#His last words compared to Abrahams made me laugh though

[dostarve]

I just watched Glenn die in TWD, and I knew this was how it was going to go from the very start, but I still am very much upset. :(

[fanficimagery]

Take on the World; pt. 1

Anonymous asked: can I request something where the reader falls asleep on Rick's lap or something and the group is in awe of the two of them?

Words: 3.4K Warnings: Requests? What are those? Turns out I don't know how to make someone appear "in awe" and forgot how to fulfill someone’s request. JFC why was this so hard? Also after I started writing this, I saw the second message where you requested no Alexandria. I'm sorry to admit I had already included this particular safe haven and didn't know how to rewrite it. Mentions past violence/trauma.

The first couple of days at Alexandria are not as relaxing as one would hope for. Yes the place is a goddamn luxury resort compared to what you and your group are used to, but after everything you've been through you can't help but be suspicious. Because after literal years of running for your lives and putting your life on the line to defend whatever safe haven your group ended up finding, a place like Alexandria should not exist.

But it does and every single person in your group, with the exception of Father Gabriel, can't seem to relax. You and your large group have been given a few houses and nearly an entire block to spread out in, but you've all congregated together in two houses and refuse to wander too far from one another. It was hard to decide who went where, but Rick managed to do it without any problems. He instructed Michonne to take Tara, Rosita, Abraham, Eugene, Sasha, and Father Gabriel into one house while he himself took on Carl, Judith, you, Daryl, Carol, Glenn, and Maggie. No one fussed and seemed to be a little at ease during the day, but when night fell that's when everyone's guard went back up.

It also doesn't help that the couple of days you've been here, everyone's been called into Deanna's office for a bullshit interview so she could decide which job best fit your skills. Jobs? Skill sets? The goddamn dead were walking around eating people and Deanna was trying to fill in a teaching position for the teenagers in the secluded little town.

The locals are wary, and have every right to be after the way you all showed up, but a few of them have managed to be welcoming and bring in extra food to feed everyone and extra clothes so you could all bathe the blood and trauma away. Huh. Fat chance.

But though you've showered and managed to change into some clean, comfortable clothes, you still can't seem to sit still and rest.

A floorboard creaks and you whirl around, reaching for a knife that's no longer strapped to your thigh. Stupid Deanna and her rules!

A cleanly shaven and trimmed Rick chuckles, stepping out of the shadows and into the hallway you were pacing in as he holds his hands up in mock surrender. You frown at him, sighing, and then tiredly grin as you lean against the wall. "What's-her-face finally got a hold of you, I see. Daryl up next?"

"Carol wishes," he muses. "If he doesn't take a shower soon, I'm pretty sure she's going to hose him down in the front yard just so she can wash his current clothes." You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head in amusement. Rick smiles at you, but that smile falls as he steps closer and lowers his voice. "When was the last time you slept, Y/N?"

You grimace and cross your arms over your chest. "I sleep."

"Ten minutes every few hours is not good and you know it." Guilty, you avert your gaze. "It's three in the morning. You should be asleep."

"Yeah? Well so should you." Meeting his gaze then, your stomach swoops at the fond expression he's staring at you with. Rick Grimes is a can of worms you closed after the fallout of the prison because that's when everything really started to go wrong for your group, but it seems that behind the walls of Alexandria those worms are trying to burst free. You lightly clear your throat and kick at one of his booted feet. "I'll sleep when you sleep, oh fearless leader."

He smirks. "Fine. Lets get some sleep then."

Immediately, your smile falls. "What?"

Rick grabs you by the wrist and starts to drag you towards the living room where everyone is camped out at. Daryl is reclined in the only recliner, Carol and Judith are on the loveseat, Carl, Glenn, and Maggie are on the couch, and there's a mattress that's been pushed up in the corner of the room. Everyone is currently sound asleep, so Rick quietly kicks off his boots and gestures for you to do the same. You do and then try not to squirm when he sits down on the mattress with his back against the wall only to drag a pillow into his lap and pat it as if he's expecting you to lay your head there.

"Come on," he tells you. "I got some sleep earlier. I can doze on and off while you actually get some sleep. I'll keep watch if I have to." Oh. He really is expecting you to just lay your head in his lap.

"Rick.." You hesitate and he grins wider. The shake of his head, however, tells you he won't let this go. So heaving a small sigh, you step onto the mattress and then lower yourself so you're curled up with your head on the pillow in his lap. Immediately one of his hands goes to tuck your hair behind your ear and you huff at him. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're running yourself ragged. Go to sleep."

You shift a little to get more comfortable, your body traitorously relaxing as Rick's fingers delve into your hair and lightly scratch at your scalp. Your heart warms and your eyelids flutter shut, taking longer and longer to reopen as the minutes tick by until you're eventually asleep.

Rick's hand seems to have a mind of its own as he continues to scratch Y/N's scalp, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips when she snorts and then grumbles in her sleep. Eventually though his thoughts drift off and he can't help but think back to when he had met her.

Rick had first laid eyes on Y/N at the quarry back in Georgia. He'd been so wrapped up at being reunited with his family that he didn't get further in knowing her other than the fact that she'd been a friend of Glenn's from work. Then the farm happened, loyalties were tested as a swarm of the dead demolished their little safe haven, and everyone nearly starved to death while on the run before finding the prison.

The prison was the safest haven they had, but also the one place with a bunch of terrible memories. The only good thing that actually came out of the prison was that, that was when Rick really took notice of Y/N and how much she gave so their family of misfits were as comfortable as can be. He's ashamed to admit that's when he started to develop feelings for her because a very hormonal Lori wasn't making things easy on him, but then their safety was put in jeopardy by a spurned ex-inmate they'd let loose and no one had time to think about intimacy.

Lori had given birth to a daughter everyone knew wasn't biologically Rick's, and died in the process after being secluded away from everyone because of an invasion of the dead. Rick lost himself to his grief for a few weeks after, but Y/N was there to unknowingly pull him back together piece by piece. Not once did her trust in him waver, nor did she blame him for turning away strangers when they had found their way into the prison. In the world they lived in, one had to be extremely careful with who they trusted to let around their family.

But then the Governor tried to take the prison by force, lives were lost, the group was split up, and the prison was basically given back to the dead after fences were torn down and walls were bombed open. Y/N got stuck with him, Carl, and Michonne in the chaos and that was when he noticed his feelings made a reappearance. Michonne had seen the longing looks when Y/N would try to keep Carl as safe as possible while also letting him do things on his own since being a child wasn't safe in the world they lived in now, but she would do nothing more than tease her friend about it when Y/N wasn't paying attention.

And just when things started to seem semi-okay, a group of men caught up to them which led to Daryl swooping in just in the nick of time to prevent some terrible things from happening to both Carl and Y/N. They were shaken, but happy to be reunited with a familiar face and tried to not get their hopes up when they started to see signs of a promising sanctuary for people in need. It was wishful thinking that the others missing from the group were seeing the same signs, but Rick pushed for it anyway.

Terminus ended up being a goddamn nightmare and Rick was disheartened when very familiar faces started to be shoved into the train car they were being held in.

Y/N whimpers in her sleep, startling Rick from memory lane. His fingers, which had stopped scratching, start moving again in hopes of her falling back into a peaceful slumber. But as the seconds tick by, her breathing gets heavier and faster until she's eventually gasping awake.

"Hey. Hey!" Rick quietly snaps, hoping to grab her attention without scaring her and without waking the others. "Y/N, it's okay. You're safe. We're safe. You don't have to be scared."

Your eyes take a moment to focus in the dark and when they do your breath stutters in your chest when Rick comes into focus. You sag in relief and his hands cup your face so you're only staring at him. You grasp onto his wrists to help ground yourself. "R-Rick?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. It's me. Just breathe." You do as he's requested, blinking away tears when they build up. "Where did you go just now?" He murmurs.

"T-Terminus," you exhale shakily. "I was- we were back at Terminus."

Rick's gaze subconsciously darts down to your neck and you release one of his wrists to cover the scar that resides there at the base of your throat. You had gotten it from Terminus, the cannibals who were luring people there, having tied up you, Rick, Glenn, Daryl, and Bob to dispose of first. The men were pushed to their knees on one side of an empty watering trough and you were dragged in across from them. All of your wrists were bound and bandannas had been tied around your heads and shoved into your mouths to keep your screams from being too loud.

But the second you were shoved to your knees and pushed forward to lean over the trough, your eyes widened and you started to sob. A hand gripped the back of your hair to pull your head back just so and the men from your group went wild struggling to help you. A machete had been placed at the base of your throat, but the man only got in a small slice before an explosion rocked the entire place.

"We got out of there." Rick's voice brings you back to the present and you sniffle, nodding, and you let your hand fall. He attempts to smile, but when you can't return it he pushes aside the pillow in his lap. "Come here."

Your brow furrows. "What?"

"Come here," he says again. He pulls his legs up so his knees are bent and then spreads his legs while gesturing to the space in front of him. "You need sleep and you won't sleep peacefully until you feel safe."

"Rick.."

"Nope. I don't wanna hear it. Sit in front of me and lay your back against my chest."

The longer you stare, the more you realize he's being serious. So blinking at him in surprise, you can't help but numbly crawl over to him. You're so nervous that you're actually trembling as you get into position and hesitantly lean back until you're resting against him. Rick cages you in with his arms resting on his knees until eventually he wraps them around your stomach to hold you. Your arms slowly fall atop of his and you lean your head back against his shoulder, relaxing. "Oh," you breath. "This is- this is nice."

Rick chuckles as he nudges your head with his chin. "Get some sleep, sweetheart. No one is going to harm you."

"Famous last words, Grimes. If I wake up to mayhem, I'm letting you do all the dirty work while I hide away."

His only response is to squeeze you a little tighter and you shift a little more to get comfortable enough to fall asleep once more.

The next time Rick wakes up it's because he hears someone shuffling around. His left arm tightens around Y/N while his other reaches for the Colt at his hip. Only he realizes immediately that he no longer has his gun and his eyes fly open. Almost everyone is staring at him in surprise, with the exception of Daryl who doesn't seem fazed.

"She's sleeping and letting someone touch her," Glenn says in awe. "How long has she been asleep for?"

Rick grimaces as he shifts a little, freezing when Y/N sighs in her sleep and shoves her face further into the side of his neck. Slowly but surely he stretches his legs out, exhaling softly and wrapping his second arm around her once more. "How long have you been watching?"

"About fifteen minutes," Carol muses. "We for sure thought Judith would have woken you up with her fussing."

"Was it nightmares?" Maggie asks. "She hasn't slept longer than an hour since.."

"Since Terminus," Glenn frowns. "I think we've all had trouble sleeping since then."

"Y/N more so than anyone," Daryl grumbles. He frowns, clearly remembering what he, Glenn, and Rick were witness to.

Carl stretches, smiling. "I don't know what to be more happier about: the fact that Y/N is sleeping or that my dad's finally loosened up to see what was in front of his face this entire time."

"Excuse me?" Rick says. Everyone in the room but him snickers and his grip on Y/N loosens just a little.

"Y/N has had a thing for you since the farm," Maggie admits, "but she kept it quiet because of Lori and was afraid of Shane and all his drama."

"And you've had a thing for her since we were split up after the prison." Carl grins at his dad's subtle expression of guilt. "I'm surprised it took you guys this long for anything to happen."

"But it- nothing's happened."

"You cuddling her says otherwise," Carol teases.

Rick huffs and then freezes once more when Y/N shifts.

Talking and muffled laughter is what wakes you, but you manage to stay still as everyone around you continues to talk. You do your best not to laugh at their obvious awe of you finally sleeping and then try your hardest not to blush when they call out both you and Rick for hidden feelings. Eventually though you have the urge to pee and you let your eyes flutter open, groaning slightly as you stretch your legs out and arch your back in the process.

Someone snorts and you grimace when you realize groaning was perhaps not the best thing to do while you were practically in Rick's lap. You glance around at everyone in the room, slowly leaning forward and crawling over Rick's thigh. "Hey, guys." You gulp. "Everyone sleep okay?"

Daryl smirks. "Did you?"

The room's occupants don't bother hiding their amusement. You frown at the hunter. "Get bent, Dixon." Rick chuckles at your side and you avoid his gaze. Standing then, you quickly make an excuse to flee to the upstairs bathroom. "I'll just, uh, be in the bathroom or something."

Halfway up the stairs, the front door opens and you glance over your shoulder to see the other half of the group enter the house. Sighing in relief, you hope their presence is enough to make everyone forget about you waking up in Rick's arms.

The minutes tick by and after taking a little longer than necessary in the upstairs bathroom, you finally head downstairs. You're more composed and ready for more teasing, but surprisingly the house is clear of mostly everyone. Carol is there trying to figure something out for lunch, Tara and Glenn are playing a board game, and Eugene is browsing the books that were already on the shelves in the living room. Carol catches sight of you as you're passing by and you smile tightly before heading out the front door.

Maggie is sitting on the porch steps and when she notices you she gestures for you to join her. You do, sighing as you take a seat on the same step as her and nudge her with your shoulder when you catch sight of her smile. "Go ahead, Mags. Get it all out."

"How did it feel to wake up in the beefy arms of-" You snort, punching at her thigh. Maggie laughs and leans towards you, her smile softening as she nudges you softly. "In all seriousness, how did that happen?"

You shrug. "I was pacing. Rick talked to me and said I needed sleep. He-" You trail off, chuckling. "He actually made me lay next to him and lay my head in his lap. I fell asleep with him scratching my scalp."

Maggie coos. "So then how did you end up the way you did?"

"I had a dream about Terminus." Her smile falls. "I woke up in a panic and Rick comforted me. That's all that was."

"You sure about that?" You sigh and open your mouth to deny whatever she's concocted in that brain of hers, but you see her staring somewhere down the road. Following her gaze, you see Rick bent over a bike and helping a child with the chain that'd fallen off. You slowly start to smile, especially when he glances up and catches your gaze before waving. "We're safe here, Y/N. You can let that guard of yours down and actually pursue something with him."

"We thought we were safe at the prison and look how that turned out." This time it's Maggie's turn to sigh and you turn to face her, lowering your voice. "If we stay here, Mags, we're sitting ducks. We'll become soft and, should this place ever be overrun, you know damn well every person previously living here will be running around like chickens with their heads cut off."

"Then teach them," she urges. "I've been talking to Deanna about expanding the walls to make room for a bigger garden. She's listening, Y/N. She's taking our words into account because she knows what we've been through out there. She knows we have experience."

"She also took our weapons away," you deadpan. "No one in this town is allowed a weapon, so what makes you think she'll want us teaching her precious locals the proper ways to defend themselves?"

"You never know if you don't try."

Your shoulders droop. "I want to. Believe me, I do, but you know we don't fit in here."

"I know, but we have to try for Carl and Judith." She pauses, taking a moment to quickly glance around. "And for the future babies that will possibly be born."

It takes a moment for her words to sink in and when they do your eyes widen. "What?" She shrugs and you shake your head in disbelief. "You're actually trying?"

"Not now," she sheepishly admits, "but we want to. Eventually. We just need to set down roots somewhere and Alexandria seems like a place that can happen."

"Jesus, Mags." You're still in disbelief, but when you see her expression falter as if ashamed, you're quick to grab onto her hand and squeeze. "Okay. I'll try for the kids and for my future godchild."

Maggie snorts and turns her hand to squeeze yours in return. "And while you're at it, try with Rick. The sexual tension is getting to be a bit much."

"And the moment's ruined." You're quick to toss her hand aside and stand up, ignoring her laughter and then staring longingly at Rick. You sigh softly before turning to mumble, "If I ever get that man in the sack, you and the rest of the house will only have yourselves to blame. I don't want to hear any complaints about traumatizing noises."

She laughs out loud, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "If you get that man in the sack, I'll be so proud of you."

"Yeah, yeah. Just you wait and see."

[sp00kworm]

A Den of Iniquity (Part 5)

Pairing: Dracula/Count Dracula/Vlad Tepes x Female Reader

Warnings: Death, Murder, Blood, Gore, Injuries, Violence, Vomiting and Adult content.

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Part 1   Part 2     Part 3   Part 4 

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Anne’s ability to remain sober was yet to be seen. Dracula felt amusement ripple through him as his shadowed fingers moved along the walls of her basement home once again. She was asleep in front of her sofa, sleeping off the night shift she had just finished. The sun wasn’t up yet this late into the winter, and so, Dracula’s powers were not weakened by the threat of the sunrise. His smoke curled from the shadows, rippling in a wave down the walls, collecting on the floor like a pool of liquid nitrogen, cold and churning. The vampire’s form took shape within the rippling cloud before he reached within to produce the Van Helsing’s family book. The cracked leather back contacted the coffee table with a dull thump and Dracula turned his red eyes on the sleeping form of Anne. She didn’t stir. The vampire opened the book to the front page as he reformed into a human shape, his gloved fingers peeling free a page of her notebook silently.  Dracula took her pen from the table and penned out a message in old cursive just to spite the woman’s eyesight.

 ‘Perhaps we can talk about the mysteries of the darkness once more in the morgue? This evening.’

 With a curl to the end of his name, the vampire tucked the note inside the front cover and closed the book carefully, admiring the old cursive of Abraham’s writing as he made sure to place it in front of her. The vampire snatched the whiskey from her hand and replaced the lid before moving to tuck it away in her cabinet once more. He paused as he peered inside at the three other bottles. He looked at the label of the bottle in his hand, contemplative of such a desire to drink, before he replaced it in her cupboard and left in a rush of cold mist, trickling from her window over the small garden and out into the night once more.

Anne woke up with a start. Her neck burned with agony from being laid against her armchair, her head pressed back against the side of the headrest. With a groan, she raised her head and clutched at the back of her neck, trying to rub some blood flow back into the region. The sunlight was harsh against her eyes. She’d forgotten to close the curtains again when she got home. Anne looked at the window, glaring at the sunshine as she untucked herself from the armchair and glanced at the heavy, coffee table in front of her. Her blue eyes widened with disbelief as she gazed at the leather cover of her family’s Vampirology book. It was laid beside her empty whiskey tumbler. In a rush, she grasped the book from the table and cracked open the cover.  A piece of paper skittered free, flopping onto the side of the armchair. Anne scowled as she plucked the paper from the armrest. Vladimir. That damn Vampire had been in her home once more. She read the cursive and scoffed before angrily slamming her book down onto the coffee table.

“That fucking vampire.” She ran her fingers through her hair, huffing and puffing to herself as she stormed over to the window and looked though. It was open. She slammed the window shut before balling Dracula’s note into a small ball and throwing it at her desk in the corner of the lounge. With a growl she kicked the armchair before taking a deep breath and picking up the balled-up note and rereading it. On the back there was a carefully written date and time.

 It wasn’t like she had much of a choice. The King of Vampires knew where she lived anyway.

 The packets of cigarettes weren’t really a good substitute for the drinking, Anne figured out as she stood on top of the hospital roof, by the huge incineration chimneys. The incinerators were not burning, so she was free to smoke up on the roof for a while.

A rush of wind made her shudder before a smooth voice spoke behind her, “It is a beautiful night.” Dracula purred from above her. She pushed away from the wall and took a long drag of her cigarette as she looked up at the vampire who hung from the bar fixings of a satellite on the roof. A creature wrapped in its own wings morphed into the shape of a man, covered in a dark coat. He flopped from the bar yet landed like a predator, gracefully on his feet, his black coat hiding his form, wrapped around him tightly. Anne tapped the end of her cigarette, flicking ash onto the floor as she watched the monster walk across the roof, his heeled shoes silent against the concrete.

“Maybe for beasts like you. I’m fucking cold.” She took another drag of her cigarette and ignored the vampire as he loomed over her, stood inches from her back.

Dracula grinned with fangs, “Those sticks will kill you, hunter.” His voice curled in her ears like a dark promise.

“I’ll be dead with the liver cirrhosis first.” Anne stubbed the end out against the bricks before she dropped the end into the wall mounted ashtray, “What do you want, Dracula? Weren’t we meant to meet in the morgue?”

 Anne turned around into his chest and scowled at the closeness, looking up at his human face with distaste. A pale face was framed with dark hair which twisted with a mind of its own. His eyes were human-like, the dark brown almost black as he rubbed at the pointed facial hair on his jaw. The vampire’s hands stretched out between the two of them, and his fingers uncurled to reveal a single glass vial.

“Your blood?” Anne looked at the vial suspiciously, “What do you want me to do with it?”

Dracula’s other hand disappeared behind his own back before Anne gasped. A smoky hand revealed itself, her blade clutched in his hand. The vampire grinned with a hiss, mocking her as he tossed the weapon behind himself.

“Do what you want with it. Try and find a way to kill me. Seek cures for your diseases or simply drink it. I care not.” He hissed at the sight of her crucifix and flicked a finger, watching the silver melt from her neck before he continued, “Consider it a payment in blood for your…help.” He drawled the word before dropping the vial into Anne’s outstretched hand, “May its mysteries unravel swiftly, Doctor.”

 She wasn’t fooled. Dracula wasn’t an idiot. He wanted her to have his blood for a reason.

“You’re a creature of lies, Dracula. I’m not an idiot. I know when I am being made fun of.” Anne eyed the blade behind his imposing figure, “You must know, that after six hundred years, there is no return from the damnation of death you have chosen?”

Dracula looked at her, his eyes bleeding to red as the wind whipped at both of them, “The blood is the life.” He offered before he stepped back towards the shadows, his body melting into them as he flashed white fangs, “Perhaps you can find the answers of that life?” He laughed as he disappeared, not a trace of his red eyes or white teeth left in the shadows of the hospital as Anne rushed for her blessed blade.

The vial of blood was cold in her hand and she looked at the label with her glasses perched on the end of her nose. His office number was penned over the sticky note.

 The vampire watched the moon as he soared over the London rooftops, contemplating the foolishness of his own actions. Perhaps, he had just handed the key to his demise to a Van Helsing. The last descendant of the line. The last one that could kill him. There was a secret in his own condition. What he was could not be changed, he was too steeped in blood for that, but perhaps he could find the key to saving someone? Death wanted you. It wanted your life, but your soul would be damned, slipping through his fingers to hell if he did not act before the creature sought to take you. To condemn a person to darkness was for them to never be the same. A walking corpse and a shell of a person, filled with the desire to drink, sin and kill. He remembered, vividly, the feeling of your spectre on top of him and wondered if that was the future as he opened his wings and swooped down towards St.Paul’s Cathedral. His claws gripped at the tip of the spire on top of the dome. The night was loud beneath the building, taxis beeping still in the streets below. Humans never did truly rest anymore. Dracula peered at the stars with hellish eyes and watched the clouds roll over them, a cold fog dripping over the buildings around him from the drop in temperature.

 Dogs barked as he soared away from the cathedral, his wings spread as he caught the frigid wind and climbed higher over the city, gazing down at the orange streetlamps glittering below. It was a beautiful place, full of life even at a late hour. He compared his previous knowledge about London to its current state and purred at the delightful tastes of the humans scuttling below. People from all walks of life. Thinking of the taste of blood made him hunger for it and the vampire circled slowly towards the night time clubbing scene as he thought on the words of Death. Her death. As he landed, he felt his wings fall back into a coat and looked at the entrance to one of the rock bars. A man was outside in the fresh air of the side alley, looking up at the sky. His arms were covered in gooseflesh as she shivered in the cold of the November air, his vest clearly not the correct choice for the weather. Dracula watched from the streetlamp as he pulled his phone from his pocket and began typing something on it. The vampire walked across the road, his dark eyes flashing as he turned his influence on the man, churning his thoughts with desires he never knew he had until the darkness played with them. The man turned his head and opened his mouth as he looked at the vampire walking towards him.

 Dracula peered down at the young man, “Good evening.” Hypnotism clouded the man’s eyes as he reached to brush a finger over his cheek, nail dragging against the skin.

“Your place or mine?” He asked as he tucked his phone back into his pocket.

The vampire pressed him against the alley and covered his eyes before feeling the heaviness of hunger in his gut and the sharpness of his own teeth, “Here is fine.” He muttered as he exposed the man’s neck, holding his legs open so it would appear like a tryst in the alleyway if anyone were to walk past. His gloved hand muffled the scream that escaped the man as he bit into his neck, hard and deep. Blood spurted over his tongue as he lapped at the wounds, sucking harshly before it started to flow by itself, the artery spurting violently from the damage of his teeth. His stomach ached with fullness as he tore himself away and licked at the wounds, looking at the puckered flesh as he cleaned the neck completely clean. Dracula took his scarf from his own neck and wrapped it around the man’s shoulders and neck, hiding the damage as he tucked him close to the alley entrance and slipped into the shadows once more.

“You will remember nothing of this. Go home. Sleep.”

A moment later, the man awoke with a groan, clasping his neck and head in pain before he shivered and pulled the shawl of the scarf tighter around himself, hailing a taxi from the side of the road. The vampire licked blood from his chin as he turned down a side road, the feed not helping to clear his mind any.

 “I’ll be home tomorrow morning, Drac. Sue said she’d come in and check in on you early and I filled your bowls.” You looked at your cat and sighed. He was sulking, tucked up on top of the cupboards again out of the way, “Be good!” You tugged his tail and dodged his paw before you picked up your overnight bag and headed towards your door. You locked it and tugged the handle before descending the stairs and heading towards the pavement. There, parked up on the curb, was a slick black car. The tinted glass slid down smoothly, and Vladimir poked his head out of the car, his sunglasses perched on the end of his nose as he smiled at your approach.

“Somehow I’m not surprised by the BMW.” You joked as you looked at him through the window. He was dressed in a heavy turtleneck jumper, his hair tied back with tight jeans ironed to perfection. Vlad open the door of the driver’s seat and shuddered in the cold.

“It was more money than I expected to pay.” He opened the back of the car with a press of a button and huffed, “I think the dealer got most of what I paid.”

“Imagine that being your only concern.” You laughed and rolled your eyes, “It is a gorgeous car.” You complimented as you put your bag in the back and walked around to the passenger seat. Vladimir made no move to open you the door but simply climbed back inside and pushed the stick into gear as you clipped your belt into place.

“Let us go, then. I have a few things for us to do.” He pulled away from your home and shop with a spin of the wheel.

“Does that list include the movies you promised?” You glanced around at the interior of the car.

“But of course!”

 His home was as grand as ever, though devoid of any extra staff this time. You looked at the wood to carpet floors and sighed. It was a dream home. You looked at the curtains and rugs and smile at the change from red to purple.

“Did you get new curtains because of me?” You asked as you pulled your coat free and felt your hair. It was raining outside, in a typical November fashion, and you made sure to hang your coat a little closer to the radiator on the stand, so it would dry and not smell too musty from the rainwater.

Vladimir tugged at his jumper and decided it was dry enough to not change before he replied, “I might have changed them. I decided royal purple was more fit for a woman of your stature, madame.” He dipped to take your hand, kissing it like a prince before he laughed joyously and twirled you under his arm.

You were a little overwhelmed with the treatment and blushed at the attention as Vladimir spun you towards the stairs.

“You can put your bag in the guest bedroom.” Vladimir pointed to the top of the stairs and turned his finger to the right, “It is the door to the right of the bathroom. Second door on the right.”

“Oh, thank you.” You smiled and took your bag handles in your hand before climbing the stairs to deposit your things in the guest bedroom.

 It smelt of fresh roses. Fresh Tudor roses sat in a vase on the vanity by the window. The soft scent wafted across the fresh bedding and permeated from the curtains that were drawn over the window. It was dark now outside, the winter making the days incredibly short. With another inhale of the fresh smell, you placed your bag on the bed and smiled around at the décor. It was all expensive. Real wood and shined wax surfaces with rich coloured walls. There was even a canopy bed. You pulled the ties from the sheer curtains and watched them fall with a grin. It was a room fit for a princess. You took your toiletry bag from your satchel and walked to the vanity. It was cleaned and lined with intricate glass bottles, made for expensive oil-based perfumes. The toiletries in your bag paled in comparison to how much the Egyptian glass bottles must have cost Vladimir. The stopper was hard to pull out but when it popped free you hummed at the smell of the Myrrh based perfume. You looked at the oil inside and frowned as the liquid dripped up to the edge of the bottle. A drop of oil clung to the corner and you pressed your finger to it before dabbing it against your neck. Another drop followed it. It dripped, floating upwards before dropping back into the bottle as though it had never defied gravity. You took the stopper and tapped it back into the bottle before dabbing the oil on your neck, a dot behind each ear and one on each wrist. It was a heavy smell. A light scent of cinnamon mixed in with cardamom behind a heavy base of Myrrh.

 Vladimir was sprawled out on a large sofa in the lounge, his feet up on a stool and his fingers playing with the buttons of his remote control for the television. You smiled as you entered the room, playing with the corner of your top before you sat in the spare seat next to him, tucking your feet under yourself as you looked at the television. He’d been passing the time with dramas, though his phone on the cushions told you he hadn’t been bothered for actually watching what was playing. Vladimir held his arm up off the cushions and curled the fingers of his other hand. For a moment, you were apprehensive, but you were quickly swayed by the idea of a hug, and scooted along the cushions before letting Vladimir tug you close, hugging you to his side as he offered you the television remote.

“Guest’s choice first, my dear.” Vladimir let you take the remote and ran his fingers over your hair before lowering his nose beneath your chin, “Did you use a perfume?” He asked as he tucked cold fingers under your chin, swiping it over your skin before sniffing at the smell on his hands, “Myrrh is expensive. A good choice.”

Embarrassment coloured your skin, “It smelt nice so I…”

“I’m not mad. They are made for using.” Vladimir cooed before he watched you open the various streaming services he had.

 “What was it that you wanted to watch?” You asked Vladimir as he pushed your drink across the coffee table and handed you a menu for take-out.

The business owner hummed, “There was a film.” He opened his hand before pointing to the screen as you scrolled over a film, “That one. About…Ah yes. The monster and the woman. Apparently, it won awards, no?” He asked as you clicked open the film for him to see.

“It did win a lot of awards, yeah.” You confirmed as he settled back against the cushions, his arm wrapped around you firmly, holding you against his side as you pressed play, “What do you want to order?” You asked, holding out the menu for him to see, “Chinese?”

“I’m not hungry. I had a business dinner before three o’clock. Order what you want, my dear. I’ll pay for it.” He offered as you hummed, “I have heard that the chow mein from there is good.”

You laughed at his pronunciation but nodded none the less, “I think I’ll get that then.” The menu had the number on the back, and you rang to order before returning your attention back to the movie that Vladimir had requested be put on. It was about a mute woman and her fish god lover. You quickly became entranced, warily pressed up against Vladimir as his hand circled your waist.

 The blood pumping against him was a temptation he was now very able to resist. Hundreds of years meant he could control himself. It was a short leash, and he felt the urge to simply feel the crunch of bone and meat under his teeth intensely. His leash grew a little shorter as he ghosted his fingers over your wrist, feeling the thumping of a nervous heart underneath the skin. Dracula’s ear perked at the door and he took the excuse to escape the blood and flesh that felt so divine underneath his fingers. He heard you pause the movie and cursed that you were listening.

“Hi. Chinese delivery.” The driver offered him the bag of food.

The vampire smiled thinly, “Thank you.” He gave the man a twenty-pound note, “Now please take your multi-tool and cut your arm.” The words were carried on a heavy breeze, thick and laced with temptation. The delivery man’s eyes went cloudy, unfocused as he tugged a swiss army knife from his pocket and flicked open the blade. The vampire watched him cut the skin and hissed through his teeth, opening his mouth as the man held his arm higher in the air, letting blood fall from his skin. Dracula shuddered as he opened his mouth to catch the stray drops. He licked the skin with a cold tongue, smearing pink spit in his wake as he sucked fast mouthfuls of blood into his mouth, thankful all the curtains were drawn to hide him.

 “Have you got enough money to pay?”

 The vampire released the wound and licked the blood from his mouth, his meal settling in his stomach. He licked a drop of blood from the plastic bag handle and wiped at his mouth.

“Have a good evening, sir.” He spun his index finger and watched the delivery driver nod and disappear back towards his car, blood dripping down towards his fingers, “I’ve got enough don’t worry.” He clinked some coins in his pocket and closed the door as the driver pulled out of his drive and onto the street. He grabbed a tissue and wiped his face. There was only a small trickle of blood and he sucked at his teeth before he went to the kitchen to fetch you a plate and cutlery.

Vladimir smiled under your gaze as he entered the lounge again, “I got you a few things. I didn’t know whether you would eat it out of the box?” He placed the plate and cutlery down followed by your food.

“Thank you. You’re sweet.” You cooed at him as he sat back down, “Oh. I think they spilt some sauce on the box.” You grumbled at the splodge of blood on top of the plastic box. He felt his heart sink a little before you simply wiped it away with a curl of your nose. Dracula smiled as you tucked into the food, settled back at his side as you ate quietly. He restarted the movie, feeling relief flood his system as you didn’t question the mysterious red substance.

 The beast purred at the idea of the next meal being you. His gripped your thigh gently to ground himself. You were not a meal to be eaten and wasted. He wouldn’t throw you at Death’s feet.

 After a movie named ‘The Others’ you both decided it was getting to be late. You looked at the clock and hummed against his side, fingers curling into the black jumper over Vladimir’s chest. It was a fine make, expensive wool soft under your fingers, and you smiled sleepily up at him as he adjusted you, sitting you in his lap, your thighs either side of his own. It was intimate, but you found your heart soaring at the contact and at the idea of where it meant you both were with each other.

“Are you tired, my dear?” He asked softly, his nose pressed to your ear before he leaned down to kiss your shoulder, the smell of Myrrh intoxicating.

“Mmm.” You hummed, fingers playing with the ends of his beautifully wavy hair, the dark, black locks slipping through your fingers like snakes.

“Would you like to rest now?” Vladimir made a pleased noise at the attention to his hair.

Your fingers paused in his locks, “I’d like a shower…If that’s alright?” You asked quietly.

“That is more than fine.” He nodded before letting you stand up, his cool fingers lingering against your hands as you stood, “You know where the bathroom is, yes?”

“First door on the right. I know.”

“I’ll bring you some fresh towels.” He promised as you left the room, closing the door behind you.

 The vampire felt his stomach churn with an unknown sensation, the memory of you against him, burned into his skin like a fever.

 The water was hot against your skin, soothing the ache in your back from working at the counter the whole day serving tourists. You rubbed at your skin with the minty smelling soap, enjoying the tingle of peppermint over your skin as you washed the lather of soap away. The wet room was slate and sparklingly clean. The glass fogged and you turned in the spray, admiring the chrome shelving and posh soaps and shampoos Vladimir had carefully lined up. A need burned in your stomach, but you ignored the temptation to stir the fire smouldering down there as you turned and swiped at the fog over the glass. Vladimir’s cool hands would make a better job of sating your desires. You were quick to dismiss the idea and turned back into the hot water. That was until the door creaked open behind you.

“I have brought you towels.” Vladimir spoke from the door before pausing, watching your skin disappear as the swiped area of the glass fogged back up, slowly making your form disappear from his view once more, “Forgive me…” He spoke loud enough to just be heard over the harsh spray of water, “But you are beautiful.” Vladimir complimented as he placed the pile of fresh towels on top of the toilet lid

 Burning water did not cool your skin as you listened to his voice. You turned under the hot water as you listened to him step closer to the shower screens. You heart thudded in your chest, shaking your hands as you took a step closer to the glass as well.

“You are radiant.” Vladimir purred, “Gorgeous like a goddess. Something to be worshipped.” You looked at the figure beyond the foggy glass and watched him place his hand against the screen.

All of a sudden, you managed to find your voice, “Is that what you say to them all?” The words were half choked in your throat, but Vladimir heard them all the same.

“I have only said those words once before…and she is gone now.” He promised. You could feel the agony in his words and you glanced at the glass before wiping away the condensation to reveal his face, intense eyes looking into your own, despite not being able to see you until a moment ago, “She is dead and no other has ever…filled the hole.” He pressed his forehead to the glass. His dark eyes shimmered with a colour you had never seen before he smiled and turned away from you, “I will leave you. I apologise for being so forward.”

Before he could leave, you opened the shower door and grabbed for a towel, hiding your body from his eyes before he could see you again.

 “I…I don’t.” Your mouth seized as his eyes turned darker, a smirk curling on his lips as he admired you, even hidden behind a towel.

“Won’t you let me see you?” Vladimir whispered, “Won’t you let me worship you?” He asked as he came closer, his hands reaching to cup your waist as he looked into your eyes.

Your heart thundered underneath his touch, “I don’t know if I should let you.”

Vladimir’s nose pushed under your chin as he smelt the heavy scent of the Myrrh perfume still clinging to your damp skin, “And why not? Why deny yourself such pleasure?”

You reached for his hair again and pushed it away from his cheek, “Because I don’t feel like I know you.” You confessed, “I don’t know who you really are.”

Vladimir looked at you, your faces close, your noses brushing together before he leaned down to place a single kiss to your lips.

 Together, you melded against one another, hands clutching each other at you deepened the kiss a little. He pulled away as quickly as the feverishness began.

“I can tell you. Soon, I will tell you everything.” He promised as you looked at his handsome face. His eyes were wet, red at the corners before he hugged you tightly, “I…I think I feel something deeply for you. I understand this is a lot.” He confessed to you in a rush, shuddering against you as though he was crying.

“I…” Your mouth was dry, “I think I feel the same, but I don’t…I can’t explain it.” You whispered against his jumper.

Vladimir pushed his fingers into your flesh, as though you were going to disappear, “I can’t either.” He agreed, “But I know that I want to be with you…However you want me.” The man fell to his knees, “I am your servant.” The man’s hands grazed up your legs, slowly, dragging cold lines behind his fingertips as he looked up at you, hair falling over his eyes and cheeks.

You reached for his face with a soft smile, “I don’t want a servant.” He let you tug him back to his feet, “I want an equal.”

Vladimir’s lips met your own in a crush of passion, his hands flying to cup your cheeks as he held you as close as he could manage, his arms moving from your face to clutch your body close.

 “Do you think you could love a monster?”

“If that monster loved me, I could.”

 The sound of an alarm sounding woke you up. It was loud, a persistent beeping noise against the drowsiness in your head. It was sharp and ear piercing. You rushed to find your phone at the noise, rustling in the duvet to find it. After a moment, you opened your eyes, and found the phone on top of the nightstand. You silenced your alarm and groaned into the room as you tried to force the sleep from yourself. The room was silent now. You dragged your phone from the stand and squinted at the time before rolling over and realising you were alone. It was nine in the morning and Vladimir was nowhere to be seen. You sat up with the sheets and looked down at yourself. You were naked yet there was no ache in your body. There was no mess either. Nothing had happened. You remembered laying on top of Vladimir, kissing him between tales from his homeland as you listened and learned. The tale of the beast in the castle. The River Princess. The fog in the hills. All of it fascinated you. You’d listened to the sound of his voice, late into the evening, tracing patterns on his skin as he rumbled with laughter.

 The bedside table rustled as you placed your hand on it. You frowned and gripped a piece of paper. It was labelled with your name. You unfolded the paper and looked at the note inside. Vladimir had an early meeting to attend. A sadness curled in your chest as you sat up properly and peered at the grandness of Vladimir’s own bedroom. You got out of the bed and walked over to his vanity before frowning. All the mirrors were covered in black silk, hidden out of view. You pulled back one of the sheets and looked in the floor standing mirror. It was in good shape yet old, like an antique. Your own face looked back before you re-covered the mirror. There wasn’t anything different in Vladimir’s room until you caught sight of the great portrait on the old chimney breast. A painted man looked down at you, a sword laid across his lap. You looked at the sword mounted underneath the painting and gazed in awe at the sharpness and magnificence of them both. Wondering if he was a collector, you took one of Vladimir’s red robes from his door and tied it around your waist before venturing to get some breakfast.

 Dracula hissed as the door closed, blood spurting from his mouth, his latest meal laid in the soil next to him as he purred, claws slipping further into the earth as he listened to you move. The sound of silk over skin made him gurgle again as he closed his eyes, wishing that the night could replay over and over in his mind.

 ‘I know you have gone home but thank you for spending last night with me. I adored it. Will I see you again soon?’

You smiled down at your phone as you paused eating your lunch inside your shop. You replied with a witty comment and waited for his reply before going back to your lunch, thinking on the way Vladimir’s hands could hold you in other ways. Your brain skittered into the gutter for the rest of the afternoon.

 Anne held the glass slide in her hand as she tried to comprehend what she was holding in her hand. It was beyond what she had seen before. Nothing compared. No disease had such virulence nor the ability to do what she had seen from Dracula’s own cells. His lymphatic cells were an amazing thing to watch, simultaneously killing and repairing the red blood cells, making them immortal. The blood she had originally was just as active now in her hands. She’d injected a rat with a small does, just to see what happened. The beast had appeared unfazed initially. Slowly, it had died off, its legs stopping working before she did the kindness and put the animal to sleep. It hadn’t died from the drugs. She ended up having to take the creature’s head off. Immortality. The rat was impervious to chemicals and drugs that could kill. It was an amazing thing, but Anne wasn’t swayed. She knew what the blood meant, and what it was capable of. A constant state of death and life. A curse upon those who were infected with Dracula’s blood. Damnation from God. Rejection of the light was not curable. She needed to tell the vampire that. He was beyond the help of mortals. Damned forever. He could live as a hunted beast or die by her hands.

 “A frown makes you look older.” Dracula rumbled from underneath her. Red eyes opened in her shadow and Anne jumped backwards as the beast slid from her shadow and coalesced into a physical form. The shadows swirled into the human form of Dracula and Anne levelled him with a look of contempt.

“Has six hundred years taught you no manners?” She huffed as he drew the vial of the vampire’s blood from her coat and held it up for him to see. There was a little more than half left, “I wanted to tell you about this.” She tossed the blood back at the vampire.

Dracula caught the vial and took the top from the vial, smelling his own blood before he stuck out a pointed, long tongue, a mouth full of pointed teeth opening wide as he took his own blood back into himself.

“What did you find, Anne?” He asked as he tucked his hands into his pockets, licking blood from his bottom lip.

“Everything I expected to find. Your own cells are killing themselves and then repairing at a rate that is explosive. You shouldn’t be moving at all.” She huffed, “Though I suppose you aren’t alive. You’re a monster. A walking corpse.” Anne took a holy blade from her sleeve and watched as the vampire’s hair waved over his head in a mind of its own.

 “You raise a blade to me after I gave you the answer to eternal life?” Dracula’s voice boomed off the concrete of the rooftop, “After I gave you the answers to everything?” He snarled as his hair covered his face, blood red eyes burning through the strands as he took his hands from his pockets and watched the hands grow and shift into snarling curls of shadowy monsters.

“I raise my blade at a beast and a monster. A creature that has killed for fun, enjoyment and sport. You enjoy all of this. You enjoy playing with people like a game!” She hissed at him as she drew a long sword from her belt. A sword and a dagger. Dracula’s mouth opened up the sides of his face as he faced the hunter, eyes peering from a moving creature of shadows.

“This is the face of life!” He howled at Anne, shadows bursting from him as dogs howled at the night sky below.

“You are nothing but corruption and death!” She shouted back, her feet planted firmly on the floor as the vampire hissed and spat across from her. Without another thought, she sent a small blade flying towards his red eyes. The shadows moved into two pieces, and the dagger flew through him before she was upon him with blessed steel. Her swipes swished through nothing but air as Dracula soared into the sky above her and dived, great clawed talons scratching at her face. Anne launched her dagger at him as he climbed once more and grinned at the vampire howled, blood spurting from his grey skinned side.

 With a growl, she watched the vampire soar into the night sky, escaping with her blade lodged under his ribs. The night sky was littered with cold looking stars, clouds rolling over the moon as she watched the bat wings disappear behind the church and rooftops. It was a moment later that she looked at the scratches on her arms and the trail of wet saliva over one of them. Dracula had tasted her blood. He knew her plans, or at least pieces of them. She cursed the beast as she got to her feet, sheathing her old sword before collecting the holy throwing daggers from the rooftop. Anne tucked her coat back around her weapons and looked at her ward watch which was clipped to her pocket. Her shift started in an hour. She had enough time to return home and clean herself before she had dead bodies to look at and examine.

“I’ll finish my family’s work, Dracula…” She opened the stairs, “Starting with that new toy of yours.” The stairwell doors closed with a resounding slam.

[schmergo]

Informal (and sorry, very long) review of ASSASSINS at Signature Theatre

ASSASSINS is famous for its provocative concept—telling the story of nine people who assassinated or attempted to assassinate US Presidents in a series of songs and vignettes—and it feels even more daring when staged only 15 minutes from the White House. But this musical isn’t a tasteless exercise in shock value for the sake of shock, nor is it a misguided attempt to portray assassins as ‘just misunderstood.’ These nine central figures are alternately pathetic, disturbing, funny, repulsive, charming, and eerie. Some are clearly delusional, others simply disillusioned. But together, they represent the dark side of the American Dream.

Americans are raised with a sense of exceptionalism, a belief that we deserve everything we want simply because we’re Americans. At some point, we realize that only a few people have the luck, money, skills, and connections to achieve their dreams. Most of us accept that it’s not really true that “anyone can become the President.” But some troubled people throughout the country’s history cling to a distorted corruption of this dream: anyone can kill a President.

That doesn’t mean we should agree with their horrifying choices. But it does let us examine what aspects of life in America make some people so desperate to be seen and remembered, by any means necessary. “Where’s my prize?” is the childish refrain these assassins sing over and over again as they wander through the grey purgatory they’ve been consigned to.

Historically, productions of ASSASSINS are set in a ghastly carnival where contestants are encouraged to ‘step right up’ and shoot a president! A wonderful community production at Dominion Stage created a masterpiece of vivid Americana in which an electric chair or hangman’s noose were reimagined as theme park rides. This production took the opposite route by setting the action in a grimy, industrialized, empty stage in which pieces of furniture like a bench, the steps to a gallows, or a sofa float on and off like ghosts. Through this strange empty world, assassins interact unbounded by time or space, cursed to constantly repeat their most famous actions and relive their frustrations. Garfield assassin Charles J. Guiteau instructs would-be Ford assassin Sara Jane Moore in the finer points of shooting. McKinley assassin Leon Czolgosz reprimands attempted Reagan assassin John Hinckley for carelessly breaking a bottle.

The only set piece that remains throughout the show is a weathered and ghostly replica of the Presidential box at Ford’s Theatre, plunked onto the stage as though fallen from the sky. Here, the brooding spectre of John Wilkes Booth sits and watches the show unfold—and yes, he recreates his famous jump from the box. He serves as a kind of ringleader to the assassins, weaving through crowds, advising that everyone try their hand at assassination as a cure for all of their ills—even chronic stomach pain. After all, he was the first to pull off the historic act. We even see him convincing Lee Harvey Oswald to change the course of history by bringing assassination into the age of television.

As Booth, there’s a whiff of the rock star about Vincent Kempski—fitting, because Booth was a celebrity and even heartthrob in his day even before shooting Abraham Lincoln. Most of the time, he seems at ease, in control, erudite—we might even be seduced by his words until he explodes in fits of rage and reminds us how twisted and monstrous his views really are. Kempski only occasionally unleashes the full power of his singing voice, and when he does, it feels like a punch in the gut.

One minor gripe with his performance, though not limited to Kempski’s portrayal alone: his Booth, like most I’ve seen, delivers his lines with a thick Southern drawl. Not only did that occasionally make it difficult to understand his words, I doubt the real John Wilkes Booth would have spoken with such a heavy accent. For one, although he supported the Confederacy, he was from Maryland. For another, his father was British. And most importantly, he was a professional stage actor before the era of microphones and would have been well-trained in diction. Still, his charisma was palpable throughout the show. The moment he set foot on stage, a chill ran down my spine: it really was like seeing a ghost.

Lawrence Redmond plays the disgruntled worker Leon Czolgozs with gravitas and stoic desperation. He is perhaps the most sympathetic—or pathetic—of the assassins, and he gives us a sense of the loss of human potential. As the crass Sam Byck, attempted assassin of Richard Nixon, Christopher Bloch is horribly funny, spouting commercial catchphrases and leaving professional advice to Leonard Bernstein on an audiotape recording.

Some of the most enjoyable scenes of the evening were those between the two attempted assassins of Gerald Ford, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme (Rachel Zampelli) and Sara Jane Moore (Tracy Lynn Olivera). These are two deeply kooky women—a ditzy Manson groupie and a frumpy mom who’s been married five times and is endlessly losing items in her oversized bag. Together, they shoot at a bucket of fried chicken and bond over an unexpected shared acquaintance in Manson himself.

Zampelli may not be the childlike pixie we’d expect as Squeaky Fromme, but she totally inhabits the character of a lost soul, a flower child whose brains, if she ever had them, are long-since fried and warped. Her voice isn’t a high-pitched girlish squeak but has a distinctive creaky vocal fry to it that makes her sound utterly deranged. She’s so intense in her devotion to Manson that she ranks among the most unsettling characters on the stage. She also shares a strangely beautiful duet, “Unworthy of Your Love,” with sad sack John Hinckley (Evan Casey), a failed songwriter who’s obsessed with Jodie Foster.

As Sara Jane Moore, Olivera is absolutely hysterical in both senses of the word. A chatty, scatterbrained housewife, she seems to represent the mundane and trivial compared to Squeaky’s revolutionary furor— but she can also burst into tears or pull a gun on you at any second. Her utter lack of self-awareness and deadpan one-liners like “I couldn’t hit William Howard Taft if he was sitting on my lap” made her an audience favorite. Ms. Olivera has a special talent for making dialogue sound totally natural, as if everything she says is an ad-lib. I’ll jump at the chance to see any show she’s in because she makes every character completely her own.

But the performer who truly stole the show, and my other favorite local actor, is Bobby Smith, as the lifelong loser, Charles Guiteau. Guiteau is a comically tragic figure, a man who failed at everything he did and still retained the grandiose belief that his actions were divinely inspired. He was so consumed with his delusional belief that President Garfield would make him the Ambassador to France that he shot him. As Guiteau, Smith does a jaunty dance up and down the steps of the gallows before he is to be hanged, singing a refrain of “Look on the bright side!”

Guiteau is a man of extremes, euphoric and despondent at the drop of a hat. Smith, whose appeal as a performer often lies in his unassuming, everyman demeanor, gives amazing nuance to those abrupt transitions. We see real tears shining in his eyes beyond his too-wide smile, a tremble of the lip or shaking of the hands that betray his instability. He’s incredibly entertaining to watch every moment he’s onstage, yet you’re always simultaneously concerned for and creeped out by him. There’s something so obviously ‘not right’ with Guiteau. The last character to make me feel that way was Gollum.

Tying the whole story together is Sam Ludwig as the Balladeer, who serves as a cheery narrator for the show, delivering songs that span the gamut of American music styles. These are some of the most toe-tapping tunes in Sondheim’s catalog, contrasted sharply with the discordant numbers that run between them. Ludwig also inhabits a second role, which may come as a surprise (and isn’t listed in the program). He embodies the saccharine spirit of an American narrative that sees assassination attempts as isolated incidents rather than a symptom of a deeper illness. I occasionally found his piercing tenor voice a little grating to my ears, but it suited his character well—and I was sitting very close to the stage. An increasingly mangled rendition of ‘Hail To The Chief’ ties the musical numbers together.

This show runs almost two hours with no intermission. It’s so immersive that it gives you the curious sense of waking up from a vivid dream as you leave the theatre. You almost feel that the assassins linger behind you, reliving their crimes and failures in the abandoned theatre once you’ve gone home to bed.

Assassins plays through September 29. Don’t miss this show. You’ll find yourself laughing at the most unexpected lines and thinking about the most minor moments long after the curtain call.

[anthonybrxdgerton]

Shadow of Night reread

A few days ago I re-read Shadow of Night by Deborah Harkness. It took me very little time to do it (which was surprising, considering the fact that i re-read the first book for almost 2 months). I will be doing my reactions about episodes as well (as soon as I re-watch them) and comparing the show to the first book.

My reactions, notes and everything under the cut. There are some trivia I forgot about, things i hope to see in season 2 of A Discovery of Witches, some stuff referencing the next & previous books and what not.

BEWARE OF SPOILERS FOR THE BOOKS. IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE BOOKS, DON’T READ THIS POST. Enjoy!

[ a discovery of witches | shadow of night | the book of life | time’s convert ]

the book takes place in 1590 & 1591 (matthew & diana scenes) and 2009 & 2010 (present day scenes) in the span of 7 months

diana's hair change colors when she timewalked into 1590 - they're long, red and curly, and they change - not exactly back - when they return to the present - they're straight, silky strands that were brighter redish gold - just like my mother's hair. it does't say anything about the length though (probably in the next book);

2 of my favorite quotes describing Matthew in this book: The man was as tall as a giraffe. | Bloodred stockings would do more than capture a wandering eye, given that the man who proposed to wear them was a six-foot-three vampire, and most of his height was leg..

“Surely you’ll let me kill him now, de Clermont. I’ve wanted to do so for ages,” Hancock said, cracking his knuckles”. “No. You can’t kill him.” Matthew rubbed a hand over his tired face. “There would be too many questions, and I don’t have the patience to come up with convincing answers at present. - Hancock never liked Kit, I also love Matthew's reasoning lol 

- AT THE SIGHT OF PHILIPPE'S LETTER MATTHEW CRIED VAMPIRE TEARS ESPECIALLY THAT THE LAST TIME MATTHEW SAW PHILIPPE HE COULD BARELY HOLD A PEN IN HIS HANDS AND PHILIPPE LOVED WRITING I AM NOT OKAY 

“Then who . . . ?” I trailed off. “Ysabeau? Baldwin? Surely not Marcus!” I couldn’t believe that Matthew’s mother, his brother, or his son could be involved [in the Congregation] without someone letting it slip. - oh, diana... Question: did Deb knew it was Baldwin when she was writing it? In A Discovery of Witches Matthew acted like he didn't know who was on the Congregation "And Marcus? Find out who besides Peter Knox and Domenico Michele are members of the Congregation."

- Until I have made peace with the past, I will not set foot in France. - we know Gallowglass showed up in Sept-Tours in 1945 when Philippe was dying. Did he go there before too? 

“Explain yourself.” The words were quiet, but they didn't conceal Philippe's fury. - he is nor just mad because Matthew has a wife now. He is furious because he can sense that BOTH Diana and Matthew are from the future - this is what Philippe wants Matthew to explain.

Also, interestingly, reading A Discovery of Witches I've noticed that Baldwin called Philippe "dad" while Matthew calls him "father". Coincidence? But then in the Book of Life Baldwin calls Philippe “father” so... Idk anymore. That being said, verin calls him “Atta”;

“The twelfth century was not good for you, and we allowed you to read entirely too much poetry." - I need to know more now! What exactly did Matthew read in 12th century?

"It is regrettable that you are not going to Florence, then. But it will be a long time before you will be welcomed back to that city, after your latest escapades there." - Matthew, what the heck did you do there? Please tell me you were NOT behind the siege of Florence, i beg you... But then again, Ysabeau did say that Matthew caused wars in Italy when he was bored...

Tamen mea lingua graeca est peior.” “Then we shall not converse in that language either,” murmured Philippe in a pained tone. - HE JUST WANTS TO SPEAK IN GREEK, THAT'S HIS NATIVE LANGUAGE, WHY DOES NOBODY BUT YSABEAU SPEAK IT. BUT that explains why he made sure greeg was still taught in schools later - he wasn’t only looking for Diana, he wanted people to speak his native language too

“Philippe doesn’t seem to think so.” “Then bed him. - lol, if only

"He is my son. I will not fail him.” Philippe’s mouth tightened." PHILIPPE I LOVE YOU NO MATTER WHAT ANYONE SAYS

“For someone wedded to a witch you are quick to judge the passions of others, Matthaios. Louis is your brother.” Goddess bless us, another brother. - Diana is not happy having huge family lol

I had been wrong. Philippe had not been trying to break Matthew, but only his guilt. Philippe had not failed his son after all. - MY FEELS

“I forgive you,” his father repeated, throwing his arms around his son in a fierce embrace. “I forgive you.” - IT KILLS ME EVERY TIME, THEY BETTER KEEP THIS IN THE SHOW

i love how Philippe just makes Diana his blood daughter without a second thought lol

“Think—and stay alive.” Philippe clapped his hands. - one of my favorite quotes 

Alcides Leontothymos beseeches you to hold this child Diana in your hand. - i am right to  think Philippe is in fact Heracles, right?

Philippe trying his hand at engineering and failing every time will always make me laugh. You may be thousands years old vampire, but some things you will never learn 

Philippe, Diana and Matthew's goodbye always kills me SEASON 2 BETTER DO IT JUSTICE

“Anomalies,” Ysabeau murmured. “Philippe was always looking for anomalies in the world. It is why I still read all the newspapers. It became our habit to look through them each morning.” - Phiippe knew he would not be alive by the time Matthew and Diana were together, but he was always hoping he could see her again. he hoped that Diana would be at least born while he was still alive and he always knew that when Diana and Matthew came back to their times, there would be anomalies throughout history. That's why he told Gallowglass and Verin to search for them too, to keep Diana safe.;

“That’s what Philippe says about Granny,” Gallowglass muttered under his breath. “Just before all hell breaks loose.” Give me more Ysabeau and Philippe you cowards; 

“Matthew knows the book, for his brother gave it to me.- So Mary Sydney knows Godfrey too. Does she know the rest of his siblings?;

[Marcus] made a muffled oath. “Tell your intuition to take a break, for God’s sake.” I need to see Marcus and Ysabeau interacting in season 2, their banter will be amazing

Every time I read Marcus seeing miniatures for the first time and missing Matthew so much kills me too - the show did them dirty, i need more of them together too; 

I forgot how much I ship Marcus & Phoebe;

I wish we could see the requests for magic Diana has received in season 2 and her not being able to do anything about that, i need this conflict SO MUCH. Does she help? What is she doesn’t and her neighbors will out her as a witch? This could be SO GOOD please show, deliver;

Diana’s symbol is rowan tree;

“Baldwin’s never lost a million of anything in his life.” - just throwing this out there because I love Baldwin with all my heart; 

917 is the Knight's of Lazarus telephone number. it belonged to Philippe, then to Matthew and now to Marcus. Philippe chose it to honor Ysabeu's birthday (September 17th). What i wanna know - is it her birthday or re-birth. ALTHOUGH it should be 179 - In Europe (and Philippe was Greek after all) we, unlike Americans, write the day first and the month later;

When Gallowglass learned that Baldwin had been called to Sept-Tours at Ysabeau’s behest for some unspecified emergency involving Matthew, the Gael knew it was only a matter of time before the historical anomalies appeared. i think it was when Diana was kidnapped by Satu, right? Just want to be sure;

Gallowglass is smoking, i completely forgot about it;

Rudolph is flirting with Diana so much (ughhhh) because his source in Congregation told him that Matthew only married her to save her life a.k.a. charges of witchcraft;

Matthew helping Jack with his nightmares is the sweetest thing he's done so far;

One of Philippe's names is Ariel, what are the others?;

 Abraham (Jewish weaver in Prague) comes from Chełm. Is this why Benjamin moved there?;

I need to KNOW the story about Baldwin and Dracula, Deb. Come on.;

“He did. I swear it. Baldwin ordered him to leave or face the same fate as the Impaler. You should have seen Baldwin’s face. The devil himself wouldn’t have disobeyed your brother.” i want to see it too lol;

apparently, Gerbert told Ysabeau about the prophecy about a witch with the blood of the lion and the wolf. I wonder if this was one more reason she was anti-Diana at the beginning or did she dismiss it as something not important;

And speaking of colleagues: How, after years of buying you Harvard bibs and mittens, did I end up with a daughter who teaches at Yale?” good question lol I WANNA KNOW TOO;

Bennu, Stephen's familiar, is a bird.;

#saveEm2k19;

Matthew nearly had a heart attack when he discovered that his beloved Range Rover was not waiting for him in the underground garage. Instead we found a navy sports car with a soft top. hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha it always cracks me up; 

Edward Kelley sent the first page to Rabbi Loew, the second to Hubbard. Who gt the third and who sent it to Diana’s parents?; 

Annie stayed with Shakespeare after Matthew and Diana left and Jack was with Hubbard.;

Also, Matthew made Diana a diplomatic passport for easier traveling;

Overall, I loved this book. There were some boring moment that didn’t move the plot forward at all (like most of Prague, especially the hunting or the play, making the philosopher’s stone with Mary Sydney) that I hope the show will cut it out completely or shorten it. Hopefully, they give us at least 2 episodes of Philippe at Sept-Tours - now that they got 10 episodes, they have a chance to do it properly. I also love the magic lessons from Goody Alsop and other witches, though I suspect, season 2 will only give us 1 witch (but I hope we will see Sophie’s ancestor too. My favorite characters are Philippe, Pierre and Jack and I hope we will get plenty of them (please include Pierre, show!)

[jewishaxelwalker]

Out from Isolation

Axel Walker does not have a past, a backstory, a history. He's made sure of that.

He torches his records every 25 years.

(also available on AO3)

“Okay so...one more time. Explain it to me one more time. I swear this time, I’ll 100% understand.”

Axel sighed, pulled the spoon out of his mouth and plopped it back into the mostly-empty bowl of frozen yogurt. “Like I said the last three times, I’m immortal. Eternal, to be more specific because like, I can totally die, but it takes some decent effort.” Joey nodded, seemingly to himself, mouthing the words ‘immortal’ and ‘eternal’ a few times, followed closely by the phrase ‘what the fuck’. “You don’t believe me.”

“I’m trying to wrap my head around the idea!” In the dozens of lives he’d lived over the last few centuries, Joey was easily the best friend he’d ever had. And the first person he’d tried to explain the whole ‘I’ve been alive longer than you’d think’ thing to in...a good hundred years. “And some witch just cursed you with immortality?”

“Dolya Nedolya is not a witch.” Axel snapped, testy. Insulting her was a good way to flip his fortunes for the worse. “She’s the goddess of personal fate. Apparently, I was supposed to have this totally kick-ass life, but I was born poor around one of the major plague years, so that wasn’t going to happen.”

He could practically see Joey’s brain desperately trying to dig up remnants of his 9th grade world history class. “So how’d it happen? This Dolya just bopped you on the head and was like bam, immortal?” Axel sighed again, swirling his spoon around in the melted mess that his froyo had become. Should have picked a heartier food to have this conversation over, like pizza.

“Well, I’d just buried my mother. Literally, I was in the cemetery and everything. So this old woman comes up to me and puts her hand on my shoulder, which wasn’t uncommon, people had been doing that all day.” He took a moment to recall his mother, with her dark hair and blue eyes. They’d looked so much alike when he was a young child, same facial shape, same mouth, same eyes. His father had died shortly after he’d been born and he had no siblings, so the pair of them had been thick as thieves until the day his mother died. She had been a weaver, and he’d learned to make simple clothes at her knee, a skill he’d continued to hone over time. No matter the era or place, people always needed clothes.

“Ax?” Joey waved his hand in front of Axel’s face and he startled, not realizing just how long the pause he’d taken had lasted.

“Right, yeah. The old woman. She said she’d come as soon as she’d heard I was on my own, asked what I’d do now. The town I’d grown up in was small, and didn’t really have anything for me now that my mother was gone.” He’d looked for it, the last time he’d been in Europe, but the land had long since swallowed the place where he was born. “She suggested I try Kiev, as a young man with skill could make his mark easily there. I told her that I didn’t want to make a mark, that I wanted to die.”

He’d been in a bad place that day, which was understandable. He was completely alone for the first time in his life, and this nosy old broad wasn’t exactly making his mood any lighter.

“That was about the time she smacked me upside the head and called me ungrateful which, rude. And that’s when I actually went and looked at her.” Dolya hadn’t really been old, more around his mother’s age. Axel had heard stories about fate visiting people, he’d just never thought she’d come for him. He wasn’t that special. “Dolya told me that I’d been destined to achieve greatness, but I’d never do it there or, frankly, then. I’ve always looked young, and I guess Dolya was feeling whimsical that day, because she told me that I'd be 17 forever.” He paused his story there, taking the time to scrape up the last of his pistachio yogurt soup. His mouth was dry. “Well actually she said I'd be 'forever on the precipice of manhood, destined never to topple', which to me was basically the fanciest set of words ever strung together, back when I heard them."

"Which was..?" Axel hoped that Joey didn’t notice his little wince. This was always the hard part.

"I wanna say early 1400s? It's been a long time, and I didn't actually notice that I'd stopped aging until I was 50."

There was a long stretch of quiet, then. Axel could hear kids playing basketball on the court across the street from their apartment. His bowl was empty, the bright yellow spoon from the froyo place seeming to mock him where it sat.

“So you’ve been 17 for like 600 years? Shit, you’ve got that vampire kid beat by miles.” Axel choked on the breath he’d been holding, too relieved to care that his laughter had spiraled into a coughing fit.

“Did you just compare me to the guy from Twilight?! We’re not friends anymore.”

But they were friends, best friends. Friends that shared the deepest of secrets. They talked all through the afternoon, until the day’s shadows lengthened and vanished. Joey asked him about his earliest years (”Isn’t Kiev in Poland?” “Close, Ukraine. I’m not from Kiev, though. The town I was born in was several hundred miles away, and was part of Russia. It might be part of the Ukraine now, I don’t know. I haven’t really kept up with border lines since I came to America.”), and how he’d managed to keep himself alive for so long (”Stayed away from big cities when people started dying like crazy, avoided getting caught up in any big revolutions, stole and hid a lot of gold over the years, and changed identities every 25 years or so.”).

“So wait, is Axel Walker even your real name?” Axel shrugged.

“Legally? Yeah. I’ve got a guy who draws up new identities for me. His great-grandfather and I served in the war together. I just tell him what I want my new name to be, he does the rest.”

Originally, his name had been Absalom. He’d kept that name for a long time, traveling from place to place whenever people began to act like they knew him too well. It worked for decades, too; no one questioned the legitimacy of Absalom the walker, who traveled here and there with his cart and sold the clothes made in his mother’s shop back home. He simply was, and simply did. 

And then some asshole came up with surnames and record-keeping, and his entire way of life went out the window. 

Absalom became Abraham, became Alexander, became Arthur. Then back to Absalom for a brief period in the early 1900s, when he enlisted and was sent back to Europe. From around 1930 through 1965, he was Adam. Safer that way. He might go back to Absalom again some day, if the old-fashioned biblical names ever come back into style.

Joey raised a brow.

“It’s a version of my real name.” Axel relented. Absalom Walker had a paper trail, one he’d tried damned hard to erase effectively but...bits and pieces were still there. And that part of his life, he wasn’t ready to share just yet.

His larger friend shrugged, then stretched his arms above his head, went to stand. “Okay, fine. So now that I know you’re legal to have a beer, want one?” Axel wrinkled his nose, and Joey laughed. “You’re older than dirt and you just...never learned to like beer, huh?”

“You shouldn’t have to learn to like a drink.” Axel grumbled, following Joey to the kitchen. “Beer is just Stockholm Syndrome: the beverage.”

Joey laughed so loud and so long at that, their downstairs neighbor began to bang on her ceiling with a broom. Axel would apologize later, probably. Mrs. Bergman was in her 80s and crotchety as hell, but she also liked to shove fresh batches of aebleskivers at him whenever he went home via the fire escape and passed her window.

“You realize that every time you say something weird now, you won’t be quirky, right? You’re just a confused old man, who can’t understand the youth of today.” Joey gasped once he’d finished laughing, tossing him a bottle of root beer. 

“Joey, you’re 25. You’re not even a youth of today anymore.”

“Maybe, but I don’t remember where I was when Franz Ferdinand was shot.” Now it’s Axel’s turn to laugh and he does, throwing his twist-off cap at his roommate.

He’d expected this to be weird, for Joey to send him packing. To have to up and leave a city yet again  because of something he literally had no control over.

Instead, they’re drinking root beer and laughing about historical assassinations. As you do.

“You know you’re stuck with me, right? I’m gonna be your grand kids’ babysitter someday.” I’ll be a pallbearer at your funeral, he doesn’t say, because that reality is just too sad to think about right now.

“I figured as much, when I woke up from a coma and you’d moved into my place. We’re BFF, bro, emphasis on that second F.” Joey held out his fist for bumping, and Axel took the offer.

Eternity lasted a lot long time, and it could get lonely. But for the first time in quite a while, Axel was content. He’d be set for friendship for the next few decades. 

And who knew, maybe tar could be just as ageless as he was. It couldn’t hurt to try.

[brrahbrrahcharacterimagines]

Preference: You Steal Their Clothes

MASTERLIST

Warnings: Cursing and allusions to sex

Rick Grimes

“Y/n, is that my shirt?” Asked Rick as you walked into your shared cell in the prison block. You looked down, realizing that is actually was his shirt. Not thinking about it earlier that morning, you had put it on before going out to the fence for walker control.

“Uh, yes. It is.” You reply awkwardly as Rick raked his eyes across your body. “You can have it back if you want,” you say, reaching to pull it off.

“No, it’s fine. You can keep it. It looks good on you.” Then Rick smirks. “On second thought, you’re right. Take it off. It would look better on the floor.”

Negan

Negan had gone to Alexandria for a few days to gather supplies and try to shut down any rebellious behavior, leaving you all alone in the large room the two of you usually shared. For once, he had forgotten to grab his signature leather jacket, leaving it laying on the back of a chair just begging for you to try it on.

You put on the jacket although it was much too big for you, enjoying as Negan’s scent surrounded you and invaded your nose. You sighed, a wave of longing rushing over you as you thought of Negan. It had only been a couple of days, but after being used to seeing him every day you missed him. Real bad.

As if answering your thoughts, the door to the room swung open, revealing the love of your life standing there with Lucille on his broad shoulder.

“Honey, I’m home,” said Negan sarcastically, scanning the room before his eyes landed on you. He smiled immediately at how adorable you were. The sleeves of his jacket went plenty past your hands, and you must not have known how to properly zip the thing because somehow it had become crooked.

“So,” you said slowly. “You’re home early.”

“Well, I wanted to come home and surprise you. And damn, it looks like you’ve been missing me anyway.” Said Negan with a smirk.

“Yea, I did.” You replied, not even bothering to deny or beat around the bush.

“You look fucking fuckable in my clothes. You should wear them more often.” Said Negan as he held you in his arms, pressing you against his firm chest.

“Well then I guess I will.”

Daryl Dixon

When Daryl got into the shower, leaving his sleeveless leather jacket in his bedroom, you couldn’t help but put it on. After being friends for years, you had developed a crush on the man and no way in hell were you going to deny yourself the one chance you had to wear his clothes without him knowing.

You put on the jacket although it was a bit large, turning around in the mirror to admire the wings on the back. So absorbed in the rush of putting on the garment, you didn’t hear the water stop. You also didn’t hear a certain someone’s feet padding back to their bedroom. You did, however, hear somebody slam into the doorframe.

“Shit Y/n, what are ya doin’ in here?” Asked Daryl, using one hand to rub his shoulder, and the other to hold up the towel wrapped around his waist. You blushed deeply and turned around, shielding your eyes with your hand although you were tempted to turn back around to face him.

“I, uh, just wanted to ask you if you wanted to go on that three-day run with me. If you come, I don’t have to bring Spencer.” You said awkwardly, embarrassed that he had caught you. Hopefully, this wasn’t enough for him to catch on to your feelings for him.

“Of course, that guys an ass. But first, is that my jacket?” He asked intrigued, although he obviously already knew the answer.

“Yea. I’m sorry, it was just sitting there and I-”

“Don’t apologize.” He said. “It looks cute on you.” You froze. Did Daryl just flirt with me? The Daryl Dixon? “And Y/n, you can turn back around now.”

You turned to see that he had put a pair of jeans on, but his chest he had left bare. This wasn’t the first time you had seen Daryl shirtless, but it still made your face blush profusely. Quickly shrugging off the jacket and handing it to him, you walked out of the room.

Is there any chance he likes me back?

Glenn Rhee

Rummaging through your closet in Alexandria that you shared with your husband for a pair of clean shoes, you found an old treasure. Holding it up you smiled, memories of how you met Glenn leaving Atlanta flooding your mind. He was wearing this hat then, and for months you were almost certain that he slept in it too. You didn’t know why he quit wearing it; but if he wasn’t going to, it might as well get some use.

“Glenn!” You yelled at your husband happily after searching the town. He excused himself politely from his conversation with Eugene, rushing over to you.

“Y/n, you found my hat!” He said with a smile. 

“Yes, I did.” You said, returning the smile. “Is there any reason it was hidden at the bottom of our closet?”

“No, it just ended up there after I quit wearing it I guess. That thing hasn’t gotten to see the light of day in a while.” Glenn bent down to kiss you, but only succeeded in bumping his face against the bill of the cap. “Y/n, don’t get me wrong. You look absolutely adorable right now. But if I can’t kiss you, you can’t get to comfortable with this hat.”

Abraham Ford

Sitting in the train car at Terminus, there wasn’t a whole lot to protect you from the outside temperatures. Through the drilled-in airholes, both hot and cold air seeped in. As the weather got colder, the train car followed suit. As someone that got cold rather easily, this was a problem for you. However, being in such a confined space meant that you could not hide the fact that you were cold very easily.

“Darlin’, I know you want to be tough and all. But you look like you are fucking freezing.” Said Abraham. You huffed, looking down at your feet . No point in denying the obvious.

“Yes, Abe. I’m cold. But what do you want me to do about it? I’m sorry, but we haven’t exactly got many options in here.” You say snappily, rubbing your arms in an attempt to warm up.

“Well, I actually have a jacket with my if you want it.” He said, rather soft compared to his normal tone which was quite out of character for him.

“But Abraham, I didn’t even know you before we got trapped in here together. Isn’t that a it forward?” You say teasingly.

“Well baby, I’m all about being forward with pretty women.” He said in reply, making you blush.

“Then don’t take this the wrong way, but could I borrow it? I don’t usually do this but it doesn’t seem like a bad offer.” You say quietly.

“Well sure baby. If you don’t usually do this, then I guess I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” He says with a smirk, ending a great start to a beautiful friendship and relationship.

Carl Grimes

“Y/n, have you seen my-” Said Carl, walking into the room. “Nevermind.” he said as he found what he was looking for, right there on your head. His sheriff’s hat his dad had given him at the farm.

“Looking for something, Grimes?” You ask teasingly,smiling up at your boyfriend.

“Well I was, but you look way cuter than I do in it. Keep the hat for a while L/n, it suits you.” And with a smirk, Carl was back out the door again.

King Ezekiel

“Y/n,” said your husband Ezekiel as he entered your shared bedroom. “Is that my coat that you are wearing?”

You laughed in return, smiling and nodding your head. He giggled back, smiling wide. Although a bit childish, his reaction made your heart melt at how cute he was.

“Well my dear, you look absolutely stunning as always.” He said, smiling and wrapping his arms around your frame. “But I need our help in the garden. We don’t know what to do with the onions, they weren’t planted deep enough and we can see small ones popping through the dirt.”

“Well, we can’t have any tiny onions popping through, can we?” You respond with a giggle.

“Y/n, my queen, I adore you.”

“I adore you too my king.”

Paul “Jesus” Rovia

“How could you do this?” Said Jesus, feigning sadness. 

“I’m so sorry boo. But I had to.” You say in return, also feigning solemnity.

“How could you steal my beanie, Y/n?” He says, trying hard to not break and crack a smile.

“Because it just looks so cute on me. See?” You say, smiling and pointing at yourself. At this, Paul couldn’t help but mile at how adorable you were.

“Well, I can’t argue with that logic.”

“Damn right you can’t.”

Dwight

“Dwight-y boy, I saw that girl of yours today.” Said Negan, walking up to Dwight in the hallway.

“Oh?” Said Dwight, confused as to why Negan was bringing you up. 

“Yea. So did you guys fuck last night?” Asked Negan, not bothering who heard what he was saying. Dwight nearly choked.

“What!?” He asked, stunned and confused.

“She was wearing one of your fucking shirts. I assume she stayed the night at your place then, so logically you guys ‘did the dirty’,” said Negan, making lewd gestures with his hands.

“Woah, no way Negan. Nothing like that. We were watching a movie and she crashed on the couch.” Replied Dwight.

“Well that’s a shame, she’s hot as shit.” Said Negan, reminding Dwight of what happened with Sherry and making his blood boil. Looking past Negan’s words, Dwight calmed himself down.

“Was she really wearing my shirt?” Asked Dwight, as you had left before he woke up this morning.

“Hell yes, Dwight. So you better make a fucking move, or I will.” Said Negan, raising his eyebrows.

“You can fucking count on it boss.”

Simon

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” Asked Simon, eyeing you as you walked out of the bathroom.

“Oh, what ever could you mean?” You teased playfully, playing with the hem of his button-up that you had layered over your t-shirt.

“I think you’ve got an idea.” He said, smirking. “You look real hot though, so you’d better wear that thing all day.” Simon pulled you towards him, grabbing your ass and getting close to your ear, whispering, “this way everybody knows that you belong to me.”

Merle Dixon

“Well shit girl, you’re lookin’ damn fine today.” Said Merle as he looked you up and down, taking in how sexy all of your curves looked today. “Say, where’d you get that shirt?”

“Your drawer.” You said nonchalantly, knowing that the sight of you in his t-shirt and panties in the morning was making him excited.

“Well, I might just have to tell the governor that I’m going to be a bit late today so that I can teach you a lesson about stealing my stuff.” Said Merle, pressing up behind you, making your breath hitch. You felt how excited he was, exciting yourself even more.

“Well then, I guess you’ll just have to show me how bad I’ve been then.”

MASTERLIST

[wordsinwinters]

Then Again, P4 Peter Parker x Reader

Author’s Note: The next update will be tomorrow! Part 5 is written from Peter’s P.O.V. - which I loved writing and I’m excited to share.

I hope you guys enjoy this! After this weekend, I promise, things will - as they inevitably must - go down. The dominoes just needed to be set up first.

Please, let me know what you think! I’d love to get a message or review about any part of this fic. It’d be really really cool. I’d be geeked, man.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11

Anyway,

Then Again, Part 4:

(Words: 1,265)

I wake up to brown eyes in the almost-dark. (I’ve imagined this in a slightly different context a hundred times by now.)

Peter’s lightly shaking me awake. And Michelle, by default, who smacks him away. Despite former promises not to cuddle her, I must have latched on at some point last night, like always. The fact that I’m not on the floor is another reason I love Michelle. For all her tough talk, she’s as soft as a pillow. Actually, that’s not completely true. Michelle is the fiercest person I know - when the stakes are higher than sleeping arrangements.

I detangle myself from her and smile at Peter, hoping today is different.

Peter smiles back. It’s small, but it’s there.

“Shower open?” I whisper.

“Yeah. When did MJ want to get up? Aunt May said she’ll make pancakes once everyone is awake.”

I squint at the clock. 6:13 a.m.

“7. But she’ll settle for 6:45 if she smells food.”

Peter nods. My eyes adjust a bit and I force myself up, into the hallway, and around to the bathroom. At the door, I hear May and Ned talking quietly in Peter’s room. If I were less tired, I might eavesdrop. But I’m not. Ned will probably tell me anyway.

During my slightly too-long shower, I try my best to stop thinking about Peter and last night and his eyes before the dirt comment and this morning and the thousands of impossible future scenarios that would link those moments together under more favorable conditions. For months now, I’ve spent most of my time thinking about Peter Parker and how I need to stop thinking about Peter Parker. Again, endlessly, it doesn’t work.

After pancakes, May drives us to the school where the bus and rest of the team wait. She hugs each of us individually, wishing us luck and reminding us to keep her updated by texts and calls.

“I know how competitive all of you are,” May says with a smile, “but remember that this trip is a chance to have fun and act like real teenagers for a few days.”

Her smile relaxes as she looks pointedly to Peter.

“Okay? Just remember the stuff we talked about. Be a little more adventurous.”

“More adventurous?” Peter asks. “Are you sure?”

May’s hands go to her hips.

“You know exactly what I mean. And I’m going to check up on things. Count on that.”

This seems soaked in subtext, though I have no idea what sort. I should talk to Ned.

“Alright kids, come back in one last time.”

May binds us all into a group hug before kissing our foreheads. I maneuver to the end of the line for this one (least amount of forehead lipstick). Ned gets it worst, Peter plenty, and Michelle a smudge. Hopefully I have nothing.

May must realize this, because she musses up my hair afterward and laughs.

“I’m going to force Peter to do that every night while you guys are away. How will you kids survive without a full balance of Parker love?”

Peter starts to say something in an exasperated tone as his cheeks turn pink but she shakes her head and laughs again. At the same time, I try to suppress the color I feel tickling my neck. If Peter ever kissed my forehead and then did that to my hair….

“I’m only half serious. Totally serious - but anyway, I love you guys and I’ll be here when you come back!”

We walk to the bus where Mr. Harrington and the rest of the team are talking. Peter, Michelle, and I try to discreetly wipe our foreheads with our sleeves.

“Ned? You’ve got... a lot,” I say, gesturing.

He smiles.

“I know.”

“Oh come on, man,” Peter says. “Seriously?”

Mr. Harrington counts each member of the team and passes around a sign-up sheet before we can step onto the bus. As the last three of us approach the door, Flash taps Peter’s shoulder.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing above Peter’s eyes to the circle of smudged red. As Peter opens his mouth, Flash nails his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What? Somebody already do that?”

Without thinking, I jam my knee into the back of Flash’s leg. He falls with the most unflattering huh-yuht sound I’ve ever heard as he hits his head on the bus door. My heart is racing.

What just happened?

Peter pauses, his mouth in a tight line. He steps over Flash and onto the bus. At the top of the stairs, he turns and waits for me. Flash stands up and tries to play it cool.

“I get it. Making me eat dirt. You wanna recreate some childhood memories?”

I notice the red mark now on his forehead, a mirror of Peter’s. I can’t think of anything to say. I’m still processing the fact that he actually hit Peter. And that nobody on the bus saw it, judging by the lack of Mr. Harrington’s voice. I could kill him. I could really kill him.

I shove Flash out of my way and go to sit with my friends. I can’t believe him.

Michelle being chosen as our captain is the best thing to happen to our team. Particularly because Mr. Harrington lets her arrange which rooms all of us sleep in as a privilege.

The list goes:

MJ and Y/N

Peter and Ned

Cindy and Sally

Abraham and Eugene.

(Anytime she writes our names down for anything, she always writes “Eugene” instead of “Flash.” He has made many public protests about it.)

Our room is right next to Ned and Peter’s. And at the opposite end of the hall from Mr. Harrington. If we’re too loud or if we stay up too late, the chance of being caught is slim. (Not that we would ever stay up late enough to compromise the competition... just a little after curfew. The following night we’ll stay awake until some time in the morning.)

Now that the half tense (me, Peter, and Flash), half friendly (everyone else) team bus ride is over, MJ and I get to unpack. But first I need to tell her about what happened earlier.

“Flash hit Peter,” I blurt.

“What do you mean?”

“He made a comment about the mark from May’s lipstick and he hit him. Just-!”

I make the motion with my hand.

“Are you serious? Why didn’t you guys say anything to Mr. Harrington? Or me or Ned? I’m team captain, I could have-”

“Because,” I rush, “Peter acted like it didn’t happen and when he didn’t say anything, I got a feeling he might get angry with me if I did and yesterday was so awful. I think he wants this year’s trip to be normal, you know, compared to last year? I just had no idea what he wanted me to do.”

Michelle takes a breath.

“So, you did nothing?”

“I mean, I kind of got Flash back for it? He hit the door with his head and got the wind knocked out of him.”

That’s not enough, I know. Talking about it has me worked up again. I could kill him. I’m sure Michelle feels the same way, given her current expression.

“Ask Peter about it,” she suggests. “If he says drop it, we drop it. If he says anything else, we go from there.”

I nod. Slowly we begin to unpack.

Drawers are being opened and closed as we both turn to each other at the same time and say the same thing:

“I could kill Flash.”

Part 5

Next Update: Tomorrow, Saturday 7. 

(It’ll be the first Peter Parker P.O.V.!)

[panda-noosh]

“Hit Me.” {Daryl x Reader}{The Walking Dead}.

Prompt: You are Daryl’s wife, and you end up getting punished for one of his crimes during the Negan line-up.

  Warning: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 7 AND MILD SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2!!!

  Words: 1856 {This got long, fuck}.

  Notes: I kind of hate the ending to this, but I’ve never been good with endings, so soz. Also, this was really fun to write. I love The Walking Dead so much. The fandom is so positive and hardly ever fights {unlike a lot of other fandoms I am a part of} so this felt kind of good to do. Please enjoy!

                                                                ——-

 The trouble you were in was beyond anything you or the group had ever encountered.

   You had been a hostage before. Of course you had. It was every other weekend you were on your knees in front of a stranger, pretending to plead for you life just to buy time for the group to arrive and save you. Often times, it was you diving in through a window to save somebody else. These trips would only last a good hour or so, including the scavenging you often insisted on doing afterwards.

   But this was different. This was so different.

   These weren’t just people you could dive headfirst at and kill in a few swings of your sword. You no longer had a sword, first of all. Your hair had fallen in your face, the dirt sinking into your ripped jeans and causing the skin underneath to crack at the dampness. There were injuries running up the left side of your face that throbbed, and you weren’t even sure what they were yet. You just knew they were there.

   Another small issue you had was the fact that the largest portion of the group were with you, and Carol and Morgan hadn’t been seen for a long time. Tara and Heath were gone on a hunt, meaning they were out of the picture. You were all completely defenceless.

   As soon as you saw Daryl, your heart fell into your stomach and you wanted to scream out. The hair that had fallen into your face – sweaty and dirt riddled – wasn’t enough to stop you from making eye contact with him. He looked so pale, being thrown into the dirt next to Rosita and Glenn, completely defenceless. He had a bloodied blanket wrapped around his shoulder, and when he fell to the ground he simply keeled over, spitting up too much blood for your liking.

   You didn’t scream out, though. Instead, you gave him a firm nod and turned back to the man in front of you – Negan. He had been talking for a while now, walking up and down the line with a baseball bat wrapped in electric wire swinging at his side. It didn’t seem threatening at first – baseball bats were nothing compared to your guns and knives, but the way this man wielded it, swinging it in front of your face like he wouldn’t even hesitate to put it into use, made it seem a lot more scary.

  And then he started to sing a nursery rhyme. You had faded out for a while, completely blocked by your own thoughts but you knew what this meant. The way he pointed the bat at each of you, saying the lines of the famous ‘pick and choose’ rhyme you always used to verse off as a kid to make your stupid decisions.

   He was saying them now, grinning as he did so. And then the nursery rhyme was over and everybody was yelling and Abraham was keeled over in the dirt with blood dripping from his red hair and everything was falling apart. You weren’t screaming. You weren’t flinching. You weren’t crying. You simply stared straight ahead with the tears rolling down your cheeks like the unwelcomed rain that had slammed against the caravan window only hours before. You would do anything to take those hours back if you had the chance now.

  “Suck….My….Nuts,” Abraham spat out. Negan laughed manically, commented on how Abraham was “Taking it like a champ!” and then brought the bat down on him all over again.

   There was an unfamiliar buzzing in your ears. It reminded you of those summer days where you and Daryl would march through the woods, hunting for the food needed to keep your people alive. The flies were always awful during them days, and now it sounded like they were there again, right by your ear, nibbling at your sweaty skin.

   You knew your brain was trying to distract you by handing you these memories, but the sound of skin being beaten in and bone being crushed and blood splattering was enough to make even the most happiest of memories seem dark.

   It was over in a moment, but the moment felt overdone. You close your eyes and before you can hold yourself up, you fall to the ground. Your hands mould into the wet dirt, your hair falling back into your face. You belch up the vile that was rising in your throat, letting it escape and splatter in the dirt before you.

   Carl rubs at your shoulder from the side of you, his hand shaking against the bones. You shrug his hand off of you, not wanting him to get in trouble for supporting the weak one.

   Negan’s attention was on you in seconds, sliding in front of you and gently placing the bat under your chin to tilt your head up.

   You look into his dark eyes, the sick and twisted tales of all of his murders being shone through them. Only there was no remorse. Not for the previous killings and certainly not for what he had just done to Abraham.

   “Have we got a sick one?” he asks. You spit on the floor at his feet. He simply smiles, revealing a set of surprisingly white teeth. “Oh, we do indeed. Do you not like a little blood and gore, little lady? Do you not find it amusing?”

   “Go to hell,” you croak out. The words send a jolt of pain to spiral up your stomach and you yell, falling to your elbows in the dirt. Being so close to the floor, you can smell the fresh scent of blood coming from Abrahams body. It makes tears erupt in your eyes and a sob escape your throat, your fingers digging into the dirt to grasp for some release, anything at all that will take you out of this hell but nothing works. Nothing works. Nothing works!

   “God, you certainly are a sight for fucking sore eyes,” Negan continues to jester, tapping the bat against your fingers. Blood sprouts from your knuckles where the barbed wire cuts into the skin. You only feel relief. “Sit up, girl. Let me look at you.”

   You do as he says, pulling yourself up onto your knees again with a wobble. He is in your face in seconds, grinning at you. And then he reaches forward, taking a clump of your hair in his hand and dragging you forward. You grunt in surprise, your feet flailing behind you. Carl tries to grab you but his lack of right eye and current situation makes it difficult for him to even pin point where you are.

   “No!” Daryl screams, throwing himself forward. “No! No, let go of her! No!”    Negan freezes, your hair still in his hands. He chuckles darkly and you wince, feeling even more bile arising in your system. “Did you just – Is he your husband or something?”

   “Let go of her!” Daryl repeats.

   “God Daryl, just sit back!” you exclaim. Daryl’s eyes meet yours, eyes that once made your heart skip a thousand beats, made you sick with longing and desire. You see the time he first kissed you on the barn roof after Sophia had showed up dead. You see the first time you had given yourself to him that special night under the stars at the prison, when things seemed so peaceful. You see the time he proposed, so casually in bed in Alexandria, lying next to one another. He simply placed the ring on your stomach, grunted the question out and then smiled when you said yes. That was all you needed to know he loved you – a smile. He didn’t do it often enough.

   Now he looked broken, remembering the exact same things as you. You had once looked good – once had your hair straight and your eyes clear of any emotion. Alexandria had healed you of the memories of war for a little while, let you be a normal wife. Now, your hair was knotted with the blood of dead people and your hands were bleeding and your eyes were red with dust clogging them up.

    “This is fucking cute,” Negan says, suddenly letting your hair go. You fall into the dirt. “But it seems like your little lady doesn’t really want you to stand up for her, Daryl.” He spits your husbands name out like it’s a sort of disease. “I think I’d be doing her a favour with putting her out of her misery anyway. With a bug like that, she won’t last long.”

   And then Daryl springs forward and it is all a blur. His fist is hitting Negan in the face before you can even scream. He is being pinned to the floor by Negan’s quick men before you can even comprehend what just happened. Your eyes dart open, a yell escaping your mouth that sounds more like a grunt of disapproval than anything else. Your throat still burns from the bile.

   Negan swings forward, waving his bat around threateningly. All the while you are still laying in the dirt at his feet. “Oh, no, no, no, NO! We will not have any of that here in my place, do you understand? That was quite simply unacceptable. Quite simply, fucking insane.”

    “Daryl,” you whisper, cowering in the dirt. He scrambles up, tries to throw himself towards you again but the men are holding him back and he doesn’t dare scream out.

   Negan rubs at his bruising jaw and grins a tight lipped smile. “You know what else would be fucking insane? If I, as a respected leader, let that go unpunished. And he’s made it very clear what punishment would make him mad.”

   You know what he is saying. Of course you know what he is saying, and you oddly accept it. You close your eyes, letting your head hit the dirt as a sigh of relief escapes your lips. Not of relief that you’re going to die, that you will finally see the end of this god forsaken world, but that you will be the punishment – not anybody else.

   Daryl is screaming in front of you. You open your eyes, look up at the night sky for a minute before you raise your arm, making even Negan stop in his tracks. You pinch your fingers together, beckoning for the bearded villain to approach you.

   “At least take me to dinner first,” Negan grunts, waltzing over to your laid out figure.

   You look up into his dark eyes, grin and say, “Hit me.”

     The last thing you hear before the bat is being swung towards you is Daryl finally letting loose the scream he had been holding in since the moment you were dragged out in front of him. And then, nothing. Just the sweet, sweet feel of release.

[borkasaurusrex]

(D·N·C) SEASON 1 | EPISODE 3 | "TESSIE"

"Listen closely, for this assignment could potentially cost you half your grade. You don't want to flunk this class because you weren't listening, do you?"

His eyes grazed the dark classroom, a couple students shaking their head nervously when it came around to them. The room was especially dark, almost as if the lights were dimmed on purpose. Under all those shadows were old wood and vintage decorations, from the peeling wallpaper to an entire shelf full of dusty cobwebs, clearly never used. It smelled, looked, and felt old.

Hell, it was old. Probably.

Just like the teacher. Actually, that's not entirely true - he looked mid-age, if not a little more. He was wearing a gray shirt, a gray tie, a gray smile. He looked pretty average, actually - except for his smooth, almost stupidly bald head.

Like, really bald. Like... King Neptune bald, is what we're talkin' here.

But... uh, anyway, the teacher returned his eyes to the center of the room, muttering, "Good." Before taking a piece of chalk from his desk and writing on the board, it letting out the occasional screech.

A hand raised up from behind, from in his peripheral vision.

"What is it, Mr. Moore?" He didn't even turn around.

"Uh... yeah... so... I kinda got a concussion the other day, Mr. Ahlquist , so uh... I'm not gonna be able to do the paper," Weston said. " Just so you, uh, kno -"

"You've already used that excuse before, Mr. Moore. Try again."

"I... uh... got the flu?"

"Already used that."

"Chicken pox?"

"Next."

"Mad Cow Disease?"

"Give me a break.

"... Uh... butt herpes?"

"One more word out of you and you'll be spending your afternoon in my class," Ahlquist warned, tone stern. "Not. A. Word."

"..."

"... Calculus?"

-~-

RRRRRING!  

"- All I'm saying is, if she wasn't the sister of the worst Axe-scented homophobe on the planet... I might be into her," Axel said, "But... well, you can see why that may be a turn-off."

"But... Ax! Didn't you see her bazookas?" Weston asked.

"... Did you mean 'bazongas'? Not... not that I'm listening to your misogynistic toss or anything..." Evanna grumbled.

"No, I meant bazookas. Y'know, like the thing the army uses that blows the shit outta third world countries? That kind of thing."

"You're... going to need to need to be more specific."

Weston laughed, slapping Evanna's back a little too hard, hard enough that she almost dropped her phone. She looked up at him, brows deep and teeth bared like an injured animal. Weston took his hand off her back fast.

"Uh... well... carry on!" He took a big step forward in front of the other two, and kept on walking. Axel and Evanna did the same.

The three teens strolled down one of the many halls of Calcheri Valley High, dozens of students, lockers, and doors of generally the same colors behind them as they made their way down. The air was alive with the slamming of lockers, the bickering and back-and-forth of friends and even the pale blue anti-drug posters (somehow) poorly pinned to the walls. Weston skidded to a stop in the middle of two bathroom doors, right in front of a particularly tall water fountain. Being five foot three... it was going to be a challenge.

"That's okay..." he whispered to himself. "I like a good challenge."

"It's just a water fountain, mate," Evanna said, coming to a stop next to Axel. "Like... hell. It's not even that tall."

"Oh, right, to you it's not 'that tall'. To you. Well... try walking in my shoes for a second here - "

"I can't," she replied. "They wouldn't fit."

" - You don't have a problem getting up there. You don't, because you don't have what I have. This... curse. This painful infliction. I simply wish to take a sweet and savory sip from the heavens above, but to you, a giant with the privilege to match - "

"I'm two inches taller than you!"

"Ah, so you admit it! Two inches. Two! Five centimeters! Eighty... eighty millimeters?"

"Fifty, actually," Axel said, "Fifty millimeters."

"Why don't you get on him then, huh?" Evanna asked, gesturing towards the brunette at her side. "He's, like, a whole foot taller than you, and yet you're not getting on him - "

" - I'm only five foot ten, Evanna, I'm not - "

"Ax isn't taller than me, he's... he's borrowing the inches from a friend," Weston interrupted. "I thought you'd know that."

"... Who would that be, then?"

"Oh, Abraham Lincoln. Duh."

"Oh, of course," Evanna scoffed, crossing her arms. "Silly me."

"I know, right?" Weston agreed, pressing the front of the fountain and taking a couple gulps of the thin stream ahead.

"Oh, speaking of Lincoln... what were you guys going to do for Ahlquist's project?" Axel asked. "Y'know, the project?"

"I was gonna eat it," Weston said, mid-gulp. "You?"

Evanna groaned. "Ugh, of course you were..."

"I was going to use barbecue sauce. I'm not an animal." He winked at her, then returned to his aqua.

"I was going to write about Wilson, considering that, compared to the long-run of racists this country's had in office, he seemed a little... well, less," Evanna said. "What about you?"

"I was going to do it on him too, actually. Not because of the whole non-racist thing but, you know... that is a plus." Axel turned over to Weston, adding, "Who are you going to do, Weston?"

"Probably nobody tonight," Weston replied. "I don't have any condoms, remember? Ran out."

"Weston."

"Just kidding, just kidding... I don't have any idea actually. I don't even know fucking anything 'bout the men and men who've run this shitshow, now that I'm thinking about it..."

"Pschh. Figures," Evanna muttered.

"Hey, it's not my fault that all the shows and stuff 'bout that junk are about as fun as a shitting koala, and even then, the koala would be more fun to look at!" Weston said. "I mean sure, it would... oh, it would be messy... but, hey, beats staring up a bunch of old powder wigged butts or whatever the fuck they - "

"Oh, lookie who we have here!"

Axel gulped. Hard. "Oh, crap in a hat."

Behind the three teens were three teens, though much different than our protagonists. One was huge, a Goliath of a boy with a quiff that would put Brendan Urie to shame. One was a little smaller but still fit, skin as black as his dreads and jacket as white as Nixon. The last, the one in front, was a guy. He was tall, slender, skin pale and his brown hair somehow paler. His lips were almost impossibly thin, like a slit on his face, deep facial creases under his eyes despite not looking much older than the students to his left and right. He grinned, a sort of sinister smile that could only come from a prison warden or schoolyard bully.

It's safe to say he probably wasn't the first.

"I'm surprised, ElRite. I thought you said you weren't coming to CVH this year," the boy asked, his hoarse voice making the words sound extra rough. "You weren't lying, were ya?"

"No, I... I wasn't." Axel cleared his throat, adding, "Things didn't turn out the way I thought and now I get to stay here a for a little longer."

"Oh, fun. We'll have to have to hang out sometime," the guy said, "You know. Catch up."

"Uh, I don't - "

"Weston. Come on, man. I know you're better than this. Why don't you leave these pussies and come back to us, to your real friends? C'mon, dude..." The sunken boy looked over at him, trying to smile reassuringly but only making it look fake. "... don't waste high school with them. Waste it with us."

"You know I can have, like, more than three friends... right, Hazen?" Weston asked.

"Then why'd you stop hanging out with us, West?" One of the kids asked from behind: the dreadlocked one.

"Look, it's... I don't have the time, alright? And, 'sides: even if I wanted to go, my schedule wouldn't allow it," Weston turned back to the leader of the pack, Hazen, saying, "Sorry. I'm busy."

Hazen furrowed his brows, hard. "Busy with what?"

"4:00, wallow in self-pity. 4:30, stare into the abyss. 5:00, solve world hunger... tell no one... 5:30, jazzercise. 6:30, dinner with me (I can't cancel that again)... 7:00, wrestle with my self-loathing... I'm booked. Well, if I bumped self-loathing to 9:00, I'd have time to lay in bed - "

"Forget I asked. Jesus Christ, Weston. You and your Jim Carrey references..." Hazen groaned. "See, West, that's why we need you back. All we got are Jobe and his Big Bang Theory jokes and even then those get stale very, very fast..."

The third boy, the huge one, grinned. "Bazoonga."

"Face it, dude. You're miserable without us," Hazen said. "About as miserable as the sad excuses you can hang out with now on a daily basis, anyway - "

"Why don't you just sod off?"

Hazen turned around, slowly, brows high in surprise. He chuckled deep, asking, "... What did you just say?"

"Sod off?" Evanna repeated. "It's like 'fuck off' but, y'know... more British."

"Seelig, if you want to live through your first year of high school I would suggest you - "

"I what? Ask for mercy? Ask for forgiveness? Pray to the gods above that Hazen Rickman, the most overrated git in the Valley, doesn't smite me down to the depths of Hell with his petty insults and laughable quips? Huh? Is that what you'd suggest?"

The two guys behind Hazen look at him mouths open, eyes wider than their gaw. Hazen looked far less impressed.

"Well..." he thought for a second. Then, he said, "... at least my father's not a drunk."

"... Was that supposed to offend me?" Evanna asked, pitch on the verge of laughing. "Heh. Try again, mate."

"... Uh... at least my mom's not dead!"

"Try again."

"My brother's not a retarded fag!"

"Oh, ouch. The edge."

"Well..." Hazen paused, then said with a wide grin, "... at least I'm not so fucked up in the head I need a therapist.

Evanna locked eyes with him. If she was upset, she certainly didn't show it. "Well, that's debatable."

"Look, Rickman." She stared up at him, deep into his eyes. "I get it. Your daily life is miserable and nobody loves you so you take it out on kids smaller and more vulnerable than you. Well, let me tell you something, tosser. I may be smaller than you but if you think I'm more vulnerable than your crumbling facade of manhood than I've got news for ya: you're the one that needs therapy, mate. Now get the fuck outta my sight."

Hazen's lackeys were more shook than a tree in Autumn, Hazen so surprised he looked like he was going to scream. He cleared his throat, stuttering out "But... but..."

"Go away before you embarrass yourself more. C'mon guys, let's get to class."

Evanna bumped Hazen's shoulder on the way out, knocking him to the side while strutting right between his two friends, both of them backing up quickly to avoid the same. Axel followed closely, avoiding eye contact, while Weston simply shrugged with a grin and tailed behind the two as they all disappeared around a corner only seconds later.

The dreadlocked one looked up at Hazen, expression just a little bit more than concerned. He gulped when he saw his tightly clenched red fist, and asked, "Uh... hey Haze? You okay, dude?"

Hazen locked eyes with him, grinning a weak yet knowing smile. He chuckled under his breath, deep and airy. Waving his hand slightly towards himself, he muttered in a deep tone, "Come on, guys. Let's get to class..."

-~-

" - all I'm saying is that I don't get why you care so much about some trivial proje - "

"By writing - and praising - the works of a racist, even in something as 'trivial' as a school project, you're excusing his actions and pretending he did nothing wrong when, in fact, that couldn't be farther from the bloody truth," Evanna explained. "Do you get it now?"

Axel frowned... but nodded. "Yeah. I guess."

"Good. While I know we're going to have to do more research it is for a better cause. Well, better than glorifying some jizzrag with a hard-on for racism, anywa - "

"I heard hard-on and jizz!" Weston popped his head in from the open door, smiling wide. "What're we doing?!"

"Working on Ahlquist's project," Evanna said. "Unlike you."

"But... but I thought we were...?" Weston grumbled, hanging his head low. "... well, my boner's gone."

"Could you maybe help us out?" Axel asked. "Just a bit? We still need to find a fourth article for citing if you want to help us work on- "

"Work? Ugh."

"You're going to have to do something eventually," Evanna said, "You don't want to fail, do you?"

"Well... I can think of worst things."

"Weston."

"I was just jokin'... ha..." Weston stepped into the door frame, chuckling under his breath. "I would love to do that whole "work excited" thing Ax. What's... what's it for?"

"It's pretty simple, actually," Axel replied. "You basically have to "show" your work for how you got the answers you've gotten. You know, like sharing the link to an article you used or some book you don't know, you just put it in the works cited page so the teacher knows you didn't cheat, or whatever. You don't even need to put all the sources you used, you just have to... just..."

"He's gone, isn't he?"

Evanna didn't even need to check. She groaned. "Big surprise, ain't it?"

"Look, we'll... we'll do it ourselves, alright?" she said, looking up at her project partner. "He wants to throw away his chance of passing this class, well... it's his loss. It doesn't have to be ours too, y'know."

"You're right, Evanna. Thanks."

"'Course I am. Now, let's just get this thing done, aye? Before something even more annoying happens..."

-~-

"Toss the rope, Jobe. Now."

The hugely muscular boy looked down at the coiled bundle of rope in his hands, then back up at Hazen. "Why?"

"Do we really have to go over this again? Really?" Hazen sighed heavily, facepalming himself. "... Fine. But try to fucking listen this time, okay?"

"West has... lost his way. So we, being the amazing friends we are, are gonna help him get back on the "right path" so to speak," he explained, "And so that brings us where...? That's right, it - "

"ElRite's house, right?" the dreadlocked guy asked, patting a nearby window frame. Sure enough, the three teens were outside of the ElRite residence, the evening sun making the pale green house look even paler somehow than usual. They were on the side of the house, away from any doors and windows except for one. But it didn't really matter. They were curtains over it, anyway. "Oh... wait. That was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?"

Hazen glared at him, letting out a small sigh. "At least all of you aren't stupid..."

"As I was saying. Revenge is a dish best served cold most of the time but it doesn't have to be cold. It can be... smokey." He drew out a small spherical object from inside his pocket, like a fusion between a grenade and a GameSphere. "The plan is simple. We use the rope to scale the house and, once on the roof, we drop this little friend of ours down the chimney and get the fuck out of here faster than Cameron's erectile dysfunction. Got it?"

The dreadlocked one, Cameron, sneered. "I get it. Your insult was low, but I get it."

"Heh, literally." Hazen turned to his hugely muscular friend, asking, "What about you, Jobe? Ready?"

Jobe looked down at him, with literally no emotion on his face. "Ready for what?"

"Fucking Jesus, you're useless. You know, whatever, whatever. It doesn't matter. Let's quit this bullshit and focus on what really matters. What we're here for." Hazen grinned, his smile ear-to-ear and so filled of malice it looked positively sinister. "Let's get out friend back."

-~-

"- and I'll be back before you know it."

"You don't gotta go, Ax," Weston said, leaning against the bedroom wall with a CapriSun in hand. "I'll go get it pronto, just... uh... Eve, hold my juice."

"I'd rather not."

"I'm only going to be gone for half an hour, tops," Axel said. "I'll just bike my way to Staples, get some laminated paper and be back before you know it."

"Oh, I know it alright." Weston sniffed dramatically, saying, "How can I live, how can I thrive, without my best friend by my side? What can I do, how can I cope, why should I live without Ax's hope?"

Evanna groaned. "We get it, Dr. Seuss. You can sto - "

"Where can I go? Below or above? How can I leave this place without his juicy love?"

"You can leave Axel," Evanna said, jerking her thumb towards Weston. "He's just being stupid."

"Oh. Okay. I'll, uh, be seeing you then."

"Ditto. Bye."

SLAM!

"Where did he go? Over here, over there? I'll need some relief, maybe in Eve's underwea - "

"OKAY WE'RE STOPPING THIS RIGHT NOW."

-~-

"Alright. Toss me the bomb, Cam."

Cameron craned his head back, looking down at the circular bomb in his hand and up at Hazen. "I've got to throw it to you? All the way up there? What if I miss or something?"

Hazen looked down from far, far up above. He was up on the roof, kneeling on a particularly flat section that barely had enough room for both feet. Even from that far up, his expression looked impatient at best. "If you miss, then this whole operation - and the guy next door - goes up in smoke. So, don't miss. Besides, you won't miss. You were in, like, baseball weren't you?"

"You're thinking of Michaels. I was never in baseball," Cameron said, leaning against a wall-side breaker.

"Yeah you were. You were... fuck. What's it called? The catcher? The..."

"Umpire?"

"Yeah, yeah. The umpire. Wasn't that you?"

"No. That wasn't even Michaels, that was Abe."

"... You sure?" Hazen asked. "I could've sworn that, in eight grade, you were catching the balls or something. Weren't you the guy who threw the baseball into Lucas' drink? I could've sworn that - "

"Dude, that was Sikes."

"No shit? Well, y'know, whatever. Black people all look the same anyway."

"Oh my God, oh my God. I hope you're not being serious."

"Heh, I'm never serious. Unless, y'know, I need to. Like right now." Hazen waved up towards himself, saying, "Enough chatter, we've got to do this now. Throw up the 'nade, Cam/Michaels/Sikes/whatever the fuck your name is..."

"I hate you." Cameron reached his arm back, bracing his arm... but didn't released. "Real quick, dude: you've got everything ready? Rope tight and all?"

Hazen tugged on the rope tied - and literally glued - to his ankle, leading all the wall to a gutter a couple of yards away from the teen. "Yep. Ready to fuck 'em up."

"Cool. Alrighty. Then here, we go - !" He winded his arm up, brought it back and then -

"Fuck dude, there's someone coming!" he cried out, dropping the bomb into the grass below.

"Shit! Who is i - "

"Some fuck on a bike! Quick, hide! Hide!" Cameron sprinted away at high speeds, disappearing around the corner. Jobe slowly followed.

"Wait, don't... don't... fuck." Hazen leaned his head forward, his partners in crime no where to be found. "Well. Guess it's on me now..."

-~-

"So, what do you think?"

Evanna leaned over his shoulder, glancing down at the two page report sprawled out on the computer's cluttered word document. It was messy, formless, littered with more typos than commas, yet...

"It's... not bad," Evanna said. "Sure, could use some polish (definitely use some polish) but... good job, Axel."

"You really think so? Oh, thank God." Axel gave a happy sigh of relief, adding, "When you work on a report like this all by yourself for three hours and without a word processor with an automatic saving system it... it's really a relief it turned out okay."

"Wait... wasn't Weston supposed to help you?"

"Eh... supposed to's the key word there..."

"I... I'm going to go talk to him," Evanna said, leaning up straight. "I could force him to write the introduction, or the works cited page, or something. I'll make sure he doesn't get out doing this the 'Weston Way' again."

"Thanks Evanna. That means a lot."

"Mhmm." She turned her back on the brunette, strolling out of the dim office room but not before adding, "Oh, and for the love of the sodding Maker, Axel, save at some point, okay?"

"Don't worry. I just got one paragraph to go and then, boom. Instant A. Or B."

"C, most likely," Evanna said, her voice disappearing as she walked out the door. "I mean, c'mon. I'm just being realistic."

With a creaky Slam! Axel was by himself, nothing in the study except for him and a computer so old Dumbledore would shit himself.

"Alrighty then. Just... one. More. Paragraph..."

-~-

Around 12:00 a.m. is when the ElRite's little corner of Calcheri Valley gets lots of three things. Lots of wind, lots of dark, and lots and lots of cold.

And by lots of cold, I mean lots.

Which is probably why the now-shaking Hazen Rickman kept leaning his head over and around his corner of the roof, trying to find something - anything - to get back down but... alas. There was none.

He thought about using the rope to shimmy down, but no. It was attached to his sneaker rather... well... permanently. Or as permanently as half a tube of gorilla glue can be, anyway.

Why was the rope glued to his shoe in the first place? Well... he kind of forgot.

But it wasn't important. Definitely not anymore.

The stranded teen grumbledsilently, cursing himself, his friends, everything under his breath. "It's not bad enough that the plan's ruined... oh no, the universe just so happened to decide that I was gonna spend the entire night on top of a fuckin' cold as balls roof. Alone. With a rope glued to my shoe... with a rope glued to my fuckin' shoe..."

"Well... got to get down sometime..." he craned his head, measuring the distance he would have to jump to get to the next corner of the roof. Sure, it's still on the roof, but right next to a window. An open window. "'Sides, what's the worst that could happen?"

Looking down at his feet, and the wobbling guttar below, he made his first step, wide and cautious. It creaked, but didn't give. He gave another step, wider and slightly less careful. No give. Giving a sigh of relief, he lifted his foot to take that third step... when it hit.

No, not his foot. A gust of wind.

A really, really big gust of wind.

Hazen could barely hold in a cry as his foot slid across the metal, his weight practically throwing himself. He tumbled over, falling over twenty feet down. He screamed his head off, letting off every swear in his vocabulary... yet his body didn't go straight down. It was, sure, but the rope attached to his foot jerked him forward, causing the brown haired bully to swing headfirst into the side of the house, straight into the exposed, looming circuit breaker.

"AW SHIIIIIII  - !!" Was all that came out of the boy before he flew forward at full speed towards the outstretched electricity box, body tighter than lead as he braced for collision...

-~-

"Aaand, there." Axel smiled, scrolling up his word document. "Now, if I can just print this thing - and save - then I'll be good to - "

He was interrupted by a sudden absolute darkness, his lights flickered out and his computer shut completely down. He knew what happened. He knew, with his body shaking with pain and despair, exactly what fucking just happened.

The power. It went out.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU - !! "

-~-

RRRRRING!  

"So, how'd your essay go?"

Weston gave a weak chuckle. "Just... just great."

"Really? How so?"

"I presented that one story I told you guys 'bout yesterday. Y'know, the one about the cyborg ninja and his ball-chucking boyfriend?"

Axel groaned at that. "Ugh, don't remind me... did Ahlquist like it?"

Weston chuckled again, loud and proud. "I have detention for the next two weeks."

"He hated it that much?" Evanna asked, stepping out of the way of a couple of oncoming students.

"Well... uh, you see..." Weston flashed a wide grin, almost whispering, "I drew pictures."

"Say no more, Weston. Please, say no more..."

Evanna and Weston chuckled, the three disappearing around the corner and out of the overcrowded afternoon school hall. Coming in from the exact same corner were three other teens, but pretty much the opposite of before. Cameron and Jobe walked solemnly, the former pushing a wheelchair sat by Hazen Rickman, covered neck to toe in a full body cast that enveloped the boy like a gum wrapper. And, despite that, he was talking the most.

" - fuckin' ElRite..." he grumbled, jittering slightly from the bumps below. "You'd think slipping off the roof and slamming face first into a breaker was bad enough, but nooo... apparently my body didn't like to be jock full of thousands of volts of electricity. Big surprise, huh?"

"Yup," Jobe said. "Surprise."

"Where were you guys, anyway?" Hazen asked, rough and angry. "You never came back for me. Never. Not fucking once."

"Well, after we were spooked... we realized we were kinda hungry too, and went to the Hairy Italian for a quick munch. Natural instincts, you know," Cameron said.

Jobe grinned. "It was Sausage Saturday."

"But hey, dude," Cameron said, "You handled it all pretty well by yourself, 'sides the 'whole shocking your entire skeleton out of your asshole' business, but still."

"... I guess that's true," Hazen said, "I didn't drop the bomb. I didn't do that. I did drop something else, though... myself.

"I mean, I tried to get down safety, I did," he continued, "But with the rope glued to my shoe, it was pretty much... why the fuck did we do that, anyway?"

"We thought it'd... hey, wait a second." Cameron stopped walking, Jobe and Hazen coming to a stop. "Why didn't you just take off your shoe? Y'know, the one with the glue on it."

Hazen looked forward, an intense realization in his eyes equal parts wonderment and fear. "... Why... didn't I... ?"

" - Take the shoe off?" Cameron finished for him. "I could do it for you, if you want."

Hazen glanced at him side-eyes style, a slow creeping smile building on his cheeks. "Well... Cam. That would've been great and all except for the part where you weren't FUCKING THERE!"

Cameron looked down sheepishly, eyebrows scrunched. "I... I thought'd you want a slice of 'za."

"Oh oh oh you thought'd I'd like a slice of 'za? YOU THOUGHT'D I'D LIKE A SLICE OF 'ZA?! YOU KNOW WHAT I WOULD'VE LIKED, CAM? HMM? IS TO HAVE GOTTEN OFF ELREEK'S fUCKING ROOF WITHOUT BEING SHOCKED NINETY-NINE FUCKIN' TIMES LIKE FRANKENSTEIN'S LITTLE FUCKING BITCH! YOU... YOU... THINK, CAM! JUST FUCKING THINK, OKAY?"

"... Does that mean you don't want your slice?"

"DO YOU THINK I WANT THE FUCKING SLICE? DO YA, CAM? DO YA?!"

"... Is that a no?"

[coveredinsweetpea]

Not so alone

Hey! I'm new to writing for twd but I wrote for other fandoms before. Anyway this is an idea I've had for a while now and i want to make it quite long, but that's only if anybody reads it lol. I'd love to get some feedback, hopefully someone will read it. Anyway enjoy and tell me what you think!

Summary: You decide to leave the group and go look for your brother, but you're not alone.

-

Guilt. You felt it all over. It was eating out your brain, you couldn't grasp why you left him. This guilt burned down your throat, it hurt. And this wasn't what kept you on the edge, it was the actual pain, you left your brother behind and you felt as if someone had wrapped their filthy, blood stained hands around your heart, and everytime you found yourself thinking of something else, that grip only tightened.

The group was complete, except for your brother of course. Whatever that was that happened at Terminus, happened way too fast for you to realise someone might have been left behind. Everyday you roamed the woods, you hoped that the next minute you'd find the whole group, safe and sound. And when you finally found them, it felt like a bullet being shot into the back of your chest, the sight of what you learned to call family over the course of these two years, but without actually, the only blood family you still had left.

The first night, you decided to keep watch. You've been running on fumes, but no way would your brain allow you to rest even for a second. You were rested against a tree, assault riffle between your legs, looking out around your makeshift camp, hearing Abraham not so quietly snore close by. You were bitter even though you had no reason to be, it was no one's fault, you couldn't stand to see people relax even the smallest bit.

As you were thinking about what to do next, you heard steps behind you, but they were too regular and began way too close for them to signal someone approaching the camp, so you relaxed a bit.

It was Daryl. You've always had a connection with him, but nothing came out of it. To be fair, you wouldn't call him your friend, you'd risk your like for his any day and he'd do the same for you, but you'd never go and just start a conversation. He sat down with a loud thud, against a tree, a few feet from you. After that, silence settled again, but you just wished he'd go away, because you knew what was coming.

"You know, I get it" he mumbled, trying not to be too loud.

"You don't get anything". You didn't want to hear about Merle, how he felt, didn't want or need his pity; didn't want to hear a story about how reckless you would be if you decided to go and look for your brother. You didn't want to talk about your brother, didn't want to talk at all.

He scoffed at your response and that just made you want to slap him.

"You wanna look for him. Ya think I don't know that?" he asked shifting something between his fingers, not looking in your direction for even a second.

"Daryl, honestly, save it."

"Ya ain't going after him" he growled looking straight towards you, where your eyes should be, but right now not visible in the pitch darkness of the forest.

"I didn't try to stop you when you left us for Merle, Rick went back into the city with you to look for him, we took him in for you." your voice grew louder with every word until you paused "So don't talk to me like that"

You heard him shift softly, and soon realised he took out a pack of cigarettes, and saw the shadow of his hand extending one towards you. He lit a match, leaned in to light yours before his and then settled back into his position. It was like your words went unheard but it didn't bother you, you wanted to finish this topic as soon as possible.

"So ya're just gon' leave us?"

"I'm finding my brother and then we're gonna look for you" you sighed

"Fucking hell, (Y/N), what makes ya think it's ok to go out there alone?" he spat standing up and looked down at you.

"I think I can handle myself" you retorted annoyed. Of course you were scared of being alone but it didn't compare with the thought of losing your brother. He laughed bitterly at your statement and started walking into the woods without saying a word.

You appreciated the fact that he worried about you but it still didn't change your mind. Nothing could.

The next morning, as everybody was packing their few belongings in order to hit the road, Maggie approached you.

"(Y/N), I heard you talking to Daryl last night. You shouldn't go alone. Talk to Rick, we can all look for him"

"I appreciate that, but I can't ask this of you"

"Just talk to Rick before you make a decision" she patted your shoulder softly and smiled warmly as she knew what it was like to lose a sibling, and knew she couldn't ask you to leave him behind"

A few minutes later, you pulled Rick aside to tell him your plan and avoided mentioning the whole group going.

He wasn't happy. You respected Rick with all your might, have followed his orders my heart, always, you reminded him that and promised him you'd look for them as soon as you found your brother.

After saying your goodbyes, you threw your backpack over your shoulder, and started making your way through the woods, into the direction of where Terminus once was, trying not to look back. After a few seconds, you heard steps behind you, and turned only to see Daryl coming after you.

"What are you doing?" you asked annoyed.

"Finding your brother"

[ciathyzareposts]

Game 363: Ultima VII: The Black Gate

A deceptively pleasant introductory screen.

              Ultima VII: The Black Gate

United States ORIGIN Systems (developer and publisher)

Released in 1992 for DOS; 1994 for SNES

Forge of Virtue expansion released later in 1992 for DOS

Date Started: 20 March 2020

I first played Ultima VII in 1999. I had just purchased my first Windows laptop after 7 years of Mac-exclusive ownership, and I was ready to catch up on a decade of RPGs. I had staved off my addiction while serving in the Army Reserves, going to college, meeting my eventual wife, and starting my career, and it was best for all of those endeavors that I did. But life had settled down by then, and I was ready to take the risk.

The first two “new” RPGs that I played were Might and Magic VI and Ultima VII. (“New” being post-1990, when my Commodore 64 had died. By then, Ultima VII was 7 years old, of course, but I still think of it on the “new” side of the dividing line between “old” games and “new” games.) I had a similar reaction to each of them: initial distaste, followed by growing admiration, followed by absolute awe.           

This may be the first CRPG with an expansion pack that takes place within the main quest.

             But I still remember the reasons behind my initial reaction, and a few of them remain valid criticisms. I bought it as part of an Ultima anthology, so I would have played it after hitting Ultima IV-VI in quick succession. Compared to the small, crisp icons of the previous games, the Ultima VII characters seemed impossibly lanky and awkward. The creators must have taken to heart the criticisms of the tiny Ultima VI game window because they made the entire screen the game window–but then they zoomed it in so much that you still only see a tiny area.

They removed the ability to choose a character portrait, and I hated–still hate, really–the long blond-haired jerk that I’m forced to play. The guy looks like he’s about 50, which doesn’t bother me as much today as it did then. The typed keyword-based dialogue that I absolutely cherished had been replaced by clicking on words spoon-fed to you by the game. And then there was all the clicking! For the first time, the Ultima interface wasn’t using my beloved keyboard shortcuts but instead wanted me to click around on things. I hate that now and I hated it more then, when the mouse was still new and uncomfortable.           

I still find everything about this screen annoying.

           Finally, there was the plot. 200 years have passed?! And all my old companions are still alive?! Who is this Red Thanos taunting me through the computer screen? And what in Lord British’s name have they done to Lord British?!

This is all to say that I’m glad I’m not playing Ultima VII for the first time. This is a game that vastly benefits in a replay, at a point where I’ve accepted its weaknesses but also have a full understanding of its strengths. In fact, the position that I’m in right now–knowing that I’m in for a good game but not remembering much of it because I haven’t played it in maybe 13 years–is just about perfect.

So let’s back up and note all the things that the game does right, starting with the animated, voiced introduction, perfectly scored. The game opens on a pleasant scene of Britannia. A butterfly dances around a grassy hillside at the edge of a forest. There’s a lilting tune with a timbre suggesting an organ but a melody suggesting more of a flute.                 

The first appearance of the Guardian.

            But after a few seconds, the music fades and is replaced with an ominous, themeless tune in a low register. Black and blue static fill the screen. A red face with glowing yellow eyes and teeth like rocks pushes through the screen to address the player directly:

                Avatar! Know that Britannia has entered into a new age of enlightenment. Know that the time has finally come for the one true Lord of Britannia to take his place at the head of his people. Under my guidance, Britannia will flourish, and all the people shall rejoice and pay homage to their new Guardian! Know that you, too, shall knell before me, Avatar. You, too, shall soon acknowledge my authority, for I shall be your companion, your provider, and your master!

             I would note that in contrast to the comically awful narrations at the beginning of both Ultima Underworld and Ultima VII: Part Two, the Guardian’s voice is reasonably well-acted by Arthur DiBianca, who I gather was just a programmer who happened to have a nice bass voice. The voice immediately gives us a paradox because the Guardian looks like an ape, an orc, a monster, yet his voice is clear, his speech intelligent and articulated. Just what kind of foe are we facing? One who knows who we are, who has the ability to push through into our world.

(Incidentally, having never played Ultima VIII or Ultima IX, I still don’t really know the answers to the questions about the Guardian’s origin and motivations. I know it’ll be tough, but I’d appreciate if no one spoils it.)

             As the screen fades, the camera pulls back to show that the player is somehow playing Ultima VII on his computer, with a map of Britannia and a Moonstone sitting beside it. No, it doesn’t make sense. Don’t think about it.           

I can’t not think about it. How is my character playing Ultima VII? Does he have his own character? How far down does it go?

            “It has been a long time since your last visit to Britannia,” the title screen says, two years constituting “a long time” back in those heady days of annual releases. The character picks up his moonstone and heads out to the circle of stones in his back yard–only to find a moongate already there. Without hesitation, he plunges through to the title screen, which features not the triumphant, adventurous introductory music of most RPGs but rather a dark, dreadful march in 2/4 time. Something awful is coming, it says.                 

I’m not sure this ever gets answered.

          Before we get into character creation and the opening moments of the game, let’s diverge to the manual, which is perhaps the most brilliant game manual of all time–a superlative unlikely to ever be broken now that game manuals no longer exist. It manages to educate the player on the basics of Britannia and the past Ultima games while perfectly serving the plot of the current game. It is the only manual that I know that was written by the game’s villain. I realize that’s a bit of a spoiler, but you’d have to be a particularly dense player to not realize that something is at least a little fishy with “Batlin of Britain,” and a veteran player of the Ultima series reads it with an escalating horror.

The manual is called The Book of Fellowship, and it describes the history, geography, and society of Britannia in the context of the growth of a quasi-religious/philosophical order called the Fellowship. Jimmy Maher has a particularly excellent article examining the parallels between the Fellowship and the Church of Scientology. (Garriott had apparently read a 1991 Time magazine exposé of the Church while the game was in its planning phase.) But I also see a lot of the (then-) growing “prosperity gospel” in the Fellowship, and Batlin strikes me as much of a Joel Osteen (although no one at ORIGIN would have been aware of him in 1992) as an L. Ron Hubbard. One particular analogue with prosperity theology (and not Scientology) is the organization’s “layered” approach to scripture. The Fellowship does not reject the Eight Virtues of the Avatar any more than prosperity theology rejects the Bible. It simply adds its own new layer of interpretation (simplification) on top of them, encouraging its followers to hold true to the past without really focusing on it. The emphasis is all on the new material–in the case of the Fellowship, their Triad of Inner Strength.

The manual begins with Batlin of Britain’s introduction of himself. He presents himself with false humility as just a regular man, a fellow “traveller” through life, who has happened to stumble upon a bit of wisdom that he wants to share. Throughout his biography, he brags-without-bragging that he has served in all eight of the classical Ultima roles: Born and raised by druids in Yew, a first career as a fighter in Jhelom, then as a bard in Britain; trained by a mage from Moonglow; serving for a while among a company of paladins in Trinsic and as a tinker in Minoc; and finally spending a sojourn with the rangers of Skara Brae before ending up as a humble shepherd in New Magincia. His series of portraits through these sessions show a square-jawed, hale, charismatic figure, and it’s no surprise when we actually meet him in-game to find a fatter, oilier version than is presented in the official portraits.             

What kind of pretentious jackass divides his own biography into sections called “part the first” and “part the second”?

              During his description of overcoming some wounds in Minoc, Batlin says:               

A healer there told me that without the proper treatments (for which he charged outrageous prices) I would most probably die! I angrily sent him away. After a time I did mend. I had learned that the healing process takes place mostly in one’s mind and have since placed no trust in healers who greedily prey upon the afflicted.

                Here is our first actual contradiction with the world as we’ve come to know it as an Avatar. It manages to parallel Scientology’s rejection of traditional psychology, sure, but also the Christian Science rejection of traditional medicine and perhaps “New Age” medicine in general.

He describes in his history how he met his two co-founders of the Fellowship, Elizabeth and Abraham (the “E.A.” being an intended swipe at Electronic Arts, which would have the last laugh by purchasing ORIGIN the same year), and how his experiences led him to develop the Triad of Inner Strength. If the casual reader is not yet convinced of Batlin’s villainy, it should become apparent in the section where he discusses the “ratification” of the Fellowship by Lord British. Though calling him “wise” and paying him obsequious homage, Batlin manages to paint the king as a capricious, dismissive sovereign, uninterested in the Fellowship until Batlin managed to “prove” himself with a display of confidence that manages to reflect the Fellowship’s own philosophies. The section brilliantly manages to associate Batlin with the king and the king’s favor (for those who still admire the king) while also planting a seed of doubt about Lord British’s fitness to rule.

What he does to the Avatar is less subtle but far more damaging. Batlin knows that if his Fellowship is going to replace the Eight Virtues as Britannia’s predominant theology, and if he himself is going to replace the Avatar as the spiritual figurehead, he must undo the Avatar. But the memory of the Avatar is too popular, his friends too influential, for Batlin to use a direct attack. Thus, he snipes and undermines and saps from all angles while pretending to admire the Avatar himself. “The Fellowship fully supports the Eight Virtues of the Avatar,” he says, but that “it is impossible to perfectly live up to them. Even the Avatar was unable to do so continuously and consistently.” Thus pretending to support the Eight Virtues while rejecting them, he introduces the Fellowship’s Triad of Inner Strength:             

Strive for Unity: Work together to achieve common goals.

Trust Thy Brother: Don’t live your life full of suspicion and doubt.

Worthiness Precedes Reward: Do good for its own sake before expecting compensation.

    Maher’s article points out how these three principles are not only kindergarten-level theology, but how easy it is to twist them towards evil ends. “Work together, don’t question, don’t ask anything in return” could be the motto of a fascist organization as easily as a charitable one.

Most of the slights against the Avatar occur during the second half of the manual, ominously titled “A Reinterpretation of the History of Britannia.” Batlin walks through the events of Ultima I through VI much as the previous game manuals did, but with the occasional anti-Avatar salvo disguised as support. For instance, after describing the events of Ultima II, he says:           

While there have been speculations as to the motivations of the Avatar, there is insufficient evidence to show that the Avatar was driven to violence by jealously over Mondain’s romantic involvement with Minax. That being said, such theories are hereby denounced and should not be given consideration.

            Soon afterwards, he “formally disagrees” with “those who say the Avatar should have handled [the events of Exodus] differently.” He casts aspersions–no, sorry, alludes to other people casting aspersions–on the Avatar’s motives in the Quest of the Avatar. As for Ultima VI: “Those who say that this terrible and destructive war could have been prevented had the Avatar not appropriated the Codex from its true owners are merely dissidents who are grossly misinformed.” Leaving aside the fact that the Avatar wasn’t the one who took the Codex, Batlin commits here the slimy politician’s trick of introducing a slur while simultaneously denying it, thus seeding doubt while trying to remain above it. I’ve learned the hard way to at least try to keep politics out of my blog, but it’s literally impossible not to think of Donald (“many people are saying”) Trump when reviewing this aspect of the Batlin character or indeed the Batlin character as a whole. If I didn’t say it here, someone would have filled in the blank in the comments as they did in the Maher article.

Aside from the undermining of the Eight Virtues, Lord British, and the Avatar, the manual is notable for numerous asides that make the veteran player eager to jump in and start swinging his sword. In his description of his time as a fighter, Batlin talks about “unruly lords wag[ing] war against each other . . . over Lord British’s objections.” Clearly, peace has broken down, but why? We later hear that Skara Brae is for some reason a “desolate ruin” (remind me to come back to another Batlin quote when I actually visit Skara Brae). Lock Lake near the city of Cove has become polluted. The town of Paws is said to be languishing in poverty. Some mysterious figure called the “Sultan of Spektran” has set up his own government on the island previously occupied by Sutek. The gargoyles have their own city, called Terfin, but there’s a suggestion that local mines might be exploiting them for labor. Runic writing has fallen out of favor. There have been recent droughts. And worst of all, magic has been breaking down and its practitioners going insane.

Perhaps the biggest shock is that it has been 200 years since the Avatar last visited Britannia. This is presumably since his last visit in Ultima VI, not Ultima Underworld. The manual makes no acknowledgement at all of the events of Underworld; no mention is made of a colony on the Isle of the Avatar, nor its destruction in a volcanic eruption.

Ultima IV: Quest of the Avatar still has the best quest of the series, in my opinion, but Ultima VII may have the best plot. This isn’t the first time that a CRPG has featured writing and plotting worthy of a novel (I would probably give that award to Starflight), but it’s still rare in the era. I understand that we owe this depth of narrative to lead writer Raymond Benson, who would later go on to take over the James Bond novel series. Benson was a playwright and composer who had previously worked on computer adaptations of Stephen King’s The Mist (1985) and the James Bond games A View to a Kill (1985) and Goldfinger (1985). He was recruited by ORIGIN in 1991 and wrote some dialogue for Martian Dreams before beginning Ultima VII.

Someone like Benson was exactly what ORIGIN needed. The company may have “created worlds,” but they always did so in a way that was both a little sloppy and a little too tidy, with poor respect for their own canon. I have discussed at length my disappointment over the way the game treated the concept of “the Avatar” after Ultima IV. Well, here, in the opening documentation of Ultima VII, we have an in-game character who personifies that lack of respect, who manages to take the confusion over ORIGIN’s retcons–was the Avatar really the same hero who defeated Mondain?–and twist it to his own ends. When I finished the manual in 1999, I was never more eager to leap into a world and start putting things right. I am only slightly less eager now.

Note: To avoid loading transitions and other throwbacks to an earlier age, the developers of Ultima VII changed the way DOS allocates memory. Their solution required players to boot from a special disk. I remember that this created all kinds of problems when I originally tried to play the game in the late 1990s. Also, processors had gotten so much faster that the characters moved at lightning speed, and I had to use a special program called Mo’Slo to slow things down. I don’t think I ever got the sound working properly back then. The emulation era and the folks at GOG sure make this much easier.

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/game-363-ultima-vii-the-black-gate/

[isabellestillman]

Can You Be My Friend: Special Education in Action

Middlebury, Vermont

Jack and Nicole have spent every weekday of the last five months together. At 7:45 a.m., Nicole picks Jack up at his house. Most mornings, they stop at Ferrisburgh Bakery on the way to school, so Nicole can get a breakfast sandwich; if she is in a good mood, she will buy Jack a cookie, too. At school, the two spend the morning going to classes, eat lunch together and cook in the afternoons. After school, Nicole usually drops Jack off at home at 3:15, but if he is lucky, Nicole takes him to the train tracks. Last week, they stood by the tracks for 45 minutes in the rain, playing I Spy while they waited for the train.

But Jack thinks Nicole is going to hell. Jack is the son of a devout Christian father; Nicole is into Buddhism. Jack has memorized the rules of Christianity and repeats them often. It is hard to tell if he understands what he is saying, but it does not matter; he is convinced. He will go to Heaven, and Nicole will not.

Jack is fourteen years old and in the ninth grade. Nicole is his personal behavior interventionist. Jack has long, thin fingers and Nike sneakers that are too big for his feet, so they bounce against his heels like flip-flops. His clothes are usually wrinkled, and he often tugs at the belt loop of his jeans to keep them from falling down. He is tall and fair-skinned with light blue eyes and buzz cut blonde hair that is prone to cowlicks. Most of the time Jack is either moving or making noise, often both. When he speaks, his words come out like train wheels hammering over tracks, one-toned and pounding one on the end of the other, stuttering and spewing thoughts that come faster than his lips can move; but when you ask him something, redirecting his train of thought, his voice gets soft, and he chooses his words carefully. Jack, whose name has been changed for this article, is speculated to be on the autism spectrum.

Jack goes to school at the Diversified Occupations Program (DO), a high school for special needs students in Middlebury. I visited the program and met Jack at the beginning of January and spent time with him throughout the month.

When I first met Jack, he was in the kitchen fiddling with the arm of an electric blue mixing bowl. His apron was crooked, his t-shirt caught in the knot around his hips. When his teacher Ms. Lynch told him to come say “hi” to me, he walked over slowly, one finger in his mouth. He offered me his left hand, placing it gently in my right, but Lynch corrected him, and he lent me his shaking hand instead.

“Are you Indian?” he asked, looking over my shoulder. His voice was high and loud, coming from a thin-lipped mouth ringed with faded acne marks.

Lynch interrupted. “Is that a firm handshake?”

When I responded, smiling, that it could be firmer, Jack tightened his grip. Then he looked at my eyes. “Can you be my friend I don’t know if you can be my friend,” he said in an even tone, as if it were one word.

“I can be your friend,” I answered.

“I don’t know if I can be your friend, can you be my friend?” His hand was still in mine, bobbing up and down evenly.

I repeated my answer and Jack continued to grip my hand lightly until Lynch broke the bond apart.

Jim Doolan and his wife Kay, both current substitute teachers, founded the DO program in 1970, spurred by the mid-60s formation of the Vermont Department of Education, which emphasized increasing special education opportunities. Uniting two small Addison County, Vt. special education classes, one based in a church basement and the other in an elementary school, and housing them in a closed-down Catholic School, the pair effectively cut the ribbon of the DO program, though the model looked different than today’s. At its inception, DO focused foremost on academics and secondarily on daily living skills such as home economics and shop. Now the classes are centered on practical learning, and the students are more involved in the community. Programs like bird banding, an annual trip to D.C. and vocational opportunities have developed over the course of the program’s life. These varied programs sprung up out of necessity to cater to a variety of individualized needs; DO students span a wide range of capacities, and DO prioritizes individualizing education so that each student graduates with a job and the skills they need to live independently.

Today, the program has 35 students in ninth through twelfth grades. They come from four area junior high schools (Vergennes, Mt. Abraham, Middlebury and Otter Valley), suggested for DO by their junior high case manager. Most of the students are learning impaired, which means their IQs are 77 or below (the average IQ is around 100); the rest test just a few points above 77. In the old days, said Lynch, this is what people called mental retardation. But Rosa’s Law, signed by President Obama in October of 2010, replaced the term “mental retardation” with the phrase “intellectual disability” for use in federal health, education, and labor policy. Though the change has been gradual, the “R-word,” has been essentially phased out of use nationwide, and is never heard at the DO program.

But the medical condition remains the same; learning impairments land most students entering the DO program at a third grade level of academic comprehension. Even in light of this reality, DO does not prioritize expanding academic knowledge. Instead, the DO staff asks: “How do you take a third-grade level and translate that into adult functioning? What do [students] really need to know?”

The answer, according to Lynch: “You don’t have to know physics, you don’t have to have geometry, but you should know how to add and subtract. You should know how to do a budget, you should know how to be able to pay your bills and have really good work skills so you can have a job.”

With 19 staff members working to specialize lessons for 35 students, DO’s financial responsibility is astronomical. Tuition comes in at $25,000, funded by the student’s home school, 55 percent of which is reimbursed to the school by the state — “a deal,” Lynch said, compared to other specialized programs, such as those for emotionally disturbed youth. But at such a low price, funding the program can be a struggle. Recent dips in enrollment – four or five fewer students than usual – necessitated cutting drivers’ education.

To Lynch, it seems incredible that this operation succeeds so smoothly for such a low price, especially considering the caliber of staff members currently employed. In several different conversations, Lynch expressed her awe of the people she works with and the effect they have on their students.

“We have some really quality people right now working with kids,” she said. “That’s not always the case in public schools.”

During my first visit, Jack and three other students were baking in preparation for DO’s fully-functioning Friday afternoon restaurant, the TGIF Cafe. In the kitchen, I asked him if he was happy with how his cookies turned out.

“Why is your face clear?” he answered.

“I asked you about the cookies,” I said.

“You don’t have any bumps on your face, like most women do.”

“The cookies, Jack,” Nicole interjected.

He stared at my face. “You don’t have any bumps on your face, you musta had acne treatment.” He pointed at Nicole. “You have bumps on your face.” She bit back a smile and shook her head.

“I know, Jack,” she said.

Jack made a “g” sounds in the back of his throat.

“What did you do this morning?” I tried again.

“Kicked my own butt.” His hands were elbow-deep in dough. Nicole gave him her look. “Stupid Jack,” he said, smiling.

Later that day, Jack stood at the mixer at his assigned cooking station, stirring the ingredients as Lynch had showed him.

As I watched him pack brown sugar into a measuring cup, he asked me again if I could be his friend.

“I can be your friend,” I answered. “Can you be my friend?”

“I don’t know if I can be your friend I don’t know.” He looked down at the mounds of sugar in front of him. After a moment he looked back up. “Would you be my friend if I punched you in the face?”

“Probably not,” I answered.

He smiled for a second. “Probably not, no.”

Jack is just beginning to figure out what it means to have friends – the “can you be my friend” mantra is a recent development. At Vergennes Middle School, he had some friends, but at DO he doesn’t think he has any.

“He’s got more issues, I think, than the other kids, so they don’t really know why he does what he does and what to make of him,” Nicole explained.

At lunch, which the DO students eat in the Middlebury Union High School cafeteria, Jack sits with Nicole, and usually no one else. He likes to watch the high school students because he likes the shapes of their heads. But they are not his friends. It is hard to get Jack to explain why they are not his friends, though he is convinced of this fact.

When I asked, he told me it was too hard to explain and that he was confused, but sometimes he says it was because the other kids do not look as young as him. I asked him if this was the only thing that mattered in friends.

“It matters nice and have fun with them,” he said, then shook his head. “It’s too hard to explain.”

I didn’t let it go, and finally he told me, “Maybe I’ll be too jealous of them because they have too deep voice and I don’t have deep voice. I wish my voice changed, I wish I was in puberty. Like a year ago I was saying,” – he made his voice high – “Mom, when will my voice change?’” He laughed.

One day, Nicole and I stood in the corner of the kitchen, when Jack scuttled over and leaned in between us.

“I have a question,” he said, staring at my nose. “Are you a Christian?” His eyes were wide and serious, his words coming quickly. I nodded.

“So that means you believe in God?” I nodded again. “So that means you believe in Jesus?” Nod. “So that means you believe he died on the cross for our sins? So that means you believe you’re going to heaven?” I was overwhelmed. I hadn’t thought about these questions for a long time, but I nodded again. “That’s good,” he said, bobbing his head violently up and down. “I’m happy.”

Jack used to talk to Nicole about Christianity all day, until Nicole told him one day they weren’t going to discuss it anymore. A few times, Nicole tried to explain her views to Jack, and after listening to her talk about reincarnation for a while, he started to nod along. Then he said, “I believe in Jesus,” and told her reincarnation is the work of Satan, his Dad’s views coming back through by heart. From time to time, Jack asks Nicole if she believes in Jesus now, but she never does. It disappoints him for a moment, but does not seem to affect their relationship otherwise.

One-on-one, Jack seems easier to talk to, but his thoughts and ideas always surprise me as they come out percussively and quickly.

After baking cookies one morning, we were sitting together in the planning room, when Jack spotted a doodle in my stack of loose papers. It was a green pen dinosaur. He stopped mid-sentence and sat up straight.

“Did you draw that?” he asked. I said yes, and he laughed, grabbed the paper and took my pen to the sheet.

“Hey, that’s my paper,” I said, trying to get him to stop. He giggled mischievously. “It’s not nice to take people’s things and draw on them.” I couldn’t get his attention; he was absorbed in the cartoon creature. After a second, he held the paper up and looked at me, a full smile on his face. He had drawn a speech bubble coming from the dinosaur. “Hi Jack.”

I smiled. “Ok, I’m not mad anymore.”

But that same day in Social Skills class, he was less charming. “Can I draw now? Can I draw can I draw?” he repeated, banging his hands on the table, while the rest of the class tried to focus on the problem-solving exercise at hand – Mr. O’s daughter was sick at school, but how could he help her if he has to stay at work?

“Can I draw now? Can I draw now? Can I draw now?” Jack said. He was bent at the waist and his shoulders smushed against the edge of the table. “Can I draw now? Can I draw now?”

Mr. O took the opportunity to redirect the class discussion. Jack’s desire to draw and his inability to do so during class became the new problem the group had to solve. The other students immediately engaged in the issue at hand, paying no attention to Jack’s antics. Jack did not so much as look at Mr. O. Mr. O began to write out Jack’s various options on a bullet-pointed worksheet. Jack could either: 1) keep asking, 2) start misbehaving or 3) negotiate.

“Stupid eee crap.” Jack’s forehead hit on the table, and his signature high-pitched “e” sound filled the room. The other students did not react, focused on Mr. O’s words.

“Stupid eee crap.” Then Jack was up out of his chair and at the glass door that leads outside. “I think there’s a train.”

A moment later he was back at the table. Class discussion had not paused. Thirty seconds later, Jack said he thought there was a train again, and this time was out the door, into the negative eight degree morning. Mr. O did not pause the lesson, trained instead to let Nicole and Jack sort out the issue while he worked with the other students.

Later that day, I sat next to Jack at the beginning of math class, and he babbled throughout Lynch’s instructions.

“Do you believe that Jesus died on the cross? I like you. Do you know the m word? Are you my friend?” I put my finger to my lips, and he responded with a ‘b’ noise, bouncing his lips against each other. Across the table, Melissa, blinking her big brown eyes and pursing her small but usually smiling mouth, asked him to stop, and he did. Deep down in the train tracks of his brain, he knows how he is “supposed to” behave.

Nicole doesn’t know if Jack will be able to hold a job when he graduates from high school. It will take him a while to learn how to interact with people socially.

“Even if he bagged groceries at the supermarket, he needs to learn not to get in people’s faces and not to ask a million questions,” she said.

DO’s ultimate goal is to place their graduates in steady jobs, but Jack’s ambigious future is not an exception among the pool of DO alumni. “Success” seems an almost irrelevant qualification for DO teachers – their students are too varied and individualized.

About a third of DO alumna hold full-time jobs and live completely independently. Others work part time and live with family members or friends. Graduates who test below 70 IQ points qualify for adult services, and receive formal assistance, usually through Counseling Services of Addison County (CSAC). In 2012, DO had ten graduates, eight of whom had 20 to 25 hours per week employment and two of whom declined employment because they were moving out of the area. In 2013, all four of DO’s graduates had paid employment upon graduation — one was full time, three were 20 to 25 hours per week. Overall, Lynch estimates that half of her students graduate with adult services requirements.

As for Nicole, she won’t be with Jack next September. The center is an hour-long commute from her home in Burlington, an unsustainable commitment, she told me, with clear sadness in her eyes. “I don’t know if there’s anywhere else like this. This is a very special place.”

For now, Nicole and Jack will continue to hang out together, watching trains and baking cookies, even though Nicole is not a Christian, and Jack is not sure if she is his friend.

One day I asked Jack if he ever tried to make friends with the other kids at DO.

“I don’t really have friends here,” he answered. “But you’re kind of my friend.” He looked away and scratched his head. “I don’t have that much – I don’t have – much friends – here much friends – I think you’re my only friend here.”

I was curious. What made me different than the other students?

“Because you’re a Christian,” Jack answered. He held my pen in his fist, clicking the end of it against his head. I told him lots of people are Christian.

“Uhh…I like the sound of your voice,” he said quietly. “Your voice sounds calm and kind. You’re a Christian which is good, it means you’ll go to heaven some day.” His voice was slow and soft. “And you’re a nice person.”

I told him he is a nice person too.

[comebeforegod]

God’s Grace: Wonderous Experiences of a Critically Ill Child’s Recovery

By Li Ai, Italy

In early 2003, my baby that I had carried for over nine months suddenly died in the womb. This terrible event caused our entire family a lot of pain. I really wanted to have another child, but I was afraid I would lose it again, and so I developed postpartum depression.

In 2006, seeing me living in such pain, my mom and elder sister testified to me of God’s kingdom gospel. Unexpectedly, my illness got better without me being aware of it and, a year later, despite not having had a child in years, by chance I bore a son. The birth of my son brought our family so much happiness …

In March 2007, I took my son who was not yet 50 days old back to my mother’s house to visit my parents. My parents fell in love with this little boy who had been so hard for me to bear and they asked about all his needs. But a couple of days later, his health began to deteriorate. At nighttime, my son who loved to laugh was making no sounds at all. Seeing him look as though he wanted to cry but being unable to, our family was consumed with worry, and we called the doctor and asked him to come over. The doctor took my son’s temperature with a thermometer, and he said, “I can’t really give any medicine to such a small baby. I can only give him some anti-inflammatory medicine and then we’ll have to wait and see.” After taking some medicine, we watched him for half the night and he still didn’t get any better. His temperature also rose very high and he was burning up … In my pain and helplessness, I came before God and said a prayer: “O God! You are almighty, and I look to You and entrust my son’s illness into Your hands. Please may You watch over him and protect him.” After praying, I thought of God’s words, “Almighty God, the Head of all things, wields His kingly power from His throne. He rules over the universe and all things and He is guiding us on the whole earth. We shall often be close to Him, and come before Him in quietness; never shall we miss a single moment, and there are things to learn at all times. The environment around us as well as the people, matters and objects, all are permitted by His throne. Do not have a complaining heart, or God will not bestow His grace upon you.” Yes indeed, God rules over all things in the universe. Everything that was happening that day was also in God’s hands, and my son’s condition was ruled under God’s sovereignty. Without God permitting it to happen, nothing would happen to my boy. In my heart, I silently prayed to God and asked Him to keep my heart from complaining about everything that was happening just then and, gradually, my heart calmed down a little.

Later, after some discussion, we agreed that my mom and I would take my son to the local township hospital at 4am in the morning. When we got there, the doctor examined my son and diagnosed his illness, saying, “The child’s temperature has reached over 40 degrees, and he has another illness as well. Our skills and equipment at this hospital are not sufficient. You have to transfer quickly to the county hospital.” Hearing this, my mom and I were stunned, and I thought to myself, “It’s only 5am and there aren’t yet any county buses. Even if there were, it’s a two-hour journey. My son has already been tossing around all night long—must he suffer for hours and hours more? What if my son’s condition suddenly worsens while we’re on our way to the other hospital and there’s no doctor around? What will we do then? If something happens to him, how could I go on living?” My mom could see what I was thinking, and she took my hand and said, “Don’t worry about him, we still have God! Trust in God to help us. God holds sovereignty over things both living and not living. Let’s pray to God together and rely on God!” Hearing her say this, I also thought to myself: “Yes! We still have God. God rules the universe and all things. Is my son’s life and death not held in God’s hands?” And so, my mom and I went before God and prayed. After praying, I thought of God’s words that say, “Therefore, only when you have faith and you do not harbor doubts toward God, only when you have true faith in Him no matter what He does will He enlighten and illuminate you in your experiences, and only then will you be able to see His actions. These things are all achieved through faith, and faith is only achieved through refinement—faith cannot develop in the absence of refinement. What does faith refer to? Faith is the genuine belief and the sincere heart that humans should possess when they cannot see or touch something, when God’s work is not in line with human notions, when it is beyond human reach. This is the faith that I speak of.” God’s words enabled me to understand that, no matter what situations may befall, I must always have faith in God. But I thought about my own faith and, when everything was going smoothly, I believed in God and obeyed Him. But when this current unfortunate situation happened, I became filled with worry and fear, I felt restless with anxiety and I lost my faith in God. Faced with the facts, I was exposed as someone with such a small stature. In fact, true faith means that one can stand firm in one’s testimony to God without any doubts whatsoever, regardless of the situation and regardless of whether it accords with one’s own will or not. This situation I was in made me think of Abraham back in those early days. Though he didn’t understand God’s will, he was willing to bear the pain and give up his beloved only son and offer him to God. And when he took up a knife to kill his son, God’s will was made clear to him. Not only did God not make him kill his son, He blessed Abraham so that his offspring would be as numerous as the grains of sand on a beach. Compared with Abraham’s faith in God, I saw that my own faith was severely lacking. Only then did I come to some understanding that God was willing me not to lose faith in the situation I was in, but to rely on Him and look to Him sincerely. With this understanding, my heart gradually became less scared than it had been.

Several hours later, we arrived at the county hospital without any mishap. The doctor there very quickly gave my son a thorough examination. Afterward, he asked us to look at his CT scan and told us that my son had developed sudden symptoms of bilateral pneumonia. Looking at my son who was not crying or making any fuss, he said to us in amazement, “He is a very tenacious baby.” Hearing him say this, I gave heartfelt thanks to God in my heart! It wasn’t that my son was tenacious, it was God watching over him and protecting him. The doctor then said, “Both his lungs are inflamed. If you had come any later, his condition would have seriously worsened. His feverish temperature is so high, and his brain could quite possibly be damaged. He needs to be admitted urgently and given treatment.” After the doctor said this, my slightly calmed heart became anxious again. I worried that my son, who wasn’t yet two months old, could possibly suffer brain damage from his fever and would suffer the effects all his life, and then what would we do? Just as I was in a state of worry and fear, I thought of a passage of God’s words: “Faith is like a single log bridge, those who cling abjectly to life will have difficulty in crossing it, but those who are ready to sacrifice themselves can pass over without worry. If man has timid and fearful thoughts, they are being fooled by Satan. It fears that we will cross the bridge of faith to enter into God. Satan devises every way possible to send us its thoughts, we should always pray that the light of God will shine on us, and we must always rely on God to purify us from Satan’s poison. We shall always be practicing in our spirits to come close to God. We shall let God have dominion over our whole being.” God’s words enabled me to see through Satan’s cunning scheme. I considered myself: Whenever I heard the slightest bit of bad news, I engaged in wild conjecture, worrying what I would do if he was brain damaged by his fever. Worrying that my son’s condition would worsen showed that I still didn’t have true faith in God! Turning these things over and over in my mind until both my body and mind were exhausted was Satan playing with me and harming me. Actually, what my son’s condition was and whether or not it would worsen were not up to the doctor—the doctor could not decide what direction my son’s condition would go in. All of this was ruled by God, and I wished to look to God and entrust Him with my son, and not worry or fret about it anymore.

When I relied on God and looked to Him, and I entrusted my son into His hands, I really saw God’s wondrous deeds: My son’s high fever broke that night, and after a few days of medicine, his bilateral pneumonia cleared up as well.

After undergoing this experience, I came to deeply appreciate that, when we encounter hardships, as long as we pray and rely on God sincerely, He will always enlighten and illuminate us to understand His will, He will guide us through the obstacles and will be a help to us at all times. This experience also increased my faith in God, and I came to have some knowledge of God’s almightiness and sovereignty.

Afterward, my son again suddenly developed an acute cold, and his temperature rose to more than 40 degrees; he was cold one minute, hot the next, and he didn’t get better even after taking medicine at the local clinic. Without having any alternative, all we could do was to transfer to the Chinese medicine hospital. Seeing my son’s serious condition, the doctor there referred us to the emergency room where they gave my son a blood test. But at that time, because my son’s body was so exhausted, he was unable to endure having blood taken again, and his eyes rolled white as he gasped his last breaths. Helplessly watching my son die, I cried and screamed: “Doctor, save my son. Doctor, save my son. …” I nearly collapsed. Just as I was helpless and in pain, a passage of God’s words suddenly came to mind: “Almighty God is an all-powerful physician! To dwell in sickness is to be sick, but to dwell in the spirit is to be well. If you have but one breath, God will not let you die.” God’s words were a life-saver, and they made me unwilling to depart from God even for a moment. Man is powerless—only God can save people, and without God permitting it to happen, my son would not die. Just as I was silently calling on God in my heart, a doctor ran over and pressed on my son’s central acupressure point, and my white-eyed son suddenly started to bawl loudly. Seeing my son having been saved from death’s door, my mom and I hugged him and cried, and I kept thanking God in my heart …

Undergoing these two close shaves enabled me to see how helpless and insignificant we human beings are in the face of tribulation, and it was also confirmed in my heart that only God rules both our lives and deaths. Just as God said, “Man’s heart and spirit are held in the hand of God, and his whole life is beheld in the eyes of God. Regardless of whether or not you believe this, any and all things, whether living or dead, will shift, change, renew, and disappear in accordance with God’s thoughts. This is the way in which God presides over all things.” From these experiences, I finally genuinely understood the true meaning of these words of God, and I came to have a sincere appreciation of God’s authority and His rule over all things, that all things both living and unliving are under God’s sovereignty, and that our lives, deaths and destinies are even more so in God’s hands. I also came to appreciate that, as created beings, we should submit to God’s sovereignty, and that we should rely on God to experience all the situations that befall us in our real lives. Only in this way will we gain a deeper appreciation and a more realistic understanding of God’s authority.

[dailyofficereadings]

Daily Office Readings January 27, 2018 at 11:00PM

Psalm 55

Psalm 55

Complaint about a Friend’s Treachery

To the leader: with stringed instruments. A Maskil of David.

1 Give ear to my prayer, O God; do not hide yourself from my supplication. 2 Attend to me, and answer me; I am troubled in my complaint. I am distraught 3 by the noise of the enemy, because of the clamor of the wicked. For they bring[a] trouble upon me, and in anger they cherish enmity against me.

4 My heart is in anguish within me, the terrors of death have fallen upon me. 5 Fear and trembling come upon me, and horror overwhelms me. 6 And I say, “O that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest; 7 truly, I would flee far away; I would lodge in the wilderness;Selah 8 I would hurry to find a shelter for myself from the raging wind and tempest.”

9 Confuse, O Lord, confound their speech; for I see violence and strife in the city. 10 Day and night they go around it on its walls, and iniquity and trouble are within it; 11 ruin is in its midst; oppression and fraud do not depart from its marketplace.

12 It is not enemies who taunt me— I could bear that; it is not adversaries who deal insolently with me— I could hide from them. 13 But it is you, my equal, my companion, my familiar friend, 14 with whom I kept pleasant company; we walked in the house of God with the throng. 15 Let death come upon them; let them go down alive to Sheol; for evil is in their homes and in their hearts.

16 But I call upon God, and the Lord will save me. 17 Evening and morning and at noon I utter my complaint and moan, and he will hear my voice. 18 He will redeem me unharmed from the battle that I wage, for many are arrayed against me. 19 God, who is enthroned from of old,Selah will hear, and will humble them— because they do not change, and do not fear God.

20 My companion laid hands on a friend and violated a covenant with me[b] 21 with speech smoother than butter, but with a heart set on war; with words that were softer than oil, but in fact were drawn swords.

22 Cast your burden[c] on the Lord, and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved.

23 But you, O God, will cast them down into the lowest pit; the bloodthirsty and treacherous shall not live out half their days. But I will trust in you.

Footnotes:

Psalm 55:3 Cn Compare Gk: Heb they cause to totter

Psalm 55:20 Heb lacks with me

Psalm 55:22 Or Cast what he has given you

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Psalm 138:1-139:23

Psalm 138

Thanksgiving and Praise

Of David.

1 I give you thanks, O Lord, with my whole heart; before the gods I sing your praise; 2 I bow down toward your holy temple and give thanks to your name for your steadfast love and your faithfulness; for you have exalted your name and your word above everything.[a] 3 On the day I called, you answered me, you increased my strength of soul.[b]

4 All the kings of the earth shall praise you, O Lord, for they have heard the words of your mouth. 5 They shall sing of the ways of the Lord, for great is the glory of the Lord. 6 For though the Lord is high, he regards the lowly; but the haughty he perceives from far away.

7 Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve me against the wrath of my enemies; you stretch out your hand, and your right hand delivers me. 8 The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands.

Psalm 139

The Inescapable God

To the leader. Of David. A Psalm.

1 O Lord, you have searched me and known me. 2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. 3 You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. 4 Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely. 5 You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. 6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it.

7 Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? 8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. 9 If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, 10 even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast. 11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,” 12 even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.

13 For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. 15 My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. 16 Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed. 17 How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! 18 I try to count them—they are more than the sand; I come to the end[c]—I am still with you.

19 O that you would kill the wicked, O God, and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me— 20 those who speak of you maliciously, and lift themselves up against you for evil![d] 21 Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you? 22 I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them my enemies. 23 Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts.

Footnotes:

Psalm 138:2 Cn: Heb you have exalted your word above all your name

Psalm 138:3 Syr Compare Gk Tg: Heb you made me arrogant in my soul with strength

Psalm 139:18 Or I awake

Psalm 139:20 Cn: Meaning of Heb uncertain

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Genesis 18:1-16

A Son Promised to Abraham and Sarah

18 The Lord appeared to Abraham[a] by the oaks[b] of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. 2 He looked up and saw three men standing near him. When he saw them, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them, and bowed down to the ground. 3 He said, “My lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant. 4 Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree. 5 Let me bring a little bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on—since you have come to your servant.” So they said, “Do as you have said.” 6 And Abraham hastened into the tent to Sarah, and said, “Make ready quickly three measures[c] of choice flour, knead it, and make cakes.” 7 Abraham ran to the herd, and took a calf, tender and good, and gave it to the servant, who hastened to prepare it. 8 Then he took curds and milk and the calf that he had prepared, and set it before them; and he stood by them under the tree while they ate.

9 They said to him, “Where is your wife Sarah?” And he said, “There, in the tent.” 10 Then one said, “I will surely return to you in due season, and your wife Sarah shall have a son.” And Sarah was listening at the tent entrance behind him. 11 Now Abraham and Sarah were old, advanced in age; it had ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women. 12 So Sarah laughed to herself, saying, “After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I have pleasure?” 13 The Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh, and say, ‘Shall I indeed bear a child, now that I am old?’ 14 Is anything too wonderful for the Lord? At the set time I will return to you, in due season, and Sarah shall have a son.” 15 But Sarah denied, saying, “I did not laugh”; for she was afraid. He said, “Oh yes, you did laugh.”

Judgment Pronounced on Sodom

16 Then the men set out from there, and they looked toward Sodom; and Abraham went with them to set them on their way.

Footnotes:

Genesis 18:1 Heb him

Genesis 18:1 Or terebinths

Genesis 18:6 Heb seahs

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Hebrews 10:26-39

26 For if we willfully persist in sin after having received the knowledge of the truth, there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins, 27 but a fearful prospect of judgment, and a fury of fire that will consume the adversaries. 28 Anyone who has violated the law of Moses dies without mercy “on the testimony of two or three witnesses.” 29 How much worse punishment do you think will be deserved by those who have spurned the Son of God, profaned the blood of the covenant by which they were sanctified, and outraged the Spirit of grace? 30 For we know the one who said, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay.” And again, “The Lord will judge his people.” 31 It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.

32 But recall those earlier days when, after you had been enlightened, you endured a hard struggle with sufferings, 33 sometimes being publicly exposed to abuse and persecution, and sometimes being partners with those so treated. 34 For you had compassion for those who were in prison, and you cheerfully accepted the plundering of your possessions, knowing that you yourselves possessed something better and more lasting. 35 Do not, therefore, abandon that confidence of yours; it brings a great reward. 36 For you need endurance, so that when you have done the will of God, you may receive what was promised. 37 For yet

“in a very little while, the one who is coming will come and will not delay; 38 but my righteous one will live by faith. My soul takes no pleasure in anyone who shrinks back.”

39 But we are not among those who shrink back and so are lost, but among those who have faith and so are saved.

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

John 6:16-27

Jesus Walks on the Water

16 When evening came, his disciples went down to the sea, 17 got into a boat, and started across the sea to Capernaum. It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. 18 The sea became rough because a strong wind was blowing. 19 When they had rowed about three or four miles,[a] they saw Jesus walking on the sea and coming near the boat, and they were terrified. 20 But he said to them, “It is I;[b] do not be afraid.” 21 Then they wanted to take him into the boat, and immediately the boat reached the land toward which they were going.

The Bread from Heaven

22 The next day the crowd that had stayed on the other side of the sea saw that there had been only one boat there. They also saw that Jesus had not got into the boat with his disciples, but that his disciples had gone away alone. 23 Then some boats from Tiberias came near the place where they had eaten the bread after the Lord had given thanks.[c] 24 So when the crowd saw that neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum looking for Jesus.

25 When they found him on the other side of the sea, they said to him, “Rabbi, when did you come here?” 26 Jesus answered them, “Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves. 27 Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you. For it is on him that God the Father has set his seal.”

Footnotes:

John 6:19 Gk about twenty-five or thirty stadia

John 6:20 Gk I am

John 6:23 Other ancient authorities lack after the Lord had given thanks

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

[mj-spooks]

17 & 21??

AHAHAHAHA I reblogged two different ask games yesterday and both were number baaaaaaaaaaaased

Guess I gotta answer for both now lmao

Salty ask:

17. Instead of XYZ happening, I would have made ABC happen…

- (The Walking Dead - this is gonna be long af btw) Instead of killing Denise the way Abraham died in the comics and then killing Abraham the way Glenn died in the comics, only to have Daryl fuck up and get Glenn killed on top of it, I’d have just killed Daryl where Denise died. Because I love him but holy shit am I sick of TWD basically being The Daryl Show when it comes to wangst. Like dude the only death that ever should’ve been about him is Merle’s. But he got Sophia’s death (should’ve been about Carol), Merle’s death, Beth’s death (should’ve been about Maggie), Denise’s death (should’ve been about Tara), not to mention a shitton of deaths for random one off characters that he just happened to be the last one to interact with/the one who saw them die (Beth’s boyfriend being the first that comes to mind). I’m sick of iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Then I’d have come up with some reason other than Maggie apparently going through a gd miscarriage to get everyone on the road for The Negan Show, because seriously they only killed Denise so they could use the miscarriage for that (no doctor + possibly losing baby = drama!) but they could’ve come up with a million other reasons. It was cheap and obnoxious. Also STOP KILLING EVERYONE MAGGIE GREEN HAS EVER LOVED?! Fucking hell someone from Negan’s crew could’ve come to Alexandria like ‘heyo I’m totally from the Hilltop and we’re totes under attack! come save us!’ It’s a bit of a stretch but okay look Rick and co aren’t exactly the sorts of people who think things through when their friends are in danger, it would’ve worked. Rick’s dumb ass would’ve been all *sheriff voice* “Whelp ev’rybody grab yer guns, let’s do this” or some shit. It’s not the best plot but it’s at least better than DEAD BABIES.

Then instead of killing Abraham (which was stupid because they literally could’ve just killed him off how he died in the comics a handful of episodes before if they were gonna waste him) and Glenn (who DESERVED TO LIVE FUCKING HELL also the OOC reason Kirkman killed him in the comics was null in the show because he wasn’t innocent, having just participated in the murdering of a ton of Negan’s dudes, honestly if we’re going for equality that should’ve been Heath since Glenn killed some of those dudes so Heath didn’t have to BUT DON’T KILL HEATH FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS), I would have killed Eugene. Now, I love Eugene. But on The Walking Dead, ‘I love him’ is just not enough of a reason to be upset that a character got killed off. Aside from Rick, everyone’s free game except for Daryl’s fucking ass for some goddamned reason because y’all fucks love him so damn much so you gotta work a little harder to justify someone being alive.”But Mia,” you might be saying, “Eugene is needed! He has to make the bullets!” AHA! BUT YOU SEE, THAT’S WHY HIS DEATH WOULD’VE BEEN PERFECT. You see, they had literally already set it up so that if Eugene died, they could carry on. He gave Rick the instructions! He told Rick how to do it! In fact, that very event is why I thought he was going to be the one to get Lucille’d! BUT HE DIDN’T BECAUSE NAH LET’S KILL ABRAHAM EVEN THOUGH WE WASTED HIS ORIGINAL DEATH TO KILL OFF THE CUTE LESBIAN INSTEAD FOR *DRAMA* AND KILL GLENN TOO FOR NOTHING MORE THAN FUCKING SHOCK VALUE.

*huffs* I have a lot of feelings about this matter. Also if this was NOT the ask game you were requesting I am so sorry that I just ate everything up with that response omg.

21. What are your thoughts on crack ships?

I… don’t really get crackships, for the most part. If characters don’t have chemistry, I can’t understand shipping them. And if they have chemistry, by definition I don’t think it can be a crackship. Because it’s a legit ship if they have chemistry. I feel like the only people who really do crackships are A) people who’re shipping their two favorite characters even though the pair aren’t compatible romantically in any way shape or form, or B) people who are putting two characters that are really really unhealthy for each other together in a borderline abusive relationship and laughing about it. Obviously that’s not the only kinds of crackships that exist, buuuut those are most of the ones I see, and the first set, it’s whatever, you do you, I personally prefer seeing my favorite characters with people who complement them than just smooshing them together. If it’s the second kind… um. Well. I’m not really the sort of person who likes seeing abusive relationships in fiction, and I especially don’t like seeing them romanticized, and I doubly especially don’t like seeing them romanticized just because it’s ‘funny’. I know there’s also C) let’s take these two totally random characters who have nothing in common and ship them because it’s funny since it would never happen. But I almost never actually see anyone doing that. I do see a lot of people acting like they’re doing that, when really they’re doing B and pretending the relationship isn’t super fucked up. If you’re doing A or C, have fun. If you’re doing B… kindly do it away from me.

200 things you can put in my ask

17: Magazine:- I have not read a magazine in YEARS. I guess I like magazines with recipes in them? I like to cook, so those are nice.

21: Theme park:- Can I say ‘all of them’? … No? Okay fine. Um. I’ve only been to Sea World, Six Flags, and Disney World. Sea World sucked, both for the ethical reasons and because there’s just… not much to do? Six Flags I’ve been to a million times bc it’s right in Arlington, it’s pretty great. Disney World was a whole other experience, though, I’m not sure it’s even fair to Six Flags to compare the two. I guess I like Six Flags the best as a theme park because it feels like something I could actually do for a day. Disney World is a vacation. It’s too big to be a one-day thing. I like Six Flags because it’s more, um, accessible???? If that makes sense. I can’t come up with a better word for it, lol. DOES HURRICANE HARBOR COUNT AS A THEME PARK AND IF SO IS IT PART OF SIX FLAGS OR SEPARATE?! for that matter do water parks count or is that a different thing? I’ve been to a lot of those. Like… a lot. Schlitterbahn was the best though. I went to the one in New Braunfels. Super awesome. I’m secretly a fish so I like water parks more than normal ones, ofc.