#The Devil's Due lives rent-free inside my head

[amethystina]

For the wipe tag game:

May I inquire about :

The devil's due ( I have been hooked since the first chapter that u posted. It's such an interesting idea with so many possibilities)

The gentle light ( will we get more of yohan's poverty?)

Thank u, and have a nice day 🩵

Thank you so much for the ask!

The Devil's Due

Oh man, this one. I am hooked on this one too, but I keep holding it off because I know it'll be pretty long and it's also going to be pretty, uh, sexually charged? And that intimidates me x'D

But yeah, I LOVE the idea and the possibilities it offers. It's a story that would focus on Ga On and Yo Han's relationship without the power imbalance of them being chief and subordinate. That's to say that Ga On is going to be even feistier than in canon, if you can believe that. And he's going to be more aware of his sexuality and what he actually wants — or who, I guess I should say.

The main plot would really just be Ga On getting to know Yo Han — and Elijah — during different circumstances. And the biggest conflict will be the fire and whether or not Yo Han caused it, plus Yo Han trying to open Ga On's eyes to the corruption in their country. The main portion of the fic would be set a couple of years after the first chapter, and a couple of years before the start of the drama. So they're all a little less jaded and, since the situation is so different — Ga On isn't sent to spy on him, for one — Yo Han won't be as defensive. But he's obviously also going to be, well, Yo Han. He's working as a normal judge, trying not to draw too much attention to himself — biding his time for his revenge, and all that — but he would definitely not mind having some fun with the bright-eyed, reformed delinquent he saved from a life as a criminal.

As a treat.

As with many of my WIPs at the moment, this fic is mostly just a collection of lines of dialogue from various scenes, with no connecting text around them. So there are no complete snippets I can show, but I can say that the first time they do something sexual together it's because Ga On has finally had it with Yo Han's teasing and flirting and just marches into his office — at Yo Han's work, yes — and goes:

Ga On: "Fine. Let's fuck."

Yo Han, after a small pause: "Right now?"

Ga On, very scathingly: "Do you want me to schedule an appointment?"

Yo Han: "You're an absolute delight when you're angry."

There are reasons why Ga On is being so blunt, I want to point out, because he wouldn't usually be. Again: Yo Han and his manipulation tactics.

... and yes, they do have sex right then and there, in Yo Han's office. Which is one of the reasons why I'm afraid to write this. I'm way out of my depth here x'D

But I will continue eventually! I like the story way too much to give up on it :)

The Gentle Light

As for this one, I was kind of shocked to realise that I have a lot more written on chapter 2 than I initially thought. It takes place right after the first chapter, so basically Yo Han's side of the very loaded conversation that takes place during chapter 7. I've just been adding bits and pieces here and there when I've felt like it and now I have almost 4 000 words. Imagine that.

Here's a snippet!

---

Yo Han slowly walked up the steps leading to Kim Ga On's apartment, his hand sliding along the railing. The metal was cold against the mess of scar tissue on his palm, sending a chill up his arm. Yo Han paid that no mind, focusing instead on taking in his surroundings. While he'd known Ga On's address ever since K did the first background check, Yo Han had never actually been to visit before.

There had never been a reason for him to — until now.

As Yo Han finished climbing the first set of stairs, his gaze swept briefly over the terrace to his left, then flicked upward, toward the rooftop. There was apparently another terrace up there, but it was dark for the time being and therefore not of much interest to Yo Han.

Instead, he turned and looked out at the surrounding buildings. The neighborhood was as run-down as he'd expected, debris littering the streets and the majority of the buildings in desperate need of repairs — some even looked abandoned. Or perhaps the owners had simply given up, choosing to huddle inside the dark, decrepit shells of what used to be their homes, waiting for the end to come. That seemed common in these parts, where unemployment and hopelessness blanketed every house and street corner, sucking the life out of those few remaining.

Yo Han could tell it hadn't always been that way, though. There were glimpses of a once lively neighborhood hiding underneath the grime and despair, the descent probably having happened slowly over time as the economy kept getting worse and worse — money getting tighter and tighter. And, eventually, whether they wanted to or not, the people had no choice but to give in.

It made sense, Yo Han supposed, for Kim Ga On to have grown up in a place like this, where he'd had to watch what he once knew wither away and fall into disrepair in front of his very eyes.

That deeply rooted disdain for the rich must have come from somewhere, after all.

---

A lot of what I have so far is basically just Yo Han sauntering around in front of Ga On's apartment, observing things and drawing conclusions about Ga On. It's kind of adorable in it's own way xD But things obviously take a very dramatic turn once Ga On shows up, some of which I've shown before in snippets that you can find here.

I can't promise I'll ever post this, though, since I'd obviously have to finish it first and this is very far down on my list of priorities right now. But we'll see, I guess? If I keep chipping away at it one piece at a time, eventually it will be finished.

I hope you like it! And you have a nice day, too 💜

WIP Tag Game

[jotunkhiicha]

I completed one run of Silent Hill and it now lives rent free in my head.

I adore it, so here is “Devil’s Lingerie,” a story about finding humanity in the thicket of misery.

“𝐷𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙’𝑠 𝐿𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒”

The rain slices against Yariv’s flesh as she walks, her gaze blurry and her mind unfocused, unsure of where she truly wishes to go. Her feet carry her onwards, stumbling forward like an inebriated fool, too lost in the poison that sludges through her veins like a mud, making every movement arduous and her limbs sag. Each step is as laborious, if not more so, than the last but, beneath the popping streetlights, she still trudges on.

She doesn’t know why she’s compelled forwards, what keeps her moving onward through the barren streets of Silent Hill that change so much over time?

What changed?

Amongst the rain, her own tears fall and she, in her haze, struggles to notice a Lying Shadow that stumbles over to her, unable to walk properly due to its elongated limbs. It leans, it wretches and its bile, the chemical twinge of radioactive waste, burns through her flesh and seers its presence on her skin like a brand or marks from a lover. She screams as she shirks away, unable to conceal the pure, unadulterated fear that has wrestled free from the confines of her atrophied heart—yet the creature still follows. It’s faster than she is, having gotten used to its unnatural gate, and it lunges at her, throws itself at her body and they both go tumbling down onto the concrete.

She scratches at its flesh, if it could even be called that, and pushes away in equal measure. “Get off me!” She pleads with a terrified scream and the buildings, these rotten epitaphs of a time long passed, echo the pathetic sound back to her as if mocking her.

This helplessness seeps into her muscles as the creature rears its head back, a familiar sight, and she can hear that congealing of its insides turning to mush as it prepares itself to regurgitate the splotches of ink that the devil drew it with.

She is going to die here, just as he did—a thousand times over.

Was it painful for him? Did he wish, deep down, for someone to come and rescue him as he lay there in a pool of his blood and his entrails? Or did he find peace in that moment of stillness, awakening a twisted euthymia, born from the remnants of his twisted body?

“Please…!” She begs of something larger than this town, something bigger than all the things she had dared to mock.

Yet, who listens in a town where even the monsters are mirages and their own worst enemy is themselves?

No one.

The crackle of dream shattering far off in the recesses of her mind as she finds that tranquility she had seen, so many times before as the ink pours forth and, then, something yanks her away. Its limbs scuttle against the floor, screeching as she is hauled away by the snag of her clothing and dragged beneath the concrete, down into the bowels of hell itself.

Worse still? Yariv does not scream, she only silently cries as the darkness consumes her wholly and the feeling of weightlessness possesses her totally.

Is she falling? It’s hard to tell, and she only surmises that when she lands against something soft, yet also rock hard at the same time. She wants to move, but can’t find it within herself to do such a thing.

Her limbs, filled with sand, do not move and her consciousness is whisked away like a lone dove, set to fly above the flooded orchard to grant a crown of thorns. Beyond the boundaries of her thoughts, she can hear the creaking of metal, the wax and wane of industrial might, come to rot like abandoned flesh, and she knows who it will be, who the damned man at the altar would be.

Yariv can smell it, the stench of sweat and that sickly scent of iron as it suggested that brutality had been used as a means of passage, a tool to forge a path. The subtle scent of sweat as it permeated through clothing, sticking the worn fabric to dirtied flesh, and suggested a fight, a battle of wills and of desperation.

If there was no such thing as fate, then what brought them here, together, beneath the dull light of a pocket-flashlight that illuminated her features? What else could have pushed the pair of them forwards and left her here, rather than let her die in the centre of that street?

“Yariv?”

There’s the sound of shuffle footsteps and, here, Yariv grunts, shifts and opens her emerald eyes, revealing her bloodshot orbs and her face, that had once shown peace, twists into horror as she recalls what has befallen her.

She scuttles back on the bed, bringing her legs up to her chest and she holds herself together like a bow upon a present at Christmas. Her heart pounds in her chest, a reminder that she exists but also that she must suffer, and her breathing comes out in short, ragged breaths as terror swims in her eyes, dancing on her lashes.

“Hey, Yariv?” James calls to her, softly calling her name to encourage her to look upon his weary face, “It’s just me, James.”

She shakes her head, biting her lower lip as memories flutter to the surface like moths trying to taste the light and this guilt, this burden that sags on her shoulders, is palpable—it swallows the pleasantries of mundanity.

“…I have watched you die a thousand times,” she takes a shuddering breath and, beneath that beam of light he carried with him like a slice of heaven, she turns her head to look at him, “I thought I’d be desensitised to it James but… but I’m not. I was so…” she shakes her head vehemently to fight the tears, but a sob crawls from between her lips.

James grips the bars of the cell door as he watches her. “Scared.”

He recognised it.

“I remember…” she whispers into the cell where her breath crystallises in front of her, “I remember what it means to feel and I… I want nothing more than to leave this town.” She clenches the worn mattress cover, uncaring of the rusted springs that threaten to pierce her flesh.

He furrows his brows. “H-How long have you been in this town for?” He shifts his weight while he glances around the room for a way to free her, the cryptic person who has been a mirage in the fog this entire time.

Yariv raises her head. “I don’t know,” She pauses and stammers, “Long enough to forget where I came from.” She rises, pushing herself off of the bed as she takes unsure steps towards him.

A metal pipe is struck from afar, the sound of something scuttling across the walls, reverberates into their ears and they snap their gaze over to where it originates from and that fear, that haunting look of terror, burns beneath the light of his torch.

She brings her hands over his on the bars and looks deep into his hollowed eyes, his eyes worn with exhaustion, to find comfort.

“I don’t want to die, James.”

He widens his eyes. That’s the most human thing she has said to him since he stumbled into the fog and saw her there, standing in the centre of the cross-section with her hand dancing in the fog. She had always seemed to out of reach—out of touch with her own humanity—and deep beneath the burning flesh of their touch, he wonders, what changed that?

He steps back, his hands sliding out from beneath hers and he presses his lips together in a fine line as he flickers his gaze between her and the direction of the noise. “J-Just stay there. I’ll find a way to get you out of there, alright?” He gestures for her to stay put, but the way she frantically shakes her head and shuffles closer to the bars as he steps further away, it tells him she’s terrified, “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

As the light fades, she wonders if he truly will.

[unreadpoppy]

Swan Song

Read on AO3

a Raphael Swan Lake rewrite AU I guess?

Summary: Odille has always lived in her sister's Odette shadow. When both of them are turned into swans by the devil Raphael, she couldn't be more livid, especially as her sister falls in love with the handsome Wyll Ravengard. When Raphael makes the proposition of a lifetime, Odille's wicked nature will come to the surface.

A/N: This is an wild ass AU that has been living in my head rent free for some time. No canon is followed here, this is way more of a Swan Lake rewrite, but there's still some Raphael stuff (it's not necessarily romantic but honestly, take it as you want it). Also, tw for murder.

This is a tale of two sisters. 

Odette, the oldest, was the pride and joy of the family. With bright, blond hair, eyes as blue as sapphire and white skin, to her father, she was beauty incarnate. She was a kind hearted girl, as graceful as a swan when she danced around in the living room, and with a charming smile that could melt even the hardest of hearts. 

All in all, Odette was perfect. As her father would often say, it was as if she had been blessed by the gods themselves upon her birth.

Her sister, Odille, however, was not as fortunate. 

Being the daughter of a second wife, Odille looked nothing like her sister. Her hair was pitch black, her eyes were of a swamp green color and her skin was pale from the lack of sunlight. 

Odille didn’t sing or dance, her smile didn’t shine as bright as the sun, and people didn’t pay attention to her. In fact, even her father often forgot about her. 

While Odette was free to do as she pleased, Odille had to keep the house clean and take care of their parents - that being the reason she rarely left the house. 

Their parents had died a few years earlier, due to a terrible sickness, leaving the two girls on their own. Odille thought she would finally be free, but her dying mother’s last words had doomed her.

‘Promise me you’ll take care of Odette. Promise me.’ And so she did, finding work to sustain the both of them, while Odette remained the carefree girl she had always been. 

Odille lived in her sister's shadow, and for that, she hated Odette. She hated how all the men in the village showered her with gifts and pretty words, how their father, when still alive, would embrace her and kiss her forehead; She hated how beautiful her sister was, how perfect at anything she was, how she had a heart of gold. Odille believed her heart to be a black mass of hatred, a twisted shape of vines and thorns, grown with years of resentment. 

So when the news that poor, beautiful Odette had been transformed into a swan, Odille cried tears of joy. 

With her sister gone, everyone would pay attention to her. No longer would she be the invisible little girl, always inside her home but the one all eyes were turned to. She would find a handsome man to marry and all would be well.

That’s what she believed at first, but the reality had been completely different. 

Once the news spread of Odette’s misfortune, all the men in the village ran to the forest, crying at the loss of such beauty. When night fell, the swan turned back into the girl and she was able to explain her situation. 

“I had come to the forest to pick flowers, when a handsome man came up to me.” She began her tale. “He said he had never seen someone as fair as me, and asked for my hand. I refused him, and then he offered riches. When I refused him again, he offered land. And when I refused him for the third time, he revealed himself to be a terrible fiend by the name of Raphael. He put a curse on me - by day, a swan and by night, a woman again.” 

The crowd cried, feeling for poor Odette. Her sister had stood aside, far away from most people, the blood in her veins beginning to boil. Even in this situation, her sister still attracted the attention of everyone.

“But do not weep for me, as I can still be saved. I have been told by one of the druid’s who guards these woods that there is a way to break the curse. If a man, who has never loved before, proclaims his love for me before the season’s change, I shall return to my true form.”

“And what happens if that doesn’t happen?” A young man asked. 

“Then Odette will stay a swan, forever more.” A grave voice had answered, seemingly coming from the wind itself. Then, near where the girl stood, a great fire rose and from it, a devil appeared. 

Gasps and protests were heard all around as Odette pointed at him. “It was him - he is Raphael, the one who cursed me!” She shouted. 

Red skin, head crowned with horns, a long tail and wings, the fiend wore long, black garments. People began to shout and curse at him, one person in particular throwing a rock at him. With a snap of his fingers, the boy turned to ash.

“Enough of this noise, all of you.” His voice boomed. “Odette’s fate is sealed, and I fear there is nothing to be done. Try to oppose me and you will live very short lives.” The crowd went silent at the threat. “Now, all of you, leave right this instant, lest you share in his fate.” 

At the command, all but Odille left. She decided to stay hidden behind a tree, listening as Raphael turned his attention to her sister. 

“How could you be so cruel?” The girl cried. 

“Ah, my dear swan, there are men much crueler than me in the world.” He said, his fingers caressing her face, and she quickly turned from him in disgust. Deep down, Odille felt envious, wishing her to be the one receiving that touch. “Now, I can end your torment right this instant. Accept me, and be human again.” 

“No.” 

From where she stood, Odille could see Raphael’s face turn into a scowl. “Very well. It seems I’ll have to punish you.” 

“There is nothing you can do to hurt me anymore.” Odette defied him. 

“Isn’t there?” He asked in a mocking tone. He looked around, humming in thought. “You know, these woods can get quite lonely. What if I give you a friend?” 

“What-what do you mean?” 

“Well, it seems your dear sister didn’t listen when I told all to leave.” Raphael spoke and with a snap of his fingers, Odille was in front of them, wide eyed. 

“Do not hurt her!” Odette cried, but he raised a hand, stopping her from walking closer. 

“You think too lowly of me. I would never hurt you or your sister.” He smirked. “No, as I said, I shall give you something to keep you company.” 

He waved his hand and Odille was engulfed by flames. 

She was overwhelmed by the heat and the sound of her sister’s scream, and when the world came back to normal, everything seemed much bigger - or maybe she was smaller.

“NO!” Odette screamed horrified. 

Odille tumbled near the pond, catching her reflection in the water. Instead of a woman, she saw a black swan staring back at her. 

“Do not worry. When morning comes, she will turn back into a human.” He told Odette. 

“But-but, when the sun rises, I’ll be a swan.” 

“Yes. If I were you, I’d cherish these few more precious hours until dawn arrives.” Raphael made a motion to leave. ‘Now, if I were you, I’d hush about the solution to your little curse, lest you want a true taste of my ire.” And with the sound of a snap, he was gone. 

…

Even as a swan, Odille lived in her sister’s shadow. 

At day, she was forced to watch as various men from the village proclaimed their love to Odette, only for nothing to happen. At night, she saw her sister dancing sadly along the pond, the other forest animals joining her.

No men came to profess their love for Odille. No one had even seemed to notice she had shared in her sister’s fate. Her hatred for Odette only grew more and more. If it wasn’t for her, Odille could have been far away now, free from her, but no, Odette had to reject the devil, she had to defy him, and now Odille was still trapped with her. 

A month had passed in this predicament, when something changed. One day, a few hours before sundown, an arrow flew across the pond, almost hitting Odette. 

Odille, who was sat upon a large tree, watched as a young, handsome man ran towards the swan, raising his arrow, ready to strike. She saw the swan flying away, narrowly missing the arrows again and again, and Odille silently wished that one arrow would pierce her sister’s chest. 

But, to her dismay, night arrived, and the sisters positions were changed, the man watching in awe as the swan became a beautiful woman. Odille was quick to fly down from the tree and into the pond, listening to their conversation. 

“I apologize, my lady.” He bowed his head. “I am Wyll Ravengard.I was out hunting when I saw the most beautiful of swans. Had I known of your true self, I would have stopped sooner.” 

“You had no way of knowing.” Odette smiled at him. 

“But tell me, how could this be? Are you some sort of druid?”

She shook her head. “No, I am not. I was cursed by a terrible devil to turn into a swan during the day. My sister-” She pointed at the black swan “was cursed as well.” 

Wyll scowled. “These devils…they fool around with the lives of innocent people.” His gaze softened. “I am sorry that this has happened to you. The both of you.” 

“Thank you.” She took a step closer to him. “Please, keep me company before I turn back to that form.” 

He nodded and Odille watched in contempt as they spent the night talking and dancing. The little relief she got was that, whenever the two would get too close, she’d begin singing that terrible swan song, distracting the two. 

But for one month, that was how her night’s would play out. Odille would swim around while her sister smiled and blushed at Wyll. During the day, Odille would think about all the ways she could wrap her hands around Odette’s neck and snap it. 

How, if it wasn’t for the fear that the curse would persist, she would have ended Odette long ago. 

But Odille would not have to wait long until an opportunity arrived. 

…

The night before, Wyll had told Odette how he had captured her heart. He told her that he was the son of a duke, and that his father commanded a ball to be held in his name, where Wyll should find one woman to claim as his wife. 

He wanted Odette to attend and to declare in front of all his love for her. She blushed at the thought and kissed him, telling Wyll that she would go. Then, she proceeded to spend the rest of her time telling Odille how excited she was at the prospect of being free. 

If her swan face allowed it, Odille would have scowled. 

When morning came, the dark haired girl walked to the edge of the forest, as far away from the pond as she could. During her walk, she couldn’t help but murmur. 

“Perfect Odette, who gets a handsome son of a duke to fall for her. Odette, who’s so kind, sweet and who everyone loves. Perfect, perfect, perfect.” Odille walked in circles as she spoke to herself. “‘Oh, look at me, I’m Odette, I can do no wrong.’ Ugh, how I wish I could make her stop talking.” 

“If I had known you held this much hatred for your sister, I would have approached you much sooner.” Raphael’s voice snapped her back into reality. 

He appeared to her just as he had that first day. Odille huffed and walked past him, but he held onto her arm. “Ah, ah, ah, not so fast, little swan.” 

“Let me go.” She said, twisting her arm to try and get out of this grip, but he was stronger than her. 

“And why would I do that, when you have just become essential to my plans?” At that, she stopped struggling and looked at him suspiciously. 

“I don’t want anything to do with you, devil.” She spat. 

“Oh but you will.” His eyes darkened as he smirked. “What if I could give you the means to be free, for once and all? To end the curse.” 

Odille's eyes widened. Could he truly be offering such a thing? 

“What are you trying to get at?”

At this point, Raphael had let go of her arm, and she stood there, listening intently to every word he had to say.

“Let me tell you a story.” He began. “Long ago, all of this land belonged to me, given to me by my father, Mephistopheles. I ruled with a strict but fair hand, this forest being a haven for those in need.” Raphael walked around, moving his arms as he told his tale, almost as if he was an actor in a play. 

“That was until I was struck down by the forces of the Blade of Frontiers, Wyll Ravengard. He sought to rid the realm of any devilish influence and so, my reign was over. For years, I have been harnessing my power back and finally, a good opportunity to take the boy down has arrived.” 

“And how do I fit in all of this?”

“Patience, dear.” He raised a hand to calm her. “Ravengard has fallen madly in love with your sister, and if he proclaims his love for her, her curse will end, but with your help, I can take down two birds with one stone.” 

She raised a brow, urging him to continue. 

“Tonight, instead of your sister, it will be you who will go to the ball. With a simple charm, you will look like her. Stay there long enough for the boy to choose you as wife and then strike him down with this.”

Raphael reached a hand forwards and a dark blade appeared in his hands. 

Odille gulped. “Why do you need my help for this? Can’t you do it yourself?”

“Ravengard, foolish as he is, is not dumb. He has put a spell on his home, which prevents my entrance. Once he is gone, however, I’ll be able to take over.”

She took a step closer to him, her hand hovering above the weapon. “And what of my sister?”

“The heartbreak of Wyll’s betrayal will be too grand for her to take. I have no doubt she would not be long for this world after his demise.” With the dagger in his hand, Raphael walked behind Odille, his larger body looming over hers as he whispered in her ear. “I’ve been watching you, Odille. I know how you feel, the anger, the hurt, the envy. I could fix it all like that.” He snapped his fingers, a small flame appearing. “No more sister to bother you, no more living in the shadows. You would be the center of attention and all would talk about you for years to come. Do we have a deal?”

Odille thought for a moment. She had fantasized about this situation for so long, it didn’t seem possible but here it was. A quite literal devil on her shoulder, whispering to her all the things she had longed to hear. 

She always knew it was wrong to think of killing her sister, but this way, she wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty with Odette’s blood. This way, she would get what she always wanted. 

Without a word, Odille grabbed the blade. 

…

Wyll had been none the wiser. When he saw Odille - disguised as her sister - he walked towards her, pulling the girl into a dance. 

Odille noticed the way he looked at her, eyes full of love and a kind smile. She almost felt bad for what she was to do. 

Almost. When she remembered all she had seen and endured because of her sister, the weight of the blade felt lighter. 

As the night reached its end, Wyll finished the dance, holding her hand and telling everyone in the room. 

“Ladies, gentlemen, friends, hear! I have found the one I shall wed. The one who has captured my heart, the one whom I shall share the rest of my life with!” He got down on one knee, holding her hands. “I love you, like I have loved no other. You, and only you, shall be the one I love.” 

Odille smiled, placing a hand on his face. But soon, her smile turned more wicked and vile. 

“Oh, Wyll. Love truly makes us fools, doesn’t it?” She said. Wyll frowned in confusion, looking around when a loud noise hit one of the windows. 

He turned his head, just in time to see the swan he had grown to love flying near the glass and then falling, having just heard his confession. He turned back to Odille, his face falling. 

“No…” Wyll got up and ran towards the window, looking down the balcony to see the swan, now turned back to Odette’s body, laying bloody on the ground. “ODETTE! NO!” 

In his confusion and despair, he didn’t notice how Odille had silently approached him. It was only when the dagger pierced his back that he understood what happened. 

…

People screamed, running around in a panic. Odille stood there, looking at the body of her sister, dead on the floor. 

She should feel sad, but instead, Odille felt happy. 

Wyll was laying next to her feet, his blood dirtying the balcony. The smell of sulfur filled the air, and from a circle of fire on the ground, Raphael appeared in all his glory. 

Clapping his hands, he walked to where Odille was. “My, my, what a beautiful display that was.” He crouched down, removing the blade from Wyll’s body, wiping it with a handkerchief. “You were marvelous, my dear. Are you satisfied?” 

“Quite so.” She sneaked one last glance to her sister, before turning her full attention to the devil. “Now, for your part of the deal.” 

“Of course.” Raphael waved a hand and Odille was once again engulfed by flames, feeling her body change. Black feathers grew from various parts of her body, covering her arms, legs, torso and neck. Her feet elongated, becoming talons and from her back, a pair of giant wings appeared. 

Odille was confused. She was supposed to become human again and not…this. 

“What have you done to me?” 

“I have changed you, of course! I never said you’d go back to what you were, dear.” He could see the panic begin rising in her and he smirked, stepping forwards, and giving her back the dagger. “You look marvelous, my black swan.” 

Taking it, Odille saw her reflection, how her body had changed and for some reason, she liked what she saw. In this form, she would be free to fly wherever she wanted, and all head would turn when she walked. She was no longer bound by familial bonds, free to do as she wished. 

“Now come, there is much work to be done, and I believe you and I will be grand partners.” Raphael offered her a hand, and with a wicked grin, Odille took it. 

The end. 

[sweetsoundsofignorance]

Ohhhh! 7, 10, 25!

What is your deepest joy about writing?

When it comes to sharing writing, it is when someone connects emotionally with something I’ve written, especially when it’s something I’ve whole-assed myself emotionally. For me, that’s also the greatest joy of reading, that rush of empathy.

I also get really happy when my intentions for a story are noticed by readers, the little details and symbols and themes and specific character traits. I know the author is dead and all, but this still makes me happy.

When it comes to actually writing, the act itself is one of my deepest joys. I’ve always used writing as a way to process and expel a lot of built-up emotional energy. For me, it’s a self-soothing activity.

Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

Oh, yes. Many.

For fic, though, pretty much anything @whatwouldflorencedo wrote for American Horror Story: Murder House and From Dusk Til Dawn lives inside my head rent-free, especially Kansas City Shuffle. I am a slave to many many things about their writing, how they write tension, intimacy, their exploration of moral grey areas. For one, no one writes smut like them, the kind that eviscerates you. I can only aspire to write smut like them. Speaking of which, I think Kansas City Shuffle is due for a re-read.

@darknessaroundus Total Dark Sublime, I’ll be obsessed with Jughead’s tattoo obscuring their names forever. I mean, I’ll be obsessed with a lot of that story forever, including the poem for which the fic is named.

I could go all day about specific scenes from books that are practically nailed to the inside of my skull, but the main ones would have to be the climactic scene in The Secret History, and the entirety of Bunny by Mona Awad and Call Me By Your Name. If I was any more specific, it would spoil the endings, but I’m partial to these sorts of last gasps of intimacy in the midst of irrevocable and/or unavoidable loss, and that is probably why the devil’s daughter and loose lips also haunt me 24/7.

What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

I’m sorry, but I don’t have a good answer for this one, or maybe I don't understand the question? Is it asking if there's a specific detail that I've left out of a story because it's irrelevant or a detail I included that has no purpose?

I’m sure there are strange attributes I’ve sprinkled throughout my stories that I’ve forgotten about and served no purpose to the story, but I can’t think of any detail I’ve purposefully included about a character that wasn’t put there for a reason, even the seemingly innocuous ones. I obsess over small character details. I think any attribute you give your character has a connotation attached to it that is, on some level, integral to their character and the overall story. It’s all informative.

Someone (I think it was Sully) pointed out that Jughead was left-handed in Kill Your Darlings, and that was on purpose. It was supposed to make the reader think about how it would look watching Jughead write. If you’ve ever watched a left-handed person write, most of them write like the runt of ten children at the dinner table, guarded, and because Jug is a hare, hurried in this case. Then, there’s also the reflection symbolism, the sinister element, and the messiness inherent to being left-handed (you smudge the paper like crazy; it’s unavoidable). On its face, it seems like a small insignificant detail, but it’s not.  

Thank you for the ask 🤍🤍🤍

[thepeacetea]

Mistake of a Lifetime

I LIVE!!!!!!! Hey everyone! I don’t know what happened last month. It was like my brain shut down. It was the worst feeling ever. I just couldn’t write. Which was insanely frustrating. But I’m back and off of work for the next three week due to COVID-19. And since I’m not venturing into the outside world, hopefully I’ll be able to get more writing done!!! So thank you all for being patient with me. I honestly have absolutely no idea where this story came from, but enjoy my beauties. Warning, there is a tiny, little bit of swearing but nothing major. As always, if you have any questions or comments feel free to let me know. Anyway, hope ya’ll enjoy!!! Peace!!!

Damian was frustrated. He couldn’t find that girl anywhere. He knew when he explained what he had done what he did that she would understand. His angel always did. She loved him too much to stay mad at him for long. Once she learned why, Damian knew that she would come back. That’s one of the reasons he loved her, she was so trusting and forgiving. No matter what he did, he knew she would welcome him back with open arms. But right now, he was irritated with his girlfriend. She hadn’t been in contact with any of the family in five months. No one knew where she was. Tim couldn’t even find her. It was as if she just disappeared. Which is what led him here, to what was hopefully the door of his best friend’s apartment. If anyone would know where Marinette was, it would be Jon.

Finding the apartment had been a slightly more difficult then Damian had first thought. Jon wasn’t one for covering his civilian tracts, usually allowing anyone, if they so wished, to track him down. But he had been strangely quiet the past few months. Superboy had also been absent from the hero scene. When Damian had inquired as to why, no one could supply a straight answer. Jon had spoken to his parents every few weeks to assure them that he was fine, but other then that, no one knew much.

The search for apartments rented out to a Jonathan Samuel Kent had turned up blank, as did all the other alias that Damian could think his best friend might possibly use. It eventually arrived at the point that Damian had run his handwriting through the data base to find a match for a signature. Eight states and eleven empty apartments later, Damian Wayne found himself climbing the squeaking steps to the apartment located above a little Chinese restaurant in the middle of Chinatown, San Francisco.

‘Honestly Jon, the other places where far better off then this,’ Damian muttered as he knocked on the door. The sound of scuffling followed by multiple items falling sparked a flicker of hope from the Wayne heir. Though he would never tell Jon this, Damian had missed his idiot of a friend.

“Buy too much at the market again? M, I told you, just get what we need for dinner tonight and we’ll get the rest tomor . . .” Jon said opening the door, the laughter that was oh so evident in his voice died the moment he saw who was at his door.

Damian watched as a wave of emotions filtered across his friend’s face. Surprise, confusion, and doubt where all understandable, at least in Damian’s opinion, but when Jon’s face finally settled on a mixture of anger and disgust, Damian grew confused and slightly irritated. He had not come all this way nor spent all that time looking for him to be received like that. Not by Kent, not by anyone.

“What are you doing here, Wayne?”

Now that caught him off guard. Damian could not, for the life of him, remember a single moment when Jon had referred to him, or anyone, by their last name. Ever.

“Tt, came looking for you. No one’s seen so much as a flutter of your cape in five month. The last time anyone heard from you was your parents, six weeks ago.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m fine. Now if there’s nothing else . . .” Jon said, closing the door, causing Damian to bit back a growl. He did not come all this way to get a door shut in his face.

“Actually, there is,” Damian countered, forcing the door back open as Jon sent a chilling glare his way, nearly causing him to laugh. If Kent thought he could scare Damian, the only blood son of Bruce Wayne, the Batman, with that poor excuse of a glare, he was in for a nasty surprise. “I need to know if you’ve seen my girlfriend?”

Damian was expecting many things, but none of them was the utterly disgusted scoff that came from the dark-haired young man as his face twisted into a scowl.

“Yeah. Two weeks ago. On tv. At the Wayne Gala. You remember, she was hanging off your arm like one of those rich people’s lapdogs. You know, the really yappy ones.” He said, something sparking in his eyes, though Damian couldn’t quiet place it.

“Not the Italian she-devil, you idiot. I mean Marinette.” Damian strained, actively using more force to push the door open as Jon was closing it. The disbelieving laugh that left the young half-kryptonian surprised Damian.

“Mar is not your girlfriend anymore, Wayne. Remember? YOU broke up with her five months ago. And then YOU announced that you were dating that – that – Rossi girl the next day on national tv.”

“Look Kent, all I want to know is if you know where she is or not, because I need to talk with her.” Damian ground out as he began to lose what little leverage he had on the door. The half second hesitation and slight dilation of Jon’s eyes was all Damian need to know whatever came out of his friend’s mouth was a lie.

“No.”

“You were always a terrible liar Kent.” Damian stated. Taking advantage to the slight surprise, Damian force the door open, stepping inside before the other man could react.

The apartment itself was rather small, though Damian was use to having far more space then needed. The apartment was an open floor concept. The only thing separating the kitchen from the living room was a counter that extended from the wall, cutting the room in half. A worn couch was sitting in the middle of the main room with a small coffee table in front of it. A tv was pushed against the wall, a few open movie cases lay scattered across the stand with a gaming console tucked neatly underneath. A bookshelf was shoved into the far corner. A fallen stack of books lay by a beaded doorway that Damian could only assumed lead to a bedroom. A few pictures adorned the walls, though Jon drew Damian’s attention before he could get a chance to identify who was in them.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing? I didn’t invite you in! Get out!” Jon said, his voice raising an octave, jabbing his finger towards the door.

“And here I thought your mother taught you hospitality,” Damian countered, enjoying the growl his comment caused. “As for what I’m doing here, I already informed you why. I want to know where my angel is and I need you to tell me.”

“Never. Gonna. Happen! What makes you think you have any right to see her let alone call her ‘yours’?” Jon growled, actually growled, at Damian. Under any other circumstances, he would have been impressed that the cheerful, happy Kansas native sounded so . . . threatening in his questioning. But Damian was quickly reaching the end of his already short patience. Pinning the other man with a glare that would have made his father proud, Damian watched as the other subconsciously straightened to his full height.

“I’m bringing her back, where she belongs. The Rossi mission is over and I want my Angel back.”

For five seconds, Jon stood there, brows drawn together in confusion as his brain processed what was said. Five seconds where he could have been telling Damian where his girlfriend was, Jon just stood there.

“. . . what?”

“Lila Rossi held vital, insider information of a new program which my mother and Dr. Hugo Strange were developing. We needed the information, but more importantly, we needed Rossi to trust us. I, obviously, was the best candidate for the job. Father and the others helped plan and execute it. We have the information we need and the parties involved have been dealt with appropriately, including Rossi.”

“. . . all of this . . . everything . . . was for a mission?” Jon asked quietly, his voice calm as he bent his head, his bangs covering his eyes. Damian let a small smile slip. He knew Jon would understand, and once he told him where his angel was, she would too.

“Yes. Now I need to know where . . .” Damian began to say when the left side of his face erupted in pain as the sound of something breaking filled the air. Whether it was his jaw or the picture frames he landed against, he didn’t know. He didn’t have the time to figure out as he was hauled to his feet and slammed into the wall, his head smashing into an other picture. Once Damian’s vision cleared, confused emerald met rage filled electric blue.

“You mean to tell me, that everything, Every hatful word, Every cutting remark, Every. Single. Day! Marinette spent CRYING was for some GOD DAMN MISSION!?!” Jon yelled, pulling Damian closer as his eyes flashed back and forth between blue and red, and for the first time in a long time, Damian felt fear. “Do you have any idea how much you hurt her!?!”

“It was a sacrifice necessary for the completion of the mission. Once she knows that, she’ll understand!” Damian shouted, defending himself. Everyone who knew agreed. The action was necessary for the mission. Without it, the whole mission would have been unnecessarily complicated. Even Clark and Diana had agreed, so why couldn’t Jon?

“Sacrifice? Is that what you think this was?” Jon hissed, eyes steadily changing from blue to solid red. “You broke her!”

“I didn’t . . .” Damian started to say before he was slammed against the wall again, causing the remaining pictures to fall, glass breaking on impact.

“SHUT UP!!!” Jon screamed. If it was possible, Damian saw his eyes fill with more rage then he had ever seen in one person, Jason included. “You know nothing! You broke her Wayne. She trusted you! After everything that happened to her, after being abandoned by so many others, she trusted you and you broke her! She gave her heart to YOU! Marinette gave you everything, only for you to turn around and throw her away like trash!”

“Jon,” Damian tried to say, but Jon wasn’t done.

“Do you know how I found her? After I found out you not only broke up with her but then decided to date the person that made her life a living hell, I spent six, SIX, hours looking for her. I finally found her on the roof where we first met her. She was just sitting there, on the edge, looking over the city. When she finally looked at me, her face was completely blank. No trace of emotion. The only real sign of life was how red and swollen her eyes were from crying. Do you want to know the first thing she said to me? ‘He left me.’ ‘He LEFT me!’” Jon snarled. “You have no idea how hard it was to keep her going after that. What it was like seeing her like that. Do you know what its like seeing someone who’s so full of life to just wilt in front of you. To see them lose everything that made them who they are.” Jon asked, his voice dropping in grief as his grip on Damian shirt loosened.

“Jon, I know. I hurt her. I know. That’s why I need to talk to her. I know my angel. Once I tell her, once I explain, everything will be fine.”

“No, Wayne. I don’t think you do know her.” Jon said, completely letting go of him as if he couldn’t stand touching him. “I know Mar better then my own mind at this point. She is the most trusting and kindest person you will ever meet, but even she has her limits.” He hissed, turning his back on his once friend, running his hands through his hair in anger and frustration.

All Damian could do was stare at the person, who had for the longest time, been his only friend. Steadying himself against the wall, the young Wayne looked down. Trying to gather his thoughts. To think of something to say when one of the picture frames caught his eye. Gingerly picking it up, Damian found himself looking through shattered glass at what appeared to be an ultra-sound photo sitting beside one the soon to be mother. Barely legible through the broken glass was Jon’s handwriting, ‘Mama and baby at eight months.’ The photo was dated three days ago. Damian couldn’t stop staring. There, through the shattered glass, stood HIS angel, her belly swollen to the point where it looked ready to burst, smiling at the camera.

What Damian was seeing wasn’t making sense. Eight months pregnant. They had broken up five months ago. He knew she had never slept with another guy before. Her first time had been with him. Once. Three months before they broke up. Eight months ago. She was pregnant. She was eight months pregnant.

His mind flashed to the last time he had seen her. The day he had ‘broken up’ with her. She had an appointment the day. A doctor’s appointment. She hadn’t been feeling well for the last few weeks. She had wanted to tell him something after the appointment. She had sounded so excited over the phone. She promised she’d tell him over dinner but he had gone first, telling her they were over. She had looked so heartbroken. So devastated. She never got a chance to tell him her news

Suddenly, the frame was torn from his hands but the damage had been done. He knew. Lifting his eyes, Damian met Jon’s gaze. Utter shock met panicked anger. For a few moment’s neither spoke. Neither man knew what say or how to react.

“Jon, I’m so sorry I’m back late! I distracted chatting with Aunty Liu and Grandpa Zhao wanted to know how the baby’s doing and then Mama Zhang wanted to give me some tea that’s suppose to help with my back pain an . . .” The sweet, sweet voice of his angel broke through the apartment before abruptly cutting off.

Damian’s whole body twisted toward the door faster then he thought possible. There, standing in the doorway, was the most beautiful sight Damian had ever seen. His angel, dressed in a soft, baby blue shirt that proudly displayed her heavily pregnant belly and black pant, stood completely frozen as her eyes, her gorgeous blue eyes that he had missed so, so much, darted between the apartment and the two occupant.

Damian took a step forward, she instinctively took one back, panic blooming in her eyes.

“Beloved I . . .”

Damian never got father then that. As soon as he spoke, Marinette’s face drained of colour as she turned and bolted from the apartment as fast as a woman of her condition could. He raced to follow, to hold her and tell her everything would be alright. That he would take care of her and their child. Their child! The very thought of his child sent an unbelievable wave of joy coursing through him! He was going to be a father! Damian was going to spoil his angel, his beloved, rotten. They would need to have one of the manor rooms renovated into a nursery. He would need to have someone take over his patrol for the next few month, his child and soon-to-be wife would need him and . . .

Both Damian’s train of thought and path was halted by the very painful grip on his arm. Fully ready to bite Jon’s head off, Damian was silenced by the red tinted glare his friend was giving him. He immediately notice how tense Jon was. He looked like he was ready for a fight, one that the kryptonian knew he would win.

“No. You are not going after her. The last thing Mar needs is this kind of stress this far in the pregnancy.”

“But . . .”

“I said no Wayne! Mar almost lost the baby once already. I am not going to allow her to go through that again! She can’t go through that again. I can’t handle going through that again!” Jon hissed, dropping his hold on Damian’s arm as he made a beeline for the stairs.

“Jon!” Damian yelled, hoping against hope that he would change his mind. That was his girlfriend and his child, damn it. He needed to be with them.

“No, Damian! Just . . . just go. You’ve done enough.” Jon shouted as he disappeared down the stairs.

Jon’s last comment caused the young heir to pause. He had done enough? He hadn’t been given a chance to fix what he had done. How could he have done enough? Sure, he had messed up royally, but he wanted to fix it. Why wouldn’t Jon let him fix it?

Pushing those questions aside, Damian ran down the stair, praying that he would at least catch a glimpse of his beloved. But the scene that met him as he burst into the street somehow drove Jon’s parting words home. There, braced against the wall of the building across from him, was Marinette. She was curled up as tightly as she physically could be, her face buried in Jon’s shirt as she let out the most heart wrenching sobs. Damian’s body refused to move as he watched Jon gently rock the mother of his child. His body refused to move as he watched the other man stroked her hair, promising to never leave her, whispering soft words of comfort to her as he planted butterfly kisses on her head. That he would always be there. That no one was going to hurt her. That she was safe.

Seconds turned into minutes before he could summon the strength to do what Jon had said. Casting one last look at his angel, his Marinette, Damian knew that taking that mission, that leaving her, had been the worst mistake of his life.

[regrettablewritings]

Preferences: Guilty Pleasures

Characters: Okoye, Lucifer Morningstar, Dewey Finn, Peter B. Parker, Ahkmenrah

Okoye

Okoye is straightforward and stony upon first impressions. And, admittedly, even afterward. The only real difference is that, if one gets to know her better, they might find shock in the fact that in spite of her appearance, she Dora leader actually likes sweets. However, it’s not sweet things in general that Okoye feels guilty for enjoying: It’s Starbucks.

Starbucks is the antithesis of everything Okoye is associated with: Supremely un-Wakandan, a chain establishment, and overall just not worth the absurd cost. Not to mention superbly unhealthy when compared to the rest of a fighter’s typical diet. But yet you can bet that every time she needs to go out of the country or off-continent, there’s an invasive shout for joy at the possibility that she might be able to get her hands on a Frappucino (followed by an internal scolding).

She can’t even explain exactly why she likes it; there are plenty of good, even healthier sweet things back in Wakanda -- heck, back anywhere else!

But it’s a bit like when someone craves the cheap taste of school pizza over a legit pie cooked in a stone hearth: She just loves the sugary sweetness, the application of whipped cream to an already tooth-rottingly saccharine icy drink, the addition of chocolate. But Bast, she also hates it. But ever since T’Challa practically shoved a grande cup of caramel frappucino into her hands, she hasn’t felt entirely the same.

Against her better judgement, she’s more or less unintentionally tried 45% of the menu drink-wise. She doesn’t particularly care much for the food part of the establishment, though if she should ever find herself in one during the fall, she might indulge in a chunky slice of pumpkin bread under the conviction that it’s healthy enough for being gourd-related. Never mind that it’s just a cinnamon mixture with more sugar than actual pumpkin-derived anything.

Really, of all those mentioned on this list, Okoye is the one who probably feels the most disappointed in herself whenever she indulges in her guilty pleasure: It’s a betrayal to her patriotism, to her dignity, and to her attempts to eat healthy. But damn, if this type of betrayal doesn’t taste so addicting . . .

Lucifer Morningstar

The thing about Lucifer is that it’s actually a bit hard for him to feel any regrets over liking anything; he’s the Devil, after all, so his whole thing is about embracing the things that make you feel good. And even besides that, he’s mostly managed to skate by in his time on Earth by categorizing things as Stuff He Likes, Stuff He Tolerates, Stuff He Doesn’t Bother With, and Stuff Humans Seem to Enjoy But He Doesn’t Quite Get. It’s a tad restricted of a system but you can’t argue with results.

However, just because something is difficult doesn’t mean that it’s impossible. The Devil can, in fact, recognize absurdity in liking certain things. Hence why, to a point, he’s fallen prey to his own bizarre pleasures: The Devil has guilty pleasures, and it’s in stupid YouTube videos, Vine, and TikTok.

After he finally drank the Kool-Aid and got himself a smart phone, it was only a matter of time before Lucifer fell down the rabbit hole that is YouTube prank videos and strange uploads about nonsense and animal humor. It was also only a matter of time before he found himself stumbling into Vine compilations. The Celestial is terrifically mystified by the creative power of humans, managing to tell entire stories and peak comedy in only a span of seven seconds. But he’s also quite loathe to have realized it’s been long defunct by the time he’s discovered it.

He’s even more loathe to find himself making references in his daily life: He has actually quietly blurted out, “I sure hope it does” in response to seeing a Road Work Ahead sign, causing Chloe some confusion (and Lucifer lots of embarrassment). He has referred to a culprit as “Jared, Age 19″. Since discovering Vine, there has been at least one night wherein he and a bed mate were sitting there with barbecue sauce on his tiddies, but that was by sheer coincidence.

But eventually the Vine compilation well dried up, and the inevitable transfer over to TikTok happened. And Luci honestly doesn’t know what to make of TikTok. He would describe it as Vine’s Molly-addicted cousin based on its obsession with dancing, but the dances are so stationary that even that doesn’t seem quite right. The videos on the platform are also much more . . . bizarre. And some of them admittedly trigger a fight-or-flight response in him, to which he always chooses the third option of freezing if only so he can keep watching the train wreck unfold before his eyes.

The trouble with TikTok, he’ll admit to himself, is that it’s not as easy to find iconic content the same way he could with Vine. However, this isn’t to say that he hasn’t found anything worth watching over and over and over again . . .

(Let’s just say the “Wolf Pack Compilation” lives in his head rent-free, and he’s both too amused by it and too overwhelmed by its vibe to try and evict it.)

Dewey Finn

Dewey is . . . a special case. Given that he associates messy living and indulging in one’s pleasure a part of the rocker lifestyle, he’s generally quick to embrace whatever makes him happy. He’s very upfront about his interests and is arguably almost incapable of feeling shame. But it’s in there: Deep down. No, not in himself -- in his Spotify. Specifically, a Spotify account made on an email he never uses because it was made specifically to create this separate, uber secret playlist.

One marked “Actual Musical Bops.”

Dewey hates musicals: They’re cheesy, uninspired, gaudy, ridiculous, totally aimed at chicks with weird fantasies that he could never aspire to, and the music is just overall unimpressive. And yet, somehow, against his music elitist nature, a handful have managed to slip through the cracks. At the very least, a handful of numbers have clawed their way past his defenses and into his ear, where they now live rent-free.

In spite of his best efforts, the problems are that he’s a New Yorker, so it’s inevitable that he hears a song or two; and also that, as an instructor (to wealthy New York tweens whose families can afford frequent tripes to the Great White Way, no less), he’s definitely going to wind up hearing about some shows and their stand-out numbers: Against his will, he knows the lyrics to “My Shot”; he has cried in the secrecy of his apartment to “When I Grow Up”; in the never-necessary reason he needs to remember how many minutes there are in a year, he sings it inside his head; hell, he’s even found himself trying to figure out the electric guitar riff from “The Phantom of the Opera” during his down time.

What’s all the more embarrassing is that, given how he presents himself as a music elitist, there’s just no way he can come back from this if anyone were to know. He has to catch himself when he finds himself humming “Johanna” in the teacher’s lounge. He scowls at himself when he can’t sleep and gives in and starts playing “No One is Alone.” He wants to kick his thick ass every time he realizes he’s excited to have stumbled across a “slime tutorial” on YouTube, this one with better quality than the last. The reason he actually put a password on his phone wasn’t out of privacy like a sensible person would, but out of a need to make sure that no one ever found out that he had downloaded the entire Beetlejuice soundtrack, including jankily-recorded songs that never made it to the official cast recording for whatever reason!

And should anyone ever find out about any of this, Dewey has a plan: “Oh, I’m doing research. I’m studying these songs so I can give the kids a lesson on what not to do as actually competent musicians.”

But the lesson would never actually come. Mainly because he keeps prolonging his “research” . . .

He’s also developed a bit of a soft spot for My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic due to some students gushing about it, but he would rather sooner die than ever be associated with the term “brony.”

Peter B. Parker

Peter is at a point where he’s too tired to really care about the idea of guilty pleasures. The way he sees it, there are bigger priorities at stake than worrying about someone finding out about your love of some hokey activity or food or form of entertainment.

Besides, he’s a New Yorker: There’s way weirder stuff for people to just not pay any real attention to. Hence why he thinks nothing of his bizarre eating habits. And no, this isn’t referring to his disastrous appetite: This is about his tendency to eat food with his hands. Foods that, well, he really should probably utilize eating utensils for.

To be fair, this habit has always existed in him in some form or another, especially since, as Spider-Man, he often needs to eat food on the go. But during the time he spent living the life of a depressed bachelor, it came out in full force. On the rare occasion he wasn’t eating a food that deserved to be eaten by hand, he often found himself loathing the idea of doing the dishes afterward. There would be days he’d feel only slightly less depressed; enough to make a box of Kraft Mac n Cheese in the pot, but not enough to avoid cutting out the middle man.

He’s thankful the craptastic apartment wasn’t also see-through because if it were, he’s positive his neighbors would’ve thought they were bearing witness to a man’s breakdown as he wept into a pot of macaroni and cheese, his hand full of the stuff, while wearing a Spider-Man costume. (And, to be fair, they actually would be.)

In addition to this, there were also those nights where he would be prepared to actually tuck in to a plate of spaghetti, only for some crime going on elsewhere in the city to drag him away. By the time he’d return, the plate would’ve been cold and his energy too depleted to want to even dream about cleaning more than he already had to.

The great news is that he’s thankfully done a 180, now able and willing (if begrudgingly) to clean up after himself. But bad news is that this feral man will still eat a fully-loaded baked potato like an apple. In a park. In front of women and children. He’s just too tired to care anymore. He’s aware of the guilt in this as a concept, but he’s also aware that he needs to take whatever happiness he can get out of whatever he does. And if that means eating everything by hand, then so be it!

Ahkmenrah

Funnily enough, Ahkmenrah doesn’t seem to experience much of any shame for enjoying the things most might feel the need to hide: He’s constantly curious and has missed out on a lot over the centuries, so why should he feel bad for wanting to indulge in them? Celebrity gossip is just a more fun version of the palace gossip he’d grown up hearing as a boy; reality TV is like watching a play, but with much more fights, less deaths, and more faulty romances; and sloppy meatball subs are like a feast for a man of his time!

Besides, he’s a king: Kings shouldn’t have to feel embarrassment over what the common folk might think.

And yet . . . It took some time, but eventually Ahkmenrah did experience it: Guilt in his pleasures.

He couldn’t even recall where it had all started. Maybe he was searching for more content to swallow after the most recent season of his new favorite show had ended? Whatever the case, he wound up biting off more than he could chew when he stumbled upon . . . fanfiction.

The adorable yet sad thing is that he didn’t even think anything of it at first. It wasn’t until he brought up a ship he’d invested his last few nights awake exploring on the computer: Nobody knew what the crap he was talking about, so of course he felt the need to explain it. But the more he talked, the more perplexed his friends looked. And the more he could feel his cheeks and ears burn.

Oh, he thought. Is this . . . embarrassment? Is that what this feels like? Oh, this is just foul.

Thankfully, nobody pressured him to keep talking about it, but the poor king sure as heck didn’t feel much of a desire to talk any further about it. But he needed to talk to somebody about his newly acquired “feels” as those online were calling them.

Joining fanfiction-oriented sites was the next obvious step, of course, but he’s experienced mixed feelings about it: On one hand, it’s nice to talk with people who share similar views and excitement about a fictional couple. But on the other, the digital wars that have broken out both disturb him and bring out the worst in him.

Like, of course there are bigger things to deal with than whether or not So-So is better off with Him-Ham, but if you truly think that Blah-Blah and Himhaw are a healthy relationship, then you can go do a service and bury yourself in the desert sands to provide substance to the hungry beetles with your flesh --

Suffice to say, a lot of the guilt in this pleasure seems to come from the fact that Ahk can get a little too emotionally invested if the work is really good. He tries to limit his interactions to commenting and praising certain works, and encouraging content creators. However, he’s also contemplated contributing his own pieces of fiction to the fandom . . .

[ill-will-editions]

FEVER DREAMING IN THE NEW GENERAL ANTAGONISM 

Neal Miller 

March 22, 2020

We are living in the political fever dreams of COVID-19. Fredric Jameson’s oft-cited quip – “it is easier to imagine the end of the world than it is to imagine the end of capitalism” – is obsolete.[1]  Having spread across the globe, the coronavirus has become the background phenomenon and concern of every passing moment. And along with it has come the imagination of an end of capitalism. However contagious and deadly COVID-19 is as a virus, its existence as the virtual object of the world’s attention and inattention has proven far more viral in its capacity to change society – mostly by cancelling our sensibility for realism. The dull weight of the everyday has lifted to unleash nightmares and dreamscapes that have magnetized the attention of our species with a measure of universality thought to be obsolete in our post-hegemonic world.

The continuous streams of news and commentary can hardly keep up with the latest collapse of everyday life. They give us the mise en scène in which to play the endangered protagonist of a canned Hollywood disaster flic and yet we’re told to stay home, keep calm, and practice good hygiene. Stories like the one about the recent missile strikes in Iraq are quickly phone-scrolled into oblivion by the latest notifications about the disease. And so we find ourselves reawakening with disbelief to the same new reality each day. 

Following Michel Foucault’s Discipline & Punish, one might say that we live our reality as though caught between two fever dreams, which alternate depending on the nature of the immune response to the virtual presence of the virus. On the one hand, there is the suffocating nightmare of the global “plague city,” of governments securing human “life” by identifying all bodily movement and contact with disorder and death. The dream of governments today is to “return” us to a new normal in which they have won surpluses of legitimacy and control. The other dream is a dream of upheaval that won’t let go of all the vital signs of freedom amidst the pandemic. It wants to make irreversible all of the revived forms of class war, mutual aid, and social welfare, along with all of the autonomous means of survival not yet invented. 

The general antagonism today is the war on COVID-19. And whether we like it or not, we have been enlisted to the immune systems of global humanity. Yet the politics of today concerns the decision before us. Will our collective immune response intensify our cynicism about our dependency on governments? Or will we experiment with novel forms of relief and this newfound disbelief in the black magic of the economy? Will we dare to play in the festival-dream of new forms of collective life and reliance upon one another? 

The Nightmare of Governmental Realism

Today, quarantine lockdown extends from the “non-essential” flows of commuters to the fluids and gestures of our bodies, which have become paranoid colonial-style occupations of themselves. My body experiences itself as if on the other side of a gulf of unhygienic habits cracked open by the virtual omnipresence of COVID-19: I catch myself touching my face, I catalog the surfaces I’ve recently touched, and my proximity to others spontaneously triggers a quantitative calculation (“was it a distance of six feet or ten that was recommended?”). The new universal phenomenon is the object of a panicked consciousness immersed in a world that has been reduced to the medium for a disease vector. 

As for the engineers of the new order, China and Israel represent the nightmare line toward the most grim extreme of plague politics. Both have employed the metadata of people’s smart-phones to track their movements and all points of social contact. Each new case is a profile whose recent social history is rounded up for quarantine. The horizon here would be something like Chris Marker’s film La jetée (or Terry Gilliam’s remake, 12 Monkeys): humanity survives, but at the cost of complete imprisonment and dependency upon a specialized medical government.

We glimpse this suffocating nightmare in the undecidable decision facing governments with respect to their incarcerated populations: do they relieve themselves of having to manage and care for their masses of concentrated and confined bodies? Or, do they give the prison guards and wardens a blank check to administer order by any means necessary? Whereas Iran temporarily released 54,000 prisoners on March 4th, two weeks later Massachusetts prisoners lost the right to be free of cruel and unusual punishment when a moratorium was announced on all disciplinary measures for prison staff. The undecidability here is no doubt due to the intensification of what Foucault called the carceral continuum, or the fact that the “inside” of the prison extends “outside” into the racialized ghettos of urban metropolises. The quarantine regime of social distancing and “shelter in place” lockdowns has turned the “outside” into a vast space of confinement, however gilded. 

The Festival Dream of Relief

Against this new confinement, efforts at self-organization are cropping up all over in food distribution networks, rent strikes, requisitions of abandoned housing, and calls for debt jubilees. Such earnest efforts at organized care finds its parodic inversion in the devil-may-care attitudes of Spring Breakers migrating South, as well as paranoid social media speculation about riots breaking out amidst mass hoarding. All of it tracks with what Foucault called the “whole literary fiction of the festival [that] grew up around the plague.”[2] 

Things we struggled for only weeks ago have been given outright – and much more besides. In the U.S., conservative food stamp policies have been lifted, unemployment safety nets reinforced, moratoriums on various costs of living instituted, and political parties are fighting not over whether to give UBI, but how much. Those immunized in their home-bubbles are offered an increasing amount of freely circulating intellectual property, while, in Chicago, parking has been made free, evictions courts are on hold, and utility companies are giving away electricity.

The black magic of the economy has revealed itself in its very withdrawal from our lives, tempering our panic and fear with a small modicum of relief. As Dan Kois recently argued, this relief has shown just how much of American society and its ‘death on the installment plan’ is a sham.[3] The mask has come off and the wand behind the conjurations now appears in the simple arbitrariness of its operations. Why don’t all of the other ways we get sick, fear hunger, or struggle to stay afloat count as reasons for having free access to high-quality food, health-care, and shelter? If all it took was a wand waving to put a stop to bills, evictions, and the like, does this not make all of our sufferings and hardships under normal circumstances seem meaningless?  

Just as we let out our sighs, however, the nightmare visions from abroad come closer and remind us that the only continuity between what was once normal and the current state of exception is the power of governments based on our dependency. We feel this dependency whether we panic or not, whether we trust their assurances and injunctions not to hoard or whether the sight of emptied shelves floods our heads with visions of the broken supply chains and interrupted logistics that we rely on to eat. As Chuang rightly noted, the arrival of COVID-19 in Wuhan induced a paradoxical form of general strike: there is a profound work stoppage, but it is hollowed out and devoid of any subject of history. The subject of history: not even the coronavirus can assume this mantle. Our continued dependency makes the strike false.

Yet one cannot help but read the ‘New Deal’ on offer as a symptom of faltering government legitimacy and the fits of market confidence. In the U.S., the government is betting that an avalanche of compromises with Democrats will cover over the truther-response of the Trump administration and the stock sell-offs of Senate Republicans. As belief in the forces of order goes into convulsions, one thinks, ‘If they cannot guarantee our survival, all bets are off.’ As we take all these “gifts” coming down from on high, we ought to remember that the social welfare state of the 1930s New Deal was a warfare state. And what will become of our newfound alleviation without the invisible enemy that has, with its own magic, cancelled society?

A New Universal? 

On the brighter side of things, it’s worth observing that we have been given a hint to the riddle handed down from the failures of 20th century revolutionaries. For one fundamental limit of all struggles since the 1960s has been their scale. It has been a very long time since we’ve been able to think what might connect struggles happening all across the world. Despite being geographically dislocated from one another, the revolts of 2019 showed promise simply in their synchronic co-existence and their ability to repeat each others’ tactics under the maxim “Be water.” Yet not only were the problems at the heart of these struggles locally particular (despite their many commonalities), they were never able to flow together in a global strategy.

Against such a backdrop, COVID-19 portends a new universal frame of war. For however uneven the experience of vulnerability may be, the global spread of the coronavirus amounts to the generalization of the new antagonism. When was the last time we were able to share our experience of dependency on the world of governments as a crisis? The multi-generational time-scale of the climate catastrophe has so far prevented it from mobilizing all of the humanity that it dooms. Yet whether it is glowing from our screens or hanging in the ambient disquiet while we distract ourselves in quarantine, the new reality for everyone is that reality has fallen apart. 

In these fever dreams where trust in the authorities is in shorter supply than food and the means of punishment alternate between melting into air and locking down hard, it is perhaps possible to take the wand from the magician and begin conjuring a reality of our own. What is frightening about COVID-19 is how little we know about it. But just as uncertain is how governments will react to us amidst this legitimacy crisis and how peoples will respond when the repression of governments comes down too hard. 

How can we flee our dependency on the old world while “sheltering in place”? If the world is cancelled, what are all these bills, digital parking meters, and universities but the fossils and tombs of a dead world? What new uses can we still invent for what stands idle and unused around us – what role can they play in the new dream? How can we breathe new life into existing spaces of immunity, like vehicles and homes? And what new immunity spaces remain to be invented? What new forms of action at a distance are called for? We are already venturing tentative answers to these questions. We try to flow like water where we still can. However, against a virus that fills our lungs with fluid and against governments seeking to return us to the earth of realism, perhaps we should consider the element of breath, levity, relief, and jubilation: air. 

[1] Jameson, Fredric. “Future City.” New Left Review, 21, May-June 2003, 65-79.

[2] Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish. New York: Vintage, 1995, 197.

[3] Kois, Dan. “America Is a Sham.” Slate, March 14, 2020. https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2020/03/coronavirus-tsa-liquid-purell-paid-leave-rules.html  

[rhymingshadows]

His Raw Materials: Part 5

What was the world? At one time Krick would have said it was simply an empty sphere trapped in a void governed by things that thought themselves as ‘gods’ as they played with the lives of mortals for their own entertainment and that the only reason it was worth protecting was due to the fact that if it was destroyed he would lose all of his collected power. But now? The world was his to seize and save.  His to preserve.  His to control and lord over.  No longer was he a simple warrior in the quest to preserve the world.  He was now a leader in a struggle centuries in length.  Once, his old master, ‘The Speaker of Darkness’ had defended ‘The Eclipse Disk’ from being claimed and destroyed by the ‘Emissary of Light’ and the rabid fanatics of her ‘Cult of the Radiant Dawn’. Despite her name, the ‘Emissary of Light was no holy warrior. She was a void mage as dark and sinister as any Krick had known but she had long ago masked her powers and true intention behind masks and empty hymns.  Who would suspect that the Emissary of Light sought not to save the world by destroying the Eclipse Disk, but end it by unleashing the destructive powers sealed within. For so long Krick had simply been an emotionless mage serving ‘The Voice of Darkness’ to keep the Eclipse Disk safe. But that had changed. So much had changed. He had changed. And all because he’d met the woman who was now his wife. Kataani Nbolo.  His Andromeda.  The brightest star in his sky.  The woman that had reminded him to be human and that power was pointless if you had no one to share it with.  She had shattered his walls and made him human again.  She was his reason for everything now. The reason he endured.  And he had much to endure.  He had to endure the frustration of his brothers-in-law.  He needed to endure the responsibility of training his apprentice Orochi. He had to endure the the bonds of growing friendship with Kyt’ir and Niobe while making sure he knew how best to use Helga Stormwind.  He had to endure the Witch Hunter Captain Hojo and his horde of fanatics. And heaviest of all his burdens was the burden of leadership he now bore. The ‘Voice of Darkness’ was dead and her followers too.  Only Krick remained from her order.  It now fell to the necromancer and his barely established “Nisshoku Group” to stand against the tide of the Radiant Dawn and their quest to destroy the disk, and Eorzea with it.  Krick and his crew of his ‘monsters and madmen’ were burdened with this task most of them had never asked for.  But Krick would not fail. Because he had re-discovered that there were things in this world worth fighting for.  That people dear to him were worth killing for.  Let his detractors call him a monster. Let them say his methods were the means of a devil.  Let the whole world hate him.  What would it matter so long as the world continued on so that those he found dear could continue to live, smile, laugh and play.  Krick slowly approached the caravan his reanimated corpses had been butchering with their broken weapons as he had been lost in thought.  The bodies of numerous Radian Dawn members lay bleeding at his feet as his green eyes surveyed the ruined carts and rent bodies.  Three carts and nearly a dozen soldiers were dead in the snows of the Coerthas road.  Four zombies of Krick’s original dozen still remained whole enough for his energies to continue and animate their bodies.  A fifth figure stood in black chainmail holding a pair weeping swords.  Blood and green venom dripped off the blades as Tray’ju Estinoch looked over at Krick.  Tray’s chest rose and fell as his mismatched blue-and-black eyes watched the necromancer.  Inside the red-headed ninja burned the terrible bloodlust Krick had installed nearly two years ago and the memory of that transformation made the necromancer flick his tail in satisfaction. “Foul devil...” came a gasp.  The two surviving Radiant Dawn soldiers were on their knees.  Krick turned his green eyes towards them and smirked cruelly as he approached them.  A zombie stood behind each soldier and had swords pressed to their throats.  Krick knelt before them. “I only need one messenger...” Krick commented coldly as he looked at the two hyurs and then held the gaze of the man with brown eyes.  A centipede crawled out of Krick’s left ear and the  two soldiers watched in disgust as the large insect slithered free from inside the miqo’te ear, trailed down his body and then scurried across the snow towards the kneeling soldier.  The insect’s dripping mandibles found a gap in the leg armor and wormed their way in before they drove into the hyur’s flesh.  The solider screamed and withered as the venom ate at his veins, melting them as the toxin spread.  In less than a minute, the soldier was dead and Krick looked at the lone survivor. “Run back to your ‘Emissary of Light’.  Run back to your false idol and tell her I am looking forward to dismantling her little lie corpse by corpse until I stand before her and force one of my centipedes down her throat to feast on her insides.”  A sadistic smile twitched over his lips as he reached out and gently caressed the hyur’s cheek.  The warrior glared and pulled away from Krick’s touch in disgust.  “Oh?  You find that disagreeable?” Krick raised an eyebrow.  “Well, I do suppose I could use another skull for my throne instead.” He patted the hyur’s cheek before the zombie’s blade suddenly drove into the warrior’s throat.  The solider looked so confused at the sudden death crawling into his body as Thal came to claim his due. “Well he won’t be given a message meow...” Tray’ju commented as  flicked his pierced tail and looked at the twitched corpse. “The dead can be very effective messengers.” Krick rose to his feet, snapping his fingers and ending his control over his zombies.  The bodies collapsed among the dead and lay still as Krick turned to looked at his brother-in-law.  “And what message is dat?” Tray snorted as he spun his blades, flinging the gore and venom from them before he sheathed his twin swords. “That the rules have changed.  I’m not playing this game only in the shadows like my predecessor did.  I will be dragging this fight to the Radiant’ Dawn’s door with no prisoners taken.” “A bold strategy.” Tray mused slowly as he licked his lips with his pierced tongue, a wild light twinkling in his eyes as he glanced around the carnage he had helped create. “Fortune favors the bold.” Krick answered, his tone flat. His eyes flared green and he snapped his fingers.  Shadows teemed around the feet of the miqo’te’s for a moment and then then vanished into their own shadows leaving the mountain winds to moan solemnly among the ruined remains of the caravan.

[sebaekficrec]

I love reading Sebaek long fic (with many chapters) so can you recommend some of them? Thanks in advance!

Hello ! tbh I don’t read chaptered fics often and I don’t even think there are many out there for sebaek. There aren’t many new sebaek fics coming out often to be honest, especially chaptered ones so you might’ve read some of these already. 

if anyone ever sees a new sebaek fic they like feel free to submit to share with everyone! 

pilgrimage by wolfsupremacist

That was how it went for years, Sehun thinks to himself. He had come of age eight summers ago, but Junmyeon always took the pilgrimage himself. And Sehun was fine with that.

Until he wasn’t, of course.

He doesn’t know exactly what changes inside him, but with twenty-four summers under his cap, he thinks himself due for an adventure.

Demon Tamer by daestruct

“Oh, Baekhyun.” Long fingers trail over the markings on Baekhyun’s back, and the streets are filled with a dance of hellfire. “Has no one ever told you that Hell would love you?” The moon begins to bleed.

A Reason to Fight by Sehun_x_Baek 

Oh Sehun was a perfect soldier who knew nothing of life besides the hardships of war. It wasn’t until Byun Baekhyun appeared that Sehun was finally exposed to the more beautiful things in life…but would he ever understand love?

Nine Lives Antiques by Sehun_x_Baek (just check out Sehun_x_Baek’s acc if u haven’t already she has a lot of chaptered fics i’m not going to link all of her stories bc she has quite a few so just check her out, she also has an AFF)

A story of a cat, a wolf, an antique shop, and a bit of magic ☆．。．:*･°

sweet sleep by wolfsupremacist

On a wolf’s two hundred and fiftieth moon, they Sleep.

Baekhyun isn’t sure what to make of his dreams when he finally awakens.

Sky and Sea, All the World is Blue by shinealightrose

Baekhyun’s life is thrown into chaos when he accepts a mysterious job on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Touch, Seperate. by GabbyWritesStuff

At Twenty Four, Baekhyun was sure he had seeen what life had to offer. Sex, smoking, money, existing. Nothing much really mattered except those four things, till coincidence had drawn him to Sehun, or maybe the fate of a rusty car picking him up from a curb.

Or,

Rent boy Baekhyun meets Virgin College boy Sehun who changes his world.

Parachute bysincelight 

Sehun is just another college boy in love with his best friend. But when the truth comes out, and his heart is broken, Baekhyun wants to be there to save the day.

Paper Skin byNightbirdsong 

Baekhyun has a messy life. Typical for a young boy, typical for the perfect sob story. But he isn’t getting himself into trouble all the time like people would think he does. No, he just spends all his free time hiding in the bookstore of Mister Oh, who seems to be constanly reading and who knows everything about everyone. It’s nothing special, this little bookstore. Until Baekhyun gets sucked right into a book and ends up stuck with a broody knight called Sehun and his Cheshire friend Chanyeol. Well, this world is surely out of the biggest cliche Baekhyun has ever seen. Faeries are not to trust and mermaids are pretty. And mages are weird.

The Beginning Of Lust by Sehun8gfat

Sehun’s too desperate to get his hands on those expensive medicines which have been prescribed for his mother that he’s willing to do absolutely anything. he’s sold anything they didn’t really need, to save up some and now that he knows the exact amount of money he should pay, all the thoughts of finding a healthy, normal job leave his mind. So instead of contributing his job as a bartender he agrees to give his virginity to someone he has never met and signs all the contracts given to him without even glancing at the words written on those papers. 

Shake Hands With The Devilby mminnex

Baekhyun needs a great sum of money to pay off his debt and keep his brother safe. Sehun has an abundance of cash and is looking for a sex slave.

Day And Night byfaerylights

Sehun could feel his heart stop beating, caged within his ribs with no function for that brief moment. It’s a different kind of awe when he had first seen the collision of stars, the scorching blaze of the sun, the wavering of the moon. It’s another kind of awe when he finally registered the beauty that the boy carried on his face alone; skin white as snow and hair black as night. If he had no seen the boy appearing along with the daywalkers, anyone could easily mistake him for a nightwalker. He was awfully pale for someone who comes from the day world. But then again, isn’t Sehun something special too?

140506 byfaerylights (this author has more chaptered fics i believe so check them out)

Sehun thinks - Sehun thought - that the happiness that filled his head and his heart and his soul would never end. But then again, a lot of what Sehun thought weren’t true. 

Everything Changes byLotusK

Baekhyun adn Sehun have been friends forever. But their relationship begins to alter when they begin sharing an apartment and Baekhyun becomes attracted to a more grown up, more assertive Sehun.

perfect's for the urgent (baby I want forever) by zyximb/awkward-asshole (aka me lmao)

baekhyun's a self-proclaimed expert matchmaker on his way to change his best friend's life and he just so happens to need sehun's help along the way (even if it kills him).

a prisoner to my addiction by zyximb /awkward-asshole (shameless plug of my own stories lmfao...) 

baekhyun is pure. he’s warm and soft and sweet. he’s everyhing that sehun isn’t and for some reason, sehun just cant seem to stay away.

[redditnosleep]

B is for Barnacle

by mrmichaelsquid

Gray clouds swirled overhead when I opened the shop door, spilling fast over the sky like lint on a treadmill. The storm was supposed to miss us but debris twisting in dust devils whispered otherwise, leaving the ocean air cold and salty. I usually enjoyed forces of nature, but the chill sought out the clothing gaps to bare skin through my shirt holes and sock ends, so I stomped out the pre-roll I’d been puffing out with the heel of my Timbs to retreat indoors. I popped a few tic tacs when my phone vibrated and I saw the severe storm warning alert accompanied by the annoying tone. Seemed the seaside storm wasn’t going to miss us, it was on target to hit all of us in York, Maine dead center, and soon.

I stand out like a sore thumb in the oceanside town of York with my Flatbush gear; Champion hoodie over a vintage Polo tee and all, but I’m not here to blend in. I’m attending the University of New England, focusing on marine biology (thanks to a generous partial scholarship), and I can afford rent here, not to mention the under 40 minute commute to school. My evening job as a sandwich jockey pays the rent and gives me time to study during the lulls we experience in the off season.

I checked my text messages, hoping to hear back about getting coffee with a classmate. No response, it seemed Diane was not interested aside from being my lab partner, no news to me. No word from Ron about getting a beer after work either, so I returned back inside from the smoke break to man the sandwich station. This consisted of reading about cyanobacterial blooms while waiting for any York locals in town off season who direly needed a turkey and cheese during a freak storm. It was nearing 10 PM, and I expected we’d close early due to the last-minute alert and the announcement on the radio about the severity of the weather conditions. I was about to head to the register to ask the owner Janice, who must have been watching something truly vulgar on her laptop, about leaving early when a jingle of the door signaled a customer. A man entered in a dramatic stagger, his left foot dragging in a labored trudging as though he’d limped through hell straight into our modest, seaside convenience store.

Janice greeted him, but his head just hung low, nearly out of view under a sunbleached Sou’wester hat and faded blue raincoat. Stripped by the elements of color, his PVC storm gear was flecked with crusted clumps of gray; they were barnacles. A soggy white beard spilled out from under the tipped cap, wet tendrils emerging from skin nearly as white and wrinkled by what seemed like decades of wear. A bang jolted me alert as a massive gale smacked the door fully open, slapping the wooden frame of the newsstand. A barrage of rain drummed hard and wet from the sky and a shocking gust of wind forced our eyes to squint from debris just as the man collapsed, first onto his knees and then onto his stomach on the floor. Janice rushed to his side calling “Sir? Sir, are you alright?”, but he was not responsive. I held my phone up and Janice nodded. I tried 911 and then the hospital directly, but the storm must have killed a cell tower, there was no service.

The saltwater tempest beat unmercifully upon us as Janice and I carried the older man, whom we presumed to be a fisherman, into my Explorer after confirming a pulse. The hospital was just over ten minutes away, but the toppling branches and thunderous white bullets of rain made driving with zero visibility at night an undoubtedly terrible idea. Even the streetlights of Long Beach Ave were off due to toppled power lines from the intense wind. The cold rain drenched us through to the bone, my entire body was numb and stinging by the time we hauled that far-too-heavy stranger back inside of the store. We barricaded the door as best we could from the freak weather and flipped the man on his back and I yelled in shock at the sight of his face.

He had a brutal, vertical scar straight down the center of his face and there were small thoracica barnacles on the edges of his hairline (the common type often found on rocks and boats). There were dozens of them, a few on the sides of his crooked nose and the corners of his sunken eyes. I stared in absolute shock; barnacles are arthropods like crabs, they attach their backs onto a host with their legs facing outward before building a cement wall (which looks like a shell) of armor, a process that takes days or even weeks to form. The process is extremely painful in the very rare instance they land in a human host. I was amazed that this man had let this happen, perhaps he’d been in a seaside coma? Every answer opened a string of additional, unanswerable questions. I was horrified and extremely confused but knew he needed serious help so I focused on that. I ran to fetch the electric heater and some tarps from the stockroom to help warm the poor man. When I returned from the stockroom, Janice was performing CPR, and that’s when I discovered the horrific reason the barnacles had been able to grow undisturbed.

Janice breathed into his mouth with a puzzled look on her face as we both heard that loud cracking sound. I slowly approached, seeing the dark red line form on the man’s face, dividing the eyes and nostrils as the crack extended. The man’s face split open, and what looked like a fan comprised of giant centipedes spewed out from the gory slit in his face and wrapped around Janice’s head, pulling it in. My jaw dropped in horror, but instincts drove my sprinting feet to the knives I kept at the sandwich counter. I charged back to the snaking tendrils, realizing they were actually cirri, the legs of barnacles but at an impossibly mammoth scale. A larva had somehow entered this sailor’s nasal passage or mouth and grown far larger than what I knew to be possible, a new species perhaps. I had no interest in discovering it at the moment, and my butcher’s knife sawed at those powerful, shelled snakes that were pulling her face into the cavity of the sailor’s rotted head.

The mammoth, snaking cirri wrapped around my wrist, squeezing my flesh and difficult to cut into, but I eventually sawed through them to free Janice, who was bleeding from her head and clearly in shock. The long, curling legs retreated into the dead sailor’s face, which snapped closed as his skull was pulled shut by the mammoth parasite inside. I dragged Janice away from that host of a man and tried to wrap my head around the nightmare. I knew of deep-sea gigantism, or abyssal gigantism, which occurs at great depths, but this was beyond what I’d thought possible. This seemed to be a symbiotic relationship that kept the barnacle and the sailor alive long after he should have died. I stared at his still body briefly before running back to it, dragging it by the feet outside of the store.

I felt the knobbed barnacles on his ankles reaching forth cirri onto my hands as I pulled him, pinching me and wrapping around my fingers. I got him about 20 feet from the store when I had to let go. The freezing rain beat me mercilessly, and I ran indoors as quickly as possible, nearly losing my bearings and my snapback cap due to the severity of the storm and encompassing darkness of the night. Janice was shaking, and I wrapped the tarp around her and tried to comfort her, but her gaze was distant. I wiped blood from her lacerated forehead and applied pressure to the gashes on her neck and the back of her head, thinking of how deep sea creatures get stranded in shallow waters due to rising temperatures and water pollution. Polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) polluting the Mariana and other oceanic trenches have been theorized to lead to the surfacing of some rarely seen species, in addition to tectonic disturbances and glacial melting, but this was something entirely unknown. I tried to process what I’d seen while cleaning the red gouges of Janice’s wounds when I heard the horrific scream of a woman outside.

I ran to the door, cracking it slightly to see the neighbor, Ms Berthold, emerge from her house, swatting at her drenched and moving sweater. The corpse of the sailor was gone, the beating rain having washed any trace of from which direction away from the sidewalk and street. I shouted to the woman, but she collapsed, and I realized I might join her fate if I intervened. She was covered in small moving things. I was retreating back to the door of the shop when I saw the head, dragging itself from those long, jointed legs spilling from the split face of the sailor’s corpse. A horrifically long tentacle extended from the split in the man’s skull, snaking upward like a mammoth worm. I remembered reading Darwin in class last semester, and I finally vomited on the rain-slicked asphalt. Barnacles have the largest “member” of the animal kingdom, a solid “Hell no” filled the air before I realized I’d even said it. Another round of screaming behind me alerted me again to the woman, who was sprinting towards me from two houses down with a horrific wail, crawling with hundreds of living things.

I was about to be pinned, and I watched the woman in horror, her pink-streaked skin covered with holes as she ran towards me, holes from which climbed sacculina larva the size of lima beans. My eyes widened in the nightmarish realization of what was going to happen to her. Sacculina are a parasitic barnacle that castrates crabs and uses them as a host for their own eggs in their genital region. To put it bluntly, they destroy their host’s genitals and become a giant egg sac there, a giant saltwater nope. I screamed at this point, running sideways to avoid the nightmares in front of and behind me that were approaching, darting off inland and praying Janice would know to lock the doors. To try and reach her now was not only impossible, it would lead to a fate far worse than death.

I ran blind in the consuming darkness further inshore, as nearly horizontal darts of icy rain beat into my gore-tex jacket and into my face. My mind was spinning, there was no way to get to my car without being overtaken so I ran away from the lighthouse, deep inland to try and get to my only friend who lived near the store, my bud Ron. Thunder flashed the sky white, illuminating horrible things each time I looked back as I ran from them. I saw what appeared to be giant isopods the size of Labradors crawling from the ocean and hundreds of tiny larva covering the streets and the sides of house. There were multiple corpses being dragged by their faces from the segmented legs spilling from within, some of the bodies long rotted and bloated from saltwater, others missing extremities or their lower half entirely. I ran nearly blind from the storm, but somehow made it to Ron’s, pounding on the door with a fist and praying for a miracle. I looked back to see what appeared to be the friendly Mr. Beckhart charging towards me, his face skinless, pulpy and split spilling chunks of flesh and outwardly clawing cirri. In the last second, the door marked by a tarnished, brass “26” opened and I slid inside, slamming and locking it behind my drenched, shivering body.

Ron seemed confused but I shook him to convey the urgency of the situation and asking him for duct tape to cover the mail slot and all possible gaps in the doors and windows. He seemed vacant and detached as if he’d just woken from a nap, but I explained everything to him as I raced to secure his small house on Pine street. His face was clammy and pale, an odd milky white as he slowly spoke, “I moved here because I love the saltwater, the sea, the fish”, in a monotone voice that didn’t sit right, his eyes turning to the floor. I then saw the fishing cooler in the living room, lid ajar with a wet trail spilling outward and leading over to a red puddle in the middle of the floor. His sad, tearful eyes drooped in harsh juxtaposition to the smile spreading across his face, dripping thick strands of saliva from parting, quivering lips. I saw the little bumps of grey clustered on his temples and in his thinning hair that framed his tormented eyes, and I ran. I sprinted to Ron’s bathroom with him nearly on my heels. I quickly locked the pounding door, shoving towels into the gap and duct taping them as quickly as my shaking hands would permit.

Horrific sounds now click, scratch and clatter in addition to an occasional scream from outside the barricaded window along with the hammering rain and cracking thunder of the storm. Ron stopped banging on the door, now merely scraping with thin, crustacean limbs on the wood between us, his mind likely gone. I can’t get the image of his twisted, smiling face out of my mind, and I feel that madness is perhaps setting in as I chuckle to myself in his small bathroom. People often seem to fear invasions from the stars, rarely concerned about our own planet which is over 70% ocean. All I know is if I get out of here alive, I’m changing fields to focus on becoming a chef far inland in the Midwest, at a restaurant that doesn’t serve any form of seafood.

[alliance-recruitment-agency-blog]

Headhunters Nyc - Popular Ice Hockey Bar In Manhattan And New York City

Applying for fashion jobs huh? You're finally reading this. You are near your computer getting in order to start submitting resumes and waiting around for interview call buttocks. But wait! Don't do one thing else if you read pertaining to of clues about and issue into google that you've the dedication required to try for and work in vogue. There are several crucial anyone must know before attempting to get fashion perform. Sure the movie "The Devil Wears Prada" shows us several of the craziness of the fashion industry but let's just discuss this injury is a bit as well as give you some realistic expectations a person begin decide to proceed. 

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Nyc Headhunters - The Ultimate Secret Of Nyc 

If an individual might be willing to the change that you need to see the actual world world, you will need to to look a little out belonging to the ordinary. To your seem a little off-center. Wind up be called crazy.

Image Source:

Headhunters In Nyc - The Secrets To Nyc   

Stay & Play New Year's Eve Package For anyone wishing to remain overnight, Presque Isle Downs & Casino is offering a special Stay & Play package that any one night stay during a nearby hotel (Courtyard by Marriott or Hilton Garden Inn), $7 free slot play per person, free shuttle service between the resort and the casino plus hot breakfast for two on New Year's Afternoon.

Video Source:

Headhunters For Nyc - The Secrets To Finding World Class Tools For Your Nyc Quickly  

Listening to Music - For me the music needs to stop barking with a light tempo that is conducive for reflection. Truly like my show tunes nevertheless i can't for you to "You Can't Stop the Beat from Hairspray" without taping my toes and singing. Chopin's piano music would work well for me. What would work for you? 

Hire Headhunters Nyc -  13 Secret Things You Didn't Know About Nyc

When researching terrorism, Experienced the opportunity examine close up and even touch C-4 explosive. Automobile demonstrated by drawing a line around a 3 in x 3 in section and told me that has been created enough to blow up a whole city obstruction. As I recall, the C-4 explosives were the proportions a brick and slightest gray colored and the feel of professional molding clay.

The job didn't last - regarding a month or so, as i decided we was more appropriate behind a receptionist desk instead associated with kitchen. I Headhunters Nyc didn't touch the wok for years, but later when i found myself out of college, along with a hectic jobs in nyc and often no period for cook, the stir-fry became my messiah. 

14 years later Discovered myself still fascinated in this particular industry as the young engineer. It is overwhelming. Most of time I will not clue what i am . There are a great deal of codes, circumstances, and Headhunters In Nyc owners preferences to understand exactly to be able to do in every situation. Is actually a saying in the industry sector that together with time whining everything and can be good and your job, it is time to retire. My pops has visited the sell for 30 years more than I have and he still doesn't know everything he needs to know. He is however not bad at his job when he knows what mistakes could be made because he has seen it all happen. Exactly how can I be finest without 30 years of experience?

All in all, you will discover several avenues one might pursue for autism treatment for adults. Only one of least difficult and easiest is providing them with an involving emotional customer support. In the end, treatment for adults with autism can encompass many different things, but finding friendship and emotional support won't be overlooked.

We have watched a roller coaster of an '08/'09 season that five weeks ago saw the Birds just about nailed shut in their coffin, swept away for the rest from the season almost as much ast they has become last year, and the entire year before that, and the season before which in turn. Then head coach Andy "Big Buddha" Reid benched quarterback Donovan McNabb, and also the team has literally risen like Lazarus from the dead. McNabb has been playing through his mind; grizzled defensive genius Jim Johnson has shaken the bones of his aging D-line until they rattled and shook. There's hope in metropolis of Philadelphia that this football-crazed town hasn't obtained in too long of some time. 

The main benefit which are then found in the region of Albany is the living financial impact. If a person wants to rent an area in Albany, then the rent it costs low as opposed to rent cost in the urban cities like Ny and several parts of the nation. A three bedroom house could be rented at a cost of $500 excluding the utility fees. Even with the utility bill the maximum rent can sum doing $700. Compared to a three bedroom house on the inside urban cities, the costs are low.

I remember riding the train from New Jersey to The big apple to my day piece of work. I was journaling in a notebook and that i thought,"Gosh, how am I going to try this?" I had bought into the mantra, "Build it and they will come," if I first started my business, I was struggling to obtain clients

Swayze plays James Dalton, a guru in the field of doorway security (bouncing). When he's hired due to his jobs in nyc, he's entrusted with the care of the most troublesome roadside bars to all of Mo. When not training other bouncers at the Double Deuce, failing for each other and fighting off a nasty local businessman, Dalton can be a cerebral threat who holds certain amount in Philosophy from NY 

However, Ralph Lauren's primary objective has remained to make the quintessential American look, together with clothing he designs. He created the costumes for a couple of major films in the 1970s: "The Great Gatsby" (1973), and "Annie Hall" (1978). Ralph Lauren's goal isn't generate "fashion" as such. Instead, his mission might be to create clothes that might described as "timeless classics." Such clothing doesn't go out-of-style from one fashion season to the subsequent. 

Jeff Slate: So I'm of course curious concerning story behind Long Wave, but I'm intrigued on your revisiting the ELO material too. As i listen to those new ELO recording just sound dazzling. They still retain that magic that they had when When i first heard them as a kid, nevertheless voice sounds phenomenal and it is also really well recorded, that this sounds maybe better as compared to old days, and it will do seem like from a producers standpoint that you've taken might help to prevent knew back when you made the original records and imbued the actual recordings with 30 years worth of expertise. So let's talk about the ELO record and good reason.

The announcement of Keflezighi, Abdirahman, and Ritzenhein provides race two members within the 2012 Oughout.S. Olympic men's marathon team and one member of their 10,000-meter team, respectively. Boosting the depth for this American roster are talented pros Jason Hartmann, Guor Marial, Janet Bawcom, Serena Burla, Maegan Krifchin, Adriana Nelson, Molly Pritz, Stephanie Rothstein Bruce, and Lindsey Scherf. 

Resources:Information to do this article comes from following the careers of artists listed, news stories, magazine articles, reading biographies and autobiographies, in addtition to talking to public opinion on a personal level. I verified data I remembered by visiting websites and at Wikepedia over the web.

Author Name:- Shreya Mehta

Address:- 104 Esplanade ave 120, 

                  Pacifica, CA

Mobile No:- +1 917-668-8461

[hellshearthrob]

JOHNNY’S RP PLOTTING CHEAT-SHEET

Want new-and-exciting plots for your character? Long to reach out to more of your followers, but don’t know where to start? Fear not! Fill out this form and give your RP partners both present and future all the of juicy jumping off points they need to help you get your characters acquainted.

Be sure to tag the players whose characters YOU want more cues to interact with, andrepost, don’t reblog! Feel free to add or remove sections as you see fit. Templatehere.

Mun name: Rex!!!!! My pronouns have been they/them for a long while but name just recently got flopped around because I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis and I know most people still call me by my dead female pronoun name but I’m definitely more responsive to literally anything else. OOC Contact: IM is open to mutuals for forever and you can always ask me for skype. 

Who the heck is my muse anyway:

JOHNNY BLAZE was a young man facing tragedy in his personal life: his mother had left him from a young age, his father was dead, his foster mother had died in an auto accident he caused, and his foster father Crash Simpson was dying of cancer. He did what any young man would do in the situation. He summoned the devil and made a deal to save Crash’s life. The deal was seamless for a few days and Crash was miraculously cured only to die during a motorcycle stunt jump days later.

ENTER GHOST RIDER.

Mephisto had done just what he promised, which meant despite the death Johnny was in debut to the devil himself. He bound Johnny’s soul to The Rider’s making them as one though for a long time Zarathos, the demon that lives inside him, was very over powering with the help of Roxanne Simpson, the love of Johnny’s life and the daughter of the family he’d caused the downfall of, he managed to conquer the beast and resume his life for a while. They bought the circus they had both grown up in and had two children as he clung on to normalcy. But the demon has been with him on and off for years and eventually it would be the downfall of Roxanne. She traded their kids away for an empty promise that Johnny would not become the rider again and then was killed by Mephisto’s son Blackheart. 

Everything since the death of the only woman he’s ever loved and their two children has simply been Johnny Blaze trying to pick up the pieces of his life and find meaning when he’s already had the best Heaven can offer and the worst Hell can dish out.

Points of interest:

LIGHTS, CAMERA, FAILED HOLLYWOOD CAREER: Johnny is a C-list celebrity. He started out as a stunt double after leaving the circus for bigger and better things (or rather bigger and worse cities where Zarathos could have his fill of feeding off sin) and slowly worked his way up the hollywood food chain as producers and casting directors realized he was too pretty to get paid to slam his face into the pavement. While he’s done everything from cheesy action movies to reality tv he’s not much more then a wash out in the world of stars and fame. Occasionally a tabloid magazine will announce that he’s on his death bed which is why you haven’t seen him in the background of your favorite flicks but otherwise he’s infamous actor with a very strange and very small cult following. 

WITTY DESPITE ETERNAL DAMNATION: Johnny is not moody and unable to quip with the best of the super gang. He’s moody and capable of hashing out zingers. Not all plots with him have to be heavy handed and hell-centered. Johnny is a man trying to make the best of his life after a series of tragedies only Lemony Snicket would dream up. He has learned after years of repressed emotion and general mangst that poking fun at yourself is one of the only ways to get by. However, sometimes the prods he makes at himself are more along the lines of jabs which is to say he is very capable of making the atmosphere heavy by taking a joke at his expense too far. 

ANTI-HERO SMOLDER: Very often because of the gnarly appearance of The Rider and his history, Johnny is regarded as a villain by his fellow superheroes. But as advertised he is the most supernatural hero there is in the fact he is a hero. In his early years, when he had less control of The Rider, he was more of a catch twenty-two as he punished evil but left destruction in his wake. Now a days a penance stare, a.k.a. instant death for one’s sins, is more of a specialty menu item then a guarantee when encountering him. More often then not the people he’s meant to work along side can only remember him for the boy who could not control his demons and treat him as such but now a days The Rider has been tamed realizing he needs Johnny just as much as Johnny needs him.

THE DUALITY OF HELL’S HEARTTHROB: On the subject, Johnny and Zarathos are two separate entities both living in Johnny’s body. Zarathos can jump from host to host but has made himself at home cozied up to Johnny’s soul. Johnny, after decades of having the worst roommate imaginable, has learned to control Zaratho’s power as his own so when he lights up and turns into the Rider it’s not by any means Zarathos assuming control of Johnny’s physical form. Although, he can take control it takes extreme circumstances where Johnny finds himself completely and totally weakened which can mean either emotionally or physically. Johnny is constantly at all times putting steely determination towards beating back the demon that lives inside him from assuming control. Even more so when he’s in his rider form as the power is borrowed. 

What they’ve been up to recently:

ALL NEW, ALL SUPERSEDED: Johnny is no longer the only or even main Ghost Rider in town. There has always been more then one rider but Robbie has more or less taken the job he has barred on his shoulders for decades. The transition is not seamless and he’s always on the back burners, ready to step in and tutor the new rider but he’s found that no matter how much he’d like the teenagers who keep getting the inescapable powers of hell to like him and accept his help it’s usually not the case. Perhaps letting a teen boy run free range with the power they both know he has is not wise but Johnny is letting him make his own mistakes as he travels down country back roads and alley ways looking for messes to clean in the mean time. Got a ghost? A demon? A vampire? Consider giving Johnny a call. He’s taken to functioning as doctor on house call for dispelling evil and whatever other odd jobs he can get his hands on (still paying that mortgage on the circus he bought in the 90′s).

Where to find them:

The abandoned fairgrounds of  Crash Simpson's Daredevil Cycle Show in Illinois

Up and down the southern highways of America

Los Angles, California finishing up that soap opera he accidentally signed up for

Hell

Current plans:

FINDING PEACE: Johnny has spent years attempting unsuccessfully to move past the death of his wife and children. He has been searching for a trail to follow for years in the wake of an emptiness he can not fill no matter how many times he saves the world from hell trying to creep it’s way out from the bowels of the earth and has been always unsuccessful. Both heaven and hell have teased him with ways to get his family back more then once: beat down the forces of evil and we’ll let you see your family for one shining moment behind the golden gates or maybe make another contract with another demon and we’ll bring their bodies back to life with no regards for their soul. He’s trying to move on but it’s hard when everyone knows exactly what you want and needs something from you. It would help if he attempted to make friends with anyone but his head is stuck in the past and his body is listlessly going through the loop of failing to find himself some peace.

BEATING BACK HELL: Although there isn’t a large scale apocalypse every day Johnny finds it therapeutic to seek out the little pieces of hell and sin that have scattered themselves across his world and stomp them out one by one. Got a cult budding in your small town? Call Johnny. Need a ghost busted? Call Johnny. Need a demon exorcised? Call Johnny and he’ll call Daimon and bring him along for the ride. He’s busied himself with getting rid of the tiny bits of evil that crop up, hoping that if he gets rid of enough of it one day he can get rid of all of it. At the end of the day his goal is to destroy the power structure of hell, but as brash as the stunt rider is he’s learning to take baby steps.

Desired interactions:

FRIENDSHIPS: Johnny is a sad, sad little man. Due to his grizzly appearance while gallivanting around as a hero it’s easy to say he has trouble making friends. But Johnny is a proud man despite how mopey he is and he’s not one to admit to his own loneliness. Should you ever ask he’s tell you that the ghost rider doesn’t need friends whether he’s powered up or not. While he’s more then willing to use the powers as hell as an excuse for his own isolation it still takes it’s toll on him. I’m not adding romance to this because I’m not actively looking for it but I’m also not closed off to it. 

ENEMIES: He’s a man of hell, reformed or not. He has was more or less own by the devil himself for years and forced o do his bidding. You wanna do a plot where Johnny did your character way back in the day? Let’s go for it! You want your character to hate Johnny exclusively on the premise of him being a servant of hell? Go for it! Don’t be afraid of your character hating the monster that the ghost rider is and always will be no matter how in control Johnny is. (P.S. I’m always down for well plotted out fight threads)

Offered interactions:

NO MORE PICTURES TMZ: Does your character love soap operas? Telenovelas? Reality TV? Johnny has had a supporting role AT LEAST in everything under the sun. There’s nothing this boy wouldn’t do for an extra dollar to pay rent. Feel free to approach him on the basis of having seen him somewhere once. Was it that infomercial you were too tired to turn off but too awake to fall asleep during at 3am? Probably! Snap a selfie with him!

LOCAL GHOSTBUSTER: Hire him to take care of your supernatural problems. Johnny Blaze is an on call supernatural hunter that charges probably too low for his services when called because of that pesky bleeding heart of his. Even if you didn’t call him in his Rider form he can sniff out evil and chase it for miles down an empty country road and he’ll probably show up to the scene of the crime with some salt and very old book he can’t read the latin in to save the day. 

COTTON CANDY DREAMS: After the closing of the circus he grew up in many of the mutants he grew up with and considered neighbors and family moved to District X and after the destruction of District X they were left with no where to turn. It was long after Roxanne’s death and Johnny wasn’t doing much more with the circus they’d promised to raise their children in then sitting in the bleachers and getting self pity drunk in it. He invited them back, they reopened it without his help, and while he’s more down trotten than the boy they remember they appreciate the free reign they have over the running of the circus. He hasn’t done a real show in years but that doesn’t mean the now re-pen circus run by mutants to display their powers isn’t his home and base of operations. If you’re lucky you could always catch him practicing on your trip to Crash’s Circus. 

Current open post/s:

I post starter calls like weekly. You can keep an eye out or just directly contact me for plotting. 

Anything else?

I love my dead gay son

Tagged by: @incartoonhell

Tagging: whoever wants to!!!!

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Try This 5

Try This 5

Warmup:

These are the belongings of a family being evicted. Who are they? How many are they? Give them names. Whose is the stuffed dog? Why are they being evicted? Who do they blame? Where will they go? What awaits them there?

Pontiac, MI. Jan, 2009-

Another middle-class African-American family has lost their home due to what financial experts are now calling The Great Recession. Jackie and Roger Jeffords have been living in their 3 bedroom home for nearly 11 years with their children, Ricki, Andrew, and Pier before their loan was sold by SunTrust Banks to the Lehman brothers in April of 2006.

“We got a letter in the mail saying our mortgage rate had been adjusted, we just couldn’t afford to pay the extra interest on our loan.” Said Jackie Jeffords, a laid-off engineering manager at GM who couldn’t find another job due to the rising rates of unemployment in the area. “Even Pier was chipping in for the family.” Mrs. Jeffords went on to explain that the 17-year-old had also lost his job at the local Dairy Queen due to downsizing, but still managed to push the family through most of Fall with his savings. “I gave my parents the money I had earned over the summer so we could keep the house.” The 17-year-old told The Oakland Press during an interview “I guess it just wasn’t enough.”

The family of 5 will be moving to Ferndale, in hopes to find better-paying jobs and cheaper rent, they will be sharing a house with Roger Jeffords’ parents until they land back on their feet.

Like thousands of others, here in Michigan as well as across the nation, the Jeffords family are being struck by the aftershock of the 2008 financial crisis which became public last September. Images have shown working-class American families turning to section .8 housing, local ‘ghettos’, or even the streets after losing their homes. Pictured above we see Ricki Jeffords’ stuffed animals, alongside the family’s furniture, being sold off in order to make ends meet.

Reporting live for The Oakland Free Press, I'm Krishna Srini, back to you, Palas.

Ooh, such a devastating story. Coming up next, a special look into the lives of the Wall Street billionaires, who- didn’t - get arrested.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6.1

Write a short story about a journey. Give the setting and at least two characters. They discover something that causes trouble. Let the main character make a decision and take action.

That grungy style of biker-rock music played out the Bose speakers in this heavily modified 1979 Pontiac Trans Am. We pushed 130 MPH with ease down the smooth, baron Nevada desert highway. The sun would have burned us alive if it wasn’t for the fast wind blowing the heat away. He drove and I sat shotgun, holding a rifle in my hands because shotguns don’t really have the range and accuracy I’m looking for. The loose suspension shook us around when we went off-road, the heavy gurgle of the 850 HP, 5.7 Litre engine was almost as loud as the wind and the music combined, the plush leather racing seats with crisscross seat belts held us like an angry hug. This car is alive and it’s as brash, and loud, and menacing as the devil himself. That’s why we named Reagan. We named it after the devil.

We stopped at a diner to take a break.

The door jingles open and a waitress with a stuffed bra says “welcome in hunnybuns take a seat and I’ll berightawitchya.”

He looked at the menu for a second, dropped it and looked up at me. I smiled and he gave me a kiss. I peered out the diner window with the intent of looking at our beautiful car in front of a beautiful desert backdrop, while my beautiful boyfriend sat across from me in this beautiful situation so that in my mind I could just take up this entirely, supremely, insatiably beautiful moment. To my suprise that didn’t happen, for when I looked out the window I saw four guys and one girl standing around Reagan, their necks jerking their heads back and forth, as if to make sure the coast was clear. I whipped around to face my boyfriend but was already getting up from the table. I got up and followed behind him in close pursuit out the front diner door. Jingle.

He yelled Hey in his surprisingly booming and commanding, crisp and confident voice. I untucked the silenced USP from my waistband and kept it behind my back.

The group-O-five’s heads all spun up to look at us like a gang of meerkats.

“That’s our car,” I said. Blocking the sun out of my eyes with my free hand, even though I had shades on.

“It’s pretty pretty” said a cargo short wearing, tatted up, redneck crackhead looking one. He slid his grimey hand across the dusty hood.

“I’d appreciate it if you appreciated it from more of a distance,” I said, nodding towards his hand.

“Haven’t you ever heard of southern hospitality? How bout you be a good girl and lemme take a quick test drive?” He said back. I was appalled that he was even moving his crusty, cold sore ridden lips at me, let alone demanding he drive our car. Our car? These rats are going to get it.

“Now listen here, slut, let me tell you how this is going to work-” A second rat chimed in.

We both pulled our guns simultaneously. Our chemistry is so tight we have violent timing down to a science.

“Actually, let me tell you how this is going to work. First, we’re going to shoot each of you lifeless cucks in the neck so that we can cut off your fucking heads and add to our collection. He used the remote on his keys to pop the trunk open. The girl of their group peeped her eyes around the corner to look inside, she screeched and jumped back.

“THEY GOT HEADS IN THERE! THEY GOT HEADS!” she screamed.

The others frowned in disbelief and began to peak towards the trunk of the car, but we didn’t allow them to satisfy their curiosity. We shot each of the group-O-five in the neck. We opened our respective doors and pulled our axes out from behind our seats. We cut those fuckers heads off and threw them in the styrofoam ice box we had in our nearly-stuffed to the brim, double insulated trunk.

We’re going to need to drive a truck or something next time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6.2

Write a short story on a postcard, make sure it has a crisis, conflict, and resolution. Send it to a friend.

I wrote this on a postcard and sent it to an old friend who I have not seen in a very long time. We used to commit a lot of crimes together and I made the return address on the postcard the address of a federal prison.

Sean, I was forced to tell someone here about the car. They know where it is and what’s in it. They said it’s theirs now. They beat me and injected me with something I think heroin. I can’t remember if they raped me or not.

Get there, Sean. Get there as fast as you can and drive. Drive as far away as you can. You’ll be fine, I know how fast you can whip that motherfucker around. ;) I love you.

-Shaka Zulu

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6.3

Write a poem about a breakup

You took me in your arms and I forgot who I was.

You took me in your arms and I didn’t have to be anyone.

Because you took me in your arms and squeezed the life out of me.

You held me tighter than your dad’s handshake the day we first met.

You held me tighter than your mom’s hug when I painted your family portrait.

You held me tighter than a boa constrictor, killing its prey.

You took me in your arms just to throw me away.

You took me in your arms just to spit in my face.

You took me in your arms and you always wanted more.

Then you threw me away and dropped my heart onto the floor.

You threw me away without an identity

Because you took me in your arms and squeezed the life out of me.

[challengewriterssoul]

Story 4

Prompt:  “The murders, the fighting, everything that I remember. Is it real?” “No. We installed false memories in you. It was the only way we could ensure your compliance.”

“Zara, it’s time for breakfast,” I heard.

“I’m coming, dad,” I responded.

I grabbed my bookbag and I walked out of my bedroom and down the hall. I could hear the loud music coming from Axel’s room. I knocked on his door.

“What,” I heard as the music was turned down.

“Breakfast, Axe,” I said.

“I’ll be down in a bit,” he called.

I just nodded and continued on my way. I walked down the stairs and I could hear the giggling of my little sisters and brothers. I dropped my book bag by the front door and I walked into the kitchen. I saw my dad entertaining my sisters and brothers with his poor excuse of pancake art. I saw mom rushing hurriedly around the kitchen, gathering her things so that she could rush out the door to get to work. I smiled at her frantic running.

As I sat down at the kitchen island next to Jane, Max, Melody, and Ben, mom kissed dad and then proceeded to kiss all of us on the way out the door of the kitchen.

“MOM,” I heard Axel squeal loudly.

“See you tonight,” she called as we heard the door close.

I turned to look at dad and he had a dopey, lovey, mushy face. I knew that he loved mom very much, but I didn’t need to see it all of the time. I cleared my throat and he looked at me and grinned.

“Good morning, rosebud,” he said, “Could I interest you in some scrambled eggs and bacon?”

I looked at the clock and saw that it was 6:30 am. Axe and I had to be at school by 7:30 and it only takes Axe ten minutes to get there, but I knew he wanted to see his bandmates and his girlfriend, so I replied, “I’ll take two bacon sandwiches and an apple. I have to make sure that I am ready when Axe is so he doesn’t leave me behind.”

Dad just nodded and made my order and I made my lunch.

“Axel what would you like,” Dad asked.

“Same as Z, please,” Axe replied.

Dad handed me my bagged sandwiches and Axe’s sandwiches and I kissed him on the cheek.

“Love you, dad,” I whispered in his ear.

Then I walked over to Axe and said, “We’re ready to go.”

He stood and then said, “Later.”

“Have a good day you two,” dad called out as we walked to the front door.

___

When we got to school I gave Axe his breakfast and then I left him. He didn’t say anything to me, as per usual. He, being a senior, didn’t want anything to do with his sister who is a lowly freshman. I rolled my eyes as he headed towards the group that was sitting on the raised flower bed right in front of the school. I followed a pace and a half behind Axe. He had told me my first day of high school that I wouldn’t associate with him during the day and that even though his friends knew me I wasn’t allowed to say anything to them.  

“Do you have to drive the robo-sis,” one of his friends asked.

I just ignored them.

“Unfortunately. If I don’t the rents get shirty with me,” Axe confirmed.

“She is such a drag. I don’t get how such a lame person could be your sister,” Axe’s girlfriend said in her high pitched baby voice. (Think Kristen Chenoweth)

“She isn’t even pretty,” said another of Axe’s friends.

I hated his friends. I kept walking to the front door. I was low-key livid. My own brother wasn’t even sticking up for me. But I kept my face quite blank as I made it to the door.

“Yeah, she is so fat. No one would ever want her,” Axe’s girlfriend stated as if it were fact.

I went inside and I kept going to my favorite spot in the school. I was in one of the old lecture halls. It was one of the halls that are no longer in use due to it not having enough room for people. It was a room that was almost never used. I sat in one of the plush red velveteen seats and as I ate my breakfast I cried. I hated my brother sometimes. I couldn’t understand what his problem was. But I knew that if I narc’ed on him, that he would make my life a living hell. As I finished my breakfast, I pulled out my sketchbook and I began to sketch. I lost myself in the sketching.

“There you are Z,” I heard.

I looked up and I saw my friend Cooper coming into the hall. I smiled. I was glad to see him and secretly in love with Cooper. He was tall, big; line-backer big – muscles, red hair; fashionably mussed, and big green eyes looking at me. He, of course, was carrying his book bag, gym bag, and his lacrosse stick. He dropped most of that at the door to the hall and headed in my direction.

“Morning, Coop. How are you,” I asked as he sat down next to me.

He just sat looking at me. I knew that he was reading me in the only way a best friend/secret crush can.

“I’m ok, but who made you cry this morning. No don’t tell me, I have three guesses and the first two don’t count,” he replied.

I looked away and sighed.

“Axel is a dick and his friends and harpy of a girlfriend are just as bad, if not worse. I hope you don’t believe anything they say,” Cooper raged.

He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me back to look at him.

“Z, you are an amazing girl. You are so wonderful that you are way above them. Don’t let anyone make you feel less,” he exclaimed looking into my eyes.

My heart fluttered and I felt like if I wasn’t careful I would spill just how much I really liked Coop. I smiled at him. Then we started chatting. He was telling me about his lacrosse practice and not that I really understood the rules and what he meant by the plays, but I did appreciate that we were talking about normal things.

“You know, you are my real best friend. You are so strong,” Cooper said randomly.

“Where did that come from,” I questioned.

“Well, unfortunately, some of my teammates have seen us hanging out together and were really speaking badly about you and I fought with a couple of the guys,” He complained.

I felt my internal emotions and my inner voice begin the degrading comments and emotions.

“You shouldn’t get into fights over me. We can hang out in secret like we are to…” I started.

“WHAT?! NO?! I will not let those assholes pull us apart. You are my girl! You are the one that will let me vent about stuff. You are the most beautiful girl inside and out at this school. I will not let them ruin what we have. You are my rock! So us being on the D.L. is not going to happen, ever,” He hollered.

I put my hands up in surrender. Internally I was still doubting, but there was this naggy part of me that hoped that something might come of this that I would really like. But Coop wasn’t like that.

“Okay, whatever you say. Just don’t fight anymore,” I consoled.

Just as he was about to respond the bell rang and we had to get to class.

___

It was lunch time and I was headed to the lecture hall, my favorite quite place at school. I entered the hall and I began to read a book and eat my lunch. I stayed in the hall for my entire lunch. It had been so peaceful. I didn’t have to worry about anyone making fun of me or staring at me.

As I was headed back to the Art studio, I heard screaming and saw students running. I heard gunshots. I blanked and froze. Then I saw the students with guns. I turned and headed to the nearest room, which unfortunately for me was my empty lecture hall. I felt my cell phone in my pocket vibrate. I knew that I had to get to safety before I answered it. But as I was turning the corner to get to the lecture hall, I saw two other students with handguns. I had no-where to go. There weren’t many rooms in my end of the hallway, because of the lunchroom and kitchens. So I hurried back into the lunchroom and I quietly snuck into the kitchens and I hid. I could hear the dishwashers going and water running. I didn’t hear anyone speaking. I took out my phone, dimmed the screen so it wasn’t full brightness, and I looked at my alerts.

There was a text message from the building principal telling us that we needed to remain in lockdown because of four gunmen. He also said that the police had been contacted and parents had been contacted as well.

There was a text from my mom and dad. They were both asking me if I was all right. I knew that I couldn’t call them, so I sent them a text back.

There was a text from Coop.

-Are you safe? Where r u??

I texted back: Im in the cafeteria kitchen.

A quick response returned to me: -WHAT?! There aren’t any locks on the doors to the kitchens. Please tell me that you are at least hiding in a closet or a cooler.

I texted back: No time. Both sets of gunmen were headed this way. I was cornered…nowhere else to go. I don’t know where the coolers/closets are, so I have to be very quiet and I am hiding.

The PA system crackled to life. I could hear some screams and gunshots over the PA. I could feel myself pale.

Then I heard a voice, “Good afternoon Deville High. Excuse the interruption. Would someone send Zara McMahon to the office? She has an early dismissal.”

I saw the Lunch ladies looking at me. I was wide-eyed.

Then another took over, “If you send her down we will allow the rest of the school to go free. We just want her.”

My phone vibrated with two text messages. The first one was from a number I didn’t recognize and it said: If you don’t come down to the office, we will have to go in search of you and kill anyone who is hiding you. Do you want blood on your hands? Because that is what will happen. I promise that we will find your friend Cooper Grayson first. Give yourself up.

The second text was from Cooper: Don’t you dare move! I will never forgive you!

I texted back: They said they would come for you and kill anyone who hinders them. I can’t let that happen. I’m sorry. I have to do it. The lunch ladies are still here and they don’t deserve to die because I was too cowardly to face these jerks.

A response came to me quickly: Zara, please. I beg of you. Don’t do this.

I answered: Should I survive this, I have something to tell you. I’ll see you later, Coop.

I sent off my last text and I turned off my phone. I took a breath and I looked at the lunch ladies. Then I stood up, put my phone in my back pocket of my jeans. Then I began to head for the door of the cafeteria. I felt like I was in one of those pivotal movie moments. When the protagonist is walking to confront the antagonist and the dramatic music is playing in the background. Although this was much too real for me and there was no soundtrack for me to walk to.

As I walked up the hallway towards the office, I could hear muffled yelling. I heard several gunshots. I felt upset. I hated that these terrorists were taking out people in the office. I hurried up my steps and as I got closer to the office I felt all of my fear melt away. I knew that I had to delay these monsters so that the police could get here and take care of them. I turned down the main hallway and I saw the doors to the main office. My heart was thundering beneath my breastbone. Each step I took felt like I was walking through molasses. Time felt like it was slowing to a snail’s pace.

I entered and I saw the four gunmen and I saw a fifth just sitting in the principal’s chair like he was the king of the school.

“Well, well, well, look who is here boys. The fat girl has become brave,” one of the gunmen said laughing.

“Oh dear. Well, it looks like we can’t shoot her boyfriend,” another gunman said sarcastically sad.

“Boys,” the terrorist in the chair said, “Get on with it.”

I recognized that voice. I heard that voice every day.

“Axel?! What,” I said shocked.

But before I could finish my question, I heard a gun go off, and I felt a pain in my left knee. I fell to the floor in pain.

“Awwww robo-sis has figured us out. I guess we are gonna finally get rid of her,” gloated one of the gunmen who turned out to be my brother’s cronies.

“Let them listen,” Axel said.

I looked at him and I felt betrayed. I wanted to scream at him and tell him that he was a fool. What was his issue? But I couldn’t I was too enveloped in my pain that I couldn’t deal.

I heard the PA system click on.

“So guess who showed up to the office. That’s right. It’s your girl Zara McMahon. She decided to save you all with giving up her life. So Zara, tell them your last words,” one of Axel’s friends said as one of the other friends dragged me over to where the PA handheld mic was.

“Speak, ugly,” the friend said as he hit me in the head with the mic.

“Please,” I gasped in pain.

“Please what,” that friend grinned while saying, “Oh I love it when you beg. It gets me so hard. Beg some more.”

Internally I was disgusted with his ugly words. I was hit again and I groaned in pain.

“I’m waiting,” he demanded.

I was still trying to catch my breath. I looked around the office through hazy vision and saw that the secretaries and councilors were dead and the principal was knocked out. I heard the gun go off and I screamed as it ripped through my right shoulder. I could feel my vision begin to blur more.

“Nope, you aren’t allowed to pass out yet,” he said as he slapped my face, “Get me the alcohol and pour it on her wounds. That will wake her up.”

A few minutes felt like an eternity but then my whole body felt like it was lit on fire. I screamed. I couldn’t hold it back.

“There she is,” he grinned and said.

“Enough Dev,” I heard Axel state, “Finish it. We’re going to have company shortly.”

I didn’t see the response but I did feel my hair get pulled so I wasn’t slumped over and the mic was shoved into my face.

“Last words,” Dev said.

I took a breath and looked right in Axel’s eyes and said, “Axel McMahon, Devon Newton, Rafe Ainsley, Jaxon Willis, and Chase Tobin. I’m sorry. I love you.”

I was promptly thrown to the floor and I felt the rain of bullets hit my body. My hearing muffled and it was hard to breathe. Dying wasn’t easy. I was gasping for breath and choking on my own blood. Finally, my vision blacked and I felt all of the tension leave my body.

___

I heard beeping. Steady beeping. I wiggled my fingers and felt something on my pointer finger. I opened my eyes slowly and I felt a nose cannula wrapped around my head feeding me oxygen. I saw that I was in a hospital bed. I tried to pick up my hand and found that I was shackled to the bed. I heard the door open and I saw two armed men, a nurse, and a doctor.

“Welcome back Miss Erye,” the doctor said.

“That’s not my name,” I croaked out in a lower octave voice.

I was shocked at just how low and sexy my voice was sounding. It was probably from being unconscious.

“You might be feeling a bit confused. Your name is Lillith Erye, Mistress of Death. Or at least that is what our files say you are called,” the doctor informed me.

“No, my name is Zara McMahon. I was in a school shooting. I was shot several times. The school was Deville High,” I said slightly panicked.

“I’m sorry Miss Erye, but you are in a black facility after Dark Warden stopped your dastardly plan and captured you. We put you into a simulation to rehab you,” the doctor stated.

“The murders, the fighting, everything that I remember. Was it real,” I asked devastated.

“No. We installed false memories in you. It was the only way we could ensure your compliance,” the doctor replied.

I turned my head away and cried.

[breaksandbites]

Last week one of my BFF Alina was here from Pakistan for vacations, we were meeting after monthsss. This made me remember the times when we used to meet daily in university, the moments in which we joked about visiting each other’s home with family in future. Never realized that we are living in future now, this is the very time we used to discuss while sitting in those corridors outside our class. Time flies by so quickly, we have known each other for more than a decade now (Haye I feel so old looking down the memory lane – older and wiser though).

We Being ‘Bad Moms’ *devil emoji*

So we both decided to ditch our babies for a day by locking them up with our hubbies at home and party outside ALONE, just like we used to do back in our care-free university days. The idea itself was so enthralling that it got us both all excited. We planned to watch a movie first then go and dive into the snow at Ski Dubai in Mall of the Emirates. Being a Karachiite, I had always wanted to experience snow but was not able to because of so many reasons ( HI was not much interested, E is always with us – no body is available to babysit her) so when i found Alina keen enough to check it out, i was like yesss i got my partner. :p

Plan of the Day

We booked 2 o’clock show of the movie ‘Dangal‘ at VOX MOE on Friday (since that was the only day HI could babysit E). Left home at about 1:30 pm after settling the babies with their fathers, gave them ample amount of food, with lots of advice for the day (yes, we fulfilled all our duties and made sure they will be fine without us) and wished them good luck (that is what they needed the most… haha). Reached the cinema on time, exact at 2 pm (we are so punctual… yo). The movie wasn’t started yet, we got our popcorn bucket meanwhile the ads were going on. The movie actually began at 2:30 pm (we were forced to watch whole lot of advertisements :-/ not fair).

About Dangal

The movie itself was really good based on a true story with little punch lines (that would’ve been too hard to insert in that ‘oh so serious’ type of plot) . I loved the idea conveyed through the movie; “Nothing in the world is impossible to achieve with constant hard work, determination and focus“. Amir Khan is such a fine actor, his movies are always a safe watch. The only drawback was duration which was 170 mins, so longgg man. But all is well that ends well, the girl got gold medal at the end and we came out smiling from the cinema. It was a good watch.

in the cinema

Sephora Visit in between

We at Sephora

Next up was The Ski for which we both were way too excited. But Sephora was on our way so we ended up entering in, we just can’t resist it. Bought some stuff, collected my loyalty card gifts which were due since long and then we headed straight down to our desired destination ignoring the urge to have a cup of coffee because we were running late.

  Ski Dubai – Mall of the Emirates

Upon reaching the snow park, we purchased our Polar Pass which costs around 250 AED per person but we got 2 in the same price since I have got Entertainer BOGO vouchers :D. There are some other types of passes too, you can check out the pricing and description here. We also had to rent a locker to keep our belongings, paid additional 30 AED for that. Got our ski dresses, shoes and gloves on and we were all set to raid the snow.

There are total 3 rides for adults (Tobogganing, tubing, and bobsled rides – snow bullet is the best of all) which you can enjoy unlimited number of times on the Polar Pass as long as you are not frozen. A chair lift tour which you can catch once, it takes you all the way to top from where you can watch skillful skiers sloping down the snow. We both initially thought that we’ll go multiple times on each ride but the cold (temperature was -2 degree) became unbearable after spending 1.5 hrs inside. We both dropped the idea of trying the rides multiple times and concluded that we should find our way out before we turn blue. We went on each ride once, took lots of pictures, played in the snow ( I threw lots of snow balls on Alina :p) and had lots of fun. Check out the pictures and random video i made:

Following are my concluding remarks – ‘words of wisdom‘ on the snow park:

It is not worth it, 250 AED is way too much for those 3-4 rides and one can’t stay inside for long considering the cold atmosphere. But if you have got any deal or voucher than you should experience it.

Watch out for your cell phones,Mobile phones stops working in extreme cold reason being when the battery becomes too cold, the phone may turn off. While the natural reaction may be to immediately hit the power button and try to turn the phone back on, that is a terrible idea- DON’T DO THAT; Mine remain fine alhamdulillah (Thank God) but i came across a girl whose phone stopped working because of chill and it was not just any phone, it was an iPhone.

There are no pockets in the snow dress so you better think twice before taking your phones or any other stuff inside, may be if 2-3 persons are going with you only one of you who has got pockets (in their pants/trousers) can take it along. Otherwise, it’ll be difficult to roam around.

They give you wrist bands and a card which is required to scan before entering queues for rides or sometimes they’ll ask you to show it randomly. You will need to take care of it as well. I dropped mine somewhere, it was too difficult to hold everything specially when your hands are numb. Thank God, they were satisfied with my wrist band though.

Dinner Expedition

At last we saw our hubbies and babies waving at us from outside, we joined them in no time because we were unable to stand that cold anymore. And this was the time I and Alina, we both were starving VERY BADLY. We discussed dinner options and SoHo grill got unanimous votes. Loved their steaks, may be because we were famished but they tasted delicious.

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Picture is not over yet – Park Mania

The day wasn’t over yet, we took the kids to park afterwards. Nobody could differentiate between us and the babies, we went crazy there as well, check out for yourself below. Enjoyed the kids’ see saw like never before. We were so high that day, had such an amazing fun filled day.

Special Thanks Para

All the credit goes to fathers who volunteered to babysit and encouraged us to carry out our plan. All thanks to you boys, that was so thoughtful; much appreciated :) – *Imagine us giving a big ‘thank you speech‘ and a big round of applause to you*. And by the way, the babies did not give them hard time at all. They enjoyed a movie after putting the them to sleep at home. A win-win situation for all!

Mommies’ Day Out – A Day in Snow! Last week one of my BFF Alina was here from Pakistan for vacations, we were meeting after monthsss.