#Exercise For Fissure

[lasertreatmentindia]

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[violetsandshrikes]

as someone with frequent painful plantar fasciitis, people really underestimate the importance of caring for your feet

make sure you keep up good hygiene! clean socks daily! air out your shoes/make sure they dry out!

i do a lot of field work and let me tell you, feet also dry out really fast and having the skin crack/fissure is absolutely not fun. moisturise them if you need to once a day!

keep note of any changes to your skin, colouration, foot shape, pains - keep track of any moles, keep track of circulation, note any signs of skin injury or damage

cut nails straight across (rounding corners can give you ingrowns)! pumice stone on foot to soften hard parts + remove dead skin (but do not shave calluses because that can seriously damage your feet)! if you notice peeling skin between your toes - get it checked out, look at fungal treatment. if you notice nails discoloured + bed raised - get it checked out, look at fungal treatment. if you get a wart, get it removed professionally and try to do so when it’s newer/smaller (less treatment needed to get rid of it). especially if your feet are in communal spaces a lot (think gym showers for example) these things can spread!

you can learn basic foot massages on youtube. for my plantar fasciitis i also have a range of physio exercises i do - rolling your foot on a tennis ball is good, but can also be really painful depending on where your foot is at! in which case, i often freeze a small bottle of water and use that to roll it

[13eyond13]

Really appreciating in Berserk how The Count's chapters in the Black Swordsman arc can be used as a parallel for what's going on emotionally with Griffith, especially leading up to and during the Eclipse.

For me it starts with Theresia explaining to Puck the dark transformation that took place in her father whenever he first used the Behelit. She explains it like so: "Father was a great ruler. He may have been harsh, but that was so he could defend his kingdom against neighboring enemies. He was trusted and loved by all, even as a father."

"But father changed. Like a man possessed, he started hunting down heretics. Now it doesn't even make a difference anymore whether they're heretics or not! It's almost as if he enjoys hurting people! I'm scared. Sometimes i feel as if he's not human anymore."

Puck reflects on this afterwards by thinking:

"For revenge on the heretics who robbed him of the woman he loved? Is that why he acquired demonic powers? He summoned the Godhand and he himself became a demon?"

It is also revealed soon after this by the Godhand that The Count's wife was not in fact killed by heretics, like Theresia had been told. The Count had discovered that his wife was being unfaithful to him, which initially drove him to suicidal thoughts (kind of like a certain somebody else we know during an extremely dark period in his life):

"Seeing the triumphant, knowing smile of your betrayer drove you to the depths of despair. You decided to end your own life to escape that despair. However, your despair itself was part of the wheel of fate."

Until, instead of ending his own life, The Count decided to use her for his first sacrifice instead:

"Yes indeed, you said it! 'I offer this woman for sacrifice.' The life you couldn't take by your own hand, the life of the person you loved and hated the most! You gave it to us! So that you could bury your fragile human heart."

The Count is also acting sneeringly arrogant towards Guts during their battle, belittling him by saying things to him like:

"No matter how much you've tried to hone your skills, you've come to the limit of your pathetic human form. How fragile you humans."

Puck is NOT having any of this from The Count, and he counters that remark with: "...You yourself used to be one of those fragile humans!"

"You acquired those powers so you could get revenge on the heretics, didn't you?! But that wasn't the only reason. If it was only about revenge, all you had to do was exercise your authority."

"The truth is, you became this thing to run away from the pain inside your own heart! To run away from yourself! You threw away your humanity! If anyone's a fragile human, it's you!"

Cue Griffith as Femto showing up for the very first time, and then almost immediately also attempting to belittle Guts, saying:

"Still squirming around in your pitiful existence, I see..."

"Black Swordsman, you say? His petty existence is beneath our notice."

Guts ALSO isn't having any of that, and replies: "My petty existence? Don't make me laugh! You're where you are now thanks to this petty existence. Thanks to me, who's fighting an army of the dead because of you! Thanks to me who's writhing around in my own blood!"

"You stand there putting on airs like you're some kind of godly being! Griffith!" To which Griffith coolly replies: "Yes... You're nothing but a squirming, sacrificial offering."

HOWEVER. What is then explained directly after that to everybody by The Godhand?

That an acceptable sacrifice for the Invocation of Doom can only be somebody that you genuinely care about.

Guts cannot be used for The Count's second sacrifice, not only because Griffith had already marked him as a sacrifice, but because according to the Godhand:

"The boy is merely your enemy... It must be someone important to you, part of your soul. Someone so close to you that it's almost like giving up a part of you... By making such a sacrifice to demonkind, you'll be able to sever any remnants of your own humanity. A fissure in your heart will open up into which evil will surge."

So for The Count, the only proper candidate left is his daughter Theresia. And Griffith urges him to make this final choice by saying:

"Cut your love asunder, Count!"

So taking ALL of this into account, is Griffith calling Guts "nothing but a squirming sacrificial offering" actually really that sick of a burn? Hmmm.... idk, but it really makes u think.....

[thosegayoldmen]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tags @loki-is-my-kink-awakening and @impulsemuppet!!

🚨 THIS IS A TWO-PARTER!! 🚨

Have a BEEG snippet from me and @ghoulehhh just cause we feel nice! This is part 1! Here's the second part 😉

Loki’s face settles into a calm mask, the small, smug smile resting on his lips radiating a sense of ease - even if he can feel his bones shaking with excitement…and maybe fear. That feeling only intensifies as he sets foot in the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a chilling finality once he’s cleared the threshold. Striding towards the table with confidence, he slides into the empty seat opposite the prisoner and drops his folder down.  The grizzled Variant sitting there only reacts once the chair scrapes the floor and the folder hits the table. He’s still slouching in his own chair, hands remaining in his lap - but at least there’s an air of recognition amidst his general state of malaise, something that could vaguely pass for rapt attention. Loki flips open to the top page as he settles in, deciding the timestick he’s brought should stay in his lap - well out of the other man’s reach. Instead of sprawling out like he would normally, he keeps his legs firmly tucked in towards his side. He can’t place why he feels the need to exercise such caution, but something inside prods him to do so. Better safe than sorry. “So…M-KI211 is it?” he starts, keeping things casual and his tone light. His attention is on the stack of papers, pretending like he isn’t the least bit interested in anything else. “...Or do you have a less formal name I can call you?” “That’s what they’re callin’ me?” the gray-haired man replies after a few moments, his voice dull and even. There’s a shallow sigh, a look of disappointment crossing his features. And then he’s mumbling: “Dunno what I expected. Sounds kinda boring.” Hearing Mobius’ voice come out of the stranger’s mouth is jarring to say the least. It’s the same, unmistakably so, but it sounds so dead compared to the original. Loki resists the urge to frown, thoughts already racing through his head about who this particular Variant could be, what could have possibly happened to him to make him already so different to the Mobius he knows.  Not-Mobius lifts his cuffed hands just so he can scratch at a little itch on his cheek, the pad of his blackened thumb rubbing close to the fissure that’s running straight down from his hairline. Loki’s eyes follow him as he moves, watching those charred fingers linger on vivid blue lines before he lets them drop back down into his lap with a clink of the metal cuffs. Overall, he looks tired and thoroughly battered, like he might fall apart right here, skin worn and bruised and sickly-looking - and yet Loki can still feel a power radiating from him.  He glances a bit further up, making eye contact with those faintly glowing blue irises and regretting it immediately. It’s familiar, that something - almost intoxicatingly so. The Variant’s lip curls into a slightly more pronounced smile - an amused one - and Loki quickly looks away, back down at the document.  “Well, it’s one of the names here,” he comments, flipping through a few pages of the document, most of which have heavy edits and large sections completely crossed out, all with different variant numbers attached. He’s not really reading much of anything, eyes skimming the text instead. “Though you’re quite right - it is rather boring.” He straightens in his chair, looking back up from the document with an apathetic nod of his head. “What would you expect me to call you?”

Tagging mostly so people can see, since I'm late YET AGAIN 😅

@elodiah @lokimobius @natendo-art @kcscribbler @kusakichan15

@mythical-magik @devilbearingtrouble @mirilyawrites @scifikimmi @silentxsymphony

@ilaytrapsfortroubadours @boredintjqueen @rin-love-is-green @stillwanderingflame @andthekitchensinkao3

@insert-witty-user-name-here @blackbirdofasgard @dreamycloud @distracteddream @mobius-m-mobius

@mobiusismycomfortcharacter @dilfmobius @adorbspotat

[writtenjewels]

Reflect

Shepard finally had the chance to look at himself in the mirror. The image staring back at him made him recoil in shock. Was this him? He tilted his head to one side, raised an eyebrow, scrunched up his nose. The image copied his every move. Still, he was having trouble reconciling the reflection to himself. What he stared at was a stranger.

There were lines in his skin. Not the kind that came from wrinkles, though that would have been strange. These lines were more like fissures splitting his skin apart. Each line had a faint glow. What the hell had Cerberus done to him?

His hair and beard proved he had been out for a long time. He had grown a beard, when usually anything more than stubble would bother him. His hair had grown out, too, all the dye long gone. Shepard brushed loose strands away from his eyes. At least those were the same gray color he remembered.

He stepped away from the mirror, turned on his heels, and headed to the captain's quarters. He knew the mission was important and he needed to get started, but he couldn't do that until he felt like himself. The first order of business was to shave off this beard.

Shepard felt much better once his jaw was smooth again. His hair needed to go next; the only person on the ship he trusted to do that was Doctor Chakwas. He found her working at her desk in sick bay.

“Commander,” she greeted. “Good, I was hoping I wouldn't have to track you down. With all the chaos, I haven't been able to run a physical on you.”

“Could you help me with this when you're done?” he asked, running his fingers meaningfully through his hair.

“I'm not a barber, but I'll do what I can.” She ran a scanner over him and typed a few things on her omni-tool. “You're in good health, Commander,” she assured him. “Your implants have taken and Cerberus has taken care to stimulate your muscles to prevent atrophy. I would still recommend some light exercises.”

Shepard nodded along as she spoke. He hesitated, before asking the question that plagued him since he saw his reflection. “How much did they change me, doc?”

“As I said, you now have some implants and synthetics. It was unavoidable with the damage you suffered.” Chakwas gave him a somber look. “But I have compared your past medical records with what I'm seeing now, and you are unchanged on the most important, fundamental level: your mind.”

“How can you be sure?” Shepard challenged.

“First of all, you're asking me that question.” Chakwas's look shifted into more of a smile. “If Cerberus manipulated your mind, you wouldn't worry about it. Second, the hair.” Shepard raised an eyebrow at her. Now there was an amused light in the doctor's eyes. “I remember how you liked to keep it short and dyed, even as we were chasing after Saren.”

The reminder embarrassed him. He knew how silly it was to care about something like this, but growing up like he did, Shepard didn't have a lot of control over his environment. He moved when his parents were stationed, and never got to have lasting friendships. Dyeing his hair was one of the few things he had a choice in back then.

And he still cared about it now. It was small, and trivial, and really didn't matter. But it was important to him. Shepard took some comfort in that.

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

I hope you're having a good day! And if not I hope you find comfort

hey there anonymous; good morning, you sent this to me last night when i was well in bed (sun had barely even set, even; time change makes sleeping at 8 feel even earlier than usual);

mostly ignoring this to blog a bit about the usual thing i always whine-about (maybe it:ll help someone 'relate' or feel 'less alone' but lord knows its just me spinning wheels cause i like writing): the flattening of my mood: like every-thing had just become this one singular wide featureless plain with all site in sight being just the same stretch without pit and without hill: the sort-of landscape that'd provoke NO PASSION and NO THOUGHT equally and just-so also smooth away any great pain and any great joy: which is exactly just the comfort i am tired of, as it:s like some crawling thing that keeps taking more and more, example: food now all tastes the same, too, taken under by that same wasteland plain barren; although i:d describe my mood as being fairly 'up' (there are still things i:d been getting keen about: writing isekai story, the new ABA in strive looks really cool, i have religious programming to write, there is new media to read and watch) it never seems to amount more than a small 'pop' that ends-up nearly always more disappointing than fulfilling or centering; it is like the spirit has begun evaporating out of me through these little fissures in the Make of my material that had let that esprit DRY, KILN, BAKE, ASH out and leave the innerworks of me (MARA!) as little more closer and closer to being some fine spotless beetle of mechanics, and operations, clicking with spring and circuit forward and forward to next task: cook, eat, clean, exercise; count in fours always; pray in mornings, too; it is the experience of life not as a person but as the mechanical, where life ceases to be felt as life and yet as mere experience of time (both four letter words, as it were; vision poor enough they:d be the same grey smudge on the screen; vision poor enough they:d be the same dead bug on windshield before the bugs themselves became rare); my mood has been up and i still have these black thoughts flowing out from Dieth and Daniela and centered around how inescapable and infinite Wasteland seems: the self is extricated out and becomes a paperdoll where (impersonal) you imagine it undergoing a hanging or a suffocating of all air, and imagine the 'ecstasy' of whether the viewer can undergo the felt feelings of the paperdoll as it goes to 100% material; the act of moving limbs to go through with the task, to resolve, to collect the instruments, to imagine the Afters (the people who knew), to imagine all the things unsaid and things yet wanted to do and done undone and the willingness to let self be robbed of 'fate' (?) where death claims its 'natural' (?) due;

very-much i:d just like to write and focus and be left fulfilled, but it:s all fairly boring; i:d like to play the new ABA and grind her in practice mode (i SHAN'T be spending money on games though) and just instead imagine how anxious sitting in a practice mode hitting buttons feels and can:t imagine undergoing that more than eight minutes at most (this is much how writing is; much how drawing is); there:s this alien quality being poured in-to me, may-be byproduct of adhering to Etiquette like the years of slowly embodying an ill philosophy has led me further ill and alien: it becomes harder and harder to find any reason to talk to another, to nurture friendships, to say Hey, to want to do anything with others as it all just becomes more stretch on the barrenland and buttons to hit and mechanical beetle limbs to undulate, undulate, driven just by fluid sacs or what-ever dumb organ drives beetles (for me it:s my yap organ).

all of this is to say: i wish i could be playing new ABA cause i like her design a lot but can:t imagine playing a fighting game ever being fun without having a friend to do it with, and nothing sounds more boring to me at the same time, but i:m tired of being bored, too. i want to be at a joyous tone 4! a joyous tone 4! so engender a joyous tone 4 in your own life, anonymous, cause if you will it surely it:ll happen.

[amelias-zelda-calamity-quintet]

Would love to learn more about each of the bullet points, but if I had to pick just one, the pantheon around the world sounds interesting

You can send in as many as you like, I will absolutely answer them all. It's one of the reasons I set up the Tumblr blog for my fics, asks like this help me do character voice and worldbuilding and it's good for warmups & breaks from the main writing itself. Very "so y'all found the one NPC I forgot to name" kind of GM exercise. I did it for my book series and I got more worldbuilding done that way than I had in ages, so genuinely, there's not an upper limit to these, I might just have to put them in queue.

That said, I'm going to hand this over to the princess and Marela, I think they'll have the most insight on this topic.

The Pantheon Around the World w/ Princess Zelda & Marela

Zelda: "That is an entire field of discussion. It would take books to cover the full breadth of theological differences across the world. I can give you a summary to the best of my ability, but some topics do require further reading to explore.

"There are some matters of religion that are easy to define in our world. For instance, we have definitive proof of the Golden Goddesses; Din, Nayru, & Farore, along with a handful of other divine beings, like Hylia. But different cultures will value these divines, well, differently. While they all generally share worship for the main Three, and with secondary worship to Hylia for Her connection with the legends and the cycle, it can manifest uniquely based on a culture's primary relation with divinity.

"Take Hyrule for example. Due to our proximity to the Sacred Door, our kingdom has been central to the cycle and the legends as the source of magic evil has always sought out. For this reason, as well as for Her sacrifices, worship for Hylia is more prevalent that in other nations. Many Hyruleans take Hylia's story, of being mortal and of achieving ascension through the forging of the Master Sword and the imprisoning of Demise, as an act of inspiration, of Hope. Now, more recent study would suggest Hylia was already incredibly powerful, of at least two Sage lineages before Her ascension, but Her story still proves primary in Hyrulean faith. That isn't to say that the Golden Trio aren't still highly revered, but many in Hyrule find Hylia to be more..."

Marela: "Personable? Relatable? Achievable?"

Zelda: "Perhaps not the last one, but yes. In that vein. Hylia was the most like us, Her story is the one also most intertwined with our culture, so entangled with the legends as it is. But it's certainly not the only one. And other countries will favor other Goddesses. Unsurprisingly, Rahaal sees Din as a primary inspiration, as does Teromac. Farona chiefly holds Farore in worship."

Marela: "And Naydrana and Kohno hold Nayru in higher esteem!"

Zelda: "Precisely. Then there's Lyberic, which holds the Goddesses in equal value. And Holan, whose current theological debates have put the eight Sages of the Convergence in higher value. For similar reasons that Hylia is favored here, current leading Holanii ideology views the Sages as the most achievable, and thus the mantle most worthy of respect and reverence."

Marela: "It's hard to imagine not having the Goddesses so central to worship. Particularly living here. I know it's true. My family visited the coves in Kohno once. Seeing Din's underwater was a surprise! The lava fissure certainly sold it, if the fire coral hadn't."

Zelda: "Every culture has different centered fixtures in their worship with the Goddesses, none more correct than the others. Like our connection to the Sacred Door."

Marela: "You've been to the other great temples, Zelda. I think you could give some examples."

Zelda: "I have. The closest to us would be the Arborage, the temple within the boughs of the Great Maru Tree in Farona's capital, Pabatta."

Marela: "Great Maru Tree? Like the Great Deku Tree?"

Zelda: "Older even. As old as the Creation, so the stories say. She is an infinitely wise being. And not the only one in the nation. At each of the Goddesses' glades in Farona, one of her daughters has grown. Pilgrimage to them is of both religious significance and part of the ceremony for becoming ruler of the country. Unsurprisingly, Farore holds significant sway. Though I've been to the Endless Ember, it's definitely connected with Din."

Marela: "What about our other friendliest neighbor, Rahaal?"

Zelda: "In Rahaal, the high influence of Gerudo cultures does hold Din in the highest esteem. The Temple of Radiant Fire is said to contain the flames that were used to forge the Master Sword, though the sanctum where they would be held has long been sealed. But in Rahaal, theology and science are opposite sides of the same coin. There are universities built around each of the Goddesses's forges, the University of Arcanum & the Metaphysical for Nayru, the University of Practical & Material Sciences for Din, and the University of the Natural Order for Farore, divided across the nation. Only the University of the Forum is separate, and that's because the Temple of Radiant Fire is so sacred."

Marela: "There are different titles, I've noticed as well. Here in Hyrule we call spiritual leaders priestesses. But in Kohno, they were called anchorites or by a familial title."

Zelda: "It does vary widely. In Naydrana, they call their spiritual leaders mystics, in Farona attendants, and in Holan ministers. Like I said, it would take books to truly delve into this topic, and how widely is varies. I'm afraid I only have so much time to give to this answer, as interesting as its discussion might be. We haven't even had time to discuss the Dreeka and their Goddess, there is truly so much more to explore."

Marela: "I would look forward to continuing this discussion in the future though! Perhaps when we've had more time to travel. And after this little plan of yours in Hylia's temple-"

Zelda: "I think we're getting ahead of ourselves there, Marela. Somethings are better left unsaid, I think."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark of a Hero (Updates on Tuesdays & Fridays, 1 of 9)

Hyrule is at peace, or so the Royal Family would have its people believe. Something is afoot in the kingdom, and someone needs to do something about it. Least likely would be Marksmen Link Sayre- a mercenary and monster hunter doing his best to get by. Until a job goes wrong, and he gets roped into the secret plans of Hyrule's princess. Now Link must play the part of the Hero to dive deeper into the mystery, and maybe stumble into a legend of his own.

AO3 - Wattpad

[apuckishwit]

Platonic Max and Eddie: “want me to stay?”

(Only if you’re still accepting prompts, of course! ❤️)

“Want me to stay?”

The offer is made quietly. Softly. Barely a whisper that nonetheless carries across the width of the downstairs guestroom in the Harrington house. She still insists on calling it a guestroom, even though it’s hers now for all intents and purposes. It’s been her room for months, but she’s still not quite ready to admit that. Not quite ready to admit that her mother isn’t going to be coming back for her—to take her back to the rebuilt trailer park, or another apartment, or even out of Hawkins altogether. No one can find Susan Mayfield and Max isn’t sure if her mother is one of the many victims of the fissures that had ripped through Hawkins last year or if she sought shelter somewhere else and just doesn’t know that Max survived or if she did know and just chose to leave anyway. Start somewhere new.

Max doesn’t know which option to hope for.

So she calls her room at Steve’s place the guestroom and Steve lets her, nodding along even as he uses the credit card his parents have never stopped payments on even though he’s supposed to be cut off to buy her furniture she likes and clothes she can maneuver into and out of easily on bad pain days and any color of paint she wants for the walls.

She shifts now on the bed, letting the big, fluffy comforter that El helped her pick out fall from her shoulders, and clicks the light on the bedside table. Eddie is lounging in her—the—doorway, hair a wild nest of tangles, dressed in flannel pants and a Hawkins High basketball team shirt that she knows will say Harrington on the back.

“Heard, uh, heard you yelling,” Eddie says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’d sleep through an air raid,” she mutters, sharp and short, but Eddie just shrugs.

“Steve heard you yelling and woke me up,” he amends.

Neither of them have outright said anything, but they all know Eddie spends more nights here than anyone else except Max herself, and those nights are most certainly not spent in one of the other guestrooms.

And here is the thing.

On her good days—days when her limbs don’t ache quite as much, when she feels like she can walk for a while, when her head isn’t aching and her now shitty, shitty vision isn’t blurring worse—she wants Lucas and El. Dustin. Will and Mike, and now Nancy and Robin. She wants her friends (and more in the case of Lucas), wants to go out into Hawkins…to the newly-rebuilt arcade, or to one of the restaurants that are slowly coming back. She wants to claw back any bit of normalcy she can. She wants to smile and laugh with El, and hold Lucas’s hand and let him play with her hair and kiss her like she’s something beautiful and precious when the others are distracted.

On physical therapy days, or days where she knows she has to do her exercises or she’s going to regret it later, she wants Steve. She wants his firm, sure grip on her hands or shoulders, wants his steady presence at her back, wants the way he never coddles her, but also never, ever lets her fall. She wants the way he knows when she can push her muscles and when she really does need to slow down and take a break and the way he lets her rage and snarl and snap at him and just takes it in stride, bitching right back to her the way some of the others still seem afraid to do.

In the night, though…when the dreams won’t let her rest, when every shadow seems to be too dark, too menacing, when she swears she hears a growling, evil voice just underneath the wind, she wants Eddie.

El and Will are the ones who understand what Vecna and the Upside Down did to her best. But Eddie understands it all. The horror of being used by Vecna to hurt their friends. The terror of thinking they would never find a way out, that they’d be trapped and forgotten in that hellscape forever. But Eddie also understands that sometimes her dreams aren’t of Vecna at all. That some monsters can grow in the human world—no horrific government agencies, or interdimensional hell beings needed. Eddie understands all the ways a hard life can break you down, all the ways that people who are supposed to love you and care for you can let you down hard. And he understands all the sharp bits she had to develop to protect herself, is never cut by them the way the others are sometimes, because he had to develop them himself once upon a time, had to keep some of them even after he came to live with his uncle.

Max knows her friends all love her. Accept her. Will never leave her.

But Eddie gets her.

She doesn’t answer his question verbally, but gives a slow nod. Eddie just grins, scrambling into the room and immediately grabbing the overstuffed armchair in the corner and dragging it over to sit by the bed. He flops into it dramatically, and kicks his legs up onto the foot of the bed.

“So, fair maiden, shall I find something to read, shall we discuss the truly hilarious display that was Mike Wheeler trying to convince Hopper that those condoms that fell out of his backpack weren’t his—spoiler alert, they weren’t, teach that little shit to try and peek at my DM notes—”

“I knew it was you!” Max laughs, the tension already draining from her shoulders. She sits back against the headboard, tucking her comforter around her more securely. Sleep probably won’t be coming for a while, but the shadows aren’t as deep and Eddie’s voice drowns out the wind and though Steve never intrudes on their little bubble, she knows eventually the scent of hot chocolate is going to drift in from the kitchen.

Maybe tomorrow will be a good day.

[closingwaters]

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @kadavernagh @closingwaters

SUMMARY: Regan feels a pull that differs from the dead, and stumbles upon Teagan. With a scream, she manages to set the nix free.

WARNINGS: None

The discovery, like many great ones, had been an accident. A happy one, maybe, if Regan could feel such a thing. Screaming near the hardened goop along Worm Row was out of frenzied desperation – there wasn’t enough time to get somewhere more isolated, and most people had learned to stay away from the substance’s margins by now. It had been a good instinct; there was no one there. But when the scream came, the ooze quaked, flying from the pavement and the trees like cracked pieces of pottery. Underneath, green leaves sprawled from the branches, as all of the others that had been outside of the goop had already shaken off their fall colors. Like it was preserved. 

Did that mean those trapped underneath might still be alive? She couldn’t feel any death radiating from the area, but that didn’t mean much in the face of the unknown. It was dwarfed by a far larger question: could they be freed? She needed to think on this, what it might mean. Tell someone, maybe. There was a thought. Who could she even tell? I screamed at the goo and it exploded. Elias would think she was insane. Jade would think her strange…er.  Emilio… well, that could work, but could she stomach it? 

Regan stuffed her hands in her pockets and pulled in a long breath. The cold air was irritating to her lungs after screaming, making her skin prickle all the way from her neck to her – 

No, that wasn’t the cold. It was weak, but unmistakable. The presence of fae. Everything was heightened right now, her muscles exercised in the way they needed to be, her attention sharp as a scalpel. She easily identified the origin. A tall projection sticking up from the goo, right at the edge. About the size of a person. As Regan tread closer and the light bounced off the rough angles of the structure, she could pick a face out of it. Limbs. Features. Familiarity. Teagan.

Her stomach hardened like the substance she was staring down. She knew what needed to be done. Cliodhna would have said Fate brought her here today and showed her the path. Regan couldn’t refute that. Óinseach, she berated herself; she knew well how the burden of proof worked, but often, that changed nothing. 

There was no point on asking Teagan. Regan knew better than to rest her hand on the substance. Touching it obviously hadn’t gone well for Teagan, or countless others. And then there was the scream. If she had a hand on Teagan, even with the hardened goo in between, it could kill her.

This one, at least, would not be so torturous. Regan reeled a deep breath, winding herself. She shuffled backwards, probably further than she needed to, but she didn’t want to risk the harm. The scream behaved, exploding out, the force of it covering the ooze. And as a fissure crackled through Teagan, Regan chose to focus on the lack of death filling her lungs. She’d survive this yet. 

The coarse embrace of whatever the goo was began to loosen, the textured connection retreating its grasp. There was nothing. For a long while, lungs burned and vision remained obscured, pain sweeping under skin like tremors of an earthquake and ears catching final muffled remnants of a hollow and terrifying scream. All this, accompanied by the clanking of a toppling bucket.

Teagan gasped as her tomb crumbled around her, setting her free. Knees buckled, a struggled whimper escaping her while she surveyed her blurry surroundings. Several sensations and discomforts attacked her at once, the most jarring being a crisp and chilling breeze. It was warm the last time she had been graced with the dance of wind on her skin. The startling realization sent her to the ground in an unceremonious bundle of weak limbs. 

“Where…” She trailed off, voice catching painfully on her jagged throat. Her entire body felt too dry, the last drops of water from the bucket next to her not being enough to sate her. “Water. Water.” Teagan all but begged for it, only just then able to put together the blurry set of colors in front of her. Regan. Why was she there anyway? She wondered blearily, attempting to roll over to her hands and knees to crawl. It was futile, and she remained on her side, looking pitifully at Regan. 

“What happened?”

The hardened covering cracked and then practically exploded, revealing the trapped individual underneath. Regan was quick to clamp her mouth shut. Teagan was free. Anything more would just vibrate her organs and bones into a different kind of goo. “Teagan?” Between the scream and whatever sensory overload she must have been experiencing right now, Regan didn’t really expect the woman to hear her. She barely appeared to register she was there. But as scared eyes found her own, Regan tried again. “Teagan. You’re out.”

She hadn’t exactly planned on helping out a giant, pink amphibian. What she had would have to suffice. Regan reached into her bag and pulled out her water bottle, placing it carefully in Teagan’s shaking hands. Pink as she was, she still looked pale, sickly. 

“Come on. We need to –” She couldn’t decide what was more pressing – examining Teagan or getting her out of pedestrian sight while she looked this way. She probably couldn’t even hold a glamour up. Yeah, she needed to get out of here. “Can you move?” That was negatory, Regan realized, as Teagan rolled on her side like an obedient dog. Not good. Regan crouched down, offering a hand to Teagan, her other arm supporting her from behind. “I think… I think we both have questions. You must be disoriented. I don’t even know how long you were in there.” She surely didn’t either. They’d need to figure that out. Or, actually, Arden would know. Right, Arden. That was the proper place to bring Teagan.

Regan started shepherding Teagan toward the car, one shuffling step at a time. She couldn’t help but notice the tail – her tail – was longer, though however long she was trapped in the goo probably halted her healing. “I felt your presence from under the… substance. I thought I could get you out by screaming. So I did.” Which begged the question: were there others?

Right. They both had questions, and in a public space neither one could have them answered. That’s when Teagan realized the state she was in. Her glamour was down. “Shit…shit.” No matter how hard she tried, the illusion would not comply. The veil failed to conceal her true nature, and Teagan had no other choice than to force her body to will itself off the ground. She was grateful for Regan’s help, almost surprised at the strength she displayed. Teagan had nearly all her bodyweight resting on the banshee, and she only saw a tinge of extra effort. Though, given what the woman’s job likely entailed, it made sense for her to be able to lift above her own weight. 

“You could sense me even through that?” She chuckled lightly, no humor able to be found in such a pathetic sound. “I appreciate what you did. Don’t even know how long I was trapped in there.” Teagan breathed shallowly, struggling to keep her feet moving one in front of the other. What should’ve been a daily task became a painful chore, nearly sinking whatever optimism was left in the nix. If she focused on it any longer, she was sure it was leave her completely, so she refocused on Regan and her car. 

“What is today?” She asked hoarsely, “It was October, last I remember.” Her brows sewed together, terrified at the answer she might receive. “Feels much colder than when I fell in. I was on my way to Arden.” Teagan’s eyes widened with worry, thinking of her partner. “Is she okay? Is she free? Did she…” The nix could only imagine where Arden’s mind went. Surely she believed she was dead. How long had she been grieving? How long had Teagan’s stupidity caused her girlfriend to be in pain? She stifled a sob, opening the door and fell into the passenger seat, chugging the water so quickly that much of it splashed onto her face.

The strain and weight of Teagan’s muscles was immense, but Regan held firm, trying her best to heft Teagan toward the car. Gradually, she seemed to be waking up from her haze, questions obviously flooding her mind. And soon, Regan’s ears.

October. So it had been over a month, and perhaps closer to two. “It’s November 26th.” Patient now oriented to time and place, Regan thought wryly. “Don’t worry about that now. There is nothing more pressing than getting you stabilized.” How she was alive, Regan wasn’t sure, but she surely needed food and water. The goo must have kept her in some kind of a… stasis. She tried to steady Teagan as she opened the door for her. “Sit. I want you to sit for a minute before we leave.”

Selfishly, Regan kind of needed that too. This was making her head spin. Which was something her lungs didn’t take kindly to.

More questions. “She’s fine. She –” Well, best not overplay it. Regan wasn’t sure Arden was actually all that fine. “She’s been worried, I’m sure. She hasn’t been harmed or trapped.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to shut out the insanity of this. “All of my training, all protocols, they would instruct me to bring you to the hospital right now. But I obviously cannot do that.” There was a pink problem. And Teagan didn’t need to share how she felt about hospitals a second time. “And so… I’m going to bring you to the morgue. Arden can meet us there, if you wish.” A pause, though this wasn’t particularly a question. “Okay?”

The urge to panic was strong, the nix’s mind screaming at the date given to her. Two months of her life were gone. Halloween had been missed, and so had Arden’s birthday. Plans had come and gone, time stopping for her, but painfully continuing for her girlfriend. How had she spent those days? With a bottle and some cigarettes most likely, and the thought made the nymph’s eyes water from the fountain of guilt. She closed her them tightly and willed her thoughts to slow, focusing on Regan. It wasn’t the time to break down. Falling into her prison was her own fault. 

Teagan nodded weakly, her stomach grumbling and her head beginning to throb and pulse painfully, making her groan. “Sitting here is just fine with me.” She coughed, a poor attempt to dismiss the dry patches in her throat. The discomfort made her want to sink further into her seat, wish for the safe embrace of her bed, or Arden, or both. Both would be preferable. But Regan had other plans, and despite any hesitancy Teagan had, she knew it was for the best that she did what she was told. It wasn’t like she was capable of doing more than groaning in pain anyway.

“Okay. As long as you don’t take me to a hospital, I will do as I’m told. The morgue is fine, but, um…” She patted her pockets, only just then remembering she had left home without it. “Can you contact her? I don’t have my phone and for her sake, I need her to know that I’m okay. Alive. Please?” Tired eyes landed on Regan, a shimmer of light brightening in them. Gratitude. “And I really appreciate this, Regan. I know you’re doing your protocols and all that, but I still appreciate it. You’ve helped me so many times now.” Teagan swallowed, her throat burning at the friction. She couldn’t wait for the mayhem to be over, or at least for sleep to overtake her. 

Teagan was either being reasonably agreeable, or didn’t have the energy to argue. Either way, Regan got what she requested, and the fae took a steadying seat. She was coming to understand Teagan’s physiology a little more. The way those projections – gills – on the sides of her face drooped, the leathered texture of her skin. Evidence of her captivity and the physical toll it had taken. She hadn’t fully realized she’d been studying Teagan until the woman spoke and surprised her, croaking voice not helping anything.

Regan thought for a moment, decided there was no harm in it and potentially a lot of good, and sent Arden a quick message. She was pleased they’d have each other again, but didn’t particularly wish to be present in the middle of all of their… soggy reunion feelings. She’d punt anything but medical questions to when they were all at the morgue, and let Teagan take it from there. While she had her phone, she also shot Marcy a quick text, requesting the lobby to be cleared out and Rickers distracted. That was easy to do, and Marcy was nicer about it than Regan was. Regan just locked him in his office sometimes.

Business accomplished, she glanced over at the exhausted fae in the passenger seat. Teagan didn’t look like she would fall unconscious if the wind brushed her skin now, so Regan made the executive decision to climb in and hotfoot it. An ambulance siren would have been nice. She could probably imitate one. But sometimes secrecy won over urgency.

“Think nothing of it.” Regan would be doing enough thinking for both of them. She had felt Teagan. But Teagan wasn’t the only one who had vanished underneath the goo; there were others, perhaps hundreds. And they were alive.

[silcodependent]

Sway Chapter 6

Silco x Fem!Reader 4.2K Words

The building Remy had procured for your lodging was located in what he referred to as “The Promenade”, which was a fancy way of saying that you were in the best part of the worst part of town. Living on the Promenade afforded you many luxuries unavailable to some in the Undercity. One you were particularly fond of was hot water. There was nothing like a long hot shower to start the day or to relieve your muscles after a strenuous rehearsal, something that most people in fissures would never know the simple joy of. But this morning, luxuries be damned, you were draining the entire Undercity of every drop of cold water you could physically stand. 

The chill of the cold tiles pressed to your hands complemented the frigid water running down your back, your neck, your face serving as the perfect punishment and distraction from the evening before. 

You couldn’t help your dreams. You knew that but…

Somehow, this felt more dangerous. Less like a dream and more like a fantasy.

You shook that thought from your mind sending water splattering onto the walls of your shower. Absolutely not. And you were determined to stay in the shower until you had washed away all traces of him. 

His velvet voice. His captivating eyes. That cocky calculated attitude. The brush of those long elegant fingers on your skin that left you wanting more.

No. None of that. It was a stupid dream and now it was up to you to put as much distance from you and last night as possible. It was up to you to regain your composure. To regain control. 

But truthfully, that wasn’t going as well as you would like. You had endured the icy water of this shower for over 20 minutes now and it had done nothing but make you long for his hands to warm you. It was time to change strategy. 

Temperature change, intense physical exercise, and paced breathing and muscle relaxation were a foolproof way to save yourself from distressing thoughts and this stubborn infatuation had you pulling every tool from your tool box as you loaded up your dance bag and made your way to check the second step off your list. It was rare you ever needed step two but Silco was proving a frustrating exception to most of your rules after only your second encounter.

Usually, you went to the club to dance, either working on your routines or simply enjoying the art of moving your body but today required much more than the usual. That is what led you to the door of the towering gutted out structure that was the abandoned Piltover Opera House.

You had spent many a night staring at it from your balcony while taking in the view of the promenade before the bridge, set against the bright lights of the city of progress. Every city had the haves and the have-nots, you knew that better than most, but Piltover was different. A divide this great screamed for revolution as any historian would caution. 

Perhaps the scream had already come, you thought to yourself as you stepped over rubble and bits of the ceiling that collapsed into aisles of theatre. It would explain why so much of the promenade was left to rot by those of the undercity and the elite of the other side of the bridge. 

You had certainly missed the prime of this theatre. What was left of the white marble in the lobby was hardly discernible from what appeared to be layers of soot and grime sealed by time. This whole place felt like it had been sealed by time, like it had seen some horrible act of violence and was left to stew its abandonment and destruction for years. Until today. There was a stillness in the air that made you feel like you were the only person to discover this forgotten treasure. Although you knew that couldn’t be true this place spoke to you nonetheless.

The stage had seen better days as well. It was certainly weathered by time and neglect but still structurally sound. It would do.

As you leaned upon a forlorn chair dragged from backstage as your makeshift bar, you could hardly believe that this could be the place you visited with your parents all those years ago. You had sat in one of the private boxes in the mezzanine and watched the audience fall in love with your father's romantic tenor and your mother’s captivating arias. This place had seemed like a palace then with its enormous crystal chandeliers and elaborate gold trim. Now it was a mere shell of its regal countenance, all traces of its former grandeur conspicuously absent, which in itself told another story. 

This morning’s cold shower certainly didn’t help your muscles warm up any faster but by the end of your barre work you had worked up a little sweat. That’s one of the things you loved about dance, especially ballet; it took all your concentration. When you danced, you were fully present, lost only to the art and not at all in the world around you or the thoughts in your head. You were the dance; nothing more, nothing less.

For today, a ballet fully improvised, existing only to you the dancer in this moment and once danced never to be seen again. And here, the decaying remains of a past life seemed the most fitting for such a dance. You had no lights, no barre--only this rickety old chair and a large hole in the ceiling over the house for light. You had no pointe shoes, only your basic ballet slippers. You had no music, although the stage gave birth to an orchestra pit that you were sure once brought to life compositions from around the world. But today, in the stillness of the forgotten, the past lingered as the only audience. There could only be one song for such a dance. 

Your mother’s aria rang in your mind as you took your opening steps, slowly with the grace and precision that the opening notes of a lament call for. Gradually, you built to the emotion until your fortes spinning in bright burning energy slowed into the ache of longing reaching out with the gentle fingers of an arabesque.

Remember me but forget my fate. 

When I Am Laid In Earth, or Queen Dido’s Lament. This was the last place she had performed that song all those years ago. It suited the ruins of this place.

The string instruments draw to a close the final notes and you linger in the last moment of the dance, holding your closing position until the bows have left their strings and the stillness of the room has returned. You make no move to bow, there isn’t a point, although that dance felt like it had been a true performance. Like it had been seen, witnessed by something more than your mother’s memory and the dust in the air. 

That’s why the sound of applause from the back of the house shouldn’t have surprised you but it did. But not nearly as much as the person giving such praise.

His perfectly put together visage felt surreal in such a place. So much so that you had to look twice to make sure you weren’t imagining him, some left over specter from the night before. But no, there Silco was making his way down the aisle still applauding, a small smile haunting his features.

“I didn’t know someone could do something so beautiful with silence”, he said as he approached the edge of the stage.

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as you went to retrieve your water bottle.

“Isn’t it too early for you to be this charming? That’s champagne talk.”

That earned you a chuckle as he eyed you carefully, “Perhaps. I didn’t take you as a fan of ballet.” 

“I could say the same.” you added in between sips. 

Your eyes lingered on each other for a long moment. Was this a stand off? Were you going to engage with him again after the night and subsequent morning you’d had? He seemed to ooze danger and devilish charm that drew you in like a moth to a flame. So, yes, it was a stand off but not in the way you had originally imagined. It was you and your reasoning looking down a sea of decisions, most of them better than the ones you were about to make.

The sound of your footsteps was louder than you expected as you joined Silco on the edge of the stage, perhaps it was the sound leading you to your doom. He offered you his gloved hand to help you sit as though he were helping a foreign diplomat out of a carriage. But for all his chivalry and charm his eyes still scrutinized you as though he was looking for something hidden under the first layer of your skin. And from what you had heard about him, he wasn’t opposed to removing such obstacles to find the answers.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same” Silco retorted

“I came here to dance, what’s your excuse?”

You could tell he didn’t think much of your answer by the way he didn’t regard you as he spoke.

“You have an entire club dedicated to your dancing and you came to this rotting edifice?” He was lost to his own reverie as he looked out into where an audience once sat. 

“It’s good to shake it up a bit, to know the place you live. I’ve been eyeing this place from my balcony since I arrived. Today seemed just as good as any other to explore.” His elbows leaned with his back on the stage as you both took in the scene before you.

“You make for an interesting tourist if these are the kind of places you frequent.” 

“The kind of places we frequent.” You corrected.

By the way he exhaled, you could have sworn you were close to getting a laugh out of him. At least he found you amusing. That boded well for your first layer of skin.

“So, what brings you to this ‘rotting edifice’?” Your smile creeped into your voice as he continued to stare off at something you couldn’t see. It was startling how easy it was to settle back into the teasing banter of the night before. You refused to be led back down that road but this wasn’t that it was just…

You drank him in as he considered your question, determining his answer, sucking his teeth as if you had asked him something truly difficult. Which you hadn’t. It was almost enough to make you laugh. Fortunately, you were able to suppress that impulse which made his next words all the sweeter.

“Sometimes…I walk to clear my mind. Places like this serve as a good reminder of what I’m fighting for. For Zaun, for it’s people. For something more than the complacency of survival. Today this happens to be where my feet led me.” 

Suddenly you understood the deliberation. You had only just met this man within the last twenty four hours but there was something to his words that made you certain he’d never told that to anyone before. The information wasn’t particularly sensitive but saying something aloud for the first time always was. He had to weigh it, the intimacy and vulnerability of this seemingly useless information about his habits. It painted him in a new light and reminded you of the way his hands flexed furiously at his sides when you startled him last night.  When he wasn’t in control. There was something oddly sweet about it all.

“Did it work?”

“Hmmm?” Silco still seemed to be fixed on something in the audience that was more memory than reality.

“Is your mind clear?” You leaned in, with a gentle whisper ghosting his ear. 

He turned his face to you ever so slightly, revealing the lines of his deep scars and unblinking poisonous eyes. It was enough to have sent shivers down the spine of most people, something he seemed keenly aware of. But you simply smiled a cheeky smile, happy to finally have gotten his attention. 

“No, I’m afraid not.” He said, fully turning to face you. 

“Although, your performance was a much needed distraction. May I convince you into an encore?” A familiar smirk returning to his lips, as the same familiar charm returned to his words.

“If you’re good at something, never do it for free.” You teased, shaking your head.

“That's too bad. I get the feeling this isn’t something I’m going to be seeing in your club.”

A heavy sigh expelled from your chest as a resigned smile settled on your lips. “Probably not.” You had already started to stand when Silco’s words pulled you back.

“May I ask you something?” The pause that followed after proved that he was sincere. 

Don’t get involved. We’re putting distance between last night. 

But after his little truths earlier it felt dirty, cruel even, to walk away now. Without a word, you sat back down at your spot on the edge of the stage, knowing that was answer enough.

“You dance beautifully, exquisitely.” The compliment made you blush with its earnestness.

 “Why did you choose Burlesque over Ballet?” 

Silco’s mismatched eyes lingered on you, implored you, bore through you. He looked at you like you had the secret to unlock the world hidden inside of you. Like if he looked hard enough, he could truly see you, past the walls you two erected and demolished in between sentences and glances. Perhaps even solve the mystery he was so focused on. 

But the question weighed on you more than you realized. It was your turn to dive into the waters vulnerability.

“I love ballet, I truly do. But the energy, the creative freedom, is not the same. Ballet can give you a range of emotions and experiences as both the dancer and the audience but it’s like viewing a masterpiece through glass. An unnecessary distance between the art and those experiencing it. It’s rigid that way, exclusive and committed to its own ideas of right and wrong. Burlesque is not known for evoking the same range of emotions as a ballet--not that it couldn’t, but the ones it does evoke are shared with everyone who sees it. It’s a conversation with the audience where the dancer is in full control; the speed, the tenor, how much is being shared, what is being communicated. You create something and share that same breath with the audience and for a moment the room is experiencing the same emotion, the same thread of life together.” The answer escaped you like a confession and left you a little breathless at the end of the telling.

Silco’s face was impassive and unreadable. He simply stared at you, eyes fliting over the features of your face. A sure sign that you had gone too far with your own truth. You closed your eyes at the embarrassment of it all. 

“It’s a celebration.” replied the silk voice from in front of you. Your eyes fluttered open in surprise. Silco was closer to you now than he had been when you closed them. Or was it just your imagination? There was some sort of keen interest burning behind his eyes now as they were fixed on your face and softness there that you were sure you must be in your mind. But it caused your breath to hitch in your chest just the same.

“A celebration.” You repeated in hushed tones, afraid to break the spell. He was right. Did he genuinely understand you or was this a trick of his silver tongue? It was funny how easily he took your words and effortlessly extracted their meaning, respinning them into their most pure concise sentiment. It was a gift and he certainly had it. 

A small shiver ran through your body, immediately catching his attention.

“Cold?”

“I must have forgotten to turn on the heat.” You remarked looking over the brokenness of the room around you. 

“I’m afraid this building is far past the days of comfort.” Silco’s gaze drifted back out to the audience, where the light spilled in from the hole in the ceiling.

“Can I ask you something?” It was your turn now.

Silco seemed to understand that too as he chuckled and nodded his permission.

“What happened to this place?”

“Revolution.” 

He did nothing to clarify his statement even when seeing your brows furrowed in confusion. So revolution had come and gone but that did little explain the state of things now.

“It’s ancient history now. Something that neither time nor the ever advancing City of Progress remember.”

“You know, Cyrano,” The sound of your voice seemed to chase away the ghosts of the past he was fixated on, “if I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re holding out on me.”

There was no doubt that Silco had earned every bit of his reputation as the most dangerous man in the undercity and you certainly didn’t intend to give more than you got with him. Distance hadn’t worked out quite how you’d hope, so the next best thing you get would be tit for tat, an equal exchange. You had opened up, now it was his turn except he didn’t seem so keen to repay the gesture. How far was it appropriate or safe to push the city’s most notorious kingpin?

His amused exhale relaxed your nerves minutely. 

“Perhaps. It’s not a pretty story.”

“Then it’s good I didn’t ask for one.” Challenging him like this couldn’t be a good idea. Especially not after last night but you couldn’t help yourself. There was something about him that brought it out of you, stoked a fire in you for better or worse, one you weren’t sure you knew how to control.

Sea green and glowing red considered you for a moment, perhaps deciding your fate. But you didn’t budge an inch on what you wanted, despite the sound of reason’s screams bouncing off the ceiling of your skull. The slightest turn of Silco’s lip let you know that you were too interesting to kill--yet.

“Some years back people from the Undercity banded together to stand up to Piltover and their mistreatment of their citizens. Piltover responded to it’s own people with violence instead of reason. That wasn’t entirely surprising but it changed things. The enforcers took the bridge and we took everything else we could get. Looting and burning any Piltie establishment on this side of the river.” Silco’s jaw tightened, like there was something he was fighting to keep in.

“What happened to them?”

He had you on the edge of your seat without trying. 

“To who?”

“The people of the undercity. The ones fighting against Piltover.”

“Did they get arrested for their crimes, you mean?” Silco scoffed.

“No. Did they take this fight across the bridge? Did Piltover listen?” 

“What do you think.”

His answer was honest and cold and echoed in the empty silence of the room. You felt a little smaller for asking it. But you didn’t begrudge him the truth. Now you were even.

“It’s a shame.” You said without looking at him as you got to your feet.

Silco’s mismatched gaze followed your silhouette back to your makeshift barre as you began to move through your positions again.

“Places like that, that have more than enough for everyone, have an obligation to its people. All it’s people. There is no excuse for the greed that keeps some in excess and others in poverty. It’s a disgrace.” 

Once satisfied with your barre work, you decided to show off just a little. Forte turns were on your list anyway, why not now? You chose your spot in the audience along your sight line, above Silco’s head. 

One. Two.

Your first couple of turns were gentle and easy, building speed for the next. 

Out of the bottom of your vision you noted movement, the stage giving way to a heavy creak.

Three.

“This place serves as a good reminder of how the other half lives while they deny us clean air and water. It's a good reminder of what we are fighting for.”

Four. 

The light changed next to you but you didn’t pull your eyes away from where you were spotting. Had he come on to the stage? 

Five.

He was distracting you, causing you to falter even if only briefly. You could feel his presence around you, but where? Uncertainty forced you to end your rotation there. Slightly out of breath from annoyance rather than exhaustion. Your eyes swept the stage from right to left but there wasn’t any sign of him. You turned to grab your water only to realize that Silco was inches away from you. Your body naturally retreated from the shock, letting out a sharp gasp and nearly falling over had there not been strong steady hands already around your waist. 

“Careful now. I wouldn’t want you to fall.”

Interesting choice of words. 

“Lucky for me, you’re quite the gentleman.”

It should feel wrong, those long elegant fingers sliding around your waist. The warmth of his body so close to yours, the feeling of his breath on your face, it should all feel wrong. But it doesn’t. It feels like fire dancing under your skin, like a spark. A spark quickly growing into a blaze.

“Did you say ‘we’?” his words felt different now, landing somewhere in between your ribs as you imagined the man before you all those years ago toe to toe with enforcers on the bridge.

His regal features were impassive as he hummed his response, gloved hand making it’s way from your waist to tuck an errant piece of hair behind your ear. Somehow you doubted that it was your words he was lost to now.

“I would be happy to tell you all about it over dinner.”

He was asking you on a date.

He was asking you on a date.

No, no, no.

His hand is on your waist and in your hair and he’s asking you to dinner. How had you let it get this far? 

This was the opposite of distance. This was bad. This was a nightmare. 

“I--” The words momentarily failed you as you recoiled from his soft touch. Far too soft.

“--I don’t get involved with men from the club.”

The words are forced but practiced and true from many years of repeating them under less compelling circumstances. But that didn’t stop the slight tremble hung in the spaces between them. It gave you away and he knew it.

“The first time you told me that I almost believed you.” Silco’s eyes examined you more like an artifact than someone he was asking out on a date. Cooly, methodically, in a way that made you feel naked and not by choice. Seen in all the ways you were afraid to be seen. In all the ways you were afraid to see yourself. 

But certainly he couldn’t--

That predatory stare and unwavering focus made you not so sure. So much for the idea of him sparing you this topic. 

“I see now it’s a protection instead of principle.” He approached slowly, leaving you plenty of time to get away if you weren’t glued to the spot. Somehow transfixed by him.

Stopping but a breath away his eyes washed over you again with interest/intrigue. Silco reached a gloved finger to caress your face, igniting something within you and rekindling your voice.

“Who says it can’t be both?” you challenge, catching his hand gently. Not nearly as harsh as he had been when you had done the exact same thing the evening before, but you hoped he appreciates the irony.

A smirk pulled at his handsome features. You can tell he’s killed for less, but whatever this is survives off you pushing your luck with him.

“And what would you need protection from?”

“Oh, Cyrano--Clever men with witty words who would distract me from dancing for their own…interests.” Your sickly sweet delivery paired with the knife hidden in your smile had the exact desired effect. Silco chuckled lightly and balance was restored. Cat and mouse once again.

“Forgive me. I hate to distract such an artist.” Silco’s eyes lingered on you once more before he turned on the spot to take his leave/exit.

Don’t go. Not like this. ….

“Still interested in an encore?” You heard yourself asking before you could even understand why.

Silco’s tall frame paused at the edge of the stage giving you just enough time to feel the full weight of your impulses.

Whatever game this was, it was time to check the score. Last night you had won, publicly. Privately you had lost more ground than you could possibly own up to but that was your little secret. But today…

Today you didn’t want this to end and were willing to call it a draw, even if only to have those mismatched eyes on your body appraising your movements for just a few moments longer.

Silco turned to face you, his features a light with subdued intrigue.

“By all means.”

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Ok, I'll be honest--I hated this chapter which is why it's taken me so long to get it out here! BUT I've decided to move forward with the story and let this be different than I imagined it so I can get some of the moments I'm really excited about next chapter! So if you didn't like this one, hang on because next time things are getting REAL!

Also, just thank you to anyone who reads my blabbering. Really, thank you.

[13forever-winter13]

I don't know if I can cope with this album. "I love you. It's ruining my life" ????? Like, yes, I love you. I can't stop thinking about how much I'd like you to be here, to talk, to argue, to create. & yes, it is in fact ruining my life because I can't stop thinking about you even if I want to, & it's not funny, because it's been months & I'd like to move on, I'd like to dislike the idea of getting back, I would love to fall in love again, but I can't stop loving you. I would love to love again, but I can't help think it'll be betrayal, I can't stop thinking no one loves as good as you do. But it filled me with disease. I'm sick with sadness, my blood is all contaminated, my face is pale, & I'm always upset, feeling so alone. Haha, funny. I can do it with a broken heart??? oh, yes, I've been living my life with a broken heart, curious because you can't actually live with your heart working wrongly. I try to clean, I try to study, exercise & I try to stand for my self & get distracted & I've been writing songs, poems, singing with a broken heart, smiling for my family, getting out with my only two friends, walking out with my dog (the one I got the day after we left, & I'd love you to meet), & maybe yes, I feel like that it's filling the fissure in that broken spot in there. But still you were losing me, tolerating me, knowing it, & yet did nothing.

How do u get over that???

The Tortured Poets Department??? oh yes, my album, thx 4 asking.

[7r0773r]

Brief Notes on the Art and Manner of Arranging One's Books by Georges Perec, translated by John Sturrock

But literature is not an activity separated from life. We live in a world of words, of language, of stories. Writing is not the privilege exclusively of the man who sets aside for his century a brief hour of conscientious immortality each evening and lovingly fashions, in the silence of his study, what others will later proclaim, solemnly, to be 'the honour and integrity of our letters'. Literature is indissolubly bound up with life, it is the necessary prolongation, the obvious culmination, the indispensable complement of experience. All experience opens on to literature and all literature on to experience and the path that leads from one to the other, whether it be literary creation or reading, establishes this relationship between the fragmentary and the whole, this passage from the anecdotal to the historical, this interplay between the general and the particular, between what is felt and what is understood, which forms the very tissue of our consciousness. (Robert Antelme or the Truth of Literature, pp. 2-3)

***

To begin with, it all seems simple: I wanted to write, and I've written. By dint of writing, I've become a writer, for myself alone first of all and for a long time, and today for others. In principle, I no longer have any need to justify myself (either in my own eyes or in the eyes of others). I'm a writer, that's an acknowledged fact, a datum, self-evident, a definition. I can write or not write, I can go several weeks or several months without writing, or write ‘well' or write ‘badly’, that alters nothing, it doesn't make my activity as a writer into a parallel of complementary activity. I do nothing else but write (except earn the time to write), I don't know how to do anything else, I haven't wanted to learn anything else... I write in order to live and I live in order to write, and I've come close to imagining that writing and living might merge completely: I would live in the company of dictionaries, deep in some provincial retreat, in the mornings I would go for a walk in the woods, in the afternoons I would blacken a few sheets of paper, in the evenings I would relax perhaps by listening to a bit of music…

It goes without saying that when you start having ideas like these (even if they are only a caricature), it becomes urgent to ask yourself some questions.

I know, roughly speaking, how I became a writer. I don't know precisely why. In order to exist, did I really need to line up words and sentences? In order to exist, was it enough for me to be the author of a few books?

In order to exist, I was waiting for others to designate me, to identify me, to recognize me. But why through writing? I long wanted to be a painter, for the same reasons I presume, but I became a writer. Why writing precisely?

Did I then have something so very particular to say? But what have I said? What is there to say? To say that one is? To say that one writes? To say that one is a writer? A need to communicate what? A need to communicate that one has a need to communicate? That one is in the act of communicating? Writing says that it is there, and nothing more, and here we are back again in that hall of mirrors where the words refer to one another, reflect one another to infinity without ever meeting anything other than their own shadow.

I don't know what, fifteen years ago when I was beginning to write, I expected from writing. But I fancy I'm beginning to understand, at the same time, the fascination that writing exercised — and continues to exercise — over me, and the fissure which that fascination both discloses and conceals.

Writing protects me. I advance beneath the rampart of my words, my sentences, my skilfully linked paragraphs, my astutely programmed chapters. I don't lack ingenuity.

Do I still need protecting? And suppose the shield were to become an iron collar?

One day I shall certainly have to start using words to uncover what is real, to uncover my reality.

Today, no doubt, I can say that that's what my project is like. But I know it will not be fully successful until such time as the Poet has been driven from the city once and for all, such time as we can take up a pickaxe or a spade, a sledge-hammer or a trowel, without laughing, without having the feeling, yet again, that what we are doing is derisory, or a sham, or done to create a stir. It's not so much that we shall have made progress (because it's certainly no longer at that level that things will be measured), it's that our world will at last have begun to be liberated. (The Gnocchi of Autumn or An Answer, pp. 26-29)

***

To question what seems so much a matter of course that we've forgotten its origins. To rediscover something of the astonishment that Jules Verne or his readers may have felt faced with an apparatus capable of reproducing and transporting sounds. For that astonishment existed, along with thousands of others, and it's they which have moulded us.

What we need to question is bricks, concrete, glass, our table manners, our utensils, our tools, the way we spend our time, our rhythms. To question that which seems to have ceased forever to astonish us. We live, true, we breathe, true; we walk, we open doors, we go down staircases, we sit at a table in order to eat, we lie down on a bed in order to sleep. How? Where? When? Why?

Describe your street. Describe another street. Compare.

Make an inventory of your pockets, of your bag. Ask yourself about the provenance, the use, what will become of each of the objects you take out.

Question your tea spoons.

What is there under your wallpaper?

How many movements does it take to dial a phone number? Why?

Why don't you find cigarettes in grocery stores? Why not?

It matters little to me that these questions should be fragmentary, barely indicative of a method, at most of a project. It matters a lot to me that they should seem trivial and futile: that's exactly what makes them just as essential, if not more so, as all the other questions by which we've tried in vain to lay hold on our truth. (Approaches to What?, pp. 32-33)

***

2.1. Ways of arranging books

ordered alphabetically ordered by continent or country ordered by colour ordered by date of acquisition ordered by date of publication ordered by format ordered by genre ordered by major periods of literary history ordered by language ordered by priority for future reading ordered by binding ordered by series

None of these classifications is satisfactory by itself. In practice, every library is ordered starting from a combination of these modes of classification, whose relative weighting, resistance to change, obsolescence and persistence give every library a unique personality.

We should first of all distinguish stable classifications from provisional ones. Stable classifications are those which, in principle, you continue to respect; provisional classifications are those supposed to last only a few days, the time it takes for a book to discover, or rediscover, its definitive place. This may be a book recently acquired and not yet read, or else a book recently read that you don't quite know where to place and which you have promised yourself you will put away on the occasion of a forthcoming 'great arranging', or else a book whose reading has been interrupted and that you don't want to classify before taking it up again and finishing it, or else a book you have used constantly over a given period, or else a book you have taken down to look up a piece of information or a reference and which you haven't yet put back in its place, or else a book that you can't put back in its rightful place because it doesn't belong to you and you've several times promised to give it back, etc.

In my own case, nearly three-quarters of my books have never really been classified. Those that are not arranged in a definitively provisional way are arranged in a provisionally definitive way, as at the OuLipo. Meanwhile, I move them from one room to another, one shelf to another, one pile to another, and may spend three hours looking for a book without finding it but sometimes having the satisfaction of coming upon six or seven others which suit my purpose just as well.

2.2. Books very easy to arrange

The big Jules Vernes in the red binding, very large books, very small ones, Baedekers, rare books or ones presumed to be hardbacks, volumes in the Pléiade collection, the Présence du Futur series, novels published by the Editions de Minuit, collections, journals of which you possess at least three issues, etc.

2.3. Books not too difficult to arrange

Books on the cinema, whether essays on directors, albums of movie stars or shooting scripts, South American novels, ethnology, psychoanalysis, cookery books (see above), directories (next to the phone), German Romantics, books in the Que Sais-je? series (the problem being whether to arrange them all together or with the discipline they deal with), etc.

2.4. Books just about impossible to arrange

The rest: for example, journals of which you possess only a single issue, or else La Campagne de 1812 en Russie by Clausewitz, translated from the German by M. Bégouën, Captain-Commandant in the 31st Dragoons, Passed Staff College, with one map, Paris, Librairie Militaire R. Chapelot et Cie, 1900; or else fascicule 6 of Volume 91 (November 1976) of the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association of America (PMLA) giving the programme for the 666 working sessions of the annual congress of the said Association.

2.5.

Like the librarians of Babel in Borges's story, who are looking for the book that will provide them with the key to all the others, we oscillate between the illusion of perfection and the vertigo of the unattainable. In the name of completeness, we would like to believe that a unique order exists that would enable us to accede to knowledge all in one go; in the name of the unattainable, we would like to think that order and disorder are in fact the same word, denoting pure chance.

It's possible also that both are decoys, a trompe l'oeil intended to disguise the erosion of both books and systems. It is no bad thing in any case that between the two our bookshelves should serve from time to time as joggers of the memory, as cat-rests and as lumber-rooms. (Brief Notes on the Art and Manner of Arranging One's Books, pp. 66-69)

***

P. HOW I CLASSIFY

My problem with classifications is that they don't last; hardly have I finished putting things into an order before that order is obsolete. Like everyone else, I presume, I am sometimes seized by a mania for arranging things. The sheer number of the things needing to be arranged and the near-impossibility of distributing them according to any truly satisfactory criteria mean that I never finally manage it, that the arrangements I end up with are temporary and vague, and hardly any more effective than the original anarchy.

The outcome of all this leads to truly strange categories. A folder full of miscellaneous papers, for example, on which is written "To be classified"; or a drawer labelled 'Urgent 1' with nothing in it (in the drawer 'Urgent 2' there are a few old photographs, in 'Urgent 3' some new exercise books). In short, I muddle along.

F. BORGES AND THE CHINESE

'(a) belonging to the Emperor, (b) embalmed, (c) domesticated, (d) sucking pigs, (e) sirens, (f) fabulous, (g) dogs running free, (h) included in the present classification, (i) which gesticulate like madmen. (j) innumerable, (k) drawn with a very fine camel-hair brush, (l) etcetera, (m) which have just broken the pitcher, (n) which look from a distance like flies.'

Michel Foucault has hugely popularized this 'classification' of animals which Borges in Other Inquisitions attributes to a certain Chinese encyclopedia that one Doctor Franz Kuhn may have held in his hands. The abundance of intermediaries and Borges's well-known love of an ambiguous erudition permit one to wonder whether this rather too perfectly astonishing miscellaneity is not first and foremost an effect of art. An almost equally mind-boggling enumeration might be extracted simply enough from government documents that could hardly be more official:

(a) animals on which bets are laid, (b) animals the hunting of which is banned between 1 April and 15 September, (c) stranded whales, (d) animals whose entry within the national frontiers is subject to quarantine, (e) animals held in joint ownership, (f) stuffed animals, (g) etcetera (this etc. is not at all surprising in itself; it's only where it comes in the list that makes it seem odd), (h) animals liable to transmit leprosy, (i) guide-dogs for the blind, (j) animals in receipt of significant legacies, (k) animals able to be transported in the cabin, (l) stray dogs without collars, (m) donkeys, (n) mares assumed to be with foal. ('Think/Classify', pp. 84-86)

***

K. SOME APHORISMS

Marcel Benabou of the OuLiPo has thought up a machine for manufacturing aphorisms. It consists of two parts, a grammar and a vocabulary.

The grammar lists a certain number of formulas commonly used in a majority of aphorisms. For example: A is the shortest route from B to C. A is the continuation of B by other means. A little A carries us away from B, a lot brings us closer. Little As make big Bs. A wouldn't be A if it wasn't B. Happiness is in A not B. A is a malady for which B is the cure. Etc.

The vocabulary lists pairs of words (or trios, or quartets) which may be false synonyms (sentiment/ sensation, knowledge/science), antonyms (life/death, form/content, remember/forget), words that are phonetically close (belief/relief, love/leave), words grouped together by usage (crime/punishment, hammer/sickle, science/life). Etc.

The injection of the vocabulary into the grammar produces ad lib a near-infinite number of aphorisms, each one of them bearing more meaning than the last. Whence a computer program, devised by Paul Braffort, which can turn out on demand a good dozen within a few seconds:

Remembering is a malady for which forgetting is the cure

Remembering wouldn't be remembering if it weren't forgetting

What comes by remembering goes by forgetting

Small forgettings make big rememberings

Remembering adds to our pains, forgetting to our pleasures

Remembering delivers us from forgetting, but who will deliver us from remembering?

Happiness is in forgetting, not in remembering

Happiness is in remembering, not in forgetting

A little forgetting carries us away from remembering, a lot brings us closer

Forgetting unites men, remembering divides them

Remembering deceives us more often than forgetting

Etc.

Where is the thinking here? In the formula? In the vocabulary? In the operation that marries them? ('Think/Classify', pp. 93-94)

[mxchineherald]

miner’s disease

The name is a blanket term for the conditions and disorders caused by exposure to gasses from the mines in utero. These disorders focus primarily on three parts of the body: the lungs, the spine, and the blood vessels. While it is rare, it is possible to have all three varieties of Miner's Disease at once, referred to as Complex Miner's Disease.

The Lungs

The effects on the lungs are noticeable from birth in what is known as “Miner’s Breath”, where an infant will present with a noticeable wheeze and pale, clammy skin. This is treatable with clean air, though few in the Undercity have access to such a thing. As the infant grows into a child, their breathing may improve, but experience flares of pneumonia-like symptoms during poor weather or air conditions. Coughing may become so severe that it causes nosebleeds and dizziness. Often, these children will be lethargic and weak, making it difficult for them to socialize with their peers.

As the child grows to a teenager, hormonal effects on the body may further strain the lungs, causing more flares and episodes. Further aging has shown a steady increase in these flares until adulthood, where the lungs begin to degenerate due to chronic inflammation and strain. Flares of symptoms will begin to occur under situations of stress, poor weather, or viral infection. Severe coughing, wheezing, arrest of breath, and feeling faint are the most common symptoms in adults in the early stages of a flare. Increased bloody sputum and proclivity toward infection follow thereafter. Bed rest and inhaled medications are recommended at this stage, but there is no shown way to reverse the degradation of lung tissue from recurrent infection and inflammation.

Patients with these symptoms of Miner’s disease rarely live into their twenties if not taken to clean air. If brought to a cleaner environment, they have a chance at making it into their mid-thirties.

The Spine

The effects on the spine become noticeable upon walking age in most children. They will take longer to learn to walk, experience difficulty walking, and almost always present with a noticeable limp. It is not uncommon for children with these spinal issues to experience balance problems, often leading to early injury of the effected limbs. With proper physical therapy, a child may learn to walk without a limp, but few people in the Undercity have access to such physicians, and instead rely on old traditional stretches and exercises.

Children going through puberty may experience severe back pain as the spine begins to grow crooked in sections. It is recommended that children with these symptoms be given medications to dull the pain and ensure some activity through careful, low impact motions.

Growing into young adulthood, those with these symptoms may experience acute and chronic pain due to the vertebrae pinching nerves and segments of the spinal column. As the spinal column is effected, limps may grow more severe and require a brace to keep straight.

Many of those with these symptoms lose their ability to walk by their thirties. Corrective surgery on the spine is an experimental field, but has found some success in preserving mobility for patients.

The Blood Vessels

The most rare of the types of Miner's Disease, this variety only seems to develop in those exposed to gas from the fissures in the Lanes. Most commonly observed in the families of fissure scrappers and miners, symptoms present in adults around the age of 20-25. Due to its rarity, little is known about this variety or its pathology.

Initial presentation is a feeling of coldness regardless of temperature, dizziness while under stress, bruising easily, and dizziness upon standing too fast. This seems to be due to weak circulation and poor iron absorption.

As they age into their late twenties, someone with this type of Miner's Disease may begin to suffer from sporadic muscle cramps in their legs, hands, and feet.

[notchainedtotrauma]

As a matter of fact...let me make an incomplete list of my favorite poetic stanzas I’ve written:

Stuck In Sweetness or Held In Life ? (Credits: Me)

We bend easy; pliable, we fit into the small spaces between

the tongue and an errant tooth. We're easy, elastic, a snack

for the late afternoons or early mornings.

Nobody thinks of us

until they do;

by now we're empty vessels, clusters of hollow

rock

our hands extended, our eyes dead.

We rub absentmindedly the symphony of scars

that constitute our hunger;

flesh tensed over porous bones,

we made it pretty

for a while.

Who fed us that thick slop of muted light&rarefied air ?

Say No More: Save Us From The Horror Show (Credits: Me)

The loophole of retreat doesn't exist; or there is a hole

for every strung out singer

where hours pile up, useless and blank

and electric.

If I could stretch this soft, droopy body into

a dulled blade,

let it hang from every fissured ceiling

insert myself into the breach

a weak smell of

iron and compact clay.

Ode to The Black Girl With The Red High Heels (Credits: Me)

Blood soaked definite prayer, a finger tensed in the long wait

for a kiss; a Kool dragged between two brown lips,

a nonchalant artifact, a glossy advertisement

for elegant boredom and bare legs.

We watch them swaying together

as if enclosed in one another, their bodies a liquid hum.

There's the brightest red you've ever seen, a dot of crisp apple skin

and there's worship, kneeling with your mouth slightly open

to catch it.

(I predicted Lipstick Lovers visuals, yes, I did. If you’re wondering why I’m talking about, there is a red high heel and Janelle Monae in worship.)

The Longing For A Pause (Credits: Me)

We wrap each other's liquid orange in carmine silk,

blur our tensed limbs, seek the end

of each other's weariness,

falling prey to a certain breakdown of the nervous system.

An Apple For A Heart (Credits: Me)

Everything about her is snakeskin, long and smooth.

Flat, like crusted sand. Like bright oysters.

You could use her, a knife, against a translucent screen,

an oily stain of taupe growing weaker

under a bloodied thumb.

The blade digs deep into a cluster of focused hunger,

misses the scorched rim.

The Spilled Skin of a Luminous Sunrise (Credits: Me)

Somewhere, I sip white roses. Sandalwood.

Knead flesh into prayer.

I come for the flood, stay for blasphemy.

The wawering windows spit liquid static,

rupture the blurry light

a wound remains.

And Nobody Dared Interrupt Their Groove That Day (Credits: Me)

We're a strident chorus, a chaotic assembly;

passing around a bottle of bourbon

and a gun

we're learning how to cut at the heart

of what doesn't

serve us anymore;

we're stripping our everything of its excess,

leaving only abundance.

Yes, we anger, our faces bared of what was once a posture

of quiet politeness.

No need to swallow us whole now; we have grown bitter, inedible,

even poisonous.

Nobody wants to say it aloud, but we're the marketplace

in which you linger, seeking

distraction.

There is a whole heart we're growing out the ground;

flesh, blood, muscle, an angry fist,

a liver colored

argument

a domestic hurricane.

What happens to the decaying corpse of an old white lady clutching her purse

a little too close,

we mean, what happens to her hands ?

Do they remain claw like, unmoved, bones shaped

by the aimless cruelty of her terror ?

We eventually don't care.

We keep our/selves angry as an exercise in making our love

sharp and lucid.

Skyrise for That Little Black Girl Nodding Along Her Own Hum (Credits: Me)

It doesn't matter;

anyone can be bird

or air.

[answersfromzestual]

Do you have any advice for preparing to get phallo/the process leading up to it? Also any advice on staying stealth while getting the surgeries done? I'm currently stealth and am looking to get phallo if/when I can afford it, but I don't know where to begin or how to not out myself to people during the whole thing.

Okay, lots to answer here. We will start with phallo prep. Alright, so one of the first things you have to think about is your donor site. You have a few options: forearm, lower back, and thigh. You want sensitive skin because this will form your member. And if course making sure you are healthy, no smoking, etc.

I chose my forearm. No matter where you pick, hair removal is important. For example: check the inside of your non dominant arm and see how hairy it is. They use the inside of your forearm to make the urethra. We don't want fissures, so most important for hair removal is your inner forearm. You can easily stay stealth while prepping your donor site with hair removal. Lots of people "don't like body hair". Or "I really want this tattoo to be perfectly visible". You don't need to offer a lot of information, people really dont care. "I want to prep my arm for a tattoo sleeve, and i dont want the hair to grow back and wreck the design". But lets be honest, they are in the busy of hair removal and they want you there. They dont care why lol. Explaining the scarring on the forearm after phallo: I say I burned my arm working at one of my first jobs in fast food. People have never questioned me. In fact, they usually will take it upon themselves to tell me some sort of burn story of their own to relate? I guess. Either way, it's chill. dont sweat the scarring. Definitely look up places that laser or electrolysis in your areas, or if you're worried in a city over. The point is: your skin will continue to grow hair, whether it's thick or teeny soft ones. You don't want that inside you. Same goes for the outside, your member will grow hair if you don't get the hair permanently removed.

It hurts, I'm not going to lie to you. But you'll be very happy with the results in the future. It's worth it. So... look into some hair removal places.

Exercise is important. Wrist exercises to strengthen are good if you choose forearm.

I'm not sure if you've had any surgeries. But you will need to get a hysterectomy and an oophorectomy as like the first "surgery step" of phallo. It's important to have these surgeries, especially if you've been taking T for longer than 10 years. If you don't remove the uterus and ovaries but keep taking T... you have a very high risk of getting cancer. So please, if you can try to see an endocrinologist at least once to get some basic knowledge on the effects of the hormones in relation to the inner workings of the human body, that would be good.

Stealth wise: it's your body and you can be rid of whatever innards you want lol. Meaning: tell the doctor you don't want the uterus and ovaries, and you want them removed. When asked "why...are you sure". "Yes, I am absolutely sure. I could go into surgery today if you have an opening" They won't have one open obviously but the point is: be insistant and strong and stern. If the doctor needs reasons here are a few: I don't want kids. I am in pain because of my period and it's affecting my quality of life". USE SPECIFIC LANGUAGE: "this affects my quality of life"

When you're in the process of phallo to stay stealth I used the excuse of needing to have corrective surgeries on my penis. Honestly. I was staying with my inlaws for the last two surgeries and they do not know at all. And I told them I had issues with my urinary tract (for me i have kidney stones and I said one tore me up inside so I needed to fix it). And honestly you won't be up and moving a lot after the first process of phallo, I don't really think you'll have an issue having to hide that. I want not just you but every dude to know men pee sitting down a lot more often than you think. After your first stage chances are you will have too much swelling to do the urethra surgery at the same time (but it can be done, I've heard people tell me). Basically the internet can provide you with medical excuses and stuff to tell others if they get too "intimate" with you.

Hopefully this helps a bit. If you have follow up questions, you know where to go!

[thegoldenestat]

Elderly Care Home and Constipation In Seniors

Constipation is a widespread health problem that may affect anyone at any age; 22% of the population has it, but it's most frequent in the elderly, where 40% of senior individuals in India have it. It is a disorder that develops when a person has trouble passing feces, leading to irregular bowel motions, lumpy or hard stools, and a sense of incomplete evacuation. Hemorrhoids, anal fissures, and rectal prolapse are just a few of the issues that can develop from constipation if it is not addressed. These conditions can be painful and necessitate surgery.

A low-fiber diet, a lack of exercise, certain medicines, dehydration, and underlying medical problems including irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) and hypothyroidism are just a few of the many things that can cause constipation. Due to the broad presence of risk factors such a sedentary lifestyle, bad eating habits, and a lack of knowledge about preventative measures, constipation is becoming a significant problem in India. These issues are given utmost importance at the elderly care home with a doctor on call at their service. 

Consuming a high-fiber diet rich in fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and legumes is essential to avoiding constipation. Regular physical exercise, such as brisk walking or yoga, can help to encourage regular bowel motions. However, constipation can occur as a side effect from several drugs, including opioids, antidepressants, and antacids.

Speak to your healthcare provider about precautions or other choices if you're on any of these drugs.

Constipation signs include:

weekly bowel motions of little more than three

straining when having a bowel movement

eructation of lumpy or firm stools

an impression of an incomplete evacuation

abdominal discomfort or bloating

It's critical to get medical assistance if you have any of these symptoms so that your constipation's underlying cause may be identified. Changing one's lifestyle can help with some cases of constipation, while other situations could need medicine or other medical attention.

Numerous herbal treatments are available in India to aid in the prevention of constipation. Triphala, a herbal mixture made up of three different fruits, has been used for generations as a constipation treatment. Other well-liked all-natural treatments for constipation include ginger, castor oil, and aloe vera juice.

In India, a number of drugs are sold that can relieve constipation in addition to natural therapies. Constipation is frequently treated using the synthetic sugar lactulose, which attracts water into the colon. Other drugs that can induce bowel motions include bisacodyl and sodium picosulfate. However, because they might have negative side effects including diarrhea and stomach cramps, these drugs should only be given while a doctor is present.

Elderly care home provides the best possible diet to the seniors including a high-fiber diet that contains fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and legumes to avoid constipation. Regular physical exercise, such as brisk walking or yoga, as well as maintaining hydration can help to encourage regular bowel movements. But as a side effect, several drugs, including antacids, opioids, and antidepressants, might make you constipated. Talk to the doctor on call at the elderly care home about preventive measures or other choices if you're on any of these drugs.

Finally, constipation is a common health problem in India, especially among the elderly. It is brought on by a number of things, including a low-fiber diet, inactivity, certain drugs, dehydration, and underlying medical disorders. Adopting a healthy lifestyle that includes regular exercise, a high-fiber diet, and adequate water is crucial to preventing constipation. To identify the underlying reason and avoid any problems, it's critical to get medical assistance if you're exhibiting constipation symptoms. In India, there are a number of herbal treatments and pharmaceuticals that can aid with constipation, but they should only be taken under medical supervision.

It's critical to understand when to seek medical attention for constipation at elderly care homes, particularly if the symptoms last longer than two weeks or are accompanied by other unsettling signs and symptoms like blood in the stool, stomach discomfort, or unexplained weight loss. At The Golden Estate, you are given an opportunity to change your lifestyle with the best professionals always at your disposal.