#Woods would also be one of those guys who says “If it's under 50 pounds it's not a real dog” and grumbles when you bring home a Shit tzu

[tomialtooth]

Adler is a dog guy because he loves the obidence, affection and deference dogs show their masters regardless of how they are treated. A dogs owner is their entire world, they are reliant on them for everything and this is probably appealing for Adler and his need for control. Having a dog strokes his ego both because a dog is obedient and affectionate to it's master, which Adler thinks he is owed and because it affirms his sense of American masculinity. Adler would be one of those dog people that hate cats because you have to respect a cat's boundaries in order for it to love you and you can't control them like you can dogs. Adler likes Bell for the same reason he likes dogs.

[peachyteabuck]

under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day. 

a commission for @lovelycarose​

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.  

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident.  “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.  

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.  

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

[wreckofawriter]

Games (soulmate au)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Word count: 2,382

Warnings: Making out?

Request: hi! It’s me again, could I request a Fred Weasley soulmate au? The type where their soulmates first word’s to them is tattooed on their body? Please make it fluffy and cute, thank you! :)

A/n: I am so sorry this was late. I had a grad party I forgot about! Also I'm probably going to have the other request out on Wednesday I'm so sorry but I have another grad party 2mmaro and I wont have time to write. Hope you guys like it!

The words in Fred's ankle had always been, well controversial at his household. His mother sure didn't like them. George thought they were hilarious. Ginny thought they were almost sad, sad that was how him and his soulmate would meet. Ron agreed with George, Percy thought they were ridiculous and his other brothers thoughts were pretty neutral. Fred simply thought they were odd. And as he looked down at the words, he couldn't help but smile, this was going to be one interesting person.

You snickered watching as your seeker checked his hair in the mirror again.

"You know Malfoy maybe if you spent less time putting grease in your hair and more time practicing then we would be winning for a change."

He whipped around glaring at you. "That's not very good team spirit y/l/n." He seethed.

"And since when are Slytherins known for their teamwork?"

He rolled his eyes and snatched his broom from the rack and joined the rest of the team in the horseshoe they had made around their captain.

You glanced around trying not to look as bored as you were. You have heard it a thousand times before; kick Gryffindors ass. Nothing new, except for the fact that your seeker was almost ok and theirs was amazing. Which meant it was basically up to you to score a shit ton of points before the snitch was caught. It was all quite stressful.

As you walked out onto the pitch you heard a mix of boos and cheers, the former as always, over powering the latter. You ignored the crowd and boarded your broom. You flew a couple feet in the air and waited for the whistle. When you took a deep breath and then sped upwards. If everything went right Montague should have the quaffle ready and waiting for you. And he did. You snatched the pass and made your way toward the goals where you could see Wood waiting.

You ducked under a bulger, dodged some girl in a red uniform and made for the large hoops. You reached for the quaffle tucked under your arms and shot it in the far left hoop. It soared through and you whipped around to get back to your position.

The game had been going for hours. It was hot and sunny and you had already ditched your outer layer. Currently you had scored 160 points, you were doing pretty well. All together your team had 210 points while Gryffindor was 50 points behind. Things were looking up.

You were headed towards the hoops once again the quaffle locked securely under your arm. You were about to shoot when out of nowhere something hit you straight in your side.

You dropped the quaffle and tipped off your broom with a scream. You managed to keep your feet wrapped around the handle and was hanging there attempting to reach your arms up. When you finally did, the pounding of your heart on your ears stopped and you could hear shrieking laughter.

You turned to see Fred Weasley pointing and laughing at you.

You flashed a brilliant shade of red before shouting, "If you don't shut up Weasley I'll shove that bat up your ass."

His smile dropped. A look of absolute astonishment replaced his joyful features. He felt his heart stop. You flew away with a scoff and an eye roll, you had no clue what you had just done to that boy.

For the rest of the match Fred could simply not focus. He hardly hit any blunders and most of them were completely off target. George scolded the boy and tried to get his head back in the game but it was helpless. He wanted to say something to you but what? What could he possibly say, "Oh hey what's up, your my soulmate by the way." It was all so stupid.

Gryffindor lost when Draco caught the snitch and Slytherin was celebrating in there locker room as Oliver almost killed Fred in their locker room.

"What the hell!" He yelled at the red head. "You couldn't hit a thing this whole match!"

"Look I'm sorry. I was distracted." Fred apologized.

Oliver didn't seem to care for his apologies at all. "You were doing fine." he sighed, "And then suddenly you knock y/l/n off her broom and you cant hit the broadside of a barn with a bludger."

"Look Wood, I'm sorry." Fred apologized again trying to make it sound sincere although his thoughts were elsewhere.

"What in Merlin's name could have made you so distracted any way Fred?"

Fred paused, the whole team was listening there was no way he was saying anything. "I just umm was?" He raised his eyebrows, hoping that his captain would buy it. Which of course he didn't.

"What eas it Weasley?" Oliver practically growled

Fred cast his gaze downwards trying to aviod eye contact with anyone.

"I swear to Merlin Wweasley if you don't tell me what gave Malfoy a free ride to the snitch I will-"

"She's my soulmate alright!?" Fred yelled his patients wore through.

"Wait, y/l/n is your soulmate?" It was George talking this time. His eyes were wide and mouth slightly agape, he was mimicking the rest of the team.

"Yeah." Fred looked down blushing a bit, he wasn't used to these situations. "But she doesnt know so don't tell her." He added quickly.

"Alright, sorry for laying into Fred." Oliver said.

"Its fine." He waved it off. He then turned to George panick in his eyes.

"How is she my soulmate?" Fred asked his twin desperate for an answer. They were now sitting in the Gryffindor common room eating candy they got from honeydukes.

"I don't know mate, but I wouldn't be too concerned. I mean she's hot." George pointed out, stuffing a chocolate frog in his mouth.

"Yeah but she’s Slytherin." Fred groaned.

"It probably won't be that bad Fred, you are destined to be together."

"How are we destined to be together? I mean we sure as hell aren't best buds." Fred said popping a fizzing whizbee in his mouth.

"So what," George started his voice muffled by chocolate, "You'll get along, just wait till Ron finds out he'll flip."

"Ok then what should I do?" Frdd asked

"You have to talk to her idiot." George pointed out.

"WWhat do I say?" The older twin asked.

The younger just shrugged, "Wwhatever you say will be on her ankle anyway so just try and make it romantic."

"Alright." Fred said still quite unsure on what to do.

You sat in potions trying not to laugh your ass off as Angelina a girl from Gryffindor totally ditched her potion.

You had finished ages ago and were simply waiting to be dismissed. You glanced down at your watch. Five minutes.

You had been anxious to get back to the quidditch pitch. You had to get in some more practice before the next match. You were playing hufflepuff and wanted to stick iit to Cadwallader. You had five gallons on the fact you would score more points then him in the upcoming match and you'd don't lose.

So when Snape finally said you could go you practically slept from your seat in excitement.

You sprinted down the hallways as quickly as you could only run striated into someone. You fell backwards landing hard on your butt and letting out a yelp of pain. You book bag had slid across the floor and hit the opposite wall of the thin hallway.

"Oh Merlin, are you alright?" A voice asAsked and you about passed out. Those were the words on your ankle. You looked up to see a mess of red hair with matching red robes and red cheeks. His eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight as he stuck his hand out for you to grab. You felt the heat rise in your face as well, since when was Fred Weasley so attractive?

"Shit, I said something didn't I." He looked upset, as he pulled you to your feet. You felt your face grow even brighter at contact with his surprisingly soft hands.

"Uh yeah ya did." You practically whispered your y/e/c eyes big as golf balls.

"So then you know?" He asked fidgeting with his robes.

"Know what?" You asked completely bewildered by the things that had happened in the past minute.

"That your my soulmate." He laughed.

"Yeah I guess I know that." You said your mind was going crazy. Fred Weasley was your soulmate? What? I mean sure he's incredibly good looking and funny and smart and great at quidditch but, what?!

"You probably don't even know which twin I am." He laughed a bit although the idea of his soulmate not knowing who he was hurt. "Im-"

"Fred." You finished for him. "I know who you are."

"Really?" Fred asked eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Yeah I do. Wait, how did you know o was your soulmate?"

Fred blushed as your y/e/c eyes gleamed up at him. Your y/h/l y/h/c hair framed your face beautifully and he was suddenly struck with how attractive you are. Your face was dusted pink and it made you look incredible. "Well umm, remember when I knocked you off your broom yesterday?"

"Vividly" you answer eyes narrowed a bit, your arms now crossed.

"Well afterward you said-"

"If you don't shut up Wesley I'll shove that bat up your ass." You finished for him again doing your best to contain the laughter inside you. You failed miserably and burst with giggles. He thought it was the most amazing sound to ever grace his ears.

"Wait wait wait," you managed to squeak out still giggling, "Is that seriously tattooed on your ankle?"

"Yep." And to prove it Fred pulled his sock down and showed you the words printed on to his pale skin

You burst in a wave of fresh laughter, "I'm sure your mom loves that." You said between laughs.

"Glad you find my misfortune so hilarious." Fred said rolling his eyes playfully.

"Oh come on. If it was me with those words on my ankle you would be losing your shit." You pointed out still laughing.

"Your right, I should have said something closer to, 'Look where the fuck your going." As payback." He smirked and you burst into laughter once again.

"You should have!" You were crying with joy at this point, "It would have been one hell of conversation starter!"

Now Fred was laughing too, his smile bright. He looked down at your giggling form and he was once again talking by your beauty. Your eyes shining with tears and gleaming with joy. Your extremely soft looking lips a light pink color were stretched into a wide slightly lopsided smile.

As he stared your laughter died out and you had looked back up at him, you blushed a bit to find his gaze on you, "Like what you see Weasley?" You asked a cocky smirk on your lips.

"In fact I do." He said smirking right back and leaning down a bit to be somewhat level with your eyes.

"Well you aren't exactly ugly." You bit your lip as you did so and Fred about lost it. Keep it cool he reminded himself. So instead he placed his hand over his heart dropped his mouth and blinked a few times feigning hurt.

"That's what I get as a complement?" He asked in fake surprise, "I'm offended."

"Ever the dramatic Weasley." You smirked.

"I am quite a good actor." He said leaning closer to you, you could feel his breath on your cheek and your smirk dropped. He had to know that he was doing right? That wasn't fair.

"Im good at more than acting though." He winked, smirking as you blushed a deep crimson.

You attempted to stay on track, "A-and what else might you be good at? I haven't seen much." It would have been fine if you didn't stutter but damn he was really close to you and smelled like a mix of smoke and chocolate. It was completely infatuating.

"Oh, you'll see plenty." You wanted to smack the smirk off his face. He was playing with you, but you weren't in the mood for games anymore.

"Oh shut up." You whispered face burning. With that you yanked him down to meet you lips. He was clearly taken off guard but kissed back quite quickly once your lips moved against his. He quickly pushed you up against the wall and grabbed your waist. Your hands found their way to his fiery hair, it was surprisingly soft. You felt his tongue glide against your bottom lip and you opened your mouth, granting it access.

When he pulled away your lungs were burning and you gasped for air.

"I hope you know this doesn't change anything on the pitch." You said.

"Of course, I'm just going to have to make sure not to hit your face with any bludgers. Wouldn't want to ruin its beauty, would I?" He winked.

"What every weakness you show I will use to my advantage." You smirked shrugging.

"I like the sound of that." He winked again.

"Keep it up and you will only be able to blink with one eye." You said eyebrows raised.

"Winking won't do that." He pointed out.

"Yeah but me poking one of your eyes out will." You deadpanned.

"Has anyone ever told you your a little scary?" Fred asked as he leaned in again.

"Yep-" you were cut off by his lips.

"Y/l/n!"

You pushed Fred off of you to see Malfoy standing a few feet away a disgusted look etched on his face.

"Captain wants you, so get the Weasel’s tongue out of your throat so you can actually talk." He scoffed

"I'll see you later." You whispered to Fred. Before walking towards the platinum blonde. "You call him weasel again and I will cut your tongue off and make you eat it." You flashed the now terrified boy a cheeky smile and walking towards the pitch the young seeker sulking at your heels.

"See ya later Mouthful!" Fred shouted saluting the boy as he walked out the door.

Masterlist

[lifeisdabubbles-undersalmondean]

La Pomme ~ Chapter 15

Pairing: Sam x OC (eventual Dean x OC and Dean x Castiel. And I mean eventual.)

Series summary: George is a casual French-Mistake-universe Supernatural fan living in no-COVID 2020, who's life is upended when she's suddenly launched between realities, two years into the boys' past (S13E22). What begins as an insane, immersive fan experience turns into more when Jack goes missing and George offers up her AU information to help track him down. Soon it's discovered that she and Sam may actually have history. But that's impossible, right?

Word Count: 4,900

Warnings: {smut, fluff, angst, show level violence, swearing, mentions of suicide} ***Detailed warnings will be tagged for specific chapters.

A/N: Following the events of my prequel Paradise and second story From My Eyes Off. Reading those first gives context but isn’t necessary to start this one.

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

George was jolted out of her unconsciousness by dropping face first down on the pine needle covered ground. Letting out a startled, painful groan she lay still for a moment, trying to pull herself out of her stupor and gather her bearings. The atmosphere was chilly and caused goosebumps on her skin, so she knew she was outside still. From listening, she could tell that there were multiple people in the same area as her; presumably more of her captures. While she could hear the faint sounds of people talking, she couldn't discern what they were saying.

She thought she heard a strained, quiet voice nearby speak to her, "George? Is that you?"

Quickly scanning for injuries, she began at her toes and mentally swept her body for pain. From being tossed on the ground like a ragdoll, her left arm and hip were painfully sore and bruised, her left cheek was sliced open under her eye, and her bottom lip was split from hitting her teeth on impact. She began to slowly pick herself up off the ground, spitting blood out as it pooled unpleasantly in her mouth. Without opening her eyes, she leaned herself up against the tree she'd landed near. Her head was throbbing and her body was sore. She opened her eyes slowly and tried to find something to focus on to prevent passing out.

She heard the faint voice again, "George, are you OK? Can you hear me?"

"I'm getting there," She replied slowly. She'd chosen a picnic table about 15 yards away, across a circular clearing in the woods, to focus on and it was starting to work. When she finally only saw one, stationary table, she began allowing herself to consider her peripheral.

She saw that she was against a tree at the edge of a small circular clearing attached to a trail that led off into the woods in either direction. There were a few picnic tables in the area, an unused fire pit, and nothing else but trees around. At one of the picnic tables she saw a small group of decidedly boring looking people, all dressed head to toe in white, gathered around, talking in hushed tones. She noticed the woman from earlier--Duma--walking quickly away from her, toward the grouping. George still hadn't remembered if she was angel, demon, or other but from watching the show she knew it truly didn't matter; she was most likely in serious danger either way.

It was a few minutes before she remembered the voice coming from next to her and turned her head to find a familiar, smooth, 90s-male-model face staring back at her. Jack was about five feet away, also leaning up against a tree trunk. When she made eye contact, he smiled weakly, a peculiar look on his face.

"Jack!" She grinned, elated that she'd found him, as the pounding in her head eased.

"George. How did you get here?" He asked, curiously. He tried to sit up more, excited to see her, and that's when she noticed he was badly injured. From what she could see, he had a large gash on the right side of his head, his ear was covered in blood from it. His ankle looked swollen and purple, possibly broken, and the whole bottom half of his shirt was soaked from blood pouring out of a stab wound in his gut.

"Jesus Christ, Jack! What happened?!" She forced herself onto her hands and knees with a soft groan of pain and crawled the short distance to him.

"Just the usual angel hospitality," he replied weakly.

"Angels; figures. OK, Jack, you've lost a lot of blood but I need you to stay awake and focus on helping me stop the bleeding. Sam and Dean are on their way--"

"Sam and Dean are with you?" At the mention of their name, he grabbed her arm and held on tight, giving her a desperate look.

"Of course," she assured, suddenly having to swallow back tears as a rush of emotions hit her. Gently removing his hand from her arm and looking him in the eyes, she promised, "They're coming to get you, okay? We just have to try and stop the bleeding 'till they get here, that's all." She quickly yanked her Friends hoodie off, ignoring the chill that consumed her as soon as she did, and pressed it gently but firmly against his stomach wound. He let out a strangled yell and she shushed him softly.

"It's okay, you'll be okay. Dean and Sam are coming." Quickly, I hope, she added in her head.

He did not look good and she wasn't sure what to do other than apply pressure. She looked around the area futilely, knowing there was really nothing out in the middle of the redwoods she could use to help him in this situation. She froze when she noticed the group of angels staring at her intently.

"Oh, great," she muttered when one of them began walking toward her and Jack. "Don't move!" She held him down when he started trying to get up as the man approached.

"Run!" He begged with hushed urgency.

"I'm not leaving you, you nut." She grabbed his limp, cold hand and placed it on the sweater-turned-bandage pressed against his wound. "Focus, Jack. Try to put pressure on this, okay? Hey, focus!" She could tell he was in trouble. Once she got him to hold the sweater, she stood up slowly, facing the man who'd walked over. She prayed she didn't seem as nervous as she definitely was.

"What the fuck did you do to him?" She spat out uncontrollably at the smug look on the angel's face.

"Sorry about that. He struggled a bit and… well, as you humans like to say, accidents happen." The arrogant, coiffed angel stopped six feet from her and smiled. It was a fake, customer service smile that nowhere near reached his eyes, which were wide and frighteningly blank of emotion. He was about 5'11, had heavily gelled, short, black hair and a thin, perfectly shaped mustache, with tanned skin and piercing blue eyes. His stark white business suit was crisp and fashionable. "Would you like me to heal him for you?" He offered with a hint of sarcasm.

"Do not touch him." She took a shaky step toward him and tried to puff herself up a little, taking up space and making sure she was standing as much between him and Jack as she could.

"It seems my colleague was right, you certainly are an interesting… what exactly are you?" He inquired, looking her up and down.

"If you say so. But he may not have much time." He was far too happy about that and she sneered at him. She just needed to stall long enough for Sam and Dean to find them. The place had a familiar feel and with all the picnic tables and the clearly defined path, she had to assume they were still at the Trees of Enigma attraction; it couldn't be long before the brother's were able to track Jack down as they'd started to do before she got kidnapped.

"Oh you angels are real subtle with the judgement. Sorry, I'm not dressed as fancily as you, pretty boy," She crossed her arms.

"It hasn't nothing to do with the way you look, you ignorant ape," his fake initial kindness was fading fast. "I can't sense you. Why not?"

"Uh, maybe because sensing people is really fucking creepy? If any of these other angels were really your friend, they'd tell you that."

"Now you listen to me," the angel seemed a bit irritated now, and began walking briskly toward her. She stumbled several steps back before his large hand wrapped tightly around her throat. As he lifted her barely off the ground. "I'm not here for your entertainment, child. Tell me what you are and why you're here with the Winchesters before I kill you."

Ok, make that a lot irritated. George gasped for air and clawed at his arm, trying to choke out an answer. When he couldn't understand her, he set her down and momentarily loosened his grip.

"Yes?" He asked patiently.

"My… my name-" She coughed and gulped in air. He allowed her to wrench out of his grip and she bent at the waist. Waiting until she could get a slow and steady flow of air, before looking up at him slowly, she said, "My name… is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, now prepare to die."

The angel huffed like an angry bull before back handing her so hard she fell to the ground, landing across Jack's outstretched legs. When he had no reaction to her body crashing on top of him, her neck snapped up and she saw he'd passed out.

"Jack!" She whispered nervously, trying to pull herself up. "Ah!" The angel grabbed a fistful of her long blonde hair and yanked up hard, preventing her from moving.

"Just so you know!" Everyone turned and looked at the voice that had just shouted at them from the west, 50 yards away. George visibly relaxed when she saw it was coming from Dean Winchester. "Whoever the fuck you are?"

Sam, who was close by near a tree trunk, slowly pointed a bloody finger directly at the angel who'd hit George and promised "You're gonna pay for that." He then slammed his hand down on the angel banishing sigil that was drawn in his blood on the trunk next to him. With a bright blinding blast of energy, the small cluster of angels was gone. George dropped back down, using her hands to catch herself. She, Jack, Sam, and Dean were the only ones left in the clearing.

"You GUYS!" George shouted. "He's hurt bad." Ignoring the white hot throbbing on the right side of her face, she'd crawled up to Jack's torso and pressed the fallen away sweatshirt back against his wound. It began drizzling as Sam and Dean sprinted toward them and came to a skid on their knees on either side of Jack. They both frantically began checking him over.

Sam happened to glance at George's wounds as he was maneuvering around Jack and instinctively reached out towards her in concern. She locked eyes with him and stopped him in his tracks, "Don't even think about it; he could die." She was absolutely right and he yanked his phone out of his pocket, dialing Castiel.

"He's lost a lot of blood, damnit!" Dean was seeing red; those angels were going to die if Jack did.

"He needs medical attention now. The nearest hospital is 20 minutes away and it's going to take us about that long to get to the car if we're lucky." Sam sounded scared but tried to keep it together. "And Castiel's not answering his phone!"

"He's so cold," George whimpered uncontrollably, her tears beginning to fall.

"It's just freezing out here!" Dean shouted in anger, and she could see his breath in the air for emphasis. George winced when she could hear the undeniable fear in his voice as well. If Dean was worried enough not to hide it, things were dire.

"What do we do?!" Sam nearly screamed, redialing Cas pointlessly once again.

George sat back on her heels and tried to think, but she could barely even breathe. Her stomach was twisting into nauseating knots and she felt her heart pounding. A panic attack was coming on, the intensity of which genuinely made her feel like her heart was going to explode. Her vision began to tunnel and she felt ringing in her ears. She closed her eyes so that she didn't fall over from dizziness and forced herself to take the deepest breath she possibly could. She held the breath for just a moment too long before a sharp pain in her chest caused her to release with a hiss.

Suddenly she knew where they should go.

"If you guys can get him to the car, I might know somewhere nearby we can try for help." The second George had said the words, she'd regretted it. They had almost no other choice, though, so she just prayed to whomever that they'd get lucky, just this once. Dean and Sam didn't need to be told twice. Bracing themselves in the now muddy ground, they picked Jack up gently, one brother at either end of him.

They had prepared themselves to begin the long and arduous trek back toward the car, yet when they rounded their first corner they found themselves standing in front of the emergency exit, which just so happened to lead them to the end of the parking lot closest to where they'd parked. It nearly stopped them all in their tracks but they knew Jack had very little time to survive, so they launched themselves out of the gate and across the asphalt about 50 feet to their parked car. Luckily the park closed an hour ago, so there was no one around to see the two men carrying a half dead person and a beat up George following fast behind.

When they reached the car, Sam got in the backseat with Jack carefully. George tore into the passenger's side knees first, in order to face them and help hold pressure on his stomach wound. Dean jumped in the driver's seat and roared the engine on.

"Nice job with the tire," Dean practically shouted in appreciation at her as he peeled out of the parking lot, headed in the direction she ordered.

"Be careful, Dean, it's still a donut!" Sam warned angrily.

They'd just pulled out onto the highway and Dean was gunning it, "How far?"

"Not far at all, slow down! Take the exit up ahead, to the left." She gestured in the general direction.

"Rosewood?"

"Yeah. Then take the second right. Third house, at the end of the court." In two minutes Dean had screeched the Impala to a halt in front of a large home on half an acre in Klamath. George almost cried with relief when she saw the small, stout woman with reddish blonde hair standing out front in her garden watering the plants.

"Aunt Lorna!" She leapt from the car and ran over to her, throwing her arms around the stunned woman before she could stop herself. "My God, it's a miracle!"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" The woman ripped herself away from George and took a few steps back, clutching the hose she'd had in her hand like a weapon. George kicked herself for scaring her and stepped back with her hands up.

"I'm sorry. You don't know me, obviously, but I know you. You're Lorna Iris, right? You're a nurse in Gibbousville? My friends and I need your help, one of them is hurt pretty bad."

"Worse than you?" The woman asked, looking over her bruised and bloodied face suspiciously.

"Much worse. He needs help and I don't think he'll make it to a hospital." By this time, Dean had pulled their medical supplies out of the car and was now helping Sam pull Jack out gently.

"Holy God," Lorna said, seeing the state he was in and taking a step toward him before pausing. She looked again at George. "Who are you?"

"Someone who needs your help. Please?" George begged.

Stacey, the cute library clerk, was standing in front of her, eyes cast downward. When she held her slender hands up in inquiry, George bit her lip, considering it for a moment before eventually nodding slowly. The beautiful bookworm stepped closer and gently placed her cool, silky smooth hands up under George's breasts. After attempting to cup them and failing because of their size, Stacey decided instead to rub her hands in slow circles over the soft, pale globes.

Lorna stared at her for a moment before looking back at Jack's unconscious body and then to Sam and Dean who were both looking at her with pleading eyes. She let out an exasperated breath and then nodded, motioning for them to come inside. They went with her into the house while George grabbed their medical bag and followed close behind.

______

George was inside the small library office, sitting up on the desk, back straight, chest out. Her thumbs were hooked into the fabric of her white cotton bra and black henley shirt, raising them up to her throat.

George groaned a bit; her nipples hardened under Stacey's touch. She hadn't anticipated things going this far when she agreed to flashing, but Stacey was beautiful and charming, putting her at ease quickly. There was something incredibly erotic about the whole thing, so George closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the thrill.

Her eyes flew open again in surprise when she felt a sudden, dramatic drop in temperature as Stacey's hands disappeared. George could see her breath, like a lame dragon, as she gasped in air and goosebumps covered her body. Looking around frantically, she realized she was now kneeling on the ground in some brush at the bottom of a tall, bloody redwood tree. When she lowered her shirt, she noticed on the ground in front of her was Jack. He was deathly pale, his lips were blue, and there was a large pool of blood underneath him.

"Jack?!" She gasped, reaching down to him. His skin was freezing to the touch, causing her to shiver. There was so much blood, but she touched his neck to feel for a pulse anyway. Her eyes filled with tears when she couldn't find one and she sniffled, "Jack!"

George jumped and gasped loudly as Jack's hands suddenly darted up and wrapped tightly around her throat. His eyes flew open and emitted a bright white light. A loud shushing noise filled her ears and the sound of someone shouting behind plate glass was booming in the distance. George opened her mouth to scream but stopped when Jack's face began distorting, melting and swirling grotesquely.

"WherrrRE ARe youuu?" Came a garbled call from the general location of Jack's mouth. Suddenly the fingers on her throat tightened on her windpipe when she heard a beckoning, "Georgia! GEORGIA!"

"Georgia. Georgia!" Her eyes snapped open to see Sam gently shaking her awake.

Thankful to be out of her terrifying dream, George realized she must have accidentally passed out on the couch while the boys were helping Lorna work on Jack. They'd been lucky--once again--that Lorna happened to have a small store of helpful medical supplies in house to put Jack back together and stabilize him. She didn't have any blood bags on hand but she'd been able to provide fluids and meds to help his body relax and heal.

"Your turn," He ordered, then moved over so that Lorna could sit down in front of her.

"That's not necessary. I'm fine," George lied, shaking the fog of her nightmare away quickly. She actually hurt like hell all over, but it was mostly bumps and bruises; nothing some painkillers and time wouldn't heal eventually. The dream was bothering her more than her aches at the moment.

"You need stitches on your cheek and potentially some in your lip," Lorna wasn't one for bullshit and had a strong, authoritative presence. People listened to her because she always spoke like she knew exactly what she was talking about (and 99% of the time, she truly did). Lorna held out a glass and two pills, ordering, "Take two of these, turn your head to the left, and don't argue."

"Good luck with that." Sam teased, quietly. George shot him a dirty look and took the medicine and water glass from her alt-reality aunt's outstretched hand, downing them. She then turned her head to look out her aunt's large bay window into the murky darkness of the night.

"How's Jack?" She asked, straining her eyeballs to look between them as Lorna began examining and cleaning the cut on her cheek.

"He's stable but critical. I honestly didn't know if I could do much without some blood, which is what he really needs, but I got him leveled out at least. It'll probably be rough going for a few hours; the longer he makes it without coding, the better his chances of pulling through." She spoke with a kind, but matter of fact tone that one develops the longer they're a nurse.

"Thank God," George closed her eyes and allowed a few tears of relief to roll down her cheeks. Her alt-aunt kindly, yet nonchalantly wiped them away with a cotton ball and then gently turned her head back to facing forward. George could feel her cleaning the cut on her lip now and she took a deep breath to gather herself.

When she opened her eyes again, she was looking right into Sam's beautiful hazel green ones, which had been watching her with concern. Her cheeks burned red and more tears welled up. She felt she didn't deserve his concern. She'd risked Jack's life by telling that asshole angel not to heal him and having them come here: her aunt Lorna's home. In an alternate reality. There were a thousand different reasons why Lorna shouldn't have still been in the exact same house in this Supernatural reality. They'd gotten so, so lucky and it made George feel incredibly guilty.

Lorna finished cleaning and checking George's bloody lip, and explained, "good news is your lip won't need stitches. Bad news is it's gonna be irritated for a few days while it heals. Be careful when you eat that you don't bite the cut accidently because that would really hurt. Still need to stitch up that cheek." As she set to work giving George three small stitches, she also warned her and Sam that she really couldn't identify internal injuries this way and that they should go to a hospital ASAP to be safe. It was the exact same spiel she'd given Sam and Dean regarding Jack when she finished tending to him, so she knew it was falling on deaf ears but she had to try. She got up and left the room, leaving Sam and George alone for now.

"Sam, I'm so sorry." George put her head in her hands and a few more fat tears escaped.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" He was incredibly confused at her reaction. She'd handled herself insanely well considering the situation and they might not have been able to save Jack without her.

"Jack was dying and I brought you to my aunt's house. My aunt, who is a person in real life and does not exist on Supernatural the television show!" She'd dropped her hands and looked up at him with an ashamed look on her face. Her words stung him, as though she didn't consider him a real person, but he began to understand why she was feeling so guilty.

"Except she does exist here, whether 'here' is a television show or somewhere else; you saw the article about the fire. Your grandparents died after she was born. So, she exists, just not as your aunt." From Sam's perspective, she'd saved Jack's life and without her, who knows what would have happened to him; death or worse if the angels had gotten a hold of him permanently.

George got up and started pacing. "But still as a nurse? With the same married last name? Living in the same house she's had since I was 8?" George shook her head, getting angrier with herself. "What is going on? No fucking way should this have worked and you know it, Sam. What was I thinking? He could have DIED!"

"You weren't thinking," Sam grabbed her hands, squeezing them gently and stopping her anxious motion. "It was a terrifying situation--for us all--and you acted on your instincts. And they turned out to be right." He tugged on her arms just enough to force her to look up at him and he said sincerely, "just like they have been since you got here."

"Damn right." Dean had entered the room, wiping the blood from his hands with a rag. When she turned toward him, he looked her right in the eye. "I just got off the phone with Cas. The whole thing in Montana had been a trap for me and Sam. The demons found the team before Cas got there. Suzie and Garth are in the hospital, but expected to recover. Carol's dead," Dean paused in a moment of respect for a fellow fallen hunter and then stuffed the dirty rag in his pocket and walked closer to her. "You were right about it being a trap. You were right about where to find Jack. And you were right about being able to change a tire." The tears she'd been shakily holding back fell all at once as she let out an emotional laugh and closed her eyes.

They popped open again in surprise as she felt thick, strong arms wrap tightly around her. She, herself, wasn't used to a lot of hugging and she never expected Dean would be very comfortable with it, but the whole thing felt weirdly natural to her. Hugging him back timidly, she drew a familial sense of comfort from him.

"Thank you," He breathed, allowing himself a rare moment of genuine gratitude. He pulled back out of the hug and gave her a playful slug on the shoulder. "So, stop beating yourself up; you saved him, George. And you got your ass kicked doing it. I promise you now, whoever that angel fuck is, he will pay for that." Sam nodded in agreement and George squirmed uncomfortably, not used to people looking out for her like this.

Before she could argue, Lorna came back into the room with a laundry basket full of bloody sheets and rags. "Listen folks, the main house is too small for you all to sleep here. So the three of you might as well set up shop in my converted garage apartment for the time being."

Sam moved over to her and took the basket from her hands, silently offering his assistance. "Thank you. What a gentleman." She gave him a look of careful consideration. She then turned back to address them all, "I usually AirBNB it but it's empty at the moment. There's only one bedroom upstairs but it has two beds and there's a pull out couch downstairs, so it should do nicely. Enough beds not to share but if you do, I just ask that you change and wash the sheets afterwards." The three of them shared a confused, yet amused look at her nonchalant instruction. "If one of you boys wants to move the recliners here into your friend's room, you can have something comfy to sit in while you hover." She pointed to the leather rocking chairs she had in her living room as an offering and then looked at Sam again, "laundry's this way, Hon. Let's go."

Sam followed her from the room with a nod and George and Dean grabbed one of the recliners together, moving it to Jack's room. When George finally turned to look at Jack for the first time, she winced and placed a hand over her mouth. He looked like a fake cadaver you'd see on some true crime show and it startled her. She held her breath until she was sure she could see his chest moving. She gently touched his hand and was thankful to feel warmth there, calming her paranoid mind. Her heart thumped in her chest and she started crying silently again. She was just so relieved he was alive.

"Why don't you go get some sleep and I'll take first watch?" Dean placed a gentle, supportive hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

"No," She said determinedly. She just needed to be around Jack right now to feel assured that everything was OK. And sleep was not anything she was interested in after her earlier dream. "I just had a catnap, I'm good. I'm gonna stay and watch over him for a while." She gave Dean a look that told him it was pointless to argue, so he went off in search of Sam and Lorna to be shown their temporary digs.

[devilbat]

Allerdale Hall

@jpat82 requested some Thomas Sharpe little ghost story. The word count ended at I kid you not, I did not do this on purpose either. 2,666 also there will be a Part 2

As your mid size SUV made its way up the crimson color clay drive. You had recently made the biggest purchased of your life when you bought Allerdale Hall. A gorgeous old mansion. Yeah it was run down and needed a lot of TLC and a good Carpenter. But you dreams were finally coming true, as you made plans to turn this once murderous house into a bed and breakfast. The people in the town below had warned you about the house. Saying that it was haunted. But you never believe in silly ghost stories.

The moving company was already there moving things in. While the electrician and plumber had started their work on getting running water and power on to the house. You had seen the roof from the photos and the gaping hole as you had a roofing company come in to fix the roof before you got there. Though there had been some set backs in all areas. Most everything was ready for your arrival. There was a temporary roof while they had most of it fixed. The water ran but still started up with rust color, meaning you would need to let it run before taking a bath. And the Electric flickered every so often. It was an old house after all and you were slowly just starting the restoration of the house. You wanted to try and keep it to its original glory as possible.

You greeted everyone as you got out of the car. Making your way into the house. You helped direct the moving company to where you wanted most of the stuff. You had got ride of the old mattress in the room that you were claiming as yours, but kept the bed frame. Which you were going to do the same with most of the beds in the house as well and would replace with new updated mattresses. All your new kitchen appliances had been moved in to the kitchen. You had some updates to the kitchen as well. New French style stove and a wall-in refrigerator would be coming soon. Making your way back outside, as you went to thank the moving guys. As you chatted a bit with them. You couldn’t help but feel like there was someone watching you. From one of the bed room window.

You had hired someone to be the properties care taker. Who was arriving as well that day. He was a nice old man that knew his history and his way around old house. He had the best green thumb. He knew about the house and was also one of the people that told you about the house and that they say it was still haunted. But he joined you still. Though he had made a quaint little shack outside on the property of the mansion. At least you weren’t completely alone.

A week had gone by and you started to get used to all the creaks, groans, moans of the house. As with any old house you had expected this. The clay that used to slowly take the house under. Had been taken care of years before you bought the place. Clay was very popular at some point, the giant vats in the basement that were filled with clay sat empty. After the investigation of the home. Though you had a contractor come in to help you with everything, you had noticed small things getting done that weren’t quite fixed that night before you went to bed, but come morning they would be.

Thinking it was the old man Mr. Jankins. He had told you that he tends to keep odd hours, cause there is always something going a mess with an old house like this. That and he had problems sleeping after the war. He really wasn’t that old maybe in his 50’s or 60’s but he survived in both the Vietnam and Golf wars. You did enjoy his company and story’s as he told them to you. But he had insisted it was not him that did these small things. That maybe it was the ghost of Thomas Sharpe. And that he had taking a like to you. As he was quite handsome and very well like by the ladies.

“Yes cause some ghost has taking a liking to me. That figures that is how my love life has become dead and gone.” You teased with a giggle. When he told you this.

“Well Miss y/l/n if I was 20 years younger.” Mr. Jankins suggested wiggling his eyebrows. “And if I like Women.” He chuckled. The next few weeks it was the same thing. As you started the next week you found out you would be alone for the rest of week as Mr. Jankins had sudden family matters to attend to. Which you had reassured him that you were a strong independent woman and could take care of herself, in a big giant “ghost” house alone. even if it felt like someone was watching you. Especially at night. Though at one point it had to of been around 3 in the morning it felt like someone had pulled the blankets up around you or would add more wood to the fireplace in your bedroom. Occasionally around the same time. You’d had felt like someone touched your face. The bed would dip like someone was sitting on it with you.

You were a lone in the kitchen one afternoon. The kitchen had been finished. As you prepared lunch for yourself. You went towards the walk-in to grab something when you thought you saw the reflection of Thomas Sharpe. You gasped as you turned on your heels only to see one of the construction guys. Putting you hand over you pounding heart as they had scared the shit out of you.

“Didn’t mean to scare you miss y/l/n but could I trouble you for some water I have missed placed my water bottle.” He stated.

“Oh um of course.” You smiled as you went to the cupboard to grab a glass. Normally you would of been around someone like Mr. Jankins when this man came around you. He had seem to take an interest in you. As much as like the fact someone was flirting with you. You really didn’t want it to be this guy. In fact you would take the dead guy that is now dust and bones over this man he gave you the creeps. Making your way to the new sink you turned on the cold water. And waited as the rust color water poured out.

“I’m not sure what possessed a pretty young thing like yourself to buy a hug creepy place like this, all by herself.” He cooed watching you want impatiently for the water to turn back to normal.

“I’m not alone. I have my war hero Mr. Jankins and soon this place will be swarming with guests.” You stated matter of factly. As you filled the glass up with crystal clear water. Even though you may had to wait for the water it actually tasted rather good once you passed the rust stage. You handed him the glass avoiding all eye contact with him. As you made you way back to the task at hand. Hoping he would leave but as luck would have it he didn’t.

“Ah yes but isn’t your care takers gone fore the week?” He asked. Walking closer to you. You took a hard breath. You tried not to show that you were nervous now, or the fact that he knew your care taker was away. As you walked around to do something else as you waited for the pot to boil.

“No he should be back soon.” You hissed a little. Keeping your distance from the man. And making sure he didn’t back you into a corner. You made a mental note to make sure ever door and window was locked up tightly. As you really hoped he was not the person that has been getting into your home and doing thing around the place or the fact that he was in your bedroom. It almost made you sick. As you decided to stop what you were doing. You turned quickly facing him.

“If you’ll excuse me, forgot to ask the electrician something.” You announced as you walked at a feasted pace, passed the man. Feeling as the man was following you. You knew the electrician was in the basement installing and upgraded the electrical box. As you got on to the elevator making a quick turn to shut the gate to the elevator in his face as your pushed the lever down to head towards the basement. You watched as he walked back to the group of men still working on some of the rooms. You sighed heavily as you made your way. Not really sure what you were going to say to the electrician.

After taking with the electrician. You made you way up stairs. Hoping you could go back to what you were doing. Though the hole thing made you wonder if he was in your bedroom at one point fixing the bathroom tiles. You had felt like you were missing things that day but never really thought much of it think the “ghost” had stolen your underwear. As you head back to the kitchen you heard a scream. As you ran into the grand room. You watched in horror the man fell from the Scaffolding. Everyone rushed over to him. It didn’t kill him but it did do a number on him as someone had called the paramedics. He went on and on about a ghost had pushed him. When he came to. Right as the paramedics arrived. You looked up. To see a pale figure standing in the shadows with a bit of a smirk, you blinked and he was gone. Great now you were starting to see things that you knew couldn’t be real.

“I’m so, so sorry.” You apologized to the foreman. That was shaking his head scratching the back of his head as he took the hard hat off.

“No ma’am, it’s not your fault. This isn’t his first accident.” The foreman sighed. “I’m sorry you had to see that though.” He looked over to you apologetically.

Making your way through the house. Making sure everything was locked up. As you went from room to room. You even went up to the attic. As you made your way this part of the house made you nervous. It wasn’t that fact that it was falling apart, no you had that taking care of. It was what happened up here. It was just creepy know what happened to the kids up here that later turned them in to what they were, well the sister that is. From what you were told and read the brother never killed the women, he only knew of what his older sister brain washed, making him love her other then siblings. It was truly disturbing. You felt bad for Thomas he was a victim just like those women.

The little work room that was off to the side was interesting to you as it still had all the little tinkering, gadgets of toys and miniaturized machines. You don’t know what made you bring some of the little toys with you, as you made your way back down after the house was thoroughly locked up. Walking down to the main floor you set the toys on the coffee table. You went into to the kitchen to make yourself some tea. That’s when you heard one of the little gadgets move. You rushed in to see someone sitting on the couch looking at the toy. Watching the ball roll around in the device. You froze. As you stared at him he wore 19th century clothing.

His dark chocolate curl hung down in front of his face. You looked up to the painting that you had someone move for you cause the other paintings you didn’t like. They were just disturbing. But the one of Thomas Sharpe was peaceful his handsome face was quite calming you thought. So you had it hung there so you could look at it. As you looked back to the figure. It was like a living painting on your couch, the man that sat on your couch looked like Sir Thomas Sharpe.

“Hello.” Your voice came out shaky as you moved towards the man you hand stretched out. He turned looking up at you, it was as he realized you saw him that’s when he had vanished. You did what any normal sane girl would do in this type of situation. Let out a blood curdling scream and pass out. You woke up in bed. Looking over at the clock it was a little after 3 in the morning. You groaned as you stretched out. When you did you kicked something as it feel to the floor. Getting out of bed, picking it up. It was a note and a beautiful red rose. Looking at the note the hand writing was beautiful.

*Dearest y/n,*

*My deepest apologies. I did not mean to scare you as I did. Truly it will not happen again.*

It was signed Thomas Sharpe. You looked at it over and over again. As you looked up to see no one in the room. If he was a ghost then how did he get you into bed. Deciding you were going to go and investigate. As you wonder the halls looking for your mystery guest. You found yourself in the Library as you had heard a noise come from it. The old Victrola played as you walked in. You saw a man standing, next to the large window. You slowly walked towards him, as quietly as you could. You notice he was reading when your hand reached out to touch him. He quickly turned around looking at you stunned.

“If you’re the “ghost” of Thomas Sharpe then why can I touch you.” You said sternly. Hands finding your his. He gave you a cute chuckle as he looked at the time. It was only five minutes til 4 am. He looked back at you.

“Touch me again, in less then five minutes and you’ll see.” He smirked at you. He had been watching you for little over a month. He watched your mannerisms and the way you spoke he knew decades had passed but it had never felt that ways so when you, people showed up in weird clothing and interesting machinery. He was in awe. He was smitten with you when you walked in ordering the men around. The way you dressed was not what he was used to that was for sure. He had this growing need to protect you. Specially after that one man who he had watched going through your undergarments. And the way he would lurk at you or try and speak with you. He did not like it one bit so he had to go.

Watching as the time ticked by as four in the morning came. You watched as his form turned pale white. Still with a smile he nodded for you to go ahead and try touching him. You moved forward. Your hand shacked as went to touch him. But your hand went right through him. You eyes winded as you moved even close. He smirked as he watched you intently. Your other hand went towards chest and it did the same. That’s when you got the bright idea of doing what most people always say they would do if they saw a ghost. With your own smirk you walked right through the man. His own eyes widened as he turned to look at you.

“Sorry, I just had the sudden urge to do that. I should probably of asked first.” You giggled. Biting you bottom lip.

@purplerain85 @kitkatkl @lokilvrr @instantnoodlese @drakesfiance @meyoko10 @theoneanna @graveyard-groupie

[grootiez]

The Joys of Raising a Teenaged Groot- Chapter 30: Checkup

A week has passed by. It was time for Rocket and Azrik to take Groot for his first checkup to see if he had made any progress in his recovery. After they got him bathed, dressed, and onto the gurney, they got him into the ambulance and drove to the emergency care facility for his examination. (Rocket had asked why Azrik didn’t give Groot his breakfast and he explained that there was a good chance that Groot could have his jaw unwired today, and since he needed to be put under so that he couldn’t feel any pain, Groot couldn’t have any of his formula this morning.)

After they brought Groot into one of the exam rooms, the same nurse that he had the other day, Xalani, came into the exam room.

“Hi, guys.” Xalani greeted them warmly as Groot cooed. She then kneeled down to his level to give him a once-over. “How is he feeling today?”

“He’s feeling a lot better.” Azrik replied. “He’s just cranky from not having anything to eat today.”

Xalani nodded as she turned to Groot. “Groot, hey, sweetie.” She tries to please him, but Groot is afraid that he’ll get a needle in his arm. “No, no needles today, honey. Just a checkup.”

Groot seemed more at ease as Xalani did her examinations on him. Groot didn’t seem uncomfortable when she took his blood pressure and didn’t cry as the cuff tightened around his arm.

“Alright, let me go tell Cre’Nok that Groot’s here and we’ll get started with his appointment.” Xalani stated before she left.

Ten minutes later Xalani returned with Cre’Nok. While they were away, Groot started to get cranky and bored so Rocket got up and held his cell phone out so that Groot could watch some videos on it.

“Hey, guys.” Cre’Nok greeted them. Groot then made a disgruntled sound as Rocket took away the cell phone and sat down so that Cre’Nok could stand next to Groot who was laying do on his stretcher. “I’m sorry, Groot. I’ll be fast then Rocket can let you watch some of your favorite videos.”

Cre’Nok then began with a general look over of Groot. After he was satisfied, he rewarded Groot by letting him watch one one of his favorite videos while he took Groot’s height and saw that he was still six feet tall.

“Alright, Groot, we have to get your weight now.” Cre’Nok said to Groot as he and Azrik carefully picked Groot up as Xalani placed the sling underneath him and attached it to the hoist. They then slowly laid Groot down on the sling.

Cre’Nok then pushed the button that picked up the sling that Groot was in. He read the numbers that showed up on the screen.

“Groot is 100 pounds now. He’s gained 25 pounds since he was here last.” Cre’Nok told Azrik as he lowered Groot back down on his stretcher. “You have been keeping up with his rigorous feeding schedule, correct?”

“Yes, of course, 10 ounces of formula every 2 hours. I have it all written down.” Azrik responded as he handed over the log he kept of Groot’s daily feedings to Cre’Nok as he read the notes.

Cre’Nok seemed impressed by how much Groot was eating. “And has he managed to keep it all down?”

“Well, his first midnight feeding after he came back to the nursing home he did throw up a little. Our best guess was because of all of the excitement and activity of that day might’ve caused it. But at his next feeding, he was calmer and he didn’t throw up at all.” Azrik explained as Cre’Nok nodded.

“I see.” Cre’Nok replied as he turned to Groot. “Groot, can I roll up your shirt so I can get a look at your tummy before we go to ultrasound?” Groot then blinked to say that he was okay with it.

Cre’Nok then lifted and rolled up the bottom of Groot’s shirt so that he could take a look at his abdomen. “This is a promising sign. He’s starting to gain a little bit of body fat around his midsection.” He said as he felt Groot’s ribs. Groot then tried to let out a giggle. “Are you ticklish there?” He said playfully to Groot as the teen attempted another giggle.

Xalani then walked up to Groot so that she could get a better look. She then felt along Groot’s ribs. “You’re right. Last time he was here, he was basically a skeleton, just flesh and bones. You could see every bone in his body, he was so underweight. Now, he has some fat and muscle coming back making it harder to see his bones.”

“Exactly.” Cre’Nok agreed with her. I want to get him to ultrasound to see what is going on.” Cre’Nok then turned to Rocket to gain his approval.

After they got Groot down to one of the ultrasound rooms, Cre’Nok prepped the machine as Xalani and Azrik placed Groot’s gurney next to it. Xalani then got some of the gel out and applied it to Groot’s abdomen as Cre’Nok scanned his stomach with the wand.

“Here’s another promising sign.” Cre’Nok stated as he turned the screen so that Rocket, Xalani, and Azrik could see what he was talking about. “Groot’s stomach is no longer absorbing the other organs, tissues, and muscles around it to keep himalive.”

“Does that mean that Groot can get the feeding tube out?” Rocket asked hopefully.

“No.” Cre’Nok answered. “It wouldn’t be wise for us to remove the feeding tube from Groot at this time. He needs to regain some more weight before it would be feasible for us to remove the feeding tube from him and slowly reintroduce him to solid food.”

“How much weight are we talking about?” Rocket inquired as Groot groaned from not being fed yet.

“His target weight is 150 pounds. He is currently at 100 pounds. So, he has to gain 50 pounds-.” Cre’Nok began before Rocket interrupted him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the math. But why does Groot need to be at that weight before you remove his tube?” Rocket asked as he held Groot’s hand.

“We want to make sure that he’s at a healthy weight before we remove it.” Xalani explained to Rocket. “We’re also going to test him beforehand to see his swallowing reflexes. We’ll also have to keep him here for a couple of days to teach him how to chew and swallow again. But after that, he can go back to the nursing home.”

Rocket nodded as they got Groot back onto his gurney and took him down to the scanning room. Groot wasn’t as frightened by the machine like he was the last time, but those memories quickly came back when the table underneath him began to vibrate in preparation for it to bring Groot into the main part of the scanner.

“Groot, buddy, it’s okay. Nothing is going to hurt you. Remember the last time that you were here? The machine is only going to take a picture of your head so that we can see how much it is healing.” Rocket tries his best to reassure Groot as the teen tried to vocalize. “I know that you want me out here so that you can hold my hand. But it’s not safe for me to. You’re not going to be inside that contraption for long, only a couple of minutes and then you’re done.” Groot tries to put on a brave face for his father as the raccoon smiles at him. “If you get scared, I can talk to you through the speakers, okay?” Groot blinked to signify that he was okay with it before Rocket rejoined the others in the control room.

The scanning process was faster this time around. Groot not being scared as much probably contributed to it being faster since they didn’t have to stop in the middle of the process just so Rocket could calm down his son.

They then got Groot back onto his stretcher and took him down to the X-Ray room. On their way, they discussed the results of the scan with Rocket.

“His skull is healing up nicely.” Cre’Nok began. “The swelling on his brain has gone down a lot and is starting to heal at an extraordinary rate. This means that within a week, we might be able to remove him from the halo and he’ll only need to wear his protective helmet.” He said as they entered the room.

After Cre’Nok and Azrik lifted Groot and placed him carefully on the X-Ray table, Rocket stood by his son’s side and held his hand. As they got the X-Ray ready, Rocket felt something gripping his hand. He looked down and saw that Groot was attempting to squeeze it with his slightly better hand.

Rocket was shocked. “Groot?” He mustered out. “Is-Is that you trying to squeeze my hand?” Rocket asked Groot as the teen squeaked to say yes.

Cre’Nok and Xalani then moved to Groot as Rocket got out of the way.

“Groot, can you squeeze my hand, sweetie?” Xalani asked as she held Groot’s right hand and he squeezed it yet again. “Good job, Groot.”

Cre’Nok then held Groot’s considerably weaker left hand. “Groot, can you squeeze my hand with your other one?” He asked as Groot meekly squeezed his hand.

This surprised everyone, especially Rocket. The raccoon then looked at them. “What does this mean?”

“This means that Groot’s muscles are getting stronger. We might even be able to bring him out of traction today too.” Cre’Nok explained. “And tomorrow, he might even be able to start therapy.”

Rocket then smiled at Groot. His son was making tremendous progress in his recovery. But he knew Groot wasn’t out of the woods yet. He still needed to heal from the abuse that was inflicted upon him by his former nurse and go through intensive physical therapy, which Rocket knew wouldn’t be easy on Groot.

As they got Groot ready for his X-Rays to be done, the teenager got frightened and Rocket volunteered to stay in the room with him. As he donned the lead vest that would protect his little raccoon frame from the radiation, he noticed that he was wearing the same rocket ship vest that he wore the last time that they were here. He chuckled at the thought as he calmed Groot down as he got his X-Rays done.

After they got Groot back onto his stretcher, they discussed the results with Rocket.

“It’s looking good, Rocket.” Cre’Nok began. “Groot’s jaw has healed up to the point where we can unwire his jaw. Now, granted, he’s not going to like the process, and it will be extremely painful for him, so he’ll have to be put under while we remove the wires from mouth so that he won’t feel any pain. When he wakes up, he’ll be a little sore from the procedure, but we’re going to give him a lot of pain medication to dull the sensation. He’ll also have to wear a mouth guard to protect his teeth from any damage while they settle into his mouth.” He said as they walked to the staging area that was adjoined to the procedure wing.

Xalani then got out a gown for her to get Groot into. Groot knew what the gown signified and began to get nervous. She saw how worked up he was over it and got it out of his sight.

Azrik, Xalani, and Cre’Nok knew that Groot understands what is being said around him. They couldn’t talk to Rocket about the procedures that Groot would undergo today while Groot was in the same room, so they asked Rocket if they could talk to him outside of the preparation room. Rocket nodded as he turned on Bob Ross for Groot to watch on the TV.

“So... what’s up?” Rocket asked as he closed the door so Groot couldn’t listen in.

“Rocket, as you know, we have to put Groot to sleep for the procedure so that he doesn’t feel any pain or freaks out.” Azrik began to explain to the raccoon. “But Groot is smarter than what his condition lets on, as demonstrated by Xalani trying to get the procedure gown on him, he knew what that meant. So, we’re going to have to sedate him while he’s in the room that he’s currently in.”

“Alright... so you’re gonna bring out the sleeping mask and stuff out here?” Rocket wondered.

“No.” Came Cre’Nok’s reply. “The machine is too bulky and cumbersome to be moved out of the procedure room that its currently in. Plus, Groot also knows the meaning of the mask and the noise of the machine frightens him. And he knows all too well what awaits him in the procedure room.” He explained.

“But how are you gonna get him to sleep?” Rocket inquired.

“We have an injection of the medication that’ll put Groot to sleep right here.” Xalani answered as he held a vial of the medicine in her hand. “We can inject it through his feeding tube so that he won’t be frightened by the sight of the needle.” She explained as she filled an empty syringe with the amount needed to give Groot. “After he’s put under, we’ll need to take him right away to the procedure room so that we can intubate him and begin unwiring his mouth and bringing him out of traction.”

“So, what do you need me to do?” Rocket asked.

“There’s a chance that while we’re administering the medication, that Groot’ll take notice. We can’t risk his blood pressure spiking because there is a real possibility that he could die from shock. So we’ll need you to distract him while we’re putting him under. It’ll take a couple of minutes to take effect, so the chances are great for that scenario to happen.” Cre’Nok explains as Rocket nods as they go back into the room with Groot.

Rocket sat by Groot’s side as Azrik rolled up the teenager’s shirt in order to access his feeding tube. Groot looks at him with worry.

“I just want to make sure that your tube is clean, Groot.” He reassures Groot as the teen looks at him inquisitively. Azrik then pretends to examine the tube as he walks with the end of the tube in his hand to behind Groot so that the teenager couldn’t see what was going on.

“Groot, relax.” Rocket comforts his son. “Hey, let’s watch another episode of Bob Ross.” The raccoon was successful in easing Groot’s mind as the teenaged Flora Colossus settled down and watched the TV.

After a couple of minutes, Groot was relaxed enough to where Cre’Nok could give him the required dosage to put him to sleep. As he injected it into Groot’s feeding tube and it slowly flowed into his body, the teenager realized what was going on and he began to freak out.

“Groot, Groot, calm down.” Rocket was frantic trying to get his son to relax. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to get those wires out of your mouth and your also going to be able to move your arms and legs again so that you can start therapy back at the nursing home.” Nothing he said calmed down his frightened son. He then thought that Groot would be interested in seeing his new set of teeth after the procedure. “When you wake up, you’ll be able to see your new set of teeth, don’t you want to see that?” Groot squeaked calmly to say that he wanted to.

“Okay, after your nap, then. Shh, shh...” Rocket soothed his son as he gently cradled him in his arms and gently rocked Groot back in forth as he sung one of the lullabies that Peter sang to Groot when the teenager was just a baby.

Within a few seconds, Groot was sound asleep. Xalani took Groot from Rocket’s arms and laid him on a bed as Azrik and Cre’Nok intubated him. Rocket kissed Groot before he was taken to the procedure room and the raccoon made his way to the waiting room.

——————————————————————————————————

@trashpandaorigins @captain---rabbit @madness-on-the-milano @whoop-whoop-grocket @guardiansspacepilot @rocket-ringtail-raccoon @woozletania @janetgenea @pineapple-crow @vic394 @canuckscot @rr4901

——————————————————————————————————

Read on Ao3 here.

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[notesfromthefielddesk]

Episode 6 - Tsing part 1

Episode link; https://open.spotify.com/episode/3x0cMRYDmN5M8lDCZIZxEK?si=07ec23a2d8ac485e 

The sound of a temple bell is heard in the cedar forest at dusk,

The autumn aroma drifts on the roads below. 

The moving cloud fades away, and I smell the aroma of the mushroom.

Oh Matsutake:

The excitement before finding them. 

This episode isn’t about Japan. It’s not about Mushrooms. It’s about living in our own mess, it’s about international relations, it’s about capitalist trading. But the same way we can trace politics through cows, or social relations through cockfights, the art of anthropology is in noticing the small things which might teach us more. In the face of global capitalism a mushroom might seem humble but that is what Anna Tsing would call a problem with scale, because as the most valuable mushroom in the world it couldn’t be further from ‘humble.’ 

This is notes from the field desk 

(Theme)

(Sounding sleepy) 

It’s about, ummm quarter to five. I’m in Tsukiji whole-sale market in Tokyo. I’m maybe jet-lagged but that would make it like 9pm to me and actually I feel significantly worse than that. I’m here this early because the auction runs from around 5am to six fifteen. Whilst the market is famous for its tuna auctions, if you’ve seen Jiro Dreams of Sushi then you’ve seen the market and it’s ginormous frozen tuna, but they also sell mushrooms here. This market is in fact so famous they had to ban tourists on several occasions. Thankfully it’s not currently one of those times,i’m sat in the tourist section, i’m in the back because of the desk and well because the guards said I was a disruptive influence. 

I’m paraphrasing he actually said “move it, Deku” before shoving my desk to the back. My translation app couldn’t really figure out Deku so if anyone could help me out with the meaning? It doesn’t really matter, seen as almost everyone is here for the Tuna, I have a pretty clear view of the auctioneers arranging matsutake on a trestle table. The staff are wearing, what kind of look like, bowling shirts (kind of questioning) and baseball caps which have a little board on the front which have some kanji which I can’t read. Really someone else should have come on this trip. 

This is maybe petty but to be honest now I’m doing this because I have to, i’m not enjoying it as much. Is there something wrong with me? Anyway that’s a discussion for another time. 

They are organising the mushrooms by, size, value and origin. These mushrooms have probably been sorted at least twice before by value but origin has a significant impact on their eventual sale price. As one Japanese importer explained to Anna Tsing “Matsutake are like people, American mushrooms are white, because the people are white. Chinese mushrooms are black, because the people are black. Japanese people and mushrooms are nicely in between.” Okay, I recognise that we’ve gotten slightly ahead of ourselves here. How does a mushroom come to cost between 1000 and 2000 dollars per pound? 

Matsutake first appears in a poem from 8th century Japan which praises it’s smell which would go on to become synonymous with Autumn in Japan. The mushroom had started popping up around Kyoto and Nara, areas which had been deforested for timber and fuel. In fact, deforestation is the reason why matsutake became common in Japan. This is because these mushrooms have a symbiotic relationship with red pine trees. Red pines tend to grow most successfully in mineral rich soil left by deforestation and could grow more easily without the shade from broadleaf trees which had been cut down. 

This is the start of Anna Tsing’s interest in these mushrooms, not because she’s just really into foraging, although she is, but because of what they symbolise, think Geertz. In the wake of capitalist ruin, here read deforestation, this mushroom thrived. This is so generally understood about Matsutake that people say the first thing to grow after the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima was a Matsutake. 

Written in the wake of the 2008 financial crash and with the results of climate change becoming undeniable Tsing wants to find a way that people can pull off the same trick. And she found a parallel in the forests of Oregon, but that is for next week. 

So how does a mushroom you literally find in the trash become the most expensive fungus in the world? Well by 1900 in Japan it had become the culturally ubiquitous idea of Autumn. Think lambs in spring or incredibly drunk, sunburnt bald men with a union jack tattoos and British summer. Matsutake were everywhere, in Kyoto, they became the generic term for mushroom. So far, so cheap commodity right? But then in the 50s people stopped using wood as their main fuel, woodland was cut down and paved for suburban development, broadleaf trees grew back and in the shaded forest, Matsutake started to disappear. By the 1970s Japanese Matsutake were incredibly rare. This coincided with rapid Japanese economic development. The culturally significant and now rare mushroom became gifts, bribes and perks for businessmen. Consequently the price skyrocketed.

Huge demand but limited supply in Japan meant the international market suddenly gained importance. And non-Japanese mushroom pickers from around the world flooded into the market. 

Oh hold on the auction is starting. I wanna see if I can buy one. 

Umm I have no idea what is happening. 

Excuse me. Nope ignored. 

Umm. 

Hello. 

13,000 yen! 

(Awkward silence. Fade out.)

Okay so umm, I won the auction. Is that how you say it? But I bought one mushroom for 120 dollars and then they asked me to leave. So we’re set up in a cafe outside the market. If you’re wondering, yes, the guy who has been following me is here. 

Hi mate. You alright? Cool. 

He was in the auction too but I've decided to live and let live. In part because of what i’ve learned from reading Tsing. 

I guess uhh lets see what the fuss about this mushroom is about. 

Smells mushroom nervously

Yep smells like dirt. Cool. What am I going to do with this now?

Okay smells like dirt. Great. That’s 120 dollars for some dirt. I don’t even like mushrooms what the fuck am I doing. Okay, I guess we should talk about isolation and contamination which is where Tsing starts to get confusing, so, sorry about that. I can really understand why the students don’t get it and I think if the last few weeks have proven anything it’s that the students seem to understand anthropology better than I do. But I’ve done the reading and I've got notes so let’s give it a shot. 

Tsing says capitalism is based on a growth and progress model. Wow, we’re off the rails already. In other words, and I'm not an economist so don’t @ me, the health of an individual, company and nation under capitalism are measured by their ability to generate more than they did previously. The aim is for GDP to grow, for company profits to increase, individuals to earn more etc. One way to achieve this end is to focus on scalability. Which is the ability to create more of the same product without changing the product. This is often achieved through isolation. 

Yikes this episode is like “dictionary corner.” For isolation think of old Henry Ford and his assembly line. Instead of 5 guys working on every aspect of a car, the assembly line isolates each component and has one person make that part. Now you can make lots of cars quickly. Take this podcast, I write it, record it, edit it, and upload it. If I hired a writer, an editor and a social media person. I could just record the episodes and we could all be working simultaneously, produce more podcasts, get more listeners, then maybe this podcast could generate a profit. 

Good news right? More of everything is made more quickly for less money, which means we can all have a car. Or a podcast. But Tsing sees some problems. She takes a different example of scalability. Portugese sugar plantations in Brazil. Sugar cane was grown by splitting a sugar cane and sticking it in the ground. Functionally it was a clone brought from New Guinea and planted in Brazil. As a farming product it couldn’t be more isolated. Unlike a matsutake say, which can’t be scaled because it grows almost by random in relation to the soil and the trees around it, the sugar cane has no relationship to its surroundings. 

Now let's talk about the farm workers. Sugar plantation workers were slaves brought from west Africa to Brazil. Like the sugar cane they were isolated with no social relations in Brazil which prevented escape. This is why slave traders split families, social and cultural groups. Their alienation and isolation made them a controllable, standardized workforce. Portugal made huge profits from this and could keep the uncomfortable effects hidden, seen as the whole project took place in west Africa and south America, far away from the Portugese eyes. This is maybe the first example of what academics call “space-time distanciation” I know what the fuck is distanciation other than a great way to be the most hated person at a dinner party or the pub. 

Basically it’s just a bullshit way to say doing things from far away but in real time. So like ugh I don’t know, (Rising anger) a kid in America can snipe you on COD and call you a homophobic slur and you experience it as it happens even though he’s thousands of miles away. And however much you threaten him he won’t experience any consequences because he’s far away and you’re thirty and trash at shooters. (awkward pause) Not a real thing that happened to me, just a random example. 

So this scalability and distanciation were created and spread around the world by European colonists but it was Japanese markets which modernised the idea. In the 60s to the 80s Japan actually gave American economic dominance a little scare because of its shift to outsourcing. Instead of Japanese companies making products in Japan where labour was expensive they made products abroad where labour was cheap and took advantage of increasingly speedy global supply lines to turn huge profits. 

Matsutake picking is an example of this which we’ll talk about more next time but in short, casual workers pick and sell them for a fraction of their market value in America, the middle men then transport it to Japan where it’s market and cultural value is increased and sell it for a huge profit. 

Another example would be fast fashion. Everyone remembers the scandals when it came out that gap or nike or primark had their clothes made in terrible conditions. A lot of brands defended themselves by saying they had no idea about the conditions. To an extent this is true, but it was deliberate ignorance. They put their production in the hands of intermediary companies in countries far away from their shareholders, employees and customers creating plausible deniability.

There is another problem which is obvious really. Scale can only go so far, which is until all the resources are gone. Then the project has to move on and do something else. Think of Japan after they had cut down all the trees. Or if you really want to depress yourself, fossil fuels. 

Okay, okay what’s the point! Tsing says all this stuff, the distanciation, the scalability, the obsession with more profits, the isolation is the cause of the precarious lives more and more people are experiencing. Think of zero hours contracts, or uber driving or amazon workers pissing in bottles. It’s easy to cut wages, to allow bad working conditions, to strip mine the rainforest when we are distanced from the consequences. So long as it happens somewhere else, to someone else, when we have no relationship with the products we consume, or create. Think of the podcast again. If I hired all these people it would be more efficient but then I wouldn’t have the same relationship with it. I would become alienated from it. That’s how little by little people have less of an understanding of the things around them. That’s how we can separate the petrol we put in our cars from the environmental damage that doing that causes. 

Wow. Depressing. Jesus. Remember when this show used to be about cows and magic? 

(sigh) 

Taking things seriously sucks. Okay but Tsing reckons that by looking at these expensive mushrooms there is hope. Capitalism can make us feel lonely but looking at Matsutake reminds us that even in capitalist ruins like a destroyed forest new things can grow. Those things grow from relationships, the encounter between the mushroom and the pine tree and the soil from deforestation. It’s a reminder that we aren’t actually alone that there aren’t any “challenges we might face without asking for help from others, human or not human.” Through relationships we change and Tsing says “The important stuff of life on earth happens in those transformations.” So you know, join your union, talk to your neighbour, forage for mushrooms. It might just make the world better. And if it doesn’t, well at least you have some friends and mushrooms. Wait did i just say join a union? Am I woke? Must be the jet lag.  

Time for the extract; 

How does a gathering become a happening, that is, greater than the sum of its parts? One answer is contamination. We are contaminated by our encounters; they change who we are as we make way for others. As contamination changes world making projects, mutual worlds - and new directions - may emerge. Everyone carries a history of contamination; purity is not an option. One value of keeping precarity in mind is that it makes us remember that changing with circumstances is the stuff of survival. 

But what is survival? In popular American fantasies, survival is all about saving oneself by fighting off others. The “survival” featured in U.S. television shows or alien-planet stories is a synonym for conquest and expansion. I will not use the term that way. Please open yourself to another usage. This book argues that staying alive - for every species - requires livable collaborations. Collaboration means working across differences, which leads to contamination. Without collaborations, we all die. 

The problem of precarious survival helps us see what is wrong. Precarity is the state of acknowledgement of our vulnerability to others. In order to survive, we need help and help is always the service of another, with or without intent. When I sprain my ankle, a stout stick may help me walk and I enlist its assistance. I am now an encounter in motion, a woman and stick. It is hard for me to think of any challenge I might face without soliciting the assistance of others, human and not human. It is unselfconscious privilege that allows us to fantasize - counter factually - that we survive alone. 

How do you conclude something as complicated as this? Okay how about this. Often you’ll hear people talking about capitalist alienation and it’s not really clear what that means. I think what Tsing is saying is that capitalism wants people to be individualised. That way labour can be scaled up, because the products aren’t related to the context that they are made in. So you can make a ford car in a factory in Detroit or Dhaka and the product will be the same. But Tsing is giving us a warning and a reminder that we aren’t individuals. That we have a relationship with everything around us and forgetting this can destroy our surroundings. This means humans and non-humans too! If we’re going to survive late capitalism and climate change we have to re-engage in these relationships. 

[jbuffyangel]

Not Enough: Arrow 6x05 Review (Deathstroke Returns)

I am going to be honest. I have a lot of Slade Wilson issues.  So, I wasn't particularly jazzed for "Deathstroke Returns." Some of my issues are addressed, but most are not. Oliver’s reaction to Slade in particular made this a difficult episode for me to enjoy.  Also, most of the twists weren’t very twisty. We could see them coming.

Let's dig in...

Oliver & Slade (and Olicity)

Slade Wilson is one of the best Arrow villains. It's just fact. I appreciate Arrow is striving to differentiate Slade from Adrian Chase by blaming 95% of his S2 actions on the mirakuru. Slade was crazy because of the drugs. Chase was crazy because he was the epitome of all evil.  

Even though I'm not entirely comfortable with the "blame it on the drugs" explanation, I was willing to roll with it. And then... 5x23 happened. It's obvious Arrow is embarking on some kind of redemption like arc with Slade Wilson. That's all fine well and good. It's probably where the character needs to go, especially if the drugs are out of his system.

The bargain Oliver and Slade made in 5x23 was information about Joe in exchange for Slade helping save William. Here's my hang up - I don't think Slade held up his end of the bargain. What did he actually do that saved Oliver's son? He pretended to be evil to trick Boomerang, Talia and Evelyn so Oliver could flip Evelyn like a rag doll. 

Not a horribly impressive move considering she weighs about 90 pounds soaking wet.  

But sure, he helped free Oliver's friends. Plus 20 points.

Then Slade pretended to be evil to trick Black Siren, so she'd take Oliver to the hostages and he could slip Dinah that collar thingy that freed them. Again, I haven't been blown away with BS evil mastermind skills, but sure.

 He helped free Oliver's friends. Plus 20 points.

Slade kicked some ass (along with every other team member).  Plus 10 points. He also gave some incredibly sage advice five years in the making. Plus 50 points.

However, when push came to shove and Oliver really NEEDED Slade to help - he abandoned them all to die. WTF? Minus 500 points.

By the way that includes WILLIAM. Nobody knew William was with Oliver. It's why Samantha went running into the woods in the first place - to look for her son. Oliver was busy facing off with Chase. For all Slade knew, William was in those woods just like Samantha (and the rest of the team) believed. Instead of staying and trying to help save Oliver's son (and every single person he cares about in the world) LIKE HE PROMISED, Slade chose to save his own skin. It was Oliver who found William. It was Oliver who saved William.  The dude is dressed head to toe in KEVLAR and instead three unarmed women, without any protective gear, ran towards 250 bombs to look for a little boy.

Slade wasn't under the effects of the mirakuru. He was just selfish. He was a coward.

This is the kick start to his redemption arc? Am I being too hard on Slade? No. I'm not. 

Slade put a sword through Moira's frigging heart y'all. Her murder scene is the most disturbing death on Arrow. 

Slade Wilson has a lot of work to do before he EARNS (yes earns) Oliver's help. He didn't even come close on Lian Yu.

And you know what? That's not the Slade Wilson I remember from Season 1 and Season 2. The Slade Wilson who was Oliver's friend would have stayed to help. So what is Arrow trying to say? The mirakuru left Slade permanently dark and twisty? He is a monster only when he chooses not be? WHAT? 

There's playing with the grey zone and then there's just sloppy. Slade abandoning the team was unnecessary particularly if Oliver wasn't going to address it in any real way.

Which is exactly what happened tonight.  Slade's son Joe works for Australian Intelligence. Long story short, Joe was at the wrong place and the wrong time and is now serving a life sentence in Kasnia. Slade doesn't need the Green Arrow. He needs Oliver Queen. He wants Oliver to wear a suit, play diplomat and hand over a suitcase of cash to buy his son out of prison.

Oliver primarily hems and haws over helping Slade because of the promise he made to William. I mean, yeah that, but also HE LEFT YOUR FRIENDS TO DIE!!!! ONE OF THEM DID DIE!!! ONE OF THEM IS IN A COMA OLIVER!!!! ALSO SLADE KILLED YOUR MOTHER. YOU COULD SET THE BAR A LITTLE HIGHER HERE FELLA!!!!!

It's actually Felicity who convinces Oliver to go. 

Yup, you read that right. 

Source: oliverxfelicity

Oliver is so me in this conversation. 

I get that Felicity is looking beyond Slade to Joe. From her perspective, Oliver is helping an innocent man. It's not about Slade Wilson. It's not fair to punish the son for the father's sins. Pretty much the theme of the show. I'm with Felicity on her thinking here and God bless this human personification of rainbows for taking the higher road.

It's just.... SLADE HELD A SWORD TO HER THROAT. HE LEFT FELICITY FOR DEAD. 

I know Arrow relies heavily on Felicity to sell storylines, but this particular conversation felt like a stretch. Yes, even though it's Felicity. Perhaps it's my own Slade anger transference and I'll own that. 

I would have been perfectly okay with Felicity saying, "Tell Slade to go screw himself. Let's pack for Aruba baby." 

Source:westallenolicitygifs

This is why I am not a hero. I am really okay with that though.

That's also not the character and I understand that. The advice probably carries more weight with Oliver (and is the very definition of selfless) because it does come from Felicity. If there's anyone who Oliver needs the okay from to go - it's her. He also needs the okay from Thea, but she's in a friggin coma. Thanks for nothing Slade.

Thus, Oliver boards the plane with Slade and hijinks ensue. I'm just gonna give you the run down because the level of predictability in "Deathstroke Returns" is incredibly high.

When Oliver arrives at the prison he's told Joe is dead. Joe is not dead.

Slade's "friend" Nylander is not his friend. He works from The Jackals -  group that "kidnaps" Joe from the prison.

Joe was not kidnapped from prison. He is the leader of The Jackals.

DUN DUNN DUNN!!!! This revelations were shocking to absolutely no one.

Slade does keep to one of the bargains he made with Oliver. He refuses to let Oliver "suit up" in any way.  When Oliver insists on helping rescue Joe from the Jackals, Slade drugs him.  HA! Classic. I’m slightly less crabby with you Wilson, but only slightly.

He even leaves Oliver a little glass of water for when he wakes up. See? Slade is good! REDEMPTION ARC COMPLETE.

That's not to say Slade doesn't exhibit some guilt - just not over abandoning everyone on Lian Yu. Initially, Slade has no intention of seeing Joe once he's freed from prison. Slade doesn't believe he has a right to.  

"I gave up my right to be his father when I stepped out of the light into the shadows and became this monster."

Oliver argues Slade isn't Deathstroke anymore. He thinks Slade is the man he was before. And THIS is where I have the problem. 

This is Oliver blatantly ignoring what Slade did on Lian Yu. I honestly cannot fathom why. This is one of the most frustrating things about Arrow. They often ignore their own canon for the sake of driving the plot forward. It creates massive plot holes and makes the behavior of your lead character inexplicable.

Except, these issues are totally unavoidable. If the goal is to redeem Slade Wilson THEN REDEEM HIM. Use 5x23 to really kick off the arc that will complete in 6x05 and 6x06. Abandoning everyone on the island was completely unnecessary. Particularly if it wasn't going to hold any real consequences for Slade and Oliver's relationship. 

Oliver not even broaching the subject with Slade is infuriating. What's more it makes Oliver's attitude towards him, and blind trust, completely baffling.  Oliver is all in on "it was the drugs" to explain away Slade's behavior, but that doesn't apply to what happened on Lian Yu. Yet, Oliver is standing here arguing Slade is a changed man. 

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Me neither Felicity. There's a difference between being honorable and being a pansy. Oliver, you are being the latter.

Arrow has a habit of telling rather than showing. If you are going to write a redemption arc we need to see the change. Not be told there is change. The man Arrow is telling us Slade is isn't jiving with the Slade Wilson we see. You can play with the grey areas of the character without making him a despicable person. I'm not really interested in Slade's redemption after the events of Lian Yu, because I no longer buy that it's the mirakuru that makes Slade act like a monster. I think he just chooses to be one whenever it suits him. He chooses to be a nice guy when it suits him. These are not markers of redemption. These are markers of a manipulative and selfish human being.

At least Diggle and Felicity take a moment to remark on how uncomfortable it makes them that Oliver is helping Slade.

DIGGLE!!!! MY MAN!!! 

Of course, Felicity's agreement here makes her early conversation with Oliver even more confusing. 

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Would it have killed the writers to include some of Felicity's reservations in her discussion with Oliver? It would have been nice to hear Oliver's perspective on what Slade did on the island.  Instead, we get Diggle and Felicity saying, "Yup. He left us for dead. Oliver is helping him. That sucks." And... that's it. That's not addressing the issue in any real way.

The flashbacks with Slade and his son are interesting, but in an incredibly sad way. 

Source: twitter.com

Slade lies to Joe about what he really does for living. He tells his son that he works for an airline and that’s why he has to go away all the time. Joe knows Slade is lying because kids know when they are being lied to. It created a distance between father and son long before Deathstroke came into the picture.

It's so much worse than lying though. The camping trip isn't just a way for Slade to spend time with Joe. He's on a mission tracking the man who took Yao Fei to Lian Yu. There's living a dual life and then there's Slade Wilson. 

Perhaps Slade isn't the person you should be listening to when it comes to fatherhood and dual lives Oliver.

Slade kills the man after he tells him where Yao Fei was taken. There's a rustling in the bushes and I promise you Joe Wilson watched his father kill somone. Trust me. I have a unique skill for figuring out the obvious plot developments everyone else has already figured out. STICK WITH ME KIDS!

The point is to create a contrast between William/Oliver and Slade/Joe. Oliver worries he'll have to break his promise to William (risk his life and be out in the field)  to help Slade. It's nice Oliver can see the obvious plot developments coming too.

Source: oliverxfelicity

Felicity, in her never ending wisdom, tells Oliver to be honest with William. Maybe not tell him the full story, we are trying to decrease William’s nightmares and therapy bills, but enough of the story so he can understand. 

This is a key piece to parenting. You don't need to lie to your kids. You also don't need to tell them the truth about absolutely everything - particularly when they are too young to hear it. However, there is a middle ground. Your responsibility as a parent is to find it. You need to tell your child the truth in a way they will understand it and is age appropriate. Oliver doesn't need to go all or nothing here. He simply needs to offer William the truth he will understand - and has a right to know.

This is how Oliver includes William in his dual life without separating him from it with lies. Oliver is keeping William safe, but he's also not closing his son off to who his father truly is. This is the mistake Slade made with Joe.

Source: oliverxfelicity

Look at his face. Smoaked again. Oliver, your ability to successfully parent William depends greatly on Felicity’s co parenting. Marry this woman immediately you love sick puppy.

Is Slade Wilson redeemable? I don't know. The events on Lian Yu bother me as much as Moira's death. At least Slade acknowledges what he did to Moira, but I feel like that sets a very low redemption bar for one Arrow’s greatest villains.

Hopefully, next week is the stronger of this two part episode. Joe takes Slade and Oliver hostage at the end of “Deathstroke Returns.” We're supposed to worry Slade will turn on Oliver next week with that unbelievably heavy handed promo. He won't. We know he won't. However, I don't know if that's enough for me. I need more Slade Wilson. A lot more.

Dinah and Vigilante

The identity of Vigilante is... Vince. Dinah's old partner and boyfriend. You know, the one she thought was dead and became a vigilante to avenge? Again, a plot development most people saw coming. 

It's a bummer because I was really looking forward to a shocking reveal. Dead lovers not being dead is the least shocking thing about Arrow.

Vince was changed by the dark matter like Dinah was. He's able to heal, which he shows by taking a bullet in the head and being absolutely fine. Makes me wonder why he needs all the Kevlar, secret identity notwithstanding.

Dinah spends most of the episode really ticked off. 

Source: twitter.com

Hell yeah girl.

The man she loved let her believe he was dead for the last four years. #TeamDinah. If that wasn’t bad enough, Dinah became someone she didn’t recognize after Vince died. She did a lot things she regrets. Team Arrow, and Oliver, gave Dinah a purposeful and focused way to channel her grief and anger.  However, she carries guilt for the choices she made before Team Arrow.

Dinah's justification for those choices, maybe the one thing that helped her live with it, was Vince's death. Now Dinah feels even worse about the decisions she made because Vince is alive.

He is alive though. A fact Diggle points out. Yes, he's not dealing with a full deck, but John does push Dinah to recognize the miracle in Vince's reappearance. Dinah still loves Vince no matter how angry she is at him.

This hits Diggle squarely in the Andy zone. 

He reacted to Andy's arrival the same way Dinah is reacting to Vince. That anger led Diggle down a very dark path, 

so he really is the best person to try to help Dinah see beyond her anger. She does eventually open up to Diggle and tells him about the little paper roses Vince use to make for her. However, Dinah doesn't seen anything left of the man she used to love.

Vince's explanation for staying away from Dinah was that he couldn't be distracted from the mission. They didn't accomplish anything as cops and being a vigilante, this kind of vigilante, is the only way to make a difference.

Dinah lets Vince go and obviously John was right. She does still love him. Vince leaves Dinah a little paper rose later on as a signal to her, and to us, that he's not just a monster. The man she loved is still in there somewhere.

Did this episode get me invested in Dinah and Vince? Eh. No.

There wasn’t enough there, not yet, but I'm willing to let this play out and see where goes.

Adrian Chase's twin would have been awesome though.  I miss Josh Segarra.

Stray Thoughts

Dinah changes into BC to face off with Vince while the FBI and SCPD crawling everywhere. I still don't know how she did it. Is there a phone booth nearby?

Because of her wardrobe change, Agent Watson quickly deduces Dinah went missing when BC showed up. This woman uses a lot of logic. She can stay.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Felicity is ready to lie under oath to be Oliver's alibi for all the nights he was Green Arrow-ing. RIDE OR DIE! THAT’S MY SHIP!

But also we need to get some spousal privilege rolling.

"I was subpoenaed. I gotta go right?" LOL! Rene you precious child.

Alright, I admit I didn't realize it was Vince at first because I didn't recognize the actor. I really needed the flashback.

Felicity used her key. I AM EMOTIONAL.  Source: felicitysmoakgifs

“I ask myself that every day." Oliver has this husband thing down. Just keep doing this and you'll make 50 years no problem, kiddo. Source: westallenolicitygifs  

William calling dad to check in was the cutest. I'm a total sucker for all this father son bonding

Delicity is friendship goals.  Source: westallenolicitygifs

Vince looks a little like Alaric from The Vampire Diaries. I keep doing double takes.

Slade using the sword to kill all those guys gave me Moira death scene flashbacks. It was unnerving.

Disclaimer: Any gifs on the blog are not mine. If you would like a gif removed from my reviews, please message me. 6x05 episode gifs credited.

[fordanoia]

Clearly Stan is in much worst shape than Ford, but that's not what I was talking about. I was talking about raw physical power, not stamina or endurance or even fighting skills. Strength. Ford is better than Stan in a lot of areas, but not everything. Stan has performed multiple feats of strength in multiple episodes, whereas Ford has not. I don't think I'm at all out of line in believing Stan's stronger.

I cut off the preface last time, but bear with me because I’m not taking it off now because it seems to be my words aren’t coming off quite right.

Part 1 of preface

Ford is in no way shape or form better than Stan at everything.

Dear lord, no. I am not even trying to imply that in the slightest way possible.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - I VERY VERY VERY MUCH see Stan and Ford on EQUAL footing. 

You want to know what Stan is better at Ford at? A DUCKING LOT. He can read people’s intentions better than Ford, he is much better at predicting someone’s feelings/thoughts when he does care to stop and do so, and there’s more.

As well - yes, there’s things Ford is better at than Stan. Equations for one. 

Stan and Ford have a lot of intermixing abilities by the time they’re reunited in their 60s. That doesn’t one is completely better at everything over the other. There’s MORE to life than ‘achievable’ skills too. 

You remember how Mabel got upset with Dipper because she had this notepad where Dipper was just beating her at ALL these games? Not for a SINGLE instant - was Dipper better than Mabel at everything. Not even if they played 20 more games and it turned out the same. 

You can try to compare two people, but at the end of the day there are INFINITE skill sets and abilities and trying to say he’s better at her at everything is limited because you can’t possibly know that. Not to mention, say someone even did seem to outdo another in every way - their values as people are NOT solely based on their abilities. 

Okay - okay, long part 1 of a preface - I know, sorry - it’s just. I absolutely never want someone to misinterpret that from me. Just-  Just someone remind me one day to make a post about the concept of ‘worth’ and people’s skills/values and ideas of what ‘achievement’ is and all that junk. Never take it from me that I’m saying one person is objectively better than another though.

Part 2 of preface.

I’m not saying you’re completely out of line for thinking that.

However, I do also want to say that neither of us have to have a ‘correct’ opinion on this. Or on anything about these characters or the show. My opinion on this is based in what I believe with people’s training/strength in general.

...

Additionally, I know we’re not talking about fighting - but as a side note: hecking these two brothers just honestly probably couldn’t ever go full out at one another. You remember the weirdmageddon scene? That was a frustrated sibling fight that has nothing to do with survival/winning a fight but just not holding back your frustrations anymore. Dido with the fight at the portal incident.

-

There’s a LOT under the cut. For people that ABSOLUTELY 100% don’t want to read a ton.

tl;dr --  yes we see more of Stan’s strength. we didn’t get good tests of fords strength though. therefore i am basing this in what i believe rather since there’s no scenes to compare. i think your strength will change after 30 years based off of training/whatever. 

if we disagree on raw physical strength and how that can be changed along with bodies after 30 years then yo we just disagree

I get what you mean and you’re right. We see more of Stan doing something physical than we do Ford. 

The few examples you noted earlier? Are very frankly one of many. 

Something that stands out to me about Stan is that he can run. We see this guy straight up jetting off on more than one occasion. That- okay I realize that might not sound very impressive, but I’m just around so many people that can’t hardly run and they’re only around 50. So the fact that Stan uses running as his immediate plan a) when caught in an act say something to me.

There’s the feats he pulls off with the dinosaur. There’s Stanchurian Candidate where he lifts up 190 pounds starting off at a kneeling/lower position, when he punches the eagles while his legs hold him on that metal scaffolding. In ATOTS we see him run straight from town and all the way to the Shack the specifics of time/distance i believe could be bungled BUT regardless of specifics that’s still CONTINUES RUNNING FROM THE TOWN INTO THE WOODS. The zombie fight scene of course, aided by a bat/brass knuckles to smash them up - aaaand he does pull that grandfather clock over which those things are heavy and the angle he was pulling at likely pulled at his back muscles. 

Please let me emphasize this: I do not think Stan is weak nor is that what I am saying.

The fact of the matter though is that we just plain don’t get to see Ford in any fair tests of strength. When a 600 pound ogre picks him up, it wouldn’t be fair to call him a wimp because well yeah the ogre is going to be stronger.

Similar to when Stan was getting beat the heck up by that animatronic in Soos and the Real Girl. Uh YEAH the animatronic was winning. Those things are made of metal and super heavy, not to mention Stan was still very clearly caught off guard that the thing came to life. 

Imagine if that was all we had of Stan though. Just scenes like with the animatronic where he was saved by Goldie. 

Due to us only having *checks* 8 episodes with Ford, there’s not a ton of screen time and honestly? Getting to see his personality was a lot more important to me than knowing the specifics of how well he had physically adjusted. 

Which - I think this IS where we just reach a disagreement point. See, I believe that raw physical power is all in those muscles and that if those muscles are less worked out over a long course of time then they won’t be as strong. 

I’m not a doctor. I’m not a personal trainer. I’m not saying that’s INDEFINITELY how that HAS to be. I’m saying though, that is what I believe. 

Which is why I’m explaining - think of yourself. Now, imagine you spent the next ten years... at about the same way you’ve BEEN going. Cool. Then compare yourself to if once a day you lifted weights for one hour - every day for ten years. Compare them.

If you think you would have the same raw physical power - then that’s where we simply disagree. 

Especially if by raw physical power you mean like a person automatically has this much power and that’s not something affected by training - then I would have to say that I disagree with you on that. Which would be a disagreement between us on how bodies work. And idk about you but i’m not a personal trainer so

And this is not to say Stan completely slacked off completely - in fact it’s rather obvious that whether through some form of exericse/activity or not that he is STILL a strong guy. 

However, my reasoning is going off of how much those muscles got worked out. Now two years? Eh, no - I can see it not making a big difference. But thirty years, dude. That’s so much time that I believe their habits HAD to dictate their muscle mass. 

And again - if you disagree with that. Then I’m afraid that’s simply where we disagree.

Disagreeing doesn’t mean one of us is right or wrong. The show cannot be held up to 100% accuracy anyways and as well the writers could easily have misconceptions on health or stuff to do with muscles. 

Alex could say tomorrow that Stan always beats Ford at arm wrestling. He could say straight out that Stan is physically stronger than Ford. It’s like how he said that Ford had 12 toes that one time. 

This show was made from people who will change stuff for character aspects and sometimes even just ‘yeah sure why not.’ 

If you disagree about that whole working out muscles after 30 years will give you more power than someone - then I know this will be like the third time, but yeah - we’re just in a disagreement.

Which by no means are you out of line in thinking that or that Stan is stronger.

We’re just two people with theories that we CANNOT prove indefinitely. Even if we were discussing two real life people - we’d have no way to test our theory and even past that there’d be heavy discussion on what we MEAN by strength/raw physical power.

[jenhikes]

The Evolution of Gear

I recently, as a member of the Green Mountain Club, read an article in their quarterly publication about a man who decided to thru hike the Long Trail using the gear early hikers would have used back in the 1910s (when the trail system was officially open for use). This interesting read got me thinking to how much gear has changed in the past 100 years.  I thought it would be fun to do a little research and share my findings with all of you guys.  I hope you find it as fun to read as I did writing it!  Since the article I read was replicating a thru hike of a trail in 1917, that's as far back as I decided to go.  Since the National Park System in the US was developed and created only a few years prior to this, I decided that many people were more than likely not camping recreationally before this period.  Granted, people were following their herds to the high country for the summer and camping out long before this, I find that those "headed to camp" accounts don't really make for good backpacking gear stories.    

The Early Years

One of the first things that stuck out to me in the article I read in Long Trail News about the gear was this paragraph: 

"For food, bread and bacon will keep you going with little weight." "No person should ever travel The Long Trail without axe, compass, and matches" "A tent is not necessary on most of the trail; it may be needed in the southerly part if the hiker desires to sleep out, in which case a very light, small tent of balloon silk is advised" 

Already the gear differences and advice are pretty fun to read about.  I also loved reading that Mike MADE HIS OWN PACK out of brown ash wood.  Yep, that's right.  A "pack basket" was all the rage back in those days.  For an example of gear you would have carried in those days in your pack basket see below (it's also worth noting that back in those days it wasn't uncommon for hikers to cut boughs off trees to make a bed for the night; since that is no longer done for obvious LNT ((Leave No Trace)) reasons, it's worth noting that the hiker here stuffed a pillowcase with leaves): -Wool blanket -Homemade waterproofed cotton tarp and cotton groundsheet -Camp knife (hand forged) in a leather belt sheath -2 Quart metal canteen -Bug Net -Alcohol stove with alcohol carried in a GLASS bottle -Tin cup -Matches -Waxed cotton food bag -Candle for nighttime -Wool knickers -Wool knee-length socks -Leather hat -Leather boots -Rubberized poncho FOOD:  -Hardboiled eggs, rice, cashews/almonds/raisins, bread, cheese, cured meat, canned fish, and hershey's chocolate

I also love that for this hike Mike used birch and beech twigs to brush his teeth!

1940's-1950's

I couldn't find much for the period in between our history hiker and the WW2 era, so I'm going to skip ahead to Earl Shaffer - the first ever thru hiker on the Appalachian Trail.  It can be said that Shaffer was the first ever Warrior Hiker - he took to the trail to "Walk off the War" in 1948.  Earning himself the name "The Crazy One", he was the first person to ever hike the trail all the way through in one year.  At first, even the Appalachian Trail Conference (later, Conservancy) didn't believe him!  He may also be considered the first minimalistic hiker, being that his tent failed in the first week on the trail and he got rid of it, saving himself an additional five pounds!  Back when Shaffer thru hiked in 1948, he was taken in by friendly fire tower wardens and fed meals; he even hiked hunting camp to hunting camp in Maine.  On his thru hike in 1998, Shaffer relayed via letter to Gene Espy (the second thru hiker of the AT) by letter that the trail had become much more difficult than when they hiked it decades before, the trail conservancy having routed the trail up to the higher and harder ridge lines instead of being down low near the hunting camps.  An example of his gear can be found below:  -Mountain Troop rucksack -Military issue poncho (which also served as his rain shelter at night!) -A Daisy Mae Rainhat -Match safe -Compass -Sheath knife and small handaxe -Sewing kit -Snakebite kit -Mountain Troop cook kit -Wool blanket -Wool pants -Russel Birdshooter Boots

Gene Espy, our second-known thru hiker went through northbound in 1951.  He had some great gear as well, including one of my favorite luxury items - an inflatable pillow! His gear weighed in at a whopping 50 lbs and included the following (from gearjunkie):  -Steel frame pack -Lamb’s wool used as comfort under the heavy pack straps -Tent (without a floor) and tent posts -Down sleeping bag -Watch; to know his time between shelters -Guide books -Hatchet and rope -Inflatable pillow -Camera -New Testament Bible -Diary and pencil -Collapsible cup -25 caliber pistol (which he claimed he used as protection from bears) -Carbide lamp (this is what miners used back then as a headlamp - it requires chemical reaction to make it work!) -Nylon poncho used for a rain jacket and as flooring in the tent -Pants from the Navy to protect his legs from thorns -Two long sleeve shirts -2 pairs of hiking socks -Hat -Tin water cup -Snakebite kit -Boots FOOD:  Gene carried about a week of food at a time, and his favorite foods included chocolate pudding, loaves of bread, and Baby Ruth candy bars.  

1960's and 1970's

With the 1960s and 70s came the "heyday" of the American National Park System.  More and more folks were able to get out and enjoy not only the national parks of our country, but also the backcountry and hiking trails provided by our parks!  Check out some of these vintage ads I found while scouring the internet.  Heck, I know some sleeping bags that weigh more than 3.5 lb have even tried to make their way out onto a backpacking trip I was leading!

During the late 1950s the AT saw it's first female thruhiker, Grandma Gatewood.  She would go on to hike the trail two more times during her life, making her the first multi completer of the trail.  While I couldn't find a comprehensive gear list, I did find a photo of her gear (circa 1960) (thanks, Reddit!) at the Appalachian Trail Museum.  It's safe to say she was the first ever "dirtbag hiker", hiking with a homemade denim sack, a rain cape made from a shower curtain, and was the first hiker to ditch the heavy boots for lightweight shoes, recommending Keds to all hikers she met! She was also the first thru hiker to "slackpack" her way along the AT.  She often wandered off the main trail to knock on doors to ask for a place to stay or to get a hot meal.  

The 1970s is when backpacking really started changing.  Jansport and Kelty led the way in creating lightweight external frame packs with specially designed pockets for hauling gear ergonomically.  Also during this era we see the very first Therma-A-Rest mattress hit the market.  Now, instead of cutting live tree boughs, hikers can sleep on an ACTUAL mattress in the woods! Check out the weight of those "lightweight boots" by the way - only THREE POUNDS!

You also start seeing the commercial freeze dried and dehydrated food industry taking off.  Yes, America - you too can eat like our astronauts!

(Photos here are sourced from google images)

1980's and 1990's

Lightweight was the name of the game!  Ultralight was truly being developed during this time period, despite how many of us would think it was something more recent.  In fact, 2-lb packs were being developed during the late 1970s and early 1980s!  Nike was even on the forefront of developing a lightweight hiking shoe/boot hybrid - the Lava Dome! While many folks were still carrying external frame packs during this period, the frame during this time started moving to the INSIDE of a pack - something unheard of before now!  During this time period we also meet some of THE names in backpacking that many hikers still know today, the most famous of whom is Ray Jardine.  Ray and his wife, Jenny, began thru hiking in the late 1980s and can still be found out on the trail today.  In 1991, Ray wrote a book about his PCT thru hike, talking about how it was possible to hike much faster and lighter by making homemade gear.  In fact, he still regularly publishes and hikes today.  

During the 1990s we see many what we would call "Cottage Industry" companies starting to pop up as well.  Dana Designs and Gossamer Gear both got their start in the 1990s when regular hikers started getting fed up with not being able to find what they wanted in gear that was commercially available.  

During this time we also see people hiking in light athletic shoes versus heavy boots.  Laurie "Mountain Laurel" Pottieger (of ATC fame) switched to running shoes during her 1987 thru hike of the AT.  While she switched back to boots for rockier sections of the trail, at the time it was practically unheard of (and was done by the Jardines as well!)

(photo of the boots from google images and Jenny and Ray from RayJardine.com)

The 2000's and 2010's

These days, fast and light is the name of the game.  With more and more FKT (fastest known time) attempts on the trail and more hikers getting savvy to the "less is more" way of backpacking, it's possible to hike more than 2000 miles carrying little more than a daypack.  Some of the more famous names in the game right now include Anish, String Bean, and Lint.  For an example of what these ultralighters are carrying, check out Lint's thru hiking gear list.  

While not everyone is going ultralight, it's pretty unusual to see anyone out on the trail these days carrying more than 35 lb.  We know now that the average pack should be 25% or less of your total body weight.  With lighter packs comes the ability to wear lighter shoes as well. In fact, reading surveys of commonly used gear online you'll see that less than 20% of hikers are now wearing boots on trail, opting for lightweight trail running shoes instead.    

And there you have it - a pretty comprehensive history of how gear has changed since the early days!  Gone are the days when heavy boots and 50-lb packs are the norm.  Here to stay are the lighter, easier to carry packs with quick drying shoes and gear to get you from point A to point B in relative comfort!

Would you have been able to thru hike Grandma Gatewood style?  When did you first start collecting your backpacking gear?  What piece of gear do you remember and miss the most? 

[tobiasmasonpark]

    So, what I initially believed to be a genius original statement about Pet Sematary—that the movie should have stayed buried—turned out to be the title of, like, half a dozen movie reviews. And, now that I think about it, I probably stole it from Cinemasins’ review of the original 1989 movie…

    My point is I was pretty disappointed by Pet Sematary.

    Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I psyched myself out in the weeks leading up to the movie. Maybe I was disappointed because there were changes from the book? Or, maybe it really was just a bleh sort of adaptation to a Stephen King novel I really enjoyed.

    Anyway, here are some things that bothered me, and a few things I liked.

    Cue the original Ramones’ tune.

Source: https://www.joblo.com/movie-posters/2019/pet-sematary/image-35124    

    Naturally adaptations can be tricky. There’s always going to be guys and gals like me complaining that they changed too much from the book, or that they didn’t change enough about it. And there are times when things need to be cut because, realistically, only so much of a text can fit into a 2-hour run time while keeping the interest of its fickle audience.

    But I’m not against the idea of changes in adaptations. It—the 2017 version-- for example, was a great adaptation of a Stephen King work. It remained mostly faithful to the first half of the book while making some changes. They left out the giant space turtle that spewed out the universe after a sore tummy, the hotboxing the kids do in their fort that shows them the monster’s origin story, and—thankfully—the train the boys run on Beverley in the tunnels.

    I didn’t care that left out that stuff. It really doesn’t change the premise of the story or the personality of the characters. The fact that they changed the time period from the 50s to the 80s, for example, barely alters anything aside from at whom to direct the nostalgia. Basically, any town in a Stephen King work can be translated into whatever decade you want. Middle America, from what I hear, doesn’t change all that much.

    What bothers me is when changes are made just for the sake of change, because they think they’ll wow the audience, because their movie needs jump scares like all the other horror movies out there, or because they want to be like M. Knight, and throw in some Shyamalan-style twists.

    Take those creepy kids from the trailer:

Source: https://www.nme.com/news/watch-creepy-new-trailer-stephen-kings-pet-sematary-released-2388664                    

    Sure, aesthetically, that’s some spooky imagery. It’s not in the books, but that’s fine. They looked creepy, with their masks, walking in a funeral procession, banging that drum. Great stuff for a trailer. But they don’t do anything with it, save for Ellie wearing a similar mask in the climax. There’s no point of it being in the movie at all. If the kids weren’t in it, we’d still have the Pet Sematary itself. We’d know that kids buried their pets there. Nothing would change other than the number of people to add to the end credits.

    Someone could argue, oh, maybe it implies that these creepy kids were also buried? There is that highway they keep open for some reason. Maybe they were also run over by trucks? Maybe they came back wrong?

    And I would totally love that as a concept. It would definitely help with this movie’s ending. A town that eventually gets over-run with zombies, and the last few humans must hunt them down?

Source: https://waxworkrecords.com/collections/vinyl/products/salems-lot              

    Oh wait…that’s the plot to ‘Salem’s Lot…

    Unfortunately, for maybe the first time ever in a Stephen King movie—save for the Shining and Gerald’s Game, which were more character pieces anyway—we never really meet anyone else in the town, save for Jud. So, I can only assume that the kids are unaware of the real evil burial ground behind the Pet Sematary, and just like to dress up when burying their dead pets.

    Plus, we see Church and Ellie are constantly dirty after they’re resurrected. These kids are clean, especially for kids. So, we can rule out them being anything other than the subjects of the next Killer Kids.

    Sure, the kids are creepy. But it does nothing for the movie in the long run. The isolation of the Creeds among the woods can provide the chills and thrills we seek without relying on creepy children we never see again…

    They also change which Creed child gets hit by the truck. I’ll be honest, I didn’t see the trailer. I wanted to go in fresh. So, I had no idea Ellie was featured as the main zombie in this…

    In the book, Gage dies. This was, I hear, inspired by a close call Stephen King had with his own son. The premise of the book came from the what-if that plagued him. And it’s because Gage is so young, a little boy no older than 2 or 3, with his whole life ahead of him, that makes his demise so tragic.

    Granted, Ellie is only nine, so it’s still incredibly tragic. So, I’m not upset by the decision to change it. I mean, I saw the original movie from 1989. The special effects they use for evil Gage were…not very good. And even in the book, some of the things that come out of the dead boy’s mouth are a tad silly—even for King, who, again, wrote a scene in which eleven-year-old boys take turns having sex with their one girl friend to escape the monster’s tunnel, despite having defeated, at least for the time being, the monster. I completely understand the decision to avoid something like this from happening again:

Source: https://www.express.co.uk/celebrity-news/726081/Stephen-King-Pet-Sematary-kid-Gage-Creed-looks-like-now-Miko-Hughes          

    But I think that’s only half the reason they changed it to Ellie. I really think they just wanted to throw a twist at those of us who read the book. And that’s something I don’t like. Twists for the sake of twists aren’t cool. Trust me, I wasn’t bored when little Gage Creed started running over to the highway with glee. I knew what was coming and was still uncomfortable. The fact Ellie got hit instead was more of an “oh…I guess they’re going that way? Makes sense…”

    But all of that I’d give a pass, if not for the jump scares—and this movie probably has more fake out jump scares than people in the movie—I won’t count Rachel’s parents, since they have no lines, or Zelda, who is more of a tool, or the cat because it is a cat.

    Jump scares aren’t scary to me. If I jolt in my seat, it’s because my ears are being assaulted by sudden noise, and my body is reacting to it. The pounding in my chest is not because I expect Ellie to be hiding under the bed, or behind the door. It’s because I’m waiting for that dumb sound. It’s not going to keep me up at night, thinking about the creepy things I saw in the movie. It just makes me regret seeing it at all. Its cheap, and so many horror movies use them—even the good ones.

    Rachel’s sister’s affliction with spinal meningitis, and her death, was, for me, the best part of the book and both the 1989 movie, and this adaptation. I grew up with a sibling who dealt with ailments all her life, and she passed away because of them, so Zelda’s demise is the only part of the movie and a major part of the book that made me squirm in my seat. I don’t know about anyone else who watched the movie, but someone who is ill is plenty scary, and for many reasons: the visual of it, seeing the person in so much pain and being unable to help, but also the guilt you feel because you don’t have to go through it. And, worst of all, that part of you is glad when their pain finally stops.

    It’s a powerful image, and the movie got points from me for it.

    But there are some issues, still. They change the way Zelda dies. In the book, she chokes to death, and Rachel hears her suffering, but doesn’t do anything because she doesn’t like interacting with her sister anymore. In the movie, they have Rachel send the food up to Zelda through a dumb-waiter, and Zelda falls attempting to grab the food for herself.

    It seems like a silly thing to gripe about, given the conclusion is the same: Zelda dies, and Rachel is scarred by it. But they changed it, I think, because visually it looked scarier than the book and they couldn’t figure out how to add a jump scare to a motionless teenager. Again, I don’t know if anyone else has experienced it, but watching someone go that way—i.e., slow and painfully-- is terrifying. And it would have served the movie better because stuff like that happens.

    Also, there’s the fact that Rachel herself says Zelda was bed-ridden and couldn’t move around much. So, I doubt that Zelda climbed out of bed herself and fell down a dumb-waiter.

    Now, is the movie bad because not everyone in the audience had the misfortune of watching a loved one die? No. People are scared by different things, as we see in all of King’s works—clowns, vampires, werewolves, creepy shop owners, getting left in handcuffs in your cottage miles away from civilization because your husband took too many blue pills and got a heart attack when you kicked him, because he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and then a dog eats him, and there’s something about a killer on the lose…The usual stuff.

    But I do think that what we got was not nearly as creepy as the book.

    They keep Victor Pascow in the movie, which could have been left out. I wasn’t super into the ghost concept in the book to begin with. It’s not necessary. They establish early on that the burial ground calls to its victims. Jud could have been the one to try to warn Louis and Rachel to stay away. And the barriers still would have been there to keep Rachel from getting to Louis on time. There, the movie stays pretty much the same with some minor tweaks.

    The movie clearly gets tired of Victor, however, because he stops showing up after he gets Gage’s attention and Rachel decides to go see Louis. In the book, Victor is a semi-regular presence once they come across the Pet Sematary. After Gage dies, Victor warns Louis not to give into the pull of the burial grounds. Then, when that doesn’t work, Pascow tries contacting Ellie—who did not get hit by a truck in the novel—who tells Rachel, who recognizes the name from earlier, and then goes—on her own—to see Louis. It was actually pretty silly for her to bring her baby along with her if she thought there was something to be worried about…But I guess we wouldn’t have this movie’s ending if she did the reasonable thing…

    On the way home, a series of events take place that hinder Rachel from arriving on time, implying the burial ground’s magic works beyond the town in which its situated.

    Now, this plays out pretty much the same way in the movie, but differently. We know that the burial grounds have a pull to them, but it’s done…more quickly. As if they realized, oh, we’ve reached the climax of the film and haven’t used our creepy murder kid to murder people yet. Better do that.

    I also was not a fan of the way Ellie physically changes to look like Zelda to taunt Rachel, nor the way Rachel imagines herself in a bed with her spine twisting. To be honest, I don’t recall whether it was like this in the book. If it was, I would have preferred they didn’t add that to the movie at all. The movie is creepy with its main premise.

    Also--and again, maybe this is an issue that was also present in the book—why would Rachel go back to her parent’s house, when she spent the entire movie talking about how she could hear Zelda in the walls? She’s there a whole day and then she goes through that illusion. I know she didn’t want to be in the new house after Ellie died. But couldn’t they have written that Rachel went to stay with her parents in a different, non-Zelda haunted house?

    Ah, but then we wouldn’t get the creepy scene with Rachel’s spine twisting, with jump scares…Bleh.

    OH! And then there’s this one line in the movie that bugged the crap out of me.

    OK, so, in the book, Ellie is asking her parents about death—like she does in the movie—and she asks why God couldn’t just take his own cat.

    Well, this line is altered and given to Louis in the movie. Rachel asks why Louis brought Ellie back, and he says something along the lines of God can kill his own kid.

    Louis Creed may not be very well versed in Christianity. He professes to not believe in an afterlife. No worries. I don’t expect everyone to know everything about the religion—I certainly am not an expert. But how could he not know that’s exactly the story of Jesus, one of the most well-known religious figures on the planet? I’m talking just the basic stuff someone who went to a high school or college or watched a movie or read a book would know. God sent Jesus down to earth to die for the sins of humanity… It’s a small gripe, I guess. Maybe someone in real life would say that—probably in response to the old funeral favourite: it’s God’s plan. People say all sorts of things when grieving. Maybe the extent of Louis’ knowledge about religion is limited to Judaism, where Jesus isn’t a major figure.

    But it just sounded like a dumb line in a movie I already wanted to be over.

    Pet Sematary is a very quiet sort of horror novel. I mean, Louis burns down his house, and shoots both his dead son and the evil cat. But aside from that, the terror comes from the book’s main theme: coping with death, specifically young people. It’s about the unfairness of the people or things we love leaving us so soon. Louis’ temptation to bury Gage/Ellie is heart wrenching, because who among us wouldn’t have considered it? The burial ground doesn’t need a magic pull. Knowing of its existence would be enough. Because it’s human for that temptation to be there. And it’s made even more difficult to read about/watch when Louis does it all again after burying his wife—right after shooting his little boy.

    But we don’t get any of that in this movie. Louis gets killed by his resurrected wife and is also buried. The movie ends with the dead family—Church included—closing in on young Gage Creed, who was put in the family car for safety by Louis.

    Cue a cover of the Ramones song.

    Maybe if I never read the book, this would have been a cooler ending. I really didn’t want to keep comparing the movie to the novel. I wanted to give it a fair chance to stand on its own. But it’s difficult not to compare. I honestly think the book is better—by a long shot.

    The movie had good moments, though. The burial grounds themselves look amazing—far better than how I imagined it while reading the book. Although, I swear the symbol on the trees used to ward off people looks exactly like the symbol of the Kokiri stone from Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. I couldn’t find a still from the movie on google, but I can’t be the only one to see it, right?

Source: https://zelda.fandom.com/wiki/Deku_Shield        

    Now that I think about it…the Kokiri are children…and they become Koroks, who wear weird masks…Could Legend of Zelda and Pet Sematary share a universe?!

    We don’t see the Wendigo much in the movie, but we didn’t get a good look at it in the novel either. Less may have been more in this case. And the cast is great. The Creed family is sweet together. And John Lithgow is always fantastic.

    But the movie just didn’t do it for me.

    At the very least, it got me to want to read the book again.

[shoutscion]

i’ve noticed i’m beginning to write shorter and shorter posts because i’m trying to convey so much of j&c’s worldbuilding in the game itself

anyway heres an early draft of some promo art and like a dozen things about Autumn Valley

• the autumn valley calender has years prefixed with something called a Capital Era, sort of like how japan has eras depending on the name of the emperor. the Capital Era is named after the current location of the capital (ie: the Moon River era, the Cliffside era). the current year is Far Forest - 08, and the previous era ended at Cliffside 45 due to the relocation of the capital for economic reasons

• casie’s like 22 and graduated her 5 years of school in the capital (not unlike a bachelor’s degree) at 20, which makes her sort of a prodigy. her major was xenoengineering (ie: reverse engineering Ancient shit, which is her current job description) but during her deployment to the Watching Wood she’s become a pretty good biologist. most people who do what she does are at least 25 and are also usually even more out of touch 

• autumn is really bad with fire. they’re actually sort of bad with heat in general because they can notice cold (which is why they wear such thick clothing- autumn’s pretty cold) (but obviously not that cold) but dont notice heat until it’s burning them, and sometimes dont notice small flames until they see or smell the smoke. as a direct result, autumn suffers several tom and jerry-like barbeque mishaps a year

• Humans have a similar lifespan and biology to actual homo sapiens but vary wildly appearance-wise (the shortest of them is probably 3 feet tall and the tallest is well over 8). casie’s pretty middle of the road at 5 foot 6 (168cm). they’re pretty consistent with their size-to-strength ratio with most of them being able to lift their body weight with some effort (casie being about 500 pounds) (like, midtier motorcycle weight). they’re also universally very hardy and can (like most things in Autumn) tank gunfire, usually taking a full magazine of rifle ammo to reliably kill someone (but they’d probably go down in half that) and can take getting hit by, for instance, cars (which is a more common occurrence then you’d think) with only a broken bone or two and a bruised ego. it is extremely possible that they have redundant organs

• seriously casie could take a direct hit from truck-kun and leave a bigger dent in it then it would in her. car accidents in autumn are more costly to the driver then the drive-ee because you have to fix the car, but the other guy will (after soaring like 50 feet backward) usually just get up, fold his now-broken arm under his shoulder and flip you off the other

• on the other hand a lot of people die in car fires when their rides are destroyed by monster attack or otherwise and as such casie doesn’t trust them. their fuel economy is also pretty bad, so cars dont tend to move around much, and most ‘towns’ in autumn are actually rings of tents or parked cars around a handful of meeting areas, marketplaces and crop fields which are grown for biodiesel and sustenance. even the capital is essentially just a really big robust fleet of cars and trucks and landships.

• besides, letting casie anywhere near a steering wheel is asking for trouble

• as a result of their weight and muscle density, Humans cannot float in water, and dont have a very strong naval tradition. Autumn Valley has a couple rivers running through it and has either a shoreline or a large lake on one side, which Humanity doesnt deal with because not only can they not swim but there’s giant mutant fish n shit and haven’t worked out aquatic weaponry. as a footnote, casie can literally hold her breath for 15 minutes, which is only worth mentioning because most people can only manage 14:59 before passing out

• they cross one of those rivers- the Moon River-  by just walking through it. it’s the only way to get to the other side of autumn and there are points where the river gets shallow enough to take a breath so the walk itself is weird but still pretty easy; the real threat is the shit living in it. and Ancient Submarines.

• meanwhile Jack is around the same weight (maybe slightly lighter) but his deployable arms are fuckin useless. he can pick up casie in a pinch but can’t throw a punch to save his life. so, when casie goes down in battle jack literally just dumps out everything in his inventory, stuffs casie in there instead and then books it to the last rest stop to regroup. on the other hand, if casie were to pick him up for any reason- say, to throw him as a weapon- he probably wouldnt go very far. his legs are stronger then his arms for sure, probably because they dont fuckin telescope

• seriously casie’s really fuckin good at throwing things. it’s a talent she picked up in the capital. if you were to spec her as a standard rpg character her firearm skill would be like 40/100 and her throwing would be like 128. on the same note, in the SPECIAL system casie would probably be like S5, P7, E5, C3, I8, A3, L-2

• Autumn Valley doesnt literally speak english. their language- let’s call it Autumnese- is adapted from the language the Ancients wrote and sounds sort of like japanese or, more specifically, engrish. it’s also sort of similar to animalese from animal crossing, but they spend a lot more time yelling

• Humanity is crashproof and bulletproof (to a certain extent) but in general they’re weak to fire (like most things with fur in autumn), asphyxiation (... eventually) and poison, which goes through their system really fuckin fast. they don’t really get sick though and are pretty good against diseases; the worst they get is bedridden for a couple weeks, and then they bounce back. fortunate, considering that the medical tradition in autumn valley’s greatest modern accomplishment is that you can rouse a person from unconsciousness by hitting them with a drug that causes every nerve ending in their body to scream in terror until they wake up and try to work out what is suddenly killing them

[kristablogs]

Archery is not nearly as easy as movies make it seem

Tom Clum shooting a trad bow. (Tom Clum/)

This story originally featured on Outdoor Life

You couldn’t pick a better time to get into traditional archery. There’s a wide variety of good, affordable gear. Plus, there are great online resources for new shooters (more on that in a moment).

However, there are a few hard truths about getting into trad. First, it’s going to be difficult—you will likely have the impulse to hurl that new bow through the woods on more than one occasion. Second, it’s going to take time—it took me about a year of shooting before I was competent with a recurve and another two years before I was really skilled with one. But if you keep after it, you’ll earn the opportunity to experience one of the purest and most exciting forms of hunting.

Starting with a solid foundation is key.

Until recently, there haven't been any widely-available, standardized resources for learning how to shoot a trad bow. Without established mentors or coaches, most of us have been left to figure it out on our own. This is where Tom Clum Sr. of Rocky Mountain Specialty Gear comes in (read my full story about shooting with Tom here). Tom is a certified archery coach and a bowhunter at heart. He saw how he could adapt a target archery shot for hunting. The standardized "NTS" shot was developed by a US Olympic coach as a scientifically designed, and biomechanically efficient, repeatable shot, and it produces incredible accuracy and consistency.

Tom began teaching this method of shooting a recurve in his shop and has recently released an online class called SOLID Archery Mechanics. A one-time fee will give you unlimited access to all the info you would get if you were getting Clum's coaching in person. It's a substantial initial investment at $200, but having gone through the course myself, I can confidently say that it's worth the money. I wish I'd had this information years ago when I was learning to shoot. It would have saved me years of frustration.

I am fully convinced that a person who goes through this course with a stretch band for a month before even picking up a bow will learn much faster than someone trying to learn by himself. Along with enrolling in Clum’s course, here’s what you need to get started.

1. Stretch Bands

This is probably one of the most underrated tools for the trad archer. Even Olympic-level shooters use stretch bands, and you should too. They can be made in any number of ways, but a basic therapy band that gives you some flexible resistance is all you need. It allows you to simulate draw weight and develop your shot without holding up the weight of a bow, and as a bonus, you can take it anywhere. It’s not for building strength, but for working on all the intricacies of your shot.

When I learned the NTS method of shooting, all of the initial work was done on a stretch band. You will have to teach your brain completely new motor programs, using muscles in ways you haven’t before. This takes a lot of time and slow, isolated movements, which are perfect for the stretch band. You can work on those individual movements, then begin to blend them together into a smooth shot process. One guy I know who has been going through the course struggled and struggled to develop his shot with his bow. I suggested he get a stretch band and work on each individual part of his shot before finally meshing them together. A month later, his form looked way better, all from the stretch band.

The <a href="https://amzn.to/2DayhHk">Fleetwood Edge</a> traditional bow is a great option for new shooters. (Fleetwood Edge/)

2. Buy Your First Bow

It’s hard to overstate how important it is to pick the right first bow. Most new shooters want a nice bow that they can learn on, but also hunt with, which leads to the most common mistake: being over-bowed. That is, having a bow with a draw weight that is too heavy. It is extremely easy to over-bow yourself. In fact, for most men, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to start with a draw weight of 30 pounds. This sounds super light to a compound bow shooter, but trad shooters need to learn to use different muscles in different ways than they’re used to. The key is learning to draw the bow properly, and it’s easier to do this with a bow that has a low draw weight. Also, you will gain confidence more quickly with a lighter bow. Nothing will kill your desire to shoot trad quicker than struggling to pull your bow back and failing to hit the target.

Cost is another major consideration. Many high-end custom and semi-custom recurves and longbows will run upwards of $1,000. These bows are nice, and many of them shoot wonderfully, but don’t even consider one of these for your first bow. There are many affordable bows that are much better to start with, and there are a couple of reasons for that. First, you don’t want to tie a bunch of money up into something that you may decide isn’t for you. Also, as you become more comfortable and better at shooting, your preferences may change. You really need to have an established shot in order to tell which bow feels right for you. Even if you want to end up with a high-end bow, start cheap, then you’ll be better suited to find the bow that fits you best.

Finally, I recommend a takedown bow to start with. These typically utilize interchangeable limbs. This will allow you to start with very light limbs, and as your skill level and strength grow, you can just get a new set of limbs for the same bow. For any new shooter, I'd recommend bows like the Fleetwood Edge or Samick Sage. These are very affordable recurves with limbs in a variety of weights. They can sometimes have Q.C. issues, but overall, they are fantastic options for new shooters. Start with light limbs, and you can usually find heavier ones for $50-75.

Read Next: Shooting Lessons Learned from a Master of Traditional Archery

3. Buy Your First Arrows

Like your first bow, you want your first set of arrows to be cheap. In the beginning, you’re basically just looking for something straight to send out of your bow. Wood, carbon, or aluminum doesn't matter, just get what you can afford. If you have the option, select a spine-class that the charts say should be close for your draw weight, but don’t sweat the details. Trying to tune arrows at this point is futile because as you advance, your shot will change dramatically, and your consistency will improve as well. If you shell out big-time for arrows right off the bat, it’s likely that those arrows won’t even be what you need once you become more consistent. Arrow spine, point weight, and tuning will all come into play, but this stuff only matters after you already have a consistent shot. So, wait before you buy the good stuff.

Tom Clum demonstrating "the hook." (Tom Clum/)

The Hook

It might look unbelievably simple, but a properly executed shot is much more complex than it seems. Each component of the shot lays a foundation for the next step. It might be difficult to see how one or two details will affect the outcome, but it all matters. It all starts with how you address or “hook” the string. If you’ve always done what feels natural, chances are, you’ve been doing it wrong. I sure was. The basic components of the hook are: 1) where the string sits on your fingers; 2) weight distribution. You want the string just in front of the first notch of your index finger, just behind it on your middle finger, and on the pad of your ring finger. Most of the weight will be on your middle finger, followed closely by your index finger. Finally, your ring finger should be holding just enough weight to keep the string from pinching your middle finger. Too much weight, and you will have added torque on your string and it will slightly change the tiller of the bow. This hook will also be the same for both split-finger and 3-under shooting.

Another critical component to the hook is maintaining what’s called a high wrist. If you think about how you carry a bucket of water, your wrist is slightly bent with your hand curling inward toward you. This is a position of strength. The “natural” way to pull a bow straight back bends your wrist in the opposite direction, into a weaker position (low wrist). Setting up a proper hook can be very uncomfortable at first, but don’t skip it. A proper hook will create the strongest holding position, and allow the string to blow through your fingers efficiently; eliminating sloppy releases. It will get easier, and it is a critical step in learning the rest of the shot.

The Cognitive Shot

Once you’ve got the basics down, the rest is all mental. There are quite a few folks out there who will tell you that the best way to shoot a traditional bow is to shut off your brain and go by feel. This might feel good and comfortable, but it is not a consistent way to shoot a bow.

The mental side of shooting a bow is every bit as important as the physical. Accuracy and consistency come from doing the same thing, the same way, every time, and we can’t do that by going on auto-pilot. You must develop a rigid “checklist” that you run through on every single shot. When you’re learning, the process can seem complex and slow, but as you develop your shot, the checklist becomes more natural.

Cognitively running through your shot also allows you to analyze the process better and determine where you are having problems. When you are shooting cognitively, it’s easier to walk back through a shot that went awry and figure out the issues. Keeping your head in the game will help as you go through the SOLID Archery Mechanics program and learn to shoot, but developing your own cognitive checklist to hit each and every shot will also help you right where you’re at now.

[scootoaster]

Archery is not nearly as easy as movies make it seem

Tom Clum shooting a trad bow. (Tom Clum/)

This story originally featured on Outdoor Life

You couldn’t pick a better time to get into traditional archery. There’s a wide variety of good, affordable gear. Plus, there are great online resources for new shooters (more on that in a moment).

However, there are a few hard truths about getting into trad. First, it’s going to be difficult—you will likely have the impulse to hurl that new bow through the woods on more than one occasion. Second, it’s going to take time—it took me about a year of shooting before I was competent with a recurve and another two years before I was really skilled with one. But if you keep after it, you’ll earn the opportunity to experience one of the purest and most exciting forms of hunting.

Starting with a solid foundation is key.

Until recently, there haven't been any widely-available, standardized resources for learning how to shoot a trad bow. Without established mentors or coaches, most of us have been left to figure it out on our own. This is where Tom Clum Sr. of Rocky Mountain Specialty Gear comes in (read my full story about shooting with Tom here). Tom is a certified archery coach and a bowhunter at heart. He saw how he could adapt a target archery shot for hunting. The standardized "NTS" shot was developed by a US Olympic coach as a scientifically designed, and biomechanically efficient, repeatable shot, and it produces incredible accuracy and consistency.

Tom began teaching this method of shooting a recurve in his shop and has recently released an online class called SOLID Archery Mechanics. A one-time fee will give you unlimited access to all the info you would get if you were getting Clum's coaching in person. It's a substantial initial investment at $200, but having gone through the course myself, I can confidently say that it's worth the money. I wish I'd had this information years ago when I was learning to shoot. It would have saved me years of frustration.

I am fully convinced that a person who goes through this course with a stretch band for a month before even picking up a bow will learn much faster than someone trying to learn by himself. Along with enrolling in Clum’s course, here’s what you need to get started.

1. Stretch Bands

This is probably one of the most underrated tools for the trad archer. Even Olympic-level shooters use stretch bands, and you should too. They can be made in any number of ways, but a basic therapy band that gives you some flexible resistance is all you need. It allows you to simulate draw weight and develop your shot without holding up the weight of a bow, and as a bonus, you can take it anywhere. It’s not for building strength, but for working on all the intricacies of your shot.

When I learned the NTS method of shooting, all of the initial work was done on a stretch band. You will have to teach your brain completely new motor programs, using muscles in ways you haven’t before. This takes a lot of time and slow, isolated movements, which are perfect for the stretch band. You can work on those individual movements, then begin to blend them together into a smooth shot process. One guy I know who has been going through the course struggled and struggled to develop his shot with his bow. I suggested he get a stretch band and work on each individual part of his shot before finally meshing them together. A month later, his form looked way better, all from the stretch band.

The <a href="https://amzn.to/2DayhHk">Fleetwood Edge</a> traditional bow is a great option for new shooters. (Fleetwood Edge/)

2. Buy Your First Bow

It’s hard to overstate how important it is to pick the right first bow. Most new shooters want a nice bow that they can learn on, but also hunt with, which leads to the most common mistake: being over-bowed. That is, having a bow with a draw weight that is too heavy. It is extremely easy to over-bow yourself. In fact, for most men, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to start with a draw weight of 30 pounds. This sounds super light to a compound bow shooter, but trad shooters need to learn to use different muscles in different ways than they’re used to. The key is learning to draw the bow properly, and it’s easier to do this with a bow that has a low draw weight. Also, you will gain confidence more quickly with a lighter bow. Nothing will kill your desire to shoot trad quicker than struggling to pull your bow back and failing to hit the target.

Cost is another major consideration. Many high-end custom and semi-custom recurves and longbows will run upwards of $1,000. These bows are nice, and many of them shoot wonderfully, but don’t even consider one of these for your first bow. There are many affordable bows that are much better to start with, and there are a couple of reasons for that. First, you don’t want to tie a bunch of money up into something that you may decide isn’t for you. Also, as you become more comfortable and better at shooting, your preferences may change. You really need to have an established shot in order to tell which bow feels right for you. Even if you want to end up with a high-end bow, start cheap, then you’ll be better suited to find the bow that fits you best.

Finally, I recommend a takedown bow to start with. These typically utilize interchangeable limbs. This will allow you to start with very light limbs, and as your skill level and strength grow, you can just get a new set of limbs for the same bow. For any new shooter, I'd recommend bows like the Fleetwood Edge or Samick Sage. These are very affordable recurves with limbs in a variety of weights. They can sometimes have Q.C. issues, but overall, they are fantastic options for new shooters. Start with light limbs, and you can usually find heavier ones for $50-75.

Read Next: Shooting Lessons Learned from a Master of Traditional Archery

3. Buy Your First Arrows

Like your first bow, you want your first set of arrows to be cheap. In the beginning, you’re basically just looking for something straight to send out of your bow. Wood, carbon, or aluminum doesn't matter, just get what you can afford. If you have the option, select a spine-class that the charts say should be close for your draw weight, but don’t sweat the details. Trying to tune arrows at this point is futile because as you advance, your shot will change dramatically, and your consistency will improve as well. If you shell out big-time for arrows right off the bat, it’s likely that those arrows won’t even be what you need once you become more consistent. Arrow spine, point weight, and tuning will all come into play, but this stuff only matters after you already have a consistent shot. So, wait before you buy the good stuff.

Tom Clum demonstrating "the hook." (Tom Clum/)

The Hook

It might look unbelievably simple, but a properly executed shot is much more complex than it seems. Each component of the shot lays a foundation for the next step. It might be difficult to see how one or two details will affect the outcome, but it all matters. It all starts with how you address or “hook” the string. If you’ve always done what feels natural, chances are, you’ve been doing it wrong. I sure was. The basic components of the hook are: 1) where the string sits on your fingers; 2) weight distribution. You want the string just in front of the first notch of your index finger, just behind it on your middle finger, and on the pad of your ring finger. Most of the weight will be on your middle finger, followed closely by your index finger. Finally, your ring finger should be holding just enough weight to keep the string from pinching your middle finger. Too much weight, and you will have added torque on your string and it will slightly change the tiller of the bow. This hook will also be the same for both split-finger and 3-under shooting.

Another critical component to the hook is maintaining what’s called a high wrist. If you think about how you carry a bucket of water, your wrist is slightly bent with your hand curling inward toward you. This is a position of strength. The “natural” way to pull a bow straight back bends your wrist in the opposite direction, into a weaker position (low wrist). Setting up a proper hook can be very uncomfortable at first, but don’t skip it. A proper hook will create the strongest holding position, and allow the string to blow through your fingers efficiently; eliminating sloppy releases. It will get easier, and it is a critical step in learning the rest of the shot.

The Cognitive Shot

Once you’ve got the basics down, the rest is all mental. There are quite a few folks out there who will tell you that the best way to shoot a traditional bow is to shut off your brain and go by feel. This might feel good and comfortable, but it is not a consistent way to shoot a bow.

The mental side of shooting a bow is every bit as important as the physical. Accuracy and consistency come from doing the same thing, the same way, every time, and we can’t do that by going on auto-pilot. You must develop a rigid “checklist” that you run through on every single shot. When you’re learning, the process can seem complex and slow, but as you develop your shot, the checklist becomes more natural.

Cognitively running through your shot also allows you to analyze the process better and determine where you are having problems. When you are shooting cognitively, it’s easier to walk back through a shot that went awry and figure out the issues. Keeping your head in the game will help as you go through the SOLID Archery Mechanics program and learn to shoot, but developing your own cognitive checklist to hit each and every shot will also help you right where you’re at now.

[elisaenglish]

Life on a Möbius Strip: The Greatest Moth Story Ever Told, About the Unlikely Paths That Lead Us Back to Ourselves

“…a living testament to the incredibly improbable trip that we’re on.”

Our lives are shaped by an inescapable confluence of choice and chance. “The things we want are transformative, and we don’t know or only think we know what is on the other side of that transformation,” Rebecca Solnit wrote in her beautiful inquiry into how we find ourselves by getting lost. But the truth is that most of the time we don’t know or only think we know what is on this side of any transformative experience — we live much of our lives opaque to ourselves, lost within our own psyches, confused and conflicted about what we really want. Milan Kundera considers this the central ambivalence of love and life.

We tend to make sense of it all by deft mental acrobatics, deducing what we want from what we get, only to realize — and it is never quite clear whether this is a deep truth or a deep delusion — that the strange and unpredictable outcomes of life were what we desired in the first place.

That’s what cosmologist and novelist Janna Levin explores in what remains, in my book, the greatest story ever told on The Moth. It was later published under the title “Life on a Möbius Strip” as the opening piece in the beloved storytelling show’s inaugural anthology, The Moth: 50 True Stories (public library).

In this storytelling masterpiece, a testament to poet Mark Strand’s notion that life is “such a lucky accident … that we’re almost obliged to pay attention,” Levin uses her scientific research into whether the universe is infinite or finite as a springboard for leaping into the infinitely complex, infinitely messy mysteries of the human heart — those largely arbitrary events we spend our lives arranging into a mosaic of meaning.

“Einstein famously said, “Only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity.” Then he added, “And I’m not so sure about the universe.” And it’s true, there’s a realistic possibility that the entire universe is finite; it’s mathematically and physically possible.

There was a period of time in my research when I was obsessed with this idea. I was fixated on the implication that you could leave the Earth and travel in a straight line to a planet in a distant galaxy on the edge of the observable universe and realise the galaxy was the Milky Way that you had left behind you, and the planet you had landed on was the Earth. There were also weirder possibilities that the Earth was reconnected like a Möbius strip — if you took a left-handed glove on that same trip, it would come back right-handed.

The hazard for a scientist working on something so esoteric is the possibility that it just might not be true or it might not be answerable. I felt myself kind of navigating this precipice between discovery on the one side and obscurity on the other side. At the time I was working at Berkeley, living in San Francisco. I would spend a lot of time in the coffee shop across the street from my apartment. I was trying to find some kind of tangible connection to a more earthbound reality. And it was there that I met this guy named Warren.

Warren came charging past me the first day I saw him and pinned me with his blue eyes and said, “You’re the astrophysicist.” Which I knew. And then he had so much momentum after having built up the nerve to say this to me that he kept walking; he didn’t wait for my response. He went right out of the coffee shop and down the street.

And so it begins.

Warren is just everything I would never want in a man. He can’t drive, he’s never had his name on a lease, he’s by his own confession completely uneducated, he’s a self-professed obsessive-compulsive. He comes from a really tough part of working-class Manchester. He writes songs like

Daddy was a drunk, daddy was a singer, daddy was a drunken singer. Murdered in a flophouse, broke and drunk…

You get the idea. It’s not good. So naturally I’m completely smitten. And he is mesmerising. He has all this intensity, all this energy. He’s full of opinions. He was going to start his own music station called Shut the Folk Up.

I said, the gag is going to be that nobody’s going to understand his accent. Nobody will understand a word he says! He’ll just rant. It was a Manchester accent, but it did seem even more tangled than one would expect. It was quite a brogue. He would talk so fast that the words would just slam together — it was really undecipherable. But when he sang, this big, beautiful, warm tone just lifted out of him; it was like this old-timey crooner, this rare crisp and clear sound. So I used to tell him, “If there’s anything that’s really urgent that you need me to understand, just, like, sing it to me, OK?”

So, Warren and I started seeing each other, and he never asked me about my work, which was quite a relief from my own sort of mental world. And it’s like we were both in exile. Warren was in exile from his actual country, and I was in a kind of mental exile. And he would obsess all day about music and melody, and I would obsess all day about mathematics and numbers. And it was like we were pulling so hard in such opposite directions that the tension kept both of us from floating away.

After a few weeks of seeing each other, Warren decides we should live together, and he’s going to convince me that I should let him move in. So he gives me this argument — some fairly inventive logic, which I’m a little suspicious of, and laden with all kinds of Manchester slang I don’t really follow. But Warren can convince me of anything, just anything, so I relent, and he says, “I’ll be right back!” He’s so excited; he comes back in less than an hour, and he’s moved in. He’s carrying his guitar and whatever he can carry on his back, because he has this philosophy, “If you can’t carry it, you can’t own it.” Right? So he moves in with me.

And my parents are thrilled. Their recently Ph.D.-confirmed daughter — I have a Ph.D. in theoretical physics from MIT — is living with an illegal immigrant who can’t spell words like “nonviable,” “unfeasible.” Even our friends are full of doubt. Our good friend, the musician Sean Hayes, is writing lyrics like

We’ll just play this one out until it explodes Into a thousand tiny pieces What’s your story universe You are melody, you are numbers You are shapes, and you are rhythms

Warren and I hear this, and we’re pretty sure it’s about us. And I’m filled with doubt too. I mean, this is a crazy situation; it’s totally improbable. And my fellowship’s coming to an end, and the only other offers I have are in England. And Warren hates England. He slumps when he describes the low-hanging skies and the black mark of his accent there, and the inescapability of his class, but he says, “Baby, you know, I’ll follow you anywhere. Even to England,” as though I’m bringing him to the acid marshes of hell.

But he makes himself feel better by convincing me we have to sell all our stuff, because you can’t own what you can’t carry. So we’re sitting on the steps of our apartment, and I watch stuff that I’ve been carting around my entire life just disappear.

People come in and out of the coffee shop and stop to talk to us and say, “So you’re the astrologer?”

And I say, “Well, no, I’m more of an astronomer.” And they ask me about how is it possible that the universe is finite. And I explain how Warren and I could go on this trip from San Francisco to London, and if we kept going in as straight a line as possible we’d eventually come back to San Francisco again, where we started. Because the Earth is compact and connected and finite, and maybe the whole universe is like that. And Warren and I make this leap, his left hand in my right hand, and we board a plane to the UK.

And it does suck. We have this very difficult wandering path, but finally I land a fantastic fellowship at Cambridge. It’s beautiful. But not before we spend a few weeks in a coin-operated bed-sit in Brighton. If you ran out of pound coins, your electricity went off and the lights went out. We often ran out of pound coins, and towards the end we were so despondent we would just sit in the dark. I could hear though not see Warren say things like “At least I don’t have to look at the wood-chipped wallpaper,” which for some reason really depressed him, this very English quality of the wood-chipped wallpaper.

But eventually we get to Cambridge, and my work takes a beautiful turn. I start working on black holes, these massive dead stars tens of kilometres across spinning hundreds of times a second ripping through space at the speed of light. This is very concrete compared to my previous research. So I’m excited about the direction my work’s turning in. I’m in Hawking’s group in Cambridge, which is very exciting, but he doesn’t pay me any attention at all. But I’m invited by Nobel laureates to Trinity College for dinner, and I get to watch this ceremony of dinner at this old, beautiful college from the privileged perch of high table.

Meanwhile Warren’s down the road in another college washing the dishes because it was the only job he could get. And as things go on, we both start to retreat into our mental worlds, me in my math and Warren in his melody, but it’s like we’re not really keeping each other from floating away so much anymore.

Eventually it starts to rain, and it rains forever. Woody Allen said, “Forever’s a very long time, especially the bit towards the end.” And a rainy winter in Cambridge is a very long time. Warren picks up a mandolin; he starts playing these Americana bluegrass tunes over and over again, you know, na na na na na na na. And it’s this manic soundtrack to our mounting insanity, and eventually we explode. It takes about six months of that relentless rain, but we explode, and it’s over. And all we see is how improbable we are; we see that we’re nonviable and unfeasible. Which are words, by the way, that Warren can spell by then.

We both leave. We pack up everything we have, each of us just what we can carry. We end up in a bus terminal in London, clutching each other. I’m waiting for Warren to convince me, because he can always convince me, that we can do the impossible. But it’s like the light’s gone out in his eyes, and I disappear into London and he just… disappears. And the silence is total.

A graduate student of mine recently said to me, “The emotional dimension is the least interesting part of the human experience.” And I know scientists are odd, but I agree. I was like, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” So it’s difficult for me to recount how dark those nights were. Even in my worst moments I knew that my despair was just sort of not interesting. I needed to get back to mathematics and the universe and this connection because in its sheer magnitude it would diminish the importance of my personal trials.

I searched all over London until I found a perfect warehouse to move into, because I wanted to connect with a more earthbound reality while I was doing my research. I found the perfect place. It had broken windows and shutters. It was dead empty — no bathroom, nothing. I had the windows replaced, and I had a bathroom installed, and my unit became a part of this artists’ community building on the east end of London, along the canals.

So I had a great community around me, and I started a new life there, and I started to write. I got a book deal. It was a book about whether or not the universe was finite, and it was a diary about the terror of a scientist working on that really frightening divide between discovery and total oblivion. And it became a parallel story about Warren, about the unraveling of an obsessive-compulsive mind. I think if I’m honest it was also a way of still hanging on to him. This book kind of came out of me fully formed; it took one year.

When the book was finished, I delivered it to my publisher, and in part fueled by the London gloom and in part fueled by nostalgia, I decided I wanted to go back to San Francisco just to recuperate. To go back to where the book actually starts, when we sell all of our stuff on the steps in San Francisco.

I go back to California, and I take these beautiful walks in the city. San Francisco is so beautiful. And I find myself, despite myself — because I tell myself not to do it — walking past my old neighborhood. I end up going past my old coffee shop, and I’m going like three miles an hour, you know, there are like five thousand feet in a mile, and there’s like three thousand, six hundred seconds in an hour, so I’m going about four and a half feet, I figure, per second. It takes me about two seconds to go past this coffee shop window.

In that time, because I’m looking at my building, my old apartment, full of sentiment, what I don’t realize is that on the other side of that window, inside the coffee shop, is Warren, who, after I left him in the London bus terminal, went back to California, came back to London, went to France, came back to London, and just recently returned to San Francisco, and got a job in the coffee shop, where he regaled the patrons with stories about his travels. He was so uprooted. But the light was back on in his eyes. And as he’s turning around to deliver a coffee, he lifts his head to see me, in those two seconds, walk past the frame of the window. And he shouts, “It’s self-service!”

He stumbles out of the coffee shop. People are grabbing muffins and coffees, they’re like, “Warren! What’s up?!” And he’s trying to get out of the coffee shop, trying to grab on to the handle of the door. He keeps banging his head. It’s like a bird trying to get out the window. And all of the sudden, the door swings open and deposits Warren in front of me.

You often think, What am I going to say when I bump into my ex? But, it’s just this electric moment between us. There’s this swell of warmth, and we laugh that we’re back where we started on this very spot in San Francisco.

I try to give him the essential data. I’m living in London Fields, and he tells me I’ve moved onto the block he lived on when he was nineteen and squatting in London. Out of the whole city of London. And he recognises the names of all the locals I can rattle off. And by the end of the conversation he’s saying, “I’m coming with you back to London aren’t I?”

And I’m thinking, Are you out of your mind? I mean, what woman in her right mind is going to let this lunatic come back to London with her? There is no way.

About a year later, we’re married. Our rings, which were made by a friend of ours, are stamped with the lyrics “Melody and Number, Shapes and Rhythms” with no small dose of irony and defiance. About a year after that, we’re having a baby, and we’re laughing at how improbable this kid is.

We have no idea. When this kid is born, he is so beautiful, and afterwards a young medical resident comes charging into my hospital room, and he’s so excited he’s beaming. And I’m thinking, He sees how beautiful this boy is. But he’s carrying an X-ray, which he slaps on the window of my hospital room so the light can come through, and I can see it better. But I still don’t know what I’m looking at.

He says, “Your son’s heart is on the right side.” And he doesn’t mean the correct side, he doesn’t mean the left side. He means my son’s heart is on the right side.

And all I can think in this terrifying moment is Get Warren.

And the resident says, “Your son has dextrocardia with situs inversus; all his organs are on the opposite side.”

And I say, “Get Warren.”

And the resident tells me he’s so excited, because he never thought he’d ever see anything like this. To his knowledge, nobody else in the hospital’s seen it in real life. And he’s describing studies for me that are made up of only twelve cases because the numbers are so rare.

And then Warren’s there, and he’s saying in that rough, raw, beautiful accent what only he can convince me of, the totally impossible. He’s saying, “He’s perfect.”

And our now eight-year-old son is a perfectly formed mirror image of the more conventional human anatomy, a very rare and unlikely alignment. It’s as though Warren and I took our left-handed code on a Möbius strip around the universe and brought back this right-handed boy. And that boy, as intense and spirited as his father, is like a living testament to the incredibly improbable trip that we’re on.”

Complement this exceptional installment in the altogether excellent The Moth, which features true stories by Adam Gopnik, Andrew Solomon, Sebastian Junger, Malcolm Gladwell, and Aimee Mullins, with Levin on madness and genius, free will, and the century-long quest to hear the sound of space-time.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (16th August 2016)