#also i did make art but never shared it in earnest and i regret that

[fairy-ganj-mother]

i would love to tell 20 yr old me that feeling empty was an opportunity to fill my heart and mind with art and creeaaattttteeee

[bruh-myguy-what]

Things That Can’t Be Undone

I’m obsessed with Thrawn having overwhelming emotions and either people not noticing it because he’s so good at hiding it, or him just not knowing how to react to them….so, in lieu of that…

Have sad Thrawn, because I want to explore all range of emotions with him.

We could always use a new story in the Thrawn fics anyway

I also HIGH KEY didn’t proofread this lol sooooooo

--------

Pairing: Thrawn x fem!reader

Warnings: heartbreak, sadness, regret, longing/pining

Summary: Thrawn sees you with another man and it hurts.

Word Count: 1.2K

***

It wouldn’t have been the first thing Thrawn thought he would’ve felt when his heart burned painfully against his chest at the sight before him. There was an accompanying knot in his stomach while he watched you from across the room, his eyes tracking every small detail of you so he could account every moment to his memory. That way when he was aboard the Chimera, so far away from you, deep in the galaxy traveling the stars alone (alongside his crew) he could close his eyes and remember your smile as if it were made solely for him instead of the man it was directed at now.

He felt almost irrational for envisioning what it would be like to be the man beside you, your arms encircling his arm instead. The way your eyes would sparkle when you’d gaze longingly up at him, so unapologetic of the adoration you’d be announcing silently to the rest of the world. The simple thought that everyone around would see how clearly enraptured you were with him would fill him with such pleasure, to have the most captivating person in all the universe sharing such a flawless sentiment between the two of you. To see and hear the people around you whisper words of envy or idolization of the affection shared between the two of you.

Thrawn was certain at this point that there was nothing he wouldn’t give up, to have you smiling at him again, the smile that was nearly devastating. It had made his heart ache before to see it so honestly made for him, but it hurt for a different reason now…it was a pain he couldn’t change- no matter how much he wished he could. He was a Grand Admiral, but his title meant nothing to you, for your affection never came at the fancies of rank.

He momentarily wondered if the man with you knew all the small things Thrawn had found to be so personable about you? Was he aware of the splendor within you, or just the perfect art that lay bare for others to see? Did he truly know how priceless it was to be able to hear your brilliant, infectious laugh? What about how your eyes gleamed in wonder when you saw the stars so close as you traveled space aboard the Chimera? The way you so freely gave your attention to whoever needed it, so quick to assist, listen, give advice, or just make someone feel less lonesome by giving your time silently. Was the man you were giving your time to truly understanding of how precious you were? Could he really appreciate the way your hand fit within his? Did it even fit the way it did with Thrawn? And how fortunate did the man genuinely feel when you hugged him, so earnest and emotionally available? So ready to catch him if he ever fell…

Did he value you any better than Thrawn did when he had you at his side? Did the senator you were with realize what a gift you were….or did he take it for granted like Thrawn had? It was a dreadful feeling to know that if he had been any more aware of the things he could’ve done correctly, he wouldn’t be yearning so painfully for you from this far away- from galaxies away on the ISD Chimera. Thrawn wished he could feel the gentle caress of your hand again, just once, even if for a second. To know the feeling of being the only person you shared your intimate moments. Did the senator you held so tightly to know how to comfort you when you cried? Had Thrawn?

Perhaps there were a few things he did correctly at the time?

He knew he was giving himself too much credit. Had you seen any hope in him being able to give you what you needed from him, he wouldn’t be seeing your beauty from the other side of the room. Thrawn recalled the crestfallen expression that fell over your freely expressive features as he told you to stay here in Coruscant, to stay away from the Chimera from now on. At the time he believed it to be for the best, to give you the opportunities you truly sought. How could he keep your abilities and magnificence from the world and seal you away aboard the Chimera just out of his own indulgence?

But that was his misunderstanding…

He had pushed you away, leaving you alone on a planet you knew nothing about. What he thought was best for you…wasn’t what you wanted at all. What he thought you were hiding from him wasn’t even your true desire and he saw that now. You sought someone to share life with, to trust when you didn’t want to be the strong one anymore- when it felt like the whole world would cave in. The person you could run to when you were unhappy, when something humorous happened, someone you could share your whimsical excitements with. You had entrusted that opportunity to Thrawn, and he misunderstood, he miscalculated it so dreadfully and it was too late to undo it.

You’d found another to give those luxuries to. Thrawn could only hope the man never took your heart for granted, or thought he knew what was best for you- even over what you wanted- like Thrawn had.

“Sir?” Eli Vanto’s voice had startled the Chiss out of his revere, jumping slightly at the man’s soft voice beside him. Blinking away the memories, the sadness, the regret, the Grand Admiral glanced at his subordinate. Eli could see a peculiar change in his friend, and it troubled him, “are…are you alright?” His voice cautious. When he’d approached Thrawn, he’d noticed the man in thought as he stared off. His eyes following the line of his admiral’s gaze, he found you standing there with your date, and it all made sense.

“Y-yes, of course,” Thrawn replied, scarcely convincing Eli, or himself, “forgive me, Commander.” There was silence between the two for a moment as they evaded mentioning Thrawn’s odd behavior.

Finally, Eli spoke up, resolutely, “are you ready to go, sir?” He straightened up and with an understanding expression, he awaited his admiral’s command. Perhaps what his friend needed was normalcy and structure to reshape his mind back to its normal methodical state. Eli would do whatever he could to help because if no one else could, he could see the struggle Thrawn was experiencing.

Sending one last look over at you, wondering- for just a second- if there was anything he could do to change his unfortunate fate. But as he watched the affectionate kiss you shared with the senator; he recognized it was indeed too late to change any of his hopeless choices. “Yes,” he agreed just as resolutely, even if a little forlorn, then met Eli’s eyes fully this time. “Let us return to the Chimera, commander.”

At least you would still be his in his dreams.

[spaceorphan18]

99 Perspectives on a Single Love Story #99

A/N: The Story of Kurt and Blaine told through the eyes of everyone else but them. Each chapter is a different perspective in the ongoing tale of their love story.

I started something like this a while back - and now I’m taking the idea and really running with it. Each chapter is a ficlet of a different character at a different point in Kurt and Blaine’s life - documenting their love story. This starts in Audition, and each chapter will be paired with a different episode until reaching Dreams Come True.

[Ao3]

***

Sue Sylvester (Dreams Come True) 

“It’s been over ten years now since I started on this journey. I was much younger then - in my late twenties, and naïve about how much of a magnetic pull this story would have on me. Oh, I know you think I’m a bitter old pill, but my heart isn’t completely made of stone. Even I succumbed to the saccharine sappiness of this beautiful and ridiculous love story. Did I know then that I would become obsessed with what the historians will deem one of the most provocative and inspiring love stories? Did I know then that I’d end up spending a large part of my time to the utter secret devotion to these two young men? Did I know then that I’d slave away creating the most perfect shrine for them? Let me tell you this - I did not know then. But I have no regrets now.

“And I get it. What’s so appealing you ask? Kurt Hummel, my dear, sweet Porcelain, was just your stereotypical gay kid with a creepy crush on his would-be brother and a rocky, yet overly sentimental relationship with his dad that would make most Hallmark movies seem like Pulp Fiction. And true, Blaine Anderson seemed like an over eager puppy with too much product in his hair and a personality that seemed to change year after year. I never expected such outwardly annoying people to captivate me. And yet, they did…

“You see, one day, my drones were on their normal routine course after hours at McKinley, and what they caught on tape shook me to my core. What they captured was a moment - an expression of love between two men on an empty stage that was so earnest, so innocent, so mind boggling simple in its sweetness that my cold, dead heart felt something stir. There’s magic here, I thought when I watched that tape. And I spent all of my time - the time that I hadn’t set aside to win Cheerio champions or take down Will Schuester or plot my epic take down of Principal Figgins - to make sure that they had a happily ever after.

“It’s true, their love story hasn’t been perfect. Did they really have to break up twice? Blaine sticking his lighthouse up someone else just did not seem like good character development to me. And there’s no way Porcelain would ditch his one true love once they found their scarcely decorated and much too unbelievably expensive for college students home in New York. And also true that I may have had a hand in manipulating and shaping their story to move in the direction I wanted to go. But even if they would deny it themselves, I don’t think any of us could escape the inevitable merging of these two young men into one - welding themselves together to become the juggernaut that is Klaine.

“Klaine, Klaine, Klaine… It’s a hypnotizing sound if you say it enough times in your head, is it not?

“Oh, so even now, even after the union of their souls, I revel in their love. I’ve been to all the performances of over indulgent takes on classic plays with questionably gender swapped roles that they’ve landed themselves in these days. And I was there the day that Rachel Berry pushed out of her vagina their curly haired, blue-eyed perfect baby girl, who impossibly looks like both of them, and will undoubtedly end up penniless in a thankless fine arts career. And now that they’ve put that restraining order on me, I may no longer be able to share that love as closely as I once did - but their love story will forever live on in the hearts of all of us.”

Sue Sylvester leans back in her beach chair, looking out at the sunrise on the ocean. Ah, the dawn of a new day, she thinks as she sips a Piña Colada out of a coconut. It’s a bit muggy and warm out, and the breeze is getting sand everywhere, but at least she doesn’t need to stay in Florida for that long.

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me all of this.” Sitting beside her on the beach is a very grumpy and unappreciative Ken Tanaka. “You’re the Vice President of the United States, and you’ve just wasted hours of your time, pulling me out of my peaceful retirement at an ungodly hour in the morning just to update me on a student I had over a decade ago, and his boyfriend?”

“Husband…”

“You’re insane, Sue Sylvester. I hate to break it to you - but nobody cares. I’d rather hear about those two cheerleaders who used to make out for all the football players.”

“Well, then.” Sue gets up, promptly throwing the Piña Colada in Ken Tanaka’s face - making him stupidly gape like a fish as the coconut drops into the sand. She then adjusts her tracksuit, brushes the sand off her pants, and takes out a pair of sunglasses, putting them on as she signals for her secret servicemen. Clearly, she is done here. “I suppose it’s all just a matter of perspective.”

[ibijau]

27 for xisang, please make it as angsty as your heart desires ❤️

It had been a few years since Lan Xichen had left his seclusion, and a few more since the events that had pushed him to enter it. He had made his peace with the whole thing, accepted his share of guilt and blame, and resumed his life as before, only changed by a better understanding of human nature. He also, perhaps, paid a little more attention to rumours, and was more interested in investigating them, knowing that refusing to do so had partly led to that disaster with Jin Guangyao. Even when rumours were unfounded, Lan Xichen had started to realise, the very fact that they existed could reveal something about both their target and their instigator.

The latest rumour was that Nie Huaisang intended to become Chief Cultivator.

Once, Lan Xichen would have dismissed the idea immediately. Nie Huaisang was many things, but he had never been particularly ambitious nor interested in hard work. Certainly Qinghe Nie was doing better again these days, but it still wasn’t quite back to truly being a Great Sect, nor did it give any signs that it aimed to be. Then again, if Nie Huaisang had proven one thing, it was that he knew how to deceive and misdirect when it served his purposes.

At the next conference they both attended, Lan Xichen found himself paying rather more attention than usual to the man he’d once counted as a friend of sorts. At first there was nothing amiss. Nie Huaisang conducted himself as usual, talking little, listening a lot. Listening too much, in fact. Lan Xichen realised after a bit that he had never seen Nie Huaisang so attentive at a conference, even if he was clearly trying to hide it. What’s more, quite a few times Lan Xichen caught the other man glancing in his direction. They hadn’t exchanged two words since that certain night, nor had either of them made efforts to acknowledge the other in any way, so this was odd.

Odder still was it for Nie Huaisang to come seek him out when a break was offered for lunch.

“Lan zongzhu, may I request a word with you?” Nie Huaisang asked, his tone a little too light to be really polite, just as it used to be.

“Nie zongzhu, if we have anything to talk about, I suggest you get in touch with my uncle, as you’ve done of late,” Lan Xichen replied. “He will probably be of more help than myself.”

There was a flash of pain on Nie Huaisang’s face at that rejection, as if it were a surprise. As if Nie Huaisang hadn’t done everything in his power to cause a rift between them.

More upset than he would have expected, Lan Xichen started turning away, only to feel a hand grasping his sleeve and pulling on the fabric.

“Er-ge, please, I need your help,” Nie Huaisang begged with startling sincerity, nervously glancing around. “A situation has emerged that I cannot deal with alone, I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t help me!”

Lan Xichen shivered. The last time he’d seen that pleading expression on Nie Huaisang’s face had been years ago, at that disastrous conference in Lanling when they had failed to unmask Jin Guangyao. For Nie Huaisang to fall back into his old comedy, something had to have happened.

Anger flashed through Lan Xichen’s mind, which he was careful not to show. Whatever Nie Huaisang had done this time didn’t concern him, and he was done being used by that man as a tool and a weapon.

At the same time, Nie Huaisang had never once reached out for him in all those years, always directly dealing with Lan Qiren or, on a few occasions Wei Wuxian, if he needed something. Whatever bitter taste Lan Xichen felt over the events that had passed between them, it was easy to guess that Nie Huaisang hardly had better feelings toward him. So for him to come begging, to call him ‘er-ge’ again…

“Let’s find somewhere more private then,” Lan Xichen conceded, hating himself for this weakness he knew he would regret.

He pretended not to notice the eagerness and relief on Nie Huaisang’s face, both of which were surely fake, and led the other man toward the room he’d been given for the duration of the conference. It was unpleasant to let Nie Huaisang have a glimpse of his privacy, even in such an impersonal manner, but this couldn’t be avoided.

As soon as the room’s door closed behind them, Nie Huaisang’s attitude changed, and he sagged onto a chair, more like a distressed child than the scheming murderer Lan Xichen now knew him to be.

“Er-ge, I am so lost!” Nie Huaisang cried out, dropping his head into his hands. “And I didn’t know who to turn to and… I don’t even know if you’ll believe me, but I have to try. If you don’t believe me, who will?”

“What have you done now?” Lan Xichen asked, allowing some impatience to pierce through.

“I haven’t done anything! But I think something was done to me. Er-ge, a little while ago, I woke up one morning, and everything was wrong, so wrong. I thought at first that maybe da-ge was pulling a prank on me, or that he wanted to punish me for something, so I played along, right? But then I realised that it wasn’t that at all, and it couldn’t be something da-ge had done, because he’s dead? Er-ge, is da-ge really dead?” Nie Huaisang asked, looking up at him.

Lan Xichen shivered and nodded, too dumbstruck to say anything. Nie Huaisang cried out, and broke into tears. He looked so utterly miserable that it took all of Lan Xichen’s self control not to kneel at his side and comfort him.

“I can’t believe…” Nie Huaisang sobbed. “And A-Yao too?”

Another nod.

“How could they… and they killed each other? I got that right, didn’t I? They killed each other?”

“Huaisang, what are you playing at?” Lan Xichen snapped. “You know that very well. You were then when it happened.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes widened as if in shock.

“Er-ge, so you’re really angry at me? What did I do to you?”

“What didn’t you do, Huaisang?”

A pitiful gasp escaped the younger man who bit his lip and looked away, still crying steadily.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” he mumbled, sniffling and clumsily trying to wipe his tears with the back of his hands. “Maybe I shouldn’t have… but if not you, who can I trust? You’re the only one who’s always put up with me. Er-ge, please, I know you’re angry, but you have to help me because… because whatever it is I’ve done to you, I don’t remember it.”

“Huaisang!”

“I really don’t!” Nie Huaisang sobbed, curling up on himself. “I don’t remember anything, and I’m so lost, and da-ge is dead, and I don’t know what to do, I really don’t know, and I’m supposed to be a sect leader but I don’t know how to do that! And I… I’m lost, I’m so lost, I need help, p-please help me, p-please, er-ge, please h-help me! I d-don’t, I don’t know, I don’t know anything and I’m, I’m s-so lost!”

Confronted with the sight of his former friend crying so hard that he seemed to be choking on his own tears, Lan Xichen hesitated. It wasn’t new for Nie Huaisang to cry in front of him, but it was rarely so raw and inelegant. Nie Huaisang was a little vain, and rarely allowed his apparent despair to make him ugly. Right then, though, his face was red and wet from heavy tears and snot, and there was no artfulness to be found in his crying. In fact the only time Lan Xichen could remember Nie Huaisang looking like this had been right after hearing that his brother had passed away.

Moved against his will, Lan Xichen came closer and knelt by Nie Huaisang, awkwardly patting his shoulder in comfort.

“What do you mean you don’t remember anything?”

“I don’t!” Nie Huaisang wailed. “I went to sleep one night, all excited about that Phoenix Mountain Hunt that we were about to go to, because I’d say A-Yao and you and Jiang Cheng and even Wei Wuxian, even if he’s all weird now! And then I wake up in the morning, and my room looks different, and people are calling me sect leader, and now da-ge is dead, and you hate me, and, and…”

He started sobbing again, harder than before.

“How long ago was that?” Lan Xichen asked, rubbing the other man’s back.

“F-four months ago,” Nie Huaisang mumbled. “I, I didn’t know what t-to do so I played along. I f-figured it would stop on its own maybe. T-then I thought, if someone d-did this to me, they’ll t-try something else if they think it’s n-not working. I really t-thought it might be a p-prank, but you… you never lie, er-ge, so it’s really t-true. Da-ge is d-dead, it’s true, it’s all true…”

For a moment, Lan Xichen stopped breathing.

He remembered how, years and years before, Nie Huaisang had refused to listen to anyone telling him that his brother had died until Lan Xichen himself confirmed it. Back then too, Nie Huaisang had only trusted him and claimed it was because Lan Xichen never lied.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve lost nearly two decades’ worth of memory and in four months, nobody noticed?”

Nie Huaisang nodded miserably.

“I couldn’t let them know,” he sighed, his tears starting to calm a little. “Even when I f-figured it probably wasn’t a prank, then it meant that someone had attacked me, r-right? I couldn’t let anyone know that it had worked.” He sniffed, and wiped away his tears. “I really wanted to come see you sooner, but I’d heard some of my disciples chat that it was annoying we were in such bad terms with the great sects, so I wasn’t sure you’d see me at all if I went to Gusu. I thought I’d just wait until we were in the same place, and then I’d see if you seemed angry at me or not. And you are. I didn’t even know you could get so angry at someone, er-ge.”

“I am. Should I tell you why?”

Sniffling some more, Nie Huaisang shook his head.

“I think I can guess. I think it has to do with da-ge and san-ge. Is… is it my fault they’re dead?”

Lan Xichen opened his mouth, ready to say that at least one of them had died by his fault indeed, then closed it again. If Nie Huaisang was in earnest, if he’d really lost his memories, then telling him the truth would just be needlessly cruel. If his last memory was before the Phoenix Mountain Hunt, then he really was just a clueless young man. Lan Xichen still remembered how dainty Nie Huaisang had looked at that Night Hunt, the slight argument he’d gotten in with Nie Mingjue over being properly dressed for the occasion. It had been back when the two brother’s fights were just a game between them, before Nie Mingjue’s health started to decline and all good humour disappeared from their arguments.

If their places had been reversed, perhaps Nie Huaisang wouldn’t have had the kindness of staying silent. He had proved that he wasn’t above being cruel when the occasion called for it, and he’d shown also in what little regard he held Lan Xichen.

But Lan Xichen wasn’t Nie Huaisang, and the world already held enough cruelty as it was.

“They died because Jin Guangyao made certain choices, and those eventually turned against him,” Lan Xichen claimed. “The role you played in that was no greater or lesser than mine.”

“But I played a role,” Nie Huaisang sharply noted, before sighing. “I thought so. Do you think maybe someone took offence to that and decided to punish me for it?”

“Very few people know what really happened between da-ge and Jin Guangyao, and of those, none are the sort to use curses,” Lan Xichen replied. He paused, considering something. “One is the kind who might figure out how to lift them, though. Huaisang, would you consider coming to Gusu with me to meet Wei Wuxian? If anyone can find how to help you, I think it is him.”

An odd little noise escaped from Nie Huaisang’s lips, something almost like laughter.

“Wei Wuxian is in Gusu? So that’s true too, he really married Lan Wangji? Ah, and here I thought that for sure that one was fake… The future is a really odd place, uh? But… yes, I’ll come. I’m so tired of being on my own, and I trust you, er-ge.”

Lan Xichen quickly stood up and turned away, his eyes suddenly burning with tears he couldn’t allow himself to spill, his chest so tight he nearly couldn’t breathe.

He had thought he’d made his peace with what had happened, with the way it had happened, but to hear Nie Huaisang’s easy profession of trust reopened an old wound. If only he’d shown the same trust after his brother’s death, if only he hadn’t tried to handle that one his own, if only he’d realised that Lan Xichen would have listened to his suspicions, if only Lan Xichen had seen that something had been wrong…

But perhaps there had been nothing to see.

Four months of amnesia, and nobody had noticed anything.

Lan Xichen wondered if he should have taken comfort in this confirmation of Nie Huaisang’s acting skills. He found that at the moment, he couldn’t. Being fooled by a master was still to have been fooled.

“Let’s discuss the details of this later,” Lan Xichen suggested in a strangled voice. “It will be noticed that we’ve both disappeared, and that will fuel gossip. Take a moment to compose yourself, and then…”

“It’s fine, I’m good,” Nie Huaisang replied with perfect steadiness. “May I just borrow some water to clean my face?”

Startled by his tone, Lan Xichen turned to look at him. Nie Huaisang was standing once more, his expression perfectly placid in spite of some lingering redness in his eyes. After he washed the tears and snot off his face, nothing remained of the breakdown he had just gone through. Lan Xichen found himself almost wondering if any of that had happened, if he had just dreamed that moment of fear and vulnerability, that demonstration of trust.

Only time would tell if Nie Huaisang had been sincere, or if this was only another scheme of his.

[ayankun]

real quick before I get into season 6

So this is my second time watching Season 6 and I’m p. excited.  This last week or so I’ve been dredging up bits and pieces, but most of it is a blur.  It seems the memories that lasted this whole year were mostly of the huge armored truck and the nonbinary character who works at *spoilers*’s tech startup.

I’m curious to see if the second time through it’ll settle in like it belongs.  I remember Season 5 really didn’t make any sense to me until I saw it again.

But really I’m just excited that in 11 hours I can watch the new stuff?!

But first, before I forget, here’s my last thoughts on Season 5.

So remember how I was surprised at Season 1′s structure, that it folded up nicely down the middle with some pretty tidy symmetry?

None of the other seasons do that.

Instead, I remember particularly strongly how jarring the end of the Ghost Rider arc was in the middle of Season 4.  And then again when the (what I’m calling) Kasius arc also wrapped up mid-season.

I’m not sure when I read about it, but it probably was circa Ghost Rider, that they’d intentionally decided on what I’m pretty sure they called “pods” of episodes, these seasons-within-a-season sort of narratives.

Season 2 sort of kicks it off, what with the race to Terragenesis taking eps 1-10 and the Afterlife/splinter SHIELD stories filling 11-22.  Then Season 3 has the monolith/Maveth mystery to start, followed by Hive & the Inhumans for the second half.  S4 is super poddy, obviously branded as Ghost Rider/Agents of Hydra, and S5 also splits neatly into future!Lighthouse and present day!Lighthouse.

Two points to make on this:

Kasius is such a rockstar villain that I feel really bad for Hale/Ruby/Talbot.  They’re so apples and oranges but having the highlight come first allows for unfavorable comparisons to be made.  It’s like asking any well-to-do Kree to compare Xandarian snail to oops all berries.

Good thing they’d had all this practice writing complete stories in 12 eps, since I’m hoping Season 6 (and obvs Season 7) will still feel as fully formed as their longer antecedents.

Anyway, that first point is my major point for S5.

S3 already feels like the second half of S2, and its internal halves are the most similar to each other as any of the other “pods,” so it’s not like people have a reason to go around saying “I liked the first half of the season waaay better than the second.”

(although I might.  I might say that, actually.  but not because the halves were branded separately from one another)

And S4, though the two halves are barely identifiable as coming from the same show much less the same season, they’re both good.  Robbie Reyes is perfect.  The effort to incorporate new MCU topics/aesthetic from Doctor Strange is great.  Robots who just want to be a real girl is my JAM.  All the Framework cameos really make my day!  And then Robbie Reyes comes back all deus ex machina (ironic) and saves the day, and

it makes sense that he does because the function and nature of the Darkhold was well established in part 1 and

it’s GREAT that he does because he’s perfect and we miss him.

Then here comes S5.  I really really respect so much about the creative decisions that took the story where it went (ie, outside Papa MCU’s sphere of interference), and getting to reuse the same set in a different context while minimizing “on-location” shoots is just technical and financial genius, okay. 

But there’s so much about the first half, in the future, that compels me waaaaaaay more than the gritty anger of the second half. 

Kasius, WOW what a villain.  Dominic Rains, everyone.  I have nothing unkind to say about the performance, the character, anything.  Impeccable.  Spectacular.  Perfection.

The mystery of the season opener!  We had the tag scene where Coulson’s “in space” and plenty of time to ruminate on the how and why, especially with Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 coming out right as S4 ended and Thor: Ragnarok literally sizzling in the theaters at the same time as this season started.  They answer the question by the end of the episode, but not before several characters come up with and pursue several different theories, and that’s fun.

What a way to capitalize on the Inhuman storyline your show’s been about for years now, without forcing Papa MCU to contend with all this good work you’ve been doing.  Just go somewhere he can’t reach you (the future), and then un-write all of it anyway.  V. tidy.  Extra style points will be awarded.

LEITMOTIFS.  If y’all’ve seen BSG, then you know Bear McCreary is a master of the art.  But this season has so many good themes, my friends.  The Daisy/Quake theme that’s been knocking around for a season is here in full force, and Sinara’s is the best bad guy theme you could have wanted, and dearest sweetest Flint has the best great guy theme you ever heard.

Just, while we’re here.  Sinara.  She says nothing for episodes (it feels like, I wasn’t counting) and her first line is a scornfully growled “compassion.”  Give it up for Florence Faivre !!!  She hardly has any lines but you always know exactly what she’s thinking and what she’s about.  Sinara and Kasius have the richest on-screen chemistry of anybody on any show from any era fight me on this I dare you.

Mack’s coming down from his second life in the Framework, and that suuuuucks that these folks never have a moment to rest before barreling into their next story.  But he gets to be a father to Flint!  And Yo-Yo gets to be a mother!!!  UGH why couldn’t they have brought Flint instead of Deke lololol oh well.

I think I know another reason why Lincoln seems overhyped to me.  That other Inhuman, Ben I think his name is?  He’s in like two episodes, serves a narrative purpose, and is disposed.  I know Lincoln’s in like 18 times as many episodes but they have the same exact overall impact on my brain-hole.  Imagine if it was Ben that came back with them instead of Deke.  That’s how I feel about Lincoln.  Like, how did this obviously disposable character make it this far?

Then you have Deke.  You love to hate him.  He’s a very well-fashioned character who is flawless in making you feel the way the showrunners want you to feel.  That’s the kind of character that gets killed off twice and still comes back, and it doesn’t surprise you.

So, Enoch.  Enoch is everyone’s favorite character, right?  Right.  Give me genderless robots with a soft spot for humanity ANY DAY.  PLEASE where are they I need them.  (I’m un-repressing memories of S6 and I feel like somehow I should be careful what I wish for)  Man I remember with 1000% clarity the absolute glee I felt sitting down for the opening montage of S5 the first time, how ballsy weird it was, just watching this freaky bald alien of a man go swimming with some fun electro pop number playing in the background.  100/10 please make more television like this

 More monoliths!!  The time one is so pretty!

(remember when there were more monoliths and no one knew where they came from or what they did but then it didn’t matter because they got instantly exploded?)

The low-key obvious answers to the season’s questions, what with the Inhumans running all over the shop, Quake there to tear everything down and Flint there to put the pieces back together I’m not crying you’re crying

Oh man, and Simmons getting to mentor not one but two Inhuman youths to be confident and trust in themselves and their powers.  What a ways from the fear-panic response to Daisy when she turned.

Also, yeah, it has to be said, this show’s blatant “you’re different and that’s okay” agenda sits very well with me.  Agents of SHIELD says LGBTQ+ rights!

So anyway, part 2 falls a little flat for me because its strength is its themes, but I’m not really compelled by the stakes and definitely not by the villains and not really even by the intra-team drama.

Obviously S2 touched on parenthood, but it was pretty specific.  S5 digs in and brings us a lot more on the topic.

Kasius desperately desires his father’s approval but very deeply despises the methods and the people who earn it.

Hale was indoctrinated by Hydra and was very earnest in wanting to uphold the values of the organization, until the organization (and Whitehall) shared with her their narrow appreciation of the gift of her loyalty.  Even then, she struggles to make sense of this loyalty, only realizing too late that being a good Hydra pawn and a good parent are categorically mutually exclusive.

Ruby, obviously, is like a mini-Kasius, the brave-faced rebel who wears her mother’s disappointment on her sleeve like a badge of honor to pretend that it isn’t crippling her.

The Von Strucker kid, boy is he messed up (and his Hydra dad had something to do with it)

((echos of Ward are still heard even this far after his demise, and we know what his father figures were like))

Poor Talbot, got some brain damage and some Hydra conditioning on top of that, cracked that noggin wide open.  He just wanted to do good by his family.  Just wanted his son to know he loves him.

Polly and Robin.  The daughter who needs constant special care because she’s stuck inside her own mind and the mother who’s been through hell and back and still manages to do her best.  Even when she knows she won’t always be there for her daughter.  Even when she knows she’ll be replaced.

May getting a glimpse at the life she and Andrew once talked about.  Getting a chance to do right by that little girl.

Mack recovering from getting that same glimpse, from the echoing memories of a life time spent with his greatest regret erased.  Being roped into being a thug and threatening that dad without knowing the meaning behind his threat -- being told that people like him don’t deserve the privilege of parenthood.  But then getting to know Flint, and having Yo-Yo at his side while they fast track this kid through all the things he’s gonna need to know in order to be the Big Damn Hero the world needs him to be.

The timey-wimey promise that FitzSimmons will one day be parents to a brilliant daughter who will unfortunately give birth to a Deke.

Coulson and Daisy.  Another parent placing enormous expectations on his daughter, desperate that she be ready for his responsibilities because his time is running out.  A daughter who mishandles these expectations and refuses to stop fighting a losing battle, not because she’s not ready to step up, but because she doesn’t want to face the fact that she’s losing the man who raised her.

Anyway, aside from all this good Theme work, part 2 wades perfunctorily through musty remnants of the previous season, from The Doctor to The Russian.  Which makes sense, because that season ended in a way that left so many loose threads -- but then this season comes along and summarily ties them up, all cute little bows, the lot of them.  Dusts its hands.  Nothing to see here.  Move along now.  Time’s up.

[slothgiirl]

Y/N AND HARRY STYLES SOULMATE AU PART 3

It's been a month and you’re pretty sure that Harry’s your soulmate. It's stopped itching after that day, when you'd run into each other at a coffee shop. It had already been lucky to run into someone twice in a city of millions, and your luck hadn't held up.

While the letters on your wrist are still pretty blurred, you can make out the H and S, his initials.

You hadn't told anyone either, wanting to keep it a secret. It felt wrong to go about telling people when you hadn't had a chance to talk to the man himself. Not really.

It made for good material to work through in your art studio hours. All the worrying and what ifs and thoughts running through your head as you thought about reaching out on instagram in the hope that it would somehow get to him.

But then you didn't. Not wanting to have to explain and talk to whoever on  his team...of his people, handled that sort of thing.

Many celebrities got people claiming to be their soulmates. Hopefully young girls and boys who really wanted it to be true, who wanted their idols or celebrity crush to be theirs.

Or maybe you were just being old fashioned and letting things happen as they're meant to instead of blasting it on social media like some people did now, counting on the millions of people on social media to connect them.

It didn't matter.

You were fine with just seeing what happened. London wasn't that big. And you were still pretty young. And it might not be him.

Even though you knew in your heart that it was.

Between school, and work, and the little art our able to get done, you collapse in your apartment, Lydia already setting on your couch in a pair of sweats and old t shirt that might be yours actually now that you think about it.

“There's pizza,” she calls out to you, not looking up from her phone, smiling widely as she scrolls, “I think it's cold now but maybe it's like rice where it's less carbs when it's cold.”

“That sounds super fake and cold pizza is really freaking gross.” You utter, having almost died when she made leftover pizza and eggs together like it was an actual breakfast.

“I'm saving the planet by not using the toaster oven technically though.”

You snort, “wow I love an environmentally conscious queen.”

“So about that soulmate mark,” she says, smirking over at you from the couch, easy in your tiny flat while you pop a slice into the toaster oven.

“Don't want to talk about it,” you reply, already feeling the heat rise up into your cheeks.

“But you’re like the first person to get it!” She states, eyes practically sparkling with the idea. She'd never felt the annoying itch that made you scratch until your wrist turn red.

But even then you could feel the butterflies in your belly. It was easy to get lost in the idea of it all.

“Didn’t Pooja and Andy get it when they were still seventeen. Like months after the mark showed up!”

She shakes her head, looking back down at her phone in deep interest, “doesn't count because it happened before we met them. There's so gross together,” she finished fondly, sticking her tongue out.

“I'm going to tell them you said that.” You take a bite out of your reheated pizza, immediately regretting it when the hot steam burns inside your mouth.

“Anyway,” she says, “doing anything next Saturday?”

You shrug, “no. Don't think so. why?” It was your day from school and work. Ignoring all the work you should be doing for your classes. At least your thesis work was next year.

“Just wanted to make sure,” she says nonchalantly, “keep your day clear. We are going out.”

You laugh. There's never a day in which she doesn't want to go out and do something. “Okay. Do I get a say in it?”

“No, lets get lebanese at that one place by hyde park?”

Your mouth is already watering at the thought, “okay. I'm down, especially if we go to Hyde Park right after.”

“Deal,” she says, sitting up, “Now I'm going to go shower for the first time in a week.”

“Lydia that's so bloody disgusting,” you shout after her.

*

You're early. For once you hadn't been held back by anything but your own laziness after a long week. It was nice to have somewhere to be where you actually wanted to be, meeting up with Lydia like you too were still at college.

It wasn't like you'd lived very far from each other back home. And more often than not you'd ridden your bikes around town, resulting in more than a few falls.

You grab a table, order a mimosa while you wait like the semi functional adult you are because ladies who brunch order mimosas or so you've been led to believe. Plus it was bottomless, so it was a steal really.

As long as you drank your heart out. With Lydia you felt safe getting tipsy during daylight hours.

You scroll through your phone, answering texts and send some memes to people you knew were at work. Suckers. Laughing at the group chat for your ethics class now that you finally were actually reading through it. Andy was hilarious as usual.

When Harry walks in, wearing a tigre t shirt and loose pants in a flowery print, more bold than anything in your mainly neutral wardrobe, and raybans.

You swallow, heart speeding up at the weight of him walking through the door like something out of a romcom even though he can't be here for you. It's just a coincidence and yet you've never felt more nervous, the weight of it all lodged in your throat.

Your fingers brush against your mark, soothing the live wire of nerves under your skin.

He's walking towards you. It's unmistakable now but you can't see his expression underneath the black sunglasses. It strikes you as rude, that he hasn't taken them off. The sun's not even beating down hotly today.

You still haven't looked away.  Maybe that's why he's coming over. . .too say hello. Technically you do know him.

People say hello all the time.

“Can I sit down here,” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you, head tilted towards the empty side of the booth.

Predictably, you ramble in shock, “my friend Lydia's coming actually but I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you sat here while you waited-are you waiting for someone?”

Harry slides his glasses off, hands still covered in a few large rings that somehow keep from looking overly tack on him. It must be the large hands.

The perfect kind for drawing really.

“Um,” he says, red staining his well defined cheekbones, “actually I'm meeting you…”

You raise an eyebrow, confusion written on your face.

Harry rushes to explain, flustered, “I had-I looked through a bunch of photos of me tagged on instagram and twitter and figured your friend Lydia might have uploaded and tagged me and then really hoped that she had her profile public,” he says, leaning over to you, bathing you both with an air of intimacy that you mirror as you study his features. The earnestness with which he's speaking to you clear in his mossy green eyes, in a way that paint could never mimic.

“and then I sent her a message and explained,” he trails off softly, looking down at his hands for a second, biting the inside of his cheek, searching for the words he needs.

You cover his hands on the table with yours, meeting his gaze head on. There's something so disarmingly kind about him that all that nervous energy you'd felt when he walked in had dissipated.

“Well I explained about what I think is...y'know maybe...it's too forward innit,” he utters, swallowing thickly as he meets your gaze, leaning back and pulling away from you, the warmth of his hands leaving yours. “I should've talked to your first not-not sprung this up on you.”

“No,” you tell him, “I was glad to see you again. Not that I wasn't also really freaking nervous but mostly glad.” The words feel true enough as you say them. So they must be true.

Harry relaxes against the table in relief, chuckling lightly to himself, looking over at you shamelessly, like he can't stand to lose another minute without you. Not when you might be-when you probably are-

You let out a deep breathe, “We should probably talk.” Someone should state it. Get it out of the way because there's no way you came all the way out here without getting one of your favorite dishes in london.

“We should,” he responds with a smile, small and hopeful and god wouldn't it be something if he is! This kind man who remembered you after a concert. Who went around london like any normal person might and didn't that say a lot about what type of person he is when he could be a complete arse given his fame.

“But first I’m going to eat and bore you with so much random bits of my Mayanist research paper I've yet to finish because I'm still pretending that it's not due next week and that time I had a popsicle made from zapote counted as research.” The popsicle had been interesting. The lackluster research results on your subject for this paper was not.  

It had almost made you change subjects. Almost.

There's flecks of caramel in Harry's eyes when the light hits them, laugh lines deep around his lush mouth as he smiles over at you. “Only if you’re alright with me interrupting you with questions every five seconds,” he responds.

You look away, trying to calm down the warmth spreading throughout you from being on the receiving end of Harry smiling at you, not because he was usually smiling, but because he was happy to see you.

It's then that you notice the quick glances over at your table, the awkward hold of phones in hands and remember just who this man across from you is. You press your lips together, resolving to ignore them.

“Deal,” you tell him with a smile, “now I welcome you to share in my ladies who brunch dream before I squish in as much work as I can get through tomorrow.”

He laughs and you smile because that was you. You made him laugh.

*

Harry is easy to talk to, which you knew from that day in the coffee shop and even that night when Lydia had asked for a picture with him and you'd so easily teased him. What you hadn't expected was how easy it was to slip right into that.

No nervousness or strain arose from your impending talk as you slipped on your drink and ate, talking between bites.

You tell him about a documentary you just watched which was more of a string of thoughts, the type to make any cinephile nod in delight. About your latin american culinary research as your paper focused on important plants during mayan times and how they had translated into modern times. “I mean most people the world over had had guava not to mention the super fruit that avocado has become.”

“Who doesn't love a good guac,” Harry muses. “Though as good as guava is there's too many big seeds. Can't hardly-” He stops.

You smirk, “finish the sentence Harold.”

He sighs already laughing to himself, resolved, “can't hardly swallow.”

“That's what she said.”

“Knew you were going to say that.”

He tells you about his recent trip to the states. To a big awards ceremony with Stevie Nicks who it's clear he adores in the way his voice goes soft when he talks about her. “People always tell you not to meet your idols but,” he shrugs, face glowing as he continues, “it's-she's cooler than I could've imagined and such a good person too. She was really great when I wanted to show her my first album. Gave it to me straight.”

You smile, “It's amazing to know that some people are deserving of all the trust and love that people have in them.”

You split the bill without a fuss, merging into the late afternoon crowd seamlessly, a world away from the weird half hidden glances over at you.

You don't know how he does it. It had set you on edge, an edge the mimosa helped dull.

“Want to go to the Natural History Museum,” you ask him, wanting somewhere that might grant some privacy to talk. Hyde park just seemed to open. And the V&A was always so busy.

“Do you know the way,” he asks, glancing down at you.

You nod and lead the way, easily navigating a street over and up, comfortable in the quiet that had descended around you both.

There was enough sun out now in mid april to warm your skin, a nice change after the winter months of layers and layers.

It makes the walk enjoyable. Spring’s and underrated season you think. Too many people get caught up in summer for school holidays and winter because of winter break but spring was where it's at.

“You come here often,” he asks, as you both aimlessly wander around the museum, passing by people too absorbed in the exhibits to look over at the man by your side.

“When I can,” you readily admit, “I still feel so lucky to live so close to so many amazing museums even if the collections were all stolen.”

He snorts, “your professors must love you.”

“Well my greek professor did not so much my lit prof because english lit is all dead white guys that I think are vastly overrated.”

Harry shakes his head, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter, “and I want to hear them all no matter  how much I might disagree.”

You grin, “well how boring would it be if we all had the same options? I mean I won't budge on Hemingway but art is a dialogue isn't it?”

“And what dialogue does your art say,” he asks as you step into an empty gallery. You suppose that the bird taxidermy collection is hardly exciting when zoos exist.

“That we should talk,” you respond, turning to face him, intimately close, his chest inches from yours.

“We should,” he says carefully, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, solid and warm and your eyes flutter closed. You breath in the smell of him, like sharp clean leather.

“Is this okay,” Harry asks with great care, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, “yeah, I mean,” you pull away unable to think straight so close to him, turning so that your looking at some long dead puffin. “Did you think I might be-when we ran into each other at the coffee shop?”

You hold your breathe as you wait for him to answer.

Harry doesn't move toward you, sighing as he leans against a wall, chewing over his words, brow furrowed. “No,” he finally says, “I didn't. I just remembered you'd been nice and funny about the whole thing with Lydia and then I ran into you and thought it might be a sign from the universe we're meant to be friends so I figured why not and went over to talk to you. My sister tells me I've always been like that. Friendly. Making friends out of strangers.”

You exhale, smiling as you turn towards him, taken by the severity of his expression. His gaze is fixed on you. “I didn't think-not until later when I was at work and my mark,” you offer, nervously brushing your hair behind your ears, “it seemed like too big of a coincidence. I hadn't really bumped into anyone else who's name starts with an H.”

“You didn't reach out,” he states, void of any rapprochement.

“I wasn't sure how to go about these things and I,” you hesitate, “I was still thinking things over. I mean this is sort of a huge thing.”

The corner of his lips perk up, “can I see it?”

You blush furiously, excitement traveling up your spine, “yes.”

Harry moves towards you, closing the distance between you both. He leaves enough space between you both, a step apart. It feels like too much and yet your glad, you don't want to rush. If he's really yours you want to take your time, to get to know him first and foremost.

You don't even know if he's a morning person. Or if he spreads the cream on scones first or the jelly first.

You can feel his gaze tracking your hands as you pull the sleeve of your right hand down, revealing your soulmate mark.

A blurry but legible Harry E. Styles

[ibatronic]

Still Alive...

BEFORE YOU READ!

The following does get really personal, so please read (if you so choose) with an open heart and genuine sense of compassion and sensitivity. It's also many things I've wanted to get off my chest for ages. The following will also explain my mood in the past two journals I made. It does end on a lighter note, I promise.

It's been ages since I've posted anything online, let alone anything here... Remember months ago, when I had posted a journal about the slump I was feeling and then posted an artwork of me… slump drawing? There’s more beyond me simply losing motivation to make more art. And a few of you might have noticed I posted a rather… shocking status update in which I threatened suicide. Following that post, a lot of the unpleasant feelings and thoughts that I believed were gone came back to haunt me. Additionally, many things in my past came back to haunt me, prompting me to go soul searching and try to better myself.

For those not in-the-know, I have been suffering from clinical and manic depression for about the past 6 years. Speaking in real-life timeline, back in the 6 years, I remember that it started with my severe trouble making friends, communicating with others socially, and trying to fit in with others. My depression wasn’t just caused by my low turnout in the friends department, but also because I'd never truly felt loved by anyone… not even myself. As I grew up, I had no friends all throughout middle school and no friends all throughout high school, and then came to terms with the fact that I have no friends at ALL! Things like having no friends really did have an effect on me… I gave friendship and putting myself out there an earnest try, but after the many times I got hurt and betrayed, that was the end of it for me.  People like myself who are alone usually spend their time practicing something they like, in my case being my art, writing, and studying. From other sources and from my own experience, it helps to be noticed for your talents and interest. This pretty much tied into, if you’d notice, why I was actively moping around DA Forums grousing on why my work doesn’t get as much attention as I’d hoped or why those that are recognized do get it. Sometimes, I feel annoyed that noone cares about my work, not even my relatives. My original work. Like, on DeviantArt, I recall fan-art and fan-artists get tons of favorites on their work. While the highest I've ever gotten was 11. I've put hours, days, and sometimes weeks into these and noone cares. And it's mostly criticism that doesn't even make sense. I just want to tell them how hard it is to make the art, but showing people who aren't interested in the hobby will just make them annoyed about it. Everyone is expecting a @$%^ing anime master from every artist and I just don't get it. Some of the time people will make annoying re-colors to get the respect and attention they want, but they do get both of those things in the end. Mostly, how it goes is: A person will make a rather undeveloped character. Then, they will take someone else's artwork and color in their character. Then they will claim it as their own. Then, they will get hate and attention. The person will 'cry' over it and say that they are going to leave that site. People will feel bad for that person, make the person fan art, subscribe to or watch them or whatever, and the person will be filthy-famous and have tons of friends in the end, even though they didn't do jack @$%^! Or they just stoop so low just to get-rich-quick. Argh! I just don't get it any more! I try to hard making quality animation, art, videos, but no one cares what so ever!

I’ve had nobody.  Nobody cared about me.  Going this long without someone besides therapists to confide in, or someone to comfort you or share their likes and dislikes with could really mess you up...

An ordinary day for me back in high school that I rarely overlook, was my recurring plight when it came to being around others. For the majority of my life, I had been nothing but an outcast to people my own age, I never fit in with them since they never truly accepted me as their friend. From what I can remember, each year, I was either on my own or hung out with a group of kids as they talked amongst themselves while I just remained silent. And each year, I make the mistake of even having the tiniest bit of optimism that things just might be different. Having been alone and neglected for a long time, I spent every day seeing what it felt like to be going through what I think are quite possibly the worst years of my adolescent life, with my best and only friend gone (he moved), while I was stuck amongst people whom I felt care very little about me. Now, I’m by myself and with some content. Everyday I would go through the same routine—morning academic classes, lunch break, after classes, dismissal—counting the hours as they go by. For kids that suffered from anxiety or depression, like me, they were sent to the Social Work team where they can vent out their problems and try to uncover any solution or coping mechanism to get by the school year. For me, it might've been a different story because ever since my depression started, I received little check-ins from anyone, not even my own parents, relatives, or any old friends I once had (ones that I talked to in elementary or middle school that won’t talk to me anymore). Most of the time in school, I refused to show any emotion, trying to keep them all bottled up as I go through eight hours by hours while the other students talk amongst themselves and don't pay attention to me.

In life, I find what it is like to be in complete isolation, triggering memories of how I had endured loneliness in my childhood and used to be the timid, awkward, and sullen oddball, knowing that there is noone around to brighten my day, only the sound of other kids talking amongst themselves and having fun much to my envy is all I can hear. On one night as I walked home, I realized that I am really alone, having no idea where my life is going at that rate, or if there is someone out there who really cares about me because not a lot of people have spoken to me for a while ever since I became a high school student years back and regret not getting in much contact with them to see how things were. Plus, my closest relatives, such as my parents and brother are not really much help in my condition. As much as I try to talk to them, I don't get the feeling that they truly understand. The way they respond whenever I attempt to console to them is very dismissive and inconsiderate, further supporting my belief that not even they care about me. In the time I'd wrote this, I swore off telling them any ounce of my problems, as if they would actually care...

Even worse was enduring bullying and abuse from other students that triggered bad memories of what caused me not to be so trusting of others. And, I could not fight back against them all that much, doing nothing other than reacting, glaring, snarking, or giving the occasional finger, which wouldn't last long as I am often overpowered by their popularity, dominance, and miraculous ways of getting reactions out of me. Unless I were lucky to find some kind of way of hitting them. There were some days which ended with me getting sent to the principal’s office in order to acknowledge my mental illness with the staff, not to mention what feelings of trauma I get whenever I’m bullied or harassed by some dastardly kid. Sometimes after the bullying, I would have meltdowns or end up running back to my haven so nobody can see my silent (nonexistent) tears of regret and sorrow, even ignoring whatever pains those bullies left on my heart and body. Sometimes the pain is so intense that I can no longer bottle up my emotions, yet now I refuse to show it in front of others and would rather do it alone in my haven so I can be on to do so freely. The only words I can whisper to myself is “I hate myself…” This is also the case for cyberbullies and predators I've fallen victim of in the past—people have anonymously been mean and hurtful to me, and what's worse is that I REALLY cannot do anything about it besides reporting, especially for pedophiles who have managed to lead me on in the past and take advantage of my open wounds just to get an easy nail... Speaking of bullying, I think it's safe to assume that I'd also sufferred the same at the hands of my own father! In the past, and during my childhood, he would abuse me by striking me every time I screwed something up, even if it was a minor or honest mistake. Being both verbally and physically abusive, I can't exactly say I felt truly safe when around him in hindsight, worrying that one slip-up in front of him could result in another clean bruise on my body. Recently, I recall my father once barging into my room at night while I was asleep and interrogating me about some sort of misunderstanding with his credit card and certain online marketing website. Instead of actually filling me in on what happened or what was going on, he would yell me these questions with no fathomable context whatsoever. Even worse was that initially I was suffering from sleep inertia, so I definitely couldn't quite catch on quickly. Eventually, things led to things, and a heated argument erupted between us, prompting us to get into a shouting match and for me to release all my pent up anger on him, even getting physical and delivering a few blows to him thus further angering him. The incident left me with mixed emotions of confusion, sadness, trauma, and all topped with insomnia since I could not go to sleep for the rest of the night. The things he said to me during all this made assured me that he definitely didn't care about me, and that I was expendable just like all his other abandoned love-children... The feelings, it burns. It is when nobody says happy birthday. It is when family members say they love me yet don't show it. They don't know how to love me, and that is the same as not loving me. It is being alone at lunch. It is being alone and lonely all the time. It is spending hours online finding out how others managed to cope with the stinging feeling I get before I go to bed when my head starts spinning with all the evil truths that nobody cares about me. Sure, some may say they do, but who wants to listen to me talk about my passions? Who wants to help me out? Nobody... Nobody even wants to take time out of their day to spend it with me. It's reading books on how to make friends. It's moping for hours wondering why nobody even likes me, much less loves me. It's changing appearances and attitudes only to be rejected and alone and remain unloved. It's questioning who I am entirely, it's masking who I am and changing who I am and feeling like I'm crazy. It's wishing I could be okay with the fact that nobody loves me but it still feels like a hot hand gripping my throat and a heavy weight on my chest. It's replaying every comment in my head over and over. It's terrible, I can't talk with anyone about it because nobody cares. It hurts, God it hurts!

There was one thing during my time in high school that I could confide in, besides art and drawing…

Back in mid-2015, I remember working hard on a series called “Tails for Hire”; one that parodied the already-parody, Sonic for Hire. With the help of an online ally from Kentucky, I was able to finish it and upload it to YouTube that summer. At the time, my YouTube channel was nothing but cobwebs of old, rather second-rate videos. That was until the first episode of Tails for Hire was released. To my surprise, it garnered over 5,000 views the first week it was uploaded, and I was blown away by the good responses and relatively fair criticism. For the first time, I felt… significant! In retrospect, I realize that what lifted my spirits seeing the comments on my TFH videos was the fact that I had some company. Afterwards, my partner for the video, Tales499 and I talked fairly often, I made another (now former) friend on Skype from Norway, I had so many notifications of comments on the videos. I didn’t feel so alone during all this. I guess I wanted people to talk to and share my feelings with in order to quell my loneliness and compensate for my lack of friendships. I’ll admit, the internet was harsh at times with me, but I learn over the years (and now), that it’s a way of helping you grow thicker skin. This all might explain why I felt the yearning desire for popularity on different social media platforms. Though, I have to admit it does sound rather pathetic for me to console to people behind screens instead of face-to-face.

As some of you who know me from my YouTube channel, you’ll know that Tails for Hire is currently on an undeterminably long hiatus, as of June 2016. Currently, no return date was thought of, but don’t fret, one day… ONE DAY, Tails for Hire will return… At this point the hiatus is more of a hibernation.

Months later, after I finally graduated high school, leaving behind the four years of emotional torture I had endured, I was ready to head to university! Or at least, I thought…

I won’t get too deep into the details of what happened there, but I will say this—everything that I struggled with in my early-to-mid adolescence came to haunt me in university as if I was cursed. No matter how hard I tried to suck it up, I didn’t make any real friends or meaningful relationships in university. When I noticed all the other students at the school, I felt generally inadequate—it reminded me of all things that others are better at and how I'm don't have anything to offer anyone. At the end of December 2018, some of you might recall me making a status update on DeviantArt of me contemplating suicide, and that if I don’t post anything the next year, I might have actually gone with it… Few of you showed your concern… But, while I did appreciate it, I felt that people will only care when it’s too late… I’m sorry if I scared or confused some of you. If I EVER feel suicidal again, I’ll see it that seek immediate help.

Short story—public Safety, many counsellors, my roommates, and one of the deans had come to me saying how worried they were about my well-being after hearing reports of me acting strange and making suicidal remarks. This also ties into the fact that the way I've been feeling has caused me to occasionally miss some of my classes, not be able to focus well, and worst of all... develop some suicidal thoughts... I even explicitly fantasized of jumping off a roof or a window to kill myself! I'm sorry if all this info came up out of nowhere. Eventually, the Dean highly recommended that I be put on medical leave until it is decided that I'm fit to come back to campus. I wasn't too fond of the idea given that I worked so hard in coming to this school and at least tough my way through the first semester. But apparently, it's for the best... When others ask why I would even think to kill myself, the only overarching reason I can give is "I'm worthless!" When people notice that I've been OK for few days or acting normal, it's just that I've been manic. When I look at others, I always think of the things I can't do! I'm an artist who can even get noticed, I'm a guy who has never had many friendships that lasted long, I'm a wimp who can't work up the courage to confront others, I'm a university student on medical leave! All of these things and then some are what trigger thoughts of how my life is a joke! But somehow, during those times when I contemplated suicide, I actually felt free! Almost giddy, and that I could finally kiss this worthless life good-bye!

At the moment, I’m going through professional help and trying to keep myself busy during my downtime. Part of me says there’s no hope me, but part me says one day, I’ll be back to my old, wholesomely manic self again. Step by step… it just might happen.

Lately, I’ve tried to get back into the passions I once enjoyed, get the ideas I’ve had out there as if someone would want to see them. But, I still struggle in finding the motivation thinking of the very disheartening outcomes—low viewership, negative or no feedback, or just not feeling happy with the finished product. I sometimes look at my art and wonder if I can do better or it's good enough. I'm turned between both sides on that case, mainly because I don't have anyone else to share with me their well-thought-out opinions, instead of one-word comments or notifications where someone simply favorites something. Mostly due to my depression, almost everything I do in life seems meaningless. Because that's how depression works! No matter how good I (supposedly) am, I don't remember the good things about myself, I just over exaggerate the terrible stuff about me and it becomes who I am in my mind. No matter what I do, I'm not good enough for myself... But no, my fear of death and it being a one-way ticket are what stop me... I try to figure out what I have to live for and what ideas I have to share. It's really hard, given how I compare myself to others and how much success they've achieved besides me, and the negative thoughts are what cloud my mind no matter how hard I try to clear them. Then there's the days where I feel unimportant or under appreciated, as if I make no difference by staying alive. Some days I feel like I'm on top of the world and that noone can stop me, and other and most days I feel nothing but pain. During those good days, I find myself surrounded by people who seem to care and be interested in me, but soon after the feeling wears off, and I just don't know why! In the time, I've written this, I've been feeling really low, as if noone would even care or bother to read this or be concerned with how I'm feeling. But as I finish and sign off... I kinda feel like a huge weight was lifted off of me. It felt good for me to let it all out, even if it is just typing it out. (Sigh)... If you've made it this far in reading the journal, thank you for reading and hopefully understanding. Once again, I'm sorry if this seemed overly dramatic, self-indulgent or just really heavy. But like I said, this was for me to get some of that heavy weight off me. Throughout half of this year, everything that has happened was really just too much to explain, too much to handle, too traumatically stressing, and generally just heavy... which is why I needed time off... Again, thank you for reading...

[supremeuppityone]

Redcoats and Blue Ribbons

Happy Klaroline AU Week everybody!

In this AUhuman! Klaroline story set during the Revolutionary War, shopkeeper Caroline is part of a notorious spy ring for the patriots. And now an annoying, smug British soldier keeps stopping by to add to her anxieties...

Tagging @austennerdita2533  - hope you like it!

  “Patriotism is as much a virtue as justice, and is as necessary for the support of societies as natural affection is for the support of families.” — Benjamin Rush, 1773

              Her candle shop smelled like a chamber pot. How in all of creation did that beetle-headed Victoria manage to accomplish such a feat? Caroline stomped her way into her small shop, throwing open the wooden shutters of the two small windows and shoved two large goose feather fans into the spindly arms of her clerk. Cocking her eyebrow, she said gruffly, “Thou art the one who used rancid hog fat to make a batch of candles; therefore, thou hath the task of banishing that infernal stench out of the shop!”

           The girl turned to her task, murmuring apologies for her forgetfulness, and Caroline somehow managed to tuck back in her scoff of derision as she recalled that just yesterday she had patiently explained to Victoria that candles made of hog fat carried a stench most foul in addition to excessive sputtering and smoking. Instead, her shop’s tallow candles were a clever combination of sheep and beef fat, which seemed to carry a much more pleasant odor and longer-lasting light. In a huff, she finally sent her off to market for additional supplies, noting that they were running low on a number of items.

           She realized that part of her bad humor had nothing to do with her irritation with her clerk’s folly, but instead her own anxiousness about what the week would bring. ‘Twas the price she paid for trafficking in secrets. Sometimes, as she walked through the market, she fancied that she carried the secrets upon her skin, that they were stained upon her flesh for the world to see. While Virginia Colony had produced some of the greatest patriots the war knew — from General Washington to Thomas Jefferson, unfortunately, her small township of Mystic Falls remained fiercely loyal to the crown. The few families who were true patriots were forced to hide their feelings about the war lest the damnable loyalists sent them to the gallows.

           When her childhood friend, Matthew Donovan, sought her out in confidence, he confessed that he recently was made a lieutenant in General Washington’s Continental Army, and he asked her to pass him intelligence to aid in the war effort. After quickly agreeing, she became anointed as one of the invaluable spies of the notorious patriot spy ring, the Travelers. She became learned in the secret of the ‘sympathetic stain’, a clever form of invisible ink that General Washington instructed his agents to use in their messages. Once she constructed a coded message, she would push the paper into the bottom of a candle and smooth additional wax over it. Then, when a courier for the Travelers appeared, she would sell him a batch of candles that easily could be smuggled through enemy lines undetected.

           The Travelers had had rousing success thus far, and Caroline’s secret messages revealed the surprising weaknesses of the British fort that guarded the route to Norfolk. With her help, the Virginia militia laid siege upon the unsuspecting British, and secured the fort during the Battle of the Great Bridge. ‘Twas a stunning victory for the patriots, and Caroline vowed to bring them more, despite the shadow of the noose that awaited all traitors to the crown.

           As she began the tedious process of weaving together the delicate linen fibers to craft sturdy wicks, she thought back to Matthew’s latest message to her. The Travelers’ faithful courier had been intercepted and imprisoned to await a farcical trial in which the poor soul’s fate already had been decided. A new courier would arrive at her shop sometime this week, announcing his presence by uttering the phrase, “Tie it with a blue ribbon.”

           She anxiously awaited his arrival as it would take her mind off of the latest influx of a detestable regiment of British soldiers who had taken residence at the local tavern, Silas’ Cure. Led by arrogant Lieutenant Niklaus Mikaelson, she took special delight in undermining his war efforts by leaning heavily on intelligence reports from her friend Katherine who worked there. It never ceased to astound her at the carelessness of a man’s words when they were in the presence of what they perceived to be a harmless woman.

           Lieutenant Mikaelson himself had wandered into her shop when his soldiers first arrived, his swaggering, boastful mannerisms immediately setting her teeth on edge. Victoria had worked herself into a tizzy as she tended to his purchases, fluttering her eyelashes and swooning over his dimples. In a huff of impatience, she finally dismissed her to the back so that she could conclude the detestable redcoat’s business and shoo him out of her shop with as much politeness as she could muster.

           Instead, he seemed to delight in stretching out their interaction as long as possible, commenting upon the mild weather and asking after her family’s health. She absolutely refused to acknowledge how his gray eyes twinkled with merriment at her clipped words or the pleasing way his lips seemed to curl up whenever he addressed her as ‘Mistress Forbes’. Her heart palpitations in his presence were merely the result of porridge mixed with goat’s milk that had soured. And nothing more.

           As though summoned by her shameful thoughts, Lieutenant Mikaelson strutted across the threshold, wearing a devilish smirk that had her furiously fighting back the blush that wanted to stain her cheeks red.

           “Good day, Mistress Forbes,” he greeted her, his dimples on display as he removed his officer’s hat in a sweeping gesture, bowing his curly head respectfully. “How fare thee on this fine day?”

           Caroline hated how the breath seemed to leave her when that infernal man appeared, as though her corset was too tight and she may faint. Flashing him an overly bright smile, she quickly placed the remnants of the hardened hog lard into the large iron cauldron over the fire, the powerful odor wafting over the flames as she stirred the concoction with a thick wooden paddle. “’Tis a fine day, Lieutenant Mikaelson, but one that should be spent out-of-doors as I fear thou hath caught me on rendering day and the odors art far from pleasant.” She couldn’t help the bite in her sweet tone as she added from underneath her lashes, “We mustn’t spoil thy fine officer’s vestments with such a foul stench.”

           His gray eyes twinkled as though he realized her attempts to shoo him out of her shop with haste. “Nonsense. Thou shall discover that a gentleman is willing to endure any number of trials to bask in the presence of a lovely maiden.”

           She barely contained a scoff as she batted aside his empty words. She noted the exquisite silver filigree work of the fierce wolf’s head upon the pommel of his sabre, denoting him to be a man of wealth and privilege. Officer ranks such as his often were awarded based upon surname and affluence. No doubt his display of opulence and power along with his pleasing appearance drew many a starry-eyed maiden to him, and he must often spout such pretty, meaningless words.

           Her calculating blue gaze swept over his fine scarlet overcoat trimmed in silver braid, a well-ballasted officer’s uniform that only served to fuel her anger when she thought of the blood of good patriots that hath spilled upon it during this wretched war. She adjusted her linen cap, pushing an errant blonde curl away from her forehead as she told him, “Thou flatter me with thy honeyed words, Lieutenant Mikaelson. I’m sure many a fair maiden anxiously awaits thy return to English soil.”

           He shook his head, dimples bracketing his indulgent smile as he confessed, “None that hath caught my fancy as much as a lovely blonde shopkeeper who seems to delight in sharpening her clever tongue upon my every breath.” He reached into his overcoat, removing a small bit of parchment tied with a length of leather. “I’d considered offering thou a trinket, a small token of my esteem, but feared thy wrath if thou deemed it an insult. Instead, I present a simple sketch, and pray thou look upon it in the spirit of friendship with which ‘tis offered, Mistress Forbes.”

           Heart fluttering, Caroline felt her breath catch as she gazed upon her own face with lips curled into a teasing smile as she stood at her shop’s front window, one hand resting against her cheek. She was struck speechless not only by the depth of his artistry, but also by the curious fact he would willingly share his work with her. She gently touched the curled edges of the parchment, not trusting herself to speak as her thoughts raced.

           “Forgive my forwardness,” Niklaus broke the silence, a seemingly uncharacteristic nervousness entering his voice, “Thy beauty lingered long after I’d returned to my quarters and it vexed me until I recorded every blessed detail.” She watched in amazement as his ivory skin suddenly bloomed with color.

           Clearing her throat, she favored him with her first genuine smile since they met. “There art no words to describe thy talent, Lieutenant Mikaelson. Thou hath my thanks for such a thoughtful gift.” She hated the feeling of regret that tugged at her. This was a British officer and no matter how handsome or earnest his attentions might be, she could never turn her back on the cause of her homeland. She must continue her work under the guise of a damnable loyalist, so that she could ensure her people’s freedom.

           He seemed on the verge of asking her something, but instead straightened his spine as the brass bell over her door rang, announcing another customer. He gestured vaguely toward her pine shelves where she kept the costly beeswax candles, and asked her to put together a parcel for him. While she carefully wrapped his purchase, she nodded at Jeremiah Gilbert who stood off to the side awkwardly.

           Jeremiah was Katherine’s little brother, and she always would remember the way he would follow them around begging for sweets as they traipsed through the market square. Lately he had been coming around more and while pleasant company, it always seemed as though he were delaying his leave to the point that she nearly had to shoo him from her shop so that she could complete a day’s work. A thought suddenly struck her that now that Jeremiah was of age, he could conceivably be the Travelers’ new mystery courier. Especially since his sister was loyal to the patriot’s cause.

           She inwardly sighed as she watched the men take each other’s measure, and she wondered how much longer Niklaus would tarry before he was on his way. She was certain that if Jeremiah was the courier, he would possess enough sense not to blurt out the secret phrase within earshot of the British officer. His brown eyes regarded Caroline warmly as he greeted her, and he comically sidestepped the soldier to stand closer to the counter. He paused in his ramblings about the weather, wrinkling his nose slightly at the rancid smell of hog fat, and she told herself she would reduce the number of coin she charged him for his purchases because of it. Curse that vexing redcoat for costing her profits!    

           “Mistress Forbes, what an enchanting drawing — thy lovely visage is rendered well,” Jeremiah told her, angling his body in a curious manner as though trying to block her view of Niklaus.

           Caroline let out a bark of laughter as she shook her head at the young man’s antics. Barely a man but already such a shameless flirt. She was certain he would catch the eye of a sweet girl soon. “Thy flowery sentiments art growing bolder, Master Gilbert. I pray thou save thy best compliments for a worthy maiden.” She inclined her head at Niklaus who seemed to be taking in the scene with a glint of good humor and she added, “Although thy compliments art well-taken as Lieutenant Mikaleson was the esteemed creator.”

           Frowning slightly, Jeremiah impatiently flicked his gaze at the soldier before returning his attention Caroline. “Yes, well, clearly an officer has more time to spare than one would assume.” He curiously seemed to puff out his chest as though taken by dropsy, and continued with, “Such idleness is a rarity for a planter; therefore, where I choose to spend my precious few moments art quite telling.”

           “Indeed,” Niklaus intoned, a devilish smirk appearing as he kept glancing at Caroline as though sharing a secret. “Quite enlightening, Master Gilbert.” He inclined his curly head respectfully toward Caroline and stepped away, announcing, “I must pay a visit to Master Lockwood’s forge. I will return for my parcel midday, Mistress Forbes.”

           She nodded her assent, pleased that finally they would be free of the British soldier’s dizzying presence and Jeremiah would utter the secret phrase of the Travelers’ courier. However, as she observed the broad shoulders of Niklaus as he left her shop, she couldn’t deny the secret thrill she felt that she would see him later that day. Admonishing herself for her foolish, even traitorous thoughts, she returned her attention to Jeremiah, who seemed especially aquiver.

           He swiped at the back of his neck, flushed as though with fever and she pitied the sweet boy for the strenuous labor he performed on the Gilbert farm — it seemed to be affecting him more than usual. She was starting to think it would be a mercy if he wasn’t the courier as he seemed overtaken by the strain of his task. Finally, he said, “Mistress Forbes, pray do not think me too bold in my query...” he paused, swiping at his brow, and she readied herself to hear the secret code of the Travelers: Tie it with a blue ribbon. “Would thou attend the harvest celebration with me,” he blurted out in one long phrase, as though relieved to hath finally spoken the words.

           Caroline blinked repeatedly, trying to reconcile both her surprise that her dear friend’s young brother was not the courier and also that the boy viewed her in a romantic manner. “Oh,” she said in a strangled voice, reaching for gentle words to dispel his illusions of a romantic entanglement with her. “Master Gilbert, I’m flattered of course, but —”

           “The lady hath already agreed to attend with me, young Master Gilbert,” Her flailing attempts were mercifully cut off by the confident voice of Niklaus, who had returned unexpectedly to the shop. Seeing the British soldier’s knowing smirk made her hackles rise even as she felt relief that Jeremiah likely would now move on to a more suitable companion than one who would forever look upon him as a younger brother.

           Jeremiah’s sweet, boyish face fell at Niklaus’ words but as he left, he managed to mumble bland pleasantries as he bid them both a pleasant day. Once the boy was gone, Caroline raised a critical eyebrow at Niklaus. “Art all brothers of the blade as presumptuous as thou, Lieutenant Mikaelson?”

           He leaned against the counter, a lazy smile perched upon his lips as her shrill tone washed over him. “Was I mistaken in assuming thy affections for young Master Gilbert ran toward that of a sibling rather than a paramour?”

           Her cheeks flushed at the way he deliberately said ‘paramour’, as though his wicked tongue wished to lovingly caress the word between them. She quickly distracted herself by retying her apron strings, nearly ripping the thin cotton in her haste. Straightening her spine, she answered, “While I hath no desire to attend with a boy I hold to be a brother, that doesn’t mean that thou art a suitable escort.” Lightly scoffing, she added, “We’ve no common ground, Lieutenant Mikaelson, and I fear boredom would overtake thee.”

           Niklaus seemed to take her rebuke as a challenge, and he moved closer than could be deemed proper as his gray eyes twinkled in merriment. “Thou art mistaken, Mistress Forbes. I suspect we share more common ground than ye perceive.”

           Raising a skeptical brow, Caroline reached for the soldier’s parcel, fiddling with the brown string to tie it securely. Her hands stilled and she nearly dropped the parcel in shock when she heard Niklaus say, “On second thought, why don’t ye tie it with a blue ribbon?”     

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[knaccfornerdiness]

Where Past and Future Meet

Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Genji/Zenyatta Word Count: 2,986 Summary: Genji and Zenyatta head to Hanamura to deal with the relics of his past life.  Sequel to Something About Us.  Also available on AO3!

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It's Genji and Zenyatta's first morning in Hanamura and instead of diving right into seeing the sites, they instead take a taxi out to the edge of town to a building composed out of garages for the wealthy.  It has tall walls with barbed wire on top and a metal gate that creaks open when Genji puts in his code.  They wander the lot until they find Genji's unit, the last in a long line of identical-looking garage doors and Genji sighs at the lock, his hand jiggling the key absently.  When Hanzo had told him about this place, it had seemed like the only logical choice was to wait until he and Zenyatta both had enough vacation time saved up and then head out here to deal with it but now that he's standing in front of it, Genji is starting to regret that decision.  He takes in a deep breath and then feels Zenyatta's hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"Do you want to come back later?" he says, tone entirely absent of any judgement.  "We will be here for several more days so there is no rush-"

"No," Genji shakes his head, his hand tightening around the key before he turns to look at Zenyatta.  "I don't want to put this off.  We are already here and this way we can just put this unpleasantness behind us first."

Zenyatta looks like he's going to argue for a moment but then he nods and squeezes Genji's shoulder before pulling his hand away.  "Alright, let us begin then."

Genji nods and then goes to unlock the door.

"I know that this will probably be of no comfort to you," Zenyatta says as Genji fiddles with the lock, "but I must admit that I am excited to see these tiny glimpses into your past."

Genji pauses his efforts and glances over his shoulder.  "Why am I not surprised?"

Zenyatta laughs.  "As if you would not be equally as intrigued if this were my storage locker we were standing in front of."

"I don't know," Genji smiles and turns back to the lock.  "An empty storage locker is not quite what I would call exciting."

Zenyatta swats at his back gently.  "You know what I meant."

The lock opens with a click and Genji sticks both it and the key into the pocket of his hoodie before turning around and leaning down to bump the visor of his helmet against Zenyatta's forehead.  "That I would love to pick over the physical minutia of your past if you had such things?" Genji says, reaching up to touch Zenyatta's cheek.  "Of course I would.  I never said I faulted your impulse, just that I was not surprised."

Zenyatta chuckles, putting his hand on top of Genji's and shaking his head.  "While I do love the attention, is it perhaps possible that you might be stalling right now?"

"If you consider it stalling to prefer looking at my beautiful partner rather than a storage unit full of things I was certain were thrown away ten years prior," Genji's bravado peters off and he pauses, "then yes, I may be stalling."

Zenyatta laughs and squeezes Genji's hand.  "I understand why this is difficult for you but I have complete faith that you are capable of dealing with this situation.  And remember, you are not alone."

"Right," Genji nods, Zenyatta's laugh and kind words filling his chest with a growing warmth that almost chases his nerves away.  Almost.  "Well then," he says, running his thumb along Zenyatta's cheek before pulling away and turning around, "let's start sorting this shit."  He takes a deep breath and then pulls on the door until it opens with the audible hiss of the hermetic seal breaking.  Genji hadn't been quite sure what to expect but as he scans the piles and piles of boxes stacked up behind his once beloved motorbike, he realizes that it is very possible that this storage unit contains literally everything he'd owned up until he'd joined Blackwatch.  He stares for a moment, overwhelmed until Zenyatta speaks up, snapping him out of it.

"I do not think we will be able to take this all back in one trip in the taxi."

"Well, we aren't keeping all of this," Genji says, his eyes still taking the boxes in, "but yes, even to properly get rid of all this stuff would take more than one trip for sure."

"Let's not worry about that for now," Zenyatta says as he floats over to Genji's side.  "Let us instead start with the most obvious first choice."  He gestures at the the black and green motorbike and says, "Keep or donate?"

Genji frowns.  When he was younger, this motorbike had been one of his prized possessions.  It was a classic model with beautiful lines and real wheels instead of the hovertech ones.  Genji remembers the freedom it had given him and all the nights spent riding it with friends or hook-ups on the back, arms wrapped tight around him as they laughed.  "Keep?" he says hesitantly and then reconsiders.  "No donate.  Definitely donate."

"Are you certain?  Why did you want to keep it at first?" Zenyatta says, head tilted.

"It was just very important to me at one point in my life.  It helped me get out of the house and away from things," he pauses and then corrects himself, "my father mostly when my future felt like it was closing in."  He walks up and runs a careful finger along the well-maintained leather seat before turning to look at Zenyatta.  "But I do not need it anymore so there is no reason to keep it."

Zenyatta shakes his head.  "The fond memories you associate with it are a fine reason to keep it if you so wish.  Plus, it seems to be in excellent condition so perhaps it can still be ridden after all this time."

"I assume it is but to what ends?  We live on an island that I can run the entire circumference of in ten minutes so I doubt it would get much use."

Zenyatta shrugs.  "I hear Reinhardt rents a small garage on the mainland for his prized car so perhaps we could do something similar."

"We could..." Genji thinks it over, imagining how it would feel to ride his bike again, the rush of the wind and maybe even Zenyatta's arms wrapped around him this time.  "Would you want to come riding with me though?"

"Of course," Zenyatta says.  "I think it would be an exciting new experience that I would love to share with you."

Genji smiles and then nods.  "Okay then, in that case, let's keep it!"

"Excellent," Zenyatta says, voice warm.  "See, we are making progress already."

Genji laughs as he kicks up the stand with his foot and then rolls the bike out of the garage and to the side.  "One down, only about a hundred more boxes to go."

Zenyatta scoffs.  "You exaggerate."

"Only a little," he says, leaning the bike in front of a nearby garage door and then walking back into the storage unit.

"Here," Zenyatta says, pulling a trash bag out of the box on his lap and holding it out to Genji, "you take this and start on the left side of the room while I will focus on the right.  While I will not be able to make any choices about these items on my own, I believe we will be able to look through the items faster this way."

Genji nods and takes the bag but pauses before going to his side of the room, his nerves suddenly flaring up again.  "You know," he says, fidgeting with the bag in his hands, "there might be some… things in some of these boxes that might be… less than flattering-"

"Genji," Zenyatta cuts him off, his hands coming up to cup both sides of Genji's face, "do you think after all this time and all that we have talked about that I am under any illusions as to what sort of person you once were?"

Genji sighs.  "No but-"

"Genji," he runs a thumb along the side of Genji's faceplate, "I love you exactly as you are and your past is as much a part of that as your future will be."

Genji knows that after all this time he shouldn't be so taken aback by how earnest and open Zenyatta is about his feelings but he can't help but be bowled over by it every time all the same.  He feels himself begin to blush and then leans in until his visor bumps against Zenyatta's forehead.  "I love you too.  I just… please call me over if you find a box that contains any uh... risque items, okay?"

"Oh, so we may sort through those particular items as a couple?" he says wryly.

"Haha very funny," Genji rolls his eyes, squeezing one of Zenyatta's hands on his face before heading over to his side of the storage unit.  "We are not keeping any of that stuff and you know it.  It will be old and frankly, mostly quite vulgar."

"Alright," Zenyatta nods, "I will keep you informed."  

"Thank you," Genji nods back, pulling a box down off the top of the stack and then sighing.  "Here is hoping they didn't just box up every piece of trash in my room."

***

"I wonder when we will find the helmets that go with your motorbike," Zenyatta says as he opens his fifth box for the day.

"Probably never," Genji says, placing an old gaming console he wants to share with the base into the keep pile, "seeing as neither I nor my passengers ever wore them.  They'd have messed up my perfect hair."

Zenyatta chuckles, "Ah, the folly of youth."

"Like you know nothing about being young and stupid," Genji scoffs.

"I have been a responsible adult for my entire existence so I have no idea what you may be referring to," Zenyatta says, tone vaguely offended as he holds up a box filled with Genji's old practice kunai from before he'd masted the art of wall climbing.

"Garbage," Genji says before returning to the subject at hand.  "Right, because it was in no way foolish for you to break out of an omnic internment camp after the war and climb a mountain all by yourself in hopes of meeting up with the newly forming Shambali."

"You are right," Zenyatta says as he puts the box in a nearby trash bag.  "It was not foolish in the slightest.  In fact, it was one of the best choices I ever made."

Genji laughs.  "Oh I see, just one wise choice amongst a lifetime full of them?"

"I would not say I never make mistakes of course," he says, smile audible in his tone as he turns to look at Genji.  "Just that I have also made many excellent choices, such as you."

Genji bites his bottom lip as he feels himself begin to blush.  "Only you could turn a conversation about your ill-advised past into praise for me."

"It has been said that I have a way with words," Zenyatta chuckles.

"That you do," Genji says with a grin as he picks a shirt out of the top of the box in front of him and tosses it at Zenyatta.  "Now stop being a shameless flirt and come over here and help me sort through this."

Zenyatta picks the shirt off his head and then floats over to Genji.  "I make no promises to stop flirting with you but otherwise I am more than willing to offer my assistance however I can."

"Alright," Genji shakes his head.  "I've been thinking that it might be a good idea for me to keep at least some of my old clothes due to the current meager state of my wardrobe."

"An excellent plan," Zenyatta says, handing the shirt back to Genji.  "How specifically can I help?"

"Well," Genji says, glancing down at the shirt and then back up at Zenyatta, "I just want you to let me know what you think of these; which ones you... like on me."  He trails off.  "And you never know, perhaps some of these might even be things you'd want to wear yourself."  He holds the shirt, which is a black sleeveless tank top with open sides, in front of his still sweatshirt clad torso and cocks his head at Zenyatta.  "For example, do you think this suits me?"

Zenyatta grabs his chin and looks Genji over.  "I think you are going to have to try it on for me to give you an accurate opinion."

"Are you asking me to strip right here in this storage locker?"  Genji sets the shirt back on top of the box and then pulls off his sweatshirt and sets it carefully on top of another nearby box.  "How scandalous!"

"We've already established I am a shameless flirt so I do not know why you are surprised."

"A fair point," Genji snickers, leaving his pants on for the moment as he pulls the shirt on.  "So what do you think?" he says, holding his arms wide.

Zenyatta appraises Genji for a second and then nods.  "While I can not say it is a very functional shirt, it does suit you very well."

"Keep then," Genji chuckles as he pulls the shirt off and then throws it at the keep pile with impressive accuracy.  He turns back to the box and digs around until he finds a light blue long sleeved crop top.  "This one, on the other hand," he says holding the shirt out to Zenyatta, "you should try on.  I think it would look very good on you."

"I'm not sure what is more visually appealing about me wearing half a shirt than me wearing no shirt like I usually do," he says, pulling it on over his head and then glancing down, "but I do think it is quite cute."

Genji looks Zenyatta up and down, taking in the way the sleeves are loose on his thinner arms and how the cut of the shirt emphasizes his neck and waist.  "It just looks good on you, like how you liked that tank top on me even though I don't need to wear clothes.  It is all about framing."

"I see," Zenyatta says, looking down at the shirt again before he looks back up at Genji, "then does it mean I judged your shirt on the wrong merits if I said you should keep it because, while of course you looked very handsome in it, you also looked rather happy to be wearing it?"

Genji shakes his head, a laugh just starting to bubble up as he says, "I love you, you know that right?"

"Is that a yes?" Zenyatta says, peeling the shirt off and floating it gently over to the keep pile.

"No," Genji says, reaching out to run his hand along Zenyatta's face, "I think you are doing it just right."

They continue to dig through the clothes, taking turns trying on the items and voting on what the other should keep until several boxes later, Genji has finally expanded his wardrobe a bit.  He's just reaching the bottom of their sixth box and probably the end of his younger self's rather sizable clothing collection when a bright orange item catches his eye from underneath another pair of skinny jeans that definitely won't fit him and he rushes to pull it free.  

"What a lovely scarf!" Zenyatta says, turning his attention from the box he was just opening.

Genji smiles as he rubs his fingers along the familiar surface.  "It was a gift from my mother.  I used to wear it all the time."

"I assume we are keeping it then, yes?"

"Yes," Genji nods.  He's about to just throw it on the pile like any other thing when suddenly an idea strikes him.  He wraps the scarf around Zenyatta's neck and then wraps his arms around as well.  "Actually, I want you to have it.  It's a very good color on you."

"I can't take this, Genji," Zenyatta says, his fingers fussing with the edge of the scarf.  "It is not the same as your other clothes."

"It isn't, you are right but we also basically live together so it is not like you would be taking it far away from me."

"Still-"

"How about this?" Genji says, leaning in until their foreheads touch.  "I want to loan you this incredibly sentimental scarf because while in the past I would have never wanted to share something like this with anyone, now that I've met you, I can't wait to share all sorts of important things with you for the rest of our lives."

"Genji," Zenyatta ducks his head behind the scarf, "I can not help but be deeply touched by your gesture.  I only wish I had something of equal value that you could also borrow."

"No need," Genji smiles, "you have given me so much already."

They end up spending the whole day sorting, picking over the relics of Genji's past life until it is all neatly divided into three piles: keep, donate and trash.  They decide near the end that they are just going to need to use Tracer's services when she comes to pick them up as there is no way they can adequately transport all these items using a taxi.  For now though, they just grab as many of the clothes as they can fit into one garbage bag and climb on Genji's motorbike together, an old skateboarding helmet on Zenyatta's head and Genji's scarf tied tight around his neck.  And as Genji drives them back to the city, the wind whipping past them and Zenyatta's arms wrapped tight around his chest, Genji feels more whole than he has in a long time.

[shirlleycoyle]

Does Jeff Bezos Have Huge Feet? An Investigation

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. Just as a camera is a sublimation of the gun, to photograph someone is a subliminal murder—a soft murder, appropriate to a sad, frightened time.”

– Susan Sontag, On Photography, 1977

"The feet pics, darling. It's been 15 days. You don't want to make me angry."

– An internet meme, 2018

*

Everyone in New York has a story about a close-call with a celebrity. In a city that's home to one million millionaires and almost 80 billionaires, a run-in with the rich and famous is bound to happen eventually. I don't frequent the right ticketed sex parties and don't have the foresight to book tables 10 months in advance, so this is a rare occasion for me. But one time, I showed up to an indie zine fair allegedly 10 minutes after Jeff Bezos, his body-double, and a bodyguard detail, left.

My only regret in my entire six years as a Brooklyn resident is not leaving my apartment for this event even 11 minutes earlier. Not because I need to get a glimpse of that shiny head perusing anti-capitalist art, but to get a peekie-see at his feetsies.

Months later, I found myself standing at the entrance of the Liberty Ferry in Battery Park on a 30-degree day, gazing at a spot where Bezos walked last spring, closely examining the stones where his shoes once tread. How big were those shoes, I would ask myself on this unholy pilgrimage.

To the general public, the size of Bezos' feet is a mystery no one seems to have the answer to except the man himself. I sought to discover it.

THE CURRENT CLAIMS

There are dozens of websites devoted to celebrities' bodily measurements, including statistics about their height, weight, eye color, age, and astrological signs. Most of these sites include an entry for Bezos and on average, they agree on the basics: He's five feet, seven inches tall, weighs around 154lbs, is 57 years old, and has brown eyes.

Some sites go further than others, but most conflict on the feet. Several attempts have been made to try to guess the size of his feet. Gossipgist.com says they're a 14, a size so large and uncommon, most shoe size charts don't list it, and that sometimes require a special order. Celebrityboss.com says 10. Celebrityinside.com cites his "distinctive features" as being his cleft chin, asymmetrical eyes (the right one is always a little bit more closed than the left), and his "style of laughing." This last note is haunting, but it's not what I'm here for.

WikiFeet Men—"the collaborative celebrity feet website"—also lists Bezos' foot size as "unknown." And if the good folks of wikiFeet don't know, it's safe to say that no one really knows the truth, except the man himself.

In 2004, Amazon's top reviewer Joanna Daneman crossed paths with Bezos at an Amazon-sponsored event, and noticed that "he has really large feet." So large that, six years later, these flippers stand out in her memory. Then again, she also characterizes him as "really tall," which he objectively is not.

He is 5'7. His feet can't be that huge.

There's scant data available on any sort of foot-to-height average, but anthropometric data from the University of Rhode Island cites an average ratio of 6.6:1—for every 6.6 inches of height, average males have one inch of foot length. For Jeff's 67 inches, we could assume his feet are 10.15 inches long, approximately a size 8.5. But Bezos, one of the richest and arguably most powerful men to ever flap his footsie-wootsies across this humble planet, is no average man. Perhaps his body defies norms as well.

My working hypothesis at this point is that as a short-to-average height man, and a billionaire, he carries himself as if he's a much taller dude, but maybe his feet are disproportionately large compared to the rest of him, making them seem enormous in photos and eyewitness accounts.

We have to confirm via forensic photo analysis.

EXHIBIT A: THE SHOE THAT FITS

Bezos' wikiFeet entry contains a handful of paparazzi photos, mostly of him barefoot or in sandals on vacation. In some, his feet seem very large. In other photos, the perspective changes, and his feet seem impossibly petite.

One thing is for certain: the man fills out a pair of strappy sandals. I thought these were Birkenstocks, due to their iconic two-strap slide design, so I emailed a handful of Bezos feet pics to the Birkenstock company, hoping for some enlightenment.

A spokesperson replied within 20 minutes: "Hey Sam, they are not Birkenstock."

I asked Zappos, which is owned by Amazon and therefore Bezos, if it could help ID the size or shoe. A spokesperson there, while apologetic, was unable to give me any information.

But the UK tabloid Daily Mail had the answer all along: They're a $531 pair of Prada slides. Reinvigorated with hatred for the rich, I turned to the foot fetishists of Reddit.

I messaged the mods of r/CelebrityFeet, a forum devoted to celebrity feet, my very earnest request for help. Do they know anything about these elusive sweeties? If they do, they aren't telling. I was promptly silenced for even asking:

When I asked a mod for r/jeffbezos if they knew anything about their #1 guy's feet, they told me to "learn to code." On to the next.

I messaged u/jokes_on_you, who helped me debunk the faked Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez foot pic last year, if he'd be willing to lend his trained eyes to the investigation of Bezos' feet. He asked me to send my own foot pics in exchange for information, which in a non-journalistic context might be a fair price to ask. But according to Motherboard editor-in-chief Jason Koebler, trading quid-pro-quo foot pics with a source would "set bad precedent."

Fine.

EXHIBIT B: THE SUPERYACHT TENDER

In the wikiFeet photos, Bezos strolled his $531 Pradas through a December 2019 vacation, set aboard fellow bald billionaire David Geffen's yacht in St. Barth's. This big boat, I learned, is named the Rising Sun, and is manufactured by ship builder and navy contractor Lürssen, which also manufactures naval ships armed for warfare.

(The photos, it turns out, are owned by a firm called The Mega Agency. We know this because we bought one of these photos from the company for the very reasonable price of $250.)

Rising Sun is a 453-foot long superyacht, and has capacity for at least one "tender," the name for the little day-excursion sized boats that come with ships that big. One of the wikiFeet photos from the St. Barth's trip is a group picture on a tender, seemingly exploring some sea cave, with Bezos front and center, barefoot.

View this post on Instagram

Having a great time in the Balearics

A post shared by David Geffen (@davidgeffen) on Aug 6, 2019 at 3:52am PDT

His feet look humongous in this photo. Most usefully for our investigation, his left foot is placed right next to a straight line of paint on the floor. If we knew the square footage of the floor area of this tender, we could potentially deduce the length of this piece of floor paint—and therefore, the foot.

I emailed Lürssen, maker of $200 million yachts and war vessels, and definitely did not mention any feet. But they still wouldn't give me anything helpful.

"We do not comment on our yachts (or their tenders) to the press as a matter of confidentiality," Timothy Hamilton, director of Lürssen Americas, replied. "Best of luck with your article; it sounds interesting!"

Timothy, you have no idea.

EXHIBIT C: CLINTON CASTLE FLAGSTONES

At this point, powerless and frustrated at our inability to learn a simple fact about a multi-billionaire whose unprecedented empire is in part fueled by the wholesale and dangerous collection of data on millions of innocent civilians, we reached out to a true professional for help.

Motherboard managing editor Emanuel Maiberg contacted Eastern Europe/Eurasia lead researcher and trainer Aric Toler at Bellingcat, the award-winning open source investigations team that previously used images posted to social media to discover key information about the downing of flight MH17 in Ukraine and unmask Russian government assassins.

Toler generously agreed to aid our investigation. We were heartened to hear from him that we were on the right track. "If anyone can figure it out, it's wikiFeet," he said, before we explained that it was not responding. Then he, too, suggested we find a photo of Bezos' feet next to an object we can measure. But while we were fixated on the photo of the Big Foot on the superyacht tender, Toler provided this crucial image of a Bezos photo opp in Battery Park. More specifically, according to the Getty Images caption, "Statue Cruises Terminal in Battery Park in New York."

Jeff Bezos arrives at the Statue Of Liberty Museum Opening Celebration at Battery Park on May 15, 2019 in New York City. Getty Images

Here, again, we have more straight lines next to his feet, in the form of large, identical flagstones. This we could work with; if we could get down there and measure the stones, we could theoretically calculate a rough foot length.

Before I headed out to wander Battery Park on a very cold February afternoon, Koebler, Maiberg, and I did some Google Street View exploring to find the exact location the photo was taken.

In the Getty photo, everything in the background is slightly compressed—a result of using a telephoto lens, as photojournalists capturing Bezos often use. But I had my landmarks: a distinctive bush, some columns, this gray monument building, and Castle Clinton.

With the coordinates dialed in (40°42'11.7"N 74°00'59.4"W) I headed to Manhattan's southernmost tip to walk in Bezos' footsteps. As I got closer to the spot we'd seen in photos, I saw the flagstones.

I moved slightly out of view of a park ranger and got to work taking measurements. Each stone is about 55 inches by 52.5 inches.

I sent this data back to Maiberg's forensic photo lab (Microsoft Paint) and he set to work:

If a little more than four and a half of Bezos' shoes fit in one of these stones lengthwise, that's around 11.9 inches of shoe.

If you account for the shoe being a little bit bigger than the foot inside, and reference various shoe and foot size charts, one can assume his feet are around 11 inches long.

These measurements are obviously not accurate to the nanometer, but even by the widest margin, the length of Bezos' shoe is between 10 to 12 inches long. It is likely somewhere closer to the middle of those two extremes, and while we don't know for sure, we are confident that his feet are not notably large, and certainly not a daunting size 14.

At least in this respect, Bezos is just an average man.

RESULTS AND DISCUSSION

If I'm being honest with myself, I don't feel better with this information. Maybe some things should remain mysterious.

Throughout this investigation, however, when I ranted and raved in dark hours to friends and loved ones about my week-long quest, several people asked, "Why?"

The pursuit of knowledge is always worthwhile. If the tagline of the newspaper Bezos himself purchased is to be believed, "Democracy Dies in Darkness." Information wants to be free. Etc. The feet of a billionaire should be no less subject to scrutiny than, say, the feet of a congresswoman. When the boot is on your neck, measure it.

Amazon did not respond to a request for comment on the size of Jeff Bezos' feet.

Does Jeff Bezos Have Huge Feet? An Investigation syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[louis1kwords]

December: Elverum

Sitting in a rigid church pew, watching light adorn a high-ceilinged, painted cathedral. Halfway through the performance I have a couple realizations. I am surrounded by people who represent past lives I’ve led in Philadelphia, watching a person perform songs that deal largely with personal legacy, relationships, growth, and pain. I have not been to a Philadelphia church sanctuary since 2008. The cushion is uncomfortable and the memories are a little discomfiting as well. I’m constantly embarrassed when I remember my younger self, even if no one remembers me as an embarrassment. Art students who are still in their 20s, figuring out their niche in the downtrodden adult world, still practically able to ignore stimuli around them. Saw one person I knew who has experienced a great loss, an appropriate attendee. Ditto to my emo idol, Johm: A peripheral person in my life for over 10 years who I don’t know, kind of like P. Elverum himself. Aging punks who have a real reverence for the music being performed, and are perhaps more reverent because of how much psychotropics they consumed prior to the show. We discussed Watchmen, Chernobyl, Huppman, flaking out. Talking new media and local connections with these grown boys was as refreshing as an experience I could have hoped for given their level of glaze. 

Inevitably, being in this space carried me to times I have spent here. Hanging out with Aaron and a chattering Bradford Cox while his band looked on with loathing, hearing shoegaze synth erupt from a plexiglass box emanating blue light  -- “Cathedral - M83″, Nosferatu on Halloween in 2008 with pipe organ accompaniment. I thought a lot about my past Beat worship that has been polished by this point in my thirties. It served a purpose to keep me moving and looking for things buried in the grey world that can bring me a glimmer of light. That will hopefully persist in a way that is helpful. Is it crystallized the point where I can never lose it? On some levels it seems self-congratulatory, but that cheapens the joy I derive from these wistful moments. I bought his homemade release “Now Only” because it speaks the most to me about these feelings and features the songs that feel most like the crucially revisited entries in a diary. I could have left with three other records, and regret not picking up the latest but there is a lifetime for collecting relics of memory. Showing up alone to see what was an outward display of isolation and loneliness seemed appropriate enough to eat one of my $25 tickets. Also bringing a companion to an event like this stokes expectations I am not sure could be met. An encounter with the only person I knew would be in attendance at the merch table left me feeling more alone.

Karl Blau did a bunch of a cappella covers of songs, including Snow is Falling in Manhattan by Purple Mountains, a darkly beautiful song that reflected the evening’s theme of grief. His funny earnestness brought the room to warm crescendos of applause. 

Up to this point I have always had my personal expectations of what the mind behind Mount Eerie would be like in person. Equal parts boyish, thoughtful, grim, and fixated on everyday beauty, it is easy to follow the connections his music weaves through my mind. He should look like a small form, too small to sail a ship, yet striking out to sail it through the tumults ahead. I can picture myself as a child playing in the schoolyard of my elementary school, looking up at trees, lacking the willful desire to climb them, paralyzed by their infinity and beauty. Digging in the dirt to make clay, picking small stones to build some imagined palace for the future. My goals all seemed immediate and although I knew nothing of the vastness of the world, I still felt it lurking at the periphery. I felt that colossal jumble of personae, physical objects, renderings of human existence and played in spite of them. That is the closest I can get to pinpointing how I have felt listening to Phil’s music.

Phil’s voice and appearance has an innocence that belies his inner struggle. In person, behind the table selling his work, Phil himself seems unfit for his form. He is obviously torn between celebrity and reclusiveness, and a whole album of songs about breaking up with an A-list celebrity is what he has to show for it. I told him I looked forward to seeing his performance. His self-consciousness about the show didn’t seem to impact his performance, since craft like his seems to exist completely separately from the consequence of how he feels. I truthfully hadn’t listened to the record enough to recognize every song, but that is how I have enjoyed some of the more moving performances I’ve attended (e.g. Emily Haines, Miracle Fortress). The imagery woven by Phil and Julie included the affecting “Widows” which closes with a memory of the fledgling love that came before Phil and Michelle’s likely schism. The accompanying beauty was hearing the songs that acknowledge nothing about the world but its frank existence in contrast to being within a building built to praise a higher power. Phil’s message is clear: the universe is just an experience that we have, it is indifferent to how or what we feel about it. There are things that we cannot help but note: like a bonfire, the loss of contact (eternally) with the ones we love. 

The closing duet he and Julie Doiron shared was Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You”. The absolute perfection of this move was that the version they played was couched in a style that masked the song until the hook erupted into the air and everyone was smiling, cheering, and singing along. The catharsis of breaking through the sad subjects of the evening with a joyous affirmation of eternal love seemed like a dose of Lost Wisdom indeed.

[creepy-crowleys]

Orochi Group: Váli Operations Kaidan International Hospital

Morgue ----------------------------------------------- -- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick -- 

Please select entry.  -- Entry 1 --  -- Entry 2 --  -- Entry 3 --  -- Entry 4 --  -- Entry 5 --  -- Entry 6 --  -- Final Entry --

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

-- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick --      -- Entry 1 --

First and foremost, I want it known that I do not regret any of this.

Second, I have erased all of my data here. My work is hidden in a place, and only I know where it is. Whoever is reading this, if you want my work, you will need me alive. These are not my technical notes, but a personal account of what happened.

Where do we begin? My name is Dr. Darel Elswick. I am a surgeon for Váli. It is my job to put the human flesh into their cyborgs. To add the biological component that makes them work. To bring humanity to transhumanity.

But I have moved on from the clumsy clay. I have performed surgery on the soul! But we will get to that.

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

-- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick --      -- Entry 2 --

My dreams are strange. Where do we start? I was as shocked as anyone when Unit 991 went berserk, gutting an employee. We managed to shut it down. We kept it in cold storage, halting the implantation process until we could know more about the "donor". Human parts had become scarce, you see, and our supplier became less and less selective on where the material was procured. I did not realise. Not then. I did not know who rested in that metal shell. I did not know the name Maro Uno.

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

-- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick --      -- Entry 3 --

The world may never know the artistry of Maro Uno. He was one of the best at his ghastly craft. You see, he was in prison for a much more minor crime. The world did not know him as a mass murderer of prolific skill. And, depending on who reads this, they might never know. The meat in my machine was of a killer, and something of his dreadful self lived on in that tissue.

But that was impossible. I had not used the brain. And yet, he haunted his tissue and organs. Something spiritual was happening. I knew it once the dreams started. Mine were strange, but the dreams of the patients were worse. That's when I had a theory of what may have been happening.

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

-- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick --     -- Entry 4 --

Carl Jung teaches us of the Communal Unconscious. The shared space where we, as a species, store concepts and thought archetypes. It had to be that. Maro Uno haunted us in our dreams, one shared space between us all.

Carl Jung teaches us of the archetypes that make up our being. We are each a multiplicity. And one of those archetypes found its way into Unit 991. What I had detected was not the ghost of Maro Uno, but a shard of him, a distilled piece of him, more pure, more than human.

Here I began my study in earnest.

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

-- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick --    -- Entry 5 --

I studied. I visited the places the shown to me in dreams, and I found undiscovered crime scenes of Maro Uno. Ghastly, yes. Of course. I took no pleasure in the deaths. But the man's artistry. It cannot be denied. His arrangement and attention to detail. His dedication to unity of effect. I can compartmentalise my brain enough to acknowledge the aesthetic genius.

And here, my more esoteric studies went deeper as well. Through books and certain deep sections of Orochi's electronic archives, I read. I experimented as well. The surgical met the spiritual. Craft met art. Knowledge met intuition.

I left offerings to this artisan (food, hair, nail clippings, blood), and his presence grew as if the shard of him was discovering its missing parts.

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

-- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick --   -- Entry 6 --

And now, the patients who dreamed of him awoke in the night with physical wounds. How was this possible? How could Maro Uno still influence the physical, if his remains had been destroyed? I searched and discovered there are still scraps of his anatomy left. I collected these parts, cared for them as though they were relics.

I fused all of my musings together -- my science and my spiritualism. I performed certain rites. I constructed a shrine using what remained of Maro Uno and I made offerings. Then he came to me! He became solid and sharp in dreams. And those he visited began to die.

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

-- The Journal of Dr. Darel Elswick --  -- Final Entry --

Sleep comes soon. If you have opened this entry, you have also opened the door. I built the shrine to Maro Uno in cold storage. I locked it up. When the one below silver forms a marriage with the one below tin, they consummate their union and multiply, making a key.

It is so beautiful. So perfect. All impurities of the soul have been stripped away. It is simple and elegant. I will sleep soon. I do not know if he will come to reward or punish me. Perhaps, I will be distilled down to my essence, defined as an archetype. I regret none of this.

--Dr. Darel Elswick

[samiraahmeduk]

You never forget your first time. I was 19 years old. I descended into a weird, cramped basement where student actors brought to life a weird, twisted sexual triangle. Going to student drama productions in odd spaces around the University was one of my greatest joys of those years in the late 1980s. But this one was like no other. I knew nothing about author or play. It was like being trapped in a nightmare version of a British tv culture familiar and strange from old sitcoms and Carry Ons and earnest black-and-white archive news programmes. Twenty year olds were dressed in nylon negligees and leather trousers and those weird sixties NHS specs playing a sexually frustrated older woman and man; an Adonis like something out of Richard Hamilton’s 1956 collage Just What is It That Makes Today’s Homes So Modern, So Appealing?

Richard Hamilton (1956)

That performance of Entertaining Mister Sloane and one shortly after of What The Butler Saw sucked me in to a lifelong fascination with Joe Orton, whose plays were hugely popular among students, 20 years after his death. After graduating I would spend evenings after work listening to the audio version of Kenneth Williams’ brilliantly articulate if misleading published autobiography about Joe Orton, and reading Joe Orton’s own graphic diaries alongside them. I endlessly rewatched Stephen Frears’ film of the John Lahr biography Prick Up Your Ears, which remains one of my favourite films of all time, thanks to Alan Bennett’s delicate screenplay.

Most of all I was intrigued by the Malcolm Gladwell-10-thousand hours-esque ten years from RADA to fame. Fifty years after his appalling murder I asked to make a special Front Row for Radio 4 on Friday Aug 11th about this remarkable talent. A working class man of incredible determination and graft, who spent a decade in London reading and writing and honing his skills before fame came. Special thanks to my wonderful producer Ekene Akalawu who did such an amazing job shaping this programme and editing it.

London made John into Joe Orton, but we wanted to go back to people who knew him and to Leicester, the city that bore him.

The house on the Saffron Lane estate is gone. Joe’s sister Leonie told me she’d pleaded with the council to keep just that one house. The replacement bungalow has a tiny shabby blue plaque easy to miss and almost too high to read. As I look at it I think with frustration of the lucrative tourist industry around Paul McCartney’s National Trust owned council house in Liverpool. I wonder why the councillors of Leicester didn’t see that too?

With Leonie Orton at the Pork Pie Library, Leicester 7th Aug 2017

The Pork Pie Library (it wasn’t called that then, officially) is just round the corner. Leonie Orton, Joe’s youngest sister, who’s become his proudest and most generous champion, drove 3 hours from Norfolk, where she now lives, to talk to me. It’s a stunning art deco building which hasn’t really changed at all since Joe first started bringing her – she was 4, he was 11. She leads me to where they’d go – the children’s section. He’d read her Enid Blytons and Alice in Wonderland. She remembers how much he loved reading Shakespeare and Greek classical drama. One time they walked out and he produced a copy of Black Beauty he’d nicked and gave it to her: “Here, you can keep that.” She was too young to be able to really think about what he’d done. It’s not that anyone thinks the theft is alright. What hits me again and again is the breaktaking sense of anger and defiance of authority alongside the self-instruction that comes from every aspect of Joe Orton’s life. It’s a privilege to talk to Leonie for an hour. Sorry we couldn’t fit it all in the programme.

With Sheila Hancock

Sheila Hancock, who starred in the Broadway production and a 1968 BBC film of Entertaining Mr Sloane shared amazing stories of their friendship. Both had been born the same year, both working class and both overlapped at RADA though they didn’t know eachother as students. She fondly remembers walking with Joe around Greenwich village, pushing her pram, having Sunday lunch with her mum. Given his murder by his partner Kenneth Halliwell, she still feels regret at whether her encouragement of Joe to leave Noel Road and move on might have contributed to their arguments. Her insights into why his work has such enduring power and the impact of it in the still very deferential early 60s is hugely valuable.

John Lahr, author of Orton biography Prick Up Your Ears

John Lahr, who wrote the definitive biography Prick Up Your Ears told me he’d come to the conclusion that revenge was what motivated the greatest comedy. He felt it had motivated Orton and also his own father, the actor Bert Lahr. He also reflected on the sheer power of Orton’s eloquence; how his love of precise language is a skill that is being lost in our instant sharing age.

I also asked John about the modern accusation that his biography, framing Orton by his murder, could be seen to have unfairly defined this writer by his sexuality and his tragic death; a gay martyr. John firmly challenged that idea.

With Dr Emma Parker at New Walk Museum and Art Gallery, Leicester

Nor did we shy away from difficult questions about Joe Orton’s sex holidays exploiting teenage boys in Morocco.  Both Leicester University’s Dr Emma Parker and Nikolai Foster, artistic director of Curve theatre, acknowledged how he was a working class iconoclast, who nonetheless displayed a colonial mindset as a sex tourist. Dr Parker does point out that it’s clear from his diaries that he never slept with boys under the local age of consent. And it seems important to acknowledge the importance of British criminal law in persecuting and distorting gay men’s lives.

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In the New Walk Museum and Art Gallery Dr Parker and I took a closer look at copies of some of the remarkable book covers Orton and Halliwell made and reflected on their excessive 6 month jail sentence for criminal damage. If you thought it was just tearing up books and scribbling in the margins, look again. Dr Parker also had some intriguing theory about Orton defacing only the Arden editions of Shakespeare, used by grammar schools and universities, not the cheaper Everyman editions which he owned and loved.

Nikolai Foster, Curve Artistic Director

Nikolai who directed an acclaimed Curve production of What the Butler Saw, starring Rufus Hound earlier this year, is passionate about how much Orton still speaks to modern Britain about class and deference and sexual taboos. We had a wonderful conversation about how Orton and working class talent is still held at a distance by the theatrical establishment; how much of a battle there still is for fair access and respect. Watching many of the films in the BFI archive, some of them being screened at BFI Southbank this month, it struck me that his work really comes truly alive only as theatre including the potential of TV, rather than the cinematic films which tried to open the stories up into other locations. The Bacchae-inspired TV play The Erpingham Camp, about a revolt in a holiday camp, is still remarkable viewing, and connects like an arrow to the world of Chris Morris and Black Mirror.

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Like Curve, Soft Touch Arts, a community based arts project, has done fabulous work to engage young people in Leicester in Joe Orton’s work. Jenna Forbes, who grew up on the Saffron Lane estate, like Joe, was wonderfully passionate, thoughtful and articulate about how he changed her life. At the exhibition they’ve put together there’s a boardgame based on his life. Jenna told me today how it was the most popular object on the opening night of their exhibition on Wednesday. There’s also art work by young prisoners and a copy of Generation X – the 1960s book about young people’s attitudes that Joe Orton got quoted extensively in, after lying about his age. Do visit their show, right opposite the Joe Orton exhibition co-curated by Dr Parker at the New Walk Museum and Art Gallery.

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Leonie says what really makes her angry is the thought that now, she and Joe would, should have been sharing their stories, and reminiscing. She’s 71; he would have been 84. They should be golden years. Grief must be compounded by an anger we should all feel that he was robbed of all the years he would have gone on to achieve so much more. Her terrific memoir, I Had It In Me, raises important challenges to some of the artistic licence taken in the film of Prick Up Your Ears. It reveals unpleasant truths about how the family was been treated over the years by the literary establishment of agents and lawyers as Leonie tried to take responsible ownership of his papers. I’m most shocked by the fact that the original London diary has disappeared. Only partial typescript copies survive of the original that John Lahr was able to use in his research. The last few days of entries in the days before his murder have never been found. There are theories about whether that was to protect famous names. Perhaps some or all of these papers are sitting in a lawyer’s vault. It still feels as if there’s a middle class attempt to control and limit the raw power if what Joe Orton could do with words.

My Front Row Joe Orton special  produced by Ekene Akalawu is on BBC Radio 4 on Friday August 11th at 715pm and iplayer after.

Filth, fury and the funny way Britain feels about Joe Orton You never forget your first time. I was 19 years old. I descended into a weird, cramped basement where student actors brought to life a weird, twisted sexual triangle.

[plsdontfightme]

I Wrote A Thing

Hi, yes, hello. I wrote a thing for a creative writing class I took last year, and I thought I’d share it with you, the good people of tumblr. I’m hoping you might read it and tell me what you think! It would be greatly appreciated. 

Beautiful Memories

Art galleries were not on Daisy’s list of “Top Ten Places to Bring a Date,” and a small voice in the back of Alexis’s mind kept reminding her of that. She stood uncomfortably near the corner, studying a piece that looked very… something. Both the title and artist’s name were in a language she didn’t know, and, if she was being honest, the piece itself just looked like a bunch of criss crossing lines of varying shades of blue, green, and black.

She turned from the painting as she searched for her date, Matt. He’d gone to get them something to drink fifteen minutes ago, but Alexis was sure he was just looking for a chance to chat up the woman running the bar. Alexis couldn’t bring herself to be jealous, the woman was pretty, for sure, but it looked like she was about as interested in Alexis’s date as she was. Which is to say, not very. It was a blind date one of the girls from across the hall had set up. She hadn’t told Alexis what to expect, just his name, so she hadn’t dressed up very much. That was one thing she was regretting now, feeling very out of place in her simple pink and white sundress. It was a beautiful night for mid-fall, almost unseasonably warm, and she’d been hoping to do something outside. Dinner on the patio of that little Italian place she and Daisy went to whenever they could afford it, or a picnic on campus, she knew a great spot up behind the football field. She even would’ve been down for a round of mini-golf tonight, anything but a stuffy art gallery full of pretentious rich people.

Alexis moved from the piece she had been absentmindedly staring at to the one next to it. It was thinner and longer than the other and much lighter. The bright blues and reds splashed against a white and gray canvas made Alexis think she might be able to actually see something in this one. A fond memory rose from the back of her mind, causing a natural smile to grace her lips for the first time that evening.

~~~

“Come on, Daisy!”

Alexis grabbed her best friend’s hand, pulling her towards the door. The rain had finally stopped, the sky had cleared, and both girls were excited at the prospect of finding a rainbow. The fact that most of the other girls at their school thought that thirteen was too old to go chasing rainbows did nothing to deter either of the girls, both certain that her prince charming was waiting at the end.

“Wait a second, ‘Lexi,” Daisy laughed, struggling to pull on her other boot. “I can’t go out with just one boot.”

With an exaggerated huff, Alexis let go and waited for her friend to finish pulling her second bright yellow boot on. It matched her yellow rain coat, which her mother insisted she wear in case it started raining again. Alexis herself had matching red boots and coat, though her boots were patterned with ladybugs instead of the bumblebees on Daisy’s. As soon as Daisy had both boots on, Alexis had the other girl’s hand in hers again.

As they splashed through the puddles in the driveway, Daisy’s father appeared in the door. “Don’t go too far, girls,” he called after them, “and make sure you’re back by two!”

“Alright, Dad!” Daisy responded, waving over her shoulder as Alexis dragged her along. Alexis barely slowed as she also turned to wave before dragging her best friend off into one of the many adventures the two girls shared.

~~~

Alexis blinked, smiling at the memory. Daisy had never failed to make her smile in the past, and this was no exception.

Looking over her shoulder, she spotted Matt still leaning over the bar, chatting at the woman behind it. The woman looked up and spotted Alexis, sending her a slightly apologetic look as she glanced between the oblivious Matt and his “date”. Alexis just shrugged in response; it wasn’t like she was that into him anyway.  She turned back to the wall, ready to study another painting. The next piece on the wall had a bit more structure than the last, or maybe Alexis’s imagination was more active this time. It was darker than the other two, but not in an unfriendly way. It was dark reds, browns, oranges, and maybe a little purple. It reminded her of her old bedroom back when she was in high school. In fact, she thought she could see the outline of a bed off to one side, and there was stuff all over the floor. Suddenly, she wasn’t standing in an art gallery anymore; she was back in that bedroom.

~~~

They’re both supposed to be studying. They were sitting on the floor of Alexis’s bedroom, textbooks and notes mingled with the junk food wrappers spread out across the floor; mugs of now cold coco sitting dangerously close to both notes and elbows. Both girls have exams the next day and neither of them feel very prepared despite the many hours of studying they’d been putting in. Daisy’s head drooped onto her chemistry textbook while Alexis attempted to make sense of one of her practice calculus problems. Noticing her friend was falling asleep, Alexis poked her in the side.

“Wake up, sleepy head,” she whispered, barely restraining a yawn.

“No,” Daisy grumbled, burying her head into the crook of her elbow.

“Come on, it’s only-” Alexis grabbed her phone to check the time, eyes widening when she saw it. “Oh my god, it’s almost three. I guess we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, huh, 'Z?” Daisy made a noise that Alexis took to mean she agreed. “Come on, lets go to bed.”

She pulled Daisy off the floor and helped her onto the bed. They settled in and turned the lights off, but Alexis just couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned for a few minutes before Daisy told her to cut it out.

“We’re more than prepared for these exams, 'Lexi, I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Daisy consoled her. “Plus, in fifteen days we will officially be out of high school, and then we’ve got the whole summer before we have to go to college, and you’re going to be just fine there too, because I’ll be right there with you, okay? Now, can we go to sleep?”

Alexis took a deep breath. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Thanks, 'Z.”

“Anytime. Now shut up.”

~~~

Alexis smiled fondly at the painting before feeling eyes on her. She glanced around the room and saw a woman in a tight deep purple dress staring at her. It wasn’t a nice kind of stare, either. It wasn’t a “Do I know that person?” stare, or an “I wonder where she got that dress, it’s nice” stare. It was a “She’s not good enough to be here” stare. Alexis felt her smile disappear. Unfortunately, this was a stare she had encountered before, around her college campus. It was a nice school, a really nice school, and she and Daisy didn’t really fit in with all the sophisticated rich kids. She shopped at thrift stores, they wore designer flipflops. There was a definite difference in lifestyles between them. Feeling a sudden chill in the room, she wrapped her arms around herself and turned toward the next painting.

She was met with bright greens and blues, rich browns, and streaks of white. Something about the brushstrokes told Alexis that this painting was moving. Or rolling, more like. She found her smile returning as she was pulled into another memory.

~~~

It’s a joint family picnic. Alexis, her older brother Dan, Daisy, her younger sister Lila, and both sets of parents had come together for a summer afternoon, one of the last before Dan headed off to college and the girls back to high school. They had spread blankets on the ground in the shade of an oak on top of a hill just outside their town. It was a popular hiking spot, and it was the perfect day for it. Ham and cheese sandwiches had been distributed once they’d reached the top, and the kids had quickly consumed theirs. The game of tag that ensued shortly afterwords could be considered childish by some, but Lila was only nine and therefore still a child, so that made it all okay.

“Bet you can’t catch me,” Lila had challenged her older sister before taking off at a run. Daisy had chased after her for a few minutes, then circled back to the blanket to tag her best friend instead.

“Unfair!” Alexis exclaimed, brushing crumbs out of her lap as she stood. Her brother took one look at her and took off after Daisy, and the game began in earnest. It continued until Daisy tripped over her own feet and ended up rolling part way down the hill. Alexis threw herself down the hill to join her, both giggling like they were five years old again. They lay in the sun for a moment before hearing Dan start to make his way down the hill after them.

Daisy grabbed Alexis’s hand and pulled her up. “Run!” She shouted, and they did.

~~~

What had started as a small smile had broken into a flat out grin over the last few minutes, and Alexis found she didn’t care what the other people in the room thought of her anymore. She watched the painting for a few more minutes, replaying the memory in her head. She was pulled back to the present when she felt rather than heard her phone buzz with a text. She would be lying if she said few moments ago she hadn’t been hoping for an excuse to leave, but she found herself enjoying the art a bit more now. She still wouldn’t protest a game of mini-golf and maybe something to eat, but the gallery wasn’t that bad.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, Alexis smiled at the name that popped up on her screen.

Text from: Daisy-Doll

11/11/16 6:32pm

How’s the date going??

11/11/16 6:33pm

Do you need me to give you an out?

Alexis laughed softly as she sent a text back.

Text from: 'Lexi-Love

11/11/16 6:33pm

I haven’t actually seen him in a while, he went to get drinks

11/11/16 6:34pm

We’re at an art gallery, Daisy

Text from: Daisy-Doll

11/11/16 6:35pm

On a night like tonight?

It’s gorgeous out!

Text from: 'Lexi-Love

11/11/16 6:35pm

I know!

The arts cool, I guess

It’s super modern

Text from: Daisy-Doll

11/11/16 6:36pm

Sorry.

I know how much you like dusty old stuff.

Text from: 'Lexi-Love

11/11/16 6:36pm

Hey, you like “dusty old stuff” too

~~~

“I can’t believe my Dad roped you into this. Aren’t we supposed to be doing crazy stuff over Spring Break now that we’re college students?”

Alexis laughed at her best friend’s words, setting another box of junk near the top of the stairs. “Maybe, but I don’t mind cleaning, and, to be honest, I needed to get out of the house for at least an afternoon,” she said, moving back across the now much cleaner attic space to get to where Daisy was going through another box of what looked to be old toy trains.

Daisy looked up at her sympathetically. “Dan’s girlfriend?” She asked.

Alexis nodded. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like her, but she’s very…” She trailed off, looking for the right word.

“Excitable? Peppy? Not Dan-like?” Daisy suggested, closing the box she’d been going through and labeling it.

“Yeah,” Alexis said with a sigh, taking the box Daisy held out to her, checking the label before putting it under the window on the far wall with the other antique toys and things. “This place looks good, 'Z.” She added as she looked around the room.

Daisy turned to observe their progress. “It’s better than it was,” she decided after a moment, looking unconvinced. Alexis rolled her eyes and grabbed Daisy’s hand.

“I think we deserve a break.”

Daisy laughed and allowed herself to be pulled towards the stairs. “Okay. But, we’re coming back up here after, right?”

“Sure,” Alexis agreed, “but first, lemonade.”

Shaking her head at her friend’s serious tone, Daisy smiled, adding, “I think we’ve got some cookies, too.”

Alexis’s cheerful squeal could be heard on the street below as she ran down the stairs.

~~~

Text from: Daisy-Doll

11/11/16 6:36pm

This is true.

11/11/16 6:40pm

You still there, or did your date turn out to be a serial killer?

The texts pulled Alexis out of her memories again. She seemed to be spending a lot of time lost in her own mind tonight. Looking up from her phone, she saw Matt heading back towards her, looking vaguely disappointed about his failed attempts with the woman at the bar.

Text from: 'Lexi-Love

11/11/16 6:41pm

No serial killers, just thinking

He’s coming back, I’ve gtg

Text from: Daisy-Doll

11/11/16 6:41pm

Okay, have fun!

If you need me to have a mental breakdown so you can come back and comfort me, let me know.

Alexis laughed, tucking her phone back into pocket. Again, she thought of how Daisy never failed to make her smile.

“Hey,” Matt said brightly, finally returning, but seeming to have forgotten her glass of water. “Come on, I want to show you something.” He reached to take her hand, and Alexis became unreasonably glad that this dress had pockets.

“Lead the way,” she said, forcing a smile and keeping her hands firmly in her pockets. It didn’t seem to faze him, though, as he simply looped his arm through her’s instead and lead her to a painting across the room. He was talking about the piece he was about to show her, but she wasn’t listening. Her mind kept wandering back to Daisy, and- Oh. They’d stopped in front of a painting that covered the wall almost completely. It was a square that stretched from floor to ceiling, splashed with brilliant oranges, reds, yellows, and rich light browns. It was beautiful. Though she didn’t know much about the world of art, even she could tell this was exquisite. Matt was going on about the time he’d gotten to meet the artist during his semester abroad in Italy, and Alexis was trying to pay attention to him, she really was, but she was drawn into the painting in a way she hadn’t expected.

~~~

Alexis was running. It always helped to clear her head, and it felt like everything was crashing down on her all at once. The dorm room she shared with Daisy had suddenly felt too small, and she’d just needed to get out. So, she’d changed into her running clothes as fast as possible, left a note for Daisy, and then she ran. There was no destination in mind, just a need to move that drove her further and further from the room she’d come to call home. She wasn’t even sure what she was running from, she just knew that she needed to.

Eventually, she found herself at her favorite little picnic spot up behind the football field, and she slowed down. There was a perfect view of the sunset from up here, and for a moment she got lost in the colors. Soon, though, she was brought back to the present and all her thoughts came crashing down on her again. It had all become real in the last few minutes. The fact that she was turning twenty in a few weeks; that she was in college, preparing to do the thing she was going to do for the rest of her life; that life passes in the blink of an eye. She could still remember being a kid, still felt like a kid sometimes. The idea that she’d never be nineteen again-

“You know, the whole existential crisis thing seems like more of a Dan thing than you, if I’m being honest,” Daisy spoke from behind her.

Alexis turned and gave a small laugh, unsurprised her best friend had found her. “I know,” she said quietly, “but it all just kinda hit me, you know?”

Daisy nodded. “Yeah, I know.” She grabbed Alexis’s hand and smiled. They stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sunset, hand in hand. “Come on,” Daisy added, “they’re doing breakfast for dinner tonight in the cafeteria.”

And then Alexis was running, but this time she wasn’t alone, and she was running to something instead of away.

~~~

“Don’t you think?”

Alexis jumped a little at Matt’s question, not having expected it. “Hmm?” she responded, not wanting to say the wrong thing and make a complete fool of herself.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Matt didn’t seem bothered by having to repeat his question, he wasn’t even looking at her.

“Yeah,” Alexis agreed, the realization dawning on her slowly, “she is. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Ignoring Matt’s confused protests, Alexis ran out of the art gallery. She needed to find her Daisy.