#That poor sheep cushioning everyone's fall

[guqin-and-flute]

oh we're doing bad puns? a sheep, a drum, and a snake fall off a cliff. Ba dum tsss

joihiOjOJSIWVN I HATE IT THANK YOU

[deathbyvalentine]

Creative Writing Submissions - Prose

The Gathering Dark

The bottom of Anya’s dress sucked up the muddy water like a sponge, adding another few pounds of weight to her already beleaguered hips. Autumn she liked even less than Winter. Winter was cold, and harsh, but the rain mostly stayed in the clouds and the mud froze solid rather than coating every pair of boots she owned. Anya foresaw an evening of spreading her clothes in front of the fire, trying desperately to dry them before tomorrow. With a sigh and an almighty heft, she pulled up the water from the well, just about avoiding the sloshing water hitting her feet. She paused, holding the bucket on the low stone wall. The forest surrounding the way to the well was starting to become bare, drifts of orange and brown leaves lapping at the woodland path like a tide. The wind sometimes stirred single ones into intricate dances before tossing them to the side carelessly. It blew some escaped strands of hair across her face, occasionally making her blink, hard. Her hands ached from the cold and work. With another groan of effort, she picked up the bucket. She began the long walk back to the village. And there he was, as he had been so many days before, in a long black coat untouched by splashes of mud or dirt. He stood in the direct middle of the path, his black boots shining, revealing silver heels. His hair was black and neat and his nails were short, his hands looking soft and clean. The wind caught the fabric of his coat and blew on it hard, making it snap with a suddenness that made her blink. He was gone when she opened her eyes again. The cold could make you see things, everyone knew that. But it was usually deep in the winter where people would see spirits, revenants, willow the wisps luring them into disorientation. None of the stories said anything about the devils you found in autumn. She hurried home, racing against the darkening sky. When she got home, she locked the door. The water she boiled over the fire, pouring into the big tin bath once steam was rising. She spread her clothes in front of the fire and sunk into the hot water, feeling the sensation return to her frozen fingers and toes. She saw the water clouding as the dirt of the day sluiced off her. She wondered if this had been her mother’s routine. Back breaking work followed by only a few hours of peace. She wanted more than this but she could not conceive of what more would be.

She had lived alone since her mother had been burnt at the stake several years hence. Her father had perished when she was a child, an ill-tempered cart horse stealing him from this life and taking him to the next. Her mother, without a son and without her own father, was forced to be both father and mother, working and nurturing. The only blessing was that Anya had been her only child and a quiet one at that.

It was easy enough to see both where the accusations started and where the evidence sprouted. Ilsa had always made draughts and poultices, had watched over the births of half the children in the village. This was help up in the trial as evidence of witchery, remedies renamed as potions, prayers as incantations. Anya, even at thirteen, knew the real cause. Her mother had started cleaning at the big house up the way, and the master had wandering hands. His wife had accusing eyes. It was the same tale that had been told up and down the country, hundreds of times. Even the ending was inevitable.

Anya had forced herself to watch, impassive, cold. She had to. There was nothing she could have done. Witchery was catching and she had to be seen to condemn her mother along with the rest of the village lest she herself be accused.. She didn’t want to die, especially not like this. She would never rid herself of the sound of screams or the smell of burning flesh. No matter how hard she scrubbed in the bath. * Anya woke up several times in the night, something jolting her from uneasy sleep. He stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, watching her. She watched him right back, the warm light of the dying fire casting shadows across his face. He was handsome, in a way that made her blood roil. His gaze was not abashed, nor ashamed. Neither was hers. She should have been frightened. She wasn’t. He was gone in the cold light of the morning. Frost had painted the ground outside, frozen the duck pond with no ducks. It could have been beautiful, if it had not been in her village. The houses were little more than ramshackle huts, the ground churned up from decades of walking. Animals roamed freely, with no concern for privacy or quiet. The one part she liked was the old tradition of hanging herbs from the porch. Now, leaning in the doorway, she touched the lavender and rosemary that hung on her own. Protection and remembrance.  There was work to be done. She stitched and mended in the morning, when the poor lighting wouldn’t strain her eyes. She milked in the early afternoon, before the cows got tired and settled down, loathe to be disturbed. She collected berries in the late afternoon, filling her apron until it was stained with purple juice. And in the evening, she went to the well again, pretending it was to collect water. This time, she was in the middle of the path when she saw him. He was leaning against the low wall of the well, legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. This time, he had on leather gloves, with fine silver buttons dancing up the side. She let the bucket drop from her hand, falling discarded by the wayside. Up close, she could feel the heat coming from his skin. Two small horns curled from his hair, wicked sharp. His eyes were not quite human, the pupils resembling a goats more than anything else. Intelligent, a hint of malice, a hint of humour. In his fingers, he twirled a quill. She wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms, to slip a hand beneath his shirt and feel his heat on her skin. She knew of men like him. The pastor warned them often enough. Of men that would steal your virtue and your coin, lead you from the righteous path and into the dark forest. Men who spoke pretty words and committed pretty sins and guided you straight into the arms of their master, Lucifer, prince of lies. The righteous path had given her nothing but bloody feet and blisters. He held out his hand to her, and she hesitated. One faith trying to buy her with threats of damnation and hellfire. The other, a pretty face. She would not be so easily swayed as that. With a rustle of her skirts, she turned and made her way back down the path, willing herself not to look back. The bucket lay abandoned.

*

She skinned the rabbit with one firm movement, revealing the red of the muscle and blood in a flash. The fur was left to dry by the fire, waiting to be made into something warming. Nothing was wasted here. The fur would be made into gloves. The bones into stock and good luck charms. The meat into food, the fat into boot polish, the innards into pig feed. Soon, her hands smelled earthy and raw. It was not quite an unpleasant smell. It was simply base, primal.

She sat on her porch while doing this chore - it was easier to clean, the smell didn’t linger. She could watch the comings and goings of her neighbours. Anya did have the village trait of nosiness and people watching was something of a hobby of hers. However, her curiosity was cold. She felt apart from all of them, as though a glass wall parted her from them. She could look, but never touch. For their part, they avoided her. From guilt or suspicion, it was impossible to tell.

She knew their histories like she knew fairytales. Sal, the blacksmith, whose wife had ran off with the butcher from the next village over. Jack, the farmhand who was said to speak to the sheep and cows he herded, and they listened. Lissa, the tall stern woman who had taken over from keeping an eye on the babes of the village once Anya’s mother had passed. She often wondered what story they all told themselves about her.

Looking at the grey sky above, she contemplated again why she had not left. She could have walked to another village, or even a town, sought new faces and opportunities. She told herself she didn’t because it was a hard and dangerous life for a young girl alone. People would jump to all sorts of wicked conclusions. The reality was harder to quantify. She felt rooted here, as surely as a tree feels rooted to its land. She was born here and she suspected if she did nothing, she would die here. An entire life confined to a few square miles.

The bells rang out through the village and dutifully she plunged her hands into the wash bucket, removing the blood from her skin. She dried her hands on her apron, and discarded it to the side. She was never going to look tidy for church but she could try to look clean. It was freezing inside the hall. The wind whistled persistently in the rafters. The pews were given cushions only for those who regularly donated and Anya was certainly not a part of that category. And so the hall was a flurry of fidgeting and squirming, both from the boredom of the droning pastor and the attempt to keep feeling in one’s feet. Anya couldn’t help her attention drifting. She had heard all his sermons a thousand times before, could recite them from heart. It was probably sinful to let her mind wander, but a part of her was just grateful to sit with nothing to do for an hour or so.

She tilted her head, trying hard to look like she wasn’t gazing out the window to her left. Luckily, what the clergy lacked in attention, the pastor made up for. He was rather enamoured with his own voice, and little could sway him from that. He was a man that seemed married to his own importance as much as his God.

The cloud were promising rain, and the songbirds were flitting about on the grass, sniping hopeful worms. Anya wondered if there would be storms later. Once she had been frightened of them, clung to her mother and shivered every time the thunder clapped.

“Oh Anya.” Her mother had cupped her face one evening, growing tired of her whimpering. “Who on earth taught you to be afraid of power?” She tucked a chicken bone into her daughter’s skirts, for protection and tucked her back into bed. Anya had listened for the first time, truly listened. The fear faded away, bit by bit. The wind and driving rain and lightning strikes started to seem thrilling. She noticed how the hair on her arms stood up on end with all the electricity in the air. She peeked between the curtains and noticed how strange and foreign everything looked in this late. It made the mundane exciting, the everyday mysterious. Anya’s mother said she had been born in a storm. Anya believed it.

Pulled back to the pews by someone coughing, a shiver went up her spine. A glance down at her arm showed goosebumps. She glanced out the window. She was not surprised to see him leaning against the oak tree, watching her, always watching her. She wondered if he had a name and if he knew hers. She wondered where exactly he came from. She had her suspicions of course, but so far not a word had passed between them.

He was still there when she left the church. Nobody else spared a glance his way.  He may as well have been a ghost. The clouds were still gathering above - there would be a storm tonight, she was certain of it. Slowly, she approached him. She noticed that at his feet sat her bucket. She couldn’t help but laugh at that, his mouth curving in a smile. She walked straight past him, towards the woods and knew without looking he would follow.

Brambles caught at her stockings. Twigs snapped underfoot. She was not afraid. She had grown up in and around these woods. There was the rushing river, the hungry wolves. They would not bother her. She did not know how she knew this, but she knew. They would no more hurt her than they would hurt their own cubs. She reached the clearing where once she had made daisy chains in spring sunlight. Crows fluttered in the trees, cocking their heads this way and that, observing her.

She turned once she arrived there, not expecting him to be as close behind as he was. His footsteps had been silent. He was a hair's breadth away. She couldn’t remember having been as close to any other man before. She hadn’t expected to, save on her inevitable marriage day. There was something dangerous about not touching, the moment before contact. It was irresistible, like the smell of honey. She noticed for the first time, that he was taller than her. She crossed her arms. She would not feel small. “So Anya. You’ve decided to finally talk.” His accent was hard to place, certainly not from around here. Maybe not from around anywhere. It slid over ‘s’s like silk, and had all the substance of smoke. “Yes.” She paused. “I think I know what you want.” “We haven’t exactly been subtle about it.” “Is this because of my mother?” “Partly. What she had, she gave to you. But your merits are all your own. And we have an offer for you.”

Anya thought these type of deals were supposed to be done at crossroads, under moonlight. Not in unflinching afternoon light under gathering clouds. “I have conditions.” “I’m sure you do.” She put her hands on her hips, tilting her chin up defiantly. “You won’t own me. Nobody owns me but myself. I won’t have you lot being another pastor, needing me and flattering me but then making me your servant.” He raised his eyebrows. “Anya, I do believe you’ve got quite the wrong idea. We would be your servants. Not the other way around.” With caution, he dropped to a knee, plucking her hand in his own, and bringing it to his lips. “My master has enough servants. What he wants is an equal.”

Anya knew she was supposed to have a crisis now. She was supposed to fall to her knees and pray, and later flagellate herself for ever having been tempted by the devil. She was supposed to extol the virtues of good hard work and piety. She couldn’t help but notice she was very much not doing that. She looked down at the man kneeling at her feet and liked it. The storm was gathering momentum not just above but in her chest. Silently, she nodded her consent, and he got to his feet.

“My lady.”

Lizzie

She said she liked her first name because she shared it with Lizzie Borden and she was cool. In hindsight, maybe that should have been my first clue. She had a love for villains, told me her first role model had been Maleficent and she always rooted for the witch in Hansel and Gretel.She flicked through, rapt, books about witches being burnt at the stake, women in bacchic rituals and lingered on pictures of martyred saints. I guess she was always a little different.

Lizzie (Elizabeth only to her mother, Liz to no-one, Beth only when she was sick) was the center of my little world. When we were in juniors, she was who gave me chewing gum and sat next to me on the bus, taught me how to plait hair and put lipgloss on. Now we were in seniors, it was her who had given me my first pull of an illicit cigarette, shoved me towards my first boy and even given me my first kiss, drunken, giggling. She had tasted like the vodka we had been drinking and something sweet. I had felt something hot and fatal flare in my chest, and then she was gone, flitting off to the next room to dazzle someone else.

It wasn’t always easy being her best friend. She was smart and teachers liked her. Boys adored her, and next to her I became invisible. Her mother watched me like a hawk and my mother seemed to be the only adult that didn’t fall under her spell, despite being the only adult I wanted to. She got herself into dark, black moods where nothing contented her, everything was dull or dreadful, and her tongue (usually a weapon reserved for other people) would turn on me. Worse than this, she often decided to combine her cleverness and boredom for an adoration for disregarding boundaries and rules. I always followed her. I told myself it was to clean up after her, but I think truly it was just to watch her, enviously. Even at her worst she was exceptional. She was brave, fearless and everything I was not. But for some reason, she allowed me to stay with her.

Which is why it hurt so much when she was arrested without me.

The morning had begun the same as every other morning in my painfully mundane house. My mother shook me awake, I put on my uniform, fingers tripping over the tying of the tie. I shoved a piece of toast in my mouth and headed to the bus stop as early as possible. Lizzie and I would usually spend the extra time making up what we called ‘game plans’. These were ways to maintain the status quo, keep our popularity up and our enemies down. Plans to charm particular teachers, flirt with particular boys and try particular things we knew were bad ideas. I often wondered how we looked, two blonde heads bowed together in a frenzy of whispers. This morning though, there was only an empty space. I waited, of course. But soon the bus came and being unable to rebel without encouragement, I got on it.

She wasn’t in our first class either. That was when I became worried. Even when she was hungover, sick, ill-tempered, her attendance record was perfect. Every year at the end of term assembly, she would receive a shiny certificate. I found a stack of them shoved under her bed carelessly. Her mother made her keep them, she informed me, reading a magazine. I suspected if she had it her way they would be in the trash, probably with the gymnastics trophies that littered her walls. Under the desk, I typed out a text to her, mostly comprised of question marks. The teacher’s eyes hesitated over the empty spot when he called her name before moving on. A few kids had went missing recently. Not unusual for our town. It wasn’t a place you ran to, you ran away from it. Everyone’s parents seemed to have some story about a friend that had been spirited away. This time had been a little different. A body had been found. Several, in fact.

The first had been found in winter. His name was Johnny Weathers, and I had once shared a cigarette with him. His throat had been stuffed with snow, and he had half-suffocated half-drowned. His lips had been as blue as his eyes, and they had been staring up at the winter sky. There were no bruises on him, but there were nail marks, tiny half-moons painted in scarlet.

Will had died in summer and I knew him too. Better than Johnny. Perhaps better than anyone apart from Lizzie. He had been the first boy I kissed, his lips as soft as Lizzie’s but different tasting. His hands were big and had rested around my waist, making me feel small and delicate. Nothing more had happened between us, both of us too shy and too young. But every time he saw me, he smiled and asked how I was and that’s not nothing. He had ‘just’ drowned, though how he did so in a foot of water was beyond me. I had sat in my living room, knees tucked together and explained to the police officers how I knew nothing.

Now with Lizzie’s chair empty, my active imagination had a chance to run wild. I pictured her with a garott around her neck, cutting into the flesh I had once kissed. Her beautiful flaxen hair matted with life-blood. A knife wound, right in her heart, finally proving for once and for all that she had one. In my notebook I sketched gravestones and tried on different epitaphs for size. If she died, there would be no competing with her. Dead girls were perfect, if they were blonde, if they were pretty. I would be asked to speak at her funeral, her tragic best friend doomed to forever carry the burden of grief. Nobody would ever match up to her, I would say, mournfully, not letting on I meant least of all myself.

Break time was an odd, lonely affair without her. None of my other friends knew how to treat me alone and I scarcely knew either. We were that old adage ‘joined at the hip’ and my body did not know how to act without her body beside it. I laughed and I tossed my hair and I sniped but my heart wasn’t in it.

At about one o’clock, along came the whisper. In our canteen you could see it spread like a fire, starting in one corner and spreading out. Did y’hear, have you heard, did you know - like a chorus of excited birds. Me and Lizzie had started those fires more often than not. She seemed to know everything about everyone. There was no such thing as secrets with her. She had known before I did that I fancied Will, her mouth disdainful and her eyes sparkling as she looked between us. She hadn’t been pleased. Not at all. I had felt as if I had done something wrong, like I was dirty, smoothing down my skirt and not looking at Will.

Unusually, the fire seemed to be avoiding our table. It was just before the end of lunch time when I caught a snatch, a “she’s been arrested, silly bitch probably got caught shoplifting -” and I felt a cold drop in the bottom of my stomach. This feeling most decidedly did not improve when in my English class, a police officer arrived at the door and asked if he could have a little chat with me. Every eye was on me while I scooped up my bag and made my way to the door.

We were allowed to use the staff room which was a novelty. It felt wrong being in there, like swearing in a church or smiling in a funeral home. I perched on the very edge of a heavily cushioned seat, straightening and un-straightening the pleats in my grey skirt. My face was blank, doll like but behind it I was trying to remember the last time me and Lizzie had stolen together. It must have been a while back. Shoplifting was baby stuff really, a thing first years did to prove they were cool. In my room, in my bedside drawer was the remains of our crime spree: a few lip balms, a hand mirror, a cheap gold plated BFF necklace. Lizzie had the other half and neither of us ever wore them.

“Do you know what this is about?” Detective Mayor had open a small notebook. I tried to remember what I’d been taught about dealing with adults when you were in trouble. You kept cool, you kept calm. You didn’t cry unless you wanted to, you kept a straight face and you played dumb. “I think so officer.” “Can you tell me?” “My friend Lizzie has been arrested.” “How do you know that?” I blinked at him. “Everyone in the canteen knew sir.” “Ruddy schools… Do you know what for?” A most dangerous question. I shook my head, sending my plait whipping from shoulder to shoulder. “Hm. That’s something at least. How would you describe your friend Lizzie?” From dangerous to too big. It was like trying to describe the sun to a blind man. So instead of doing her a disservice by trying and failing, I refused to try. “She’s nice. Fun. She’s clever too, gets all As in everything.” That seemed to pique his interest. He wrote something down. I couldn’t read what it was from this angle. “And what about Leon Jones?” I frowned. “Leon Jones? He was in the year above me I think. He’s Clara’s big brother isn’t he? Ran away just before the start of the school year. Clara reckoned it was because his dad didn’t like his girlfriend or something.” He made a thoughtful noise and scribbled something else. “Right. That’s it for now. You’re gonna go straight home, and we might talk to you again later, alright?” I nodded, thrown by how short the conversation had been. “Has Lizzie ran off with him or something?” “Huh?” He looked up from his notes, brow furrowed. “Oh. No. Nothing like that.” I followed his instructions and went straight home. Mostly because I couldn’t stand the idea of being in a room full of people whispering about my best friend and having no more information than they did. That was just wrong. Nobody should know more about her than me. My mother was pale when I walked through the door and I knew that the school secretary had probably called her. I let my bag fall to the hall carpet with a dull thud and went to get a drink. She followed me, wringing a towel in her hands. That’s when I realised that this was a bit more serious than I realised. “What?” “Sit down.” She said. I did.

*

Lizzie was found guilty of two counts of murder and one count of manslaughter on the fifth of November. Apparently they had wanted to pin more on her, but they couldn’t scrape together the evidence. It was going to be hard enough to convince the jury to convict a five foot two girl of murdering boys twice her size. In her mugshot, she looked more like she had stepped off a catwalk. Lips slightly parted, cheeks high and red, eyes glittering. Not that any of the papers used that picture. Most of them used her school one, where her hair was neatly in pigtails and her smile was much more demure.

They found it easy enough to prove she had done it. In one of her drawers was a glove from Johnny, still muddy from him grasping at the ground while he struggled to breathe. Her little nails matched his scars perfectly. Leon was the manslaughter - he had fallen and it was impossible to tell if she had done it on purpose or not. Will was the other murder. She had knelt on his back with her hands pushing his head into the water and refusing to relent. What the lawyer had found harder to answer was the why.

I had no idea either, as I informed a faceless parade of officials hundreds of times. I didn’t mention how I didn’t understand a more important why - why she hadn’t asked me to help? My friend had a well of darkness I didn’t know about and she didn’t invite me into. I flattered myself sometimes by pretending Lizzie had wanted to hold my attention, wipe out any boy that threatened to get between us. That may have been the case with Will. But that then raised the question how could she be so blind to not see how my life rotated around her?

Would I have killed with her? My mother certainly liked to believe in the negative. I’m not so sure. I would have killed for her, without question. Part of me will forever wonder how it would feel to force the life out of something, to be the God of a singular creature. I could imagine how she looked doing it, flushed with passion, a smile playing on her lips, not hesitating for a second. I loved her now more than ever, even through her betrayal, even though her secrets.

I became a minor celebrity in our school. The girl friends with the murderer. I enjoyed it. I felt whole, her shadow become my own. I started pulling the wings off flies, and learning about saints and walking home past the river. I felt more like myself than I ever had before. When I visited her in prison, her counselor hoped I would be a good influence. Our hands pressed against the glass, we both knew that was not the way this was going to work.

[sea-salt-child]

That Which Is Seen

(I'm sick so I'll be uploading a bit of the fanfiction on tumblr. The main deal is on AO3)

Chapter One: 1022 Doors

It was around 3 PM on a dreary, hot summer day. The kid pulled his mom along, excited to see the new cards at the store. She was tired, yes, but glad to see him happy about something, given his mood had been very poor these last few days.

The noise that broke through the air was unpleasant. At once, all the speakers blared out the tinny sound of microphone interference for what seemed like forever.

The boy suddenly covered his ears and squatted down onto the floor.

Slowly, a voice resolved itself through the ringing. A man, frantic, barely intelligible, trying to get it across to everyone. Trying to make it known. Speaking the words that would be burned into this corner of the city for years to come.

“The God of Random Numbers-! It’s a God! I saw it, I saw it outside, from the tower- it spilled and- and it was-” Words growing nonsensical. “Ripoffish”, “Understandable as a snapshot”, “Returnlike feedback”. Silence in the building, people paralyzed, drinking from the fountain of knowledge. “Alunacy, rinterion casts, spreading forever inside but now everted again, castipools and maid made nonsiege, holding me before any of you and- and- and-”

The audio was cut off all of a sudden. There was nothing at first, one could have heard a pin drop. The child remained on the floor, the mother stuck in place, unable to reach for him.

Someone, somewhere, moved.

Everything exploded into chaos.

-- Teeth --

It’s quiet in the little room, the place where you rest every night. Reds and blacks, toys scattered around, blankets and treats atop colorful counters.

The little sheep that looks more like a cushion is atop the tea table, besides a knocked down cup. It’d be soaked if it weren’t for the magic of dreams keeping its fleece warm and fluffy. On the floor, next to all the crayons and papers, having spent a while drawing and drawing and drawing, the black cat cries in its sleep.     The fox, who is always up late, is nowhere to be seen.

You rest your head on the sheep, sighing heavily into him. So nice. He’s smelling like tea now, heavy and floral.

From the dark, the Ringmaster calls your attention, just a pair of yellow eyes floating, undefined. 

“It will be morning soon. You’ll wake up with the birds.”

You whine and turn away, refusing to hear any of it. 

“I’ll just stay here until late. I don’t wanna go wake mom up again.”

Don’t wanna repeat all these tedious morning rituals, all these reminders that something broke that cannot be fixed. 

“You’ll want to be awake for today. Lots of things happened.”

“And how would you know? You are just a dumb dream thingy.”

“...What about this, then. If you don’t wake up, then, when the fox shows up, you won’t have your proxy up.”

That’s what he calls them. The little animal things. The loneliness mementos. They showed up one day and never really left, along with this room and its master. All of it comforted you, yeah… but also came to remind you of how empty you are inside yourself. Like inhabiting a room far too large, becoming unable to fill everything in at once.

Whenever you wake up, he promises to leave your proxy up as well, so you may belong in some sense. A stand in that fits in place… and you don’t want to not have it up for something like a reunion.

“Mean.”

“Uppy up. Come on.”

Uppy up.

…

You open your eyes.

The room is still dark, with the windows closed as they are, but sunshine still manages to break in through the sides and top, refusing to be stopped by even the best efforts of the curtains.

Standing up, you hear the dogs outside. They don’t come into your room. They don’t know you at all- and neither does she. You yawn, stretching, stretching the dream away. The details peel off and fall to the ground with a pitter patter, lost like dandelion fluff on a windy day.

Long ago, you liked to stay up late. Not anymore, not really. It’s always harder to do this when she’s already awake and going about her day. When the unsettling feeling of being in a haunted place has already flooded in and you have to reveal yourself as its ghost.

Nothing acknowledges you as you open the door and leave your room.

Hers is nearby. The door doesn’t even creak when you push it open. You approach, but don’t try to wake her yet. Instead, you pick up the laminated card you have prepared for this.

YUYA’S FAQ FOR MOM!!

Q: Who are you?!

A: I’m Sakaki Yuya! Your son! 

Q: I have a son? A: Yes you do. But you forget me every time you don’t think of me for a while. 

Q: How?

A: God did it to me! 

Let’s get food. You always leave a ton of reminders around the house because of this, so you can check them to know what we had planned for today :D

…

That’s just how it is. 

It’s not just mom, not at all- everything and everyone forgets all about you so very quickly. You vanish from the mind, from any records, from everything. 

You try to take it in stride. You really do!

It’s not easy.

Shaking mom awake always takes a bit of effort. As always, she is surprised, but someone this given to just adopting anything in adoption range, she doesn’t freak out or anything, even if she seems worried.

You hand her the card and worry turns to confusion, then to something odd and almost pained before settling on a smile.

“Well… let’s do as this says, hm? A big breakfast is bound to break the tension here.”

She’s nice.

Mom’s always nice.

But she can’t recall you at all. She’s just meeting a stranger every day, trying her best to be a mom, but being unable to connect with all your history. But you do recall her, in her entirety, with each passing day, from the beginning.

She forgot about you, who were right there on that day and ran, swept by the crowd.

It isn’t long before you go downstairs to watch some TV while you wait for the food to be ready. The signal is really touch and go in the Isolated Zone and most channels are just straight up blocked. Usually you can at least count on some reruns of shows and recent-ish duels from the outside world, but it seems today is not your lucky day.

You groan and eventually settle on the only channel that is ever available all day long- the dumb LDS news channel. 

In the days after the tragedy, it was used to broadcast all kinds of news and help reorganize the newly created Isolated Zone into some semblance of order. Nowadays it mostly just shows ads and occasional updates that amount to “Nothing new under the sun! Sorry folks, you’ll just have to rot in this place for some more years!”

“Here, it’s all ready. Pancakes. We may need to go to the market tomorrow, though… Here’s hoping that those guys stop being stingy about flour of all things! They got us stuck, they will have to deal with me baking my way through this!”

You snicker as you sit down to eat. Indeed, pancakes. And, in true “every day of my life I watch Michio’s show reruns” fashion, scrambled eggs fancied up with all kinds of side ingredients. And orange juice.

“I can go fetch extra if they refuse to give you enough. Their computer is stuck registering me as new every time.”

You fork some of the pancakes. So fluffy. So sweet. Yoko bonks you over the head.

“I refuse to believe I raised you to be that tricky, young man!”

A little wind blows your hair. It’s from her fan. The little hand fan she had that day, now stuck forever buzzing, embedded to her arm.

“You are gonna get my hair tangled on that thing!”

She rolls her eyes- but does move away to take her own seat. More forkfuls of the pancakes as she eats her own breakfast. 

“So. What are you plans for today, dear?”

She really can’t ask for anything more specific. You shrug.

“I’ll go see if anyone feels like dueling over at LDS, I guess. Just spend some time outside. Uh, tonight we were meant to replace the post its and reminders together, also. They are fading again.”

“Oh.” She, does sound genuinely sad, hearing that. 

It’s a nice thing, how much she cares about commiting you to memory somehow. Sure, it has made the house a mess of corkboards, reminders, photos, pinned messages, recordings- but it is a physical reminder that you aren’t being given up on. 

Her voice picks up again.

“Well, then, I’ll make sure to look for some fun supplies to make them more lively together! Ah, I wish we were at the old house… your dad had enough supplies of glitter and colored papers to last an eternity.”

“What’s the point of entertainment if you don’t get to overuse glitter?” You joke, downing the last of the pancakes with juice, made very sour by the sugar in your mouth, before moving onto the eggs.

“Maybe the point is to not make this house an uninhabitable sparkly hellscape, how about that?”

…

“I wonder what happened to the old house.”

“I bet Syuzo-san is taking care of it. Same about the school.”

“You’ve talked about him before.”

“Mmhm, it’d be weird not to. He was a good friend of ours. He had a small daughter, around your age I think?”

“I’m fourteen, mom.”

“Then you should be the same age. She was a very sweet girl.”

“...I think we were friends.”

“Aah, so nostalgic! It makes me want to climb up that tower and kick those stuffy executives into action! I’d give anything to get back out.”

“Don’t get into too much trouble!”

“Shouldn’t I be the one telling you things like that?”

You finish up the food and stand.

“Maybe! But you don’t even know if I’m a troublemaker for you or not, so!”

“Well, those aren’t exactly comforting words” She replies, light hearted. “Wash your teeth before you go.”

---

The sky is grey. Grey and streaked with odd colors. This is how it has looked since that day, though the exact hues of it change often. 

The world always seems fuzzy under these shimmering lights. You suppose it fits for somewhere as weird as the Isolated Zone. It, at least, is no weirder than the metallic chambers containing small floating voids in this place or whatever is going on with the graveyard.

There are currently 43 people alive in this place, out of thousands that were first caught in the initial outbreak. Out of them, 12 are employees over at LDS- the tower from which it all spewed forth. Further 15 were students at their dueling school. The remaining 16 are civilians. Civilians like you and mom.

Needless to say, having so few people around kind of makes this place a ghost town. You  used to like exploring, given all this freedom- but. Over time, it sort of became too depressing to handle.

Reminders of those that are no longer, everywhere. Houses collecting dust, frozen in the moment, capturing the last seconds of people you never got to know. And the mall, the epicenter of the tragedy, where even now corpses still turn up and have to be hauled away.

It’s a fossilized world.

A tragedy, still in motion to this day, finishing off at a glacial pace while everyone pretends like somehow this will get solved. 

You wish your dad hadn’t disappeared when he did.

Yes. Disappeared. Without a body, without any proof he may have died, you refuse to even think of that possibility. No way he would just abandon you forever. 

Ah… haha! You lower your goggles onto your eyes and spin in place, putting on a big smile. God, that was a depressing train of thought! No need to think so hard about that kind of thing just because you are going to the stupid tower!

The duelist kids that live there aren’t always up for a duel, and they are very tough- especially since you haven’t been able to update your deck in forever.

(No one has been able to. The biggest card store was in the mall. Someone exploded there, they think. They became everywhere and can’t be washed off the walls)

Still! Those are the people that you can play with and play with them you will! It’s all about having fun in the end, right? Putting on a show and trying to get a smile out of them. You, mostly end up making a fool of yourself, really, but since no one can actually remember you, it’s no big problem. 

Can’t ruin your reputation if no one knows you, ever!

Though, something is… wrong, today.

Very wrong.

You almost run into one at first, since they are almost invisible save for that… vibration. That contained shudder in the shape of a door. Once you acknowledge one, however, your brain fills in the blank. 

Today, around LDS tower, there are 1022 doors.

And from inside the one right in front of you, a scream.

That voice… that’s, it’s someone you know, right? One of the girls you’ve dueled with sometimes- her name is Nene. Her name is Nene, she has always been a quiet, timid girl, and now she is screaming her heart out.

You rush inside. 

Darkness.

An immediate tightening in your chest. These doors, you suddenly know, are connected to each other and themselves. This is a fractal pattern that repeats in tinier and tinier paths that wind down to the smallest pieces of you. By the wonder of these connecting ‘lines’ and ‘loops’ and their manifestation as things: ‘vibration’ and ‘doors’,  things exist, including you in this space, with your feet upon a whiteblue path made of disjointed ceramic pieces.

It isn’t just you and Nene here.

It shakes, it flutters, it is close by. You know it, because everyone does. Everyone knows, everyone is resonating with it ever since. The God that crawled from the tower and made itself known. The God that spreads a changing tune.

Your mouth waters.

Her yells suddenly turn into retching and you are snapped back to reality. To, to this reality adjacency. What is this? Where is this? It is a parallel imitation of the world and it runs into you as a problem down to the smallest parts. There is no scale at which there is a concrete yes or no.

The path winds and divides and you take all intersections at the same time as the world becomes unable to recall all your past trajectories. Everything in here is a rough translation of the woes outside.

Your brain feels scrambled and you know you can’t stay for long or it might stay that way.

Two, three, five, one, seven, half and a quarter and skipping stones.

It breathes down your neck.

It is an absence and it is everything at the same time. It is really a snapshot, spread everywhere but also along everytime. 

Ah- she’s there. Just around the corner. On her knees, staring, unable to move, making strange noises, shaking, shaking, shaking.

The air is full of static as you approach. It cuts into your skin and you shield your face with your arms. Repulsion, incompatibility. Objects rain from above.

Crayons, blankets, chairs and toys. You are suddenly terrified that the God of Random Numbers will rip the proxies off your head and leave you alone in an emptiness larger than life.

Eyes closed, you kneel besides her.

“Nene-”

“How did it get out? How did it get out?!”

“Nene, get up, let’s go. Let’s go.”

“Everything was inside.”

“We can’t stay. Come on.”

She is reluctant to stand up, but does so, unsteady, and you support her.

“Ah- ah! Ah! It’s going in, in a box. It’s going in a box-! Who is there?!”

She struggles. Unable to open your eyes for your own good, you drag her away. Static clings to her and leaves shallow cuts. It has forgotten you.

“They can’t- it’s getting taken-”

The world is unwinding. Something critical really did get taken. How does a God fit in a box? How does change fit anywhere except for in the space between skin and flesh?

When you open your eyes, the darkness is full of the same red velvet as the room in your dreams. Is the Ringmaster here? Everything is raining down and the only reason why you even notice you went through the door again is because there’s suddenly light.

Light, fluorescent and burning.

Somehow, you wound up in the main lobby, coming in through the doors to the building. 

The woman at the front desk- and you don’t remember her name right now- almost jumps in surprise and right away, hits a button, calling for some help.

She approaches and you do your best to stay upright, supporting the girl that is bleeding all over. Thankfully, the woman takes the burden away from you.

But the shaky voice hangs in the air.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Someone, I saw someone coming out of Yusho-san’s old room and, and I went to follow them because they were going towards the card room no one is allowed to enter. And, and they went through one door and suddenly all was so dark-”

…Dad’s room?

Why…?

Your head hurts.

A pair of people come in, there are hushed words you barely understand. One of them asks who you are and you can only shake your head. Did the Ringmaster fall out? Did the proxies hit the ground and disperse in that dark room? You want to fall asleep and see. 

“Look at me- kid-”

Someone moves your goggles up. 

Why are you tearing up?

Someone, at the magical epilogue of everything, neglected to tell you something important, right?

“Someone came out of dad’s room?”

“What-”

They wouldn’t know a thing. No one really knows a thing. 

“Did Yusho have a kid?”

“I don’t know.”

You step back. 

“Kid, if you know anything about this, it is critical that you tell us about it.”

Someone else is coming down. Four- this is one third of the total workforce here.

“The card is gone.”

The lady from the front desk is already leaving with Nene to the infirmary.

“What card.”

Someone steps towards you. Tension. Hostility.

“Listen. It will be best to comply, here-”

Your head droops to a side. Words fall like water, so as to wash it all away.

“Do I know you?”

There is a moment of confusion as the context of your presence here becomes blurry, distant, then gone. As once again, everyone in this world forgets you. Information that hates itself, that kills itself, that dips into the dark to never return, that is quieter than dreams, more fragile than anything else.

You turn- then run out and away.

-- Lungs --

At first, you fought against it, tooth and nail. Tried to fight against anyone who came into your room to give you food, tried to sneak out, even tried a daring escape through the window, nevermind the height. 

They always caught you and put you back inside without problems.

This weirdly warm and nice room. Stone walls, a fluffy bed. Better food than you could ever afford in Synchro. But also, the unforgivable stripping of your freedom and the weight of being so far away from your one friend.

Eventually, you had to switch up your strategies. If brute force wouldn’t work, you might need to gather information- a difficult task for someone stuck in a tiny room like this.

So, whenever someone would come in, you would ask them to stop and chat. Say you were lonely. That you wanted to at least know a bit about your current whereabouts. 

You noticed that the kids coming in often said they had no time to indulge you, staring with big empty eyes, dulled into something dangerous and strange. Not a human expression. Something unnerving, that would be more at home in the face of one of many chained mutts stuck to tiny yards as guard dogs back home than in a person.

You memorized schedules and the people who would arrive. Took note of their strangeness. How often someone might come in injured and simply not acknowledge anything around them besides their duty.

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but, can you stick around a little longer? It’s been really lonely in here and, this is all still so confusing. I want to know more-”

That day’s person stared at you.

A sharp smile.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve been asking for that. I actually asked if I could actually chitchat with you and I was given the clear~ Not right now though. There’s lots of classes coming up. I’ll be in charge of bringing you dinner some nights and we can talk then.”

Yes. That was… a couple months ago, now? 

If you had been hoping to gather information that would be useful in your escape, your conversations with him dashed that hope altogether. He was glad to let you know about Academia and how it worked, but never let slip anything useful, really.

You did come to understand it all better, though. The kind of despairing nest where you got stuck. What those stares meant. The kind of horror you were now roommates with.

He spoke of everything calmly.

You chided him much when war was first brought up- but he didn’t care for your impassionate words. It was like speaking different languages, really. 

But still. He was sassy and could be weird, but seemed… just as lonely as you. Playful at times, then gloomy other days, but always trying to be a pleasant enough presence bringing you the tricklings of news you could get in here.

Though he would have disagreed, you really started to think of him as a fellow prisoner more than anything. 

No point in hating someone like this. No point in hating the people bringing you food. If anything, your fury should be well aimed at the people you never got to meet in this place. The Professor he spoke of with reverence. The staff running this shitshow. 

“Do you like the meals you get here, Rin-chan?”

“Yeah. I guess. You guys get some nice stuff.”

“The fish sure are fresh~”

“If they weren’t I would have to question what kinda nincompoop is the chef!”

He kicks his feet. 

“It’s a lot of work, feeding an army. But you do get special treatment on that front.”

“Getting real tired of being treated as special, honestly.”

Though, in this place? Maybe she isn’t. 

Sometimes she smells blood.

Two of the kids that used to be in the rotation to care for her have died.

“You should be friendly with whoever comes to replace me as your conversation partner~”

She blinks.

“What? Are they going to card you or-”

He laughs, then shakes his head.

“No, silly! Don’t jump to conclusions!”

“Well, excuse me if I was worried for a second there, what with this place being a glorified kid meat grinder and all!”

“No need to be so disrespectful~ But, I’m going to go on an extended mission.”

“I thought there was a minimum age to join the Obelisk Force?”

That’s something she learned from him. The organization of some ranks. How he was basically set up to join the elites when time came. 

How his time in the spotlight would last three years at most before, as he’d put it, having to be put away with all the other old toys for discarding.

“Yeah, yeah, but I requested a special job. Can’t be giving you the details of it~ But I still wanted to let you know, just in case they assign someone much more boring and much less cute than me.”

“You are so full of yourself that sometimes I wonder how you haven’t just burst yet.”

He pouts.

“Maybe I should have just left without a word, then!”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t actually. But that’s just because I’ve been meaning to ask you something and, it’d be pretty complicated to do that with you gone on vacation.”

“Vacation, pft. Whatever, you can ask away. Try not to ask anything stupid.”

You bring your legs up on the bed, hugging onto them. He is next to you, relaxed, as had been the norm for a little while now.

“What are you hiding from?”

“Excuse me?” 

But his voice has gained an edge.

“I always found it weird that a self proclaimed elite student like you would take on a role like this. Everyone else who comes by has the red uniforms- slifer, right? So. Why would you come here for? Why would you actually ask to get to spend time here? You never even pushed me for information on Synchro beyond what I was comfortable giving you, so you didn’t really gain any- strategy stuff for Academia-” The words are kind of jumbled. Much less cutting and to the point than they were in your head before tonight. 

“So. Are you hiding from something here?”

He pauses.

The silence is impossibly heavy.

“Rin-chan.” Serious. Plain. Detached and distant. “Have you ever asked my name?”

…

“No.”

“But you are asking something pretty big now. About me. When you look my way, that’s a duel soldier you are looking at, before anything else. Something that isn’t a person in the same way you might be.”

What’s this?

“I’ve been playing nice with you. Didn’t try to get anything out of you, even though you’ve been trying your hardest to get something out of me. If I told you what you want to know, though, I’d be playing an emotional manipulation card the size of the moon. I’d rather be more subtle than that, really.”

It’s that expression on anyone else. The one like a chained dog.

The one like someone far away from themselves.

“I’m just the person here to talk to you. Enrichment in your enclosure. Same as the bookshelves and blankets. Up until now, you were glad to see it that way, weren’t you?”

Because you are trapped here.

And you need to get out.

“Don’t make that kind of upset expression, Rin-chan. I’m not mad at you or anything. I did just give you all the answer you could hope for, didn’t I? But tell me. Would knowing the things I haven’t told you about yet make you think any differently?”

“...I, don’t think so. But, even then! There’s so much stuff in here that is, just fucked up, just wrong-  I worry-!”

“You pity me. And you want me to help you get out. This isn’t personal at all.”

He says it matter of factly.

It’s true. It really is.

You want to go home. You want to speak to Yugo again. To have fun together and dream dreams larger than life. You want to bicker over trivial things, you want to be able to complain about his latest carefree nonsense. You want to be held back from starting up a fight by him. You want to enthuse about finding a house with warm water, still. You want to visit the institution where you grew up to teach kids to duel again. You want to run, you want to scream at the top of your lungs. You want to go home. You want to go home.

You want to look up at the crisscrossed skies. 

This place is hateful and so, you hate. 

Hate the bed. The food. The warmth. The conversations. 

You hate it all.

But you asked that question anyway.

You look at the floor, wishing you could burn a hole right through it the way tears are burning in your eyes.

“...Just let me go.”

He stands up, crossing his arms behind his head.

“I can’t. I won’t. Unfortunately, the next person is also not going to let you go, either. In that way, we become interchangeable.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Well, if you wanna believe it’s gonna be any different with the next one, you are free to get disappointed~ But, for what it’s worth, it’s been nice talking to you, Rin-chan.”

That’s not what you meant. That’s not it.

And so, he heads for the door. 

“Wait-”

“Don’t worry. It’s like I said. I’m not mad. It’s natural that a prisoner wants to escape.”

The door closes.

You feel so stupid. And so weirdly cruel, despite being the one stuck in a room. That person is still nameless. The world is still outside. Everyone is still bleeding, here and everywhere. The window still opens onto the infinite darkness of the ocean.

When was it that you started hoping you could be friends?

-- Hands --

You would never act like this in real life. Not at all. It’d be beyond embarrassing to be taking a dream this seriously about something so dire. It’d be cruel.

Just cruel.

But here? In this grey velvet room, sitting among proxies and toys and impossible things and reminders of what life was like before the war? 

It’s different.

You can be that much more irrational, that much more hopeful.

It’s been months now since Ruri’s disappearance. There’s no clues about what happened- she was last seen among the people who went to adjust the cover in that building. The one place where Academia dares not stick its nose. 

The house of something that shouldn’t have been uncovered.

Everyone else who went that day was found in pieces.

“You’ll be able to look for her soon, you know”, speaks the Ringmaster.

That has been his promise all this time, unwavering in its certainty, as though it could see into the future somehow with those golden eyes of its. A part of your brain aware of more than the conscious self, a part of this sad room that is much too large for you.

“Soon, soon, but never soon enough. I’m getting tired of this. Why can’t you just tell me where the hell Ruri is?”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

“Wouldn’t be-”

You grit your teeth and, without thinking, end up picking up the heftiest thing nearby and chucking it into the darkness around the Ringmaster. The toy train hits the ground, passing straight through the apparition.

“It’s fine for you to make a mess here. Don’t worry. You don’t have a choice but being patient.”

“We’ve looked for her everywhere.”

“Everywhere you know of.”

“I just need to know she’s okay. That she somehow survived.”

Bits of people strewn like tinsel around a christmas tree. There had been some kind of explosion, light, laughter. The cover was blown back. Little animals sat in dark corners, unnameable. Torsion, something that just broke like a dam, a nauseating smell.

“You know she did. What use is my reassurance then? You won’t even give it to your friend, won’t even share it.”

That would be too much. Shun, I heard it in my dreams that she’s okay. That  we just need to be patient. 

It would hurt him like a knife and you’d likely get kicked for your trouble. No, no, you can’t share this, it has to stay in the room. 

“You wouldn’t understand it.”

“What will you do now?”

“Nothing. Enjoy my stay. Wait for some of the other proxies to disappear before I go.”

“Do they make you feel lonely?”

This question again.

“Sometimes.It mostly makes me wish I understood this dream. What it means, if it means anything at all”

“This place is walking after midnight.”

“That’s a reason to like it.”

Golden eyes glimmer.

“I’m glad you said that. Now, let me just, do one small thing- it is important, so that you’ll be able to understand things better.”

Huh?

The curtains close on the onlooker.

And-

A voice. An intruder’s voice, flooding in, flooding in, flooding in.

“Who?”

[musicallisto]

† Lethal Rain (Finnick Odair x Reader)

Another part from that Crappy Ass™ fanfic I wrote in sixth grade that I already used for The White Dove (Gale x reader). This one fit Finnick a little better I think, and diversity is great, so there ya go!

word count: 1200+ words

summary: In which Y/N is soon going to face an inexorable death, but still manages to find a new boy to crush on along the way.

warnings: Female reader, mentions of death, fluff

Torrential rain had been hitting the windows for several hours. The train racing at full speed, headed for the Capitol. Y/N had been counting sheep for more than an hour, but she couldn’t fall asleep. She could hear Peeta snoring like a freight train next to her, and it infuriated her even more. It was simple: she couldn’t sleep. There were too many emotions jostling inside of her mind: too much excitement, too much grief, too much fear. But Y/N believed in Peeta and knew she could count on him; she tried her best not to think about the fact that she would have to kill him one way or another.

Y/N, tired of overanalyzing the situation and trying in vain to fall asleep, removed her blanket from her, put on a sweater over her T-shirt and her pajama bottoms, put on her woolen slippers and got out of her cabin.

All the tributes were traveling on the train, but each District was given a particular wagon: Peeta and she had been assigned the twelfth - and last. The Y/H/C-haired girl hadn’t crossed paths with anyone on the train, besides the driver that she had shyly saluted when she had gotten on the vehicle. She still hadn’t met the other Tributes, and couldn’t decide whether she was enthusiastic or not.

Y/N sleepwalked through the corridor. Trying not to misstep because of the tremors of the train, Y/N reached the biggest room of her wagon, some sort of living room with a bar, couches and a television. And a blond-haired boy sitting on one of the sofas.

Y/N stopped in her tracks when she saw the room was already occupied. The teenager was drinking a coffee, staring absentmindedly into space. Y/N had never seen him, but reckoned it must have been one of the other Tributes from another District who had gotten lost on the train... or just wanted to take a moonlit walk.

He had manifestly noticed her presence, and yet he didn’t say anything. Didn’t make any move. He continued to stare blankly at a fixed point, his steaming coffee just under his nose. Y/N, whose curiosity had been piqued, sat on the couch that was just next to the boy’s. She knew she had to keep her distance when she first met an enemy. Acknowledging the fact that one of them would have to brutally murder the other in a few weeks only was making her sick. On the other hand, a peculiar thought crossed her mind: she felt like she would be particularly unable to kill him. She didn’t know him, but she had an odd impression of him.

“You want one?” he asked, breaking the heavy silence that lingered between the two of them.

His voice was soft and enchanting. Y/N, tempted, consented. The young man got up and went to turn on the coffee percolator; she had never tried drinking coffee, mostly because her family was too poor to afford the beverage.

“I’m Finnick,” he stated, standing with his back to Y/N.

She hesitated: should she introduce herself back? Fortunately, Finnick returned to her with a piping cup of coffee in his hands and handed it to her. She timidly accepted it and dipped her lips into the hot drink. She wasn’t expecting such a bitter taste, nor the wave of vigor that washed over her almost instantly. All will to go to sleep had completely disappeared.

“I’m Y/N,” she delicately informed. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t want him to feel like he was enduring an interrogation, but she was intrigued, to say the least. Finnick and his female counterpart had an entire wagon for themselves! What was he doing in hers?

The blond turned his face and stared longly at the wistful rain tapping against the glass without answering. Although Y/N had expected it, she couldn’t help biting back her disappointment. What had she imagined? They were rivals; enemies, even.

“Why do we do that?” Finnick brusquely let out.

“What?”

“The Games. Why do we kill each other?”

Good question, Y/N almost replied. She often thought about it, pondered of the abstruse meaning of all of it. She didn’t understand, and no one understood her. When she dared murmur the question - to her family, to her brother, to her friends, they simply answered it was the way they lived and they could do nothing about it. But why was it the way they lived? Did no one want to know, want to understand why youngsters were obliged to tear each other to shreds?

They had all heard the same story, the one told by the inhabitants of the Capitol every year on the Reaping, but Y/N sometimes told herself there had to be something else. Something else, something darker, something tougher, something bloodier, something the Capitol had kept quiet in order not to create tensions between the districts and them. Anyways, as long as the districts behaved the way the Capitol wanted, and the Capitol provided the districts with safety and insurances, everyone could gain, so no one really defied this equilibrium, so no one really saw the problem in sending two adolescents every year to be killed or to be covered in gold and glory...

“I don’t know. I wonder too.”

Finnick turned around to look at her intensely. Y/N was aware of the blush creeping up her cheeks. No one had ever stared at her with such earnestness. She wasn’t particularly pretty, so why scrutinize her like that? The fact remained that Finnick was fixing her with a look and she was growing very crimson.

“I’m sorry,” Finnick said, his own cheeks turning coral. It’s just that... your answer surprised me. If I had asked anyone else, they wouldn’t have said the same thing.”

Y/N couldn’t prevent a smile from gaining her lips. His embarrassed blush and flustered sea-green eyes were one of the most adorable features she had seen on a boy her age, and he judged just like her... She was starting to grow comfortable around the bronze-haired boy. She really hoped she could become her ally in the Games.

All the caffeine having vanished from her organism, Y/N suddenly felt all the tiredness from before wash over her body, but multiplied this time. She would have given anything just to have a warm bed! But she was even too exhausted to crawl to her compartment.

“Hey, Finnick, do you mind if I fall asleep here? I’m very... tired,” the young girl ended, suppressing a yawn.

“No, of course.”

Y/N laid down on the couch without being able to decipher what Finnick held in his eyes: amusement, tenderness or something else? Anyways, almost at the exact moment when her head touched the soft cushion, she felt herself being dragged into the world of dreams. The last thing she remembered feeling was the silky texture of a blanket being pulled over her shivering shoulders, and she could swear she had heard Finnick’s deep voice mumbling a goodnight. 

It was indeed a good night, curled up right next to him.

[mormonmonastery]

with general conference coming up once again, which old testament figures do you think would be the best and worst conference speakers?

GOOD

Isaiah: the man is a pure poet. The rhymes fall so fast from his lips you’d almost swear his tongue was on fire. Every word fits perfectly, every phrase has twenty different meanings–all of them True.

Daniel: he’s got a folksy touch, a kind of rustic hospitality if you will. You can tell he’s got a whole lot of knowledge packed away in that brain based on some references he makes here & there, but most of what you hear from him are simply the most fabulous stories. Fabulous, to be sure, but also grounded enough that you can figure out very easily how they apply to your life as well.

Esther: She can talk circles around literally anyone and convince them of practically anything. It’s a real relief she’s chosen to use that gift only to better the lives of others, you think, as she makes the Truth sound not only true, but fiercely convincing.  

Amos: not sure if you know this, but Amos invented an entire genre of literary and poetic prophecy, the one you see every single prophet in the back half of the OT use. And if there was a single prophet from that era I could summon into right now, it would be Amos because our world is really aching for more Amoses. He spoke shocking truths to power, unflinchingly, he condemned a society with a massive gulf of inequality between the rich and the poor, and he always brought it back to how God’s sense of justice was for the oppressed. He wouldn’t give a talk in any conference center; guessing from the story in Amos 7, our guy would be camped out in front of the White House right now, preaching to all who would listen about how America and the wicked man leading it will fall into ruin, just causing a PR disaster in all the right ways. Everything he says has the impact of an earthquake. 

Enoch: he managed to walk up as a complete stranger and convert a bunch of wicked people into the most righteous city of all time, so speaking to an audience that already knows and agrees with him is a cakewalk for Enoch.

Habakkuk: able to offer a message of comfort and peace in a hard time without ignoring or minimizing how hard and heartbreaking that time might be.   

Elisha: Elisha rolls up into the conference center simply rocking the Bald Mormon Dad Look. He’s got two she-bears following two feet behind him at all times as a security detail and he just discovered some sunglasses that really tie his look together. As Elisha and the Bears file in, he shares an exclusive “bald men only” fist bump with Eyring, Oaks, and Renlund. The Bears loom behind him as he speaks, practically daring anyone in audience to just try cracking a joke about Elisha being bald.  

Ezekiel: He’s always having visions and, in fact, starts experiencing one as he steps onto the pulpit that he narrates in real time. It’s a stupendous and awful (in the older sense of “awe-full”) experience.  

Hagar: when Abraham tossed her out into the wilderness with her son to die because he thought that’s what God wanted him to do–that’s when Hagar learned who God really was, because God saw her and reached out to hold her. She bears a powerful testimony of the personal love Our Lord has for victims of abuse and of society. The auditorium is flooded in tears.  

BAD

Moses: he’s a smart guy and he’s got a lot to say but public speaking is just not his venue in so many ways.

Jonah: complains for the entire six months leading up to Conference about having to write a talk. complains even more when everyone asks if they should just drop him from the schedule. almost actually ends up giving a good talk? but then ruins it by complaining about how everyone who listened to it is actually following what he told them to do.

Jacob: “y’all want to hear another story about my sheep?”

Solomon: For all his supposed wisdom, Solomon reads the room completely wrong and goes into an open mic of his raunchy love poetry. It doesn’t sound particularly inspired.

Joshua: really good about carving people up on the battlefield; really bad at using his words to talk to people instead. 

Jeremiah: stretches his fifteen minute talk into a hour-long doom & gloom showcase. You don’t envy his having to be the bearer of bad news but it gets pretty repetitive.  

Noah: He still smells like sawdust and animals. also, he gets way too drunk before he’s supposed to speak and shows up shirtless.

Lot’s wife: too salty 

Elijah: You’re so excited for this guy to speak. You’ve heard all the stories: ravens, spontaneous combustion, sky chariot. Elijah is a capital-L Legend. There’s a chair set right up front for him, the reddest one with the fluffiest cushions. It’s empty. Elijah never shows up to General Conference.

[foundtheworl]

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Yosemite Valley - hiking tips and tricks

The beauty of the Yosemite Valley is ubiquitous.  Stunning vistas and iconic natural features tower a few thousand feet above you while the valley floor teems with life.  Eagles and falcons hunt for field mice above the dense groves of ponderosa pine and white fir trees.  The sheer granite wall of the infamous El Capitan attract world-class rock climbers who are rewarded with world-class climbing.  All walks of life are drawn to Yosemite National Park: day-hikers, vacationing families, vagabonds, hippy drifters, and foreign eco-tourists.  Yosemite has a way of speaking, personally and intimately, to the four million people it welcomes every year.  It inspires the uninspired, invigorates the weary, and is a playground for the next generation of wildlings and adventurers.

  For all that Yosemite valley has provided for our modern society, it was equally generous to the Native Americans who lived in the area for more than 3,000 years before us.  It wasn’t until the 1850’s that a sheep-herder turned amateur scientist turned naturalist by the name of John Muir began extolling the beauty of the Valley and challenging widely-accepted scientific theories by suggesting that slow-moving alpine glaciers carved the thumb-shaped depression out of the Sierra Nevada mountains.  He was a fierce protector of California’s natural wonders and fought hard to keep them pristine.  In May of 1903, he led then-President Theodore Roosevelt on a three day wilderness trip through the region.  Their first night was spent under the Grizzly Giant Sequoia Tree in Mariposa Grove and over the next few days they visited Sentinel Dome, Glacier Point and Yosemite Valley proper.  During this trip Muir pled with Roosevelt to enact legislation that would protect the park and he was successful.  In 1906, Mariposa Grove and Yosemite Valley were merged into what we now know as Yosemite National Park.

The first thing to do when you visit, and there will be plenty, is to enable “airplane” mode on your phone.  That’s right – unplug.  The only time you’ll need to look at your phone is when you’re using the camera.  In fact I would challenge anyone who spends any time in any wilderness to use it only when necessary: summoning emergency assistance or using it as a backup flashlight are acceptable of course but the splendor of the wild deserves your full attention.

Accommodation options are surprisingly broad in the Park.  Visitors can bring an RV, stay in canvas tents in Half Dome Village, book a room in the upscale Majestic Yosemite Hotel (formerly, the Ahwahnee Lodge), or reserve a campsite at one of eight campgrounds.  I prefer the latter, to be honest, its a better experience but reservations can be tough to come by so be sure to plan well in advance with the Park Service (www.recreation.gov).  The best camp experience I’ve ever had was at Camp Four and it’s listed on the National Register of Historic places for its contributions to the sport of rock climbing,  the perfect basecamp to explore from and the communal culture of the camp should serve as an example for campgrounds across the world.

My brother and I were lucky enough to spend five days at a shared tent site at Camp Four where I reveled in the stories of a trio of Spanish climbers, compared cultural experiences with a tough Japanese woman who was traveling solo through the United States and compared trail notes with a Florida man in his mid-twenties who seemed down on his luck but was still incredibly positive and upbeat.  Despite the vast differences between a couple guys from Kansas, the Spaniards (as we affectionally referred to them), our far-east friend named Rie and the nameless drifter, we individually settled into roles that benefited the whole.  The fire was tended to, feasts were prepared, whiskey poured, bears scared off; it became an unintended and visceral experience of tribal living where “Me” became “We” and time stood still.

A trailhead can be found a stones throw from nearly every campground and I suggest starting with the infamous Yosemite Valley Falls.  The trail to the top of North America’s tallest waterfall was built in 1873 and is one of the oldest in the park.  A strenuous 7.2 mile out-and-back on rocky switchbacks will yield a gain of 2,700 feet and depending on your speed can be accomplished in 6-8 hours.  However, should you become overwhelmed with the breath-taking views of Half Dome you can opt for the turnaround point at Colombia Rock.  At 1,000 feet it’s just short of halfway to the top but the view is still worth it.  Your packing list should be kept light for this day hike and since ounces make pounds: pack smart.  Shoes should have plenty of ankle support and cushion in the forefoot and light-colored clothing that wicks moisture is ideal.  There is no easily accessible supply of water until you reach the top of the Falls so bring plenty of water or a filtering system.  We devoured a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fruit we purchased at the moderately priced grocery store in Half Dome Village.  As with any long walk through the woods, make certain you’re adequately rested and hydrated before venturing out.  If you can spare the weight, a small medical kit can pay dividends – either for you or a fellow hiker – and for me, it’s a necessity.  However, the Rangers in the park are prepared for any tumbles or spills you may take.

Half Dome may be one of the most well known features in the valley.  The intrepid can scale to the top of the granite monolith via a system of cables that National Park Service has erected.  The route will take you 8,800 feet above sea level and the out-and-back route is 14-16 miles in length.  The park only allows 300 people per year a chance at reaching the summit and all hikes require a permit that is issued via a lottery.  In 1865 it was declared that the summit of Half Dome is the most inaccessible point in the park and “… the only one of the prominent points about the Yosemite Valley which never has been, and never will be, trodden by human foot.”  Ten years later it was conquered by George Anderson and the cables were placed in the same area as his route.  On your attempt ensure that you follow all park regulations and safety notices and follow the “ounces make pounds” rule and carry only the necessary items.  Risk reaps reward and this summit holds the bounty.  The National Park Service website has an extensive guide regarding weather, permits, and safety information for the Half Dome trail so be sure to check them out before you go.

The days of walking thousands of feet on rock stairs can be exhausting and you should punctuate an arduous day with a relaxing bike ride.  Rentals are first-come, first-served from either Yosemite Valley Lodge or Half Dome Village and for a nominal fee you can enjoy a leisurely, and still scenic, tour of the valley floor.  Pack a lunch and head out towards Mirror Lake which lies in the shadow of Half Dome.  Ride in to the designated bike rack, ditch your wheels and hoof it in a bit further to the lake.  It’s the perfect spot to hang a hammock and have lunch and most importantly: enjoy a nap.  The park also has an extensive network of shuttle buses that can take you to all the major trailheads and jumping-off points for wherever you go and best of all: its free!

Yosemite National Park has something for everyone and every visit is unique in its own way.  Backcountry camping, mesmerizing waterfall trails, and the next best adventure is waiting for around the bend.  Planning and research can go a long way in make sure your trip goes off without a hitch and for the things you can’t plan for, you can at the very least, prepare for.  Emergency first aid kits, maps, and GPS beacons (if you plan on visiting the backcountry) should all be considered before venturing out and, yes, the Park Service is prepared to perform rescues should you decide to make a series of poor choices or endure an unfortunate event but they’re already performing 250 other rescues throughout the year and coming to save you puts them also at risk.  Be wild and be adventurous but most of all be smart.  Switch that phone to “airplane” mode, spend more time gazing up and reflecting inward, focus your attention to the people you’re with and if you’re listening closely you may find Yosemite valley speaking to you in an intimate way-to your soul, to your core-the way it has for thousands of years.  If we remain ardent supporters and responsible users of our public lands, like Muir and Roosevelt, it will continue to speak to us for another thousand years.