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searchingwardrobes · 4 years ago

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Ivory Runs Red: 5/6

First off, massive thanks to the @cssns, my beta @demisexualemmaswan, and my artist @cocohook38. Cocohook created this amazing cover art, and she is working on something else too to go with this story. The rough sketch made my jaw drop, so I can’t wait for ya’ll to see it!

This part is going to be a little long, but I need to address something that I got multiple comments about. Just bear with me; this is the only way I can think to clear things up. I was really surprised to see that some people were angry at David and Mary Margaret for not doing anything to find Emma and/or "allowing" her relationship with Neal. Others simply expressed things along the lines of "I hope you explain what David and Mary Margaret did about all this." The reason this reaction surprised me so much is because I thought it was clear that they HAD done something. Why would the Golds need to get rid of police files if the Swans never reported Emma missing? Why would issues of the newspaper be missing from the library if Emma's disappearance wasn't reported on? Obviously, David and Mary Margaret did something! As for Neal, they had no idea Emma was seeing him. If you'll recall, in a previous chapter, Emma told Killian she had to sneak out at night to meet Neal. So that wasn't Snowing's fault either. Also, how would any of these characters know what David and Mary Margaret did or didn't do for their daughter? This is almost a hundred years later, and Emma's memories are dulled from being a ghost for so long. The only way I could spell out clearly how Snowing handled their daughter's disappearance would be some sort of convoluted info-dump, and I didn't want to destroy the tone and mood of the story to do that. But just so everyone knows: Yes, Emma's parents were devastated. They did everything in their power to find her, never giving up hope (which is so in character for them!). They died still believing she was either still out there or that crimes against her had gone unpunished. It broke their hearts. The Golds spread rumors that Emma was some kind of slut who ran away with a guy, and the people of Storybrooke overall thought the Swans had gone crazy. So there it is, that's the back story that I just couldn't figure out how to fit in the story, lol.

I'm not mad at the questions, to be clear. I was just surprised by them. I guess I blame the show for ruining these two as parents the last couple of seasons. Maybe that's why everyone jumped on them so fast. I was also honestly worried that ya'll would be upset with me for not addressing the topic, hence this long explanation! No one was rude by any means, so don't go trying to defend me from nonexistent trolls, lol! My feelings have NOT been hurt. I simply wanted to address the questions that were asked and the misplaced anger toward Snowing. (Not anger towards me - but fictional characters!)

Okay, now that I've cleared all THAT up, let's get on with the next chapter, shall we? And I'll go ahead and warn you: this is gonna hurt . . .

Summary: When ebony flashes gold, blood runs cold. When ivory runs red, you’ll be dead. Killian Jones had heard the old rhyme his entire life. Every child did in Storybrooke, Maine. They heard it whispered in the dark at sleepovers as children; taunted as a challenge as teenagers. Killian never believed it was actually true. Until that fateful night …

Rated M for graphic depictions of violence, abusive relationships, and major character death (I mean, it’s a ghost story ya’ll, people are dead. BUT I promise, there is a happy ending. Trust me? *peeks from around a corner*)

Length: 6 chapters, complete, updated every Friday

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Also on Ao3

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kmomof4 @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @bethacaciakay @tiganasummertree @shireness-says @stahlop @scientificapricot @spartanguard @welllpthisishappening @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @kday426 @ekr032-blog-blog @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @nikkiemms @optomisticgirl @profdanglaisstuff @ohmakemeahercules @carpedzem @branlovestowrite @superchocovian @hollyethecurious @vvbooklady1256 @winterbaby89 @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @snidgetsafan @itsfabianadocarmo @lassluna @distant-rose @courtorderedcake @winterbythesea @thesschesthair @killian-whump @thisonesatellite @batana54 @it-meant-something @xsajx @therooksshiningknight @gingerchangeling

Chapter Five: Run

“You’ve got to tell them what you saw - what you’ve learned,” Killian pleaded.

Graham shook his head, his curly hair falling in his eyes as he stared at the slender hands he clasped in his. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw sported far more facial hair than it normally did, and Killian didn’t have to ask if he’d slept in the past forty-eight hours.

“They won’t believe me.”

Killian’s jaw clenched in frustration. “But if I saw Emma, and you saw her, then maybe they’ll believe -”

“That Belle saw a ghost push Mike Gaston off the troll bridge? They’ll believe that? Really?” Graham let out a sarcastic, bitter laugh. “You really are just a naive kid if that’s what you're thinking.”

“But you’re a cop!”

“I’m still only nineteen! They’ll think we’re just over-imaginative teenagers.” Graham paused, reaching up with one hand to trace the curve of Belle’s cheek as she slept in her drug-induced prison. “That will land us in rooms just down the hall with our own IV full of an antipsychotic cocktail. How will I help her then?”

“You’ve fallen in love with her.” It wasn’t a question.

Graham sighed. “How could I not? And how could he -” He broke off, his blue eyes flashing. “I’m not sorry he’s dead. If I’d been there and saw him hurt her -”

“Shh, I wouldn’t say things like that. Not here.”

Killian’s gaze fell to the bruises around Belle’s neck, and he didn’t blame Graham at all. It terrified him to think what could have happened if Emma hadn’t shown up.

“History repeats itself,” he murmured under his breath.

*************************************************

Killian had scarcely arrived at the bridge when headlights blinded him. He turned away, blinking, stumbling, refusing to be stopped.

“Emma! Emma!” he shouted. He tripped and dropped his flashlight. It broke as it hit the ground, rolling to the edge of the bridge. Now all he could see was ebony before him and radiant luminescence behind him.

His palms scraped against the asphalt as Liam hauled him to his feet. His brother gripped his upper arms so tightly it was almost painful, and he gave him a brief shake.

“You’ve got to stop this!”

Killian fought him. “I have to see her!”

Liam had always been broader than Killian with an unfair advantage in all their childhood tussles. Even now, Killian was no match for him as he lifted him bodily with one arm and hauled him over to his car.

“You need help!” Liam literally tossed him into the backseat.

“I’m not going home!” Killian tried to scramble out, but Liam just shoved him back inside.

“Good, because I’m not taking you home.”

*******************************************************

“Why won’t you be straight with us, kid?”

Killian glared at the detective with a cynical sneer. The psychiatrist on the cop’s left frowned at Killian’s attitude. The choice of words was cruel considering he was in a literal straightjacket. His vision of the two men was obscured by the long strands of dark hair before his eyes. Haircuts were apparently seen as a luxury on the psych ward.

“I’ve answered all your questions,” Killian finally told them wearily, “you just don’t like what I had to say.”

“Because we want the truth,” the psychiatrist, Dr. Archie Hopper, said gently. He was clearly playing the part of “good cop.” Or “good doctor.” Whatever.

“I told you the truth.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Killian snorted a laugh. “Tell that to Mike Gaston.”

The detective’s voice took on a harsh, warning tone. “Mike Gaston was the victim of murder.”

“The victim!” Killian cried, his voice snapping up. “What about the bruises he put on Belle? Or the fact that I nearly died when he tied me to that bridge!”

The detective’s lips curled up in a lewd sneer as he lit a cigarette. “If some horny teenager likes it a bit rough, that’s none of my business.”

Killian fought his bonds, his jaw clenching at the detective’s insinuation. He was as bad as Neal Gold, maybe worse. He had to be pushing fifty at least, and a pot belly strained at his button up shirt. His eyes widened as Killian raged.

“Bothers you though, I see.” He leaned forward. “Nobody blames you for wanting her, kid. Nobody blames you for being jealous. But murder? That’s a different story.”

“I told you I had nothing to do with that!”

The detective glanced at Dr. Hopper, and the soft spoken psychiatrist took over. “Killian, start at the beginning for us. What did Belle say when she called you that night?”

“I’m telling you, she didn’t call me, she didn’t come to my house. I saw her early that afternoon at the library. That was it. Then my brother got a phone call that there had been an accident, and we came to the hospital.”

“You and Belle were at the library together a lot,” Hopper said softly, “what did you two do there?”

Killian rolled his eyes. He hated the patronizing way the man asked the question. “We studied. Did our homework. We were friends.”

The detective snorted again, and Killian wanted to scream. “Drop the act, kid. You really expect us to believe that you spent all that time with her, all that time with a hot chick, and you never fucked her?”

Dr. Hopper recoiled at the foul language, and Killian thought his own jaw might actually break.

“You’re just as much a misogynistic, narrow-minded, neanderthal as Mike Gaston.”

The detective grinned and slapped Dr. Hopper on the knee. “You were right, shrink, this kid’s smart.” He took another puff of his cigarette as he eyed Killian. “Smart enough to plan an elaborate murder with your knocked-up girlfriend?”

“That’s the most ridiculous - wait - did you say knocked up?”

“Hm,” the detective mused, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his five o’clock shadow. “You didn’t know?”

Killian was horrified when a laugh slipped past his lips. Another bitter laugh followed, then another, until before he knew it, he was shaking with them. He was laughing hysterically while wearing a straightjacket. That thought made him laugh even more, and if he didn’t seem like a lunatic before, he sure as hell did now.

“What the hell is so funny?” thundered the detective.

Killian’s laughter stopped abruptly and he leveled the man with an intense stare. “History repeating itself. That’s what’s so funny.”

A smile that he knew bordered on manic curled his lips. Yes, history had repeated itself, and this time, Emma Swan had won.

************************************************************

They didn’t have enough to charge him, or Belle, or anyone else really with Gaston’s murder. It was officially declared an accident, and theoretically, Belle French and Killian Jones were free to move on.

Killian wouldn’t say it was easy for Belle. She had severe trauma from that terrifying night, and she ended up losing the baby because of it. Nevertheless, she had Dr. Hopper’s patient help, her father’s support, and Graham’s unwavering devotion. Soon, though it would be a long time before she was truly healed, she was able to go home.

Killian, on the other hand, didn’t really want to go home. For one, he, unlike Belle and Graham, refused to stop talking about Emma - refused to lie and say he made it up. He didn’t fault his friends for it; didn’t take it as a betrayal. He even understood their reasoning when they begged him to do the same and just play along, damn it. He simply couldn’t do it. Emma was too real, too precious. He knew her in a way they never would. He knew the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips. He wouldn’t - couldn’t - let that go.

The psych ward wasn’t so bad. The drugs numbed him to the point that he sailed on a sea of oblivion half the time. He’d stopped fighting, so there was no more straight jacket, no more bed straps.

And she came to him. Sometimes the drugs meant he wasn’t lucid enough to really carry on a conversation. On those nights, she curled up next to him on the bed. She ran her fingers through his hair and caressed his cheeks. She pressed kisses to his lips, and sometimes he could respond in kind.

Other times, though admittedly rare, they would talk. About everything and nothing at all. One night, they talked about their dreams for later, after high school, and suddenly Emma began to weep.

“I know,” he soothed, brushing her forehead with a kiss, “you fear you can never have that. But maybe we can figure it out. If we somehow get the truth out. About your murder -”

Emma silenced him with a finger to his lips. “That isn’t it, Killian. It’s you. I have no more tomorrows but you can.”

His brow furrowed, and she sighed and soothed the lines away with the pad of her thumb.

“But not if you keep holding onto me.”

His arms instinctively pulled her closer. “I’ll never let you go.”

She sighed, and sadness filled her eyes. She slipped out of his embrace and rose from the bed. Her skin grew white, her gown floated in an ethereal way at her feet. He frowned and scrambled to a sitting position.

“I have to say goodbye,” she told him. She said it with an edge of discovery in her voice. Her lips turned up in a soft smile even as a tear slipped down her cheek.

He shook his head and tried to reach for her, to leave the bed, but he had just enough drugs in his system to make his movements sluggish and ineffectual.

“I won’t let you see me again.”

“No, Emma, please! I love you!”

“And I love you. That’s why I have to do this.”

She was already fading away. Killian made a fist and slammed it into his thigh. Tears stung his eyes.

“Be happy,” she told him, “for me.”

Then she was gone.

#cs ff #captain swan ff #cssns21 #captain swan supernatural summer #ghost story #horror #strange lieutenant duckling #lol trust me #happy ending of sorts

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armandsdivorcelawyer · 4 years ago

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caught in the rain

ok, ok. i haven’t really looked at this in like a week but im deciding that it’s done.

here is the shiina/nick meet cute, in it’s full glory

---

Snow coats Diamond City and her hands are tacky with Jules’ blood.

Shoving them into the pockets of the giant, ratty car coat she’d nicked off a trader in Bunker Hill, she tries to drift with the tide of residents. Unremarkable and easily ignored.

Tries being the operative word. She isn’t stupid, despite her Institute rags, and the blood and dirt that stains them, lying concealed under her coat; there’s no hiding her nature.

The white of her hair, slicked back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. The gentle teal glow of her eyes, made stark in the gloomy, overcast weather. How her metallic skin shines under the city’s lights. The lines where the separate facial plates meet under her eyes and chin.

They all notice. In her periphery, multiple people tap their friends’ shoulder before pointing her out. Mothers snatch their children up before they get too close.

Many more simply watch her. Their judgement-laden glares all asking the same, unanimous question:

“What is that thing doing here?”

The weight of a thousand eyes pushes her to hustle. Head down, she rushes through Diamond City’s dirty, ramshackle back alleys. She doesn’t stop until she’s under the soft, pink glow of a neon sign.

Balling her fist in her sleeve, she knocks once. Twice. Three times.

When an old, beat up looking Gen 2 opens the door, his shock is quite obvious. She can see it in how he startles, the wideness of his eyes, his mouth hanging open.

It doesn’t matter. She curves her lips into a small smile, “Are-Are you the detective?”

She hopes she doesn’t look scared. Or, nervous. Or, guilty.

Even as the Gen 2 attempts to sober himself, his movements are laced with uncertainty, “Yes, I am.”

A beat.

An internal alert reminds her that prolonged exposure to the cold and snow may cause her joints to freeze.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh.” He says, rattling with nervous laughter. “Of course. Come on in.”

She stands awkwardly behind the closed doorway, wondering what it is that she should do. In all of her ‘exhibitions’ to the outside world, she’d never actually been let inside anyone’s home before.

Quickly scanning the small hovel, she can’t help but to be somewhat disappointed. The office is dingy, just like the rest of the wasteland. She had hoped that her fellow synth would’ve managed to keep his space cleaner.

That perhaps, she would walk inside and find herself a little piece of home in the wastes.

The gen 2 plucks a cigarette out of a small box and lights it. Taking a long drag, he sits at a desk close to the doorway.

“You can take off your coat. Rack’s to your left.”

Hesitating, she almost doesn’t do it. A quick glance shows that he’s watching her. She shucks the coat off, uncovering her dirty, stained Institute skivvies.

The gen 2’s eyes scan her uniform, flicking between both her bloodstained hands. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Park yourself right here, sister.”

She sits, and he offers the opened small box to her. It’s about half full with unsmoked cigarettes. She takes one, and he lights it for her. She sucks the foul tasting smoke into her mouth before blowing it out.

Another alert, warning that the chemical composition of the smoke may clog her pulmonary vents.

“I suppose some introductions are in order. The name’s Nick Valentine. I’m a private detective, but I think you knew that. ...And you are?”

“Hadaly.” She’s never liked it. It’s never felt like her name. Now, it just leaves her with a bad taste, foul and sulfuric. Like ashes in her mouth.

“Hadaly.” Nick repeats. “Well, Hadaly, what’s got you doin’ figure-eights in my office?”

Again, his eyes flick towards her hands, balled into fists and leaving rust colored stains on her lap.

“She’s dead.”

He leans forward on his desk, looking her in the eyes. “Who’s dead?”

“Jules.” She chokes out. She wants to close her eyes, to not look at him. The fear of what she’ll see if she does kills that desire dead.

Nick doesn’t speak, just patiently waits for her to continue. She does.

“I didn’t kill her.” It feels like a lie, it sounds like a lie.

“I was supposed to watch her. There was--” She pulls from the cigarette, sits with the smoke in her artificial lungs for a moment. Forgetting to blow out, smoke billows around her when she decides to speak again, “--an accident. The building collapsed.

“There was nothing I could do! I couldn’t get her out--” The dam breaks, then. The lubricant that passes as tears flows like twin rivers. “I couldn’t get her out! I tried and I tried but all I could do was sit there until she died! Oh God, I let her die--”

Sobs wrack her body. Her hands move to cover her face, dropping the cigarette. Another alert chimes as it burns through her pants to her thigh. It goes ignored.

Nick reaches over, grabbing the cigarette before putting it out on a nearby ashtray. Handing her a tissue, he waits until her sobs subside into small hiccups and sniffles.

“What do you want to do?”

She stares at him, confused. “W-what...?”

He leans back in his chair, “There doesn’t seem like much I can do here for you. I’m a detective, not a doctor. I guess what I’m askin’ you is: Why are you here?”

“I can’t go back.”

“To the Institute.”

She nods again, dumbly. “I heard there was a synth here. I thought that--I didn’t think. I just came here.”

Nick’s mouth is set in a grim line, “Do you have a place to stay? Know anywhere to go?”

She shakes her head. He sighs.

“Well, look here. Business has been picking up. Lotta people go missing or get killed out there. You understand. I’ve been needing some help around here. ...Do you get what I’m saying?”

All she can offer is a blank stare. He sighs, again. “You can stay here, as long as you help out. That sound alright to you?”

“You...believe me?”

“From what you say; it doesn’t seem like you’re the one who did her in. Or, anyone. It was an accident, right?”

She nods. It still feels like a lie.

“I’m offering you a place to stay and a job. To get you on your feet. It’s hard living out here as a synth--” He stops suddenly, mouth open. “How did you get them to let you in, anyway?”

He motions at her with his right hand. The skin’s been stripped off several fingers, the metal endoskeleton glinting in the light. “I mean, you pass for human just about as well as I do.”

Looking down, she wrings her hands, “I told them I knew you.”

Chuckling, he takes another pull of his cigarette, “Smart move. So, what do you say? Partners?”

She looks back up at Nick, still laughing to himself. Studying him for a moment, weighing her options.

Option.

There are no forking roads here. Only a dark, dank tunnel.

And, at the end, a rosy glimmer, like an old neon sign.

When Nick looks back at her, nearly finished cigarette dangling between his skeletal fingers; she is resolute.

“Partners.”

#mine #text #c: shiina #fo4 /#fonv /#my dad the dick #milk writes sometimes /#i'll post this on AO3 when i get home from work #please like if you read

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years ago

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Flavors of Poison (part one)

[Sweet Shop AU]

TW: Alcohol, Pot, Discussion of sexual assault

———————

Cockatrice Kiss

The barn smells of sweet alfalfa and wet hay, a pleasant, earthy aroma to contrast the sugary one of Sweet Thrills. Bessie paws around on the wall before finding the light switch and flips it on, watching the weaving of rainbow fairy lights along the ceiling flicker to life and cast their soft colorful glow across the wooden building.

Even though it’s been two years since the barn was made, she still can’t help but be proud of it when she goes in each time.

It took several paychecks to make the structure, with Aragon paying some of the expenses to cover a few tools or planks of wood Bessie just couldn’t afford. After four months of endless work in the London rain and cold and several WikiHow searches on how to build a stable (with pictures), it was finally finished: the perfect, twenty foot by fifteen foot barn.

When you first enter, you get a view of the wide space behind a short fence and gate: a haven of soft hay that sprinkles the dirt like golden snow. A wide wooden box is situated in the far left corner with two heat lamps sitting atop a grate covering the carved holes in the top. Beside it is the large, oval-shaped watering tin, which contents are murky and need to be cleaned out soon, and the long feed trough, where the remnants of a grainy breakfast remain. A ball sits quietly in the center, waiting to be played with again. Its usual user is dozing in the right corner, but it’s sort of hard to tell if she’s asleep or not because of her long bangs.

“Hyde?” Bessie called softly.

She noticed the creature’s big, fuzzy ears flick upwards and the highland heifer rises to her feet.

Her coat is a beautiful orange-red color, apart from her bangs, which fade to a silver dun shade. The locks are stringy, like ribbons of steel that blanket over her dark eyes. Horns, still not fully grown, curve upwards, menacing despite their short length.

The young heifer, Hyde, bounds up to the gate, lowing loudly, which makes Bessie giggle. She stamps her hooves into the dirt, throwing up dust into the air, watching as Bessie goes to the tack area and gets her feed. She nearly knocks the girl down when she’s walking into the pen.

“Hey!” Bessie yelped when Hyde’s snout pokes into her belly, “I know you’re hungry, just hang on a moment!”

Hyde moos again, lashing her tail as she watches and reluctantly allows Bessie to do her job. Once the oats are poured into the trough, she dives in, munching happily on her dinner.

“Chubby,” Bessie said, poking the heifer’s stomach.

As if she understood (Bessie liked to think she could), Hyde lows in between chews and flicked Bessie with her long, furry tail.

“My apologies, madam!” Bessie giggled, rubbing her hand down Hyde’s spine. “Sorry I’m so late. Will you ever forgive me?”

Hyde made a muffled cow noise and Bessie smiled.

“Sleep well, beautiful. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, she gathered her bag, which she had left at the door, and walked out.

The trek to the house wasn’t long- she was soon unlocking the front door and stepping into the warmth of the home.

It was dark, as she expected. It was ten at night, after all, and Cathy had school the next day. Bessie couldn’t help but smile fondly at the memory of the time she and the twelve-year-old stayed up all night building on a Minecraft world together (yeah, it’s a little childish for her to partake in at her age, but she couldn’t say no to Cathy, and a “quick build” quickly turned into a giant kingdom fit for a queen- and a dragon named Hroar.)

Bessie walks past the kitchen, not bothering with dinner despite being hungry. She didn’t want to make too much noise and wake anyone up, so she just made a beeline for her downstairs bedroom-

However, she was stopped by a sharp voice.

“Dinner’s in the fridge.”

Bessie froze, slightly startled. She turned slowly to find Aragon sitting on the couch in the living room, her legs crossed neatly over one another and her hands resting in her lap. Her facial features are calm, smooth, and her eyebrows are raised, but Bessie can’t help but think the woman is annoyed with her.

“Hey, Catalina,” The girl whispered, hunching her shoulders around her neck.

“Hello, Elizabeth.” Aragon replied, “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“I picked something up,” Bessie lied.

Aragon’s eyebrows arched higher.

“No...” Bessie sighed.

“I’ve told you not to lie to me,” Aragon said. She stands up and walks to the kitchen, and Bessie follows with her head lowered.

“I’m sorry...” Bessie whispered.

Aragon pulls a platter of casserole out of the fridge and put it in the microwave, then turned to Bessie. Her eyes soften when she saw how pitiful the girl looked.

“It’s quite alright, dear,” She said. “I just worry about you. You need to eat.”

“I do!” Bessie said, then quickly lowered her voice. “I’m just- I’m tired.”

“Were you too tired to eat yesterday, too?” Aragon said, then added before Bessie could counter, “And the day before that?”

Bessie shut her mouth and lowered her head, finding the floor much more interesting. She hears a soft clucking sound and her chin is being lifted.

“I’m not doing this to be rude,” Aragon said, “I love you very much, my special girl.”

“I love you, too,” Bessie whispered. Her bottom lip quivers slightly, not because of what was said, but rather because of the amount of love this woman has for her, despite knowing what she has done.

Before either of them can say anything else, a tiny voice sounds from behind them.

“Mama?”

Aragon and Bessie turn around to see Cathy standing by the steps, rubbing her eyes with her fist, which is hooded by her pajama sleeve. Her hair is in complete disarray, making it look like the wild mane of a lion.

“I’m right here, baby,” Aragon walks to her goddaughter. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“I just woke up because I heard voices,” Cathy said, then peeks around Aragon. “Bessie’s home!”

“Hey, Cat,” Bessie waved slightly, allowing a small smile to ghost across her lips.

“You need to get back to bed,” Aragon said, then looked at Bessie. “Elizabeth, please eat, alright?”

“I will.” Bessie assured her. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night, Bessie!”

Once the two of them retreat upstairs, Bessie takes the plate of casserole out of the microwave, takes four bites, then throws the rest away, hiding it beneath other pieces of rubbish.

———

“EEUCK!!” Anne spit loudly, “You smell like a barn!”

Bessie wrinkled her nose in her coworker’s direction, slightly miffed by her dramatic reaction to the scent of cow clinging to her body.

“I didn’t have time to shower after taking care of Hyde because SOMEONE signed me up for the morning shift.” Bessie said, shooting another accusing look at Anne.

“I had already signed up for this shift and I don’t really like any of the other workers, so I didn’t want to work it with someone I couldn’t get along with!” Anne said.

“How selfless of you,” Bessie said dryly. As she’s watering Herman after switching the ‘CLOSED’ sign to ‘OPEN’ she notices Anne perk up, beaming about something.

“What?” Bessie looked at her curiously.

“There’s a party this evening,” Anne explained, “One of the frats at the college is hosting it.”

“Ah.” Bessie nodded, preparing to leave it at that, but Anne goes on.

“We gotta go!”

“No way.” Bessie immediately said.

“Come on, B, you haven’t been to a single party yet. You have to go at least once!” Anne said.

“Anne-”

“Please!” Anne was begging at this point. “Please, B! I won’t leave you alone, I promise! And if it isn’t fun or it things go bad or you get uncomfortable, then we can leave immediately! I swear it!”

Bessie looked at her coworker, who was pleading like a puppy. She’s always had a hard time saying no to people...

She sighed.

“Fine.”

“YES!!” Anne threw her arms up into the air, then hugged Bessie tightly, “Oh, thank you, B! Thank you! You won’t regret this!”

Somehow, Bessie thinks she will.

———

She expected it to play out like the same old story you read about or hear about on TV: Girl with a wild streak and some issues goes to her first legal frat party, gets drunk, and winds up in bed with a guy who ditches her and posts pictures of them doing it on the school's website. Girl is shattered, her reputation ruined and possibly ends up with a baby to sour the deal more.

So, Bessie kept a sharp eye on Anne that night, to protect her from even the slightest chance of that happening. Sure, Anne was much bigger and tougher than her, but the issues could linger and Anne was awfully fascinated by the alcoholic drinks on display.

“Just one wine cooler each, maybe two,” Bessie said, her eyes darting around everywhere. “Don't drink the punch, keep an eye on your food and drink, don't talk to anyone slurring-”

“Honey, you need to loosen up. The old Anne might have gotten herself into some deep crap, but the new Anne will be just fine. Trust me.”

Bessie didn’t know much about “old Anne” and what exactly she had gotten herself into in the past, as the two of them hadn’t known each other in high school (Anne said was living in France, but moved to London for college), but she decided to try to trust her friend.

However, it does not ease her fears.

“But-”

“Don't worry, I'll stick by you the whole night. For your sake, of course.” Anne smiled at Bessie, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly. “Come on!”

Pushing their way through the dancing bodies, Anne and Bessie ventured deeper into the party house. The smell of weed, alcohol, and mixed vapes was overbearing. A girl who was dressed in a lacy, but tight black dress pushed past Bessie, her perfume almost gagging her when she pressed against her on accident. Stepping back, Bessie dodged her friends as they hurried after her, calling out a mixture of profanities as they spilled their drinks.

“Bessie!” Someone yelled across the party. Bessie whipped around, trying to pick out whoever called her name. Suddenly a sort of-friend from chemistry appeared at her elbow, shoving a drink into her hand. He smiled at her.

“I didn’t think you would come, girl, it’s cool that you did!”

Bessie smiled awkwardly, wiping the sweat gathering on her brow. The house was twice the temperature as outside, the multiple hot bodies dancing around the small building only serving to amplify the humidity that built up.

“I figured I better come at least once, or else you guys will never forgive me,” Bessie said before cautiously sipping from her glass. The burning of alcohol was unfamiliar. Still, it warmed her chest- she kind of enjoyed the bite.

“Do you wanna smoke?” Her kinda-friend asked, waggling a joint in front of her eyes.

“No, I’m- I’m okay.” She stammered.

“Come on!”

“No, really, I’m okay.”

Her kinda-friend frowned, taking a drag himself before speaking, “Whatever dude, if you hated pot smokers you should have said.”

Bessie felt guilt build as she opened her mouth to explain, but instead her kinda-friend disappeared into the mass of dancing bodies. The music was turned up, causing the bass to thump loudly in her ears, and she completely missed Anne saying something to her, so the young woman had to shake her elbow to get her attention.

“Do not smoke.” Anne said, as if she were Bessie’s mum. Bessie couldn’t help but smile at her sternness.

“Aye, aye,”

Anne smiled, then immediately whipped around afterwards, tugging excitedly on Bessie’s arm. She points to a table that several people are gathered at.

“Let’s go take shots!”

Bessie allowed Anne to lead her to the table, where the college kids were passing out shots of UV and vodka and tequila. Bessie grabbed one as it was shoved into her hands, her last glass disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

Several shots later, Bessie was pleasantly buzzed, leaning towards drunk. Her system wasn’t used to processing alcohol- it made her a lightweight. She laughed at one of the girls as she started to hack at the burn of the alcohol, while Anne bounced at her side, still hanging onto her arm, this time with both hands, as she chortled.

“Bessie?”

Through the music, Bessie heard a familiar, warm voice, and turned around to see none other than Anna.

The young woman was dressed in a red and black flannel and jeans and she was holding a glass of beer. The lights of the house cast a slight glow over her dark skin, neatly combed black hair, and friendly smile.

“Anna!” Bessie lit up. She pats Anne’s hands, causing her coworker to let go, and she hurries over to Anna.

“I didn’t know you went to parties.” Anna said.

“I usually don’t,” Bessie replied, then hiccuped. A blush flames red on her cheeks and she quickly covered her mouth. Above her, Anna laughed.

“I can tell,” She said. “You’re adorable.”

Bessie went to say something else, but just hiccuped again. She clenched her fingers tighter around her jaw, her blush creeping up to her ears and making them as hot as the rest of her body thanks to the heat inside of the house.

“You poor thing,” Anna cooed sympathetically. “First time drinking?”

Bessie nodded, not risking speaking again.

“Ah,” Anna nodded. “That explains it.” She wrapped an arm around Bessie’s shoulders and frowned. “Darling, you’re so hot... How long have you been here? Have you drank water at all?”

Bessie shrugged, then squeaks out through her fingers, “An hour? And...ah...no.”

“Let’s go get you some,” Anna decided.

After Bessie tells Anne where she’s going, she lets Anna lead her to the kitchen, which is surprisingly probably the least crowded room in the whole house, since the drink and snack stands were set up in other areas.

Anna gently presses Bessie into a chair at the dining room table and swaps her glass of tequila for a red plastic cup of water. It soothes her burning throat, washing away the sting of strong alcohol, which she is really starting to feel the effects of.

(Is is called “Fireball” because it makes it feel like a fireball is burning in your stomach?)

Bessie doesn’t register the cool fingers brushing her flushed, clammy cheek for a moment, but she’s leaning into them before she even notices they’re touching her. She pried open her eyelids to see Anna kneeling in front of her, an amused, but concerned look on her face.

“Someone isn’t handling her alcohol too well,” The dark-skinned woman teased lightheartedly.

Bessie replied with a “Mmmm” then a hiccup. Anna laughed.

“Honey, I think you should stick to water for the rest of the night.” Anna said, brushing a sweaty lock of hair out of Bessie’s damp face. “Wanna take your jacket off? You might be a little cooler.”

Bessie nodded and set her cup of water down so she could remove her jacket (with Anna’s help, of course. Her fingers were a little clumsy).

As they did so, a voice piped up.

“Elizabeth Blount?”

Bessie and Anna both look up to see a man with unruly brown hair and shrewd hazel eyes looking at them from the kitchen island. Bessie recognizes him as Thomas Cromwell, a kid who used to go to high school with her. They didn’t end up going to the same college, so he must have been invited or the party was open to students from other campuses, too.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Elizabeth Blount!” Thomas laughed, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Especially with all your clothes on!”

Bessie’s blood runs cold. At her side, Anna’s brows knit together in concern. The older woman stands up protectively.

“Who are you?” She demands.

“Thomas Cromwell,” Thomas answers openly, “Who are you? Someone new Elizabeth has tied to her bed?”

Rage flashes in Anna’s eyes.

“Don’t you fucking talk about her like that.” She seethed.

Thomas is unfazed by her anger.

“You don’t know, do you?” He tilted his head, “Elizabeth hasn’t told you? Better yet: You didn’t hear? You must not be around here. The Whore of London was big talk for everyone when we were in high school.” He leaned in, not one bit wry of Anna’s clenched, readied fists. “Just a fair warning: Don’t go to the bathroom. She’ll try to molest you.”

Bessie leapt up and raced through the crowd of people. She heard yelling behind her- she thinks it’s Anne because Anna had to be preoccupied with Thomas to go after her.

But why would she? Anna must think she’s disgusting now.

That revelation brings tears to Bessie’s eyes. She was going to lose Anna- she didn’t want to lose Anna. She liked Anna a lot. She made her smile and laugh and made the world feel good again.

She needed Anna.

But Anna doesn’t need her. Not anymore. She’s not going to visit her ever again.

Tears flow fast from Bessie’s eyes as she shoves through all the people. Some stare at her in annoyance for being pushed, others are curious as to why she’s crying, and a handful are genuinely concerned. Right as she gets to the door, a cup is thrust into her hands and she just takes it.

Cool night air stings against her burning skin, like dry ice on bare flesh.

Bessie ran away from the frat house until her legs screamed in pain and she finally had to slow down. She took a few deep breaths and sipped from the cup she was holding. Whatever its contents were burned her mouth intensely, searing down her throat as if she was swallowing molten lava, and she nearly spit it back up. However, she forced herself to choke it down and drink it all.

She’s left sputtering and frothing liquor at the lips, but she desperately needed the relief it’ll cause. Alcohol was a depressant, after all. Bessie didn’t think it was possible for her to get even more depressed, but here she was.

It was going to be a long walk home.

#sweet shop au #six the musical #six the musical au #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #anna of cleves #bessie on the bass #catherine of aragon #catherine parr #anne boleyn #thomas cromwell #banna #bessie x cleves #tw: alcohol #tw: drugs #tw: pot

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bizarropurugly · 7 years ago

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Dame’s Car-Related PTSD

SO I guess I’m ready for another post after all. It’s only because these things are easier to explain.

I have PTSD and one of the ways I have it is in relation to car wrecks, because I’ve been in three of them and I guess it finally broke my brain after the third one.

My first wreck was off an S curve that had been covered in black ice. I was actually going under the speed limit but still had enough power to bounce off the other side of the ditch. It was a helluva jolt.

A very nice man saw me in the ditch and offered me a stay in his truck cab where it was warm (my car didn’t have heat, it was an old used car). Looking back I was being incredibly naive and trusting, but I wasn’t thinking clearly like at all, my mind is completely fucking gone lol

But otherwise nothing traumatic, right?

Well, there was some bad shit related to it, a certain someone was incredibly worried about me and I didn’t... really respond well... I think I was diminishing to them, but I was so used to telling people things are fine and to stop worrying and don’t think about me etc that I didn’t realize how that sounds to someone who actually gives a shit about me.. idk complicated situation that really freaked me out when I realized how upset they were with me.

But uh! It was the second accident that was really bad.

I was coming home from a bad day at college, where a member of our LGBT+ club had lost something INCREDIBLY important to me and just waved it off as nbd, and the event I attended was a childish shitshow, etc...

More snow and ice on the road! But it was daylight and I was being careful. If only the other guy had done the same.

He tried to pass four people on a fucking hill, one of those being a tanker and another being a wrecker, and here I came down the hill.

I tried to slow down but I didn’t want to stomp the breaks because you are NOT supposed to do that on a slick road. His insurance tried to insist that I didn’t do enough to avoid hitting him because I didn’t fucking stop in the middle of the road as he was illegally passing four fucking people in a no-pass zone.

I swerved, hit the guard rail several times, and fell into a ravine.

I actually don’t even remember how it went down, it had to be described to me because I blacked out until I found myself hanging sideways in my seat above seeping icy water. It was like I blinked and missed it.

The four vehicles managed to stop without hitting each other or hitting me, but it was incredibly fucking close. You couldn’t fit your hand between the lead car and the tanker. Which is terrifying because the tanker was carrying something highly combustible, a connection with the car in the front or in the back would have surely killed us all.

And he just kept on going! He kept on going as everyone piled out of their vehicles and struggled to get through the 3 or 4 foot snow to my vehicle down below.

I remember the first thing I thought about was that altercation I mentioned up there, and I pounded my steering wheel wheezing “NO!! NO!! NOT AGAIN!” but being too exhausted and panicked to actually cry.

I can’t remember if I rolled down the window or unlocked the doors, but I remember being pulled out of my seat through the passenger side, and dragged up the bank because I was too weak to make it through the snow.

He actually did come back while they were working on this, and the tanker driver punched him full in the fucking face screaming “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?”

I was too dazed to make decisions or function. I agreed to an ambulance although it wasn’t really necessary. I called my mother from the phone of the guy driving the wrecker and basically was just like “Hi mom, got in a wreck, they’re calling an ambulance, I’ll be at the hospital, bye” and really freaked her out.

I ended up having to do physical therapy because I tore basically all the muscles in my chest. It’s a good thing I had a seatbelt on, or worse would have happened.

Very traumatic, right? Bad day, bad vibes, bad wreck. But I was fine, actually, aside from the physical pain.

The third one was the least traumatic, but that’s what finally did it for me.

All that happened was that on that same S curve, I hit the sand they put down to make the road less slick, and slid into the ditch again. It was much less hard this time, basically more of a skid and spin than anything, barely any damage to the car, I was able to be pulled out and go on my way by my cousin.

But we compound the negative stuff from before as a third, additional heaping of shit on this really fucking tense issue. I think after this I just stopped mentioning bad things happening to me. I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. But I know I was distraught enough over this that my cousin mistook my demeanor as feeling ashamed of having wrecked again - he pointed out he slid on the sand too, he just didn’t lose control like I did.

And ever since that third one, I panic CONSTANTLY over the car. Any time the steering wheel feels loose, I panic. Any time I slide a little, I panic. Any time it rains or snows, I panic. Any time the road seems wet and potentially icy, I panic. Any time the car touches the shoulder, I panic. Gravel sometimes makes me panic too. Going too fast makes me panic if I’m driving (which is hilarious because I used to take curves as fast as 80 mph because I Just Wanted To Fucking Die).

And with my vasovagal syncope and potential narcolepsy, it puts me at risk of fainting every. fucking. time. And I had already had a lot of trouble with this to start with!! I have had trouble falling asleep/fainting at the wheel before!! It hadn’t happened for a while but the other night it did, and I had my mother drive me home from work because I couldn’t stay upright. I don’t need all this shit compounding!!

But yeah, so I have car related PTSD. Generally I panic and get tunnel vision and run the risk of fainting, but when I’m not driving I also tend to scream and claw the arm rests. It sucks and I hate my life because this is SO easy to trigger.

#dame disability chronicles #suicide m sorta --///

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thejustinmarshall · 6 years ago

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31 Things Skiing Can Teach Us About Life

There was hardly enough room for two cars to pass each other at 50 mph, let alone a car and something much bigger than a car. On a curvy, narrow road with no shoulder (and often no center line) on the Isle of Skye, I was a little gripped. Driving on the left side of the road, manual transmission with the shifter and pedals switched from American cars I’m used to driving, you might say it was far from a relaxing drive along the coast. Every time a car approached from the other direction on the really tight parts, I felt my arms and core tense up, and then relax again as the car passed.

But then, of course, a bus came flying around a curve. Were its wheels on the center line? Oh, they’re over the center line. This’ll be exciting. Don’t hit the bus, Brendan, don’t hit the bus. Instead of watching the bus’s tires to see how far they were in my (already narrow) lane, I stared at the edge of the road on my side, hoping my left tire had a few more inches of asphalt over there. I probably held my breath. Don’t look at the bus don’t look at the bus don’t look at the bus. The bus passed.

But then, later, more buses. Trucks. We were on the island for five days, and every day was a new thrill for me, in the driver’s seat. I never hit anything with that pristine little rental car, because someone a long time ago told me the secret to skiing in the trees: Don’t look at what you don’t want to hit. If you don’t want to hit a tree, don’t look at the trees. Your skis will go where you look.

This idea, I found, also works in mountain biking, and in life in general: Look where you want to go. Obsessing over all the bad things that could happen doesn’t mean you’re going to run into those bad things (like when you’re skiing trees), but it’s a waste of time. It’s better to obsess over the things you want to happen (and work to make them happen).

We often think of skiing as a break from our normal life, as a vacation. But if it’s worth doing, it’s probably worth learning from. I started thinking about all the things I’ve learned from skiing—the value of earning your turns, you wear a helmet not because you’re a bad skier but because other people are bad skiers, don’t try to teach your partner/spouse to ski, the value of always trying to make better turns [LINK: https://semi-rad.com/2016/02/the-search-for-the-perfect-turn/ ] — and thought other people might have some ski-gained life wisdom as well. So I asked. Here are some of their answers.

“How to live in the moment. And embrace it. As humans, I think we rarely do that. Also, on the chairlift, how to listen to hear, not respond. Lot to learn if you just let people talk.”

—Peter Kray

“The longer you stare over the edge, the harder it gets to actually drop in.”

—Danielle Tarloffski

“Skiing has taught me a key principal of safe urban bike commuting (and general situational awareness): Head on a swivel! Keeping as close to 360 visibility at all times by constantly looking around is important when skiers and snowboards are bombing downhill from behind you, just like cars speeding past on the road. I bet you that bike commuters who also ski are in less accidents than bike commuters who do not.”

—Jaeger Shaw

“You should always trust your gut. When it’s telling you not to do something, it’s usually right.”

—Kristina Ciari

“Complaining about the weather is a waste of energy. Just smile about it. You can’t get hurt going fast—it’s the sudden stop that gets you. And nobody cares if you’re accomplished at x and they value y.”

—Ben White

“During first lesson, my instructor said, ‘Don’t stare down the whole mountain. It’s intimidating. Just look at where you are standing and do what I tell you. When we get to the bottom, you can look back UP the mountain and be proud.’ Man. Has that turned out to be valuable life advice.”

—Barbara Neff

“Here’s what skiing has taught me to apply to the rest of my life:

Happiness = Reality-Expectations.

I went skiing in Japan a few years ago with my husband, it was everything they say it should be. So, two years later, I brought a few friends back to Japan with me. I had inflated what skiing in Japan was like and then over-inflated that expectation to them. When we arrived and there was 2-3 inches of snow and somewhat warm temperatures, we were all SUPER bummed. But how stupid is that? We were with our best friends, in an INCREDIBLE place, in what on any other day would have been super fun conditions, yet, we had chalked it up to be something magical and were disappointed when it wasn’t. It’s a tough practice, but I’ve learned to set those expectations aside and just remind myself that I am there for the adventure, no matter what happens, and that I can find nuggets of happiness anywhere.”

—Sam Kilgore

“Backcountry skiing taught me to slow down and communicate with others. To speak up and often to keep that door open regarding decisions and risk.”

—Dan Ives

“Get excited about what’s next, not fearful.

The difference between adventure/fun and an epic/catastrophe is having a partner. Suffering is a solitary, singular venture. Comedy is community perspective. Think about it, hiking a ridgeline in a whiteout, wind blowing a bajillion miles an hour is a brutal shitshow on your own. But with a pal, it’s a ‘what the hell are we doing here’ giggle fest. Same is true in life.

Also, don’t ration your passion. Express and trumpet your happiness, your stoke. If you’re having fun, tell those around you. Psyched on the line your skiing? Whoop-n-holler during and hi5 after. Stoked that you just landed that job, paid your bills, made yourself dinner, went on a great date with that special somebody? Deploy your barbaric yawp.”

—Paddy O’Connell

“Ski the turn you’re in. Regardless of how far or hard something is, you can only do the thing you’re doing at that moment. Doing those small things, like a single ski turn, over and over are what make up big things, whether it’s work or an adventure. You need to be mindful of where you are in the ever present moment. Secondly: You have to make the turn. You can’t be passive. If you sit back and let stuff happen to you, you end up getting bounced around, go off-course, and it can end badly. You need to be dynamic, take control, and commit over and over.”

—Alicia MacLeay

“As a ‘recovering’ tele skier, every time I thought I had my tele turn perfected I found the hard way that I didn’t. Same with life. Get back up and keep working to get better.”

—Patrick Stoneking

“When I was quitting my last job, I kept thinking about standing on the edge of a cornice before jumping. Everything I’d done to that point had prepared me to jump: I’d jumped off little bumps, then rocks, then jumps, I’d practiced landing and knew that even if I fell (because I had before) I could pick myself up, brush myself off, and laugh about it later. I knew the snow was soft, but ultimately I still have to take that deep breath and slide forward. Quitting my job felt the same, standing on the edge, having an idea of what my future could feel like but not knowing for sure, and having the confidence that I’d be okay no matter how I landed. It was scary to jump, but jumping turned out to be the most important thing I ever could have done.”

—Elizabeth Williams

“Backcountry skiing and splitboarding have taught me to plan everything better, to scope the whole scene and be prepared for everything. My example: being in too big of a rush to get to the toilet without scoping the whole scene and not having TP …”

—Reid Pitman

“One thing I’ve learned through skiing and other adventures like rock climbing, is to take risks and be less scared. The bad outcome usually not nearly as bad as you envision.”

—Russ Rizzo

“I’ve fully embraced the ‘the last one down’s having the most fun’ mantra. Sliding down snowy mountains is just fun, and life should be too. So don’t take this shit so seriously.”

—Maro LeBlance

“#1: Don’t leave good snow for the chance of better snow. This is not the opposite of ‘you deserve better’ or ‘treat yo self.’ It’s more about taking the moment to appreciate what you’ve already worked for, and how good you’ve got it. I think Moses may have said this first as don’t covet your neighbor’s wife.

#2: Happiness in the moment is directly correlated to the expectations you set previously, and you’re 100 percent in control of your expectations. The only shitty ski days I’ve had are when I just ‘knew’ it was gonna be a sweet powder day with tons of vert, and then it wasn’t. I’ve also had amazing ski days of 1000’ vert in the rain, because I was expecting 500. This works for buying houses, getting jobs, cooking dinners, etc.

#3: Skin tracks are better when you keep your chin up and look around, keep your heart rate low enough to breathe, and make your kick-turns razor sharp. AKA, don’t burn out and take the time to do a good job you’re proud of, or else the reward from your job won’t even be worth it.”

—Peter Wadsworth

“Even something as fun as skiing can very dangerous—it will kill you if you’re not super careful and take the time understand the dynamics of the medium on which you are playing.”

—Graham Zimmerman

“While being the best is fun, it’s not always the most important. Knowing that someone (or lots of someones) can send it harder and better but having the courage to do it alongside them anyways can be just as rewarding.”

—Claire Rabun Storrs

“When things get too fast and out of control, sit down.”

—James Larkin

“If you’re not falling, you’re not learning anything.”

—Drew DeMarie

“Things are not always as they appear. The Imperial Express Superchair looks insane but once you get up to the top, it’s not that bad. Conversely, after that run, the Horseshoe Bowl doesn’t look scary at all until you drop in and ask ‘WTF am I supposed to do now?’ because it’s so steep.”

—Joe Engels

“It’s nice to have a sandwich with you.”

—Mike SanClements

“What has cost you more in life, patience or impatience?”

—Rob Coppolillo

“There are a lot of ways to enjoy the snow. Not all of them are the same way you enjoy the snow. Other people choosing to enjoy something you love but in a different way is ok. It even can make it better. Skiers would have never had halfpipes and snow parks without snowboarders. So moral of the story: let other people enjoy life. They’re probably making your life richer for being around them.”

—Jesse Finch Gnehm

“Backcountry skiing has taught me a ton about life. Primarily the uphill part. It’s relatable to life in that nothing just happens. You don’t just have this divine moment to where you’re able to say you’re at the top. It’s small continual steps that get you there, that came by planning, working your ass off in whatever the conditions may have been and keeping a positive mindset that you’d make it. I guess the flip side of it all is that as soon as you’re to the top it’s only a matter of time till you’re working on something else.”

—Andrew Petersen

The post 31 Things Skiing Can Teach Us About Life appeared first on semi-rad.com.

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olivereliott · 6 years ago

Text

31 Things Skiing Can Teach Us About Life

“How to live in the moment. And embrace it. As humans, I think we rarely do that. Also, on the chairlift, how to listen to hear, not respond. Lot to learn if you just let people talk.”

—Peter Kray

“The longer you stare over the edge, the harder it gets to actually drop in.”

—Danielle Tarloffski

—Jaeger Shaw

“You should always trust your gut. When it’s telling you not to do something, it’s usually right.”

—Kristina Ciari

—Ben White

—Barbara Neff

“Here’s what skiing has taught me to apply to the rest of my life:

Happiness = Reality-Expectations.

—Sam Kilgore

“Backcountry skiing taught me to slow down and communicate with others. To speak up and often to keep that door open regarding decisions and risk.”

—Dan Ives

“Get excited about what’s next, not fearful.

—Paddy O’Connell

—Alicia MacLeay

“As a ‘recovering’ tele skier, every time I thought I had my tele turn perfected I found the hard way that I didn’t. Same with life. Get back up and keep working to get better.”

—Patrick Stoneking

—Elizabeth Williams

—Reid Pitman

“One thing I’ve learned through skiing and other adventures like rock climbing, is to take risks and be less scared. The bad outcome usually not nearly as bad as you envision.”

—Russ Rizzo

“I’ve fully embraced the ‘the last one down’s having the most fun’ mantra. Sliding down snowy mountains is just fun, and life should be too. So don’t take this shit so seriously.”

—Maro LeBlance

—Peter Wadsworth

“Even something as fun as skiing can very dangerous—it will kill you if you’re not super careful and take the time understand the dynamics of the medium on which you are playing.”

—Graham Zimmerman

—Claire Rabun Storrs

“When things get too fast and out of control, sit down.”

—James Larkin

“If you’re not falling, you’re not learning anything.”

—Drew DeMarie

—Joe Engels

“It’s nice to have a sandwich with you.”

—Mike SanClements

“What has cost you more in life, patience or impatience?”

—Rob Coppolillo

—Jesse Finch Gnehm

—Andrew Petersen

The post 31 Things Skiing Can Teach Us About Life appeared first on semi-rad.com.

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junker-town · 7 years ago

Text

There and back again: An immigrant's dream of being a soccer player

Being a Nigerian immigrant allowed me to see what a privilege it is to live a fulfilling life.

My family left Nigeria in 1998. After winning the immigration lottery, my father sold his father’s lands and moved his pregnant wife and five children from the village of Umuele in Imo State to Detroit, Mich. I returned to our village nine years later and became the godfather to my uncle’s youngest child.

I gave him his baptismal name, Pascal. I went back for a second time at the beginning of August. When I arrived at our house, a child stood by the door staring at me. I met his gaze and he said, “Do you know who you’re looking at?” I shook my head. “I’m your godson.”

My godson, Chiedozie, sees the world as a simple thing. He believes that planes are small because when he sees them in the sky, he can fit them between his thumb and forefinger. He loves to ask questions, and he loves soccer. When I tell him that I played professionally, his eyes light up. Because I’ve done it, he knows that he will achieve his dream of playing professionally in the United States or in Europe. After all, I once lived in a village like he does, and he is as good a player as I was before I left.

There aren’t too many clocks or phones in a village, so one has to have a physical awareness of time. You have to know that the roosters come out at about 6 a.m. and that it gets dark at 7 p.m. during the rainy season. You need an innate feel for the passage of hours to function. Jet lag keeps you from feeling quite at home.

Unable to sleep, I would sit on the balcony at night and watch the August rain. Chiedozie always showed up carrying a soccer ball. He would sit, spin the ball in front of him, and ask me questions about my playing days. And he’d listen to the answers until the ball inevitably became his pillow.

Chiedozie believes in the absurd. Most villagers will live and die in the same social class and environment in which they were born. To make it to the big cities, like Abuja and Lagos, and live a better life than the one you inherited is to be an exception. To go beyond those cities, to leave Nigeria and make it to the Western world — by immigration lottery, as an asylum-seeker, or as one of the few soccer players to be discovered by scouts — is to be an exception. A miracle.

It’s hard to explain to a child that what he sees as destiny is mostly the product of luck and privilege.

The author’s godson, Chiedozie.

My father worked to be a professional soccer player as a child, too. When he was studying and playing at Port Harcourt University, his father died. Because his two older brothers were also dead and he only had one older sister and a younger brother left, he became the man of the household. When he finished his studies, he packed up his dreams and returned to the village to take care of the rest of his family.

My father married, and both of my parents became secondary school teachers and then principals. One day my mother — pregnant with her fifth child — was walking to a women’s meeting with a friend who was rushing her. Her friend was in a hurry to deliver immigration forms to her family. My mother joked “oh, because I’m not your family is why you won’t give me one?” Her friend brought her one of the forms the next day.

The first form was lost, and the friend replaced it with her brother’s — who had filled it halfway and gave up in frustration. He had been denied a visa eight times before.

When the acceptance letter came, my father dismissed it as a hoax. Every year, millions enter a lottery to win immigration visas, and only a fraction of a percent win. It was only after a conversation with a friend who returned from the States that he understood what the letter meant. The man told my father that leaving Nigeria would be a personal loss but a greater gain for his children.

Because we already had cousins there and it had a big Nigerian community, we moved to Detroit in Sept. of 1998. Winter came as a shock. My father — wearing a long Raiders jacket given to him by our landlord — walked through the snow every night to stock inventory at Rite Aid. When he found time between work and exhaustion, he took us to a park in Dearborn to play.

The author (middle) with Mr. Sani’s kids.

My brother and I played soccer in that park with Mr. Sani’s kids. Mr. Sani was an immigrant from Saudi Arabia, and he soon became my soccer coach. He paid for my registration fees and bought me cleats because my father couldn’t afford to. He picked me up for practice and games, and when I was too worn out afterward, he let me sleep at his house.

I scored a lot of goals and won a lot of trophies. Some men representing professional academies asked my father if I could join their systems. My father told them no in his best first-generation immigrant and teacher voice: “He has to get his education first.” Angry at having my dream denied by my own father, I responded by declaring that I would never play soccer again. And from the age of 14 until college, I didn’t touch a ball.

At University of Detroit Mercy, I thought of other things — things like engineering, frat parties, and one Lebanese girl with eyes like stars. One day as I was walking my best friend to his track practice, we saw the soccer team going through preseason training. I told him that I was better than everyone on the team. He laughed it off. When I insisted, he asked me to prove it.

I went out that day and bought cleats. A few days later, I asked to train with the team, and I was a walk-on member by the end of the practice. (I would tear the cartilage in my right knee a few weeks into the season, and my life would go on to become an unending cycle of dribbling defenders and suffering injuries.)

When I was done with college soccer, I bounced around several semi-professional and lower league professional teams. While playing in Connecticut, an old coach messaged me saying that there would be European scouts at a combine in Chicago. I went and tried out, and I was offered a trial in Antalya, Turkey. It wasn’t until I was on the plane headed to Antalya that it dawned on me that after all these impossible things had happened, that I could make a life playing soccer.

Marketplace in the village of Owerri, Nigeria.

After Chiedozie left with his ball/pillow on the third day, my uncle, Kyrian, came and sat on the balcony with me. He had also dreamed of playing soccer as a child. He played for his secondary school, for Port Harcourt University, and for a few semi-pro teams, but he wasn’t one of the lucky ones. The farthest he has ever traveled is to Lagos. He knows Europe and the States only from television and stories of those who have been.

We talked about Arsenal beating Leicester City, then Kyrian said to me, “football has always been my life. I knew that no matter what was happening, I could always just take the ball to the field and I would be happy.” I challenged him to a game of one-on-one for the next day and he responded, “The accident ruined my legs. You see the way I walk now; my legs aren’t good anymore.”

Last December, Kyrian was on the way to visit my older brother — who had come back on his own — when his car flipped over. His driver approached a curve too fast. Kyrian spent the early part of 2017 in a hospital and hasn’t touched a ball since then.

He asked me why I ultimately turned down a contract offer in Turkey. I told him that the athletic life was a prison to me. I wanted my life to be more than a regimen of training, eating, rehabbing, and working out while only sometimes playing a game. It took for me to reach the dream to realize that I wanted something else. He thought that I was crazy, but he understood to an extent.

I remember after Lupita Nyong’o won an Oscar for 12 Years a Slave, she ended her speech by saying that the award was an assurance to herself and children all over the world that “your dreams are valid.” She didn’t mean that all their dreams should come true. Chiedozie doesn’t have to become a soccer player, but he should believe in and work toward that dream. To dream is the most important thing. You have to dream big, because between the person you are and your ideal self is the person you will become.

Kyrian is the last son of my father’s sister. He has a wife who is pregnant with their second child. The first was stillborn. He runs a few businesses and is the stabilizing force in our extended family, which is to say that he is who everyone calls when they’re in need. When my father wanted to build a house, he wanted Kyrian to be in charge of it. When my mother’s father was sick, it was Kyrian whom she called to take them to the hospital. It was my father who called him to go attend to my brother when he went home.

But as important as he is to everyone’s peace of mind, Kyrian feels incomplete. After his accident, my brother visited him in the hospital every morning. In intensive care, he asked my brother to work with my father to help him leave the country. When I was at home, he asked me several times to work with my brother and father to help him leave the country. What Kyrian wants — more than his legs to work as they used to, more than his health, more than anything else in this world — is a chance to be something more than he is.

Because my uncle never left the village, he had to deal with the truth of his ambitions. If his dream was only to be a soccer player, then failure would have been debilitating. He wants what I want: fulfillment. I achieved the dream he once had, but on that balcony, we longed for the same thing. The difference was that I have the privilege to pursue that fulfillment while he’s trapped where he was born. To Kyrian then, every passing minute in the village feels like a small death. On the balcony, he said to me, “I don’t want to die here. I want to be somebody.”

Kyrian told me the names of all of his friends who had chanced into an opportunity to leave. “Small kids” who had made something of their lives. They had traveled, worked, made money, and returned to build big houses. He named them as if he were naming his enemies. He said, “I need a plan.” Then he poked the left side of his chest, “because this, this is paining me so much.”

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