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jolieblack · 8 months ago

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Something finally came to me! (I usually can’t write to prompts to save my life.)

May Prompts 2024 by @calaisreno

May 24th: Imperfect

We've always done things the wrong way round.

We moved in together at a time when we knew no more than four or five facts about each other. Significant facts, granted, such as John being a war veteran and me having no patience with idiots, but neither of us could have claimed to have had anything even close to the full picture at the time. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if either of us had. Only on my really bad days, though.

I don’t have all that many of those any more, luckily. And when I do, I have plenty of good memories to help me pull myself up again. Take the ones of how we confessed our love to each other to a beautifully decorated room full of people in festive dress and in even more festive spirit, to much applause and cheering and well-wishing. Yes, you heard that plural right. Those are two separate memories, years apart and in two different places. I got to go first, and it wasn’t even me who was getting married at the time. That’s another thing that most couples would do differently. Coordinate it a bit better, at least.

The second time around, as a lot of you will remember well, it was John's turn to talk, and I‘d been told in no uncertain terms to keep my mouth shut and say nothing, not even to correct his grammar, till he was done. I can now attest that it is true that the groom never gets to have a say in anything at his own wedding. Someone got his late revenge there. And believe me, that doesn’t depend on whether it’s one groom or two. Yes, and I know there are still people out there even in this day and age who feel that it’s not normal to have two grooms at all. They can all go away and never show their ugly faces again where I can see them, or smell the foul breath of the bigoted filth they’re spouting. That’s not the wrong way around, that couldn’t be more right for both of us.

But we did other things the wrong way around, too. In most romantic stories, killing someone to save the person you love is usually the culmination of long mutual trust and dedication. It‘s supposed to be the crowning glory, the final sealing of a bond that has long been in the making. It’s not supposed to be the starting point. And John is usually the more patient of the two of us, but when it came to this, he could barely contain himself for 36 hours after our very first meeting before he did it. Ever heard of timing and pacing, Doctor, I hear you people wonder? And he’s supposed to be the one with the talent for good storytelling. The timing was good, though. The timing was excellent. There’s another 'what if' for you that is no fun to contemplate at all.

There is killing out of love, and - I have to say it, I can’t not, I‘d be lying by omission if I didn't - there's also dying out of love. I doubt, however, that there’s anyone out there who has ever put a more elaborate effort into pretending to die out of love than I have. As far as I‘m aware, that’s not really a romantic convention, either, and I sincerely hope I haven’t started a trend. I honestly can’t recommend it. Effort is well and good, and I dare say the execution in my case was flawless, but I can’t deny there was a certain lack of forethought as to the emotional impact on both parties concerned. Don‘t try this at home, folks.

People also usually date first, then start cohabiting, then get married, then raise children together. Please don’t ask me to define at what time in our lives exactly John and I were dating and when we weren’t yet. To this day we have never been able to agree on a definition for this mysterious activity that emphatically, according to John, for whatever reason, does not encompass two people who like each other going out together and having fun. But it is an undisputed fact that we had been raising a child together for a good while before we got married. And we have been going out together and having fun for years uncounted now. Crime scenes never fail to work that particular magic on us. Oh wait, no, that was another example I had on my list for what most other couples do differently. Hang on, do I see a certain Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard raise his hand in objection? Raising both hands, actually, showing us… what, seven fingers? Is that the number of couples working for the Metropolitan Police that you know personally who have met at crime scenes? Or are you reminding us of the number of times John and I were actually kicked off a crime scene because we were enjoying ourselves entirely too much, and were told not to come back till we could behave like adults? I could have sworn those were more than seven occasions, but I‘ll take your word for it.

Talking of raising a child together, I‘m sure Rosie will say a word or three about that herself later, but I have never understood why most of you had doubts about the practicability of that particular endeavour. Let me just tell you that a baby carrier is entirely compatible with a cashmere scarf, or didn’t you know cashmere can absorb up to a third of its own dry weight in liquid? And it got only easier from there when Rosie grew older and stopped affectionately drooling on whoever enjoyed the happy privilege of holding her and carrying her around. She hasn’t demanded being carried around in a good while now, and I don’t know what our poor old backs would say to that these days. But we were talking about happy memories, weren’t we, so there’s another. And at least in the metaphorical sense, I hope you know, Rosie, that you’ll be held and carried for as long as you want and need, as long as we both live. You were my daughter even before I was your father’s husband, and that has been one of the greatest honours bestowed on me in my life.

Because this is who we are, isn’t it, our crazy little family, where nothing is as you’d expect it to be. But we still wouldn’t have it any other way, topsy-turvy, weird, flawed and utterly imperfect, but also utterly us, unique, one of a kind. I don’t know if it was fate that threw us together, or if it really was just a whim on the part of the comfortable, corpulent, bespectacled gentleman sitting at this table over here, smirking with his trademark benevolence. But there’s a debt of gratitude to be paid there, and today is a good day to do it. In this at least, we’re doing the conventional thing, but who’s to say we’re not allowed to do that at least once in a quarter-century.

So, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends and family from far and wide, I give you: John Watson, the man of my life, the man at my side for over thirty years, and for exactly twenty-five years in the legal sense on this very day. Please raise your glasses with us to the next twenty-five. And for God’s sake stop snivelling like that, Mycroft. You’re embarrassing the whole room.

#bbc sherlock #may prompts 2024 #mayprompts2024 #jolie writes #imperfect #bbc sherlock fanfiction #johnlock #old married couple #johnlock fanfiction

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lothcat-lothcat-lothwolf-run · 9 months ago

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soup clone soup clone soup clone

I did it! Not the whole finished work, but more of a short snippet :). My first time posting my work on here, hope you guys like it.

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No matter how many times he ran his blacks through the wash in the communal laundry room, the grease still remained. The smell of it too. Nothing in the cafeteria was practically good, but fresh food was better than ration bars. He got so sick of them that once, on some forsaken planet, he decided to try fishing for his vod’s meal. Using a few berries a bait, he constructed a pole from a clanker arm and a rope. It didn’t take long before something bit, but in trying to real it in, he got thrown into the lake itself. He can still hear his commander mumble about “mir’oisk shinies getting us into trouble with the enemy”. But the frigid waters and relentless teasing was much better than the oisk that they had to eat for the rest of the campaign.

Sighing deeply, CT-1413 gathered his things for the walk back to the barracks. A different bunk in a different wing of a different building, the whole situation felt strange. What happened to the pin-up girls that Bright had beside his bed? Or the wall that they had carved their names into after their first mission? The war was only three years, just over 1,000 coruscanti days, but it felt so much longer. They had all changed so much. It felt strange that it was finally over.

Slipping quietly into the room, he fumbled around trying to find his own bed. The only time to get anything done is peace was in the wee hours of the morning, when most troopers were enjoying their rest.

“Kriff! What are you doing, 1413?”

Karking hell, this is exactly what he wanted to avoid. Wandering around kamino at night wasn’t the most innocent looking behavior when 5 defectives turned only a day ago. Besides, it also wasn’t the finest way to try and get along with your new squad.

“N-nothing, Commander Numa…sir. Just doing some late night-uh-loads of laundry?”

“From the food fight? The smell of broth follows you like a hungry tooka. You were very lucky you weren’t called for disciplinary action, trooper. If it was my blacks, my lunch…things would have gone differently.”

The commander turned over to face the opposite row of soldiers. Taking this as a sign to leave, he continued to try and find his bunk in the ever-lasting darkness.

As he sat there, staring at the powered-off ion lights, he wondered about what Bright and the rest of the Vod would think.

It had only been days, but he could feel them growing father out of reach. Yes, they all have the same voice and face, but the inflictions on certain words, Tricker’s biting sarcasm, even the sound of himself laughing was becoming forgin. He listed over them in his head so he could remember. He wasn’t going to grow old, he promised himself that when he was still a cadet. If his joints ever ached or his memory fades, he himself would put the blaster to his head. The clones were created for usefulness, not to become veterans of a forgotten war. The whole vod promised too, that they wouldn’t let themselves overstay their welcome in the galaxy. And they didn’t, in the end. Now he just has to uphold his end of the bargain.

He often wondered on nights like these about who else shared this bunk, shared these sheets and pillows. He never knew the trooper he replaced. Their squad must have held them in high regard, because nothing he ever did seemed to gain their respect. He wondered if they used to be the commander of a battalion or an arc trooper. Did they die with glory? Was it a sacrifice? Did he get shot down on the field of battle with hundreds of his brothers? What mixed with his blood first, the dirt of the unnamed moon he died on or was it the sweat under his armor? He admired whoever they were with a morbid curiosity and desire. If they had switched places, they would both be were they belong.

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parabelled · 16 days ago

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+ The Ghosts of Christmas Past

Fandom: Band of Brothers: Character: Joseph Liebgott x OC

Summary: Set in 1948, three years after the war, Joseph Liebgott has deliberately distanced himself from his past, retreating to a solitary life in California’s Central Valley. Renting a small, unadorned house at the edge of a citrus orchard, he avoids all connections, pays in cash, and lives a quiet, unassuming existence. The bustling holiday cheer in town feels hollow to him, a stark contrast to the haunting memories of the coldest Christmas he endured in Bastogne during the war.

On Christmas Eve, as Joe returns home with groceries, he encounters a mysterious woman standing among the frost-covered trees in the orchard. Her face stirs a memory buried deep within him—a bombed-out church near Bastogne where she had been one of the few women tending to the wounded.

Author’s Notes: Happy Christmas!

This was based on this idea, a hankering for a Christmas one-shot considering life has been insane lately and kept me from writing, and wanting to give something back to the fandom after being so absent for so long.

It was also based on the fact that the real Joseph Liebgott was missing for three years post-war, and nobody, not even his parents, knew where he was. His children assumed it was a moment where he was suffering from PTSD, and that he was “bumming” it around Calfornia’s Central Valley, where there are lot of orchards and fruit trees.

As always, this is about the fictional representations in the series Band of Brothers; this is meant as no disrespect to the veterans themselves.

Lastly, “Kleine”(f) as a translation literally means “little one,” but it’s often used affectionately or informally to address someone younger or smaller.

1948

The barren citrus orchard was still, skeletal branches clawing at the cold December sky, as California’s Central Valley stretched gray and infinite, heavy clouds dulling any attempts of California sun to peak through.

Frost clung to the ground like a brittle blanket, and the distant hum of car engines on the nearby highway was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Joseph Liebgott adjusted the sack of groceries slung over his shoulder, the weight shifting uncomfortably against his back as he continued to haul his groceries for the week from the nearby town. He had no car, paid in cash, and avoided complications- all how he liked his life, these days.

The house he had rented was just a little ways down the road—a modest, empty thing, much like his life these days. Nothing to indicate it was Christmas. If it wasn’t for the barren orchards outside, you’d hardly think it was any other time of year.

In town, the decorations came out earlier each year, and the post-war cheer felt almost excessive, like they were all trying to forget the past by drowning it in tinsel and carols. Butter, chocolate, stockings—everything that had been rationed during the War had returned with a vengeance. People seemed eager to pretend the War was some distant memory, but Joe couldn’t do the same.

Any talk of Christmas instantly brought him back to the coldest Christmas he’d ever experienced, in December of ’44, where every breath froze in your lungs, and the idea of making it to New Year’s almost seemed like a Christmas present, in and of itself.

The house was perfect. It was far enough removed from the rhythm of town life that no one bothered him, and that was just how he liked it. Out here, there was no one to ask questions, no one to expect answers he didn’t want to give. On his way back home, Joe realized he hadn’t come back from Europe to face a parade of old friends, or family members demanding explanations. Or rather, he couldn’t. How could he explain what had happened to him? What he’d seen? How many times he’d been shot at (successfully, mind you), and still lived to tell the tale?

More than that, on the boat back, Joe realized something almost devious. He didn’t HAVE to explain any of that to people, if he just, never returned. If no one knew he existed. If he just… had his peace.

The frost crunched under Joe’s old boots as he trudged down the dirt road, reflecting as he shifted the sack of groceries on his shoulder, the canned goods inside clinking faintly with each step. Christmas Eve. Another day, just like all the others.

Christmas belonged to someone else’s life. Not his.

But as he reached the edge of the orchard, he slowed. A figure stood among the rows of trees, her blue-grey coat blending with the pale hues of the frost-dusted earth. She was still, almost statuesque, her face turned toward the barren branches above her. Joe frowned. No one ever came out here, not this far from the main road. It’s why he’d gotten this place in the first place.

He stopped, watching her for a moment. Something about the way she stood—straight-backed, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something only she could hear—pricked at a memory he couldn’t place. If it had just been a few years earlier, Joe would have joked about love at first sight.

But when she turned to look at him, he froze.

Her face was older, fuller, but the eyes were the same—wide, dark, and unwavering, the kind of eyes that had once stared up at him from the floor of a bombed-out church near Bastogne, like black holes that were both never-ending and all-seeing. The same church where the wounded were laid out on pews and the living whispered their prayers in the flickering light of salvaged candles, as the men listened to voices of the church’s choir, for another holiday’s festivities.

“You,” Joe said before he even realized the word had left his mouth.

The corners of her lips quirked up, just slightly. “Me.” She repeated, her words in German. The sound of the language, one he had avoided hearing since the War, sent a jolt through him. It wasn’t the harsh cadence of his enemies, though. Her accent was different, gentler, tinged with French. It was what she had managed to wheedle out of him when she sat next to him for prayers.

For a second, Joe thought he might’ve conjured her from memory. But as she stepped closer, her breath coming out in puffs in the cold air, the clarity of her presence made it impossible to deny.

“You’re not real,” Joe said, more to himself than to her. “This has gotta be some Christmas ghost thing, like those Christmas stories my Ma used to tell-“

She laughed softly, and the sound broke the cold air like the distant peal of a church bell. “I’m real,” She reassured, despite the fog around them making her look eerily otherworldly.

“And I found you.”

Joe shook his head, still trying to process, and despite the cold being nowhere near what he had felt in the past, a shiver heading up his spine.

You… what? You found me? Lady, I didn’t even know I was missing.” He lied.

Her face shifted now, the same dark eyes baring into him like they had that night in church.

“Your parents did.”

The words hit him as hard as any mortar blast. He physically turned away, his gaze toward soil that looked like frozen coffee grounds, a flush of anger and a pang of guilt simultaneously growing in his chest.

“My parents,” He muttered, almost bitterly. “Don’t even know I’m back.”

“And whose fault is that?” She says evenly. The fact that her tone had absolutely no judgment in it, but only was said matter-of-factly, somehow made Liebgott angrier.

“Wait a second, lady- How the hell did you find them? They can’t exactly afford to put a billboard out.”

She smiled, almost knowingly. “I didn’t. Your men, did.” She says softly. “They wanted to get in touch with you, to meet with you. They have reunions, you know.”

Liebgott practically spun on his foot at that, reshouldering his groceries and determined to ignore whatever specter from his past was attempting to guilt him into reuniting with his friends, ducking into the next row of dead-looking citrus trees and deciding to cut across the orchard to lose her.

“I ain’t much good to anyone nowadays, Lady-“ He calls back, but hearing her follow, the crunch of the frost-bitten ground a dead giveaway as he zags into the next row.

“You’re wrong!” She calls after him, but her voice becoming fainter and fainter as Liebgott’s knowledge of the orchard was used to his advantage. He finally stopped when he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her pursuing him anymore, the sight of his little shack on the edge of the cottage practically a beacon for him, as he felt an unexpected flip of relief in his stomach.

“You were good to me.” Her voice finally carries in English over the field.

Joe turned his head to look back in her direction.

Joe squinted through the fog and trees, hardly able to see her frame, but racking his brain.

Suddenly, he was back in that church. The smell of smoke and pine from makeshift decorations from Bastogne- the same trees that killed multiple friends of his attempting to be soothing. The murmur of voices blending into a patchwork of prayers and hymns.

She’d been one of the few women there, helping tend to the wounded, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to the carnage outside. But her name? He couldn’t remember.

“Look,” He called back finally, throwing up his hands and the clank of the cans audible across the field as he let the pack drop to his side. “I’ve been hit in the head a lot, okay? Cut me some slack.”

She laughed. The sound practically echoed around the field, and the sound warmed something in Joe he hadn’t realized was cold.

Suddenly, she emerged back from the fog, ducking under another barren branch.

“You never asked my name,” She said softly. “You just called me ‘Kid.’”

Joe blinked at the dark eyes, and even darker curls, and then the memory came rushing back.

The December of ’44 had been brutal. The woods of the Bois Jacques were a frozen hell, the nights a cacophony of gunfire and explosions that hardly anyone managed to sleep in. That church, though battered and broken, had been a place of refuge, however brief.

She had spoken to him in soft German when she overheard him translating something nearby for a fellow soldier, offering him water, but her accent different enough that it took Joe a moment to process. Sankt Vith. The Deutschsprachige Gemeinschaft Belgiens, or the German-Speaking Community of Belgium. Although German was spoken throughout Belgium, it was concentrated in Sankt Vith, about an hour off the line in Bastogne.

“You were from that pocket in Eastern Belgium” Joe said suddenly, the memory surfacing with startling clarity. “The part near Germany. It’s why you could speak to me.”

She nodded, her dark eyes glistening. It was only when she was this close Liebgott could register the fact that she was wearing makeup, and he suddenly felt very shoddy in comparison.

“And-And you… you spoke to me in German, although I had trouble with the Americanization and Austrian accent. Do you remember?”

He did. He remembered her in the dim light of that church, her face inches from his as he tried to calm her. Her knee had been bouncing when she had been forced to take a break- desperate to keep going- but he’d seen it in her eyes-the exhaustion, the despair. He’d promised her then, in slow German, that it would be okay. That they would survive. That they were in sanctuary.

“I remember,” He said quietly, as he felt a shudder pass through him. He hadn’t stood this still in a long time.

“A-And, I just called you “Kid,” and you let me-?”

She laughed again. He could practically smell her perfume, now.

“Well, you had more important things to worry about.” She teased, but crossing her arms with a shiver at the sudden gust of wind. “Besides, you kept saying it in English to cap off your German. I couldn’t think of a direct translation except “Kleine.” I didn’t want to assume- so I just let you-“

“Fair enough,” He shrugged, before feeling something loosen inside of him, reaching down to reshoulder his pack. He jerked his head slightly, motioning toward the small, weathered house sitting on the edge of the field. “Alright, then, Kid. But what are you doing here? California’s a long way from the Bois Jacques. Why now?”

Her expression softened but grew more serious, her warm smile dimming slightly as she stepped closer. “Because I had to find you,” She said simply. “And because it’s Christmas.”

Joe stared at her, his brow furrowing. “That doesn’t explain much. How’d you even know where to start?”

She hesitated, her gaze drifting to the frost-covered ground for a moment before meeting his again. “It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “After the War, I stayed in the pocket near Bastogne. But I couldn’t forget what you said- back in that church… about wanting to come home to California. About wanting to have a big family someday. Kids with ‘J’ names, to match your own- it was just, an image that made me smile-“

Joe felt a jolt in his chest, the memory surfacing unbidden. The flickering candlelight, the distant hum of hymns, the way her hands trembled as she unpromoted took his hand to steady hers wordlessly. He had allowed it, without a second thought. Only because he knew he needed human touch as much as she did.

“You held onto that?” He asked quietly.

She nodded, her expression unwavering. “I didn’t know if you made it home. I tried to find out through some of the men from Easy Company. One of them told me you’d come back but didn’t know where you’d gone after that.”

Joe’s throat tightened as she continued.

“I wrote to your parents,” She said, her voice softening. “When I finally tracked them down, they told me they hadn’t even heard from you. They didn’t know if you were alive or… gone.”

Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “That’s when I knew I had to keep searching. Not just for them, but for me. Because I owed you everything.”

Joe looked away, his jaw tightening. Guilt and something deeper—something he couldn’t name—twisted in his chest. “You shouldn’t have done all that. I’m not- I-I’m not worth it… all I did was hold your hand-“

Her hand brushed his arm, tentative but grounding, and he felt an electric shock slide through his skin.

“You’re wrong,” She corrects softly. “You were worth it then, and you’re worth it now. You grounded me when I thought I’d never feel stable again. You talked to me when I thought I’d never feel human, again. You made me believe there was something worth surviving for. That I could have companionship. That I could have… love. That’s why I couldn’t give up until I found you.”

Joe swallowed hard, her words hitting like a blow. For a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak. Finally, he shifted the sack of groceries again and glanced toward the house.

“Alright, Kid,” He said, his voice softer now, almost playful. “You wanna come in? It ain’t much, but I can whip up some soup or something. Real Christmas feast.”

Her smile brightened, and for the first time in years, Joe felt a flicker of something he thought he’d lost forever: Hope.

“Soup sounds perfect,” She said, before teasing. “As long as we can manage more than broth.

Liebgott barked out a laugh without even thinking, and the smile finally reached the dark eyes in front of him. He remembered the side eye they had both given each other in the church, at the broth that tasted suspiciously like old socks and chicken (“She” had confirmed that both laundry and food were cooked in that same pot).

“I promise not to give you the laundry pot,” He teased, bumping her gently, as the woman gently moved to take hold of the other part of the grocery bag over his shoulder, carrying it up and over the threshold as they walked together towards the small, unadorned house.

As they walked inside and the Kid started to unpack the groceries in front of him, Joe felt the quiet warmth of connection settling into the cold spaces inside of him, as she moved to turn on the light and pull can after can of peaches from his bag.

Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t be just another day after all.

#hbo war #band of brothers #my writing #my edits #Joseph liegbott #one shot #fanfiction

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charleslee-valentine · 1 year ago

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For the Texas Chainsaw Massacre Fanworks Event Day 3: Alternate Universe

One where both twins survive

Ship(s): None

Word Count: ~1,500

Warnings: Description of injuries, blood, mild panic attack, picking/harmful stimming.

@texas-chainsaw-fanworks

_____

The hospital keeps little mittens on his hands so he doesn’t pick his scabs.

The sutures on his face are his favorite.

Nubbins has been in here for a long time. They can’t blame him when his body gets overwhelmed by the pain and the itch. Digging his nails into the unwelcome feelings makes them go away. Makes his thoughts calm down a little anyways.

When he’s alone for too long, he gets a little unsteady.

He’d never been to the hospital before, and now he’s been trapped here for months. It’ll be just a little longer now, until they can take the stuff holding his jaw together back out. That’s what Drayton told him anyways, translating what the mean old doctors were saying into words he could understand.

It got scary, when he didn’t have one of his brothers here. All on his own, freezing cold, not allowed to hum or play or pick, forced to act by their standards. He hates them all. Almost as much as he hates the neighbor girl for pushing him in the road.

Almost as much as he hates his twin brother for leaving him.

He knew Nubbins couldn’t come with him. He knew that! And then he went anyways! It made him so angry he could just-

A faint gasping cry echoes in the hallway. It sounds like one of the nurses maybe, sounds like going into shock.

If he could get up, he would, but he’s forced into this dumb bed still, so he stays put, stretching his neck so far it hurts from trying to see what’s going on.

Whatever’s happening, there’s blood out there.

Nubbins always thought being afraid of blood was stupid. Then again, he also thought he was safe on the road.

Here they were.

He’s never being sure of anything again.

Unless that counts as being sure of being unsure. Even through the cloth wrapped around his hands, he scratches at his skin. He’s just- he’s angry! There’s so much buzzing underneath his skin and he just wants out!

Nubbins balls up his hands and hits. Anywhere he can reach. His arms, his chest, his legs, and dammit he can’t even feel it in his legs. The beepy-sound the screen beside him makes to measure his heart gets loud and fast.

But nobody comes to check on him.

A sick, sweaty kind of feeling rises up in his chest. It’s panic. He is afraid.

That blood must mean something.

Maybe he’s hurt again.

But no. The nurses do come, eventually, but they’re different from his usual ones. They aren’t there for him.

It’s another patient. Another Sawyer patient.

“Wh-What is he doin’ here?”

Like he’s stupid, like he’s a child, they explain it slow. They say his brother got hurt in the war and had to come to the hospital to get put back together. Just because they’re family they’re getting shoved in the same room. The Veterans hospital was too expensive to keep him, so here he is. Invading Nubbins’ space.

Bobby smiles and waves like nothing is wrong.

“Nubbins!!”

Nubbins folds his arms, at least as best he can, given he’s just regaining motion in them, and shouts, “No!! D-Don’t you t-talk to me! I hate you!”

It seems to cut Bobby deep. He practically whines, like he used to when they were little and pitching fits to get what they wanted, “Nuh uh! You-You love me f-forever! I’m your brother!”

The angry in Nubbins’ heart mixes up with those memories of his brother and gets sorta tangled. In a way that makes him queasy.

He covers his ears with his hands, “Shut up! Sh-Shut up!!”

“Why sh-should I?” Bobby argues right away, loud as he can to defy the order.

So Nubbins explains why, grumpy that Bobby couldn’t just get it on his own and leave him be, “‘Cause I-I’m mad at you... B-But if you stays q-quiet, I might ch-change my mind.”

Guilt made him add that last part. Drayton always taught them you could love someone, but didn’t have to like them. He still loves his twin. It’s just confusing when he doesn’t like him. Like he doesn’t know whether to be upset or not. Nubbins wants to like him.

Bobby tries to comply and be silent. Really, he does, and it’s clear in the loud beeping of their neighboring machines being the only sound. He gives in eventually as it drones on, “But Nubbins-“

“Shhhhh!”

“Okay.”

Nubbins’ thoughts are like mushy applesauce. Like rot after it’s already sunk in deep through the body of a raccoon or a opossum on the side of the road. None of it makes sense and it’s all just too much. Nubbins angrily swishes his hands in the air to kill some of those bad feelings bubbled up in his body.

The silence lasts this time. Gives Nubbins a moment to just be a little spastic until he’s ready to speak.

“I-I’m mad a-at you.” He finally announces, voice sounding a little wavy and strained.

“W-What’d I do?” Bobby asks, and it’s genuine.

So Nubbins answers genuine back, simple facts without all those mean emotions getting in the way, “You left.”

“Oh. Y-Yeah.” Bobby nods, like he’s going to accept it, but then a thought occurs to him. He raises shoulders up a little so it’s known he’s going to speak before he even starts, “B-But I..I didn’t want to.”

They’d tried to tell him that. Bobby said so in his letters home, and Drayton put it into words, bringing what the paper said (and what Nubbins couldn’t read) to life.

Nubbins hadn’t believed either of them.

He thought that’s just what was said to make him feel better.

Now he feels the need to defend his pain, “I was a-alone. Forever.”

Bobby nods again, like he gets it, but he taps the big stitches and staples and leaky bandages on the side of his head, “I got hurt. Y-You can see it. L-Look at my head. A..A machete d-did that.”

“We-Well I c’ain’t e-even walk!” Nubbins shouts it in frustration.

That truck stole a lot of things from him that day.

None of them hurt as bad as when the government stole Bobby away to go fight.

Maybe. Maybe his anger was never really at his brother anyway. That's the most confusing part. Still, he’s willing to listen now and answer Bobby’s questions cooperatively.

For starts, Bobby seems confused by the confession Nubbins made, “Didja for-forget how?”

“I got huh-hurt too.” Nubbins explains, showing the scars down the backs of his arms from all the pins they put in to fix his bones, and turning his head to show the big sutures on his face from his jaw problem.

Bobby doesn’t even hesitate to reassure him, at the sight of his brother hurt, just like the way it used to be, “The doctors’ll.. th-they’ll getcha all better! They’s helped me l-lots. ‘Til.. ‘Til I tore my scab o-off. Nurse lady run o-outta there screamin’!”

So that explains that. The bloody woman must’ve tried to help him and got scared off. Nubbins wonders how bad it is under the bandages on Bobby’s head, but he doesn’t ask. That would be not nice.

Nubbins doesn’t want to be not nice anymore. Maybe he forgives too easily or something, but he’s not mad anymore. It still hurts that Bobby left, but they both suffered together, even far far apart.

Always connected.

He giggles at Bobby’s story and shows the thick mittens still on his hands, another thing they have in common, “Y-You pick ‘em too?”

Bobby nods in agreement, but he does it too fast and looks like he gets sick and dizzy. After a moment, he lays his head down on his pillows, a little pale.

It makes Nubbins feel yucky. Like he might lose him.

He whispers, “Are w-we gonna be.. o-okay?”

Bobby looks all around the room before he answers, just as quiet, “I-I think so. We’re to-together again so’s.. that-that’s gotta be good. R-Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I-I think you’re right. We’ll get out, a-and we’ll go home. We-We can’t play by the road but..but we can.. we can have fun again!” Nubbins gets all excited when thinking about having fun again makes his heart and his stomach feel better.

Until a thought occurs to him, and his smile drops away a little, “D-Do you still want to?”

Bobby doesn’t hesitate to encourage him, “‘Course! Me an’ you, Nubs, a-and Bubba too!”

And Nubbins believes it. Maybe it’s dumb but he doesn’t wanna hate his brother forever. They promised they’d be together all their lives, and that was broken. But maybe now it won’t be.

They’re both busted up. The family’s gonna have to give them some space, and they’ll spend it all telling each other about the last year. Maybe it’ll be like he never even left.

It makes Nubbins happy. His hands flutter about and show it. It hurts a little in his shoulders and chest, but he doesn’t care. He shakes and wiggles and claps all the good energy out into the world.

Bobby joins him. He makes noise when he does it, always has. A little hummy sound that gets higher based on how much his arms is wiggling.

It’s comfortable. Familiar. Happy.

#tcmfanevent #nubbins sawyer #chop top sawyer #bobby sawyer #tcm 1974 #tcm 2 #tcm fanfic #my moodboards #my writing

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shera-dnd · 1 year ago

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I try not to be negative here. Like there's just too much negativity in this webbed site as is and I don't wanna add on to it

BUT god it's so hard not to shit on Mihoyo's character designs

Like I could write a whole fucking essay on why Yae Miko maybe has the ONLY good character design in Inazuma, and how Kokomi's and Raiden's designs are an affront to character design

Not to mention how much I could dunk on how pasty white the entirety of their fantasy India is

...but that would take like an ungodly amount of words and effort and ranting, and like I said I wanna keep negativity to a minimum

so instead I'm gonna do a little "bulk dunk" and go for the entirety of HSR in one go

quick disclaimer that I still play and enjoy these games and Jingliu has me by the balls no matter how painfully boring her character design actually is

ALRIGHT LET'S GO!

I guess it goes without saying that the design of any character in a gacha game is created with only a single thought in mind and that is: MASS MARKET APPEAL!

Which means the characters are meant to be PRETTY and their designs are meant for immediate appeal, not to actually inform the character

This results in some...weirdness

Like the fact that the Natasha (girl on the left) raised Seele (girl on the right) from childhood and used to run an orphanage, meaning she's much MUCH older than Seele, even tho they look about the same age

Okay Nat does look a little older, but no one is allowed to look old in this game

Something that becomes extra clear with

Serval! Who you'd be forgiven for thinking is a young adult playing for a rock band, and not a middle aged disgraced scientist who used to be in a rock band.

And yeah she's supposed to be AT LEAST in her 30s, because girl is the same age as Cocolia and that woman is a mother to an adult woman by the time we meet her

Oh and speaking of Nat and Serval, you've now seen 2/3s of all characters with ANY FORM OF BLEMISHES ON THEIR SKIN!

Nat has a spot on her chin, and Serval has a tattoo on her hip

Last one is Arlan

My man has the only two scars in this whole ass video game. He's also the only dark skinned character. He follows a pattern set by Xinyan and Dehya in Genshin, by being dark skin rep, carrying a big sword, and sucking absolute ass

But okay these characters are pretty, but there's nothing wrong with keeping characters pretty. Well, there is when their prettiness goes against what their character is supposed to be

So Belobog's story is one of class struggle in a military state that is holding back a never ending catastrophe. The entire population of the world is just one big walled city holding back the cold.

In it the rich and powerful live in the Overworld, where they have museums and theaters and grand statues, and a massive building from which their rulers can pass judgement.

The Underworld is mostly just a giant fucking mine where the lower class people are forced to work 24/7 in order to get food and medicine from the Overworld in the hopes that they'll keep surviving.

Underworld characters are survivors who have been struggling every day of their lives and have NEVER SEEN SUNLIGHT BEFORE

Yeah guys I can really get hardworking survivor from these two

But I mean that is just ONE planet, it can't be a thing for EVERY world, right? ...right?

So the Xianzhou Luofu is... a lot. Like it would take a long time to explain everything that is up with those guys, but the big themes here are stuff around chronic illness, memories, PTSD, war time trauma, and a whole bunch of stuff about aging

Like here are two characters who are veterans of war. One is constantly overwhelmed by her own traumatic memories, causing her to go into violent dissociative episodes.

The other one lost her copilot/best friend/rival/love of her life (YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME SHE ISN'T GAY, MIHOYO) in battle, and the trauma of that loss has left her terrified of flying again, living the rest of her life in the shadow of this one monumental event

...yeah I don't see it either

But hey don't worry, this game believes in gender equality, and that means the men are also just very pretty and very boring

Like the Luofu's messiest polycule, who are all millennia old pretty boys made with the sole purpose of making the straight women in the fanbase call them "daddy"

Well at least Blade has spider lily symbolism, which is like always a plus for me

Okay

That's it

That's all the dunking I have for HSR. I exorcised the angry grumpy critic from my system, and can go back to being positive and loving things again.

And I mean these games make more money than I can ever even conceptualize, so maybe I'm the one who is wrong

Oh also

Clara is perfect and objectively the best character design in this game, don't fucking @ me!

#hsr #honkai star rail #natasha #seele #serval #arlan #luka #jingliu #yukong #dan heng #dan heng il #cooler daniel #blade #jing yuan #clara #fuck that's a lot of characters

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rmsstevielol · 2 months ago

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I just want to talk about Remembrance Day for a sec.

So as a Scottish and Irish person i wear the poppy and i wear it solely to respect the innocent (heavy on this, when I say this I mean only the innocent ones I don’t even associate the disgusting war criminals with the other soldiers) men and women who lost their lives in WW1, WW2 and other conflicts. I do this because any innocent person who dies in conflict deserves to be remembered and also because my dad is a veteran of 30 years. As a British soldier, he admits that their are few disgusting individuals who take advantage of their role as a soldier to commit horrific war crimes yet he says that they were taught in training that Remembrance Day is not for them, they’re not being remembered or honoured becuase they do not deserve it.

I wear the poppy for every single innocent person, no matter what race, religion, gender etc who has died in the world wars or any other recent conflict, including the Palestinian genocide that is happening as we speak. I strongly believe that if you’re supporting Israel or funding them, you don’t deserve to wear that poppy. You’re supposed to be respecting any innocent person who died in conflict and by funding or helping this genocide happen, you’re contradicting yourself. Heavy on any Westminster MP that showed up at the memorial service especially Kier Starmer.

Further, about the Irish and Scottish part. For those who are shitting on Stephen Flynn for not singing the national anthem: he is an atheist, he isn’t religious, he isn’t a unionist and isn’t his national anthem, he is purely there to remember the dead as he should be.. this is not another day to praise the government for no reason neither is it a day to praise the monarchy for no reason, this is about the dead soldier and that is it. AND the fact that you’re angry at a non-unionist for not singing the national anthem (that isn’t his) yet you’re not angry at the man who murdered hundreds of soldiers in the war he caused, Tony Blair for even attending the memorial, that is absolutely disgusting and hypocritical. Now about the Irish thing, I get it honestly I do I am Irish and I know what the British did and yes I am also incredibly angry about it, but thousands of Irishmen and women died in WW1 and other conflicts and that is what I am remembering, if you’re so proud about being Irish then remember the dead Irishmen who fought for you and be proud of them (ofc again I mean the innocent ones), again this is not about the government, monarchy or politics please understand that, if people say it is about British or any of the things I’ve just mentioned then they’re wrong, seriously it’s nothing about them it’s about the dead no matter who they were (again yk what I mean).

i personally went to a memorial service for Remembrance Day and I did the 2 minute silence yet I did not sing the anthem becuase im not English and that isn’t my anthem and again it has nothing to do with the monarchy, if you’re making it about them then I personally think you’re awful :)

thank you for listening to my rant and lest we forget 🤍

#remembranceday #british army #irish history #scottish #scottish independence #Irish unity #lestweforget #ww1 #i stand with palestine #Palestine #palestinian genocide #amrev #american history #american revolution

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disco-elysium-via-polls · 10 months ago

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🎵 Instrument of Surrender

5. "There's absolutely *nothing* wrong with tare-collecting. It's my side-thing too." (Proudly hold out the tare bag.)

GASTON MARTIN - "Oh, I didn't mean to imply there's something *wrong* with that," the jolly man says quickly. "I do it too. Everyone does it. It's an excellent side-thing."

RENÉ ARNOUX- "Yes, yes, yes," the carabineer utters angrily. "Can we conclude the topic of my guard booth now?"

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - He is not going to become an entrepreneur.

2. "I... saw a picture in there. You were in it. You looked... happy. Who's the girl?"

RENÉ ARNOUX- His features stiffen and he gets a cold look. "She... is nobody. This is none of your concern and I refuse to discuss my private affairs with the RCM."

GASTON MARTIN - "The lady is Jeanne-Marie Beaulieu." Gaston speaks with a soft voice. "And she sure as hell wasn't a nobody."

Task complete: Ask René about the photo

+10 XP

3. "Got it, thanks." (Conclude.)

RENÉ ARNOUX- "Yes, yes. Like I said," he brings it up again, "I would be up *anyway*, so might as well keep an eye out. It keeps my senses sharp."

6. [Composure - Legendary 14] What is it about this old soldier that makes him stand so proud?

-1 Threw the *boule* in the sea. +1 Know René's job-situation.

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Success] - As René turns from you to his partner and back, the medals on his chest rattle and glare. He keeps his spine straight and his ribcage lifted, displaying them proudly.

How many medals are there?

COMPOSURE - Two. The larger one is shaped like a cross, while the smaller medal resembles the sun.

Look at the cross.

Look at the sun.

COMPOSURE - A crowned head in front of two crossed rifles. The medal hangs from a blue striped triangle.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - It is the *Croix de Bravoure* -- Cross of Valour. The Cross was the highest battlefield decoration in the Suzerain's armed forces, awarded for exceptional bravery in the line of duty in service of King Frissel the First.

2. Look at the sun.

COMPOSURE - A small blue star inside an orange sun. It has the word *Vaillance* written below.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - *The Setting Sun* was a decoration used to distinguish seasoned combat veterans in service of King Frissel the First during the Revolution.

"*Croix de Bravoure* and The Setting Sun." (Point to his chest.) "Did you get them for..."

RENÉ ARNOUX- "For bravery," he interjects.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - It's a conflicted topic for the old veteran. There must have been a number of controversial episodes in his service days.

"That's what I was going to say, bravery."

"Not for killing babies or…?"

"Not for raping women or...?"

"For bravery?"

RENÉ ARNOUX- "I'm sure. But I know this uniform's reputation: You were also wondering if I got these for raping women or killing babies."

"No, I really wasn't, I'm just asking."

"So, did you?"

"I don't know the reputation of… *anything*. Don't even recognize the war."

"Sounds controversial. Let's talk about something else."

RENÉ ARNOUX- "Son, we should never forget our past. Lots of mistakes were made back then, but they were also lessons." His voice takes on a tutor-like quality.

"Forgetting those times means the mistakes were for nothing. That all those people died for nothing."

RHETORIC [Trivial: Success] - Whoaa... sounds like you're about to open the gates of conversation -- this man will literally talk your ear off, if you let him wander off to Memory Lane.

"So what *did* you get the medals for?"

"Sounds like there's a story there, but I'd like to talk about something else right now."

RENÉ ARNOUX- "For doing my duty in the heat of battle, for looking my mortality in the eye, when men like Gaston here hid in the bushes and shat themselves..."

GASTON MARTIN - "He saved some *maudit* princeling who foolishly strolled into the front line in his gown of velvet and gold."

"Saved a princeling?"

"Listen, René, I might wanna hear that story later, but right now I have more important things to discuss."

RENÉ ARNOUX- "It was on the first months of the Revolution here in Revachol. Unrest was spreading like wildfire. Marauders had taken most of the Couron and were getting *really* ambitious."

"King Frissel thought he could end it all in one decisive strike." The old carabineer runs his fingers over the larger medal. "Sent his cousin, Drysant, to put an end to the unrest."

"Alas, the young Drysant was all piss and no vinegar, wearing a tunic of purple velvet and cockatoo feathers to battle." He spits. "Even his rifle was *gold-plated*. Shone from five klicks away. Can you imagine the asininity?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Purple velvet tunic," the lieutenant says thoughtfully. "That isn't exactly *camo*."

RENÉ ARNOUX - "To keep the long and bloody story short, Drysant marched us against the partisans in Couron. And when I say 'marched', I mean made us walk into captured enemy territory single-file, like toy soldiers, while he rode in front on his giant red stallion."

The rebels were smart. They let us come real close before opening fire. Suffice to say, it was carnage."

"Must have been a bloodbath."

"Pretty damn clever indeed."

"Bastards…" (Slowly shake your head.)

RENÉ ARNOUX - "I got shot in the left shoulder and went down. Just a flesh wound, but just as I turned over, the prince fell into the mud next to me. He was missing his lower jaw."

"Then his horse, driven mad by the noise and smell of gunpowder, stepped on my leg and shattered my knee." He pats his right thigh.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - Hang on to the story -- veterans get sentimental after such *retellings* -- this might yield something useful.

"Okay... then what did you do?"

"Shattered knee… interesting. Actually, can we pick it up later and do questions now?"

RENÉ ARNOUX - "I grabbed my sidearm and shot the beast in the head. Then everything went black."

GASTON MARTIN - "*Capitaine Arnoux -- le fléau des chevaux*!"

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - The bane of horses.

RENÉ ARNOUX - "When I came to, it was all over," he continues, ignoring his companion. "It was just me and jawless Drysant, gurgling in the blood-soaked mud right next to me."

"The dink had taken numerous flesh wounds and lost a lot of blood, but despite missing his jaw he seemed hesitant to die. Tougher than he looked, that one."

"That's no dink, that's a fighter!"

"I'd give up. Can't imagine living without my jaw." (Touch your jaw.)

"This would never happen to Johnny Law-jaw." (Point to your jaw.) "My jaw is tight."

"I've been through worse."

RENÉ ARNOUX - "He didn't." A shadow of respect crosses his face. "I hoisted the prick on my back and started crawling. Kept going until the 59th Cavalry picked us up."

"Through some miracle we both survived. And the jawless freak convinced Frissel to give me a medal for not leaving him to die in his own blood, piss, and shit."

"He was the commanding officer and I was on duty. Just doing my job. Shouldn't hand out medals for that..." He shakes his head. "Thirteen months later I received 'The Sun'. For distinguished service. It's not worth mentioning."

+5 XP

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - You sense he's downplaying it -- he did a lot more than his duty. More than anyone's duty. It's in his spine, in his billowing breast. An untarnished self worth.

"Sounds like you're being modest, René."

"Thanks for the story, René!" (Conclude.)

RENÉ ARNOUX - The old carabineer stands quietly like a statue, his features motionless.

GASTON MARTIN - "What *Monseigneur Modestie* is not telling you is that he crawled over seven kilometres before the cavalrymen found him and Drysant. Two days later that was."

"And that even whilst crawling with a mangled half-dead prince on his back, he still managed to murder three rebels on his way."

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - Is that... pride in his voice? It's deep down, but -- maybe even unbeknownst to the man himself -- it's there.

"Hold on, you're just a *little bit* proud of René's heroics, aren't you?"

"Quite impressive. It's men like René who made Revachol great once."

"I'm not impressed. All those heroics and where is he now? No, you gotta play to win. Look after *you* first."

"This doesn't seem like a good moment to express an opinion." (Lean closer.) "I don't wanna risk it."

GASTON MARTIN - "Sorry, officer, but you're reading me all wrong." He chuckles. "I'm a man of peace and these kinds of bloody 'heroics' are only impressive to men like René himself. Certainly not to me."

"How did *you* find the story to be, officer?"

3. "This doesn't seem like a good moment to express an opinion." (Lean closer.) "I don't wanna risk it."

RENÉ ARNOUX - "*Bon dieu*," he mumbles, slowly shaking his head. "You and Gaston must be related. His blood runs yellow too."

GASTON MARTIN - "Maybe, maybe, but also bear in mind, officer..." He points to the sun-shaped medal on René's chest. "They don't hand these out for anyone with a service record."

"Oh no, you have to get shot." He nods eagerly. "Repeatedly. And you need to get your hands bloody too. Really *really* bloody."

RENÉ ARNOUX - "Do not speak of what you know nothing about, poltroon!" He slams the heel of his boot in the ground. "Duty is something you will never understand."

2. "Thanks for the story, René!" (Conclude.)

RENÉ ARNOUX - "Bah!" His gaze wanders over the bay. "There were many such stories in those days. Many such men too. True Revacholians, men with *backbone*."

GASTON MARTIN - "Oh yes, René, yes..." The jolly man nods meekly. "Men were bigger, girls were prettier, and everyone was a *fascha* -- Lord, please bring those days back, if you can!"

RENÉ ARNOUX - "I'm *not* getting into this with you again." He mumbles through clenched teeth and turns to you. "Officer, was there anything else?"

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] - You should try to come up with a heroic story of your own -- impress this old soldier.

As you can see, our chances of passing this red check are *far* too low right now.

7. "Thank you for your time!" [Leave.]

Let's get back to making sure those guys aren't trashing Kim's car.

PISSF****T - "The palm tree livery should be, like, pastel green. Fucking tropic shit..." He gazes dreamily at Lieutenant Kitsuragi's motor carriage.

FUCK THE WORLD - "I can see it, bright as day. Oh, if we were SKULLS right now..."

"Who are you?"

FUCK THE WORLD - "I can tell you who we're not, cop. We're *not* snitches, f****ts, or SKULLS."

PISSF****T - "Which is not to say that the SKULLS are bitches and f****ts. On the contrary..."

FUCK THE WORLD - "The part of this presentation you wanna take home with you, cop-man, is: We're not part of the SKULLS. Yet."

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] - These *skull* people are more than an authority. They're deities.

"Who are the *SKULLS*?"

"Do you know anything about the murder that took place here?" (Point to the yard.)

"Do you guys know Cindy the SKULL?"

"What's with the jackets?"

"Well, talking with you has definitely been something." [Leave.]

FUCK THE WORLD - "You don't know? What kind of cop are you?"

"I'm so glad you asked!"

"Of course I do, I'm just testing you boys."

"No, I really don't."

PISSF****T - "The question was rhetorical," he replies, raising his open hand. "The SKULLS are *the* most vicious gang of the Besmertnyé."

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - Besmertnyé or the Besmertie -- the *immortals* -- are West Revacholian crime syndicates.

FUCK THE WORLD - "The nastiest bunch of psychos ever! Jacking carriages and getting into high-speed chases."

PISSF****T - "Possessing an infinite amount of fuck-all swagger, infamous for their non-verbal *modus operandi*."

"Non-verbal?"

Say nothing.

KIM KITSURAGI - "If a SKULL spots you, he will pull out his dagger and stab you without saying a word."

COMPOSURE [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant's voice is as calm as usual -- a testament to the violence and death he's witnessed through the sight of his firearm.

KIM KITSURAGI - "They usually occupy the Burnt-Out Quarter in Jamrock. Or you can find them loitering around their brightly-painted, bottom-lighted vehicles."

FUCK THE WORLD - "Oh, I can't wait to become a SKULL. Bottom-lights are *wretched* aggressive."

2. "Do you know anything about the murder that took place here?" (Point to the yard.)

FUCK THE WORLD - "Murder?"

"A man was hanged in the backyard of the Whirling-in-Rags."

"Never mind, this is useless."

FUCK THE WORLD - "Yeah, sure, we'll gladly tell you everything we know about it." He clears his throat. "It was a man."

PISSF****T - "Also, he was hanged."

"Anything else?"

"Don't fuck around. I am the law."

+1 Lawbringer

PISSF****T - "He was hanged from a tree."

FUCK THE WORLD - "Yeah, I mean... duh."

KIM KITSURAGI - "These punks don't know anything. Let's just move along."

FUCK THE WORLD - "Hey! Stop right there! How does one know anything?"

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - Ah -- this sounds like epistemology. A field so occupied by thought that it begins to question thought itself.

Level up!

"I know that you don't know shit."

"I'm not going to entertain you with this any longer."

FUCK THE WORLD - "Exactly! How can one know shit? For example: How can one be sure that there truly is a body hanging behind the hostel?"

PISSF****T - "What if it's art... or just a mere spectre?"

"Believe me, I'd know. I *know* spectres." (Rub your temple.)

"That could be the case, yes... a brilliant work of art!"

"It's not. A man is dead and we need answers."

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant raises an eyebrow but does not comment.

3. "Do you guys know Cindy the SKULL?"

PISSF****T - "Oh yeah, Cindy's a right proper SKULL..." The young man's eyes glaze over, his voice filled with longing.

FUCK THE WORLD - "Yeah," the other guy lights up too. "A true artist of the future, just like Arno van Eyck."

PISSF****T - "By the way, if you see Cindy, give her our regards," he adds, returning from whatever void he was just visiting.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - Odd. There isn't a hint of hate in them. It's like they're 'Pissf****t' and 'Fuck the World' out of some kind moral obligation.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] - The lieutenant, on your left, is unusually lenient toward them.

"I see you kids are into anodic dance music?"

"Why aren't there more SKULLS in Martinaise?"

"Your rhetoric is confusing. Are you a part of the SKULLS or not?"

"Enough about this *skullery* then." (Conclude.)

FUCK THE WORLD - "Oh, man, yeah!" he exclaims, then stops himself, processing the rest of your question. "We're not fucking kids, man!"

PISSF****T - "Be wary of the abyss," his blond friend adds ominously and points to his temple.

"Why?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Probably because of how *non-verbal* their mode of operation is going to be," the lieutenant answers for the two rebels. "It's a threat."

"A threat? Good. I like those."

"Don't fuck with me, boys. I'm one of the bad cops."

"I just wanted to talk about music and now there's a conflict all of the sudden... it's too much." (Nervously shake your head.)

PISSF****T - "Uh... that's right," the young man says, looking unsure of himself. "You... you should back off and let silence rule supreme."

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] - What is wrong with you? Now you're just empowering these punks.

KIM KITSURAGI - "This is ridiculous." The lieutenant gives you an irritated glance. "Boys, do you know why the gang is called SKULLS?"

PISSF****T - "Yeah -- the skull symbolizes the embrace of death and nothingness, present in all of us, the vehicle of our future operations. Death and nothingness."

KIM KITSURAGI - "They're called SKULLS because when you're shot dead in the middle of the street, the skull is the only part the stray dogs won't eat."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] - Just trust me and follow my lead.

"Kim, maybe you shouldn't scare them like that?"

"So, boys, wanna feed the dogs?"

PISSF****T - No reply. The blond rebel scratches his chin, deliberately not focusing his gaze on anything. He looks very uncomfortable.

FUCK THE WORLD - The other one shuffles uncomfortably, nevertheless continuing to steal glances at the lieutenant's motor carriage.

"Why aren't there more SKULLS in Martinaise?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "The Union does their share of policing in Martinaise, at least where gangs are concerned," the lieutenant replies instead. "That's why there isn't much organized crime around here."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - Apart from the Union themselves of course.

FUCK THE WORLD - "Don't you worry about that. We're gonna make up for the deficit."

PISSF****T - "Yeah we are!" The young men exchange approving nods.

2. "Your rhetoric is confusing. Are you a part of the SKULLS or not?"

PISSF****T- "We're not *franchised* SKULLS -- well, not yet. Once we get our name out there, we'll have a chance to join them."

"And what makes you think that the organization would accept you?"

"I see."

PISSF****T- "Because we can be just as psycho and vicious. You'll see."

FUCK THE WORLD - "But in a non-threatening and definitely legal way," the other one quickly adds and whispers something to his friend.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - "We'll fuck the system from the inside later, just be cool now. The damage will be tenfold."

PISSF****T- "Right on, Fuck," the blond agrees and provocatively spits on the pavement. "So what's happening now?"

2. "Enough about this *skullery* then." (Conclude.)

PISSF****T- "Mhm." He throws a longing glance at the Kineema.

3. "What's with the jackets?"

PISSF****T- "What about them?"

(Turn to the blond youth.) "Why does your jacket have 'PISSF****T' written on it?"

(Turn to the dark-haired youth.) "Why do you have 'FUCK THE WORLD' written on your jacket?"

"Actually -- forget about it."

PISSF****T- "Well, first off, it's a statement and not *necessarily* something that characterizes me as a person, even though the statement has character. And I *do* like piss..."

"The word PISSF****T epitomizes the struggle taking place in the world, things being defined as they seem, not as they are. And -- I guess -- it's also about communal spirit, the future, and *truly* appreciating our differences."

"Also, you've got to admit, it catches the eye. And since the grand piper is slowly but steadily moving towards basing the economy on it -- attention -- it is imperative that the medium itself convey the message."

"Ee... what?"

"Makes sense."

PISSF****T- "What I mean by this is -- we are *all* Pissf****ts. And that the world is inherently meaningless."

INLAND EMPIRE [Heroic: Success] - That much is true.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success]- It seems that the young man has a certain expertise in at least one field, even if it's rather narrow.

2. (Turn to the dark-haired youth.) "Why do you have 'FUCK THE WORLD' written on your jacket?"

FUCK THE WORLD - "I can answer that. Many men keep searching for *the one*. For so-called true love, which is actually just obsession masquerading as kinship. The thrill of the chase, the hollowness that fills your chest cavity after catching it."

DRAMA [Medium: Success] - I'm wondering if the poetics come with the jacket or are they derived from something else entirely?

FUCK THE WORLD - "To catch a fish you need to hurl the lure many times, and even then it isn't certain that you'll get anything. If you blow up the lake, though..."

"Blow it up!"

"That is a terrible metaphor."

FUCK THE WORLD - "...you get more fish in a shorter time. And, for time is of the essence and fleeting ever so quickly, one must think of a way to fuck the whole world -- and not get caught up in fucking some *one*."

"Because when one fucks everything, he fucks nothing. And that, to me, feels glorious -- sticking your dick into the void."

SAVOIR FAIRE [Trivial: Success] - Is it a *coincidence* that here we have two bad-ass jackets and two bad-ass cops?

"Hey, Kim…" (Lower your voice.)

Definitely a coincidence.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Yes?"

"Do you think it's a coincidence?"

"What do you think about their jackets?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Leather jackets adorned with immature writing? The 'ideology' they convey helps the boys justify poor choices in life and fashion." The lieutenant shrugs. "I'm not a fan."

"Why are you always so patronizing when cool *possibilities* cross our path?"

"Sure, the jackets are scaring you. That's cool."

KIM KITSURAGI - "What are you implying?" The lieutenant looks confused.

"Which one would *you* wear?"

"You know what I'm implying."

"We should get these jackets."

KIM KITSURAGI - "For what?"

"What do people do with jackets? They wear them."

KIM KITSURAGI - "The concept of getting dressed *is* familiar to me, but wearing jackets like these isn't appropriate for an RCM officer. Unless he's *deep* undercover," he adds.

"But in theory, Kim, if we were to confiscate these jackets, which one would *you* wear?"

"You're right of course. Never mind then."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Neither."

"C'mon Kim, it's just a mental exercise!"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Fine, if only to end this discussion: Theoretically, if I were a juvenile delinquent -- if I were to already be down that path -- I think 'PISSF****T' is the stronger of the two statements."

+5 XP

"No way! If anything, I'm the *PISSF****T* in this scenario."

"That works, I feel more like a 'FUCK THE WORLD' kind of a guy."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Seems about right," the lieutenant remarks. "Especially considering your... heroic exit attempts."

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - That's an origin story for a dynamic duo right there.

PISSF****T- "So are we done here or...?" one of the jacket owners asks impatiently. "You don't need us around for your secret whisper party, do you?"

5. [Half Light - Legendary 14] Ask for the jackets for yourself and the lieutenant.

+1 Demonstrated authority. +1 Kim showed good tactics. +2 They're just off-brand SKULLS.

HALF LIGHT [Legendary: Success] - No, no, no! Don't *ask* anything. Be subtle and scary. The boys dream about being SKULLS... use that!

Wait -- how?

"Boys, with *those* jackets, you're gonna be the SKULL-kings in no time!"

HALF LIGHT - Suggest they're massive SKULLS. C'mon!

"Boys, with *those* jackets, you're gonna be the SKULL-kings in no time!"

FUCK THE WORLD - "What... no!" He quickly looks around. "SKULLS don't have kings," he pauses. "I think, and we're not even *in* yet..."

PISSF****T - "Yeah, man, keep your voice down. SKULLS don't take it lightly, when folks pretend to be them. We're not even *prospects* yet."

(Raise your voice.) "Not even prospects and already aspiring to be kings?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Wow, you boys are ambitious," the lieutenant's voice rings over the plaza. "Only *prospects* and already planning a coup in the SKULLS? You're destined to go far!"

HALF LIGHT - He gets it. Passive-aggressive flattery.

FUCK THE WORLD - "Shut the fuck up," the youth presses through his clenched teeth, there's panic in his eyes. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

HALF LIGHT - Now bring it to the jackets and.... yes, start *shouting*!

"YES, WE WANNA BE COOL KILLER SKULLS TOO, LIKE YOU GUYS, BUT WE DON'T HAVE SKULL-JACKETS!!!"

"Wow. I didn't realize it's that serious. Let's forget about this." (Let it go.)

PISSF****T - "Please be quiet!" Not much is left of the nihilistic rebel at this point. The young man before you is scared out of his mind. "What... WHAT do you want?!! T-t-the jackets?"

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - You got it. No need for cruelty.

"SKULL KING! MAKE SHRUNKEN HEADS OUT OF US!"

"You OFFER us your jackets like that? It'd be impolite to refuse." (Reach out your hand.)

(Lower your voice.) "Yes -- the jackets."

FUCK THE WORLD - "Oh man..." His shoulders slump under the weight of sadness. "Okay," he says finally. "I get it. SKULLS don't really wear slogans anyway, this was stupid."

PISSF****T - "Fuck," the other one sighs deeply.

Item gained: Leather Jacket "Pissf****t"

Item gained: Leather Jacket "Fuck the World"

+5 XP

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] - The lieutenant watches the boys take their jackets off -- with mild amusement.

(Turn to Kim.) "Since you said you're more of a 'Pissf****t' kinda guy, I'll take the other one."

(Turn to Kim.) "I know you said you're more of a 'Pissf****t' kinda guy, but I think I should have it for myself."

KIM KITSURAGI - "I'm absolutely okay with not having either one, thank you."

"Why not? They're a pair. We could really raise hell. Go undercover. Hard."

"But don't you want to express your individuality?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "This case doesn't requires us to go undercover. Or raise hell... In fact I don't think the jackets will be useful at all. I just wanted *them* to not have them anymore."

PISSF****T - "Cold-hearted cop..."

"Well, whatever. I'll take both of them then."

"Still -- it's good to know we have a pair. In case the need arises."

KIM KITSURAGI - "The need will not arise."

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] - Pity. The jackets are meant to complete each other. If a man were standing alone on a street corner with 'PISSF****T' written on his back, it'd just be an individual that has taken a liking to urine. And 'FUCK THE WORLD' all on its own is, frankly, generic.

FUCK THE WORLD - "I don't know, Eric. It's cold out..." The dark-haired young man just stands there, defeated. The wind blows.

PISSF****T - "Yeah," the blond man replies. "Let's get out of here. The cops fucked us."

LEATHER JACKET "PISSF****T"

+1 Drama: No fucks given -1 Authority: Wait, I'm a detective?

A leather jacket that quite recently belonged to a young man who possessed some intimate knowledge on the human condition. It has his *nom de guerre* written on the back. It's quite a statement.

LEATHER JACKET "FUCK THE WORLD"

+1 Half Light: Darkening world -1 Rhetoric: Inelegant statement

A leather jacket that quite recently belonged to a hoodlum who understood love for what it really is. It has the hoodlum's *nom de guerre* written on the back. It's quite a statement.

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #harrier du bois #rene arnoux #gaston martin #pissfaggot #fuck the world

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terrence-silver · 2 years ago

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Memorial Day is coming up in the US. what do you think Terry does to honor Ponytail this day, if anything?

---

Well, just to establish some background here, I'm guessing Ponytail has one of those strictly formal grave-plots at a military cemetery that is actually empty, body never recovered, deemed KIA, staying right where it was shot and executed in the jungle deep in Northern Vietnamese territory, but his name is etched into the headstone posthumously. His date of death. Date of birth. Maybe a kindly epitaph, like a soldier deserves. The soil and the coffin beneath it, though? Totally devoid of remains and I figure his family, whoever Ponytail's family was, was aware of this and they mourned this place regardless for years because that is just about all they had. Leaving behind flowers. The usual sentiment. The concept is eerie, because there would've been this guy from his platoon walking around with their son's likeness and borrowed mannerisms for decades (all while Ponytail's actual resting place is simply hollow) and it is a question how aware of it they really were, that someone basically usurped their son's identity, if at all. Maybe they were entirely aware of it and somewhere after the war Terry himself paid them a visit with his condolences looking the way he looked at that point and if that alone isn't messed up, I don't know what is, even though the sentiment itself is actually, at the same time quite generous and empathic. There's something almost vampiric about it nonetheless. Terry Silver is a bit like a doppelganger face-stealer in that regard, and if he ever frequented Ponytail's grave, it is like a ghost frequenting another ghost.

Or a twin visiting his deceased other half.

Did he do this privately? Fully out in the open because he felt he had nothing to hide from nobody and serving in army, by default, gave him free range to do whatever? Was he one of those anonymous mourners sending flowers to Ponytail's grave for decades without fail and nobody knew where these lush, elaborate bouquets that only someone with substantial cash to blow could ever afford ever even came from? Did he tend to practice the ritual of remember the dead, privately, on his own terms, within his own four walls? All options are very likely and not mutual exclusive. It also leaves a very important question open;

How affiliated Terry even remained with the military post-war?

Because, in the 70's and the 80's at least, I see Terry Silver as fiercely patriotic. He was in the army and he doesn't care who knows it and in fact, he'll flaunt it, entirely cocksure of himself, giving Memorial Day speeches, Veteran Community center donations, putting in a good egalitarian effort or ten, but admittedly, possibly always doing so from a stage in an immaculate suit, through a veneer of distant professionalism and all smiles, seldom actually interacting with ex-servicemen themselves, especially not others from Vietnam and when he did, there's an odd wall there. Perhaps a distant fear someone will remember that he was that Twig guy with the scrawny arms who was all fingers and thumbs. Would be equally as eerie that even when he does interact, nobody recognizes him anymore even when he gives a name and a callsign, because he's changed quite so much. Nobody can place who he is for certain. They figure he's familiar but they aren't certain why or how. They knew a Terry Silver alright, but this one and that one cannot be the same two people.

Wait, can they?

Hey, it could be a common name enough, sure, why not.

I think, that in his later years, by the time he's reintroduced to us in Cobra Kai, his open passion towards the military becomes more subdued and hidden to the point a great many people outright down know he's an ex Vietnam war vet, simply because general attitudes changed and so did worldviews since he was younger and he tends to keep things private and under wraps because being in the army might come with some controversies and that doesn't exactly match the Colgate commercial of a life he had going on for a while with a Malibu champagne-liberal vegan upper crust crowd. This reflects the way he remembers the fallen as well. Privately. Alone. Solemnly. Without anyone even knowing. Terry just tends to get into a car, unannounced, drive off and visit Ponytail's empty grave even if he has to drive hours and across multiple States to get there without a chauffeur and without a private plane, even though he easily could utilize either. But, no, around every Memorial Day, Mr. Silver tends to...disappear somewhere and nobody puts the dots together that he has someone he mourns.

#the most poignant and overlooked relationship in all of cobra kai #terry silver #ponytail #kk3 #cobra kai #character analysis #memorial day #tw; the military #army

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noahsmoments · 2 years ago

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My Auschwitz Experience

On March 21st of this year, I had the privilege of visiting perhaps one of the most emotionally charged places of the modern era, the camps of Auschwitz 1 and Auschwitz 2, also known as Auschwitz-Birkenau in Oświęcim, Poland. Before my visit I believed I knew a lot about the holocaust and its victims but despite this, I found myself encapsulated in the history and the events which took place in these camps which I could have never found from a history textbook or journal. You think beforehand that this will be a “trip” with activities to carry out and the feeling of laying your clothes out the night before in preparation but it really is not. The air surrounding both camps feels thick, as if it were easy to choke on if you didn't consider breathing, and the ground is uneven which means it inflicts pain as you walk, something done by the museum to illustrate the hurt of the victims every day.

The rooms of items was reasonably the most haunting part of the visit. As someone who was lucky enough to have no ancestral ties to the events of the holocaust, even my soul felt dampened seeing the mobility aids, shoes, suitcases, pots, and glasses which filled several rooms in Auschwitz 1. As someone who wears glasses, seeing the pile of victims’ almost immediately transported me to the thought of “what would I do if I could not see?” Especially if I was someone with a very severe impairment and I could only imagine the terror of those instructed to remove their glasses and put them aside. How does one live without the sense that dictates their world? This was a similar sentiment towards the mobility aids in another room. Prosthetic legs, wheelchairs, crutches, and back braces worn by the disabled and the veterans from the war only 20 years before. These individuals gave their body to the service of Germany only to end up here, a camp made and supported by Hitler, a fellow veteran.

Birkenau was slightly different to Auschwitz 1 however no less striking and emotional. This camp, unlike Auschwitz 1, was not a previous army barrack and was instead created for the sheer purpose of housing victims until they were all eradicated. Hitler called the victims here “undesirables” yet continued to force them to work for the German economy to continue during the war. The front of Birkenau has been photographed hundreds of times but nothing will prepare you for seeing those train tracks and the watchtower that cemented the fear into those arriving on cattle cars in the 1940s. This camp shows the cowardice of the Nazis more than Auschwitz 1 as the gas chambers and crematoriums were bombed in order to hide evidence of crimes committed, something that the museum has preserved as a reminder.

It is also important to recognise that the people housed and killed at Auschwitz and Birkenau were not just victims; they were Jews, Poles, Roma, Queer, Prisoners of war, or just those Hitler saw as “undesirable”. Most importantly they were people. Families. Friends. We as a society tend to focus on the 6 million figure and lose the individuals behind that figure which Auschwitz 1 attempts to repair in the room of names. Over 4 million names of victims are in one, room sized, book and sorted by alphabet in the hopes that their memories will not be shadowed by the atrocities the Nazis committed. One name that stuck with me was the name of Kritzman which takes up nearly an entire page in the book. While these people may have not all been related, the sheer amount of people with the same surname who died just because they were Jewish flooded me with emotion. They had names. Khana Kritzman, Ita Kritzman, Hershel Kritzman, Frida Kritzman, Moshe Kritzman, Gershon Kritzman, Efraim Kritzman, Chana Kritzman, Perla Kritzman, Shena Kritzman. An entire network of families torn apart for one man’s political gain.

Everyone should visit Auschwitz. We cannot forget.

#jewish history #shoah mention #shoah #auschwitz #history #politics

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litcityblues · 2 years ago

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'Look To Windward' --A Review

I don't know if The Culture is one of those series where the order you read them really matters, but I have not been reading these books in order. I tackled Consider Phlebas around ten years ago now and then tacked on Use of Weapons in 2019 and if there is one thing Iain M. Banks was an absolute genius at is his endings. I've read three now and each book's ending has been different from the others but lands in just an absolutely breathtaking powerful way-- but each in its own unique way.

The ending of Consider Phlebas sat with me for days. The end of Use of Weapons quite literally made me drop my Kindle in shock and the end of Look To Windward was quietly haunting and yet no less impactful than the other two.

Look to Windward is set eight hundred years after Consider Phlebas. In the last days of the Culture-Idriian War, the Idriians, in desperation, set two stars to go supernova and now the light from those long-distant, long-past stars is set to reach one of the Culture's massive orbital habitats, Masaq' where the great and the good have gathered to pay tribute and remember.

Composing a special symphony for the occasion is the renowned Chelgrian composer Mahrai Ziller, who has abandoned his society's caste system and lives in self-imposed exile away from his homeworld of Chel. The Chelgrians are a centaur-like race of cat aliens with three hind limbs and a catlike torso and their society is in a state of tumult following a brutal civil war sparked by the interference of The Culture.

One of the survivors is Major Quilan, who lost his wife, Worosei in the conflict- and her soul keeper, designed to act as a backup for personality/mind if her body was destroyed is gone as well, meaning that she is well and truly dead and Quilan, already traumatized by the war wishes for nothing more than to follow her. Instead, he is recruited by a high-ranking Priest to strike back at The Culture for the damage it has done to Chel and sends him on a suicide mission to Masaq'.

Ostensibly, his mission is to persuade Ziller to end his exile and return home, but he's also equipped with the personality of a long-dead admiral, Huyler who acts as his backup. The catch of Quilan's mission is that his memory is carefully blanked out to prevent the Culture's Minds from catching onto his true purpose, which is to plant two micro-wormholes into the Orbital's hub that will eventually lead to its destruction.

But too late, Quilan finds out that despite his successful transplantation of the wormholes, the Orbital's Mind was made aware of him and had stopped the plot thanks to someone who tipped him off-- the Mind then reveals that it has spent eight hundred years trying to heal from the traumatic memories of its experience in the Culture-Idrian War, when it was a warship and has had enough, planning to end it's higher functions and essentially commit suicide and offers to take Quilan with it. Quilan agrees and they both die at the climax of Ziller's second symphony.

Who started the plot is something of an open question-- the Mind itself speculates that dissident Culture Minds, concerned about The Culture's growing decadence and complacency might have prompted the rogue Chelgrian factions to do it. One Culture ethologist Uagen Ziepe is presumed to have successfully warned the Culture of the plot, but as the end of the book reveals, he was unsuccessful and the true turncoat is someone unexpected.

Overall: he's done it again, damn it. These books just sit with you and they're so intelligent. The book's dedication reads 'For the Gulf War Veterans' and there's a running theme of trauma that is present throughout the book. The trauma of soldiers who fought in a war. The trauma of those who fought and can't live with it. The trauma of those who lost a loved one. The trauma of those in exile from their homeworlds. It's large and small but really this book deals with the pains that haunt- whether it's for individuals or for galactic-spanning societies like The Culture. My Grade: **** out of ****

#book review #culture #iain m banks #look to windward #lapsed pacifist #i blame the parents #now look what you made me do

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rockislandadultreads · 2 years ago

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Book Recommendations: Must-Read Fiction by Arab and Arab-American Authors

What Strange Paradise by Omar El Akkad

More bodies have washed up on the shores of a small island. Another overfilled, ill-equipped, dilapidated ship has sunk under the weight of its too many passengers: Syrians, Ethiopians, Egyptians, Lebanese, Palestinians, all of them desperate to escape untenable lives back in their homelands. But miraculously, someone has survived the passage: nine-year-old Amir, a Syrian boy who is soon rescued by Vanna. Vanna is a teenage girl, who, despite being native to the island, experiences her own sense of homelessness in a place and among people she has come to disdain. And though Vanna and Amir are complete strangers, though they don't speak a common language, Vanna is determined to do whatever it takes to save the boy.

In alternating chapters, we learn about Amir's life and how he came to be on the boat, and we follow him and the girl as they make their way toward safety. What Strange Paradise is the story of two children finding their way through a hostile world. But it is also a story of empathy and indifference, of hope and despair--and about the way each of those things can blind us to reality.

The Other Americans by Laila Lalami

Late one spring night, Driss Guerraoui, a Moroccan immigrant living in California, is walking across a darkened intersection when he is killed by a speeding car. The repercussions of his death bring together a diverse cast of characters: Guerraoui's daughter Nora, a jazz composer who returns to the small town in the Mojave she thought she'd left for good; his widow, Maryam, who still pines after her life in the old country; Efraín, an undocumented witness whose fear of deportation prevents him from coming forward; Jeremy, an old friend of Nora's and an Iraq War veteran; Coleman, a detective who is slowly discovering her son's secrets; Anderson, a neighbor trying to reconnect with his family; and the murdered man himself.

As the characters--deeply divided by race, religion, and class--tell their stories, connections among them emerge, even as Driss's family confronts its secrets, a town faces its hypocrisies, and love, messy and unpredictable, is born.

The Frightened Ones by Dima Wannous

In her therapist's waiting room in Damascus, Suleima meets a strange and reticent man named Naseem, and they soon begin a tense affair. But when Naseem, a writer, flees Syria for Germany, he sends Suleima the unfinished manuscript of his novel. To Suleima's surprise, she and the novel's protagonist are uncannily similar. As she reads, Suleima's past overwhelms her and she has no idea what to trust--Naseem's pages, her own memory, or nothing at all?

Narrated in alternating chapters by Suleima and the mysterious woman portrayed in Naseem's novel, The Frightened Ones is a boundary-blurring, radical examination of the effects of oppression on one's sense of identity, the effects of collective trauma, and a moving window into life inside Assad's Syria.

The Final Strife by Saara El-Arifi

Red is the blood of the elite, of magic, of control. Blue is the blood of the poor, of workers, of the resistance. Clear is the blood of the slaves, of the crushed, of the invisible.

Sylah dreams of days growing up in the resistance, being told she would spark a revolution that would free the empire from the red-blooded ruling classes’ tyranny. That spark was extinguished the day she watched her family murdered before her eyes.

Anoor has been told she’s nothing, no one, a disappointment, by the only person who matters: her mother, the most powerful ruler in the empire. But when Sylah and Anoor meet, a fire burns between them that could consume the kingdom—and their hearts.

Hassa moves through the world unseen by upper classes, so she knows what it means to be invisible. But invisibility has its uses: It can hide the most dangerous of secrets, secrets that can reignite a revolution. And when she joins forces with Sylah and Anoor, together these grains of sand will become a storm.

As the empire begins a set of trials of combat and skill designed to find its new leaders, the stage is set for blood to flow, power to shift, and cities to burn.

This is the first volume in “The Ending Fire” trilogy.

#fiction #contemporary fiction #diverse authors #Diverse Stories #Library Books #Book Recommendations #book recs #Reading Recs #reading recommendations #TBR pile #tbr #tbrpile #to read #Want To Read #Booklr #book tumblr #book blog #library blog

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badolmen · 2 years ago

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COOL SO -

Street rat kid in a post-war Troy, getting by as you do. Locals whisper that he’s the son of some minor goddess but there’s no temple to seek counsel at anymore.

The kid himself - he goes by Scam - is aware of this rumor and maybe even believes it a bit. His fuzzy childhood is a distant memory that ends when he finds himself walking through a crossroads one day. Nothing special about the road besides it being where a kid no older than ten suddenly became aware that he was alone.

But Scam is tough and clever and such, and is a vagrant urchin who commits a few petty crimes to get by, as a young scruffy protagonist is wont to do. Not that there’s much worth stealing in the city aside from fresh bread and clean water.

Over the years he learns more about the war that destroyed the city and left a handful of frightened and desperate citizens to rebuild what they could. A beautiful woman, jealous men, and worst of all, meddling gods.

Everybody knows gods and prophecies are bad news for everyone involved so when some old wandering priest tells the kid he’s destined for - Scam doesn’t stick around to hear the end of it he runs straight to the docks to find a ship that will take him anywhere.

By luck it seems that there’s some foreigners searching for war veterans - they’re from the opposing army, far from home. None of the older sailors who know this will offer their knowledge of the sea and its monsters to try and find where the lost ships may have gone. But Scam has spent his life listening to the stories of these old fishermen and despite never setting foot on a ship can map the sea between Troy and Ithaca in his mind with ease. As far as he knows it anyway.

He somehow manages to convince the captain of this foreign expedition of this and snag himself a spot as a navigator (and someone to wash the deck and do other menial labors on the ship). Scam and the captain, who’s a crown prince of some island Scam doesn’t care about, and his friends who are also children of the missing veterans go on adventures together, following in the footsteps of the captain-prince’s father Odysseus.

[Scam is short for Scamandrius which was the name of Hector’s only son and heir apparent who was called Astyanax by the people (a reference to his title) and so no one notices some boy named Scam who just happens to have some royal resemblance to the long dead king. And in case it wasn’t obvious he’s joined Telemachus’ ship. This will surely not cause any problems when meeting someone who personally remembers what Hector looked like and knows his infant son’s body was not found after sacking the royal palace.]

Want to hear my pitch for a YA/adolescent novel set in Ancient Greece?

#ra speaks #personal #brain full many stories not enough time to write them #I need a rich person to pay me regularly so I can write the most insane Greek mythology rewrites anybody’s ever seen.#like. achilles is a transman. see no one can stop me! the Minotaur and Icarus were in gay love! Medusa takes pity on Perseus and helps him!

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blackleatherjacketz · 2 years ago

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Chicory

Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Notes: This is a fluff/angst Christmas fic for the Sam Wilson Holiday Playlist. I wanted to insert some NOLA culture into the holidays, so I hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: Friendship, Christmas, Mardis Gras, Chicory, New Orleans, Angst, Depression, Letting Go, Dancing, Singing, Louis Armstrong, Trauma, Music Therapy, Mentions of Steve Rogers and T’Challa, Sarah Wilson

Word Count: 1.6K

Tags: @skittle479 @bullet-prooflove, @letsby

The olive green oak trees reflect the glowing moonlight as their mossy leaves gently sway to and fro in the warmth of the Southern wind. They almost seem to float in the heavy air, damp like strands of seaweed pushed by a subtle current in the ocean. It’s nothing like the few hazy memories of Christmas he tries to recall from before the accident, where snow fell down in curtains over Brooklyn, blanketing everything as far as the eye could see in a fluffy layer of white.

“It doesn’t really seem like Christmas without snow,” he says to himself.

“I figured you’d had about enough of that stuff by now.” Sam walks out of the kitchen with a mug in each hand, joining his friend to stare at the lack of holiday lights he forgot to put up around the house this year. He shrugs to himself, handing Bucky the mug that says World’s #1 Mom, and tells himself that he will do it in a few days before he heads back up to Washington.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Bucky takes the handle without a thank you, something Sam has gotten used to over the past few years as their interactions had become more frequent.

Bucky would show gratitude with a twinkle in his eye or a nod of his head, the words seeming too heavy to come out into the open as they built up and expanded in his chest. It was something Sam saw in a lot of the veterans in his group, especially those who didn’t have any family to lean their backs on when things got tough. He knew that he was one of the lucky ones to have Sarah and the boys to come home to every now and again to remind him of what was important, of what he was fighting for. She was always quick to chastise him if he got out of line, grounding him back to earth if she felt he was even beginning to fly too close to the sun.

He wanted to be there for Bucky like Sarah had been for him, to be there instead of the family he had lost, or maybe never even had to begin with. He felt that it was his duty going forward, a way to pay homage to Steve after he left them both stranded that day in their insurmountable grief. Part of him knew that he was doing it for selfish reasons, keeping Bucky around because he was the only person left alive who knew Steve as well as he did, or maybe even a little bit better. He also knew that Bucky stuck around for the exact same reason, both of them holding onto each other for dear life as the memories of their mutual friend slowly began to fade away.

“This hot chocolate tastes funny,” Bucky grumbles as he takes his first sip, the bitter hazelnut flavor taking him by surprise as it crinkles his nose.

“That’s because it’s not hot chocolate, it’s chicory,” Sam laughs, taking a long slow draw of his mug with a smile.

“What the hell is chicory?” He blows on the piping hot liquid, letting it warm his right hand as his metal arm grips the handle.

“It's a plant, a root used as a coffee substitute,” he starts, pausing as he considers refraining from giving him the long-winded history of Louisiana his dad always did when he was little. “They added it to ration out their coffee supplies during the war when all the ports were blocked off.” He takes a sip and glances over at Bucky who actually seems to be paying attention to him for once. “A lot of people kept adding more of it into their coffee grounds until they could barely tell the difference anymore. Then after the war was over, the ports eventually opened back up. Coffee beans came back in, but for some people the chicory plant just kind of… stuck.”

“Huh,” his eyes dart over to his friend as he ventures another sip, this time with more realistic expectations. The flavor is deep and woody with just a hint of spice, more bitter than hot chocolate but still more pleasant than the black coffee he’s been living off of for the past year or so. Or was he merely just surviving? He can see the appeal as it washes over his taste buds, nearly burning a few of them off as he quietly swallows the concoction down with a grin.

“Hey, if you hate it, I’ll take it off your hands, but I got you something.” Sam pats him on the back and turns around, heading over to the Christmas tree with green and purple lights mixed in with the gold that Bucky was used to seeing.

“I uh… I didn’t get you anything.” He takes another sip, hiding his lack of thoughtfulness behind Sarah’s favorite mug.

“You didn’t have to.” Sam bends over and grabs a gift from behind the tree, tossing it over to him without ceremony.

No one had gotten him a Christmas gift in decades, unless he counted the metal arm T’Challa had given him last December when he spent all that time healing in Wakanda. He wasn’t really sure if they celebrated Christmas down there or if it was just a coincidence of the calendar, but he always considered it a gift nonetheless. He realizes now that he never got to celebrate a holiday or birthday with Steve before he left, that most of his happy memories with him were too far in the past now to dig up whenever he wanted. There just wasn’t enough time after he got back.

Bucky sets his mug down on the coffee table and tries to forget about all that, to forget about him and focus on the present like his therapist is always harping on him to do. Sam got him a gift and let him stay in his house for the holidays; he should be focusing on that instead of what he wishes was happening instead. He turns the gift around a few times in his hands, trying to guess the contents of it by its weight and shape before tearing the wrapping paper off the center. It’s a record, and an old one at that: Louis Armstrong’s ‘Louis Wishes You A Cool Yule’.

“I know you said you like 40’s music.” Sam takes the vinyl out of his hands before he gets a chance to really look at it, walking over to the record player. “And Troubleman wasn’t really your thing, so I figured we could meet in the middle with King Louis.”

Bucky is speechless. He stares at Sam in silence as he sets the record on its track, cueing up a song Sam has undoubtedly heard before, but is brand new to him. How had he put so much thought and care into one tiny little thing? How could someone like Sam be so kind and gentle toward someone like him?

“Now, this came out in the fifties, but I got a hunch that you’re gonna like it anyways.” He picks up his mug and lifts it up towards him in a toast before walking across the room to sit down on the couch.

The song begins with trumpets bringing Bucky back to a time before all of this, before he was carted off and drugged up, before he was weaponized against those he cared about the most, Sam included. Soft drums play in the background in a joyful beat as Louis’ iconic voice sings lyrics about Coney Island and Santa Claus, filling the room with a barely identifiable but very tangible warmth. The horn section builds upon itself as it excites the tiny hairs on the back of his arm and neck, lifting a weight off his chest he didn’t even know he was carrying. It’s as if he’s been transported back there again, young and free of all the pain and anguish he’d experienced since he returned to this broken world, seemingly out of nowhere.

He looks over at Sam whose smile nearly cracks the skin open around his eyelids, his relaxed posture signaling to him for the hundredth time that he can trust him, that he is safe, that he is loved. Those three truths were always so difficult for him to accept, every other interaction in his life up until now usually proving otherwise. He supposes it had to take a hundred and one times for him to no longer feel the need to push Sam away with a series of tests to make sure he’s actually cared for now that Steve is gone.

Steve is gone.

Steve is gone and he’s not coming back, that blockade standing firm against the port as it halts his supply til the very end of time. It’s been something he’s told himself every single morning when he wakes up and every single night before he falls asleep… if he falls asleep, that is. But this is the first time that it actually feels real, feels final, and feels okay. He knows that Steve would have wanted him to move on, to enjoy the life he worked so hard to give him after his deprogramming, that not to do so would disrespect his memory.

Bucky hears Sarah begin to sing along as she walks down the stairwell, the Christmas lights from the tree glowing in her eyes as she smiles at him from across the room. Before he knows it he’s dancing with her as she sings Louis’ lyrics to him, her arms hanging loosely around his shoulders as he holds onto her waist without fear that he may harm her. He lets himself sway with her to the rhythm, stepping around her feet to avoid bumping into any furniture as she gently rests her head on his chest, Sam looking on with a smile.

It isn’t until his vision clears up that he realizes tears are falling down his face.

#Sam Wilson Holiday Playlist #Sam Wilson #Bucky Barnes #Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes #sam/bucky #the falcon and the winter soldier #captain america #Marvel #sam wilson fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic

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im-in-love-with-pizza-bites · 3 years ago

Text

Ranch Hand: Chapter 4

Farmer!Veteran!Bucky Barnes X Teen!Reader (Small town and Farmer AU)

Series MasterList

Series summary: You ran away from your nightmare of a family, you found a small town, population 200. In this town you meet a retired army veteran turned farmer who hires you as farm hand. Only mystery will you two be able overcome your pasts together.

Chapter Summary: Bucky doesn't answer the door, you have to go get Steve.

Series Warnings: Mentions nightmares, Child abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse, war, swearing, mentions death by cancer, mentions of alcohol and illegal substance abuse. please tell me if you see anymore!!! But do so politely please.

Chapter Warnings: PTSD, mentions nightmares. Nothing graphic in this chapter.

Divider: @skylightlantern

You yawned this isn't going to work. You've been sleeping in a woods. You feel disgusting but the nearest motels are in town and you can't make that ride every day. But you don't work tomorrow so maybe staying in town and showering, sleeping in a bed would be a good idea. Just for the night. You shook out of your thoughts realizing you have to start on your way now or you'll be late. You check your bag making sure the old steel toe boots Bucky gave you were still there before you grabbed your bike. And began pushing it out of the woods. Where you sleep is only a little bit down the road from Bucky's drive way so you don't have to go far.

Now in that old brick house, Bucky was sitting in his room on the floor. He had a blank stare on the door, he woke up from a bad nightmare early that night. He doesn't know when he sat on the floor in front his closet door. He keeps seeing memories from when he was a soldier and he can't get it to stop. A knock on the door startles him but he does move. It's like he's frozen to the floor.

When he didn't answer you tried to open the door. It was locked of course. You sighed his truck was here. You look around noticing the chickens weren't out of their coop. He does that before you even get there normally. He goes in gets their eggs and puts them in the fridge in his barn. And his barn is locked, you can't do anything without him. You sit on his porch for what seems like it's forever. But in reality it was only an hour. You were starting to get worried. You knocked again but he never answered. you climb on your bike and hurry down the drive way. You were gonna get Steve or someone to help. You didn't really know where you were going but you know it's pretty much a straight rode back into town.

Half an hour later you're in town riding around. You sigh this is hopeless. Or you thought, you catch glimpse of Steve's truck in a driveway. Probably his house. You know it's his truck because it has a sticker American flag on the back window, and a Army sticker on the tailgate. You go up to the house and knock on the door. It only takes a couple minutes before Steve opens it.

"Y/n? Shouldn't you be at Bucky's working?" Steve asks.

"I waited there for over an hour he never opened the door. The chickens weren't out of their coop. He does that before I get there." You said.

"And you came to get me?"

"What was I supposed to do call you? I don't have your number. And I don't know anyone else in town."

"Put your bike in my truck I'll get me keys. I'll come check." Steve said. He knows Bucky better then anyone, he also knows Bucky lives and breaths for that farm and the animals on it. He wouldn't just skip a day of taking care of them.

"Yes sir." You nodded grabbing your bike and pushing it back to the truck. You now realize you can't put your bike in until he opens it.

Steve comes out and unlocks the truck you open the tailgate. Steve walks over helping you put it in.

"So how did you find me?" Steve asked as he drove you two.

"I was just riding around town hoping for the best then I saw your truck." You explained.

"Alright when we get there I'm going to grab the barn keys and you go do your chores. And get the eggs too." Steve told you. It's better that you don't follow him in, because he doesn't know what he's going to walk into.

"Okay."

—

Steve walked into the house. He didn't shout, just in case Bucky was in the middle of an "episode". Steve heads up stairs he enters. He sees Bucky on the floor hiding his face in his knees, mumbling something that Steve can't make up. Steve slowly approaches.

"Bucky?" Steve asked softly. Bucky looks up at him. His eyes are glazed over with tears.

"They're coming get down Steve." Bucky stresses.

"No no look we're not back there anymore, we're on Pap's farm." Steve said sitting next to bucky.

"No no we have to get down they're gonna get us!"

"Bucky look at me. Ready breath." Bucky listened.

"We're on the farm. Not in the field."

"Oh." Bucky sighed.

"You okay?" Steve asked.

"Yeah... Why are you here?" Bucky asked resting his head on his friend's shoulder.

"Y/n came and got me. She's doing the chores."

"Okay."

"Lets go get you something to drink. Where's your arm?" Steve asked.

"I take it off at night." Bucky explained standing up.

"Okay Buck."

Taglist: @rachaelswrites @killerqueenfan @lukajim @lrosenblut26 @depressed-barnes @worldssidechick @littleolive24 @cute2043 @skycaliforniaart @idk-whats-happend @mischiefsemimanaged @retiredfromglad @katopotato06 @xennityxen @bucky-boo-bear @thekillingjoke-haha @sunny-the-kitsune @hanainneverland @buckymydarlingangel @ducks118 @rexs-twin-dc-17-blasters @evans-stan-thirstthots @whore-4-thor @i-have-no-life-charlie @babbsissuperblij

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