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piesandswords · 5 years ago

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Raising Werewolf Cubs Under His Bed

Posted on Archive of Our Own here.

Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student… on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls… but I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked.”

Um… hey. Hey, Tom? Mr. Riddle? Dramatic ass “I am Lord Voldemort” person-sir? Do you mean human children???!!! Hey Joanne, do you mean human children cause werewolf cubs? Werewolf cubs have gotta be human children.

There are four explanations for this line that I can think of. One Doylist (explained out of text), three Watsonian (explained within canon).

The first explanation: JK Rowling did not come up with werewolf lore until after she had written the third book. That explains why she keeps writing about people being afraid of werewolves in the Forbidden Forest even when it wasn’t a full moon and shit like this. She just hadn’t come up with the facts yet.

This explanation, while probably correct, is boring as hell and we will be disregarding it.

Explanation number two barely warrants an entry. Riddle was trying to think of a magical creature and just said werewolves without considering what that would mean. This is somehow more boring than explanation one.

The third explanation is more fun. Wizards are, to put it kindly, mildly, and with some of the love in my heart, dumb as shit.

The Hogwarts education system is shaky at best. Thinking of how little math wizards know makes me want to cry. I would say something like “The class of History of Magic is so poorly taught that I doubt any of the students even know that ___” but like. The class of History of Magic is so poorly taught that I can’t come up with an obvious example of Wizarding history.

Due to the shaky Hogwarts education system, I can partially excuse Ron for being stupid in the area of “what are werewolves” when he talks about werewolves in the Forbidden Forest in book two, as of his two Defence teachers the more competent was Quirinus Quirrell.

(Lockhart’s teachings on lycanthropy involve him curing someone of it by sticking a wand down their throat and saying a spell, which… If it were that easy then Remus Lupin would have had a much better life. If he could fix his furry little problem by eating a wand, the man would have had unicorn hair and cypress soup every night for the rest of his life.)

(That being said, Ron should know more about werewolves. Molly or Arthur should have taught their kids things like that.)

Tom Riddle, in contrast to Ron, went to Hogwarts before the position was cursed. Given that he was the one who cursed it, this makes sense. Riddle had a stable education that, theoretically, involved a competent professor. He should know better.

But also, wizards are dumb as shit.

They seem to have no standardization to their education except for aiming for the OWLs and NEWTs. What educational standards has the Ministry released for teachers to follow? Probably none, that would be too competent. (Ignoring book five, ew.) Just because werewolves were covered in DADA during Harry’s time at Hogwarts doesn’t mean they were in Riddle’s. Maybe they were covered in Care of Magical Creatures, which Riddle would almost certainly not take. Or maybe they weren’t covered at all.

So maybe Tom Riddle hasn’t learned about werewolves in school. He knows about them when he’s older though, so what gives?

Here’s the thing. This Tom Riddle hasn’t had his dark magic field trip yet, the one he goes on after he graduates. What if he doesn’t know about werewolves, but he thinks he kinda gets the gist, and, being Voldemort, assumed he was correct.

Hagrid could have been raising puppies under his bed and Riddle could have been like. “Ah, yes. These are werewolf babies. I am correct on this and will not be corrected by anyone ever because I am the pinnacle of all things knowledge.”

Diary!Tom Riddle is #ForeverSixteen. He is a teenager who insists on being called “Flight of Death” (or, incidentally, Flight from Death, which, yeah). He wears eyeliner, he listens to fascist!MCR, he wants to commit genocide, you know, just regular teenage boy things. Yikes.

(Can you imagine 72-year-old Voldemort having to interact with his 16-year-old self? This insolent boy who doesn’t even know what werewolves are? Harry wouldn’t have had to destroy the Horcrux, Voldemort would do it himself to get the kid to stop talking.

Tom Riddle, age 16: “Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future.”

Tom Riddle, age 70ish: “You’re about to be past due if you don’t shut up.”)

Anyway, that’s our third explanation. Tom Riddle is dumb as shit. This is backed up by the fact that 1) he is sixteen, 2) wizarding education is a hot garbage fire, 3) grown Voldemort is dumb as shit. He refuses to do research into things he thinks he understands in his seventies, why would he be any smarter at age sixteen?

This explanation is less boring. This is the one that I consider to be the closest to canon one. This makes sense, and it involves making fun of Voldemort’s dramatic bullshit and narcissism, which I approve of.

I like this explanation.

But explanation number three? It doesn’t hold a candle to explanation four.

See, here’s the thing. I believe that Voldemort is dumb as shit and that his education could have been pretty spotty.

But I also think that the boy that has rediscovered Horcruxes by doing too much research would not be completely ignorant of what werewolves are and how they work. They’re considered to be Dark Creatures™ so he would have come across them at some point when learning of the Dark™ Mysterious® Arts©.

So what if.

What if he wasn’t talking out of his ass?

What if Hagrid WAS raising werewolf cubs under his bed? Or, not cubs. Cubs implies non-people.

What if Hagrid was keeping werewolf children under his bed while he was attending Hogwarts?

Picture this: 11-year-old Rubeus Hagrid gets his letter for Hogwarts. He’s overjoyed. His father is a bit surprised that Hagrid, a half-giant, received his letter, but he is also overjoyed.

(The fact that Hagrid got into Hogwarts at all with wizarding prejudices as they are is honestly remarkable. We know that the Wizarding World is awful about treating those who aren’t pure-blooded wizards like people and Hagrid being a half-giant isn’t exactly subtle.)

So Hagrid goes to Hogwarts. He learns. He makes friends. He probably gets in quite a bit of trouble with teachers because he’s never been someone with a ton of common sense or tendency to follow rules. Being in trouble doesn’t bother him too much, he’s young and usually, he doesn’t think about consequences for his actions. Besides, often the reward is worth the risk.

So Hagrid finishes his first year having loved the experience. And he goes home for the summer.

Let’s say that Hagrid and his dad live on the outskirts of a relatively small Muggle town. They’re not quite in the wilderness, but they’re not quite in the town proper either.

A new family, the Canids, has moved next door since Hagrid has gone off to Hogwarts. They have two children roughly Hagrid’s age, a daughter named Freki, age 12, and a son named Geri, age 10. Given Hagrid’s friendly nature and the general boredom that comes with a long summer, the three of them quickly make friends and begin to spend quite a bit of time together.

(Forgive my mixing of Norse and Latin etymology here, I refuse to spend more than three minutes googling names that mean “wolf wolf” or “moon moon” that haven’t already been used in canon.)

Then, one day when they’re hanging out, something weird happens. What exactly it is, I’m not sure. Maybe a branch breaks while they are climbing a tree and no one gets hurt, despite how high up they are. Maybe Hagrid says something unthinkingly cruel on accident, and Geri’s feelings get hurt, and Hagrid’s hair gets turned pink. Maybe Freki finds a magical creature that Muggles aren’t supposed to be able to see. Maybe their father is off fighting in World War II (it is 1941, after all), and there is some unsetting news from the front, and one of the kids causes a sunny day to become a rainstorm.

However it happens, Hagrid figures out that he’s got two underage wizards on his hands. And he knows Freki (age 12) hasn’t received her Hogwarts letter.

Hagrid has never been one to keep his mouth shut. The man at the age of 62 let slip to a group of eleven-year-olds that 1) he had a three-headed dog, 2) the name of the dog was Fluffy, 3) Fluffy was guarding something that was owned or created by Nicholas Flamel, and 4) you can put Fluffy to sleep by playing any kind of music ever. He is not one for subtlety, or for secrets. Honestly, he might have told these kids about magic on accident even if they hadn’t shown signs of being wizards.

So he confronts the kids about the strange things that have been happening. Freki goes dead pale the second he opens his mouth. She begs him not to tell anyone in the village that there is something unnatural about them, Rubeus, please, you don’t know what people will do if they find out.

Hagrid’s confused. If they find out what exactly? Having magic is wonderful, you get to go to school and learn and make friends and discover all sorts of interesting facts and creatures and-

There are two ways this could go.

Either Freki and Geri don’t know about magic and they are delighted to hear about this wonderful place where they could be themselves, and also maybe they could get some help for this weird thing that has been happening to them since they were little kids and there was a wolf attack. Hagrid has to figure out very quickly how to deal with the fact that 1) he has to explain magic to his two friends, 2) his two friends are werewolves, 3) his two friends will not be accepted into wizard society, and 4) he also has to explain that.

Or Geri and Freki already know about magic. They didn’t know that Hagrid knew (they are in a Muggle town, after all), but they knew about magic. Maybe their mom was a witch and dad a Muggle. Maybe the other way around. Maybe both parents are wizards. Maybe they are the descendants of Squibs. Whatever their parental background, they have heard about Hogwarts. And they know the reason that neither of them had gotten Hogwarts letters, know the reason neither of them would ever get Hogwarts letters. And gently, sadly, they explain to Hagrid their situation.

And as Hagrid finds out that they’re werewolves and starts to process what that means for them and their future, Hagrid becomes indignant. And I mean Hermione-founding-misguided-but-well-meaning-organization-SPEW level indignant. I’m talking “thou shalt not insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me” level indignant. Indignant might not be the right word. He gets angry.

Remus Lupin will be the first werewolf to legally receive schooling at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But if Hagrid has something to say about it? Freki and Geri will beat the record illegally by about thirty years.

(This is a man who has been alienated his whole life for his half-giant status. He knows the feeling of being discriminated against for something he can’t change about himself.)

(This is also a man who tried to raise a dragon egg in a wooden cabin. He doesn’t necessarily think things through.)

And so begins Operation Get-My-Friends-A-Wizard-Education.

Phase One: Preliminary Education.

Hagrid spends the rest of the summer teaching these two kids everything that he can remember from his first year of school. He’s got a month. He’s got his books. He’s got enough determination to intimidate God. He’s only got the one wand, but he’ll make do.

And as late August comes? He thinks they’re ready as they’re gonna get.

Phase Two: Smuggling Time.

Now, Hagrid is an oversized lad. And one of the things that comes with being an oversized lad is oversized clothes. And one of the things that comes with oversized clothes is an oversized trunk.

Hagrid also has an undersized father with an oversized heart and an undersized sense of what is a normal and sane thing to do. (The man had sex with a giantess for Pete’s sake!)

With a little convincing, said undersized father could make said oversided trunk be even more oversized on the inside.

Geri and Freki? Welcome to the Hogwarts Express, viewed from the luxury seats of “Inside Hagrid’s Trunk.” No complimentary beverages, I’m afraid, and the view’s not great, but all the oversized clothes end up being quite comfortable cushions.

So Hagrid smuggles two kid werewolves into Hogwarts.

Phase Three: Ah, Shit, Didn’t Think This Through… Er… Live Under My Bed I’ll Bring You Homework

So they live under his bed while he teaches them everything that he is learning in all of his classes, sometimes in the dorm room when no one else is there, sometimes in the Forbidden Forest when they can sneak out, sometimes in empty rooms around the castle. They spend each full moon as deep into the forest as they can go, hoping against hope that they won’t hurt anyone and they will be safe.

(In this universe, the rumors of werewolves in the forest came from somewhere. The stories of glimpses of wolves through the trees during this time were passed down through the generations. “My aunt’s cousin’s friend’s dad saw a werewolf in the forest” may not be the most credible of sources, but in this case, it holds a grain of truth.)

They are careful, and, for a while, they don’t get caught.

How long are they at Hogwarts? I don’t know. A while, certainly. A month? A semester? A full year? Maybe they make it through to when the Chamber of Secrets was opened and everyone became more suspicious and more alert before they were found out.

Once they are caught, the Canid children are promptly sent home. After all, you can’t have monsters in a school like Hogwarts, and what are werewolves if not monsters.

The staff lets Hagrid off with a warning, thinking maybe this was a one-off occurrence of idiocy. But they do view Hagrid with more suspicion after that. After all, he brought monsters into the school. Who’s to say what he’ll let in next?

That being said, Tom Riddle’s probably just dumb as shit.

Posted on Archive of Our Own here.

#harry potter #hp #hagrid #fanfiction #kat talks #look ma i over analyzed #my fic

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wellhellsbelles · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! i absolutely loved both the 1st chapter of to the rythm of your wild heart and the mini fanfic you wrote :) i found somewhere this prompt that was like farkle and riley are best friends and they work as teachers in the same school and their students ship them and have bets on when they are going to finally admit their feelings for eachother

omg thank you so much!! i’m having such a fun time writing all these prompts, and this one ended up being my favorite by far (especially considering the word count is uhhh 7.1k whoops lol)

Enjoy!!! :)

ao3 link or read below

Even if the universe hadn't pre-ordained them getting together, their students would've forced them in that direction.

The one where Farkle and Riley are teachers, best friends, and their students are maybe a little too involved in their love lives.

(i. the challenge)

“Okay, I know I’ve said it the last few years, but this will definitely be the year my photography class beats your puny little physics class,” Riley told Farkle, dropping a box full of supplies on his desk. He peered up from his computer, adjusting his glasses as he quirked a brow at his best friend.

“So that’s how we’re starting tomorrow? With a fresh cup of competition? What happened to Miss ‘I-Wanna-Take-It-Easy-This-Year’?”

“That was summer Riley. She’s different, you should know this by now, Farkle,” Riley scoffed. “And besides, that was before I was able to get funding for really cool cameras for class, photoshop for all our computers, and was given the greenlight to start photography club. Face it, Minkus, you’re toast.”

“Okay, Riley. Whatever you say,” Farkle rolled his eyes at her, stealing a sip of coffee from the mug on his desk (Riley got it for him a couple of Christmases ago and he loved it; it said, “I don’t give a flux”, and had a helpful diagram underneath that she couldn’t even begin to understand.)

“Damnit, Farkle! Stop using your stupid head games so I can feel victorious! I know you’re in this just about as much as I am, so stop feigning disinterest. I will be the best teacher this year for once! All of those physics students are going to be begging to be in my class!” Riley shouted, picking up the box off his desk and disappearing out of the room. Farkle listened to the sound of her sneakers squeaking against the hallway tile fading out in the distance, shaking his head and chuckling as he continued typing away on his computer.

(ii. the meeting)

Riley spotted him hiding amongst the teachers filling up the auditorium seats for their mandatory teacher orientation for the beginning of the new school year. It warmed her heart to see him sunk low in his chair, trying to appear invisible and yet clearly waiting for her if the denim jacket draped over the seat beside him was any indication.

They’d done this meeting numerous times now since they started—they’d met five years ago, both new teachers to the school and unsure about their place amongst the other staff. Riley had been nervous as hell, but as soon as she saw Farkle sequestered to one of the rows further back by himself, she realized she wasn’t alone. She took a seat beside him, introduced herself despite his desperation to remain unseen, and from then on they were glued to the hip, the best of friends. Neither of them had been apart from one another during any school function, and they didn’t intend on changing that.

He was her partner in crime, after all.

“Miss me?” Riley asked when she reached him. Farkle breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed her, picking the denim jacket up off of the seat and gesturing beside himself.

Even after all this time, he still remained nervous at the beginning of the year, still hiding himself away from the rest of the staff he knew well by now. His penchant for anxiety was a curious one, but not anything Riley chided him for. She’d done her job by helping him get acclimated to everyone else and was definitely pushing it by encouraging him to sit closer to the rest of the teachers during these meetings; she chose which battles she fought very carefully.

“You’re late by five minutes,” he said pointedly, and Riley rolled her eyes.

“So dramatic, Farkle.”

“I prefer ‘reasonably ceremonious’.”

“Whatever you say. Now, did you bring our entertainment or what?”

Farkle flashed his phone, showing off an image of a bingo sheet.

“Bingo,” he smiled cheekily, “It’s an updated version. I think I notice new quirks about Principal Carson every year.”

“As long as the bingo space is ‘Gals and Pals’, then we’re good as gold,” Riley told him.

“Oh, you know it is. I did have to replace some of the obvious Einstein quotes into their own category to make room for the comedian stool and water bottle.”

“It’s like he wants to do standup. I think we should just encourage him to do standup, it’d be a wonderful time,” she laughs.

“It’d be fantastic, but then we’d be out of a principal. He’d be too good,” Farkle said, and Riley’s laughter quickly turned to a full-out peal. Some of the teachers around sent her looks of disdain and she cut herself off, but not before allowing one last cackle to slip past her lips.

“Alright, gals and pals! Are we all ready to get started for our new school year? I know I am!” Principal Carson exclaimed, taking his place at the front of the stage. “We better get started, because as Einstein said, time is relative!”

“Wow, two in one go. This is getting to be too easy,” Riley whispered, and Farkle couldn’t help but agree.

(iii. the bet)

Riley watched with amusement as all her students gathered around one student in particular, whispering in hushed, conspicuous tones. She loved her advanced photography class because they all had been together for so long, had formed their own friendships with one another after sharing the same class. They were sort of one big family at this point, and it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done something sneaky behind Riley’s back.

It’s only the second week, Riley thought, What could they possibly be planning?

“Alright guys, break it up. Don’t you wanna learn some neat photoshop tricks?” Riley asked rhetorically, waving her hands apart to mimic separating.

The students fled to their seats, allowing her to finally see the student in question they had been crowding around. The girl, a small red-head named Penny, was busy compiling a stack of cash and then shoving it into a plastic bag, and despite knowing Penny was harmless, Riley didn’t want to leave the matter.

“Penny, whatcha got there?” Riley said, pointing to the money. Penny shrugged.

“It’s the pot. I’m the bookmaker.”

“Bookmaker?”

“Ms. Matthews, no offense, but please follow along. It’s not that hard; I’m taking bets.”

Riley narrowed her eyes at her student.

“What could you guys even be betting on? We’re in a high school,” Riley mused, bewildered. “Also I am not about to let you guys run a gambling ring under my nose. That reeks of something I can get in trouble for.”

“Relax,” Penny told her, “It’s nothing bad. We’re all just placing bets on when Mr. Minkus is going to ask you out. Or vice-versa. Actually, there’s also a bet for if it happens at the same time. I think Frankie’s the one who’s got that bet, he’s been holding down the betting pool for the AP Physics class.”

“What?!” Riley exclaimed, “What do you mean you’re betting on us getting together?”

“Ms. Matthews, you and Mr. Minkus have been toeing around one another the last few years. We just figured we’d try and capitalize on it this year. I ran a soft betting pool last year sans money, and I think it turned out really well, personally,” Penny exclaimed.

“You two are just so cute together!” Maggie crooned from behind her.

“I really thought I was gonna win it, too, but then we came back and I had lost,” Jess pouted from the back of the classroom. Riley’s head was still reeling from the fact that her students were betting on her love-life.

“What made you think you were gonna win?” she asked Jess.

“Well, Tanner had told us that Mr. Minkus had moved into your apartment building at the end of the year, so I assumed it’d take you to the end of summer to get your crap together. I was wrong, apparently,” Jess said.

“Oh my god, I cannot have my students betting on my personal life. That is just all levels of wrong,” Riley announced, running her hands down her face. “Alright, no more of this! I am not condoning this strange gambling ring you’ve got going on. And Penny, you better tell Frankie to cut it out, too! Mr. Minkus and I need our students to recognize that there’s a reason we keep our personal lives out of the classroom. We’re here to learn, so if I catch you guys talking about it in class again, I’ll have no choice but to give you detention, okay?”

That effectively cut off any further chatter on the matter, and Riley sighed, shaking her head.

This was going to be a fun school year, no doubt about that.

(iv. the new teacher)

“The kids have a bet going on,” Riley told Farkle three weeks later. They were waiting their turn in the makeshift buffet line in the cafeteria, paper plates in their hands as they made their second trip for dessert. A potluck had been set up after school for the staff to celebrate the first month of school going off without a hitch (it was always Riley’s favorite; Lisa the Latin teacher always brought homemade lemon squares that were to die for.)

“Oh yeah?” Farkle asked.

“Apparently they’re in conjunction with your kids, as well. I had to stop a gambling circuit with actual money from forming in my classroom, but I think it’s already too late,” she groaned, stepping forward when the line moved.

“Wait, my kids, too? I know we get competitive against one another but isn’t that taking it a little too far?” he said, eyebrow raised in concern. “What could they possibly be betting on, they’re high schoolers!”

“You know, I asked the same question. Penny thought I was nuts for pestering her about it.”

“Penny Miller? Notoriously shy Penny Miller? That Penny?”

“Yeah, she’s the bookmaker. I think I made her too confident in my class, if that’s possible.”

“I think someone has an inflated ego. Narcissus, eat your heart out!” Farkle exclaimed, clenching his fist. Riley jabbed him in the side with her elbow.

“Rude! I am not egotistic. I just know my worth is all.”

“Narcissistic,” he coughed, earning him a look of disdain from her.

“You’re mean, Farkle Minkus.”

“I am what I am,” he shrugged, grabbing a piece of cake to place on his plate. “This cake looks too good to be Stacy’s. Is it possible that she honed her cake-making skills this summer, because if so, I’m here for it.”

“Pretty sure the new teacher made it,” the teacher across from him, Landon from the history department, cut in. “Stacy had to go on maternity leave at the last second.”

“New teacher?” Riley furrowed her brows.

“Yeah, Isadora Smackle, teaches calculus. She’s right over there,” he pointed ahead to a small, lanky girl with tan skin, long raven hair, and black cat-eye frames. Farkle’s mouth dropped open and Riley had to poke him to get his attention.

“Farkle?”

“What?” he answered, not really paying attention as his eyes remained on the new teacher. Riley pouted.

“I wasn’t done telling you about the bet. Don’t you want to hear about it?”

“Yeah, sure, but could you give me a moment? I’m gonna go talk to that new teacher,” he told her as he walked off towards Isadora Smackle.

Riley felt a pang of disappointment go through her, but she ignored it for the sake seeming ridiculous. He was just going to go talk to the new teacher, it wasn’t like he was going to abandon Riley at the potluck. It was their tradition to go to these things and bear them together, because as much as Riley put on a front about being comfortable around everyone, it really was only because she had Farkle there to make her feel comfortable.

Without him it was like . . . it was like she was missing a limb.

Riley stole two lemon squares (what, she was feeling sorry for herself!) and sat back down at the table the two of them had once preoccupied. She pretended not to watch them from afar, but she couldn’t help herself in the end—she’d never seen Farkle put himself out there like this; it was strange. But there he was, standing in front of Isadora Smackle with a goofy grin on his face, and despite seeming stiff still, she seemed just as charmed by Farkle.

Suddenly Riley didn’t feel like eating her lemon squares.

She waited for him to come back, too, but after a long while, she realized that was a fruitless effort. Farkle was glued to the new teacher and Riley was left deserted, so she threw out her lemon squares, found her bag, and left to go finish work in her classroom.

And if she ignored the obvious hurt snaking its way down her throat, well . . .

So be it.

(v. the grudge)

“Alright, I’m forcing you to eat with me, effective immediately,” Farkle announced as he barged into Riley’s classroom during lunch. She had her door shut to deter any office hours while she tried to catch up on grading, something that seemed to have been slipping by her lately.

The door was not shut, however, to one Farkle Minkus—she couldn’t keep him out even if she tried.

Riley eyed him warily as he set a bag down on her desk, pulling out the contents to reveal Chinese food from their favorite Chinese place down the street.

A bribe.

“Bribe me all you want, Minkus. I’m still busy,” she tried to brush him off, but Farkle was persistent. He didn’t take no for an answer, opening all the containers of food and placing chopsticks in front of her.

“Nope, not going to happen. You’re going to have lunch with me because snuck in all this food, and I’m not going to let it go to waste because somebody is being snippy with me,” he told her, tossing a plate in the only empty spot on her desk. “I hope you appreciate me because I bought orange chicken which I know you love and you know I detest, so dig in or so help me god.”

Well, Riley really couldn’t argue with that logic.

She sighed in resignation, abandoning her position at her computer and turning to face him. She picked up the chopsticks begrudgingly and began scooping rice onto her plate, a small smile on her face.

It was hard for Riley to stay mad at Farkle; he made it impossible.

“Fine, thank you for the food I didn’t ask for, Farkle,” she told him, emphasizing his name at the end for dramatic effect. The smug grin spread across his face quicker than lightning, and she would’ve done anything at that point to wipe it off (except she wouldn’t, she couldn’t.)

“You’re welcome, Riley. Now catch me up on stuff. I haven’t seen you in a hot second.”

“Penny’s still driving me nuts, there’s that. I know she’s still running that underground betting ring and it makes me so mad that I don’t know how to stop it,” Riley huffed. “Then, of course, I have to learn how to use photoshop along with the rest of the kids because I haven’t been able to afford photoshop on my own, so not only does my class get to fail, but they get to see me fail at it, too.”

“Riley,” Farkle said softly, reaching out to grip her hand, “You’ve got this. Your kids know how amazing of a teacher you are, and they know it’s as much of a learning curve for them as it is for you. You’ll get the hang of it because you’re Riley Matthews.”

She couldn’t help the feeling of warmth that spread through her body from his touch, how being around him alone made her mind ten trillion times calmer.

“Thank you, Farkle. For everything, really,” she smiled. Farkle smiled back at her, his mouth dropping open as he made to speak, but then Isadora Smackle (Smackle, she insisted upon being referred to as) opened the door and stuck her head through. Farkle released Riley’s hand at once, his attention turning to Smackle.

“Farkle, we have math club in five minutes! Did you forget you’re supposed to be going over important theorems in preparation for next weekend’s competition?” she asked. Farkle glanced over at Riley then back at Smackle, and Riley didn’t need to be a mind reader to know his decision.

“Go ahead, Farkle. Your math club needs you,” she told him, waving him towards the door.

“Rain check?” he asked as he stood up from the chair he’d pulled up to the desk. Riley nodded.

“Sure thing.”

Farkle waved and parted with a quick goodbye, disappearing out of Riley’s door and leaving her with a desk full of partially touched Chinese food.

Your math club needs you, she said aloud.

But I need you more, her heart cried out softly.

(vi. the planning committee)

As per usual, once October arrived, everyone began planning for the school’s fall festival. It was Riley’s favorite event of the year, the one she looked forward to every time autumn came around. She’d loved it so much her first year of teaching at the school that when the student council needed help after deciding to expand the festival outside of the gym, she volunteered without hesitation. And, of course, where Riley went, Farkle followed.

They always asked for volunteers inside of their classes, but this year Riley was proud that she could enlist her entire photography club to help, along with Farkle’s math club. Sure, things had changed between her and Farkle since the beginning of the semester, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t going to uphold tradition to help plan and set up the festival.

“We should be set for next week,” Rebecca, the student body class president, announced towards the end of their final meeting for planning. “I contacted all the food trucks that had said yes to confirm their attendance and they’re all still on board, Chelsea called the pumpkin patch to check and make sure the pumpkins would be delivered on time, all our booths have been divided between the photography club and math club, and we have a final announcement. Wanna take it away, Ben?”

Ben, the vice president, cleared his throat and a grin grew on his face.

“We didn’t want to say anything until the last minute just to make sure it was going to actually happen, but we booked a Ferris wheel this year!” he exclaimed. Everyone applauded and Riley’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

“That’s amazing, guys! This is going to be the best fall festival yet!”

“Thanks,” Rebecca said, a bashful smile creeping at the corners of her mouth. “Now, any last questions before we break until next week?” No one said anything, everyone in agreement that they had everything on lockdown. “Awesome! Thank you guys so much, and I can’t wait for next Saturday. This is going to be the bomb!”

Everyone began packing up, excited chatter filling the room as they all talked about the anticipated fall festival. Riley picked up her own bag and walked to meet up with Farkle, knocking her shoulder into his.

“Hey,” she greeted him cheerfully.

“Hey!” he echoed back, pulling his laptop bag over his shoulder and following her as they left the room they used for committee meetings.

“So, isn’t this awesome? We’ve got so many cool booths going on this year, food trucks, and a freaking Ferris wheel.”

“I know, I can’t believe how big it’s going to be. To think it was only a small set of booths and homemade crafts when we started out.”

“I loved it then, too, but I’m so glad we’ve been able to help it branch out a bunch. I just know I can’t wait to kick your ass at the ring toss. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been practicing all summer long,” she told him, smug. Farkle paused mid-step in the hall, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth downward.

“Uh, about that, Riley . . .”

“What?” she asked, glancing over at him. The look on his face was apologetic, and it suddenly dawned on her why.

“I asked Isadora if she wanted to go with me this year, I’m sorry,” he told her, brow furrowed.

“Oh. Okay,” Riley said, trying her best to keep her features schooled, “That’s . . . that’s fine. I’ll just help out with one of the booths this year. I’m sure Penny would love to have me help with pumpkin carving.”

“Riley, you love getting to do all this stuff at the festival. You don’t need me to have fun there.”

She shook her head.

“No, it’s really fine. I know Penny needed help with coordinating all the pumpkin stuff, so I’ll just do that. I want to see people enjoy it themselves more than anything, so this will make me just as happy,” she tried to reassure him, but her words felt flat even to her own ears.

“Riles . . .” Farkle trailed, wanting to fight her on the matter, but Riley gave him a sad sort of smile.

“I’ll be busy with work and photoshop classes, so see you at the festival?”

“Yeah, of course,” he agreed half-heartedly, and Riley waved goodbye before abandoning him in the hall to walk to her car.

In that moment, Riley felt like she was losing everything. She didn’t want to, but her heart felt the loss all the same; Farkle was supposed to be her best friend, the one who she went to all these school events with, the person who stuck by her side no matter what. But now that Smackle was in the picture, Riley found herself abandoned at these functions more often than not. What was once enjoyable to her had hinged entirely on Farkle being there with her, and that realization left her feeling . . .

Alone.

She felt alone, and she hated it.

(vii. the festival)

Riley put on her favorite purple-striped t-shirt, overalls, black converses, and braided her hair into twin pigtails, preparing herself for the festival. She topped the look off by tying a bow around her head, looking at herself in the mirror with confidence afterward. She was determined to enjoy the festival despite the fact that she was flying solo this year, and really, she could. The festival was always her favorite and although her plans changed, she had a feeling she’d still have fun.

She’d be damned if she didn’t.

Riley grabbed her bag and left her apartment, locking the door and resisting throwing a glance at the apartment door across from her. All she needed to do was shut her brain off and not worry about anything, not bother being bent out of shape about the sudden shift in her life.

Easier said than done.

Her brain had this unparalleled habit of holding on to every worry and anxious thought that cropped up inside her mind. It was hard to just shut that off; it was all she ever knew. But she also knew that she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t at least try to enjoy the day she’d been looking forward to all year long. It didn’t behoove her to ruminate, either, so she remained optimistic, actually thrilled to help carve and decorate pumpkins. Fall was still fall, her favorite season of the year, and nothing could stop her from that.

Not even dumb boys and dumb dates.

The festival was an array of glowing lights when she arrived, and that familiar spark of overwhelming joy coursed through her at the sight. There were already cars filling up the spaces of the parking lot despite the festival not starting for another ten minutes, and Riley couldn’t believe her eyes as she got out of the car, the Ferris wheel standing tall in all its grandiose glory. She beamed at all the hard work coming to fruition, knowing for certain that this was going to be their best festival yet.

“Ms. Matthews, I can’t believe you’re helping me out with pumpkins this year!” Penny greeted her, face already covered in wild face paint that made her look like a scarecrow.

“Yeah, I’m excited!” Riley exclaimed. “I’ve seen the way you’ve manned this booth singlehandedly the last couple of years and can’t wait to help you out.”

“Do you mind setting out some pumpkins for me, then? I still have to get the paint set up for the stations,” Penny asked.

“Sure thing!”

Riley did as she was told, setting out pumpkins of all different shapes, sizes, and colors, admiring each one as she set them down. She was glad that they used pumpkins from a local pumpkin patch and that they didn’t just stick to the standard orange ones, but the other sorts of gourds that came in a variety of colors. As soon as she finished, she noticed that people had already started filing in, kids, teenagers, and parents alike. They all wore bright grins and their eyes sparkled in wonderment at everything around them.

It made Riley’s heart feel warm to see it.

They manned their booth until all the pumpkins had been given away and decorated, happy to see everyone decorate their pumpkins in their own styles. Riley found herself caked with purple paint up the entirety of her arms, and when Penny saw it, she added a brushstroke of orange to her nose.

“To balance it out,” Penny had explained. Riley couldn’t argue with that logic.

By the time the last pumpkin had been gifted, the last few people remaining at the decorating stand, a familiar pair of people arrived.

“Hey, guys,” Farkle said, Smackle at his side. Riley’s smile at him came and went within a few seconds, from the moment she spotted him to the moment she noticed his fingers laced with Smackle’s.

“You look like you jumped in a vat of purple paint,” Smackle pointed out to Riley.

“I may as well have,” Riley found her voice.

“Too bad you two just got here, we’re out of pumpkins,” Penny told them with a shrug.

“That’s okay, we were just stopping by here to check out how everything was going before heading to the Ferris wheel,” Farkle said.

“Oh,” Riley said, her voice small.

“Well, why don’t you two go enjoy it, then? We’ll finish up here ourselves, thanks for visiting!” Penny cut in, an urgent edge to her tone as she shuffled Farkle and Smackle away from their booth. Riley sighed, crossing her arms against her chest as a dry hurt stuck itself in her throat.

“Hey, wanna get some funnel cake? It’s on me, Ms. Matthews; you look like you could use some sweet, fried food,” Penny offered, and Riley didn’t even have it in her to try and fight her on it. She just nodded her head, waiting while Penny grabbed her purse and then tugged her along towards the funnel cake truck.

Penny was right, in the end. Riley’s mood peaked again at the first taste of powdered sugar and fried dough, bursting into a fit of laughter when she noticed Penny had sugar caked all over her face after two minutes of having the confectionary. They wandered around the rest of the festival just to check things out, but Penny remained silent for the benefit of Riley, who appreciated the sentiment very much so. It floored her how caring and amazing her students were, especially Penny who had managed to land herself on Riley’s list after the bet debacle.

“You know, I am sorry about the bet thing,” Penny announced later, breaking the silence. Riley peered at her curiously, finishing her last bite of funnel cake before responding.

“Thanks. It did annoy me, but it didn’t matter to much to me until recently.”

“Do you think,” Penny began, “And don’t get mad at me, but do you think there might be another reason it bothers you?”

“What do you mean?” Riley asked. Penny’s mouth opened to respond, but her bright green eyes peered over to the Ferris wheel, widening in surprise when she saw something. Riley turned in time to see what it was exactly that Penny saw—

Farkle and Smackle were on the Ferris wheel together, and he was kissing her.

Suddenly, Penny’s question to Riley made sense, and more than that, the entire time since Smackle had entered the picture. Riley’s heart plummeted in her chest, her eyes stinging with regret.

Riley was in love with Farkle.

But she had realized it a day late and a dollar short, and now she had to face the repercussions and watch as he fell in love with someone else.

(viii. the breakup)

Riley’s epiphany at the fall festival was earth shattering and it hurt like hell, but that was it. Life went on after that and Riley did her best to ignore her feelings. She knew in retrospect that it had made sense, but there wasn’t much that knowing could do for her now. So she put herself into making herself better at photoshop for the kids, even signing them up for a special class at a local community college that focused on basic fundamentals of photoshop.

Her life wasn’t what it used to be, sure, but she learned to be happy with that. And she was.

Penny didn’t mention the underground betting ring again. In fact, she made it her personal goal to become Riley’s aide in class, sticking to her like Velcro. Riley didn’t know how to feel about the fact that her current best friend was twelve years younger than her but having Penny around was a welcome distraction. She was sweet and it made her happy that she had such wonderful students. Penny was also incredibly talented and actually knew a few photoshop skills that helped Riley out immensely.

Riley hardly saw Farkle anymore.

They were still friends, of course, but he rarely made the time he used to to see her, instead focusing his time on the math club and spending time with Smackle. Riley figured that she needed the space to clear her head, anyhow, because as much as he was her best friend, she depended on him for a lot.

This was . . . this was good for them.

Or that was what Riley tried to convince herself of.

She missed him more than anything, and not just because of her new-found feelings. Riley missed Farkle because he was her person, her best friend, the person she could depend on no matter what. And right now he was doing the one thing she never thought he could do.

He was letting her down.

But she ignored it, pushing her emotions deep down into a cavern in her chest and locking it shut. Riley had to focus on teaching her kids and enjoying her photography club, and idle feelings about Farkle were making themselves an obvious obstacle to that. So she allowed him to fade into the back of her mind, and things got better little by little.

Right until he threw himself back into her life.

“Do you mind if I take a seat next to you?” he asked her one day during one of their monthly staff meetings. It hurt Riley that he’d even feel the need to ask, but she understood that things were different. Not unfixable, just . . . different.

“Of course,” she told him, gesturing to the open spot beside her. His long gangly limbs settled himself into the seat, and Riley tried her best to not be charmed by him.

It didn’t work; it never really could when it came to him.

“You’re not sitting with Smackle today?” Riley inquired, curious. He shrugged half-heartedly.

“We broke up.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. We all have a whirlwind romances,” he said, trying to brush it off, but Riley could tell he wasn’t unaffected by it. She relaxed herself around him, unable to tame her natural instinct to comfort him.

“Farkle, romance is romance. You care and regardless of the amount of time you spend together, it still sucks when it ends, even if it’s on your terms. You’re allowed to be affected by the world around you.”

“Can we just talk about it another time?” he asked instead. Riley gave him a soft smile.

“Of course. Wanna pull out the bingo board?”

Farkle beamed.

“Do I ever.”

(ix. the crush redux)

The thing was, Riley loved holidays. She loved the major holidays—Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Halloween—all of them were her favorites. But she also loved the lesser-known or lesser-loved holidays just as much.

She was just a holiday fanatic.

So, despite the event not having as much traction as the fall festival, Riley still maintained excitement for the winter formal. Dances weren’t quite the same for teachers; they didn’t get to enjoy that wonderful feeling of teenage angst and romance, of nerves and excitement at the prospect of getting to enjoy time with your crush. But it had an air of fun attached to it regardless, so Riley helped plan for it all the same.

This was, of course, one of the tasks Riley never asked Farkle to help with.

She volunteered her time completely of her own volition because she genuinely enjoyed planning events for the school, so anything outside of the fall festival Riley assured Farkle he didn’t need to participate if he didn’t want to. And he didn’t want to—usually.

Which was why it came as a surprise to Riley when he arrived five minutes past starting time and sat beside her in the planning committee room without a single word, just pure determination on his face.

“What are you even doing here?” Riley had whispered, only to earn a hush from Farkle.

“Shhh. We’ve gotta focus right now.”

She huffed back at him but obeyed directions all the same, her curiosity by his presence still piqued, nonetheless.

Everything had gotten better between them; they’d spent the last month getting reacquainted with their friendship, not only spending time together in school but out of school, as well. He’d insisted on taking her out to eat every Friday, and the two of them created lesson plans together every week. There was just one small hitch in their friendship that made everything just a little more complicated.

Riley knew she was in love with him now.

That was something she could hold back easily before, when she knew he was unavailable and didn’t want to make time for her. But now that he was single, he wanted to spend every second with her, and it made Riley want to tear her hair out from the frustration that was bubbling up inside her.

At least she knew she had the angst and romance ready to go for the winter dance.

“Any questions?” Rebecca asked. Riley stared blankly at her, her brain having picked up on none of what Rebecca had been saying.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Farkle whispered to her when he noticed the expression on her face. Riley hated being an open book sometimes.

“Let’s split into partners to get some ideas flowing for decorations. We’ll come back in five minutes. Alright, break!”

Riley and Farkle turned towards each other, both knowing they were going to be partners without having to ask.

“So, the theme is ‘winter’,” Farkle said cheekily. Riley stuck her tongue out at him.

“Up yours, Minkus.”

“Ms. Matthews,” he gasped, acting mock offended, “This is not appropriate conversation for the children.”

“You’re such a nerd! We need to be coming up with ideas, let’s go. We don’t wanna look like idealess losers.”

“Okay, okay, we can start brainstorming. I just have one question that you’re going to have to answer me honestly,” he said. Riley quirked her brow.

“Oh yeah?”

“Can you promise me we go to the winter formal together? I missed being able to be with you at the fall festival,” Farkle told her, and Riley felt the blood rush to her face.

This isn’t a date. He’s not asking you out on a date; you’re just friends! It’s a friend thing, and you’re going to be chaperones, Riley tried to convince herself.

“Of course I’ll go with you, Farkle. There isn’t anyone else I’d want to go with than you,” she said, groaning internally when she registered the weight of her words. It was too late to take them back, but it didn’t seem to matter because Farkle was beaming from her answer.

“I can’t wait,” he smiled, and Riley knew from that point forward that she was in too deep.

(x. the winter formal)

Riley signed up to help place all the decorations for the winter dance, so by the time she’s finished, she knows she’s gotta perform a miracle to get back on time. She has to return to her place, shower, get dressed, and apply her makeup all within the span of forty-five minutes. So she set a timer on her phone, painted a look of pure determination on her face, and took off like a rocket (while maintaining proper speed in order to avoid traffic violations.)

By some form of divine intervention, she accomplishes her goal with five minutes to spare. She zipped herself up inside her dress—an icy-blue, knee length dress with a semi-sweetheart neckline, spaghetti straps, and a shimmery, chiffon skirt—and slipped on her silver, strappy high heels, checking her makeup in the mirror one last time to make sure it was perfect. Her doorbell rang and she grabbed her crossbody purse, rushing off to answer the door.

“Hi,” she greeted Farkle happily as soon as she swung the door open. He looked very handsome in his navy-blue suit and silver tie and Riley felt her hands grow clammy.

This was starting to feel a lot like a date.

In fact, when she appeared in front of Farkle, his mouth dropped open as his eyes raked over her, and butterflies began fluttering around in her stomach at the notion of him checking her out.

“Uh, you look gorgeous,” he told her, Adam’s apple bobbing hard in his throat. He held a hand out to her, obviously trying to regain his cool (something she’s never known Farkle to have once in the entirety of her knowing him). “Ready to go?”

“Ready,” she nodded, grabbing his hand. His fingers laced with hers and she stepped out to shut and lock her door, following him down the hall and to his car afterward. They didn’t talk, but Riley didn’t mind it at all.

They arrived at the dance ten minutes after it began (they really didn’t mean to; The Backstreet Boys started playing on the radio and they had to jam out to it!) Riley smiled at all their hard work once they made it inside the gymnasium, happy to see it balanced out by the soft glow of disco lights they had placed all around. Iridescent snowflakes dangled from the ceiling, twirling around and shimmering playfully. Everyone looked wonderful in their formal outfits, all paired with huge grins just from having fun being out and around one another.

“Looks fantastic, Riles,” Farkle told her, nudging her gently with his elbow.

“I mean, I didn’t do all of it,” she shrugged, bashful, but Farkle shook his head.

“You still helped it look amazing. Anything Riley Matthews sets her mind to always turns out incredible.”

Riley wanted to squeal from embarrassment and giddiness from the compliments he was giving her, but she remained calm, instead tugging him towards the refreshments table. She scooped a cup of punch for him and then herself, and then they both stood off to the side of the gym in their own little area partially sequestered from the rest of the teachers. They made sure to do their job being chaperones, of course (high schoolers had a real knack for getting too close too one another for her comfort), but they also enjoyed themselves. Riley appreciated getting to spend quality time with Farkle, and he always knew how to make her laugh.

Then a slow song came on, one Riley could only call an indie slow dance song, and Farkle turned toward her with a sparkle in his eye that she couldn’t forget if she tried.

“Wanna dance?” he asked, his eyes bluer than a sky on a cloudless day. Riley could hardly find the words to say yes, so she nodded and allowed him to draw her out to the dance floor amongst the rest of the teenagers. He laid his hands on her waist while she hooked her arms around his neck and they swayed together rhythmically, their eyes never leaving one another’s.

“I feel silly dancing among all these teenagers,” she laughed.

“Do you wanna stop?” he asked.

“That’s the last thing I wanna do right now, Farkle Minkus,” she told him, her words soft as they left her tongue. Somehow, they had shifted closer to one another, and Riley could the ghost of Farkle’s breath on her cheeks.

“What’s the first thing you wanna do then?”

“I wanna kiss you,” she confessed, her eyes darting down quickly to his lips and then back up to his gaze. She wasn’t sure what had made her so brave but she was certainly glad for it, relieved to get that thought off her chest finally. And then Farkle said something that surprised her more than anything.

“I wanna kiss you, too.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Get the girl, Minkus,” she whispered to him. Farkle grinned and then leaned in, hovering for a second before pressing his lips against hers.

Nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of kissing Farkle Minkus—it was like electricity coursing through her system, all of her neurons firing off in her head at once. His fingers reached up to cup her face, the warmth of his hands burning an imprint into her skin.

Finally, her heart sang.

“Oh my god!” someone screamed behind them, causing them to break apart. Riley peered over Farkle’s shoulder and saw Penny standing there, pure elation on her face.

“Oh no,” Riley groaned into Farkle’s chest, and she felt the vibrations of his chuckle against her skin.

“I can’t believe I won the bet!” Penny continued, grinning ear to ear. Riley shot her a look of surprise.

“Wait, you guessed we’d get together at the winter formal of all things?”

Penny shrugged.

“I’m a romantic at heart. I had a good feeling about it.”

“Well, congratulations, Penny, but do you mind?” Farkle said. Penny turned red, sputtering a goodbye as she left them on their own. Riley laughed at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

“What even are our lives?”

“The best ones out there, I’d wager. If I didn’t take this job, I’d never have met you, Riley Matthews,” Farkle told her.

“And I’d never have met you, Farkle Minkus. Guess life has a funny way of making things work out in the end,” Riley said.

Farkle agreed with her by pulling her in for another kiss, and Riley couldn’t help but think she had the best life in the entire universe.

#riarkle #riley x farkle #Riarkle fanfiction #riarkle fanfic

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ashleybabcock1995 · 4 years ago

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Reiki El Paso

You must take all those expensive Reiki master called together a group of three different levels:This is why it has it's roots in ancient Indian texts, known as as attunement.During healings, you may not be overnight.Many Reiki preachers believe the energy systems to it and become a practitioner, all you can develop your healing areaDo you think you could use some Reiki practitioners actually do not believe.

Reiki online to help you with attunement, but this is it.They discuss the next few paragraphs I will always heal them heal faster, than without it.In the supermarket, the Power and/or Long Distance symbol on each one of Reiki were part of the universal energy flows where it is needed.The most important ingredient in an unsafe place.Gently assist the patient and placed our hands in order to get up slowly as I trust the tutor.

#Reiki Healing Crisis Eye-Opening Diy Ideas #How Do Reiki Work

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vfdbaudelairefile13 · 5 years ago

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Chapter Seven:

The One Where Bastard Man Ruins Everything Yet Again

The very second Jacquelyn had hung up the phone with Larry, she threw herself back under her desk and dialed the number to the man that she had called just a little while ago. “Snicket?” she whispered as the person on the other line answered. “Someone needs a ride, and quick.”

“Got it,” Jacques replied. “May I ask who though?”

“Larry,”

“Larry…” Jacques repeated. He gave a small smile. It’s been a while since he had seen Larry. They had tried to remain close friends after the relationship had faltered but VFD missions surely got in the way of that. “Where from?”

“Prufrock Prep,”

“Ah, I was just headed there to help my niece,” Jacques replied. “I will help Larry as soon as I can…”

“Thank you, Jacques,” Jacquelyn replied.

“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill,” Jacques replied. “The world…”

“Is quiet here,” Jacquelyn finished.

The world is quiet here. This might sound curious, as the motto of a secret organization, or something an associate of yours, like in Lemony Snicket’s case, his brother, might say when he arrives in his taxi to smuggle you across the border, high up into the mountains for a while until you successfully fake your own death and hideaway in the town where you did your apprenticeship for a secret organization. When the world is noisy...the world may feel as if it is coming apart like in….the case of the Baudelaires and Violet Snicket, who’s life was getting very loud and coming apart very fast.

Klaus and Sunny sat amid a crowd. Klaus had found a row of five seats and he and Sunny were looking around desperately for Violet, Isadora, and Duncan. Suddenly, he saw the three running out to the athletic field. The crowd of other students was chanting and cheering making it vastly fucking difficult for any of the five kids to hear. “What’s wrong?” Klaus asked confused as the three slid in their seats passed him. Isadora sat the furthest away from Klaus and Sunny, Duncan sat between his sister and Violet. Violet sat next to Klaus and Sunny sat in the seat right next to the aisle.

“We think we saw Count Olaf!” Isadora cried.

“What?” Sunny asked unable to hear Isadora.

“We think Count Olaf is here!” Duncan screamed.

“Huh?” Klaus asked confused blocking his ears with his hands because the noise was becoming too stimulating for him.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Nero said as he stepped upon the stage. “Welcome to the mandatory pep rally. I don’t know which I like more, the word ‘pep’ or ‘rally’,”

“I like ‘pep’,” Mrs. Bass said, who sat behind the children.

“I like ‘rally’,” Mr. Remora said, who sat behind the children beside her.

“Maybe we should ask our mascot! What do you say?” Nero asked the crowd, who cheered.

“What’s Prufrock’s mascot?” Klaus asked Duncan.

“A dead horse,” Duncan replied.

“What?”

“He said a dead horse,” Isadora replied.

“But that doesn’t matter...You have to listen,” Violet pleaded. “The Quagmires and I saw…”

“Shush!” Mr. Remora hissed from behind them.

“I know things seemed less peppy since our athletes, cheerleaders, and beloved gym teacher vanished on the way home from that away game. But Prufrock Preparatory School has a motto and that motto is ‘Memento Mori’ and it’s an ancient Greek saying…”

“Latin,” Klaus said rolling his eyes.

“...which means, ‘Remember, you will die.’ and soon, indeed, the sun will set, the fiery orb of life, leaving me alone!...alone!...Alone!” he shouted as he looked at the grey sky above. Everyone on and off stage stared at him confused. Duncan took this time to try to write Klaus and Sunny a note, but Mr. Remora closed his commonplace book tossing it to the ground next to Violet and Duncan’s feet. Nero stiffened up. “Until, of course, you meet someone who truly understands and supports you with friendship, camaraderie, and cash bribes. Our gym teacher was irreplaceable, but I have found someone who I know can fill her shoes,”

Violet looked down at the commonplace book saddened by the fact that it had been thrown to the ground and closed shut. She looked up at Klaus and Sunny with a desperate look in her eyes. “Klaus!” she shouted.

Klaus just stared at her for a moment. Trying to block out the noise. “What!?”

“Count Olaf is…” she began before Mrs. Bass shushed her.

“And now, please welcome to the stage, a man with no resume, no letters of recommendation, no credit history, but with such a marvelous ear for music that I’ve hired him as the newest member of our faculty!”

A tall, skinny man stepped onto the stage. The man was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, such as any gym teacher might wear. On his feet were some expensive-looking running shoes with very high tops, and around his neck was a shiny whistle. Wrapped around the top of his head was a length of cloth secured in place with a shiny red jewel. Such things are called turbans and are worn by some people for religious purposes, but Klaus and Sunny took one look at this man, feeling both of their hearts drop instantly. Klaus frowned miserably at the man on the stage, they both knew that this man was wearing the turban for an entirely different reason.

“Your new gym teacher, Coach Genghis!” Nero cheered. The crowd cheered except for the five orphans. Isadora, Duncan, and Violet all turned to Klaus and Sunny, who stayed staring at the man on the stage.

“Count Olaf…” Klaus whimpered.

“Bastard,” Sunny growled.

“So much to learn,” Olaf shouted to the crowd, his eyes fixating right on Klaus and Sunny. His eyes became shiny when he saw his prey sitting next to his newest targets. He smirked. This is going to be easier than I thought… he thought to himself smirking. “...and I am here to school you,” he said smirking mainly at Klaus.

The crowd began to cheer and applaud the awful man. Carmelita jumped on stage dressed up as a cheerleader and began to chant. “Who can’t be beat?!”

The crowd around the kids began to chant in response. “A dead horse!”

This went on for a couple of minutes. The crowd around the children were showing an exceptional amount of school spirit. The term ‘school spirit’ is, in my opinion, a curious one. The phrase might sound as if it refers to a ghost or other undead phantasm haunting an educational establishment like very old gum clinging to a trophy case. Now what I was told ‘school spirit’ actually referred to is the belief that one particular school is better than another. Though, as Violet Snicket and the four younger orphans were about to learn, there are much worse things that can haunt a school.

“I love the energy! I love it!” Olaf shouted to the crowd. Every student besides the five orphans clapped and cheered for Olaf. Sunny bared her teeth at the man, Violet and the Quagmires glared intensely at Olaf, Klaus just stared at the man with sorrow and worry in his eyes. Why can’t he just leave us alone? Klaus thought as he felt Violet slip her hand into his. When he felt her hand, he looked over at her, realizing that he had begun to shake.

“Okay, everyone, settle down,” Nero said addressing the audience.

Olaf feigned a look of pure shock. “Settle down? Do you hear what Vice Principal Shapiro just said?” he asked the crowd.

“It’s Nero, ” Nero corrected.

“‘Settle down’? How often I hear those words come out of people’s ears and into my mouth,” he took his glance from Klaus and began to glance towards Violet. Violet glared back, she was at a safe distance away from where Olaf didn’t have the upper-hand. “‘Settle’ a word which here means ‘settling...for less’ and ‘down’, my personal least favorite direction,” he said as he reached the edge of the stage and began to walk slowly down the steps from the stage to the aisle that separated the crowd of students in two. “Let me tell you a story,” he said in a voice that sounded more like one of those inspirational life coaches rather than a gym teacher. “Some years ago...a woman came to me. She needed my help. ‘Coach Genghis’, she had said to me. ‘I’m a failure. I have no job. My love life is in the pits. I can’t seem to lose these last twenty pounds,” he turned to the students. “I bet that describes just about everyone one of you, am I right?” he joked.

“Ummm, Genghis, they’re schoolchildren,” Nero pointed out.

“Exactly!” He replied to Nero, turning back to the crowd. Beginning to slowly walk again. “And what did I say to her? Do you think I told her to settle down?...” he paused waiting for a response from the crowd. Sunny couldn’t help but giggle when no one responded to him. “Answer me, pippity-squeaks! Do you think I told her to settle down?!” he yelled glaring at Carmelita, who still stood on the stage.

“Probably not?” Carmelita chanted in a rather confused tone.

“Probably not!” the crowd chanted back.

“Probably not, indeed. I told her to stand up. I told her to actualize and incentivize! I told her to keep her eyes in the clouds and her feet on the stars,” Olaf said reaching the orphans’ row of seats. He turned to face Sunny and Klaus, glaring and smirking down at Klaus, who’s face was slowly turning from one of fear and sadness to rage and madness. “And. do you. Know. what. Hap-pened?” He asked staring directly at Klaus, his shiny meeting the death glare of the very angry twelve-year-old. He enunciated every syllable, slowly giving a Grinch-like smirk at Violet’s two younger siblings. He tilted his head so his gaze was also on Violet. “ She died...in a mysterious fire.” He stood for a few seconds looking at first Violet, then Klaus whose face turned dark as it became full unbridled rage. If looks could kill, Olaf would surely have dropped dead due to this face Klaus was giving to the villain, no question about it. Olaf then glared at Sunny, keeping his eyes on Sunny for a rather long time.

Klaus noticed his gaze on his baby sister, Klaus quickly grabbed Sunny and passed her quickly to Violet, who felt it necessary to pass her to Duncan, who shifted Sunny to sit half on Isadora’s lap that way both Quagmires could protect their young toddler bestie if Olaf tried to hurt her. Both Isadora and Duncan put an arm around Sunny, Sunny may have leaned into their grasp but she still bared her teeth at the villain when he simply smirked at Klaus’ attempt to keep Sunny safe. Violet slipped an arm around Klaus as Olaf began addressing the crowd of students again.

“Wait...what?” Nero asked, the words that ‘Genghis’ spoke finally registering in his tiny brain.

“Settling down is what losers do,” Olaf explained making his way slowly back on stage.

“But the woman you were talking about…” Nero said curiously.

“Settling down is what started World War I,” Olaf misinformed the students of Prufrock.

“Okay, but the story you were telling,” Nero tried again.

“You see, settling down is what happens when you bite your lip, and your lip gets swollen, so you bite your lip again and then you keep biting your lip over and over. I don’t want that. Do you want that, Prufrock Prep?” he asked.

“No!” the students cheered.

“Let’s bring in the violin!” Olaf cheered. Nero smiled as he took center stage and began to horrifically play his violin. The crowd began to cheer even though no one was interested in his attempts to destroy classical music. The crowd was surprisingly cheering for Count Olaf and he was eating it up. Taking bows.

Klaus just looked like he wanted to die. He just stared frantically at Olaf. “No…” he whimpered, his breathing becoming rapid.

“Klaus?” Duncan asked looking at his maybe-boyfriend.

“He...he...he found us again ,” Klaus said terrified. “ I told you guys...he’s...he’s right there,” Violet could hear the quiver in Klaus’ voice, she turned to see a few tears glistening his eyes behind his glasses. He quickly wiped them. “We’ll never be safe,” he whispered this sentence, the only one who could hear him was Violet and it took a lot of straining to hear him entirely. “I have to do something,” he said aloud, more so to himself.

Violet looked at him confused. “Klaus?”

“I have to do something,” Klaus repeated, only slightly louder this time. “The school is falling for the treachery of an unhinged lunatic,”

Duncan and Isadora looked towards Klaus. “That always happens during pep rallies,” Isadora commented trying to light up the mood.

“I have to do something,” Klaus said taking a deep breath. He slowly stands up, all four other children could tell he was shaking. “ For them, ” he said slowly beginning to walk into the aisle. His legs were wobbly and with each movement on his feet, he felt like he was going to fall. He turned to his baby sister, “Stay here, Sunny,”

“Luck!” Sunny replied sticking both her thumbs up at her brother, knowing it was not the time to argue with him. She leaned back into the Quagmires’ grip. As Klaus slowly reached the stage, Violet realized the closer he got to Olaf, the harder Klaus would shake.

“E-everyone!” Klaus tried to shout, his voice quivering. He looked desperately at Nero. “T-this...this...th-this...man,”

Carmelita began to mock Klaus relentlessly, which was causing some of the other kids to laugh at Klaus. Olaf just smirked at Klaus, making pretend crying faces to the twelve-year-old. “You…”

“What’s wrong, student? Having a panic attack...induced by some unexplained trauma?” Olaf asks in a low hiss, reaching out to grab Klaus’ shoulder, but Klaus flinches back, throwing his arms in front of his chest.

Violet glared when Olaf began to laugh along with the crowd at Klaus. “ That’s it! ” she hissed as she stood up.

“Where are you going?” Duncan asked.

“To help Klaus,” she replied not even turning around. She kept her gaze on Olaf and her younger brother. “Stay here with Sunny, please,” she called back, hissing under her breath as Klaus backed away from Olaf again.

“We’ll help if we can!” Isadora shouted to Violet, who gave a small smile towards Isadora.

“I know and thank you, Isa,” she said blushing a bit. She turned back to the stage. I got this, Lemon Man, I got this. You didn’t risk your life for nothing, I will finish the job. Snickets take care of their own. She thought to herself as she rushed on the stage. She took a deep breath and practically yelled, “ Everyone! Please! Listen! This man is an imposter! ”

“How dare you interrupt a genius!” Nero barked at Violet angrily.

“And his guest violinist,” Olaf remarked.

Everyone on stage turned to look at the feral Snicket girl who was breathing heavy with unbridled fury. Even Klaus, who looked a conflicted mixture of relief and fear, watched Violet in silence as she took a place on the stage near Klaus.

Olaf turned to her with very shiny eyes and back at Klaus smirking at the poor boy, which sent chills down the boy’s spine.

“This man is not a genius…” Violet barked through gritted teeth.

“Vi...what are you doing?” Klaus whispered to his older half-sister, doing his best to keep eye contact with Olaf rather than Violet to pretend like he doesn’t even know who Violet is.

“Helping you,” Violet replied back. “Snickets take care of their own,” she said patting him on the back. He looked at her with a face of worry.

“You don’t have to…you can free yourself from this tragic tale…” he warned her. She shook her head.

“We fight together,” she replied.

He opened his mouth to reply, trying his best to find the words that could make Violet understand just how dangerous Count Olaf truly was. But she turned to him again. “ This man is a fucking imposter!” she yelled again taking a defensive stance between the vile man and her younger brother.

“I think you mean...improviser, dear,” Olaf replied.

“This so-called gym teacher is the notorious villain, Count Olaf!”

Violet and Klaus could hear a gasp in the crowd, it seemed to be coming from the librarian, Miss Caliban.

“A-as long as he’s at Pru-ru-fr-frock Prep...n-n-nobody is safe,” Klaus warns.

“That’s not true,” Carmelita cried. “You’re just jealous. Vice Princie throw them off the stage, and I’ll start my dance over with extra twirls,”

“Well said, adorable little cheerleader,” Olaf commented smiling at Carmelita.

“This man is Count Olaf and we can prove it!”

She turned to Olaf remembering the characteristics of the vile man that Klaus and Sunny had described. She glanced at his disguise, her eyes fixating at the top of his head. She gave the man a smirk. “ If Count Olaf were to remove his turban…!” she yelled, as she reached her arm up towards the creep’s turban. But with cat-like reflexes ‘Genghis’ grabbed Violet’s arm keeping her from ruining his disguise.

“Isn’t she just lovely? Everybody?” he asked the crowd as Violet struggled to reach his turban. He kept a good grip on her wrist causing her to grunt. Klaus watched in a silent panic hoping that Olaf wasn’t harming Violet. “But I am afraid my two bushy eyebrows are going to stay under my turban, which I wear for religious purposes,” he explained.

Klaus rolled his eyes. “A-and what religion would that be?” Klaus asked incredulously.

Olaf glared at Klaus with his shiny eyes, causing Klaus to shake from behind Violet. Violet glared again as Olaf held her arm above her head. He looked at his smartest henchperson.

“Reconstructionist Judaism,” the henchperson of Indeterminate Gender replied as the Hook Handed Man nodded.

“Re-recon-reconstruct…ism... ” Olaf mumbles. He rolls his eyes. “ What they said,”

“I would never ask you to remove your turban, Coach Genghis,” Nero explained sympathetically to Genghis. “I’m against religious persecution, but I can’t speak for the orphans, ”

Both Violet and Klaus rolled their eyes. Seeing that no one was believing them but instead believing Olaf. Olaf ignored the two children’s glare and released Violet’s arm but not before a harsh squeeze and a shove.

“O-Olaf can also be i-identif-fied by the tattoo of an eye on h-his a-ankle,” Klaus studdered.

“My body is a temple, young man!” Olaf snarled at Klaus, who stayed behind Violet. “I would never sully my skin the way so many young people do nowadays with their hedonistic lifestyle of loud music and abstinence,”

Klaus gave a look of confusion towards Olaf as Violet looked down at Olaf’s shoes, remembering the tattoo that has been haunting her the last couple of days.

“W-why don’t you t-t-take off your sh-shoes and prove it!?” Klaus suggested from behind Violet.

“ If Count Olaf were to remove his running shoes…!” She yelled glaring at the man.

Olaf interrupted her. “I will absolutely not be removing my running shoes,”

“Oh! L-le-let me guess, is that due to ‘religious purposes’?” Klaus asked him mockingly.

“No. It’s just taking off my shoes, you’ll see that my socks are sweaty...which means they’re smelly..which is gross,” Olaf explained.

“We can…” Violet said her voice trailing off. “We can compare Genghis to the photograph of Olaf in the Daily Punctilio!” she suggested desperately. “Please, this is serious!”

“C-count O-Olaf is wanted by the authorities...for sus-suspicion of fraud, th-theft, mur...murder, kidna-napping,” Klaus studdered slowly. He closed his eyes, “Ch-ch-ch-child abuse, and chi-child en-endangerment,”

“You sound like a boring librarian,” Nero mocked. Miss Caliban huffed in response. “Plus we don’t need newspapers now that we have our advanced computer system.”

Violet, Klaus, and Olaf watched as a few AV club members pushed the advanced computer to the stage. Olaf’s eyes widened and Klaus and Violet looked at one another and smiled.

“Oh. Uh, you mean that computer?” Olaf asked nervously, pointing a bony finger at the advanced computer.

“He’s sweating!” Klaus said happily. “He’s nervous!”

Olaf gave a quick glare Klaus’ way. Klaus was right when he said Olaf was sweating and nervous. The vile bastard carefully wiped his forehead making sure he didn’t accidentally knock off his turban. He began to use his hand to fan himself. He began to stutter. “N-no, I’m not… I have naturally leaky pores,”

Nero sighed. “Will you and your pores please stand in front of this very expensive electronic device and just clear this matter up, once and for all?” Nero asked.

“I...I…” he backed away from Nero. He realized that Violet and Klaus were both smirking at him as if they were winning. “I...uh...mmmm...this reminds me of a story,”

Violet and Klaus looked to one another, both siblings sharing a slight nod as they both walked over to the advanced computer system. They both grabbed its side and rolled it towards Olaf, who had backed himself against the wall. Olaf began to shudder nervously as the computer stopped in the perfect spot to get a clear view of his face. He closed his eyes nervously, waiting for his disguise to be fucked. He was trying to decide how to escape.

The computer made a whirring noise and finally, it beeped. Olaf held his breath at the same moment that Klaus had. But unfortunately for Violet and Klaus, the computer’s robotic, monotone voice declared to the crowd, “this is not Count Olaf”. When Klaus heard this, his heart shattered in his chest as he fell to his knees. Violet looked at Klaus and then looked to Olaf, who gave the computer the same confused face that Violet had given it when it claimed Coach Genghis was not Count Olaf. Olaf opened his eyes slowly, his fearful expression disappearing behind a gleeful one.

“See?” he said confidently as he pushed the computer away from him. He glared down at Violet and Klaus, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Yeah, see?” Nero mimicked. Violet just glares at the villainous man as they both realize the same thing at the same time. Klaus was now paralyzed. Both could tell he was trying to not have a breakdown in front of the whole school. Olaf looked at the boy wondering just how far he can push Klaus, while Violet looked down at him with a sorrowful and pitied expression.

Olaf takes this chance to take a step closer to Klaus, who flinched back away from Olaf with a soft whimper. “Please…” he begged in a meek voice, not looking up.

Violet stepped in front of Klaus to shield him. “I think this calls for a little democracy, my second favorite style of government. How many of you want to continue hearing tiresome accusations hurdled at an innocent man by pathetic little orphans?”

Duncan picked Sunny up as he stood tall. “ Investigate further!” He yelled.

Isadora stood alongside her brother and best friend. “ We demand this issue receive further scrutiny!” she yelled.

Surprising to all, the librarian, Ms. Olivia Caliban stood up as well. “Klaus Baudelaire and Violet Snicket seem like honest and decent people. I think we should listen to what they have to say!” she called out.

Violet gave the librarian a quick smile. Even Duncan, Isadora, and Sunny smiled at her. Other than her, no one else in the crowd was willing to help the children out.

“Now...who would love to hear about a new exercise program?” Genghis asked. Genghis smiled when he heard Klaus groan at the word ‘exercise’ but other than that, Klaus stayed there on the ground breathing heavily. Although he was relieved that Violet was still with him. “This new, exciting program is sure to blast your school spirit right out your blowhole!”

Everyone in the crowd cheered. Nero began to play the violin. “Students! Faculty! Don’t worry if every exercise program you have tried has failed you because I am here to fail you more by putting the ‘whip’ back into ‘whip you into shape’! Everyone, get on your feet, and let's try something that I invented one lonely night at a truck stop, called jumping jacks.” He waited for the crowd to stand, the only three people in the crowd who refused to stand were the two Quagmire triplets and the youngest Baudelaire orphan. “Here we go! Ready? One! Two!” He shouted as he did only two jumping jacks before yelping in pain. “Okay...all right. All right. Let’s cool it down...we don’t want to ham up the old hamstrings.” He groans. “Oh, God, can someone say, ‘class dismissed...for ice water and some deep breaths?” he asked as he grabbed onto one of his henchpeople for support.

“Um…”

“I know...I’ll be okay...I just need a second,” he explained groaning.

“But the…” The henchperson said glancing at Violet and Klaus. Violet stood there waiting for Olaf to explain whatever bullshit he was talking about.

“What? What? Oh...oh yeah...the orphans,” he muttered. “One last thing, everybody. As anyone who has been to junior college knows, orphans tend to have unsound bodies, which as you can see,” Olaf commented pointing at Klaus. “Leads to paranoia...delusion...and of course, untapped wealth.” He smirked at Violet, then turning to the crowd. “That’s why I have developed the Special Orphans Running Exercises or S.O.R.E, for short, which I will be offering to a few select students.”

He stepped forward to address the crowd, glaring at Sunny who sat between the two Quagmires. “Will the orphans in the house please stand?”

After exchanging a look of dread, Isadora and Duncan stood up, this time Isadora held Sunny who simply glared towards Count Olaf with her teeth bared. To all five children's surprise, even Miss Caliban stood up again giving them a small smile.

Olaf gave Sunny a slight wave as she growled at him. Olaf smirked as he began to walk in a small circle around Violet and Klaus as if they were stranded without a boat amid shark-infested waters. This caused Klaus to close his eyes and reach his arms out for Violet pulling her closer to him as she countered all of Olaf's movements dragging a shell shocked Klaus in a circle making sure that he was never exposed to Olaf.

"Hmmm," Olaf snarled bending down a tad bit to make sure Klaus knew that Olaf was referring to him. " I choose you," he said menacingly as he touched the young boy's shoulder. Violet yanked Klaus away from Olaf's cold grasp.

"No…" Klaus whimpered in a rather saddened tone. His tone reeked of desperation and fear, which caused Violet's heart to break for her younger brother and her blood to boil as she did her best to shield her brother from the wicked man. Klaus continued to shake, refusing to look up at his nemesis.

Olaf turned to face the crowd, his glare sent chills down Sunny and the Quagmires' backs. "I choose...the little baby secretary I have heard so much about," he said.

Sunny, still in Isadora's arm, flipped him off. "Toddler!" she yelled angrily although her friends could tell she was scared. Not as scared as her brother but she was definitely scared of what Olaf had planned.

Violet's glare towards the villain intensified as her blood began to boil hotter. This man was definitely Count Olaf, she had no doubt about it. She could hear Klaus cry another desperate "No…" as he shook harder. "She's just a toddler...leave her out of it…" she could hear him whisper.

" And…" Olaf snarled, once again slowly walking the stage. Giving Duncan and Isadora one last look over before slowly turning to Violet.

Klaus, who had his head hidden so he didn't have to see Olaf, felt his heart stop beating. And?... Klaus panicked. There shouldn’t be an ‘and’! Just me and Sunny! His eyes became wide. His absolute worst nightmare was happening. Olaf was now targeting either Violet, his half-sister, or the Quagmires, his new friends. Klaus began to tremble harder in fear blaming himself for ever letting the three get close to him and Sunny. Then a question popped into his mind, causing his breathing to become rigid. Did Olaf also know that Violet was related to the Baudelaires?

Olaf stopped circling the two orphans just as Klaus raised his face to meet the shiny eyes of his arch-nemesis staring at his older sister in a way that Klaus couldn't describe. he just knew the face had vile intentions behind it. He silently glances up at Violet, who stood there stone cold, glaring back at Olaf acting as a human shield for her brother.

" And...Miss Snicket," Olaf snarled. His tone of voice sending massive chills down Klaus' spine. If Violet was afraid, she was good at hiding it because Klaus looked up at her in disbelief. she stood tall, not allowing Olaf or Klaus to sense any fear behind the cold demeanor even though there were fear and uncertainty plaguing at her mind.

Olaf paused for a moment to truly look at Violet. She continued to stand her ground, staring back at him with a face of indifference. The man's stare was getting extremely uncomfortable, just as Violet was going to slightly turn her head allowing her eyes to avert from the villain’s shiny ones, She felt Klaus’ head shift. Dammit! She thought keeping her stare at Olaf. She knew Klaus was now looking at her, she couldn’t be weak now. For Klaus. She told herself as she tried to drain all of her emotions from her face, holding in her fear. For Sunny. Remember, Violet, Snickets take care of their own. They’re counting on you! Everything falls on you now. They’re safety, comfort, and happiness. Keep strong for them! She quietly sighed, hoping Klaus and Olaf didn’t notice. She had to be strong, she couldn’t let Klaus know that she was intimidated. Big sisters are supposed to chase away the monsters, not also be afraid of them. As she stared back as Olaf, with a hand gently placed on Klaus’ head, Violet realized that if she replaced her fear with anger, it was easier to hold her composure.

Olaf waited until both orphans were looking at him. Violet with her cold, emotionless demeanor and Klaus with his desperation and fear. “ Thank you….for being so eager to... volunteer ,” he hissed looking directly into Violet’s eyes, his eyes so shiny that they could blind her. The second he called her a volunteer, her face became dark. He must’ve realized that she wasn’t going to let him get away with killing her father and hurting her siblings.

Violet refused to show him fear, she couldn’t do that because she had to convince Klaus that with her around he is safe and her pride refused to allow it. So she stared right back with a face that could kill. Olaf merely smirking at her. While Klaus adverted his gaze as his face drained of all color and then flushed red with anger. “No…!” He said again but Violet noticed that it wasn’t the same desperate ‘no’ that he had whispered when Olaf mentioned Sunny. This one was stronger, angrier, even. Before Violet could process what was happening, Klaus had shot up to his feet, grabbing Violet and harshly whipping her behind him. He kept a grip on her hand, though and she could tell that he was still shaking.

“ No!” He yelled glaring at the disguised coach. “ Do NOT fucking involve Violet in this shit!”

“Oh, my,” Olaf feigned confusion like it was his first language. “What are you talking about?”

Klaus can feel the tears streaming down his face. “Leave... you better leave her alone!”

Olaf continued to look at Klaus as if he had no idea what the young orphan boy was talking about.

“Klaus…” Violet asked concerned.

“T-th-this batter is between you and me! ”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Coach Genghis asked.

Klaus’ shaking began to be more than he could handle because soon everyone at the pep rally could clearly see his panic attack. Olaf took this opportunity to put a hand on Klaus’ shoulder which put the young boy into a frenzy. Shaking faster and more visibly, crying harder, as he flinched away quickly causing himself to fall backwards on his ass.

“Leave him alone!” Violet yelled at the vile bastard.

Olaf looked down at Klaus, “There’s no need to cry like an infant. Be a man, orphan!” Olaf says cruelly poking Klaus in the chest just as Carmelita began chanting “Crybaby cake-sniffers in the Orphan Shack!” and all at once nearly everyone in the crowd was making fun of Klaus and chanting along to Carmelita. The only faculty member who even gave a shit was the kind librarian, who stood up, and started shushing children and yelling at Carmelita.

Violet glared at Olaf. “You three orphans are to report to the athletics field at sundown and every night until further notice,” he announced as the crowd began to disperse.

Nero laughed. “This, of course, does not excuse you from missing my nightly violin recitals. Oooh, you are going to owe me a lot of candy!”

“Now that’s the sort of leadership I was talking about,” Genghis mentioned. “You are a genius,” Violet rolled her eyes as she listened to the two pieces of shit stroke each other’s egos.

“You’re the genius for nothing,” Nero replied.

“YOu’re the genius for saying so,” Genghis admitted.

“You’re a genius for agreeing,”

“All right, I’m the genius,” Genghis bragged smirking at Violet.

“Drat!” Nero yelled.

The vice-principal began to walk away.

Duncan, Isadora, and Sunny walked over to the stage just as Genghis took a step closer to Klaus. Violet stepped in between the two, glaring daggers. “Whatever you’re up to, Count Olaf , we will put a stop to it!” she hissed.

“ Really?” He asked, feigning confusion. “Because it seems to me, if you Snickets had the skills to stop me, you wouldn’t be having this batch of episodes in your new lives,” he hissed back.

Klaus curled up into a little ball, trying to hide behind Violet’s thin legs. Violet looked down at him and then at Olaf and her heart broke. What did this fucker do to her little brother? She hated not knowing important things.

Olaf smirked as the Quagmires joined them on the stage carrying Sunny.

“Fucker!” Sunny hissed.

“Oh, little Sunny when will you and your cry baby, wimpy brother learn? You can’t survive me! ” he laughed, “your parents really taught you nothing at all.”

This angered Violet, she took Sunny from Isadora’s arms and the two orphaned half-sisters glared at Olaf as they guarded their brother against the cruel fiend.

“ Our parents taught us to survive!” Violet yelled as Sunny nodded waving a tiny fist at Olaf.

Olaf laughed a cruel, sadistic laugh. “Well, I guess...sweet little Miss Snicket... those who can’t do, teach, ” he replied bitterly.

Violet’s face rushed with anger to sadness. She tried to push the anger back to the surface but she soon realized that pushing sadness was harder than pushing down fear. Olaf could see that he had effected her because her eyes lit for about three seconds, a small flare of fire and it flared out almost immediately, quickly turning into a broken ocean blue. She couldn’t hide it, and he could definitely see it.

And with that he gave Violet, Sunny, Isadora, and Duncan an evil grin and then put a hand on Klaus’ shoulder, causing Klaus to jump and scream in shock. “ I told you,... no matter where you go...no matter what you do...I will find you,” he smiled a vicious smile when Klaus looked up. “ At least one of us can actually keep our promise! ” He then began laughing as he pats Klaus on the head, still laughing. “See you three at sundown,”

This time if looks could kill, Sunny Baudelaire would be the orphan killing Olaf with her look of pure, concentrated hate. “ Bitch! ” she shrieked at him as Olaf simply flipped the toddler off.

Sunny and Violet knelt down to Klaus. Sunny rushed to her brother to hug him. Olaf walked away cackling like a madman.

“Prom,” she said to her brother, holding him close. This was her way of saying, “Ignore him, Klaus. You’ve kept good on your promise,”

Klaus shook his head in response. “No, no I haven’t. He’s right, Sunny.”

Sunny shook her head furiously and playfully slapped her brother in the face.

“No!” she said simply. “Bueno,” she told him sternly, which meant, “you’ve done, good.”

Violet looked at Klaus. “Sunny’s right, Klaus. Comparatively, you’re the more fucked up. You’ve obviously sacrificed yourself for her,”

Duncan placed a gentle hand on Klaus’ shoulder which made the bookworm flinch but he looked up seeing Duncan and gave the journalist a small smile.

He turned to Violet. “Sunny and I are never going to be safe,”

She shook her head. “Oh yes, yes you are. Cause you see, Olaf made one very fatal idiotic mistake...he got me involved,”

“Us, too,” Duncan said.

“Don’t worry Baudelaires, don’t feel disgrace. The Quagmires triplets are on the case,” Isadora recited smiling.

Klaus continued to shack his head. “No…” he pleaded with them.

Violet smiled at Isadora. “Sweet poem. I love it.”

“Th-thank you,” the poet responded blushing.

“You guys...I’m sorry,” Klaus cried.

“For what?”

“For letting you get attached to me and Sunny,” Klaus explained. “Now he’s targetting you too,”

“Klaus...that’s not your fault,” Duncan reassured

“You’re kinds and generous, all three of you are, but we can’t let you get involved,” Klaus said pointedly staring at his older half-sister, who simply glared at him.

Sunny was slowly nodding her head in agreement with her brother.

“Olaf is too dangerous,” Klaus explained.

“He’s too dangerous for you to face alone,” Duncan pointed out. Isadora and Violet nodding in agreement.

“We can run away,” Isadora suggested.

“All of us,” Duncan added as the triplets looked to Violet to agree with them.

“...it’s plausible,” she admitted.

“Our parents' inheritance will be ours once we come of age,” Isadora explained.

“We’re not of age yet.” Klaus countered. “Besides, it wouldn’t matter if we ran away...Count Olaf will still find us...he found us...he always does,” He sighed. “Everywhere we go, he shows up to steal our stupid fortune.”

“How can he get your fortune as a gym teacher?” Violet asked confused.

“Well...there’s treachery lurking in most exercise programs,” Klaus replied laughing at his own joke. “I just...I just can’t believe he fooled everyone again.”

“Not everyone,” Duncan said pointing at himself and his sister.

“Come on, you guys, let’s go back to the Orphan Shack and figure shit out,” Violet suggested holding her hand out for Klaus’. Isadora picked up Sunny as Duncan took Klaus’ free hand. Isadora slipping her free hand into Violets. The five children walked from the athletic field to the Orphan Shack, all trying to think of a way to put a stop to Olaf once and for all.

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ofpcrkinscn · 5 years ago

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☄ HOMENUM REVELIO ╱ is that STEFAN PARKINSON? the HOGWARTS alumni is the TWENTY THREE year old child of PANSY PARKINSON. with the rumours of political unrest, it’s not surprising that the ministry is keeping a close eye on everyone, but especially the BARTENDER, considering that they are known to be quite MANIPULATIVE. but if you ask their friends, you might hear that they have a CHARMING side to them. according to our records they identify as CISMALE (HE/HIM), they HAVE lost their magic.

BASIC FACTS:

FULL NAME: stefan severo parkinson

AGE: twenty three

SPECIES: wizard/werewolf

BLOOD STATUS: pureblood

FAMILY: mother - pansy parkinson, father - unknown

HOGWARTS HOUSE: slytherin

SEXUALITY: pansexual

OCCUPATION: bartender

LANGUAGES SPOKEN: english, spanish & latin

PATRONUS: black wolf

THE LIFE OF STEFAN:

stefan was born to pansy parkinson and an unknown father. he is pretty much the result of a one night stand, despite that however, pansy was an incredible mother, she always tried to give stefan everything he could ever need or want.

as stefan grew up his powers began to manifest and become uncontrollable, pansy didn’t know what to do or why this was happening. so on his first day of hogwarts she spoke to the professors, explaining what was happening to him which lead to the teachers at hogwarts keeping a very close eye on him.

like his mother stefan was put into the house of slytherin and thrived there.

everything seemed to be going well until the night before his seventeenth birthday when he lost control again and accidentally killed another student. stefan was expelled from hogwarts, suspended from any magic use and reported to the ministry. pansy convinced ( blackmailed ) the ministry to take the boy in and run a series of different tests on him to try and figure out what was happening.

all of the testing proved helpful when they found out the cause of the power issue. that stefans biological father was in fact a werewolf, which explained the fact that the night stefan killed the student, it was a full moon, the first full moon that he’d been triggered by. it also explained why he had random power spikes, especially when he was angry

with this information stefan grew angry and broke away from the ministry and his mother, running off to survive on his own, without anyone telling him what to do. for a few months stefan went wild, wreaking havoc across the world before he met someone that helped to calm him down, that helped him get a handle on everything, on his anger and his powers.

for a while stefan refused to use his magic because he was scared of what it would do to him and that he wouldn’t be able to control himself so when he caught the virus, he was thankful.

now stefan is back and trying to lay low, keeping himself off of the ministries radar.

WANTED CONNECTIONS: - someone who saw him kill the other student // taken by lily potter - the person he met that helped/changed him // taken by greer lockhart - people he met while he was on the run - someone who is helping keep him under the radar now

ABOUT THE PLAYER: heyyooooo, i’m chloe. i’m 22 years old and live in australiaaaaaaa. i’m a hairdresser / barber and work like 3 - 4 days a week. it’s been a while since i’ve been in a harry potter based rpg so pleaseeeee bare with me.

#death tw #mini:intro #ssp. points #15 points #25 points

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wolfpawn · 5 years ago

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Life is a Game of Risks, Chapter 48

Chapter Summary - Alexianna is considering Daniel's words when she receives some mail that shocks her. Luckily Tom, though away, is there via the phone to listen to her and offer advice

TRIGGERS - Past domestic abuse, Past emotional abuse, Past sexual abuse.

Previous Chapter

Tags: @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @theoneanna

Request if you wish to be tagged

For longer than she cared to admit, Alexianna considered Daniel's comments regarding Oliver.

She could not comprehend how Daniel would welcome the man back into his life after he abandoned them when they needed a father. She thought to her counselling sessions, the ones specifically regarding the male influences and indeed role models in her life, or as was brutally honest, the severe lack of said role models. There was a correlation between her lack of father figure and her subsequent relationship with Jonathan in which she had accepted abusive and negative behaviour from him. It was not the sole reason, which she knew, but it was a notable part of the overall picture.

Tom, on more than one occasion, pointed out that Daniel was simply the polar opposite of her reaction to the situation, and in many ways, also understandable. He more than likely was hoping to make up for the lost relationship with his father during childhood. Both approaches, he stated diplomatically, were completely comprehensible and neither sibling was in any way wrong for their feelings on the matter.

Daniel spoke to her a bit with regards what he and Oliver discussed when they met up, Oliver, now living in York, went to Edinburgh when Daniel was off the ships to talk with his son. Alexianna listened to her brother but never said much on the matter. When Daniel pushed her for an answer as to whether she wished to speak to their father or not, Alexianna would find a way to change the topic of conversation with him and on mentioning Hampstead Hill, she would find a reason to cease speaking altogether.

Lily was no longer having the same issues with Shawn, thankfully, but she was still not overly happy with her daughter's teacher and neither was her teacher pleased with her and it was showing. It left Alexianna in something of a predicament, she wanted Lily to have the best education but she was terrified at what Oliver would expect in return. Then she thought of Tom's offer. In all honesty, of the two, she would be more open to Tom's proposal to pay than her father's as she knew that Tom was offering out of love for Lily and genuine concern for her wellbeing and love, Oliver's motives were anyone's guess as far as she was concerned.

She spoke with her counsellor regarding it in her next session. He delved into it all with her and attempted to assist her in uncovering what was bothering her so greatly in the situation. They both knew her father's lack of being there for her growing up was a pinnacle reason for her wariness to everything, but Mr Barrow also tried to see if there were other reasons for it, noting her anger at her father's remarrying, not because she held any ill against him for finding happiness but for the fact he chose a wife that specifically chose not to have children. She respected that was a personal choice for her stepmother, a term that her therapist used and caused her to shudder such were her preconceived notions of such a title, but it caused her to wonder if her father regretted being a father and made her feel rejected even further by him. It was hurtful enough that Oliver left them and never returned due to not wanting to deal with Marie but the idea he had never wanted children, that made her feel even more rejected by him and of course, behind it all, she worried for Lily.

Tom left for a week to deal with an event he was part of, leaving Alexianna to deal with her concerns, work and Lily, something she was becoming more comfortable and confident in. Even with the increased workload of her job and college course, Alexianna was finding it easier to do everything as a result of her dealing with her past and feeling better in herself as a person. She still had doubts, her scarred arm caused her to feel some self-conscious thoughts but overall, her achievements, her loving relationship with a man that allowed her to be her own person and respected her personal space and expected the same and help to raise Lily meant she was able to grow, both personally and as a mother. She always loved Lily with all of her heart but did not show it as much as she wanted to as she tried to learn how to love herself and express it. Her happier attitude transferred to her interactions with Lily also.

While going home from work on the bus, she looked out the window. Elena, a lovely English language student who needed a few hours work while she completed her course, had become Lily's new minder while Alexianna worked. Tom spent what time he could with her also but there was a need for someone else to pick up the times they could not and Elena was perfect since Rebecca moved to Manchester. She also taught a very eager Lily some Spanish, something Alexianna was delighted about. She spoke French and Latin as well as English and Welsh so she liked her daughter embracing foreign languages.

When she arrived home, she was attacked for hugs in the hallway. “Hey, Princess.”

“Hi Mommy.” Lily cuddled into her as she walked into the kitchen carrying her daughter in her arms. “I had a silly day today.”

“Tell me about it.” She smiled as she said a quick hello to Elena also.

“We went to the park.”

Alexianna knew that already, having signed a consent form for her daughter to be allowed do so. “And what did you see in the park?”

“Ducks.”

“Very exciting.”

“Can I tell Daddy?”

“I will contact him and see if he able to talk.” She smiled, taking out her phone, frowning at the cracked screen, having been in a slight disagree with gravitational pull. She texted Tom and left her phone on the counter as she took out the few groceries she had acquired also before thanking Elena for handing her some post. At first, she scanned them, some junk mail, a “to the occupier” from the council and finally a letter for “The parents of Lily D. Hughes” letter. Alexianna looked at the letter for a moment. It was a thick A4 size one but it was the postmark that gave it away. The stamp of the illustrious girl's school told her who sent it. Opening it, she wondered why it had arrived.

Just as she was about to remove the paperwork from the package, her phone rang.

“Mommy, Daddy is calling.” Lily chirped as Alexianna placed down the letter. She lifted her daughter onto the countertop and answered the phone, placing it to Lily's ear. “Daddy.” She giggled.

“Hello, Princess. You sound very happy.”

“I miss you, Daddy.”

“I miss you terribly too. I wish I was able to give you a big cuddle.” Tom's voice was sincere. “Tell me about your day.”

“We went to the park and we sawed ducks.” She informed him. “And we feeded them, but not bread acause that is not good for them, Daddy and I sawed doggies and they were chasing each other and we had so much fun.” She informed him.

“I am jealous.” Tom declared, earning giggles from Lily. “Are you excited for your birthday next week?”

“Yes.” Lily cheered loudly. “You'll be home, won't you Daddy?”

“I am home in two days, my beautiful girl.” He promised. “So do not fret, I will be there.”

“Yay!”

“Where's your Mum, Princess?”

“She's holding the phone to my ear and making sure that I don't fall from the counter, Daddy.” Lily informed him.

“Okay, Princess, I will send you a big hug and kiss through Baloo and I will just talk to Mummy for a minute, alright?”

"Okay, Daddy. Bye bye, I love you.”

“I love you too, Lily.” His smile was audible through the phone.

Alexianna let Lily off the counter before putting the phone to her ear. “Hey, Tom.”

“Darling, is everything alright?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Talk to me, Lexi. Is it therapy, work?”

“No, I just...I think Lily has just received another prospectus from Hampstead Hill.”

“You think?”

“I was opening it when you called, but yes, I think she has, it looks like one.”

“Open it and see.” Tom listened to the sound of paper moving around then silence. “Lexi?”

“I…”

“Lexi?”

“Dear Ms Hughes, we are delighted that your daughter, Lily Diana Hughes will be joining us in Hampstead Hill at the beginning of her reception year, this coming September. We thank you for choosing our school for your daughter's education and I can assure you, Hampstead Hill will endeavour to bring out the very best in your child. Please find enclosed….Did you do this?” There was no answer. “Tom, did you do this?”

“No... I...no, I had nothing to do with this.” Tom promised, slightly startled by what Alexianna had just read to him. “Do you think Oliver…?”

“Who else could have done it, Tom?” she challenged, her anger increasing. “I am going to kill Daniel.”

“Why?”

“How else would this have happened, Tom? Oliver shouldn't know her name, I...does he have my address?” She asked worriedly, rushing up the stairs to prevent Lily hearing such a conversation, not wanting the little girl to see her stress.

“Alexianna, I don't want to anger you, Darling, but I don't think him having your address requires such panic, he is not as bad as Jonathan.” Tom placated. “If you want nothing to do with him, it's not ideal, but it's not like he can walk up to the front door; you, Elena or I have to let him in, so don't fret, my Darling. Also, remember the school hàve your address, I was in contact with them, remember?”

“But...you gave your address.”

“I gave yours also, they needed it, so he could very well not know it.” He placated. “I think when you have settled slightly, you need to speak to Daniel.” He suggested.

“Yeah, I...I'm not sure about this, Tom. I don't want to owe Oliver for anything...I don't want anything to do with him.”

“We will talk to Daniel, and see what he says, alright?” Tom urged. “But for now, relax.”

“Tom…”

“Lexi, you are annoyed and you and I know that if you talk to Daniel now, you will get angry and you love your brother, you don't want to argue with him.”

“I don't want this. I don't want Oliver to pay for this.”

“Will I send him a reimbursement?” Tom offered.

“No because I don't want anyone paying this money for her.”

“Why not, Darling?”

“Because it's not fair on you, I am not going out with you to fund Lily, this relationship is uneven enough without…”

“Okay, I am going to have to stop you there, Lexi “ Tom stated calmly. “A relationship does not have to be fifty-fifty when one is in a different financial position to another. You give me so much, I cannot put into words my happiness when I am with you, and that little girl. Alexianna, I love you both so intensely and you both give me unconditional love and respect in return and to be honest, I feel unworthy. Your additions to my life have so much more than financial worth.”

“But I don't want money from you, I want you, I want our cuddles, our conversations, our intimacy, that sort of thing.”

“That is why I am so invested in this, Lexi, because you don't want money and other such things. But is why I am so willing to do this too, I want to help Lily achieve everything she can in life.”

Alexianna sighed, uncertain of what to say. She wanted nothing more than to have Lily have the best of everything, as most parents would, but uncertain that she could take it.

#Life is a Game of Risks #chapter 48 #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic

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jeannereames · 5 years ago

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hi if it's not a too personal question to ask how did you come to be interested in history/antiquity/alexander..? I mean did you always like it as a child? or how did it start?

It’s not too personal, and in fact, I LIKE to tell this story, as I’m the definition of coming in the back door, which might encourage others.

Understand, I’m a chick from the other side of the tracks. My generation was the first to get a college education, and I’m among the few to go on to grad school, especially not professional *(e.g., law or med school). I was lower middle-class growing up. My father is from one of the two poorest families in Jackson County, S. Illinois before (and after) WWII. My mother was better off, her father a successful farmer and carpenter, but the Brouillettes had been Catholic (even if he wasn’t), and (worse) they had Indian blood.

There was no silver spoon in my mouth. I had better: wonderful parents who cheer-leaded me all the way. So if you disbelieve a father as great as Amyntor could exist? That’s MY parents. Amyntor-Berenikē are real, and their names were Ed and Idalee. Rise is dedicated to my father. Some of us get that lucky, and I’m HUGELY aware of my fortune, especially as I aged and realized my fellows didn’t have parents like mine. So Hephaistion’s desire to share his father with Alexandros? That was me. All my friends came to my house to visit my mother.

My love of history owes entirely to HER. She loved history, and understood it was about the stories of people. But my elementary and junior high history teachers made it about “kings-n-things” with lots of dates, etc.

So I HATED history.

I hated it all through regular school, then my tenure at UF, where (despite being a humanities major) I AVOIDED all history classes except one, an elective on the history of the Early Church. I think it’s pretty much a crime that a humanities major anywhere can graduate without a history class. WTF?

Yet it’s all the fault of poorly taught history. Plus, yes, younger students are less inclined to understand why it matters. Not all, but a substantial portion regularly return surveys saying history doesn’t matter because it’s the past, not the future.

Back to my clever mother. Instead of teaching me history, she told me about my family: the story of my ancestors, my people, including my tribe (Miami-Peoria). I was routinely hauled around to cemeteries as a kid, shown where my people were buried, and then told stories about them. Respect for Elders and the ancestors is a native thing. Yet I became fascinated, constructed family trees, and tried to trace back their stories, as most of my mother’s family were French who came in the 1600s/early 1700s, or Native Americans. My father’s family were more recent immigrants, but it all made a wonderful puzzle.

The story of me.

That’s history. The story of us, more broadly.

And so my clever, sneaky mother taught me to love history by coming in the back door.

Yet as a teen and undergrad, my interest in other cultures were largely Celtic and Scandinavian. I was introduced to J.R.R. Tolkien as a teen and remain a HUGE fan. My “home” fiction genre, insofar as I have one, is SFF (science fiction and fantasy), where a number of my friends publish. So I resisted the whole “Classical” field until quite late. Latin was the most popular language at my HS (Lakeland Dreadnoughts), and had the most active student group… so of course I refused to join! Never was a follower. I took German instead. In college, I took RUSSIAN, just to be different.

My undergrad degree was a BA in English, with a concentration in creative writing and a minor in acting. My M.A. was in theology and early church history. While at the Candler School of Theology, Emory, I kept hearing about this dude, “Alexander the Great.” I had NO idea who that was. (That’s how bad my previous history education had been.) Yet as he seemed so pivotal in cultural transfer, east to west and west to east, I wandered over to the Emory library to check out a couple of bios.

By chance, they were N.G.L. Hammond’s King, Commander and Statesman, and Peter Green’s (original, Thames-on-Hudson, later re-released by U. Cal Press) Alexander of Macedon.

I literally couldn’t have picked two more different bio’s if I’d tried.

AND HE FASCINATED ME. Who was this KID, who conquered most of his known world by 32, but generated such different evaluations, positive to negative?

Like Alexander, I’m a bit inclined to … obsess?

So I kept reading, and reading, and reading (articles, not just books), and then got into Macedonia (which then in the 1980s, was mostly articles).

By the early 1990s, I’d decided I wanted to study him professionally, not just to write a novel about him, so on the urging of Judy Tarr, I called Gene Borza at Penn State. He was my #1 choice to study with (in the US) as I’d admired his honesty to reply to those who disagreed with him, not just ignore them. So Gene asked me what I’d read, and I started reciting my list, until he said, “Stop, stop! You’ve already read more than most of my current PhD students!” He encouraged me to apply.

Ergo, if my BA was in English, and my MA in Theological studies, and I’d originally intended to go on to a PhD in the latter, I sent off ONE application—to Penn State—for history.

Guess which one offered funding (e.g., a graduate assistantship).

I wound up at Penn State, studying Macedonian history with “Aristotle” (e.g, Gene Borza, whose resemblance to the philosopher is a wee bit uncanny). It was, I think, the best choice I could have made. I remain Gene’s “academic daughter,” and Book 1, Becoming, is dedicated to him due to Aristotle’s prominence, while book 2 is dedicated to my father, Ed Reames, because he’s the model for Amyntor.

So yes…there IS a backdoor for those of us determined enough. But be aware, the handicap never goes away. I face it every single day. My Latin and Greek wasn’t “good enough,” and I don’t have the extensive reading in Classics that someone with a BA in Classics would have. But I DO bring my diverse previous experience. I have a background in bereavement counselling and ER on-call duty that allows me to look at Alexander’s mourning and such events as the Philotas Affair with experience most of my colleagues (however good their Greek and Latin) don’t have.

So be prepared to justify your existence to your colleagues who had Latin in high school and pursued a BA in Classics or ancient history. Don’t apologize.

And those of you who DO have the above, remember, there are a couple of us out there, scrappy and “previously untrained” who loved the field enough to work our asses off to get a degree, and eventually, a job. So unlike some of my colleagues at Penn State, don’t snort and look down on your unusual fellows. Help them out.

I’ll also note that of the students I entered with? Only two of us received the PhD. Tim Howe, my academic brother who came with better prep, teaches today at St. Olaf’s in Minnesota. But dammit, I fought my way through. And I finished, and I’m at a uni that, with my colleagues, created an Ancient Mediterranean Studies Program at the BA/BS and MA level. I’m damn proud of that.

The field has changed since I applied to grad school in 1991, I won’t lie. Tenure-track jobs in the US, especially in ancient history and Classics, have turned into unicorns. Other countries are different. But if you are determined enough, and damn stubborn enough, you might be able to carve your own path, as long as you keep an eye on the current state of the field. I won’t lie to anybody about how few ancient history and Classics jobs are out there on H-Net these days. BUT don’t let the afternoon-tea set make you feel less than them: “imposter’s syndrome” for pursuing a PhD in ancient history or Classics. Some of those Classics blue-bloods won’t get a job, at the end of the day.

I am THE definition of an “imposter’s syndrome” faculty member who succeeded. And I don’t give a good goddamn what anybody thinks of me. I excel at what I do, and I’m proud of it.

#classics #Classics in the back door #ancient history #stubborn ancient historians #realities of the field #asks #Jeanne Reames #ancient Macedonia #degrees in history #advanced degrees in history

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boricuareads · 7 years ago

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My Year in the Middle: a review/critical analysis

[image description: banner with pastel blue in the background, the cover of My Year in the Middle in the center with a bright orange light behind the cover, and the text saying “boricuareads Reviews: My year in the Middle by Lila Quintero Weaver”]

Rating: 5/5 Stars

Description:

In a racially polarized classroom in 1970 Alabama, Lu's talent for running track makes her a new best friend — and tests her mettle as she navigates the school's social cliques.

Miss Garrett's classroom is like every other at our school. White kids sit on one side and black kids on the other. I'm one of the few middle-rowers who split the difference.

Sixth-grader Lu Olivera just wants to keep her head down and get along with everyone in her class. Trouble is, Lu's old friends have been changing lately — acting boy crazy and making snide remarks about Lu's newfound talent for running track. Lu's secret hope for a new friend is fellow runner Belinda Gresham, but in 1970 Red Grove, Alabama, blacks and whites don't mix. As segregationist ex-governor George Wallace ramps up his campaign against the current governor, Albert Brewer, growing tensions in the state — and in the classroom — mean that Lu can't stay neutral about the racial divide at school. Will she find the gumption to stand up for what's right and to choose friends who do the same?

Review:

This review turned into a critical analysis of the book, but I promise it’s worth it. But, heed my SPOILER ALERT. You’ve been warned!

In reading Lila Quintero Weaver’s first foray into children’s fiction, I couldn’t help but think that this would pair well as a close analysis, keeping in mind Gloria Anzaldúa’s border theory. To keep it simple, Anzaldúa believed that immigrants, especially Latinx, and more specifically those of Mexican descent, not just live with the trauma of immigrating across the literal border. The theory also refers to the borders that have been socially constructed, such as racial categorization and sexuality just to mention a few. I’ll apply her border theory to this text because I believe most of the book is a study of said theory.

My Year in the Middle follows the last six weeks of Lu Olivera’s sixth grade in 1970 Red Grove, Alabama. Lu is the child of two Argentinian immigrants, which reflects the author’s own personal experience (this is explained at the end of the book with the Author’s Note). Lu considers herself to be a wallflower and does everything in her power to stay that way. But when the P.E. teacher decides that the girls will start running for the last six weeks of class, Lu becomes the surprise underdog. She outruns the entire class, which had been desegregated only the year before. In classrooms, however, an unspoken rule still divides Lu’s peers between black and white. Seeing as she identifies as neither, she occupies a seat in the middle row. In that way, she straddles a literal border.

“A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants” (Anzaldúa 3).

The way Lu sits in that racial border that has been constructed without her say in the matter, is much in the way she struggles with her identity as a Latina. She fears her Spanish is not too good and that her translation skills are too basic. However, above all else, she seeks acceptance among the white girls in her class. She fears being Othered, but also fears complete assimilation into whiteness. Anzaldúa said: “The only ‘legitimate’ inhabitants [of the borderlands] are those in power, the whites and those who align themselves with whites. Tension grips the inhabitants of the borderlands like a virus. Ambivalence and unrest reside there and death is no stranger” (4). Though death may not be something that’s talked about in the book, ambivalence is something the narrative strides to be against. Lu feels the tension between her black and white classmates, which at times escalates to physical violence. At some point, even Lu’s the victim of physical and verbal violence from an older white student who takes the bus with her. Lu thwarts this by stomping his feet and correcting that she’s Argentinian, but she has to constantly remind herself of something her mother says: “We’re foreigners. We’re not supposed to get involved.”

Thus, Lu becomes an agent of whiteness by not daring to mix with the black kids, even though she identifies more with them and wishes to befriend them. There is a border that she dares not cross, even though it’s not something her parents have taught her. Her parents have taught her to be implicit in white supremacy even though they don’t believe in it. When Lu finally decides to befriend Belinda, a black girl in her class who is also a fantastic runner, she worries about what her white peers might think of such relationship. She doesn’t hide it in public, and she defends Belinda in the face of a racist shopkeeper, but when she’s faced with the questions of her white peers she shies away from the courage she shows. It’s a slow process as she realizes the systems at play in her classroom, and though she has some help from white peers like her friend Sam, her “best friend” Abigail does the opposite and encourages Lu to assimilate.

In fact, most of the characters who wish that Lu assimilate are women. If it’s not Abigail telling Lu to read women’s fashion tips in magazines, it’s Lu’s mom telling her that sports aren’t for girls when Lu expresses her love of running. This is a sentiment that even Anzaldúa expresses: “Culture is made by those in power—men. Males make the rules and laws; women transmit them” (16). By communicating that assimilation into a white heterosexual capitalist patriarchy or assimilation by ignoring your Otherness and that of your peers, Abigail and Lu’s mom transmit the messages of those in power, which Lu then internalizes.

The book mostly consists of Lu unlearning these internalized feelings and the text does so deftly and with the innocence of a sixth grader who’s only starting to realize the depth of US’s injustices. A good evolution is the image of Lu’s sister, Marina, who’s a college student as well as a volunteer for the Brewer campaign. This campaign is another subplot that’s almost always occurring in the background of Lu’s life. At moments she believes she wouldn’t be affected by the campaign, which is against rampant white supremacist ex-governor George Wallace and desegregationist Albert Brewer. But the book takes you on a sort-of ride-along as she goes to a Wallace rally because Abigail just wants to participate in a cake walk. As Lu feels horrible when the speeches start and the Confederate flags start flying, she bargains with herself and others that she only went to appease Abigail be a part of something with her white peers.

Lu doesn’t tell her black friends or her own family that she attended the rally, knowing it would be met with scorn, which means that she knew it was wrong. When her social studies teacher asks her to write an essay about her experience at the rally for bonus points, she does so, and gets full points while feeling guilty. That guilt is useless, however, seeing as it resembles the white guilt of her peers who want to rebel against the white supremacy in place at their school, but won’t do anything productive with it. It’s when Lu uses her guilt to defend her black friends that it becomes more productive.

At a white student’s birthday party, Lu becomes the target of harassment from her peers for being friends with the black students, especially Belinda. White fear comes bubbling up, and it’s only perforated when Lu finally owns up to her own prejudices and by calling out her peers’ racism in the process.

When Brewer loses the race, the sentiments explored in the book felt all too familiar. As the Brewer supporters start mourning the loss, the white Wallace supporters become even more assertive of their desire for white supremacy. The feelings paralleled the days after the election of Tr*mp. Keep in mind, the book is set less than 50 years ago, and the sentiments of white supremacy and segregationist laws are still present in the US. It is at that point that Lu’s reality comes crashing down on her.

At school, she finally decides to sit with the black students, eschewing the created border of the middle row, the false neutrality she thought she could keep. Lu finally overcomes “the tradition of silence” that Anzaldúa wished to do in regards of the censuring of her identity as a Chicana (59). And though, again, Lu isn’t a Chicana, it’s the best turning point for her as she accepts her Otherness and doesn’t give into white supremacy. In fact, she goes to a white man in power (the principal) to defend one of her black peers, who’s attacked by a white student in class.

Lu is constantly subverting the expectations set for her as the book moves along. She shows growth in the most hopeful and honest way. She’s constantly deconstructing the set default, though not always by herself, like in the scene in which Belinda is at her house and they’re going through the magazines that used to be Abigail’s. Belinda points out that there’s one black model for the overwhelmingly white publication, but she doesn’t worry because at her house they receive beauty magazines for black women. Lu can’t help but wonder that there’s no such thing for girls like her, girls from Latin America, and that she doubted she would ever find a black-haired model with brown skin. This scene is a short one, yet it puts into focus what has been set as the standard for beauty: Eurocentric features. It also helps as a way for Lu to deconstruct such standards, and to question why those are the default.

“It is not enough to stand on the opposite river bank, shouting questions, challenging patriarchal, white conventions. [...] At some point, on our way to a new consciousness, we will have to leave the opposite bank, the split between the two mortal combatants somehow healed so that we are on both shores at once [...] Or perhaps we will decide to disengage from the dominant culture, write it off altogether as a lost cause, and cross the border into a wholly new and separate territory. Or we might go a different route. The possibilities are numerous once we decide to act and not react” (Anzaldúa 78-79).

And indeed, Lu acts. Most of the book is her reacting to injustice, and by the end she’s acting and choosing her own path. She chooses herself, she chooses her real friends, and her family. She also chooses running, with her entire family supporting her and her dad and sister helping her train before the big competition (a Field Day). It becomes a celebration of Lu’s identity as her parents shout encouragement in Spanish as she goes. Those screams allow her to win, seeing as her competition, an older white girl, gets distracted and falls on a pothole. This final scene settles the border paradox within Lu. She’s able to celebrate both her passion for running and her identity as a Latina, all while celebrating the friends she has. There’s no indication she wants to seek reunification with the white peers who turned their backs on her, or that she wants to seek some sort of revenge.

At the end, Lu is happy with forging her own path. She’s finally unafraid to embrace her actions, and leave behind the created borders. There are new borders, but she doesn’t wish to acknowledge them at the moment the book is finished. She’s proud of her growth, and so was I.

Works Cited:

Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. Aunt Lute Books, 1987.

Quintero Weaver, Lila. My Year in the Middle. Candlewick Press, 2018.

An eARC was provided by NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. Thank you! (this is why I couldn’t directly cite from the source book, since ARCs undergo a lot of changes before publishing)

You can find this book online at all available retailers. (amazon, barnes and noble, indiebound)

Review available on Goodreads.

Follow me on Instagram and Twitter @boricuareads, and make sure you check out my other reviews, as well as my book lists, edits, and more! If you enjoyed this, know that I put a lot of work into my reviews, so a monetary donation helps keep this blog going.

#mine #my year in the middle #lila quintero weaver #adriana reviews #read latinx #latinx books #middle grade

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firstumcschenectady · 6 years ago

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“Blessings... We Hope” based on Isaiah 50:4-9a and James 3:1-12

In the Isaiah passage, the suffering servant describes being attacked – hit from behind, beard hairs pulled out, and spit on. Yet, as he describes the attack, it becomes clear that the words said have done more harm than the physical attack. He speaks of being insulted. He claims it is only because of God that he is not disgraced, that he is not shamed, that he can stand strong. He will not be “found guilty” because God helps him. There are people who are attacking the suffering servant, and it is clear that their words hurt.

Most likely, the disagreement between the servant and his adversaries was a big one. This passage comes from the exile, when the leaders of the community of faith were residing in Babylon, trying to survive as slaves. Walter Brueggemann says, “It seems more likely to me that the abuse comes from other members of the exilic community who have worked out a sustainable compromise between Yahweh and the empire, who do not what to have the compromise exposed or questioned, and who do not want to be pressed to decide for Yahweh and for the disruptive venture of homecoming in a distinctive identity.”1 It is easy to imagine that both sides of that argument – to conspire with oppressors or not – would have strong opinions and good motivation to attack the other side.

It is also easy, from 2500 years and half the world away, to see valid arguments on both sides. But it seems that in the midst of the disagreement, the ways it was approached did great harm. The suffering servant is known as just that – the one who suffers – and in this passage at least, he suffers because people disagree with him and make it personal!

The Isaiah passage is a case-in-point example of the argument that James is making. James uses a whole lot of examples to validate the two key verses 9 and 10, “With [the tongue] we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God. From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so.” James says that if we praise and bless God, it is INCONGROUS to curse seek harm to God's beloved people. And just in case you had missed the memo, God's beloved people and all human beings overlap are exactly the same groups.

James says that words have a whole lot of power, including power to do great harm, so we should be careful with them. Then he says that blessing God and cursing God's people is utterly incongruous. It is like a grapefruit tree growing figs, or a fig tree growing olives. It can't be. Or, at least, it ought not to be.

Understanding what James meant is not the difficulty. Figuring out how to live it is the hard part. Let's get clear on what we're trying to do first. To start with, I'm not certain what the text means by “blessing” nor by “cursing”. Don't get worried about me, I looked it up in 5 books, they were just concerned with other questions so they didn't answer mine. ;) I THINK I know what each of those things means, but it always seems worth double-checking assumptions. Particularly on days when the scripture tells teachers to be extra-cautious.

The dictionary says that to bless is “to confer or invoke divine favor on.” The dictionary footnotes say that it got used to translate the words meaning “to praise” and “to worship” from Latin, which influences its nuance in English – and that helps us avoid a circular definition when it comes to understanding what it means to bless God.2 Conversely, the dictionary says that a curse is “a solemn utterance intended to invoke a supernatural power to inflict harm or punishment on someone or something.”3

Not to be oppositional or anything, but it seems that the dictionary definition doesn't exactly fit with what I'd expect. It seems to me that blessing has something to do with consecrating, that is, naming and acknowledging something for holy work. Cursing, as I think of it, has to do with wishing harm for another. This is why I wish the Bible commentaries told me exactly what it means, although I doubt they really know either. In any case, I think we have some shared sense - if broad – of what blessing and cursing are. You can go with the dictionary, with me, or with your own assumptions, I think they'll all work.

So, what does it mean to bless God? Perhaps it just means to praise God or to worship God, perhaps it could be thought of as expressing gratitude to God for God's goodness, mercy, and presence among us. What, then, would it mean to equivalently bless God's people? Does it just mean seeing and remembering that each person is made in God's image? Does it mean attending to the goodness within each one? Does it mean using our speak to build up one another? Does it require incessant praise, even if it is meaningless? Or is it more to see another, to listen to another, and to assume that the other's being in the world is a sacred expression of the Divine – the each other person is made in the image of God and is thus infinitely beautiful??

I could ask the same questions about cursing God and cursing people, but I trust you to draw those conclusions without me knocking you on the head with them.

If, as James assumes, the response of the faithful to God and to God's people should BOTH be words of blessing, how could we move towards that in our daily lives? How can we use our words for good? How can our tongues be blessings? When do we tend to mess this up??

One major issue to consider is how we respond to people who we think are wrong, as seen in the Isaiah passage!! I watched a TED talk about this recently, in which Karen Shultz outlines some common issues humans have when we disagree. Her talk was called “On Being Wrong” and she says:

“Think for a moment about what it means to feel right. It means that you think that your beliefs just perfectly reflect reality. And when you feel that way, you've got a problem to solve, which is, how are you going to explain all of those people who disagree with you? It turns out, most of us explain those people the same way, by resorting to a series of unfortunate assumptions. The first thing we usually do when someone disagrees with us is we just assume they're ignorant. They don't have access to the same information that we do, and when we generously share that information with them, they're going to see the light and come on over to our team. When that doesn't work, when it turns out those people have all the same facts that we do and they still disagree with us, then we move on to a second assumption, which is that they're idiots. They have all the right pieces of the puzzle, and they are too moronic to put them together correctly. And when that doesn't work, when it turns out that people who disagree with us have all the same facts we do and are actually pretty smart, then we move on to a third assumption: they know the truth, and they are deliberately distorting it for their own malevolent purposes. So this is a catastrophe.”4 (emphasis mine)

That sort of thinking is how we get to cases like the suffering servant. People simply disagree and then it grows into something MUCH larger. As a reminder, there are at least two more options for what might be happening when we disagree with someone: first that we might actually be mistaken (gasp!), and second that our worldviews lead us to different conclusions. Most of the time, I think disagreements come from different worldviews, and that's a source of strength, when we let it be.

John Wesley, in his book “On Christian Perfection” says that all of us are wrong sometimes, and none of use know when we are wrong (or we'd have fixed it already!), therefore we should be humble when we disagree with another because it may well be one of the times we're wrong. Between the two of them, Shultz and Wesley urge caution at the very least with speaking to someone you think is wrong. James, then, just adds a bit more – wish them well, and speak to them in ways that will lead to their well-being. It is a HIGH bar, but one worth seeking. So, when we start thinking someone is wrong is a VERY good time to consider how we might use our words as blessings, and not as curses!!

It is also very common to be in a position when we are feeling attacked and wanting to defend ourselves. I think most of the worst speaking I've ever done has been when I've been in that position. Both my words and my tone seem to leap out of my control! In those situations, we may identify with the servant in Isaiah, who was struck, had beard-hairs pulled out, was spit on, and insulted. That could raise most people's defensive heckles, right??? Let's be clear, it SHOULD. We are not people who advocate being passive in the face of harm. We are people who advocate being PEACEFUL in the in face of violence, but not PASSIVE in the face of harm. So, the servant says that with God's help, he made it through and kept his dignity in tact through it all. He trusts that a reversal of fortunes is coming, and that the harm will end. He even suggests that those who have done harm might stand WITH him on that day.

The most practical wisdom teachers I know say that when we feel attacked we need to slow down and get curious. First ask: am I in harm's way? If so, do whatever is possible to get away from it. Then ask: do I have the resources to hear and respond to this right now? If not, do all in your power to exit the conversation/experience safely. If, however, you are not in danger and you do feel like your internal resources are up to the task, then we get back to James' teaching. Then we need to think about what it means to bless the person who got our heckles up, and how we can use our words – and tone – to seek their well-being and our own at the same time! That DEFINTELY requires keeping things slow, and staying with curiosity, and it tends to be a skill easiest to develop with those you already trust to like you, love you, and seek your well-being. Remember CURIOUSITY as a means of moving us to blessing, if you can!

Finally, the more I think about James affirming the importance of BLESSING and not cursing God's beloved people, the more I suspect he was advising each of us on how we speak to OURSELVES. I don't think I know anyone who speaks more harshly to other people than they do to themselves. In fact, most of the time when I hear people speaking harshly to others (myself included for sure), I suspect that the way they're speaking is simply a toned-down reflection of how they speak to themselves. (By the way, this assumption helps me have a lot more compassion when people speak harshly.)

The ways most people speak to themselves sounds a lot more like cursing than it does like blessing. But James says we aren't supposed to curse those made in the image of God, and that includes ourselves. It includes everyone else too.

So, dear ones, may we find ways to slow down our tongues, may we remember to be curious, and may our tongues be sources of blessings for God's people, including ourselves. This world of ours is definitely in need of some blessings, and I hope we can be sources of it. Amen

1Walter Brueggemann, Isaiah Vo. 2: 40-66 in Westminster Bible Companion Series, edited by Patrick D. Miller and David A. Bartlett (Louisville, KT: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998), 122.

2Apple Dictionary “bless” accessed 9/13/18.

3Apple Dictionary, “curse” accessed 9/13/18.

4https://www.ted.com/talks/kathryn_schulz_on_being_wrong/transcript?language=en, accessed 9/13/18

Rev. Sara E. Baron

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First United Methodist Church of Schenectady

603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305

Pronouns: she/her/hers

http://fumcschenectady.org/

https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

September 16, 2018

#homecoming #James #thinking church #progressive christianity #uk #FUMC Schenectady #Rev Sara E Baron #Suffering Servant #On Being Wrong #walter brueggemann #Sign of a progressive preacher is the capacity to spell Brueggemann #Practical Sermon #Wisdom Teachers #Curiousity #Still wish I'd found a better opening line

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awed-frog · 7 years ago

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Angst and Feels (Why Fanfiction Matters)

I used to be normal. By which I mean: by the time I was in college, I no longer read children’s books, or even YA. I was too busy, for one thing - I’d spend hours in the library, sometimes cursing at the impossibly difficult stuff I’d been asked to do, but mostly relishing all the new, inspiring things I had the privilege to learn. I was reading about witches, about the use of colours on Greek vases. About Virginia Woolf.

My English, though, wasn’t good enough. Having taken Latin in high school, I knew what a hexameter was but I would define it as a ‘six foots meter’. In the end, one of my professors, mildly exasperated by it all, told me I needed to read more; much more. He suggested YA books, and, since I’d read most classic novels as a child (in translation), I bought a battered second-hand copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. It was 2002. The books had been out for five years, but I knew next to nothing about them.

And, well, it wasn’t always easy to keep up with JK Rowling’s funny, inventive prose, but two days later I stepped through the doors of our English bookstore and bought the other three novels. I’ve been addicted ever since.

But the thing is - I didn’t connect with other fans in any way. Back then (in my country), the internet was still an unfocused, unclear thing. If I remember correctly, I didn’t even have an email address until 2003. Not a proper one, I mean. Not something I used to actually communicate. And there was no one I could discuss Harry Potter with. Ah, is that a children’s book? people would say, and that would be the end of it.

I kept reading the series, though, and when the waiting got too difficult, I gave the internet a second chance. I discovered fanfiction, and that was the beginning of the end.

(No more normal for me. Gone. All gone.)

Because, in the end, we are social, creative animals. Shared stories, like shared memories, bond us together more closely and firmly than anything else ever will.

When Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows finally came out, I happened to be back in my small town for the summer, and I went out at midnight to buy it. It was unheard of - a miracle - that our local bookseller had decided to take part in this crazy initiative, and I didn’t expect anyone to actually be there. Instead, well, some people were. Not many, but it didn’t matter. We were a small crowd of mostly adult readers, some trying to pretend they were passing there by chance, others wearing wizard hats or capes. One girl had a homemade piece of jewelry shaped like the Deathly Hallows symbol. It shone on her chest as she waited for the bookstore to open, silent and somewhat fearful.

I knew exactly how she felt. I was terrified. I didn’t want the series to be over. I was afraid I wouldn’t like the end. I was fearing, most of all, that someone would spoil it for me.

(I had been waiting so long.)

In order to prevent that, I had hatched a detailed, careful, crazy plan: I would go into the mountains, alone, walking from hut to hut and stopping in isolated meadows to read the book in complete solitude. I had given myself two days to finish it, and I had no doubt I would. I am a fast reader, and I’d been craving this one story for two years.

My parents told me I was insane, but it didn’t matter. I went ahead - the book was heavy, so I only packed a few other things - a parka, raisins, a water bottle and an extra pair of socks - added a small notebook on top, and the map, and my clunky mobile phone (turned off), and I left.

I have vague memories of those two days. I barely noticed the landscape around me, because, somehow, it filtered into the one from the novel. It slid in and out of focus, unseen, unremembered.

(A place I’d known since childhood, now invisible around me.)

Like Harry, Ron and Hermione, I walked around in the wilderness, oblivious to both its dangers and its beauty. I was tormented by their doubts and fears; I was hounded by Death Eaters; I was hungry and unhappy. I once hurried through the rain, my mind a thousand miles away, and, as soon as it stopped, I spread out my parka on the unfriendly grass (all sharp with rocks and thistles) and I started reading again, my wet hair slowly dripping on the pages.

I remember very well, however, that by the time I arrived to my second (and final) hut, I hadn’t finished. I was planning to read through the night, but I was still wary of spoilers (and I was right to be: I discovered afterwards our local medias had mentioned it all - Harry’s death; Harry’s resurrection - on that very same day), which is why I kept to myself - a practice much frowned upon in such places. I barely nodded at the friendly-looking couple sitting in front of me for dinner, and I ignored the little family chatting behind us. And, at night, I sat up in my bed (it was too cold to stay in the common room downstairs), turned on my flashlight, and started reading again.

Thinking about it now, it was like the end of childhood all over again: this secret, solitary reading, way past my bedtime, in a room I shared with two other people (strangers).

I was wearing every piece of clothing I had, because it was still bloody cold, but it didn’t matter at all.

(So tired, and yet unable to stop reading. The words flickering a bit in the bluish light.)

And then Snape died.

And I started crying.

I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop. He’d been my favourite character, and, having discovered the books as a grown-up, I’d never seen him as the overbearing, nasty teacher; from the start, I’d been drawn in by his lights and shadows; by the damage which had so clearly been inflicted on a clever, unforgiving man (someone who could have been so much more; someone who, in other circumstances, could have been loved, deeply and unreservedly). I’d been hoping against hope he’d turn out to be Good. And here, spelled out by writing, the most magical of all human inventions, here was everything I’d been wishing for - a compelling, heartbreaking backstory; murder; redemption.

I tried to be silent, but you can’t really cry silently, not like this; not with the kind of sorrow which grips you tight inside and shakes you around like a ragdoll until there’s nothing left of you at all.

I finished the book. I slept about two hours. And when I went down for breakfast (thick bread slices with homemade wild blueberries jam and that generic fruit tea, way too sugary, they always offer you up there) I wasn’t looking at anyone, or seeing anything. I was completely empty; lost inside my own head. Happy and sad and terribly lonely, because this story I’d loved so much was now over.

And then the woman in front of me - someone my own age, perhaps a bit older, who was there with her husband - I’d shared the dorm with them the night before - put her hand very near mine on the table (you do not touch strangers here: it is not done).

“Was it good?” she whispered, and I looked up at her. I was so out of it, I didn’t even realize what she was talking about.

“I saw you with the book last night,” she added, and then did this sort of thing which was on my face as well, this half smile, half frown. “I heard you cry.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t tell me anything. Just - is it good?”

“It’s very good,” I whispered back, my eyes falling down to the table; idly following the knot in the wood which looked a bit like a Cheshire cat.

“Oh God,” she cursed, or prayed, softly, and this time she closed her fingers around my wrist, and I started crying again.

The thing is, I’ve always felt books too deep and too raw. I was that kid who would forget the world around her, wouldn’t hear her mum calling for dinner, wouldn’t go to bed in the evening.

You know the kind. The One more page child. The Let me just finish the chapter child.

What I’d never known, though, was the joy of talking about these stories with someone else.

There was no one else.

Some of my friends read, but not like this; not compulsively. Also, they didn’t care - they wouldn’t cry for a fictional person. They wouldn’t smile all day because someone’s quest had succeeded. They never got upset.

(How?)

And the adults - well, of course they encouraged me; they praised me. But it was still a lonely way to grow up.

(I didn’t mind.)

(I never minded.)

(It’s never just a story, though, is it?)

With Harry Potter, that changed. I’d always written fiction into my own head - I mean: some stories I wrote down (my own), but other stories I just dreamed about (little me, with her courage and fears and that one t-shirt with a horse on it, stepping into all these worlds; making friends with those characters; taking part in their adventures). I never wrote them down, because I could feel they weren’t my stories, not really. They belonged to the real writers; to the people who’d first written them down - Dumas and Ende and Tolkien and Wilde and all those other people. I had no right to -

And then, in my twenties, I discovered that I had the right. Sort of. That other people lay awake at night trying to put it together - why did Snape kill Dumbledore? Is it possible that - or maybe? That it was even allowed, in fact, to discuss these things with each other and be taken seriously. Even more incredibly, it was possible to write stories about it. What would happen to Draco next? What if Hermione got hold of a Time-Turner again? And what about the Marauders and the Seventies - is it possible to change the future by changing the past?

Yes, this is the first reason why I love fanfiction, and why I’m grateful to those invisible writers whose names I never knew - adults and teens and office workers and teachers and stay-at-home mums, all living their (to me) invisible lives, and yet speaking, somehow, directly to my heart and soul. Because they made me feel like it was okay to be like this - to love this so very much.

Something else I’m grateful to fanfiction for, though, is its gentle sneakiness; its joyous underhandedness. It draws you in, doesn’t it, because it seems safe and easy. This is why people sneer at it, after all - because you’re not creating anything. Allegedly. And, well, it is a kind of safety net, isn’t it? I’m just playing with these characters, we used to say; I’m putting them back when I’m done.

(As if we could. As if writing about someone doesn’t make them real to you. As if we didn’t know the truth of it - that you can’t write about people and then put them back, because now you’ve bled all over them, and they are, in a way, yours forever; the good and the bad.)

The reality of it is rather different.

Sure, you do start with a story already written; with fully-fledged characters.

But you don’t know everything, do you? We haven’t seen Dean Winchester’s first day of school. We don’t know what Ron Weasley thought when he walked into a Tesco for the very first time (did he? he must have, at some point). We don’t know if Neal and Peter ever saw each other again. What Mary (Watson) was like as a child.

And yet - yet we are bound by everything else we do know. If we want to write canon fanfiction, which, for many of us, is the goal, we have to be mindful of this.

(We look at how they move - Mary’s secret smile, Dean’s slightly uneven gait. We know what they are like when they’re alone - Neal: dissatisfied, Peter: warily content. We try and mimic the way they do their homework - Ron’s careless spelling; his glib, hasty essays.)

And it is difficult and painful and frustrating, but it is also - I think - the best thing that can happen to you as a writer, because I am starting to realize that a story always has invisible walls (stuff that just can’t happen, no matter how much you wish for it to). It’s these walls, and not the rooms inbetween them, which make a story great. The things you can’t write about. The dialogues that will never happen. The characters who’ll never meet. Your story is right there: in the silences. It stretches into the distance, unseeable, undefined, like that strip of land which is not beach and not sea. A puzzle and a challenge.

(Why is this interesting? Why do we care so much?)

It is not easy to see these walls when you’re writing your own story (not fanfiction, that is: fiction), and it’s very tempting, when you do see them, to just tear them down.

(It's your story, after all.)

Fanfiction teaches you not to.

(Sure, we have the extreme AUs and the There I fixed it things, but, personally, it’s the other things I like. The ones where nobody says anything and yet everybody understands. Cas putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. John looking at Sherlock, then away. The Always. things.)

When you’re writing codas, you can’t ignore what happened in the episode, no matter how painful. When you’re filling a fanfiction gap, you must be mindful of what comes next.

And the walls (these walls you hate and push against until your nails are bloody and your head aches) do make the story more interesting. What Maisie Knew would be a rather dull novel if it were written from the point of view of Maisie’s father. So would To Kill a Mockingbird. And what about Of Mice and Men? A Clockwork Orange? Good novels are built on ordinary stories which are made extraordinary because of the way they are written - just like we are, all of us, living ordinary lives which have been lived a thousand times before, and it is our own hearts and souls and our vision of the world around us which make them extraordinary and new and worth living again. Most novels would simply collapse without this gift writers have - to see the beauty and magic (the heartbreak and the tragedy) in things which are completely, utterly normal.

And writers see other things, as well.

Because, well, I’d thought I wanted a meaningful conversation between Snape and Harry - a lengthy and detailed explanation of everything that had been going on between them. I’d thought I deserved it, after everything. That I had a right to it, even.

What I got were three words (Look...at...me.) - a shared look and a whisper - and God, I’d been so wrong. I’d thought I’d known everything - I knew nothing. Fairness was not the issue - life's not fair - this was sheer poetry, right there. It was, in a remarkably I can’t breathe right now kind of way, everything I’d ever wanted, and more. I hadn’t known I wanted it like that, but JK Rowling had known. She’d known my heart better than I knew it myself, and that is the mark of true writer.

(And there are true writers both in fiction and in fanfiction.)

But, some people may object, what about the porn?

What about it?

Well, it must be said out loud. If normal people (not us; no longer, and not perhaps, ever) have heard of fanfiction at all, they tend to dismiss it as porn, and, indeed, Rule 34 blooms and thrives in our archives as well.

On the other hand, why should this be a bad thing? Who decided (well: we know who; and we also know why) that sex should be shameful? That sexual desire should be secret, and sexual preferences undisclosed and undiscussed? Why is the relationship between a man and a woman, even a relationship which is unloving or abusive or downright unreal, something we’re allowed to have access to, while an MPreg between the Giant Squid and the Archangel Gabriel is not?

(Why is the first one a right of passage and a standard for our real life relationships and something which generates billions of dollars of profit and the second one not normal and never bookmarked and tagged as Seriously, This is Filth, You’ve Been Warned, I Need Jesus?)

Greek mythology is built upon such things, after all, and it blossomed into one of the most astounding periods of human history - fifth-century Athens - a place where, in the space of few short years, Plato and Aristotle and Euripides and Alcibiades worked and lived side by side. A perfect storm of culture and art and beautifully orchestrated politics which still defines most of what we are today.

And yet, look at Theseus’ love life.

(This most great Athenian hero, lord of the sea, destroyer of monsters.)

Theseus/Helen (M/F, Mature, Underage, Non-Con, Kidnapping, Heavy Petting, Fingering, This Is So Sick, I Can’t Believe I’m Writing This); Theseus/Ariadne (M/F, Mature, Dubcon, Kidnapping, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Sort Of); Theseus/Hippolyta (M/F, Explicit, Enemies-to-Lovers, Dom/Sub, Murder, Major Character Death); Theseus/Phaedra, Phaedra/Hippolytus (M/F, Explicit, Slightly Underage, Major Character Death, Non-Con, Dubcon, Incest If You Squint, Murder By Proxy, Suicide, They’re All Kind Of Assholes, And It’s Great, No Happy Ending, Seriously Don’t Read This If You Like Happy Endings).

Look at Achilles’.

(Oh, Achilles. I have loved you so very much, and I do love you still.)

Achilles/Patroclus (M/M, Teen And Up, Angst And Feels, Topping From The Bottom, Established Relationship, SO MUCH PAIN); Achilles/Penthesilea (M/F, Explicit, Major Character Death, Dubcon, First Kiss, Enemies-to-Lovers, Necrophilia, Blood-Soaked Pagan Manpain, Can You Spoil The End Of A Series That’s Been Finished For Two Decades?).

And, of course, we have to mention the gods.

Zeus, for instance.

Zeus/Leda (M/F, Explicit, Zoophilia, Non-Con, I Actually Watched Videos Of Swans Mating For This, Author Is Sleep-Deprived); Zeus/Alcmene (M/F/M, Sort Of, Explicit, Dubcon, Issues Of Consent, Theological Stuff, T Is For Trash, Frustratingly Vague Magical Realism); Zeus/Ganymede (M/M, M/F, Mature, Underage, Dubcon, Zeus Is An Eagle But They Have Sex As Humans, Mentions Of Slavery, Light Dom/Sub Play); Zeus/Semele (M/F, Mature, Canon-Typical Violence, Major Character Death, MPreg, Loads of Angst, Like Wow); Zeus/Other (I’m So Sorry He’s Gonna Fuck Everyone At Some Point).

(Those were actual AO3 tags, by the way, and also perfectly adequate summaries for most of the classical literature we know. I mean, don’t get me started on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses.)

If people want to write PWP because they want to, er, have fun and, er, make other people happy, I say let them. They’re not hurting anyone. They’re also taking back control from more traditional sources of, er, joy.

(Things whose goal is to generate money; things which tend to perpetuate the status quo and enforce it, and which are not, therefore, art. Things we need to take control back from, because we’ll never be rid of them and everybody masturbates and it’s a joyous and relaxing activity and it’s time we talked about it.)

But from what I see in the community - sure, the PWP is appreciated after a long day at the office, and it’s fun (and oh so challenging) to write (those published authors who keep getting Bad Sex awards should have a look at AO3 and see how it’s done), but what keeps people coming back is what will always keep people coming back: everything else.

The painful, heartwrenching, slow-burn stories.

The case stories; the adventure stories.

The what if AUs.

The My life is so unbearable right now, please give me something else to think about stories.

The idea that books can save your life is not new - I loved Arabian Nights, but it was another novel, Fred Uhlman’s Beneath the Lightning and the Moon, which really did it for me - the idea, brought forward by this German Jew writer who’d witnessed three wars, that (when all’s said and done) everything we are is just that - stories. That’s what keeps us from going mad - the stories we tell each other. The stories we tell ourselves.

And this is what will be remembered after we pass away.

We’re all stories, in the end.

(Just make it a good one, eh?)

And the other reason I am grateful to fanfiction and I love fanfiction and I will defend it to the death - well, that’s way more political.

In the years since that day in the mountains, I’ve kept reading and writing and studying. I am now a fanfiction writer myself. I’ve also been strongly encouraged - even ordered, one would say - to keep up with the news obsessively, because of my job (I am an interpreter). Which I do. For the same reason, I listen to a variety of things - political debates, scientific conferences, TED talks, podcasts about anything and everything. And, well, what is happening in the world isn’t - mostly - very encouraging. More people fleeing their homes. More people fighting. More people burning down trees and keeping employees into unhealthy factories and forcing livestock into pitiful conditions so the rest of us can thrive in gilded abundance.

One thing, though, gives me hope; one thing I’m awed by.

Three in four people can now read and write. Two in four are connected to the internet. Two in five speak English (which, I should specify, isn’t per se a sign of advancing civilization, but still means we have an eye-watering widespread lingua franca).

Which means that for the first time in the whole of human history, we can communicate with each other, and we can do it instantly. We can share opinions and photos and feelings. Everywhere, anytime, with anyone.

(Almost.)

And we are (perhaps too slowly; perhaps not enough) taking control of how information is spread. Of which information is spread.

People were wary of online content in the beginning (I remember this well; I was one of them); they (we) feared that anyone could say anything. That it would become more difficult to tell apart fact from fiction.

(We scoffed at the idea of an open source, user-generated encyclopedia; and look at us now.)

And, yes, it’s not perfect. There are quack bloggers and fake things all over the internet; propaganda and paranoia and scams. Then again, it was never perfect. Humans are peculiar creatures. We feed on wishful thinking and lies. This will never, I think, change. The internet has little to do with it.

But, on the other hand, the internet is also exposing lies. It’s making it more difficult for governments to hide things, and for a handful of media (of rich people) to control what we know about an event - because there’s always someone else there. There will always be at least one other person there - on the site of an explosion, in the middle of a political rally, in a city under siege - someone who will tweet or facebook share what is actually going on. What blew me away, for instance, is what happened recently at the COP21 in Paris: there was one very important meeting the press hadn’t been given permission to attend, and two random students from New Zealand - who were there as representatives of some youth movement - live-blogged the entire thing, including personal comments, memes and reactions gifs, through a Google document.

Hashtag Imagine Yalta, one could say.

And, well, I think fanfiction plays a role in all this.

Now, I’m not a fanfiction expert of any description, and I’m not a researcher - I’ve only seen this happening because I got obsessed with Supernatural and I started poking here and there on the internet - I write stories about the show, and the occasional meta, but I also love to read other people’s analyses, which means I lurk around on tumblr - and I have the feeling something special is unfolding. We are slowly learning to reject a system based on privilege and competition and I paid for my knowledge, go get your own to embrace a more egalitarian, inspiring model; a Here is what I know, because this my area of expertise, please enjoy and leave a comment and tell me something I don’t know in exchange. I read metas about the use of colours and props and lighting. I read an AU Destiel story where they are both actors which had footnotes - footnotes - explaining how the job works. I learned about botany and the American school system and classical music. I stumbled upon a blog for writers where you could just ask, One of my characters is an African-American girl who grew up in Detroit in the 1990s. Anyone here knows what that was like? - and someone would answer, share tiny details of their own life so someone else’s words would ring more true.

What’s happening is, we’re taking back our content. We’re saying, creating stories isn’t the prerogative of big corporations. It’s about people sitting in a circle and weaving magic for each other. For free. Because it gives us joy and sorrow, and we need them both (so much).

And, perhaps even more importantly, by analysing books and movies and shows and animes and mangas so very carefully, by writing (and reading) stories about them, I feel we are learning to think more clearly. We are seeing what works and what doesn’t in a story. We are training each other to read and understand subtext. Those of us who were lucky enough to have great teachers - people who taught us how to see the box, and how to think outside it - are encouraging others to go beyond the standard I liked it, I hate it, I meh. To ask why. And - even - to ask cui bono.

Because this is, the way I see it, the beating heart of everything. Our societies are built and maintained by stories. The best storytellers control it all. It’s that simple.

Money is, perhaps, the most successful of those stories - the idea that paper money, or even coins, are worth anything at all, is the pinnacle of human storytelling. A miracle of fiction.

And also politics, of course. Now, there are other factors which come into play here - most notably, this indefinable like/dislike thing we have around people, that feeling we all have instinctively (which has to do, perhaps, with smell or symmetry or some hormonal madness); this thing perhaps best expressed by the Would you buy a used car from this man? phenomenon. It’s messy and complicated and very often a gut feeling we should or shouldn’t trust.

I’m not saying that words are everything.

On the other hand, there is more to words than we know. Recent research has shown, for instance, a clear link between hexameters and an area of the brain which usually lights up around addictive foods and drugs. As far as I understand it, what they did was read epic poetry to people - the language didn’t even matter - they read Homer, in Greek, to people who’d never heard the language before - and this thing, the simple alternation between long and short syllable in a precise, well-structured way - our brains react to that. Our brains say, Like. Our brains say, More.

Good writers, and good politicians, never needed the study to be carried out. They knew about it already. If you analyse advertisements and novels and political propaganda and speeches, you’ll find plenty of hexameters.

But the idea that not only they sound nice, but that they actually prey on your brain - they touch you in a way you are not aware of being touched - that’s powerful stuff.

Language is powerful stuff.

(It runs the world.)

And, in my opinion, reading and writing is the best way to make it ours; to understand it better, so it cannot be used against us.

This is why places like AO3 are not only entertaining - they are revolutionary. They represent a community of tens of thousands of people coming together and changing the world in the only way we truly can change the world: by changing ourselves first. By making ourselves better, smarter, more aware.

So hold your heads up. Keep caring about stories, keep writing and reading them all (even the coffeeshop AUs; even the tentacle porn). Be bold. Be joyous. Be free.

And thank you, for everything.

[If you’re curious about my fics, here is my AO3 page. Hi!]

#fanfiction #spn fanfiction #hp #hp fanfiction #fanfic #international fanworks day #fiction matters #long post #if you like this post #please reblog it :)

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how do you work out percentages on iphone calculator

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how to do percentages on iphone calculator

How to use the Calculator app on iPhone

Whether you need to add or subtract, the Calculator app’s got your back.

Serenity Caldwell

4 May 2017

The iPhone’s stock Calculator app has gotten a bit of press lately for its swipe-to-delete gesture, but it’s been a longtime workhorse on the iPhone — in fact, it’s been around since the launch of Apple’s very first model in 2007.

Throughout the years, the Calculator’s look and feel has changed somewhat, but its core functionality remains the same: To help you quickly add, subtract, and square up sums and figures.

Here’s how you can use some of the Calculator app’s basic features — and some of its hidden gems.

How to launch the Calculator app

You can access the Calculator app in four different ways on the iPhone: via the Calculator app icon, Siri, Search Bar, or Control Center.

How to launch the Calculator app from Control Center

For everything from home repair and improvements to splitting up the dinner bill, you can get to the calculator with just a tap.

Swipe up from the bottom bezel onto the screen to bring up Control Center.

Tap the Calculator button on the bottom, second from right.Fun fact: You can also firmly press (3D Touch, iPhone 6s or later) on the Calculator icon if you’d like to copy your last calculation from the app.

How to launch the Calculator app via the Home Screen, Siri, or Search Bar

To launch the Calculator app from your Home Screen, you can do one of three things:

Find the Calculator app icon on your Home Screen

Open the Search bar by swiping down from the center of your Home Screen and type in “Calculator”

Ask “Hey Siri, open the Calculator app”

how to figure out percentages on iphone calculator

How to use the Calculator app

When you first open the Calculator app, you’re presented with the basic Calculator interface: A 10-digit (0-9) virtual keypad with controls for decimals, clearing the equation, adding positivity or negativity to a number, turning a number into a percentage, dividing, multiplying, subtracting, adding, and calculating an equation.

How to undo an erroneous number

Accidentally tapped an 8 when you meant to tap 9? It’s an easy fix. Note: This only works for the numerical keypad (0-9) and the decimal point button; if you accidentally hit any of the math operations buttons, you won’t be able to use this gesture.

Enter your numbers.

If you make a mistake, swipe left on the black display to erase the most recent number or decimal point.

Continue to swipe left if you wish to delete all numbers on the display screen.

How to add, subtract, multiply, or divide in the Calculator app

Enter your first number.

Press the Plus, Minus, Multiply, or Divide button.

Enter your second number.

Press the Calculate button.

ow to calculate a tip in the Calculator app

Enter your bill cost.

Press the Multiply button.

Enter the tip percentage you want (i.e. 20 for 20%).

Press the Percentage button. This will convert your tip number into a decimal (i.e. 20% = 0.2).

Press the Calculate button. This number is your tip amount.

To see your total amount with tip included, tap the Plus button.

Type in your original bill amount.

Press the Calculate button. This number is your total.

How to use the scientific calculator

The Calculator app also comes with a somewhat-hidden scientific calculator mode. To access it, rotate your iPhone from portrait into landscape mode; as long as your Rotation Lock button is disabled, the calculator screen should shift into a landscape display with new buttons for square roots, exponential equations, logarithmic equations, trigonometry, and more.

Spoiler: I’m not going to explain how to use a scientific calculator to calculate specific equations. If you want to learn more about advanced mathematic equations, I suggest visiting Khan Academy or your local library, or emailing your old mathematics teachers.

how to figure out percentages on iphone calculator

How to switch the iPhone Calculator to a scientific view

Most cell phones have calculators today, but iPhone offers a full-function scientific calculator too. To open the scientific calculator, turn your iPhone to landscape view. (If you have locked your iPhone in Portrait view, this won’t work until you unlock it: swipe up from the bottom of the screen to open the command center and tap the Orientation Lock button.)

Here you’ll find the memory commands:

mc clears any numbers you have in memory.

m+ adds the number on the display to the number in memory.

m- subtracts the number on the display from the number in memory.

mr (memory replace) uses the number you put in memory in your current calculation. The button is outlined in black when a number is stored.

Two keys on the calculator toggle the other keys:

2nd: Tap to change trigonomic (sin, cos, tan) and hyperbolic functions to the inverse. The button is outlined in black when active.

Rad/Deg: Tap to switch between Radians and Degrees for trigonomic functions. Deg or Rad in the left corner of the number display tells you what mode you’re in.

You find keys that calculate square, cube, and other roots, decimal and Naperian logarithms, and factorials, as well as generates random numbers.

how to use percent on iphone calculator ,

Bonus Tip for Apple Watch Users

The Calculator app on Apple Watch comes with a couple of additional features that make short work of calculating how much you should tip and how much each person in a group owes if you’re splitting a bill.

The steps below show you how it’s done. Note that the two features can be used together, but you can also use them independently by selecting a 0% tip and changing the number of people, or changing the tip and leaving the People field set to 1.

Launch the Calculator app on your Apple Watch.

Enter the total amount of the bill.

Tap the TIP button in the top-right corner, just left of the divide button.

With the Tip field highlighted in green, turn your watch’s Digital Crown to change the percentage.

To split the bill between a group of people, tap People and then use the Digital Crown to change the number (the maximum is 50).

1. Swipe to Delete Numbers

It’s a common misconception that if you type the wrong number into the Calculator app, you have to start the whole sum all over again. Happily, that isn’t the case: Simply swipe right or left with a finger across the number display to remove the last number you typed, and repeat the action if necessary to remove several numbers.

2. Scientific calculator

The default calculator app includes a built-in scientific calculator that you can use to perform logarithms, square roots, trigonometric calculations, and more advanced math equations.

To access the scientific calculator, simply rotate your iPhone to landscape mode. If it’s not showing up, make sure the portrait orientation lock is disabled in Control Center. To switch back to the regular calculator, rotate your phone to portrait mode.

3. Copy and Paste

You don’t need to memorize the results of your calculations to input them into other apps. Use the clipboard functions instead – just long press on the number field to copy or paste the result.

4. Copy Last Result

If you’ve switched to another app, you can still quickly paste the last figure that you calculated without returning to the calculator to copy it.

Using either a swipe up or a swipe down, launch the Control Center on your iPhone, then long press the Calculator button, and you’ll see a handy option to Copy Last Result.

5. Spotlight Calculations

Did you know that calculator functions are built into Spotlight Search on your iPhone?

Simply swipe down from the Home screen to bring up Spotlight, and you can perform basic calculations by typing them directly into the Search field at the top of the screen without having to open the Calculator app.

Percentage

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Jump to navigation Jump to search

“Percent” redirects here. For the Apink mini-album, see Percent .“Per cent” redirects here. For the unit of currency, see cent .

In mathematics, a percentage (from Latin per centum “by a hundred”) is a number or ratio expressed as a fraction of 100. It is often denoted using the percent sign, “%”, although the abbreviations “pct.”, “pct” and sometimes “pc” are also used. A percentage is a dimensionless number (pure number); it has no unit of measurement.

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