#Story by me

[marbledmoonstone]

! SELF INDULGENT STORY, HAVE AT THEE!! !

(tw for Abuse, Violence, and Furries)

- Bullfrog couldn't help but shift ever so slightly in his seat, his attention instantly caught by the tight grip Ramone kept on his shot glass. The ex-news reporter didn't even spare the assassin a single glance, eyes trained directly on the TV just meters from him, situated above the bar. Of course, Bullfrog wanted to ask what was wrong, what Ramone could be thinking... But instead, he held his tongue, and turned to the TV as well.

- Styx's paws shook as xy sat at the desk, xyr leg bouncing as xyr icy white eyes were wide and cautious... It was a tough challenge, pretending to be so professional after weeks on end of nothing but labor and being shit on. And Rayman certainly wasn't helping... Xyr gaze turned to the alien that sat beside xyr, reading away to the cameras with a wide grin plastered on his face without even so much of a care in the world... There was once a glimmer of life in his eyes, but now, it was like xy were staring at a doll. A prop. Just what had they done to him...?

- A loud shatter of glass startles Bullfrog out of his thoughts, as his attention is immediately turned back to Ramone, who now stood with his back to the assassin, body tense and hands clenched so tight his palms might as well have started bleeding. He was furious... And for good reason. There, sat a clone of himself, harping away the very propaganda he now fought against, with his best friend sitting right beside it with no way to stop it for fear of the backlash.

- "I can't take it anymore," Ramone snapped, his voice a low growl as his head tilted downward, before he turned to look up at Bullfrog, "I can't fucking sit around and watch this shit anymore."

[youhaveforgottenmealready]

Sutures -- Dick/Jason Fic Excerpt

Dick sewed and Jason drank, and the evening was quiet while they were both busy doing those equally important tasks. The familiar tug of the sutures through his skin was almost soothing, the steady, unpleasant push in and tug through. 

"You're good at this," said Jason at one point.

"Lots of practice," said Dick.

And when Dick finished with the stitches, he covered it with clean gauze, then leaned forward and kissed his handiwork. 

"There," he said. "All better."

It was a silly gesture, like crossing your heart to make a promise. Only…Jason… liked that he'd kissed his wound to make it better. He liked that Dick had fussed over him; that he had wanted to help and heal and complain loudly at him that he should be more careful. 

He even liked having Dick in his apartment. In his space. He should have hated it because it was his and he had everything the way he wanted. And Dick was just bad at understanding that. Dick left stuff in dumb places and hung towels up wrong. Dick hogged the blankets. He squeezed the toothpaste tube from the middle and left long strands of dark hair all over his shower. 

Only…

Jason wanted him to come by more. Leave his shoes in, frankly, dangerous spots like he always did and not close the milk jug all the way and leave powdered creamer all over his clean countertops. He wanted to watch Dick zombie his way through mornings, knocking into furniture and then stealing Jason's robe and slippers. He wanted to keep delaying watching shit on Netflix because Dick complained that he was ahead of him and, "We could watch it together if you didn't get ahead of me. I can see when you've watched ahead!"

And fights over the remote and bowls left in the sink and that time he left the refrigerator door wide open and…

Jason wanted every fucking bit of it.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He was a fucking idiot. The only credit he was willing to give himself was that most people would end up exactly in the same place as him if they had Dick Grayson's attention and time and kisses and…and so much. Oh, so fucking much more. Nobody would be able to resist him. The man was a heartbreaker.

Fucking. Shit.

Jason pushed it all away, buried it in the grave. The past and whatever the hell this was, he could bury it, let it fill up the coffin he'd escaped. Cover it like dirt with jokes, with sex, with anything he could find and he could make this go away.

He smiled at Dick playfully, but not without a fair amount of mockery he conjured up because he was as good an actor as any of the boys raised by Bruce Wayne. 

Then he said, "You play doctor real nice," gruffly and licked his lips as a thought occurred. "But, doctor, I've got no way to pay you. Whatever can I do?" The last of that was said in as high a voice as Jason cold manage and with vowels as heavy and thick as buttery syrup, like some dainty Southern Belle. Jason even fluttered his eyelashes. 

**********

Read the whole thing here:

Sutures

[blueguitar]

FRANKIE SAY, “RELAX”

          If I tell you that where I am people are not wearing their own shoes, they are wearing cheap cotton slippers, that should tell you something.  Wearing your own shoes here is a privilege that is earned and even then, you are not allowed your shoelaces.  Most people are wearing their own clothes, but some are wearing only bathrobes and pajamas.  This means we are not in prison, we are in a mental health facility.

     I am wearing my own shoes with their shoelaces, but I have been warned before that under no circumstances, for any reason, am I to give anyone here my shoelaces. No matter how persuasive their reasons may be. I am grateful that I am wearing my own shoes and grateful for the tag on my shirt that reads “VISITOR”. Aside from these details, you cannot tell me from the people who are here because they are crazy. I also know that I should not call these people crazy.

     I am here to visit my mother who is also not crazy, but a nurse in this facility. My mom would have a fit if I were to use the word crazy; these are only people who need a little help. My mother reminds me constantly that there is nothing wrong with needing a little help, which is exactly why I am here today. I am going to lunch with my mom where I intend to ask her for a loan. To which she will probably reply, “Are you crazy?” using the word in the other sense, meaning I just loaned you some money a month ago. Money I haven’t paid back yet.

     My mother was expecting me for lunch, but an emergency had come up right before I arrived and I am waiting for her, sitting on a couch with other people who need a little help, contemplating the bright blue shoelaces that weave into my Nikes just so - shoes that my mother calls “moon boots”. I am grateful for theseshoes, apparently the only thing separating me from the rest of the room. My mother tells me 3 out of 10 people will eventually spend time in a mental health facility, most of them by their own choice. Sometimes I think she’s talking about me.

     There are three of us sitting on this nice but not especially comfortable sofa and half a dozen others sit on matching chairs scattered around the television set. We are, each of us, watching or not watching “Jeopardy”. The woman at the end of the couch stares at nothing and sighs deeply at the odd occasion. One man reads the newspaper and mutters quietly to himself. The man across from me is playing along with the game show out loud, but answering with questions that are completely wrong. If the correct reply is “What is Oslo?”, his question is “What is Nairobi?”. If it should be “Who is Abraham Lincoln?”, his reply is “Who is John Wilkes Booth?” This means he is either crazy or stupid, or both. At any rate, his enjoyment of the game seems unimpaired.

      The man next to me seems normal - an old guy, completely average in all respects. He has the air of some sort of salesman, which later I find out is true. He is a realtor.  He says to me, “They think I'm nuts.” 

      I think to myself, “Duh... you're here.”

     The man playing “Jeopardy” blurts out, “Who is Ringo Starr?” but “Who is Frank Sinatra?” is correct. The man next to me makes a coughing, clearing-his-throat noise that expresses his disgust.  At what I'm not sure.

     “They think I’m a fucking joke,” he says, “I got a joke. You wanna hear a joke?”

     I reply noncommittally, “Hmm?”

     “Do you want to hear a joke?”

     “OK,” I say.

     “There are these two guys from Jersey and they’re in this bar watching Frank Sinatra’s funeral on TV. The one guy turns to the other and says, ‘Frank Sinatra? I hate him - I’m fucking glad he’s dead!’ The other guy says, ‘Man, don’t say that! Frank Sinatra was a great man!’ ‘Aw, who is Frank Sinatra to you?’ The other guy says, ‘I’ll have you know, Frank Sinatra saved my life!’ ‘Frank Sinatra saved your life? How the hell did Frank Sinatra save your life?’ ”

     “Well, a long time ago, I was in Las Vegas. I’d won a lot of money and was walking through the parking lot at the Sands when these two goons jumped me, took my money, and started beating me up, kicking me in the head. I thought I was a goner, but Frank Sinatra walked up and said, ‘Hey guys, I think he’s had enough!’ ”

     The joke takes me by surprise. I actually find it funny and laugh, though I know this will only encourage him. “People think Frank was with the Mafia.”

     “I know,” I reply with some annoyance. I really hate it when people explain jokes.

     “The truth is much worse,” he says. “Frank Sinatra’s not dead, you know.”

     “Oh, he’s dead,” I say, “He was like 80 or something when he died.” My mother has always told me you should just talk reasonably with the patients.

     “No,” the guy says, “He faked his death. Frank Sinatra is not the sort that could just die the normal way. I don’t know what it’d take to kill him. He’s a vampire, you know.”

     OK…

     “I know you don’t believe me.”

     “Well,” I say, “you realize vampires are fictional. You know, like Dracula?”

     “I didn’t say he wore a cape. I didn’t say he was all ghost-y white. It wasn’t like the movies; I just don’t know another word for it. Frank Sinatra is a vampire!”

  “You mean, Frank Sinatra is like a vampire? You mean, metaphorically?”

     “No, I mean he’s something that’s not dead or alive that kills people and drinks their blood.”

     “Oh…” I deadpan, “Well, that’s a vampire.”

     “I know you don’t believe me, but I saw! with my own eyes.”

     He goes on, “Hear me out. Believe me, if I wasn’t sitting here… if we were at a bar and I was telling you this over a couple of drinks, it’d be different.” Immediately, I wish this were true. At a bar, it would be easy to get away from him.

     “OK, this was 1965. Back then, I was a security guard at the Sands. I was probably the same age as you are now, maybe a little older, I don’t know. That was a good job for me. I didn’t want to do nothing then and that’s pretty much what a security guard does - nothing! Walk around, take a nap after midnight, jiggle a few doorknobs…”

     “The hardest thing I had to do was toss out a drunk. I mean, I carried a gun, but it never left its holster. Not once.”

     “Vegas must’ve been something then,” I venture, “Classic.”

     “Hey, it was Frankie’s town back then. Hell, it was my town, too. Easy job, I didn’t pay for drinks, and the ladies were free and easy…” He sighs.

     “You know, I could go to the shows for free. I was supposed to pay half, but you get to know people…”

     “Frankie was headlining every other week then. Man, if you wanted to make it with the ladies, you’d take them to a show and Frank Sinatra was the best! He’d like, hypnotize the girls. He’d croon a few bars of “Old Devil Moon” and you could practically hear them pussies moisten! He’d hypnotize them - that was his power.” He chuckled low and nasty to himself, “I’d take a girl to see Frankie, let him work the magic, sneak them up to an empty room, and they just about drop to their knees.”

     All I’m thinking is “Ick!” I mean this guy is seriously creeping me out. You just don’t want to think about old people and sex, even if he was my age when it happened.

     He clears his throat again. “All that was before I found him out. I can’t even listen to his music anymore - gives me the creeps.”

     “Makes two of us,” I think or did I say that aloud? No matter the old man goes on.

     “All I’m saying is what I saw. I was up on the penthouse floor doing my rounds. The door to Frank’s suite was ajar - open, like a few inches. It shouldn’t have been and it was my job to find out why. Maybe someone was trying to rob Mr. Sinatra.”

     “I opened the door, but the lights were dim. The lights were dimmed in the hallway too; that’s how they were supposed to be when Frank Sinatra was there. You see how this is adding up? I couldn’t see much right away. I got out my flashlight and shone it around the place. I spot two women on the sofa… and they’re naked, hanging all over each other. I’m saying, ‘Oh sorry, ladies,’ and all, ready to close the door when I see something isn’t right. That’s when I noticed the blood, all the blood.”

     I’m listening, watching beads of sweat break out on the old guy’s forehead.

     “There was blood because their necks were all torn up. There was blood spattered on the wall and a dark puddle of it under one of the girls’ feet.”

     “All of a sudden my adrenaline kicks in. Everything gets real clear; I notice everything all at once. I see the looks on the girls faces - eyes shining and wide open, them smiling like nothing’s wrong at all. I hear the shower running in the bathroom, see the light spilling out from the crack under the door. I smell the blood and underneath all that, I smell water and Ivory soap.”

     “Then, the shower cuts off. Now, I can hear the music playing real soft on the hi-fi - his own fucking records. Some fucking ego on that guy!”

     “The bathroom door bangs open and there he is - Frank Sinatra, himself - completely naked, toweling his hair dry.” He says, aside, “He’s got a BIG dick on him!”

     I don’t know - I must’ve made a face or something. The old guy says, “I’m no fag! It was so big anybody’d notice. Porno big!” he says holding his hands about ten inches apart.

     “Anyway, the second I saw him, I was afraid, so afraid I was shaking. It’s hard to explain; I don’t know if I can explain. This wasn’t the same Frank I saw at his shows or in the casino.”

     “He looked younger, renewed. Something about him seemed bigger or stronger or… I don’t know, wild like an animal, like a lion or tiger.”

     I bite my lip to keep from adding, “Or bear. Oh, my!”

     “And his eyes sort of glowed. We just stared at each other for the longest time. I was so afraid I pissed myself like a scared little kid.”

     “Then, Frank picks a coin up off a dresser and flicks it at me so hard I had a bruise in the middle of my forehead for weeks, a backward impression of the Lincoln Memorial. He says, ‘A penny for your thoughts…’ ”

     I’m looking at the old guy’s forehead and it seems there’s a small divot in the middle, the bottom rimmed in yellowy sweat.

     He says, “I just sort of stammer, ‘Please don’t kill me. I swear I won’t tell anybody.’ and Frank just laughs. He fucking laughs at me!”

“Frankie says, ‘Relax. I’m not hungry anymore and anyway, I like the ladies,’ hitching a thumb at the dead girls on the couch. ‘Tell whoever you like,’ he says, ‘Who are they gonna believe - some pissy little kid or Frank Sinatra? Now get the fuck out of here!’ I stumbled out of the room and I could hear him laughing as I ran away.”

     “In the elevator I threw up - shrimp and beer and cocktail sauce all over the place. I snuck out the back way and called my boss from

home. Told him I had gotten sick. Entirely true, I guess.”

     “Three days later, Frankie left Vegas and I went up to his suite. There was a new sofa and the wallpaper behind it was a shade lighter than the rest of the room. I knew I wasn’t crazy. I quit that job a week later.”

     The old guy continues, “You can read it in the papers! I did for years. If page one says Frankie’s in town, page three is dead hookers. And Frank was right, nobody believes me - but I know what I saw.”

     “I don’t believe that fucker ever died either! Probably had plastic surgery. He’s Harry Connick Jr. now. Or what’s his name? Puff Daddy?”

     Just in time, my mother walks into the room and “Jeopardy” has become “Wheel Of Fortune”. I look at the guy and say, “Uh, I don’t know. Look, I gotta go.” My mother is zipping up her jacket and says to me, “Is Pizza Hut good for you?”

     In the car, she turns to me and asks, “He told you his story, huh?”

     “Yeah, pretty damn… ” Shit! I almost say “crazy” and my mom interrupts me and says, “I believe him. He‘s an alcoholic, not delusional.”

     I don’t say a word.

     “Oh, I don’t think Frank Sinatra’s a vampire… but Frank Sinatra and some dead prostitutes? That I believe. Rich people can do what they want!”

     So, we had a Pepperoni Lover’s pizza and I borrowed fifty dollars from my mother.

[catra-writes]

i dont believe in fate

fate is a thing of opinions. many say its a story etched in stone that you cannot change, that everything is already laid out and decided for you, or that your choices set your fate down a path you cant change once you've started.

every time someone describes fate to me it sounds like theyre describing a prison in earthy rock-like material created by some ethereal being who watches over every living being every decision and action.

i, however, dont believe in this sort of thing. i instead believe life is what you decide and you can back out anytime and change your mind, but sometimes the actions you take cant be reversed. it has nothing to do with this "fate" people describe.

the possibilities in life are as endless as a running river branching out in many paths until it reaches the vast flowing waters of the nearest sea or ocean, the depths of which still go largely unexplored by humanity just like the many possibilities we could chose every day.

everyone is free to make a choice, even as small as blinking or not in that moment, taking a breath or not and how deep or shallow that breath is or how long its held for. every manual movement of our body is a choice, a thing we control. that freedom of choice, that control, that is more freeing and presenting a sense of safety than any "fate" could bring.

your body, your life, your story. every day, minute, second, moment. all of it is safe for you to choose freely how you use it, how you spend it, how you shape it. you can take peace knowing you have the freedom of control and choice over even the things that seem the smallest or most mundane, theyre still signs you have control and will as a person and that your life isnt something predetermined.

that is what i believe in.

[capsensislagamoprh]

Need a break from jewels. Who wants the next part for the Paper Army, with Sorcha Windsong, our half elf sorceress?

[erraticunicorn]

It is golden hour. Lush rays break through the canopy of tall oaks. A gentle breeze whips up tiny peaks on the gentle lagoon of one of Michigan’s myriad of lakes. I stand on a pier fishing by myself. A tried-and-true tradition of my long, Michigan summers. At this point it’s almost muscle memory, the bounty of fish biting at my line with a rhythmic ease. They bite, I reel them in, I unhook them, and I let them go. They bite, I reel them in, I unhook them, and I let them go. I swear sometimes it is the same fish biting on my line again and again. My thoughts are of their own and are free to wander from here and back to there in this little plot of land belonging to my grandfather. In it, he has created a paradise where I, a stranger to any sense of stability from my myriad of moves, can feel at ease. I learn what I assume are basic American kid things. How to fish, how to catch frogs, how to cook grilled cheese, how to pick out which ice cream to later devour at the mile long aisle of ice creams at the grocery store.

The pull of the fishing rod snaps my attention back into place. I let the fish tug once more, looking for the right amount of tightness in the line before I join the fray. Hooked, the fish begins fighting and I notice how small the organism is. Soon the scared specimen is flailing around in front of my eyes. A baby bluegill – I had never caught a baby before. No bigger than the size of my middle finger.

Its flails were a protest towards my very being.

Against the world cruel enough to abduct it from its home.

Blood was pouring from its gill.  I quickly went to work excavating the hook which now lay deep within its guts – the little fish had swallowed it. My fingers worked the hook trying to get it out just like my grandfather had shown me, I had done it hundreds of times before, yet on this instant the muscle memory vanished. My breathing intensified as I heard the scrape of innards begin to hemorrhage as I tried to will this fish to live.

I was a terrible surgeon.

Instead, my attempts at rescue resulted in emulsifying the fish’s organs as blood began to pool on my hand, the red liquid coalescing on the various lines running across my palm. Behind the glassy eyes of the baby fish its soul was in full panic. Pupils darting around, looking for someone to save it, looking at me, at the sun and then back at me. Who was this being that brought such immeasurable pain? With one last yank, I was able to fish the hook out of the minnow’s stomach but with it, its soul. Where once was panic, the eyes were now glazed over. Empty.

Tears welled up, and my vision became blurry. I crumbled to my knees and wondered what to do, no one in sight to give me a word of wisdom. I mumbled some sort of prayer and placed the deceased back into the water, the body floats, the pallid eyes never losing sight of me.

A scientist in the early 20th century concluded that the soul was 21.3 grams by weighing terminally ill patients before they passed and again after they did so. It has since been concluded to be shoddy science; however, on that day in the pier, once the fish left this world both it and I felt a little lighter.

I have never fished again.

🐟

It is golden hour. Lush rays break through the canopy of tall oaks. A gentle breeze whips up tiny peaks on the gentle lagoon of one of Michigan’s myriad of lakes. A man lounges in his pontoon boat, he has summered here for over four decades. A retreat from his labyrinthine life led in Chicago. He closes his eyes and feels the breeze on his hardened skin.

“I wonder if heaven looks like this,” he wonders.

In the periphery of his vision, below his matted cap he catches sight of a youth on a pier. He had noticed this kid before in the previous afternoons that now have blurred together into one giant haze of warm gold. He knew the kid and knew his grandfather. The kid’s grandfather was one of the first ones on the lake, built his cabin from scratch, with his bare hands. He thought about how he could never do that. He instead flaunted his disposable income and hired contractors to build up his somewhat fancy lake house. Those long hours in his office had to be worth something, right?

He thought about giving the kid some advice, fill his noggin with some sort of knowledge or just a platitude of some sort. He shuffled through his memory trying to think of tokens of wisdom past down by his mentors but was drawing up flat. Instead, his mind wandered, and he felt himself getting frustrated, as if his chronic constipation also affected his mind.

The whispers of a yell started revving in his vocal chords. He was going to tell this kid something, the old are supposed to teach the young after all. Then he noticed the youth had a fish in his hand. “Nice catch,” he thought. Instead of sharing his bridled joy he noticed tears coming down from the child’s eyes. His face contorting into a wet mess. “Why in the world is he crying?” “There is no reason for a child to cry on this beautiful day?” “Is he crying for the fish?”

“Who would cry for a fish?”

These thoughts were spinning in his head like a vortex and an unbelievable anger began welling up in his chest. The human race was a superior species. How could one lament a fish? A measly baby bluegill? Every day, animals died for the sake of humanity, whether it be the pig sacrificed for his bacon or the fly he killed this morning for crossing into the category of a nuisance or the wilted flowers he gave his wife that lay at the center of their dining table. His anger turned external, towards the child. He wasn’t sure why his blood was boiling so hot. Unimaginable scenes started playing in his brain. Speeding up his boat and leaving the kid soaked in his wake. Going over and slapping the kid. Slapping some sense into him. Instead, he idled his engine. Grabbed his phone, he hoped for a notification from someone and instead was greeted with a blank screen only reminding him of the time. He swiped his phone open, and went to his contacts, finding his son who he had last spoken to in the usual awkward Christmases they spent together. He thought about tapping the button. With a sigh, he locked his phone only for a dragonfly to land on the screen. With one flick he tossed the dragonfly away and revved the engine of his boat. The splash sparkling in the sunlight.

[gornackeaterofworlds]

One thing about me is that I steal my own characters for my ocverse. The blood witch that seals herself in a lake for eternity to drown out the insane voices of a teen boy and her own daughter? My call of duty oc. The rich orphan who's addicted to so many drugs and eventually owns her uncle's trading empire? Spiderverse oc. Insane crossbow-wielding goth? Inside Job oc. Witch draped in silks and velvet who was thrust into a position of leadership against her will? You won't believe this, she's a Vinland Saga oc. I can't stop stealing from myself

[jmflowers]

I’ve been in school creating things for 2 years now and this is still the only thing I am truly, truly proud of.

[puppyeared]

filipina miku!! my mom helped me with her outfit ^_^

[mintaii]

take responsibility

[s-aint-elmo]

pass it on!

(ID in alt text)

[thatboreddrake]

So y’all know the classic edge trope of “my blade cannot be sheathed until it has tasted blood”? What if a magic sword that has that requirement, except it’s sort of inverted. A sword that, instead of being inhabited by an evil spirit which once awakened cannot be lulled back to sleep except by blood sacrifice, was inhabited by a benevolent spirit who would not allow the sword to be drawn unless bloodshed were the only possible solution. A sword whose power could never be misused because it would only allow itself to be used in situations where it was justified. What about a Paladin who spends their entire journey fighting with a sheathed sword, incapacitating but never killing or maiming. The party believes that the Paladin has taken an oath of no killing, until they face the big villain. And it is in that moment, and that moment alone, that the sword will allow itself to be drawn.

Idk, this image set my mindwheels a-turning.

But do y’all see the vision?

[youhaveforgottenmealready]

Fic Excerpt -- We'll Find a Way to Offer Up the Night, Chapter 15

"Hi," he says to Bruce when he opens the door. Bruce is in expensive black again from head to toe. Handsome as sin. His eyes shift over Clark's face with something in their depths Clark can't name.

"Hi," Bruce says. 

"Hi," Clark says back, then winces when he remembers he'd already said that. He should really calm down. It's just Bruce. His weird, spooky friend, Bruce. Who drives him a little crazy.

"I half expected you to bring Chinese food," Clark says, looking at the floor by Bruce's feet, then feeling disappointment that there really is no bag of food there. "No Frying Dragon? That's okay, though. The fridge is stocked. I can throw together something if you're hungry. 

"I can't write about you in a memoir or anything," Bruce says, apropos of nothing.

"Uh. What?" Clark says after a confused pause. 

Bruce shrugs. "Romance isn't my thing. I can't, I don't know, fly you around the earth for a date or something like that."

Clark frowns as he tries to parse the meaning of that sentence. That had been his first date with Lois, flying through the sky to show her what the world looked like to him. Why would Bruce ever need to do something like that? 

"Uh. I can fly," he finally says. "Or did you mean in your jet?"

Bruce scowls at him and it's an absolutely menacing expression. "Try to keep up."

"Right, okay," Clark says. He feels lost. "Romance. You're talking about romance."

"Yes. Romance is difficult. We both lead dangerous lives. I'll always put Gotham first. You'll always put Metropolis first." He says this with one finger high, like a college professor explaining why everybody is flunking. 

Clark pulls a face. "I don't think that's true," he says. 

"And I snore," Bruce adds. 

"Well, that much is true."

Read the whole story here:

We'll Find a Way to Offer Up the Night

[blueguitar]

“WHAT'S OPERA, DOC?

          You are ten years old.  It is Saturday morning, 7 AM.  “The Bugs Bunny Show” is on the TV.  Elmer Fudd sings, “Oh, Bwunhiwda... you're so wovewy!”  Bugs returns, “Yes, I know it – I can't help it.”  The sound is very low, so as not to wake your parents.  This is the only time of the day that belongs to you completely.

     You lie on the living room floor, drawing in your sketchpad.  You are using a nib pen and India ink – laying thick black lines over the faint pencil sketch you had already drawn.  You are proud of your work – it's coming together very well.  You haven't smudged the drawing anywhere.

     You are drawing a picture of Bugs Bunny as Brunhilde.  You know Bugs is a boy bunny, but you've noticed he often wears dresses.  This fascinates you.  Not just the dresses, all of his costumes – doctor, cowboy, gangster, policeman.  The secret hidden message is that with the right clothes, you can be whatever you want to be.  You try to imagine yourself all grown up with a closet full of costumes for every occasion.  You suspect, however, real life would never be so easy.  (You know what an imposter is.)

     As you dip your pen in the ink, you accidentally tip it over.  A large black stain spreads on the carpet.  You immediately think of your mother only days before yelling at you, “What do you think you're doing?  Don't draw there!  You'll spill ink on the rug.”  You had completely forgotten her saying that until this very moment and now, it is true.  How does she do that?

     You jump up, run to the kitchen, and get a large wad of Brawny paper towels.  You sop up the excess ink, but a large black stain remains.  It looks a bit like a map of South America.  This will not do.

     Back to the kitchen, you grab a bottle of Palmolive dishwashing liquid and soak a sponge in the kitchen sink.  You work on the stain, but the soapy water only spreads the ink.  The stain is now a large dark spot the size of a pancake.  You imagine the stain spreading across the carpet to every corner of the room.  You think this might not be so bad, but you have never seen black carpeting in anybody's living room.

     You are running out of options.  As a last effort, you decide to move your father's Lay-Z Boy recliner to cover the spot.  It's heavy – it takes all your might to slide the chair, inch by inch, the three feet it takes to cover the stain and it does cover things up, but it's all wrong.  The living room seems somehow unbalanced.  The recliner is too close to the TV which is “bad for your eyes”.

     With her unerring timing, your mother walks into the living room, Tying her housecoat around her waist as she does.  You want to shout out with false cheer, “Look, Mom!  Look where I moved the chair!  Doesn't it look good here?” but instead, you start crying – hot tears streaming down your face.

     As you grow older, the incident fades in your memory.  You forget spilling the ink, the tears.  You forget the punishment – a spanking and two weeks restriction.  Your life goes on, like it will – other things happen.  The memory is eclipsed by new problems, other successes and defeats.  As an adult, it becomes the vaguest of memories.  You wonder if it even happened to you or to someone else.  It seems like anyone's childhood memory: the stain on the living room rug – ink, Kool-Aid, poster board paint, chocolate syrup.

     In your mind, all that remains is the stain.  A stain like an emblem of every secret you tried to keep, but couldn't.

[catra-writes]

Dancing Free

When Elina was a kid she loved to dance. She always wanted to be moving about and active like people she saw around her. Dancing was so fun. But she got tired quicker than most kids, she could remember demanding one of her parents pick her up after playing because she'd gotten ticketed out and felt sore. 

Growing up that only got worse. She started feeling worse and worse, her limbs aching, her exhaustion being constant, and worst of all the throbbing headaches that followed after the striking pain in her back. 

It started with too much movement on her body, then gradually became every time she woke up and when to be to persisting throughout the day.

Her energy became far too low to keep up dancing when she felt like it. She stopped feeling the joy that she used to express through dance, the bubbly sensation that dancing gave her causing her to genuinely smile.

It didn't seem like anyone noticed. How she feel into sorrow as her mobility lessened, how the pain made her want to rest and eventually even stopped eating. She hated it, she was alone and isolated and she couldn't feel anything other than numb or the debilitating pain in her body and she hated it.

Music was her escape. She found songs that she related to, song that reminded her of the feeling of free movement, songs that helped her feel at all. Music was almost all she had to pull her through the storm life had tossed her into.

Elina felt like life had punished her simply just for existing ever since she was a kid. The world around her blamed her for how her body was failing her. 

"You're so lazy, just get up and move" "it can't be that bad" "you're fine, it's all in your head" "guess that's your fault for not exercising." "You can do it stop making up excuses" "have you even tried?" "Have you tried just doing it"

Berating, nagging, useless suggestions, blaming...so many repeated and rephrased words nailing home the idea that it was her fault, that she was never going to amount to anything more, that she was a burden, not trying hard enough. 

She'd push herself far past her limits, her body screaming warning after warning until she would collapse and break down almost every night, sometimes even in the morning. 

It hurt. Her body, no one there to tell her it was okay, even her own parents having times of not believing her and telling her to keep pushing herself. It all hurt. She hated it so much, nothing felt worth it, not even relationships. Why would it be worth the effort if they were just going to tell her the same thing she'd always heard?

Maybe they were right. Could they be? She'd always tried so hard, and when she finally gave herself breaks she'd fall behind. Maybe she was the problem, or maybe she just was meant for this world.

Dancing was the farthest thing from her mind for a long time...until it wasn't.

With the right song, the right motivation, she'd push herself back onto her feet. Even if it was just for her, her alone in her room with a single song playing again and again, she took a step.

One step led to another, and very quickly she found her rhythm again, dancing in time with the song. Dancing away the stress and the worries and the voices. Each step more liberating than the last, she found the feeling she'd been missing.

She didn't care if her legs were going to give out on her after the song, she didn't care if people were going to scoff at her for being tired again, she didn't care. Not right now.

Right now, Elina was dancing. Dancing joyfully, dancing energetically, a dancing queen all in her own right, dancing free.