#Look at me going all Mark Twain on you folks.

[captain-astors]

Hi, can you do 003 for Arima Kishou please?

I ABSOLUTELY CAN! Fun fact this is about the length of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Telltale Heart. God I was hoping someone would ask for him yet, despite my excitement I feel like I'm going to disappoint the Arima likers and dislikers twain, but no matter. 

Mood for this entire thing: Screaming.

Behold the most horrendous thing I’ve ever written. 

How I feel about this character: all caps warning for about a paragraph bellow the first sentence.

Places him in a shoebox with no notable amount of affection nor violence, simply acceptance that this is where he belongs. 

THIS IS A MAN THAT SLEEPS WITH BLANK, WHITE SOCKS ON IN THE MOST NEUTRAL, BORING NIGHTCLOTHES YOU’VE EVER SEEN. AS A CHILD ANY POTENTIAL EXTRAVAGANT FASHION TASTES WERE FORCEFULLY SUCKED OUT AND ABSORBED BY SOUTA LIKE A BLACK HOLE OF REPRESSED HOMOSEXUALITY AND TOXIC MASCULINITY, AND THE SCRAPS OF ANYTHING BARELY NOTICEABLE LEFT BEHIND WERE TAKEN BY RIZE TO MAKE THAT LOVELY DRESS. HIS UNIQUE HAIR COLORS ARE A GIFT OF PITY FROM GOD BECAUSE OTHERWISE HE WOULD BE SO TERRIBLY NON-DESCRIPT THAT ABSOLUTELY NO ONE COULD RECOGNIZE HIM, EVEN IF THEY’D KNOWN HIM FOR YEARS. HIS FACE AND CLOTHING ARE TOO NEUTRAL TO BE IDENTIFIED BY THE MOST ADVANCED AI. GOODNIGHT. Okay. Now that I’ve cleared up the feral screaming, funny story. I don’t know if I’ve ever detailed my terrible facial blindness here (probably not, it’s not a crucial detail about myself) but that applies to fictional characters as well. Things like moles, hairstyles, clothing, and speaking mannerisms are lifesavers. I do genuinely believe him to be a very neutral looking character, but half the reason for my rant above was the fact that I kept wondering “Why is Kaneki fighting himself” for 2 pages of the end of the first manga, and did not recognize him as the same guy for a truly unfortunate number of chapters in the second despite moving on to :re very quickly after finishing the first tg. Then I thought he and tatara were the same person for a while. It was bad. And I don’t know why the glasses didn’t mark out SOMETHING for me, I think I’m just too used to seeing them on and off faces at different times that it just… didn’t register? But I really don’t have any good justification for it. 

I don’t understand why some people hate him so violently but at the same time his adult version falls into the “a guy” category for me. Had his moments, but I definitely could’ve found more constructed sympathy for his plight had the story not been so afraid of allowing the reader to be bored by focusing on someone else that it wasn’t constantly bashing me over the head with “but don’t you care about how KANEKI is affected by this?!?” No actually I don’t, because I understand him well enough from the last hundred-something chapters that have revolved around this guy to have a good idea of what’s going on inside his head. Arima remains a mystery, his choice to put the responsibility of the fate of this all on Kaneki instead of someone else when he passes or trying to tough out his inevitable fate up to interpretation, and I think that’s a portion of the reason he’s passionately disliked by a large portion of the fandom. This is all speculations of a madman, but from my point of view his mistreatment of Haise/Kaneki/Whatever, while ultimately motivated by the desire to exploit, wasn’t the byproduct of explicit malevolence, but rather in that aching pattern of every garden child, say it with me folks, being afraid to/not knowing how to healthily love, or even care about a person in a genuine way that doesn’t end up hurting both people involved. He did care about Kaneki, but first and foremost he felt a responsibility to use him. Tangent to more general and less Arima-focused thoughts, this isn’t to say that writing a character in a way that leaves things up to imagination is a bad thing in writing. In fact, I really enjoy taking the broken pieces of a puzzle and attaching them together into an image of my own liking after being left with little to work with (Hi Shikorae), but the thing about Tokyo Ghoul is that this is the case for a lot of characters. It’s the inverse of the Arcane (the show not the game) problem, instead of every side character being so deeply fleshed out when they don’t always need to be, the vast majority of side characters are left to interpretation though some of them logically shouldn’t, we could’ve been given a little more to work with… maybe. I’ll never know if this is just my sadness over the lack of content for my own favorites when I speak like this but still, I feel like every character I’m attached to is left in this awkward “almost works perfectly but not quite” area as a byproduct of lack of attention, whereas Kaneki does the same but as a byproduct of too much (Juuzou lives in the middle ground good for him). I am filled with righteous fury that is only quelled by unending love for this story, somebody sedate me. 

Not the worst option for “One-Eyed King” placeholder but I’m not even going to pretend I understand the why of it enough to criticize or praise. I don’t think it was necessary if the One-Eyed King was more of a symbolic concept of revolution than a person to begin with but honestly I could just be missing content. Such a cool name for something that seems ultimately underutilized, but I do like the note of Arima being unknown as the One-Eyed King when, similarly, unlike his brother’s, his revolution is a quiet, bitter and clever thing that takes years instead of equally clever but flashy, impossible to ignore. I could ramble for hours on the dichotomy of their plans to take down the circumstances and system of the origin, the merit of taking things down from the inside out and planning for the generation to come, vs. screaming the injustices of the world in everyone’s face, making a mockery of it all until you can’t look away because it’s always been everywhere but now you can see it too. How unfortunate the conclusion of their plans both ended up in the hands of Kaneki to execute, by design or otherwise.

Oh hey back to my issues with the lack of focus, those were almost completely gone with Jack! I love Jack-Arima and half of the reason for it is his dynamic with Fura. I live for the extremely controlled, calm, quiet, powerful and intelligent yet isolated Arima being temporarily pulled out of his almost machine-like world by the aimless yet fun-loving Taishi, who in turn learns what it means to be striving to protect something, and what it means to take a life. My qualm with it? I wish it was longer. It would’ve hurt even more to know he had to live the rest of his short life pressed back into a stifling role if he actually got to learn, even briefly, what it means to live normally. But, something something in order to know how to love you must be loved, the world didn’t raise him right and even that small period of time would have thrown a ripple in the chain of events that led to his choices and bad father figure role. Even so I like to imagine he looks back on those few weeks where he got to try to “live normally” (even if it trailed right back to ghoul extermination) with fondness.

Anyways to summarize Arima is another one of those characters I am choosing to be oh so normal about. I say choosing but I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. Just a guy, but in a way that makes me want to pelt him with beanbags affectionately. It’s funny how little and how much I care about him simultaneously. The disjunction of man, am I right? 

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: And thus the disappointment of everyone commences. Congratulations on being the first person to pick a character I actually have opinions on. I see the arieto in your icon, you’re so right for that, but I flip between seeing eto as aro or shipping her with Itori, Rize, or both, and I want everyone to die alone unless it’s tragic, witnessed, unpreventable or caused by themselves, seeing their lover in their final moments is not a kindness to either but a cruelty. Hello, yes vashwood and lawlight did shape me fundamentally, and I am the world’s most spiteful creature, a russian nesting doll of mutually assured destruction. Anyways I especially want Arima to die alone, besides Kaneki, unloved with that as an exception and staring the one child who latched on to him and hoped for so much in the eyes with the guilt of knowing “I did this to him and because of me there’s a good chance he will get worse from here on out.” Arieto is a hilarious pairing conceptually and personality wise, and outside of a canon universe I can absolutely get on board, the hijinks would be legendary, but in-universe? Eto’s LEAGUES too good for you Arima. Love you, but you could stand to suffer some more. 

Oh also I’m not quite sure if I ship them but Arima and Fura kind of have the energy of guys who kissed once in highschool and have adapted the mentality of “if I don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen.” But they do think about it. So maybe I ship them in the Jack era for 5 minutes of poor judgement, teenage-ness, and the intrinsic desire to make that rivalry homoerotic, and then I’m just here for the bisexual denial. 

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: H a i s e that is his son and he does not know how to raise him and I can’t even say he’s really trying but he’s definitely there and just. Oh I wish he knew how to lead a normal life. Also Furuta, they never met in the parts of the story we’re shown, and they don’t particularly need to for me, but just conceptually they’re such fascinating foils. Living manifestations about everything I love and hate in the non-protagonists of Tokyo Ghoul, they should both burn. The most siblings to ever not sibling. 

My unpopular opinion about this character: I don’t care what power scaling this universe gives us and how far up on it they place him. I could beat up this old man in a fight. I COULD. I WILL. I’M GOING TO KICK HIM DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS, WITNESS AND REVEL IN MY SPECTACLE. Also he has no charisma. None. He’s strong and intelligent, that is all he has going for him. And some nice hips but you didn’t hear that from me. 

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: The realization. Some kind of spinoff that further detailed the schemes and functions of his collaboration with Eto behind the scenes. Give me the forbidden one-eyed monarchs, not their narrative child. 

Favorite friendship for this character: Oh… the potential of Kureo being a healthy mentor figure (if you don’t elaborate enough on what happened with him teaching arima about quinques, I will assume the best for today), Akira (take notes on how to parent, Arima), Fura (but particularly the potential of them growing more distant and formal over the years as Arima is absorbed by his work and quiet aspirations.) 

My crossover ship: I don’t have one so I’ll just note that I listened to “The Way It Ends” from the Death Note musical for most of this and by god I have never felt so cringe.

Oh wait actually Elendira the Crimsonnail but just the Trimax version obviously. Trans queen.

[notesonartistry]

Taylor Swift's road to fame

Behind the scenes of the teen sensation's career, from guitar lessons to sold-out shows

By Chris Willman

Updated February 05, 2008 at 05:00 AM EST

”I love turning on pop radio and hearing my song,” allows Taylor Swift, the 18-year-old country music sensation. ”But,” she adds, mindful of her base, ”I don’t look at it as crossover as much as spillover.”

Her cup definitely runneth over. In 2007, Swift’s debut album was one of the top 10 all-genre SoundScan sellers. And all those sales came in while a lot of non-country-lovers had yet to hear of her…or, if they had, were still asking, ”Taylor Swift? Who’s he?” She’s harder to escape now: Besides several smash hits at country radio, she’s moved into the upper levels of the Top 40 format with a remix of her heartbreak ballad ”Teardrops on My Guitar.” (In recent years, only Carrie Underwood, with ”Before He Cheats,” has successfully managed that leap.) MTV is even playing it. And since the album has such legs, it’s a good bet to cross the triple-platinum mark, almost unheard of in this era of plunging record sales. She’s got to be the most popular high school senior in America right now. So: teardrops, schmeardrops… Did being 18 ever suck any less?

But she wasn’t always the belle of the ball, personally or professionally; those rejection anthems she’s so adept at writing weren’t penned purely as fiction. We profiled the rising siren in this week’s issue of EW. But for this exclusive EW.com bonus feature, we also talked with some of the people who were with her on the way up, including her mother, manager, and label president, to find out some of the strategizing that went into achieving one of the last year’s few true musical success stories.

NEXT PAGE: From karaoke to Nashville

The chipmunk years. ”When I was 10, or younger than that, even, I would watch these biographies on Faith Hill or the Dixie Chicks or Shania Twain or LeAnn Rimes, and the thing I kept hearing was that they had to go to Nashville,” Swift remembers. She talked her parents into letting her fly out for a visit. ”I took my demo CDs of karaoke songs, where I sound like a chipmunk — it’s pretty awesome — and my mom waited in the car with my little brother while I knocked on doors up and down Music Row. I would say, ‘Hi, I’m Taylor. I’m 11; I want a record deal. Call me.”’ They didn’t. (But you have to wonder how many of the folks who answered those doors suddenly flashed back to that moment when they saw a grown-up Swift screaming over her Best New Artist nod at the Grammy nominations press conference.)

Rather than discouraging her, that rejection was like rocket fuel. It dawned on her that karaoke-style singing wasn’t going to cut it at any age; she needed to become a full-fledged guitar-picking singer/songwriter. ”She came back from that trip to Nashville and realized she needed to be different, and part of that would be to learn the guitar,” says her mother, Andrea Swift. Earlier, she had tried picking up an acoustic guitar and had no interest in it, but things had changed. ”Now, at 12, she saw a 12-string guitar and thought it was the coolest thing. And of course we immediately said, ‘Oh no, absolutely not, your fingers are too small — not till you’re much older will you be able to play the 12-string guitar.’ Well, that was all it took. Don’t ever say never or can’t do to Taylor. She started playing it four hours a day — six on the weekends. She would get calluses on her fingers and they would crack and bleed, and we would tape them up and she’d just keep on playing. That’s all she played, till a couple of years later, which was the first time she ever picked up a six-string guitar. And when she did, it was like, wow, this is really easy!”

She started writing, too. Two of the songs she’d recorded (”The Outside,” on her debut album, and ”Christmas Must Mean Something More,” from a Target-exclusive Christmas EP she released) were written when she was 12. When she went back to Nashville with her own songs in tow, people took notice: At 13, she signed a development deal with RCA Records, working with that label’s Joe Galante and Renee Bell, a couple of legendary figures in town. But when the deal came up for renewal after a year, she opted out, because she felt she’d have to record outside material if she got to the point of cutting her debut — and at 14, she was already married to the idea of only recording material she had a hand in writing. Not coincidentally, at 14, she became the youngest person ever signed to the major songwriting company in Nashville, Sony/ATV Publishing.

NEXT PAGE: Taking chances

Nashville acceptance, hometown alienation. Swift started to feel cut off from some of her friends, since she was writing songs while they were either playing soccer or partying. ”A lot of people ask me, how did you have the courage to walk up to record labels when you were 12 or 13 and jump right into the music industry? It’s because I knew I could never feel the kind of rejection that I felt in middle school. Because in the music industry, if they’re gonna say no to you, at least they’re gonna be polite about it.” (Being unusually tall for her age, or any age — she’s now 5’11”, without her cowboy boot heels — may have made her more of a junior high outcast.)

Now that she had publishing and recording deals in hand, she convinced her parents, when she was in the eighth grade, that it was time to move where the action is. ”I was from a small town, and nobody really expects you to leave, especially before you graduate. That doesn’t happen. I actually went back a couple months ago and played a sold-out show in my hometown, and it was amazing; ever since all this stuff started happening, the people in Pennsylvania have been the most supportive people I’ve ever known. But I wouldn’t change a thing about growing up and not exactly fitting in. If I had been popular, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to leave.”

The Swifts never pushed their daughter toward a music career, and the family uprooted itself from the Christmas-tree farm where they lived only after it was clear that her stockbroker dad could do his job just as effectively down South. ”I never wanted to make that move about her ‘making it,”’ says her mom, Andrea. ”Because what a horrible thing if it hadn’t happened, for her to carry that kind of guilt or pressure around. And we moved far enough outside Nashville [to nearby Hendersonville] to where she didn’t have to be going to school with producers’ kids and label presidents’ kids and be reminded constantly that she was struggling to make it. We’ve always told her that this is not about putting food on our table or making our dreams come true. There would always be an escape hatch into normal life if she decided this wasn’t something she had to pursue. And of course that’s like saying to her, ‘If you want to stop breathing, that’s cool.”’

After getting out of her RCA deal, Swift found a believer in Scott Borchetta, who was then a big cheese at the Universal label group. ”I thought, ‘Oh, awesome, I’m gonna get to deal with Universal!’ I get this call a couple of weeks later, after I do this showcase and Scott’s on board and everything’s rocking. He goes, ‘I have good news and bad news. The good news is I want to sign you, and the bad news is I’m not gonna be with Universal Records anymore.’ Because he was leaving to start up this whole new record label.” She took a chance and went with what would become a new powerhouse indie label, Big Machine, figuring that at least she’d get more individual attention there. ”They only had 10 employees at the record label to start out with, so when they were releasing my first single, my mom and I came in to help stuff the CD singles into envelopes to send to radio. We sat out on the floor and did it because there wasn’t furniture at the label yet.”

NEXT PAGE: The viral marketing plan

The MySpace triumph. Swift’s album wasn’t Big Machine’s first release, or even its first relative success. Another early signing, Texas rocker Jack Ingram, had a song go to No. 1 on the country chart — but he still didn’t sell boatloads of albums. That would be up to Swift, and her success would help little Big Machine go on to become Garth Brooks’ new label, not to mention giving Borchetta the heft to sign Jewel (one of Swift’s childhood influences) to a country deal.

”The story that everyone is gonna tell with Taylor is her use of technology and viral marketing techniques — MySpace and texting — that are non-traditional for the country format,” says RJ Curtis, country editor for the weekly trade magazine Radio & Records. ”This kind of flies in the face of how to market a new artist from Nashville. It’s partly her being in that life group and using the things teens use to communicate and spread music around, but her label had a lot of savvy in that area too.”

But Swift’s manager, Rick Barker, gives the singer and her family most of the credit for working the Web. ”The parents already had her MySpace and her website up and running,” he says. ”The mom and dad both have great marketing minds. I don’t want to say fake it until you make it, but when you looked at her stuff, it was very professional even before she got her deal. And we put her music up there on MySpace before it was out, to help decide what was gonna be on the record. ‘Our Song’ made it to the record because of MySpace.” That song has been her biggest radio hit to date — written about her first real romance, premiered at her ninth-grade talent show, and nearly lost to the cutting room floor. ”If you notice the running order on the record, ‘Our Song’ is No. 11,” the manager points out. ”It was the last song added to the album, and a lot of that had to do with buzz that was being created on MySpace.”

Once the album was actually finished and ready for promotion, MySpace came in even handier. ”People laughed at me,” says Big Machine founder-president Borchetta. ”They said, ‘You’re starting a new record label and you signed a 15-year-old female country singer — good for you! You have a teenager — there’s a lot of those on country radio. You have a new female artist — there’s a lot of those on country radio.’ They were looking at me like I had two strikes. But I knew we didn’t want to count on country radio out of the box. So we went heavy on TV, putting the video out before the single, and doing a special with [cable channel] GAC, and we went heavy on her MySpace and online stuff. By the time we got to country radio, we said: We have you surrounded and you don’t even know it.”

It still wasn’t an easy sell. ”Her records are not records that researched fantastically,” says R&R‘s Curtis — and he ought to know, because when Swift’s single ”Tim McGraw” was first coming out in late 2006, he was then the program director of L.A.’s KZLA, and one of the guys balking at putting her on the air. ”But the radio guys hung in there because anybody who’s programming a station wants to get some younger listeners. Country does a good job of naturally getting 35-plus listeners, so getting someone who fits the image of the 18-to-34-year-old, that’s an asset. There’s a need for [youthfulness] in the format. When Gretchen Wilson and Big & Rich and the whole Muzik Mafia thing came along a few years ago, I said that, for the first time since the Garth phenomenon in the early ’90s, there seems to be a real movement happening here. It didn’t last long, because it was more of a fad than a trend; Gretchen really only had that one huge hit, and while Big & Rich have continued to have big songs, it’s been with their more traditional-sounding ballads. But there is definitely a need for a younger artist, younger feel.” Curtis thinks Swift’s adolescent-themed songs have a dual appeal to older and more youthful listeners: ”A lot of the theme of the album is first love, and those are things everybody can get sentimental about, no matter the demo. With things like ‘Our Song,’ a lot of people can relate because it takes them back to their innocent years — and in her case, she just happens to be living her innocent years right now.”

Barker, her manager, offers up some specifics about how they used MySpace to make the Taylor Case to radio. ”Radio does research, and we have no idea who they’re researching, but it was saying people weren’t digging ‘Tim McGraw.’ So we had to go out and create our own research — and that’s what we did with MySpace. What she did was put up a blog on her MySpace that said, ‘Guys, I would like to thank whatever station you’re hearing my song on.’ And people started telling us” — even with stations that were only tentatively programming the song in the middle of the night. ”We were able to take those comments back to radio in individual markets and say, ‘You’re saying researching is telling you it’s not doing that great, but here are 85 people who are telling us they love your station because you played ‘Tim McGraw.’ What MySpace and online told radio stations was: She’s already familiar to your audience. And radio loves familiarity.

”MySpace allowed us to tell the story about Taylor. And it really is her space,” adds Barker. ”She wrote her bio, writes her blogs, and if someone gets commented back to, it’s from Taylor. A lot of times, you can tell it’s somebody else hired to sit there at a computer. Taylor’s space is her space — that’s our secret.”

NEXT PAGE: Embracing the fame

Taylormania. On a brisk night in late January of 2008, the nexus for all this popularity is the Rabobank Theatre, a sold-out 3,000-seater in inland California where Swift is doing a headlining show. About a third of the way back, one delusionally hopeful suitor holds up a sign with his plea: ”PROM? 343-7547.” In the front row, a college-aged dude in a cowboy hat patiently waits for a break in the shrieking before finally blurting out, with half-shy boisterousness, ”Taylor, you’re hot!” But it’s hard for a male fan to get a word in edgewise when the young women in the house spend the entire show standing and screaming, much as their little sisters would for Hannah Montana. There are enough kids and parents on hand that it’s clear she has some appeal to the Disney Channel demographic, as well as to the 17- to 25-year-olds who make up most of the audience, though she writes about adolescent romance not as an aspirant but a fellow survivor. Swift represents the countrified missing link between Miley Cyrus and Alanis Morissette.

She is introducing her soon-to-be-released fourth single, the gleefully vengeful ”Picture to Burn,” which, like many of her songs, was inspired by an old school flame she refers to as ”Bad Cheater Guy.” Swift’s so impressed by the screaming, while going into her nightly spiel about getting back at the boys who spurned her, she adds a nod to tonight’s host city. ”Please know that I try to be a really nice person, in general,” she says as her band vamps through the intro. ”But, if you break my heart, or if you hurt my feelings — or ANY OF MY FRIENDS FROM BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA — well, I will have to write a song about you!” Total eruption, as she marches across the stage in her spangly sun dress and cowboy boots, strumming on her six-string and singing: ”I hate that stupid old pickup truck you never let me drive/ You’re a redneck heartbreak who’s really bad at lying…”

Before the show, we watched her pose for photos for an hour at a meet-and-greet full of fan-club and radio-contest winners. (That’s nothing, for her; at most of the hundreds of shows she’s played so far, she stayed afterward to sign autographs till the last fan was gone, which might last anywhere from two-and-a-half to four hours. But as the crowds grow, those late-night signings are becoming increasingly more difficult to work in.) It’s clear that Swift doesn’t have the steeliness of a lot of starlets her age who were groomed for that by their parents almost from birth. Maybe because this whole massive career thing was her idea, she’s still digging it. When a little kid approaches, she gets down on her nyloned knees and cranes her neck in so that it is pressed against the tot’s. In pretty much every picture, she will look like that person’s conjoined twin. Every so often, with someone closer to her own age, she’ll say, ”Let’s do a funny one,” and urge the fan to screw up his or her face with her.

”She can’t go now to a store without having people come up to her — which she loves,” says her mom, Andrea. ”It makes her day when she’s gone somewhere and people have come up to her and said, ‘I love your music — can I take a picture?’ She’s always grabbing the camera and going, ‘Come here’ and getting the MySpace shot, holding the camera and posing together. She likes that attention. I think where she differs from some people who get to that spot and realize that they don’t really like their privacy sort of being restricted — well, for her that’s not an issue.

”But she never in her life ever said, ‘I want to be famous’ or ‘I want to be rich’ or ‘I want to be a star.’ Those words absolutely never came out of her mouth. If they had, I would have said, ‘Honey, maybe you’re doing it kind of for the wrong reasons.’ For her, the happiest I ever see her is just after she’s written a killer song. As a parent, I felt really good about that. If that’s where she draws happiness from, she’ll have that the rest of her life. She’s not always gonna have the awards, or the attention, or the celebrity, but she will always have the ability to write a song.”

”She has the combination of that 30-year-old business mentality with a real innocence,” says R&R‘s Curtis. But can country fans and programmers — who tend to be a little bit territorial — expect to keep Swift to themselves? Will the pop crossover success get to her? ”We’re talking about an 18-year-old, so it’s hard to know for sure what she’ll be doing five years from now,” Curtis says. ”But just from talking with her, I would say that her value system is a really good fit for country.” And though MTV recently did its first airing of her ”Teardrops on My Guitar” video on TRL, it did look a little bit uncharacteristically wholesome, programmed between Britney and Pitbull, so it’ll be interesting to see how things play out.

In the meantime, there’s still high school to finish up — home-schooled version, while her mom accompanies her on some dates this spring, when she’ll be opening an arena tour for Rascal Flatts. Says Swift, ”I already finished most of my course work, so I just have two electives left.” Which are? ”Public speaking and vocal performance. I guess I’m kind of coasting.”

[fairfaxleasee]

Got tagged for this by both @mxkelsifer and @mxanigel . Gonna go ahead and tag @islanddryad and @mxfionamae

Nickname: Fax

Sign: Scorpio

Height: 5'8"

Last thing I googled: ...you got a warrant?

Song stuck in my head: I mean there's a lot of em that rattle around in there, but one of the ones I keep coming back to is Feed Me from the Little Shop of Horrors soundtrack...

If you wanna be profound; If you really gotta justify; Take a breath and look around; A lot of folks deserve to die.

Amount of Sleep: IDFK somewhere in the 7ish range depending on pets

Dream Job: Amoral trickster (Q from Star Trek, I'm coming for you!)

Wearing: ...you got a warrant?

Movies/Books that Summarize You: Donnie Darko, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Les Précieuses Ridicules, L'Etranger, Antigonie (not for the like actual circumstances but more for the overall mood), Medea (Euripides, not Tylor Perry), The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Hellraiser, American Nightmares, American Hangman.

Favorite Song: Honestly like anything by Warren Zevon and Maxwell's Silver Hammer by the Beatles

Instrument: Tuba (no, I'm not kidding)

Aesthetic: Horror. All the horror.

Favorite Author: Hmm... I'm going to go with Moliere (even I cannot burn Orlesians like he did in Tartuffe) followed by Mark Twain (but moreso for the short stories).

Random Fun Fact: I won a jigsaw puzzle contest.

[whitepolaris]

The Gold Canyon Restaurant

by Janice Oberding

The small but rapidly expanding town of Dayton, Nevada, has two claims to fame. The first has to do with Hollywood and movies. No one in these parts is likely to forget that many of Marilyn Monroe's and Clark Gable's scenes from their last film, The Misfits, were shot in and around Dayton. The second is somewhat more precarious. Dayton has dubbed itself Nevada's oldest city, but the nearby tiny town of Genoa makes the same claim. While historians argue that merits of each town's claim, residents to go about the business of enjoying the Nevada lifestyle.

When folks who live in the Dayton-Genoa-Carson City area think of a fine steak dinner with all the trimmings, it's the Gold Canyon Steakhouse that comes to mind. Housed in a building well over a hundred years old, the steakhouse offers a uniquely Nevadan ambience: mirrors and brass, moose heads, rusting farms implements, and paintings of a youthful Mark Twain and of bawdy courtesans who rules the hearts and pocketbooks of long-dead silver barons.

When Bonnie Stryker bought the building several years ago, she had no idea that a couple of ghosts might come along in the bargain. What she did know was that the building had once been a boardinghouse, and its location on Main Street was the perfect spot for her restaurant. So Bonnie remodeled, redecorated, and opened the steakhouse. Business was brisk as word spread of Bonnie's fine steaks and soups. Soon, rumors of supernatural activity were also spreading.

A Mustachioed Phantom

Employees were the first to notice that strange things were happening in the restaurant. "I know for a fact this place is haunted," said a former employee. "The first time I suspected it was the first time I closed up.

"It was after midnight," the employee continued. "The place was empty and I was alone. I walked through to the back room and the kitchen making sure all the lights were turned off. I had this feeling like someone was following me. I felt kinda of silly looking around and making sure no one was there, but I couldn't shake the feeling. I didn't say anything to anyone the next day because, well, with most of the lights turned off the place does seem eerie. Maybe I let all teh shadows and the old stuff on the walls get to me.

"A week later I closed up again. I still didn't like being in the steakhouse after everyone else left, so I tried to get things done as fast as I could. I was just ready to leave when I heard someone walk right up to me and stop. I knew it had to be a ghost; I was so scared I didn't even turn around. There was a blast of cold air on my neck and something gentle tapped me on the back of the head.

"I couldn't help it. I started to cry. Then I heard like a whoosh-and whatever it was, was gone. Now, that wasn't my imagination!"

Another woman told of seeing a mustachioed man one evening. "He looked like he was really mad. It was a Friday night and we were incredibly busy, so I thought I'd better take a minute and explain that I'd take his order as soon as I could. I smiled and said, 'I'm sorry to keep you waiting, sir.' He glared at me and dissolved, just like they show ghosts doing in the movies. I was so scared I dropped my tray. I worked there another six months, but I never saw him again after that night."

One person who claimed no belief in the supernatural admitted to watching a heavy lantern slowly swing to and fro at the empty bar. "It wasn't an earthquake. I still don't know what made that light."

While some employees laugh at the thought of ghostly residents in the building, others are serious about their experiences.

"I've seen him," a former bartender claimed. "He looks like an old time gunslinger to me-all dressed in black and with a thick black mustache. He was pacing back and forth, back and forth outside the kitchen door. So I came out from behind the bar and said, 'Hey mister. What are you looking for?' He turned to me with this expression like he was sad or lost or something and then walked into the kitchen. You've got to remember that there's only one door that goes in and out of the kitchen. Wherever he went, he didn't come out of the door. Yeah, he's a ghost."

Gunfight on the Doorstep

Bonnie didn't know what to make of the stories her employees were telling, and she was very philosophical about the matter. Maybe there was ghosts in the steakhouse, she thought, and maybe there weren't. Then she, too, began to experience what cannot be easily explained: that certain feeling that something unworldly is very close by.

A local historian says that many yes ago, a gunfight took place right outside the door of the old boardinghouse. Unfortunately, the sharpshooting gunslinger didn't have much time to enjoy his victory; he was lynched nearby even before his victim's body had cooled.

Not only that, but in Dayton's early days the old building that houses the steakhouse was the scene of several deaths. Is it possible that one or more of the deceased, including the gunslinger and his victim, came back to haunt the place?

A former employee sums it up. "The ghosts are here 24/7, and lots of people come in and joke and laugh about them. But when the last customer has gone, the lights are dimmed, and you're all alone, the laughing stops. That's when you know the ghosts are real."

[teacherintransition]

An Excerpt from: I’m from The South

An introspection five years in the making

Throughout the time I’ve been writing my series, “Teacher in Transition,” I have steadfastly avoided any reference to politics, social issues and Covid. I will again this I promise as I share an essay that has tormented me for five years. In 2018, I felt compelled to look inward to come to terms with my deep love and devotion to my southern ancestry and my current mindset that has reconsidered some of my lessons of childhood. Do my thoughts lean to the left? Yes. Do I condemn the history of the deep, Dixie south? Yes and no. I know that in 2023 that the Confederate States of America fought valiantly for a deplorable cause and to keep a landed aristocracy in power. In my studies, the reasons wars are fought are to protect the wealth of a small percentage with the sacrifice of the poor urban and rural folks. But the folks that fight the fight are often manipulated by cries of patriotism and honor by the wealthy gentry. I’ll go no further as I in no way wish to offend anyone who takes the time to read my work.

It was in my own mind that I wished to find a peaceful, logical middle ground with two philosophies that seemed very much at odds with each other. It has been difficult. Five years of writing and rewriting and starting over in an attempt to be at peace with these struggling states of mind. My people are from northwest Georgia in the Blue Ridge Mountains. My ancestors have been southerners from Virginia to Texas since the seventeenth century. My family had a firm grasp of our family history. That aforementioned history had the Rich family, poor, hard scrabble, share cropping mountain people who lived hard lives. They were dirt poor at the advent of the Civil War, but answered the call of “The Cause.” My great, great grandmother, Elizabeth Macdougall Rich gave birth to a passel of kids …three of which were boys and became soldiers in the Confederate army. My great grandfather, Solomon Hill Rich was a captain in the 6th Georgia Cavalry and his brothers; Andrew Jackson Rich and Martin Van Buren Rich also served. My great grandfather was a decorated hero at Shiloh and a p.o.w. the last two years of the conflict. His brother Andrew did not survive and the heartbreak led to his mother committing suicide in the family smokehouse. After the bloody conflict, whatever property Solomon owned was gone and some descendants were relegated to living in a cave. There’s the conundrum: does a man who was proudly raised to be a southern boy turn his back on that culture due to modern, progressive sensibilities? As I said, writing this has been a bittersweet labor.

I don’t know if I can finish this introspection, the emotions are far too strong. I’m reminded of my American Literature major in college when writing on Mark Twain and the similar struggle he experienced from writing Huckleberry Finn. His writing about a slave escaping to the north was not well received by his southern brethren and the cognitive dissonance hit hard. In his book, Jim, the runaway slave never made it to the north; scholars concluded that making such a progressive statement would be akin to turning his back on his family’s heritage …this, he was unable to do.

So here I sit, five years later still trying to reconcile my history and heritage with my liberal views of the present. The conflict is all in the mind; a conflict between two aspects of my character of which I’m strongly devoted. It’s a scene man. What follows is an excerpt of some of my essay, “I’m from The South.” I’m certain that some of you ponder the same things. Your insight would be invaluable should you desire to share.

I’m from The South …

Where I grew up in the humid, forested hills of the deep south. We did not have the luxury of various seasons … they were all variations of humid and sticky; hot humid and sticky, cold and humid, monsoon deluge, a two-month span of heat that felt like every oven door in the country had been turned to high and left on. And, on the most rare occasions, an actual winter that would bring what we regarded as snow; but, more often than not, was a slushy accumulation of freezing rain. Freezing rain where I hale means full panic mode with schools closing and fenders being dented with such regularity that at least one person you knew would be forced to drive the following spring and summer with dents of varied geometric designs.

For all of us, the summer was the time that we sought more than anything, save Christmas, as it was a time of unbridled freedom and untold worlds to conquer. In the spring and summer, with each hardly being indistinguishable from each other, we fished for “crawdads” with pieces of bacon we took/ stole from the “frigerator” because, our mamas would’ve whipped us if they knew. Bacon was for Saturday and Sunday morning with biscuits; unless of course the bacon were to be used for a pot of baked beans for BBQ … that’s another story. After having tied the bacon to some kite string, we would slowly lower the bait in the muddy crawdad mounds that had sprung up after a brief, but drenching rain that would occasionally occur during early summer. Far from being a relief from the stifling heat, the momentary deluge just turned the oven temperatures into a sauna like equivalent where you tasted the air rather than simply breathed it. This unpleasant sensation would all but be removed from our daily adventures as the rain would cease by the end June leaving us with temperatures at 95 degrees and higher until September. It was no matter though as we had an abundance of shade trees; creeks; hills to ride our bikes down; cold sodas from Mr. Tidwell’s store (two miles by foot); various water sprinklers and the occasional “illicit” use of the closest pool (three miles by foot) to keep us from succumbing to the summer heat.

The crawdads!? Ah yes, we would feel a gentle tug on our line and slowly pull forth, what must’ve seemed like a giant kraken to nine to twelve-year-old southern boys with big imaginations, the ugly pale looking crawdad … the object of our daring hunt. To further the exploits, we would see how close we could get before getting pinched. It hurt terribly to get pinched and often blood was drawn. “Put ‘em in the jar,” one of us would command, “let’s get a ‘hunerd’ of ‘em … we’ll boil ‘em for supper.” It’s supper where we came from; dinner is lunch if you live below the 39th parallel like we did and as did my Georgia cousins from where we hailed. If you called it lunch, we just assumed you were a Yankee and didn’t know what a “dawg” was either. The task continued throughout the afternoon; we had stored our catch in a big glass pickle jar filled with creek water to keep our bounty fresh before we cooked our catch, by the way, had any of us ever cooked a mess of crawdads/ crawfish? Small matter; we were on a great quest to feed the masses of rural route six!

Dusk made its way with a pink, purple sunset thanks to the earlier rainfall, and even the muscles of young boys get tired after hard work. We were boys; small town southern boys, not to put too fine a point on it. We weren’t “tweens” or “pre-teens;” those were categories made up to satisfy a need to grow up too fast. Being a young boy in the deep south was an endless stream of warm summer days with countless adventures; we were in no hurry to grow up and in dreams, we would be forever young. Still, day gave way to night and our task was done; surely our mamas would wave their dish towels in glorious triumph as we brought home the crawdad catch of a lifetime! As we gathered twine and bacon, our vision was focused on a full jar of smashed, gray pulp of what were once mighty crustaceans. With our energy depleted, our pretense gave way as well, the stuff in the jar was gross … and it stunk … we stunk … we were covered in stinky creek water and gray crawdad goo. There would be no heroic waving of dish towels in our future; but instead cries of “God have mercy” and curse words soon to follow. Oh, we could hear it now, “will you just look at yourselves! ‘There’s no way you are coming into my house lookin’ and smellin’ like that! Strip off those clothes on the porch and get in that tub!” So, like beaten war horses we trod oh so carefully around the rugs and were scrubbed clean of our glory.

When relating tales such as this, one is often on the receiving end of impatient, “get to the point,” faces from those who come from more hurried regions who may not appreciate the finer art of southern story telling. For those who hail from such regions, the abbreviated version of the aforementioned tale is now presented:

When we were kids, we would fish for crayfish in the hot summer

and get stinky and get whippings when we got home for getting so

nasty. Wait, why the hell did you do that any way? Sounds stupid

to me, I’m just saying …

What’s the fun in sharing a boyish adventure like that? Besides living the adventure, relaying the events in an extended manner; accentuated with the slow, melodic southern drawl turns run of the mill events into romanticized, epic episodes that can … and will endure a 1000 telling’s.

Far from the stereotype of dim witted, slow talking, overly dramatic rubes, the southern experience growing up is one of big dreams, vivid imaginations, a philosophical search for deep meaning in trivial events; romanticizing tragic ones and an all too human quest for some meaningful definitive. Our region and our people have engaged in tragic error, an obstinacy in admitting wrong, a pride that can and often is self-destructive; in these flaws we recognize that makes us pretty much like every other group of humans. True, we do adhere to a justification of our history through a perceived perseverance against tyranny, a connection to past struggles and indignities and a formerly mentioned pride that can be seen as aggressive. What can one expect from a conglomeration of starved Irishmen, violently oppressed Scots, kidnaped and enslaved Africans, dispossessed Native tribes, obsessed, evangelical Anabaptists forced away from their homes, rugged, defiant Frenchmen, proud elitist Spanish rancheros, down trodden Mexicans and pirates and bandits from every corner of the globe … well, you’re asking for a fine mess.

But, from the same conglomeration of madmen and defiant heroes, one finds artists of fiery intensity; soldiers of bravery and guile; statesmen with keen intellect and enlightened perception; freedom fighters of steely resolve and focused goals; writers whose ink dripped from their pens with the heat of flowing magma and the sweetness of fresh honey; musicians and singers whose craft created the unique, American culture that touched the world and scientists who wielded the scalpel of intellects cutting edge. Their names roll out like a clarion call of brilliance: Martin Luther King, Muddy Waters, Mark Twain, Thomas Jefferson, , Patsy Cline, George Washington, Lorenzo De Zavalla, John Lewis, William Faulkner, Robert Johnson, Chester Nimitz, Scott Joplin, Hank Williams, Robert E. Lee, Blind Lemon Jefferson, James Madison, Andrew Young, Henry Cisneros, Katherine Anne Porter, Caroline Gordon, Allen Tate, Thomas Wolfe, Robert Penn Warren, Flaco Jiménez, Tennessee Williams, Greg Allman, Buddy Guy, Stonewall Jackson, Billy Graham, Jimmy Carter … on and on this roll call of magnificence goes forward … and you can be sure that all southerners know some and many know them all.

We hold on to these giants with a great sense of insecurity as well as pride, for our region is also known for affronts to human dignity. It is a scar … or a brand that deeply seared both flesh and soul. Guilt and pride make for a volatile combination in the southern state of mind. It is an ever present struggle in the mind of the those of us who live here. Our sons and daughters change the world and enrich it beyond measure; but the image of the rube and the racist haunt our every step … our every word. You have to be from here; heard the stories from the old folks; read the books accept the shame, but hold onto the thin cord of salvation that few of our ancestors partook in that shame; lived that gilded life so far removed from the black man, the poor white trash, the native … who were held in ever so slightly higher regard than those whose history in this nation is much more painful to identify during those terrible years; when our blindness to morality was as essential to existence as was a hearty breakfast. Our men fought bravely … told that they all must sacrifice for the “cause.”

The Cause … some romanticized way of life that would somehow put all who bled and died on a lofty plane of social status and exceptionalism … the shame of being led like a cow with a ring in his nose. There would be no great moral reward; just the deep shame of upholding this peculiar institution as John C. Calhoun so casually called it and the shame of being so blind …to those who sought only to enrich themselves and hold their elevated position in an antiquated hierarchy. Our men did fight and die bravely only to have history prove that they performed the duty of warriors for a dark, ugly system that never benefited them, but would be shamed for eternity. This cuts to the quick … for a people who are rugged and eloquent; proud and humble; practical yet abstract; harsh yet gentle … who yearn to be proud. We weren’t told those stories growing up but grandiose mythologies that bore small semblance to the truth ….

A young boy from down here carries the burden of wrestling with this … wanting to brag vociferously about the honor and bravery of our namesakes yet reconcile this with the hellfire and brimstone sermons that we were fed daily in our ever seeking search for salvation. Were our ancestors condemned to such a fate; would they be absolved because they were manipulated by an aristocratic class that had tormented their ancestors on the previous continent? Or would purgatory be the eternal destination in both spirit and state of mind as the price for glorifying a lie? We want to be proud but for the sins of the father, the stigmata seems to be an inescapable burden which the southern boy must bear.

The brush strokes are broadly applied to the folks down here and hide not only unpleasant truths but sufferings that could be a balm to assuage the judgement of those who don’t really know us. As a child, I clearly remember holding my father’s hand as we walked into a valley between two mountains of the Blue Ridge. He led us to a distinctly unpleasant area of land that seemed a “thin place” for spirits who suffered traumatic circumstances. The lush, verdant green of this mountain valley we surveyed in the heat of a Georgia summer had a patch that seemed lifeless and forbidden. The appearance of a land gave the impression that it had been all but abandoned by the gods. It was brown, yellow, dry and brittle; it stood in stark contrast to the vibrant, living forest that we encountered upon entering this valley. My father stood stoic and silent with look of a man who heard a story that broke one’s spirit and had heard it many times. The ominous silence and feelings that couldn’t be avoided when viewing this surreal visage was broken by my father who asked me a question that could be nothing but rhetorical. “Do you know why the ground looks like this,” he meekly asked me?

Meekness is not a word I’d ever attribute to my father nor would I ascribe boisterous in describing him... he was just ... quiet, yet certain. I do not recall my attempts to answer his question or even if I dared try; I do recall his explanation. He did all he could to develop an already burgeoning love I possessed for all things historical and knew that I would internalize what he now told me. “ During the Civil War, Sherman,’ here he is known only as Sherman... not General Sherman,’ lined wagons side by side for as far as possible. The wagons were filled with salt and on order, the drivers of the horse wagons would take down the back gate and lead the horses forward depositing the salt on the ground until it ran out.” The question followed simply and innocently, “why?” He solemnly replied, “so nothing could ever grow here.” I didn’t understand... the totality, the completeness, the definitive nature of such an act. My mind was awash with possibilities of a child like nature: was the man with the salt mad at someone, had he been friends with the owner, why didn’t he want things to grow here?” The complexities of such a heinous act certainly escaped the innocence of an eight year old boy. As I became older, the number and various natures of stories such as this grew as I grew and told of property being taken away from great grandparents; forced migrations from old family places; the disappearance of kin; old relatives being bayoneted on the street without justice or recompense. None of these tales mentioned slaves, trails of tears, lynchings and such a vital part of understanding this land where so many suffered unnecessarily, where blame was broadly and wrongly placed and opportunities were missed.

We needed to ask, “why” as I had that day during my youth. Why did so many have to suffer whether they be black or white? Why do so many still suffer whether they be black or white? The most fascinating of the countless “what if’s ” of this whole melodrama centers on the figure of Abraham Lincoln, held with scorn still in some of the darker recesses of our region. The twisted, malevolent view “Southern Honor” held by equally twisted individuals necessitated that a strike against Lincoln must be carried out. Against Lincoln, the one man should had lived who would’ve brought grace, forgiveness, respectability and unity to all after the most uncivil war. Struck down he was and those motivated by the darker angels of our nation held sway and created a reality whereby mistrust and hate permeated all who lived here even until now. Pride is a difficult to wield, double edged sword when handled by insecure men with grudges to bear. It causes some to resist the acknowledgement of their all too human frailties and others will abandon it when the cost is survival of oneself and those he holds dear. So in perpetuity, the aforementioned human frailties of some from this region has caused some to bring conflict and degradation to a great many and lessons that were to have been learned became denied younger generations by the retelling of myths of a glorious cause that was anything but. Progress, unity, a shared glory were all to be turned away because romanticizing took precedence over reasoning.

Lost in all this bluster are so many of us of good will, who can see the truly good aspects of our history and who are bound by the chains of our shadows. What do they fear, those who hold onto ancient myth and outdated hatreds? As I mentioned early on, the South is an historical and cultural touchstone for our nation, there are acts of honor and intellect and magic that happen here; but with each of these acts are always the whispers in the shadows. These shadows whisper hate, fear, an unwillingness to ask for or accept forgiveness despite the promise of unlimited possibilities given by history and the “good book” of their faith. They would be like Lancelot who nurses a festering would that rots and never heals because of his shame.... never once realizing, “I could be Lancelot? Missed accolades, missed peace, missed brotherhood for what? Our region leads in poverty, leads in poor quality of education and in adherence to a failed philosophy that requires pain and suffering of all. It is not just here that this poison permeates our life blood as a people; look anywhere in this country and you will find those willing to grasp a burning iron: Los Angeles, the Northwest, the large metropolis’s back east there all too many willing to roll this stone uphill. For all of this spite and ignorance must we, will be always crying out as Langston Hughes, another southern progeny from Missouri, “Let America be America Again?”

Let America be America again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.

Let it be the pioneer on the plain

Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one

above.

(It never was America to me.)

Mr. Hughes aches to be a part of the majesty of what this land should be, to live up to its creed... it’s promise ... it’s hope. All too often, we turn our eyes from what we could be to what we are.... from light to half light ....from dream to painful acquiesce ...left bewildered by chaos in our mind. Confused we call out as Hughes does in his poem, “Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?” It is us, perhaps not individually, certainly us collectively. The stars we cover with veils are not at fault, but as Shakespeare wrote in “Julius Caesar “... the fault lies in ourselves.

It will never be America to me until it is for all. Little boys from the south on grand adventures will always held back by a towering wall carrying a ball and chain forged by the darkness in the shadows and fastened by those all too comfortable to be less.

[amethystpath-writes]

You’re Not A Villain

“I didn’t expect to ever see you again,” Villain’s voice bounced off every wall, making it impossible to know where exactly he was.

Hero swallowed, daring a step further into what she often referred to in her own mind as ‘my lure to Hell.’ “You say that every time.”

The voice seemed to dash to the right, even as Villain emerged from a hole in the cave straight across from Hero. “Because it’s true every time.” This wasn’t the first week the hero had been making these little visits.

Why would Hero return to such a dingy place? One where a man appeared as a beast- a heathen sent from only the universe knew where- to her. Villain was burdened with cruel appearances, being seen- always- as the worst possible image the viewer could imagine. Hero always saw a demon-ish looking creature in Villain; it made him want to ask her what the story behind such hideous monsters was. Him asking her would probably only freak her out more, though.

“So, why are you here again? This is the second time just this week. And I won’t even mention how many times last week.” Villain lifted his hand, attempting to rake it through his hair. He met a pair of horns half-way through the task. Grunting, and dropping his hands uselessly to his sides, he continued. “You should be running for your life at a random sighting of me. Instead, you deliberately walk yourself into my dome of isolation. It’s hard to run away in a cave, you know?”

“I know,” Hero squeaked, “but I- I…”

She did this every time- strutted in like she was made purely of confidence. Hero posed with it as she entered the largest ‘room’ of the cave, but her posture always fell when Villain’s voice echoed around her, when she realized she would be trapped with her greatest nightmares.

Why, Villain had to question again. Why does she keep coming back? He was a horror, a creature which caused the most deeply rooted trembles and speediest beating hearts. There were enough times that he made his visitors pass out from fear. It took some getting used to- frightening people to their near deaths.

Villain was a man once- and he was one now…just not to everyone else.

When Villain was alone in his cave, he was the greatest version of himself- gloriously human. One with curly locks and straight teeth from those braces he wore back in junior high. One with the heaviest pocketed dimples and freckles on his nose. One who was average in height, but strong from all the lonely workouts. He was regular, normal, average…but it was better than anything he could ever wish for when his reality now was so…so cursed.

Hero flinched, undoubtedly seeing something new sprout from Villain as her nightmarish imagination ran untamed. The last time she visited the cave, Villain felt a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Wings. It had been leathery bat wings- like something from Hell. Villain would have liked to fly with those wings had they not disappeared as soon as Hero turned her back on him.

Now, however, Villain was presented with something different. “My horns are on fire?” he guessed, as his head had become warm, to which Hero confirmed with a fast nod. “Lovely. You might like to make me fire-proof in that mind of yours, then, yeah?”

“I don’t- I don’t know if I can.”

Heaving a sigh, Villain took a seat on a large rock on the ground- could it be considered a boulder if he were tall enough to sit on it without having to climb? “You’re afraid it would make me invincible? Afraid I’d attack you without pause?”

“No.”

But she was. Villain knew Hero was or else she would have cooperated the moment he asked.

“Give me lead feet if you’re that afraid. My scalp is burning.”

“You’re hard- hard to talk to,” Hero said. At least she was able to get a grip on herself enough that Villain’s head slowly began to cool off.

“And yet you keep returning.”

“Because I’m a hero.”

“I suppose that makes me a villain.”

Her response was to take the teeniest step forward. Villain could see her foot shaking even as it just barely left the ground.

He was the cause of that tremble, and many others.

He couldn’t help it, though, and that’s what killed him. Villain didn’t want to be like this. If he had any choice in the matter, he’d be as average as anyone- below average even- if only it meant being loved, cherished, and- and cared for. This…this demonic presence that he lived as around others…it was painful- not just physically, but mentally as well.

“You’re not a villain,” Hero said, inching forward another frightened step.

Villain sat nearly perched on his rock-boulder, watching with an inclined chin and squinted eyes. What was Hero doing? “If I weren’t, you wouldn’t be so scared, nor would anyone else be. I’m a monster.” His voice wasn’t broken- as much as he felt that trait on the inside. Villain trained himself long ago to remain numb on the outside, to encase himself in a shell that screamed ‘self-preserved.’

Hero said, “I’m showing you that you’re not a villain.”

She was getting closer. Oh. Oh, Villain didn’t like this. No one ever got this close to him- even if it were in as slow steps as Hero was taking now. This wasn’t- this- “What are you doing?” The numb Villain worked so hard to achieve was crumbling to pieces the closer Hero got. Was he…was he shaking? “Step back, Hero. This isn’t a game. I could- I could hurt you. You should run and you know it. You want to run. I’m- I’m scary and I’m a monster.”

“Who told you that?” Why was Hero’s voice gaining more courage whereas Villain’s might as well have been a holey rag in the rain above someone’s head?

This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

“Who told you that you were a monster, Villain?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. No. No, she shouldn’t be this close. I’m a monster. I’m a monster.

“Who?” Hero pressed again, and this time…she laid a hand on Villain’s shoulder- on Villain’s bare shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Hero told the man beneath her hand, “You’re no monster to me, Villain. You don’t have to be a monster to anyone.”

Ever-so-slowly, Villain’s eyes blinked open. The first thing he saw was the veiny arm extending out from Hero. She was still nervous, but…but- “You’re touching me.” His voice was an exasperated and disbelieving whisper. “You’re touching me,” Villain said again- this time with an astonished chuckle. “They said this would never happen. Said I’d be alone and starving- craving what I can never have.” His eyes met Hero’s. “Do I…do I still have horns?”

The question of ‘Who-dunnit’ no longer mattered. “No, Villain. The horns are gone.”

What happened in the next moment likely shocked them both, though Hero’s might have been in more fright than surprise…Villain pulled his saviour close, nose tucked into her neck, tears flowing freely down his cheek and onto Hero’s back.

See, Hero was still afraid- and she always would be. But the fear was worth it to make Villain human, to make him see that he wasn’t a monster, for it isn’t the skin of the man which makes him a beast, but the absence of morality. It is only when moral judgement is vacant that Man can be considered Animal.

******

Part two here

[lichfucker]

I guess we’re sharing wip snippets now? I guess we’re sharing wip snippets now. thanks @swallowtailed

I opened the say it out loud word doc for the first time since march for this lmao. part 1 is about trent’s discovery of ted’s vampirism, and part 2 is ted telling trent all his stories a la interview with the vampire. this is a bit from part 2, set sometime in the early 1910s. past tense my beloathed 💛

Mark Twain wrote about remembering Muscatine, Iowa as having the most beautiful sunsets in the world, the dazzling array of colors on the surface of the Mississippi, unparalleled. Ted remembered Muscatine very, very differently.

Ted remembered the cool nighttime mist wafting up from the water. He remembered the glint of starlight. He remembered the rush of the current. He remembered his patrol along the banks, fishing out litter and critters that weren’t supposed to be there—the strength, the speed, the keen senses, the sleeplessness, the thermal strangeness that left him largely unbothered by extreme cold, they all meant Ted could do a lot of things most folks couldn’t. He remembered the anxious jitters he’d get, hoping he’d be sharp enough to help, petrified he’d miss something. He remembered the wind tickling his mustache. He remembered the lump in his throat. He remembered seeing something way upstream that didn’t look right, dread dawning as the current carried it closer and closer.

He remembered the smell of blood. He remembered the body.

And Ted remembered running as fast as he possibly could, faster than God could ever have intended, because he remembered his survival training books, and he remembered it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to get caught in the undertow and not be able to find the surface again, if one could even move past the temperature making them seize up, and if they were already bleeding then the window of opportunity to intervene would be closing fast, and if there were one thing Ted Lasso knew he could be it was fast. He didn’t remember jumping in and he didn’t remember grabbing the fella—one moment he was standing there trying to make out the shapes in the darkness, and the next moment he was running, and then he was soaking wet, lugging a man onto solid ground, feeling around for a pulse. The pulse was weak, but it was there—good Lord, it was there. The man’s mouth was full of rank river water, and there was gunk and debris caught in his beard, and the blood was gushing from his temple, and Ted…

Ted sat there with the horror for half a second. And it was a horror: his best idea, his only idea, it wasn’t something he’d ever given much thought before, and he wasn’t giving it much thought now, either, because he just didn’t have the time. But he had time to reckon that it was all he had, the only tool left in his arsenal, the only bandage in his kit.

He whispered, “I’m so sorry,” and then he bit.

Ted didn’t know what to do here, with his fangs sinking into the man’s jugular. Ted didn’t know—but his body did. The part of him that wasn’t him, the part that was passed on when he himself was bitten, that was the part that understood and that was the part that took over. He sucked in for a moment, the taste of blood straight from the vein overwhelming in a situation where Ted didn’t think he could possibly be whelmed any further—and then the tracks shifted, and he was no longer sucking anything in but letting something out. The venom flowed from his fangs into the man’s bloodstream, and he didn’t have a clue how long it was supposed to take, so he just stayed there until the man started writhing and convulsing.

Ted held him as the spasms wracked his body, spitting up water and gasping for air, eyes glassy and fluttering. By the time Ted heard himself speaking, realized he was doing it at all, he’d already been going for several seconds. The words just spilled out of him reckless as the current, no impetus or intention of his own behind them.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re okay. Can you hear me? You’re okay. I don’t know if you can understand me but my name’s Ted. My name is Ted and I got you. Okay? You’re gonna be fine, I promise, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be different, but you’re gonna be fine. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna make sure you’re all right, all right? I promise. I promise I’m gonna look out for you. I’m gonna help you through this. And I’m sorry you didn’t get a choice in the matter, but, hey, neither did I, and I wasn’t just gonna sit back and let a fella die on me, now was I? I’m sorry. This should’ve been your choice and I’m sorry I took that choice away. But listen: you’re gonna be okay. I hope you can understand that. Even if you can’t actually hear me, I hope you understand me when I say you’re gonna be okay. Your life is gonna change, but at least now you’ve got a life to change. I didn’t give you a choice, but I am gonna give you what no one gave me, and that’s help. All right? I’m gonna help you. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise. I promise.”

[spectrumed]

5. sleep

It hardly gets dark in the Swedish summers. Between dusk to dawn, you’ve got about an hour to fall asleep before the sun rises again. If you struggle to fall asleep that fast, you can invest in some good window blinds. Or you can do as I do and place one big pillow over your face. Then the birds start singing around three o’clock in the morning. You can practically hear the sounds of Edvard Grieg’s Morning Mood playing at around four o’clock in the morning. Around five o’clock in the morning, it is as bright as midday. Did you have a good time sleeping? Or did you pace around in a circle having one hell of a panic attack? I thought you took some of those sleeping pills you got prescribed, they should have helped you fall asleep… wait, you did take them? They didn’t work? Oh, they did work, you just felt your body falling asleep while your mind stayed awake? That sounds terrible, real terrible. Very well. It’s morning now. Want some coffee?

You could form a religion out of sleeping. Let’s have sermons where we fill a whole auditorium full of beds and have our congregates take a big collective nap. Sleep for the sleep god! Pillows for the pillow throne! Sleep is a billion-dollar industry, there’s a plethora of handy products you can buy that promise to send you on a luxury liner to dreamland. Pills, mattresses, dreamcatchers, whatever your snoozy heart desires. You can go to a proper doctor and they might help you, or you can settle for the placebo effect and go to some fraudulent quack, instead. He might make you swallow some pills that contain arsenic, but hey, arsenic is a naturally occurring element. It can’t be all that bad for you if it is natural. And you do want to sleep, don’t you? If you take this pill in your mouth and swallow it with a glass of water, I promise you, you will sleep for a very long time.

The esteemed former president of the United States of America, Donald Trump, claims that he only needs four to five hours of sleep every night. While Mr. Trump is well-known to be a paragon of honesty, I do doubt he’s telling the truth. No, I actually do believe him when says that he only gets about four or five hours of sleep each night, I just don’t believe him when he says that is all he needs. He doesn’t look very well-rested, does he? And Margaret Thatcher, the similarly adored former prime minister of the United Kingdom, claimed that she also only needed about four hours of sleep every night. Yes, while researching the sleeping habits of famous monsters, I’ve come to the conclusion that amongst powerful individuals, not getting enough sleep has become a proper badge of honour. The belief is that if you don’t get enough sleep, that must be because you are living such a vibrantly successful life, and are so career-driven, that you simply haven’t got enough time to sleep for the full eight hours. People who sleep for more than four hours are lazy liberals. Go-getters like Trump has got to be out there, working, making decisions, raping women, and showing daddy what a good boy he is. Sleep is for the weak. But maybe I am weak. I sure like sleeping.

It’s the cultural hangover our society has had since the 80’s. Back when the yuppies wearing jackets with obscenely padded shoulders would happily chuck down eight to ten espressos in one go while A Flock of Seagulls was playing on the radio encouraging everyone to go running. And to be fair to them, with the constant fear of the doomsday clock hitting midnight, they really had no reason to think that they’d survive the decade. The new millennia, it seemed, would have no cities, no nature, no humans, only radiated mutants scouring the rubble that remains of civilization for cans of preserved something edible. Self-destructive behaviour was in. It was fashionable. Doubt people got enough sleep back then, between snorting coke and wondering if the next pandemic that hits the night clubs would start killing as many straight folks as gay folks. Well, here we are in the new 20’s, and we’ve got a pandemic that does appear to kill people regardless of sexual orientation. Sure, the looming threat of nuclear obliteration has been lessened dramatically, but we’ve largely come to exchange that anxiety for the fear of total environmental collapse, instead. No wonder 80’s nostalgia is a big thing right now. History doesn't repeat itself, but It often rhymes, said Mark Twain (supposedly.) I wonder how much coke Mark Twain would snort if he lived in the 80’s.

I notice a palpable difference in my mood and mental state when I’ve been getting good amounts of sleep. Lack of sleep results in lack of clear thinking. Caffeine, though it is something I am chronically addicted to, does not help fix a sleep-deprived mind. There are no tricks of revolutionary “life hacks” one can employ to get out of sleeping. To recover from depression, one has to sleep. Sleep often and sleep well. I cannot understate the importance of being well-rested. You cannot process information if you are tired. I am reminded of my teenage years seeing friends of mine who’d stay up all night, then come into school shuffling like agonised zombies. They got so frustrated when the teachers reprimanded them for snoozing in class. Well, dummies, it is your fault for drinking several dozen cans of Red Bull every day! I know that sleep does not always come easy. I know the terror of insomnia. But, c’mon! At some point, you’ve got to realise that sleep is essential. Maybe most of your problems stem from the fact that you refuse to get enough of it? Here’s where the tough love comes in. If you wanna get better, kiddo, then listen to me. It’s bedtime. Yes, I know you’d rather stay up late playing monopoly with your friends, but I’m confiscating your dice and I’ll only give it back to you when you’ve gotten some good sleep. Okay? You hear me, missy? You listen to your daddy now, and go to bed. No ifs or buts about it, princess, I’ve made myself clear. I know what is best for you, and you know that I am right. I’m your daddy.

But what if I can’t seem to fall asleep? Normally, it takes a long time for me to fall asleep. It is not uncommon for me to stay awake for two hours, maybe more, before I finally begin to sleep. Fearing that I won’t fall asleep gives me anxiety. That anxiety keeps me awake. I turn my body. I try lying on my side. First my left side, then my right side. I then try to lie on my back. I’ve got a song stuck playing in my head. Not even the whole song, just a ten-second segment of it. It’s playing over and over. I’m worried about the future, will I ever find security, will I ever find a wife, will I get to grow old? I worry about death. I keep hearing the music playing, it’s grating. I rearrange the pillows, in hopes that will make me feel more comfortable. But no, I keep tossing and turning like a fish caught on land. I’m getting frustrated. If only I could shut off my brain. I’m constantly thinking. I turn to my side again, but now I notice I’ve moved arounds so much that now the bed has shifted away from its position next to the wall. There’s now a gap between the bed and the wall. I almost fall down that gap. I get up and I push the bed back against the wall. I lay down in bed. The song is still playing.

How am I ever going to become a successful businessman if I am wasting so many hours just trying to get to sleep? This is the time I should be spending on the phone, yelling at people and making inappropriate sexual comments to my female employees. That is what good executives do. I need to get my life in order. I need to exercise more. I should practice mindfulness. I should get a life coach, a personal trainer, a stylist, an accountant, an assistant, a trophy wife, and a mistress. I need people in my life to take care of me. It’s funny how rich people create the sort of environment around them where people will take care of all their needs, effectively infantilising them. These people don’t even get to decide how to dress themselves. They’ve got fancy apartments, but they don’t choose any of the furniture. They’ve got art on the walls that they don’t like, but the art looks expensive, and that is all that matters. They’ve got kids, but they don’t raise them. Their spouses are cheating on them, but in fairness, they are cheating on their spouses. They don’t really even know what their jobs entails, as they’ve gotten promoted so many times that they’ve ended up in a position that is totally outside their realm of expertise. But they’re so powerful that no-one is able to fire them over their pretty blatant incompetence. They’re successful. They’ve made it. But they still can’t sleep at night. They only manage to successfully fall asleep at night after swallowing a fistful of pills along with a swig of vodka.

It must be easy being a self-help guru. Well, what I mean to say is that all you really need is charisma, which is something you need to be born with. But you don’t need to do any actual studying, any real research, or any kind of soul-searching or deliberation. All you need is to state what is obvious. You go on stage in front of an anxious audience, mostly composed of middle-class salesmen and miscellaneous white collar ghosts. You smile, show off your eerily bright teeth, and they clap. You tell them to go take care of themselves, to eat more healthily, to take walks, or go swimming, and love their partners. You tell them to drink less, or maybe, if they feel like it, they could drink more. I am sure you could spin alcohol as a positive or a negative, depending on what crowd you’re talking to. Tell them to appreciate family. Tell them to appreciate others. Live, laugh, but most of all, love. Tell them to go clean their rooms. Tell them to remember that if they’re on an airplane that is about to crash land, they need to put their own oxygen mask on before they can help others put theirs on. If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else? Now, go to bed!

You know all this stuff. Me telling you that you should sleep more doesn’t really help you. You know that you should sleep more. It’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that. And it’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that it is better to drink in moderation, and that you should smoke less weed. There are many small little things you can do to improve your life, to stop being a terminally unemployed slacker. It’s like your grandpa who tells you stories about life after the war when you could walk into the biggest building in town, slam your fist against the table and demand to be given a job and a house and a wife and a couple of kids, and that was all you needed to do. He can’t comprehend the fact that society doesn’t work like that, any more. Most people my generation have given up hope of ever owning a home, at least if they happen to live in the vicinity of a larger city. It seems that, no matter where you live, the cost of homes has risen to an impenetrable degree. It seems just as likely that you will be able to afford your very own genetically-engineered pet dragon before you will get to be a house-owner. It’s the fault of those damn boomers, why bother changing your ways, when the boomers are still in charge? Others may accuse you of wallowing in your own depression, but you are perfectly aware that this is exactly what you are doing. You are self-aware. But self-awareness on its own is not enough to motivate anyone. You still can’t see the point in doing anything constructive with your life. Life just feels so aimless. It’s easier to sit, smoke weed, and watch cartoons.

Pop psychology is problematic. To say the least. Take all those self-help gurus suffering from their messiah complexes and put them through the shredder. Don’t buy books thinking that they’ll offer you the kind of treatment you would get from an actual psychiatrist. I know that, depending on where you are in the world, treatment can get very expensive, but you’re not going to get better reading the book of some self-aggrandising narcissist’s collection of wishy-washy platitudes. Dr. Phil has done great evil pretending to be a therapist on the TV, and Jordan Peterson (despite having once been an esteemed scholar) has turned a generation of young internet-savvy zoomers into proto-fascists obsessed with the monogamy of lobsters. Pop psychology has become a guise for cult leaders to reap new followers. Getting treatment should not feel like joining a new religious movement. Maybe I’m just one of those annoying atheists, but I dare say, psychiatry works at its best when it's secular. You should not look at your psychiatrist as a prophet speaking to God. They’re just a doctor, and you need treatment.

I do not aspire to create a self-help blog. I do not promise that reading this blog will help you in any way. I would be overjoyed if someone came up to me and told me that I had inspired them to seek help. You may tell me that reading my words have made you feel less alone, knowing that others have gone through all these things that you are going through. When I felt at my worst, I remember reading the memoirs of people I admired who had similarly struggled in their lives, and I felt less alone. But none of those books pretended to exist principally to help others. Those books did help me, through the candid descriptions of struggles that I thought I was alone in experiencing. Knowing that some people had pulled through, managed to find a light at the end of the tunnel, it made me think I could one day be like them. The books didn’t seek to fix me, but they offered me a perspective that came to be very valuable later on, when I started going to therapy, and when I later started taking medication. Sometimes that is all you need. Not someone standing over you and telling you to go to bed, or to clean your room, or to stop drinking. You know all that, already. What you really need is the reassurance that things can indeed get better. Sleep will come.

[agentnico]

Belfast (2021) Review

Most people know Jamie Dornan from Fifty Shades of Grey where he played the aforementioned (Mr) Grey. However me and the more civilised folk out there know him from his fine work as Edgar in the masterclass comedy Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar. Haven’t seen it? Do yourself a favour, see it! As for the producers of Barb & Star, can you please start sending me some royalties already? The amount of times I’ve complimented you guys in the past year has turned me into a free unpaid marketing machine!

Plot: A semi-autobiographical film which chronicles the life of a working class family and their young son's childhood during the tumult of the late 1960s in the Northern Ireland capital.

Before becoming a renowned film director with an endless obsession for William Shakespeare and Agatha Christie adaptations, Kenneth Branagh was but a little boy roaming about the black and white streets of Belfast in the 60s whilst the clash of Catholics and Protestants was in full swing. Okay, it wasn’t actually black and white back then, but this film is, and boy do we love us some black and white on this film blog right here, I tell ya! Just recently I watched the new Tragedy of Macbeth film (speaking of Shakespeare!!) starring the man the myth the legend Denzel, and there was some nifty black and white usage in it! Look, I’m not saying I expect every movie to be black and white, I doubt the upcoming Doctor Strange film would do well with its alternate realities shenanigans without the use of colour. Oh yes, blast me with some vibrancy and multicolour vignettes, bring it Marvel, I am here for it!! What I’m saying though, is that black and white changes a movie thematically, providing atmosphere, tone, and visually providing stark contrasts and a dreamlike view of the world. It’s an interesting filmmaking tool that if used effectively can break major cinema ground. What I’m also saying is that I am trying to be a know-it-all and I should get off my high throne now and get down to talking about the film Belfast!

Similar to how Mark Twain explored racism in America through the eyes of a boy in his famous novel Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Branagh looks at an important moment in Irish history through the eyes of a child, and as such it was an interesting perspective to see. And it is in some ways adorable to witness how this kid is so oblivious to all the crazy adult stuff that is happening around him, as all he cares about is enjoying his childhood, seeing his grandparents and trying to get the courage to talk to the girl that he likes from his class. And here in is also where the usage of black and white works so well, as Branagh wants to emphasise the simplicity of this story. It is less about flashy camerawork or the religiopolitical uproar of the times, but how a loving, committed, decent family gets on with life, raising children, earning a living, and loving each other. Most stories about love are about the big events, the flashy events. This one shows us the day-to-day of love while everyone else is worrying about the big events. So there is a very heavy nostalgic aspect to this movie, from both a historical standpoint but also from a personal family standpoint. We were all children back in the day. We were all or still are part of a family, so this kind of stuff should hit right home to many audience members. 

One can judge this movie for it’s sentimentality and how the basic narrative arc for the central family is the question of ‘staying or leaving’ which is not one we haven't seen before in other films, and I'm sure we'll see again, yet it works here as Kenneth Branagh and his team bring such honesty and earnest to these people and that this family is in this struggle together and they will find a way out of it together. As a family. Gosh, with all this family talk I’m kind of now thinking this movie should have cast Vin Diesel, but then again that would have probably defeated the purpose of it all. Then again, who but Vin Diesel could say the word ‘family’ with such eloquent meme-worthy elegance!

All in all Belfast won’t shock you. It won’t surprise you. It is a simple story with a simple family just trying to get by....with a little help from my friends. Ohhh, I get high with a little help from my friends. Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends. With a little help from my friends. Right, so I’m going to go listen some Beatles now, but I’ll just finish this review off with that this movie is not as big of a deal as the awards circuit and critics make it out to be (it is a tad overrated), however it is very much a lovely poignant little movie with some great performances, especially Jude Hill who stars as the central kid, and Branagh’s directing is stripped back to its basics which works for a very satisfying little watch.

Overall score: 7/10

[cosmiccandydreamer]

Stability Chapter 4

Otis driftwood x Reader

(I do not own these gifs)

Authors note:~ Quick reminder please be aware of any triggers that may make you uncomfortable when proceeding with the story, which is not limited to hateful terminology (I tried to be as accurate as possible with the dialogue in the movie), mentions of non-con, sexual situations, and violence.~

Saying Baby and Otis enjoyed having hostages would be an understatement, the stress of everything that happened in the last 24 hours took a toll on them, and these poor folks were just the people to help take out some of that stress. “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these” Baby sang and danced around the motel room to the forced audience, while her brother sat in the chair across from the group pointing a gun at them. Roy tried to avert his eyes from Baby’s dancing and cower with his wife, but it was slightly difficult with her pushing her tits right in his face.

Otis took this opportunity to further provoke the man. “Hoss, are you staring at my sister thinking bad thoughts?” he asked him, pointing the gun at the four of them. “No,” he replied with a shake in his voice. " Well, why not? are you a faggot?” Otis asked him looking at him slightly sideways "No” said Roy, "Well, what are ya then? I mean you got this hot, piece of ass shaking her shit right in front of you and you're not getting any ideas. What do you call that?" "I'm a married man,” he replied. "Wow!” Baby yelled, waving her hands in the air, “a married man!" "Well, shit” Otis exclaimed “I'm married too! look at us, that's just great! Let's give him a big round of applause, folks for the married man! come on! Oh, man ain't married life just great? You should see my wife Hoss she's got the best part of tits on her whew shit".

Otis looked down at the gun in his hand after that last comment, the hand that had the matching scar that you had on your left hand. He slowly used his thumb to caress the lifted scar tissue. Fuck he missed you, no he ached for you. He trusted you and knew that you could take care of yourself, but the idea that he didn't know where you were and when he was going to find you.. that didn't sit well with him. God, he missed the smell of your hair when he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you close. His large hands gripping your locks as he pressed y/h/c into his nose. The little laughs you would do when he startled you and grabbed you from behind. He took those moments for granted, he knows that now and he regrets it. He thought back to the last night you spent together before you all had to flee. You had helped picked that nights victim earlier that day, you had been at work when a group of young men had entered the gas station, they looked like a group of tourists just passing through,

“Hey waitress why don’t you make yourself useful and go see what’s taking my fucking chicken?” one of them snapped at you while picking up random items and putting them down. “ I’m not your waitress but I can go see what’s taking so long for you,” you replied through gritted teeth, “ thanks sweet cheeks,” he said as he slapped your ass when you walked by. Well needless to say Otis was not happy when he heard that occurred, you had taken down the license plate before they took off and gave it to him as soon as you got in the truck. After heading home and grabbing Rufus, the boys searched the nearest motel for the make and plates of the car. When they found them they kidnapped them and dragged them back to the house. It was a bloodbath, you and the rest of the family took no mercy on the boys, tearing them apart all night.

Eventually, it ended up just being you two in the basement, Baby had long gone upstairs to play dress-up with one of the boys. Otis held the victim that had slapped you on the ass while you stabbed him over and over again, right in the side of the neck then the chest, and later under the armpit, while this occurred Otis screamed words of encouragement to you hyping you up during this assault. By the end you both were a bloody heaving mess, your heart was fluttering like a hummingbird, blood was splattered all over the both of you. You turned to him with your chest heaving heavily, “Otis” you painted still holding the knife, you let it fall to the ground with a clang “ yeah sugar” he walks over to you and grabs your face with his blood-soaked hands lifting your face to look at him, running his finger over your lips, mixing the red lipstick on your lips with the red on his hands, “what do you want from your almighty devil”?.

Seeing the look in his eyes you knew that the devil that lived in him was front and center, this didn’t scare you though, oh no quite the opposite. You closed your eyes for a second, before opening them and looking him straight in his ” you’re the almighty devil, and I want you to make me your fucking whore” with that last sentence you took his blood-soaked thumb into your mouth and sucked on it before letting it out with a pop. He sucked in air sharply before grabbing the back of your neck and shoving you down toward the floor “ on your knees like my good whore”. You happily obliged, kneeling in front of him you took his large member in your blood-soaked hand and inserted it into your mouth. Never breaking eye contact you bobbed your head up and down until you milked every single drop from him. Grabbing your hair he turned your head upward at him, you smiled with your face a mixture of blood and semen, “ such a beautiful good whore”.

“You said you’re married?” This question came from Adam still cowering behind the ladies and Roy on the bed. This question snapped him out of his fond memory and forced him to look toward them. “ Yeah I did, why is that shocking? are you saying that an ugly fuck like me couldn't score a hot piece of ass like my wife?” “no no no that’s not it” “ Then what is it hm? You got something to say to me?, Boy, the next word that comes out of your mouth better be some brilliant fuckin' Mark Twain shit, 'cause it's gettin' chiseled on your tombstone.” “ I just .. does your wife know you do things like this?” asked Roy, raising his voice a little, Gloria gasped and lightly gripped his arm, shushing him.

"Woooo man! getting a little bold there Roy! Such a big brave man all of a sudden, showing off in front of the misses there hm?" Otis said, pointing the gun at Gloria, he got quiet for a second after that, lowering the gun and thinking to himself "All right. okay, mama, front and center, on your feet.". Gloria and Roy looked back at each other confused. "okay, come on, Mama. Take that shit off, let's see what's been holding Hoss's balls at attention all these years" "what … " Gloria asked looking back at Roy then at Otis," What? Take off your clothes, or one of these assholes is going to die. Come on, come on". Gloria stands and shakily takes off her top and pants leaving her in her underwear, "shit, way to go, Roy! she ain't too bad. She got a tight little ass on her!" Baby exclaimed.

Otis grabbed Gloria bringing her to him, why did Roy get to enjoy his wife while he couldn't? Naw fuck that, fuck Roy, fuck the world for taking you away. "Please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me" Gloria begged as Otis pulled her real close in running the gun all up and down her leg and stomach "you like this, don't ya? Say "Yes, I do. " You like that, don't ya? Say "Yes, I do. " Yes, I do. Yes, I do". Gloria tried to look at the ground but Otis pointed the gun at her temple warning her to start compiling "Yes, I... I do".

"You like they don't ya? Hmm huh, mamas" *grunts* "yes yes I do" you moaned as Otis grabbed both your breasts and squeezed them as hard as he could. The messy blow job was just the beginning, after you smiled at him with your sinfully filled mouth he had scooped you up and pressed you up against the nearest wall. You moaned again as he pounded into you and bit your teeth into his shoulder earning a deep pornographic growl from him and causing Otis to thrust into you even harder and faster. "Give me some sugar mama, oh yeah make it sweet" he whispered onto your lips before roughly kissing you, you opened your mouth wider to deepen the kiss and he took this opportunity to shove his tongue inside your mouth. You pulled back to gasp for air after the intrusion on your mouth and before you had a chance to catch your breath, you kissed him again but this time it was soft and gentle, he pushed into you slower now and less violently. He lazily nipped your bottom lip, pulling it back some, he rested his forehead on yours and stared into your eyes as he finished with a few final thrusts.

"Okay. Okay, now. Give me some sugar. Make it sweet. Don't want me to tense up my trigger finger. My finger's getting tense... I want you to say, "You're the almighty devil, and I want you to make me your fucking whore. " Come on, say it. I know it. I know you're feeling it. Say it.". Otis at this point had forced Gloria into a kneeling position after violating her with the pistol. The whole scene was a vile obscene site, he suddenly grabbed her again roughly pulling her up towards him, " fucking … say it" "You're... the... almighty... devil and I want you... to make me your... fucking whore" she splattered barely getting the words out. Otis laughed and shoved her back toward the bed " you fucking make me sick". This site causes Baby to bust out laughing "Woo-hoo! I feel like we're all getting to know each other now". " All right, ladies" her brother exclaims, "I and the boys have an errand to run. We'll be back in a little while. Come on, Hoss, move it. Come on, shit stain! Gotta go! Come on! God damn it!".

[iscribble]

the gist of change (m)

pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader synopsis: you despise change and how it transforms him, how it turns him into a stranger and how it blights your relationship, but you are changing too, and only after accepting that, will you finally realise that change isn’t so bad after all.  genre(s): angst, fluff, friends to lovers, contains smut (sex without condom), profanities word count: 5,734

There was an unfathomable piece of Wonwoo that had you addled for months. As a seven year old, you couldn’t comprehend how one could wallow in the unnumbered pages of a classical book and come out in fine fettle. You hated books, at least, when you were seven. You preferred building forts and frolicking on the earth and hence Wonwoo and his odd interests had you questioning about yours. 

You thought it was an eight year old thing. Maybe they all favoured books like Mark Twain’s. Maybe they all preferred a long stretch of a week at home to enclose themselves from the frenzied reality. Maybe they all seemed ignorant and shy — disregarding strangers and delaying their footfalls, sometimes dragging one foot after another a little too sluggishly. And you thought you’d become the person Wonwoo had been when you turned eight. 

But nothing proved you right. As you blew the candles on your cake, Wonwoo blew his and nothing happened. You were still you and you still despised books. Wonwoo was still that lukewarm, silent boy with an occasional smile you prayed would show more often. 

As a child, you were unequivocally the contradictory of reticent. You were expansive, inclined to chitchatting, like a jukebox blaring music that impairs your hearing. Your teachers would call out your name no less than twice a day, you being the dynamic person you were never wanting to silence yourself for more than five ticks of the clock. Learning that Wonwoo was the opposite of you left you questioning the world why he would even pass his time with you.

Maybe it was because you had more than a similarity. His hair was a striking shade of darkened brown and so was yours. You both fancied the butter pecan ice cream that you would often get at the ice cream parlour just a few meters away from your neighbourhood. You went to the same kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, even high school. 

Maybe it was because your parents were friends. Being the good neighbours they were, they never hesitated on dropping by each other’s homes and offer a cookie or two. 

Maybe it was inevitable. You lived right across each other so it’d be weird not to become friends. This could only mean Wonwoo had been forcing himself to endure you and your persistent nagging, you and your toothless smiles, and that he did not like them. That was what you thought. 

Maybe this, maybe that. The thing is, you never considered this possibility: maybe, just maybe, he was in love with you. 

After Wonwoo graduated high school, things were no longer the same. You started seeing him less. He couldn’t walk you home like he used to as your schedule did not match his. His balcony window had become seldom open, you couldn’t interface with Wonwoo like you used to until the skies were virtually void of light. 

What surprised you the most, though, was his change in personality. 

You weren’t new to the general image of parties — which people seemed to greatly love — but you’ve never been to a real one before. Naturally, you were bewildered. You were a social butterfly and you loved hanging out with your friends, weren’t you supposed to fancy parties? 

Wonwoo here, had been dealing with a case that wasn’t entirely different from yours. The only difference was that unlike you, he seemed to be enjoying his brand new character. There wasn’t a single hint of vexation from knowing he had long gone from his “self-effacing” epithet. Wonwoo attended parties, big or small. He loved to hang out with girls he barely knew and sneak them into his house at night, absolutely unknowing of your attention. He stopped reading. He no longer used glasses to observe minute letters, rather, he used it for fashion. He became hardly ever at home, nor at the ice cream parlour you used to go to together. You both acted like you didn’t know each other. Worse, like you never knew each other.

To put it simply, you had become who Wonwoo was and he had become who you were in your youthful days. 

Which was why you were currently doing your utmost to have at least a little taste of fun amidst the blinding lights flaring at different places. You squinted at the streak of light that hit your eyes for a brief second before opening them to see Soonyoung making his way to you.

“So? Whaddya think?” The words that were easily slurred from the generous amount of alcohol Soonyoung had been consuming travelled to your ears like a soothing melody against a background of obnoxious jabber and raucous strains of techno music. 

“Oh thank goodness you’re here,” you dragged Soonyoung toward the corner, ignoring the incoherent cavils spewing out of his mouth. 

“The corners are reserved for people making out,” Soonyoung grumbled, “we shouldn’t be here, unless you wanna make out with me.” He wiggled his eyebrows and puckered his lips, enjoying his time teasing you and witnessing your ears go a prominent tinge of red and your face covered in disgust. 

“Shut up, I wanna go home.” You removed the glass of whiskey hanging in his fingers and attempted to push him through the crowd of wasted folks drinking their night away. 

“Hell no,” he resisted and turned to you, “if you’re going home this early, you’re going home alone lady.” 

“I’m okay with that,” Soonyoung’s garbled utterance was more than music to your ears. You thought he would’ve had stopped you from leaving the place. You didn’t mind walking alone, especially if it meant escaping the unruly atmosphere you were desperate to get rid of. “See you around, Soonyoung.”

The quiet stroll to your house ameliorated the thoughts that contorted in your head like a flummoxed mess. You never wanted to go to any party again, ever. It sure did seem like a diverting idea when Soonyoung first asked to bring you with him to the party. You thought you still had that jaunty spirit in you that you could hopefully bring out once you met new people. But you’ve never been more wrong. You were no longer the person you used to be, and you knew you had to accept that. So you did. 

The neighbourhood was as still as a dead city. The wall mounted lights on most of the houses were out, with only a few lampposts still dimly lit, incandescing across the bare street. If it hadn’t been for the sudden clacking of heels you heard around the corner, you wouldn’t have gotten out of your trance before you arrived home.

“Careful, we don’t wanna attract attention.”

The voice stung. It hit your ears and it stung so bad, you wanted to cover them. It stung how long you haven’t heard from him. It stung how his voice flooded you with memories you wanted to forget. It stung how his voice was not meant for you. It stung how much you missed him.

“You’re so naughty, you know that Wonwoo?”

He was with someone else. It was almost always a different girl every week. It had become a habit of his but you would be lying if you said you were nearly unfazed by his actions. You were far from unfazed.

However, tonight was different. You weren’t bordered by the large pane of glass in which you sat behind every night, wondering if he would bring a different girl, and locking your eyes close when he finally did. You weren’t observing the scant details from a distance, where it was safe enough for you to not be seen. But tonight was different, because little did you know, you weren’t going to go unnoticed. 

Wonwoo and the girl arrived at his driveway, missing their footing while holding on to the kiss they shared. In the blink of an eye, you were homing in on your footsteps, making sure you would not make a sound. You didn’t, but that did not mean Wonwoo overlooked your presence.

Like every time he admired you when your eyes were concentrated on something else. Like every time he found you when you strayed in a crowd. Like every time he caught you when you wanted to surprise him for his birthday. He noticed you as long as your breaths mingled in the same air, whether or not you wanted him to. 

His eyes were still as you remembered. His dark orbs shone through the murk of the night, tinted with lust. They met yours, but they grew shy. They grew so timid and then there was this look on his face that reminded you both that you knew each other. You still do. 

“Y/n,” he spoke in a raspy voice. You forced a smile and inclined your head.  Availing yourself of formalities made it much easier to submerge the uncertainty of your relationship with Wonwoo, making it seem like you didn’t know each other that well. 

“Hey, don’t mind me,” You buried your covetous tone beneath a layer of pretend ignorance. You didn’t want to ruin the moment for them. “I’m just heading home.”

“Why are you walking alone?” Wonwoo’s voice felt so unfeigned, you wanted to believe he still cared about you, but you couldn’t. At least, not for the girl he was with. 

“Oh,” you shrugged, “my friend wasn’t gonna leave the party yet, so I just decided on going back alone. It’s nothing.” You lied. You knew it was something to him. 

The faint ire in his eyes reminded you of the time he scolded you for walking on your own one night. He completely hated it. You thought he was just being a big brother to you. But that was years ago. Now, Wonwoo had to conceal his concern, because at this short-lived moment, you weren’t the same to each other anymore. 

“Oh, well,” Wonwoo swallowed his regard. He didn’t know what to say. He would always leak out profound phrases like I’ll see you tomorrow! but knowing the circumstances, you doubt the words were even on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he decided on an I’ll see you around, y/n.

You laughed inwardly. Wonwoo was a coward, and both of you knew that well. 

At this time on most nights, you’d be propped against the large window, heaving a desolate sigh of longing as your eyes fixated on Wonwoo across your home. 

His house used to be a place of frequent jollity. His parents would throw big birthday parties for you and him during your childhood days, although you and Wonwoo didn’t enjoy it as much and preferred to kill time in his vest-pocket bedroom. When he dropped you off at your house after school, Wonwoo’s mother would sometimes clap her eyes on you and insisted you had snacks and a glass of milk at his, in which you would gleefully accept every time, with sweat running down your temple from the soaring heat. You would stay there until your parents came knocking at his door, and even before you left, Wonwoo would always steal a chance to settle a wet kiss on your cheek.

Then, you were both finally grown enough to realise that kisses weren’t always meant to be platonic. Little by little, he stopped furnishing you with affection, and little by little, your visits to his house drew up.

Now, as you wishfully stared at his window, eyes brimming with sentimentality, you could only make out the nebulous sight of bodies rubbing against each other, the memories of your childhood and adolescence completely casted away.

The snugness from your bed sheets latched onto your rundown, delicate bones, providing just the right amount of warmth to keep you in bed. You could definitely do that, with barely anything to do today. As if that wasn't unusual enough, the doorbell quite abruptly rang its way to the solace of your bedroom so early in the morning. Mere minutes later, a subtle knock came on your door.

“Hey, Wonwoo’s here, said he wants to talk to you.” Your mother primed you before you could walk out with your hair sticking out in all directions. “Go get changed. You can’t see an awfully handsome boy like that.”

“Oh shut up mom.” You threw a pillow at her. More than you were confused, you were relieved you didn’t have anything to do today. Seeing Wonwoo right now was one hell of a job to you.

Wonwoo’s back was facing you as you descended down the stairs. His tousled hair appeared on your vision, softly sitting on his head like a plate of velvety marshmallows. Running your fingers through his strands would be pleasing, you thought. Then again, you’ve done it several times. Just not the way it would feel like if you were to do it now.

“There she is.”

He turned to look at you. Now that the sun was up and the lights were on, you could finally take a good look at him. You were surprised at how he still managed to look decent after a rough night. His lips were a tad bruised and patent dark circles were surfacing under his eyes, but it only made him look even more approachable. Wonwoo gave you a smile that conveyed so much more than you’ve ever asked for. It was evocative. You hated the feeling. 

“Hey,” you replied to his smile.

“Pumpkin,” he grinned. Pumpkin. It was a nickname he had for you back in the days. He might have called you that on most occasions but the immense time gap from then made hearing him say that now seem so offbeat. 

“What’s up?” you skipped to him and threw your arms around his torso in a quick hug, sighing in ease when his arms wrapped around your shoulders.

“Have you not been growing taller or am I just too tall?” He noted the height difference you had now. There was a period of time in your life when you were taller than Wonwoo. You took advantage of that, teasing him for the books he couldn’t reach, and always dropping the infamous rhetorical question of how’s the weather down there? Though, when puberty hit him, your stilettos couldn't even level your heights.

“Shut up, doofus.” you playfully slapped his arm. “Anyway, what is it that you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh,” he scratched his nape, “I was hoping I could talk to you in private.”

“Oh, no worries.” You tried to keep your tone as calm as you could but your nerves were bugging you to ask him why. “let me just get my toast real quick.”

You scrambled for your toast on the kitchen counter and took a bite with a loud crunch that you swore would have had your mouth watering if someone else had done that. You quickly headed upstairs after shouting a we’ll be back! to your parents, with wonwoo treading on your heels. 

As soon as you got to your room, you closed the door behind you, trying to make some sense out of the situation and wondering what he might want to talk to you about, although you had an idea already.

“Hey,” he started, “what you saw yesterday..” You were right. He was going to talk about that. “It’s not what you think it is.”

“Okay, but why are you telling me this?” Although you cared, you didn’t know why he thought he was obliged to explain it to you. You weren’t in a relationship, and you knew well he gets to make decisions on his own although not any of them ever made you genuinely satisfied. "I mean, it’s not like we’re dating or something.” 

“Yeah,” he uttered under his breath, “but I just figured you should know. I mean, we’re friends aren’t we?”

The word sent you chills. Of course you were friends. But would a friend abandon the other just to hook up with some random girl? Would a friend leave you for years and then just come back like nothing happened?

“I don’t know Wonwoo,” you sat on the windowsill, your fingers tracing the remnants of rain lingering on the external surface, “we haven’t talked for, I don’t know, two years? It's weird enough cause our houses are right in front of each other’s.” 

“It’s not like you cared. If you were bothered by it so much why didn’t you just come to mine?”

You were appalled. You spent every month looking outside your window, contemplating if you should approach him and start rekindling you relationship. But every time you convinced yourself you would, he walks into view with a different girl, shattering your hope of reviving what you had. It’s not like you cared, he said. 

“You bring a girl to your room, fuck her and leave her in the morning. Every time I thought it was over and I could finally talk to you, you bring a different girl and fuck her again.” You conveyed your anger through gritted teeth. “Oh, you thought I hadn’t noticed all this time? Well guess what, I spend my nights staring at your window hoping that you could see me but all I can see is the mere sight of you fucking. So fuck you, Wonwoo.”

Horror was smeared all over his face. You knew you gave away too much, leaving him no time to even process it all. Blood started to collect in your ears, the sudden surge making you feel uneasy. Maybe you had gone too far? But truth be told, you didn’t care. You had to let it out.

There wasn’t a single word that withdrew from his lips before you finally couldn’t stand holding back your tears. 

“Just, go, Wonwoo.” You croaked. “You’re right, I don’t care.” You lied again.

For a moment, no sound ricocheted off the walls, leaving both of you in a deafening stillness. When you were about to tell him to leave once more, you felt his hand snake around your neck, pulling you close for a kiss on your forehead. He stroked your hair for a bit and then left your room, the sudden emptiness overflowing in you when you could no longer feel his tender fingers.

Well, what could you expect? That was Wonwoo. The quintessence of making you feel whole and then leaving you, just like that. 

Change.

You had accepted change. You had accepted that you weren’t the person you used to be, and so have you accepted that Wonwoo wasn’t too. Although it quite immensely saddened you, you have accepted the girls he had sex with, the parties he’d attended, places he’d gone to without you. You had accepted that you and him were never going to be the same anymore, let alone be more than that. 

A week has passed since Wonwoo had snuck a girl into his bedroom. Maybe he felt guilty and self-conscious now that he knew you were always looking out of your window. Still, you had not exchanged apologies. Your relationship had been fragmented and as much as it wounded every part of you, you didn't want to think about it for too long.

“Pick me up in an hour.” You told Soonyoung through the phone as your toothbrush dangled between your teeth. You hung up before he could say anything.

You may have accepted everything, but there was still bleakness left in you that needed to be drowned in a round of drinks and ludicrous dancing. 

“So, you’re really gonna do this again huh?” Soonyoung laughed at you as took a seat beside him in his car. “Just don’t ask me to leave early if you’re going to.” 

You snorted and heaved a weighty breath. You didn’t want to think about Wonwoo anymore and if anyone in the world could do that, it was Soonyoung. Taking you to a party. You didn’t know where the night would take you but at least your mind would be barren of Wonwoo, only the very taste of alcohol lingering in your tongue. “Promise, Soon.” 

Seungcheol’s house was fairly remote from yours. He was a high school friend of yours and Wonwoo’s. Although you made no intention of keeping in touch with him, Soonyoung did, which was why he knew about the party at his place. 

“We’re here.” Soonyoung beamed with vim. The house was teeming with people you didn’t know. You came in with Soonyoung by your side, tugging on his sleeve lightly when you felt like he was going to dash off without you. 

As the night progressed, you unsurprisingly found yourself bored. You had managed to talk to the people you knew from high school, always noting the stunned look on their faces when they noticed you were here, as if questioning if you had finally plucked up the courage to leave your books. 

The first time You noticed that Wonwoo had changed — and that you had too — was when you artlessly refused to go to a party Wonwoo had asked you to come to in high school. You were nonplussed at the fact that you didn’t wanna exchange studying for socialising, while Wonwoo was the one who did. Back during middle school, you were always the one to plead him to go to the ice cream shop, while he insisted on indulging in his books. It was then you had realised you’d changed, for the better or the worst you still didn’t know. 

You took one last sip of your tequila and left the house just a little drowsy. You texted Soonyoung that you had left a little earlier and took a cab. 

Your brow was pressed to the cold surface of the window, eyes darting anywhere between the walls of your vision. The skies had gone ill-lit, the only source of light being the silver celestial body that dwarfed all the tiny fragments of luster that surrounded it. As the taxi slowed to a stop before the traffic lights, you narrowed your eyes at the figure sitting on the bench near the lights. His head was buried in the palm of his hands, his dark locks swaying to the unhesitating stirring of the wind.

“Wonwoo..” you whispered to yourself. 

Stepping out of the cab, you sighed. The solitary air that besieged him made your heart pang. You couldn’t tell if he had just gotten out of a party like you did, that he had drunk too much alcohol, or if he was just taking a walk around, but you doubted the latter. When high school came, he started failing to resist company from his friends, always uncovering things to do besides studying, always trying so hard to not be alone. Yet there he was, accepting the company of nothingness inundating his body. 

You continued staring at him from a distance, pondering over whether you should approach him. But you were here now, out of the cab that was about to take you straight home. So maybe that was your decision after all. 

And like every other time, he noticed you. Because as long as your breaths mingled in the same air, he would always know you were there. 

The puff of wind that hugged your frame was bitterly cold, but as soon as you sat next to him, his warmth raced to you. 

You could have looked at each other, taking in the sight full of substance and value, yet both of your gazes were locked at the fatuous view of the wet pavement.

A minute or two was spent without any of you saying anything. For one moment you just wanted silence to consume the both of you. You wanted to forget everything that happened between the two of you.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo cried faintly, “I know I messed us up.” You could feel everything. The unfriendly breeze stinging your fingertips, the brush of your hair against your cheek, the material of your dress getting too tight around your waist, and the sincerity in his voice. Especially, the sincerity in his voice. 

“I’m sorry too,” you replied with a hint of sadness, “I had no right telling you those things. You make your own choices, not me, and it’s not like I couldn’t find any friend besides you.” 

Wonwoo chuckled in his deep-toned voice. 

“I guess it did suck,” you continued, still not satisfied with what you said, “it really sucked to see you bring other girls to your house. I missed hanging out with you, but I’d like to remind myself that I’ve changed too.”

You sat in silence. You hoped you made yourself clear. You wanted to convey how much it saddened you that he took advantage of his clubbable side to shatter your heart without even realising it.

When the subtle rise and fall of the wind was the only thing you could hear, you looked at Wonwoo, only to find him already staring at you. You were so close that you could feel his breath fanning your skin. The dark circles beneath his eyes stood clearer now, the bruises that formed on his lips were yet to fade.

Wonwoo was a clumsy child. He had tripped on nothing several times, spilled milk all over him, accidentally got punched by a friend for not watching where he was going. And every time bruises would form on his face, you would caress it so delicately, all the while admiring how he still managed to look good.

So tonight, you found yourself doing just that. Your hand unconsciously lifted to brush against his dry lips. And just like the old days, he leaned into your touch, never realising how much he missed you until this moment. Wonwoo's lips were so cracked and dry that even he felt he needed moisture, and what better moisture could he get in the middle of nowhere other than your plump lips?

Wonwoo leaned in to kiss your lips, slowly moving against them while you remained still. After a while you got used to his warmth and started adjusting your lips to capture his perfectly. Wonwoo pulled you closer by your cheek and gave your lips a swift taste of his tongue, before starting to kiss you amorously.

Surprised by his eagerness, you pulled away. “Wonwoo, you can't just kiss me like that. I'm not like the girls you bring to your bedroom every night.”

Wonwoo leaned in for another kiss but you avoided his lips. “Wonwoo, I'm serious.”

Wonwoo plainly huffed and continued to stroke your cheek that had begun to turn pink. “I've always loved you, y/n. I always have. But we were so different and I was almost so sure you wouldn't return my feelings. So I tried to change, for you. I wouldn’t have known I would actually enjoy the new me, but you didn’t seem to. So ultimately I just opted to forget you.”

You felt tears accumulate in your eyes. You were relieved, to say the least, that he had done all of that not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much and tried not to anymore. “By screwing everyone except me?”

Wonwoo released a chortle and you shyly smiled. “Pumpkin, you never even accepted when I invited you to Seungcheol's parties, how would I even have sex with you?”

You laughed heartily.

“Besides, I would never want to ruin my little girl like that. I'd only do it if you wanted to.”

He took the curving of your lips into a smile as his cue to resume kissing you, so he did. With every little taste you get of his tongue, your kisses grew sloppier and even more passionate. Frankly, neither of you cared if people were watching.

“Do you want to?” He asked in between your kisses.

“Want to what?” You pulled back and looked at him, confused.

He slipped a strand of hair behind your ear. “Make love to me, pumpkin.”

“What, like right here?”

“Answer me.” Wonwoo insisted, a slight smirk creeping up to his face.

Wonwoo understood the look of ecstasy on your face without you having to say anything. He picked you up, locking your legs behind his torso while you continued to deepen the kiss.

Wonwoo's legs were quick to carry you to the dark alleyway, eyes never leaving yours as he relied on his senses. He put you down slowly while cornering you to the wall, finally breaking the kiss.

“Is this gonna be your first time?” He spoke in a low voice, one that made you crazy, while securing his hands on your waist.

You nodded in embarrassment. “Be gentle, please.”

He made sure you saw his smirk before whispering to you that you had nothing to worry about.

Wonwoo's hands made their way under your sundress and slipped off the panties you had on. You shuddered at the cold pressing against your folds. His dangerous eyes were still on you as he rubbed your folds with his colder fingers. His smirk grew wider as he realised you were already wet. You started breathing heavily.

Wonwoo locked your lips together, his tongue moving against yours to distract you. He slid in one digit inside you that made you whine during the kiss. You were foreign to the feeling but Wonwoo made it so easy for you to adjust, hushing your quick whimpers with his own hot breath against yours.

As soon as he felt you were warmed up enough, he slid one more finger inside you, scissoring you open. You retreated from the kiss, leaning your head back against the wall as you released a solid gasp. Wonwoo caressed your cheek with his free hand, assuring you it's going to be alright. You looked at him, still panting. You believed him.

He started rubbing on your clit in slow circles. You squeezed his shoulder and moaned a little louder this time which earned a chuckle from Wonwoo. His thumb started going faster as he sucked on your neck, planting darkened purple marks all over.

The more you felt you were close, the slower Wonwoo got which absolutely irritated you. Just as you were about to complain, he pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing.

“What the hell Wonw-” He forced you around and lifted your sundress, revealing your bare ass. He pulled your hips roughly against him, releasing a groan when you made contact with his crotch. He quickly unzipped his pants and let it slide down. Wonwoo lowered his boxers, setting his already hard member free.

He placed his hand over yours on the wall, while his other hand held your waist.

“Don't be vocal, or you'll attract attention.” Even without looking at him you could tell he had a simper on his face. Without warning he slid into you, slowly but fulfillingly, as you discarded your intention of not making any sound.

“Oh fuck.” you breathed out. You continued to moan out loud as he slipped in and out of you at a steady pace, every time perfectly hitting your sweet spot.

Wonwoo too, could not resist his moans. He groaned as he felt your walls clench tighter around him, tugging your waist closer to him as he fucked you harder and faster than before.

“I'm c-close,” you stuttered, panting heavily.

“Me too.” Wonwoo threw his head back as he controlled your hips, pushing into you as fast as he could as both of you chased your highs.

Wonwoo came first, his cum leaking all over and running down your leg. You came seconds after him, trying to control your breathing. Wonwoo made sure you took in all of his cum with a little rough thrust inside you that made you cry. You'd become so sensitive.

“Fuck, you feel so good baby.” He pulled out of you and fixed his pants. You were still overwhelmed by the feeling. You had yet to straighten your body because you were so focused on getting your breathing back to normal.

“Pumpkin, you okay?” He held your waist, slowly turning you around to face him. He admired your face that had gone crimson, your eyes still watery. He pulled you in for a momentary kiss. “You look so beautiful.”

You smiled at him while still gasping for air. He kissed you again and again and again.

“You had better come up with a realistic explanation as to why I suddenly cannot walk, Wonwoo,” you said jokingly, “and don't leave me like you left those other girls now that you're done fucking me.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “Who said I was done making love to you sweetheart?”

Your mouth hung open as you stared at him in incredulity. "I cannot believe you, Jeon Wonwoo.” You said as he lifted your chin up, planting a kiss on your lips that had started to bleed.

Getting your parents’ permit for Wonwoo to stay the night at your place was considerably easy as you basically grew up together.

The lustful night filled with dangerous moans that coalesced into love advanced with your hips locked together, his body grinding against yours, making love to you sensually but most importantly sincerely. You were the girl that he loved, always have been and always will be.

The tenderness of his hand that kept rubbing circles on your stomach woke you up, the rays of the sun almost instantly blinding you as your eyes inched open. You turned around to face him. He was smiling at you, subtly at first, but after you noticed him, his pearly whites became manifest.

“You're still here?” You let out a quip with a big yawn.

“What do you mean I'm still here?” He scoffed and proceeded to pepper the violet bruises on your collarbones with his warm, slow kisses. “I'll never leave you pumpkin.”

“Good,” you sighed contently. “I thought you'd treat me like those gir-”

He hushed you with a sweet kiss on your lips.

“I love you, pumpkin. As much as you change or as much as I change, one thing that  has survived the turmoil in our lives and one thing that would never change, is my love for you.” 

Maybe, just maybe, change isn't so bad after all.

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 30 - Epilogue

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Notes: This is the last chapter... it’s over uwagh T_T

Rating: General/Teen

@marydragneell​ - here is the latest update

Epilogue

…

…

[“There is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream – a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought – a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"

- The Mysterious Stranger, Mark Twain]

...

...

The doorbell rings and Jace opens the door to see his best friend standing on his doorstep.

“Chuck!” he exclaims happily. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d come visit."

They share a hug and he invites her in for tea. He’s in the middle of packing so there are plenty of suitcases and clothes lying about though his pokemon seem more interested in playing around with the mess than assisting.

And the weather’s good so he opens the door to his veranda and props two chairs outside where they can enjoy their tea and some fresh air. It grants them an exquisite view of the river and the promenade and together, they sit and chat about old times and Jace’s new job.

“Jace,” she says, before she departs. “Thank you for everything. You were always there to listen and support me. Thank you for being my best friend.”

He pats her on the head, ruffling her hair. “Awwww…thanks, chuck; you’re my best friend too. You’re the bestest friend one could ask for,” he replies and they hug again, but her body feels abnormally cold.

...

Professor Magnolia and Sonia return home.

They’re tired and exhausted, having spent the remainder of the night at the police station where they informed the officers about the attack and filed a missing person’s report. To their utmost surprise, said missing person has mysteriously turned up home the following morning.

She’s sitting in the conservatory with a cup of tea in hand and little Polteageist is floating beside her though he looks downtrodden and holds his teapot lid in his hands, his head bowed low, and the professor and Sonia stand in shock, staring as she lowers her cup and smiles at them.

“Where on earth have you been?!” they cry.

They’re ecstatic to see her though Magnolia tells her off at the same time and the women share an embrace, sit down and have some breakfast.

“I went to find something,” she replies. “Everything’s under control. Did you tell Leon what happened?”

Sonia nods, anxious. “I had to, I was so worried. I called him last night and told him everything. He spent the whole night looking for you.”

In response, she finishes the rest of her tea and immediately rises from her seat. “Thanks, Sonia. I’ll go see him now. Professor, please excuse me.” Without a second to spare, she heads for the front door.

“You just got home!” Sonia exclaims, confused by her behaviour.

She pauses, turns round to the seated women and smiles.

“Professor Magnolia, Sonia. Thank you for everything,” she says, “I won’t forget your hospitality.”

…

In Postwick, Leon paces the kitchen with his phone. Charizard lingers in the doorway, holding his claws together whilst mum and Hop throw each other concerned glances.

He’s been looking for her all night after he received the frantic, distressing call from Sonia, who had informed him that something had attacked and chased her out of the house in the middle of the night, and it had also killed two of their pokemon.

They had cleaned the blood off the walls, stairs and floor and were hoping that she would come back in an hour or so, but she hadn’t.

He wished Sonia had told him earlier because he thought there was something wrong when he had tried to call earlier only to go through to voicemail.

Leon had searched all the places where he thought she might be but he had no success. If it wasn’t for Charizard, he probably wouldn’t have made it back home before dawn.

His phone rings, the screen indicating a call from Oleana.

“Hello?” he says, pressing the phone to his ear.

“We’re outside.”

“Alright. Thank you, Ms Oleana…”

Leon quietly hangs up and looks at his family.

“Leo…” Mum says worriedly, “…I think it’s best to leave the search to the police now. You’ve done all you can...I’m sure she’ll turn up. Hop and I can go look for her and we’ll keep an eye out on the news…. Please, you should get ready…Chairman Rose and Ms Oleana are waiting for you.”

He has a strict timetable today, back-to-back with events and battles which allowed no flexibility.

Leon has no other choice but to nod and he leaves the kitchen, heading to his room with Charizard bumbling after him with dark circles under his eyes. His pokemon is tired; they had spent the night flying around, searching but to no avail. He lifts a hand and pats Charizard on the neck.

“Thanks for your help,” he murmurs appreciatively and Charizard lets out an exhausted snort in response.

They barely got any sleep.

After Leon gets changed out of his casual wear and into his Champion gear, Charizard meets him outside where a black car is waiting.

The door automatically opens and inside, Oleana sits rigidly in the passenger seat with her long legs crossed over the other. She taps at her phone delicately, eyes glued to the screen. A tailored suit in a plastic cover is strewn carefully over her lap with a dry cleaner’s label on the hanger.

Leon slips inside and the door automatically closes behind him; the driver begins to reverse out of their driveway and mum and Hop stand at the front door, waving him off.

“We have a busy schedule ahead of us,” Oleana murmurs, without looking away from the flashing screen of her phone, “Chairman Rose has already arrived at the hotel for the fanmeet.”

“Right, the fanmeet,” Leon echoes, staring outside the window as the scenery of sleepy Postwick slowly disappears behind them; the driver steers the car towards the direction of the motorway.

Once they’ve arrived at the hotel, the chauffeur steers the car to one of the backdoors; despite the attempt to be discreet, some eager and diehard fans are waiting for Leon and once he gets out of the car, he hears wild cheering and a large crowd of women and men of all ages stand behind barriers, holding signs and waving them in the air; the majority of his fans are ordinary folk, though some of them are donned in copies of his snapback and wearing other merchandise he himself isn’t actually particularly familiar with.

Everyone’s chanting his name feverishly and he doesn’t want to disappoint despite his own personal circumstances; Leon raises his arm and waves to his adoring crowd with a wide grin on his face before he does his infamous pose. The group goes wild in response and once the theatrics are over, the security team are quick to escort him inside.

They lead him to his dressing room where the makeup artist and hair stylist are waiting for him.

He is made to sit down in front of the lit-up vanity mirror where he sees just how tired he actually is, but they hide it with makeup and he lets them work on him but the anxiety and unease bubbles within.

Where is she? Where could she be? Is she back yet?

Once they’ve finished prepping his face and combing his hair, he is finally allowed to sit up and leave his chair and the first thing he does is ask the artists for a moment alone.

They’re friendly and accommodating enough, so they oblige and exit, leaving him alone in the dressing room to be with his thoughts.

The show must go on but he is so sick with worry about her whereabouts that he runs to the door – was this really happening? Was he really going to tell Rose he cannot go through with it today? Was he really going to drop everything and leave?

However, none of those are necessary because he opens the door and there you are, standing with a smile on your face.

“Hi Leon.”

He’s utterly shocked to the core, eyes wide, and he looks at you head to toe before he glances around the corridor; how on earth did you get in? This is a VIP section and certainly for backstage crew, for staff members only. How did you manage to slink past?

None of those matter; Leon pulls you inside the room, closes the door before anyone can see and immediately throws his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

“Where’ve you been?” he manages to choke out, with his eyes squeezed shut and nose buried into your hair. He holds you so tightly, arms crushing your body to his as though fearing you would disappear if he let go. “Sonia told me what happened, and I went out to look for you.”

You let out a gentle sigh, wrapping your arms around him in return and resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“I know, she told me. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make everyone worry,” you whisper, closing your eyes as you relish the feel of being in his arms again and his warm chest pressed deeply against yours.

“I’m just glad you’re here and that you’re safe,” he replies, his voice muffled as he nuzzles your nape.

As he sighs, tightening his arms around your waist, you pull away slightly to place a hand over his cheek, making him look at you. Your eyes meet and as his eyes searches yours, you smile gently, brushing some hair from his face, running your fingertips over his stubble.

Leon leans in, your foreheads pressing together, noses rubbing affectionately and your lips curls into a fond smile.

“Leon?”

“Yes?”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, “I’m not afraid anymore.”

There’s a brief silence and Leon slowly releases you. Holding you at arm’s length, he gazes at you intently, his honeyed eyes sweeping over your form before he presses his palm gently over the curve of your cheek.

“What happened?” he says quietly.

Your gaze softening, you lean into his hand and shake your head before you gently take his hand into your own then reach for his other. You hold his large hands tightly with your own and you both avert your glances to your entwined hands.

You smile once more before you look up, your gazes meeting.  

“I love you,” you murmur.

Lifting his hands to your lips, you press a kiss over his knuckles and close your eyes. “I love you so much, Leon.”

“I love you too," he stutters out, taken aback by your gesture. His cheeks flush brilliantly and you can hear his heart pounding loudly against his ribs.

He watches as you slowly reopens your eyes and let go albeit you do not mask your reluctance to do so, letting go of him with a shaky breath from the back of your throat. There’s a profound despair settling in your eyes as you look up at him.

“I need to go now,” you say quietly. “Goodbye.”

Something’s wrong, and Leon is overcome with the most dreadful sensation. A desire to hold you back, to stop you, overwhelms him and when you turn, he attempts to reach for you once more but you’re already leaving and Leon follows you outside his dressing room.

“Wait!” he yells, calling after you, “Come back! Where are you going?”

He’s quickly interjected by his makeup artist who has returned with some coffee in hands. “Leon? What are you doing outside? Please go back in, the fans cannot see you like this and the event’s about to start.”

The makeup artist cheerfully steers a conflicted Leon towards the direction of the room with a hand on his elbow, but he’s reluctant to go inside.

“Let’s get you all made up,” she says cheerfully but much to her vexation, Leon shakes his head, pulling himself away.

“I’m sorry!” he yells; although he’s wracked with confusion and guilt, Leon just knows the right thing to do at this moment is to follow you.

“Leon, come back!” she shouts as Leon races towards the direction you had disappeared off to. “Leon!”

...

Sonia tells Leon you haven’t come back so he crosses the house off his list. With Charizard, he goes through some of the places that might be meaningful to you; it could be the cemetery, or the hill where you had watched the sunrise together, it could be the mansion where you completed your first mission together, or it could be the area near the lake where you had camped together and ultimately had your first kiss.

Meanwhile, you stand in the middle of the cemetery, gazing at the large space around you that you can utilize.

Unsheathing your penknife, you grasp it firmly in your palm before you turn to Lucario and your pokemon.

“Do not let anyone enter,” you utter, and your pokemon nod in acknowledgement.

You watch them disperse then glance at the knife in your hand.

“Let us begin,” Deimos says, and you nod. “Do exactly as I say.”

You slide the blade over your hand as instructed, the blade tearing your skin apart so seamlessly and effortlessly…but you do not feel any pain; as fresh blood begins to bubble out from your sliced flesh, you put the blade down and dab a finger into the wound.

Lowering yourself over the ground, you begin to swipe your fingers over the concrete, drawing various symbols and runes.

Leon arrives at the cemetery, having guessed this would be where you are, and as he hops off Charizard’s back, he thanks his pokemon and races towards the locked gates where he sees you within, crouching over the ground near the mausoleum; you’re engrossed with some task that concerns writing in the dirt…and he sees that your hands are drenched with blood.

Leon yells your name but you do not respond, and as he tries to open the huge gates, they don’t budge as predicted. He could always scale the fence or fly over the barrier using Charizard but before he can even take one simple step, Gengar appears from out of nowhere, accompanied with a shiny Lucario holding a wooden staff.

He studies the pokemon carefully, in particular, the shiny Lucario. It’s as you mentioned - the Lucario is real. Gengar, with his never-ending grin, slowly shakes his head before gathering a massive swirl of energy in his hands.

It’s a Shadow Ball, and Gengar quickly sends it hurtling towards Leon’s direction whilst the Lucario spins his staff in a circle and aims the tip at Charizard, a bright light shooting out.

Charizard counters the attack by spewing forth a burst of flames and immediately zooms towards Leon to protect his friend, Gengar’s attack hitting him squarely in the belly.

“Charizard!” Leon yells, before he flings his glance to the pokemon. “What are you doing?”

“You cannot intervene,” Lucario replies, his voice loud and as clear as day.

Charizard snorts in disbelief at the talking pokemon and turns to gawp at your direction; you’re oblivious to the gathering outside, drawing on the ground without stopping.

To get the message across, Gengar flings a Dark Pulse at the flame pokemon and Leon grits his teeth as Charizard dodges.

“I need to go to her,” he yells, but Lucario shakes his head and twirls his staff in his paws, moving to an offensive stance. “Charizard, use flamethrower!”

Outside, you can hear the disturbance as the three-way pokemon battle begins between Gengar, Lucario and Charizard; you’re finished with your runes regardless and you rise to stand, swaying slightly from the blood loss, your body feeling weak.

Surrounded by bloody symbols, you move to the centre of the pentagram you’ve drawn, kneeling down.

“Ready?”

You nod, closing your eyes before you take a deep breath, attempting to drown out the distracting noises of the battle outside.

“Voco autem a tenebrarum gente omnia mala de fovea,” you murmur, holding your arms out, your palms facing upwards; the blood in your hands trickling down your fingertips and nails, droplets staining the ground. “Phobos, viditur.”

Your incantation is finished, you return to the edge of the circle and the sky above swiftly turns from its usual light blue hue to a deep, intense red.

Leon and the pokemon stop at once, throwing their gazes up. Lucario, with no more intention to battle due to the ritual being successfully completed, lowers his staff and Leon rushes up to the gates of the cemetery, grasping the cold bars as a strong wind begins to pick up, sending leaves and debris on the floor whirling high into the air.

He yells your name again whilst Charizard takes to the air and attempts to fly inside – he’s immediately repelled by an invisible force and his body slams backwards. Roaring in confusion, Charizard huffs as he gets back up before he unleashes a massive barrage of flames at the invisible barrier.

Leon watches as the symbols surrounding you begin glowing brightly before the ground splinters; you do not move or step backwards and Leon calls out to you, his pleas falling onto deaf ears.

His eyes widen as soon as numerous black tendrils begin to crawl out from the gaps of the cracked earth, some of them slinking over your feet and stretching towards your calves…the ground bursts apart and the huge creature buried within rises high and into the air with a loud roar, towering over your small form.

Your gaze lands on the creature that manifests, its dark limbs spiralling and contorting in the air before they settle to float around its body aimlessly. It is a creature of unholy origin, something that doesn’t belong here.

“Phobos,” you murmur.

It shifts and coils, the black mass curling into itself and out before a single red light forms in the middle of its body.

“Who has summoned me?”

Its words slither out in a series of scratches and hisses and once it spots you, it lowers itself to your level, peering at you with its glowing red eyes.

“You,” it says. “You have finally figured it out.”

A black tendril shoots out, wrapping itself around your neck tightly and lifting you off the ground as though you weighed nothing; your legs dangle as you’re raised up a few feet off the ground. You struggle, legs kicking as it snickers and sneers.

“You fool; I was going to devour you later, but since you seem so keen….”

Phobos’ voice grows fainter and fainter, its words slowing down as the darkness it is made out of begins to spread, blanketing your vision.

As you stare into the abyss, you attempt to detect any traces of movement that might explain its existence or the matter it’s composed of. Even at this moment, to the very end, you’re still trying to understand, to figure out how things work.

How it works.

But nothing remotely comes to mind.

You can liken it to a black hole but ultimately, you cannot fathom the origins or how it came to exist.

And now you’re going to be devoured.

Deimos’ voice returns: “What’s the happiest memory you can recall?”

“I don’t know.”

“Choose one.”

A series of events are presented to you, almost like a reel. How quaint. A flash of light flickers and there’s a scene depicting you, Sonia and Magnolia and the pokemon having tea in the conservatory. You smile; of course, you had so many lovely, tender memories with Sonia and the professor who treated you like one of their own.

However, it’s quick to change from the conservatory to show you and Jace sitting on the sofa in his apartment, watching and laughing as you watch TV. You had always cherished the time you had spent together no matter how simple it was.

It’s Ezra now. He’s barking orders, using his cane to correct your posture as he circles you. This was a few years ago when you had started training. You’re standing in front of a target – an awkward-looking boulder with a bullseye messily drawn on – and with a talisman in hand, you’re trying to toss it properly and in the best way possible.

“Again,” he barks when you fail, and you remember thinking how harsh and strict he was back then.

Graves is next, and the image of you training with Ezra switches to a scene consisting of you and Graves quietly seated down, watching the game at home on leather recliners. You never realized that although it was a bad time, mere days after your family’s disappearance, but you really appreciated him taking the time to keep you company.

Then the scene changes to the time he taught you several ways on how to hold your torch and another time when you played with Growlithe and Manectric... and finally, you see yourself and Graves eating at Bob’s Your Uncle.

Next, you see Leon. You're camping with him in the Wild Area, sitting close together in those small foldable chairs and looking at the night sky. It’s when you had your first kiss. He’s looking at you and holding your hand so tightly and lovingly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, and you smile for you remember this, how truly wonderful it all was.

“You have lived a meaningful life,” Deimos says.

“Thank you,” you reply.

”This is it,” it says.

”I know.”

A single tear drips down your cheek because you know what will happen next.

It averts you to look at Phobos, but you are no longer afraid.

Deimos abruptly bursts out of you in a spray of black and promptly pounces on the creature that was holding you, overwhelming it and tearing it apart, ripping it into shreds; you’re released due to the unprovoked attack and you collapse over the ground, unmoving.

Copious amounts of blood gush out from every orifice – your eyes, mouth, nose and ears.

Leon slams his fists against the invisible barrier over and over again.

Loud, unearthly shrieks can be heard as the two creatures maul and fight each other viciously, slashing at one another and ripping each other apart with brutal abandon until one emerges the victor; the one that had emerged from your body.

It stands proudly over its opponent which lies motionless and is beginning to fade away. Victorious, it faces the sky and emits an ear-splitting screech.

Leon winces from the sound, and his fist finally slips through.

The barrier is gone.

The red sky gradually clears, returning to the normal, tranquil blue.

He rushes inside, acting purely on adrenaline, his mind in utter chaotic shambles. He makes his way up to the centre of the graveyard where your body lies sprawled in a pool of blood and he slowly drops to his knees before you, easing you carefully off the ground and into his arms.

There’s so much blood; his fingers are completely soaked as he brushes some hair away from your bloodstained face. You’re unrecognizable.

Leon murmurs your name and gives you a little shake.

Your body wobbles from the action but there is no response.

The massive coil of black floats beside him; it is as dark as the night sky, hovering in the air with very limited shape or distinguished form, freed from the constraints of gravity. Its body is dotted with plenty of red lights which he recognizes to be eyes. They rotate and roll around this sea of darkness with carefree abandon, but they are all focused on him.

Leon can only stare; this cannot be a pokemon. This cannot be a creation of Arceus. Its design, its origins, are far too complex to have been engineered from earth.

It zips to his left, surrounding him and your body, peering at the Champion inquisitively before it looks at you. Then it dives upside down to gaze at Leon and returns to its proper upright position.

“You can see me.”

Leon nods.

The eyes crease with content.

“It is done,” it says, “Phobos is gone.”

…

White ceiling.

Bright lights.

Overlapping voices.

Squeaking wheels.

A sterile, noisy environment.

“We’re losing her!”

“Hurry up!”

You shake your head at all this unnecessary noise, sighing.

“Sissy!” exclaims a cheerful, happy voice behind you, and you turn round to see your little sister running up to you, holding a Teddiursa doll in one hand and Sunkern in the other whilst Cutiefly buzzes near her shoulder.

“Rosie! Cutie! Sunkern?!”

“Heehee, yes, we’re here!” Rosie says with a giggle as she jumps into your waiting arms.

You lift her up and into your arms with a grunt, Cutiefly flies over and nuzzles you gently, then he buries himself into Rosie’s hair and as you look at your sister, you exclaim, “Oh my gosh, look at you, you’re all grown up! I’ve missed you so much!”

She giggles and wraps her arm around your head, kicking her legs around happily. “I missed you too, sissy.”

Turning to the Pokemon, you murmur, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

”They say it’s not your fault,” Rosie remarks as Cutiefly does a few loops and Sunkern squeaks.

Over the white horizon, a familiar black blob is making its way over to you.

It stops a short distance away before contorting and shifting and expelling two bright lights which come floating out. They are safely deposited to the ground and the blob returns to its proper shape.

“As promised, here are your parents,” Deimos says.

“Thank you, Deimos,” you say as you adjust your hold on Rosie.

“You are welcome.”

Deimos retreats and dissolves into wispy black smoke, leaving behind a familiar couple who head towards your direction at their own leisurely pace.

When the couple finally arrives, stopping shortly in front of you, you gently let Rosie down, who rushes towards mum with a grin.

“Mum, sissy’s here!” she says, and mum picks her up next and into her arms.

Your mum looks at Rosie and smiles, before shifting her gaze to you.

Glancing at the smiling faces of your mother and father and sister, you squeeze your eyes shut and smack a hand over your mouth, before you promptly burst into heartfelt sobs and they quickly move to your side.

“Mum, dad…I missed you so much.”

“We know.”

Your mum gently places Rosie down so she can wrap her arms around you, and your father joins in the huddle.

You're shaking as they hold you, sobbing and sniffling uncontrollably

Rosie is squashed in the middle although she giggles and clings to your side, and mum and dad hold you tightly with their eyes closed whilst you bury yourself in their inexplicable warmth, trembling and weeping in their arms.

They really are here.

It’s as though none of this happened and they had never left your side.

“I had a bad dream,” you say as you finally stop, reduced to a few hiccups every now and then.

You gently pull away so you can look at them and you want to look at them for as long as you can, for it's been such a long time since you had seen them in the flesh and not from a picture.

“I had a horrible dream where you were all taken away from me and I was alone. And I wanted to save you. I wanted to save you all.”

“And you did,” says dad, smiling. “We’re finally free.”

A mournful sob escapes your lips as you close your eyes again, and your parents usher you into their embrace again.

”It’s okay, we’re here.”

You shake your head. “I’m scared that I’ll open my eyes and you’ll be gone again.”

”Don’t be scared, we really are here.”

As you snivel, nodding weakly, you slowly open your eyes; your mother and father stand proudly before you, wearing kind smiles on their faces.

“We’re so sorry we weren’t there for you.”

You shake your head.

”You’ve had to grow up without us. You went through so much.”

Again, you shake your head.

“But seeing you now, we’re so proud of you,” mum says as you emit another choked sob. “You’ve worked so hard and you've helped so many people...we're so proud of you, dear…and now the next chapter of your life’s about to begin.”

“...What do you mean?”

“Here, here, look down there and have a look yourself,” mum says with a chuckle, and she steps away and you follow her to what appears to be a ledge where she peers down. “Look at that handsome young man by your side; despite seeing all these horrendous, evil monstrosities, he is still there for you.”

As you stand by her side, she gestures for you to glance down which you do, where you see a despondent Leon sitting by your side, holding your hand. You’re in a hospital room, lying on a bed with an IV drip and hooked up to a heart monitor. This has happened before.

Dad nods in approval. “He has my blessing.”

“Mine too,” mum replies, and your parents chortle and giggle to each other and as you watch Leon, your heart plummets.

“Well, Rosie, the great beyond awaits. Let’s go,” dad says, and he picks up Rosie’s hand and mum takes hold of her other.

“I’m scared,” Rosie says, glancing between your parents.

“Don’t be. I heard there’s a lot of marshmallows and Teddiursas waiting for us.”

“Okay,” she says timidly, “will sissy be coming too?”

”No, darling.”

You blink in disbelief. “Wait, what? What are you talking about? Where are you going?” you say, making a move to follow them but they turn to you with smiles.

“It’s not your time yet, dear,” mum replies.

“What do you mean? I…I was killed. Deimos killed me.”

They shake their heads.

“Not your time,” says dad, “And I’m darn relieved it’s not. You have yet to live a promising life with Leon.”

”But...”

”Tell your Uncle Chris I said ‘hi’, and not to blame himself anymore.”

“…It’s really not my time yet?”

“Of course not, you still have plenty of more adventures with that young man,” says mum; she smiles too but quickly drops it, mirroring your sullen expression. "I'm sorry, dear. You finally got to see us but...."

"It's okay, mum. I'm just glad I got to see you all again. Even if it's...the very last time,” you reply.

Your family return to your side once more where you share one last embrace with your parents and Rosie. You close your eyes as you hold them tightly; you want to hold onto them for much longer but deep inside, you know you have to let go.

You let go of Rosie last, giving her an extra squeeze before she leaves your arms.

“Take care, dear. We love you.”

"Bye mum, bye dad. I love you too.”

“Bye sissy,” Rosie says, scooping her hand out of your father’s so she can wave at you.

"Bye Rosie," you reply, waving. “I love you.”

“Love you!!”

They're walking away now, and you're deathly afraid that the moment they turn their backs to you they'll vanish from your eyes, leaving nothing but that desolate, empty void that was rooted within you for years and years from the very moment they were forcibly taken away...but strangely enough, that feeling never comes.

Your mind is at ease, your heart content as they throw glances at you from over their shoulders, smiling and waving.

You watch as they slowly move further away and away from you until their voices are scattered and slowly, dissolve into faint whispers in the wind and finally, silence.

They are bathed in a comforting glow and you feel at ease and tranquil as they laugh and smile, disappearing into the warm and serene light.

…

Ezra sits on the bench outside with Absol by his side, his dull eyes unfocused and staring limply into nothingness until he hears footsteps approaching.

An individual plops down on the empty space and there is the sound of a newspaper being flipped open, the paper crinkling under their grip, followed by a very weary sigh.

“Hello, my old friend.”

“…Deimos.” Ezra grunts under his breath.

“Your world is rid of a great evil. You must be happy.”

The old man emits a disgruntled sigh under his breath. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“She will be fine.”

He harrumphs, before his lips spread into a smile. “No sacrifices necessary this time?”

The newspaper is carefully flipped to the next page and the voice hums nonchalantly, “Well, herself – which she was aware of...but I brought her back as you requested.”

”No side effects?”

”No.”

“Her family?”

“Safe and moving on.”

“Thanks,” Ezra replies, “...Thank you.”

Deimos brings out a cigarette and a lighter is switched on, the little device emitting a satisfying crackle. “Would you like one?”

“I can’t.”

“Cancer, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“I have never tried one before. I'm very intrigued."

Ezra listens as the cigarette is lit up, Deimos inhales and takes a deep drag then exhales heavily, blowing some crisp, smoke into the air. In a few seconds, he begins to cough and choke.

“This is vile,” he croaks out, and Ezra laughs.

He hasn’t laughed for a while now, not like this. It’s refreshing yet so strange.

“What’s so funny?” says a new voice, gruff and deep, and Ezra quirks a brow as another set of footsteps approach the bench.

“Hm, if it isn’t Chief Inspector Graves. You feeling better?”

”I’m fine. Thanks for asking. You?”

”I’m well.”

Graves glances at Deimos next. “And you are?”

“I'm an old friend.”

Graves responds with a grunt under his breath before he throws his glance to the cigarette. “You got a spare?”

“I do. Would you like one?” Deimos asks.

“Yeah, gimme.”

Graves plops himself on the remaining empty space of the bench beside Ezra once Deimos hands him a cigarette, and he takes a deep drag before exhaling into the atmosphere. “I haven’t had one in years.”

“Don’t make it a habit.” Ezra warns.

"I know my limits."

"How is she?"

"She's in a stable condition now. There was a lot of blood loss but she's pulling through.”

There’s a brief silence as the men sit quietly before they inwardly sigh with relief.

“Weather’s awfully good today, isn’t it?” Graves mutters, looking up at the sky.

“Yeah,” Ezra replies, “it sure is.”

..

..

Many months later.

Leon has a Pokemon battle against Gloria.

He gives it all his best, but he loses.

He is no longer Champion and he silently heads towards the dark corridor on his own, leaving behind the fanfare, the confetti and the cheering, which is no longer for him.

Up ahead, a young woman in a white labcoat leans against the wall, waiting. When he arrives, however, she pushes herself off to stand properly.

Leon grins and makes his way over, sliding his hands around her waist and bringing her close to him, enveloping her into his chest. She wraps her arms around him in response, holding onto him firmly, eyes squeezed shut.

For what feels like a long time, they stand comfortably in each other's warm embrace and when they part, albeit still in each other's arms, he lifts a hand and brushes a loose strand of hair from her face, away from her eyes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he murmurs.

She shakes her head, smiling. “Not at all.”

“Let’s go.”

He reaches for her and she reaches for him.

Hand in hand, they head for the exit together, towards a future unknown.

..

..

[im-sad-lets-have-sex]

Fifty (50)Toxic People Quotes To Help You Develop Boundaries .

If you’ve recognized you need to set limits with people in your life, these toxic people quotes will help you do just that.

We all have toxic people in our lives who can’t be avoided. It could be a friend, family member, or a coworker whom you just can’t stand.

Their toxicity manifests in a lot of different ways. Maybe they are full of interpersonal issues, are needy and disrespectful, or maybe they try to manipulate and control you, and are extremely critical of themselves and other people. Whatever the case, dealing with toxic people isn’t easy.

If you are often made uncomfortable by how those around you treat you, maybe it’s time to set and maintain personal boundaries. Clear boundaries that will help ensure your relationships are mutually respectful, supportive and caring. You deserve to be treated well.

It’s time to establish boundaries in your life for negative people, and these toxic people quotes are the necessary first step. They will inspire you to set the limits for acceptable behavior from those around you and help you avoid getting too close to people who don’t have your best interests at heart.

Toxic people can only upset you if you let them upset you. Recognize and distance yourself from their behavior. And when interacting with them, focus on the positive.

Below is our collection of inspirational, wise, and thoughtful, toxic people quotes, toxic people sayings, and toxic people proverbs, collected from a variety of sources over the years.

Toxic People Quotes To Help You Develop Boundaries

1.) “If it comes, let it come. If it goes, it’s ok, let it go. Let things come and go. Stay calm, don’t let anything disturb your peace, and carry on.” ― Germany Kent

2,) “It’s amazing how quickly things can turn around when you remove toxic people from your life.” — Robert Tew

3.) “You create more space in your life when you turn your excess baggage to garbage.” ― Chinonye J. Chidolue

4.) “Pay no attention to toxic words. What people say is often a reflection of themselves, not you.” ― Christian Baloga

5.) “Letting go of toxic people in your life is a big step in loving yourself.” – Hussein Nishah

6.) “Don’t let toxic people infect you with the fearof giving and receiving one of the most powerful forces in this world… LOVE!”― Yvonne Pierre

7.) “Don’t let negative and toxic people rent space in your head. Raise the rent and kick them out.” — Robert Tew

8.) “You lift your spirits by moving away from what upsets you. If the stove is hot, you can’t ask how to touch it but be happy about it.” ― Queen Tourmaline

9.) “If a person finds negative people in his life, then he needs to mend his own nature than that of others, for his own basic grounding decides the level of acidic or toxicity surrounding him.” — Anuj Somany

10.) “Toxic people will pollute everything around them. Don’t hesitate. Fumigate.” ― Mandy Hale

Toxic people quotes to inspire healthy self-respect

11.) “There’s folks you just don’t need. You’re better off without em. Your life is just a little better because they ain’t in it.” ― William Gay

12.) “There are people who break you down by just being them. They need not do anything. Dissociate” ― Malebo Sephodi

13.) “Every day you must unlearn the ways that hold you back. You must rid yourself of negativity, so you can learn to fly.” — Leon Brown

14.) “We all have those toxic people around us that make our lives miserable… The day we take them out from our lives, we will all become better people; including them…” ― Rodolfo Peon

15.) “Letting go doesn’t mean that you don’t care about someone anymore. It’s just realizing that the only person you really have control over is yourself.” — Deborah Reber

16.) “How you choose to feel today should not be dependent on others.” ― Anthon St. Maarten

17.) “May you reach that level within, where you no longer allow your past or people with toxic intentions to negatively affect or condition you.” ― Lalah Delia

18.) “Surround yourself with positive people who believe in your dreams, encourage your ideas, support your ambitions, and bring out the best in you.” — Roy Bennett

19.) “Let negative people live their negative lives with their negative minds.”― Moosa Rahat

20.) “Toxic people attach themselves like cinder blocks tied to your ankles, and then invite you for a swim in their poisoned waters.” ― John Mark Green

Quotes about toxic friends, family and relationships

21.) “As you remove toxic people from your life, you free up space and emotional energy for positive, healthy relationships.” ― John Mark Green

22.) “I have found the best way to deal with a toxic person is to not respond in any other way than monotone voice and a businesslike manner.” ― Jen Grice

23.) “Weeding out the harmful influences should become the norm not the exception.” ― Carlos Wallace

24.) “You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.” — C. JoyBell C.

25.) “We teach people how to treat us.” – Dr. Phil

26.) “Sometimes it’s better to end something & try to start something new than imprison yourself in hoping for the impossible.” – Karen Salmansohn

27.) “People appear like angels until you hear them speak. You must not rush to judge people by the color of their cloaks, but by the content of their words!” ― Israelmore Ayivor

28.) “Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too can become great.” — Mark Twain

29.) “Look around you at the people you spend the most time with and realize that your life can’t rise any higher than your friendships.” ― Mandy Hale

30.) “Stop letting people who do so little for you control so much of your mind, feelings, and emotions.” — Will Smith

Toxic people quotes to help you set and maintain boundaries

31.) “When people pressure you to engage in negative decisions and actions, look at them boldly in the eyes and dare them to do good.” ― Edmond Mbiaka

32.) “Don’t ever stop believing in your own transformation. It is still happening even on days you may not realize it or feel like it.” ― Lalah Delia

33.) “Letting go means to come to the realization that some people are a part of your history, but not a part of your destiny.” — Dr. Steve Maraboli

34.) “If a negative viewer looks at you with an ugly fiendish eye, find a way and pluck off his eyes, or better still, protect your good image.” ― Michael Bassey Johnson

35.) “People inspire you, or they drain you. Pick them wisely.” — Hans F. Hasen

36.) “Save your skin from the corrosive acids from the mouths of toxic people. Someone who just helped you to speak evil about another person can later help another person to speak evil about you.” ― Israelmore Ayivor

37.) “I will not allow anyone to walk in my mind with dirty feet.” – Mahatma Gandhi

38.) “Some people are in such utter darkness that they will burn you just to see a light. Try not to take it personally.” ― Kamand Kojouri

39.) “We do not have to be mental health professionals to identify the traits of the possible sociopaths among us.” ― P.A. Speers

40.) “These are the attributes of Bullshit people; they will…blur your imagination, take your endowments for a piece of debris, make you ridiculous, and most importantly, you got to send them to the recycle bin.” ― Michael Bassey Johnson

Toxic people quotes to help you deal with negativity

41.) “Don’t let people get the best of you they can say what they want but don’t let that distract you from achieving your goals.” ― Alcurtis Turner

42.) “Until you let go of all the toxic people in your life you will never be able to grow into your fullest potential. Let them go so you can grow.” – DLQ

43.) “The friends who would forsake you for choosing to live a positive life, would also leave you if you find yourself going through some painful consequences due to some negative decisions and actions.” ― Edmond Mbiaka

44.) “You cannot expect to live a positive life if you hang with negative people.” — Joel Osteen

45.) “We don’t get to choose our family, but we can choose our friends. With courage, we can weed out narcissistic people. We can focus on those who do appreciate us, love us, and treat us with respect.” ― Dana Arcuri

46.) “If they do it often, it isn’t a mistake; it’s just their behavior.” — Dr. Steve Maraboli

47.) “My encouragement: delete the energy vampires from your life, clean out all complexity, build a team around you that frees you to fly, remove anything toxic, and cherish simplicity. Because that’s where genius lives.” — Robin S. Sharma

48.) “Someone who smiles too much with you can sometime frown too much with you at your back.” ― Michael Bassey Johnson

49.) “It is really exhausting to live in a dictatorship of ‘Me’, which is basically a tyranny of others.” ― Stefan Molyneux

50.) “Let go of negative people. They only show up to share complaints, problems, disastrous stories, fear, and judgment on others. If somebody is looking for a bin to throw all their trash into, make sure it’s not in your mind.” – Dalai Lama

Which of these toxic people quotes was your favorite?

Sometimes you find yourself with a friend, family member, or a partner who is really difficult to get along with. When you’re around them, you feel degraded or manipulated. Dealing with such people is never easy so you should find ways to tune out the toxicity that can’t be avoided.

Don’t invest too much time or effort with toxic people. They don’t deserve your mental energy. Hopefully, the toxic people quotes above will help you deal with such negative people.

How did you find these toxic people quotes? Do you have any other inspirational quotes to add to the list? Let us know in the comment section below. Also, don’t forget to share with your friends and followers.

If you’ve recognized you need to set limits with people in your life, these toxic people quotes will help you do just that.

We all have toxic people in our lives who can’t be avoided. It could be a friend, family member, or a coworker whom you just can’t stand.

Their toxicity manifests in a lot of different ways. Maybe they are full of interpersonal issues, are needy and disrespectful, or maybe they try to manipulate and control you, and are extremely critical of themselves and other people. Whatever the case, dealing with toxic people isn’t easy.

If you are often made uncomfortable by how those around you treat you, maybe it’s time to set and maintain personal boundaries. Clear boundaries that will help ensure your relationships are mutually respectful, supportive and caring. You deserve to be treated well.

It’s time to establish boundaries in your life for negative people, and these toxic people quotes are the necessary first step. They will inspire you to set the limits for acceptable behavior from those around you and help you avoid getting too close to people who don’t have your best interests at heart.

Toxic people can only upset you if you let them upset you. Recognize and distance yourself from their behavior. And when interacting with them, focus on the positive.

Below is our collection of inspirational, wise, and thoughtful, toxic people quotes, toxic people sayings, and toxic people proverbs, collected from a variety of sources over the years.

Toxic People Quotes To Help You Develop Boundaries

1.) “If it comes, let it come. If it goes, it’s ok, let it go. Let things come and go. Stay calm, don’t let anything disturb your peace, and carry on.” ― Germany Kent

2,) “It’s amazing how quickly things can turn around when you remove toxic people from your life.” — Robert Tew

3.) “You create more space in your life when you turn your excess baggage to garbage.” ― Chinonye J. Chidolue

4.) “Pay no attention to toxic words. What people say is often a reflection of themselves, not you.” ― Christian Baloga

5.) “Letting go of toxic people in your life is a big step in loving yourself.” – Hussein Nishah

6.) “Don’t let toxic people infect you with the fearof giving and receiving one of the most powerful forces in this world… LOVE!”― Yvonne Pierre

7.) “Don’t let negative and toxic people rent space in your head. Raise the rent and kick them out.” — Robert Tew

8.) “You lift your spirits by moving away from what upsets you. If the stove is hot, you can’t ask how to touch it but be happy about it.” ― Queen Tourmaline

9.) “If a person finds negative people in his life, then he needs to mend his own nature than that of others, for his own basic grounding decides the level of acidic or toxicity surrounding him.” — Anuj Somany

10.) “Toxic people will pollute everything around them. Don’t hesitate. Fumigate.” ― Mandy Hale

Toxic people quotes to inspire healthy self-respect

11.) “There’s folks you just don’t need. You’re better off without em. Your life is just a little better because they ain’t in it.” ― William Gay

12.) “There are people who break you down by just being them. They need not do anything. Dissociate” ― Malebo Sephodi

13.) “Every day you must unlearn the ways that hold you back. You must rid yourself of negativity, so you can learn to fly.” — Leon Brown

14.) “We all have those toxic people around us that make our lives miserable… The day we take them out from our lives, we will all become better people; including them…” ― Rodolfo Peon

15.) “Letting go doesn’t mean that you don’t care about someone anymore. It’s just realizing that the only person you really have control over is yourself.” — Deborah Reber

16.) “How you choose to feel today should not be dependent on others.” ― Anthon St. Maarten

17.) “May you reach that level within, where you no longer allow your past or people with toxic intentions to negatively affect or condition you.” ― Lalah Delia

18.) “Surround yourself with positive people who believe in your dreams, encourage your ideas, support your ambitions, and bring out the best in you.” — Roy Bennett

19.) “Let negative people live their negative lives with their negative minds.”― Moosa Rahat

20.) “Toxic people attach themselves like cinder blocks tied to your ankles, and then invite you for a swim in their poisoned waters.” ― John Mark Green

Quotes about toxic friends, family and relationships

21.) “As you remove toxic people from your life, you free up space and emotional energy for positive, healthy relationships.” ― John Mark Green

22.) “I have found the best way to deal with a toxic person is to not respond in any other way than monotone voice and a businesslike manner.” ― Jen Grice

23.) “Weeding out the harmful influences should become the norm not the exception.” ― Carlos Wallace

24.) “You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.” — C. JoyBell C.

25.) “We teach people how to treat us.” – Dr. Phil

26.) “Sometimes it’s better to end something & try to start something new than imprison yourself in hoping for the impossible.” – Karen Salmansohn

27.) “People appear like angels until you hear them speak. You must not rush to judge people by the color of their cloaks, but by the content of their words!” ― Israelmore Ayivor

28.) “Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too can become great.” — Mark Twain

29.) “Look around you at the people you spend the most time with and realize that your life can’t rise any higher than your friendships.” ― Mandy Hale

30.) “Stop letting people who do so little for you control so much of your mind, feelings, and emotions.” — Will Smith

Toxic people quotes to help you set and maintain boundaries

31.) “When people pressure you to engage in negative decisions and actions, look at them boldly in the eyes and dare them to do good.” ― Edmond Mbiaka

32.) “Don’t ever stop believing in your own transformation. It is still happening even on days you may not realize it or feel like it.” ― Lalah Delia

33.) “Letting go means to come to the realization that some people are a part of your history, but not a part of your destiny.” — Dr. Steve Maraboli

34.) “If a negative viewer looks at you with an ugly fiendish eye, find a way and pluck off his eyes, or better still, protect your good image.” ― Michael Bassey Johnson

35.) “People inspire you, or they drain you. Pick them wisely.” — Hans F. Hasen

36.) “Save your skin from the corrosive acids from the mouths of toxic people. Someone who just helped you to speak evil about another person can later help another person to speak evil about you.” ― Israelmore Ayivor

37.) “I will not allow anyone to walk in my mind with dirty feet.” – Mahatma Gandhi

38.) “Some people are in such utter darkness that they will burn you just to see a light. Try not to take it personally.” ― Kamand Kojouri

39.) “We do not have to be mental health professionals to identify the traits of the possible sociopaths among us.” ― P.A. Speers

40.) “These are the attributes of Bullshit people; they will…blur your imagination, take your endowments for a piece of debris, make you ridiculous, and most importantly, you got to send them to the recycle bin.” ― Michael Bassey Johnson

Toxic people quotes to help you deal with negativity

41.) “Don’t let people get the best of you they can say what they want but don’t let that distract you from achieving your goals.” ― Alcurtis Turner

42.) “Until you let go of all the toxic people in your life you will never be able to grow into your fullest potential. Let them go so you can grow.” – DLQ

43.) “The friends who would forsake you for choosing to live a positive life, would also leave you if you find yourself going through some painful consequences due to some negative decisions and actions.” ― Edmond Mbiaka

44.) “You cannot expect to live a positive life if you hang with negative people.” — Joel Osteen

45.) “We don’t get to choose our family, but we can choose our friends. With courage, we can weed out narcissistic people. We can focus on those who do appreciate us, love us, and treat us with respect.” ― Dana Arcuri

46.) “If they do it often, it isn’t a mistake; it’s just their behavior.” — Dr. Steve Maraboli

[secretlyatargaryen]

ASOIAF and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court

I don’t know if anyone has talked about this, but I know that there’s been some discussion of GRRM being influenced (directly or indirectly) by Mark Twain and, specifically in his novel Fevre Dream, which certainly invokes Huck Finn. I’ve also seen a review of Tyrion’s ADWD journey described as “a drunken Huckleberry Finn.” Which is a flippant description that, on the surface, refers to Tyrion’s literal riverboat journey, but Tyrion’s narrative also carries with it a Twainian edge of satire, and his journey in ADWD is one that deals with classism, slavery, and exile in similar ways as Twain’s famous novel, while Tyrion, like Huck, also occupies a liminal space where he is positioned to understand issues of privilege and marginalization.

But I think a greater comparison could be made between one of Twain’s somewhat lesser known novels and also one of my favorites, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.

Most people know this story by its many screen adaptations, as a time-travel comedy, and it is, but it’s also, as is consistent with Twain, a witty, brilliant social satire. In Connecticut Yankee, Twain uses the backdrop of Arthurian England to brutally deconstruct social issues, and tackles classism, slavery, and chivalry in ways similar to GRRM. The first time I read about the Yankee I read it as an adventure story, then I read it in college for a dystopian lit class, and it was the only book on the reading list that isn’t technically dystopian literature, but the society it portrays, like the one in A Song of Ice and Fire, is definitely a feudal dystopia. I’m going to start with some surface level thematic similiarities.

On words:

Here’s Connecticut Yankee:

“Words are only painted fire, a look is the fire itself.”  

And ASOIAF (multiple times)

“Words are wind.”

On the human heart:

Connecticut Yankee:

“You can't reason with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns.”

GRRM:

“The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself” (quoting William Faulkner)

On rulership:

Here’s where it gets meaty and where I think the two stories have the most in common.

Connecticut Yankee:

The fact is, the king was a good deal more than a king, he was a man; and when a man is a man, you can't knock it out of him.

and

Unlimited power is the ideal thing when it is in safe hands. The despotism of heaven is the one absolutely perfect government, and earthly despotism would be the absolute perfect earthly government if the conditions were the same; namely the despot the perfectest individual of the human race, and his lease of life perpetual; but as a perishable, perfect man must die and leave his despotism in the hands of an imperfect successor, an earthly despotism is not merely a bad form of government, it is the worst form that is possible.

ASOIAF frequently deconstructs the idealization of kings and queens, and the noble class is repeatedly portrayed as fallable and only human, sometimes to tragic ends. There’s an extended plotline in Connecticut Yankee where the Yankee and the King disguise themselves in order to live among the common folk and figure out how to build a better government, at one point ending up enslaved. GRRM also forces several of his noble-born characrters, especially the ones who are positioned to be rulers, to be confronted with the lives of the smallfolk, live among them (sometimes in disguise) or be confronted with the reality of slavery or even live as slaves themselves.

Connecticut Yankee again:

There was a slight noise from the direction of the dim corner where the ladder was. It was the king descending. I could see that he was bearing something in one arm, and assisting himself with the other. He came forward into the light; upon his breast lay a slender girl of fifteen. She was but half conscious; she was dying of smallpox. Here was heroism at its last and loftiest possibility, its utmost summit; this was challenging death in the open field unarmed, with all the odds against the challenger, no reward set upon the contest, and no admiring world in silks and cloth of gold to gaze and applaud; and yet the king’s bearing was as serenely brave as it had always been in those cheaper contests where knight meets knight in equal fight and clothed in protecting steel. He was great now; sublimely great. The rude statues of his ancestors in his palace should have an addition—I would see to that; and it would not be a mailed king killing a giant or a dragon, like the rest, it would be a king in commoner’s garb bearing death in his arms that a peasant mother might look her last upon her child and be comforted.

And that, my friends, is how you deconstruct feudalism, chivalry, classism, divine right of rulership and what makes a hero a hero.

Here’s Dany in ASOIAF:

“Go if you wish, ser. I will not detain you. I will not detain any of you.” Dany vaulted down from the horse. “I cannot heal them, but I can show them that their Mother cares.”

Jhogo sucked in his breath. “Khaleesi, no.”

The bell in his braid rang softly as he dismounted. “You must not get any closer. Do not let them touch you! Do not!”

Dany walked right past him. There was an old man on the ground a few feet away, moaning and staring up at the grey belly of the clouds. She knelt beside him, wrinkling her nose at the smell, and pushed back his dirty grey hair to feel his brow. “His flesh is on fire. I need water to bathe him. Seawater will serve. Marselen, will you fetch some for me? I need oil as well, for the pyre. Who will help me burn the dead?”

Contrast Dany and the King in disguise, doing something as simple as showing compassion to the sick and dying, behaving more like a hero than any knight on a battlefield, with the riot in King’s Landing where a mother presents her dead child as an indictment of the failings of the ruling class.

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag. The coin bounced off the child and rolled away, under the legs of the gold cloaks and into the crowd, where a dozen men began to fight for it. The mother never once blinked. Her skinny arms were trembling from the dead weight of her son.

Sansa tries to influence Joffrey here, but of course she can’t make Joffrey show real compassion or truly understand the plight of the smallfolk. And even though Sansa is sympathetic to their plight, those who get abused by those in power don’t see her as any different than the sadistic ones, like Joffrey.

On heredity and inheriting the sins of the past:

Connecticut Yankee:

We speak of nature; it is folly; there is no such thing as nature; what we call by that misleading name is merely heredity and training. We have no thoughts of our own, no opinions of our own; they are transmitted to us, trained into us.

ASOIAF:

It all goes back and back, Tyrion thought, to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance on in our steads. 

On knighthood:

A Connecticut Yankee:

“You see, he was going for the Holy Grail. The boys all took a flier at the Holy Grail now and then. It was a several years' cruise. They always put in the long absence snooping around, in the most conscientious way, though none of them had any idea where the Holy Grail really was, and I don't think any of them actually expected to find it, or would have known what to do with it if he had run across it.”

In Twain’s novel, the knights are mostly ridiculous, violent idiots obsessed with honor and pointless questing.

In ASOIAF:

"He likes the stories where the knights fight monsters."

“Sometimes the knights are the monsters.”

In Connecticut Yankee, there is an incredible subplot where the Yankee is convinced by a princess to go on a quest to slay a bunch of ogres who have supposedly captured princesses and held them in a castle. When they get there, it turns out that the “castle” is a pigsty, the “princesses” the pigs, and the “ogres” some poor swineherds.

I left Sandy kneeling there, corpse-faced but plucky and hopeful, and rode down to the pigsty, and struck up a trade with the swine-herds. I won their gratitude by buying out all the hogs at the lump sum of sixteen pennies, which was rather above latest quotations. I was just in time; for the Church, the lord of the manor, and the rest of the tax-gatherers would have been along next day and swept off pretty much all the stock, leaving the swine-herds very short of hogs and Sandy out of princesses. But now the tax people could be paid in cash, and there would be a stake left besides. One of the men had ten children; and he said that last year when a priest came and of his ten pigs took the fattest one for tithes, the wife burst out upon him, and offered him a child and said:

“Thou beast without bowels of mercy, why leave me my child, yet rob me of the wherewithal to feed it?”

This is satire at its most ridiculous and over-the-top, but it’s also a pretty searing deconstruction of the futility of chivalry, more obsessed with romantic notions of honor and fighting against imagined monsters than its supposed goal of protecting the weak.

A Connecticut Yankee ends in a failed attempt at revolution but with the possibility of hope for the modern world. Perhaps this is what GRRM is trying to tell us as well.

[harmandy]

—- ☼ (keri russell, forty-one, cis female, she/her.) have you met HARMONY ANDREWS? they’ve been living in PEARL HEIGHTS for ELEVEN YEARS now, but are originally from ESSEX. you can catch them working as a RECEPTIONIST, which makes sense as they’re GOOD-NATURED and OPTIMISTIC, as well as OVER-PROTECTIVE, and HOT-HEADED. keep an eye out for them! (ooc: pace, 21+, gmt, she/her)

hi, friends ! y’all can call me pace, and you may remember me from such roles as ‘admin that calls everybody her pals and uses too many exclamation marks’ ! i’m super excited to get bayhaven up and running ( and hopefully thriving ! ) and writing with your glorious muses ! i’m also playing FREYA and SOFIA, and their intros should be up just after this one ! so, in the words of shania twain, let’s go girls ! p.s i’m famously bad at intros at the best of times, but i’ve been wrestling a migraine for the last few days and i’m actually writing these up early and scheduling them; i’m hoping to be around, but want to be prepared for if i can’t be. so i gotta be honest, these are all a lil rushed, but hopefully they give a vague idea and enough of a gist !

ABOUT:

so, harmony’s actually a lot of fun for me -- she actually started as an npc from a different character’s background, and i just grew really attached to her ! i loved harmony as a concept and as a character, so thought it was about time i played her properly ! so, i revived her ( did i mention she was always dead before ? my gal was always dead before oopsie ) and here she is !

she’s a receptionist up at bayhaven’s hospital, so sometimes works funky hours, and has four smashing lil’ children ! i say children,,, two of them are grown adults, but... her kids !!! she’s dedicated her life to those little demons !

harmony is a chocolate loving, pasta making, scrapbooking, junk journal doing, laundry folding, zero-luck-with-love-having, legend, and she just has a lot of love to give.

i miiiiight be open to putting up wc’s for the two oldest kids at some point ( with like lots of wiggle room and ofc as Different characters than the ones i’ve developed before ) but i’ll have to see ! i keep flip-flopping between wanting to and not so i feel like that’s a ‘i should think on it and see how things go’ kinda sign !

i tried to whip up a a condensed rundown of her backstory, her kids and how they came to be, etc. but it got so long and rambly. however, i’ve copy and pasted the bullet points and whacked them HERE instead if you’re curious, especially while her full biography is a wip !

so she’s a mother of four to nevaeh ‘nev’, faith, harvey, and avalon ‘ava’ and they range from aged six to age twenty-four. she had her eldest at seventeen, and has been cut off from the rest of her family ever since. 

however, her aunt didn’t plan on dying when she did, so hadn’t gone over her will recently ---- if she had, she may have realised that she never took harmony out of it, and harms inherited her house in bayhaven when her youngest child ( at the time ) was four, and she and her family have lived together in pearl heights ever since. 

she loves the community in pearl heights. she loves that everyone seems to have eachother’s backs, and actually like she fits in somewhere. they have a nice lil four bedroom house ( or three bedrooms and a box, as she calls it ) and since the arrival of harm’s fourth and final kid six years ago, and w/ nev being older, they converted the loft into an extra bedroom, so nev sleeps in the attic like a rat !

she’s a busy bee, tbh ! she works full time, has a herd of youngens to keep track of, loves cooking so makes nice hearty, homey meals almost every night, has a Very precise laundry routine, and she’s a creative lil fuck ?? really into bullet journaling but also making junk journals and loooooooves a scrapbook. 

she’s a very sort of No Nonsense lady. she just doesn’t have time or tolerance for bullshit anymore, life’s too short and she’s had enough shit thrown at her. 

however, her heart is Big. her life is dedicated to her kidsies, but she’s always known for taking in strays. a mate of her kids’ need to stay ? okay cool lemme grab you a blanket and the guest pj’s. her house is very Busy, like all the time. everyone is welcome at all times. friends over for dinner !!!! extra kids running around because harm is absolutely nuts and probably thought ava having three friends over would be fiiiine !

she has stats !

as well as a pinterest board !

CONNECTION IDEAS:

friends friends friends !!!

neighbours !!

friends thru their kids ?? her kids are 24, 21, 15, and 6, so if other folks have kids near those ages ! yeehaw !

youngens she’s basically adopted because she’s such a ‘your parents suck ? i’m your mum now’ person tbh.

harmony has such potential for angst and i’m always for it my guys. 

EXTRAS:

i know bayhaven exists in a wonderful world where the dreaded c-word ( no, not that one -- not that one either... ) doesn’t exist, but we’re sadly not so lucky, so i hope everybody is keeping well and looking after themselves, and that bayhaven can function as a nice distraction, as well as a creative outlet and something to fill the time !

i usually am a ‘i love rp icons, i love gif icons, i love gifs, use whatever and i’ll match’ kinda person, but two out of the three fc’s i’m using are ones i didn’t have a folder for before the rp, and keri has zero gif icons until i make some ! i’m workin’ on it ! but she’s beeeeautiful and has lots of gifs and some rp icons, and i’d be happy to make more in the future too, so we’re goin’ with it for now !

i’m a small text gal, but if you wanna make it bigger when reblogging our threads, you’ll get no complaints from me ! the only thing i ask is that bold/italic text is left alone and not reformatted, as they’re almost always used as ( in the wise words of josh peck ) emphasis, when it comes to me !

a bit too personal, but i’m actually currently coming off my adhd meds, and one of the things i’ve noticed, is that i find spotting typos harder and that kind of thing, so if we could just Bear With, i’d really appreciate it ! it also makes me forgetful as sin in the short-term, so again, please just !!! bear with !!! and patience is reaaaallly appreciated !

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: 17 Mar 2020 (Punch Brothers and Masque of the Red Death, 2020 Census (ACT NOW!), Disaster Socialism, Scalzi's canceled tour, my Twitter account was (briefly) nuked, writing advice, Our Plague Year, Inception-level patent troll covid fuckery, tips for parenting kids stuck at home, Brave files GDPR complaint against Google)

Today's links

The Masque of the Red Death and Punch Brothers Punch: My latest podcast is Poe/Twain bathos crossover.

Fill in your census online: Otherwise you and people you care about literally won't count.

Naomi Klein: this disaster has no room for disaster capitalism: It's our moment to seize.

Scalzi's canceled bookstore: Support your local indie bookseller, especially now.

My Twitter account was suspended: I got in trouble for putting trolls on a list called "Colossal Assholes."

Talking digital writing careers with the Writing Excuses podcast: Covering a lot of ground in 15 minutes.

A new anxiety podcast from Nightvale's Joseph Fink: Proud to be in the debut episode.

Patent trolls try to shut down covid testing: Monkey-selfies, Theranos, Softbank – it's a garbage matrioshke!

How to live with your kids: "Working and Learning from Home with Young Children."

Brave files GDPR complaint against Google: Sharing data between Google services is a no-no.

This day in history: 2005, 2015, 2019

Colophon: Recent publications, current writing projects, upcoming appearances, current reading

The Masque of the Red Death and Punch Brothers Punch (permalink)

My last podcast featured the Macmillan audiobook of my novella "The Masque of the Red Death."

https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/13/the-masque-of-the-red-death/

For this week's podcast, I decided to read Poe's original 1842 story, "The Masque of the Red Death. It's some next-level gothic stuff. Neil Gaiman is right: Poe must be read aloud!

https://www.poemuseum.org/the-masque-of-the-red-death

As a chaser, I close this week's podcast with a reading of Twain's classic, gothic, comedic "Literary Nightmare," better known as "Punch, Brothers, Punch," easily the best story ever written about an earworm.

Warning: earworms.

https://americanliterature.com/author/mark-twain/short-story/punch-brothers-punch

The two pieces work incredibly well together, making a bathetic cocktail!

Here's where to get the podcast:

https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/16/the-masque-of-the-red-death-and-punch-brothers-punch/

Direct MP3 link:

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_333/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_333_-_The_Masque_of_the_Red_Death_Punch_Brothers_Punch.mp3

Here's the RSS for my podcasts:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

Fill in your census online (permalink)

Guess what's happening on April 1, whether or not the nation is on virus lockdown? The 2020 edition of the decennial census, arguably the most consequential administrative task in the US government.

https://my2020census.gov/

You don't have to wait until April 1. Here's that URL again. Whether or not you've gotten a census card with a code, you can and should fill it in.

https://my2020census.gov/

From danah boyd: "Everyone who lives in the US (regardless of nationality or visa status) is required to fill this out. Children under 5 are often forgotten. Same with long-term house guests. Immigrants, black men, and indigenous communities are often undercounted too. If you want to make sure that your community gets its fair share of funding and political power, make sure to get everyone in your community to fill this out. The more people missing, the more you lose out."

If digital isn't your thing, call:

English 844-330-2020 Español 844-468-2020 普通话 844-391-2020 粤语 844-398-2020 tiếng Việt 844-461-2020 한국어 844-392-2020 pусский 844-417-2020 العربية:844-416-2020 Tagalog 844-478-2020 Polish 844-479-2020 Français 844-494-2020 Kreyòl Ayisyen 844-477-2020 Português 844-474-2020 日本語 844-460-2020

If you're reading this, you're on a device that can be used to fill it out.

Naomi Klein: this disaster has no room for disaster capitalism (permalink)

In The Shock Doctrine, Naomi Klein coined "disaster capitalism" to describe how, during a crisis, "ideas lying around" about how to enrich the few and take away our rights come to the fore.

In this short doc, she applies the theory to coronavirus.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niwNTI9Nqd8

The shock doctrine is well underway: privatizing social security, closing borders, maybe canceling elections.

But as Klein points out, disasters don't always precipitate oligarchy. The Great Depression catalyzed the New Deal and transformative change.

This is moment to seize. We have "ideas lying around" that are better than exploitation and oligarchy: ideas like a $15 minimum wage, an inclusive government, evidence-based policy free from corporate influence, Medicare for All, and, most of all, the Green New Deal.

Scalzi's canceled bookstore (permalink)

John Scalzi has had to cancel his tour for for The Last Emperox, a book in The Collapsing Empire series. It was the right call for him (and Tor Books to make).

https://whatever.scalzi.com/2020/03/16/important-news-about-the-last-emperox-tour/

Even though it was the right call, it comes at a cost – to John, to Tor, and, especially, to the indie bookstores that rely on author events to keep the lights on. That's why John has urged his readers to "Keep your pre-order at your local bookstore, or make that pre-order at your local bookstore. Your local bookstore needs you right now."

He also suggests that you consider ordering a signed limited edition hardcover from Subterranean:

https://subterraneanpress.com/last-emperox

And John will be going into his local indie to sign books for mail order for so long as it's permitted:

http://www.jayandmarysbooks.com/

Indie booksellers aren't the most endangered or hardest-hit among those who will be devastated by the virus, by official incompetence and indifference, and by monopolism and corruption, but they will still be VERY endangered and VERY hard-hit. They need your support.

My Twitter account was suspended (permalink)

My Twitter account is back!

Here's what happened:

I woke up yesterday morning and discovered that my account was locked. There was no explanation, either in the app, the site or my email for this. I contacted everyone I knew at Twitter, and everyone who knew anyone at Twitter. At 830AM Pacific – about 5h after the suspension – I got an email from support – saying I'd been suspended for having a list to which I add trolls called "colossal assholes."

I'm not sure that this qualifies as a ToS violation (I gave up reporting trolls who called me much worse, because Twitter inevitably replied that these epithets were not prohibited), but it's super-weird that they suspended me without warning or explanation. Also weird: I could not rename the list while suspended, only delete it (I tried to rename it "thoroughly unpleasant individuals").

Weirder: "Colossal assholes" got me suspended, but not its companion list, "Toe-faced shitweasels"

Thanks to everyone who contacted Twitter on my behalf, and for the Twitter folks who lit a fire to get that suspension explanation email sent my way.

All of my followers were deleted. Twitter tells me they'll reappear over 24h or so, but more than 100k are still missing. If you're interested in seeing my future tweets, please double-check that you're subscribed.

Also, in response to Twitter's sensitivity about "colossal assholes" as a listname, I've renamed and expanded my lists.

Potent emetics

Tissue-thin bad faith

Foolish timewasters

Beneath contempt

Odious nonsense-spewers

Confederate gravy-eaters

Toe-faced stenchweasels

Hilariously inept lackwits

Probably bots

Thick as two short planks

Raving conspiracists

Sociopath climate deniers

Dim bulb centrists

Inept MAGA trolls

Red scare bedwetters

Talking digital writing careers with the Writing Excuses podcast (permalink)

Back when cruise ships were a thing, I went out on the Writing Excuses Cruise as an instructor with Mary Robinette Kowal and friends. While there, we recorded an episode of the Writing Excuses podcast.

https://podplayer.net/?id=99014840

In a mere 25 minutes, we pack in a lot of material: how to break into the field, what a publisher's job is, how "digital is different," self-promotion, not being an unlikable weirdo when you're self-promoting, technology's role in shaping artistic success, and more.

Here's an MP3:

https://writingexcuses.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/WX15_11_digital_is_different.mp3

And here's the RSS to subscribe to the podcast:

https://writingexcuses.com/feed/podcast/

A new anxiety podcast from Nightvale's Joseph Fink (permalink)

Our Plague Year is a new podcast from Joseph Fink of Welcome to Nightvale fame. It features short spoken-word essays about this extraordinary, scary, uncertain time.

https://ourplagueyear.libsyn.com/

The debut installment just went live and I was proud to contribute a piece to it, "Don't Look for the Helpers," which PM Press will be publishing in text form shortly.

https://ourplagueyear.libsyn.com/the-lesson-of-a-plague

Also in this episode: "Social Distances" by Nisi Shawl.

MP3 here:

https://traffic.libsyn.com/secure/ourplagueyear/The_Lesson_of_a_Plague.mp3

Patent trolls try to shut down covid testing (permalink)

It's nearly impossible to sum up all the terrible in this story about a patent troll who is attacking America's ability to make and distribute coronovirus test-kits.

Labrador Diagnostics LLC is a patent troll (💩) that bought two of Theranos's patents (💩💩). They're a shell company spun up by Fortress Investment Group, Softbank's (💩💩💩) giant patent troll (💩💩💩💩). They're suing Biofire, a company that actually makes things (as opposed to Labrador, which only makes lawsuits). Which things are Biofire making? Covid-19 tests (💩💩💩💩💩).

They're represented by Irell & Manella, a lawfirm that previously claimed to represent a monkey. No, really. (💩💩💩💩💩💩)

It's inception-level terrible, a grifty shit burrito encased in a shit-flour tortilla, wrapped in a layer of shit-foil, and served in a go-bag of shitty, shitty, shit.

This is the kind of shit-matrioshke that could wipe out our species.

How to live with your kids (permalink)

I'm really impressed with Erin Kissane's "Working and Learning from Home with Young Children" – an important sanity check for anyone ramping up a new way of relating to our kids.

http://incisive.nu/2020/working-and-learning-from-home/

"Don't be Captain Homeschool on day one" is definitely a lesson we've already learned the hard way, and I'm excited to try out its antidote, "Rhythms > schedules":

"A simple rhythm is resilient, so when something goes sideways, recovery is much simpler."

Also impressed by the accompanying "rhythm chart" (something something "rhythm method" something something "parenting").

"Hold a morning household meeting" is something we're definitely doing, albeit awkwardly because we're taking advantage of the school break to let our kid do the sleeping in she never gets to do otherwise, so we're already up and about by the time she's ready for this.

Also impressed by the recco for the Raising Free People podcast, for unschoolers, free schoolers, Adlerians and democratic parents.

https://www.raisingfreepeople.com/podcast/

Brave files GDPR complaint against Google (permalink)

It's long been obvious that US Big Tech companies are unserious about their GDPR compliance, taking cosmetic, pro-forma measures that don't really engage with the substance of the rules (those rules demand nothing less than a top-to-bottom industry restructure).

EU regulators have been slow to punish them for this, but the GDRP affords standing to many private actors to demand action for noncompliance, which is how it is that Brave has filed GDPR action against Google.

https://cointelegraph.com/news/brave-browser-delivers-on-promise-files-gdpr-complaint-against-google

The complaint's substance is that Google is collecting data through its many products, divisions and services and merging that data on the back-end, which the GDPR expressly prohibits without meaningful, opt-in consent (and you can't deny service those who don't consent).

Brave published a study that analyzed Google's communications with users, partners, regulators and customers and showed that these are effectively an admission of the kind of "data-tying" that the GDPR bans.

https://brave.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Inside-the-Black-Box.pdf

I continue to use Brave and Firefox as my daily-driver browsers; I'm impressed with the quality of both, and how much better they make the web.

This action by Brave might trigger the kind of reckoning that the GDPR was meant to provoke — at long last.

This day in history (permalink)

#15yrsago ETECH Notes: Life Hacks Live! (Danny O'Brien and Merlin Mann) https://craphound.com/etech2005-lifehacks.txt

#15yrago Sterling and Steffen's SXSW keynote https://web.archive.org/web/20050318074350/http://www.worldchanging.com/archives/002353.html

#5yrsago The Glorkian Warrior Eats Adventure Pie https://boingboing.net/2015/03/17/the-glorkian-warrior-eats-adve.html

#1yrago China's "pawn shops" have loaned $43B, mostly secured by real-estate https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2019-03-12/china-is-said-to-scrutinize-43-billion-pawn-shop-lending-boom

#1yrago Chinese enthusiasts are serving global Thinkpad fans by making modern motherboards that fit in classic chassis from the Golden Age of the Thinkpad https://geoff.greer.fm/2019/03/04/thinkpad-x210/

#1yrago Majority of London's newly built luxury flats are unsold, raising the spectre of "posh ghost towers" https://www.theguardian.com/business/2018/jan/26/ghost-towers-half-of-new-build-luxury-london-flats-fail-to-sell

#1yrago Myspace lost all the music its users uploaded between 2003 and 2015 https://www.reddit.com/r/techsupport/comments/7uiv8b/myspace_player_wont_play_songs_and_i_want_to/

Colophon (permalink)

Today's top sources: Kottke (https://kottke.org), Slashdot (https://slashdot.org).

Currently writing: I've just finished rewrites on a short story, "The Canadian Miracle," for MIT Tech Review. It's a story set in the world of my next novel, "The Lost Cause," a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation. I've also just completed "Baby Twitter," a piece of design fiction also set in The Lost Cause's prehistory, for a British think-tank. I'm getting geared up to start work on the novel next.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes's forthcoming Afterland: it's Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it's amazeballs. Last month, I finished Andrea Bernstein's "American Oligarchs"; it's a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I'm getting really into Anna Weiner's memoir about tech, "Uncanny Valley." I just loaded Matt Stoller's "Goliath" onto my underwater MP3 player and I'm listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: The Masque of the Red Death and Punch Brothers Punch https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/16/the-masque-of-the-red-death-and-punch-brothers-punch/

Upcoming books: "Poesy the Monster Slayer" (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we're having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

"Attack Surface": The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020. https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250757531

"Little Brother/Homeland": A reissue omnibus edition with a new introduction by Edward Snowden: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250774583