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e-vasong · 4 years ago

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hi!! I just wanted to ask about the daemon AU--do you have a headcanon abt when their daemons would settle? or did they just settle after puberty? Did 5's daemon settle before or after the apocolypse?

AH!! this is such a good question. I’m gonna put a cut after this first bit, though, because I took a simple question and accidentally...wrote a 2k thing that kinda straddles the line between answering your question and being a freeform fic? whoops.

Okay. So I think all the kids probably settle a little later than normal for most people. It’s been a while since I read the books, but I recall that most daemons, though not all, settle towards the start of puberty. I headcanon that trauma is one of the things that can push that process back, and all the Hargreeves kids have that in abundance. Not to mention that I don’t think isolating your kids from a normal childhood and forcing them into a vigilante lifestyle is exactly helpful for their development.

Luther settles first, a day after their thirteenth birthday. It happens without much fanfare, while they’re resting at home after a mission. There’s not much a golden retriever can do on a mission that another animal can’t do just as well or better, and Reginald really emphasizes the utility of their daemons above all else. But sometimes Luther likes to let Amalthea turn into big, soft things when their dad isn’t looking. He likes them, even if Diego mocks him relentlessly for it. And that afternoon Amalthea plops down on his chest and turns into a golden retriever, licking at his chin to comfort him after the verbal excoriation their father had given them after the mission had gone wrong at every possible turn. It’s a miracle none of them were hurt. That scares Luther more than anything else. How close he’d come to failing and getting someone killed. And they don’t even realize that she’s settled until like an hour later when they’re headed downstairs and Amalthea tries to shift back into a form that their father will find dignified and just...can’t.

Klaus settles next much to everyone’s surprise. It happens a few months after Luther. Their father has them locked in the crypt again, and it’s particularly bad tonight. Klaus can see them everywhere, tearing at his clothes, clawing at his skin, and he can barely breathe. They go after Cassandra just as eagerly as they do him, but she’s harder to catch. Suddenly she’s a falcon, an ermine, a rat scuttling through a new hole in the wall that their father must have missed. And then she’s outside. Twelve, thirteen feet away maybe, and it pulls at the connection between them, almost to the point of being painful. Hurts enough to gear Klaus out of his catatonic haze and get him to push through the throng of ghosts just to get a couple feet closer to her. And then Cassandra is a cicada, fluttering up to the lock. And then she’s a raccoon, clawing futilely at it with those deft, clever fingers, but unable to work it open without anything to jimmy the lock open with. Yet she’s also trapped by their bond, unable to venture and look for something to use. And so she tries to shift back to rat, to get back inside, and just. Doesn’t. Can’t. So Klaus stills his breathing long enough to stumble over to the door of the crypt, pressing his back flat against it and trying to still his breathing. Cassandra curls up in a small ball in front of the door. And they stay like that all night, until their father comes to let them out in the morning.

Allison, Diego, and Vanya all settle pretty close together, towards the end of their thirteenth year and the start of their fourteenth.

Allison settles on a mission. She’s so busy rumoring a bad guy into killing his friends that she doesn’t notice the one behind her until Diego drops to the ground with a muffled cry of pain. She makes a noise, a hoarse-sounding scream of shock and surprise. But she’s well-trained enough to wrestle her gut reaction under control quickly. She whips around, a rumor already on her lips, but before she can say anything Alexander is there. A flash of muted gold and black, not hulking but still larger than she expects. He jumps, first onto a table. The spring inside a loaded gun. Fifty pounds of coiled muscle and snarling rage. Then he leaps again, surprisingly agile. There’s a flash of canine, long and sharp. The man dies with a gurgle, and when Alexander pads over to Diego’s injured body, licking at their brother’s face with concern, Allison sees that those white teeth are bloody and red.

Diego settles during one of their sneak-outs. They’re walking along the pier, eating fish tacos they bought from a vendor nearby. Ben is reading as they walk, flipping pages idly. He’s not paying attention to where they’re going, though Luther keeps trying to get him to put the book down. But then Diego had told Luther to lay the fuck off, and that had turned into a whole thing, and Ben’s still reading his book. If Five were here, there wouldn’t be any concern about it. He’d had that sort of quiet, watchful way about him, where you knew that even if he wasn’t actively stopping you from doing something, he was still keeping an eye out to make sure it didn’t kill you. If Five were here, he’d have made them take Vanya. If Five were here...

But he isn’t. He’s probably off somewhere, living happily away from their father and from them. Asshole. It’s an uncharitable thought, and Guinevere would bite him for it if he said it out loud, but Diego is so caught up in his anger that he doesn’t see Ben walk into the pole until its too late.

Ben swears, hands flying to his face automatically. Klaus bursts into hysterical laughter. Allison’s gasps, putting a hand to her mouth. Ben’s book tumbles out of his hands and into the water, and Guinevere--also laughing--follows it, turning small and furry as she does. She doesn’t catch it before it gets soaked, but she gets the book in her teeth and paddles over to a small ladder that drops down off the dock. Ben turns to thank her, but Diego is too distracted to catch what he says. Diego just settled, he’s pretty sure. He can feel it in his bones. He’d kind of been hoping for something that would prove once and for all that he’s better than Luther, but frankly their father isn’t going to be any more pleased with otter than golden retriever. That’s kind of a bummer. But when he kneels down to let Guinevere scramble up his arm and around his neck, he can’t really bring himself to care. She’s Gwen, and he’s Diego, and if their father has anything to say about it? Well then. He can go fuck himself.

Vanya settles that winter. She’s playing her violin in the living room. Ben is sitting nearby. They aren’t hanging out, not exactly. None of her siblings really hang out with her, not since Five, but Ben maybe comes the closest. Calliope usually takes the form of a cat, winding around Vanya’s ankles as she plays. She used to turn into a capuchin sometimes, to flip the pages of Vanya’s music, but Io has more or less soured Vanya on monkey daemons these days. But still. Things are nice, and today they are in a particularly good mood. Ben’s company is comforting; it’s nice not to be alone; and Vanya hasn’t missed a single note. So today, Calliope flutters up onto her shoulder and sings along with her. And she never changes back. And when Vanya shyly shows her to their family later, Reginald sniffs, disdainful, having barely spared them a flicker of a glance. Just a songbird, he says dismissively. And that is that.

(And later, years and years later, Leonard peers into the veil of Vanya’s hair.

“Is that your daemon?” he asks affably. He looks unbothered by the way Vanya cringes. His orb weaver is crawling up the sleeve of his shirt, looking almost like a toy or a strange decorative pin.

“Yeah,” Vanya says. Cal is a bundle of fluffed-up feathers nestled in the crook of Vanya’s neck. She huddles in closer at the sight of Leonard’s attention.

“What is she?” Leonard asks, then holds his hands up apologetically. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Just a songbird.”

“Just a songbird?” Leonard echoes. He leans in closer. “Hey, she’s a...great tit, right? I’ve read about those.”

“Oh?” Vanya asks, bracing herself for whatever is going to come next. Leonard is a nice guy; she’s sure he means well. It doesn’t mean that what he says next isn’t going to hurt.

“Yeah,” Leonard smiles at her. “You’re right. They are songbirds. But they’re more than that.”

Vanya pauses, lifts a hand to her hair uncertainly. She hadn’t expected that. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m surprised your family didn’t ever say anything to you, I have to admit. They are songbirds, Vanya. But they’re hunters too,” Harold says. There’s wonder in his eyes, and when Vanya looks up to meet his gaze, he just smiles.)

Ben, like Luther, settles without much fuss. Once a week, since they turned ten, they’ve had a designated time to try out new forms for their daemon. Their father brings out books on zoology. Gives them specimen after specimen to try. Ben isn’t quite sure that this is how it’s supposed to work. All accepted science suggests that settling is half a physical affair and half a mental one. It’s not just about finding the right shape, it's about state of mind as well. Amalthea is a golden retriever, but if she had tried that form when Luther was eight, Ben doubts that she would have settled. But their father doesn’t much seem to care, nor does he seem to understand. Then again, Io and their father have a dynamic that Ben doesn’t quite get either. They seem less like human and daemon and more like warden and prison guard. But maybe that’s just Ben projecting.

Melpomene takes to their father’s training with more courage than Ben does. His stomach hurts; he wishes that he could go back to bed. This is worse now. All the others have settled, and Ben’s been doing this part of their training alone for almost a year. But Mel is braver than Ben is, and she takes the lead. So they go down the list, while their father watches with those piercing eyes. Io is perched on the desk, lips drawing back from his teeth whenever Ben so much as twitches a muscle in the wrong direction.

Mel turns into a large octopus. A cassowary. A vulture, a great Philippine Eagle, a Sumatran rhino, a spectacled caiman.

And then she stops. Tries to shift again.

“I’m stuck,” Mel declares, sounding just as surprised as Ben feels. Their father’s back straightens, and it’s the nearest thing he’s ever given Ben to pride. He peers over his spectacles. Nods.

“This is acceptable,” their father says, like there’s any other option. It’s not like Ben can do anything about it, but he holds his tongue and stares at the floor again. A predator. A scary one, not like Guinevere or Amalthea. Even Alexander is cuddly. Crocodilians, though, people hate. This isn’t how Ben wanted his settling to go. He hadn’t wanted their father to be right.

Ben’s stomach twists. He feels something nudge against the inner lining of his gut, like it’s trying to escape, and ignores it.

“Dismissed, Number Six,” their father says, and when Ben turns to go his eyes feel wet.

And Five...Ugh. I’m debating how much of this I want to share, because I actually have this scene written elsewhere? But Five settles last. Five settles last by no small margin, not just chronologically, but by age as well. Five settles late even among other late bloomers. He settles when he’s eighteen. Approximately. It’s hard to keep track of days in the Apocalypse; Five is good with numbers and has a great memory, but it’s been five years by this point and the days are starting to blur, even for him. The lateness of his settling comes from a combination of trauma, a lack of socialization, and the fact that he is desperately trying to avoid it. He and Dolores keep a list of forms that they know are safe, forms that she’s taken again and again and hasn’t settled in yet.

Because in the Apocalypse, an unsettled daemon is an incredible asset. She can be a hawk, fluttering up to a roof to scout for places to salvage. A wolf, sniffing out supplies. An elephant, moving rubble and bricks so they can turn what remains of the library’s atrium into a makeshift shelter. And a bear, warm and hardy. That form’s kept Five from freezing to death for the past several winters. But the thing about nature is that it always finds a way. They can only fight it for so long. And one night Five wakes up, and Dolores is a snake, and she can’t shift out. She’s cold, too. The night temperatures are too much for her now.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she says to Five, almost frantic with it.

It’s fine, he tells her as she curls up under his jacket, soaking up the warmth radiating from his chest. You’re beautiful. It sounds like a lie. It kind of feels like one too, even though he means it.

This should be a wonderful thing. It would have been, under almost any other circumstances.

They do make it, of course. We know that. Five is clever and he is determined and he has no choice but to survive. He will accept no other outcome, and he’s right in that. They suffer, but they live. They win and they get back to their family.

In the moment, though, they are just a seventeen-year-old boy and his daemon, entirely alone in a world that doesn’t care whether they live or die, and it mainly feels like a death sentence.

(BUT THEN ALSO THEY ALL REUNITE WHEN FIVE TIME TRAVELS BACK AND BEN COMES BACK TO LIFE SOMEHOW AND LEARNS SELF LOVE AND THEY ALL RECOVER FROM THEIR TRAUMA TOGETHER YEE HAW)

#tua #the umbrella academy #my writing #daemon au #this is actually sadder than my normal fare i promise it all works out but by virtue of being a settling fic this involves their childhoods #which were. awful.#sorry for any crappy writing its literally 2am for me i just got fixated on this

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oselatra · 7 years ago

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Kids in isolation: locked away in Alexander

Critics raise concerns about confining kids alone at juvenile facilities. Part one of a two-part series.

In April, a 15-year-old boy housed at the Arkansas Juvenile Assessment and Treatment Center spent the entire day alone in a small cell. Michael (the names of juveniles in this story have been changed to protect their anonymity) was put in a hold by a guard and taken out of his classroom at the facility's school. As he repeatedly said, "I am not resisting" and "no aggression" — a phrase used at AJATC to indicate compliance — Michael was brought across campus to Building 19.

Once used as a maximum-security facility to house a program for serious juvenile offenders, part of Building 19 is now used to temporarily segregate youths from the regular population at AJATC, in some cases confining them in single-cell units. Michael was immediately locked in one of these units, empty other than a metal bed with a mat on it and a wool comforter. Typically, he said, youths confined to a cell in Building 19 may only be let out to use the bathroom. This time, he was not let out at all from around noon until nighttime, when he was taken back to his regular living quarters.

"I was in my cell the whole time," he said. "I was calling the staff's name and they wouldn't let me out. I had to pee in my dinner tray after I got done eating."

Rite of Passage, the Nevada-based, for-profit company that contracts with the state to run the facility, declined to respond to specific stories like Michael's, citing privacy concerns.

AJATC, located near Alexander, houses more than 100 youths. It is the largest of eight juvenile lockup facilities in the state overseen by the Division of Youth Services, part of the Arkansas Department of Human Services. These facilities, known as treatment centers, are intended to provide therapy and rehabilitation rather than being punitive, and are required to provide education that meets state standards. AJATC has a long history of trouble, including mistreatment of children in its care. When Rite of Passage was brought in as a new contractor in 2016, it promised a fresh start, telling the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, "We're not interested in running jailhouses. We're interested in running schoolhouses."

According to multiple youths, former staffers and others, confining a youth alone in a cell in Building 19 or in another room on campus has been regularly used at AJATC as a disciplinary response to nonviolent misbehavior in class, as well as for more serious misconduct, with the youth sometimes staying there for much of the day. If a youth is deemed to be a danger, the practice is sometimes used for a period of multiple days. According to Rite of Passage, the facility ended the practice of room confinement as a response to classroom misbehavior in June. Under current policy, the company's attorneys said, room confinement is only used for certain major infractions, for a maximum of 72 hours. They said that youths in room confinement still have access to services such as education and therapy.

In a letter last week to Division of Youth Services director Betty Guhman, Scott Tanner, the state juvenile ombudsman at the Arkansas Public Defender Commission, raised alarms about the practice and oversight of isolation in the state's juvenile lockup facilities. "These practices must be governed by strong policy and effective monitoring," Tanner wrote. "We, as a state, are failing at both." Tanner cited research that for juveniles, "isolation ... actually has negative public safety consequences, does not reduce violence and likely increases recidivism."

"It's a very risky, dangerous practice," said Jennifer Lutz, an attorney for the Center for Children's Law and Policy in Washington, D.C., and the campaign manager for Stop Solitary for Kids, a partnership between four national juvenile justice reform organizations. The research, Lutz said, shows that putting youths in such situations can cause serious psychological and emotional harm, exacerbate mental illness or post-traumatic stress responses and increase risk of self-harm. She pointed to federal data published by the U.S. Department of Justice that found that more than half of suicides in juvenile facilities occur while youths are isolated alone in a room, and more than 60 percent of youths who commit suicide in custody had a history of being subjected to the practice. There is no evidence, Lutz said, that isolation improves the safety and security of juvenile lockup institutions, and may actually increase violent behavior.

Tanner's letter follows months of communication with the DYS and Rite of Passage staff in which he expressed concerns about the use of room confinement at AJATC. In emails, Tanner described the practice as "essentially social isolation." The communications were acquired from the Public Defender Commission by a Freedom of Information Act request; Tanner declined to comment for this story.

Referencing one youth with severe behavioral problems, Tanner wrote, "Finding a way to effectively engage him is key. Keeping him locked in a room is only adding fuel to his rage." Tanner repeatedly expressed the concern that Rite of Passage's internal policies were not addressing the practices he had witnessed. "There is nothing in this policy that adequately describes what I have observed of youth being placed in a locked unit, in a single room cell behind a locked door away from the general milieu," he wrote.

An email Tanner sent in August shows that he attempted to access individual records of youths he had seen confined in Building 19 during recent visits to the facility — two of them for longer than 72 hours — to assess how Building 19 was functioning in practice, including whether youths sent there were being provided appropriate education and therapy.

Tanner found few answers, the correspondence indicates. The records were months out of date or nonexistent. (Tanner wrote that these gaps in the records "caused concern beyond my initial scope of inquiry.") There was no information about what caused youths to be sent to Building 19, the amount of time they spent in room confinement or what services were provided to them. In some cases, despite the fact that these youths were assigned disciplinary room confinement in July, the most recent incident report on file was in May; in other cases, there was no incident report at all. One appeared to have therapist progress notes before and after the period of confinement, but none during. Another, identified as a student with special education needs, only had a note indicating that the student was not present in group therapy due to being placed in Building 19.

Although Rite of Passage operates AJATC, the DYS is ultimately responsible for the youths at the facility. DYS facilities abide by a protocol in accordance with the American Correctional Association, but the division itself does not currently have an official policy on room confinement; a policy was drafted more than two years ago, but it has never been promulgated.

In his letter to Guhman, Tanner called for data tracking of room confinement — in line with national standards for juvenile justice — to ensure best practices around the use of isolation and enable more intensive monitoring and review. Currently, DYS does not track aggregate data on room confinement and was unable to provide information about how often the practice is used at AJATC or other locations. Any situation that results in room confinement should be noted narratively on an incident report sent to the DYS, but the practice itself is not tracked in the agency's data system.

"The lack of data collected by DYS has been an ongoing issue," said Tom Masseau, executive director of Disability Rights Arkansas, an advocacy group that does regular observations at the juvenile lockups.

"We are having a number of conversations about changes that should happen within the Division of Youth Services and reviewing all policies, and that may be among changes we make," said Amy Webb, chief communications officer at the Department of Human Services. "But because there is not a separate tracking report, that does not mean that we don't monitor this. All incident reports are reviewed by our staff."

Thus far in 2017, DYS staff have yet to identify a single improper use of room confinement requiring further investigation or review.

***

The practice of confining someone alone to a cell or room has many names — isolation, room confinement, segregation, seclusion, restrictive housing, solitary confinement — and each term can have varying definitions.

"One of the major problems with advocacy in this area is there isn't one single nationally accepted definition of solitary confinement," Lutz said. "In the juvenile justice system, that term sets off alarm bells for the folks who work in facilities and run those agencies because they're concerned that it's associated with harsher adult practices." Stop Solitary for Kids defines solitary confinement as "involuntary placement of a youth alone in a cell, room, or other area for any reason other than as a temporary response to behavior that threatens immediate physical harm."

Rite of Passage objected to terms such as "isolation," preferring the phrase "room time." The company also objected to referring to a cell in which a youth is confined alone as a "solitary" room. By email, Rite of Passage's legal counsel wrote, "solitary confinement and isolation are not practices used by RoP in its operations at AJATC. ... There are serious and negative connotations attached to both of those terms, none of which apply to RoP's treatment of the youth in its care." While youth are sometimes locked alone in a cell in Building 19, Rite of Passage noted that staffers and other youths would be present in the building. A youth confined in Building 19 would still have access to normal programming, such as education, recreation and therapy, the company said. Asked specifically what that programming would entail in the context of room confinement, Rite of Passage did not respond.

"The purpose of the removal and placement of the youth in Building 19 is not to isolate them, but to change their environment based upon clinical or behavioral program needs," Rite of Passage attorneys wrote in an email. They described Building 19 as "a dorm-like setting but with enhanced staffing."

Some youths housed at AJATC have a different view. "It's like the prison," said Jason, another 15-year-old resident. Both Jason and Michael, the teenager put in a cell in April, said they had been confined in a cell that had blood and urine clearly visible on the floor and wall.

"It's everywhere," Jason said. "It was just disgusting in there." When the boys complained, they were moved to another cell, but they said that nothing was immediately done to clean up the problem cell. Jason said that if he winds up in a cell in Building 19, he just tries to sleep. "There ain't nothing else to do," he said.

Michael said that in March, over a period of two weeks, he spent at least five hours a day confined to a cell in Building 19 as punishment for refusing to have his hair cut. He was exploring Islam and associated letting his hair grow out with his interest in the faith. On school days, he said, he would be brought to the cell after classes, from 4:30 p.m. to 9:30 p.m.; on weekends, he would be confined to the cell all day. Although Rite of Passage declined to comment on specific stories, it disputed that a youth would ever have been subjected to room confinement for refusing a haircut.

The boys said that over the past year, the most common use of room confinement came in response to classroom misbehavior (unless a more serious infraction is involved, that practice has now been discontinued after a policy change in June, according to Rite of Passage). Students who were seriously disruptive in class might be sent to an in-school suspension classroom. If they continued to misbehave in ISS, they could be sent to Building 19, where they could be confined to a cell. Rite of Passage said that aggregate data on the number of times room confinement was used in response to such scenarios was not available.

In a telephone interview in May, Michael Cantrell, executive director of the southeastern region for Rite of Passage, acknowledged this practice, which he described as a last resort, but denied that the purpose was punitive. He described it as an effort to remove kids from an audience. "I wouldn't call it punishment. That's draconian," he said. "It's a space that kids can go for an hour, two hours, chill out, relax, get themselves together and get back to class."

However, a pair of therapists who left their positions at AJATC earlier this year (before the June policy change), said that room confinement was used as a standard punishment for acting up in class, and that once a student was taken to Building 19, he would generally not return for the rest of the school day.

"They absolutely used it as a punitive measure," one therapist said. "If you piss off staff members or act a fool in school, you go to Building 19. If you get kicked out of class, out of ISS, you go directly to Building 19 and you sit in a cell all day. You don't really come out except to go to the bathroom. Then whenever school is over, group [therapy] is over, everything is done, then you go back to your cottage [the regular living quarters] and you would typically have early bedtime. They'll bring you dinner to your room but you'll stay in your room the rest of the night."

Sometimes, the former AJATC therapists said, guards would pull the bed mat out of the cell in Building 19 so that youths only have the metal frame of the cot to sit or lie on. The therapists said that, during their time working for Rite of Passage, Building 19 was overused. "If you have a kid who is being extremely aggressive and violent, then to calm down is not necessarily a bad thing," one said. "I think that is excessive when you don't allow the kid to recover, when they can't go back to school for the rest of the day. If this happens at 8 o'clock in the morning, you're SOL."

As with the statements made by the youths above, Rite of Passage, through its legal counsel, declined to respond directly to any specific allegations. "Those who work from the standpoint of misinformation, rumors and inadequate information harm the process and ability to keep all safe," the company's attorneys wrote.

Removing a youth from the classroom to confine him in Building 19 or elsewhere could create a federal legal issue under the Individuals with Disabilities Act if he has a disability, Masseau said. "If [the misbehavior] is a manifestation of disabilities, you can't just change his placement because he's acting up. You need to put in behavior supports or modify his programming in whatever way allows the child to obtain their free and appropriate public education."

"If a youth has a disability the Special Ed department will ensure his or her needs are met, and may include the use of services within Building 19," Rite of Passage attorneys stated.

***

Whatever name it goes by, youth advocates argue that room confinement should be strictly limited in juvenile facilities, and even short periods of confinement can be counterproductive and harmful for children. "It has a detrimental effect on a youth's treatment, education, physical health and mental health," Masseau said. "Every national standard I've read says that it should never be used as a punitive measure, that it should only be used when the kid's actively a danger to himself or others, and even then calls for frequent review. It's all geared toward minimizing the amount of time a kid is removed from the normal environment."

"It's not helping kids emerge from facilities better equipped than when they entered," Lutz said. "Unfortunately, it's been the tool that's been used for so long that staff and facilities can no longer see how ineffective it is."

Regulation on the issue of room confinement for juveniles in the state has long been murky. DHS administrative code, which has the force of law, contains more stringent limits than what has been the practice at some facilities ("it's unclear who, if anyone, actually enforces this code," Masseau said).

While the DYS has no official policy on the use of room confinement, the division did develop a policy in 2015 at the prompting of Disability Rights Arkansas. Although it was never promulgated, Marq Golden, the DYS assistant director for residential programs, said the draft policy nonetheless served as a baseline set of expectations for both outside vendors and state staff.

Golden also said that the DYS requires facilities to comply with American Correctional Association (ACA) standards. Those standards limit room confinement for juveniles to five days, stating that "the time a juvenile spends in disciplinary confinement is proportionate to the offense committed," and establish parameters for administrative review. "They have to be accredited by ACA so that kind of secures us in that aspect," Golden said. Although the contract requires it within one year of the start date, Rite of Passage, which took over in August 2016, has not yet secured ACA accreditation for its management of AJATC; it is expected to be accredited by April 2018.

The DYS draft policy notes the five-day maximum on room confinement for juveniles set by ACA standards, but states that even emergency isolations (a term that is not defined) should generally be limited to four hours. It leaves open the possibility of disciplinary room confinement, but suggests it should be brief, without specifying precisely what that means.

"Our bottom line is this: Room confinement should not be done out of anger or simple irritation," Webb said. "It should be done out of necessity."

However, Rite of Passage policy on the duration of room confinement is markedly different than the DYS' recommendation that room confinement typically shouldn't exceed four hours. The company's current policy is that room confinement will last a minimum of four hours and a maximum of 72 hours, Rite of Passage counsel said. The company could not provide any information about the average duration of such room confinements or how often they lasted more than 24 hours.

Golden said that the DYS draft policy was "written broadly to address a wide variety of scenarios, and those vendors such as RoP have to address the protocols beneath that to address those types of scenarios. When you write a policy like this, it is written more as a general guideline and then those who abide within that have to create the specific rules."

Masseau said it was necessary for the DYS to promulgate an official policy on room confinement and isolation. "The failure of the Division to do so has resulted in confusion and inconsistent practice throughout the facilities," he wrote in an email. "Staff are untrained in the appropriate response methods in the event a youth needs a time out, often triggering further incident. Without an official policy, there is no requirement that the staff and facility officials follow generally accepted guidelines to protect the health and safety of the youth. And in turn, there is no method for enforcement of or accountability for those staff who deviate from those generally accepted guidelines, because that is all that they are — guidelines."

Webb said that the DYS "recognizes that it needs to be promulgated and we are in the process of getting that going." Asked about a timeline, Golden said, "I don't know a specific timeline within a year."

National standards are generally moving away from punitive isolation practices. "In very rare situations, a juvenile may be separated from others as a temporary response to behavior that poses a serious and immediate risk of physical harm to any person," a 2016 U.S. Department of Justice report recommended. "Even in such cases, the placement should be brief, designed as a 'cool down' period, and done only in consultation with a mental health professional." The Juvenile Detention Alternatives Initiative, which is supported by the Annie E. Casey Foundation, states that even in an emergency situation, isolation should never exceed four hours; at that point, a youth should be transferred to a mental health facility or medical unit. A 2015 report developed by the Council of Juvenile Correctional Administrators (CJCA) advised that "isolating youths ... as a consequence for negative behavior undermines the rehabilitative goals of youth corrections."

Ron Angel, who served as director of the DYS from 2007 to 2013, said he should have discontinued the use of Building 19 (at that time used to house sex offenders) altogether. "I should have gone ahead and done away with that concept, because it was prison," Angel said. "You can quote me on that — if I could go back in time, I would shut that building down. Or remodel it into something that was more of a therapeutic setting." Angel said that he tried to minimize the use of room confinement as anything more than a cool-down period of less than an hour. "I don't think a prison cell is right for young kids, and I never did," he said.

***

Asked in May whether Rite of Passage had any internal policies or protocols governing under what circumstances room confinement is used as a response, Cantrell said, "There's not really a policy that spells that out, because every kid is so different. You start trying to put XYZ [triggers room confinement], then what happens is I have a reporter saying, 'Well, the kid didn't do XYZ.'"

Asked whether there were policies or protocols governing how long a youth would be confined in isolation, Cantrell said, "It really depends on their behaviors and when they're calm and ready to rejoin the program. ... Generally, our goal is that the kid is not there more than 24 hours. I mean, that's our goal. Has there been an instance or two where that's been longer? Yes."

When the Arkansas Nonprofit News Network reached out to Cantrell again in July, he declined to speak by telephone, and Rite of Passage's attorneys provided written responses to further questions.

It was in the intervening month that Tanner, the juvenile ombudsman, began to express concern about Building 19 and room confinement at AJATC.

Golden, the DYS official, soon arranged a meeting with Rite of Passage, on July 10. "I provided them the [draft policy] and informed them that they would have to follow that," he said. "I told them that they could not use that facility in that manner if they were using it improperly. They were in agreement."

On July 25, Tanner wrote in an email, "Rite of Passage has yet to furnish adequate policy supporting these practices ... This practice, as we discussed, exposes the state and your program to risk. ... I will continue to broad stroke this intervention as social isolation and an unacceptable practice until it is demonstrated to me to be supported by adequate policy, practice and monitoring." Golden responded to Tanner, "I am in agreement that they should be drafting an internal policy."

On Aug. 5, Rite of Passage provided Tanner with a June-dated policy on in-school interventions that contains the following language in bold text: "Being removed from school and placed in the cottage/building 19 DOES NOT warrant a student being locked in his or her room all day." However, the newer policy does not appear to otherwise provide clear parameters for the use of room confinement; Tanner later wrote that none of the policies provided address some of the practices he has observed at AJATC.

Attorneys for the company told the Arkansas Nonprofit News Network that as of June 20, Rite of Passage no longer used room confinement in response to misbehavior in class and ISS and described that practice as a holdover from G4S, the for-profit company that previously ran AJATC. Rite of Passage, which took over in August 2016, eventually determined that the practice "lacked the consistency and disciplinary value RoP sought to provide its youth." Company policy, according to Rite of Passage counsel, now dictates that room confinement at AJATC can only be used as a response in four situations: when the youth is a danger to self or others (including fights), destruction of property, committing a class A felony, or possession of harmful contraband. It could also be used if a youth requests room confinement "due to emotional stressors."

Although Rite of Passage does not keep aggregate data, it estimated that over the course of a typical month in the past year, less than 6 percent of the AJATC population — around half a dozen youths — were sent to room confinement in response to an emergency situation. The current policy described by Rite of Passage could allow for the use of room confinement in certain situations that do not involve immediate risk of harm to self or others; Rite of Passage did not provide an estimate of how often it has been used in such situations.

"We know that when young people are in isolation, there's lots of needs that aren't being met," Lutz said. "They're sent to facilities by judges to receive rehabilitation and treatment. Maybe they're there for drug and alcohol treatment, or mental health counseling. Every minute in solitary is a minute they're not getting that treatment.

Many of these kids have serious educational deficits, and they have a constitutional right to an appropriate education. They're not getting it when they're in solitary confinement. What we often see — in a best-case scenario — assignments are slid under the door, and it's come and collected later."

Rite of Passage did not respond to specific questions about how the daily schedule or programing would operate for youths in room confinement. (For example: Would a student work on schoolwork alone in the cell, or interact with his regular teacher?) "Youth in reassessment adhere to the same daily schedule as the rest of the youth on campus," Rite of Passage counsel said. "Building 19 has a schedule that supports school, meals and programs."

It's time for facilities to develop alternative approaches to locking kids in a cell, Lutz said. "Imagine you heard about a neighbor who locked their 15-year-old with mental health issues in a small linen closet for six hours and then removed them," she said. "No. 1, would you think that would solve anything? And No. 2, that would be child abuse. Why is it any different for these kids? It's harmful, it's damaging, it's abusive, and it doesn't solve anything."

This reporting is courtesy of the Arkansas Nonprofit News Network, an independent, nonpartisan news project dedicated to producing journalism that matters to Arkansans.

Kids in isolation: locked away in Alexander

#Kids in isolation: locked away in Alexander

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le-sejour · 7 years ago

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Just Like You, Only Sweeter

Words: 1976

Pairing: wouldn’t u like to know jk it’s Thomas Jefferson x Reader with a surprise

World: Modern AU

Warning: Sexy, sexy things in here mhm (not smut tho, but pretty suggestive), also profanity and actual dickbaggery, angst

A/N: Hey hey hey hey hey so on this episode of “shouldn’t be writing this because I have requests to fill but still wrote it anyway” So I’ve been listening to my old music playlist back in 2010-ish? and ya kno how teenagers are w their edgy music and #Relatable lyrics. This fic was the love child of listening to All American Rejects and Fall Out Boy. Points if you can guess which songs inspired these lmao

Thomas groaned in pleasure, his hands gripping your hips tightly as you peppered kisses down his jaw to his neck. God, you were beautiful. So, so beautiful.

“Who has to know?”

You murmured against his skin as you mounted him, your black-lined eyes half-lidded and the stink of alcohol unmistakably heavy on your breath.

He knew this was just a one-night stand. A rebound. And he was perfectly fine with that. Your ex, Alexander Hamilton, had actually grown a pair big enough to come crawling back to Eliza, the woman he cheated on, leaving you to rot in your head for weeks on end.

You had planned on sulking around your apartment watching Friends reruns and binging on ice cream. Thomas had suggested getting drinks.

“He told me he would make it right with me.” You had sobbed into your multicolored drink, tears smudging your mascara somewhat. Your dark-skinned companion tried not to stare too much, but found that he couldn’t help it. You were mesmerizing even when you looked like a blotchy raccoon. His heart clenched. “He said he envisioned a future with me! A family an-and kids!”

“Hamilton’s an idiot, [F/Name].” He murmured matter-of-factly, instinctively using his thumb to wipe your tears away. He felt her skin jump at the contact. “He had the most scintillating woman in New York City, and he let it go. It’s his loss.”

His breath hitched when you looked up at him through damp lashes, still managing to look enticing despite crying for over three hours. His mind went into overdrive, desperately trying to keep the trickle of feelings at bay.

He watched with controlled interest as you worried your bottom lip, his heart beat pounding loudly in his ears. He can’t allow himself to give in. It was better this way, he chanted in his head like a mantra.

But oh, how her eyes shined iridescent against the dark.

“Would you have done the same, Thomas?” You whispered, leaning into him ever so slightly. His control was hanging by a thread. “Would you have left me like he did?”

He stared into your eyes once more, losing himself in them as he all but gave in to his desires.

“Never.” He whispered, voice strained and thick with want.

You closed the gap between you two, pressing your lips hungrily against his. You needed the friction, the intimacy. You wanted to feel wanted. And when you reached completion late into the night, your head thrown back in bliss as his hands still gripped your hips tightly, you’d like to think you were.

You never saw him around in the weeks following your drunken tryst. It was as if he never existed. He wasn’t in his apartment, or his favorite bar, or the library. You even tried visiting his workplace, but all you got was his secretary telling you he had opted to work from home.

Oh.

The silent walk back to your apartment was filled with sniffling and attempts to choke back your sobs, going through your memories of that night.

Did you say anything wrong? Was the sex bad? He had seemed so eager to bed you, and the morning after was spent lazing around and cuddling his apartment. What did you do? What changed that night after you went home?

You tried to ignore the tightening in your chest as you reached the front steps of your apartment building, but there was only so much you could do to reign in your emotions. Collapsing onto the steps, you sobbed uncontrollably into your hands.

Why is this happening to you? Didn’t Thomas like you? Didn’t Alexander like you? Did anyone like you?

“[F/Name]?”

You looked up from your pathetic, curled position, tears still streaming down your cheeks. Your heart seemed to heal instantly as you recognized those head of curls.

“Thomas.”

Thomas Jefferson was not an emotionally intelligent man.

He was cunning, and crafty, and wise beyond his years. But you’d be damned to think he was, in any way, in complete control of anything that doesn’t involve his head.

After your pity romp, he was a mess. The moment you kissed him had opened the dam that held all the things he felt for you at bay. It flooded out into every kiss, every stroke, every breathy moan he made because of your ministrations. It seeped into everything he touched.

And he was terrified.

He wanted to be with you every second of every day so badly it hurt. He wanted to care for you, support you. Be the reason for your smiles and laughter. The need to be yours never used to be this intense. It was jarring.

So he left.

It was much easier to be your friend. He could occasionally flirt with you without consequence, and you could spill every thought and opinion to him when even Alexander had trouble wheedling it out of you. Nothing was complicated, nothing was at stake. You both worked better that way. It was better that way.

Wasn’t it?

A month had passed, then two, into his self-imposed isolation and he began to doubt himself. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had let himself overthink your situation. But…

God, he was a jackass.

He had left you. You came to him in your hour of need and he took advantage of it. He left you for dead after being so intimate with you. You needed him, you were in pieces. And he left you.

You probably hated him. No, he was sure you hated him. With everything he’s done, he wouldn’t be surprised. He left you after explicitly saying he wouldn’t.

He’s definitely fucked up this time.

Grabbing his jacket, he made his way to the door. He didn’t know what he was going to do, or how to do it, he just knew he needed to make this right somehow.

You nervously picked at the assortment of flowers on your lap, your stomach churning with anticipation and nerves. Of course, you’ve practiced this whole thing plenty of times before. But actually being here, today, was definitely more than you bargained for.

“Hey,” You turned your head to acknowledge the voice, smiling slightly as you see the familiar face of James Madison. “It seems like almost everyone is here.”

The smile on your face was shaky at best, the anxiety in your eyes shining through. “Yeah? That’s-that’s good…”

James smiled at you reassuringly before stepping into the backseat with you. His warm presence enveloped the car, giving you a slight confidence boost. “You’re nervous.”

You laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

“It’s normal.” He answered, taking the bouquet from you before you pluck all the petals out. “What’s worrying you?”

“God,” Exhaling, you looked up, tears inexplicably welling in your eyes. “I don’t- This is insane. I never would have thought…”

The man beside you simply nodded in response, letting you have the moment to express yourself.

“Two years ago, I never would have imagined…” You trailed off, fanning your face in an attempt to blink back tears. “He’s everything I’ve hoped for and more, James. I-I’m scared that I’ll wake up and find myself on the front steps of my old apartment again…”

You were seated on a park bench, sun shining like a halo on you, as Thomas watched you laugh. Your hair fluttered gracefully as you threw your head back. He smiled, memorizing every curve and hollow of your face. He reveled in the fact that he was right. You were beautiful through and through.

His hand wandered slyly to your thigh, making you turn to him with an unreadable gaze. He smiled innocently, those pearly whites of his shining unabashedly. You rolled your eyes as your hands found his and laced your fingers together.

How could he have been that lucky?

He leaned over and whispered in your ear, causing you to turn red and shift in your seat. He pulled away to look at you, his eyes darkening with desire. Oh, how he wished to be the friction in those jeans you wore.

You leaned in to press a passionate kiss on his lips, your hands coming up to cradle his cheeks. He pulled you closer by the waist, nibbling on your bottom lip gently before separating.

With the grace of a cat, he pulled you up with him and brushed a stray lock of hair away from your face, murmuring how he wanted to get you home and in bed as soon as possible.

How could you have been this lucky?

James led you to the huge cathedral doors, your gown flowing easily around you, while the veil you wore drifted to and fro at every move you made.

“Are you ready, [F/Name]?” You looked up as a fresh pool of tears made its way to your eyes.

“Thank you, Jemmy… For everything.” You whispered, throwing your arms around him in a tight, tearful hug. He returned the hug just as fiercely, your head tucked under his chin.

“I would never leave you alone like that, [F/Name].” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion and an edge you couldn’t describe. “Now go, Mulligan is waiting to walk you down the aisle.”

Nodding, you reluctantly let go of the man you had quickly considered a best friend within the two years you’ve known each other for. Straightening your back, you walked through the cathedral doors, entering the small lobby just before the main hall.

“And [F/Name].” James called out, causing you to turn slightly while Hercules fussed with your gown. “Remember, this is real. It’s real, and you deserve this.”

You beamed at him, watery and emotional, before being led away.

James stared into the cathedral, watching you float down the aisle like a cloud. Your back was turned to him but he could feel the happiness radiating from you as you passed friends and family.

A few seconds later, without as much as a turn of his head, he called out a name that hasn’t crossed his lips for a while now.

“Thomas.”

Without missing a beat, a figure loomed behind the smaller man before taking his place beside him.

“James.”

The Virginian, like his companion, stared straight into the cathedral, watching you finally reach the man who had helped you pick up the pieces. The man he saw making you laugh that day at the park. The lucky bastard who now gets to spend his days with you, build a family with you, grow old with you. All the things Thomas could now only dream about.

“Gilbert will make her happy.” James said, as if hearing the other man’s thoughts. They always did have an unnerving knack for reading the other. Thomas rolled his eyes.

“He has the most scintillating woman in New York City. Of course he’ll make her happy. He’d be an idiot not to…”

The other man said nothing, merely coughing into his handkerchief as silence fell over the pair of them.

“You know why she’s taken such a liking to him, right?”

Thomas opted not to reply, instead choosing to watch you recite your vows. He knew you were beautiful even on a normal day, but today you were simply breathtaking, even from his perch by the large, ornate doors. What he wouldn’t do to be the man standing at the altar with you.

“You left a bad taste in her mouth, Thomas.” They continued to watch the wedding, watched as you exchanged rings, watched as the priest gave people like Thomas a chance to speak. “Gilbert… He’s just like you. Only, sweeter.”

Silence filled the air of the cathedral as they waited for anyone to protest the union.

Thomas finally turned to James, his eyes brimming with tears as a few already trailed down his cheeks.

“I know.”

#hello darkness my old friend #why am i like thiiis #hamilton #thomas jefferson x reader #thomas jefferson imagine #thomas jefferson #lafayette x reader #lafayette imagine #marquis de lafayette #hamilton imagine #hamilfics #hamfics #hamiltrash

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jo-the-schmo · 8 years ago

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Breaking... Ch.7

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

A/N: Ok so at first this was supposed to be more plot based but I ended up making it really fluffy by accident... sorry about that! I hope you all like this nonetheless :3

Wordcount: 4671

Warnings: Cursing, fluff, FEELINGS, children, alcohol

Tags!!! @iamnotthrowingawaymyshit @renae-writes @deltablue202 @literally-melonkitty @meunicorn Send me an ask if you’d like to be added to the list!

Breaking History

Dear still yet to be named paper thing,

It’s been almost a week since Alex told everyone about the affair and it has been hell. Every time I see Eliza she looks like she just got done crying. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t want help to get ready, Rachel and I can barely convince her to eat. At least I’ve seen Eliza though, Alex is hiding away in his study, I leave food for him in the kitchen because he doesn’t come out during diner but it’s gone by morning. Every time I pass his door I hear pages turning and tiny bits of ranting, I wish I knew what he was doing in there. Angie’s been dealing with this the best out of everyone, I’ve been taking over her and the boys’ lessons. Political history finally comes in handy! AJ, Jamie and Johnny are too young for it but Angie’s been working really hard to learn. I’m so happy to see her back in action. Although I could do without AJ’s antics right now. The boy is a genius, why he uses his talents for evil I will never know. I’ve noticed that Jaimie keeps doodling on his work, little sneak has been hiding a graphite stick in his sleeve and makes huge grey stains! I don’t mind him drawing, I just wish he wouldn’t dirty the clothes I have to clean. Johnny’s as shy as always, I know the boy is only five years old but I thought he’d have warmed up to me by now. The other day I heard him in front of the piano, you’d think he’s talk more with how powerful his voice is, I’ve never heard someone sing like that. The children are all so talented, I hope that they follow their hearts as they get older. Philly is back to being his usual sweet self, that’s been a real help. He wrote me a poem the other day, he certainly likes to throw on the charm. I honestly don’t know how I feel about it; I don’t know how to feel about him either. He’s kind, intelligent, funny, respectful. Whenever I need a word to describe him my mind always turns to beautiful. But I’m scared, I don’t know what could happen and I don’t want to risk doing any more damage than I’ve already inflicted. I need to be careful with my feelings, I don’t like him like that and I can’t like him like that. Even if my face feels hot whenever he’s around I need to ignore it as much as I can, for his sake. Rachel isn’t making that any easier though. Now that Eliza prefers her isolation I can’t seem to avoid the conversation with her. “How long are you going to pretend to not have feelings for him?” “When are planning to admit your affections to him?” “Am I at least invited to the wedding?” As if she knows anything, she’s only a few years older than me! I’ll be nineteen this year and she just turned twenty-one. Now that I’m thinking about it, it’s about time me and her do the dusting, so I better get going.

P.S. Seriously, how does anyone use these stupid feathers?

You put down your quill, stood up and grabbed a rag off your window sill. As you made your way out of the living quarters you turned the corner and saw someone walking out of the study. Alex? You called out to him.

“Alex? Are you alright? I haven’t seen you once all week!” You grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. He didn’t look good, his hair was messy, his clothes made him look like he was just hit by a tornado. His eyes were the worst part, you’ve never seen darker eye circles in your entire life, he looked exhausted. He was carrying some kind of satchel. What’s he doing?

“I’m alright Titania, or at least I will be soon. I have important business in town so I won’t be here for a while. With that said, do not expect me until very late. You’ve taken very good care of the children these past couple days and your efforts will not go unrewarded, think you can watch them for the rest of the day?” He asked.

“Of course, but what exactly will you be doing that takes that long?” He placed a hand on each of your shoulders and smiled down at you.

“Setting things right. Do not fear, everything will be just fine.” He stepped forward and placed a kiss on top of your head. Alex? He turned around and walked off, leaving you full of questions. What exactly are you up to Alexander? You clutched your rag close to your chest. You better not be doing something crazy… You took a deep breath and went back on your way. You stepped into the main room and saw Rachel staring at the door. Once she noticed your presence she turned to you.

“Where is Mr. Hamilton going?”

“I have no idea… Is Eliza still asleep?” You asked.

“Actually, she was just recently awoken. Perhaps with Mr. Hamilton out of the house she’ll be more willing to leave her room.” Rachel hasn’t been Alex’s biggest friend recently… “Follow me, perhaps we can motivate her!” She said with hope. She locked her arm into yours and led you down the hall to Eliza’s room. Rachel knocked on the door.

“Miss Eliza? Alexander has left for the day, may we come in?” You heard a very soft sound, Rachel opened the door and the both of you walked inside. The room was a mess, there were clothes all over the floor, the bed was disheveled and Eliza looked a little worse for wear. Eliza… You don’t deserve this… Rachel immediately went over to the bed and began fixing it, you went over to the vanity where Eliza sat and stood behind her. You looked at her through the mirror and noticed how tangled her hair was, seeing the brush you picked it up.

“May I brush your hair Eliza?” you asked gently.

“Yes…thank you Dear…” She said weakly. She looks almost as tired as Alex… You ran the brush through her hair, the hair getting stuck every once in a while due to a bad tangle.

“Eliza… I know this is a really difficult time, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. But you can’t just stay in your room all day. You don’t have to talk to him or anything like that, just come outside and spend some time with the children, they really miss their mother.” They haven’t seen you all week and they’re starting to get worried. She looked at the mirror sadly, thinking about what. She looked at the mirror sadly, thinking about what you just said, suddenly you saw something light up in her eyes.

“You’re right Dear, the children do not deserve this any more than I do. Rachel, help me dress, Y/N please summon the children to the music room.” A smile started to show on her tired face. There’s the Eliza I know and love! One day away from their studies shouldn’t be a problem… You hurriedly finished with her hair and went out to get the kids. Philip and Angie are probably in their rooms…but the real question is, where are the boys? As you passed by the back door you heard a voice.

“Move out of the way Alexander! I don’t want to scare the butterfly away!” Found them! You stepped out into the garden. AJ had his back facing you, he was kneeling down in front of something. Jamie was sitting beside him but he kept trying to look past him, he didn’t look comfortable. You looked off to the side and saw Johnny sitting on the bench, looking up at a nearby tree. You followed his gaze and saw a bird sitting in a nest on one of the low hanging branches.

“I can’t move James! The sunlight isn’t obstructed by any cloud of foliage in this spot!” AJ responded. Oh no, what’s he up to now? You walked up and stood behind him, clearing your throat. He jumped slightly, letting out a small squeal.

“What exactly are you doing AJ? Last time I let you play outside without supervision you knocked out a tooth trying to catch a rabbit.” Luckily it was just a baby tooth. He stood and turned to face you, a blush spreading across his dark skin, he scratched the back of his impossibly fluffy hair. His hair rivals Jeffershit’s I swear! He gave you a toothy smile and you could clearly see the gap from missing one of his top teeth.

“Just a little experiment TT! Check it out!” He side stepped and you could see some sort of glass on the ground and a candle. Wait a minute…isn’t that my candle? Why is he playing with GLASS?! He saw the worried look on your face and quickly clarified. “The other day James and I noticed that if you use a magnifying glass in the sunlight and point it at a bug, the bug starts to smoke up! John cried for a little bit but he helped us find this candle so that we wouldn’t kill any more bugs. I want to see how long it takes for the candle to light!” Smart kid, not sure if he can sit there for that long, but smart nonetheless. Jamie looked up at you from on the ground, his long, dark hair falling in front of his face. You could still see the large white birthmark on his olive-like skin.

“But he decided that it had to be right in front of my line of sighting! Summer is over so this might be my last chance to sketch a butterfly until Spring!” He said with slight annoyance. Brothers…what can you do? You folded your arms across your chest and heaved a sigh.

“Well put whatever you’re doing away because I come bringing good new! Your mother would like to see us all in the music room!” You smiled, you saw both of their eyes light up gleefully.

“Really? Yay! Mama’s feeling better!” AJ exclaimed. You chuckled. AJ is always so happy!

“Yeah, just give me a second to get your brother and we’ll be on our way.”

“I can get Philip and Angelica if you want.” Jamie suggested.

“Thanks Jamie, that would be appreciated.” You heard Jamie scamper off as you walked over to the bench and sat down next to Johnny. “What’cha doing Johnny?” Johnny looked up at you, his mouth was covered by his cravat. He always pulls it up over his mouth when people are around. He had the lightest skin out of all the boys, his cheeks almost permanently in a rosy state, a few loose, brown hairs had fallen out of his tight ponytail. He pointed up at the bird in the tree.

“Bird…it sounds pretty…” His words were slightly muffled by the neck cloth over his mouth.

“And you were the one who found that candle for AJ?”

“Yes…I didn’t want him to hurt any more buggies… Someone left it by the bench…” Oops.

“Well, your mother’s in the music room. Would you like to join us?” You smiled softly at him.

“…Will Mama play the piano for us?” He asked.

“We can always ask!” You told him hopefully. He nodded his head and stood up, you stood up as well and held your hand out to him. Even though he doesn’t talk much, he seems fine with letting me hold his hand when we walk together. He had to lift his arm up to grab your hand but he still took it. You passed by AJ as you led Johnny out of the garden.

“Aw, why does John get to hold your hand?” AJ said with puffed out cheeks. He’s just like his big brother… Trying to be a little player. It’s cute coming from him though, since he’s only eleven. Johnny pulled his cravat down.

“Because Bigger Sister likes me more.” He teased. Awwwww! Bigger Sister! That’s so cute! You couldn’t help but giggle at their conversation.

“You can hold my hand too if you want AJ, I don’t mind.” AJ looked like he had stars in his eyes, he skipped over to you and took your other hand. The three of you walked into the house and made your way to the music room. AJ opened the door for you and everyone stepped inside. Eliza was sitting at the piano, Jamie was across the room, he seemed to be drawing her from the back. Angie was leaning against the piano and Philip was leaning against the wall by the window. Johnny immediately let go of your hand and took a seat beside Eliza. Philip looked over at you, you could see his smile widen.

“Oh! So you will be joining us as well?” He asked. He noticed you holding AJ’s hand and furrowed his eyebrows. AJ smirked slightly.

“What’s wrong Philip? Are you jealous?” What? Philip’s eyes widened, his whole face turned red.

“Why would I be jealous?” You heard Angie chuckle off to the side. Eliza turned to you.

“Would you like to join us Dear?” She asked.

“I would be honored to!” AJ let go of your hand and stood next to Angie, you closed the door behind you. “I’ve never had the opportunity to sit in on one of your piano lessons so what exactly happens?” Eliza smiled at you.

“Well, I was actually hoping you’d be one of our singers. Angie prefers to play the piano so we are short on female voices. I’m sure John would appreciate it very much.” She laughed. It’s nice to see her spirits up again… She stood up from the piano, Johnny following close behind. “Angie, you know what to do. Philip, take it away.” Philip and Angie both excitedly took a seat at the piano, Johnny grabbed your hand and pulled you over to stand beside it, AJ and Jamie both stood beside you.

“First we do warm ups, they’re my favorite part!” Jamie said. Eliza stood across from you all.

“Alright everyone, let’s show Y/N how we practice!” She actually looks happy! That’s great! Eliza lightly clapped her hands eight times, after the eighth clap Angie and Philip began to play one note at a time while Eliza and all the boys, including Philip, began to sing with each note.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf!” Angie stopped playing.

“Philly! You did it again!” Angie groaned while Philip chuckled.

“Sorry, sorry! I can’t help myself!” It took you a moment to realize what they were talking about. While they were singing you did catch some kind of dip. It was like someone was making the seventh note longer than the others.

“Your brother has always done that darling, ever since he was a child!” Eliza explained. You suddenly had an idea.

“What about a round? You know, when some people intentionally come in later in the song that the rest. We could do that so that it still fits in.”

“Brilliant idea Dear! But who shall come in later and when?”

“The little ones can begin with you; I’ll follow in with Philly. Does that work?” Eliza nodded in agreement. You looked over at Philip. “Just follow my lead sunshine.” You said teasingly.

“Whatever you say starlight.” Eliza began to clap once more; on the eighth clap the music began once more. AJ, Eliza, Jamie and Johnny began.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…” Philip followed your example and began on the fifth note.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf.” The both of you holding the seventh note longer. Once the piano went silent, Philip turned to you with a giant grin on his face.

“Beautiful…” He trailed off and simply stared into your eyes. Why does my face feel hot? Why do his freckles look more pick than usual? Why am I not looking away? Angie used her elbow to nudge Philip’s side.

“Ahem. Philip, do not drool on the floor, Rachel will get mad if she has to clean it.”

“I’m not drooling!” He persisted. Adorable… Angie stood up with a sly grin on her face.

“Hey Philip, why don’t you show TT your skills.” She grabbed your arm and sat you down next to Philip.

“Wonderful idea Angie! My drop of sunshine, would you be so kind as to help Y/N with the piano?” Eliza asked cheerily.

“O-oh, um, of course M-Mother…” Why does he sound so nervous? Philip scooted closer to you and held out his hands. “May I?” He asked. You laid your hands on the piano and Philip put his over top of yours. He adjusted your fingers so that they were in the right position before getting up and standing behind you.

“Forgive my closeness, this is the only way I can watch your technique properly.” He whispered. You felt his hair brush against your left cheek. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Keep it together! You are a strong willed woman who can handle anything life throws at you! You could practically feel the pitter-patter of his heart as he guided your hands over the keys. The two of you did the warm up once more, after that he pulled away and sat back down beside you. Yes! I made it! Good job Y/N! There was a knock at the door.

“Lady Eliza? I have brought the afternoon tea.”

“Oh, yes thank you. Please come in Rachel.” Rachel came in with a silver tray filled with cups, a teapot and all the essentials. She noticed you and Philip sitting next to each other and instantly had a glint in her eyes.

“Forgive me, was I interrupting anything important.” Eliza noticed what she was hinting at, she covered her mouth to muffle her giggles.

“Oh no, nothing yet!” Yet?! “Thank you for the tea Rachel but I see that you are missing a teacup.” Rachel looked at her with a puzzled expression.

“What do you mean Lady Eliza?”

“Why, for yourself of course! You simply must join us!”

“Yeah! Come on Rachel! I’d be lonely being the only maid at the party!” You encouraged, her cheeks went pink.

“Aw, very well, if my lady insists I suppose.”

You all spent the rest of the evening in the music room, drinking tea, chatting and listening to the children talk about their days. When diner time came around Eliza invited both you and Rachel to eat with them. Afterward you helped Angie change into her night dress while Rachel helped the younger boys get ready for bed. The two of you went downstairs and met Eliza in the main room.

“I would like to sincerely thank the both of for being so patient with me this past week. Today was the first day since Alexander’s confession that I’ve felt…normal. I do not know how I could possibly thank you for that…” Eliza had a sad smile on her face, Rachel stepped over to her and wrapped her arms around her.

“Lady Eliza, you do not need to thank us. You took us in, took me into your home and showed me a kindness I never knew. Being able to help you during these difficult times is the absolute least I could do for you.” They pulled away, Eliza wiping away a few stray tears.

“I believe it is time that I have a proper rest. I shall retire for the evening.” She deserves a good night’s sleep.

“Of course Lady Eliza, I shall help you prepare.” The two of them walked down the hallway and disappeared. You heard someone clear their throat, you turned to see Philip on the bottom step behind you.

“Oh, hi Philly. Are you going to bed as well?” He stepped down and stood in front of you.

“Yes I am, but what sort of gentleman would I be to not wish my luminous star a goodnight after such a lovely day together?” His face changed from his usual flirty grin to a more serious expression. “Thank you, for helping my mother. I have never seen her experience this much struggle before, she is a very strong woman but everyone has their weak days. I hope today was the beginning of a steady recovery from these past events.”

“Me too.” You sighed. Philip moved a strand of hair out of your face and rested his hand against your cheek.

“Hey now, where’s your sparkle? It’s the only thing that I could possibly see that could make this day more wonderful.” You grabbed his hand and smiled at him. Why does he have to be so sweet?

“Ah, there it is! Now I can rest with confidence that I will be at peace.” He pulled your hand to his lips, just as he did the week prior. “May your dreams be filled with thoughts or sunshine and joy, my star.” And with that he climbed the stairs back to his room. What am I going to do? You thought as you tried to still your beating heart. He’s going to get hurt if I keep being this reckless, why is this so difficult?! Rachel soon met you, Eliza having now gone to bed.

“Are you alright Y/N? You seem a bit distressed.” She asked with concern laced in her voice. You shook your head.

“I’m fine Rachel. In fact, I think you should let me do the late cleaning by myself.” Her eyes widened at your proposition.

“Wait, are you sure? I don’t mind giving you a hand.”

“I’m very sure, you deserve a break too. You work really hard to keep everyone happy, don’t think I don’t notice that. Get a couple extra hours of sleep.” She smiled at you and gave you a quick hug.

“You truly are something else Y/N, thank you.” She soon left you in the candle lit room by yourself. Okay Y/N! Let’s tidy this place up! You first put away all the sheet music and gathered all the dishes in the music room, cleaning them with the dishes from supper. You usually didn’t like being in the study by yourself but you could only imagine the state it was in after Alex took residence there. You took a candle and made your way to the door, opening it you were met with a monumental disaster zone. Paper was scattered all over the desk and floor, next to them were piles of dishes. The couch was a complete wreck, you assumed Alex had been sleeping there. No pillows or blankets or anything… First you gathered all the papers and stacked them neatly on the desk. Then you dealt with the ridiculous amount of dishes, much to your dismay. The last thing you did was gather some spare sheets, blankets and pillows to help make a make-shift bed out of the couch. You felt exhausted by the time all the work was done, the moon was already pretty high in the sky. Now I’m starting to get worried. I know he said he would be back late but I didn’t think he meant THIS late! Where are you Alex?! It wasn’t much longer before you were in the main room once more, blowing out all of the candles in the room. Suddenly you heard a long awaited noise. Horse drawn carriage. You were already at the door by the time you heard steps approaching the door. You swung the door open.

“Where have you be-“ You stopped once you realized who was at the door. Alex had his arm wrapped around the shoulder of a very familiar tall man.

“Mr. Madison! Alex!” You were quickly at Alex’s side, wrapping his other arm around your shoulder to help get him inside. Madison closed the door behind him. Alex was barely able to walk and looked more like a mess than when he left. “What happened? Is he hurt?” You asked worriedly. Madison coughed into a handkerchief and shook his head.

“Nothing happened per se…” It wasn’t until that moment that you got a whiff of the smell. He reeked of alcohol. “He was already drunk when I arrived, I thought the least I could do is help him get home safely.”

“Thank you so much, sir. I really appreciate your help. Here, I can take him to bed. Seriously, thank you so much?” You shifted Alex’s weight off of Madison’s shoulder and onto yours alone. He seemed impressed by your strength to hold him up with ease.

“As I said it’s the least I could do… I feel as though I must apologize for what happened. I do not believe that you are actually Alexander’s mistress, Jefferson was just blinded by his desire for power over him. We sullied your name, for that I am deeply sorry.”

“It’s alright, I don’t care about my name. I just hope that this disaster can be over soon. I’m sure that Alex would really appreciate your apology and I’ll be sure to tell him that you’ve done so.”

“Be sure to take care of him, he does not look very well.”

“I will, thank you again Mr. Madison. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight to you as well.” Madison said as he let himself out. Okay Alex, time to get you to bed. You led him down the hall and into the study, moving one of the blankets off the couch you plopped him down onto it, letting out a groan.

“Where the…Where am I?... Titania? How did I get back home?” He asked groggily.

“Shh, don’t worry. Madison found you and brought you back. I want to ask what you were doing but I know me and you are too similar for it to be that easy. I’ll ask you tomorrow, for now you need to get some rest.” You felt sick from how strong the alcoholic smell was. You gently laid the blanket over him and just as you were about to walk away you felt a hand weakly grab your wrist.

“Wait… please do not leave yet… You do not have to stay, just please remain here until I fall asleep… I do not wish to feel alone…” He looked so broken that it made your own heart break. He’s been sitting in this room for a week, I’m the only person he’s talked to that entire time. Madison’s right, he DOESN’T look good.

“Okay Alex, I’ll be right here if you need me, alright?” You sat down on the floor beside the couch.

“Thank you…Y/N…” His words faded from sleepiness. He closed his eyes, his breathing becoming more soft and steady. You rested your arms on the cushion and laid your head on top of them. You sat there for some time, watching him breathe. He’s been like my father ever since I came here, treated me like his own daughter. It hurts to see him and Eliza like this… He loves her, I know he does and I know she loves him as well. He regrets what he did, I’m defending him by saying it was okay. We both know that it was horrible. I hope Eliza can see that eventually, I hope they rekindle what they used to have… You felt yourself slowly fading, slipping into the blackness of sleep. A loud slamming noise awoke you, your eyes straining from the light filling the room.

“Daddy! Wh-“ It was Angie, she looked puzzled by your presence but quickly shook it off and ran to your side. “TT! You haven’t seen it yet have you?” She was holding a bunch of paper in her hand.

“Seen what kiddo?” You said, trying to run the sleep from your eyes.

“This!” She handed you the papers and you read the title printed on the front.

Titania’s Pamphlet

Holy Shit!

#hamilton #hamilton the musical #hamilton fanfic #time travel au #alexander x reader #eliza schuyler #Philip Hamilton #james madison #thomas jefferson #John Laurens #lafayette #mulligan #philip x reader #everything is broken

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queernuck · 7 years ago

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PK Subban: Superstar

In previewing on twitter an E:60 feature on PK Subban, Greg Wyshynski posted quotes from interviews with Subban, as well as testimonials about him from players and hockey personalities. Kevin Weekes, an analyst and commentator at NHL Network, drew criticism for saying that Subban is the first “fully black superstar” with the claim that his comment disregarded great players such as Jarome Iginla and Grant Fuhr. However, in all likelihood the way in which Weekes’ statement was isolated by Wyshynski does it a disservice, whether Weekes was making a statement on Subban being black or about the means by which Subban is considered as a “superstar” within the league.

The notion that Weekes forgot, or would intentionally disrespect, Grant Fuhr is rather unlikely given that Fuhr was the first black player to win the Stanley Cup and the first black inductee into the hockey Hall of Fame. Similarly, Jarome Iginla, an all-time great and one of the most important players of the 2000s, owes part of his inspiration for pursuing hockey to his admiration of Fuhr from a young age, and the notion of Weekes forgetting both of them is rather suspect. Weekes was a journeyman goalie for his career, playing for seven different teams over the course of his time in the NHL. A Drew Bledsoe with fewer accomplishments, he was emerging as a promising starter for the New York Rangers late in his career when an injury forced him out, allowing then-rookie Henrik Lundqvist to step in. Weekes would go on to spend two more years with the archrival New Jersey Devils before leaving the league, pursuing broadcasting and becoming the first prominent black analyst in hockey TV. Working both in Canadian and American media, primarily for NHL Network, the idea that Weekes was forgetting Iginla and Fuhr is highly unlikely.

That he may have been talking about Subban’s blackness specifically in contrast to Iginla and Fuhr both having one white parent is far less defensible, and if this is the case then Weekes is articulating part of a categorical structuring of antiblackness that is focused upon quantification of race as an exercise, the notion that whiteness can be approximated, approached, that one can effectively navigate positional relation to antiblackness by being apparently closer to whiteness, a claim that is rather understandably opposed, and for good reason. Fuhr won five Stanley Cups over the course of his career, and Iginla is a lock for the Hall of Fame, and to not consider that even if they are not considered as “fully” black by some standards, they are specifically articulated within an assemblage of antiblackness, that they face antiblackness and moreover that the specificity of the antiblackness they face is not a diminishing factor thereof should not figure into discussing the uniqueness of Subban as a player, and moreover is not necessary to discuss the antiblackness he faces. To imply, as well, that there is any sort of capitulation to antiblackness made by Fuhr or Iginla is to diminish their achievements in the face of a league that is structurally antiblack, and moreover within an extremely antiblack sport, is to take away from them and Subban by extension. That Subban plays a unique role on the ice, has a unique presence within the NHL off of it, and that both of these are analyzed through a structural antiblackness that Subban acknowledges and moreover openly defines himself against is incredibly important.

An interpretation which posits that Subban is not only a superstar, but the first black player to reach that status since the structuring of the role, is a far more meaningful claim even if it was not the one being made by Weekes. That the way in which antiblackness so dramatically focuses on him alongside the focus upon his undeniable talent specifically comes after the figuration of the superstar as a structure within hockey is important. The articulation of the superstar in the NHL outside of Canada has always been difficult: Gretzky was perhaps the only success, otherwise players largely became stars in their own markets, perhaps with some larger success through their evocation in popular culture. Fuhr is a phenomenal goalie, and Iginla is a phenomenal player who has suffered from a dwindling career as of late, but under at least one interpretation of his statement, Weekes is not doubting them as players, he is specifically talking about the way in which the larger apparatus of hockey culture, hockey coverage, articulates them. The formation of the NHL superstar truly began with Sidney Crosby, one of the first athletes since Wayne Gretzky to break into a more mainstream concept of success. Alexander Ovechkin, Evgeni Malkin, and Henrik Lundqvist have joined but are part of a select few, and to say that PK Subban has risen to that level of public knowledge is dramatic, but moreover defensible. Shea Weber and Zdeno Chara’s annual battle at the hardest shot competition gained themselves a great deal of publicity, and when Weber was traded for Subban this past offseason, the significance of Subban as a player was cemented. The postmodernity of the NHL superstar as signified by Crosby’s ascendancy has raised other players to superstar status, but Subban is the only black player to have reached this status.

Antiblackness has absolutely structured the careers of Iginla and Fuhr, as well as of lesser-known black players, but that it defined the trading of Subban, a Norris-winning defensive player and one of the best defensemen in the NHL, is perhaps one of the most profound acts of antiblackness that has occurred within a league full of them, even predicated upon them for many. Playing first for the Montreal Canadiens, and now helping the Nashville Predators to their first Stanley Cup Final in franchise history, Subban is one of the most prominent players in the NHL by any standard. That he is a charming, warm person well aware he is one of the best players in the NHL makes him a stark target for antiblackness in hockey discourses. Referring to Badiou’s discussion of the creation of blackness as a discursive distinction, its specific relief against whiteness, that the rink itself is a space of whiteness, that Subban’s status as a player is emphasized by being the most prominent black player in the league and moreover being so notable for playing a style that is more apparently individual contributes to the restructuring of his public persona within articulations of antiblackness.

That Subban has been willing to doubt management, especially regarding his trade away from Montreal, even while accepting the trade in itself and taking pride in Nashville, has only intensified the antiblackness he faces. As an ideal player, he would accept the move and moreover commend his former team for it despite it being a poor move on Montreal’s part. His refusal to merely conform to an ideological structure of what NHL players are meant to be, to accept the false humility that players often adopt and instead act with a genuineness rarely seen in the NHL creates the same sort of dramatic relief, the disparity that one sees discussed in Badiou, Žižek, Deleuze, and specifically as articulated in the means that Fanon discusses the conceptual process of adopting a mask of whiteness and in relation to whiteness, the performative acceptability that would be necessary for Subban’s acceptance. John Scott, a player who was voted into the All-Star game as a joke and then sent to the AHL as part of an attempt to restore the seriousness of an event the players didn’t even take seriously, called Subban “trash” and claiming he thinks only of himself in part of the documentary that Weekes made his comments for, contrasting Scott as an idealized expression of the NHL’s whiteness to Subban, despite Scott being a player barely able to crack the NHL and Subban one of the best puck-moving defensemen in the NHL. In effect, Subban is often at his best when thinking first of himself: much like Ovechkin, making himself a conspicuous offensive presence allows him to expose the larger assemblage of defensive action, the reactionary quality with which defense often opposes offense, and allow the rupturing of defensive integrity. Of course, this is an exaggeration of Subban’s play: while he has been filmed literally jumping up and down calling for the puck, the play in question was one rather short on time and Subban scored on a beautiful slapshot from the point when the puck came to him. Any selfishness read into this is specifically an individualization that negates Subban’s role in goal-scoring, that ignores how Subban’s greatest strength is not merely in defensive play, where he is far above average but not as difficult to evade as Shea Weber or Marc-Edouard Vlasic, but in how he can fill this role so well and still be one of the most skilled offensive players in the NHL. Erik Karlsson attempts to fill a similar role, but is nowhere near as much of a fulfilment of it as Subban is. He has, effectively, perfected the role as it is conceived, he has become not merely an archetypical player, but in fact an archetype himself.

Slowly, the NHL is hopefully changing: players such as Josh Ho-Sang, Anthony Duclair, or Subban’s own younger brothers are providing a means of realizing resistance to antiblackness in adaptation of postmodern hockey culture where snapchat and instagram and twitter are part of a sort of absolute stardom, where a fourth-line scrub can become a fan favorite by being mildly amusing on twitter. PK Subban himself has already shown a profound understanding of the postmodern hockey world, his quickness with a joke matched only with his quickness on the ice, instagram photos with Snoop Dogg and Kid Rock, and more than anything an overwhelming artistry to the poeticism of the internet, of the hyperrealism of social media.

The importance of Weekes’ remark is not in discussing anything about Subban merely in terms of Subban himself, but how Subban navigates an unsteady status in a way that would be admirable even if he were not forced to contend with his sport’s overwhelming antiblackness. Subban knows the structure of antiblackness in the NHL, honors players such as Willie O’Ree, and certainly is part of the same tradition as Fuhr and Iginla. But to imagine that Subban is not unique, to claim that he has not been targeted by an enormous structure of antiblackness, is to effectively ignore what has made his play so impressive. He deals with far more than just about any other NHL player, and still ranks among the best. PK Subban is a truly revolutionary player.

#PK Subban #Kevin Weekes #greg wyshynski #hockey #nhl #Nashville Predators #montreal canadiens

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the-plxce-to-be-archived-blog · 8 years ago

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Some days, he was fine. He’d hang out with his friends, laugh at stupid things they say or do and cuddle with them while they watched dumb movies and made horrible jokes or hit on each other. He’d walk around if he had art block or he was bored, hang around the park when the art block was over so he could draw anything he could possibly think of.

But when he was nervous on those days, when he was worked up or upset, he was handled more easily. He shied away, he got quiet. All he wanted was silence, to sit by or even on someone who loved him and just relax.

Some days, he was great. He’d hang off of Lafayette’s arm whenever he saw him, sit on Hercules’ lap when he was bored or give Alex the most exaggerated, noisy kiss on the cheek when he saw him because he was just so happy he had him. He’d be loud, proud, blast music in his car and sing at the top of his lungs when he was his friends’ ride for the day. Alex or Hercules tell him to quiet down, and he laughs but complies.

When he got worked up or upset on those days, it was a bit more difficult. On those days, bad things struck him hard. He cries, he clings, begs and pleads his friends to not leave him as he bawls his eyes out, both wanting the company and feeling unworthy of it.

And some days... Some days were bad. Some days were horrible. He isolates himself, often feels like altogether, he can’t breathe. It’s easy to get along with him; he goes mute, but he doesn’t fight. He just goes with the flow, silent as can be. He handles these days differently each time, but there was always a few things about him that never changed, telltale signs of a bad day. He won’t speak. Won’t say a word all day, walks around slouched and lifeless as he goes about his day. Looks tired.

When he’s upset... Those days were the hardest for anyone to handle. When something sets him off on those days, it’s something big. He dropped a favorite cup and it broke, a relative was sick or hurt, and most commonly, he’s had to speak with or see his father. And when that happened, John shut down. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t speak. He’s inconsolable, flinches when touched, lost in his own mind.

When this happens, when he shuts down, he can’t think. He’s sent into a silent panic, utterly terrified, lost in his memories where he’s looking at his father, hands clenched at his sides as he waits for a hit that will never come. He can’t be touched on these days, not unless you can get him to focus on you long enough to realize his father is nowhere near him.

And the way his friends found this out was when they made that mistake themselves. The four of them got together in Hercules’ place, readying themselves to watch movies. John was curled up in the corner of Hercules’ sofa while he readied snacks. Herc, god bless him, he figured it out quick by that far away look in John’s eyes. He helped the smaller man get situated with a cozy blanket wrapped around him, assured him that if he wanted to talk he was there. John didn’t say anything, but he smiled, and that was enough for him.

John was staring at the carpet, quiet as he struggled to keep himself focused on the present, listening to his friend walk around and ready everything. The freckled man looked up when he heard a knock on the door, but he couldn’t force himself up to get it, so he peered over the back of the couch shyly at Hercules. “I got it, kid.” He assured him, going to the door and John nodded, relaxed as he waited.

It was all a slight blur then. Lafayette and Alexander came inside, a flurry of laughter and jokes and gifts of snacks and food they brought with them. John caught Hercules warning them that John was having a bad day, but he didn’t catch much after that. So, safe to say it was surprising for everyone, even him, when he was pulled into a hug by Alex and Lafayette, and instead of hugging them back, a blood curdling cry tore itself from his throat as he thrashed away, his mind going blank as he panicked.

When he came to again, he was huddled in the corner, the blanket dropped in front of him. Tears burned his wide eyes as a few trailed down his cheeks, shaking as he pressed himself more in the corner, knees pulled up and arms around his waist, gasping for air. The three of them kept their distance, terrified eyes wide as they tried to think of how to deal with it.

Alexander was the first one he let touch him then, breathing shakily as he watched Alex crouch in front of him, ignoring Hercules and Lafayette saying that they should let him be, give him space. John watched him owlishly, blinking and causing more tears to drip down his cheeks as he focused on his boyfriend. “He’s scared.” That was all Alexander said, but the two went quiet, watched as Alex slowly reached a hand out.

John flinched. Of course he did. He flinched and whimpered, but Alex didn’t let it deter him. John had spoken of his father to Alexander before, told him what he’d done. It explained why John reacted the way he did, why when his big eyes focused on Alex as his hand cradled his cheek, he leaned into it, eyes locked on his boyfriend and trusting him as his eyes closed slowly. “There you go...” He murmured, felt someone gently drape the blanket over his lap as he let his mind go blank again.

When he came to once more, they were all on the couch. He was sat down on Hercules’ lap between them, resting against his chest comfortably. Alex had one of John’s hands and Lafayette the other, but it was all a loose hold. That was relieving. If he needed to get away, he could. He could twist away and go home and they wouldn’t stop him.

Instead, he curled into Hercules, let his eyes flutter closed as he relaxed in his friends’ hold and smiled a little at the squeezes they gave to his hands when he moved - the bad day feeling more like an okay day now that he was relaxed enough to let them be so close, now that he could focus long enough to know who they were.

John knew he could be a pain in the ass to deal with. Bad days didn’t happen often - a rarity, honestly - but he was relieved to know who he could go to when he felt himself going downhill. Okay days were easy to deal with, easy for him to handle, and he felt more like himself when it was over. The best days, of course, were those days when he felt so good, woke up feeling refreshed and ready.

But it was always comforting knowing his friends understood, could deal with it. The good part was Henry didn’t call often, and John never thought about him unless he called or he had a nightmare. It was so easy to isolate himself from everything out of fear, but it was even easier to give in to that hope and love in his chest and call up one of his friends, pleading that they just hang out with him until it passed.

It truly didn’t happen often, got more and more rare as time wore on, but it was still scary when he got so lost in his head that he flinched and cried when someone so much as touched his shoulder.

At least he wasn’t alone anymore.

#hey look i wrote 98% pain #Backstory #𝔖𝔱𝔬𝔯𝑦 𝔗𝔦𝔪𝔢 (My Stories)#𝓐 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓻 𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓰𝒆 𝓭𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓸 (Out Of Character)#<3

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imaginemycroftholmes · 8 years ago

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Le Submission

Name: Olga

Nationality: German

Age (note that if you below 21 your scores may be lower until age of legality): 18

Personality Type: ENTP (according to the Meyer-Briggs personality test)

Level of Education: soon to be high-school-graduator with a Abitur

Best Subject: English and History

Worst Subject: Chemistry

Favorite Subject: Latin and History

5 Hobbies (if applicable): music (composing, piano, singing), occasional fencing and horseback riding, jogging/hiking, drawing

Favorite Genre of Music/Movies/Books:

Music –> Classical, Rock ‘n Roll, Rock, Indie, Irish Punk, Folk, sometimes Country. My taste of music depends of the quality of the song rather than its genres

Movies: –> Usually Adventure/Fantasy but I also enjoy Period Dramas and good vintage movies and Comedies

Books: –> Fantasy, Biographies

Last song you listened to on repeat: “Once upon a December” from Anastia

Last phrase you said to another living person: “She’s at the summerhouse.”

How many blankets do you sleep with: One

7 note worthy skills: I’m pretty eloquent (whether it be during conversations, presentations or just telling a decent story), Social, Intuitive, Passionate about everything I do and thing/people I care about and able to be convincing when I need to be, I see good in people and situations, You can always count on me developing a plan and sticking to it

7 noticeable sins: I can be lazy, Intuitive (sometimes it brings trouble with it), I act on emotions after repressing them for a long time, I can be tactless, I love life but I often need to remind myself that I do, Isolation myself when I actually should ask for help, when stepping on for people or standing up for those who don’t stand up for themselves I get myself into trouble

Allergies/impairments/illnesses: I’m allergic to horses (main reason why don’t go horseback riding as often as I used to as a kid), I’m also allergic to my favourite flower (sunflower)

Level of Intelligence on a scale of 1 to 5 (1 being dumb, 2 being below average, 3 being average, 4 being above average and 5 being genius): 4

Level of Fitness on a scale of 1 to 5( 1 being obese, 2 being overweight, 3 being average, 4 being fit and 5 being skinny): ¾

Level of Attractiveness on a scale of 1 to 5 (1 being Anderson, 2 being below average, 3 being average, 4 being above average and 5 being Mycroft): Attractiveness is a very relative term. Some might say I’m and Anderson while others might think I’m above average.

Feline, canine or both: Canine

Confidence Level on a scale from 1 to 5 (1 being nonexistent, 2 low, 3 average, 4 above average and 5 Sherlock): I definitely carry myself with a Sherlock-like level of confidence

Position in the Family (oldest, youngest, middle): Youngest

Eye Color: Green (people question the colour because it tends to change depending on the weather or the colour of clothes or eye-makeup I am wearing)

Hair Color and Length: Brown, pretty long (now reaching the mid of my back) I want it to grow longer though

Height: 5'7”

Combat level on a scale 1 to 5 (1 being useless, 2 being somewhat capable, 3 being average, 4 being more than capable and 5 being expert): 3

Your normal dress: Usually it’s black jeans and some kind of t-shirt. I don’t care much for dressing up everyday so I wear men-shirts/t-shirts. I pair my outfit with leather boots (brown or black). If I decide to look rather presentable I throw on a dress that shows my shoulders and is tighter at the waist. When it’s getting colder I always wear long coats paired with a shawl.

How well you take rejection on a scale of 1 to 5 (1 being temper tantrum, 2 being vindictive, 3 being average, 4 being can take it like a man, and 5 being like water off of a duck’s back): I take it like man. No need to throw a tantrum if nothing can be done about it. I will be upset though.

Languages known: My first language is Russian but I speak it with a little accent because I don’t roll the “R” because I grew up in Germany. German is my best language which I talk accent-free. I’m also fluent in English. I am currently teaching myself some French and Icelandic

Cleanliness of your bathroom on a scale of 1 to 5 (1 being a crime scene, 2 being messy, 3 being average, 4 being pretty clean and 5 being perfectly spotless): It’s rather messy

How big is your circle of friends on a scale of 1 to 5 (1 being nonexistent, 2 being very small, 3 being average, 4 being large, and 5 being a massive social network): I have one best friend I know I can always rely on. I know a lot of people who I consider to be my friends. I have no problems getting to know new people so I would say that I do have a large circle of friends.

How would you rate your mental health on a scale of 1 to 5 (1 being very poor, 2 being poor, 3 being average, 4 being good, and 5 being prefect): 3. Highs and lows

Opinions on the current Holmes family members ( Siger Holmes, Violet Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Eurus Holmes):

Sherlock can be a pain in the ass. He is very inconsiderate of other people’s feelings but we all know that he means well.

Eurus is a troubled child with a troubled mind. Her intelligence drover her to madness so she can’t be blamed for the things she does. However she is a dangerous person and should be kept locked away.

Siger Holmes is a precious and kind man who deserves to be loved by family and friends. I’m sure he was a great father. He seems to be very passive when it comes to communication between the family members though.

Violet Holmes is a strong woman that keeps everything and everyone together. She can be harsh when needed and, like every parent, often has high expectations in her children (especially in Mycroft). I do like her nevertheless.

Please bold the following below that applies toward your submission:

Friendship

Mentorship

Relationship

Partnership

The Question portion:

Please note that you do not have to submit the pictures within your submission (save the puzzle) but you must answer them honestly and do so without cheating.

The rectangle is devided into 3 equal pieces. Three angles lead up to the same point. Since the distance of the angles A and B and C always stays the same and angle C is the one that’s the clostest to the point where all the lines meet up A+B equals C.

July 16 4

I think it would be smarter not to shoot at someone at all because he hits his shot only 1/3 of the time. If he misses the shot he still has spare ones. Plus I’m thinking that this is a trick questions since it’s saying „where should you shoot first“ and not „who should you shoot first“

5+5+5+5 =/= 555

This text indicates that the man needs some kind of help from other people to get to the 10th floor. That means that something hinders him from doing so when he’s alone. He either has a germ phobia and can’t touch the buttons by himself (in the morning he is able to convince himself to do it because “new day, new start” or he is simply too short to reach the buttons in the elevator and can only reach the first seven ones.

I would set two switches. The possibility that both of them are OFF switches would allow me to determine which one is the ON one.

7) He brings her the ring himself.

8) Obviously 87

9) Nobody

10) He could build something from the wood to get on the other side of the fire where everything is already burnt down. That way the westwind would continue to blow and the fire would spread out but something that is burnt can’t be affected by fire another time so even if the wind would change Alexander would be safe.

11) C) –> It’s not being said whether Anne is married or not

12) 679

13) All of them are wrong?

14) I’m too bad at stochastic and an answer I know would be wrong is too embarrassing to give

15) Sally did it

16) Where does the English horn (Cor Anglais) come from? France

17) What is brass composed of? Copper and zinc

18) Who was the FIRST great artist that contributed to the Italian Renaissance? Michelangelo

19) 2

20) 12

21) 2

22) White and gold

Mycroft’s answer:

Dear Olga, it would seem that you’re a rather bright child for your age aren't you? It shows in your answers and the way you carry yourself when you write that reminds me of a younger, if not more pleasant, Sherlock that wouldn't go around bringing muck into the house or worse, hide it under my duvet. I find it rather rare that you can compose and play your own music, I think Sherlock started it was a turbulent period as he wanted to go faster than his instructors intended which lead to many pay outs for damaged property and emotional damages. I also see that you have some sympathies for my little sister which is understandable. Eurus is an exceptionally bright young woman working faster than the rest of us and I'm sure its killing her everyday that she can't seem to find anyone for whom she wants to be an equal (as we all know she pretty much snubbed me in favor of Sherlock-someone she could easily mold at her will.) Although I recognize her dangerous nature I still love my siblings-both of them, even if they have tried to kill me on more than one occasion. I have no doubts that under my mentorship you can only flourish more so than Sherlock did at your age with less of my pocket book going toward covering up any of your misgivings. I only ask that you take a bit more pride in tiding up your living space because one cannot function at 100% in chaos. Yes, I do know this for a fact because I have seen my baby brother go on a rampage at Baker street because he could not locate an article that would prove his intelligence and then proceeded to shoot the wall up again in agitation. As for your state of dress as long as you keep it professional looking I have no qualms. We can proceed at your earliest convenience.

Friendship: 7.7/10 Mentorship: 9/10

#Mycroft form 2.0 #submission #mycroft holmes

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anythingstephenking · 7 years ago

Text

Sometimes… dead is bettah.

The soil of a man’s heart is... stonier.

True story.

If there was one novel I was most anticipating revisiting, it is Pet Sematary. It was my favorite from childhood. Which makes me worry just slightly about my mental health, as this is a tragic, dark and heartbreaking tale.

This is far and away the darkest of King I’ve read to date (not counting any Bachman). For me, it most closely paralleled The Shining in level of tragedy and study of what humans are capable of. The Shining showed us what isolation can do; Pet Sematary shows us what death can do.

Stories in which King draws inspiration from his own personal experiences make for his strongest storytelling. The Shining after his time in Colorado; Cujo after crossing a junkyard dog; and Pet Sematary while living on Route 15 in Orrington, Maine.

In the late 70’s King chose to settle in Maine and teach a course at his alma mater, The University of Maine at Orono. His curriculum was focused on British horror (of course) and included Dracula, Dr. Jekel and Mr. Hyde, and Frankenstein. I know I wasn’t even born yet, but man, I wish I was in this classroom.

Steve and Tabs, along with their young children Naomi, Joseph and Owen, rented a farmhouse on Route 15. A papermill lay at the end of the busy road, and the trucks took the lives of many pets, including Naomi’s cat Smucky.

RIP Smucky.

There was a close call when King snapped Owen up right before he ran into the road. And lastly, behind the farmhouse was a cemetery for the dead animals killed in the road, with a sign spray painted by the kids calling it “Pets Sematary”. So that was that.

The house the King family lived in.

The real life Pet Sematary in Orrington has been picked clean by King fans over the years, which is a bummer. This is why we can’t have nice things.

King kept this book shelved for a while. King’s friends and even Tabs said it was too much. And here’s the thing - it is too much. Recalling the movie, you remember the terror of Zelda and Gage creepily calling “come an’ play with me daddy”. The novel spends less than 30 pages on the third act, but it is decidedly more horrifying than anything they could translate to the screen.

The novel was finally published in 1983, when King was severing ties with his publisher Doubleday, and moving onto a new contract with Viking. Tabs suggested he send along Pet Sematary (good ol’ Tabs to the rescue again!) to finish out his last contracted novel with them. And it seemed for the first time, their original hunches were wrong, because folks just loved this book.

And I love it too, but I am honestly scratching my head wondering why. Like most other King novels, the characters are wonderfully developed and flawed. But unlike most other King novels, there is no happiness or escape. The story is one of death and grief and the limits human beings will push when confronted head on with these things.

I have to start with the books preface.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things:

John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr X.

Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling us what He did and why - at least to a degree - He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or more properly, as a Person.

Here are some people that have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw:

The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed - badly most undertakers say - Pope John Paul XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving off the flies. The man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs.

Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.

And that my friends is how this book begins. Chills before we even start.

Back to Doubleday for a second. Knowing this was the last of the King bucks they were going to see, they pushed this book… hard (that’s what she said). And they pushed it under the guise of “The only book to even scare Stephen King.” People were rightfully curious about what could possibly scare the man himself. Me, I hope the person that came up with that tagline got a big raise. I’m not sure King actually said it scared him. I think he thought it was too dark, which is decidedly different that “too scary” but I guess the Doubleday marketing department did not give a shit.

But, yes, I guess this book is scary. but not in a jump out and bite ya kinda way. Gage taking the scalpel and running amuck is just a blip on the radar of this story. No, it’s scary because it gets inside your mind and stays there. What would you do if you were Louis Creed? What would anyone do in that situation? Could you resist the urge to turn back time if you knew that power was out there?

Death radiates from every pore of this story. First from tales Jud Crandall tells while he and Louis sip beers on the porch. Judd and his wife Norma live across the busy road from the Creed family, and they become close friends in some weird May-December friendship way that I guess happened back when there was no Netflix.

When the Creed family cat dies, Jud takes Louis out past the pet cemetery to the indian burial ground. Remember when I said that Gage’s spree blipped through the story on the last 30 pages? King spends almost the same number of words recounting Louis and Judd’s first trek to the Micmac burial grounds.

“The sound seemed at first distant, then very close; moving away then moving ominously toward them. Louis felt the sweat on his forehead begin to trickle down his chapped cheeks. He shifted the Hefty Bag with Church’s body in it from one hand to the other. His palm had dampened, and the green plastic seemed greasy, wanting to slide through his fist. Now the thing out there seemed to be so close that Louis expected to see its shape at any moment, rising up on two legs perhaps, blotting out the stars with some unthought-of, immense and shaggy body. “

Well everyone knows things that are buried in that ground come back to life. Which is pretty a-ok. Church comes back and he seems different, but not enough for anyone to really notice. He just is a bit dumber and slower - and I mean, he’s a cat, so what do you expect? They’re dumb and slow.

The real tragedy begins when Gage, the two year old son of the Creed family, is run over by a tanker truck outside their home. The description of the scene is graphic and terrifying.

And even if you don’t know the story, you know what’s coming next. Overcome by the death, Louis buries Gage’s body in the burial grounds. And it ruins everything.

Leading up to Gage’s second burial, the grief of the Creed family is long and painful. It’s drawn out in a way where, when Louis gets the shovel and heads for the graveyard, you understand why he’s doing it.

Like the Overlook before it, the burial grounds have a pull on anyone that has set foot there. It pulls Jud (who buried his own dog there as a kid) to bring Church there. It pulls Louis to bring Gage, then Rachel. It convinces him he’s making the right decision. The burial grounds offer a reprieve from pain and heartache, no matter for how brief a time.

And even after the Creed family is gone, others will continue to be pulled towards the power the Micmac spirits still hold, hundreds of years after they last graced the earth.

A study of good and evil, right here on my couch.

10/10 - Sad it’s over.

First line: Louis Creed, who had lost his father at three and who had never known a grandfather, never expected to find a father as he entered middle age, but that was exactly what happened.

Last line: “Darling,” it said.

Adaptations:

Story Time! So. Growing up we lived in an old farmhouse that was built in the late 1800’s. I loved this house. I still drive by it when I go home because I’m a weirdo. But it is surprisingly reminiscent of the victorian from Pet Sematary.

The Google Street view of my old house, because I’m too lazy to go look for an actual picture in a box somewhere.

In this old, creaky, beautiful and wonderful house, the upstairs was split into two sections. The area above the back of the house was closed off, with stairs going down into the kitchen. We referred to this as the “back bedrooms” and in its early years, these were the servants quarters, with a separate stairwell and kitchen access. There also was an outhouse over the barn that we thought was hysterical (two holes cut in a long board) because poop is funny.

I must have been 12 or 13, and had my girlfriends over for a sleepover. These were the years where you lined all your sleeping bags up on the living room floor, painted each other nails, talked about boys (that you could only talk about and not to) and of course, watch scary movies.

Now, this movie is rated R, for good reason, but we wanted to watch it anyways and my mom let us. Bad call moms. Rightfully terrified afterwards, we went to the kitchen for more soda and popcorn. And while we all stood there pretending we weren’t scared of sleeping, my mom had snuck up the front stairs and down the back. She started scratching her fingernails on the closed door and whispering, “Zelda’s going to get you girls.”

Well… six 13 year old girls started screaming at the top of their lungs, so loud that my dad who was sleeping in the den was startled awake and rolled off the couch. I sat down on the floor of the kitchen and cried. (If you know me in real life, this is not surprising you.) My friend Caitlin ran straight out the front door and refused to come back inside. It was a long time before her mom let her come to my house again.

So that was my first experience with Pet Sematary and as much as I can remember, it was the first movie that scared the shit out of me.

King wrote the screenplay himself, and so it is not surprising that the movie plot follows the book pretty closely. This movie only got made because of a WGA strike in the late 80s - two major studios had turned it down, saying “The time for Stephen King movies has come and gone.” LOL. Dummies. But because there were no writers providing new scripts, they had to pick from what they had.

Some people say this film doesn’t hold up... but those people are wrong. Maybe it’s because it touched me so deeply as a kid that the terror lingers, but I do still think it’s good. Everyone that saw this movie did the running jump into their beds for weeks afterwards - even on my latest viewing I had to cover my eyes for the scene of Jud Crandall getting his heel cut. The worst.

Now granted, there are some cheesy parts. I described Louis’s fear in his path to the burial grounds in the novel. In the movie we get this:

But the movie also gives us this painting, soooo….

Really Zelda is the star of the nightmares. Fun fact: Zelda was played by a teenage boy.

Zelda, while really only a supporting character of Rachel’s aversion to death in the novel, is given prime time for creep in the movie with her twisted spine and spindly fingers. I still gag a little when I think of the scene of young Rachel feeding her what appears to be pea soup, and it just dribbling down Zelda’s chin. :::shudder:::

Fred Gwynne as Jud is the true star of this movie, with his amazing and over the top Maine accent, saying things like “that path down yonder there” and “you gotta bury your own” with a Winston hanging out of his mouth.

There’s a fascinating documentary on Amazon Prime called Unearthed & Untold: The Path to Pet Sematary that is worth a watch. They interview most everyone in the cast and crew. Someday I will go to Maine and see all the things with my own two eyes. But not the original Pet Sematary, because everyone ruined it. Jerks.

Side notes: Gage also played Michelle Tanner’s uber-annoying friend Aaron on Full House. Also, he grew up to be kinda a babe in case you were wondering, which you weren’t but now you’re going to go google it.

There’s a remake of this in the works and I truly hope it gets made.

To top us off and just for shits and giggles, Jud Crandall’s parody on South Park. Sometimes dead is better.

https://www.hulu.com/watch/254511

(I can’t embed this link, so just click on it.)

#stephen king #pet sematary #book review #movie review

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miriamvowen · 5 years ago

Text

Police officer Alexander Blix and celebrity blogger Emma Ramm join forces to track down a serial killer with a thirst for attention and high-profile murders, in the first episode of a gripping new Nordic Noir series…

Today we have an extract from Death Deserved, a co-written thriller by two great Norwegian crime writers (and translated by Anne Bruce). If you have been following this blog for a while or attending any of the crime festivals such as Bloody Scotland or Newcastle Noir you will be familiar with Thomas Enger and his Henning Juul series. Jorn Lier Horst is a former police investigator and the author who gave us the William Wisting books which have just been made into a TV series and shown in the UK. Horst’s books are published by Scottish publisher Sandstone Press. These authors have worked together to write Death Deserved which is published in paperback by Orenda Books on 20 February 2020.

The context….

Oslo, 2018. Former long-distance runner Sonja Nordstrøm doesn’t show at the launch of her controversial autobiography, Always Number One. When celebrity blogger Emma Ramm visits Nordstrøm’s home later that day, she finds the door unlocked and signs of a struggle inside. A bib with the number ‘one’ has been pinned to the TV.

Police officer Alexander Blix is appointed to head up the missing-persons investigation, but he still bears the emotional scars of a hostage situation nineteen years earlier, when he killed the father of a five-year-old girl. Traces of Nordstrøm soon show up at different locations, but the appearance of the clues appear to be carefully calculated … evidence of a bigger picture that he’s just not seeing…

Blix and Ramm soon join forces, determined to find and stop a merciless killer with a flare for the dramatic, and thirst for attention. The trouble is, he’s just got his first taste of it…

Sunday 9 May 1999

The police radio crackled.

‘0-1 seeking all available units for Agmund Bolts vei in Teisen.’

Alexander Blix glanced across at Gard Fosse. ‘That’s just round the corner,’ he said.

Blix slammed his foot on the accelerator as Fosse picked up the mic from the dashboard.

‘0-1, this is Fox 2-1,’ Fosse relayed. ‘We’re in Tvetenveien, about one minute away.’

Blix switched on the blue light and sirens just as more crackling noises filled the car:

‘Fox 2-1, 0-1 reading you. This is a possible shooting incident. There have previously been reports of domestic violence at the address.’

Domestic violence, Blix thought. He’d been called out on a number of similar cases, but none where a shot had been fired.

He swung into Agmund Bolts vei at the end of the Østre Gravlund graveyard, stepped on the gas again and swept past several blocks of flats with balconies facing the street. Cars were parked on both sides of the road. Birch trees at regular intervals.

This was what they had trained for.

It was what they had been looking forward to – being first to arrive at a real crime scene. For a year they had been rookies, sitting in the back seats of patrol cars. Now they were in charge. Blix’s hands clenched the steering wheel.

‘Looks like it’s up ahead,’ Fosse said, pointing to a huddle of bystanders.

Blix braked sharply and stopped the car at an angle across the road. He turned off the engine and sirens, but left the blue light on.

‘It came from in there,’ a woman cried as Blix and Fosse leapt out of the car. She pointed at a small white house.

‘Sounded like a high-calibre gun,’ a man added.

‘Has anyone come out since you heard the shots?’ Blix asked. ‘Or gone in?’

The woman shook her head.

‘How many people live there?’ Fosse asked.

‘Four,’ another woman answered. ‘They’ve got two little girls, but I think only one’s at home.’

Blix swore under his breath. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Go home and stay inside. And lock your doors.’ As the small crowd dispersed, Blix pushed the garden gate open. ‘You take that side of the house, and I’ll take the other one,’ he told Fosse, pointing in both directions.

‘You’re not thinking of going in?’ Fosse protested.

‘A shot’s been fired,’ Blix replied. ‘And there could be a little kid in there.’

‘Safety first,’ Fosse said, repeating their police college instructors’ mantra. ‘We have to wait for backup.’

Blix was familiar with the directive. The situation called for them to isolate and observe while waiting for reinforcements. But this was no college assignment.

‘Backup could take ten minutes,’ he said. ‘And we don’t know if we even have ten minutes.

Moving to the car, he opened the boot, unlocked the gun safe and took out his service weapon, then loaded it with six cartridges and clicked the barrel into place.

‘Seriously, we really have to—’

‘Help the kid,’ Blix interrupted, pushing past his colleague. ‘If she’s in there.’

He walked up to the front door and squinted through the thick glass window that occupied the top half of the door. Saw nothing. He wheeled around to face Fosse. ‘Are you just going to stand there?’

Fosse shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said.

‘Neither do I,’ Blix replied. ‘But we have to do something.’

He moved around to the side of the house, where he stood on tiptoe, trying to peer in through the only window on the gable wall, but it was too high. He continued on, emerging into a small garden where snow was still piled up. The bushes were brown and scraggly. He spotted a rusty swing frame and a ramshackle veranda. Armchairs dotted with cushions. Empty, brown beer bottles on the veranda floor, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.

Blix stepped warily, fearing the sound of footsteps would signal his presence. The living room had picture windows, but the reflection made it difficult to see inside; he knew, though, that the huge expanse of glass left him exposed.

He turned around and made his way back to the front door. Fosse was now sitting in the car; Blix could hear that he was talking to the operations centre. Blix inserted his earphone and caught the operator saying that the nearest patrol car was twelve minutes away.

Blix took a breath, settled his shoulders. Tried the door.

It creaked as it swung open. Blix took two steps inside. Stopped. Listened. Heard nothing. Or…

Was that a whimper? A sniffle? Someone saying ‘shhh’?

He moved forwards, gun raised, leaving the door wide open behind him, hoping that Fosse would change his mind and follow.

A passageway led him further into the house. The floorboards were noisy. He peeked into the nearest room and quickly withdrew his head. A small toilet with a wash basin. He repeated the manoeuvre at the next room. No one there either. His breath quivered as he inhaled. He struggled to listen again, but could near nothing.

Bad sign.

The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. Blix slowly nudged it open. It also creaked.

He let it swing wide.

A woman lay flat on her back, lifeless, her head turned to one side, so he could see her blank, staring eyes. A large pool of blood had collected on the floor beside her, a rag rug nearby beginning to soak it up.

He swallowed. Felt an insistent throbbing in his throat and chest. He held his breath for a few seconds, then raised his gun and stepped inside the room, making sure to avoid treading in the blood. Crouching down, he checked the body for a pulse but found none. He stood up and spoke as softly as he could into the radio attached to his lapel.

‘0-1, this is Fox 2-1 Alpha. A woman is dead, shot. I repeat: a woman is dead, shot.’

The radio made a slight crackling noise. As Blix stepped away from the woman, he caught a glimpse of the gaping hole in the centre of her ribcage.

‘Copy 0-1.’

‘Don’t come any closer.’

The voice, hoarse and strained, came from further inside the house. Blix halted. He stretched out, trying to see around the doorframe and into the living room.

There, in front of a glass table, was a man with a gun in his hand. It was pointing at the blonde head of a girl who could not have been more than five years old. She was weeping silently. Sobbing. Shaking.

‘Don’t come any closer,’ the man repeated. ‘I’ll shoot. I’ll shoot both of you.’ He shoved the pistol into the little girl’s hair.

Blix hoped she hadn’t seen the body in the kitchen. Hoped she hadn’t seen the woman die. ‘Relax,’ Blix said – he could hear the tremble in his voice.

‘Put the gun down,’ the man said.

‘Please, don’t…’

‘Put. The gun. Down.’

The man was probably in his late thirties, bearded, sweaty, with a shock of short, straggly hair. He took the gun away from the girl’s head and turned it on Blix. No tremor. No nervousness. Just desperation.

The girl closed her eyes. Tears ran down her face.

‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Blix said – he was trying to call upon everything he had learned at college, what he should say, what he should do in a situation like this. But now he was in one, he could think of no sensible strategy. He was forced to improvise. Make an attempt to talk some sense into the man.

His mind drifted to Merete, waiting for him at home. She had never liked his choice of profession. She’d always warned him of the dangers he would have to confront.

He thought of Iselin, barely three months old.

Blix lowered his gun.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked as he fought to control his breathing.

The man made no response.

‘In only a couple of minutes, the whole house will be surrounded,’ Blix went on. ‘You won’t get out of here.’

‘They’re mine!’ the man wailed suddenly. ‘Mine!’

‘Yes, and you’ll get to see them grow up,’ Blix said, nodding. His eyes searched for a second child, but he only saw the girl.

‘No one is going to take them from me,’ the man said. ‘Do you hear?’

‘I hear you, but please – don’t make things any worse than they are.’

‘Put down your gun,’ the man repeated with even more desperation in his voice. ‘I won’t tell you again. Get out of here! This is my home.’

Blix listened out for sirens. For Fosse.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said, looking at the little girl again and trying hard to thrust aside thoughts of his own daughter. ‘I can’t leave,’ he said. ‘Not now when you—’

‘You’ve got five seconds,’ the man broke in.

Blix raised his eyes to look at him. Grubby white singlet, sweat stains on the stomach, curly chest hairs poking out.

‘Please…’

‘Five.’

He was not going to do it. These were just empty threats.

‘Can’t we just sit down and—’

‘Four’

Blix took a deep breath. Gulped.

‘Let’s talk about this…’

‘Three.’

Blix gripped his gun even harder. ‘Think of your daughter, think of what you’re taking away from her.’

‘Two.’

The guy looked completely mad, Blix thought. He raised his gun again.

‘She’s only, what, five years old?’

Blix flexed his finger on the trigger.

‘One.’

The guy is going to do it, Blix thought. Bloody hell, he’s really going to do it.

And then a shot rang out.

Jorn

Book Cover

Blog Tour

Thomas

This book is on tour for 29 days, this is day 3. If you like the sound of it you have plenty of time to check out what some book bloggers think of it (see poster above). Today’s extract was provided by Orenda. Please explore the work of Thomas and Jorn on our blog using the search bar. We have blog posts about both their work going back a few years. Thanks for reading!

“The police radio crackled…” Read extract of Death Deserved by Enger & Horst here! #blogtour #nordicnoir #crimefiction Police officer Alexander Blix and celebrity blogger Emma Ramm join forces to track down a serial killer with a thirst for attention and high-profile murders, in the first episode of a gripping new Nordic Noir series…

#extract #Henning Juul #Orenda #Sanstone Press #thriller #Wisting

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disabilityrightsarkansas · 7 years ago

Text

DRA weighs in on continuing problems at Alexander youth facility- Kids in Isolation: Locked Away in Alexander https://t.co/HLlpWgyXLO

— Disability Rights AR (@DRArkansas) August 31, 2017

from Twitter https://twitter.com/DRArkansas August 31, 2017 at 10:48AM via IFTTT

0 notes

oselatra · 7 years ago

Text

Open letter to Rep. Bruce Cozart

I read your response to the Arkansas Times' request for comments about what happened in Charlottesville, Va. It is obvious that you are not well educated on the facts of history surrounding the Civil War. On the other hand, maybe you do know your history, and you are simply sympathetic to the cause of white supremacy. I hope your comments were made out of ignorance, and not out of bigotry, because ignorance can be cured.

Certainly the Civil War was fought for economic reasons, as you said. However, slavery was the foundation upon which the Southern economy was built. I won't go into detail on this matter, but the most superficial perusal of the facts (the actual facts, not "alternative facts") shows that many people in the South, especially plantation-owning elites, believed that black people were put on this planet to serve white people. Just do a little research and you can find evidence that supports this. In other words, it wasn't just about control of the cotton trade, or states' rights.

Mr. Cozart, you also said that monuments and memorials to the Confederacy are part of our history, which we shouldn't be forced to forget. That's interesting, because some people have been asking black Americans to forget their history for a long time. The armed rebellion in which the South took part to keep their slaves is part of our white Southern heritage, but it is also part of black heritage, too, just from a very different perspective. Regardless of what you may believe, those statues were not erected immediately after the war to commemorate the fallen heroes of a noble cause. Those Confederate monuments and memorials were purposely placed in highly visible public places during the era of Jim Crow as a reminder to blacks not to step out of line, and as a way of metaphorically giving the finger to the North. I agree we shouldn't destroy such historical items, but there is a more appropriate way to display them, a way that does not insult an entire segment of our population.

Please share this with fellow legislators who share your views, especially Sen. Jason Rapert. I would send the same message to him, but every time I ask Mr. Rapert to justify his position on matters of any sort he just accuses me of being a non-believer.

R.L. Hutson Cabot

From the web

On the Aug. 31 cover story, "Kids in Isolation: locked away in Alexander" by David Ramsey:

The Arkansas government does not seem capable or interested in protecting the lives of children who are outside of the womb. I have been reading articles from other sources that report the same thing: The majority of Arkansas government has turned a blind eye to the neglect and lack of oversight in the Department of Human Services' youth correctional facilities. Why are there so many horror stories about foster care children and youth correctional facilities in Arkansas? Governor Hutchinson and DHS Director Cindy Gillespie appointed longtime executive staff employee Betty Guhman to be director of Youth Services in July 2016. But I keep reading articles about the Division of Youth Services having problems with staff, funding, abuse, resignations, contract disputes, out-of-state for-profit vendors and a lack of oversight and transparency on the part of DHS and Director Guhman. My opinion is the Arkansas government does not believe in or want to fund rehabilitation programs for anyone. They are cheap about providing the mental and emotional health services that are needed for children that are locked up. They just continue to create mentally ill people that they will eventually lock up in prison. They do not care about human lives if it decreases the money in the general improvement fund. Does the state ever get back the funds that state legislators steal? Sen. Jake Files (R-Fort Smith) goes to work every day at the state Capitol and collects his paycheck. What kind of justice is that? I hate saying these terrible remarks about the state government, but I also get tired of hearing comments from pompous legislators wanting to erect Ten Commandments monuments while they ignore the needs of children in our state. Maybe Rep. Jim Dotson (R-Bentonville) or a church could go hang plaques on the walls of the youth correctional facilities that say "In God We Trust." I bet that would impress the youth that are locked up.

ShineonLibby

On the Arkansas Blog reporting on Twitter posts criticizing Barack Obama for not going to New Orleans during Katrina and mistaking Condoleeza Rice for Michelle Obama:

I'm proud that we conservatives not only invented fake news ("Obama wasn't born in the U.S."), but continue to improve it, as the "Obama at Katrina" meme shows. As Pontius Pilate said: "What is Truth?"

Ivan the Republican

I pine for a simpler time when we could come together and acknowledge that all the ills of the world were Clinton's fault. "[Poetry] is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake." — Lord Byron.

CyberBiker

On the Arkansas Blog posting on President Trump's decision to overturn President Obama's limitation on providing military surplus, like grenade launchers, to police forces:

Though I can see how bayonets "could" have daily use in roadside trash pickup, I fail to understand why the other items are necessary to quell dozens of WAND members at a vigil. Perhaps a local sheriff could have a good old boy hunting trip with his campaign contributors in a tracked armored vehicle with 50-caliber guns mounted on top. But nothing, nothing, happening in this country can justify its use at all, let alone daily. The thought of weaponized drones in the hands of the federal government in this country, let alone in the hands of the Barney Fifes, is enough to evacuate the bowels of most residents of 71909. Already, there are private companies on the sidelines eagerly waiting to customize former military drones with shotguns, grenade launchers, and bombs for local police. Are we saying that police are so incompetent that they need such weapons to do their job of protecting citizens? Many Americans already fear police. Do you think arming them like invading Stormtroopers is going to dial down that fear? What in this country can justify police having such a lethal arsenal against its own citizens?

Jabberwocky

In response to an Arkansas Blog post about an article on Democratic Louisiana Gov. John Bel Edwards that asks the question whether Arkansas Democrats should support support pro-life candidates if they could win more seats:

Hell No! Let them stay in the Republican Party where they belong.

DeathbyInches

DBI, you are wrong. I'll take a social conservative Democrat like Mark Pryor or Blanche Lincoln over John Bozeman and Tom Cotton every time, and you should also. The same goes for Mike Ross, the Blue Dog Democrat whom many in the party abandoned in 2014. The party has to get back to its economic basis, livable wages for the working man, better health care for all. I hope our new party chairman can find a candidate such as John Bel Edwards to run for governor in Arkansas. I would become an active party member again. Philosophical purity will get a person nowhere in conservative Arkansas if they want to win. I have been preaching that for years.

plainjim

Open letter to Rep. Bruce Cozart

#Open letter to Rep. Bruce Cozart

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phvsmasarmor · 8 years ago

Text

Rabbit Hole - Chapter One

Sooo I’m writing a thing for my friend. You’re not obligated to read it, but you’re welcome to!

Alexander Iving, accountant, is stuck.

On a couch, to be precise, between two couples who don’t seem to understand what ‘get a room’ means and clearly have no desire to move from their current positions. At least, he knows Kael doesn’t. Kael, one of his (younger) co-workers, had been the one to drag him to this place that reeked of weed and booze and sweat, having told him he needed to get out more and meet new people. “Young people who don't just sit at their desks for an allotted time, only to go home and sit on their couches until they need to go to sleep and do it all again the next day,” Kael reminded him. A large part of him wished he hadn’t listened to him. But these people are so young, some even too young. Hell, Alex is certain the boy situated on his coworker’s lap (his name still unknown to him) looks like he’s barely left high school. How he got into a party like this is beyond him, but there he is, dry-humping a man who is easily ten years his senior. Alex does everything in his power to keep his eyes forward, mostly by counting the folds in the (blue? purple?) curtains or the cracks in the wall. One of the couples - unfortunately not the one including Kael - move away, and he watches them. They’re both stumbling and grabbing at one another desperately and making such ridiculous noises which are soon drowned out by both distance and the stupid-loud music. He takes the opportunity, then, to squirm his way off the couch and to push past sweaty, drunken college students and into the kitchen, which remains relatively empty save for those refilling their cups. One of them, a tall, lanky fellow with dark hair offers him a red Solo cup with what he only assumes is beer; Alex opts for bottled water. Alex wanders outside and settles on the stairs there. Like the kitchen, it’s empty. It’s cold, too, the final stretch of Autumn that seemed to collide with Winter. He doesn't mind much, nearly prefers it to the heat and humidity of the house. It’s quiet, too, save for the whistling winds and the low, annoying thump of the bass from inside. The sliding door and the flick of a lighter signal that unfortunately, he’s no longer alone. He doesn’t turn, not yet, and just /waits/ for them to leave. Five minutes… Ten minutes… Fifteen minutes… Jesus Christ, why are they still here? He moves the cold bottle from his forehead and turns. It’s the boy from before, who looks so much thinner now that he’s not attached to Kael. Shorter, too. Alex's lips twitch into a frown when he notices he’s just staring at him, an expertly blank expression plastered onto his face. “Is everything okay?” Alex asks finally, brow and lips quirked in concerned. The more he stared back, the more out of it the boy seemed. He wavered with the breeze, pupils wide, and he’s exceptionally pale. Probably hungry. Or tired. Or high. “You’ve chosen to isolate yourself,” he states in a pleasant voice, soft but not dreamy, and with an accent that makes him sound intelligent - the way he holds himself (perfect posture, eyes locked with Alex’s) does nothing to prove otherwise. “Why come to a party if you’re going to be so reclusive?” The boy (red-haired, certainly pale, and /very/ short) floats on over to where Alex sits, head tilting just slightly as he looks down. “This wasn’t the type of party I’d been expecting.” Alex offers a smile, but when the boy doesn’t return it, he lets it fall. “What are you doing out here? I thought you and my friend were really hittin’ it off.” “We were. However, he failed to meet certain expectations.” “You mean he — ” “It means what it means.” A noncommittal shrug of the shoulders, then the boy raises his own brow, quirks his lips to mirror Alex’s expression. “May I?” Alex nods and scoots over. The boy thanks him and, once he’s sat between him and the stair railing, leans closer. Now Alex can clearly see the marks on his neck. At least most of them are too old for Kael to have made them; his brows knit together. “So what’s your name?” “I’m Alex. Iving. Alex Iving.” “Alex Iving,” he repeats with the softest of purrs. It shouldn’t make his stomach tighten the way it does, and yet… “Short for Alexander, I take it?” He nods. “Mm… You sound awfully important, Alexander Iving.” “Have you got a name?” Alex tips his head to the side, then. The boy gives him a look. “… Of course you’ve got a name. What is it?” The boy seems to think about it carefully, seemingly weighing out his options. The probability he’ll give a fake name seems high; Alex shouldn’t be so surprised. “Vinh.” The slightest of smiles breaks on his lips as though to show he’s pleased with the name he came up with. It must be a reference to something, but not one Alex gets. Even so, it reminds him of royalty, a prince or king decked out in gold and white, sitting on a throne before his loyal subjects. Where would Alex fit into such a scenario? “No last name?” “My surname is unimportant. It’s unlikely I’ll be seeing you again, so ‘Vinh’ will suffice.” Not surprising. Vinh, from what Alex can already tell, likes remaining (somewhat) anonymous. Alex knows the type: constantly partying, constantly fucking, never giving anybody a real name so you can remain unattached and anonymous. He understands that. “Well,” Alex wets his lips and lets his gaze wander out to the yard for a moment. “Vinh. It’s very, uh, Game of Thrones-y.” When he turns to look at him, Vinh is smiling. It's small, but it's there. His nose has even scrunched up a little. It's... Well, it's cute. "Thank you, Alexander," he laughs softly. "You can just call me Alex if you want." Alex offers his friendly little smile again. Vinh keeps his up which fills him with a sense of pride. “Hm. What do you do for a living?” Closercloser he leans, his head tipped to the side and brow raised. If Alex didn’t know any better, he’d assume the kid was trying to… flirt with him. “I’m… Well, I work with Kael - the guy you were … — uh, at an accounting firm downtown.” “Alexander the Accountant. Sounds like the title of a children’s book.” Vinh’s nose crinkles as the corner of his lips tug up. “Do you find it boring, accounting?” Alex wets dry lips with the tip of his tongue as he leans forward, elbow to knee and head in his palm. “It’s not bad. It’s work. And the pay… I can’t complain when I’m comfortable.” “Hmm.” Is he getting closer? It certainly feels like it. He can feel the heat of Vinh’s breath on his shoulder, but he can’t bring himself to move. “That isn’t much of an answer to my question. I suppose it suffices, however.” “…Okay.” Vinh shifts and stands. “Mm, how does a drink sound? You look as though you could use one.” Oh. Flirting. Maybe. Probably. “Nah, I have to work tomorrow,” Alex chuckles. He shakes his head, too, for good measure. “Thank you, though.” “Oh come on, Alexander. It’s only one drink.” Oh, the smile that spreads holds mischief, an amount that Alex isn’t sure whether he finds it endearing, challenging, or unnerving. “I’ve no tricks up my sleeves if that’s what you’re so worried about.” Alex hesitates. He… Doesn’t see the harm in it, really. It’s just a beer, and Vinh isn’t exactly wearing much to hide anything in. With a sigh and a tiny smile, he hoists himself up. “It’s cold out here, anyway.” Vinh beams in response and, linking his arm with Alex, slips back inside the house. The next hour or so is spent in conversation, discussing anything and everything that seemed to come up – work, classes, star signs, new films they wanted to see – but the more drinks they had, the less they seemed to talk. Alex kissed Vinh after the drunken revelation that yes, of course, he enjoys Friends reruns and it wasn’t too long after that did Vinh climb into his lap. The rest of the night is a blur of noise and tight grips and a heat Alex had almost forgotten existed; nails digging into skin and teeth and – oh, God, the noises that come out of them both, a symphony to the likes he has never known. After is less intense, of course. It always seems to be. Vinh sleeps half-draped over Alex, his face pressing into his neck. His breath is warm against his throat, it almost tickles. He’s too focused on stroking his fingers up and down his back slowly, focused on enjoying the bliss that follows these acts. He falls asleep watching the blades of the ceiling fan circle overhead and the sound of Vinh’s breathing in his ears.

#writing #rabbit hole #rae writes #for gee!

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