#Harden Volume 9 Shoes

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James Harden Volume 9 Shoes #Review

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[umbrellalad]

An Excerpt from a Book I’ll Never Finish

The Galaxy and all it’s Stars

Why is quiet so hard to hear? Sitting in the quiet, listening and thinking and all I can hear is the static in my brain. No matter what I do I can’t turn it off. Even when I try to use it all the thoughts do is jam together, running into each other jumping around until all it’s caused is a headache. I try to sort them out, to figure out what it is the universe is trying to whisper in my ear, but all I hear is noise, noise, noise, until I have to just stop trying. 

My thoughts are as vast and as jumbled as the universe itself, so you’d think we speak the same language, but I guess the two don’t mix, because all I can hear is static. My room reverberates with the stuff. A box full of echos only I can hear. Still, it’s better than outside, where all of my thoughts are trapped inside my own head. Outside they swirl in the wind, forming a cloud around my head. I have to reel them in, chain them up to keep them from running out. I don’t know why they’re so hard to control. Others don’t seem to have a problem with controlling their own heads. They walk around perfectly content with the way they’re thinking, the way they’re acting, the way they’re talking. To them the world is nothing but hopscotch for one to enjoy. For me the world is a tight-rope across a windy canyon. One wrong step and it all goes tumbling down, down, down.

I find comfort in the universe. With something so colossus and magnificent, how can anything I do possibly ruin it?

Still, at times it feels like the universe is shrinking in on me. Gravity increases and the galaxies collide in on themselves. Then I go to bed. Wake up. And the universe has begun expanding again. 

Waking up today was easy. Summer had begun. I no longer had to worry about the load of homework or projects piling up while I sat in my room doing nothing.

I roll over and look at the clock at the side of my bed. It’s a retro rectangle of an alarm clock, because somehow turning the clock face into a rectangle made it more desirable then. 

9:26. Not a bad time to wake up. Early enough that I haven’t wasted the day away, and late enough to feel like it’s too late to go back to bed. 

So I get up. Whatever extensional crisis took it’s turn last night has retreated back into the basements of my brain. If it was a good day hopefully I wouldn’t have another one until at least four.

Downstairs my mom is cooking breakfast for my sisters and my brother. I can smell the bacon as I walk into the kitchen. What would be described as a peaceful, welcoming scene to wake up to is anything but. There’s not so much serenity and love in the air as there is simply hunger and tension.

My youngest sister Brielle is sitting at the table, smearing scrambled eggs on the table. Now with this behavior one would guess Bri is three? two? She’s ten. My theory is she doesn’t have that little voice in our heads that tells us our actions will have consequences. Or that she does have this voice, but only listens to it when the consequences include her. She knows that she could get up from the table right now, and Mom would go over and clean it up without a second thought.

The twins Adalyn and Asher are play fighting. A game that will without doubt turn into a real duel the moment one of them knocks their elbow the wrong way on the couch. They’re both 13. Old enough to know that actions have consequences, but still too young or too sociopathic to care. 

My mom sees me first. She’s making more eggs for Adalyn and Asher along with frying bacon. “Morning sweetie, do you want anything?”

White Dwarf

A white dwarf, also called a degenerate dwarf, is a stellar core remnant composed mostly of electron-degenerate matter. A white dwarf is very dense: its mass is comparable to that of the Sun, while its volume is comparable to that of Earth. A white dwarf's faint luminosity comes from the emission of stored thermal energy; no fusion takes place in a white dwarf.[1] The nearest known white dwarf is Sirius B, at 8.6 light years, the smaller component of the Sirius binary star. There are currently thought to be eight white dwarfs among the hundred star systems nearest the Sun

My mom is a white dwarf. She was once a shining star, a radiant young woman, full of life, energy, and excitement. When she was young my mom would go on spontaneous adventures with her friends. They would go skydiving or cliff jumping or bar hopping or just go on a road trip to the middle of nowhere. I’ve seen pictures from back then. She looks so free, so unburdened. When Mom had kids that part of her life took a decline, and when my dad left it ended completely. No more time for spontaneity. No more opportunity for it either. Now she’s only a remnant of the woman she used to be, but she still manages to give off the same warmth. 

I know she has a lot on her plate, so I try to stay out of her way most of the time. I do my best to be self-sufficient and try not to cause her too much worry. 

I wish I could be more like she was, when she was a kid. I find it hard to even leave the house without planning it a day in advance. She would board a plane and fly to Italy without a second thought. My life consists of the same thing everyday, no changes, no excitement. Is it because I made it that way or is it the way it was made for me?

I say no, like I always say no. Not because I don’t want to accept her hospitality, but because I don’t want to add to her plate of things to do. 

Nor do I want to partake in this mess we call a home life.

I grab a banana from a bowl on the table and sit on the opposite side of Bri. I look down at the egg she’s using to decorate the table. She stares at me challengingly. 

I take a bite of my banana.

Adalyn and Asher’s voices rise. Someone hit someone else a little too hard. 

Bri glares at me harder, increasing her pressure on the eggs.

Asher screams.

The banana feels tough in my throat.

The sizzling of the bacon rises.

Bri smooshes her eggs.

Adalyn yells.

My head hurts.

The scent of bacon gets thicker.

My heart picks up pace.

A cry.

A scolding.

A challenge.

A throbbing.

A yell.

I get out of my chair and go back upstairs.

My room is safe. In my room I don’t have to worry about screaming children or a messy home. The only things I have to worry about in my room are the things I create myself. Still challenging, but at least here I have a sense of control.

My headache lessens and my heart slows to its normal pace.

This house is like a prison. Everyday it feels like it’s closing in on me, tightening it’s hold on my life. There’s nowhere to go, no escape. It just drives me deeper and deeper into my own brain. 

I’m sitting on the floor. I’ve found that sitting in places where one wouldn’t normally sit when there are chairs available, is calming. It gives me a fake sense of personality.

Looking up I examine the face looking back at me in the mirror. I inherited my mother’s thick blond hair. It falls past my shoulders in ringlets. Needing something to do, I part my hair and braid it into two plaits. 

Full lips. Brown eyes. A freckled face.  Heavy brows. A pointed nose. Thick lashes. 

This is who I see in the mirror. It’s me. This is the body which my mind, my soul, my essence is encaptured. An infinity of possibilities, an infinity of features and these are the ones I’ve been graced with. An whole wide universe to choose from and this is where my soul settles. 

Oh look there’s the existential crisis. In almost record time.

I sigh and fall back onto the carpet. Stare up at the ceiling. The quiet is nice.

A crash sounds from downstairs. More yelling.

A sudden urge strikes me. Like my chest will explode if I don’t do what it says. 

I need to get out of this house.

I pull on my shoes from my closet and jog downstairs.

“I’m going to go on a walk,” I call to Mom.

She’s busy trying to talk Bri into eating some fruit with her eggs. She doesn’t hear me. I stand in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t see Adalyn, but Asher is sitting on the couch, looking very upset about the book he’s most likely being forced to read. No one sees me.

I’m used to being invisible.  As soon as the first attempt to be seen goes unnoticed, all of the others just melt away. 

I go out the front door, not bothering to take my phone with me. I don’t have to worry about getting texts. I was never really one for making friends anyways. Whenever I did find people to hang out with it always felt superficial, like they were just pretending to tolerate my company. Besides, I could never find the right thing to say. My mind wouldn’t go with the flow of their conversation, it would pick at each word, each voice inflection, each micro-expression. Trying to decipher the hidden meaning in every one of their simple sentences. 

When I was 14 I had a friend named Blake. She was my first real friend. We had met at school when she said something funny in history and I laughed. She turned around and smiled at me and I smiled back. We exchanged numbers and then every night we would text for hours. We talked about school and the teachers we hated. She talked about the boys she had crushes on and I told her why they weren’t good enough for her. We traded music suggestions and talked about how Sherlock deserved a fifth season. 

I would lay on my side in bed and smile in the glow of my phone screen. It was the best feeling in the world.

But then the spaces between her texts got longer. And I started to realize that the only nights we talked were the nights where I texted her. And then that feeling started to melt, to harden in my stomach. I worried that she felt obligated to text me back. What if she didn’t actually want to text me, and only did because she felt like she had to?

So I stopped texting her, and I waited for her to text me. 

And the text never came.

A couple times after that she would say something like “Hey we haven’t talked in so long!” and I would reply “omg what’s up?” But it was just that. An obligation. She had gotten bored of me and after a while I began to wonder why it hadn’t happened sooner.

My feet slap against the hot concrete as I walk away from home. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but it feels good to go. I keep walking until I find myself at the edge of the sidewalk. Trees, tall and proud, loom over me. 

I step into their embrace. In the trees the air feels cooler and the light is muted. Sun shines in through gaps in the leaves, trickling over the stones and the roots. I go deeper into the woods and I feel the pressure in my head drop with each step. The world seems to sparkle and I find solace in the quiet beauty of it all. This is a place untarnished by whatever messes us humans decide to create. 

Eventually, I find what would become my refuge. It was a large pile of  massive stone blocks, shaped so that if there was a fourth side it would have been a square. But the fourth side must have fallen out, must have given way to nature, because all that remains are a few scattered blocks leading up to the top.

I like to think that it was once part of a grand castle, and that this structure was all that remained from that era we’ve romanticized so. But I live in the United States so that’s unlikely. I don’t know why it was built, or what it was meant to be, but now it stands in solitary, unbothered by whatever expectations were once put onto it.

Excited, I move towards the stones. It stands over four times taller than me, but still I climb. I crawl over the blocks and pull myself up until I stand at the top of the ruins. My heart clenches as I look down, but it’s not a completely bad thing. It’s… exhilarating. For the first time in a while I’m not stuck inside my own head. The thoughts that normally ping ponged around in my head had flown out. My mind was clear.

It was amazing. 

I felt like I was alone, sitting on an island of time just waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I didn’t mind the rest. I laid down across the stones and looked up at the sky. It was framed by the trees, a perfect little viewing spot just for me. 

I laid there for a long time. Watched as the clouds raced across the sky, eventually moving out entirely and leaving the sky open for the stars. It’s so funny how when we think of stars we think of tiny little dots sprinkled across the heavens, while in reality stars are massive, flaming orbs of heat and gas, so big we can’t even comprehend how big they really are. The sun is the closest star to Earth and we are so used to it that its mass settles slightly better in our tiny brains. But if you think, if you truly think about how immense stars, the galaxy, the universe is… Our brains aren’t big enough. 

Proxima Centauri

Proxima Centauri is the closest star to our sun. It is a small, low mass star and is a member of the Alpha Centauri system. It is located 4.244 light-years away from the Sun in the southern constellation of Centaurus. This means that even if traveling at the speed of light was possible, it would still take 4.244 years to reach the star.

The second closest star in the entire universe, and at the height of technology right now it would take 73,000 years to get there. An amount of time past comprehension. We think that time is something we observe, but time will continue long after everything else is gone. The only thing we do is give time a little more meaning, a little more use. Time goes and goes and goes and goes every if there’s no one and nothing to observe it.

I don’t know how much time I spent laying on those ruins, but eventually I stood up, climbed down, and walked home. 

Quietly pushing open the door I stepped inside. It’s moments like this I don’t mind being at home. When the house is silent everything seems a bit more bearable. The shadows give everything mystery, making each step a small adventure.

I tiptoe upstairs, making sure to step over that one stair that always groans. I peek into Mom’s room. 

She’s asleep, sprawled out across the bed. She had probably thought that I was just in my room all day. I couldn’t blame her. It wouldn’t have been off brand. 

There’s just a small part of me that wishes she would have stayed up so that we could have talked without the commotion of my siblings wrecking the house. But it’s unreasonable, it’s late and she’s tired. 

I’m tired too. Closing the door to my room I fall onto my bed. My head is still clear from my little adventure.

It was a pretty good day.

[timelordthirteen]

Killing Time 12/?

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Flashback: A bad day and an even worse decision.

Notes: So, I'm sorry. This kinda sucks, but here we are. This is for the amazing @thatravenclawbitch on the occasion of her birthday. Love you, babe. For the Writer's Month prompt #22: summer.

Warnings: Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags. No additional warnings for this chapter.

[AO3]  Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

1 week ago...

The revelation that there were two killers had been confirmed once the shoe print evidence had been reexamined. They’d spent the better part of the last week trying to track down Nick Branson’s connections and coming up dry every time. The summer heat wasn’t helping either, and the old building’s air conditioning had been on the fritz for the last two days. It had gotten so warm in her office that she gave up on her usual layers and was down to a silky cream colored camisole, her gray skirt, and no stockings.

Weaver had been in a mood all day, snipping and snarking at every other thing she said. They couldn’t agree on what to do next, and the frustration of the case and the lack of acknowledgement of what had happened between them boiled over. They’d had a pointless fight over the dry erase markers and the layout of the board now that they had two suspects, after which she’d stormed out of the office.

A few minutes later, when she came back in, he’d rearranged the board. That had been her tipping point.

“What the hell?” She pushed him aside and scowled at the board. “This isn’t going to make any sense.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “This is how I always do it.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “Whatever, fine, you do the fucking board.”

He rolled his eyes and threw the marker down on the table. “What is this really about?”

Belle spun on her heel, folding her arms over her chest. “What the hell does that mean?”

His eyebrows lifted. “You’re not seriously mad about the fucking colors of the markers and the way I’m taping paper to a whiteboard. So what is it?”

“I’m just -” She paused and huffed. “I’m just so fucking tired of you having to be right. I’m the one that figured out the shoe prints were different, and you’ve been acting like a huge dick since then. Are you pissed that I noticed it and you didn’t?”

Weaver let out a short laugh, and shook his head. “Why would I care who figured out what?”

“I don’t know, Ian!” She said, spreading her arms to either side before letting them fall to her sides. “I don’t - I don’t know what the hell this is. What are we doing here? You’ve been a jerk all day, and you won’t just fucking talk to me.”

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back for a moment. “I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” she asked. “Were you going to tell me about your visit to Branson’s ex-girlfriend yesterday? Or how you threatened her to try to get information? Because I don’t remember you saying anything about that.”

He sighed and ran his hands over his face. “I didn’t threaten her -”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Right. I’m sure you were a perfect gentleman and that’s why she called the station to tell Graham that she didn’t know anything and not to send ‘that asshole cop back here again’?”

“Why do you care how I get the information?” he asked, the volume of his voice increasing. He shook his head and took a few steps towards her.

“Because someone needs to protect you from yourself!”

“Why?” Weaver could feel his entire body tense. He moved forward again, and she backed away, shuffling until she collided with the wall beside the sofa.

“Why?” she repeated, clearly as angry with him as he was with her. She wasn’t unsure if she was more annoyed that he wasn’t denying it, or that he seemed to think it was no big deal. “Because you -” She stopped and shoved roughly at his chest, “keep trying to commit career suicide. Because you’re better than that. Because you’re - a - a friend - and I don’t want -“

Her words were cut off when he lunged forward and put his hand around her neck, applying just enough pressure to get her attention. She froze, but she didn’t try to pull away or knee him. Instead she just stared up at him with those big blue eyes, her pupils so dilated he could barely see the color around the rim. Her throat flexed as she swallowed, and he could feel everything tighten between them, the air heavy and thick.

He pressed close and put his mouth close to her ear. “We’re not friends, and you fucking know it.”

She licked her lips, and his eyes trailed down, watching as her breasts rose and fell in short little breaths. Her nipples hardened against the silk of her camisole in spite of the heat of the room, and her back arched slightly. There was something incredibly erotic about the feel of her skin against the pads of his fingers, about a hold meant for violence and pain causing arousal and pleasure.

Her head tipped up. “What are you going to do?”

“Tell me to stop,” he said, the same as he had done just a little while ago when they were in a similar situation and about to make a huge mistake. His hand slid down over her chest to cup her breast, squeezing gently.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding far more certain than she felt. She knew this was wrong, but for some reason she’d decided she didn’t care. She inhaled on a sharp breath, her hands fumbling for his belt.

He leaned forward with every intention of kissing her, but instead he just brushed his lips over hers teasingly, until she pushed off the wall, straining for him even as she tried to work his jeans open. When he finally pressed his lips to hers it was wet and rough, a kiss that ravaged as much as anything. She whimpered into his mouth, her body pressing into his touch. He played with her while he kissed her, running his knuckles over her aching nipples.

Belle broke the kiss and gasped, and he pushed his leg between hers. She nearly sobbed at the friction as she moved against him, his jeans rough against the thin, damp material covering her pussy. Her arousal soaked through onto the denim, the two fabrics sliding over each other, rubbing her clit just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against her skin. He nipped and licked at her neck, his left hand still playing with her nipple while the other slipped into her hair. “Come for me. Come before I even get my cock in you.”

Then he pinched her nipple hard, sending a shock of pain and pleasure running through her. She cried out and then bit her lip as the tension broke suddenly.

“Ian -” she managed, unable to string any more words together after that while her cunt contracted and her hips rolled against his leg, riding out her pleasure.

She hadn’t quite come down from her high when he moved his leg, and she nearly cursed him. Before she got the chance he was reaching beneath her skirt. His fingers found the sodden material and cupped her. “Fucking Christ, Belle.”

Belle looked down and could see the wet spot on his jeans as he took hold of her underwear and pulled hard. The sound and feeling of the fabric ripping was lost in her gasp. His hand ran up her thigh to feel the heat of her, and slipped his fingers in where she was already wet and aching. She reached out and grabbed at his shirt, wishing she could touch more of him, missing the feeling of his skin beneath her hands.

Weaver drove one finger hard into her pussy, pushing deep and pulling out a cry of pleasure. She lifted one leg to his hip, trying to get closer, get more.

“Ian,” she begged.

He added another finger, stretching her, and she immediately began riding them, her hips to match his bruising pace.

“Is this what you want?” he asked. “Hard and rough?”

Her teeth sunk into her lip and she managed a ragged, “Yes.”

She was so close to coming again, her body already desperate for it. Her nails dug into his shirt, pulling at the fabric. She wished she could give him the same pleasure he was giving her.

“Please,” she gasped.

He smirked and nipped at her earlobe. “Please what?”

His fingers left her, and she keened, the peak she was so close to falling over fading with every second. She hated that she was this easy, that he knew how to push every single one of her buttons and get what he wanted. And that he knew she wanted it too. “Fuck me.”

Weaver fumbled with the buckle of his belt and the zip on his jeans, managing to free his cock. She looked down at his erection, bobbing obscenely between them. Her hand wrapped around him, her grip loose and almost teasing as she moved up and down his length. Every grunt and curse was music to her ears, and when she brushed her thumb over the head of his cock, he jerked in her hand. Her pussy throbbed as she recalled the feeling of it inside her.

“Belle - fuck -” He swore as she let go of him, and took a moment to catch his breath.

He wanted her naked, wanted the warmth of her skin and the soft press of her curves. He wanted nothing between them, but instead there was everything. Clothes, hurtful words, and too much time.

Weaver bent and hooked his hands beneath her knees, lifting her up off the ground. She let out a surprised little noise, and he pushed her back against the wall, pinning her with his body. Her hand reached down to take him in hand.

He swore again, and she leaned her head forward to kiss him as he slid into her with one long, hard thrust. She bit his lip and cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he pounded into her. Their movements made a soft thud against the wall, and she prayed that the late hour meant everyone had gone home. He pressed his mouth to the base of her neck, sucking hard on her skin, using his teeth and tongue to scrape and soothe.

One of her hands began tugging at the short strands of his hair, and he felt the first flutters of her cunt around him.He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, but he didn’t want to stop, couldn’t imagine ever doing anything but sliding in and out of Belle’s hot, wet cunt while she begged him to give her more.

“You feel so fucking good around my cock,” he said, burying his face against her neck. “Wanna feel you come again.”

Her only response was a strangled cry and a jut of her hips. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and with the other hand he reached between them to find her clit, hard and slick with her juices. His fingers rubbed across it, and she swore loudly, bucking against him as he flicked the swollen nub.

Belle was about to lose all control, his fingers almost bruising everywhere they touched, his cock bottoming out inside her. She gripped the back of his neck, her blunt nails digging in, and she thought about what she used to do his back when they were like this, the sting of his hand on her ass, and how they left each other with marks for days.

She came hard and fast on his cock, her shout of pleasure cut off as her breath left her, liquid dripping down her legs as he pulsed inside her. Her head fell against his chest, and she swallowed hard between pants.

None of this was right.

Fuck.

She’d done it again, and suddenly the pleasure that had been coursing through her made her feel sick. Her stomach dropped and she pushed against him, forcing him to let her down. She tried to breathe slowly through her nose, in and out. This was how it had happened before, this was how she’d gotten pregnant and made everything fall apart. They fought and they fucked and they broke.

“Belle, don’t do this -” He bent to pull up his jeans, and then reached for her.

“No,” she said, turning away from him.

Weaver caught her arm and yanked her to him. “Stop walking away from me!”

“Let go!” She pulled back, but he refused to give, his fingers digging into her arm until she hissed. “I can’t - I can’t do this Ian.”

He dropped his hand, and stepped back, the disgust on her face a clear enough message. “You’ve already done this. Twice.”

She opened her mouth to try to explain, but he cut her off with a shake of his head. “Don’t bother.”

He stepped passed her, and she whirled around, slapping her palm against his shoulder in anger. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

Weaver stopped at the door to the office, and turned slowly. His eyes were dark and hard, and she swallowed.

“Why?” he snapped. “It’s all you’ve ever done to me.”

The door shut behind him, and her eyes closed as she dropped to the floor, her palm catching the sob when it left her throat.

[brunhiddensmusings]

avada kedavra is dumb

i know many a time ive critisized harry potter, and for the most part i try to keep it indirect as i understand that its a very important part of many peoples childhood and the bulk of the problems are sub-par writing based but this one is mechanicahal as well as sub-par writing and the last few days its really stuck in my craw so i want to not just complain why its bad but also pitch ways to improve it or replace it with better options many of you may have heard the argument that avada kedavra is basically handing any and all wizards who want to cast it a gun, with infinite bullets and no real restrictions. thats pretty on point, you cast gun, and by handing wizards a gun you then remove any reason a ‘badguy’ wizard would cast literally anything else ever, and by making it accessable to 12 year olds you really do establish ‘anyone can cast this infinite times’ and even have a scene where someone rapid fire casts it seven times because they keep missing now as someone who cares about writing, well designed worldbuilding, setting balance, and has experience with magic systems in better written content this just really sticks out as a hundred or so ways to improve on this option 1, nerfing. render the spell limited - single most obvious one, dont allow 12 year olds to cast it. not ‘allow’ as in ‘forbidden’ because that stops nothing in this setting. say its too complex, too draining, chance of catastrophic failure is too high, and just takes up too much raw power untill you hit college age not middleschool age - to cast it you must have a fairly uncommon material component that is consumed in the casting, for example a specially prepared vulture feather, you are unlikely to have more then a few of them on your person, theyre expensive, and some wizard equivalent of stores keeping a record of who just bought thirty vulture feathers if the cops start asking around - to cast it you need an ILLEGAL material component, like the finger bone of a dead human, possibly specifically a human who was murdered or was a murderer. very not sold in stores, youd have to grab a shovel and go find one, and if you are found in possession of one you are brought before the wizard police and thrown in a more sane version of wizard jail (the wizard justice system is pretty badly run) for at least a year for possession of a spell component only used to kill - to cast it actively shortens your life, by at least one year, possibly as much as five years. you feel it like a hammer or a wraith’s grasp - to cast it drains your lifeforce. casting it once makes you feel like a zombie was fondling your whole body and you are winded, casting it again will probably leave you prone on the ground unless you rest for a day or three first - to cast it makes your arm numb and tingly, technically you could cast it again but high failure/miss chance as your casting arm is near-useless as well as hindering any OTHER spellcasting for fifteen minutes to a half hour - casting it without severely damaging yourself requires you to have studied for at least two or three years under a death wizard teacher and undergone a harrowing and hazardous initiation ceremony... seriously why wasnt this one used, you even had a cabal of asshole wizards, give them a POINT option 2, adding other, better options for wizards who are in combat, evil or good, that also add variety to writing and world building beyond ‘i cast gun’ - throw a glass flask of water on the ground as you cast this spell, the water inside grows to a volume of about 50 gallons and animates, able to slam or grasp a target - tingle, the targets whole body spazms like they just hit their funnybone, rendering them unable to escape, cast spells, or in any way defend themselves for roughly a full minute. only severe concentration allows you to even keep walking - throw a spool of thread as you cast a spell that makes the thread grow to be the thickness of rope you would normally see at a hardware store marketed for mooring boats, the caster must concentrate to command the rope what to do such as ensnare legs, tie down a person, create a safety net, construct a rope bridge, a hasty tripwire at ankle or neck height, rescue someone who fell off a boat, or setup a crude hoist- if you arent a succer for non-combat uses of combat based spells why are you even working with a magic setting - suck the air out of a three foot sphere, originally used to snuff large and dangerous fires it can also be targeted on someones head/chest to force them to gasp from lack of breath. normal casters can only stun, not kill, the five seconds of effect will leave someone on their knees for nearly a minute to recover. a seriously overpowered wizard can kill you airbender style like this - temporarily turn the floor to soft, wet mud untill the targets feet are stuck, then harden it back. possibly limit to ‘only natural dirt/stone’ - spell that shrinks targets clothes, also strengthens them, to restrict movement. it strenghtens because if the clothes ripped they wouldnt do much to stop someone from running or swinging their arms - spell that does nothing but instantly lock targets shoes flat to the floor - sleep. seriously you could very easily have so much use from jsut ‘power word sleep’ that puts someone out for an hour - spell that forces someone to do a silly dance, perhaps the macarena (imply this is a very old spell from the byzantine era, the actual maccarena is a weird coincidence) again rendering them unable to run or cast spells - spell that causes your target to be unaffected by gravity, they float there helplessly a foot off the ground unable to do anything. duration of spell when not dismissed is about a week - spell that causes target to have debilitating cramps making almost anything difficult gee, look how many combat based spells you could use instead of ‘i cast gun’ that your ‘badguys’ can use to harass the ‘good guys’ and that the protagonists can use to defeat the villians without, you know, just handing 12 year olds ‘power word kill’ and assuming they have 15 level 9 spell slots. many of these have much more flavor, many of them have much more situational use and quick thinking options to defend against, many of them might fit the tone you are going for better then fire bolts, death rays, or ‘turn opponent into a pig’..... okay adding ‘turn opponent into small animal’ to the list seriously, i have beef with a setting that says ‘theres so many crazy things we can do with magic’ and then kneecapping themselves with ‘wizards only know four spells theyll ever use outside of class’

[mullersturtleneck]

Sticking with the Schuylers (37)

I’m still not fully back from NYC yet and I’m not sure I’ll ever be-my life is about to become a constant loop of planning trips-but I did manage to find some sense in this part so I’ll celebrate that!

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   1112   I  13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I  19   20   21   22   23   24   25  26   27  28   29   I  30  31  32 33 34 35  36

Tagging: @ellzabethschuyler, @butlinislin

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

December 25th

For once, I want to live;

To feel the breath of air,

A sense of anticipation accompanying each adventure

As if every day is new and exciting

The days are new and exciting

For once, I want to live.

I see the sun and she is mine; wrapped in a warmth that stretches out with the call of my name through gloss-dusted lips.

The errant patterns of weather suffocate my sun.

The shadow her brilliance in malicious streams of fog.

The black smoke billows in bouts of days where she sits on borrowed time,

Before everything reverts to the shadows again.

A hurricane.

She lives in the midst of a wild storm, ripping the peace and the bliss and the place we once knew;

Jersey sheets. Borrowed time. The silk of her laughter finer than the red she had torn off in hunger.

A hurricane.

It consumes me as it had my hopes-my dreams-my town-

My mother.

The darkness which consumes her rolls steadily toward me, hot and taunting, reminding.

I could not save my town.

I could not save my mother.

I can not save Eliza.

A hurricane;

Darkness, doubt, depression. She is my sunshine.

I do not want to live.

…

There is a silence unlike any other, one which suffocates and consumes and envelops Alexander in a darkness he hadn’t realized the room had been cast in all along. The running of the shower sends static through his mind-eyes clouding over the same spot he had been staring at with a grainy fuzz and the whirring of technical issues. He can still feel her, if he tries. Closing his eyes she is there beside him, laughing through half-closed eyes and a dream-thick voice. Maybe she is on her side, letting his body frame hers in a comfort their tired bodies need. But then, that wouldn’t be Eliza. She would be on top of him, limbs stretched over limbs and hands pulling at the blankets. She’d kick him a few times after she’d fallen asleep. Maybe, in the midst of a dream, she’d bump the pillows from their bed. Alexander wouldn’t mind. He’s hers. She could give him a black eye in her sleep-induced flailing of limbs and he’d wear it proudly the next day.

               He doesn’t see her go-his eyes are unfocused and blurry, mind devoid of any possibility of a coherent thought.  He’s not sure what time it is when he finally blinks, realizes that the static has gone and the room is an echo of his heartbeat and his shaking hands. Alexander rises from the bed, rubbing his eyes and pulling on a pair of boxers from his drawer. The red of her dress stands out against the darkness cast around the room like a target, an attack. He holds the silk in both hands, hanging it back on the hanger over their closet door. It would have gotten wrinkled. It can’t be wrinkled.

               From his place by the closet door he can’t hear anything. The creaking of the apartment floors, the running of the tap…his ears ache for the sound of her symphonic soprano humming along to whatever song had been stuck in her head all day. He is met with silence. Alexander crosses the apartment, searching. And then, there’s a plate.

               On the counter, one of the square white dinner plates sits full and waiting for him. There’s leftovers wrapped neatly in plastic, alongside the plate of extra treats she had baked for the parties they’d been to. And hidden between them, a note;

Alexander,

               I love you. I’ll be home tomorrow. There are so many things I wish I could say to you, but my head isn’t clear and I just need some space to breathe. You are wonderful. You are so good. I won’t blame you if you aren’t here when I get back. I understand. But it’s not you-it could never be you. I need to put my feelings into words but just know that I have never loved anybody more than I love you.

               I love you,

Eliza

               He holds the paper in his hand. Her handwriting is shaky, and the pen had run out half way through where she had scratched the sides of the paper with it. He isn’t sure what he has just read, can barely decipher the words though the fog that has consumed him. He reaches for his phone and dials, the ringing drawing itself out like the long bow of a violin brushing against its strings.

               “Hello?” Alexander can hear the voice on the other side; groggy, clearing their throat. He opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes out. His voice is broken. Cobwebs barricade the vocalization of his thoughts so instead they appear as ragged breathing. His limbs are numb. His head is spinning.           The voice on the other side repeats itself-clearer, more confused. It articulates his name with rising volume and he chokes out a sound in response. There are no words. Somewhere between the lump in his throat and his ragged breathing he squeaks. The voice intensifies.

               “Alex?” It’s John-he’d dialed the number so surely, so out of his own head, that it didn’t bring about much shock upon deciphering it. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

               “It’s happening again.” A bristling of nerves hits like a water balloon exploding against bare skin. Sharp and pricking, it then fades into a pain that lingers and spreads throughout his entire body. He wants to move. He can’t move. Fear consumes his ability to form a coherent decision. The grasp Alexander has on reality is slipping through his panic-stricken fingers.

               “I need you to come right now.”

               “I’m on my way.” John’s response is immediate, through a voice hardened by concern and a knowledge of past experiences. He asks no questions-he’s smarter than that now, knows the pressure a string of inquiries can send. Instead, he launches into a story about his night. Emily had burnt the desserts. Luis and Sarah were fighting. Amaia had gotten everyone sweatshirts with the hospital logo on them. A typical collision of family drama hits Alex in waves as he stands shock still in the kitchen, letting John’s voice ground his feet on cold hardwood. The singular candle is still burning. He watches the flame flicker, flashes of orange and yellow melded together in a hesitant sort of form. Having lost its intended aesthetic it is only a muted reminder of what had happened just moments before.

               There is only silence when John finally arrives, out of breath with snow-soaked shoes. He pounds on the door, ignoring the time of night and the ritzy neighbors and anything else that doesn’t involve getting to the other side of the door.

               “Let me in, Alex. Come unlock the door and let me in. We can talk-or not, that’s fine too. I mean knowing you there will be talking involved, but,”

               The lock clicks and John pushes the door open with a heavy hand. His eyes search the apartment rapidly until they settle on the sunken frame standing on unsteady feet at the kitchen counter.

               Alexander is dressed only in his boxers, with hair standing in all directions. The muscles in his back press clear against his skin along with the lines of his shoulder blades. He is leaning on the counter, on arms bent at the elbow clearly supporting most of his weight. John calls his name but there is no response, verbal or physical. It is as if he is not even there. He crosses the apartment in two even strides, appearing to Alex as an apparition-a reminder of the light wrapped in the reason of darkness.

               He is both elated and upset upon John’s hand patting his back. His voice is clear, and soft, but it is not silk. He is calm without meditation, half a symphony. There is a thankfulness in his sunken eyes but the smile he attempts to show cracks at the corner of his mouth. It is unfamiliar, and immediately paining.

               “She left.” They’re the only words he can muster. John follows the trail of his eyes to a candle set on the counter, its flame quivering with the deep exhalation of Alex’s breath. He lets the silence linger, treading on the situation with trained trepidation. With a shaking hand Alex reaches for a paper folded haphazardly and discarded on the counter. When it lands in John’s hands Alex leans further into the counter, resting his head on its chilled marble surface.

               John looks over the writing with care; the loop of her letters, the way her words would have been narrated in her smooth and nurturing tone. He understands the situation in pieces, but is unable to fit them together without the clues that lie between the lines. What had happened to cause Eliza to up and go-and on Christmas? Alex is destroyed, deflated. Through the muffled tone of his head against his arm, John just barely makes out the thickness of his voice.

               “What if she never comes back?”

                  She climbs shivering into the cab. It had taken three tries to bring one over to her spot on the curb, and Eliza felt the ends of her dripping hair beginning to freeze from the cold it’s enduring. The driver nods at her as she climbs in, but says nothing as she directs him just a few blocks away. She’s unsure of just how she looks, but she can imagine; her hair is wild and dampened against her head. The thick coating of makeup she’d put on is almost all but washed off, save the tints of red that linger still after the boiling of the shower. Her teeth are chattering. She’d practically run out of the apartment, throwing on Alexander’s sweatshirt and sweatpants. There is comfort in his scent. It doesn’t last long.

She’s sure she’s tipped the driver too much but she is so thankful to see her destination that she no longer cares. Hood up, Eliza’s feet carry her without conscious awareness the eight flights up, to a door she knocks on with weakened power. There is no answer. She pulls her phone from her pocket with shaking hands and dials.          

“Please let me in.”

“Eliza? What time is it? Are you-you’re here?”

“Just-I-just open the door.”

She is a flurry of limbs, colliding with Angelica in a force that has her stumbling, bracing herself on two feet as her younger sister grabs at the fabric of her shirt. Eliza’s body is pressed as physically close to hers as possible, and Angelica responds with a hold tight enough to stabilize her. She shakes. Her knees buckle beneath the sudden release of emotions and the older Schuyler leads her to the couch. It is too much to bear the load of the night standing up.

Angelica is a well-masked flurry of panic; an arm around her sister as her lips are drawn into a carefully crafted line. She searches Eliza immediately, eyes scanning the minimally exposed spaces of skin for clues-for signs of damage. There is not much to see besides the well-worn Columbia hoodie, drowning her body as her hands tuck into sleeves too long for her arms. Only the audible manifestations of grief are clear; Eliza has stopped attempting to conceal herself. The presence of her older sister is a chemical reaction, persisting and pushing her through the beginnings of catharsis.

She does not speak when she has caught her breath, nor when Angelica brings her a glass of water. She downs the liquid to replenish what her tears have taken. There are a few hiccups-catches of breath in her throat that have her older sister’s ears perked and ready to listen.

Angelica is met only with ringing. John emerges with her cellphone in his hand, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light. She takes it with a roll of her eyes, and at first he’s offended by it. Then, she gestures with a flick of her eyes to the couch. Eliza cradles the empty glass in her hand, a finger tracing its rim. Her lower lip quivers but she no longer cries. Her eyes are focused on the glass, even upon John’ entrance-as if he’s not even there. She is wrapped in the realm of her own thoughts.

Concern plows over John as he observes her. In his eight years with Angelica, he had also been blessed with eight years of Eliza. She was immediately accepting of him, moving dousing the nerves Angelica had set aflame with words of reassurance and love. He’d taken to her as an older brother would; flying to her defense by Angelica’s side at each turn of events that high school-that being a senator’s daughter-had brought along. To John Church Eliza is breath of air, a cheer when he’s down. She’s grace, and kindness, and support. Now, however, she is just empty.

He wonders what is going on but does not want to pry; to bother her more than she already seems to be. So he sits, leaving a thin line of space between them, and settles his hands in his lap.

“You had better have a good explanation for this, Hamilton. Because I swear to you if I find out you’re behind this? I’ll wring your fucking neck.” Angelica is practically screaming through the phone, anger audible through sharp diction and words in terse staccato. There’s a long pause-Eliza has lifted at the sound of the familiar last name but her eyes remain trained on the rim of her glass. It is both a hope and a shock of pain, settling her back down once more in a flurry of emotions. Angelica nods, running a hand through her hair as she glances over at her little sister.

“…I never meant to push her…I-I asked, I asked every time, and I just…it was amazing. And then she just…” He chokes back his words, the noise carrying a physical pain which slams into the oldest Schuyler with brute force, squeezing her heart. His words narrate the scene before her, in which Eliza has leaned into John with a prolonged sigh and closed eyes.

“I don’t know what to do…I don’t want…I can’t lose her.”

“Alex…”

“She’s there, right? She’s safe?” It takes a moment for Angelica to answer. The initial inquiry, the knowledge of where Eliza is…there is conflict. One side of herself is so thankful, so at peace with the thickness of Alex’s voice and the way his words slow with the thought of her. But then there is safety. She does not doubt Alex, but herself.  Above everything else, there is Eliza.

“Please.” Alex’s voice cracks, his sentence stopped mid-way by a ragged breath she can feel herself take in a mirror of his own. “I just need to know that she’s alright.”

“She’s safe. She’s here.” Eliza finally glances up from her glass to watch Angelica nod through shining eyes. When the conversation ends, after a few more words of appeasement, her older sister passes the phone from hand to hand, watching her own actions in a moment of rest.

“He says that he loves you.” She shakes her head as her own eyes fill with emotion-with the loss of serenity between two of her favorite people. “-and to take all of the time that you need.”

Eliza nods once, slow and methodical, as the words digest. They linger in her mind, even as Angelica and John lead her to the spare bedroom. Their voices murmur back and forth in a conversation she is unable to understand. Their words are a foreign language to her mind, which is numb and aching and unsure of what has happened. Suddenly she is laying on the futon, wrapped in a blanket with Angelica beside her. Her eyes search Eliza’s, one hand brought to the air-dried tendrils of soft brown which frame her face.

When they were children, Eliza often begged for these moments. There was an unspoken rule between them-all three of them-that came with Angelica’s open bedroom door. There is no trace to a beginning of this pattern, as if it had simply been written within their mismatched DNA. Her bed was a refuge; a place of serenity when the world seemed to close up around them. At three and six it had been thunderstorms; pudgy feet barreling across the hall and diving underneath colorful, ruffled sheets. There they’d lay pressed nose to nose, Angelica reciting make-believe stories as Eliza giggled along.

At twelve, nine, and six, Peggy was in the middle, always the first to sleep. Angelica told Eliza what it was like to be in middle school. She calmed worries with stories both embarrassing and bright, amplifying her own triumph in hopes of granting her sister some courage to face the new school. She had told her not to worry. Eliza never worried with her older sister around.

At seventeen and fourteen, when Peggy had been away at camp, Angelica had given Eliza the sex talk as they shared covers and pillows. She told honest stories; she and John had been in the Hampton’s guest house, their parents at a gala, Eliza with a friend at the pools. She made sure Eliza would be prepared.

“You don’t owe yourself to anybody.” She’d pushed soft strands of brown from her little sister’s face. Even then, the brush of Angelica’s hand against her cheek had been a relief. “You need to love yourself as much as you want somebody to love you.”

At twenty and twenty-three, Eliza and Angelica lay nose to nose in the futon in Angelica’s guest room. The walls are warm with a mocha colored brown, the sheets a soft cotton left made for whenever a sister would come to visit. Angelica runs her fingers through Eliza’s hair; watches as her sister takes shallow, evened breaths.

“He probably hates me.” She whispers the words though the dark, admitting them as a worry she’d rather keep hidden away. But under the covers with her sister the anxieties spill easily through the air between them.

“He doesn’t hate you. Alex could never hate you.”

“I would hate me.”

The words stab Angelica as they come so easily, so hushed and drawn back from her sister’s lips. Eliza’s eyes are red, and puffy. She holds back her tears with the swallow of a lump in her throat. She is hushed by a hand on her cheek; by blankets drawn further to her chin. Eliza sinks into the comfort, body numbed and drained of its last leg of life. Even here, in the serenity, she craves Alexander. Her body pulls to him, imagines that he might be there although she knows he will not come tonight. He respects her too much-she’d asked for this space. She needs this space, and yet his name is the thought on her mind as she relaxes into Angelica’s protective touch.

“I need help…I’m ready for help.” She breathes the admission as her eyes finally shut, succumbed to a sleep induced by exhaustion.

[atakportal]

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[shou7]

Translation: I Want to Eat Your Pancreas by Yoru Sumino (Chapter 9)

Synopsis

One day, I - a high schooler - found a paperback in the hospital. The “Disease Coexistence Journal” was its title. It was a diary that my classmate, Sakura Yamauchi, had written in secret. Inside, it was written that due to her pancreatic disease, her days were numbered. And thus, I coincidentally went from Just-a-Classmate to a Secret-Knowing-Classmate. It was as if I were being drawn to her, who was my polar opposite. However, the world presented the girl that was already suffering from an illness with an equally cruel reality…

The best-selling, award-winning debut work by Yoru Sumino: “Bestsellers 2016 (Overall) by NIPPAN” - 4th Place “Bestsellers 2016 (Paperback Fiction) by NIPPAN” - 1st Place “Bestsellers 2016 (Overall) by TOHAN” - 5th Place “Bestsellers 2016 (Literary Books) by TOHAN” - 1st Place “Bookstore Grand Prix 2016” - 2nd Place “DA VINCI BOOK OF THE YEAR 2015” - 2nd Place “Bestsellers 2015 (Literary Books) by TOHAN” - 6th Place As of January 2017, this book has sold over 720,000 copies.

Please buy the book to support the author. (amazon.com)

Download the complete volume in PDF format here, or in ePUB format here.

(Chapter Index)

　

I cried. And cried, and cried.

And finally.

When I stopped crying - not intentionally, but because I had no tears left in me - her mom was still seated before me, waiting.

I raised my head, and her mom held out a pale blue handkerchief. Timidly, I received the handkerchief, and still out of breath, I wiped away my tears.

“You can keep it. That’s Sakura’s handkerchief. If you held on to it, I’m sure that girl would be happy too.”

“…………Thank you ……Very much.”

I honestly expressed my gratitude, wiped my eyes and nose and mouth, and stowed the handkerchief in a pocket on my uniform.

I once more assumed the proper posture on the tatami. My eyes were now as red as those of her mom.

“Please excuse me…… For losing my composure……”

Her mom promptly shook her head.

“It’s alright, it’s only normal for children to cry. That girl also used to cry quite a lot. Because she’s always been a crybaby. But you know, around the time she met you, and began writing about the time she spent with you, that girl stopped crying. Not completely though. But still, thank you. Thanks to you, the time she got to live became precious to her.”

I held back the tears that threatened to flow again, and I shook my head.

“The one that received her precious time was me.”

“…………If that’s the case, you should come have a meal with our family sometime. That girl didn’t tell us about anything involving you after all.”

Facing her mom’s sorrowful smile, I wavered once more.

Giving in to my wavering self, I spoke to her mom a little about the memories that I’d shared with the girl. The things that hadn’t been written down in her diary - of course, our game of Truth or Dare, and how we slept on a bed together - I left out. Her mom gave me her undivided attention, nodding countlessly.

Talking about my memories of her made it feel as if my heart was getting lighter, little by little.

The happiness and sorrow that were precious to me remained as they were, but it felt like I was casting off unnecessary weight.

That was why I thought that it was for my sake that her mom was listening to me.

At the end of my story, I made a request to her mom.

“Could I someday come offer my prayers again?”

“Yes, of course. When that time comes, please come and meet my husband and son too. That’s right, together with Kyouko-chan…… Though it looks like you two don’t really get along.”

Exactly like the girl, her mom giggled.

“That appears to be the case, huh. Various things happened, and I came to be hated.”

“It’s not like I’m forcing it, but if possible, Kyouko-chan and you should come join our family for a meal someday. It’s out of gratitude too, but being able to get along too with the two people Sakura treasured would make Auntie happy.”

“That probably depends more on what she thinks than I do, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

After that, we exchanged a few words, and after I promised to come visit on a later date, I stood up. At her firm insistence, I was made to bring the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ home. The ten thousand yen my mother had made me bring had been declined.

Her mom saw me out to the entrance. I put on my shoes, said my thanks once more, and just when I put my hand on the door knob, I was called out to.

“That’s right, what was your first name?”

In response to her casual question, I properly turned around, and answered.

“It’s Haruki. My name is Haruki Shiga.”

“Ah, wasn’t there a novelist with that name?”

Once my surprise faded, I felt a smile creep across my mouth.

“Yes, though I don’t know which you may be referring to.”

I once again said my thanks, bade my farewell, and left the front door of the Yamauchi house.

The rain had stopped.

After dinner, I confined myself to my room, and while reading the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ once more, I began to think. For a third time, I ended up crying in the midst of reading, but I continued to think still.

What should I do from now on? I thought about what I could do for her sake, for her family’s sake, and for my own sake.

I, who had received the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’, thought about what I was able to do.

After much thought, I made my decision a little past 9 PM, and began taking action.

I retrieved a printout that I had left in my desk drawer, and took out my cellphone.

Looking at the printout, I dialled a number I’d never thought I would use in my life.

That night, I dreamt that I was talking with her, and I cried again.

I arrived at the designated café after noon.

Since I had arrived a little earlier than the appointed time, the other party had yet to show. I asked for an iced coffee and sat down on a vacant chair by the window.

I was able to come to the designated café without any hesitation. It was probably a coincidence, but it was the same place I had waited for her on that day, the day she died.

No, it might not have been a coincidence. I reconsidered while drinking my iced coffee. Surely, she must have been a regular here.

Just like on that day, I looked outside. Just like on that day, people holding onto different lives were passing by.

But unlike that day, the person I was supposed to meet properly arrived on time. I was glad. I was relieved. Besides the trauma from that time, I was also worried that I could have been stood up.

Wordlessly, Kyouko-san sat down on the chair at the other end, and at once glared at me with eyes that had become bright red.

“So I’ve come…… But………… What?”

I refused to be intimidated. Forcibly hardening my trembling heart, I met her gaze, and began opening my mouth.

However, I was cut off by Kyouko-san.

“Sakura’s funeral………… You…… Didn’t go.”

“…………”

“…………Why?”

“That’s…………”

Just as I found myself unable to answer, a loud sound reverberated throughout the store, and time within it stopped momentarily. It was the sound of Kyouko-san striking the table with her fist.

“…………Sorry……”

Just as time began moving inside the store, Kyouko-san lowered her eyes, and said so in a soft voice.

Once again, I opened my mouth to speak.

“Thank you for coming. This, must be the first time we’re properly speaking to each other.”

“…………”

“I have a matter to speak to you about, Kyouko-san, so I had you come here but, first, I wonder where I should start.”

“Just get to the point.”

“…………That’s right, sorry. I have something I want Kyouko-san to see.”

“…………”

Of course, the matter was about the girl. She alone was the only point of contact between me and Kyouko-san. After troubling over it yesterday, I had decided to speak with Kyouko-san.

Before I arrived, I had been thinking about how to broach the subject with Kyouko-san - whether to start with the relationship between me and the girl, or about the illness. In the end, I decided to simply let Kyouko-san see the truth first.

I took the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ out from my bag, and placed it on the table.

“This is, the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’.”

“…………Disease coexistence?”

I removed the dust jacket wrapped around the book, and showed it to her.

Right away, Kyouko-san’s eyes, her eyes that were hollow somewhere, opened wide. I thought that it was to be expected of her. I thought that it was enviable too.

“…………That’s……Sakura’s handwriting.”

“It is.”

With a distinct movement, I nodded.

“This was her book. As part of her will, I received it.”

“……Her will…………”

The matter I was about to speak of made both my heart and words excruciatingly heavy. But, I couldn’t let that stop me.

“The things written inside, are all real. They are neither part of her mischief, nor mine. This is, something like a diary she had written, and in its last pages, is a will addressed to Kyouko-san and me, among others.”

“……What…………are you saying?”

“She, was ill.”

“…………You’re, lying, I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

“She didn’t tell you.”

“…………And just why would you know something that even I don’t?”

That was what I had thought too. But I knew the reason for that now.

“She didn’t tell anyone other than me. She, had gotten wrapped up in an incident and passed away, but even if she hadn’t met with an incident, the truth is––” 

My words were cut off once more before I could finish. In their stead, a high-pitched sound pierced into my ear, and pain soon began to seep into my left cheek. Since I didn’t have any experience, it took a while for me to realise that the pain had come from the violent act of a slap.

With eyes that looked as if they were about to cry, Kyouko-san spoke like she were pleading.

“Just stop…………”

“I won’t stop. I have to tell Kyouko-san. She even wrote inside this book. That she treasured Kyouko-san the most. That’s why I want you to listen. She, was ill. Even if she hadn’t met with that incident, it had been determined that she would die after half a year. It’s not a lie.”

Kyouko-san weakly shook her head.

I held the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ out to Kyouko-san.

“Read it. That girl loved mischief, but, she absolutely wouldn’t make any jokes that would hurt you.”

Beyond that, I decided not to say anything more.

My worry that, just perhaps, she wouldn’t even read it, promptly dissolved when Kyouko-san reached her hand out after a short while. 

Cautiously, Kyouko-san grabbed hold of the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ and opened its pages.

“It really is, Sakura’s handwriting……”

“This is genuinely, something that she wrote.”

Kyouko-san, with her eyebrows still knitted, began slowly reading from the very first page. I, focused on waiting.

I had heard from the girl that had died. Kyouko-san too wasn’t the type of person to ordinarily read words in a printed format. So it took some time for Kyouko-san to progress through the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’. Of course, her speed of reading the book wasn’t the only factor influencing how much time was passing.

At first, with a look that said she couldn’t bring herself to believe it, Kyouko-san re-read the pages countless, countless times. “It’s a lie, it’s a lie,” she even recited. Following which, her heart probably connected with the girl’s somewhere. As if a switch had been flipped, she started to cry, and her speed of reading gradually grew even slower.

I didn’t start to feel impatient at all. Especially when Kyouko-san began to cry, I felt relieved that she had come to accept it. Because if she hadn’t accepted it, my being here today would have lost its meaning. Both conveying the girl’s will, as well as one other purpose.

Midway, I ordered my second glass of coffee. After some thought, I got a glass of orange juice for Kyouko-san too. Without saying anything, Kyouko-san drank just a sip.

While waiting, I didn’t think about the girl. Rather, I was thinking about what I could do with what I had received from her. It was a difficult task for me who had persisted with self-absorption till now. I continued thinking, and time passed right by.

By the time I realised it, the day was turning into night. In the end, I couldn’t think of anything concrete beyond what I had thought of yesterday. Things that people could normally do were difficult to me.

I looked at Kyouko-san; her face was sticky with tears and the pile of soggy tissues on the table had grown ever larger. Her fingers were sandwiched around right in the middle of the book, and she was about to close the book. I did the same thing the girl’s mom had done yesterday. “There’s, still more further ahead.”

Though Kyouko-san already looked like she was tired from crying, once she read the portion consisting of the girl’s will, this time she closed the book completely, and as if she weren’t aware of the other people around her, she started bawling loudly. I, watched over Kyouko-san. Just like the girl’s mom did for me yesterday, the entire time. Kyouko-san cried her name, countless, countless times. “Sakura, Sakura,” she continued to cry.

Kyouko-san continued to cry for even longer than I did yesterday, and when I looked at her, her eyes - still overflowing with tears - turned towards me. It was the same as always, a gaze like she couldn’t stand the very sight of me.

“…………Why…………”

Kyouko-san spoke with a voice that rattled in hoarseness.

“Why………… Didn’t she…… Tell me……”

“……That’s, because she-”

“It’s not Sakura! It’s you!”

Towards that angry voice that I hadn’t even anticipated, I lost the words I had wanted to respond with. With a gaze like she wanted to stab me to death, and had become all miry, Kyouko-san let loose her words.

“If she, if she had told me…… I would’ve spent so much………… So much, so much more time with her. I would’ve quit my club too, I would’ve even quit school! And be together, with Sakura……”

It was, about this, huh.

“…………I won’t forgive you. No matter how much Sakura liked you, treasured you, needed you - I, won’t forgive you.”

She, lowered her face again, and her tears began to fall onto the floor. Just a little, really just a little, I - the same me I was up till now - ended up thinking that even so, I wouldn’t mind. That even if I was hated, I wouldn’t mind. But I shook my head. No good. That’d be no good.

I began speaking to Kyouko-san, whose mind had been made up and whose head was hanging low.

“I’m sorry, but………… Even little by little is fine so, I’d like you to forgive me.”

Kyouko-san didn’t say anything. I pushed aside my nervousness, and somehow re-opened my mouth.

“And then………… If you don’t mind…… Someday…………………… I’d like-”

Kyouko-san, wasn’t looking at me.

“I’d like for you to be my friend.”

Because I used words that I had not once used in my life, both my throat and heart tensed up. I desperately worked to maintain my breathing. Because my own matters had left me desperate, I couldn’t afford to do something like make a guess at Kyouko-san’s mental state.

“…………”

“It’s not just because of her will. This is something I myself am choosing to do. I’d like to get along, with Kyouko-san. I want, us to get along.”

“…………”

“Is it, no good……”

I didn’t know any other means of asking beyond this. And so I turned quiet. Silence fell into the space between the two of us.

I had never been this nervous about someone’s answer before. With an extreme mental state in addition to such self-centeredness, I waited for a response from Kyouko-san, and after a while, still facing downwards, she shook her head several times, stood up for the first time in a few hours, and left without a glance in my direction.

Looking at Kyouko-san’s back, this time it was my turn to hang my head low.

So it was…… No good huh……

I thought that this was probably the price I had to pay. The price for not acknowledging people up till now.

“This is, difficult.”

I whispered so, alone. But I think I was actually saying it to that girl.

I placed the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ that had been left behind into my bag, and after clearing the mountain of trash the two of us had created, I once again headed outside where it had turned completely dark.

Just what should I do from now on? It felt like I had been trapped in a maze with no way out. If I were to look up, I could still see the sky. But even though I knew there was an exit, I couldn’t find it.

“What a troublesome problem,” I thought. Everyone who solved such problems on a daily basis was amazing.

I got on my bicycle, and starting riding home.

Summer vacation was about to end soon.

It seemed like it would be impossible to complete my homework before summer vacation came to an end.

　

(Previous chapter) (Next chapter)

[siva3155]

50-100 TOP AUTOMOBILE ENGINEERING Multiple Choice Questions and Answers for Competitive Exams - Preparation for GATE Exams

1. The radiator tubes are manufactured by using a. Cast iron tubes b. Aluminum tubes c. Brass tubes d .Steel tubes Ans: c 2. If we know the engine speed, bore, stroke, number of cylinders and m.e.p in the cylinders, we can calculate a. FHP b. IHP c. BHP Ans: b 3. Knowing the IHP and FHP of an engine, we can calculate a. Compression ratio b. rpm c. SAF d. BHP Ans: d 4. Which one of the following is not a trade name of tractor in India a. Kirloskar b. Escort c. Standard d. HMT Ans: c 5. The ratio between the power output of an engine and the energy in the fuel burned to produce that power is called a. Volumetric efficiency b. Thermal efficiency c. Mechanical efficiency Ans: b 6. The air volume in the cylinder with the piston at B.D.C divided by the clearance volume is called a. Compression ratio b. Piston displacement c. Cylinder ratio Ans: a 7. The power used in overcoming friction in the engine is called a. BHP b. IHP c. FHP Ans: c 8. The average pressure during the power stroke minus the average pressure during the intake, compression and exhaust strokes is called a. IHP b. Compression ratio c. BHP d. m.e.p Ans: d 9. IHP minus FHP equals a. BHP b. SAF HP c. m.e.p Ans: a 10. Engine torque is highest at a. High speed b. Low speed c. Intermediate speed Ans: c 11. BHP divided by IHP is a. Thermal efficiency b. Mechanical efficiency c. Volumetric efficiency Ans: b 12. The percentage of the energy in the petrol burnt in the engine which is actually utilized in propelling the car is as little as a. 25% b. 60% b. 35% d. 15% Ans: a 13. In the diesel engine, the compression ratio is as high as a. 10:1 b. 15:1 c. 5:1 Ans: b 14. The device for smoothing out the power impulses from the engine is called the a. Flywheel b. Camshaft c. Crankshaft d. Clutch Ans: a 15. The amount of air fuel mixture taken in by the engine on the suction stroke is a measure of the engine's a. Compression ratio b. Volumetric efficiency c. Clearance volume Ans: b 16. The size of an engine cylinder is referred to in terms of its a. Diameter and bore b. Bore and length c. Bore and stroke Ans: c 17. In an operating engine, the hottest part of the piston is the a. Head b. Ring grooves c. Skirt d. Pin bosses Ans: a 18. In normal operation the part of the exhaust valve that gets the hottest is a. Face b. Middle of Stem c. Centre of head d. Edge of margin Ans: c 19. The power developed inside the engine cylinder is called a. IHP b. FHP c. BHP Ans: a 20. The ratio of the cylinder volume at BDC and the clearance volume is called a. Clearance ratio b. Volumetric ratio c. Compression ratio Ans: c 21. As a rule when comparing the front and rear wheel cylinder pistons, it will be found that the pistons in the front wheel cylinders are a. The same size b. Larger in diameter c. Smaller in diameter Ans: b 22. Twisting and untwisting of the crankshaft is called a. Torsional vibration b. Power impulsion c. Torsional balance Ans: a 23. The rotating effect of the connecting rod on the connecting rod bearing produces a. Pressure load b. Inertia load c. Centrifugal load Ans: c 24. Important bearing characteristics include a. Embeddability, compression and fatigue b. Exbeddability, conformability and fatigue resistance Ans: b 25. In the engine there must be relative motion between the piston and the connecting rod a. Atmospheric pressure, inertia and torsional vibration b. Centrifugal force, inertia and combustion pressure c. Inertia, engine speed and centrifugal force Ans: b 26. Two of the three connecting rod bearing loads that increase as engine speeds increase are a. Centrifugal and inertia loads b. Torsional and pressure loads c. Pressure and inertia loads d. Pressure and centrifugal loads Ans: a 27. When different forces act at angles on connecting rod bearing, the combining of these forces produces a a. Remaining force b. Canceling force c. Resultant force Ans: c 28. The active material in a charged negative plate is a. Lead sulphate b. Lead peroxide c. Lead metal d. Lead per chloride Ans: c 29. The tree general types of friction bearings are a. Journal, ball and roller b. Journal, guide and thrust c. Journal, shaft and thrust Ans: b 30. Petrol and Gasoline is called a hydrocarbon because it consists essentially of a. Carbon and Hydrogen b. Oxygen and Hydrogen c. Carbon and Oxygen Ans: a 31. Almost all bearing used in automotive engines are a. Guide bearings b. Friction bearings c. Antifriction bearings Ans: b 32. The brake shoes are curved to conform to the inner diameter of the a. Tyre b. Wheel c. Pedal d. Brake drum Ans: d 33. It is cheaper if we use gaskets of a. Rubber asbestos type b. Copper asbestos type c. Steel asbestos type Ans: a 34. With an increase in temperature the resistance of carbon is a. Unchanged b. Decreased c. Increased Ans: c 35. When petrol burns completely, two of the compounds that are formed are a. Carbon dioxide and water b. Water and oxygen c. Hydrocarbon and oxygen Ans: a 36. Due to heat of combustion, with increase in temperature the molecules a. Move slower b. Vaporize c. Move faster Ans: c 37. When air is heated, it a. Contracts and becomes heavier b. Expands and becomes heavier c. Expands and becomes lighter Ans: c 38. Changing position of an object against an opposing force is called a. Power b. Torque c. Energy d. Work Ans: d 39. A liquid that boils at a relatively high temperature is said to have a. A low viscosity b. A high viscosity c. A high volatility d. A low volatility Ans: d 40. The ease with which a liquid changes to a vapour is called its a. Vapourability b. Boiling point c. Viscosity d. Volatility Ans: d 41. The pump part that rotates and causes water circulation between the radiator and engine is called a. Impeller b. Fan c. Bypass Ans: a 42. The bearing having the least friction is the a. Sleeve bearing b. Antifriction bearing c. Friction bearing Ans: b 43. Conform ability of an engine bearing is a. Ability of a bearing to withstand the wear and tear b. Resistivity to corrosion c. Ability of the bearing to adjust itself to variations in shaft alignment and journal shape d. Ability of a bearing to permit foreign particles to embed in it Ans: c 44. The most commonly used material for tyre tubes is a. Butyl b. Natural rubber c. Butane Ans: a 45. When the plates of battery cell are made larger in size, we get increased ............ a. Current b. Voltage c. Cell resistance Ans: a 46. When preparing electrolyte, it is important to remember that a. Acid and water should be poured together b. Water should be poured into acid c. Acid should be poured into water Ans: c 47. Aluminium alloy pistons are preferred because a. They are good absorbers of shock b. They are having less weight c. They have good water resistance d. They are very strong in tension Ans: b 48. The material used for the piston of modern passenger cars are a. Brass pistons b. Cast iron pistons c. Aluminiun alloy pistons d. Steel pistons Ans: c 49. Piston compression rings are manufactured by a. Aluminium b. Cast iron c. Steel d. Bronze Ans: b 50. Gudgeon pins or piston pins are made by a. Piston material itself b. Cork c. Cast iron d. Hardened and ground steel Ans: d Automobile Engineering MCQs Part 1 Automobile Engineering MCQs Part 3 Automobile Engineering MCQs Part 4 Automobile Engineering MCQs Part 5 Automobile Engineering MCQs Part 6 Read the full article

[freechaosdragon-blog]

Children were not only expected to put up with little care, but they were expected to find customers

Produced by Owlcation for Education

In London and other larger cities apprentice chimney sweeps usually fared the worst, not only because the competition was keener, but because the chimneys were smaller and taller.

Unfortunately, especially in London and other larger cities, master chimney sweeps kept as many children as they could keep alive; many sweeps didn’t want to spend more than would keep each child moving and earning money. Too many of the children were in rags, and seldom had shoes. To save money and to keep them small so they could climb small chimneys, they were often fed as little as possible.

The children were worked long hours, even the youngest of them, at 5 or 6 years old. (The youngest known apprentice was taken at 3 1/2 years.) Most sweepers didn’t like them below the age of 6, because they were considered too weak to climb tall chimneys or work long hours, and they would “go off”, or die, too easily. But taken at 6 they were small (and could be kept that way with poor feeding), strong enough to work and not nearly as likely to die.

Each child was given a blanket. The blanket was used during the day to haul soot after cleaning a chimney. The soot was valuable. It was dumped at the master chimney sweep’s courtyard, sifted of lumps and sold as “dust” fertilizer to farmers.

After the blanket was filled and emptied of soot on a regular basis during the day, the child slept under it at night. Sometimes a child and his companion apprentices slept on either straw or on top of another blanket full of soot, and they normally huddled together for warmth. This was so common that it had a term, “sleeping in the black”, because the child, clothes, skin and the blanket were all covered with soot.

Some children actually received the weekly bath outlined in the apprenticeship agreement. However, some were never bathed, and many followed a more common custom of 3 baths per year, at Whitsuntide (shortly after Easter), Goose Fair (early October) and Christmas.

In London, many sweeper apprentices had washed on their own in a local river, the Serpentine, until one of them drowned. Then the children were discouraged from bathing in it.

The master chimney sweep might have plenty of regular customers, or might have gone through the streets calling, “soot-o” and “sweep-o”, reminding people that it was time to clean the chimney to prevent the too-common chimney fires.

If a master sweep had several apprentices, the older ones would also walk the streets calling for clients. They would do this on their own, but their call was ��weep, weep”. If someone hailed them for a job, they would either fetch the master’s journeyman to handle the transaction, or they would do it themselves and bring the money back to the master.

Depending on their circumstances, people tended to wait as long as they could before having the chimneys cleaned, to save on the expense. For the child, this meant that when the child went up the chimney, there was too often a great deal of soot. As he scraped it above him and it came down on his head, in that small space, it could surround his head and shoulders and suffocate him.

The apprentice chimney sweeps did work that was too dangerous for anyone to do.

When a master sweep was hired to do the job, the hearth fire would be put out. Then he would place a blanket across the front of the hearth. The child would take off any jacket or shoes. If the chimney was tight, the child would “buff it”, or climb the chimney in the nude.

The child pulled his apprentice sweep cap over his face and hooked it under his chin. This was the only protection the child had against the great volumes of soot and any burning creosote that would fall on his face and body as he brushed and scraped the chimney above him.

The larger chimneys were about 14″ square, and the smaller ones about 9″ by 14″. If there were bends or corners, which was normal, the child had to find a way to make it past the changes in direction within that small space. Some chimneys could even be as small as 7″, and only the very smallest children were used to clean those chimney flues. The chimneys were square or rectangular, and the child could maneuver his shoulders into the corners, which allowed for crawling up some surprisingly small chimneys.

The child worked his way up the chimney, holding his soot brush in his right hand above his head, and using mainly his elbows, knees, ankles and back, like a caterpillar. He often had a metal scraper in the other hand to scrape away the hard creosote deposits that stuck to the chimney walls.

When a child first began to climb chimneys, his elbows and knees would be badly scraped with every climb and would bleed profusely (children climbed anywhere from 4 to 20 chimneys a day). While a few of the more humane master sweepers provided the children with knee and elbow pads, most solved this problem by “hardening” the child’s elbows and knees. This involved standing the child next to a hot fire and scraping his scraped knees and elbows with a rough brush dipped in brine. Needless to say, it was extremely painful, and many children were either beaten or bribed when they cried and tried to get away from the brush. Some children’s elbows and knees didn’t harden for weeks, months or even years. Nevertheless, they received these brush and brine treatments regularly until the scraped and burned skin hardened.

Being burned by chimneys that were still hot, or by smoldering soot and creosote when a chimney fire had begun were also very common for apprentice sweeps in London. If a household waited too long to have the chimneys cleaned, then a chimney fire began, the master sweep was called to take care of it. The master sweep would then send the child up the hot chimney to clean it out, burning embers and all. Because many children burned to death this way, the master sweep would often stand on the roof with a bucket of water to dump on the child if he cried out or if flames started above him.

In Part 4:  There were many ways for the children to die on the job. The apprentice chimney sweeps not only had to contend with the chimneys, they had to contend with the weather. Sir Percival Pott’s comments on apprentice chimney sweeps, 1776. If boys reached puberty, it could hold one more tragedy for them.

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    The Poor Life of An Apprentice Chimney Sweep – The History of Children at Work Part 3 of 5 Children were not only expected to put up with little care, but they were expected to find customers…

[freshthoughts2020]

[junker-town]

The B-Sides: Stephen Curry’s fanny pack devotion and 7 other reasons to love the NBA this week

Plus, congratulations to the Miles family, Lance Stephenson’s shoes, and a cool 76ers tradition.

Hi, hello, welcome to B Sides: Volume 6 of the 2017-18 NBA season. Last week was a special Thanksgiving edition — if you missed it, I’m still thankful for everything on this list.

Meanwhile in the NBA, LeBron James is still the greatest basketball player on the planet, Dwight Howard may actually be back, and the wheels are falling off in OKC.

But put all of that to the side because I have seven bonus tracks for you to love in the NBA this week.

1. C.J. Miles’ reaction to the birth of his daughter!

Lauren and C.J. Miles had their baby on Thanksgiving day. What a perfect thing to be thankful for. They’re easily my favorite basketball couple. They named their dogs Shaq and Penny!

Now we have baby Miles and I am so extremely excited. First there was this. Just look at this picture.

Welcome baby girl.. I’ve been impatiently waiting so long to hold you .. love you and get on your nerves for the rest of your life.. Ava Reneé Miles 11-23-2017 at 10:03 Pm #Avacado #LoveLikeThis

A post shared by Cj Miles (@masfresco) on Nov 24, 2017 at 2:11pm PST

Then there was this tweet while he missed a game to be with the family. Just look at that hashtag!

Yes sir fellas ! And I been told y’all bout #TheBenchMob we #BestInTheLeague !! #WeTheNorth #Rtz #CantShootWithPoopOnMyHands

— C.J. Miles (@masfresco) November 26, 2017

But really, all the credit to Lauren here. Congrats!

how many rookies does it take to put a newborn in a car seat!? #WereFinallyHome #NoneOfHerClothesFit #WeGotSomeBeefinToDo #BabyProteinShakesOnDeck

A post shared by Lauren Miles (@iamlaurenmiles) on Nov 25, 2017 at 1:22pm PST

2. Steph Curry wearing the fanny pack everywhere

If you haven’t heard, Steph Curry lost a bet to JaVale McGee. Nevada (where McGee went to school) beat Davidson (where Curry went to school), and now Steph has to wear a fanny pack to at least three games.

Steph has been holding up his end of the bet.

#SFGiants invite Steph Curry to their Retro Fanny Pack promotional game https://t.co/qUmhK2T6Ng #Warriors #DubNation #NBA http://pic.twitter.com/w8s1Yzje5g

— NBCSAuthentic (@NBCSAuthentic) November 26, 2017

Back in the Bay. time for @iclark21 aka Yan...congrats bro!

A post shared by Wardell Curry (@stephencurry30) on Nov 25, 2017 at 10:53pm PST

But he even wore it on what it appears to be a date night with Ayesha. That seems like a lot to me. Either way, proud of Steph for being a good sport. Also where do I purchase this fanny pack.

Earlier this evening... ready to take on @internationalsmoke for my mamas bday. “I got greens, beans, ribs, potatoes, ham, lamb, yams .... you nameeeee it!” . #smokesignals

A post shared by Ayesha Curry (@ayeshacurry) on Nov 26, 2017 at 11:48pm PST

3. Nike’s Statement Jerseys

The rollout of the Nike’s Statement jerseys has begun around the NBA. I don’t care what Celtics fans say, the new black jersey is nice and you should accept change.

You can scroll through for some of my other favorites, which included Cleveland, Indiana, and OKC.

4. Klay Thompson stanning for BodyArmor so hard

Klay Thompson is BodyArmor athlete. BodyArmor is a sports drink that is very much not Gatorade. So here is Klay Thompson having no time for a Gatorade bottle.

Klay outta nowhere. (via @knbr)

A post shared by House of Highlights (@houseofhighlights) on Nov 26, 2017 at 9:40am PST

Stay loyal.

5. Lance Stephenson’s in-game shoe choices

Lance Stephenson and AND-1 are no longer a partner, which is kind of sad given AND-1 is the perfect brand for him.

Regardless, his shoe deal freedom has given us some ridiculous choices this season.

@StephensonLance in the Off-White Hyperdunks pregame. http://pic.twitter.com/9ZiIgtIvWG

— Indiana Pacers (@Pacers) November 27, 2017

Lance Stephenson broke out the "Wheat" Jordan 13s and much, much more from yesterday's sneaker action around the League. https://t.co/elxzXEW04D http://pic.twitter.com/c08Lnq5IYW

— SLAM Magazine (@SLAMonline) November 30, 2017

Lance Stephenson in the Nike Zoom Kobe 5 “Prelude” tonight vs. New York http://pic.twitter.com/N4cNFpXueF

— B/R Kicks (@br_kicks) November 6, 2017

6. This Sixers honoring “Strong Kids of the Game” this season

All season long, the Sixers have been running a program called “Strong Kid of the Game,” which celebrates kids who have overcome obstacles in their life. Take Shane for example.

.@JoelEmbiid made this young Sixers fan so happy! ❤️ : @NBA http://pic.twitter.com/ly23E5pcbd

— SB Nation (@SBNation) November 28, 2017

And Sienna.

@sixers honor 12yo Sienna Ward w/StrongKidOfTheGame award! Had both legs amputated after train accident @FOX29philly #LuvThisLilGirl #Cutie http://pic.twitter.com/arX6KPLlQX

— Shawnette Wilson (@SWilsonFOX29) October 21, 2017

And Jaden!

.@IamAmirJohnson presented tonight’s Strong Kid, Jaden, with his own @sixers jersey! Jaden shows us what it means to be #SIXERSSTRONG http://pic.twitter.com/zDPC44m0lc

— SIXERS STRONG (@SIXERSSTRONG) October 26, 2017

I love this so much. Great Job, Sixers.

7. Isaiah Thomas had another perfect t-shirt

IT has been on B-Sides t-shirt watch, and folks, we have another winner. He broke out this Allen Iverson classic while the Celtics were in Philly.

#ThisIsWhyWePlay@isaiahthomas pays homage to his hero @alleniverson in Philadelphia! http://pic.twitter.com/GrXbe7Q95t

— NBA (@NBA) November 28, 2017

Thomas has always been a huge Iverson fan. This video of Thomas getting a jersey signed by him is one of my favorites.

My favorite James Harden photo of the week

He never lets me down.

Photo by Christian Petersen/Getty Images

[freshthoughts2020]

[junker-town]

The B Sides: DeMar DeRozan’s imaginary friends and 7 other reasons to love the NBA this week

This week’s edition of bonus tracks that make you really love the NBA includes DeMar DeRozan leaning into a free-throw quirk.

Hi, hello, welcome to B Sides: Volume 4 of the 2017-18 NBA season. The Celtics still haven’t lost since the last time we spoke. The Rockets scored 90 points IN ONE HALF. LeBron took over the entire city of New York.

Put that all aside for now, because I have eight perfect and probably weird new things for you to love this week.

1. DeMar DeRozan can’t stop giving ghost high-fives

DeMar has started to give air high-fives after shooting technical free throws. It happened twice this week.

Once against New Orleans ...

Yo, @DeMar_DeRozan, what you doin? (Via jharden13/IG) #Shaqtin http://pic.twitter.com/JOd3VmG7mw

— Shaqtin' a Fool (@shaqtin) November 10, 2017

... And once against the Rockets.

DeMar DeRozan high fiving the air after hitting his free throw http://pic.twitter.com/qyjvlVoPrQ

— The Render (@TheRenderNBA) November 15, 2017

I’m not totally sure what is going on, but I am here for it.

2. Enes Kanter helped a 5th grader become school president

Enes Kanter helped this 10-year-old get elected to school president. Get you an Enes Kanter in your life. ( : @nypost) http://pic.twitter.com/rH55XDVKnc

— SB Nation (@SBNation) November 13, 2017

Ihsan Yumak and Enes Kanter met at a basketball camp this summer. They connected over their Turkish heritage, became best friends, and then Kanter helped him during the election by promising a fundraiser for the school.

You can read the full story here. It’s perfect.

3. Kevin Durant’s pregame workouts are out of control

A lot of players try to put themselves in tough situations while working out to prepare them for anything that could occur during a game. Kevin Durant has taken that to a new and strange level.

Here is Kevin jumping on the goal before shooting.

Kevin Durant does a funny pregame warmup http://pic.twitter.com/BKEF9pN1ui

— The Render (@TheRenderNBA) November 7, 2017

Here is Kevin break dancing (or something) before shooting.

Quand le basket et le break dance ne font qu’un... #MerciKD @basketusa http://pic.twitter.com/Ode6m7gyLa

— Melvin Karsenti (@Melo5) October 26, 2017

Here is Kevin running around photographers before shooting.

Whatever you gotta do, KD.

4. Kelly Oubre does not want anyone wearing shorter shorts than him

Short shorts are taking over the NBA and Kelly Oubre was one of the first to get in on the trend. Can’t blame him for the Instagram caption below.

5. Paul Millsap and his son are cuter than I can handle

My heart.

We in here werkin

A post shared by Paul Millsap (@paulmillsap4) on Nov 14, 2017 at 12:14pm PST

6. Eric Bledsoe could not stop smiling all week

It appears Eric Bledsoe does want to be in Milwaukee.

Gameday MOOD!! #FearTheDeer

A post shared by Milwaukee Bucks (@bucks) on Nov 15, 2017 at 12:05pm PST

New Buck. #FearTheDeer

A post shared by Milwaukee Bucks (@bucks) on Nov 10, 2017 at 9:31am PST

✌ games. Two wins. #FearTheDeer

A post shared by Milwaukee Bucks (@bucks) on Nov 11, 2017 at 9:15pm PST

7. Dwyane Wade gave Leslie Jones his shoes at Madison Square Garden

Saturday Night Live’s Leslie Jones is a huge Knicks and overall NBA fan. You can often see her courtside at MSG throughout the season. That’s why Dwyane Wade offered to give her his shoes.

“Will you accept my shoes...” - @DwyaneWade gifts @Lesdoggg his #NBAKicks and walks off with @Cavs 23-point comeback victory! #CavsAllAccess http://pic.twitter.com/X8jL9CxIcq

— NBA (@NBA) November 14, 2017

“She asked me for my shoes when I was in Chicago and then I seen her in the summer and she said ‘Where my shoes at?!’ I said I got you next time.

Wade delivered after the game and Leslie made sure to display the shoe nicely in her home.

Ok I gave one to a kid but I kept the other one @DwyaneWade http://pic.twitter.com/I3R88hRSKw

— Leslie Jones (@Lesdoggg) November 14, 2017

8. These Charlotte Hornets Classic Jerseys

Feel free to swipe through this gallery, feed your ‘90s nostalgia, and agree that these should be the Hornets’ permanent jerseys.

My favorite James Harden photo of the week

Four weeks in a row for Super Photogenic James Harden.

Forget the fact that he already has 301 points and 87 assists in eight November games. These pictures are most important.

Trevor Ruszkowski-USA TODAY Sports

See ya next week, friends. Tweet me your B-Sides and I’ll include them next week.