#Undelivered Speeches

[deadpresidents]

Are there any notable Presidential speeches you know of that were fully written or prepared but never delivered for some reason? (Such as Nixon’s failed moon landing speech for Apollo 11)

Off the top of my head, I can't think of any specific speeches similar to the undelivered speech prepared in case of a disaster on Apollo 11 (which is still haunting to read even with the knowledge that everybody made it home safely).

Obviously, most Presidents and Presidential candidates prepare victory and concession speeches, but we don't usually see the speech that wasn't needed. Once some time had passed, Hillary Clinton did read the victory speech that she would have given had she not lost the 2016 election to Trump. It was before he was President, but General Dwight D. Eisenhower had prepared a short statement in 1944 to deliver in case the Allied landings on D-Day had failed.

It's not quite the same thing, but I have a fascinating book called Strictly Personal and Confidential: The Letters That Harry Truman Never Mailed that is a collection of letters and notes that President Truman wrote while angry or annoyed but gave into his better judgment and held back on actually mailing. They are pretty entertaining.

[catmint1]

So let us not be petty when our cause is so great. Let us not quarrel amongst ourselves when our Nation’s future is at stake.

—John F. Kennedy, Remarks Intended for Delivery to the 1963 Texas Democratic State Committee in Austin

[sulfurousdreamscapes]

This woman Vaishnavi, worked on the hull of the Estrella-B for 44 years. Wrapped up in a worn spacesuit, she settled herself in a construction station built 125 years ago. It surrounds her, binds to her suit, provides her with all the tools she needs to weld, hammer, grease, connect, and perform all the miscellanea tasks that she has spent her entire life performing.

This woman Vaishnavi, her parents and grandparents also worked on segment E3-I34D, and she keeps their pictures in a small wallet that she never parts with. The photographs were taken on an ancient camera that no longer works. The last picture there is of Vaishnavi is from when she was 16. Vaishnavi broke the camera herself, but she tries not to think of it.

This woman Vaishnavi, we didn't know she existed. She was discovered in the 2882 survey, where she was found diligently reconstructing the hull of the ship as her grandparents and parents had done. The rest of her worker community has died out. She has never been into their quarters, because she believes it would be illegal to trespass.

This woman Vaishnavi, knows she won't finish the construction. She has been trying to summon more workers to her segment of the Estrella-B. However, as we later discovered, a protocol handling error in subsection 92-BB4D caused her requests to be undelivered. Therefore, while Vaishnavi continues to receive the resources necessary for hull repair, she has not been in contact with anyone else on the ship for her entire life.

This woman Vaishnavi, listens to one song so often that she sometimes finds it difficult to separate her speech from the song's lyrics. The music player that was passed down by her parents has seen considerable wear and tear, and a corruption error in the player's code causes it to play only the one song, which was recorded roughly 220 years ago, before the Estrella-B took off.

This woman Vaishnavi, had not spoken to another soul in at least two decades. Camera records depict her sending away her parents' bodies in space burials. With a gentle push, she sent them moving away from the ship, permanently lost in the infinite.

This woman Vaishnavi, became quickly overwhelmed, disoriented, and fidgety when contacted by the 2882 survey team. Through babbling, broken speech, a choked throat, and teary eyes, she explained that she needed more workers to complete the repairs on E3-134D. On being asked whether she would like to retire from her position, she became distraught and confused.

This woman Vaishnavi, we left her where she was. With respect to the labour redistribution committee, we request a transfer of at least fifty workers to E3-134D, where they might assist Vaishnavi in completing the repairs of the segment.

This woman Vaishnavi, in fulfilling her singular, lifelong request, we might put ourselves in the good graces of a Providence we have wronged by the vice of neglect.

[commonsensecommentary]

“If you have no interest in the drudgery of governance but really, really enjoy overpromising and undelivering, posing for the cameras, and strutting your stuff at celebrity galas, a life in politics can be a gas, and Kamala Harris has been the poster child for doing your job badly—but looking good doing it.”

[pamphletstoinspire]

Abortion Is Our Red Wave

In this election there was one big red wave, the certainty of which has continued its all too predictable march through every precinct in the land, signaling yet another triumph at the polls for abortion.

So, here we are a little more than a week following the unexpected debacle, and it looks as if we shall simply have to shelve the idea of the red wave we were all promised in the heady hours leading up to the election. Indefinitely.

In other words, there will be no sweeping of the scoundrels and scamps out to sea anytime soon. Because it didn’t happen. There were some victories, to be sure, and these we may savor for the time being. But as for the clean sweep we were all hoping to see, it just didn’t materialize.

But there was one big red wave, the certainty of which has continued its all too predictable march through every precinct in the land, signaling yet another triumph at the polls. In fact, a barely anthropoidal candidate in Pennsylvania, now headed to the U.S. Senate, owed his easy win to riding the crest of that particular wave. It could scarcely have been the result of his speeches, which went mostly undelivered owing to major neurological damage—all happily concealed, of course, thanks to corrupt media and party handlers determined to drag him across the finish line.

He was not alone, however, numerous others across the country having benefited as well from the huge red wave. They, too, are grateful for its ongoing success.

What am I talking about here? I’m talking about abortion, concerning which it is business as usual. Thus, protocols require that we not rock the boat as it sails merrily along a thoroughly red wave. I mean the shedding of innocent blood in the womb, where untold millions of human beings continue to be destroyed in this country.

A more barbarous business this side of the Shoah cannot be imagined. Utterly unworthy of a civilized people, it has yet gone on since 1973. And not a single national election has done anything to stop it, leaving a deep stain on our nation’s soul, one which we not only do not wish to remove, but which more and more we no longer care to see.

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood / Clean from my hand?” asks murderous Macbeth following the foul undoing of his friend Duncan, the king. “No,” he cries out: “this my hand will rather / The multitudinous seas incarnadine, / Making the green one red.”

What is Macbeth saying but that there will never be enough water, not even in the entire green sea, to cleanse such hands. Indeed, his guilt is so great that the ocean instead will turn bright red from all the blood splattered upon his hands. It will poison the world itself.

Yes, abortion is our red wave. And we all have a bit of Macbeth in us. It will do us no good, therefore, trying to deny it. We are all more or less complicit. Only God can absolve us, and it doesn’t appear too many are asking. And why would we? Not as long as we continue to disdain the life of which He is the Author.

Yes, certainly, there are gradations of evil here; some are surely more culpable than others. Democrats, for instance, are fully on board with baby killing, many of them right up to the moment of birth, which makes them the real Party of Death. But the Republicans have never been too far behind, having by their silence suffered it to continue pretty much unabated.

Talk of fifteen-week lines in the sand, beyond which protections would then apply, is not just feckless but incoherent, as if real life only begins once the line is reached, before which no life in the womb is safe. When did the question of whether it is life or not turn on geography? Since it cannot be rocket science knowing when life begins, and not as a dogma of faith but as a datum of science, why then would God withhold ensoulment (read: personhood) until week fifteen?

Of course, it is all so absurd. But abortion persists all across the land and thus too the sacrifice of innocent blood to appease the appetite of those who want it. It will not go away. At least not until enough hearts are converted to turn this country around. And only God knows when that will be.

In the meantime, three things must happen in order to hasten that blest day. One, we have all got to pray harder that God will succeed in moving even the most obdurate of hearts to accept the gift of life. To see that here is a blazing sacramental gift that not only keeps on giving but, because it comes from God Himself, is of imperishable value. “God was in love,” says Fulton Sheen, “but He could not tell the secret. The telling of it became creation.”

But God will not be disposed to help a people that will not pray to Him. We really must ask Him to help us protect—and reverence—our youngest brothers and sisters.

Two, we need—those of us already enamored of life—to give the most generous witness to that life by remaining open to it, always rejoicing when it comes, so that others will see in us and in our children the surpassing splendor of a gift that God alone can give. It is the best and most credible witness we can provide to those who are adrift in a throwaway culture. If the birth of a child, as the poet Carl Sandburg once said, “is God’s opinion that life should go on,” then we need to show others by our example that we share that opinion as well. Which includes, let’s not forget, helping to look after that life, along with the mothers and fathers whom we have encouraged to welcome that life, even after birth.

And, finally, point three: we need to be prepared, with resolute mind and will, to engage in the political struggle to persuade others to uphold the right of every child to be born. That means, of course, leveraging our leaders to enact laws aimed at their protection and which support the families who nurture and love them. Knowing that if abortion is not wrong, then nothing is wrong, we have got to insist that the right to life is fundamental; indeed, it is the defining condition of any society that wishes not just to grow and thrive but to survive. When the womb is unsafe, so too is the world.

By: Regis Martin

Regis Martin is Professor of Theology and Faculty Associate with the Veritas Center for Ethics in Public Life at the Franciscan University of Steubenville. He earned a licentiate and a doctorate in sacred theology from the Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas in Rome.

[godssong]

“But, in today's world, freedom can be lost without a shot being fired, by ballots as well as bullets.” “We in this country, in this generation, are – by destiny rather than choice – the watchmen on the walls of world freedom. We ask, therefore, that we may be worthy of our power and responsibility, that we may exercise our strength with wisdom and restraint, and that we may achieve in our time and for all time the ancient vision of "peace on earth, good will toward men." That must always be our goal, and the righteousness of our cause must always underlie our strength. For as was written long ago: "except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain." https://www.jfklibrary.org/archives/other-resources/john-f-kennedy-speeches/dallas-tx-trade-mart-undelivered-19631122 https://www.instagram.com/p/ClSSyMcOqM3473aky096qp3IzbUe1M5tGKiUcM0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[angelictyphoon]

“Dessert is a must, or I’ll have no peace,” he confirms. 

Eriks blinks multiple times at the full plate of breakfast food laid out in front of them, uncomprehending at first. They didn’t order anything more off the menu and– ah. Layla, glibly apologetic, explains the nature of her delivery.

“Thanks, Layla.” 

Layla winks back at them both and tends to the table of elderly mahjong players as they feud over shaky alliances. Then, glancing at Meryl with a smile, Eriks says to her, “Your friend Milly is thoughtful.”

With the imminent upturning of the life he has cobbled together so far, his stomach is the least of his concerns. Milly tried though, extended her consideration where she did not need to, and Meryl too. So he will try in turn to appreciate what was offered without complaint. Nodding his head vigorously, Eriks leans down, hunting down multiple potatoes and crowning them on the tines of his fork before triumphantly stuffing them into his cheek.

“You’re sho nice, Merrul,” Eriks comments through a mouthful of salted, seasoned potato. His eyes feel more watery than usual, and he suspects Meryl’s undisguised hope has something to do with it. 

Food does wonders to ease tensions, to provide an additional point of focus when conversation would otherwise feel too difficult. They certainly have plenty of food to finish, and Eriks is keen on helping Meryl rescue as much ice cream as possible before it melts out onto the plate. That means fighting their way through a carby, greasy, and protein-rich breakfast. 

What’s the old proverb he got in a fortune cookie once…every journey begins with a single step? 

“Can you tell me about him? What he was like?” This person he used to be that now hides within himself, sneaking memories through the cracks.

By the time the plates have been cleaned off and Eriks procured a slice of cheesecake packaged away for Grandma Sheryl and Lina to share, he has insisted and failed multiple times to convince Meryl to let him help with the bill. Milly proves an exceptional bodyblocker for someone who hardly appears to even be trying. It could just be the alarmingly disarming smile. 

Two against one, the girls inevitably win out. 

“Alright, have it your way. I’m gonna hear it from Grandma Sheryl now…” Eriks sighs, holding the slice of cheesecake against his chest and resigning himself to an as of yet undelivered lecture. Bemused, Eriks anticipates that Meryl and Milly will face a series of indisputable invitations. “Well, you both can expect that she’ll invite you to stay for dinner, insist you take one of the guest rooms for the night, join us for a homemade breakfast and…maybe try to convince you to stay through lunch, if Grandma Sheryl is really enjoying herself. Before I moved in, it was just the two of them.”

Eriks takes the lead as they walk, directing the party through denser streets branching out from the center of town and out to where there are several private residences spread out from the cluster of businesses and tenements. As is the case with most smaller towns in No Man’s Land, the buildings all share the same unremarkable architecture. Slipshod and patchy stucco work married with scavenged sheets of metal stolen from the remains of fallen ships, fences and posts made from sunbleached worm bones, and rooftop gutters funneled directly into large barrels to catch water during rare instances of rain.

The suns still broil the top of their heads relentlessly by the time they arrive. Eriks leans down, cradling his package carefully in one arm while undoing the latch of the waist-high gate. He can hear and smell Grandma Sheryl busily working over the stove when he lets them in through the front door. Judging by the spread of homework and textbooks laid out on the table, Lina must be home as well. Likely shuffling about the pantry, from the sounds of it.

“Hi, Grandma Sheryl. I, um, brought some friends home. Uh.”

He hadn't given full commitment to preparing an introductory speech right up until this moment.

There is a moment of silence in this booth that feels heavier than any silence she’s encountered before. However, everything beyond this booth continues on—those who are playing mahjong; the soft din of noises that were easily background noise suddenly coming to the forefront; the cook behind the counter preparing for the upcoming evening rush—all these sounds vie the silence that has settled between her and Vash until he’s the one to break it.

Meryl feels like she’s cast out her last line in an endless ocean, hoping that this would have been her chance to find something that she could hold onto, and she feels her heart sinking further and further, that weight bringing her down until her shoulders droop and she’s beginning to slump.

She knows he’s Vash. She knows who he is, even if he can’t remember, and maybe that is enough. 

Maybe this is something she needs to accept, as hard as it is, and continue moving forward. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Maybe this could be his chance to actually live a peaceful life without the threat of a bounty over his head. 

Maybe she should accept this fact and let this all go. 

Let him go.

That surprises her and Meryl turns her head to look out the window, sort of giving herself a mental shake out of thoughts that she doesn’t feel like she has the right to have.

His movement makes her look at him, turning slightly in the booth so that she’s half facing him while her side is pressed against the edge of the formica table. 

What he says next makes her dash those previous thoughts of letting him go out from her mind, and suddenly that line of chance comes back. Not just chance, but hope. In the past two years she’s spent looking for him, desperate some nights, determined others, she’d always done her best not to let go of her hope—even if, at times, it wavered more than she would have liked.

Those fears she had that she never spoke of to anyone, not even Milly, where she believed she would never find him, had reared their heads on more than one occasion. But now…now, she feels like whatever ordeals she’d been made to overcome have lead her to this moment. 

If they talk some more, maybe he will remember. Is it selfish that she hopes he’ll remember her? She knows it is. Meryl also knows that if they do this, then what happened at Julai will also come back and he’ll be made to remember that as well. 

“We don’t have to talk about it here,” she says quietly enough that they won’t be overheard. “Right now, we can enjoy a meal and then head on back? You still need to pick out a dessert for Grandma Sheryl and Lina, right?”

Milly’s not back yet, though Meryl can hear her voice talking to someone seated at the counter. Just then, Layla appears back at their table with a carafe of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of toast—along with some over-easy eggs and several slices of toma bacon, roasted potatoes that were clearly fried on the grill and some baked beans; on another plate is a slice of apple pie and a big scoop of ice cream. She places both plates in front of Vash and Meryl.

“That lovely woman was getting concerned, so she went and ordered you two some more food. I’ll be back with the dessert menus in just a moment. Eat up, now,” she says before filling up the mugs and then heads away from their table.

Meryl looks at the plate, then at Vash—Eriks—then looks over the top of the booth and sees Milly waving at them from the counter before turning back to look at Eriks again.

“You want some of my potatoes…?”

[hats-off-to-hermes]

Living with Intention - Hermes Edition

Welcome to a new series I'm starting: "Living with Intention" where I compile lists of mundane tasks that you can infuse with intention for different deities or divine purposes. As a follower of Hermes, I'm going to start with him!

Are you about to order a drink from a cafe or Starbucks?

Let's order something with strawberries. How about that strawberry and cream frappe? A wonderful spiritual offering for the fleet-footed deity and a sweet treat for you.

Choosing accessories to wear for the day or maybe an outfit?

How about we choose something with the colours that you associate with Hermes. For me it's orange and red.

Need to remind yourself or someone else about something?

Make sure that message gets delivered! You wouldn't want to let that message go undelivered right? Be on your feet and do what you can to get this reminder across clearly and appropriately.

Along the same line, feeling a bit down?

Write a letter to yourself about what you enjoy everyday and about yourself. Letters are a great way to let our your feelings and Hermes can guide your writing.

Having a day out?

Embrace the wind and FLY. Fast, trickster Hermes is racing you, you better put up competition! Feel the wind against your face and smile. If moving isn't something you can do, feel the wind from a window. Hermes is laughing in the wind and racing it.

See a phase in another language in a piece of media you're watching or reading?

Do some research behind the phase. What language does it come from? What does it mean? Why do people say this?

Need to make a decision?

Roll some dice or flip a coin. Life's a gamble.

Wanna have some fun with dice and a coin anyway?

Make some bets with Hermes and see who wins.

Nice day out? Friends free? Let's go on an adventure.

Even if it's just in your backyard or at the park, make fun out of it in the name of Lord Hermes!

Have a bit of spare change you don't really need?

Leave it somewhere random for another person to find and feel lucky.

Playing games?

Remember to have fun and make the most out of your time. It's just a game but doesn't mean you can't have a hell of a time playing.

Found a patch of clovers?

Pick some (and thank them!) and blow them from your hand like a dandelion while making a wish.

Some bopping music playing?

Dance and vibe like NO ONE IS LOOKING. Well, Hermes might be, but he's also vibing. Join in!

Have a speech to present?

Imagine Hermes is in the crowd cheering you on. He's proud of you.

Feeling lucky?

Celebrate it with laughs and cheer.

Wanna do some writing?

Hermes is right by your side. Let's do it!

A loved one going for a drive?

Wish them a safe drive. Hermes will help them along the road.

[fortunatelyfresco]

A Holistic Integration of Type 1 Narcolepsy into the Reading of Moist von Lipwig

Literary Interpretation, Disability, and Finding Yourself Between the Lines

As it goes, "I wrote this for me, but you can read it if you want." It might be a fun ride for anyone who is very interested in Moist von Lipwig, or narcolepsy, or both, and/or anyone who enjoys collecting small details from within a body of work and arranging them into threads that are supportable by the text, without being actually suggested by it.

Personally, I find it very interesting to read the meta behind different headcanons, and see how creators can unintentionally write a character who fits certain criteria. There are only so many traits, after all, and some of them tend to travel in groups! Humans are pattern seekers, etc etc.

The first step of reading Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic is wanting to read Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic. Being narcoleptic myself and relating heavily to Moist, this step was very easy. I invite you to take my hand and come along, at least briefly, if you were interested enough to click the readmore.

Once you have taken that step, things start falling into place. At least they do if you're intimately familiar with narcolepsy, or if you first learn about it in detail through, for instance, a Tumblr post with an agenda :)

I'll break this down symptom by symptom, citing only the ones I both have personal experience with and see textual support for.

I'll be using OverDrive's search function to catalogue "evidence" in (the American editions of) Going Postal, Making Money, and Raising Steam, so I might miss passages that don't use certain keywords.

Please take any statements along the lines of "being narcoleptic means X" with a huge grain of salt. Sometimes it's just more succinct. Narcolepsy can manifest in many different ways, and is still being actively studied. Don't base your entire understanding of it on a fandom essay I wrote to cope with the crushing pressures of capitalism. I have not even fully read the scientific studies linked here as sources.

Here we go! Spoilers abound.

I. Excessive Daytime Sleepiness (EDS) and sleep attacks.

Being narcoleptic means (salt now, please) that your brain does not get adequate rest while you sleep, no matter how much you sleep. This is because of a disturbance in the order and length of REM and NREM sleep phases. This leads to constant exhaustion. Some sources describe narcoleptic EDS as "comparable to [the sleepiness] experienced by a healthy individual who has been sleep-deprived continuously for 48–72 hours."

(Source.)

Sleep attacks can come on gradually or suddenly. In my case, I become irritable and easily overwhelmed, and nothing matters except finding a place to lie down. A more severe attack, under the right circumstances, can put me to sleep while I'm actively trying to stay awake and engaged.

Moist refers to 6:45 am as "still nighttime." He is "allergic to the concept of two seven o'clocks in one day" and is "not good at early mornings," and the narration even cites this as "one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn't have to get up until other people had got the streets aired."

In Going Postal, he repeatedly falls asleep at his desk. I can only find two instances, but the first one describes it as having happened "again," so it happens at least three times over the course of one week. Both of the times I found were after Mr. Pump cleared his apartment, giving him access to a bed, and I can't find any reference to the fire destroying it—just that his office is "missing the whole of one wall." His presumably wooden desk is still intact, even, just "charred."

There's also no build-up either time. No direct narration of the time right before he falls asleep, just retroactive accounting for it.

Which is primarily a function of stories not showing us every boring second, and secondarily one of the smaller ways we're shown Moist being overwhelmed and racing to keep up with himself, but tertiarily it's a great set dressing if you've already decided he's narcoleptic. Sometimes sleep is just a thing that happens, without any deliberate transition. Sometimes you sit down to catch your breath or get some paperwork done, and wake up several hours later.

I've found only one example in GP of Moist waking up in his actual bed at the post office: the morning after being possessed by all the undelivered letters. Presumably either they put him there, or Mr. Pump did.

There are two points in Making Money where Moist, in an effort to be a comforting and/or guiding hand, advises people to get some sleep. First Owlswick Jenkins, and then one of the clerks (Robert) who is worried about Mr. Bent.

I take the optimistic view that this is Moist genuinely caring about these people, not just trying to get them to do what he wants. He has always done some combination of those things (GP opens with him having befriended his jailers, after all), but there's definitely a thread of him learning to treat both himself and those around him more like real people. (See also.)

Looking at this thread through narcolepsy-colored lenses, you get Moist perhaps drawing from his own experiences in an effort to be helpful. In Owlswick or Robert's position, what is something he would want to hear from the man currently in charge of his fate, or at least his job? "Get some sleep."

If we accept this as a pattern, it culminates in Raising Steam, when Moist starts to worry about "Dick Simnel and his band of overworked engineers," fixating particularly on their lack of sleep.

What sleep they got was in sleeping bags, curled up on carriage seats, eating but not eating well, just driven by their watches and their desire to keep the train going.

[...]

"People are going to die if we push them any further," he said to Dick. "You lot would rather work than sleep!"

[...]

The young man swayed in front of him and Moist's tone became gentle. "And I see now that part of my job is to tell you that you need some rest. You've run out of steam, Dick. Look, we're well on the way to Uberwald now, and while it's daylight and we're out of the mountains it's going to be the least risky time to run with minimum crew. We're all going to need our wits about us when we get near the pass. Surely you can take some rest?"

Simnel blinked as if he'd not seen Moist the first time, and said, "Yes, you're right."

And Moist could hear the slurring in the young man's speech, caught him before he fell and dragged him into a sleeping compartment, put him to bed, and noted that the engineer didn't so much fall asleep as somehow flow into it.

Moist then recruits Vimes to help him talk the rest of the engineers into getting some rest. The two of them briefly commiserate about people not realizing how important it is.

"I have to teach that to young coppers. Treasure a night's rest, I always say. Take a nap whenever you can."

"Very good."

II. Insomnia.

This is a lesser-known but very common symptom of narcolepsy. Or a comorbidity, depending on how you look at it. It seems counterintuitive if narcolepsy has been presented to you as "sleeping all the time," but it makes sense once you know it's really a matter of disruption in the brain's ability to regulate sleep cycles.

The case for this symptom is flimsier, and I fully admit I'm just reading my own experience into it. But here are two excerpts from Going Postal that I find quite suitable for my sleepy agenda:

1. "A man of affairs such as he had to learn to sleep in all kinds of situations, often while mobs were looking for him a wall's thickness away."

I latched hard onto this detail the first time I read GP.

At my worst, I could not get more than a couple hours of sleep in my bed. I kept taking naps in the bath because it was one of the few places I could sleep. It seemed to fulfill some of the criteria (isolation, temperature control, etc) that my brain demanded in exchange for playing nice.

We're told over and over again, throughout Moist's books, that he functions best under pressure.

(Brief aside: This is often cited as a reason to interpret Moist as having ADHD, which I'm also fully on board with. Not coincidentally, narcolepsy and ADHD share a few symptoms, have a notable comorbidity rate, and are treated with some of the same medications. Source.)

So again, if you're already inclined to read Moist as narcoleptic, the following is an easy jump:

"Moist thinks he's good at sleeping in strange places under strange circumstances. This is because A) his basis for comparison is a disordered attempt to sleep in normal places under normal circumstances, B) something about danger satisfies his brain into running more smoothly, and C) he's a resourceful person who is 'not given to introspection,' and so is less likely to wonder why his body demands sleep at strange times and more likely to focus on finding a place for that sleep to happen, and chalk this up later as a skill."

And returning briefly to EDS: Why would someone like Moist waste time finding a safe place to sleep while people are actively trying to kill him? At the beginning of GP, he leaves Vetinari's office and immediately goes on the run. In multiple books, when he feels threatened, his brain instinctively launches into complex escape plans. We see him successfully blend into an Ankh-Morpork crowd at least once after becoming a public figure.

So why bother? After all, a safe place to sleep is also a safe place to change clothes, or at least remove whatever distinguishing features he's given himself. Why wouldn't he just become someone else and leave town immediately?

The obvious answer is that sometimes things just happen, and an author doesn't need to know or explain every single detail of a character's past.

I would suggest, though, that one of those things might be Moist reaching a point where sleep is just not optional. A point where he not only doesn't, but can't, care about anything else. Where he is too tired to think straight, too tired to talk his way out of trouble, too tired to even contemplate the long journey from one town to the next.

2. "Moist knew he ought to get some sleep, but he had to be there, too, alive and sparkling."

Sometimes (especially in combination with underlying mental health issues) narcoleptic sleep deprivation can bypass everything I've described so far, and lead straight into a manic state. You won't necessarily find that on Google, but it's been my experience.

That's obviously not what the text is implying. "Alive and sparkling" is just a very relatable description. And we do often see Moist getting away from himself, speaking without thinking, making absurd promises that he justifies immediately afterwards as Just Part Of Being Him, always raising the stakes.

And here are a couple of excerpts from Raising Steam that could be interpreted as Moist being a light sleeper, AKA struggling to get deep sleep:

1. "And slowly Moist shut down, although a part of him was always listening to the rhythm of the rails, listening in his sleep, like a sailor listening to the sounds of the sea."

2. "All Moist's life he'd managed to find a way of sleeping in just about every circumstance and, besides, the guard's van was somehow the hub of the train; and although he didn't know how he did it, he always managed to sleep with half of one ear open."

Moist is exactly the kind of opportunist to see that as a useful tool, isn't he?

III. Hypnagogic and Hypnopompic Hallucinations.

These are hallucinations that come on as you're falling asleep or waking up. They can also happen during REM intrusions while you're awake. My most memorable ones include piano notes, someone calling my name, being trapped in the waves of a large body of water, and a huge truck going over a guard rail and tumbling down a hill. These are often, but not always, accompanied by sleep paralysis (and sleep paralysis is often, but not always, accompanied by hallucinations).

In GP, Moist casually cites his own hallucinations as proof that what is happening at the post office is not one.

"They're all alive! And angry! They talk! It was not a hallucination! I've had hallucinations and they don't hurt!"

Obviously that's not true for everyone, but it's true for Moist, and he has enough experience that he immediately recognizes the difference.

At one point while awake, Moist "[snaps] out of a dream of chandeliers" to realize someone has approached him to talk, while he was busy having visions of what the post office used to look like/could look like again.

Now, that's cheating, because we're probably supposed to assume it's a side effect of being possessed, but... I'm putting it here anyway.

There is also perhaps a case to be made for the tendency of Moist's internal monologue to lapse into extremely specific and prolonged hypotheticals. The lines between hallucinations, waking dreams, and "regular" daydreams have always been very blurry to me. I'm especially curious about the example at the end of Going Postal, which goes like this:

"Look, I know what I'm like," he said. "I'm not the person everyone thinks I am. I just wanted to prove to myself I'm not like Gilt. More than a hammer, you understand? But I'm still a fraud by trade. I thought you knew that. I can fake sincerity so well that even I can't tell. I mess with people's heads—"

"You're fooling no one but yourself," said Miss Dearheart, and reached for his hand.

Moist shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city, and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn't seem to work anymore, the flair wasn't there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn't seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—

And an angel appeared.

"What just happened?" said Miss Dearheart.

Perhaps you do get two...

"Only a passing thought," said Moist.

In-universe... what is Adora reacting to? What did just happen? The fact that these incidents are not isolated to Going Postal is a point against it being some sort of literal timeline divergence caused by The Spirit Of The Post.

So maybe Moist visibly zoned out. Maybe he had some kind of minor but noticeable cataplexy attack (more on those later) as part of a REM intrusion, brought on by the intense emotions he's currently struggling with.

IV. Vivid Dreams.

Again, at least some of this is probably supposed to be part of the possession, but I've been professionally projecting myself onto the surreal dreams of magically afflicted characters for years. Do try this at home.

1. "Moist dreamed of bottled wizards, all shouting his name. In the best tradition of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him."

2. Moist is uneasy about the Smoking Gnu's plan, and then he has an extremely detailed dream about the Grand Trunk burning down.

This culminates in "Moist awoke, the Grand Trunk burning in his head," followed by a paragraph of him thinking things through and starting to form his own alternative plan, followed immediately by "Moist awoke. He was at his desk, and someone had put a pillow under his head."

So he fell asleep at his desk, woke up from a vivid nightmare, was awake just long enough for a coherent train of thought, and then passed back out. Which once again is not "proof" of anything, but fits the predetermined interpretation like a glove.

V. Cataplexy.

Cataplexy is a sudden loss of muscle control, usually triggered by strong emotions. This is thought to be a facet of REM intrusion—waking instances of the atonia that is meant to stop us from acting out our dreams.

The most well-known manifestation is laughter making your knees buckle, but it's not always that severe. My own attacks range from facial twitching, usually when I'm angry or otherwise extremely upset, to all-over weakness/immobilization and near-collapse when I laugh. My knees have fully buckled once or twice.

This is the biggest stretch. This is the one that is absolutely only there if you've already decided to read entire novels between the lines. It's also not even necessary for the broader headcanon; plenty of people have narcolepsy without cataplexy (or such mild cataplexy that it's never noticeable, or very delayed onset, etc).

However. I am doing this for fun. So I want him to have it. It's also become a major part of how I imagine Moist engaging with emotion, and I'd like to make a case for that.

There are a few scattered references to Moist's legs shaking, or being unsteady, or outright giving way, but there's usually an external physical reason, and/or enough psychological shock to justify it without a medical condition.

The most compelling example I've found so far comes from Moist and Adora's conversation about people expecting Moist to deliver letters to the gods.

"I never promised to—"

"You promised to when you sold them the stamps!"

Moist almost fell off his chair. She'd wielded the sentence like a fist.

"And it'll give them hope," she added, rather more quietly.

"False hope," said Moist, struggling upright.

"Almost fell off his chair" at first sounds like casual hyperbole, but then "struggling upright" implies it was a bit more literal. It's also an accurate description of me recovering from my more severe attacks, supporting myself on a wall or my spouse, or pushing myself up if I've fallen over in bed.

That happens to me multiple times per day, by the way. It doesn't bother me, and I didn't realize there was anything unusual about it for a long time. I barely think about it, except to fondly note that my spouse is good at making me laugh.

Which is to say, even severe cataplexy is not always noticeable or debilitating. Sometimes it absolutely is! It can be downright dangerous, depending on where you are, what you're doing, and whether you have any other conditions it might exacerbate. I don't want to undermine that.

I am just hell-bent on justifying the idea that this fictional character could have repeated attacks throughout the canonical narrative that are so routine they don't merit an explanation, or even a description. Especially for someone who is used to hiding his few distinguishing features behind false ones that are much more memorable. (See also.)

(That link goes to my own fanfic. Sorry.)

On the milder side, between Going Postal and Making Money, there are three instances of Moist's mouth "dropping open" when he's shocked, upset, confused, or some combination of the three. This is the kind of thing that shows up a lot in fiction, but rarely happens so literally in real life.

(There's technically a fourth instance, but I'm not counting it because it seems to be a deliberate choice on his part to convey surprise.)

And then there's laughter. Or rather, there isn't. I could be missing something, but I've searched all three books for instances of laughter and various synonyms (not counting spoken "Ha!"s), and what I've come up with is:

Moist laughs once in Going Postal, when he receives the assignment for the race to Genua.

Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing.

There's also an instance earlier in the book where Moist nearly "burst[s] out laughing."

I find the specifics here interesting, and, for our purposes, fortuitous. Cataplexy is complicated and presents differently for everyone. In my case, when laughter triggers an attack, one of the effects (which is sometimes also a cause) is that I laugh very hard, with little or no control. "Burst out laughing" is quite apt.

Let's move on to Making Money, and start with a quick tangent:

Mr. Bent explains that he has no sense of humor due to a medical condition, and that he isn't upset about this and doesn't understand why people feel sorry for him.

Moist immediately starts in with "Have you tried—" before getting cut off by the frustrated Bent.

Out-of-universe, "Have you tried" is such a well-known refrain to anyone with an incurable condition, I'm not at all surprised to find it in a book written by someone who had at least begun the process that would lead to a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer's. And Pratchett has certainly never shied away from portraying ignorance in his protagonists.

In-universe, it feels a little odd. Moist's tongue runs away from him all the time, but usually in the form of making ridiculous claims or impossible promises. Moist's entire stock-in-trade is People Skills, and it feels strange for him to make this kind of mistake immediately after being told Mr. Bent is not looking for solutions.

But if one were reading with, for instance, the idea in mind that Moist himself has an incurable condition related to laughter and is enthusiastic about, but still relatively new to, the practice of drawing on his own experiences to help people... it is easy to imagine the gears in his head turning the wrong way, superimposing those experiences over the tail end of Mr. Bent's explanation. Disabled people are not immune to these well-meaning pitfalls.

There is another Mr. Bent moment that I want to discuss, but we'll circle back around to it later.

I found two instances of Moist himself laughing in MM.

1. "He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little."

This is deliberate laughter, employed as a social tactic. A polite chuckle, probably. Not the sort of thing that generally triggers cataplexy.

2. "Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression."

The first and only involuntary laugh in MM. It doesn't always trigger attacks...

Which brings us to Raising Steam. Compared to the first two books, Moist laughs a lot here. I count nine instances. Two of them are "burst out laughing"s, a couple include him as part of a group, some of it comes off as deliberate, and some of it doesn't.

I've always seen a lot of... rage in Raising Steam. Combing through it for laughter, I realized Moist's emotions in general are much closer to the surface here, and he's much less concerned about letting people see them. He laughs with friends and acquaintances, he cries in front of strangers, he shouts at Harry King, he has that entire conversation with Dick that boils down to "I'm very worried about you," etc.

Opinions vary wildly and sharply on Raising Steam. I have my own hangups with it, as I do with most books in the series. (Every time I make a new Discworld post, Tumblr passive-aggressively suggests the tag "my kingdom for a discworld character who is normal about women and other species.")

But I like this particular change in Moist, and I choose to see it as character development. He's trading in the professional detachment of a conman for the ability to grow into himself as a person and make meaningful connections.

So, what does that have to do with cataplexy? A lot.

I don't want to get too maudlin, so I'll just say I have plenty of personal experience with emotional repression masking cataplexy symptoms. And so, I believe, does the version of Moist we've put together over the course of this post.

Which brings us back to Making Money, and Mr. Bent. He says something about Moist that I find very interesting: "I do not trust those who laugh too easily."

Unless I've missed something, at that point in the book, Moist has never actually laughed in front of him. And Mr. Bent is a man who pays very close attention to details.

So, what is the in-universe explanation for this? I'd like to propose that Moist is very skilled at seeming to laugh, without actually laughing. He smiles, he's friendly, and he makes other people laugh, which is another thing Bent dislikes about him. He gives the impression of being someone who laughs a lot. (He certainly left that impression on me; I was very surprised by the lack of examples in the first two books.)

Even staying strictly within the bounds of canon, it's easy to imagine why this might have become part of Moist's camouflage in his previous life. He wasn't looking to get attached to anyone, and he didn't want anyone getting inside his head. Engaging with people genuinely enough to laugh at their jokes would run counter to both of those things, but some of his personas still needed to come off as friendly and sociable.

Still working within the canon, it makes sense to assume he's similarly distanced himself from emotion in general. He sits in a cell for several weeks without truly believing he's going to die. He's bewildered when Mr. Pump points out that his schemes have hurt innocent people. He has no idea what to do with his feelings for Adora. Etc.

Interpreting Moist as having cataplexy adds an extra element of danger. Moist thrives on danger, but there's a difference between the thrill of a con and the threat of sudden, uncontrollable displays of vulnerability. And so it becomes even easier to see him stifling his own emotional capacity.*

We meet Moist at a moment of great upheaval. He is forcibly removed from his cocoon of false identities, and pushed out into the world as himself. And we are shown and told throughout Going Postal that he does not know how to be himself. (See also.)

He is repeatedly stymied by his own emotions. He gets tongue-tied and confused around Adora, he snaps at Mr. Pump, he lashes out at Mr. Groat, he gets lost in school flashbacks when he meets Miss Maccalariat. This thread continues in Making Money, where the sudden reappearance of Cribbins immediately rattles him into making an uncharacteristic mistake.

I called him Cribbins! Just then! I called him Cribbins! Did he tell me his name? Did he notice? He must have noticed!

Later in the same book, Moist misses a crucial opportunity to run damage control on the bank's public image... because he's excited to see Adora.

The Moist of GP and MM is not used to feeling things so deeply. It throws him off his game. I'm not at all suggesting cataplexy is the only (or even primary) reason for that, but I do think there's room for it on both sides of the cause and effect equation.

With or without the cataplexy, I find Moist's relative emotional openness in Raising Steam... really nice. (It's a work in progress. He's still getting a handle on anger.)

Cataplexy just adds another dimension. A physical manifestation of emotional vulnerability, which would have been especially untenable for a teenager on the run. Just one more facet of the real, human, fallible Moist von Lipwig who spent years buried beneath Albert Spangler and all the rest.

Another piece of himself that Moist is growing to understand and accept, as he learns to more comfortably be himself.

The Moist of Going Postal runs into a burning building to save lives without fully understanding why he wants to, and justifies it on the fly as an essential part of the role he's trying to play.

The Moist of Raising Steam mindlessly throws himself under a train to save two children, and then blows up at Harry King about the lack of safety regulations. Freshly traumatized by the murder of several railway workers and his own violent, vengeful response to it, he still offers, in the face of Harry's own grief, to be the one to inform their families. On a long and dangerous journey with plenty of moving parts to think about, he worries about Dick Simnel and the other engineers, and pushes them to take better care of themselves.

He also meets a bunch of kids who nearly derailed a train as part of a childish scheme. His admonishment is startlingly vivid.

"Can you imagine a railway accident? The screaming of the rails and the people inside and the explosion that scythes the countryside around when the boiler bursts? And you, little girl, and your little friends, would have done all that. Killed a trainload of people."

[...]

"I'll square this with the engine driver, but if I was you I'd get my pencil and turn any clever ideas you have like this into a book or two. Those penny dreadfuls are all the rage in the railway bookshops."

Maybe what he is also saying, between the lines, is:

I left home at 14 and began a life of smoke and mirrors. I was empty inside, and I thought everyone else was, too. It was all fun and games, and then a man made of clay told me I was killing people. Nip it in the bud, child. Write books.

------------

*There are studies suggesting that in addition to deliberately employed "tricks," people with cataplexy may experience physiological reactions in the brain meant to inhibit laughter. (Source 1, Source 2.)

Most of the information here is way over my head, but that second link also says "one region of the brain called the zona incerta (meaning 'zone of uncertainty') was only activated during laughter in people with narcolepsy, not in controls. Research on the zona incerta in animals suggests that it also helps to control fear-associated behavior."

The linked article about that (https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-018-03581-6) is also over my head, but I would certainly describe Moist von Lipwig as having unusual fear responses.**

**Narcolepsy is a fun roller-coaster ride of constant scientific discoveries about exactly which parts of your brain are paying too much attention, not paying enough attention, or trying to eat each other.

[electraheart2012]

why is the undelivered nixon speech about the apollo 11 astronauts dying so harrowing

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Styles. || 15

Authors Note:  Hey everyone!! I know it has been a while since I have updated, but I wanted to pop in and say hi, I am back. I intend to do my best to start writing again and to start where I left off at. I have missed Elise and Harry’s story so much, but I needed the break. With that being said, I am back and doing my best to get back to writing their story. Bare with me as it has always been hard for me to end stories, hence why this one is still kicking. I have a strong connection with the story and I just want to keep writing, so here I am. I hope you all love their story as much as I do. Anyway, I hope you are all well and continue to read my work. xx 

For previous chapters, click HERE.

First. Book : Styles and Co

Second Book : Styles’ Towers. 

Third Book : The Rise Of Glory.

Styles & Co. || Extras.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Wouldn’t It Be nice.

My apartment is quiet as I type away at my laptop, attempting to stay focused on my essay with a pounding headache. I have hardly slept the last few nights, and I have been running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Balancing school and work have proven to be extremely troublesome, but I do not regret my decision one bit to take up Jamie’s proposal. I am incredibly appreciative of the opportunity, even if I manage to get an hour or so of sleep a night.

I landed Jamie the clients and completed the meetings as requested, and successfully redesigned one of the portfolios— it has all been worth it. It will one day pay off to only sleep a few hours.

I massage my temples before the sound of my apartment door opening takes my attention. I turn around immediately, almost plummeting to my feet before nonchalantly recognising it’s Elise and not my worst nightmare. Ever since my father appeared at my apartment that one night, I have been on edge, not to mention I also don’t want Logan coming to my apartment. “Hey,” I half-smile towards her as she closes the door behind her and propels me the apartment keys.

I catch the keys in my hands, “Good to know you’re alive, Harry,” Elise’s commentary takes me by surprise as I kiss her cheek, and she moves away from me.

She’s exasperated.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” I immediately challenge, “What’s with handing me the keys?” I dangle the keys in my hand.

Elise raises her brow and crosses her arms over her chest, “What’s wrong?” Elise scoffs, “Harry, you haven’t spoken to me in two weeks, not sure if we are even together.”

“What? Sweetheart, I called you the other night before I fell asleep.”

Elise shakes her head, “You haven’t called. I got a text from you, but it said my name, and that was all,” Elise responds, showing me her phone, proving that she is, in fact, correct.

Fuckity-fuck-fuck.

“Oh,” I trail off, feeling like a horrible person… “I’m so sorry.”

And the award for worst boyfriend, once again, goes to me. How wonderful. At this point, I may as well keep an honorary speech on hand. Damnit.

“Harry… if you don’t want to be with me—“

“Darling,” I begin, “I thought I called you the other night… I swear I even texted you today when I woke up,” I assure her, clutching my phone from my table and clicking her messages.

The messages are somewhere here. I know there’s some sort of logical explanation. I remember distinctly. I texted her.

My heart drops, and I shake my head, dissatisfied with myself, “I uh… I never hit send… I never realised that the texts I did send never delivered,” I show her my screen of undelivered text messages and a message from this morning I never sent. “I look like an ass.”

Elise snickers and nods her head, “What else is new?” She jokes, and I can’t help but playfully roll my eyes and grin at her. However, she may be joking; deep down, she and I both know that there’s some truth to the joking matter. I’m an ass, and I can openly admit it.

“I know it is no excuse, but I’m dead tired and busy. I wasn’t trying to blow you off or forget you. I genuinely thought I had called and texted you… Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“You still want to be with me?”

“I’m sorry you even doubt my intentions. Of course, I do. Not sure you feel the same about me.”

It has never been my intentions for her to have to doubt whether I want to be with her. I want to be with her, one-hundred and ten per cent. She’s the woman I aspire to spend my time with. It’s too early to say this, but I want to spend my life with her. We aren’t ready for marriage, but she is the one I want to come home to every night. She’s the one with who I want to grow and build a life.

“I know you’re tired and swamped, but I did feel like you didn’t want to be with me,” Elise confesses.

I nod my head, considering her feelings and how I may have made it seem like I don’t give a damn. “That’s me just being an ass who is struggling to get everything done. Can I make it up to you?”

“How?” Elise demands.

I can imagine she is tired of hearing whether I can make it up to her. I’m tired of hearing it, too. I sound like a broken record, which isn’t my intent, but I am doing my best. My best isn’t good enough, and I know this, but I will do better. I will do what it takes to make her feel valued. I don’t want her ever to have to question my intentions or love for her.

“Stay the night with me. I’ll go to work and come back at around eight before you have to be up. I’ll bring coffee and breakfast… if you like?” I suggest, unsure of how to make things up to her. Dinner and flowers are too cliche, and I have already promised her that. Right now, all I can do is breakfast, and I physically don’t have time for anything else until the weekend.

Elise nods her head and agrees, “Can you maybe try to remember that I’d like a text or a call, so I know you’re alive?”

“I’ll do my best. I’m sorry, baby, I am,” I step closer and kiss her cheek before giving her a warm hug.

I need to make it up to her, and I need to show her I care and want to be with her. She deserves better than a boyfriend who forgets to press send on a text message. It may not be a big deal to some, it was a genuine mistake, but I feel horrible for not realising I hadn’t spoken to Elise. I feel as though I neglected my duties as a boyfriend to make sure she is okay and feel valued and wanted. It is the small things that can make a difference in a relationship.

Elise hasn’t asked for much; she wants my time and effort, which I will give her to the best of my ability.

❈ ❈ ❈

I feel a tender touch to my shoulders, and I draw myself away from my sleeping state. I open my eyes and groggily glance around. Fuck, I fell asleep on my laptop. “You fell asleep,” Elle informs me, her hand massaging soothing circles on my back.

I nod my head and sigh. I touch my fingers to my temple and rub them slowly, “I have the worst headache, and this is due in an hour,” I gesture towards my computer screen that is only making my headache graver.

“Would you like me to finish it for you?” Elise kindly offers.

“Do you even know what I am writing about?” The words leave my lips without me thinking twice about how they sound.

“Don’t be a condescending ass, Harry,” Elise mutters.

I heavily sigh and nod my head, “I’m sorry. Do you know about this,” I motion towards my laptop that has my composition mostly completed? I am not sure if I am nearly finished or not.

“Harry, I can use the literature as a framework to sum up your essay, unless you don’t trust I have the intelligence to do so?” Elise answers, annoyed with me still.

I do not blame her for being irritated with me, After all, I have unintentionally blown her off, and now I am making her believe she is not intelligent, which was not my purposes. I know she is brilliant. She may not be as into the business world as I am, but she is one hell of a writer. Elise is excellent with essays and literature. “And don’t forget, I have to take business, so I do know the basics,” Elise notifies me, and I bow my head.

“Again, I am sorry, Elle,” I apologise, “Be my guest, have at it,” I move my chair, and Elise rests beside me, immediately beginning to read what I have written.

“For someone who is great at business, you have a lot of errors,” Elisse chuckles, nudging me lightly. I nod my head and hum.

“Business major, not an English major, also wrote that with a headache and no sleep,” I mumble before I rest my arms on the desk and place my head to lean in my arms, closing my eyes and falling in and out of sleep while Elise types away. “Harry,” Elise taps me.

I hum my acknowledgement, “Hey, what is the main conclusion you want to be emphasised?”

“Baby, I don’t care,” I murmur tiredly, “Just write whatever sounds good, just don’t fail me,” I continue.

“Great, so I will conclude on valuation and whether to rely on an algorithm or on an ad-hoc analysis,” Elise confirms.

“Sounds good,” I admit, grappling with concentrating, my eyes stinging and my head spinning. “I trust you, darling,” I drowsily mumble, prompting to rest my head on her shoulder, closing my eyes again and drifting off to sleep.

❈

It isn’t long before I am woken, and it feels like only moments have passed where I was put at ease and managed to get a few moments of relaxation. “Hey, Harry, hey, sweetheart,” Elise gradually and benevolently tears me from my sleep, and I lift my head off her shoulder, brushing my eyes as I attempt to focus on her. “It’s done; you need to just go to bed.”

I groggily come to terms with my surroundings, regarding that Elise has finished my paper, “What time is it? I still have work to do,” I shake my head, remembering the collection of work I need to finish. I need to establish a fundamental algorithm for one of my clients, and I still need to figure out a way to balance Elise’s sister’s portfolio that was due the weekend of her wedding. Still, Jamie put it on hold due to her antics and marriage. With Elouise getting married, there is a chance she could venture to combine assets with her husband, but if he is intelligent, he won’t let her encounter any of his assets. I would not combine anything with her. There is a time and a place to consolidate things, and a new marriage is not the time. They have not established boundaries, nor have they demonstrated the true meaning behind the wedding. I think Elouisa married for money, point-blank.

“It’s one, and we are going to bed. You’re not working yourself to death,” Elise informs me, closing down my emails and shutting my laptop.

“Elle, I have to send it and —“

“I already sent it. You owe me, by the way,” Elise smiles, standing up from her position and taking my hand, dragging me with her.

Elise and I wander towards the hallway, “Add it to my tab,” I chuckle, “Tell ya what… I’ll get breakfast in the morning, and this weekend I’ll take you to a nice dinner,” I inform Elise, aware that she deserves more than what I’ve given her lately. I’m not sure how she hasn’t thrown in the towel and told me to go fuck myself.

“That would be nice,” Elise accepts as we step into my bedroom, and I waste no time taking my shirt off and launching it to the corner. This is the earliest I have managed to crawl into bed, and if it weren’t for Elise, I’d still be awake, perching at my computer and making my headache ten times worse.

“Thank you for finishing my paper,” I grasp a t-shirt from my drawer while Elise draws back the covers of my bed, “I appreciate it,” I assure Elise, handing her a t-shirt for her to wear to bed.

“Ignore me again for a week or two, and I won’t be so nice,” Elise responds, taking the shirt from my hands. I nod my head, and I don’t expect her to be friendly and forgiving when I fuck up and act like an arse. I need to be held accountable. Elise leans up and kisses my cheek before caressing her hands to my chest, “You’re hot.”

“Thanks, but I’m not in the mood for compliments.”

“Moron,” Elise rolls her eyes, “You’re warm,” she caresses her hands to my cheeks, “Your cheeks are flushed.”

“Mhm,” I hum, “I get migraines after a long period with little sleep,” I shrug my shoulders, not too concerned about things, “It happens like once every few months.”

“Has it ever occurred to you to sleep?” Elise challenges with a touch of sass to her tone of voice.

Sleep would be delightful, but I have too much on my plate.

“It has,” I laugh, “But I don’t have enough time for that.”

“How are you not miserable right now?”

“I am,” I respond, “I just know I have to deal with it. Are we going to continue talking about my lack of sleep and terrible migraine, or are we going to sleep for a few hours?” I question, moving to my side of the bed and crawling between my sheets.

In all fairness, I am miserable. I feel like utter shit, my head is pounding, any sort of light burns my eyes, and it feels like I’m just being clobbered with a club.

“A few hours?” Elise seems surprised at my comment.

I only have a few hours to spare, nothing more, nothing less.

I nod my head, “I have work at six, so yes, a few hours.”

“Surely you’re not getting up?”

“I have to, Elle,” I sigh, “I can’t afford not to.”

In all honesty, I don’t want to get up in a few hours, I’d love nothing more than to sleep in and allow my migraine time to dwindle off, but I can’t. The world doesn’t stop because I’m unwell or for any reason. My mother’s bills still necessitate to be paid, meetings still need to take session, and my school work still needs attending. I don’t get sick days. I don’t get to sleep in. It’s nothing against Elise, but I’m not lucky enough to get to have a few additional hours of sleep as she can.

“You’re wearing yourself too thin.”

“I have to.”

“Can’t I help?”

“You have; you finished my paper for me. That’s more than enough.” I smile towards Elise, kissing her, sweetly, “Thank you for your help.” I kiss her again before stepping away and moving to my side of the bed.

It is not Elise’s responsibility to help my situations. These are my problems to deal with, and she has enough to worry about on her own. I do not wish to burden her with my issues, nor do I wish for her to have to deal with anything more than she already needs to. I don’t want to scare her away, and I don’t want to risk letting her help me and then leaving me because it is too much to handle. I can handle things on my own… I think.

❈ ❈ ❈

The drive to Elise’s parent’s house has been nothing but full of anxiety. I have no reason to be anxious, but I am. I haven’t stepped foot back in the house since the weekend I met her parents. Ever since, I have kept all meetings with the parents in public places. The gates to the private estate open, and I drive up the driveway, parking next to Elise’s car before turning my car off. I sit in the driver’s seat, taking a deep breath as I take in my surroundings. One day I will be able to afford such an extravagant house like this, but for now, I will settle with my tiny apartment and non-glamorous lifestyle.

I get out of my car and close the door. I make the short walk along the perfect cobble pathway towards the door. Everything about the estate is immaculate, from the gardens to how the Autumn door wreath sits flawlessly aligned. Although the leaves are shifting to magma-reds, hot-oranges and fever-yellows, not a single leaf is on the ground— the groundskeeper but be astonishing at his job. The barbecue-red leaves hang soundlessly on the trees, and I can't help but glance up and watch in awe, curious as to whether one will fall and wreck the pure aesthetic the Cartier’s have going on. I shake my head and chuckle to myself before walking up the steps. I stand before the double doors and adjust my shirt, making sure my collar is suitable, and my shirt is not creased. I take a breath and knock on the door.

After a few moments, the door opens, “Well, it’s about time you show up,” Conrad, Elise’s dad, comments with a grin, “I thought you were bringing the liquor?” Conrad questions as he opens the door wider and allows me to step into the house.

I shake his hand, “Hello, and no sir, I did not bring the liquor. Next time I will bring you a bottle,” I respond as we shake hands.

I was unaware that it was now customary for me to bring liquor. I shall be prepared for next time. Hopefully, this time, I will not feel as though I do not belong here or that I am not good enough for Elise. Although our last gathering at the house was far from what I had hoped, ever since that day, her parent’s and I have gotten closer and gotten along. Conrad has realised I am not here for the money, and I do not want any special treatment in the business world. I want to make it on my own with my name, not theirs.

“Elise is at the kitchen table, finishing another essay.”

“She has had quite a few to do,” I nod my head.

“While she finishes, care to have a drink with me?”

“Uh, sure,” I agree, following Conrad into the living room and standing by him as he picks up his decanter set and begins to pour a glass.

“Question for you… Would you consider working for me?”

I shake my head, “All due respect, no. You’re my girlfriend's father, and I do not want to make things awkward. I am also quite happy at Jamie’s company.”

“Damnit, Jamie got a good one. Okay, fair… Well, I would like to have lunch with you and talk business one day this week, just to get to know you more.”

“I can do Thursday?” I suggest, “I leave Thursday night to travel with Jamie.”

“I guess that will do,” Conrad nods his head, “Where are you going?”

“We are going to LA.”

“My brother and I need to talk more. I am leaving for LA next week. We could have tag-teamed clients.”

I chuckle and shrug, “That is between the two of you. Do you not worry about competing with each other for clients?”

“No, we have boundaries.” Conrad shakes his head just as Elise wanders in and welcomes me.

She kisses my cheek and beams towards her father, taking a prompt sip of my drink before asking us about our conversation, and of course, rolling her eyes at me when she is told we are discussing business.

❈ ❈ ❈

After a brief moment at Elise’s parent’s house, I was enlightened that we would be setting sail on the River Thames. I had no idea that today's adventures entailed such a journey. I was under the impression it would be a relaxing day at the house— I was mistaken. I did not anticipate spending part of the day on a yacht. I did not know Conrad owned a yacht.

I knew Elise’s family was wealthy, but I did not think they were this prosperous. Elise doesn’t show nor act that she has a very elite lifestyle. She never once mentioned that her father had a yacht. It makes me wonder what the fuck else they have that I have no clue about. After all, Elise has an investment that is almost worth a million dollars— and somehow, she is still asking me for investment help and assistance with the stock market.

“Harry,” Conrad begins as he hands me a glass of some sort of alcohol, “I believe I owe you an apology,” Elise’s Dad begins, taking me by surprise.

I look at him and nod, waiting for him to give me some sort of explanation. I am not sure what he owes me an apology on, but I am willing to listen to him. “I didn’t give you a fair chance when I first met you months ago. I thought you were hanging around for a business opportunity. I know that way of thinking was wrong. I should not have assumed.”

I don’t blame Conrad for not being open to his daughter dating someone who does not come from the same upbringing as she did. I didn’t have a gorgeous house with perfect gardens. I didn’t have the luxuries she had and still has; I grew up with everything I needed and not much more. My mother couldn’t afford luxuries, and she still can’t. One day, I do hope to give my mother the amenities she deserves. I want to be able to fix her house up the way she wants it and buy her a nice car that she doesn’t need to worry about, whether it will break down on her drive to the grocery store. I didn’t grow up anywhere near close to the same lifestyle as Elise, so I understand the judgement on Conrads end. Every father wants the best for their daughter, and I might not have much money or much to offer her materialistically, but I can give her my time and love— I personally think that is better than anything anyone could buy her. One day, I will buy Elise the things she deserves. One day I will buy her the bracelets and the necklaces, all the things women love to receive. But for now, all I can offer Elise is my devoted time and love.

I accept Conrad's apology, “Sir, I want nothing more than to give her all the great things she is used to, but for now… All I have is myself. I can’t give her expensive dinners and diamonds. I can barely get her flowers, I will be honest, but I can give her my time, effort, and love. I care for your daughter a lot… To be honest, I am in love with her,” I begin to speak sentences before thinking about them. Part of me wants to stop sounding so soft, but the other part knows that Conrad needs to know my true intentions with Elise, “I may never be able to afford a yacht like this,” I gesture to the space around us, “And I may be dirt poor, but I will never be the man my father was, and believe me, that means more to me than anything materialistic I could give her. She will never have to worry about whether I love her. She will never have to worry about where her next meal will come from or whether she will be alone… I will put her first, I will put her before myself, and I will treat her the way a lady should be treated.”

Being a man and being the complete opposite of my father is what I strive for in life, aside from being a CEO. I have learnt what a man is and what a man is not. I have learnt the difference between a deadbeat husband and a real husband. I will not be the man my father was; I will worship the ground Elise walks on, and I will do everything in my power to make sure she is taken care of in every way. Like I have said, I might not ever get to give her mansion with the most beautiful art hung on the walls she could imagine, but she will know that every time I walk through that door, that I am coming home to her. Elise knows that I am the one she can call at any hour with any problem, I will always be there for her, and I will support her in all her decisions. I am aware that we may fight and argue over stupid shit. Hell, we will even fight over things that aren’t stupid, but I wouldn’t want to fight with anyone else at the end of the day. We will have our moments where we want to strangle each other. I know the time is coming, and I know there will be times she won’t want to speak to me or times where I have fucked up, but that is the beauty of a relationship— you grow together, and you learn.

I don’t plan to give up when the going is tough. I will not leave her in the dark and call it quits because things might not get any easier for us financially. I may run from many things when it gets tough, I may bury myself in work in school when I don’t want to deal with personal issues, but I will do my best not to run from her— from us.

“You don’t speak of your father. May I ask why?”

I grow withdrawn for a moment, unsure of what to say. I have managed to avoid my father’s issue for most of the relationship with Elise, but I know at some point I will have to tell her a few things. I would much prefer to discuss how Conrad succeeded in his business to the point he owns a yacht and can sail on the River Thames with a skipper and crew. I wonder if he even bought the dock as well that he docks at. I shake my thoughts away, remembering I have been asked a question about my father. “He isn’t in my life.”

“You mentioned that,” Conrad nods.

“My father is not what I would call a man. He is just someone who is a waste of space in society.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Harry.”

I lift my shoulders into a shrug, “All due respect, but that is nothing compared to the things he has done and said to my sister and myself,” I respond, not trying to sound like a prick. I don’t like having conversations about my Father. He is not worth my time or energy. I should have just told them the has is dead. In all fairness, he is dead to me. “He was an alcoholic. I don’t like to get in detail about him.”

Conrad nods his head and respects my decision of not wanting to speak much of my father. Conrad takes a sip of his drink, and I finally do the same, allowing the whiskey to give me a sense of ease. “Elise told me that you had been the one paying to keep your mother’s house?”

I nod my head, “Yes, sir… Mum lost her job and my sister…. Well, she is going through an emotional breakdown and struggling herself,” I admit, unsure of how much detail Elise has told her parents.

“I have a lot of respect for you, Harry.”

“Why?” I curiously ask.

Conrad leans forward and places his drink down at the table, “You are helping your mother and working night and day plus doing your masters, and you have not complained once.”

“I think I have complained,” I shake my head.

“Elise has said otherwise. You’re a genuine and modest gentleman, and you seem to put others first… I respect a man who can do his best to provide and not make excuses.”

I am not sure what to say. If I didn’t go to work and do what I do, my mother and sister would be on the streets. Someone had to step up and do what needed to be done. I would never forgive myself if my mother lost her house. The house may be small in comparison to what Conrad has, but it is still a home. It is the place my sister and I grew up in. It is the place my mother worked hard to maintain to the best of her ability. “I’d do it all over again if I had to,” I shrug, not really in the mindset that this is something that I should be praised for. I don’t need praise for stepping up. I just want my family to be happy and healthy.

“You’re a good man. I see that,” Conrad nods, finally cracking a small smile, “I don’t think I would want my daughter dating anyone else.”

I stifle a laugh and shake my head, “Give it time. I am sure Elise will tell you I am an asshole.”

“We all are assholes at some point. It’s more so common with people like us.”

“People like us?”

“We are businessmen, and we are born to lead and be assertive. Sometimes that crosses over into being an asshole. Do you know how many times my wife has called me every name under the sun? Or how many times she has told me I am being a CEO and need to walk out of the house and adjust my tone before walking back in?” Conrad questions in all seriousness, and I can’t help but chuckle. I can see Elise doing the same thing in the future. “Cathleen does not take my shit, and I don’t think Elise will take it either. She will call you an asshole, and all you can do is learn where the line is drawn between CEO and boyfriend or husband.”

“Elise has already called me an asshole,” I confess, “I deserved it.”

“Half the time, we do deserve it. It’s in our nature, but again, we learn to control it. We better get back to the ladies before they think I have killed you,” Conrad stands to his feet.

I stare at him and raise a brow, “Was that your initial plan, sir?”

“No, but it will be if you call me sir one more time,” Conrad laughs, “My name is Conrad,” Elise’s Dad corrects me, not wanting me to be as formal. I nod my head and stand up, taking my drink with me before we climb the stairs, leaving the cabin area and stepping back out into the crisp air, Conrad and I parting ways and walking to opposite ends of the yacht.

I make my way around the yacht, amazed by how big the fucking thing is. I know this thing had to have cost more than I can imagine. I smile to myself when I see Elise sitting on a blanket at the yacht’s foredeck with a book in her hand. I watch her for a moment as she is clueless to the world around her, her hair is blowing in the breeze of the slow sails, and her eyes are cast on a book with no intentions of looking away. Most people would be taking pictures or drinking on their father’s yacht. Instead, she is content, reading a book on her own and paying no attention to the rest of the world.

I step closer to where she rests, “Elle,” I call her name from her behind, not wanting to startle her as I walk closer. Elise turns to look at me over her shoulder and smiles that gorgeous smiles of hers.

“I see you made it out alive,” Elise chuckles, keeping her finger in place on her book.

“I did,” I nod, “I see you have your nose in a book.”

“I do,” Elise shows me the cover of the book.

I cock my head to the side and look at the title, “Haven’t you read that before?”

Elise nods and hums her response, “And you are rereading it?” I question.

“It is a good book, Harry. Do you have something against the Great Gatsby?” Elise asks, sounding shocked, almost as if I have insulted her but asking if she is rereading it.

I am not the kind of person to read books twice. I read them the first time, watch the movie and then call it a day. I have never been interested in reading something over and over again, just for the fun of it. I know the ending. I know the plot. Why reread it?

I sit down beside her and drape my arm around her as I kiss the top of her head, “Eh, I won’t lie. I found the book boring.”

“How so?”

“It’s a story about elite society.”

“Is that what you got out of the whole book, Harry?” My response does not amuse Elise.

“No, I don’t like how the book was portrayed. Not one of the characters were good. It isn’t like To Kill a Mockingbird where the book manages to display both the good and the evil inside people.”

“It’s the writing style that makes the book so great. It’s the pros.”

“Yeah, not a literary person, love,” I shake my head, “Anyway,” I trail off, “I have to go to LA for work on Thursday,” I finally tell Elise that I have a business meeting in LA that will take most of my time next week.

“Damn it, Harry,” Elise huffs.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Now, who is going to help me study?” Elise chuckles, causing me to roll my eyes at her.

This woman is something else, that is for sure. “Do you keep me around just to help you study?”

Elise shrugs her shoulders and closes her book, “Also for your good looks, but seriously, I need some help with my China and globalism course.”

“I assume you have a test?”

“Indeed,” Elise nods, “Can I get some help?”

“Sure, we can before I leave, or if you want, we can facetime while I am in LA to help?” I offer, unsure of when the best time will be for her to study. “China Globalism is a blast. You will love it,” I sarcastically add, very aware of the fact that Elise will hate the course. She may be knowledgeable,, but this will be the course that tests her in every way. The fucking course broke me at one point, it was a horrible experience, but it has come in handy with Jamie’s clients. However, I do not foresee this course helping Elise. She doesn’t want to get into this side of the business. She doesn’t even want to be in the business world. Elise has a true passion for English. I know she wants to do something with writing and is only pursuing business for her father.

“I already hate it,” Elise mutters, “So, you will be able to help?”

“Of course,” I agree, “I don’t know why you think I won’t help,” I kiss her cheek as she places her book down on the blanket.

Elise looks at me and pushes her hair behind her ear, “I know you’re busy; that’s why.”

“Mhm,” I hum, “I am going to have to go up to my mother’s sometime soon. Would you like to come with me?” I softly offer, not wanting to make the dreaded drive to Chesire on my own. I don’t want to go up there, but I have to. My mother deserves to see me, even if it is for a few moments.

Elise rests her head on my shoulder, “I would love to,” Elise responds cheerfully, far too cheery to be going to Cheshire. I wish I had her happy demeanour about Cheshire, but I cannot. I can’t even attempt to fake it.

My phone goes off, and I reach into my pocket and grab it. I look down at the screen and bite the inside of my cheek when I see ‘Logan’ pop up on my screen.

I don’t want to deal with him, and I thought I made it quite clear that I want nothing to do with the spawn of satan. My hatred for Logan will probably never subside, so we should have minimal contact, but for some reason, like my father, Logan is determined to cause havoc on my life in every single way possible.

I quickly read the text message, much to my bitter distaste, “Harry, I know you didn’t want to hear from me so soon, but if it’s a 999 situation. — Logan”

I place my phone back in my pocket and stare out at the water in an attempt to find my thoughts. A 999 situation with Logan can only really mean one thing. Blood. The last time it was a 999 situation, I had to swallow my hatred towards him and give him blood. I am not sure why he doesn’t just go to our father for it— but I can’t be petty and scoop to the level of declining him what I believe is primary care. I may hate him, and he may be what I consider the worst thing to happen to my life, but I can’t sit back and not help him with this. Ever since his mother passed away, I have been the one to donate blood to him when he needs it. I don’t remember our ages well, but I know that at around sixteen, his mother died, and up until that point, she was the one who would help him when his health got too poor. Now it is up to me. I could be an asshole and refuse to help him. I could tell him to fuck off and go to our father… But what kind of man would I be to deny someone essential health? What kind of man would I be if I didn’t help someone in need? Most of all, what kind of man would I be if I didn’t put my anger and resentment to the side to benefit someone else?

To answer my questions, I would be a selfish prick like my father, and I refuse to be anything like him.

I pull myself back to reality and remind myself that today was meant to be a day of not stressing about things I cannot change or fix. I cannot change the predicaments that happen. I am not in control of them. I am only in control of what I do. When I am done with Elise and her family, I will see what needs to happen with Logan and do what needs to be done.  

[commonsensecommentary]

“ . . .if you have no interest in the drudgery of governance but really, really enjoy overpromising and undelivering, posing for the cameras, and strutting your stuff at celebrity galas, a life in politics can be a gas, and Kamala Harris has been the poster child for doing your job badly—but looking good doing it.”

(From my blog archive)

[bakugotrashpanda]

Bed Is Cold

Todoroki x Reader Word Count: 374

!! slight anxiety?

A/N:Applied for jobs, low key gave myself a panic attack, found and finished a drabble sitting in my notes, going to eat ice cream and not be an adult for the rest of the night 🙃

--

Y/N: Bed is cold

You stare at the lone message on your screen. It’s left on delivered. Not ‘Read at 4:27am’ nor ‘Undelivered’. There’s no little speech bubble with three dots jumping around with building anticipation as to what will be said. Anxiety fills you as time passes.

It was a system you and Todoroki had developed eons ago when he would abruptly leave in the middle of the night. When he puts his life on the line to protect those who can’t. A way to check in without really checking in. A way to say: I miss you, I love you, are you okay?

He always answers. Even if it’s a quick ‘you’ll have to warm it up yourself tonight’. That tells you that he is coming home. He’s never silent, even on accident. Shoto always responds to you within minutes.

A clock in another room ticks away the seconds. You unconsciously start counting the ticks.

58, 59, 60

A sound in the hallway has you jolting out of bed. Keys scraping against the door? Feet hit cold wood floors and you throw the bedroom door open. A dark hallway greets you. Nothing. A trick of the mind.

376, 377, 378

What if something went wrong? You pace the apartment and stare out into the sleepy city. Night covers the buildings but there’s no telltale fire glow of your lover fighting or ice spikes rising in the city skyline. Everything is quiet but your mind is racing a million thoughts a minute.

2699, 2700, 2701

The floor creaks and the bed dips from an added body. Stupid mind playing tricks on you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reply,” Todoroki’s quiet voice washes your anxiety away. He’s here, in front of you. You reach out and touch his cheek. The heat warms your palm. It’s not a dream. He’s real. He’s back.

“My phone was destroyed on duty. I saw you texted but couldn’t respond.” Tears leak down your face and you throw your arms around him. He’s safe.

Pulling back, you whisper, “Bed is cold.”

Without missing a beat, Shoto responds, “Let me help you warm it up.” His lips meet yours in a tender kiss and he slips under the sheets with you.~

[successionsideblog]

ru made me do it. set immediately after sad sack

Kendall watches as the city lights skitter across the backseat window of his Maybach. They illuminate his tired face, the car droning monotonously over the road as Fikret chauffeurs him home. In other circumstances, the sound might pull Kendall towards sleep, but his frustration teems down on him like a cloudburst, keeping him awake.

The car passes 24-hour bodegas and overlit pharmacy signs, then a bench plastered with the plasticky faces of the ATN nightly news team. Kendall pushes the image to the back of his mind while the notecards of his speech bristle in his jacket pocket. Childhood anecdotes unheard and careful praises undelivered. The sloppily written words sink through his starched white button-down to etch themselves against his ribs. He pictures them aligned in thick, red tally marks. They burn, then itch. The ballroom is awash in applause. Kendall reluctantly claps along with them.

His father is back. Better than ever, apparently, despite the chain of linked hands that cradled him as he shuffled offstage. Logan had stumbled anyways, and Kendall had caught him, feeling the spiny back brace wrapped around his stomach beneath his shirt.    

It was instinctive. Kendall imagines the morning headlines that would have been printed if he had the foresight not to react. Grainy cellphone footage of Logan Roy falling forwards, a gasp rolling over the crowd, another stock crisis, the possibility that Kendall could look like the preferable choice. But Kendall did react, and his father had closed a hand around his wrist before pointedly shrugging him off. Even in his weakened state, he reminds Kendall that strength, whether real or feigned, is currency.

Kendall feels his phone vibrate in his left pocket. He scrolls through the jumble of notifications: emails, emails, more emails, a good luck text from Rava he pettily ignored, a push alert that Jess updated his calendar for the following week. He pauses on the text Stewy sent him 30 seconds ago, devoid of contents other than a link.

Kendall clicks it. It leads him to an article written by a non-Waystar publication, the headline blocky, oversized, clickbait ready and attention-grabbing. It hurts his eyes.

Logan Roy announces full-time return as Waystar Royco’s acting CEO and Chair.

Beneath the headline is a photograph of his father, mid-speech, smiling tightly behind the podium. Kendall sees his name within the body of the article, then a fragment about “shareholder doubts.” His stomach sinks, betraying how prepared he thought he was for the fallout. He expects to feel a similar disappointment when Wall Street opens tomorrow and the stock price rises. Kendall closes out of the article and another text message from Stewy pops up.

[Stew:] Don’t invite me to family Thanksgiving this year.

Kendall rolls his eyes. Whether Stewy is genuinely annoyed at him for letting his father take control or just teasing, Kendall can’t tell. Stewy sends him another message, this time a line of grimacing emojis. Kendall types out something embarrassingly unwitty, thinks on it, then deletes it. Instead, he taps on the handset icon beside Stewy’s name and brings his phone to his ear.

Stewy answers immediately. “Yeah, Ken?”

“Uh, hey, dude. Fuck you.”

All bark, no bite, like things usually are with them. A text would have sufficed, but truthfully, Kendall needed to hear Stewy’s voice.

Stewy audibly snorts in response. “What? I thought it was funny. I mean, I laughed, at least.”

Kendall smirks, eased instantly by their effortless back-and-forth. “Yeah, well . . .” He trails off. “You left without saying anything.”

“Yeah, sorry, man,” Stewy says. “I had to get out of there before the mouldy smell of old Caucasian money permanently stuck to my clothes. And I needed a proper drink. Nothing with pesto or parsley or whatever the fuck in it.”

Kendall feels his throat parch, picturing Stewy leaning over a bar with an iced glass of whiskey in one hand, his phone in the other, smile tugging at his lips. Kendall changes the subject. “Where are you?”

“My apartment. Why?”

“Are you, uh, alone?”

Kendall hears Stewy scoff on the other end of the line. “Alone? Is this a booty call? Are you booty calling me, Ken?”

“No, I—”

“Or is this phone sex? Are you gonna ask me what I’m wearing?”

“—Stewy—”

“—my tux still, for the most part. Jacket off, bowtie a bit rumpled, but, y’know, tasteful. I just got in.”

Kendall laughs. He hears Stewy chuckle, breathy.

“Yeah, Ken, I’m alone.”

[girlactionfigure]

They have names. They were attending church that Sunday. One of the girls was Carol Denise McNair (pictured here). She was born in Birmingham, Alabama in 1951. She was 11-years-old when she and four other young girls went into the basement of the 16th Street Baptist Church on September 15, 1963 to prepare for a sermon, entitled "The Love That Forgives." Denise McNair and the three other girls, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson and Cynthia Wesley would die in the church after a bomb planted by the KKK exploded in the church. The sole survivor of that group was Sarah Collins Rudolph, then 12, the sister of Addie Mae Collins. She remembers, "Denise walked over to Addie and said, ‘Addie, would you tie my sash?’. We all was sitting there watching her [get ready to] tie her sash and all of a sudden I heard this sound. Boom!” Her sister, Addie Mae Collins, 14, and friends, Denise McNair, 11, Carole Rosamond Roberts, 14, and Cynthia Wesley, 14, all had lost their lives in the bombing. Collins Rudolph later was rescued from the rubbish of the bombing with the loss of sight in her left eye. "Tomorrow marks 56 years since the murder of four young girls at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama," according to the Southern Poverty Law Center. "During his eulogy for McNair, Robertson, Wesley and Collins, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. called the attack 'one of the most vicious and tragic crimes ever perpetuated against humanity,' according to the Southern Poverty Law Center. Some white political leaders before the bombing had encouraged violent acts toward African Americans. Dr. King had sent a telegram to then-Alabama Gov. George Wallace, telling the state’s top segregationist: “The blood of our little children is on your hands.” Ten days before the bombing, Wallace had railed against the civil rights movement to The New York Times, saying, “What this country needs is a few first-class funerals.” President John F. Kennedy would say, "If these cruel and tragic events can only awaken that city and state - if they can only awaken this entire nation to a realization of the folly of racial injustice and hatred and violence, then it is not too late for all concerned to unite in steps toward peaceful progress before more lives are lost." The perpetrators of the bombing at the time received a $100 fine and a suspended 180-day jail sentence. Charles Morgan, Jr., a young, white Alabama lawyer, would deliver a passionate and powerful speech, asking, "Who did it? Who threw that bomb?" and answer "We all did it . . . Every last one of us is condemned for that crime and the bombing before it and a decade ago. We all did it. "The 'who' is every little individual who talks about the 'nig**rs' and spreads the seeds of his hate to his neighbor and his son. The jokester, the crude oaf whose racial jokes rock the party with laughter. The 'who' is every governor who ever shouted for lawlessness and became a law violator. It is every senator and every representative who in the halls of Congress stands and with mock humility tells the world that things back home aren't really like they are. It is courts that move ever so slowly, and newspapers that timorously defend the law." Dr. King would say, “[T]his afternoon, in a real sense [the four girls] have something to say to each of us in their death. They have something to say to every minister of the gospel who has remained silent behind the safe security of stained-glass windows. “They have something to say to every politician who has fed his constituents with the stale bread of hatred and the spoiled meat of racism. … They say to each of us, black and white alike, that we must substitute courage for caution. They say to us that we must be concerned not merely about who murdered them, but about the system, the way of life, the philosophy which produced the murderers.” In a story by the Washington Post, Denise McNair's parents shared that Denise had "a comfortable, enriching life, with a piano and dance lessons." Addie liked to play hopscotch and was often the peacemaker for arguments among her seven brothers and sisters. Cynthia did really well in reading and math, was constantly laughing and "just full of fun all the time." Carole was involved in Jack and Jill of America, the Girl Scouts, the marching band, the choir and the science club. If Denise had lived, her sisters say, she "would have been awesome." Before the bombing, Denise had organized fundraisers to fight muscular dystrophy and would get the other neighborhood children together to read poetry. Her sister said she remembers stories of Denise standing up for others, and says, she would have been "a doctor or lawyer or politician." Denise, however, did not understand the hate she would sometimes face. Her parents tried to teach her that not all whites were racist but could not spare their child the indignities of Jim Crow segregation. "Denise cried . . . when Mr. McNair took her to a five-and-dime store and was forced to explain why she could not sit at the counter for a hot dog," according to the Washington Post. “Remember, baby, what we told you about those few mean white people?” her father told her. “Well, those few people don’t want you to buy a hot dog in a five-and-ten-cent store in Birmingham, Alabama.” For months after his daughter’s death, her father said, he did not cry. “I was angry,” he later told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. “But I had a sense of balance. People were asking me, ‘Why don’t you leave?’ I said, ‘Where else can I go and not still be black in the United States?’ My intent was to try to make this a better section of the world.” Rudolph, who has been speaking out, said recently about the bombing she survived, “We shouldn’t think of doing people like that. You don’t know them, and you want to do harm to them? It’s time for this whole nation to really love each other and stop all the killing.” Rudolph said the biggest lesson she learned from her traumatic experience was to love. “That was the name of the sermon,” she said. “That’s what they were talking about that Sunday," she said in an article from The Press of Atlantic City, June 2019. Today, a memorial named “Four Spirits” stands across the street from the church with the inscription “A love that forgives” – the title of the pastor’s undelivered sermon on Sept. 15, 1963. Langston Hughes would also write: “Four little girls Who went to Sunday School that day And never came back home at all– But left instead Their blood upon the wall… …Might be awakened someday soon By songs upon the breeze As yet unfelt among Magnolia trees.”

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page