hard nipple as Dean sucks your boob, his hand massaging the other one.

The hunter spends time on it, your sighs and moans encouraging him to keep going. His cock's only growing more bothered in his pants, the sweat in the air is as natural as your breathless state. You both need more. You often do. It always starts with a sweet giving until you both feel like owning.

Dean, using all his inner strength, pulls away from your chest. His elbows to the mattress as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.

“We could try a new position.” He suggests.

“What's it?” You furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side. “I'm telling you beforehand, porn isn't real life. No woman or man can do those things.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Relax, Y/N/N. That one's very possible.” He bites his bottom lip, looking at your uncovered, dirty with saliva chest before glancing at you. “I wanna fuck your boobs.”

You have to fight yourself not to moan shamelessly at his statement. Dean, with those hungry green eyes and plump lips red from sucking your boob, openly talking in his gruff voice about fucking your breasts. God, you just want to beg him to destroy you.

Instead, you look to the side, a sloppy idea welcoming your mind. You smile devilish as you notice that the half full bottle is still on the table next to bed— ultimately, Dean's mess would do you good.

Your hand grabs the whiskey, the mouth of the bottle meeting yours in a double intentioned kiss. You toss the cap away, dropping the liquid over your chest. You and Dean didn't have any lube in hand, might as well improvise.

“I guess this will do.” You smirk, savoring the way Dean's mouth is slightly open in surprise. You place the whiskey on its place, wiggling your eyebrows at the hunter. “What are you waiting for, Winchester?”

Dean groans at your teasing. “God, woman. I love you.”

He doesn't want to waste time, decided to fill up the silent of the night with the sound of his cock fucking your titties. Dean throws his pants away, his length hitting his belly as soon as it's free. You lick your lips, watching the magnetic body of his coming closer to yours.

You feel like a prey, cornered by a hunter; the exact minute you know there's no other way but to give yourself out.

Dean isn't too far from that either. He hurries to get on his knees, approaching you with a whimper. You look better than any porn, soaked in whiskey and ready to get your boobs fucked by him.

You can't wait for Dean to make a feast out of your body. Being with him was like becoming a virgin all over again: each touch of Dean's discovered a new shade of pleasure within you, all you begged to be corrupted.

One of his hands holds the bedpost as Dean finally slides his cock between your breasts. His legs are trembling, mouth slightly open and eyes barely shut; this kind of pleasure, this unique sentiment of being hurried between your boobs is marvelous— and Dean hasn't even started fucking them! You aren't away from that either, pressing your lips together in a dumbfounded attempt to contain a moan. . . As if you could ever control how your body reacts to Dean Winchester.

Dean licks his lips, looking down to catch a glimpse of your face. God, this is perfect: you, sitting in bed naked, scotch all over your chest, hard nipples, titties waiting to be fucked by his length. He can't physically wait anymore, even his bones are hurting to get with you. The hunter's hold on the bedpost intensifies, as if he could crave his fingertips like a lover does with a name. His knuckles are turning white, green eyes watching when his cock starts to go up and down between your boobs like he was fucking your pussy. Heaven.

“God, honey. You take my cock so good with your titties.” He groans, “I love your boobs so much. Always thought about fucking them.”

But then you squeeze your breasts together, trapping his hardness between your titties, Dean realizes how wrong he was. Before was just the golden gates, but this is heaven. He starts moving his hips, increasing the rhythm through each thrust.

“Yeah. Just like that. Fuck my boobs like you are fucking my pussy, Dean. Make me come.” Your words are tangling his arousal, getting a howl out of him as he fucks you rougher.

The smell of whiskey and sweat embrace the atmosphere into pure lust, among your and Dean's pleading groans. You feel full in places you didn't even know that were empty, and Dean can't wait to come all over you and mark this spot as well.

Your shared bed crying is a beautiful melody, too. Adrenaline rushing inside your veins like blood, making Dean go quicker, making you press your boobs against his cock harder. You can feel his precum mixing with whiskey and sweat, and God you can't wait to taste it somehow. He's getting tough, your hands are marking your own body. You both want more of this newness.

“I'm gonna come all of your pretty boobs, Y/N/N. Is that what you want? Get all dirty with my cum?” Dean says breathlessly, his voice cracking at each other. He can barely hold himself from screaming and coming. Yet, he wants you to come first.

“Yes.” You whimper, looking up to him. He's on his knees, but you are the only begging. “Please, Dean. Come on my boobs, make me come just fucking my boobs. Please. I need it, Dean, please.”

Any vestige of self control is left behind when Dean grunts loudly, moaning to your name as he cums on your breasts.

Leave a comment and REBLOG. Feedback is magic! Tags on my reblog; send me an ask or dm if you wish to be tagged. Catch up Kinktober!

[cloudbattrolls]

Sleep With One Eye Open

Notes: Vernrot belongs to @raitrolling! 

Thrixe Varzim || 11.5 sweeps || Vernrot || Present Night

It’s the night after you made it to Vernrot, threw that obnoxious cusp into the harbor, and slept over at Lusien’s hive. But you need to stay at a hotel the rest of the time; you won’t trespass on his hospitality like that. Plus, the more time you spend around him, the more risk he’ll see you as...never mind. You need to be practical, figure out which QPIN contacts need to be checked on, which trade channels might need extra muscle -

“Stop.”

Your fins twitch in recognition, despite your attempts to stop them. You know that hard feminine voice, and you wish you didn’t.

Slowly, to emphasize your complete lack of eagerness to talk to them, you turn to face the two women who’ve apparently followed you here. Unless you’re just that unlucky. 

Neither are tall, one olive and the other yellow. The yellowblood’s short horns are covered by her curly hair, her skin slightly darker than yours and her eyes serious above her grimly set mouth. The olive wears a grin that could seem innocently eager to a troll who’d never met her before, her short straight hair barely reaching past her large, round ears. Both are dressed simply in gray and black clothing, breath from their warmer bodies turning to fog in the cool air.

It was Zelist who spoke to you, and she does so again.

“It’s been long enough. You haven’t contacted us once since you left Derevnya. Our scout observed you coming here of all places. Why?”

You stare at her, annoyed even though you know you shouldn’t be. 

“What are you doing in this town if not pest control, Varzim?” Purrs the oliveblood, now holding a long, sharp knife coated in some sort of glistening substance.

You never much liked Marisa; you don’t think most trolls do, even in her cult. Maybe it’s something about how she always smells of the undead.

Sure enough, Zelist glares at her sharply. “Give him a chance to explain.” She says, voice hard, but her eyes are on you and her suspicion is plain.

“I’ve tried to fight the horrors here. I never made any progress. So I gave up; they’re not actively hurting people, at least. Vernrot is…” you wave a hand vaguely. “Stable. Even if it’s not the kind we’d like.”

“That’s complacent talk, Varzim.” Says Zelist, arms crossed. “You could’ve asked us for help.”

You give her a look, fins twitching as your mouth curls in disdain.

“You people don’t do subtlety. I didn’t want to attract attention.”

She shakes her head, gaze detached but disapproving like one of your proctors would’ve been and for a moment you feel a flicker of guilt. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you should have talked to them, asked them for help...

“We let ourselves be corrupted before, but things have changed. We keep an eye on the other cults now, regulate summonings and artifact use. Everything is getting better. We should be allies, Varzim. We have the same enemies.”

Are the horrorterrors here your enemies?

Of course they are. All horrorterrors are anathema to trollkind. Different faces of the same incomprehensible forces, unable to understand trolls or respect their wellbeing. Too strange and terrible to bargain with.

But the ones here didn’t attack you unless you did first, and when you apologized how Lusien suggested, they went away...

No, you still can’t trust them, you decide. Horrorterrors are always bad.

Still, you trust the blueblood even if he’s wrong. You trust him because he’s the best thing that ever happened to you. 

Even if it treats him badly, Lusien doesn’t want you to hurt Vernrot.

“Maybe we should work together.” You admit. “But I can’t attack this town. I mean, I’ve tried - I think if we threw more at it it would retaliate harder than we can hit. If we find a way to remove the horrorterrors here it can’t be with any collateral damage.”

You remember Sayamh, but push the memory away. He was too far gone to save, the undead wretch. He was better off as bullets.

Zelist purses her lips and Marisa laughs before speaking in her mocking tone.

“So soft you’ve become! I wonder why. Is it ‘the town’ or someone in particular? Something in particular?”

“How dare you.” You say softly, baring your fangs at her implication. “I would never be friendly with a horrorterror. I’m thinking of all the trolls here. None of them have any idea what’s happening! They wouldn’t understand what we were doing. They can’t see it even when it’s in front of their faces.”

Except one, forced to witness it alone as everyone thought he was insane. 

“Then they’re better off purged anyway.” retorts the yellowblood dismissively. “If they’re so oblivious, they could enable the forces here by accident and let something out. The risk isn’t worth it. So help us, Varzim, prove all our suspicions are baseless. This can be easy and straightforward. We can all go hive happy.”

She holds out a hand to you, eyebrows raised.

You believe her. The lowblood is a lot of things, but unlike the olive she’s a woman of her word. She’s practical. Her goals make sense.

You shake your head anyway.

“No. You’re going to fail and this isn’t my fight. I’ll find other terrors to destroy.”

Zelist and Marisa exchange a look, and with a sigh, the yellow hands the green some caegers. The latter pockets them, smug as a satisfied meowbeast.

“Don’t bet against me.” Purrs the higher caste. “I told you when he didn’t cull that possessed cusp it was clear where his loyalties lay.”

Your fins flick in surprise. They know about the scientist? 

“I’d hoped he’d have a good explanation.” Zelist retorts acerbically. “Clearly I was wrong.”

Marisa raises her knife and you knock it out of her hand, so quick that -

You’ve been stabbed.

“Such a simple trick to fall for.” She whispers, and her other hand withdraws a long, serrated blade covered in violet blood that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You try to kick her. Your body doesn’t move. The blood seems to drip off the metal in slow motion as you find you can barely even breathe, frozen in place with outstretched arms. The damp air is cold on your wound, which...isn’t closing.

Your wound isn’t closing.

Zelist shakes her head, and raises her hand to make a short signal. Dozens of other trolls come out, completely covered up in body armor, nets in their hands. 

Your wound bleeds freely, staining your body armor, staining your new shirt.

The trolls close in, nets crackling with energy.

No. No. No. No.

The nets surround you, wrapping you up in a hopeless tangle as they shock you, and your wound isn’t closing - 

You can’t speak. Can’t regrow. Can’t do anything.

Then you remember what you practiced with Teagan, what seems like a million sweeps ago now.

You take their minds. Despite the temptation, you don’t attack like you did with the indigo who threatened Lonnen. You only make them set you free, back off, leave this place and forget what happened, forget the cult itself; you grow new pathways in their minds, wiping away the old.

Breathing heavily once free of the nets, you turn to the pair of women who stare at you, whatever Marisa did having worn off or been purged by your body. Zelist is slack-jawed in amazement while Marisa exhibits a surprised sort of hunger, leaning forward slightly while still holding her blood-covered knife.

“Listen to me.” You say - snarl, really, despite straining yourself to sound civil. “I don’t want to fight you. But I will if I have to. This town is mine.”

Silence reigns for a few moments as the wind blows, bringing the scent of salt and fish.

“Since when could you do that, Varzim?” asks the yellowblood quietly. “You didn’t have that power when you fought the Siren.”

“I didn’t.” You agree. “I’ve learned more about my abilities since then. None of which I feel like sharing with you.” You remark, dry. 

You give them a wry smile with a great deal of sharp seadweller teeth. 

“Something about being stabbed and manhandled has put me in an antisocial mood. We’re done here. Go, before I make you leave.”

The two exchange another look. 

Then Zelist pulls out a gun that reminds you uncomfortably of Sochet’s. The runes, the metal, the make...they’re almost twins, but this one is far newer. 

You duck as a bullet whistles over your head, and you can feel it’s like the ones Sayamh died for - horrorterror essence turned against its source, anathema to your very existence. You pull out your own gun, shooting to keep her and Marisa - damn olive stabbing at you - back.

You fend off both of them, letting your training take over, and get up close to Zelist, knocking the gun out of her hands - even that hurts, making you shudder down to your core.

Then Marisa shoots you in the back and you feel yourself...melt.

Your existence starts to break down, your very presence in reality degrading.

But you can regenerate again.

As the bullet is flung back at its owner, as your monstrous nature takes over and you grow jaws and eyes, tentacles and tendrils growing as your choir of voices sings of victory, of growing unrestrained by troll shape, you struggle against it, but perhaps not as hard as you should.

Trolls warp into nonsense masses of flesh in your sight.

You sing in confusion. In fear. In joy. What odd creatures!

You sing unbothered by what your own flesh just went through, but the whispers of the others grate on you. An irritant, itching at your growth. 

So you raise your voice to drown them out. 

[whenthisstoryendsarchive]

Meta #5: A Comparison of Elizabeth’s Soul & Elle’s Heart

While watching the film, we see many instances of the importance of both the heart and the soul, especially in relation to magic. Elizabeth is trapped by her soul, while Elle’s heart is ultimately what sets her free. And one may argue that because of this, Elle’s heart is stronger than Elizabeth’s soul.

But I don’t think that this is the case. Remember, Elizabeth has been with Locke for “a long time”, which I play as being a century, but could be even longer than that. And from the first day of her captivity, Locke has been siphoning her power from her soul, thus making Elizabeth weaker and weaker until she has to rely on humans to gain her freedom.

Don’t forget, Elizabeth is a full-blooded mermaid. She was born in the sea, and is the daughter of a sea king and the descendant of sea gods. By all rights, she should be far stronger than Thora or Elle. Her only rival should be Locke. Elle, on the other hand, is a human. But she only has the heart of a mermaid. Which makes her significantly stronger than Thora because she has a source of power that is greater than a human. Locke, on the other hand, I don’t see as being human. At least, not anymore, if he ever truly was. When we see him in the prologue, he’s more demonic or dementor like than a person. And I fully believe that the form we see during the film is one he uses to walk amongst people. And it’s possible that Elizabeth and maybe Thora are the only ones to see what his true form is. And I can see his true form being even worse than the terrible cloaked figure from the prologue.

Still, that leaves us with the question, when it comes to magic and spirit, which would be stronger? The heart or the soul? Trying to find this was actually harder than I thought it would be. While I don’t feel satisfied fully with the information I was able to find, I will try to apply it in a way that will at least attempt to answer the way I had wanted to originally.

When we look at the soul and the heart side by side, we can draw some distinct differences. For example, the soul is considered to be divine, while the heart is of the body and expresses the body’s wants and needs. The heart is linked to the material aspects of life, while the soul corresponds to the spiritual. The soul gives life and consciousness to our bodies, but the heart does not. This is because the heart is a part of the body and dies when the body does, but the soul is everlasting and eternal. We can see that in order for life to exist, a balance of both heart and soul are needed, but the soul remains distinct and separate even with that knowledge.

Balance is not just crucial for life to be created, but harmony between heart and soul is also required for happiness and wellness. We’ve all felt off balance, ill, or at odds with the world when stress becomes too much to bear, and this only goes to show the vitality of keeping heart and soul at peace. As a part of the body, the heart is responsible for telling us what we need, what we may not like, and what problems we are facing. This is done through the senses we have and use every day. The heart is also linked to our inner mind and reflects what occurs there. Perhaps most importantly, the heart is meant to serve the soul, and without the heart, our bodies are useless.

But on the other side of the coin, the soul is the center of our being. Like Elizabeth, we cannot find true happiness when our souls are being smothered. Our souls are said to be linked to our inner consciousness, where happiness is found both within and without.

We all possess an intricate and important balance of soul, mind, and body when we try to find and do what makes us happy, and being aware of this fact is crucial. Knowing of this link and addressing it allows us to be self-aware, find purpose, heighten our consciousness, let go of fears of the unknown, and form deeper connections with whatever higher powers we might believe in.

With this in mind, we can now look deeper into the heart and the soul on individual levels, and determine the roles that they both play in magic. First, the heart.

As we might suspect, gratitude is perhaps one of the key parts of magic related to the heart. It’s been noted that when we feel more gratitude in our hearts, we have more things to be grateful for in our lives. There has, according to the source, even been scientific notes of this. These notes tell us that when we focus on or pay special attention to the heart when we feel gratitude for something, our heart rhythms turn more harmonious and balanced instantly, which leads to better health and immune function overall. This, in turn, increases both the depths of our feelings and the benefits or rewards we see from that. Though we may consider this to be some kind of magical thinking, or expect some surge of power, it really comes down to simple things like tingling sensations in the heart, times of joy, happy tears, or even goosebumps. It has also been stated that by focusing more on gratitude allows an increase of peace and contentment in our daily lives.

Though gratitude may be the most important part of heart magic, there are also several other areas that are crucial to consider. These include compassion, dignity, equanimity, forgiveness, humility, integrity, justice, kindness, and love. In this area of magic, these areas would call for openness to both oneself and others, recognizing that every living thing has and deserves dignity, admitting that life has ups and downs but trying to find balance anyway, offering forgiveness, being grateful for what we have, knowing that there is no such thing as ‘being better than others’, living and honesty life with integrity, looking after and standing up for those who may be vulnerable or weaker, being kind, keeping the heart open, and being free with the love that we hold.

We all know that religions across the world focus on the soul and the crucial link that the heart has to it. For example, in the Qur’an, we see a quote that reads “There is in the body a chunk of flesh- if it becomes good, the whole body becomes good and if it becomes bad, the whole body becomes bad. And indeed it is the heart”. Rather like the Ancient Egyptians, followers of Islam believe that they will be judged for the lives they lived and the things they did by the condition of the heart. I found it interesting while reading this article that even good deeds can be considered bad or sinful if they were done for a selfish reason. And while this should seem common sense, it seems to be something that not many focus on anymore. In short, no amount of time spent bettering and softening the heart is wasted, as it makes us more merciful.

From reading this article, we see just how important the heart and true selflessness are to Islam. Corruption in the heart turns knowledge hard, and a lack of mercy in one’s life leads to distress and discomfort. It’s clear that a hard heart is considered a curse, while a soft one is a blessing.

What it ultimately comes down to is the heart determines the fate of the soul.

The soul, however, seems to be a little more complex than we might think. But a simple way to think of it is like attracts like. No matter what we do in our lives, the soul is what leads us. All of our thoughts and actions may be given life by way of our creativity, but that creativity comes from the soul, thus making us who we are. No one can deny how much faster and easier tasks are when we feel invested in them and enjoy doing them. We find ourselves enjoying actually doing the work, and feeling more satisfied with the final outcomes of them. This is because our souls are in tune with the task. But when we allow fear and feelings of insecurity or inadequacy to grip us, our enjoyment and fulfillment are severely limited. Sometimes, the road to getting back to harmony and attunement can be as simple as trying different approaches to the task, or working on adjusting our energy and balance.

Of course, for many of us, this is far from an easy task. And often, our own worst enemies are ourselves. Our words and thoughts may be influenced by the energies and environments around us, but we have the final say in the direction our energy and efforts take. But if we allow the negative to hold us back and drag us down, it will lead to further imbalances. What we go through in life shapes us, and there is no denying that. But the final say of who we are, the paths we take, and the successes we have are in our hands. We have to choose the paths we walk in life, and though conflict may influence parts of it, we have to keep choosing to move forward so that our souls can reach their highest potential.

It is also worth noting the role that connections to not only the heart, but other souls can play. At one time or another, we have all felt a connection to someone else. Whether it be bonding right away with the person who becomes our best friend, or meeting a future lover for the first time and feeling like we’ve known them all of our lives, our souls seek out connections to help us thrive. But not all of these connections can be good, especially when we consider magically. While this website is most likely for fictional work, I found the article in question to be a good way to explain the connection and bond between Locke and Elizabeth.

One key factor comes down to the souls in question. This is because connecting your soul to someone else’s can influence them both. It would be even more drastic if one soul is stronger and more powerful than the other. Any form of connection like this would require a strong will and sense of self in order to avoid manipulation of your soul.

Though this manipulation may change something within the soul, but it does not change the essence of the soul itself. This was rather nicely explained in the article with the example of the mage and the fire, where a spiritually strong mage may be able to slow the fire’s progress, the fire itself is not changed and can still turn to an inferno. This means that the soul of the manipulator, or stronger force can also become endangered as well.

A person is simply not meant to better themselves by means of stealing what is good in others. It is essentially lying to ourselves and everyone around us. While we can look to others for inspiration to find our best selves, we cannot find that self by pretending to be something we are not. When we are not sure of who we are, and try to fill ourselves up with the identities of those around us, we lose even more of ourselves. This may also be influenced by our morals and what we value in our lives.

If we do consider that a stronger soul is able to absorb and influence a weaker one, then that would in turn cause the stronger soul to be even harder to influence when someone else comes along. We can argue this because that stronger soul would have bits and pieces of all the weaker souls it absorbed and melded itself with. If someone down the line would want to try and influence the greater soul, it would first need to change and influence all those smaller pieces of weaker souls, and then focus on the larger one.

This would then, logically, cause the energy and essence of the weaker soul to be lost, potentially forever. This could become permanent if the lesser soul is not able to return to its original and rightful body. Thusly, the number of people within the connection and the size of the more powerful soul will factor into the rate of loss and how permanent it may be.

Another factor would be how deep the connection between the two souls goes. A lighter more superficial connection could actually be beneficial to one or both parties, but a deeper one can harm. Whether the weaker soul is aware of the connection is also important, as the odds of returning to its body are more likely when it is aware of where it is, naturally, meaning that those chances drop for those who are unaware. It is also critical whether the stronger soul is “good” or “evil”, because this will determine of restoring the weaker soul is even possible in the first place.

Of course, we do have to point out that change in our lives is not bad in and of itself, because change is the pivotal factor in growth. And without change, growth would not exist. What we do need to look out for, and guard ourselves against, is the dangerous loss of control. This loss of power is what forces the lesser soul to bond to and be absorbed by the stronger one, the impacts of which, as we’ve seen, can be disastrous. While everyone wants to be accepted, we need to remember that being our individual selves is what allows us to think outside the box, resist pressure from others, lead well, be happy, and even inspire others. When we connect souls, we take on the qualities of the other, and thus lower our own individuality.

As we can see, these factors for both heart and soul play greatly into the story and the fates of Elizabeth, Elle, and even Locke.

Elle, though she was suffering greatly from the loss of her parents and feeling desperate and depressed because of her illness and Cam’s overprotectiveness, carried many of the qualities of heart related magic. She was grateful for what she had, and shared that grace and charm with others. And because of that, she was able to maintain her happy and optimistic nature despite her battles. She very much embodied compassion, dignity, equanimity, forgiveness, gratitude, humility, integrity, justice, kindness, and love. She is the very definition of a merciful and soft heart. And though her soul is still that of a human, we can see that her mermaid’s heart is exceptionally strong even when she hesitates and almost seems to consider Locke’s offer. This strength is what proved to be the wizard’s undoing. Because her heart is magical and her soul is not, we do find ourselves in a bit of a catch 22, since all evidence seems to point to the soul being the stronger of the two despite the heart’s great influence. However, I would argue that because of her heart, Elle already had a stronger soul than most people. It may not have been on par with Elizabeth’s at her strongest, but it was significantly stronger than Cam’s or maybe Thora’s. And while I can see her potentially having displays of her magic throughout her life, I think it would be fair to say that Elle never reached her full potential until the battle with Locke. And from then on, her heart- which was stronger than her soul previously- only grew more powerful, and that perhaps allowed her soul to catch up to some degree. Bonding with Elizabeth and Thora however briefly that night likely opened just the right door that Elle needed to find her height of power.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was not sure of who she was. She wanted to be something she wasn’t, and longed to be someone that would mean something to others; which she felt she did not as a mermaid. This made her soul vulnerable to Locke’s manipulation. While she too is optimistic, we do see periods of when she gives in to despair and thinks that there is no escape for her. During her century of captivity, Locke not only absorbed her powers to strengthen himself, but I feel he unwittingly was absorbing her soul and who she is, leaving her feeling more and more lost, and making that optimism and faith harder to hold on to. The fact that she did cling to it at all, and that her soul worked and fought so hard to ensure it could return to her is huge. Locke’s powers and soul are so immense that he rendered her basically almost weaker than a human. By all rights, she should have never gotten her soul, her self, back at all. Even if Cam did manage to find and take the vial back. But she did. And that is not only impressive, but extremely moving.

Both girls have good hearts and souls, and both are without a doubt strong in their own ways. Magically speaking, I would say that Elizabeth is stronger, just because she is a full mermaid. She has the heart, soul, and powers of her people, and her ancestors on her side. Elle is still mostly human, and though her magic is without a doubt great, she would hold no candle to Elizabeth at her full power. But to speak on a level of individual strength, I would say that Elle is the stronger one. After all, it was the addition of her powers to Elizabeth and Thora’s that allowed Locke’s to be stripped from him, turn him to stone, and truly free Elizabeth. This can be because Elle’s sense of who she is, her assurance, and her inner balance may be stronger than Elizabeth’s was when she was young. Elizabeth wanted to be something else, but Elle was sure of who she was and what she believed, and nothing anyone could say would change that. Not even her uncle’s skepticism and trying to convince her she was falling for lies and only saw fairy tales. Elle’s assurance at her young age is astonishing just as much as Elizabeth’s endurance.

But the bond the girls share together is clearly one of mutual benefit, as they give each other strength, hope, and the power to be better than they ever dreamed they could be. By fighting so hard to protect Elle, Elizabeth was able to find her own strength and finally accept who she was. And by her unerring faith in Elizabeth’s truth and her selfless determination to return her to the ocean, Elle was able to finally find acceptance and courage to be all she dreamt of. Even if they never saw each other again after that day on the beach, Elle and Elizabeth would be bonded for life in the best possible way.

I would consider their hearts and souls at the end of the movie as equal in strength, where Elle’s heart may have been stronger before Locke’s defeat. And it is possible that because of her heart, Elle’s soul may have even been stronger than Locke’s since she was able to defeat him. And it is the strength and goodness of Elle’s soul that allows Elizabeth’s to continue to fight and finally break free of Locke’s unrelenting grip on it. Elle’s influence in the early movie ended up being what saved Elizabeth, where at the end Elizabeth paid it back by saving Elle and turning their bond to one that has no possible way of harming either of them, as they are now even stronger kindred spirits than they were when they first met.

Sources:

http://themagicofthesecret.blogspot.com/2012/07/day-20-heart-magic.html

http://intothemagicshop.com/alphabet

http://www.groundedpsychic.com/single-post/2016/04/08/You-Are-The-Soul-of-Magic

https://worldbuilding.stackexchange.com/questions/13149/what-might-be-dangers-of-connecting-your-own-soul-to-a-stronger-soul

http://sunnahonline.com/library/purification-of-the-soul/614-hardening-of-the-heart

https://www.trivedieffect.com/inspiration-blog/soul-mind-and-body/

https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-difference-between-the-heart-and-the-soul-on-spiritual-basis-of-life

[latestnews2018-blog]

'The Proposal' Injects Your Favorite 'Bachelor' Tropes Straight Into Your Veins

New Post has been published on https://latestnews2018.com/the-proposal-injects-your-favorite-bachelor-tropes-straight-into-your-veins/

'The Proposal' Injects Your Favorite 'Bachelor' Tropes Straight Into Your Veins

Jessica — a 30-year-old Steelers fan who loves partying, whitewater rafting and science — makes her way center stage. She’s one of 10 women vying for an engagement with a stranger on national television.

In the first official challenge of the “soul mate pageant,” she and her competitors are required to “bare their souls and their bodies as they reveal what’s most important to them, in their finest beachwear.”

Welcome to “The Proposal,” a new ABC show that takes the “Bachelor” franchise’s recipe for instant love and grinds it into a powder you can rail.

The whole thing takes place in front of a live studio audience, on a set that’s part “Bachelor” mansion, part “Miss America” stage. The mystery man Jessica hopes to wife sits inside a futuristic pod, a curved, cagelike structure shielding him from view. He can see her, but she can’t see him. None of us can. 

“So the first thing I want to do is —” Jessica says to the audience before pausing. “Dad, I’m sorry, but I want to be vulnerable.” She then removes the sarong around her waist, revealing a white, ruffly swimsuit as the audience cheers wildly. The camera zooms in on Dad in the audience. His glazed-over grin seems to be saying, “My daughter’s a hoot!” 

Freshly vulnerable, Jessica takes out a collage she prepared, featuring photos of her parents’ “love story” that culminates with her birth. She flips the piece of cardboard over to reveal a blank side. “This is where I want our adventure to start,” she says, to heightened applause. “I want to fill this scrapbook with memories of us.”

“Bachelor” fans will recognize this move ― the family scrapbook left unfinished ― a classic gift that contestants bestow on the lead the night before they hope to wind up engaged. Except Jessica hasn’t even seen her suitor’s face, and she’s not even waiting 24 hours to become his fiancée. 

The hourlong (shit)show that is “The Proposal” premiered Monday night directly after “The Bachelorette,” appealing to viewers who think the beloved reality show’s procedural 10-week-long courtship is 10 weeks too long.

No longer must viewers toil through seemingly endless rose ceremonies to reach the orgasmic climax of the grand proposal and the sweet release of happily ever after. Now “Bachelor” junkies can jump to the finish line week after week for the ultimate grotesque love rush. 

ABC

Mike waits in the pod, shrouded in darkness on “The Proposal.”

The nightmarish spectacle, something right out of “Black Mirror,” takes the now codified “journey to find love” imprinted into the brains of “Bachelor” fans and boils it down to its essence. Physical attraction, check. Trauma porn, check. Teary speech about “finding your person,” check. Father’s approval, check. Neil Lane diamond ring, check. 

Our host is Jesse Palmer, a Chris Harrison type who has undergone a mandatory system upgrade. “What you’re about to see has never been attempted before on television,” he says, welcoming those in the audience and at home and congratulating us all for “making history.” Palmer, who was the Bachelor himself in 2004, seems to have dutifully observed the melodramatic yet monotone ways of Harrison, the veteran master of ceremonies, and adopted them as his own. 

We then meet the groom-to-be … well, kind of. One of the show’s strange twists is that neither the contestants nor viewers see the man’s face until the very end, as if the hourlong competition courtship weren’t worrisome enough.

A large screen rolls video introducing Mike, a 29-year-old police officer from Bakersfield, California. (The city has one of the most corrupt and racist police forces in the U.S. Hello, Prince Charming!) To prevent viewers from seeing his face, Mike’s physical form is obscured by an inexplicable, Alex Mack–style silver goo, yielding a sight as horrific and uncanny as Kevin Bacon in “Hollow Man.”

can’t believe no one told me that ABC’s “The Proposal” takes place in the Annihilation cinematic universe pic.twitter.com/p2asNvUUPQ

— Caroline Framke (@carolineframke) June 19, 2018

We learn that six years ago, Mike was in a motorcycle accident and lost his right leg. He’s still mobile and athletic, and he loves CrossFit. A woman in the audience wipes away a tear. 

Next we meet the women, including Jessica, who parade down a staircase in cocktail attire as batshit descriptions of them play over the speakers.

When Havilah “isn’t writing or speaking, she’s tending to her massive collection of dolls.”

Before medical student Rihanna started studying emergency room medicine, “she was a flight attendant, and she’s very proud of her calves.” (The camera then zooms in on those gloriously shaped gams.) 

Kendall, introduced as a baton twirler, has “been twirling batons her whole life … and sometimes those batons are on fire. Kendall is also a neuropsychologist.”

The last woman to walk the plank is Monica, a smiley, 31-year-old real estate agent from Southern California who “learned to surf even though she’s horrified by the ocean.”

ABC

Monica, the eventual winner of “The Proposal,” blows a kiss toward the pod.

After the women are introduced and before they utter a single peep, Palmer chimes in. It’s elimination time. “I know this is difficult. We’ve barely gotten started, but out of these 10 women, which seven would you like to see more of?” he asks.  

“Wow, this is a lot harder than I’ve anticipated,” Mike’s disembodied voice bellows from the general vicinity of the pod they’ve trapped him in. The show is a parody of itself. When he chooses which women he’d “like to get to know better,” each gives a little wave to the audience. Some blow kisses at the dark void where their future husband lies in wait. 

Next comes the aforementioned bathing suit competition, in which women can “be vulnerable” by exposing their dark secrets and sexy bodies for approximately 30 seconds. This is magic of “The Proposal.” It takes what “The Bachelor” says it’s about (finding love) and mixes it with what “The Bachelor” is really about (being hot and being on TV) and presents them both without pretense or apology.

Fans know the key to “Bachelor” glory is having a backstory that’s moving (I’ve been hurt in the past) but not too tragic (My parents are divorced), lest you be a cursed leper whose unromantic affliction will bedevil your future marriage. “The Proposal” contestants know these rules like the backs of their hands. One woman tears up recalling her battle with anxiety and depression, before running her hand down her slim figure suggestively and shouting cheerily, “Clearly I’m over it!” as the audience whoops. 

The depravity makes “UnReal” look quaint. 

After the bathing suit round, the women are whittled down to four. They then answer “deal breaker” questions that can be about anything — “politics, religion, even sex” — in 30 seconds or less.

First, Morgan’s up. “There’s no easy way to say this,” the voice from the pod roars. “How do you feel about dating an amputee?” After a moment of hesitation, Morgan replies that she is “not opposed” to it. “I believe the soul is what matters, not the physical appearance.”

Next is Jessica, the collage girl. “As a police officer, there are those dangers that we face in the field, in which we may not come home,” Mike’s voice booms like the Wizard of Bakersfield PD. “Are you able to live with that?” 

“I am,” Jessica responds without missing a beat, as if she cannot wait for her future hubby to be six feet under. “I definitely could live with that. I have strong religious beliefs, so I would believe you are always in God’s hands and he would take care of you and I know that you would be OK. I know our time is precious on this earth, and we would have so many moments, and I would hold those forever in my heart ―”

Palmer cuts her off. “Jessica, your time’s up,” he says. “Thank you.”

The camera zooms in on the starless prison keeping Mike captive. We cannot see his facial reaction but do see a slight movement from the right side of his head. Certainly he’s alive. Possibly he approves. 

ABC

A rare glimpse inside the “Proposal” pod.

In the next round, Mike’s best friend emerges from the audience to ask questions that only a best friend could. Kendall is cut for saying she doesn’t want kids — a rare reasonable moment amid the bananas display. The question of whether to become a mother is a complicated one, an issue that prevents many couples from committing to a life together. Fair! 

Before the final round, Mike emerges from the dark pod that has kept him captive to face his two potential brides. He’s cute, kind of like a meaty Wilmer Valderrama. “I’m glad I got to come here and see two amazing, beautiful, stunning women,” he says, putting to bed any worry that he doesn’t fully appreciate their complex interiority. 

Then the two finalists ― collage girl Jessica and smiley surfer Monica ― give last-ditch appeals to win Mike’s eternal love. They’ve both changed into glittery, floor-length gowns for the occasion. Jessica’s up first. She tells Mike she’s a “traditional woman” and needs Dad’s approval before taking the plunge. Camera jumps to Dad in the audience, whose eyes are welling with tears. For some reason he gives his blessing, assuring his withered 30-year-old daughter ― ancient by reality-TV standards of desirability ― will finally be dicked down.

Jessica takes a deep breath. “I can’t promise we’re never going to not have a fight or a disagreement or argue about what we’re gonna watch,” she says. “But what I can promise you is that I will love you and be there for you every single day, every step of the way. I’m your person.”

Holy shit. She starts crying, the sobs interspersed with eruptions of maniacal laughter.

She promises to love him when she’s “old and gray and 60 and can’t walk,” perhaps a Freudian slip about her future husband’s amputated leg. 

She closes with, “Let’s do the damn thing!” ― quoting the catchphrase of the current Bachelorette, Becca Kufrin. 

Then it’s Monica’s turn. She starts crying right away, and Jessica looks pissed. “I’ve yet to find someone that has as big of a heart as me,” she says between perfect baby sobs. “But you just seem to fit that really well.” Her speech is better less creepy. Jessica knows it. 

It’s time for Mike to close the deal. “I know from the very beginning I never thought I’d find somebody as special as you guys,” he says. “And I never thought I’d find love. But after hearing what you guys have to say, I feel like I have. And so … Monica.”

Mike gets down on one knee and pops out that sweet Neil Lane bling. Monica looks thrilled, as if this is everything she has ever wanted. The public performance of a fairy tale ending eclipses the value of an actual relationship with an actual partner. Monica and Mike eat each other’s faces. The camera zooms in on Jessica’s contorted grimace, giving its monstrous viewers just what they want: suffering. 

ABC

“Proposal” nation gets juiced up.

If “The Bachelor” is a simulacrum of the perfect love story, “The Proposal” is a simulacrum of that simulacrum. Yet there’s something freeing about the ludicrous spectacle, which, in a way, exposes the artificiality of the whole franchise. It also makes plain some of the unspoken assumptions at the root of “The Bachelor” philosophy that rarely see the light of day. 

For example, that women over 30 are tragic spinsters. And that love is something that blossoms between two hot people when they are “ready” and “open” and “here for the right reasons.” And most certifiably, that finding love on TV isn’t just *giggle* so unexpected *giggle,* it’s absurd. 

With “The Bachelor,” ABC has created a massive fan base, a “nation” addicted to love, humiliation and cruelty. Thus it’s the live studio audience upon which the “Proposal” camera loves to dwell — all those reactionary faces serving as a stand-in for our collective obsession.

We asked for this, all of us. 

Over 36 seasons, “The Bachelor” has perfected a reality-TV recipe as addicting as it is culpable. Every season, I swear I’m off the stuff, and yet every year, come the bios, I return. Glued to my seat, I watch the same story of love blossom, however impractically, offensively and inanely. And honestly, with two-hour episodes and an incessant programming schedule, who has the time? 

The McDonald’s to the “Bachelor” Cheesecake Factory, “The Proposal” offers the same giddy-guilty feeling on the cheap, in a fraction of the time. It’s a fairy tale romance and an all-American nightmare, packaged into an hour of cringeworthy, utterly engrossing, surreally dystopian TV. 

“The Proposal” is the final destination of “Bachelor” mania, infused with the disorienting pace of reality as we experience it in the year 2018. In its formula, aesthetic and (un?)scripted moments, the show out-weirds science fiction and outdoes satire. It’s the perfect reality show for a time when reality feels as if it’s sinking into the mud of an uncanny valley. 

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[topmixtrends]

IT’S A SHOCK to see Stieg Larsson’s name appear so much in reviews of Hideo Yokoyama’s doorstop-sized police thriller Six Four, translated from the Japanese by Jonathan Lloyd-Davies. What Yokoyama has in common with Nordic noir’s posthumous leader — deep slices of daily life in their respective worlds, two middle-aged and unlikely heroes, the corruption of bureaucracies meant to help us — is really less important than what’s different.

You won’t find Nazis and neo-Nazis in this book. Or sexual humiliation and cruelty. Or lurid, gruesome deaths (which, in Larsson, tend to happen because of the sexual humiliation and cruelty). Or a diminutive, tattooed hacker. The wheels of suspense don’t spin as quickly as they do for Larsson, either (at least not for the first 400 pages).

All of this may sound like a criticism of Six Four but it isn’t. Early buzz among English and American reviewers had me expecting a Japanese version of The Girl Who … instead of what I found: a startlingly unique thriller, meticulously constructed, that devotes more time and attention to the existential sufferings of its main character than to the crime the book is supposed to be about.

Be forewarned, readers: Six Four doesn’t ask for your patience — it demands it. This is a long book, and the slow pace makes it sometimes feel even longer. Yokoyama builds tension and suspense with a careful accumulation of details, not a rapid run up Freytag’s Pyramid.

A publishing sensation in Japan (according to the publisher, more than a million copies have been sold), Six Four follows police media relations chief Yoshinobu Mikami as he wrestles with the anniversary of a daunting cold case that still casts a chill over his department 14 years later. The turmoil of the looming anniversary — and how to spin it — is matched only by Mikami’s inner turmoil as he realizes what no middle-aged man wants to realize: that his entire professional life has been spent chasing his own tail.

Even so, Mikami’s problems seem a bit steeper, graver, than your average gumshoe’s. His relationship with Minako, his wife, is on life support; his relationship with his rebellious daughter Ayumi is even worse (more on that in a moment); his career achievements, which once gave him a sense of purpose, ring hollow. Even on a bad day, Jack Reacher doesn’t have these kinds of problems, for crying out loud. Why the heck is it so necessary? The answer is simple: because Yokoyama is after something more than creating another conventional entry in the thriller genre.

Mikami was once a detective, a pretty good one — collegial, respected, capable of turning up the heat to the right temperature in the interrogation room — but now he’s taken over a post handling police media relations as the National Police Agency (NPA) braces for that humiliating anniversary.

No department is more vital to handling the optics than Media Relations: in fact, the NPA has decided to send its top cop, the commissioner general, to visit the home of the Amamiyas. Their seven-year-old daughter Shoko was kidnapped and murdered even after the family paid a 20-million-yen ransom. The police bungled the pursuit of the killer, who was never brought to justice, and subsequently call the case “six four” — a reference to the year of the kidnapping, which was also the last year of Emperor Hirohito’s life (in the Japanese calendar, not the Gregorian one).

The girl’s mother died of grief, but the father, Yoshio, lives on somehow — Yokoyama paints a harrowing portrait of a man moving through a sad, twilight world. The commissioner’s planned meeting with him will be a grand gesture — as media relations stunts usually are — to show the public that the Amamiyas haven’t been forgotten, that the hunt for the murderer will continue.

It’s Mikami’s job, and his staff’s, to choreograph that meeting and position it in the best light. That seems nearly impossible, and not simply because the police press corps are harder to handle than a hornet’s nest: Amamiya himself doesn’t want the meeting. Why would he? The police failed him. What’s the point of hollow promises and a photo opportunity now? They won’t bring back his daughter or his wife.

Still, Amamiya allows Mikami inside his home to plead for the meeting. When Mikami sets eyes on him — when the front door first opens — he is stunned by how much Amamiya has aged in the past 14 years. “It didn’t seem possible,” Mikami thinks, recalling what Amamiya looked like at the time of the kidnapping. “His hair had turned white and been left to grow. His skin was pale, leaden […] the very essence of an empty shell.”

It is an awkward meeting, and Mikami leaves Amamiya without accomplishing anything. At home, his own house is just as quiet and empty even though he shares it with another person. He and Minako don’t know where Ayumi is. Their daughter is a troubled teen who has either run away or been kidnapped (though the former seems more likely — in flashbacks we see her clash so violently with her father that running away seems like the only option).

With her disappearance, the oxygen has been sucked from her parents’ lives. Their evenings are spent waiting — hoping for Ayumi’s return — and being troubled by strange phone calls in which the caller listens for several moments before hanging up. Is it Ayumi? Does she want to come home? They have no idea — the caller never says a word.

No signs of their daughter, no satisfaction in his work, no tenderness, no sex or intimacy — this is the atmosphere Yokoyama creates over several hundred pages.

For readers impatiently waiting for something more to happen, what Yokoyama told a Malay Mail reporter earlier this year may be helpful: “In order to describe the main character’s feelings or passions, you need a big organization that is like a big ocean that I let the character swim in.”

Eventually something noirish surfaces in this ocean — finally. As he coordinates the commissioner’s meeting with Amamiya (who hasn’t even agreed to it yet), Mikami uncovers strange dissonances — conflicting messages, a sense of invisible maneuvers taking place, of a conspiracy somehow tied to the commissioner’s visit. A shadowy power struggle is going on between Mikami’s old and new superiors in Administrative Affairs and Criminal Investigations, and he can’t understand why or who it is supposed to benefit.

A longtime investigative journalist in the Tokyo area, Yokoyama offers a wealth of intriguing observations in the course of Mikami’s odyssey. He describes the contentious nature of the police press corps and their use of boycotts to manipulate access, how non-disclosure agreements are used to limit the impact of press coverage on investigations, the cheapest way to disguise a voice on the phone (use a helium-filled balloon), the customs that a grieving parent uses to honor a child’s death, the “kindred fanaticism” that exists between cops and reporters, and more.

All of this detail gives us a thorough sense of the world of police media and press relations. The question is whether we really need all 566 pages.

Any seasoned editor would have found a way to take the book’s final 150 pages (where the story takes off in an unexpected pursuit with an ingenious outcome) and pare down the other 400 to create something truly similar to Larsson or the other writers sometimes mentioned in reviews of Yokoyama’s novel: Jo Nesbø and Gillian Flynn.

But it is the heavy emphasis on the despair of Mikami, a mid-level bureaucrat, and the stifling atmosphere of his life — page after page of his wandering through mazes of bureaucracy — that point us to somewhere else.

With every sling and arrow inflicted on Mikami, with every insult he receives that makes his “face and body flush as a burning shame, furnace-like in its force, began to well up inside him,” Mikami doesn’t evoke one of Stieg Larsson’s characters. Mikami reminds us more of Thoreau’s men leading “lives of quiet desperation.” Of Willy Loman, too. Or the narrator of Fight Club. Even 1984’s Winston Smith — but not Mikael Blomkvist. Mikami belongs in their illustrious fictional company — a litany of characters fighting for their humanity in societies that have forgotten them.

And that brings us back to the novel’s length. Yokoyama’s “big ocean” enables us to watch Mikami as he slowly finds his way back to himself, to a meaning for his life in a world in which the traditional modes of self-identity — as husband, parent, lover, consummate professional — have fallen away. It is a long, painful journey, and along the way he encounters many former colleagues who have faced that same dilemma … and crashed.

But Mikami doesn’t; he persists. He endures. In the face of insults, he disciplines his responses and wears the Zen Buddhist armor of gaman, of stoicism and grace. Mikami “submitted to Akama’s will,” Yokoyama writes of Mikami’s response to one of his enemies. “He’d taken everything on board and donned the uniform of obedience. That didn’t mean he’d stopped hoping.”

This, I think, is another reason why the book has been so successful. Yes, there is a devilishly clever twist in the novel’s later pages, but we spend a lot of time with Mikami before we get there. And we don’t mind it: we like his company. Mikami is so sympathetic, so heroic, even in apparent defeat.

In Six Four Yokoyama finds a way, within the familiar tropes and conventions of the thriller genre, to give us a search for meaning and dignity that transcends its Japanese milieu. Mikami’s struggle is the same struggle that great thinkers of every age have written about. When Mikami uncovers enough of the hidden power struggle to consider exposing it, he knows he’ll be punished and “tossed off to some post in the mountains.” But it doesn’t matter. He decides “he would rather start from scratch in the middle of nowhere. The smallest paths are still paths.”

That line rings with the kind of Thoreauvian insight that makes Mikami’s journey memorable and profound.

¤

Nick Owchar is executive director of advancement communications at Claremont Graduate University; he blogs regularly at Call of the Siren.

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