#I was just talking about ides of march did that manifest here

[completeoveranalysis]

[3]

OOH YES Fai and Kurogane are on edge now! While it was fun before and they were happy to flirt in the face of it all, now Lava Lamp is in extreme danger and They’re Not Enjoying That. Fai is now visibly (stressed? Upset? furious?) while he fights, and Kurogane is actually calling out his attack names again. And from that first panel we can see that they’re trying to get to him. They’re trying to save him from Syaoran now, so the endless clones are much more of a problem than they were even before. 

OOP!

HAVE YOU SEEN THAT EXPRESSION ON KUROGANE BEFORE?

THE FUN LEVELS ARE PLUMMETING EVEN FURTHER

I UH

A STAB?

Clamp really said You’re going to get stabbed in the chest and it’s going to be gorgeous.

[ask-the-crimson-king]

More Stuff from Betrayer

[While on the topic, I want to show the various humans out there a very interesting scene out of Betrayer.

Two, technically, but one that's a bit longer than the other. Image IDs will be provided at the end of the post, cause there's going to be a LOT.

Some interesting insights into how Lorgar views Chaos and a bit about the Emperor as well. I always find this scene to be fascinating, especially since he's borrowed the astropathic choir of the Conquerer to listen to worlds dying across Ultramar while he muses on this.

And then there's when Angron walks up.

Some interesting, albeit a bit morbid, banter between brothers. I do like how Angron even greets Lorgar on the way in, and Lorgar is just standing there stunned. The insights into how Angron views the Devourers is also neat, and it is to be expected at this point. Lorgar trying to argue for them and trying to get Angron to stop ignoring them outright is another neat touch.

The two begin talking of Ultramar, and Lorgar reveals that Nuceria is going to be the capstone for his ritual. Angron asks why, and the following is said:

I like this passage for a few reasons. Firstly, how Angron "dreams" has always been something of interest to me. Because I doubt he ever really gets much rest and respite. Here we get some insight into this, although this also was already expressed a bit earlier. This passage also leads into Angron's recollection of the Night of the Wolf, but I wanted to focus on this.

Lorgar and Angron's "bond" is something that's always intrigued me. It definitely feels more one-sided, with Lorgar seeking for brotherhood that isn't really there, but there are a few moments to make it feel a bit more genuine. However, there is still something missing from these interactions. I can't really describe it other than a barrier between two primarchs who will never see eye-to-eye. Lorgar does, to his credit, try to be understanding and patient throughout, but I can also definitely feel his annoyance coming through at certain places.

In a way, I can almost feel a similar sort of vibe to how Magnus interacts with some of his brothers. Namely with Perturabo in one of the opening chapters of his primarch novel. However, the bond between those two is still very different from the one Angron has with Lorgar; those two actually do have a deep connection, while these two don't. There's a misunderstanding and underestimation coming from both sides in certain aspects; Lorgar in almost sounding condescending to Angron, and Angron still thinking Lorgar a weakling.

TL;DR, Betrayer good.

Image IDs below the cut:

Image ID 1 & 2: A scene from Betrayer where Lorgar is standing and listening to worlds burn. It reads:

Serving as conductor for an astrological orchestra was more taxing than he’d dreamed, though his blunter, more militant brothers would struggle to grasp the finer points of his efforts. Exhaustion left him wondering, even if only briefly, whether absolute peace would create a stellar song as divinely inspired as absolute war. Fate had played its hand and Chaos was destined to swallow all creation whether or not Horus and Lorgar raged against the Imperial war machine, but if what if they’d stayed loyal to the Emperor? What then? Would the Great Crusade have shaped a serene funeral dirge, to play behind the veil as humanity died in a defenceless harrowing?

Therein lay the fatal flaw. The Emperor’s way was compliance, not peace. The two were as repellent to one another as opposing lodestones. It didn’t matter what enlightenment the Imperium stamped out in its conquering crusade when obedience was all its lords desired. It didn’t matter what wars were fought from now into eternity. The Legiones Astartes would always march, for they were born to do so. There would always be war; even if the Great Crusade had been allowed to reach the galaxy’s every edge, there would never be peace. Discontent would seethe. Populations would rebel. Worlds would rise up. Human nature eventually sent men and women questing for the truth, and tyrants always fell to the truth.

No peace. Only war.

Lorgar felt his blood run cold. Only war. Those were words to echo into eternity.

He didn’t trust the Ten Thousand Futures the way Erebus claimed to. Too many possibilities forked from every decision made by every living thing. What use was prophecy when all it offered was what might happen? Lorgar was not so devoid of imagination that he needed the warp’s twisting guesswork to show him that. Anyone with an iota of vision could imagine what might happen. Genius lay in engineering events according to one’s own goals, not in blindly heeding the laughter of mad gods.

More than that, Lorgar sought to keep one thing in mind above all else. The gods were powerful, without doubt, but they were fickle beings. Each worked against its own kin more often than not, spilling conflicting prophecies into their prophets’ minds. Perhaps they weren’t even sentient in the way a mortal mind could encompass. They seemed as much the manifestations of primal emotion as they did individual essences.

But no, there was a wide gulf between hearing them and heeding them. Gods lied, just like men. Gods deceived and clashed and sought to advance their own dominions over their rivals’. Lorgar trusted none of their prophecies.

Image ID 3-5: A series of screenshots from Betrayer. Angron comes into the scene. It reads:

Angron entered the basilica, armoured in his usual stylised bronze and ceramite and with two oversized chainswords strapped to his back. He even wasted time with a greeting, raising his hand in the first time Lorgar could ever remember such a gesture from his broken brother. The Word Bearer tried not to let his amazement show at his brother’s new consideration.

‘Lotara says you stole her astropathic choir.’ Angron’s lipless smile was a ghastly thing indeed. ‘I see that she may have been correct.’

‘Stole is a strong word. “Appropriated” seems much less ignoble.’ Lorgar spared a glance for the skies above the cathedral, as the Lex ripped onwards towards Nuceria.

‘What do you need them for?’ Angron asked. His wounds from being buried alive had already faded to scrunched scar tissue pebbling his flesh, just another host of scarring to overlay the last.

The Devourers lurked behind him, stomping into the cathedral without the primarch sparing them a glance. To be one of Angron’s bodyguards was no honour, despite how fiercely the World Eaters’ champions had fought for it in the first, optimistic years. Angron ignored them no matter where they went, never once fighting alongside them in battle. In their Terminator plate, they’d never managed to keep up with their liege lord, and they were as prone to losing control as any other World Eater, meaning any hope of them fighting as an organised pack was a forlorn one at best.

Lorgar watched the Devourers – those warriors who’d spent a century learning to swallow their pride and pretend they weren’t ignored – speaking amongst themselves at the basilica’s entrance.

‘Hail,’ he greeted them. They seemed uneasy at being addressed, offering hesitant and wordless bows.

Angron snorted at his brother acknowledging them. ‘Bodyguards,’ he said. ‘Even their name annoys me. “Devourers”, as if I’d named them myself – as if they were the Legion’s finest.’

‘Their intentions are pure,’ Lorgar pointed out. ‘They seek to honour you. It’s not their fault you leave them behind in every battle.’

‘They’re not even the Legion’s fiercest fighters, any more. That rogue Delvarus refuses to challenge for a place in their ranks. Khârn laughed when I asked him if he’d ever considered it. And do you know Bloodspitter?’

‘I know Bloodspitter,’ Lorgar replied. Everyone knew Bloodspitter.

‘He beat one of them in the pits, and carved his name into the poor bastard’s armour with a combat knife.’

Lorgar forced a smile. ‘Yes. Delightful.’

Angron’s face wrenched again, at the mercy of misfiring muscles. ‘What primarch ever needed guarding by lesser men?’

‘Ferrus,’ Lorgar said softly. ‘Vulkan.’

Angron laughed, the sound rich and true, yet harsh as a bitter wind. ‘It’s good to hear you joke about those weaklings. I was getting bored of you mourning them.’

It was no joke, but Lorgar had no desire to shatter his brother’s fragile good humour. ‘I only mourn the dead,’ Lorgar conceded. ‘I don’t mourn Vulkan.’

‘He’s as good as dead.’ The World Eater smiled again. ‘I’m sure he wishes he were. Now, what are you doing with Lotara’s choir?’

‘Listening to them sing of other worlds and other wars.’

Angron stared, unimpressed. ‘Specifics,’ he said, ‘while I have the patience to hear such details.’

‘Just listen,’ Lorgar replied.

Angron did as he was bid. After a minute or more had passed, he nodded once. ‘You’re listening to the Five Hundred Worlds burning.’

‘Something like that. These are the voices of the freshly dead, and those soon to join them. The mortis-moments of random souls, elsewhere in Ultramar, as our fleets ravage their worlds.’

‘Morbid, priest. Even for you.’

‘We’re inflicting this destruction on them. We mustn’t consider ourselves distant from it. It may not be our hands holding the bolters and blades, but we are still the architects of this annihilation. It’s our place to listen to it, to remember the martyred dead, and to meditate on all we’ve wrought.’

‘I wish you well with it,’ said Angron. ‘But why steal Lotara’s choir? What happened to yours?’

‘They died.’

It was Angron’s turn to be surprised. ‘How did they die?’

‘Screaming.’ Lorgar showed no emotion at all. ‘What brings you here, brother?’

Image ID 6 & 7: Two screenshots from later in the previous scene, when Angron asks 'Why Nuceria?'. It reads:

‘The metaphysics are complicated,’ said Lorgar.

That had Angron growling. ‘I may not have wasted days in debate with you and Magnus inside our father’s Palace, but the Nails haven’t left me an absolute fool. I asked the question, Lorgar. You answer it. And do so without lying, if you can manage such a feat.’

The Word Bearer met his brother’s eyes, and the rarely-seen palette of emotions within their depths. Pain was there in abundance, but so was the frustration of living with a misfiring mind, and the savagery that transcended anger itself. Angron was a creature that had come to make his hatred a blade to be used in battle. He’d weaponised his own emotions, where most living beings were slaves to theirs. Lorgar couldn’t help but admire the strength in that.

‘We’re going to Nuceria,’ he said, ‘because of you. Because of the Nails.’

Angron stared, and his silence beckoned for his brother to continue.

‘They’re killing you,’ Lorgar admitted. ‘Faster than I thought. Faster than anyone realised. The rate of degeneration has accelerated even in the last few months. Your implants were never designed for a primarch’s brain matter. Your physiology is trying to heal the damage as the Nails bite deeper, but it’s a game of pushing and pulling, with both sides evenly matched.’

Angron took this with an impassive shrug. ‘Guesswork.’

‘I can see souls and hear the music of creation,’ Lorgar smiled. ‘In comparison, this is nothing. The Twelfth Legion’s archives are comprehensive enough, you know. Your behaviour tells the rest of the tale, along with the pain I sense radiating from you each and every time we meet. Your entire brain is remapped and rewired, slaved to the implants’ impulses. Tell me, when was the last time you dreamed?’

‘I don’t dream.’ The answer was immediate, almost fiercely fast. ‘I’ve never dreamed.’

Lorgar’s gentle eyes caught the warp’s kaleidoscopic light as he tilted his head. ‘Now you’re lying, brother.’

‘It’s no lie.’ Angron’s thick fingers twitched and curled, closing around the ghosts of weapons. ‘The Nails scarcely let me sleep. How would I dream?’

Lorgar didn’t miss the rising tension in his brother’s body language – the veins in his temples rising from scarred skin, the feral hunch of the shoulders, no different from a hunting cat drawing into a crouch before it struck.

‘You once told me the Nails stole your slumber,’ Lorgar conceded, ‘but you also said they let you dream.’

Angron took a step closer. He started to say ‘I meant…’ but Lorgar’s earthy glare stopped him cold.

‘They give you a serenity and peace you can find nowhere else. Humans, legionaries, primarchs… everything alive must sleep, must rest, must allow its brain a period of respite. The remapping of your mind denies you this. You don’t dream with your eyes closed. You dream with your eyes open, chasing the rush of whatever peace the Nails can give you.’ Lorgar met Angron’s eyes again. ‘Don’t insult us both by denying it. You slaver and murmur when you kill, mumbling about chasing serenity and how close it feels. I’ve heard you. I’ve looked into your heart and soul when you’re lost to the Nails. Your sons, with their crude copies of your implants, have their minds rewritten to feel joy only in adrenaline’s kiss. Those lesser implants cause pain because they scrape the nerves raw, thus your World Eaters kill because it gladdens their reforged hearts, and ceases the pain knifing into their muscles. Your Butcher’s Nails are a more sinister and predatory design, ruining all cognition, stealing any peace. They are killing you, gladiator. And you ask why I’m taking you back to Nuceria? Is it not obvious?’

End Image ID.]

[alfredosauce50]

Island Escapade [Ex-con! 2p! America x reader x Denmark] 07

Island Escapade - 07 - She's my collar Wordcount: 2, 877 The reader is referred to as she/her.

"Mathias is missing."

"Save your jokes for dinnertime, Allen. It would've been better to laugh in front of him." You snorted. Without sparing him so little as a glance, you leaned forward to crush a few cloves of garlic under the blade of a knife. He stood at your side with his eyes narrowed into a troubled glare—you could brush me off every other time, just not today.

"I'm not kidding, dollface." He set down the missing man's phone on the countertop in a light clunk. "He's been gone since noon. Dude went awol the second he finished eating. And it's nearly seven."

You lifted your gaze to the device, then to him. It wasn't the first time he did something like this, but now that he mentioned it, his cloud of worry seemed to float right over.

"... Hm. That's weird." Giving your hands a quick wipe, you marched out to the porch overlooking the surrounding beaches. Allen appeared from behind. "You don't think he went to someone else's house, do you? It's getting dark... And the rain's setting in."

"He's not stupid enough to not bring an umbrella, right?" He asked.

One of your eyes narrowed in thought. "Doubt it." Redirecting your line of vision to a spot on the fencing, your words manifested into reality when you saw that your umbrella was untouched. Immediately, you frowned. "What on Earth could he be up to?" The other shrugged with his lips pursed together.

"Maybe he's trying to get your attention by making you worry."

You cracked your neck. "Well, he always was one for theatrics. He'll probably come back soaking head to toe to be dramatic."

You couldn't put it past him to do something like that. Again.

"Ouch." Allen chuckled, following you back inside. "You do this every time he runs off?"

"Yeah, because I'm usually right." Mathias was either straightforward and demanding or didn't say anything at all. Like being dramatic.

There was no compromise whatsoever, but you doubted he knew what the word meant. The man had the communication skills of an egg. "But if he proves me wrong, we have something to be scared of."

Making your way back to the kitchen, you scraped up the chopped-up vegetables and dropped them into a frypan for a satisfying sizzle. Despite your silence, the worry was visibly setting in your downcast eyes. Even he could see it, but he never brought it up until it was time to eat—the last and ultimate test.

If he was late he might as well have been dead.

He never missed dinner or any meal for that matter. And yet, there you sat, halfway through your stirfry. Allen already finished his, now watching you with his cheek resting on his hand. "... You good?"

His brows were slightly furrowed.

You kept your head down to prod around your plate absentmindedly.

"Yeah... He’ll turn up."

As the minutes droned by without him, the plate next to yours grew colder and colder. What was once hot and piping had cooled off and hardened. The generous serving of what you made—double of what you had—was no longer as appetizing as it used to be.

"Listen. He's not showing up."

He watched you glance up slowly. What he blurted was disheartening, but he couldn't take how depressed you looked.

"... You're wrong. He always shows up." You murmured faintly, unable to return his steely gaze. As you continued, your trust in your own words completely disintegrated.

"It doesn't matter how late it is."

Your stubbornness was just a front. Allen saw right through it. Digging his hands through his dark maroon hair, creases formed between his eyes as he hesitated to continue. But he had to do what had to be done. "Sorry, it had to be me, doll."

He raised an index to point at himself. "Look me in the eye and tell me he's gonna show up." You didn't budge. "That's what I thought. And what did you say his bedtime was? Nine. It's nearly eight."

A brief silence fell as you both shared the same thought.

Mathias was like a kid.

Allen felt worse to know you used to date him. Even now, he could see you worrying yourself to death, but you made no effort to admit it.

"Look, if you’re scared, then you’re scared. But he’s a hardy guy, ain’t he? If I can fit into his clothes, then he’s got a good chance of surviving without eating his veggies for the night."

There it was—the glimmer of hope in your eyes as you lit up to what he said. It was exactly what you needed to hear. The comfort you couldn't bring yourself to ask for. After all, Mathias's absence impacted the atmosphere more than you and Allen cared to confess.

But for you, it hurt more than you could fathom.

A few hours later, there was still no sign of him appearing. You were patient, however, and continued to sit in the living room. But desperate was the better word as you fixated on the door. Where was he? Was he okay? The muffled sound of a toothbrush stopped, which was followed by the hum of the faucet turning on.

Out walked Allen in his pyjamas. His underwear. You had long given up on telling Mathias to not do it. And you were too exhausted for Allen's antics. "You should get some sleep, doll. We'll sort this out tomorrow." The couch dipped to your right. "Or do I gotta sit here all night too?"

You bit your lip for a deep frown.

"No, you go to sleep. I'm not letting you do this because my stupid ex can't look after himself." A sigh fell from your lips. "You're not responsible for anything, and I wouldn't be able to sleep, anyway."

He rose a brow. "Okay, fine. But who said you had to be responsible?"

"Me."

Allen clicked his tongue. "I know you care about him, but I have to be frank." He turned to you with a softened gaze. "There's nothing you can do but wait til' morning. We can look for him when we can actually see."

Why did he have to put it like he was already dead?

You practically launched yourself into his arms, much to his surprise. Tightening your coils around him, it didn't take long for you to feel his strong arms around you. He wasn't used to being appreciated, but damn, did it feel good. "Aw, haw haw. Gimme some. Let's hug it out."

"If he comes back alive, I'm gonna kill him." Your voice was no higher than a whisper to stop it from cracking. When you realized what you were doing, bile rose in your throat.

"You can kill him all you want when he gets back, and he will." Allen pet your hair softly. Given the height difference, he could rest his chin on the top of your head. "Don’t cry over that dumbass. He doesn’t deserve it."

"But you don’t understand—" Pulling away to rub away some stray tears, the effort ended up in vain as more streamed down your face. "—we were still fighting today."

His eyes drooped in sympathy as you finally spilled. "Why did he have to fucking disappear when I was already ignoring him? He was trying to talk to me for days but I never even looked at him...!"

You sucked in a sharp breath to hold back a sob, then to replace it with a laugh. "About how good his cereal was, or how bad the weather was—or, or a funny video or something just as stupid."

All Allen could do was dab tissues over your face, so he huffed out a soft sigh. Hearing it only made bottling everything in harder. And it showed in the tremble that seized your body.

"C’mon... Don’t be like that." He pulled you in again, unable to bear the sight. Hearing it was bad enough.

God, were you a mess.

He’d never say it out loud, but it turned him on more than anything. Hugging you tighter as the warmth flurried more in his chest, he felt something wet spread over his tank. You were so vulnerable, and to be here when you needed someone—he never felt closer to you than now.

"I'll be however I wanna be. This is just how it's always been with him." You admitted bitterly through a glare. "He pulls something, but I'm the one who ends up feeling bad. I can’t win arguments! And you have no idea how many times it’s happened."

Never had he witnessed such raw honesty and ugly emotions from you. Allen just never imagined Mathias to be the cause of it. But then again, you had a history with him he was never privy to.

For just a moment, he felt like crying too.

"You gotta stop beating yourself up. Shit happens. But I promise he'll show up. I got a feeling we aren't getting rid of him this easily."

You sniffed. "You really think so?"

"I know so."

The next morning, you were awakened by the buzz of your phone. Rummaging under your pillow to find the source of those obnoxious vibrations, you pulled out the device to find yourself staring at the line, "No caller ID" across your screen. With little hesitation, you answered it. Inside, you prayed and prayed it was who you thought it was.

"... Hello?"

"(F/N)! It's me!" The voice piped. "Gah, thank god you picked up!"

Your heart soared as you sprung up.

"Mathias?! Is that you?"

"Who else could it be, kæreste? Of course, it's me! I just wanted to let you know I'm okay! A little lost, but okay!" He spoke breathlessly. Now, the Danish pet name and unnecessary amount of shouting? You couldn't mistake it for anyone else.

Immediately, a huge wave of relief washed over you. But it was short-lived.

The fear burned away into a livid kind of fury.

"What the fuck, Mat? I was worried to death!" You screamed. You could practically imagine him holding the phone away while cringing at the volume. But it was merely a taste of his own medicine.

He laughed. "Sorry, sorry. It's a long story, but I promise to tell you everything."

"Sorry? I thought you died!" A few knocks sounded on your door. Sliding yourself off the bed, you unlocked it without a second thought. In walked a disgruntled Allen with his face scrunched up.

He was never a morning person, but today was a special occasion.

"I'm really sorry! I didn't mean to worry you, I swear!"

You scowled, putting him on speaker. "Then you better start talking."

A weight settled on your head—your companion decided it to be a perfect resting place for the meantime while he listened in. He then wrapped himself around you. As tired as he was, he still managed a wide, floaty smile. So he was right, wasn't he? Rather than crying over the dumb Dane, you were about to give him the lecturing of a lifetime.

So rather than telling Allen off, you let him do as he pleased. You even held onto his arm that found its place on your waist.

"Uhh, so... I'm kinda stranded."

You expected him to say, on a random island on the Spanish archipelago. Maybe he had gone out for a swim to sulk by his lonesome after you forgave Allen. It was understandable, considering he was genuinely convinced he was trying something. And because he broke safety protocols, he managed to get swept away without anyone realizing it. How he didn't drown was beyond you.

Little did you know, he took swept up to a whole other level.

"Well, spit it out! The faster you tell us where you are, the easier it'll be for you, me, and the coast guard."

Mathias 'uhhed' again.

"... Erm... I think I'm in New York?"

New York.

The Big Apple.

It was where Allen was supposed to be—his home. How did they end up switching places?

If you could, you would have gone on and on about how impossible he was. Even Allen was shocked at how red you were as you shrieked into the speaker. Unfortunately, the displaced man was borrowing a phone from a random passerby on the street, so he had to hang up. Before he did, you relayed to him that you were breaking up with him twice out of spite. It didn't really make sense, but it incited a huge reaction from Mathias nonetheless.

Wha~at! But you already broke up with me! You can't break up with me again! He'd pleaded. But he was wrong. Anything he humored you on, you could use against him. And that included made-up dating culture. He deserved that, at least.

It wasn't just the random location he wound up in that troubled you, even if he was across the North Atlantic Ocean. It was how he ended up there in the first place. Apparently, he decided to do some vigilante work and sneak onto the ferry that stole the turtle eggs. But he wasn't Batman.

He was Mathias.

So he was stranded in a foreign country with no money. And like Allen said, it was strangely hard to get rid of him. Before the call ended, you told him to go to the Spanish consulate for help. He didn't even realize he could do that. So Allen was right. How he wasn't dead was beyond you! Fucking around with animal smugglers, then actually considering sleeping outside on the streets of New York?

He'd be killed faster than he could say Ferrari.

The next day around noon, Mathias glided in on a yacht accompanied by Antonio. Inhaling the fresh salt of the Mediterranean waters, he giddily stepped down onto the pier. How he missed this smell. Before he could get far, the rapid thudding of your footsteps came charging at him at unprecedented speed.

"Mat!"

There were bags under his eyes, but the sight of you running at him was the greatest injection of energy he could ever ask for. "(F/N)!" Outstretching his arms just in time to catch you, he stumbled back from the sheer force of the collision. "Hey! Did you miss me?"

"Fuck you...! I always thought you were stupid, but not that stupid!" You exasperated in the hug. Mathias responded by holding you tighter and nuzzling into your neck. He could listen to you scold him forever, but the opportunity to breathe you in was rarer than a blue moon. "What did you think you could accomplish, huh? You’re not special! We were gonna call the cops, you idiot! You weren’t supposed to trespass and try and save the day!"

He sighed contentedly. "Mm, I’m sorry. I only ever meant to go in for a quick look. But I had to hide when people came. So I hid for like..." His voice was low with huskiness, a sure fire sign he was fatigued. "Half a day. In an empty crate. I stole one of the labels and shipped myself out so they wouldn’t find me."

Pulling away with a huff, you reached up to cup his cheeks. There was untold fondness in how you held him, even if your words didn’t reflect it. "Just shut up and take nap. I’ve had enough of your idiocy." You flickered your sad eyes over his roughed up features. There were more bruises than you could bear, and it broke your heart to see them.

Mathias picked up rather quickly for once, so he gave both your hands a reassuring squeeze. Then, he gleamed. "Don’t worry! I heal super fast! And even faster if you kiss it better," The blonde winked.

If it weren’t for the bruises, you would have pushed his face away. "I would have given you a punch, but it looks like you were punished enough."

He began to walk with you back to your house.

"Oh? So are you saying you’re not mad at me anymore?" He chimed hopefully.

You shot him a glare. "Far from it. I was gonna have your ass on the couch, but I’ll be nice since you spent a night in a box." Mathias’s smile widened, but you were pleased to say he was jumping the gun. "You can sleep in my bed. But I won’t be using it."

He pouted.

"You’d rather sleep on the couch than with me?"

"No, I’d rather sleep in a different room than you." Grinning at that, you ascended the small flight of stairs to your front porch. Allen just walked outside to greet you both. Speak of the devil. "I’ll be crashing this guy’s room."

"Wait, you are?" The said guy blinked.

Mathias’s jaw dropped. You’ve never seen him this horrified in his life. "What? No way! You—you can’t!"

You hummed delightfully. "My house, my rules. Don’t like them, you’re free to leave. You have a home to go back to, you know?"

"I think I’ll stay." His cheeks blew up in discontent.

Allen shared your mischievous grin. "Heh. It must suck being a loser all the time. But I can’t really say anything when I can’t relate." He shrugged.

"Hey! I’m not!"

[jessgartner]

2020 Life Olympics

The real Olympics may have been canceled in 2020 but the Life Olympics persevered like the postal service of Olympics. 

First, I’d like to apologize for my role in the chaos of 2020 because I think I had a slight miscommunication with the powers that be and I feel partly responsible. Here was my plan for 2020: 

My theme for 2020 is Intention because I want to take the energy I feel right now and deploy it with more intentionality next year - bringing increased mindfulness to how I spend my time, money, physical and mental energy. And because I love wordplay, I also literally want to spend more time camping “in-tent” to enjoy more peace and quiet and beauty in nature.

The universe was like, “Oh, she wants to spend less money and more time outside? Well, shut it down. Shut the whole planet down.”

I mean, mission accomplished, I guess? I did spend less money and more time outside and had to be VERY intentional with my mental energy to survive the day-to-day morass of 2020. Next time, I will be more specific with my annual manifestations. Sorry to all. 

2020 was brutal for pretty much everything and everyone. I don’t know anyone who isn’t in some state of grief right now, including myself. I debated doing a Life Olympics at all this year, feeling like-- what is the point? Hundreds of thousands of people died, our democracy is hanging on by a thread, and millions of people lost jobs, businesses, and homes. 

Like many people, I’ve been struggling with anxiety and depression this year which intensified as it got darker and colder outside. At a low point, I talked with my therapist about the struggle of just not wanting to do any of the things that usually bring me joy-- and how periods of relief were so fleeting. “But you have to keep doing those things,” she said, “even if they’re not working right now, you have to keep doing those things and trust the process; the joy will return.” 

So even though I don’t really feel like it and kind of feel like it’s dumb, I’m writing the 2020 Life Olympics. I’m trusting the process.

2020 Life Olympics Recap

Work - Participation Trophy

Starting a company is hard, operating a company is harder, but running a company during a global pandemic and economic crisis is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. 2020 was not a fun year to lead a business; it was hell. On March 15, the plan for the year pretty much went out the window and everything went into survival mode. I never take the company or my team for granted, but I’m particularly grateful to be able to usher this work into 2021.

Despite the craziness, we still had some big wins this year. We launched new product partnerships with PowerSchool and Amazon Business. We rebuilt our tool for equitably calculating district funding formulas. And I got to flex my creative muscles with EdFinToks! Throughout it all, I was lucky enough to be surrounded by a team of people who are as compassionate as they are talented. 

I’m worried about public education more than ever after this year, but I’m going to keep fighting every day to make it work better for kids. 

This is Work-Lite but I also spent a good chunk of time this year leading the modernization workgroup for Bill Henry’s transition committee after his spring primary election to become the new Baltimore City Comptroller, ousting a 25-year incumbent, Joan Pratt. This was an enlightening (and infuriating) experience for me that gave me a glimpse into the operations of a segment of the City government. This process also really helped crystallize how much I enjoy making public agencies function more efficiently; I’m excited to see what Bill does with the recommendations (some are already being put in action!)

Health - Gold 

This is the second year in a row (and ever) that I’m giving myself a Gold medal for Health. This was easily a year that I could have regressed on all of my healthy habits and no one would have blamed me. Instead, I leaned into protecting and improving my physical and mental health in 2020. It’s not an exaggeration to say that walking probably saved my life this year. I spent a lot of time walking around my neighborhood and various state and city parks-- walking is maybe not the best word; I stomp and charge around like I have a score to settle with the ground beneath me. My walking increased 370% in 2020. This is a habit of 2020 that I’d like to keep. My brain and body are happier if I can spend a little time walking-- stomping-- around outside each day. 

I also did a lot of biking this summer. My cycling increased 200% this year-- with much more time spent cycling outdoors. My crowning achievement this year was biking to and from Annapolis:

I spent a LOT more time outside this year which was critical for my mental health. On the downside, I only did 90% as much yoga and 60% as much strength training, so I want to try to be a little more balanced next year. 

I also invested a lot in my mental health this year. I kept up with therapy every 2-4 weeks and in October I decided to pursue a formal diagnosis for ADHD which I definitely have! Needless to say, staying in one place this year has been a special kind of hell for me. 

Home - Silver

Well, I definitely spent less money this year. And the way I did spend money made me (mostly) sad: 

Travel down 70% 

Auto & Transportation up 200% (boo cars)

Shopping down 60%

Personal Care down 35% 

Gifts and donations up 200% 

Food and Dining down 40%

Entertainment down 35% (I kept up my singing lessons virtually which accounts for a lot of this category) 

2020 was quite the palate cleanser from my 2019 year of hedonism but maybe we can go for a happy medium in 2021? Just kidding-- I will resume my hedonist ways the minute the world opens. 

I also redid my home office like every other work-from-homer on the planet and replaced my crumbling kitchen floor so the house got some TLC. 

But nobody enjoyed having me home all year as much as Darwin:

Relationships - Bronze

What a weird year for relationships of all kinds. I’m giving this a Bronze because while I invested a lot into a few relationships this year, there are also a lot of people in my life to whom I haven’t been able to give my time and love. 

One of the most important relationships in my life this year was with one of my former students. After bouncing around in the foster system for many years, we reconnected around the holidays in 2019 and he started crashing with me while we tried to figure out stable housing and employment. He was arrested in January and was incarcerated for the next several months awaiting trial. Finally, we were able to negotiate a plea agreement with the State’s Attorney and he came home around Independence Day. We spent the next several months getting him set up with a phone and various identification documents-- a nightmare in normal times and a total abyss during the pandemic. I got him registered to vote when we got his ID card and I took him to vote for the first time (a supreme treat for this former social studies teacher):

He’s now got a full-time job and stable living situation. Calling this THE success of 2020. Thank you to everyone who helped me with resources all year for housing, legal processes, and documents. It takes a village. 

It was a bizarre year for family. We lost my grandmother in September, so not being able to spend the holidays together felt like an especially cruel loss. Other big losses this year include a trip to France to celebrate a milestone birthday for my mother and my brother and sister-in-law’s wedding (Mosby seemed pretty ok with the alternative plan, though):

But in many ways, my family has been more together than ever this year thanks to prolific group chats and photo-sharing. Mostly, I’m just glad everyone else is safe and healthy. As my father often reminds me, “Our problems are small.” 

And dating? What to do with this weird Jane-Austen-esque dating scene-- as if modern dating weren’t fraught enough. Is this the universe punishing me for ending my 2019 dating hiatus early? I, for one, have given up. You win this one, pandemic. I’m just going to have my little Twitter crush and call it a year. Next year, though...

Horizons - Silver Gold 

You know what? It’s hard to expand your horizons without people or places. 

I did the best I could. I finally got back on track with my Goodreads challenge and actually had a really good year of reading, including finally embracing audiobooks through my Libro.fm subscriptions. I especially enjoyed Michelle Obama’s book Becoming and Mike Birbiglia’s The New One on audio-- both narrated by their authors. 

I camped in Pocomoke (MD), Western MD, Lake Michigan, and Ohiopyle (PA):

I explored over 30 new hiking/biking trails-- some favorites including the Youghiegheny River trail in PA, the NCR trail, Catoctin Mountain, the C&O Canal Towpath, Annapolis Rock, and of course, Stoney Run in my backyard. 

I left Facebook and started the Life Olympics newsletter. I’ll be honest, I don’t miss Facebook but I also don’t understand where that energy, time, and brain space went. I was spending cumulatively hours a day mindlessly scrolling Facebook and I quit cold turkey and barely noticed-- what black hole of our brains does social media occupy? I kind of thought that with all that extra time I would write the next great American novel or something. I’m probably spending a little more time on Twitter, which I could stand to cut back on. Other than that, I think I was just trying to process the shitstorm of this year. Maybe I’ll write the next great American novel post-pandemic. 

For the first time in my life, I feel somewhat ‘caught up’ on pop-culture. I finally watched Parks and Recreation (twice); I watched The Mandalorian and finally actually watched Star Wars (episodes IV-IX); I watched the final seasons of The Good Place and Schitt’s Creek; I’m caught up on Insecure; I watched The Prom and Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom and Jingle Jangle; I even started Bridgerton. I know what everyone is talking about and I’m catching so many more pop-culture references these days. (I guess instead of writing the next great American novel I watched Netflix?)

2020 Lessons

I’ve spent plenty of time mourning the missed opportunities of 2020 and will probably always wonder what this year could have been in an alternate universe with a functioning government. But we only have this reality for now, and we made the best of it. 

I wanted to slow down in 2020, try to be more intentional, more mindful, and...

No thank you! I liked the pace of my life; it makes my brain and heart happy. I’m happiest when I wake up in a different city three days in a row. I like darting around every borough of Manhattan for nine meetings and three cocktails and then taking a red-eye to Europe. I want to run around to eight conferences for 18-hours a day for three weeks and then sleep for 22 hours. I miss overloading my brain so much that I need a deprivation chamber to sleep. This is who I am. This is how I like to live. And when I was locked down alone in the house for a year, slowing down, being mindful, I never once thought, “I should have... when I had the chance.” Because I always did. And I always will. 

2021

We shake with joy, we shake with grief.

What a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body.

Mary Oliver

We’ve had enough grief. 2021 is going to be all about joy.

Universe, let me be clear: this is not a euphemism or code or secret signal.

I want pure, unadulterated, abundant, joy. I want multi-course dinners in restaurants with lots of close friends and good wine. I want the virus so far gone that I can make-out with handsome strangers. I want a rollicking good time in France and/or Brazil and/or Prague and/or New Zealand and/or Bali. I want to spend the day after Christmas in NYC with my father. I want to be a glutton for theatre and art and music. I want celebrations and parties and sequins. 

I want to shake with joy. 

If you’d like to receive the (shorter) monthly Life Olympics, subscribe here. 

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 12

Tommy knew it was only a matter of time before Benrey reappeared, but when the team rounded a corner in the testing sector and encountered two of him, staring back eerily as perfect mirrors, it was sooner than he’d anticipated. 

Gordon ground to a halt in the stark white hallway, uttering a fearful “nononononono” like it was a mantra at the disquieting spectacle. Tommy moved to take a protective step in front of him when Bubby shouldered aggressively past them.

“Look out, Gordon!” he shouted. “It’s Benrey!”

He unloaded an entire clip into the entity without hesitation. Blood sprayed the walls, the ceiling, the men present.

Bubby whooped. “I got him!”

Dr. Coomer clapped a heavy hand on Bubby’s shoulder. “Fine shooting!”

Tommy wiped crimson from his face and watched in surprise as Benrey’s double, full of lead, dropped to the floor. Okay, maybe Bubby could win back some points after all. He sent the scientist an appreciative look while Gordon swayed deliriously in the wake of the gunfire, murmuring repetitions to soothe himself.

“We can’t kill him. We can’t kill him. We can’t kill him,” he droned. He raised his exhausted gaze to the entity’s face. “Why won’t you die? Please?”

The other Benrey, fully manifested, was pocked with holes but seemed unbothered. He passed a lazy look between the members of the Science Team, landing with a smug raise of his eyebrows on Tommy. Miss me?

Tommy glared back. He didn’t.

“Gordon,” Coomer said, pointing at the double, “he’s right here on the floor, dead as a doornail.”

Benrey took a casual step forward, making Gordon bristle visibly. “Hey, um, you got one of these?” he asked, reaching into his back pocket and drawing out a very familiar document.

The passport thing again? Tommy tensed, narrowing his eyes and clocking every move the entity made as he unfolded the license to reveal his identification. The words BENRYBENRYBENRYBENRY marched across the line for his name. Tommy fought the urge to roll his eyes. Asinine. Utterly pointless.

He would ignore the being entirely if Gordon wasn’t on the verge of a nervous breakdown next to him, drawing in thin, shallow breaths as he was confronted with the document. Tommy blinked. This was… really getting to him, huh? He glanced at Bubby and Coomer, who were poised to act, waiting on a cue. Benrey was gloating as he drank in the attention.

Okay. Fine. Tommy knew how to defuse this.

“Here you go, sir,” he intoned sarcastically, producing his own passport from the pocket of his slacks and flipping it open.

The other scientists followed his lead, showing the entity their identification. Gordon, flummoxed, stared numbly between the passports, squinting to read them through his fractured glasses.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “Were you given those?”

To Tommy’s amusement, Bubby and Dr. Coomer were hamming it up. “Just as requested,” Bubby declared loudly, while Coomer brightly added, “I believe all the paperwork is in order!”

“Please show it now,” Benrey urged.

Gordon was still studying the passports somewhat hazily. “Bubby…” he murmured aloud. “Dr. Coomer, Ph.D…” his gaze swung to Tommy’s ID, eyes tracking across the letters, brow furrowed in incomprehension. Then his expression cleared suddenly and that laugh Tommy had been waiting for came tumbling out of him. “Tommy Coolatta?” he shrilled, ignoring Benrey entirely to give Tommy a look of confused delight. “That’s your last name?”

Tommy grinned back in full force. “Yeah, I’m an orphan,” he explained. “They let me pick my first - my own - my - my last name.” In truth, he’d gotten to pick all of them, but that was beside the point. “But it was - I wa - I was in a Dunkin’ Donuts and I just looked around.”

Gordon nearly doubled over with breathless laughter, and Tommy, still smiling, caught him with a steadying hand under his arm before he collapsed to the floor completely.

“Oh, how inspiring!” Bubby remarked, humor touching his words.

Dr. Coomer got in on it, too. “It’s important to find small beauty every day.”

Tommy flipped his passport shut with his free hand and slid it back into his pocket. He couldn’t help giving Benrey a challenging smirk as he did. He could try and knock Gordon out of orbit all he wanted; Tommy would pull him back with laughter every time.

Gordon eventually recovered enough from the sucker punch of Tommy’s last name to stand upright. He fixed Benrey with a defeated stare, still uncomfortable with his presence but no longer electric with panic. Tommy unslung his rifle as Gordon addressed the entity again.

“Benrey, I don’t have a passport,” he began. “I don’t-”

“Oh, hey, yo, what hap - oh, man, look,” Benrey cut him off, his tone maddeningly neutral as he flicked a look at Gordon’s injury. “You fucked up.”

Gordon’s mouth hung open in stunned outrage. “Shut - shut - shut up!” he barked.

Benrey only stooped to insult. “What did - what didja do, write your name too many times on the blackboard, idiot?”

Gordon let out a strangled noise, half rage and half disbelief, as he took a staggering step back. “You’re gonna g - you’re gonna kill me. You’re gonna kill me, talk-” his tone dipped and he lost his footing. “I can’t stand up straight.”

Tommy quickly switched his rifle to one arm so he could support Gordon with the other. The symptoms of blood loss were hitting him in waves, and he lurched against Tommy as his bearings left him all at once.

“We gotta get to the cybernetics lab fast,” he groaned, his head lolling on Tommy’s shoulder.

Benrey had a nauseated look on his face as he shifted his gaze between the two of them. “Calm down, man,” he muttered. “Jeez.”

Gordon shook his head weakly, raising the grievous wound in accusation. “‘Calm down,’ he says. ‘Calm down,’ he says.” his tone was laced with loathing.

Tommy had to admit he was impressed at how spiteful the man could sound even when he was barely conscious. Benrey schooled his features and ignored him, while Dr. Coomer tucked away his passport and gave Gordon a worried look.

“Gordon, you seem to be losing a lot of blood,” he said. “This can cause things such as,” he began counting off on his fingers seriously, “delirium, exhaustion, death.”

Tommy felt Gordon chuckle weakly against him. “Death,” he repeated, not entirely present.

Coomer exchanged a look with Tommy and grimaced. “Perhaps we should get a move on.”

Perhaps. They were gradually able to coax Gordon into standing on his own two feet. After a few moments to regain his bearings, he was able to push on. Tommy was once again struck by the sheer resiliency of the man - so weak and so breakably human - still moving forward as he walked at the edge of death. He was going to make it out of here, in spite of everything. He deserved that much, at least.

---

Benrey fell in line with the rest of the team, his hunger for mischief satiated for now. Tommy caught Gordon eyeing the entity jealously as his bullet wounds miraculously healed over and felt a pang on his behalf. All he could do to help was keep him from getting shot and keep him moving. And pray that there was someone still at the cybernetics department who could fix the mess of bone and tissue that was Gordon’s right arm.

They traced the hallways, laid out like graph paper, through the testing facility. Gordon’s condition was worsening as he stumbled after them, sing-songing his words in a delirious lilt. At least in this state he was already too far gone for Benrey’s presence to be much detriment - every time he tried to aggravate him, Gordon just responded by politely asking him to die.

Turns out this sector wasn’t as abandoned as they initially thought. Bubby located a scientist who had somehow evaded both evisceration from aliens and annihilation from infantrymen, which was a miracle in itself, and then the team solicited his help without shooting him on the spot, which surprised Tommy even further. Gordon wearily complimented his companions on their personal growth while they followed the man to the facility door.

“Gordon, I’m learning,” Dr. Coomer declared proudly, which made Tommy giggle silently through his nose.

As their newest ally punched in the code to release the bolt on the exit door, he cautioned the team about the dangers they faced on the other side: most of it military in origin, but the manifested creatures had undoubtedly found their way to the surface, as well. Tommy gripped his weapon in resolve as hot desert wind blew his hair back. He’d already been through three days of hell. He wouldn’t flinch away from more of it if salvation lay on the other side.

The scientist was midsentence when he froze. Dead stop. Tommy paused, puzzled, until he lifted his gaze and saw the rest of the team standing motionless in their own right. All except Gordon, who had raised his eyebrows in alarm as he noticed the change.

His mouth was halfway open to ask Gordon if he was okay, but the words died in his throat as a cool, rippling wave engulfed Tommy. It bound his muscles tight. Halted the breath in his lungs. It was a sudden, powerful energy, and it felt…

Familiar.

He sensed his father’s presence more than he saw it. Tommy was fixated on Gordon - he alone had been left untouched, and dismay flickered across his face as Tommy froze before his eyes. Don’t panic, it’s okay, he wanted to tell him, but wasn’t even sure if he’d believe it, himself. He had no idea what his father had come to do, gripping the team’s mobility as he did.

“Gordon Freeman.” His voice was smooth as glass, as always.

Gordon tore his gaze away from Tommy and studied the clean-pressed suit of a man in front of him. His expression was wary, but he was too weakened to consider fleeing in any capacity. Tommy, meanwhile, felt like he’d been punched in the stomach - the tethers in his sinews made him think of blackened hallways and broken cries for help and blood thick on his hands and-

His father’s dress shoes snapped across the tile as he approached. He slid Tomy a glance of acknowledgement, but his attention was primarily on Gordon. “It is good to see you and your companions in such good spirits,” he said. “I’d offer to shake your hand but it seems you’re a little… lacking in that department now, hm?”

As an afterthought, he raised a casual index finger in a near imperceptible gesture. The blood leaking out of Gordon’s wound abruptly stopped.

A current of complicated emotion ran through Tommy at the observation. Why couldn’t he do that? Why had his dad waited until Gordon was on the edge of death to pull on the collar of his mortality? Most disquieting, why had he allowed the incident to happen at all? He agonized, motionless, while Gordon gave his arm an unsettled look and said nothing.

His father went on. “I realize the indiscretion of having a conversation at a time like this, but I felt it was important to... talk to you properly before you go any further.”

Only the man in the suit would consider playing space and time like a harp a “proper” conversation, and Tommy could only sit in his frustration while his dad awaited an answer.

Gordon eventually found his voice. “Oka - okay?” he ventured, darting his eyes to his petrified companions. “What have you d - what is happening?”

Tommy’s father cleared his throat delicately. “The Resonance Cascade and its repercussions are merely the prelude to a scheme of events much… grander than you could comprehend,” he explained, maddeningly vague. “You’ve already faced impossible odds, and your prospects going forward will only grow slimmer and slimmer.”

Good one, dad. Real encouraging. Gordon’s shoulders sagged and he uttered a resigned, “Yeah,” that made Tommy’s heart ache.

“Perhaps things would have gone a bit better if you’d remembered to bring your… pass-port, hm?” He flicked an interested look at the entity, standing stock-still at the doorway.

Gordon sucked in a breath. He didn’t respond.

The lecture marched on. “There are some who would say that surrender is your only choice at this point, but I have a vested interest in seeing you succeed, Mr. Freeman. Which is why I will continue to offer my support, as will my,” he paused, giving Tommy another glance, “associates.” His galaxy eyes returned to Gordon. “But the onus of survival ultimately rests upon you.”

That didn’t make the weight of Gordon’s life sit any lighter on Tommy’s shoulders. Yes, the man was bold as a brass band with the tirelessness to match, but he was still human. His reserve of sheer willpower would run dry eventually.

“We’ll talk again soon enough but, until then, I wish you the best of luck in these… dire circumstances.” His father turned to leave, pausing at the last second to cast a somewhat bemused glance between Tommy and Gordon. “Oh, and make sure no harm comes to my... progeny, will you?” he added.

Really? Tommy would give his father an offended look if his face could move. Gordon slid his gaze to Tommy and then back to the man in the suit, a bit too delirious, perhaps, to fully follow. Well, at least the blood loss was good for something.

His father smiled like a wolf, showing his eyeteeth. “You have a long way to go, Mr. Freeman,” he warned him. “As for me, this is where I get off.”

He warped out of the room, breaking the spell that had settled over them. Tommy sucked in a breath and leaned back against the wall, chest rising and falling in the wake of what he’d just learned, while the remainder of the group woke from their stupor, unaffected. Gordon was staring numbly at the place where Tommy’s father had been only moments ago, a disoriented frown tugging at his face.

Bubby fidgeted at the open door. “Why are you just standing there?” he asked.

“I know it’s dangerous ahead, Gordon,” Coomer reasoned, a step behind Bubby, “but we do need to get a move on.”

As Gordon turned to answer them, his dark eyes snagged on Tommy. There was a question on his face, a series of half-expressions following in rapid succession as he parsed through whatever was going on in his head. The man looked so utterly lost that Tommy wanted to reach out and cup his face with both hands, like Gordon had done to him on the day this had all started, and tell him, eyes locked: We’re gonna make it. It’ll be okay. I’m gonna get you out of here.

Coward as he was, he didn’t. He could only stare helplessly back.

Gordon pulled enough resolve into himself in that moment to break eye contact and face the desert. “Okay,” he sighed to the team. “Yeah.”

As they stepped into the searing light of day, hypoxia overtook the scientist who’d opened the door for them and he collapsed onto the floor. Tommy winced. Thanks, dad.

Chapter 11 <-----> Chapter 13

[theurbanologist]

Neon Green In The Permanent Collection

As I look down at one, two, three, four and more neon green arrows on the floor, a man  dressed in a two-sizes too small chartreuse polo and madras shorts blusters at me from behind his Sponge Bob face mask:

“Boy, this is a brave new world with all of these arrows right?  Go here, stand there, wait for this, don’t do this and do that.”

Pause.

“Do you think these arrows will become part of the permanent collection?”

I’m back at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston’s Fenway neighborhood for a 2PM timed ticket entry. It’s the first museum I’ve set foot in since early March when I breezed into the nearby Museum of Fine Arts to consider their selection of refined piano-fortes. 

This chartreuse-clad man is also the first person I’ve talked to in a museum since that time, though really it feels like he’s talking at me just to talk, which hey—haven’t we all done that during These Times? 

You know, talked to people even for a moment through a face mask, maybe just to get a snipped of a conversation in, even if it’s really just a fauxservation, or a conversation that’s a bit like a representation of a conversation, not the actual give and take of an actual conversation. 

I first heard tell of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in 1992 shortly before I took a solo trip around the United States via Amtrak. A family friend in Seattle told me “Oh, you must see Isabella Stewart Gardner when you visit Boston.” She dropped the “the” thereby giving me the impression that I must simply visit this woman with three names. 

How would I find her in the Hub of the Universe? Look her up in the Yellow Pages, call out her name in Boston Common, the Public Garden, along the Esplanade, or maybe just approach strangers on the street? I really had no idea and quite frankly, my own background did not find myself traipsing through social situations featuring people who went by three names, especially those names that bespoke a certain fine pedigree. 

I decide to consult my secular travel bible for more particulars on this Isabella Stewart Gardner, namely the 1991 Let’s Go: USA travel guide. Written by bright young things at Harvard, this chunky doorstop of a book promised a complete guide to all 50 states, with information about hostels, museums, parks, and other amusements. 

I turned to page 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, and aha, there it was on page 137, a complete description for my consideration:

“A few hundred yards from the MFA stands the beautiful Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, 280 The Fenway. The eccentric “Mrs. Jack” Gardner built the small Venetian-style palace to distract her from her grief at the loss of her only child; in the process she scandalized Boston with her excesses, but eventually built a superb art collection. Unfortunately, thieves depleted the artistic coffers in 1989, taking a few Rembrandts, Degas, and other masterworks. A stunning courtyard and century-old architectural fragments remain.”

Less than 100 words in that terse introduction to Mrs. Jack and I was hooked, that’s for sure. 

Nothing like existed this in Seattle, that far-flung north and west outpost with not a single Wealthy Person’s House Turned Art Museum that you could tour and gaze upon Old Masters that so elegantly found themselves located near a brilliantly constructed Emerald Necklace imagined by a World Famous Park Designer. 

I could not wait to see it, oh please, make July 1992 arrive faster, I thought way back when in May 1992. 

July 1992 did eventually arrive, coming immediately after June 1992, and I found myself depositing my bags at the American Youth Hostel on nearby Hemenway Street. Hurrying over to the Gardner Museum, I made it inside before it closed, hurrying around to find the entrance——would I make it tho?

Would there be a student discount? 

Could I use my student ID from James A. Garfield High School to obtain such a discount? 

I had many questions as I pulled up to the Main Entrance, covered in the type of sweat that you really only get wandering around a Large Eastern Seaboard City. It felt like a type of grimy film that was simply impossible to obtain via in a most rigorous walk along Seattle’s waterfront in the tail end of July. 

There was only 45 minutes left and oh, would they let me in, would they, would they?

An older man at the entrance said “Welcome to the Gardner. Let’s see, are you a student at Latin?”

Student at Latin? 

I was in a fact, a student OF Latin at James A. Garfield High School and I had even procured several Junior Classical League medals for my elaborate knowledge of first and second declension adjectives. 

But what was this AT Latin? The Latin Quarter? A Latin American forward cultural immersion program for precious youth? All I could think about was my own grimy covering, sweaty sweat, and what did I even remember to bring my—

“You’re a high school student and it’s close to closing time, so you can go in for free.”

I was inside and off the hook.

My time passed quickly and I distinctly remember spending time peering closely at Anders Zorn’s painting, “The Omnibus”. Oh those Parisians packed close on a late nineteenth century mass transit manifestation, how brilliant! Again, this felt so impossibly cosmopolitan compared to my own every-day bus rides back and forth to school in Seattle. 

How ho hum.  

It was a truly welcome contrast, presented to me in in a beautiful frame, composed with oil on canvas and wait—I was the only one standing before it, just taking it all in at my leisure. 

And to this day, I still think of that man’s kindness for letting a sweaty teenager from Seattle pass into this marvelous edifice.

Wherever you are, I thank you.  

[jamesbvck]

blood in the cut | two

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Robbery!AU) Summary: One more, that’s what Bucky had promised you. One more job and you’d both be home free and start a life you always wanted. One more crime riddled night with potential life long consequences. Warnings: swearing, violence, guns, implied sex, illegal activities, angst, fluff A/N: welcome to part two. thank you so much for the feedback on part one. this is for @noshitstark writing challenge. thank you, nikki.

MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

3.5 million dollars was pocket change to someone like Tony Stark. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice it had gone missing, that is if they were robbing from him personally, and not an entire bank. It was a risk but one that everyone agreed on taking. Natasha’s days had been filled with being a bank advisor for the past month and a half getting to know the bank and the people that worked there. She was essentially scoping out the place so the heist could go off without a hitch.

The main event was going to take place on December 14th during the yearly Christmas staff gala. That gave them just over two months to properly map out and gather all they needed for it. Natasha handed out file folders to each of the boys. Bucky thumbed through the papers.

“Mara Hill: Bank Manager. She’s been with Stark Financial Group for ten years. She keeps the bank in tip-top shape, making sure everything runs smoothly,” Natasha explained the first page. It had a picture of Maria with her brunette hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her birth date and basic information was also provided. “She’s taken a liking to me. I’m in her good graces which means I have the code to the vault.”

The pages that followed had some other important staff members and the final page was Tony Stark, though Natasha wasn’t going to bore everyone which facts they already knew. Bucky scanned through the others since it was key to know who they were going to come in contact with.

“I’m going to get the blueprints of the bank but I want you guys to see what this place looks like. Barnes and Barton was pose are repairmen coming to fix the heating, Steve and Sam will come in as customers. I’ve already fabricated accounts with faux names.” Natasha tossed her folder onto the large table in front of her. “In the meantime we can source cars and ammunition. Clint and Sam are on car duty, Steve and Bucky on ammunition and fake IDs. Any questions?”

Everything seemed straightforward for the time being. No one said much, closing the folders and leaving them on the table for now. Bucky pushed himself up from the couch and hovered nearby as he waited for Steve to finish talking with Natasha. He slipped out his phone from his pocket seeing a missed text from you. He read it over, nothing too important as you were just complaining about work. Apparently it had been a slow evening.

“Let’s go.” Steve palmed his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He pocketed his phone and headed outside with Steve to the car.

“Where we headed?”

“Hunts Point.”

Bucky breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Shit.”

Hunts Point was not a particularly nice area of the Bronx. It was riddled with crime from theft, drug trades and even prostitution. It wasn’t a neighbourhood you wanted to linger in for too long, nor did you want to look anyone in the eye. But like anything else, there was business to be done. Thank God Steve had driven the shitty four door compact car.

They parked along a side street, exiting the car and starting down the road to a worn down red brick building. The building used to shelter the homeless and now it supplied liquor and any drug you could cook up and sell for street value. The key was to keep your head down and your lips zipped. Steve pulled open the door to the liquor store, a bell chiming. The man behind the counter was huge and had a few small face tattoos. He nodded in greeting to Steve and Bucky, them nodding in solidarity. They walked through a beaded veil into a back room and down a set of creaky wooden stairs. At the bottom was a metal door. Steve’s fist pounded the door three times and the small viewing window opened. The man on the other side examined Steve and Bucky for a moment before closing the window and unlocking what sounded like four different kinds of locks.

The large metal door opened revealing an underground bar. It wasn’t anything flashy but it was filled with people at the bar and standing around drinking and smoking, and doing whatever they fancied. Bucky trailed behind Steve as they crossed the room to the other side where there was another door and a burly man in front. There were no words said as he stepped to the side and opened the door. Inside the room was smokey and boozy, much like the bar but far more intense. There were three half naked girls with dollar bills stuffed into their bras sitting on fella’s laps drinking what looked to be dirty Sprite.

“Look who strolled out of Brooklyn: Rogers and Barnes!”

Bucky stood tall beside Steve, arms folded firmly over his chest. “Yeah, we rolled out just to see you, Brockie. Life happens when you don’t listen to your team and get thrown in prison for… what four years?”

“Sounds about right.” Steve confirmed.

“Huh. Damn isn’t that a shame, isn’t it?”

Brock Rumlow was a old partner, per sae, though he never listened to the plan and ended up fucking things up mainly for himself. That’s what happened when you got too cocky, you ended up in RAFT Prison. Bucky had a sly smirk while Rumlow’s eyes bore into Bucky like sharp daggers. He made an advance from the arm of the chair he was sitting on, only to be pushed back down.

“Save your testosterone contest for another time. They’re here for business.” The man with the eyepatch had Rumlow back down from throwing a punch at Bucky. Not that Bucky would have cared, he had flattened Brock before and sure as hell he’d do it again.

“Fury.” Steve greeted.

Nick Fury ruled the underground black market for fake identification and was a regal arms dealer. He had access to military grade weapons. Fury opened a slick wooden cigar box, taking out one and clipping off the end. He struck a match and lit the cigar, inhaling and puffing out a round circle.

“Remove the girls.” He instructed Rumlow. Brock yanked the girls by the arm, escorting them out of the room.

Fury wandered to the back of the room sitting himself at a large desk and putting his feet up. Steve and Bucky sat in the two chairs in front of the desk.

“Seems like you folks caused quite a commotion with the NYPD a few weeks ago with that jewellery store. Did you get them sold?” Nick questioned.

“Buyer in France. We got our money and some more.” Steve told him.

Nick nodded a few times. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”

Bucky looked over as Steve reached into his back pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Nick who took it and rested his cigar in an ashtray.

“Romanoff and her damn lists.” He muttered, unfolding the paper. The list must’ve been long as there was silence for multiple moments. “It’s doable, going to need a month to source some specifics.”

“That should be fine.” Steve nodded, looking to Bucky who agreed.

Nick swung his feet off the desk and sat properly in the chair. “I’ll set up a drop off location. You’ll get an address when it’s ready to be picked up. This is a hefty manifest.”

It wasn’t some small level security store they were breaking into. It was the biggest bank on the eastern seaboard. It was quite a few steps up from taking candy from a baby. They needed to go in secure, armed, and ready.

Nick folded back up the paper, “Tell Romanoff she’ll hear from me about compensation.”

Steve and Bucky rose and shook Nick’s hand. That was business: cut and dry, no questions.

“Hey Barnes, saw your girl the other night,” Rumlow caught Bucky’s attention before they could leave. He turned back, arching a brow. “Yeah, she’s still hot. Told her if she gets bored of you I wouldn’t mind taking her for a spin.”

Bucky laughed out of spite. He knew Rumlow was trying to get under his skin for the hell of it. Four years ago Bucky would have pummeled him into the floor. Now? Wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Keep talkin’, Brock. No one listens to a goddamn word you say anyway.” Bucky waved him off. “Let’s go, Stevie.”

“All I’m saying is you should watch your back,” Rumlow was smirking. “Can’t keep crawling back to her after leaving her hanging for so long. Makes chicks question what the hell kind of man are ya.”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s sleeve but he was already tearing out of his grasp and marching his way over to Rumlow. “You really questioning what kind of man I am? You had your chance, two of them, and fucked it up because you’re a dog,” Bucky tapped Brock’s chest with the back on his hand. “You might’ve been someone’s bitch in prison but around here you’re still a nobody.”

Before Bucky could blink, the muzzle of a handgun was pressed against his forehead with Brock giving a death glare. Bucky didn’t flinch, his eyes on the other man with his finger hovering over the trigger. They had never truly gotten along ever and Rumlow had always threatened to put a bullet through Bucky’s skull one day. This was the closest they had gotten.

“Time’s ticking. Pull the trigger.” Bucky taunted with a cool exterior. Brock pressed the end of the gun harder against the skin, wavering Bucky backwards.

Another moment passed with the room pindrop silent. Brock dropped handgun from Bucky’s face, shaking his head. A slow smile lined Bucky’s lips as he took the win, shrugging his shoulders. “Nice seeing ya again, Brockie.”

“Jesus Christ, Buck.” Steve muttered as they exited the underground. They came up streetside from the back door and retreated to the car. “He would have pulled it had you said another damn word.”

“He doesn’t have the balls,” Bucky opened the passenger door. “Never have, never will.”

The TV volume was on low, a hum coming from the flatscreen across the living room. Bucky laid on his back on the couch with one arm dangling off the edge and his other hand rested on his chest. He had been fighting the urge to sleep for the past hour to wait for you to come home but he must have dozed off. He didn’t hear the door unlock and you kick off your shoes. He didn’t hear you call out to him twice and toss your keys onto the kitchen table. He did, however, feel your weight against his body as you climbed on top of him to snuggle. Bucky shifted his body to give you more room, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest on your back.

“What are you buying this late on QVC?”

Bucky hummed, opening one eye. “Saved by the Bell was on. Must’ve ended.” The tips of his fingers caressed your cool skin, slowing then picking up over and over as he tried not to fall asleep again. He blinked his eyes open to squint at the clock across the way. You were home later than usual. “Somethin’ happen at work?”

He felt you shake your head, your eyes were closed too. “Stayed for a drink, I texted you but I guess you had already fallen asleep,” Your fingers drummed against his chest before you pulled yourself up to sit. “Let’s go to bed, Buck.”

“I’m pretty comfortable here.” Bucky lazily smiled up at you.

You laughed softly. “This couch has never been big enough for the both of us. Should get a new one.”

“We’ve made it work before,” he countered. “On more than one occasion.”

You patted his stomach, crawling off him to stand. “Suit yourself.”

Bucky watched you saunter away, purposely swinging your hips from side to side. It didn’t take him too long to decide that the couch was not the ideal place to sleep especially if you weren’t there with him. He was up on his feet in seconds, shutting off the TV and turning out the lights. The bottom hemline of his shirt tugged over his head, discarding it to the laundry basket then unbuttoned his black jeans.

“Rumlow’s out of prison.” Bucky spoke. Your back was to him as you were picking through one of the drawers to find pajama shorts. “Said he saw you a few weeks ago. Did he?”

You found what you were looking for and plucked out the teal shorts, stripping out of your jeans and shirt. “He came by the bar maybe three weeks ago. I served him a drink, said he looked better than he used to.”

Bucky noticed your avoidance of eye contact, picking up the scattered clothes on the ground and dumped them into the basket. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” you replied. “He doesn’t matter and you know that.”

Bucky wasn’t going to jump to conclusions, it wasn’t worth it. He still held onto some bitterness of you and Brock hooking up once when Bucky had to figure his shit out and let you go for a while. Your story is that you were drunk and things just happened, that it was a mistake. Nonetheless, it still cut Bucky like a deep knife when he found out about it. Then there was also the fact that Brock always had some lingering gross crush on you.

“Did you go to Nick’s?” You turned to look at him.

“Yeah--”

“Bucky!”

He put his hands up in defense. “Nat sent us there for some shit. I didn’t want to go but Steve and I had too,” Bucky took three long strides to reach you, cupping your shaking head. “I told you one more, and this is one more. It’s more than I bargained for but I promise you, it’s going to be worth it.”

Gently, you pushed Bucky’s hands away from your face. He hadn’t given you too much detail about the job but the both of you knew going to see Nick Fury meant it was dangerous, more dangerous than robbing a damn jewelry store. He knew you worried and you had reason to worry. He could tell when you did by the small creases in between your eyebrows pulling together and how you picked at the corner of your lip just like you were doing right this second.

He sighed. “We’re breaking into the vault at SFG.”

You were thrown for a loop, almost keeling over. “Are you guys fucking insane?” Your voice bounced off the walls of the bedroom. “Stark Financial Group. That’s… that’s impossible.”

“Nat’s been working there for almost two months now. She’s knows the place inside out and thinks we’ve got a good chance.”

You rubbed your forehead, moving around Bucky to grab an old shirt to wear. You sunk into bed, leaning up against the headboard. Bucky let you sit with your thoughts, removing his jeans and closing the bedroom door. He crawled in beside you and adjusted the blanket over his and your legs.

“How much?” You asked. “How much money?”

“Just over three million, if we’re lucky.”

Your hands covered your face, mumbling a soft fuck under your breath. Bucky reached out and tucked you into his side, kissing the top of your head. He murmured promises that this was going to get them onto a road far off from Brooklyn and they could live a life they had talked about when the sun would rise in the early morning.

A dream could be more than just a dream.

Clint was munching on an apple too loud the morning of the first briefing. His bites were too big, and his mouth was like a horse unable to eat with manners. Sam was sending him death stares across the table, arms folded stiffly. Steve was biting back a laugh as Bucky balled up three old pieces of paper and threw at fastball square in Clint’s face. He yelled.

“Coulda fuckin’ taken my eye out!” He grumbled.

Natasha slammed blueprints down on the table garnering the boys attention. Bucky sniggered as Clint rubbed his left eye. Steve assisted with unrolling the prints and smoothing out the large paper.

“Are you two done?” Natasha looked from Clint to Bucky. They both shrugged. “First things first,” a duffle bag was tossed to Bucky who eyed it suspiciously, unzipping the bag to reveal repair men uniforms. “It just so happens that our heating system is on the fritz. Looks like we’re going to need it repaired. The utility room is located across from the vault in the basement.”

Natasha started indicating on the map where everything was. The bank had two levels: main floor and basement. The basement consisted the vault along with a few offices, storage, washrooms and the util room. There was also an emergency exit to a loading dock.

“How many official exits?” Sam asked, examining the plans.

“Including the front doors, four. However,” Natasha pulled back the large paper and revealed another set of prints. “Underneath the bank are abandoned tunnels that were once going to be part of the subway line but didn’t get funded back in the 80s. They go for about four miles and surface near Kips Bay.”

Steve had his analyzing face on, eyes narrowed and thinking cap on. “We’ll come up by the East River. Have the cars hidden ready to go.”

Natasha nodded. “Take the FDR over to the bridge to get back to Brooklyn.” Bucky said.

“What about the 278?” Clint piped up, sans apple.

“Nah, it’ll be slower.” Bucky replied. “What cars did you get?”

“2002 Corolla and a ‘06 Camry. Both ugly ass beige.” Sam absentmindedly rubbed his previously shot shoulder, leaning back in his seat. “Perfect for fitting in though.”

Natasha was still waiting on official numbers of how many people would be in attendance of the party. They weren’t killers, that wasn’t their motive. As long as everyone cooperated then there would be zero problems. Everything was to be finalized within the next few weeks with the planning committee that Natasha nauseatingly volunteered to be part of.

For the time being it was straight forward. Natasha would be a pawn in the room making sure everything was going to plan without interference. Two of the boys would take her and Maria Hill down to the vault so there wasn’t any ounce of suspicion. The other two would stay and monitor the party goers.

“We’ll have to collect cell phones, wallets, and keys.” Steve thought aloud. “Make sure we’re not instantly tipped off.”

“Already taken care of,” Nat replied, taking a glance at the time on her wrist watch. “We’ll have someone else on the inside.”

There was a wave of confusion, puzzled glances and caution being raised. “Don’t say it’s Rumlow.” Sam groaned.

Natasha gave a look. “Please, Sam. Don’t insult me like that.” The back door squeaked opened drawing in the sound of traffic and a brisk autumn breeze. “Right on time.”

Thick heeled boots stamped along the concrete flooring. Heads swiveled with the footsteps becoming louder. “Hope I’m not late. Traffic’s a bitch.”

“Your timing couldn’t be any more perfect.” Natasha settled her hands on her hips, eyes resting on Bucky’s stone cold face.

He watched as you approached the group, sleeves of your leather jacket bunched up around your elbow and a scarf loosely hanging around your neck. You and Bucky held eye contact for a few seconds before sliding your vision over to the three other males, smiling and waving. Under Clint’s breath was a significant oh shit that seemed to semble the shift in mood.

“Absolutely fucking not.” Bucky shot at Nat.

Natasha shrugged a shoulder. “Going to have to take it up with her. She called me.”

You settled in a standing position across the table in between Sam’s chair and Steve. Bucky’s blue eyes were alarmed while you had a cool and unmoving stance. You discarded your scarf and set your eyes back on Natasha to continue her briefing.

“Tony Stark likes to throw over the top parties which also means top of the line vendors and service. Maria had asked if I knew anyone who could bartend without a hassle.” Nat explained.

The night of the party you’d be one of the designated bartenders. Depending on the pairings, one of the boys would grab you as a staged hostage and collect the personal belongings of the attendees. It wasn’t anything too significant but it would help smooth out the heist. Still, Bucky did not like the thought of you being in an activate scene of a crime especially when things could go south at any second. It was too dangerous.

The meeting broke with Natasha saying once she got more information that everyone would gather again especially as the date got closer. Bucky was around the table and tugging you away to the back room. He closed the door, turning to you as you had your arms crossed.

“I’m not letting you be part of this.” Bucky decided.

“Funny. I’m already part of it. My decision, my actions and I’m not going to back down.” You told him. “I’m making sure this is it.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you, but I don’t trust what could happen to you, Bucky.” You told him. He sighed, rubbing the side of his cheek where scruff growing in. His weight shifted from boot to boot. You closed the gap between him and you, resting your hand on his arm. “You said it’s worthwhile so let me do this with you, with them, so we can get out.”

Bucky ran his tongue along his bottom lip pondering on it for a moment. “We’re going to need our own escape plan. You and me.”

You nodded in agreement with a small smile forming on your lips. “Hit the road and not turn back.”

He hummed, and a throaty laugh escaped as he parted his lips. His arm snaked around your hips pressing your body against his. You arms went around his middle section, resting your head on his chest. Along as you got out before the commotion and were safe was all he cared about. He couldn’t bare the thought of something happening to you especially on his watch.

The door opened. Clint appeared with a hand covering his eyes cautiously entering the room.  “You guys ain’t having sex right? Fight sex? I just want my smokes.”

You laughed, parting from Bucky and going over to Clint, uncovering his eyes. “No free show today, Clint.” You said, hugging him.

“Damn.” Clint chuckled, embracing you. His hands lowering on your back purposefully to spite Bucky.

“Keep going Barton and I’ll drop your ass like third period Spanish.” Bucky warned, throwing a pack of cigarettes at his feet. Clint lifted his hands in innocence, bending over and scooping up the little box. You slipped back to the other room, leaving the door swinging.

Clint looked behind them then back to Bucky. “You good?” Bucky shrugged. “She must love you if she wants in. Been a few years.”

“She’s only in temporarily. I’m getting out after this.”

“Yeah I heard we’re disbanding,” Clint nodded along, lazily taking out a cigarette and clamping it between his lips. “Like Nirvana.”

Bucky breathed a swallow laugh. “Sure, like Nirvana.” He replied, pondering on Clint’s logic since that was more of a tragedy. He moved from his spot, going towards the door.

“Hey, uh, Buck,” Clint halted the other man in his tracks.  “Where you gonna go after this once we get the money?”

“Haven’t decided yet. Somewhere far.”

Clint nodded a few times, removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth. “Right, yeah. Yeah. Farther the better. Start a new life. Hell, maybe I’ll meet a girl.”

Bucky snickered. “With a mug like yours? That’d be a miracle.” Clint offered a half hearted chuckle, head dipping downward. “Keep your eyes up, Barton.” Bucky clapped his hand to Clint’s shoulder, squeezing before going back out into the main area.

The pants for the repair uniform were slightly too tight for Bucky’s liking. They clung to his thighs more than he approved of, swearing that it was cutting off blood circulation. How was he supposed to walk without the seams ripping apart? He grumbled to himself, tucking in the hideous matching powder blue collar shirt and buttoned it up. You, on the other hand, had been giggling for the last ten minutes Bucky was getting dressed.

“Is this what you’d look like if you had a real job?” You asked.

Bucky’s face scrunched. “What do you mean if I had a real job?”

“Stealing other people's things isn’t a job, Bucky.”

He finished with the buttons, leaving the top one undone because he didn’t want to suffocate and be choked to death all the in the same day. “Just because the government recognizes it as an illegal action doesn’t mean it isn’t a job.”

He got his boots from the front door and returned, sitting on the edge of the bed to lace them up. You rested your head on his shoulder, humming to yourself. “You know, you look really good in this.”  Your hands glided up his back to his arms and smoothed over his chest.

Bucky chuckled. “Barton’s going to be here with the van in five minutes.”

“When has Clint ever been on time for anything?”

You had a valid point. It was shocking whenever Clint would turn up to anything within a decent time. He called it being fashionably late but was it considered that when he had been over an hour late to Sam’s birthday? Not likely.  

You crawled around and sat yourself in Bucky’s lap, straddling him with arms going around his neck. Yours and his lips crashed together in a heated kiss. “I just put on my boots.” Bucky mumbled against your mouth.

“Gotta do laundry anyway.”

It really didn’t take much persuasion with Bucky. His back was pressed against the bundle of blankets, your fingers easily undoing his buckle and unzipping the tacky pants. Swiftly Bucky rolled your bodies so he was hovering over you and settled in between your legs. His kisses trailed down from your lips, to your neck, chest and down to your belly button. Bucky’s fingertips ghosted over your inner thighs causing your back to arch but he pushed you back down.

Clothes were scattered over the bed and on the floor. Sweat glistened on Bucky’s skin, sticking to yours with your bodies tangled in the bedsheet. He held you close feeling your heart pump against his chest. Of course the day he wanted to spend in bed with you he couldn’t. Your smooth legs stretched under the sheet, rubbing against Bucky’s.

Three loud bangs against the door startled you both. “Barnes! I’ve been calling you for ten minutes!” Clint pounded against the door again. Reluctantly Bucky dragged himself out of bed, collecting his clothes and quickly changing back into them.

“Bucky!” Clint exclaimed, another fist knocking against the door.

Bucky took the few seconds he had to peck your lips. “I love you.” He whispered, parting ways. He scraped his hair up into a bun, swinging open the front door. “Relax, Barton. You’re late anyway.”

Clint took in Bucky’s wrinkled uniform, eying him carefully. They jogged down the stairs to the front lobby, Bucky retucking in his shirt. The repair van looked new, too new but he didn’t question how the hell Clint got it. He got into the passenger’s side, looking around. There were granola bar wrappers and coffee cups scattered on the floor of the van. Clint yanked open the door and climbed inside.

“Nat’s already busting my balls this morning so let’s get this shit over with.” Clint was grumpy and swearing under his breath.

“Someone’s a sour puss today.” Bucky teased, clinking his seatbelt. Clint flipped him off, putting the van into gear and started the trek to Manhattan.

Stark Financial Group was a large building based in Lower Manhattan. The autumn sun glimmered against the windows reflecting so sharply that Bucky had to squint his eyes. He slung a tool bag over his shoulder, adjusting a clipboard in his hand. Clint secured a hat on top of his head, collecting his own tool bag as well. They walked up the deep steps to the glass front doors.

The bank was grand with marble flooring and brass interior with wooden accents. It definitely had a vintage vibe to it resembling the early sixties. Bucky and Clint walked up the small staircase to the open area that had the teller counters and some financial advisor desks. There were two security guards hovering around. Down at the far end of the teller counter was Sam in a dapper get up, sweet talking to the woman helping him. She was blushing hard. Steve was dressed down, Yankees ballcap on shooting the shit with an obvious fellow baseball fan. The advisor was animated with grand hand gestures and Steve seemed genuinely interested in the conversation.

Bucky and Clint approached the receptionist behind a tall desk. She was beaming, friendly eyes and a tight body-hugging pale pink dress. “Hello gentlemen. How can I help you today?”

“Got a call the heater’s acting up.” Clint flipped through some papers, tapping the end of a pen against the clipboard.

“Oh yes!” She nodded. “Thank you for coming in. Follow me this way.”

The boys followed the receptionist through the bank. Bucky nonchalantly counted the cameras he could see and took mental notes of their positions. Steve glanced at them as they strolled on by. There were a set of stairs down to the lower level. Down the hallway and to the right were a row of offices for business advisors and the bank manager, Maria Hill. Then to the left was the grand ol’ vault. Natasha was spot on when she said the utility room was across from it. The receptionist let them in. Clint turned back and grinned at her, reading her name tag. “Ellie. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

Bucky wanted to snatch Clint by the collar and lug him away. Ellie laughed softly and said thank you leaving the men to go to task. Bucky set his tools down and thumbed through to the back paper, writing down his observations. Clint left the door ajar and moved into the room.

“Can’t say I’m surprised Stark has ample security. We’re going to have to take out those cameras and the guards upstairs. Did you see if they were carrying guns?” Bucky looked to Clint.

“Yeah, can’t imagine they’re fully loaded, though.” He replied, knocking his knuckles against the furnace. “We actually fixin’ this hunk of metal?”

Bucky disregarded his question, moving to peak out the door. “Two cameras facing the vault. And another two in the hallway. And we’re gonna--” Clint was rummaging through the tool bag, pulling out screw drivers until he found a Phillips head. The door to the furnace was open. “Clint!”

“Yeah, yeah Barnes. I’m still listening. You know I just go with the flow anyway. I’mma fix this.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, sliding his phone out of pocket to send a text to Steve. They made a rendevouz spot at the washrooms down the hall. He slipped out of the room, keeping his head down as he pushed opened the swinging down. His scoped out the small bathroom, checking to see if anyone was under the single stall but it was empty. Within a few minutes the door swung open again with Steve appearing.

“Where’s Clint?” He asked. Bucky waved it off. “You see the cameras?”

“Yeah couldn’t miss them. They seem like a bigger problem then the damn vault,” he sighed. “Four down here, maybe ten up there? Guess we’ll see if Nat knows the exact number. Plus the guards.”

Steve started to chuckle. “Wouldn’t worry about them. The one guy’s had three Krispy Kremes since I’ve been here.”

There were footsteps on the other side of the door. Bucky went to the sink as Steve hid himself in the only stall. A man in a flashy suit entered, not even looking twice at Bucky. He grabbed some paper towels and dried his hands, tossing it into the garage can before exiting. He returned back to the utility closet and Clint.

“So, uh, this thing is actually broken. Gonna need new parts and shit.”

“Clint. We’re not fucking here to fix the furnace. Come on, let’s go.” Bucky took the tool bag and back handed Clint’s arms.

Clint shuffled along, closing the metal door and collecting his bag. He followed Bucky back up to the main area of the bank. The receptionist was occupied helping a customer. Sam wandered on by giving Bucky and Clint a head nod just as Steve was coming up from the washroom.

“Bad news, we’re going to have to order some parts and come back in.” Clint informed Ellie. She frowned but understood, nodding along with him. “We’ll give you a call once we receive the part.

“Thank you for coming in!” She chimed, batting her lashes at Clint.

He was smug. “Oh, it was our pleasure, sweetheart.”

Bucky turned and rolled his eyes, deciding on abandoning Clint and go to the van. He could hear Clint’s loud footsteps stomping the ground in a half run to catch up. They got into the van, doors slamming shut.

“What?” Clint looked at Bucky.

“Nothin’.” Bucky shook his head, brushing away loose strands of hair.

Clint muttered something under his breathe, driving around the counter and up a block. He stopped on a slow corner and the side door of the van opened with Steve and Sam climbing inside. There was a mandatory food break before going back to the warehouse. Hoagies were on the menu with Clint not allowed anywhere near the blueprints to get them messy.

Bucky had a blue marker in his hand creating X’s where he had seen cameras. Sam took it over marking two more behind the tellers station. “One of us has to make sure those ones are out.” Sam indicated. “The one on the left definitely can see some of the stairs to the vault.”

“Buck has the sharpest shot,” Steve wiped his hands with a thin paper napkin, leaning over to look at the markings. “So why don’t we do Bucky and Clint upstairs, and Sam and I will go down and take out the four by the vault. We’ll take Natasha downstairs and you guys can handle the people upstairs.”

Bucky knew part of Steve’s suggestion was that so he was by you and could get you out of there as soon as possible. Steve was good like that, he’d never admit that was the reason but it was known. Not to mention Steve’s quick glance over gave it away too.

“I didn’t see the way to the tunnels.” Bucky added.

“Nat said that’s it’s behind a wall, just plaster and some framing. We’ll have to tear it down.” Sam folded his arms. “So we’ll need to bring in some tools to break it down.” Steve sighed, “Hate to admit it, but some things were easier when there were six of us.”

“We’re not bringing in Rumlow.” Bucky quickly snapped. Sam agreed with a grumbled.

“No, we’re not. I was making an observation.” Steve picked up a red marker and circled the vault. “We’re going to score and we’re going to score big. Then we can get out and do what we want. Sam can help his mom with medical bills, Natasha can go explore aboard like she’s always wanted to, Buck you can go start your life with a girl you’ve been in love with since we were nine. And Clint… Well, you can just fuck off with whatever you do.”

That brought some mild laughter from the group, an old joke that never seemed to get old. No one really knew what Clint did when he wasn’t around besides Natasha. Clint was shaking his head but there was a smile on his lips. Heads were lowered, a brief moment of silence.

“What are you gonna do, Steve?” Sam asked.

Steve slid his hands into the front pocket of his jeans. “As long as you guys are happy, I’ll be happy, too.”

Bucky raised his head, looking to his childhood best friend. There was something admirable in this moment, how Steve was fine with others happiness and it wasn’t that he was settle either. He thrived through people's enjoyment, he put other people first. This was it; the last heist. Bucky’s eyes glanced to Sam then to Clint and back to Steve.

Old friends with grand infractions and some blood in the cut.

bucky list: @buckychrist @bvcks @lila-bard @stanclub @stardustparker @buckybarnesppreciationsociety @sweetwaterprincess @demongirl0913 @queenlydias @dontpanc @kingsebstan  @cauraphernelia @yourwonderbelle @beauty-who-doesnt-need-a-beast @bleedlikerubies @fallenaristocat @bubblybuckybarnes @asht0ns-world @mystic-scripture @ragnarokbarnes @kali-rambles @pao-prazz @thorins-queen-of-erebor @eventyyr @abbadontherisingqueen @lovinglokiforever @justasimpleassbitch @red-wallflowers@brooklynightsky @hellaqueerangelofthelord @yknott81 @rvmanova @blame-the-russo-bros @buckybarneshairpullingkink @laurfangirl424 @buckyparkerish @sarcasticallysarah @stanning-seb @crypticavengers

BITC: @buckystolemyheart @glitteringhippie @bunsterjonez-blog @jhangelface0523 @fandom-addict-aesthetics @momma-loves-her-some-capnbucky @bucky-plums-barnes @moonbeambucky @bvckbarns @captainsstevenrogers @moonstruckhargrove @thefalconsam @captinsmarvels @coffee-with-bucky @whitewolfbumble @radiantbeams  @wi-atch-recs @foenixphire @the-canary @thatnikkixx @jewelswrites-ish **IF YOU WISH TO BE ADDED OR REMOVED PLEASE INBOX ME!**

[anarchistettin]

[c&vd from behind the paywall]: The lockdown has produced a disparity between the old script of grievance and a sickness that can wreak destruction on anyone.

By

MATTHEW SITMAN

May 21, 2020

Last week, First Things editor R.R. Reno, a prominent Catholic intellectual who backed Donald Trump for president, let the world know he’d had enough of the effete conformists following public-health guidelines in response to the coronavirus pandemic. Sharing a photo on Twitter of Trump saluting World War II veterans, none of them wearing masks, he declared, “They’re men, not cowards. Masks=enforced cowardice.”

The reaction from critics was swift and punishing, as they noted the emerging wisdom that masks may be one of the most effective measures in preventing the spread of Covid-19. But Reno decided to tweet through it in a typo-laden tirade. “The mask culture if fear driven. Masks+cowardice,” he wrote. “It’s a regime dominate by fear of infection and fear of causing of infection. Both are species of cowardice.” Other, similarly garbled tweets followed, but one of them serves as an especially telling summary of his position: “Now we know who want to cower in place. By all means rage against those who want to live.”

The outburst was no aberration. Since March, he’s produced a string of commentary doubting the severity of the pandemic and lamenting the measures taken to combat it—particularly the temporary closures of churches. It’s not as deadly as we feared, he’s said, and for those under 35, perhaps little more worrisome than the flu—a statement that blithely ignores all that we still don’t know about Covid-19, from the long-term effects it might cause in even healthy young adults to the sudden spike in a Kawasaki-like disease in children. No matter. Reno renders his verdict: “The science increasingly shows that the measures we have taken in the last few weeks have been both harmful—with freedoms lost, money spent, livelihoods destroyed—and pointless,” he wrote.

It’s not just that Reno can sound at times like a coronavirus truther. He is also convinced that our pandemic response stems from a deeper civilizational malaise, one that prioritizes the fleeting material world over the everlasting life that awaits our souls after death. In a missive published in March, Reno declared, “There are many things more precious than life,” and castigated political leaders, especially New York Governor Andrew Cuomo, for leading “an ill-conceived crusade against human finitude and the dolorous reality of death.”

Reno is not alone on the Christian intellectual right in framing the shutdown as part of a grand narrative of spiritual decay. His colleague Matthew Schmitz wrote that, in valuing “health above all, we subordinate the spiritual to the temporal,” adding, “Unless religious leaders reopen the churches, they will appear to value earthly above eternal life.” National Review writer Alexandra DeSanctis caught flak on Twitter for writing, “It’s fascinating to see how the cultural loss of belief in God and eternity so often manifests in an outsized fear of death as the ultimate evil. Human life is beautiful and precious and good, but life on earth isn’t our ultimate end.”

The latter prompted a lot of jokes about the literal death cults forming on the right, but there is something more at work here. Writing in Providence magazine, Jason E. Vickers described this death-embracing cohort as possessing a “bitter remnant mindset,” and acting “as though they are the last Christians in America.” It’s a worldview shot through with grievances against the corrupt, decadent societies of the West, and it’s shared by otherwise very different factions on the right. Followers of Rod Dreher’s Benedict Option might seek to build intentional communities and withdraw from modern society, while Christian nationalists long for the political power to defeat it—but they have the same enemies.

For all Reno’s paeans to courage, the pandemic has shown us, in starker terms than before, the extent to which modern conservatism is driven by resentment of a seemingly hostile, terrifying world. Not all conservatives have succumbed to this impulse during the pandemic, of course. But those who have reveal the ways in which the pandemic is being shoehorned into a familiar culture war.

Let’s return to the example of Reno, since he manages to encompass both the raging id of the anti-lockdown protesters and the philosophical justifications of their actions that have appeared in the conservative press. One of his “Coronavirus Diary” entries begins with him visiting an emergency room in an outer-borough hospital. He can’t say more, though, because “the present conditions of public health hysteria” mean his host “might lose his job if higher-ups found out I penetrated the ‘no visitors’ cordon sanitaire.” Reno notes that, after cases of COVID-19 flooded the hospital in late March and early April, the doctor says they had since plummeted—a development Reno passes over as a happy mystery, never connecting it to the stay-at-home orders and economic shutdown that he has called “pointless” and “cowering.”

Reno also mentions that he’s been worshipping at an “underground” church, borrowing the language Christians have used for those persecuted by Communist regimes in China or, during the Cold War, behind the Iron Curtain. A sense of persecution hangs heavy over the article, as does the characterization of himself as a righteous dissenter.

Then the diary entry becomes surreal. Reno describes a long bike ride on a recent weekend, during which a Dunkin Donuts worker refuses to serve him because he isn’t wearing a mask. He ends up on Staten Island, and needs to take the ferry back—which also requires a mask. “Providentially,” he writes, “I found a mask in a gutter just before reaching the Staten Island Ferry, allowing me to board and steam back to Manhattan.”

What comes next comes as no surprise: Reno takes an antibody test, and the results show he had contracted the virus. Like the ending of certain novels, it transforms all that came before it. Was he wearing a mask in the hospital, or at his “underground” church? He doesn’t say. Reno doesn’t seem troubled that, even if he never had significant symptoms, he could have been spreading the virus to others. He doesn’t realize that wearing a mask is not a commentary on his own courage or virility, but a simple way to show concern and care for others who might be especially vulnerable to the ravages of Covid-19.

There’s little point in looking for sense or reason in Reno’s ramblings. The language of courage and cowardice can’t really be debated—it is pure emotion. The point is not to grapple with the reality of a complex, overwhelming situation that changes every day, about which there can be genuine debates, but to reinscribe it in affective terms. What becomes decisive is not the cogency or persuasiveness of a policy response to a public-health crisis, but whether or not you’re cowering in fear or bravely resisting the conformity imposed by dreaded, elite experts. Wearing a mask, or not, floats up to the realm of the purely symbolic. It is a way of brushing aside difficult questions for dramatic rhetoric about civilizational decline.

If Reno and others make this sort of argument in a religious key, others on the right render it in supposedly class terms. Patrick Deneen took to Twitter last month to say that the divide over the shutdown did not simply reflect your position on Trump, but might reveal “more fundamental differences between elites and masses,” sharing Christopher Lasch’s observation in Revolt of the Elites that “young professionals” are health-obsessed exercisers and dieters attempting to attain eternal beauty and live forever, while “ordinary people” just “accept the body’s decay.”

More recently, The Wall Street Journal’s Peggy Noonan, citing no evidence, regretted the “class divide between those who are hard-line on lockdowns and those who are pushing back.” The former consist of the professionals who make up the “overclass,” with the latter are “normal people” who are fatalistic about life, and therefore itching to open up the economy—a “generalization” she offers “based on a lifetime of experience and observation.”

Once again, all this only serves to twist debates over when and how to reopen the economy into a battle between supposed elites and ordinary folks who have not only been ignored and left behind, but also ridiculed. This just hasn’t been the case so far, and Reno, Deneen, and Noonan are making it up as they go along. The latest polling continues to find, as described in a recent Washington Post article, “that there just aren’t meaningful divisions along class or education lines on these questions.” There certainly isn’t a rugged, death-defying, God-fearing working class straining against the complacency of prissy white-collar overlords. Imagining that’s the case, however, is less challenging than talking about what actually will help workers: hazard pay, paycheck protections, paid medical leave, proper safety equipment, and robust testing. It’s grievance-mongering all the way down.

The writer Sam Adler-Bell has described the “mutable dynamism” of conservative politics, a term that captures the way the search for fresh enemies can stoke these passions. It explains why conservatives respond to novel situations with a tried-and-true mash-up of elite bashing and performative victimhood. But Americans’ reserve of patience and good will so far shows the glaring mismatch between the old script of grievance and a sickness that can wreak destruction on anyone.

Reno’s embarrassing pandemic punditry is finally the predictable consequence of the way he compromised himself by endorsing Trump, then taking up the mantle of “national conservatism.” G.K. Chesterton, a writer well-known to First Things editors, once wrote, “When a man concludes that any stick is good enough to beat his foe with—that is when he picks up a boomerang.” To view Trump as a useful wrecking ball, or a flawed vessel for an otherwise sound nationalism, with his critics being the real problem, is to be set adrift morally and intellectually. You take your bearings less from what you believe than what you oppose; if it provokes cosmopolitan elites, then there must be some value to it.

On Monday, after having deleted both his tweets about masks and his Twitter account, Reno published an apology at First Things. “I used over-heated rhetoric and false analogies,” he wrote. “It was wrong for me to impugn the intentions and motives of others, for which I apologize.” He should be taken at his word—but what the episode reveals about the intellectual right isn’t limited to a few late-night tweets.

Matthew Sitman is an editor at Commonweal.

@MatthewSitman 

[sealerpuff]

LoL ok this is a long story, but hear me out. i just did a prophy for a patient and after i finished, she said she had a question about the medical history forms. She wanted to know why it asked about venereal diseases and what that has to do with someone's mouth. So i explained that we still need a full picture of your health since everything's interrelated and that sometimes venereal diseases can have oral manifestations. And she's like, well i'm not going to tell you about that, that's private. And I've never had any sores in my mouth or anything like that. And i'm thinking, is this bitch trying to tell me she has a venereal disease that she doesn't want to tell me about??...so i'm like, ok well that's up to you, we still treat everyone the same, infection control wise. So of course, i wrote about this in the treatment notes because it pertains to her med hx and i have to! Then after I leave the room, the bitch rifles through her chart. Cut to five minutes later. I'm doing an exam with a child next door. She marches into the room and is like, "i have a question." And i give her this look like, bitch are you nuts? So i'm like, alright, i'll be there. When she left, i apologized to the kid and i tried to communicate with my eyes that some adults are mad crazy and I'd really rather stay in there with him. So then i walked back into her room to see her perusing her tx notes and she's like, I don't like what you wrote here, it makes me uncomfortable. I'm like, ok, well, i just wrote we talked about, but it's your chart, so you want me to revise anything? And of course she did, so she had me cross out some stuff (as if it fuckin matters, i can still see it) and write in some stuff emphasizing that she's never had any oral evidence of a venereal disease. Lmao at this point, i'm about a 1000% sure that she has a venereal disease that she wants to hide from us for some reason. But i'm like, ok, i'm gonna still leave these tx notes out in case you wanted me to add anything else. Then i left and the RDA took over to polish.... Cut to 15 minutes later. The receptionist is like, doctor, i have to talk to you about this patient. And i'm like, oh geez, i already know who it is, you don't even have to tell me. Apparently, after she had gotten her teeth polished, she put up a fuss because she doesn't like that we have a photocopy of her ID. And they're like, we NEED that to prevent identity theft and insurance fraud, otherwise anyone could walk in and pretend they're you and get dental care under your name! And she's like NO, i'm taking this out of my chart. And they're like, if we can't confirm your identification, then we can't see you. And she just fuckin bounced. So I tell my receptionist, thank god! Good freakin riddance. The moral of the story is, A) Don't walk into other people's treatment rooms! B) Be honest about your medical history with your dentist. C) Enigmatic clues about your medical history are not appreciated and can lead to misunderstanding and/or an irreversible case of deadness. Please be straightforward.

[storiesbybrian]

Jane, His Wife (September, 2014)

Paul is about to miss his plane. A viable excuse is right up his ass, a cannaboid suppository purchased as a kind of reward after a very contentious meeting. He could probably amuse his boss into forgiving him for not even making it to the airport with a straightforward account of his inability to resist grabbing something from a shelf labeled “Edibles and Anables”and then, being on such an impulsive roll, marching straight from the register to the unisex bathroom where he pretended to defecate but really went ahead and dented his anal virginity right there in the dispensary, higher than Robert Mitchum before the water from the fake shit flush  finished swirling. But the real reason Paul’s flight takes off without him is a girl he used to know. He thinks her name is Sonja.

Emerging from the bathroom, more of a man/less of a man, too confused to know which codes to honor at the moment, Paul bumped into a guy engrosssed in his smartphone. He was very muscular, with a barcode tattooed on the back of his bald head, and he wore a coat, tie and acid washed jeans. Ironic or resolutely earnest, again Paul couldn’t decipher. So, before manners or fear could stop him, Paul peaked at the phone screen, hoping it might give him a better sense of what this guy was all about. And there she was, holding a baby, grinning unabashedly at the semi-well-dressed man and telling him something about a movie she was almost finished watching. Over the past 25 years, Paul had imagined seeing Sonja again many times, but never in fulfillment of Jetsonian prophecy by the bathroom at a legal weed emporium.

Paul remembers her name as evoking kerchiefs and ice skating, so maybe it’s really Brigitte or Helena. Theirs had been one of those acquaintances that advanced too rapidly to ask for a reminder without compromising the probability of sex, especially since she made a big point of knowing his name, shoehorning it into nearly everything she told him. And then, after what had happened, the mutual acquaintance that had introduced them never mentioned her again and Paul was not about to ask after “your friend, you know, that depressed girl with the ungainly feet and Jupiter spot on her eyeball?” Those feet. They seemed to be clutching something delicate, or maybe she was just trying to make them seem smaller. Anyway, Paul follows her husband out of the dispensary, knowing he has to call work, and his own spouse, and no surer what to say to either of them than how to broach a conversation with a stranger whose physique and pants might imply a penchant  for violence.

Paul follows Mr. Sonja across Rainier Avenue to Chinook Beach Park. This must be where most recreational customers go to light up as now, with one acid washed leg draped over the other, far less threatening seated than upright, the bar code-necked man rolls himself a blunt. For a moment, Paul is afraid of being mistaken for some kind of moocher who hangs around the parking lot waiting for someone to come out and offer him a puff. But just about any misrepresentation, no matter how unflattering, would be preferable to who Paul really is to the mother of this guy’s child.

Meanwhile, what about Paul’s more pressing concerns, like the personal and professional upheaval he causes by being here instead of home in two hours? And in an irony he feels like he has to be very still to keep straight, Paul notes that he is drumming up excuses for the homefront to delay his encounter with a sartorial schizophrenic, while he very well could have mistaken the visage on the guy’s smartphone and set off in pursuit of resolution 25 years in the making to put off the stresses inherent in maintaining all of the routines he is forsaking to be here.  Like he’s avoiding returning to the life he’s now invoking to avoid further avoidment.

He pulls out his own phone and starts dialing Anna Lyza’s mobile number. Her name is not symbolic coincidence, just the product of really strange parents. Paul has made vague allusions to a girl he traumatized in college, but never told Anna Lyza the full story of his day with Sonja. And to go into it now would sound like he was lying to cover for something far more nefarious than a digital goose chase.

So Paul needs to lie to his wife, tell half truths to his boss and come completely clean to this weirdly dressed stranger on a bench. Great, let’s talk to the very strong guy who has good reason to hate you. While he’s high. Paul starts repocketing his phone when it rings. It’s Dan.

“Hello?”

“Paul! So glad I caught you!”

“Oh hi Dan.”

“Listen! Can you talk?”

“To you?”

“Funny. Look, at the meeting earlier today? Jordy said he licenses all of his material through Quatre Saisons? Not true, my man.”

“So we don’t want to…?”

“Dude doesn’t license any of his stuff!”

“Like it’s all-?”

“Open-Sourced! So why were we about to shell out 2nd round funding for free shit?”

“Because you said-“

“Ehnhnhnhnhnh! I didn’t say shit Paul. You said we needed to deal with the Franco-Vivaldi fuckers.”

“Well…”

“Alright, whatever. We’ll talk about this when you get back.”

“Yeah well-“

“Hey Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Dude, you sound higher than me right now.”

Paul hangs up the phone and rubs his head, appearing far more stressed than he actually is. Sure enough, he gets Sonja’s husband’s attention from the next bench over. Paul gives him his best hangdog and the guy smiles and offers him the blunt. So phase one initiated, but Paul’s resorting to manipulation to make progress toward amends for 25 year-old emotional abuse makes the whole thing feel tarnished before it even gets off the ground.

“Thanks man.”

The guy nods, then thinks better of silence. “Hey, what’d you get in there bro?” His voice is raspy.

Paul takes a deep breath and points to his ass.

“No shit!”

“Not right now.” It gets a laugh.

“So gimme that back, yo. You’re already baked!”

Paul nods enthusiastically. “Appreciate the company though.”

Either the guy will accept the friendly overture or reject it and maybe get suspicious. If the suspicion can manifest itself in a way he’s supposed to notice, Paul will flash his wedding ring and broach the topic of spouses (though the irony of grousing about being married to women as a way to tell men you are not gay is not lost on Paul). But the guy just blanks out and it occurs to Paul that people can say “bro” without awkwardness and still have gaping social deficiencies. In fact, how many times has Paul mistaken one or two words for more comprehensive coolness? He needs to restructure his entire socio-evaluative process but now is not the time. Or is that more personal procrastination and cowardice? Why not now?

“Nice here,” Paul tries.

“You ain’t from Seattle?”

“San Francisco.”

“City by the Bay. Nice bro!”

Paul nods. Briefly he considers just asking the guy what his wife’s name is. But he can only see it seeming  like he’s got a jacket lining full of hot watches for sale. And maybe the guy’s impression of Paul is still unformed enough that coming across as sleazy and awkward himself will not seem out of character, and might even arouse compassion. Like maybe the guy will assume that Paul’s life is so pathetic that sharing the details of his own will seem charitable. But that’s a stretch, even between two stoned strangers.

“Been there? I mean do you live in Seattle? Actually I don’t know what to ask.”

The guy laughs and slaps Paul on the back. It hurts.

“I like you, bro. Name’s Paul.”

“No way! That’s my name too!”

“Bullshit!”

Paul pulls out his driver’s license. The whole time he has been trying to seize the opportunity to bestow an apology whose due is old enough to rent a car, he has assumed that Sonja relegated their afternoon together to some minor episode that never bore recounting to anybody. And before he can consider otherwise, his ID makes Acid Washed Paul potentially angry.

“Did you go to Boulder bro?”

It would be easy to say no, catch another flight and try to smooth everything over back home. But Paul can not chalk all of the other things he’s neglecting to be here up to larkishness.

“Yes.”

“This might sound fucked up, but I know who you are.”

“I saw you FaceTiming with her. I was hoping…”

Paul clamps a hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezes cruelly. Paul tries to squirm out of it but the grip is too tight. With the other hand Paul holds the blunt close like a paintbrush.

Paul has never been in this much physical danger. He thinks that if he had, or anyone had ever hurt him very badly, he might not carry as much guilt around. As the ember glows an inch from his face, black trees past it swaying by the water, he realizes that maybe he wants to get burned. That rather than explaining to Sonja that he enjoyed being kind to her when she expected cruelty, but then couldn’t help switching to contempt when she started expecting or even demanding kindness after only knowing him for two hours, it might be more satisfying to all parties concerned if her husband damaged him permanently and then brought pictures of it home to his dear sweet wife as sort of a trophy, first prize in the KarmaBall League.

“I wanted…”

Acid Washed Paul’s eyes narrow, but the ember bobbles and his threat of burning seems to recede. Paul almost starts crying and wishes that he would.

“I wanted to apologize to her. She’s… She’s told you what happened?”

“You know what she says? She says it was like you lifted her up to the greatest view she’d ever seen, and then you kicked her lower than she’d been before you’d ever met. She didn’t even wanna know anybody else named Paul, much less marry me! You know she’d just gone back to school after a suicide attempt.”

“No. I didn’t know that. I really didn’t!”

“And it’s stayed with you too, huh?”

Paul nods.

Paul stubs out the blunt and unholsters his phone, weighing it in his hand.

“Well this is a buzzkill.”

Paul tries to maintain eye contact and now he does begin to cry. To his shame, it’s probably out of relief that he escaped a mangling.

“Jesus. You need a drink more ‘n me!”

“I don’t drink.”

“What?”

“I quit when I turned 40.”

“Like W.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Well, he is disciplined I guess.”

They go to a coffee shop that serves beer. Paul seems to know several people there, though Paul can not tell how highly they regard him.

Paul gets a pint of something dark and frothy. Paul has Earl Grey tea.

“Is she… happy?”

“Who Anna?”

Paul rocks back in his seat. All this time he had her name wrong but meanwhile married someone else with the same name. And of course so did she. He thinks it’s a coincidence that shouldn’t mean much, but worries again that dismissiveness is tantamount to cowardice. Paul does not know anything else about Paul. If Paul shares more information, the coincidence will gain the freight of expectations and make the whole thing look like some time bomb detonating at the altar. But he cops out and sits on it, pretending he knew Sonja was Anna all along, and that her San Francisco counterpart is named something other than Anna Lyza.

“I mean… If you’re askin’ how guilty are you supposed to feel, I can tell you that plenty of dudes have done her way worse than you managed in one afternoon.”

“But, well, do you know all their names too?”

“Oh yeah. All named Paul. Every last one of ‘em!”

Inhalant Paul looks bewildered for a moment, then cracks up loud enough for dozens of faces haunted by laptops to stare at him. He can not stop laughing. The faces plead for quiet. Rectal Paul is not sure whether to laugh along, stay mired in the horror that seized him when he thought Paul was serious, or take the spectral freelancers’ side and admonish Paul to simmer down.  He sips his tea without committing to anything.

“Man, I don’t even think she remembers every one’s name. And trust me, it ain’t like I ain’t done my share of damage too. But I’ve stuck around so…”

“I really would like to apologize to her.”

“Yeah that probably works for you bro, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea on her end. Mad hormonal since the baby.”

“I hear that! We have a two year-old.”

“Tell me it gets easier.”

“It does. I mean, you get to start sleeping through the night again. But that’s right around the same time they learn to move on their own so there’s more chasing ‘em around, instinctively covering every table corner with your hand.”

Paul does not ask Paul any follow ups, how old, how masculine, any others. Paul is relieved by this. If Paul were generous enough to be curious, he would occupy the high road more imposingly. But being all about his own deal, Paul does not have to cede as much moral leverage for his past sins.

Music has been playing continuously, though a specific song comes on before Paul notices. It is a classic rock anthem that Paul’s high school classmates used to sing along with and quote in yearbooks while he felt alienated for cherishing the knowledge that the song was the musical equivalent of shit past its expiration date. But now he smiles and feels the urge to sing along, nearly certain that Paul will join right in.

Before the verse drives up to the chorus, a giant hand tries to pry the coffee shop’s roof from the top of its walls. Everything quakes. Coffee cups chit and shatter. The song keeps playing. Nobody wants to be the one to shriek. The giant hand can not separate the roof from the walls. The quaking stops for a moment, then the giant hand punches through the roof, smashing into a pinball machine. It tries to shake the plaster and glass out of its wounded knuckles. It has a wedding ring that knocks people down.

Paul and Paul look up through the hole in the building. Giant Anna glares down at them, raising her foot til it blocks out the light.

Paul says, “Holy shit that’s my wife!”

Paul thinks with so many people under threat of imminent smushing, he might have pretended otherwise. But in his final moment before Anna grounds him and everyone else there into the carpeting, he envies Paul’s lack of guile.

[letitrainathousandflames]

As a late-diagnosed Autistic, I think it’ll be nice to share this wonderful piece I just found (it’s short, too, only two pages long) on masking and burnout.

If you’re autistic, this might help you understand your process and how to deal with burnout. And if you’re not autistic, maybe it might help you understand it and be a good ally to your friends on the spectrum! :)

Images’ IDs for accessibility/easier reading below the cut:

[ID: Five screenshots of a PDF file that reads:

“Autistic burnout, explained”, by Sarah Deweerdt, 30 march 2020

‘Autistic burnout’ is the intense physical, mental or emotional exhaustion, often accompanied by a loss of skills, that some adults with autism experience. Many autistic people say it results mainly from the cumulative effect of having to navigate a world that is designed for neurotypical people.

Burnout may especially affect autistic adults who have strong cognitive and language abilities and are working or going to school with neurotypical people.

Here we describe the emerging picture of this phenomenon, how autistic adults might be able to recover from burnout and how to prevent it from occurring.

What is the experience of autistic burnout like?

Like many aspects of autism, burnout varies greatly from person to person. Some autistic people experience it as an overwhelming sense of physical exhaustion. They may have more difficulty managing their emotions than usual and be prone to outbursts of sadness or anger. Burnout may manifest as intense anxiety or contribute to depression or suicidal behavior. It may involve an increase in autism traits such as repetitive behaviors, increased sensitivity to sensory input or difficulty with change.

Burnout can sometimes result in a loss of skills: An autistic woman who usually has strong verbal abilities may, for example, suddenly find herself unable to talk.

How did the concept of burnout arise?

Few studies have formally investigated autistic burnout. Autism researchers have only become aware of burnout as a phenomenon over the past five years or so. They have learned about it directly through discussions with autistic participants in person or online.

The concept reflects the growing self-advocacy movement in the autism community, which has led to an increasing focus among researchers on adults with autism and their inner experiences. But it’s not entirely new: Some researchers point out that children with autism can have meltdowns or lose skills when overwhelmed by the demands of a difficult environment.

What causes burnout?

Burnout is often a consequence of camouflaging, or masking, a strategy in which autistic people mimic neurotypical behavior by using scripts for small talk, forcing themselves to make eye contact or suppressing repetitive behaviors. These strategies can help autistic people in their jobs and relationships but require immense effort.

It can also result from sensory overstimulation, such as a noisy bus commute; executive function demands such as having to juggle too many tasks at once; or stress associated with change.

How do autistic people recover from burnout?

That depends on the person and on what burnout is like for them. A first step is for autistic people to remove themselves from the situation that triggered the burnout. This could be as simple as going back to a hotel room to rest alone after a day of unpredictable social interactions at a conference. Others may need longer to recover. Some autistic people have described burnout that is so severe its effects have persisted for years. Burnout may occur more frequently and be more difficult to recover from as people get older.

Is it possible to prevent burnout?

A key strategy for preventing burnout is self-knowledge. Autistic people can learn over time which situations are most likely to trigger burnout for them. They can also watch for signs that they are getting close to burnout: Some autistic people describe feeling disconnected from their bodies or experiencing tunnel vision in this state.

Armed with this awareness, they can develop strategies to avoid burnout, such as leaving a social event early or planning a recovery day after a trip before returning to work. They can also ask for accommodations that make it easier for them to avoid burnout, such as preboarding an airplane or working from home part of the time.]

(I’m not experienced with writing image IDs, if I did anything wrong please correct me.)

[dazzledbybooks]

An enchanted tale of intrigue where a duke's daughter is the only survivor of a magical curse. When Ekata's brother is finally named heir, there will be nothing to keep her at home in Kylma Above with her murderous family. Not her books or science experiments, not her family's icy castle atop a frozen lake, not even the tantalizingly close Kylma Below, a mesmerizing underwater kingdom that provides her family with magic. But just as escape is within reach, her parents and twelve siblings fall under a strange sleeping sickness. In the space of a single night, Ekata inherits the title of duke, her brother's warrior bride, and ever-encroaching challengers from without—and within—her own ministry. Nothing has prepared Ekata for diplomacy, for war, for love...or for a crown she has never wanted. If Kylma Above is to survive, Ekata must seize her family's power. And if Ekata is to survive, she must quickly decide how she will wield it. Part Sleeping Beauty, part Anastasia, with a thrilling political mystery, The Winter Duke is a spellbinding story about choosing what's right in the face of danger. The Winter Duke by Claire Eliza Bartlett Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers Release Date: March 3rd 2020 Genre: Young Adult, Fantasy, LGBT, Queer, Magic, Retellings, Romance Links: Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/46734428-the-winter-duke Amazon: https://amzn.to/2PHbsAy B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-winter-duke-claire-eliza-bartlett/1132404574?ean=9780316417341 iTunes: https://books.apple.com/gb/book/the-winter-duke/id1472133922 Bookdepository: https://www.bookdepository.com/Winter-Duke-Claire-Eliza-Bartlett/9780316417341?ref=grid-view&qid=1576273869932&sr=1-1 Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/the-winter-duke-2 Google Books: https://books.google.co.uk/books/about/The_Winter_Duke.html?id=TxFoxwEACAAJ&redir_esc=y Review: The Winter Duke by Claire Eliza Bartlett is different. I wish I could come up with a better word but this is all I got.  The world is split into two parts. Kylma Above and the Kylma Below. Our featured family lives in an ice palace.  Ekata is our main characters and she is more interested in medicine rather than her families politics. All she really wants to do is go off to school. Then everything goes wrong and unplanned during her brother’s “Brideshow.” This is a ceremony where he chooses his future spouse. The whole family ends up in some form of sleeping sickness except for Ekata. Ekata now has to play the part of the Grand Duke. She ends up eloping with of her brother’s would be brides named Inkar. Inkar is a warrior from a lesser kingdom. These two women are now off to figure out what is going on in the palace. I found that the world building is pretty amazing. I thought it was very thought out and was planned for the reader to feel like they were immersed in the world. The Duke title is unisex so that no matter who inherits the title it will be the same no matter the person’s gender. I wish Ekata was a bit stronger in the beginning. I thought she was being pushed around way too much. I would have loved to see her be a bit stronger. I definitely think my favorite was the underwater kingdom. It was definitely the best world building to me. The plot was very slow. I really wish that it moved along faster.  Excerpt: Original post: https://www.thenovl.com/blog/2019/7/2/cover-reveal-the-winter-duke-by-claire-eliza-bartlett  CHAPTER ONE The night could be worse, considering. The likelihood of a public death was low. All the same, I kept my opulent coat buttoned up, despite how my neck itched in it. The more layers I had between me and my sister Velosha, the better. Last week she’d nicked our brother Kevro’s arm with a poisoned stiletto at Wintertide mass, and I wasn’t about to let her try her tricks on me. “Ekata,” she whispered. I pretended not to hear. My favorite tutor said that other people’s siblings were noisy, argumentative telltales. My siblings tried to murder one another. But not this night. Tonight we had a strict no-murder policy. Tonight we had a brideshow, and the world was watching us. And nothing said get out of here like an unstable, bloodthirsty family. I should know. I’d been begging my father for the chance to leave from the moment I was old enough to take a place at a university. He’d promised that when the brideshow was finally over, I’d be free to do it. Provided I lived so long. The brideshow candidates stood on the long, narrow balcony that ran around the Great Hall. Fifteen people who thought that marrying into our family was a good idea. Some of them giggled with one another. Some observed the floor, pointing out their delegates to the candidates next to them. More than one looked tired of waiting. A pretty girl with a dark ponytail and an emerald-and-gold riding suit covered a yawn with her hand, earning a laugh from the girl next to her. Her arms were bare, tan from the kiss of a foreign sun. A bold choice for a palace made of ice. But something about her seemed bold. When she caught me watching her, she raised an eyebrow. I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of it all. Her mouth twitched into a lazy smile. My stomach lurched. I flushed, looking away before I could cause a scene. I wasn’t there to create an international incident, and she was here for my brother, not me. Mother had sent written invitations to twenty empires, duchies, and kingdoms. Fifteen of the invitations had been answered with delegations, who now stood on the floor of the Great Hall and waited for the festivities to finally begin. Most eligible royals would be interested in a deal with Kylma Above and access to trade with the prosperous duchy Below. Kylma Below was the only source of distillable magic in the world, which meant that our cold, tiny country on a frozen lake commanded policy alongside kingdoms a hundred times our size. Even so, it surprised me that fifteen people could be interested in Lyosha. That, more than anything, was a clear indication they’d never met him. The restlessness was infectious. We’d been waiting for my father, mother, and brother for half an hour, and up on the royal dais, we didn’t talk. I glanced back at my maid, Aino; she lifted her chin, and I did the same. Aino had never steered me wrong at a social function. A door on the side of the Great Hall opened, but it was only Prime Minister Eirhan. He’d been prime minister longer than I’d been alive, and his oily demeanor left me with a sour taste every time I had to speak with him. That was happily rare; I preferred the study of bones and trees and the denizens Below to the study of politics. Eirhan spoke to a guard next to the door. The guard, dressed in ceremonial silver and blue, struck his iron-tipped halberd on the ground. The guards lining the hall took up the movement, creating the iron tempo that announced my father. The hall went dark, and whispering began. A dark hall heralded magic, for magic did not work well with fire. The candles burned low in their sconces, reflected like diamonds by the ice walls. Light descended from above, instead, in round pearls that fell like feathers. They glittered as they drifted, shimmering blue one moment, orange the next, clumping together like the thick pollen that blew in from the mountains during what passed for summer in Kylma Above. There was a great intake of breath from the hall, and I tilted my face up to catch some of the pearls as they fell. My father was the only man in the world Above who could refine magic and control how it manifested, and it never failed to mesmerize. It was his declaration of wealth, his declaration of power, and it reminded the rest of us what magic could do, if we only had the imagination for it. The pearls turned into flower petals, filling the air with a sweet scent. Rosaeus brumalis, I thought, breathing in the faint smell of winter roses, the only kind that grew here. Before they kissed our faces, they burst apart again, showering us with needled points. I covered my face with my sleeves. A few of the delegates shouted. A crack shook the palace walls, and dark wings snapped above us. An enormous eagle winged around the top of the dome, golden eyes flashing in the dark. Its cry made my ears throb, and its wingbeat nearly blew me into Velosha. The eagle pulled its wings in and hurtled to the ground. Delegates stumbled out of its way, and even I, who’d seen his displays at least twice a year, flinched. With a screech, the eagle raked its talons across the floor, leaving deep gouges that would stay long after the bird had disappeared. The power of magic: It was temporary, but the effects were permanent. And only my father had the secret to it. I hated him for that more than I hated him for other things. The eagle launched back into the air, knocking over the nearest delegates, and sped toward the ceiling. I was certain it would slow down or disappear—but instead, it crashed through the dome. Ice shattered and plummeted toward us. We ducked again, but the ice slowed and spun, turning into snowflakes that dusted our shoulders like sugar. Wind howled through the cracked dome, but winter roses grew over the cracks, smoothing the wall; ice climbed toward the starred sky. The hole became smaller and smaller until the last of the roses knit together, leaving us with our ice dome and sealing us off from the elements once more. Light flared. The room became golden and warm. The show was over, and the grand duke stood before us. Everyone knelt. That was Father’s grand trick for our guests. Show them the power of magic—its constructive, destructive, and transformative glory. Because magic was our most exported resource, Father wanted the wealthy delegates to imagine what they could do with it. They could impress kings. They could bring down city walls. With the correctly refined pearl, they could change the world. My father’s very presence demanded silence. I’d feared him for almost as long as I could remember. Where he walked, the air seemed thin and sparse, as if his broad shoulders and fur coat pushed it out of a room. As if it tangled in his snow-and-stone beard or got bitten off by his sharp teeth when he smiled. As if his brown eyes could pin it down. Mother stood next to him in a dress of white doeskin. She and I shared the same pale hair and skin, the same gray eyes, the same pointed chin and nose. I hadn’t managed to inherit her elegance, but I made up for it by being less abhorrent. And on Father’s other side stood Lyosha—eldest brother, heir-elect, and groom for the brideshow—who had Father’s height and dark hair and pale skin, but still looked like a weasel in a coat. Unlike the rest of us, he wore the brown-and-white wool that was spun from the shaggy goats we kept at the base of the mountains, eschewing the bright colors and fine-spun cottons that could be purchased from abroad. Lyosha liked to consider himself a man of the people—provided the people wanted nothing from him. My father motioned for the hall to rise. I straightened reflexively. As Father began his welcome speech, I kept my hands clasped in front of me; I knew if Lyosha caught any of us fidgeting, he’d have harsh words and harsher actions forlater. As subtly as I could, I let my eyes and mind wander over the motifs on the walls. They told the story of the duchies—the duchy Above, and the duchy Below. Our duchy, which sat on a frozen lake, and the land that thrived beneath the ice. More than anything, I wanted to see what truly lay Below. But I would never get the chance. Only Father was allowed to enter that realm. I focused next on a hunting scene with a former grand duke and a cornered bear. I recalled bones, starting with the bear’s nose. Nasal, premaxilla, maxilla. When ground, stabilizer for liquids that tend to curdle. Incisors, canines. Amulets for strength with no demonstrable benefit. I was nearing the ilium when the patter of applause interrupted me. The speech was over. I joined in, lifting my chin so that I could look properly impressed. Father offered Mother his arm, and she took it with barely a sneer. They stepped down from the dais together. The brideshow had formally begun. Prime Minister Eirhan came forward and bowed perfunctorily before murmuring something in Father’s ear. Father nodded coldly to the Kylmian ministers, who clustered off to the side. It was no secret that Father and Lyosha fought over the ministers; they fought over everything. Lyosha couldn’t mount a successful coup without the majority of the ministers on his side, but Mother’s support lent him strength; a coup had been rumored for years. My maid Aino had been predicting it once a night for weeks. After all, it was the traditional way for Kylmian children to inherit the dukedom. Poor Aino had taken to double-locking my door each night, and she spent hours fretting right inside it. As though I’d be the first one slaughtered in a coup. It doesn’t matter anyway. The coup wouldn’t take place in the next five days, and after that, I’d be down south at the university, where the world was civilized and people didn’t kill their relatives as a matter of course. As the brideshow candidates filed down from the balcony, the first of the guests began to greet my father. King Sigis of Drysiak approached first, and I slunk behind Velosha. Sigis was an observer, not a delegate, but in my opinion, he was more of a royal pain than anything else. He’d oiled his golden beard to catch the lamplight, and aside from a scarlet-and-diamond pin that signified his own colors, he wore our family blue. He’d fostered with us for five years, learning to swagger like Father and manufacture “accidents” leading to broken legs and broken skulls among more than one sibling. Father favored Sigis over any natural-born child of his own, and he had taught him the worst of his tricks. Maybe it was the cruelty they had in common. The Gods knew arrogance was something we all shared. Sigis embraced Father, and Father clapped him hard on the back. “Welcome, as always.” “As always, I am honored to be welcome,” Sigis said. I didn’t snort at that. I didn’t want to attract attention. But Sigis’s politeness was always an act. He always made me think of a bear—except he lacked the bear’s manners. “I was surprised by the size of the magic display.” “It’s only the preliminary night,” Father said. “I’ve saved a more impressive show for when the rest of the delegates arrive.” Sigis’s eyes glinted strangely. “I look forward to it.” As he moved away, Father leaned over to speak in Mother’s ear. “I could have gotten him to stand up in the brideshow.” “Sigis doesn’t like boys,” she replied out of the side of her mouth. Lucky boys, I thought. Father rolled his shoulders. “I could have done it.” “Maybe you should have given him a daughter when you had the chance.” Mother sneered. Father shot her a murderous look in response. How those two stayed in the same room long enough to make thirteen children, I’ll never guess. My dress itched in a number of awkward places, and the noise that bounced off the ice walls threatened to give me a headache. But I had to stay until each of the brideshow guests had been greeted and we’d been dismissed from our formal duties. I curtsied to the first candidate, a blushing, stuttering boy. He muttered a name too soft for me to hear, though I ought to have known it from the crest on his shoulder, a wheel flanked by rearing horses. Father and Mother treated him courteously; Lyosha dismissed him with a curled lip. I didn’t know much about the candidates, but I did know this: My parents and my brother each had a favorite, and it wasn’t the same person. “Show respect,” said Father as the boy retreated. His voice was soft—dangerous. Lyosha’s lip curled. “Why? Omsara is a paupers’ kingdom. We don’t need them.” “The point of the brideshow is to strengthen friendships, not create rifts,” Father said. “I asked you to think about that when you started considering your choices.” The next candidate came up, a girl who was graceful and tall, brown-skinned and wide-eyed, and dressed in a white-and-green shift dress. It looked loose and free compared with the tight bodices we wore under our coats. She dipped a curtsy to each of us, smiling. I stifled a sigh as I curtsied back and pressed her hand. This was going to take hours. I could be spending the time packing, or studying, or making my university portfolio. Maybe I could persuade Aino to claim I was ill. Anything would be better than pretending I cared about a brother who thought I’d be more convenient dead and about the poor person who was about to marry him. I spotted Farhod, my alchemy tutor. Like me, he tried to eschew major functions; unlike me, he usually had more success. I rolled my eyes for his benefit. He shook his head reproachfully. His dark, wide eyes were uniquely suited to disapproval. “I like her,” Lyosha said as the snowdrop girl retreated. “She can be considered.” “Not so obviously, my love,” Mother warned him. “Everyone needs to start off on equal footing.” “They’re not equal,” Lyosha replied. “And I don’t see the point in wasting my time.” “Then perhaps I should select a different heir,” Father replied. “Being grand duke is a balance, not a life of doing whatever suits you, and when.” Lyosha stiffened, as though he’d been hit by a blast of cold wind. Rage gathered around him like lightning waiting to ground on something. “The future of the duchy is mine. My choice. I don’t have to run it as inefficiently as you have.” The next candidate faltered. Father motioned them forward with a gracious sweep of his hand, but I couldn’t blame them for moving with reluctance. They introduced themselves in a hurry and retreated as soon as they could. “Come now.” Mother touched Lyosha’s shoulder, on Father’s side for the first time in years. “There are many considerations to be met. We can’t afford to offend anyone before we know what they’re offering for the marriage.” Lyosha sulked. “You just don’t like her because she’s not your choice.” “We talked about this,” Father said. Lyosha spoke in a voice not quite low enough, not quite practiced enough to reach only our ears. “You talked about this. You didn’t bother to ask.” “This is a political endeavor—” Father began. Lyosha’s voice rose. “I have my politics. I make my choices.” A small circle of space began to grow around us. “And if I can’t make my own choice, I’ll make no choice.” “You are jeopardizing years of statecraft,” Father growled. “The duchy doesn’t need fat, old men deciding statecraft,” Lyosha hissed. “And neither do I.” His words slid through the air like a red sword. The brideshow candidates stared. The tan, dark-haired girl in the emerald-and-gold riding suit no longer smiled. Lyosha’s anger crackled, so palpable I could almost see it. “This isn’t your brideshow,” he choked out. “This isn’t your duchy,” Father replied. He sounded almost contemplative. “And the more you try to take it, the more I think it never should be.” The whole hall was silent for a breath, waiting for Lyosha’s lightning to finally ground. “The brideshow’s off,” Lyosha called, his voice bouncing off the hard ice walls. Noise rippled across the hall. Father grabbed for Lyosha’s arm, but Lyosha had spun on his heel and was already striding through the candidates, who scattered and regrouped like a herd of animals. Father clapped his hands. In response, the guards around the hall slammed their halberds against the ground with a crack. In the silence that followed, he said in an impossibly calm voice, “The brideshow will resume tomorrow. Please enjoy yourselves.” By the time he was finished, most of the foreign delegates had begun to shout. “Excellent,” Velosha murmured beside me, and I shuddered. If Lyosha lost the title of heir-elect, she’d look to win it through a process of elimination—specifically, by eliminating her sibling rivals. Half the court ministers disappeared; the rest decided to settle the matter by arguing at the top of their lungs. A hand gripped my elbow and yanked me sideways. Aino. She was supposed to stand at the edge of the hall as a lesser lady, but she’d squeezed her way over to me. “Come on,” she said, pulling me toward a side door. She elbowed past the minister of the People, and I tripped over the minister of trade’s robe. He stumbled past me, steadying himself by putting a hand on top of my head for balance. Had it been a normal night, I would have confronted him for his rudeness. Aino dragged me past anxious servants to the corridor, barely letting me get my feet under me. The flickering lamps set into the walls caught the red in her auburn hair, and her knuckles were white around my arm. We hurried past officials and servants who rushed the other way, alarmed, no doubt, by the noise. “Slow down,” I protested, tripping over the heavy hem of my coat. Aino didn’t answer. “Aino,” I squeaked as she wrenched me around a corner, nearly dislocating my shoulder. The iron grips on the bottoms of my shoes dug into the ice. She didn’t slow down until we reached the royal wing and passed beyond the guards there. We scurried down corridors carved with the scenes of my family—grand dukes battling with enemies, treating with the duchy Below, choosing brides from their own brideshows. Winter roses twined above us, their ice petals stretching at a two-thirds bloom. Aino dug out a key and unlocked my door with trembling fingers. Then she shoved me inside. The fire was out. The ice walls of my rooms glowed blue-white in moonlight that streamed through thin windowpanes. Aino dumped firewood into the metal basin that served as the fireplace, then started the fire with dry moss and a flint. The fire basin sat on a thick stone shelf to protect the ice floor beneath, and white and blue tiles lined its chimney. A bearskin rug lay in front of the fire, and I sat in the oak chair there, shifting a blanket to one side. I slid my feet out of my wooden shoes and dug my socks into the rug. A tightness began to uncoil in me. No siblings to murder me, no Father or Mother to examine me, balancing my usefulness and irrelevance against my potential as a threat. I pulled diamond-studded pins from my hair, which has Mother’s paleness but not its curl. My rooms always meant safety to me, but not to Aino. She locked the door, slid the bolt, and heaved a chair from next to the door until it blocked the handle. Then she went to lock the door to the servants’ corridor. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Making sure no one separates your head from your neck in whatever happens tonight.” Aino’s braid had come undone, and she pinned it back up with thin-lipped determination. “This is a coup, and Lyosha and your father are in the middle of it. You don’t have to be. How packed are you?” “Fairly packed.” My trunk sat in a corner of the room, stuffed with all the things I thought I’d need at the university—clothes, books, sketches of the biology of Above, a few plates with detail on flora from Below sent up as a sample and gift to Farhod. I was still working on copying his dissection report, a recent—and generous—gift from the duchy Below to expand our academic knowledge. “Good. We’ll set out tonight, and we won’t come back until one of them is grand duke and one of them is dead.” No one could boss me around like Aino could. She was more of a mother to me than Mother. She was shorter and slimmer than our family, with wide blue eyes that always looked alarmed and a nose made for poking into my business. She knew the intrigues of Lyosha and my parents before I did, and she made sure I was always well dressed for events of the court, well versed in what to say, and well protected from the worst of my family’s wrath. She tasted my coffee every morning and ran her fingers along the seams of my new clothes to check for razors my siblings might have slipped in. Worrying for my safety lined her mouth and forehead and streaked her hair with gray before its time. In the weeks before, she’d looked more and more worn out as she updated me on which minister backed which family member and how many siblings were trying to get involved in the imminent coup. I didn’t pay much attention to it. I cared less for Lyosha’s political ambitions than I did for a vial of wolf urine. At least I could learn something interesting from wolf urine. And as long as my chief interests were the flora and fauna of Above and Below, I doubted any ministers or ambitious family members cared about me. All the same: “I can’t leave yet.” Even if I had no interest in the duchy, I had a duty. Our family was Kylma Above, and we had responsibilities to uphold. Father had stipulated that I could go south when the brideshow was over, not before. If I violated his order, he might find some way to prevent me from going to the university at all. I went over to my desk, skipping across the floor in my wool socks. “What are you doing?” Aino asked. “I might as well get some work done.” I pulled my technical drawings from the middle drawer of the desk. I was copying Minister Farhod’s, and I had to finish them before I went south. They’d be part of my university portfolio and application. Farhod had warned me that gaining admittance was hard, even for the daughter of a grand duke—but detailed dissection notes of a creature never seen before was sure to catch their attention. “You ought to rest.” Aino checked the door, then paced back to the fire, dispersing the logs with a poker. “We shouldn’t have lit this. What if someone realizes you’re here?” I rolled my eyes as I lit the little candle under my frozen inkwell. Aino was back to her favorite hobby: fretting. “No one can see me, and no one’s going to care. Fetch my robe, won’t you?” She stomped off, muttering about ungrateful brats and coups and heads. I was restless, too, and opened the window next to my desk, leaning out to let the cold air sting my cheeks. The palace was quieter than usual. Maybe we really were on the cusp of a coup. Or maybe the brideshow was canceled, and nobody wanted to celebrate. From here, I could just see the bridal tower, and I wondered if the candidates had retreated to it. The girl in the riding suit didn’t seem like the type to retreat from anything. A lone figure hurried across a decorative wall, and four stories beneath me lay the thick ice sheet that separated Above and Below. I wanted to crack that ice so badly that it split my heart to think about it. Beneath that ice swam undulating bodies with serpentine legs, vague shapes I could nearly recognize when I walked on the lake’s frozen surface. The duchy Below was our closest ally and our dearest friend. It was the only political matter I had any interest in. It was the greatest thing Father had denied me—and denied me, and denied me. Aino draped my robe around my shoulders. “Shut the window,” she said, reaching past me to do it herself. I pulled my head inside. “No one’s going to shoot me from the palace walls.” “Honestly, Ekata. If there is one night my worrying might save your life, it’s tonight.” She cinched the robe around my waist. “You’ve never been the sweet, obedient type. Humor me.” “I’ll keep the doors and windows locked.” I forced myself not to roll my eyes again. “But don’t call for a sled. And let me work for a few hours before bed. There’s nothing unsafe about sitting at my desk.” “You can work for half an hour, then I’m dousing the fire. And if anyone knocks, say nothing. You’re not here.” I shook my head and tucked my chin to hide a smile. “All right.” I didn’t hide it well enough. “Don’t treat this like a joke, my lady,” Aino snapped. She only used my lady when she was really cross. “I’m concerned about your life, and all you can think of is livers and cross sections.” She curled her lip at the sheet on my desk on which Minister Farhod had painstakingly drawn a number of internal organs in a hand so fine they still seemed to glisten. I licked the nib of my pen. “Aino, relax,” I said. “The kitchen boy’s more politically involved than I am. Whatever occurs tonight, it’s hardly going to concern us.” As it happened, I was wrong. About the Author: I am a writer and tour guide in Copenhagen, Denmark. Though I originally come from Colorado, I left the US when I was eighteen and I haven’t lived there since. More permanent stops on my travels have included Switzerland, Wales and Denmark. The arrival of a Danish husband has somewhat cemented my living situation, but I get my travel in smaller doses these days. I like to write fantasy, mostly, though I dabble in soft sci-fi. My short stories are more adult, my novels more YA. I’ve studied history, archaeology, and writing. I like to take my inspiration from historical events, and the more unknown and inspiring the event, the better. I am represented by Kurestin Armada of P.S. Literary. To keep up with what strange things I’m researching and writing, you can sign up for my newsletter here. I send out a short newsletter once a month. Links: Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17293691.Claire_Eliza_Bartlett Website: https://authorclaire.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/bartlebett Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/bartlebett/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bartlebett/ Giveaway: Prize: Win (1) of (2) finished copies of THE WINTER DUKE by Claire Eliza Bartlett (US Only) Starts: 3rd March 2020 Ends: 18th March 2020 a Rafflecopter giveaway Tour Schedule: http://fantasticflyingbookclub.blogspot.com/2020/01/tour-schedule-winter-duke-by-claire.html March 3rd The Unofficial Addiction Book Fan Club - Welcome Post March 4th L.M. Durand - Guest Post Belle's Archive - Review + Favourite Quotes Utopia State of Mind - Review + Favourite Quotes Libri Draconis - Review The Everlasting Library - Review + Favourite Quotes March 5th Bibliobibuli YA - Interview Whispers & Wonder - Review The.magicalpages - Review + Favourite Quotes Caitsbooks - Review + Dream Cast + Favourite Quotes @onemused - Review March 6th NovelKnight - Guest Post Booked J - Review + Playlist + Favourite Quotes The Reading Chemist - Review Dazzled by Books - Review The art of living - Review March 7th Ya It’s Lit - Review + Favourite Quotes @womanon - Review The Layaway Dragon - Review + Favourite Quotes Inky Moments - Review + Dream Cast Magical Reads - Review + Playlist March 8th Moonlight Rendezvous - Review + Favourite Quotes Sometimes Leelynn Reads - Review + Playlist Ink & Myths - Review + Favourite Quotes Morgan Vega - Review + Favourite Quotes Enthralled Bookworm - Review + Favourite Quotes March 9th Kait Plus Books - Interview The Reading Corner for All - Review + Favourite Quotes Frayed Books - Review Your Words My Ink - Review + Dream Cast Confessions of a YA Reader - Review + Favourite Quotes

http://www.dazzledbybooks.com/2020/03/the-winter-duke-blog-tour-review.html

[dieellendie-blog]

dont worry the tooth isnt lost

Its easier for me to deal with all this, if that person you created me as, was true,

so i think what you thought, say what you said and im doing all you said id do.

If that justifies an ending, guess ive got nothing left to lose

ive been hungover for a month now and im fucking anything that moves.

And in the middle of all this.

I met somebody.

Maybe you wasn’t so wrong afterall. Maybe you sensed it. You always said I’d fall for a another, another who was ‘better’. That was your fear. I told you that nobody would ever be ‘better’ than you and it was impossible. Now I wonder what you meant as better and maybe you were right. Is better encouraging somebody to be themselves? Is better finding joy in the person somebody is? Is better encouraging somebody to excert all you told me hide? The parts of me you had me push down, hide and bury? Is better setting a fucking fire inside of someone and making them feel like oxygen is heroin? Is better throwing a tornado to somebodys feet and inhaling exhilerance that surrounds a conversation?Is better the brush of a hand smashing through every single cell that exists in somebody and knocking them to the floor? Is better meeting someone who just instantly makes you want to settle down, enjoy a quiet life that as long as they are in, is filled with more laughter and happiness than any country, city or repeititve night out? A life where even washing dishes with them is an adventure in itself. Maybe I did meet somebody better. But I have as much chance of her being mine as I did of ever gaining your trust.

So much time has passed that her face is a blur. Every thought is an idea of her. Thoughts are hazy. We barely speak but I connect her name with nothing but perfection. The things she said, the way we laughed. It is turning into white noise and a hot and cold confusion of desire or fate. Let down or wonder. A force so strong, part of a story that isnt over...or a force so strong it was simply the chapter that helped me forget you. Am I simply maximising her by a thousand to justify any reasoning for your exit and creating somebody so great, you being gone isn’t so bad? Or is that how great she actually is?

I can’t remember.

Cant decide.

Does it even matter?

What did we even speak about, what did we laugh about. The memory of our substance and our best days has faded. And all I have is a mind that doesn’t recall details, but tells me it was perfection with her.

Her.

I don’t know if this perfect idea I have of her is real or a creation I have evolved to blur my reality. If she is so perfect, then you were so wrong. But if she is so perfect why is this impossible? Why am here when she cries and why is she there when I do? Is she somebody I have made and emphasised, a daydream I constructed to take my mind off crisis? Do I ever want to see her again and distort this literal idea of perfection that soothes me. Every single day. Comforts me and makes me remember how good it can feel to be alive. Or, is she perfect. Perfect temporary diversion or perfect for me?  Even though memories fade, words no longer spoken, laughter no longer shared. My brain tells me. Reminds me. Every second with her was perfect. I did meet somebody better.

I used to be able to close my eyes, build your face in the dark,

Every bone, every freckle, every line and every mark.

I suppose it’s like you died, but why don’t I feel sad?

Guess I come acustomed to just enjoying the time we had.

Another time, another place...

or a pile of lies and a fucking waste.

New morning, new headache, another girl lies in my bed,

better than lying and analyzing, the past and what you said.

A boring act of NOTHING, simply passes my time

black out all these wonderings, convince the world im doing fine.

Gain no physical joy, guess its just something for me to do,

actually the best sex i had lately, was when i thought of you

These actions are redundant, I fake pleasure just to be,

trade it all for that bangkok table and your leg against my knee

A violent swirl in my stomach, thighs are shaking, I cant breathe

And its just another tale, where the girl in question has to leave

Fight for what you want or let existence dictate your ways?

everybody wants the easy option. talks the talk but never stays.

finding contentment in romantisicm, did I craft our story myself?

Just a diversion of my thoughts and another story for my shelf?

Manifesting all your perfection, just a vision in my head?

or do I dream of Sundays, waking entangled in your bed

Don’t risk time together, look back fondly at our days,

A drunken March exchange and a perfect month of haze.

Sometimes all I want is to just know what you are thinking.

Or are you my finest battle, stop at nothing, make you mine

bad luck

heads fucked.

just learn where to draw the line.

[musescore-com]

MuseScorer of the month: Mike Magatagan

Yes, this project was supposed to be closed in December 2017, but as we’ve discovered more and more great composers and arrangers on MuseScore who really deserve to be featured, we decided to relaunch “MuseScorer of the month”! So, please meet Mike Magatagan - the MuseScorer of March 2018.

Mike is a software engineer by trade, living in Arizona (USA) with his wonderful and musically talented family. His kids can play all kinds of saxophones, and his wife plays handbells.

“Basically, I’m a computer geek who loves to solve problems. I have been developing software for the last 25+ years but have recently rekindled my love of music. I am relearning the piano and my first love - the pipe organ. I recently rediscovered the Viola (which I played for about 7 years in my youth) after about 35+ years.” That’s what he says about his musicianship.

Mike makes wonderful arrangements of baroque music for strings and other ensembles. Here is an interview with Mike Magatagan (M.M.) conducted by our staff member Alexander T. (A.T.):

A.T.: Why baroque? I mean, why did you choose that particular style/period for making scores?

M.M.: Baroque is a very meaningful genre for me. It just makes sense mathematically, stylistically and rhythmically. It is complex but not pretentious. I love the fluidity and forcefulness; it seems to cross so many arbitrary genre lines and gives so much insight into the development of other music forms.

A.T.: I’ve noticed that you uploaded a lot of great arrangements mostly for strings during this March. How did you manage to make such a large amount of scores (more than 40) during just one month and what was your purpose/motivation for making them?

M.M.: There is no magic here. I do have thousands of scores, consisting of arrangements, transcriptions and original compositions online at MuseScore.com, and I have several thousands of scores on my local computer that I have not yet published. This body of work is the culmination of many (many) years of effort using other (not MuseScore) music notation software. Since I discovered MuseScore (and the online site), I made it a goal to share at least one score a day and I have continued ever since. I didn’t initially develop scores for strings mainly because of the weak and cartoonish string SoundFont used by early versions of MuseScore. MuseScore’s sound quality has come a long way and feels more realistic in its depth and warmth. I favor strings probably from my early youth, when I played Violin and later Viola in a youth symphony. Many of my friends are string players, and I receive a disproportionate number of requests for string arrangements.

A.T.: Have you ever performed yourself, alone or with some ensemble, the arrangements you’ve made?

M.M.: This is a great question! Many of my arrangements were made just for me or for me in conjunction with my Church. My composition “Hallowed be Thy Name” was created specifically for a Church special-music ensemble where I played Piano and others played flute. Many of My Viola (2-part) pieces were created for myself (on Viola) and others on Harp or Piano. I intentionally “dumbed-down” the Viola to match my proficiency at that particular time in my learning timeline. MuseScore is an invaluable resource to allow a budding performer to practice alongside simulated instruments/orchestras. I use this capability often!

A.T.: Nice to hear that. What about some other musical groups playing your scores?

M.M.: I receive requests for arrangements daily. Competing projects don’t allow me to support all the requests but I have a special place in my heart for Church groups, school groups, non-profit support groups that provide music to hospitals, senior centers, etc… I have created mainly Piano, Organ, Handbell, and small ensemble (string quartet/quintet, woodwind & brass) arrangements for these groups. I don’t do this for profit and I have never accepted a cent for my work. Music belongs to the world, and I like to believe I am a willing participant in that co-op.

A.T.: Oh, I see, sounds great! Here is another question: you were talking about “many years of effort using other music notation software” before discovering MuseScore. So what made you stop searching for software and stick to MuseScore?

M.M.: When I first discovered MuseScore (I believe it was 1.2 or 1.3), it was as if a door opened and what was once difficult, became painless. Namely the ease with which I could pen a note and hear the effect. Having an online resource like MuseScore.com allowed me to share my creations with others in a way that I wanted it to be heard, and receive feedback in a collaborative way.

A.T.: Wow. It’s a great pleasure for the MuseScore staff members to know that. Ok…now, could you please tell me something about your composing/arranging workflow?

M.M.: My workflow is rather mechanical and is therefore easier to schedule and accomplish. The overall sound is of utmost importance to me, and I try never to sacrifice timbre for ease of performance or for specific instrumentation. I use a MIDI keyboard as well as the IMSLP (and other) paper sources. I believe I am able to notate in MuseScore rather quickly now, and have discovered many shortcuts in the software (keyboard, plug-ins,…) that facilitate rapid entry. Once a score is entered into MuseScore, I use my ear to (hopefully) validate the score, and then I begin on the arrangement. The unusual aspect about myself is that no matter how music is played, I hear something different; a voice becomes an instrument, a subtle melody becomes a solo part, a subdued rhythm becomes a main theme. I always hear something different in a piece and I try to expose what I hear. MuseScore is the tool that allows me to do that in a way that others can experience.

A.T.:Thanks for sharing your experience, Mike. And, concerning sharing, our traditional “MuseScorer of the month question” for you is: what have you shared on MuseScore.com that you’re most proud of ?

M.M.: Strangely enough, the pieces that I love the most or reflect the most effort on my part, are typically the least listened or favorited by others! People love what people love and sometimes the first few notes, if not immediately captivating, result in a miss. I have created some works that I enjoy as much as others do. Of note is my “Point of No Return” for Flute & Harp, a “Debussyesque” manifestation that I carried in my head for quite some time. MuseScore allowed me to hear it and tweak it in interesting ways:

“Point Of No Return” by Mike Magatagan

The three other scores I’d like to put a spotlight on are:

“Hallowed be Thy Name” for Piano & Flutes,

“Toccata & Fugue in D Minor” (BWV 565) for String Quintet, and

“Dixit Dominus” (HWV 232) for Winds & Strings.

Mike Magatagan has completed his goal to create an arrangement and/or transcription of every single composition of J.S. Bach and has published many (but not all yet) of those works on the MuseScore online site. He is currently working on arrangements of G.F. Handel and has been publishing them as well at the request of a follower. Mike has also been recently “driven to rearrange pieces specifically aimed at highlighting the warm compassionate tone of the viola.” Check out his MuseScore page for his arrangements and original compositions, and watch for our next MuseScorer of the month in May!

P.S. Here are two Mike's arrangements posted in March, which I particularly like (both pieces were composed by G.F.Handel).

Yours, Alexander T.

[toussainttomove]

We bounce back like Pendulums : Support is being Kind.

Greetings Readers. 

I am here 8 months on since my last post. A ton of things has happened privately, artistically, magically and spiritually. I feel mostly good and that is all thanks to the miraculousness of life it self. We have no thanks to express but the almighty fact we are here in this life to dream and manifest. For that I give thanks and praises. 

Hallelujah!!!!

I have learned a lot about my self and I feel the next chapter coming is one of great independence and a rise to meet myself. 

It’s Simba having to defeat his fears, looking into the water and seeing his father’s reflection. After running away from the past for so long he realised he is still his father’s son. Therefore he must carry on to the great kingdom and take his place as king. 

We all have this journey to partake on. It is an archetypal journey of the Hero.

 i learned that hanging out with some really love funky spirits in Devon. Eating lots of food, crying a lot, laughing a lot, reading and watching things about myth and doing tarot. 

Good Times!!!!!!

                                              People Are Awesome

When i am feeling down I tend to enjoy cuddling my beloved. She is so comfy to cuddle it is really unbelievable, When we are not together and I don’t have such a luxury and I don’t want to talk about myself. I write or I make music or I loath around watching anime and eating lots of food. 

A new thing I have been doing is counting my blessings. Well it’s not new, since Damien Marley and Nas wrote that song it shed light on such a practice and now its just there in my life. It is a great way to remind one self of the greatness that already exist in and around you. 

Zimbabwe 2017.

Devon July 2017 End of Artist Retreat.

Choreographing on Carnival Chronicles 2017

Red Gold Green & Blues 2017

Carnival 2017

I am blessed to have all these people in my life who I am here in service of and they are in turn here in service to me. I get to work with my friend, creating projects to effect our communities positively and to cause entertainment but also deep contemplation in the world. My work is really great and by the feels of things the more I learn the more independent I become and have more flexibility to make my own work happen. 

This is key. 

I am beginning to venture into fashion with my mum and that feels exciting and scary. it is something I have wanted to give attention for a long time but I just didn’t because of whatever reasons. Now feels ripe.

                                            Windows of Displacement

I leave you now with two youtube links and an email pertaining to my one man show. 

This email has helped to solidify in me the reason to create anything. If anyone, someone is going to be uplifted by something you create then that is enough reason to continue striving to create it. No matter the obstacles, get up brush your self off and start back on where you left off. 

Failure is not an option, it is a state of mind.

“Heyy Akeim,

Apologies this has taken me a while.

You asked me to email you feedback.. and I wanted to tell you a little story too.

I've been involved with migrant rights stuff in various forms for a couple of years now.. but what is of immediate relevance is..

I went to the anti Trump demo on Monday night and stood locked into a fence above the various speakers.. feet freezing with my Turkish best friend whose family had arrived in the UK when she was 3 years old on the back of a truck. She's now studying nursing and her family live in Newport, Wales and run a kebab shop.

Being at the march was an expression of our rage and hurt and anger, our need and desire to stand in solidarity and to feel not alone in our feelings. To me it is a physical way to feel, to express. To be feel your toes slowly go numb, to feel the ache in your limbs when ur arms are wrapped round the fencing, to shout ur anger and feel your throat dry up , to feel that cold air on your cheeks , to feel that surging energy of others with similar emotions. It's a way to process and feel that sitting at home alone cannot do.

The next day (Tuesday) I went to an anti deportation noise/solidarity demo at Harmondsworth and Colnbrook - there were charter flights to Nigeria and Jamaica that night. I remember sittig on top of a big wheelie bin after fixing a banner with a mobile number so people inside could call and make contact so people could find them the legal help they might need.

Someone inside had their palm pressed against the glass. It made my heart stop. And in that moment I put my hand up too as if I was pressing my palm to theirs on the other side even though that wasnt possible and a barbed wire fence was in the way.

I felt this painful love inside me and right there all I could channel was I'm here with you right now and I love you.

soon after we were kettled by police and my friend was arrested and they took us one by one to search us.

I met a girl called Jo whose Indian and while we waited to leave the kettle. we had a conversation.

She said to me, there is so much trauma in these walls. I feel so triggered right now. She said British colonial history is seeping through these walls that surround us and is playing out right now.

We talked deeply about the embodied trauma we feel as women of colour of the individual, collective and ancestral traumas of colonialism and patriarchy and capitalism.

And we talked about body work and I told her I'm a massage  therapist and its this trauma i want to work with as an activist and for /within activism. The need for this healing in our communities. I talked about how Im frustrated to be surrounded by apolitical healers and wanting to find community working on a similar level.

She told me about Healing Justice and i was like wow that sound amazing and exactly what i need/want.

Eventually I got home.. and i was so tired and achy and full of worry for my friend. I was so close to not coming to your performance.

But then i remembered id been looking forward to it for ages so i was like come on. I got there and bumped into Saara who i havnt seen in four years.. and in conversation find out she ( and you) are part of Healing Justice ...  BLEW MY MIND.

So when you did ur performance it moved me in all my wearyness.. because I felt then this is why we struggle and fight and resist.

Because when i looked at you, I saw me, I saw my best friend, I saw Jo, I saw the person whose palm was at the window. I saw the people I grew up with and I saw my London.

I saw that we are always always worth fighting for, because when we do and when we get to be free, we get to be the beauty and expanse that is ourselves. We are dreams.

And your story is your story, but there are a million adaptations of those stories happening all the time. And I believe so hard in the potential of people. The freedom to explore and be ourselves.

Movement is key to everything its what keeps us healthy emotionally and physically.

Your movement tells a history, a story, it tells the present, it moves others, but also its a healing process and expression for you and for us, for everyone. It makes that link that we as people, as bodies, we are the physical manifestations of oppressive systems, trauma , we are front lines. But also we are our own too.

So thank you for bringing me back home to my strength when I felt empty that day.

Love

Marianna”

Whenever I have doubt in life. I remember it is bigger than me and that I am not the only person this life is for so get over emotions of anxiety and doubt they only feed cloudiness of mind and action. All I need is clarity, all I need is clarity.

Windows Of Displacement Trailer 2017

Windows of Displacement Documentary 2017

People are awesome, love is easy and strong. 

Peace xxx