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lilydalexf · 4 years ago

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Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Audrey Roget

Audrey Roget has 10 fics at Gossamer, with some different ones at AO3, fanfiction.net, and her website. You might know her from her very good fics or as part of Musea, a collective that all wrote fic and posted X-Files fic recs. I’ve recced some of my favorites of her stories here before, including Three Times Dana Scully Didn’t Go to San Diego for Christmas and The Shirt. Big thanks to Audrey for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)? A little, yes. Not so much by folks who were around in those days. I sometimes go hunting for beloved stories from the early years, both those I read and loved, and those I never got around to. I am always delighted to hear that later generations of fans have stumbled across my stuff, especially since I haven’t posted anything new in a number of years. It’s fantastic that both years-long fans and new ones are out there continuing to rec fic from all eras, and to maintain archives for fans yet-to-be born. What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it? What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general? It may sound corny, but the main thing I think of, and the thing that has ultimately been most valuable and lasting, has been the friendships. The feeling of having found a tribe – not just of TXF fans, but of other people who could be as enthusiastically engaged as I was (if not more so) with fictional stories and characters – was mind-blowing. Since I was a kid, I had often mulled over the books/movies/TV I loved and speculated internally about what happened off the page or off-screen, or created new stories for characters in my head. But, except for an elementary school phase where I and my two BFFs regularly played Charlie’s Angels, I hadn’t engaged in that kind of gleeful immersion in a fictional world with others until TXF fandom. My involvement in fandom followed pretty quickly from getting hooked on the show, so for me, it’s all one big ball of experiences. Even as my interest in/involvement in fandom has waxed and waned over the years, I’ve been lucky to remain friends with wonderful people who I originally connected with as fellow fans.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)? What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

My initial entrée to the fandom was through fanfiction. I didn’t get interested in the show until mid-season 5. Around the same time, I read an article in a zine called Might (co-founded by Dave Eggers) about this thing called fanfiction that people would write and publish online. At first I thought it was satire or a joke – the fic cited involved Wilma Flintstone and a polished sabre tooth, as I recall – but then realized this was an actual thing. So I figured that a show then at the peak of pop culture must have fanfiction, and I went looking. Early on, I scrolled atxc on a daily basis and downloaded stories. But I didn’t engage in discussions about the show on Usenet, since I only knew how to access it with my Earthlink email client, and I didn’t want to post using my real name.

Later, I set up a pseud address with Yahoo and subscribed to a couple of email fanfic/discussion lists, and stayed subscribed to those for years. There was also a period in there somewhere – of maybe only a year or so, when I think about it – when I’d often nerd out into the wee hours with other fans via IM chat groups. That was around the time the small writers’ collective Musea was founded, and we were active for several years after the show’s initial run. In the early aughts, I followed many authors to LiveJournal and eventually set up my own account and stayed involved in fandom that way, until it mostly dispersed as well. What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show? In a word: Chemistry. I had casually watched a couple of episodes during the first four seasons, but I’m not a huge sci-fi/horror fan at heart, and the story lines didn’t immediately grab me. But I happened to tune into The Red and the Black in 1998, and BOOM. For the first time, the intense layers of emotion and attraction between Mulder and Scully really struck me – and then of course, upon further viewing, I realized it was unmissable, an essential element in the fabric of the show. As a wise woman once said, a switch had been flicked. Mulder and Scully’s magnetism was like nothing I’d ever seen, and though I eventually came to appreciate the storytelling, humor, production values, and other components that made the series so successful, watching those characters interact has always been what kept me coming back. Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files? I was part of a list-serv discussion group for The West Wing for a while, which was a fun melding of character and plot analysis with political discussion. Later, I got into the House, MD fandom, again mostly as a fanfic reader/writer. I was finding that other fandoms, unlike TXF, were more dispersed, the networks of people structured more loosely, if at all. There were fanfic and discussion communities on LiveJournal, and fanfiction.net was the other main hub for posting and reading, but if there was anything centralized like Gossamer, Ephemeral, or the Haven, I never found it. Within all those fan communities, as in TXF, there were partisans for various characters and pairings, and flame wars erupted over plot developments that outraged this faction or that. One main difference was that those other shows had larger, ensemble casts and more varied subplots. So on one hand, there was more opportunity to explore back stories and multiple perspectives. In House MD in particular, there were several entrenched rival shipper camps, which were about equally grounded in canon, rather than TXF’s central ship. I was less into TWW fic, but my impression was that readers were less militant about their pairing preferences than TXF or House fans. Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

I was deeply fascinated by Greg House for several years. (And the love-hate chemistry between him and Lisa Cuddy was a strong draw for me.) House MD came early in a wave of TV shows centered on anti-heroes, and Hugh Laurie brought amazing complexity and thoughtfulness to the character.

Philip and Elizabeth Jennings (The Americans) are a lethal pair of antiheroes. The inherent moral conflict of a sympathetic narrative from their POVs, and the global political conflict they embody was TV catnip for me. The internal struggles at the hearts of those characters were so exquisitely written and performed, they completely fascinate me.

The West Wing felt so much like a show created specifically for me. I’m especially fond of story arcs and scenes that centered on CJ Cregg, Charlie Young, and Josh Lyman. Though I loved Martin Sheen’s human portrayal of Jed Bartlet, the fact that he was the President always made him a little untouchable in my mind. But CJ, Charlie, and Josh were basically hard-working functionaries who were ambitious and idealistic and funny and flawed, and they spoke to me. What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom? Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully? Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I do continue to think about Mulder and Scully and watch episodes somewhat often. I’ll sometimes run a favorite episode as background when I want something comforting on. I read TXF fic pretty regularly, which can inspire me to go back and watch a particular episode or story arc I haven’t thought about in years. Just recently, I started listening to The X-Files Diaries podcast (@XFDPodcast, @admiralty-xfd), and that’s a fun dive into the characters, and how other fans react to and interpret episodes.

Every once in a while, a TV show or movie – and more particularly, the characters – will grab my attention and make me curious about how fanfic writers have interpreted the original material. Random example, I saw Singin’ in the Rain for the first time in a theatre a couple of years ago, and the chemistry of the three leads sent me to AO3 as soon as I got home. I also loved the first season of Mercy Street and found some well-done stories in that fandom. I usually peruse the Yuletide gifts every year and have been amazed by the sheer variety, creativity and cheekiness of the output. There are a bunch of other shows I’ve followed faithfully, and sought out fanfic – Broadchurch, The Killing, Agents of SHIELD, Elementary, The Good Wife. Although I’ve found some well-written stuff in those fandoms, I’ve rarely gotten the same charge from them as reading TXF fic. Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

syntax6 (@syntax6) – Universal Invariants/Laws of Motion. I’d also shout out to syn’s Hunter fics, too – well worth reading even for those who have never seen or particularly loved the show itself.

JET – I re-read Small Lives Awake every year around Thanksgiving time. Other annual holiday re-reads: Revely’s The Dreaming Sea and Jordan’s Through the Fire (both set at Halloween).

Amal Nahurriyeh’s Casey universe – the rare post-col fic that felt hopeful, made extra intriguing by a kick-ass original character. [Lilydale note: the series starts with Machines of Freedom and has lots of additional fics and snippets.]

Prufrock’s Love – Finding Rokovoko was genuinely terrifying and tender.

melforbes (@melforbes) – Seaglass Blue is a recent favorite, lyrical and bittersweet.

These are just a few (apologies to those that didn’t come to mind immediately). Fortunately for readers, there’s an astonishing number of authors who have written in TXF fandom whom you can depend on for a good yarn, insightful character study, and/or ingenious “fixes” where 1013 went awry.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Probably the two set in my own (former) backyard of Southern California: Enivrez-vous and Ravenous. I’d first read the Baudelaire poem that was the source of the former’s title back in university days, so I was tickled to be able to use a few lines as an epigraph. Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online? It’s not out of the realm possibility. I’d meant for “Three Times Dana Scully Didn’t Go to San Diego for Christmas” to be followed up with “And One Time She Did.” In fact, the idea for that never-finished story was what inspired “Three Times” in the first place. I have a couple of scenes sketched out and – unusually for me – even know exactly how to end it. Every year, November rolls around, and I think I should finish and post it…maybe in 2021?

Where do you get ideas for stories? Sometimes it’s from my environment. “Enivrez-vous” and “Ravenous” describe places that I’m fond of, that made me want to place Mulder and Scully there. “What Not to Wear” has that element too – I set it in Memphis as a tribute to a great trip there with a sister Musean. But WNTW was also inspired by a kink challenge in a years-ago LiveJournal thread, so sometimes ideas come from fandom discussions or even other fanfics. In the House MD fandom, a fic by another writer made me want to continue the story, and the author kindly allowed an authorized sequel. What's the story behind your pen name? I wanted my pseudonym to sound like it could be a real person’s name – or at least, maybe like a romance writer’s pen name – rather than an online handle. I also wanted to use a slightly obscure fictional character, to amuse anyone in the know. I had long had a bit of an obsession with Whit Stillman’s 1990s film trilogy, which started with Metropolitan; the 3rd installment, Last Days of Disco, came out the same year I started down the TXF rabbit hole: 1998. The central heroine of Metropolitan – who is mentioned in or makes a cameo in the other two – is Audrey Rouget, a lover of Austen and, eventually, a book editor. I altered the spelling of the last name as a nod to every writer’s companion, Roget’s Thesaurus. Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions? I have a few close friends – from outside TXF fandom – who know that I’ve written fanfic. I don’t know if they know my pseud; if they do, or if they’ve ready any of the fic, they haven’t said so to me. They are fannish sorts themselves, but not really TXF fans. A smattering of other friends and family members know or could intuit that I’ve been a fangrl on some level for years. My boss, whom I’ve known for about 3 years, recently mentioned off-handedly that she was really obsessed with TXF “back in the day,” and I am DYING to know if she got involved in fandom, but don’t think I’ll ever work up the courage to ask.

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now? Most of the X-Files stuff continues to be generously and steadfastly archived by Forte at The Basement Office. The House MD stories and some TXF things are at fanfiction.net; same for AO3. If ever post anything new, it will probably go to TBO and AO3. I really ought to get it all together in one place, one of these days…

(Posted by Lilydale on April 6, 2021)

#old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #audrey roget

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fitzs-trained-monkey · 3 years ago

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Chapter One: Lonely Together

Jack Kline x OC

Rated: PG

~I might hate myself tomorrow

But I'm on my way tonight

Let's be lonely together

A little less lonely together~

Sent: 10:52 PM

Merry Christmas, stranger. I hope yours is as bright as new fallen snow. Stay warm.

I smiled down at my phone before clicking it off and slipping it into my pocket. I didn't know who I had sent the message to. It was just a number I had punched in at random. I didn't expect anyone to reply.

Wrapping my dark green cardigan tighter around my body, I pulled my knees in closer to my chest and pressed myself closer against the wall of the bakery. The wall was only slightly warmer than the frigid air around me. It was December 2nd and icy gales were blowing in from Lake Superior and stinging the skin of the city's occupants.

The sky hung dark, low, and flat over Copper Harbor, Michigan. Copper Harbor was an itty-bitty town at the northern most tip of the northernmost part of Michigan. You know that piece of land that's only connected to the mainland by a highway, that in-between place that really should be Canada, but isn't? That's where Copper Harbor is and that's where I was.

Copper Harbor was the sort of town where newcomers and visitors are as common as flying pigs and are treated with about as much scrutiny. It's not one of those small, friendly towns just off the highway; the ones that are pleasant to find yourself in if you've taken a wrong turn. It's quite the feat to get lost and turn up in Copper Harbor, considering its miles away from anything and everything remotely interesting, unless you're searching for Bigfoot or a drunk Canadian that took a wrong turn. Though those two things might just end up being one and the same. No, nobody came to Copper Harbor unless they had a reason. That's just the sort of place it was. And aside from the mind-numbing cold, it was exactly the sort of place I wanted to be.

The clouds were so heavy with the snow that now drifted down, dusting everything in a layer of fine white powder, it seemed that someone standing on even the lowest rooftop could reach up and touch them. The snowflakes raining down from those clouds gave the appearance of tiny shooting stars. Many would have found the sight beautiful. I didn't. I just found it cold and somewhat depressing. Some people say that shooting stars are angels, falling to the earth to bless the lives of people in need. I've never liked those sorts of stories. The stars belong in the heavens. The dust belongs on the earth. Collecting in puddles, the sparkling, sugar-like ice crystals did nothing to ease the bitter cold. I shivered and coughed, my breath fogging in front of me.

I should have frozen to death hours ago.

But I can't die. At least, not that way.

Suffering, on the other hand, I can do that to no end.

I put my head between my knees, hoping to retain what little heat my walking corpse had to offer. I struggled to remain conscious. The story of the little-match-girl was playing in my head. I'd never liked that story's ending. Hallucinations really weren't my thing, especially hallucinations about things I tried not to think about, the things I tried to burry in the farthest corners of my mind. I had to distract myself, to think about anything that would keep me awake. The problem was, there was nothing to distract me.

Pling!

My phone buzzed in my pocket with a text. I grasped it quickly, greedy for a distraction, but I paused upon seeing the number displayed upon the screen. It was that number I had texted the Merry Christmas message to. Whoever it was had texted me back. I unlocked my phone and peered at the mystery person's message.

Received: 11:18 PM

Merry Christmas to you as well!

The message read. I smiled a little, surprised that anyone would care to return my quiet Christmas wish. The screen of my phone lit up with another message.

Received: 11:19 PM

Who are you?

The question was a simple one. Though tone can often be difficult to infer over written text, the question seemed to bear no hostility, only innocent curiosity. I thought for a bit about what to say, the answer was not as simple as the question had implied.

***

Located quite literally one thousand miles away from Copper Harbor, was the small, out-of-the-way town of Lebanon, Kansas. Now, in the outskirts Lebanon there was a hill. The hill was modestly sized and carpeted with thick grass painted with a layer of frost. Although it was a rather pleasant sight for some stray hiker to find, the hill was really quite unremarkable. That is, if you ignored the hulking steel door built into the side of it that looked like the entrance to a post-apocalyptic hobbit hole. See, built under that hill there was a bunker. It looked like any ordinary bunker if one can ever describe a bunker as ordinary. But inside this ordinary looking bunker, sat something rather extraordinary and his name was Jack.

Jack Kline was quite happy where he was. Sitting with his legs crossed on a chair beside the bunker's fireplace, Jack held Sam's beloved lap-top between his knees. Sam let him borrow it on the nights he couldn't sleep. Those nights were many. Sleepless nights were one of the many side effects of being half-angel, but he didn't really mind. Jack wasn't overly fond of sleep, not like Sam or Dean who adored the few hours they got. Jack would much rather be awake because if he was asleep then he couldn't observe. He liked to observe. He loved learning. He loved taking in anything and everything going on around him, soaking it all up like a sponge with legs. He especially loved to soak up a story. Epic ones with heroes that defeat powerful villains. Jack loved stories.

So, no; Jack Kline was not overly fond of sleep. No, Jack preferred to just sit quietly and watch those epic stories as they played out in front of him on the screen of Sam's lap-top.

Currently, he was watching Star Wars: The Clone Wars. The computer had said he would like it, and the computer had been right. He had just finished season 2 and had begun on season 3. Some small voice in the back of his mind told him he should slow down and draw the series out a little longer, but Jack just couldn't find the will to do so. This story was just too good to stop. Jack shoved a hand full of popcorn in his mouth as he pressed the play button on the next episode. He had managed to sneak several bags of popcorn from the kitchen and into the secret stash in his room a few nights earlier. It was perfect, except popcorn needed to be popped and popping the kernels without attracting notice was a bit of a challenge. But he found that if he popped them during the day, when everyone was clamoring about and busy with whatever, the noise from the popping kernels wouldn't peak any suspicion. The only downside to his strategy was that it left him with cold popcorn. Though this too could be remedied via his angel powers, if he was careful about it, he could warm up the popcorn undetected.

Now, don't get the impression that Jack was being starved, or held in this bunker against his will, or something awful like that. As was mentioned before, Jack was very happy there. The Winchesters, Sam and Dean, and the angel Castiel, lived there with him and took care of him. They were his family and Jack loved them. The only reason he had a secret stash at all was because Sam was the only one in the bunker who cared about the importance of having a somewhat healthy diet. Whereas Dean let the boy eat pretty much anything he wanted and Cas- well in Cas's mind food was food and that's all there was to it. But Sam didn't like it when he caught Jack eating what he referred to as 'junk food'.

Somehow, Sam always caught him.

"That stuff’ll rot your teeth, Jack!" He'd sigh, as he'd flip on the kitchen light and catch Jack eating cereal sometime around midnight. Then he'd look at Jack with a disappointed look on his face until Jack threw the cereal away and went back to bed. Jack hated it when Sam looked at him like that, he just couldn't bear to let the Winchesters down.

But Jack loved to eat. Eating was enjoyable as it brought with it something new every time. Yet more things to absorb and to experience. Although the younger Winchester disapproved of the more sugary foods; Jack liked those a whole lot more than the salads Sam tried to get him to eat. Jack didn't like the salads or 'Rabbit Food' as Dean called it. No, Jack liked popcorn a quite a bit more.

He smiled as he brought another handful into his mouth. Yes, Jack Kline quite enjoyed eating.

Plip! Ploop!

Jack's head swiveled away from the screen to stare at the phone laying face-up on the arm rest of the chair in which he sat. The screen was alight with a text message. He picked up the phone and unlocked it. The message read:

Received: 10:52 PM

Merry Christmas, stranger. I hope yours is as bright as new fallen snow. Stay warm.

That was all. Jack was quite confused; he didn't know that number. Who had sent the text? What should he do? Should he say something back?

Curiosity and caution struggled in a match tug-of-war in his head. He wanted to know who the message had come from. He wanted to know why that person had sent it. He also wanted to know why he had a strange feeling that whoever had sent the message was horribly sad. But would the Winchesters be mad at him if he answered? Sam and Dean had given him the phone just a few days earlier.

"For emergencies," Sam had said as he laid the device in Jack's hand before resuming his packing. Jack had stared at it, rather confused as to its purpose. Castiel had been off somewhere doing something and Sam and Dean had been leaving for a hunt, leaving him alone which Dean was completely and utterly against.

"Only for emergencies," Dean had stressed, jabbing his finger in Jack's general direction as he inspected various articles of clothing before tossing them into a duffle bag. "That means don't text or call unless someone is breaking in or you're dying!"

Sam shot his older brother a warning look. Dean ignored it and pulled a pair of socks out of his dresser, sniffing them briefly before making a face and chucking them to the other side of the room. Jack looked back down at the small black rectangle in his palm.

"Okay so, only text or call in case there's an emergency. Got it." Jack clinched the thin black box between his thumb and forefinger, carefully lifting it up as if it might explode in his face. "But, one question, if something happens like-like you said, like somebody breaking in or me dying, how-how would I do that?" He asked, looking back at the two brothers. They both froze their hasty packing and pivoted to stare at him, their eyebrows raised with disbelieving question.

"What?" Dean asked the young Nephilim. Jack shrank away a little, not wanting to upset the older Winchester.

"How do I text or call you? I don't know how to do that," Jack had timidly replied. Dean just shook his head and returned to over-stuffing the duffle. Sam, however, was much more understanding.

"That's right, you-you don't, do you?" Sam asked, realizing his mistake. Jack turned his attention to the younger of the brothers, shaking his head in an answer to Sam's question.

"Unbelievable," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. Sam shot him another glare which Dean merely shrugged off.

"Well, come on then, I'll teach you," Sam had said. Jack watched as Sam set the contacts and explained how everything worked. He showed Jack how to send a text, how to dial and answer a call, and all the other things Jack would need to know. Jack just watched him and took note of every little thing. Watching and replicating was how Jack learned best.

"Now, if I don't answer my phone, you call Dean. But if he doesn't pick up, I want you to call me again, if I still don't answer a second time, I want you to call this number right here. That's Jody Mills, she's a friend of ours and she'll help you, alright? You get all that?" Sam finished explaining and looked for Jack to confirm his understanding. Jack nodded.

"I got it!" He said, enthusiastically. Sam gave the young boy a nervous smile.

"You do? Can you repeat it back to me?" Sam asked Jack the question the same way Sam and Dean's father had always asked them.

"If something happens, call you, and if you don't answer, call Dean. If Dean doesn't answer then I call you again, but if you still don't pick up, then call Jody Mills." Jack repeated all of Sam's instructions perfectly, grinning proudly at the younger Winchester when he finished. Sam laughed a little, but nerves twinged his voice.

"Good, yeah. Okay," Sam paused, thinking things over, "You know what, Jack? If neither of us answer your call and it's really that urgent, don't bother calling me a second time. Just call Jody right away if you can't get through to either of us. Alright?"

"Alright!" Jack nodded, grinning. Sam nodded back, stiffly.

"Alright." He seemed like he wanted to say something else but didn't know how to say it.

"You two done in there, Sammy?! We gotta go!" Dean called, walking in from another room. Sam stood and looked at his brother.

"Uh, yeah. I think we're good," He took a few steps towards the stairs that lead up to the door before pausing and turning back to Jack, "We're good, right? You're gonna be okay here by yourself?" Sam asked again. Jack grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

"I'll be fine. You don't have to worry."

Sam nodded and smiled with so much nervousness it almost hurt to watch.

"Okay, good. It's good. We're good," He said, nodding and trying to reassure himself more than anyone else. Dean raised an eyebrow at his overly anxious little brother, tugging his old leather jacket on over his shoulders, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he directed his remarks at Jack.

"Hey, kid. Whatever you do, don't do anything stupid," He'd said, half glaring, "We'll be back in a few days." Then they'd left.

Now, Jack glanced back down at the phone in his hands, remembering Dean's warning about not doing anything stupid. But his curiosity regarding the sender of the message was overwhelming. It couldn't hurt to text this person back, right? Was that what Dean had meant by his warning? Did this count as something stupid? What was the worst that could happen? Deciding that the benefits outweighed the risks, he texted back.

Sent: 10:18 PM

Merry Christmas to you as well!

Jack wrote.

Sent: 10:19 PM

Who are you?

No sooner had asked his question, he began to worry that he might have sounded rude. He waited with anticipation for the mystery person to reply. He didn't have to wait long.

Received: 10:20 PM

It doesn't matter, you don't know me.

I'm just someone wanting to give you a warm holiday wish.

Jack frowned. Again, he got the distinct feeling that the person on the other side of this conversation was deeply saddened by something. He desperately wanted to know what. So, he did the thing he did best. He asked and waited to see what would happen.

***

Received: 11:21 PM

If you don't know me, why do you care?

I don't mean to be rude. I'm just curious.

Why do this?

I read the person's question once, then twice, then three times and I realized that I didn't have an answer. Why did I care? Why was I texting some random person a Christmas wish? For all I knew, this person may not even observe the holiday. I had so many of my own things to worry about I was nearly drowning in them. I didn't know this person. I had nothing to do with them. So, why did I care about their holiday season? Why was I doing this?

I told myself it was just a random act of kindness. But deep down I knew what the reason was, and even if I didn't want to think about it, I felt it in my heart. I was doing this for the same reason I did everything. So, I took a few moments and came up with a reply.

Sent: 11:25 PM

I'm doing this because I believe that no one should ever have to be alone,

especially during the holidays.

I sent my reply and remembered to keep on shivering. I could hardly feel the cold anymore, I had gone almost completely numb. But I knew if I didn't keep moving, I would surely freeze in place and be unable to move until spring came. I vaguely wondered how cold it was. I remembered having heard on someone's car radio that this was supposed to be the coldest winter Michigan had experienced in the last decade. Though winter had only just begun, it was already cold enough for the district council to be suggesting face coverings to prevent citizens from getting frostbite and losing their nose.

I sneezed. I had no such face covering. Hell! I didn't even have a jacket! Let alone a coat or anything mildly warm. All I had was my oversized green cardigan, my black Star Wars t-shirt and my black jeans. That was it. Yet here I sat, outside a bakery in well below freezing temperatures, shivering myself into next decade.

I could go to a shelter. At least there I wouldn't have to endure the bitter biting of the wind as it gushed with double its normal force through these tight, abandoned alleyways. But if I went to a shelter then there was no chance of leaving undetected, I reminded myself. No, it was better to stay here, cold and alone, than to risk human contact.

I was pulled from my thoughts by another pling from my phone. Another message from that unknown contact.

Received: 11: 27

Are you alone?

Again, the question was simple. And although the mere thought hurt like a knife twisting in a fresh wound, I looked around at the dark, trash littered alleyway I sat in, watching the scattered rags of paper flutter and tumble in the winter gales, and I looked at the brutally beautiful puddles of speckled ice gathering along my body and melting on my skin, and I examined the bleak night sky, choked starless by the drifting dreary clouds; and the utterly silent stillness of the sleeping city revealed the harsh reality of my answer.

No one was here.

Nobody cared.

Not even the stars would keep me company. Because the stars never cared who I was.

So, with no reason to keep the truth hidden. I answered the question honestly.

Sent: 11: 29 PM

Yes.

Sent: 11: 30 PM

I am alone.

I was completely and utterly alone.

***

Received: 10: 30 PM

I am alone.

Once again Jack got the distinct impression that these words carried a heavy burden. It made him frown. What could he do to help a person he didn't even know? He wanted to ask this person if they had any friends, but something about those words told him the answer. When this person had said they were alone, Jack got the feeling they weren't just talking about the current moment. But maybe that's what this person needed. Maybe they needed a friend.

Sent: 10: 32 PM

Well, I'll be your friend and talk to you. There, now you're not alone anymore!

Jack smiled as he sent the text. The reply didn't take long.

Received: 10: 33 PM

Thank you.

You don't have waste your time on me but thank you.

It didn't take any special powers to read in between the lines this time, anyone could see the sadness in those words. Though Jack wasn't sure if it was his powers causing that strange feeling or if he was just imagining things.

Sent: 10:34 PM

I don't mind. Really!

Besides, I don't have anyone to talk to either.

Received: 10: 35 PM

Well, in that case, we can be lonely together!

Jack grinned. He'd made himself a friend. He couldn't wait to get to know them.

***

Received: 11: 36 PM

Since we're friends now, what's your name?

I smiled down at my new mystery friend's message. There was something about the words that made them seem innocent and earnest. It couldn't hurt to give my name, right? It’s not like he could find me. After all, I'm supposed to be dead.

Sent: 11: 37 PM

My name is Martina.

I sent my name and waited for the response. It came quickly.

Received: 11: 38 PM

I like your name Martina!

It's very pretty.

I flinched as I read the text. Something about seeing my name written in the text brought me back to a conversation with a different person a long time ago. It was a painful memory, and I didn't want to see it anymore. I didn't want another reminder of the still bleeding wounds in my heart. I remembered why I didn't let anyone call me that name anymore.

Sent: 11: 39 PM

Thank you.

But I would prefer you call me Marty.

I didn't want to be so sensitive to things like this, but I just couldn't help it.

Received: 11: 40 PM

Alright! I like Marty too.

It's a fun name.

I smiled; grateful they didn't ask why it was so important that they called me by a nickname.

Sent: 11: 41 PM

Thanks for understanding.

So, what's your name?

Received: 11: 42 PM

My name is Jack!

I grinned to myself. I'd made me a friend. I just couldn't wait to get to know him.

Sent: 11: 43 PM

Heya, Jack!

It’s nice to meet you!

I think this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

Received: 11: 44 PM

I agree, Marty. We are going to be great friends!

Sent: 11: 45 PM

So, what's your favorite movie?

And just like that, we talked until the sun came up. And suddenly, for the first time in quite a while, I wasn't completely alone.

***

"Hey, uh, Jack? We're back!"

Sam's voice drifted in from just outside Jack's bedroom door. Jack was surprised. He hadn't heard the brothers come in which, for him, was quite peculiar.

The door creaked open and Jack hastily attempted to pretend like he hadn't been using the phone.

He failed.

Miserably.

The device slipped from his hand and he fumbled to catch it before it smashed against the grey, polished concrete floor. He let out a sigh of relief as he snatched it just in time.

Sam peered around the door, checking in on Jack, who was now hanging halfway off his bed and clutching the phone. Scrambling to sit upright, Jack gave Sam a half-panicked smile.

"Hi Sam!" He waved a greeting, shoving his phone behind his back. Sam raised his eyebrows in a questioning expression and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. He folded his arms and leaned back on his heels.

"Hey Jack," Sam seemed a little distracted, "Have you seen Cas?" He asked. Jack shook his head vigorously.

"He's not back yet," He answered. Sam nodded and started to leave before stopping and turning back. Only now seeming to notice Jack's odd behavior. Sam gestured at the phone hidden behind the boys back,

"So, what were you doing in here just now?" Jack's eyes flew wide as quarters and his gaze shifted rapidly around the room, focusing on anywhere but Sam. His mind was working overtime trying to find a viable excuse.

"Uhhhh...Nothing!" Jack tried; his brain had gone blank. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You sure about that?" Sam leaned forward a little, narrowing his eyes. Jack leaned back to match; his face scrunched up with the guilt he was trying very hard to hide. Everyone in the bunker knew how terrible Jack was at lying. He might be able to pass a few simple fibs by a stranger, but his family saw through him like he was made of glass. He couldn't deceive them. But that didn't stop him from trying, however.

"Yes..." Jack said slowly, his eyebrows pulling together in a rather sad attempt at looking sincere.

"Jack, what were you doing?" Sam asked more sternly. Jack looked at his feet and didn't answer. His shoulders moved up and down in a shrug.

"Do I have to go get Dean?" Sam pressed. Now Jack's head shot up. He stretched his hands out in a pleading gesture.

"No, no! Don't tell Dean!" Jack begged. Sam's expression shifted into one of concern.

"If you tell me, I won't tell Dean." Sam agreed, moving to sit on the bed beside Jack who shifted to give him some space. Sam waited patiently for the young Nephilim to speak. Jack kept his head down and rubbed his hands together nervously as he tried to think of how he should explain himself.

"Well, last night I was watching Netflix when I got this text from somebody wishing me a merry Christmas-" He started.

"Someone we know?" Sam asked, interrupting. Jack shook his head and continued.

"I asked them why they would do that, and they said it was because they thought that nobody should be alone this time of year. So, I asked if they were alone and they said, yes ─" Jack looked the younger Winchester in the eyes ─

"I don't know why but I just got this- this feeling, and they sounded just so sad, and now we're friends! But Dean said not to do anything stupid, and now I'm worried that I did! Are you mad?" Jack finished, worry coloring his features. Sam blinked. Once again astounded by the size of the half-angel's heart, he shook his head.

"No, Jack. I'm not mad," He said, softly.

"Really?"

"Really. I think you did a good thing. Everyone needs a friend." Sam patted Jack's shoulder and smiled. Jack looked down, grinning to himself as pride filled his chest.

Sam waited a moment before getting up from the bed. Stretching his back out and groaning a bit as he stood. It had been almost 48 hours since he last slept, and he was more than ready for a long nap. His hand rested on the doorknob and he paused a moment before turning back around.

"Hey, uh, Jack. Just one more thing. Do you by chance know this person's name?" Sam asked. Jack looked up briefly before looking back at the floor again, trying to hide the embarrassment creeping up to stain his cheeks.

"It's, uh, it's Marty," He replied. Sam nodded and moved to leave again but he stopped. His eyebrows pulled down with confusion before he turned back.

"And uh, is that a boy's name or a girl's name? Do you know?" Jack turned his head a bit to the side and picked at a thread in his jeans.

"Does it matter?" He questioned back. Truthfully, it didn't. Sam wouldn't make Jack stop if he didn't want to. But to say that the boy's current evasive behavior didn't pique his interest, would be a lie. Though, the kid’s flushed cheeks told him quite a bit about the answer.

"It doesn't matter," Sam said, shrugging, "I'm just curious is all." The tall man watched the boy's reaction. Jack nodded and shifted as if uncomfortable.

"Marty's a girl." He answered, trying to force his voice into sounding nonchalant. And failing.

"Okay, cool." Sam nodded, turning around again, and reaching for the handle. Jack's head whipped around.

"Wait, Sam!"

Sam looked over his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"Don't. Tell. Dean!" Jack stressed. Urgency was evident in his voice. Sam huffed a laugh.

"Okay, Jack." With that, Sam pulled open the door and walked out letting the heavy steel swing shut behind him. Behind the door, Jack sighed with relief. He'd dodged a bullet with that one.

Walking a ways down the hall, Sam got to Dean's room where his older brother was now unpacking. The younger brother leaned on the door frame and expelled the laughter he'd been holding on to since Jack’s room. Dean turned around, holding a pistol and a pair of weeks old and hopelessly blood caked socks in his hands, he faced Sam with a questioning look.

"What's got you so giggly all of a sudden?" The older of the brother's asked.

Dean glanced at the pair of socks in his hand. He grimaced at the stench and held them further away from his face, trying not to breathe. It didn't work. The socks odor was so pungent, Dean could smell them through his mouth. There was no hope of washing them. Nope, those things would have to be burned. Though, taking another whiff of them, Dean wasn't sure that even incinerating the socks would do him much good now. The stomach-turning stink would be branded into his memory forever. Sam straightened up, shaking his head of shoulder length hair.

"It's just something Jack said." Sam smiled and laughed again before taking notice of the unholy stench wafting off the socks. He coughed. "Dude, those stink. Bad!"

"Yeah, it's a sad day, Sammy." Dean nodded solemnly. Sam covered his nose.

"Why?"

"These were my second luckiest pair of socks."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, they're not anymore," Sam pointed out. Now, they were just rancid.

"I think we should give em' a Viking funeral, something to honor their service. I mean, I remember one time when I wore these things for two weeks straight!" Dean reminisced, grinning. Sam looked mildly disturbed.

"That's, uh... nice... But, uh, is there somewhere we could put them before the funeral? Because they, uh, they reek." Sam was trying hard not to gag and couldn't understand how Dean could be holding them and remain unaffected. Dean smirked.

"You wanna go put em' somewhere?" He asked, waving the socks into Sam's face. Sam leaned away.

"Ah! God! No! Put those things somewhere! Please!" He choked out. Dean just grinned and moved to the other side of the room. Grabbing a cardboard box from off the shelf, he shoved the socks in there and sealed the lid. The stench quickly began to dissipate.

"Better?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"We're gonna have to burn that box too."

"Yup." Sam still felt a little sick but at least the socks were gone.

"So, what was it Jack said that you thought was so funny?" The older brother asked.

"Oh, uh, nothing. It was nothing," Sam said. But laughter began to creep up on him again. Dean rolled his eyes and went back to pulling more dirty clothing from the duffle bag.

"Are ya gonna stand there or are ya gonna spill?" Dean pushed. Sam sobered up again.

"Well, I'm not supposed to tell you," He said.

Dean shook his head, mildly annoyed. He knew Sam was going to tell him whatever juicy information he had gotten, just like he always did when he got that sly look on his face. Sam could be a bit of a schoolgirl that way. Except, of course, when it came to the important things, the things Dean was supposed to know. Those things Sam always kept to himself.

"Well, Sammy, if you ain’t gonna spill─" he used the gun in his hand to gesture from Sam to the duffle bag─ "get workin'."

The younger Winchester moved to the bag and started unpacking, grinning his face off all the while. Dean knew his little brother was waiting for him to ask about the thing with Jack again, so he said nothing. He just waited for Sam to look over to him eagerly, which is exactly what Sam did.

"So get this!" Sam started.

'Here it comes.' Dean predicted internally. Sam kept starring.

'Yatzee.' Dean thought. He knew Sam like the back of his hand. Actually, he probably knew his brother better than that.

"Apparently, Jack got a text from some random person last night wishing him merry Christmas. And, well, you know Jack! So he─" Dean stopped his brother mid-sentence.

"What's her name?" He interrupted. Sam looked confused.

"I didn't say anything about a girl," Sam trailed off. Dean sighed and shook his head.

"Geez, Sammy! If you love drama so much, you should go be an actor. You ain't foolin' anybody. We both know where this is goin' so just cut to the chase!" Dean sighed, opening a trunk and tossing in the gun he'd been holding along with several knives. His small outburst had startled his younger brother, but Dean didn't really care. Sam wasn't the only one who hadn't slept in 48 hours. Sleep was calling and Dean wanted nothing more than to answer. Sam frowned.

"Marty. The girl's name is Marty," Sam stated, sounding rather put out that Dean had guessed at his not-so-cleaver ploy. The older if the pair turned to the younger with a perplexed expression.

"Wait, wait. Marty?" He clarified. Amused disbelief written all over his features.

"Marty," Sam confirmed.

"Marty?"

"Yeah. Marty."

"Like the zebra in Madagascar, Marty?" Dean asked, grinning. Sam nodded.

"Yeah, like that. But remember, you didn't hear anything from me!" He answered, smiling as well. Dean laughed as he turned his attention back to the mess of clothing and weapons surrounding him on the floor.

"Yeah, whatever, drama queen." Dean rolled his eyes and kept working. The room was silent for a moment before the older Winchester burst out laughing again. He couldn't help himself; he found the subject hilarious.

"Ah, man. Marty! Now there's a name!" He exclaimed as he started folding the few clean clothing items laying in the pile. "What? Did her parents just take one look at her and say: 'Look at our beautiful baby! Let's name her Marty!'" Dean scoffed.

Sam snorted and shook his head at his older brother's bad joke. Then he leaned his head back and yawned.

"Man, I think we need some sleep," Sam sighed. Dean smirked.

"Is it your bedtime already?" He taunted, expecting a playful retort. But this time, Sam didn't argue. He just nodded.

"Yeah, I think it is." Though worried about his little brother, Dean held his playful smirk in place perfectly, just like he had been doing for so many years.

"Well, you go ahead and hit the sack. I'll finish up here." He said, easily. Even though he was just as tired and Sam was, he would finish out like always. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, o'course. There's not much left anyway." That was a lie and they both knew it, but Sam took the offer of sleep while it was on the table.

"Thanks, Dean."

"You're welcome, Sammy."

Sam patted his older brother on the arm as he stood and left the room. Traveling down the corridor he got to his bedroom and was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Meanwhile, Dean mouthed the strange name of Jack's mystery girl and chuckled about it to himself. Sitting on the floor in his room as he continued folding the rest of the clean clothes, cleaning out all the weapons and putting everything back in its place. The chore took him two more hours to complete but when it was done, he stretched himself out and laid back on his bed.

"Marty. Now, that's hilarious." Dean snickered to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

~I might hate myself tomorrow.

But I'm on my way tonight.

Let's be lonely together.

A little less lonely together~

Lyrics from: Lonely Together by Jasmine Thompson

26 notes · View notes

twstlotus · 4 years ago

Note

Dorm leaders with s/o, who owns a little bakery cafe? They always have a quiet jazz playing on back, while s/o makes coffee/bakery goods for stressed students. And on the unexpected rainy day they stuck in cafe and just have a lovely evening? Headcanons? (If that too much people for you, you can choose your favorite leader!)

i hope you don’t mind that i used my new layout on your request, dear reader! its something i’m simply trying out.

do enjoy.

Riddle Rosehearts

He frequently visits your cafe as a customer and as someone who just wants to visit you. He finds the sweets there pleasant, and just loves seeing you look so happy while you bake! The strawberry tarts you serve are one of his favorite sweets to eat. He’d even say that your bakery skills exceed that of Trey’s!

Riddle finds the music rather pleasant. He’s not a big fan of jazz, but the music compliments your bakery in a nice, relaxing way; especially with how stressed students would flock to your bakery to unwind and partake in your baking!

On a particular day in which a heavy rain poured down, the two of you were stuck in your bakery. It was a bit troublesome that all the chairs outside were wet now and you’d have to dry them off again, but Riddle is all the more willing to help!

The evening had already came which meant that your cafe would be closing soon anyway. So you started to clean up the bakery— putting up chairs, putting the sweets and other food for preservation for the next day, all of that, except for one set of a table and two chairs.

You beckon him to come to you as you step towards the set of chairs and a table. You say to him that you thought it’d be nice to have a couple of snacks while you wait out the rain, all with a tray of strawberry tarts and mont blancs.

Riddle is caught off guard— why, this seems like a date now, doesn’t it? His cheeks darken slightly, but he happily accepts the offer as you two share stories of what happened that day while waiting for the rain to calm down. He seems content the entire time. A small smile tugging on his cheeks at all times, its endearing, just as he finds you as such!

Leona Kingscholar

Leona doesn’t visit you that often. And when he does, its usually because you dragged him there or if he just really wanted to see you. He’s not one for baked foods as he prefers meaty stuff he can chew on thoroughly, but he’s not opposed to taking a few chunks of what you baked.

Incidentally, he also thinks your bakery is a good place to nap in. Other than the occasional angry customer sometimes, and the somewhat boisterous talks of the students (which he believes is misplaced for a peaceful bakery like yours), it’s practically perfect for him; the air isn’t too hot but its not unbearably cold either, the smell of sweet baked goods fills his nose, and most of all, you.

Knowing that you’re around makes him happy, albeit that his pride doesn’t allow him to show much of this side. He always has a lazily half-lidded, eye open, watching you cheerfully serve customers and almost instantly lightening up their moods when you give them your baked goods or coffee. His little herbivore’s a bit of a philanthropist themselves, huh?

When the rain struck down heavy and it was just you two, he found it rather bothersome. He was just coming to pick you up after work and return to his dormitory so he can have some nice cuddle times while the two of you slept, but it seems like the Fates couldn’t allow him to do so. He wasn’t exactly a big fan of the rain either— it was wet, cold, and most of all, loud. He couldn’t sleep while having to listen to the rain pour down so heavily!

...However, this did provide an opportunity for him, the opportunity being nice, guaranteed alone time with you. When he was at the dorm, there would still be Ruggie who would barge in from time to time to notify Leona of his duties, which led him to have to leave you from time to time. Yet here, the bakery was basically closed, and you two were locked in.

He’d spend his time talking with you on the floor, it wasn’t dirty, so he didn’t mind. He knew you kept the place cleaned and tidy. It was rather small talk, but it was a pleasant conversation either way. Leona would lie his head on your lap as you talked about your day, the customers you served, or really, anything. Leona isn’t usually one for idle chat, but he finds your voice soothing to his ears. Later on, the two of you would most likely nap (under Leona’s request that you do with him) while waiting out the rain. What better way than to spend your time with your lover in a state like this? Napping under the rain with him was rather peaceful...and soon, the rain went by as soon as it came.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is happy to see that you’ve started a business yourself, albeit small. It seems like you two have more in common now, doesn’t it? While your bakery is far different than his flashy and elegant Mostro Lounge, he finds your little establishment charming in its own way. He believes music choice suitable— why, he’s the one that picked it out for you of course! Nothing like helping his beloved pearl out of the benevolence of his heart.

He’s a frequent visitor to your bakery, although he doesn’t purchase anything much; he helps you in attracting customers to your bakery. He’s been at this for a year, or more when taking into consideration his middle school years. He’s well acquainted with what draws in customers and what doesn’t, and will advise you on how to improve your bakery, should you need or be able to anyway in return, he may invite you to the Mostro Lounge to dine there for free! Or maybe just a 35% discount...

He finds the fact that you’re locked in a hassle to have to deal with, so he calls Jade and Floyd to help both you and him leave— unfortunately, the twins see this as an opportunity for Azul to initiate some romance between the two and decide to not help him (as well as implying rather..impure innuendoes to their speech about what you two should do while you’re at it).

Azul is a tad befuddled on what he should do, and resorts to simply playing out the situation as normally: being annoyed, yet remaining calm all the way. He’ll chat with you on how your day went and if business was steady. You tell him that while it’s been hectic, business was well-balanced. The money paid by your customers was enough to pay wages to your employees by a fair amount.

He’s happy to hear that your bakery is doing well! The Mostro Lounge is an “established” sort of restaurant-like parlor itself and since it's the lounge of the entire Octavinelle dorm, business was booming from the beginning. It was almost never anything like your little bakery, so he was slightly concerned with it’s payoff.

May occasionally steal a few munches on what you baked without you noticing. Normally, his self-restraint is beyond strong, but the aroma your bakery exuded was stronger than it. Perhaps he can treat himself once in a while, yes? Your baking skills are one that he regards to with respect, after all; and in such adoration!

Kalim Al-Asim

He loves going to your cafe and will visit it whenever he can, why wouldn’t he? There’s you there, and there’s the baked goods you made yourself! (Along with the help of your employees, of course.)

Kalim often brings Jamil to accompany him going to your bakery. His best friend and his lover being in the same room with him makes him happy, and he hopes that you and Jamil are on good terms, too! In fact; since you’re skilled at baking, and Jamil is skilled in cooking, Kalim will propose that he and Jamil would help out in the kitchen! Of course, Kalim has no idea what he’s doing though, but maybe you can help him?

He finds the idea that you’re helping in easing the stress of students through your food as charming. It's sort of altruistic in his own perspective— even if you’re technically getting paid in return, it's still nice to see for him that your food does genuinely have a positive effect on other students to uplift their mood, even if it’s just by a slight percentage.

But when he’s locked in— he’s a little panicked. The one day he gave Jamil a day off is the same day he gets locked in with you, (he doesn’t regret giving Jamil the day off though, he deserves it!) but this doesn’t mean that he’s against this situation as a whole! He uses this time to chat with you more thoroughly, since before you were occupied with customers flocking into your bakery.

He also uses this time to try and get you to teach him in baking, if you want to, of course. He won’t force you to teach him if you were too tired to do so or if you just generally didn’t want to, even if he’ll be a little sad because of it (not to worry, he bounces back fast)— but if you do, then he’ll be ecstatic! There’s no guarantee on how well he does in the kitchen, even with guidance, Jamil has mentioned to you that Kalim once tried to crack an egg open and ended up accidentally mixing in the egg shells with it too, bbut it's a delightful experience for the two of you nonetheless.

The day after you two were locked in, he suggests the idea of starting a cafe made by the two of you. The menu there will be a mix of your baking skills and Kalim’s unique meals from his homeland! Jamil will be there, too, and help out in cooking and other jobs if needed! So, what do you say?

Vil Schoenheit

Vil doesn’t visit you as frequently as the others do because of his busy schedule (being a student while tackling two other jobs isn’t easy..). However, he checks up on you in the restaurant whenever he can; and oftentimes, he’s one of the stressed students you serve.

He finds your bakery a sort of a haven to him, in a way. He’s not one to feel burdened with all the work on top of him, but he does get tired, which is where your bakery comes in. Your baked goods really do help him destress and the atmosphere there is perfect for relaxing in!

May give out tips for the design of your bakery— some decorations here; more color there; the uniforms could maybe be dolled up a tad— that sort of feedback, but please don’t misunderstand his intentions! He believes that your bakery is charming as is and knows you put great effort into the interior designing as well as the uniforms, and the effort does pay off; but giving you advice wouldn’t hurt, no?

Vil’s actually pretty good for business since he attracts students to the bakery just by his mere presence— oftentimes, there will be students from other dorms who ask to say hi to him or may even ask for his autograph. Pomefiore students only say hello to Vil, though, and nothing much more than that (this is what having 5 million followers on MagiCam does, huh?)

When the two of you are locked in, Vil will express annoyance and only ever annoyance. He finds it a hassle to be in such a situation, and pities you slightly; he knows that being a student while also maintaining a job is difficult, and while he himself simply goes along with it, he knows that not everyone can handle such a lifestyle— but the fact that you can still keep up with everything has made you earn his respect, as well as his love.

You spend the evening together simply relaxing, and you even got to play with Vil’s hair and vice versa, as well as talking about your day overall. He offers you your own baked goods for you to munch on as a reward for your hard work, or even cooks for you if you allow him to. He simply just wants to help you destress like you’ve done for him and the other students you served— even if he doesn’t state that reason aloud.

Idia Shroud

He doesn’t visit your bakery often— barely, even. He usually waits for you to return from your job and back into the comfort of his room, to him. While your bakery is rather quaint, he knows how many students may flock in there to destress and he does not at all want to be around other people than you and/or Ortho.

Speaking of which, it's the latter that has to literally drag him out of the dorm sometimes to see you. He states that “Big Brother has to see his lover on his own accord, too—! Not just wait for them to always come back.” which is what motivates Idia to try to even remotely step out of his room and make it to your bakery.

Prefers to video call you whenever you’re at work. He finds it admirable how you’re so willing to help others destress, even if it's just using your food. He’s also rather interested in seeing how you bake (after only cooking instant noodles for most of your life, you would get pretty bored of it, too), so he’s quite curious about the process of it. However, he’ll never ask you to show him how you bake unless if you bring it up first or ask him if he’d like to see it.

The one day— the one day he actually leaves his room and visits your bakery, he gets locked in!? Oh, curse the Fates. He’s visibly distressed by the whole situation and Ortho can’t exactly come to the rescue either since it’s raining heavily, who knows what’ll happen if the poor kid was caught between droplets of rain?

You have to calm him down by physically and verbally consoling him, along with letting him snack on your baked goods. After a while, he calms down, and apologizes for the trouble he caused you. He remains embarrassed about having caused a stir but he’s glad that you’re willing to comfort him.

Eventually, he starts to talk about what games he’s been playing and raves about them. He actually beat one of the most difficult boss battles ever conceived in the game, you know? He’s visibly happy about the achievement and goes on and on about the entire thing. And soon, the hours that the rain seemed to last on for, only seemed like minutes when you were with Idia, who continued to happily note his achievements in the game that he made.

Malleus Draconia

He’s very torn between visiting you and not. On one hand, he’d absolutely love to see you patiently serving your customers, and to see that delighted expression whenever a customer compliments your goods...it��s priceless to him.

And on the other hand, he’s the person that nearly everyone in and outside of the school fears. No matter how much you deny it, he knows he’s bad for business, and it’d be nearly impossible to garner customers when he’s present. He actually visited your bakery once or twice and every customer there then left immediately after he came.

Because of this, he tries to call you instead. He doesn’t call you as frequently as Idia though, since he has no idea what he’s doing with a phone to where Lilia has to help him with adding your number and actually calling you. He checks up on you between shifts he knows you take breaks in as he doesn’t want to disturb you while you’re working.

But when the rain pours down and he’s locked in with you, he doesn’t seem bothered at all. Ironically enough, Malleus finds comfort in the rain. He doesn’t seem to know what it is about the rain that he likes, though.

As for the fact that he’s locked in with you, he’s not too annoyed by it either. In fact, he’s a bit glad that he can spend some time with you in the bakery without the presence and consideration of the people who swarmed this place. But he understands if it's a hassle for you, and will help you in cleaning up the bakery should you need any assistance. He’s also willing to comfort you with your worries about the bakery or rant about some selfish customer. He might not provide the best responses, but he’s there to listen.

Will show his Gao-Gao Dragon-kun the new area. He believes that whatever the screen of the device is facing, Gao-Gao can see it, too! If you allow him, he might try to explore the kitchen to show his friend the area. Speaking of which, he may suggest the idea that you show him how to bake, if you’d like to, of course! He wants to try and surprise bake something for you in return for being so kind and accepting of him, but it might take a few tries for him to understand the process of it all.

#twisted wonderland #twst #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #well of the lotus flowers

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rustbeltjessie · 4 years ago

Text

one art

(Elizabeth Bishop, from “One Art”)

The heart works hard at the apprenticeship of a diligent hand learning to pull wet porcelain into a thinness of wall just prior to what’s brittle. We talked of remedies last week on the phone—can you swim the bay, I ask, take in the cats, put up the Japanese shades, trace your life in pins? The loss of love will try it all.

(Katie Ford, from “Remedies for Sorrow”)

Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is to watch the year repeat its days.

(Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay”)

(Jeanette Winterson, from Written On the Body)

You don’t understand when I say gone I mean it doesn’t exist anymore

There are many things that were once there

my hands, your mouth, etc.

I have lost all the pictures, the arcade tickets, but I remember a motel room, a broken window, a girl’s name, her hand on my hand

Those things don’t exist anymore, either

(John Findura, “I Never Thought I’d See What I Saw Today”)

(Rebecca Solnit, from A Field Guide to Getting Lost)

There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realize that is not how it will be at all. You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer.

(Helen Macdonald, from H is for Hawk)

Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive.

(Haruki Murakami, from Kafka On The Shore)

Finding is losing something else. I think about, perhaps even mourn, what I lost to find this

(Richard Brautigan, “Finding is Losing Something Else”)

it has run away like a horse or a dog, dead or lost or unforgiving.

(Charles Bukowski, from “Sway With Me”)

(Thomas Wolfe, from Look Homeward, Angel)

I’m learning geography is about loss

(Paul Guest, from “Airport Letter 2”)

(Elizabeth Bishop, from “One Art”)

Beauty comes from loss.

(Gregory Orr, from Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved)

Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.

(Arthur Schopenhauer, from Parerga and Paralipomena)

Everything gets lost & only some things get found. Somewhere in between is the only love we know.

(Nate Pritts, from “Life Event”)

(Rebecca Solnit, from A Field Guide to Getting Lost)

the melancholic is one who incorporates a lost object of desire into her ego, so that she never fully experiences the loss, since the loved one, even in absence, becomes merged with the self.

(Lauren Berlant, from Desire / Love)

I looked as heartbroken as I felt, all ready to take on the night, fill up on my loss, use it to fill up those decaying parts of me that still believe in true fucking love.

(Kat Case, from Maximum Rock’n’Roll #250)

How to orchestrate loss as a way to expedite nostalgia.

(Jessica Baran, from “Long Story Short”)

(Rachel Eddin, from “What I Did On My Summer Vacation”)

& there is the sadness of losing & the sadness of never having & the sadness of having to lose

(Jane Rohrer, from “Only Together & Only Always”)

(Maggie Nelson, from Bluets)

It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures to reach up around my neck to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.

(David Wojnarowicz, from “When I Put My Hands On Your Body”)

(Bruce Springsteen, from “Valentine’s Day”)

If I lose you...then I not only mourn the loss, but I become inscrutable to myself. Who “am” I, without you? When we lose some of these ties by which we are constituted, we do not know who we are or what to do. On one level, I think I have lost “you” only to discover that “I” have gone missing as well.

(Judith Butler, from “Violence, Mourning, Politics”)

...when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.

(Joan Didion, from The Year of Magical Thinking)

(Jack Kerouac, from Visions of Cody)

Acceptance. I finally reach it. But something is wrong. Grief is a circular staircase. I have lost you.

(Linda Pastan, from “The Five Stages of Grief”)

(Elizabeth Bishop, from “One Art”)

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angst-fairygodmother · 5 years ago

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"Close your eyes and hold out your hands" Jaskier x Reader pls/thx

A/N: This one was a challenge. I thought about just having Jaskier drop something cute and fluffy into your arms, but I wanted to really try and stick with the spirit of the prompt list this time and that by itself didn’t feel like a way to say I love you.Anyway, Enjoy!Word Count: 2602Content Warnings: near death experiences, injury, small/enclosed underground spaces, flagrant disregard for geological functioning and probably physics, Angst (with a happy ending because I am not heartless)

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined, dragging the name out. “Please I need your help.”

“No.”

“I promise if you help me with this I will never ask you for another favor ever again.”

The witcher looked at him incredulously.

Okay fine, that’s probably a lie, but I really really need the help. It’s for Y/N. Please? Please please please?”

“If I agree to help will you shut up?”

Jaskier grinned broadly at his best friend and Geralt sighed in resignation.

In an effort to distract you, Geralt had sent you out to gather a rare pigment found nearby and cheerfully enough you had gone off, always eager for new materials to experiment with on your artworks. Then he and Jaskier had set about creating the bard’s vision.

They were bickering over who was going to go into the little town up ahead and get the few items they were missing when a scream pierced the air.

Jaskier’s heart dropped. He would know your voice anywhere. Before Geralt could even react, he was off, running for you and heedless of any danger he might be in.

The afternoon was lovely, bright and warm still, with a crisp breeze carrying the welcoming smells of autumn. So of course, when Geralt announced that you would be stopping now, rather than pushing on toward town or even through it, you were puzzled.

And then there was Jaskier, who had been acting cagey and even more high-strung than usual for days. You had planned to use the downtime to ferret out what was going on with them. Until Geralt mentioned that he had heard of a rare brilliant blue stone vein that ran through the nearby mountain face and could be turned into paint fairly easily once extracted. Even the mysteries of your best friend and your beloved and their odd behavior could not compare to the prospect of an artistic adventure. The word rare stirred up a ringing bell in the back of your mind and it would not rest until you had acquired the pigment.

“We’ll set up camp. You go,” Geralt offered.

Your eyes lit up and you swore you were flying at his suggestion.

“Wow…You don’t even get that excited when I—“ Jaskier purred, laughing by the time you clamped a hand over his mouth to cut off the rest of his sentence. He might have no shame about broadcasting the details of your intimacy but you preferred to keep it private (there may have been a song that had already ruined that and it may have taken a lot of work for you to forgive him, but it was never spoken of again).

A moment later, you relented and released him, kissing him on the cheek. Then you had gathered up your things and dashed off, calling your thanks back to them.

It did not take you long to spot a vein like Geralt spoke of. It was darker than you had hoped for, still secretly struggling to find a color close enough to Jaskier’s eyes to satisfy you, but still a gorgeous color and you were determined to get it. Unfortunately, it appeared to be a bit of a climb to get to it. With a sigh, you hiked up your skirt and started upward.

Upon reaching the streak of blue, you bit your lip with a smile. From directly in front of it, rather than below, it was as if the eyes that were your favorite sight were made from chips of the stone. Reverently, you ran your hand along the line before setting down your bag and digging around for a small pick and a vial. Soon enough you had collected enough of it to satisfy you, the soft, chalky texture of it promising for conversion into paint.

Elated and distracted by your triumph as you made your way back down the mountain, you did not hear the rumbling of the earth. When the ground shifted beneath your feet, you stumbled, scrabbling back to your feet and running. But it was too late. As rock and sand gave way, you pitched forward, your bag sent flying. You screamed surprise and terror combining in a high, clear sound. You landed with a thud and groaned, dazed and confused, but seemingly safe.

And then you felt yourself sliding. Beneath you, more rock crumbled and somehow both suddenly and in slow motion you were tumbling downward. You tried to move against the torrent of debris and wrap your arms around your head. And then everything was black.

Coughing dirt and dust from your lungs, you pushed yourself into a seated position and tried to look around in the darkness. Your head throbbed as your waited for your eyes to adjust and every breath you drew in felt short, as if there was not enough air to satisfy your lungs.

You were in a shallow cave. You couldn’t quite see the walls around you, and looking up you saw that the shifting ground had closed over you, unstable but solid for now.

Counting backwards from ten, you tried to calm your racing heart.

“Hello?” you called out, angling your voice upward. The space was not big enough for it to echo back at you and you breathed a sigh of relief.

You tried to stand and hissed as the weight sent pain shooting up through your leg. Gingerly you pressed on, standing fully, only for your ankle to give beneath your weight, sending you tumbling onto your hands and knees, scraping them further, leaving faint red streaks on the stony floor.

“Can anyone hear me? Help!” You shouted again, knowing that it was hopeless. But Geralt and Jaskier would notice how long you’d been gone, or have heard your scream – did you scream, you wondered sluggishly – and they would come looking for you. You just had to save your air and your voice until then.

Trying to keep your breath shallow, you waited. The shadows around you shifted menacingly, something an even darker black seeming to move around you, taunting and baiting you. You shook your head, telling yourself that it was just your frightened and still dizzy mind playing tricks. Still, you whispered a prayer to Melitele for protection and swift salvation.

“Y/N!” Jaskier called out again and again, not caring if he screamed himself hoarse in the effort to find you.

He could feel the panic rising in his chest, threatening to spill over when he spotted something on the ground. He ran for it, heart racing, and let out a whimper when he saw that it was your workbag, contents spilled down the face of the hill. That bag was precious to you in the same way that his lute was to him, a gift of such great importance that almost anything would be worth surrendering to keep it with you (he recalled, for example, how you had risked actual death rather than hand the bag over to bandits, only a narrow save from Geralt sparing your pretty throat from their blades). Frantically, he began gathering up the reagents and tools and pages of sketches that were scattered about, calling out your name once more.

Geralt, far calmer, stood nearby, head tilted as if he was listening to something, or for something.

“Geralt…” Jaskier said, voice choked with fear, “We will find her, right? We have to. I…I can’t…”

Geralt sighed and pressed a finger to his lips, motioning for his friend to be silent, fairly certain he had heard your faint voice but not wanting to get Jaskier’s hopes up until he was certain. There it was again, muffled and pained, but clearly you.

“This way,” he growled, leading Jaskier further up the mountainside.

Moments later, they found the spot where the ground had given way, swallowing you down into it.

“Please, you cried, no longer sure that your voice was even loud enough to breach the surface. “Gods, someone help me.”

“Y/N!” Jaskier cried, dropping to his knees and digging desperately until Geralt yanked him back, just as the surface soil shifted again and more collapsed down into the hole, soil and small chunks of limestone raining down on your arms as you sheltered your head.

By some stroke of luck, this new shift was enough to clear the hole, letting in the dying light, and more thankfully, fresh air. You looked up just as both Jaskier and Geralt’s faces peered over the edge.

“Oh thank the gods,” Jaskier laughed in relief. “Are you alright Y/N?”

Tears welled up in your eyes.

“No,” you admitted, trembling. “I might have blacked out? I think I hit my head when I fell, or it was the lack of air…It’s hard to put weight on my ankle. Also, I think there’s something else alive down here.”

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll get you out of there. Right Geralt?”

“Hmm.” The witcher seemed to be sizing up the hole, and then the three of you. “We need rope. I’ll be back. Stay here.” He turned to go back toward camp, to collect Roach and make a hard ride to town.

“Oh yes, because I was planning on going anywhere.” You snapped at Geralt’s retreating back, rolling your eyes.

“I think he was talking to me with the last part,” Jaskier pointed out with a wry grin. “Not that I would ever go anywhere until I knew you were safe.”

As night began to fall more fully, you shivered, feeling afraid and exhausted. You just wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep, but you had enough medicinal knowledge to know that was a bad idea.

“Jaskier,” you said softly, drawing his attention, which was constantly wandering as he sought some way to more quickly get you back on solid ground and in his arms.

“Yes, love?”

“Will you sing for me?”

He smiled softly, and began a gentle croon, a love song he had been writing for you, had planned to play for you tonight in an entirely different context.

“I’m scared.” You said softly when he paused to try and compose another verse on the spot, your voice trembling, and you finally gave up fighting back tears. “I don’t want to die down here.”

Jaskier felt his heart stop and then crack in two. “No. No, love, you’re not going to die,” he tried to assure you in a rush. “Not now and not for a long time. I promise. Geralt will be back soon and then we’ll get you out of there.”

He hated himself for being so useless, unable to help you himself, and his eyes once again roamed over the area. Finally, he spotted a ledge on the other side of the hole from where he sat. It wasn’t far down, and it wouldn’t be much, but if the world was kind, its shape and position might just let him reach down to you.

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” you asked in alarm as you watched him lower himself down precariously.

“This will work, trust me. I’m going to get you out.”

“No, you’re going to fall and hurt yourself!”

“Shh, Y/N. It will be fine, I promise.”

He grunted as he wedged his legs between two jutting rocks, hoping that it would be enough to hold him in place if it came to it. He slowly dangled downward, reaching out.

“Jaskier, I don’t like this plan. Let’s just…let’s just wait for Geralt. Like you said, he’ll be back soon, he has to be.”

You gave a small shriek as you jumped at a movement in the shadow, certain that you had heard something breathing heavily.

“No. We are not waiting. Just close your eyes and hold out your hands. I’ll grab onto you and pull you up.” His thanked the stars that his voice was surer than he felt, watching your face relax as you surrendered to his own confidence in the plan.

You took a deep breath, following his command and felt your fingertips brush together. He strained forward and you heard the slide of fabric on stone. You gasped, nearly withdrawing.

“It’s fine, Y/N, but I still can’t quite reach you. I just need to get a little…” his spoke through gritted teeth as he leaned as far as he dared.

You rose up onto your toes, stretching as far upward as you could until finally, finally, his hands curled around yours and he began to pull, easily lifting you the first few inches before he stalled, unable to get the right leverage to go any higher. Your shoulders felt like they might rip from their sockets and you could feel your grips slipping and you pressed your lips together to keep back the terrified sound that bubbled in the back of your throat. Your eyes remained pinched shut as air moved around your feet.

“I’ve got you,” he grunted. “I’ll get you out of there.”

“Jaskier, if you don’t drop me, we’ll both end up down here. And while I’d love the company I don’t want you to get hurt because of me. Just let go. It’s not far of a drop, much less than I’ve already had today. It was a good try. We’ll wait for Geralt.”

“No!”

Neither of you were exactly in a great position to be arguing. You felt him struggle to regain his hold on you, and then suddenly, you felt as if you were sailing through the air, lifted clear of the hole as if you weighed nothing, and then falling gracelessly into a heap on the ground with your bard.

“Y/N!” he breathed, wrapping his arms tightly around you in a hug that felt designed to squeeze you to death. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” His breath tickled your ear as he held you and you felt the telltale dampness of tears on your hair as he cradled you.

You sighed, burying your face in his fine chest hair, and leaned in, content to be held, not caring that you were both covered in dirt and grit. Opening your eyes, you looked over his shoulder at the witcher who was intently averting his eyes, finding something fascinating in the threads of Roach’s saddle.

“Thank you Geralt,” you murmured, “I don’t know what I would have done if this idiot had gotten himself killed trying to save me.”

Geralt chuckled and Jaskier made a noise of protest, quickly quieted when you shifted, tilting your head back to press a tender kiss to his lips.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the attempted rescue, but…”

He sighed, finally letting go just enough to cup your face between his hands. His hand brushed tenderly over a scrape on your cheek.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you registered the sound of retreating hoof beats.

“Y/N, this wasn’t how I planned to do this,” Jaskier leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“I should hope you hadn’t planned for me to fall down a sinkhole. What’s going on darling?”

“I love you. I knew I loved you. You are…everything to me. Almost losing you tonight, it just made everything all the clearer. I cannot imagine a day in my life without you, Y/N, and I don’t want to. If you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you have me, and probably failing because I am not a fraction of the person you are.”

“Jaskier…” you breathed.

He looked intently into your eyes. “Will you marry me?”

#Jaskier x Reader #The Witcher #The Witcher fic #reader insert #Jaskier #angst leading to fluff #I swear I tripped and suddenly there was angst #(I do also have a non-angsty story from the same prompt #that I started writing and then this idea came to me #I'm happy to post that one too if you prefer...not this #just let me know)#or beat me with the 'no angst' stick #you know either one #I am Dramatique

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2111121 · 4 years ago

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baby name dictionary

ao3

– HER FATHER’S STUDY IS HOME TO MANY BOOKS. When they find the baby names book, it is tucked in a corner at the bottom of one of his bookshelves, clearly where all the miscellaneous works were relegated to. It is blue and worn and dusty. The corners are rounded and soft, and the pages have faded to a rich and dark yellow. Though the book is small, it is comically thick, and the girls find it unwieldy to leaf through. Laura opened it towards the middle. As soon as she did, Heather blew dust out of the pages, right up into Laura’s face, leading the other girl to shout and frown at her as she laughed.

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

“You’d better not.” Laura’s face is all puckered up, but Heather knows that she is perfectly harmless. She grins reassuringly and, though Laura says nothing, she knows that she is forgiven.

“Let’s do your name first,” Laura says, scanning the rows of small text like the diligent student that she is.

Heather has only seen glimpses of her at school. They didn’t share the same classes, but nevertheless, she has seen Laura’s neat and tidy desk, and her near-perfect scores she buries behind school newsletters in her orange folder. It was this, as well as the guarded distance she kept with her classmates, that made her seem meek and docile. The girls who attempted to lure her in as a new victim of their torment could attest to this. They tried to corner her, and Laura had slapped one of them viciously enough to draw out tears.

It was through such an experience that Heather had met Laura in the office. Heather had also been sent there for having punched a boy when he had insulted her, and was waiting at the desk for her father to pick her up. Laura received the same treatment, and both girls sat beside one another, waiting for their fathers.

It was Heather who had asked Laura her name first. After exchanging the experiences that had led them to being picked up early and suspended for three days, they returned to their original silence. James had arrived before Harry, and, after another redundant discussion with the counselor, led Laura away. The girl, with her pretty backpack and perfectly-ironed shirt and pants, turned around one last time and said: “Bye, Heather.”

She remembered that James had turned around too. Perhaps he was surprised that Laura herself had addressed another person of her own volition. He smiled briefly in her direction before finally leaving. It was a polite half-smile that looked strange on his face, as though he were unused to smiling in such a thoughtless manner.

They had become closer since then. They met each other in the library during lunch, and walked out to the carpool at the end of the day. It was Heather that often spoke more between the two of them. She liked to tease Laura for her stern expressions that betrayed a sweet and lovable innocence beneath. Though they were the same age, Laura felt like a younger sister to her. There was so much she didn’t know. For one, Laura still believed that people, on the whole, were very good; she believed in god and heaven and kindness. These were things that Heather had learned, from her father, were little more than hopeful wishes.

“Heather, I found your name.”

Laura points to a line of barely-legible text. She narrows her eyes and reads it aloud:

Heather. Derived from Middle English hather , for the variety of small shrubs with pink or white flowers, which commonly grow in rocky areas.

“That’s lame. Flowers? How many names are there for flowers?” Heather groaned, fairly unimpressed. She noted that the page was dog-eared, and wondered if her father had really selected such a name with her in mind. For a while, she was convinced that ‘Heather’ was a random backup name that he had devised on the fly. As a child, she was confused but generally excited to receive a new name; now, however, she found it a real drag.

“Maybe you should ask your dad to change your name, then.”

“He actually did. Didn’t I tell you? My name was Cheryl before.”

“Oh, that’s a pretty name.” Laura’s eyes flickered at the sound of it, as though she were completely enchanted. “Yeah, I remember now. Why did you change it?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it some other time.” Heather sighed. “What a downgrade.”

Laura flipped about fifty pages back, and found the name ‘Cheryl’ underlined in pencil. She thought of Harry, young and inexperienced, lingering over this page, discussing the name with Heather’s mother.

She wondered if Harry had ever been married. It wasn't difficult to imagine him in love with someone, seeing how much love he raised Heather with. She thought of the nights she spent over at Heather’s house, where she would walk in on James and Harry at the table, carrying on a quiet conversation under a dim light. Harry always smiled at her, and got up to fetch her a bottle of water, as though she were his daughter all the same. She sometimes felt jealous of Heather, but never in a cruel way. Heather was funny and kind, gentle and strong; she deserved what goodness life brought to her. But Laura could not help but wonder how she would have been if she had been raised by someone like Harry—someone who was certain, someone who possessed an intense and selfless warmth.

Mary was like that.

Cheryl. Derived from the French cherie , meaning darling, or beloved.

Heather peered over Laura’s shoulder as she read. She wore a great, nostalgic smile as she listened to Laura’s voice bring the words to life. She looked in Laura’s direction in an attempt to read the expression she wore.

“I told you that ‘Heather’ was a serious downgrade.”

Laura shook her head. “Only special plants grow around rocks. I think that's why Harry picked that name for you too.”

“You're making it sound way better than it is.”

“I don't think so.”

Laura closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Heather sat up and frowned.

“You don't wanna look up your name?”

“I don’t think my name really means anything.”

“Then why’d James name you Laura?”

“He didn’t give that name to me. I think the church did.” She tilted her head to the side as she thought it over. “Cheryl’s a nice name, though. Your dad must love you a lot.”

“He does!” Heather said, beaming. “I know James loves you a lot too, Laura.”

“I know he does.”

Laura seemed soft as she said this, so much younger than she was. Heather wanted so much to tease her— you look a lot like James sometimes, Laura, especially when you're sad. Like a little doll, locked away behind a glass case, alone and beautiful. Laura and James wore melancholy like an old rain jacket, Heather thought. And sometimes, her father did too. She would see Harry—usually late at night or early in the morning—looking out their living room window at something she couldn't see. Was he unhappy? she would wonder. Who was he thinking about then? He never spoke of these things to her, but she imagined him sharing such thoughts with James—she never knew what they talked about, but she couldn't imagine their conversations being about anything else. It was for this reason that Heather treated James with a degree of cold indifference. If he didn't treat her father’s heart with care, then she would punish him, because her father would be too kind to do it himself.

“We don’t have to look up your name if you don’t wanna.” Heather said, patting Laura’s back. “How about we do something else? Let’s get some ice cream.”

“Don’t you ever have real food?” Laura scoffed, one corner of her lips turning up as she did. Heather grinned, seeing Laura return to her usual, harsh self.

“You mean like Cup Ramen? Cơm cháy? Shrimp chips?”

“Ew.” The other girl grimaced. “How do you and Harry live, Heather? James and I will have to give you two cooking lessons, or else you’ll die of malnutrition.”

“We can cook! We can use the microwave. Isn't that cooking?”

Laura laughed.

They bickered like this as they left Harry’s study, filling the little house with the sound of their laughter. They were eleven years old then, and their world was small and warm. A Saturday morning in spring, the air filled with flowers, the sunlight filtering through their windows and illuminating the day. They were very happy.

#nf #silent hill 1 #silent hill 2 #silent hill 3 #harry mason #james sunderland #laura #heather mason #everyone's viet bc i say so :)

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hennyjolzen · 5 years ago

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by PAM GROSSMAN May 30, 2019

Pam Grossman is the author of Waking the Witch: Reflections on Women, Magic, and Power.

Witches have always walked among us, populating societies and storyscapes across the globe for thousands of years. From Circe to Hermione, from Morgan le Fay to Marie Laveau, the witch has long existed in the tales we tell about ladies with strange powers that can harm or heal. And although people of all genders have been considered witches, it is a word that is now usually associated with women.

Throughout most of history, she has been someone to fear, an uncanny Other who threatens our safety or manipulates reality for her own mercurial purposes. She’s a pariah, a persona non grata, a bogeywoman to defeat and discard. Though she has often been deemed a destructive entity, in actuality a witchy woman has historically been far more susceptible to attack than an inflictor of violence herself. As with other “terrifying” outsiders, she occupies a paradoxical role in cultural consciousness as both vicious aggressor and vulnerable prey.

Over the past 150 years or so, however, the witch has done another magic trick, by turning from a fright into a figure of inspiration. She is now as likely to be the heroine of your favorite TV show as she is its villain. She might show up in the form of your Wiccan coworker, or the beloved musician who gives off a sorceress vibe in videos or onstage.

There is also a chance that she is you, and that “witch” is an identity you have taken upon yourself for any number of reasons — heartfelt or flippant, public or private.

Today, more women than ever are choosing the way of the witch, whether literally or symbolically. They’re floating down catwalks and sidewalks in gauzy black clothing and adorning themselves with Pinterest-worthy pentagrams and crystals. They’re filling up movie theaters to watch witchy films, and gathering in back rooms and backyards to do rituals, consult tarot cards and set life-altering intentions. They’re marching in the streets with HEX THE PATRIARCHY placards and casting spells each month to try to constrain the commander-in-chief. Year after year, articles keep proclaiming, “It’s the Season of the Witch!” as journalists try to wrap their heads around the mushrooming witch “trend.”

And all of this begs the question: Why?

Why do witches matter? Why are they seemingly everywhere right now? What, exactly, are they? (And why the hell won’t they go away?)

I get asked such things over and over, and you would think that after a lifetime of studying and writing about witches, as well as hosting a witch-themed podcast and being a practitioner of witchcraft myself, my answers would be succinct.

In fact, I find that the more I work with the witch, the more complex she becomes. Hers is a slippery spirit: try to pin her down, and she’ll only recede further into the deep, dark wood.

I do know this for sure though: show me your witches, and I’ll show you your feelings about women. The fact that the resurgence of feminism and the popularity of the witch are ascending at the same time is no coincidence: the two are reflections of each other.

That said, this current Witch Wave is nothing new. I was a teen in the 1990s, the decade that brought us such pop-occulture as Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and The Craft, not to mention riot grrrls and third-wave feminists who taught me that female power could come in a variety of colors and sexualities. I learned that women could lead a revolution while wearing lipstick and combat boots — and sometimes even a cloak.

But my own witchly awakening came at an even earlier age.

Morganville, New Jersey, where I was raised, was a solidly suburban town, but it retained enough natural land features back then to still feel a little bit scruffy in spots. We had a small patch of woods in our backyard that abutted a horse farm, and the two were separated by a wisp of running water that we could cross via a plank of wood. In one corner of the yard, a giant puddle would form whenever it rained, surrounded by a border of ferns. My older sister, Emily, and I called this spot our Magical Place. That it would vanish and then reappear only added to its mystery. It was a portal to the unknown.

These woods are where I first remember doing magic — entering that state of deep play where imaginative action becomes reality. I would spend hours out there, creating rituals with rocks and sticks, drawing secret symbols in the dirt, losing all track of time. It was a space that felt holy and wild, yet still strangely safe.

As we age, we’re supposed to stop filling our heads with such “nonsense.” Unicorns are to be traded in for Barbie dolls (though both are mythical creatures, to be sure). We lose our tooth fairies, walk away from our wizards. Dragons get slain on the altar of youth.

Most kids grow out of their “magic phase.” I grew further into mine.

My grandma Trudy was a librarian at the West Long Branch Library, which meant I got to spend many an afternoon lurking between the 001.9 and 135 Dewey decimal–sections, reading about Bigfoot and dream interpretation and Nostradamus. I spent countless hours in my room, learning about witches and goddesses, and I loved anything by authors like George MacDonald, Roald Dahl, and Michael Ende — writers fluent in the language of enchantment. Books were my broomstick. They allowed me to fly to other realms where anything was possible.

Though fictional witches were my first guides, I soon discovered that magic was something real people could do. I started frequenting new age shops and experimenting with mass-market paperback spell books from the mall. I was raised Jewish but found myself attracted to belief systems that felt more individualized and mystical and that fully honored the feminine. Eventually I found my way to modern Paganism, a self-directed spiritual path that sustains me to this day. I’m not unique in this trajectory of pivoting away from organized religion and toward something more personal: as of September 2017, more than a quarter of U.S. adults — 27% — now say that they think of themselves as spiritual but not religious, according to Pew Research Center.

Now, I identify both as a witch and with the archetype of the witch overall, and I use the term fluidly. At any given time, I might use the word witch to signify my spiritual beliefs, my supernatural interests or my role as an unapologetically complex, dynamic female in a world that prefers its women to be smiling and still. I use it with equal parts sincerity and salt: with a bow to a rich and often painful history of worldwide witchcraft, and a wink to other members of our not-so-secret society of people who fight from the fringes for the liberty to be our weirdest and most wondrous selves. Magic is made in the margins.

To be clear: you don’t have to practice witchcraft or any other alternative form of spirituality to awaken your own inner witch. You may feel attracted to her symbolism, her style or her stories but are not about to rush out to buy a cauldron or go sing songs to the sky. Maybe you’re more of a nasty woman than a devotee of the Goddess. That’s perfectly fine: the witch belongs to you too.

I remain more convinced than ever that the concept of the witch endures because she transcends literalism and because she has so many dark and sparkling things to teach us. Many people get fixated on the “truth” of the witch, and numerous fine history books attempt to tackle the topic from the angle of so-called factuality. Did people actually believe in magic? They most certainly did and still do. Were the thousands of victims who were killed in the 16th- and 17th-century witch hunts actually witches themselves? Most likely not. Are witches real? Why, yes, you’re reading the words of one. All of these things are true.

But whether or not there were actually women and men who practiced witchcraft in Rome or Lancashire or Salem, say, is less interesting to me than the fact that the idea of witches has remained so evocative and influential and so, well, bewitching in the first place.

In other words, the fact and the fiction of the witch are inextricably linked. Each informs the other and always has. I’m fascinated by how one archetype can encompass so many different facets. The witch is a notorious shape-shifter, and she comes in many guises:

A hag in a pointy hat, cackling madly as she boils a pot of bones.

A scarlet-lipped seductress slipping a potion into the drink of her unsuspecting paramour.

A cross-dressing French revolutionary who hears the voices of angels and saints.

A perfectly coifed suburban housewife, twitching her nose to change her circumstances at will, despite her husband’s protests.

A woman dancing in New York City’s Central Park with her coven to mark the change of the seasons or a new lunar phase.

The witch has a green face and a fleet of flying monkeys. She wears scarves and leather and lace.

She lives in Africa; on the island of Aeaea; in a tower; in a chicken-leg hut; in Peoria, Illinois.

She lurks in the forests of fairy tales, in the gilded frames of paintings, in the plotlines of sitcoms and YA novels, and between the bars of ghostly blues songs.

She is solitary.

She comes in threes.

She’s a member of a coven.

Sometimes she’s a he.

She is stunning, she is hideous, she is insidious, she is ubiquitous.

She is our downfall. She is our deliverance.

Our witches say as much about us as they do about anything else — for better and for worse.

More than anything, though, the witch is a shining and shadowy symbol of female power and a force for subverting the status quo. No matter what form she takes, she remains an electric source of magical agitation that we can all plug into whenever we need a high-voltage charge.

She is also a vessel that contains our conflicting feelings about female power: our fear of it, our desire for it and our hope that it can — and will — grow stronger, despite the flames that are thrown at it.

Whether the witch is depicted as villainous or valorous, she is always a figure of freedom — both its loss and its gain. She is perhaps the only female archetype who is an independent operator. Virgins, whores, daughters, mothers, wives — each of these is defined by whom she is sleeping with or not, the care that she is giving or that is given to her, or some sort of symbiotic debt that she must eventually pay.

The witch owes nothing. That is what makes her dangerous. And that is what makes her divine.

Witches have power on their own terms. They have agency. They create. They praise. They commune with the spiritual realm, freely and free of any mediator.

They metamorphose, and they make things happen. They are change agents whose primary purpose is to transform the world as it is into the world they would like it to be.

This is also why being called a witch and calling oneself a witch are usually two vastly different experiences. In the first case, it’s often an act of degradation, an attack against a perceived threat.

The second is an act of reclamation, an expression of autonomy and pride. Both of these aspects of the archetype are important to keep in mind. They may seem like contradictions, but there is much to glean from their interplay.

The witch is the ultimate feminist icon because she is a fully rounded symbol of female oppression and liberation. She shows us how to tap into our own might and magic, despite the many who try to strip us of our power.

We need her now more than ever.

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jarienn972 · 6 years ago

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Curse of Undoings - Part 4

So we have a slightly longer installment this time as these two scenes fit together. Killian's short reprieve is over and he's about to face all new torment. The snow globe will also make a brief appearance in this chapter. I really liked the thought of something so pretty being a prison like was presented at the end of S7 so I added my own twist. And now - on to whumping a pirate again...

Tagging my whump-loving cohorts @killian-whump @hookaroo and @castielamigos For those who’d like to read from the beginning: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Also on AO3 and FF.net Reminder that this contains graphic portrayal of violence

No stranger to prison cells throughout his lifetime of piracy, Killian had endured more than his fair share of humiliation and tribulations. He'd been on the receiving end of far more beatings than he cared to count but there was something about the woman he loved dishing out said beating that was weakening his resolve rapidly. He knew her head was filled with lies so it was of little use to fight her. He'd rather suffer the torment than dare raise a hand against his beloved, not that his current restraints allowed for that anyway. He wouldn't play into the madness either. If she intended to keep him gagged so he couldn't speak the truth, he would have to find another way.

He now steeled himself for another round of her interrogations as he heard the rattle of a key in the door, bracing as it swung open to reveal the faces of Gideon and his dungeon assistant.

"The Sheriff is ready to continue with your session now," Gideon announced as he pressed the business end stun gun into Killian's side as his silent partner released all of the padlocks from their tethering chains. Once their prisoner was free of the chains, the two men each grabbed hold of one of Killian's arms and dragged him from his cell.

Killian was taken to a different room this time, a little larger than the first torture chamber, but no less intimidating. In the center of the room, instead of rusting chains and iron shackles, there was a slab of rectangular metal positioned vertically. It resembled some type of examination table standing on end, but this one had the addition of metal loops along the sides and bottom and a length of chain at the top. It didn't take long for Killian to figure out what those fixtures would be used for when he was forcibly spun around and his back was shoved against the freezing cold metal. The shock of the icy metal momentarily soothed the welts on his back, but that would be the extent of any pleasantries with this experience.

Gideon's hand pressed against the collar ringing Killian's throat, holding the pirate's head in place as the collar's padlock was attached to the short chain atop the metal table. This new tether was so short that Killian could barely raise his head from the table nor could he look down without the collar cutting into the tender skin below his chin or choking himself. He didn't need to see what his captors were doing to know what was happening though. His hand was yanked to the side and the shackle was attached to one of those steel loops, but then his perspective was drastically changed as the metal slab was pushed backward, jolting to a stop with Killian now laying uncomfortably on his aching back. Staring at the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling above, he could feel a shackle being attached to his previously unrestrained ankle while hearing the clicks of padlocks securing both legs to the table. Only his stumped arm remained free but it seemed to be of little concern to his captors who clearly believed he was fully restrained and now ready for the next interrogation, although the realization that they'd not removed the gag meant he probably wasn't expected to do any talking.

He tried to turn his head to see the expression on his wife's face as she entered the chamber but he didn't have enough range of motion to see her yet. He could smell her perfume though, sweet and flowery against the putrid stench he knew was emanating from his own body. But it wasn't long before she was there, leaning over him and suddenly, he'd never felt more vulnerable. The infuriating gag didn't allow for easy swallowing and right now, he was trying to swallow back the biggest lump forming in his parched throat, emotions conflicted between primal fear and the intensity of the love he still felt for this woman.

"Been enjoying our town's hospitality, Hook?" she asked snidely, drawing a gloved fingertip along his sweat-soaked chest. "Since you didn't want to talk earlier, I decided you deserved a little bit of persuasion so that you'll remember how to properly answer a question when you're asked." She gave a brief tug on the short chain that fastened his collar to the metal slab, ensuring its tightness as she prepared to deliver another round of pain. "This time, I won't be asking any questions. I'll just be telling you what I already know while you suffer your punishment for not responding earlier."

Satisfied that the restraints would be sturdy enough for the next session, Emma took a step back from the table and extended her gloved right hand toward Gideon who dutifully placed the stun gun atop her palm.

"So, here's what I know…," she continued. "You are Killian Jones, a common thief who calls himself Hook after the namesake prosthetic you wear." She paused to flip the switch on the taser and test its spark before pressing it against the bare skin a few inches above Killian's right hip. His body writhed and trembled as the electricity coursed through him, the metal table intensifying the jolt. After a couple of agonizing seconds, she pulled the device away, giving her prisoner only a brief reprieve before repeating the process on his left side. Killian's jaw clamped down against the bit gag so hard that he feared he'd broken a few teeth, although that would likely be the very least of his problems. His heart was racing and probably arrhythmic at this point, but she seemed to be finished with the stun gun, retuning it to Gideon in favor of a new toy.

"That taser seems so tame compared to what you deserve," she stated as she stepped away from the table, turning her back to her still-shaking prisoner as Gideon held up her leather satchel. It didn't take long to locate the implement she wanted and when she turned around to face her terrorized, prone prisoner, her gloved hands were wrapped around a very familiar object. "Ten years ago, you slaughtered my parents with your hook so perhaps it's fitting that today, I'm going to use it on you." She gripped the base of the shiny, steel hook tightly and as she raised it above him, Killian could tell it had been very recently sharpened. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd been threatened by the point of his own hook, but it had never before been at Emma's hand.

She taunted him at first, drawing the tip across the bare skin of his abdomen, leaving a trail of crimson drops in its wake, but the teasing came to an abrupt end as she drove the razor-sharp point deep into his left shoulder. He screamed around the gag at the vicious impalement, nearly choking on the bile that filled his throat, but she wasn't done yet, twisting the point all the way down to the bony shoulder blade before yanking the weapon back out of his flesh. She hovered the dripping hook above his face as though she was about to drive it between his eyes, but she simply held it there, allowing bright red droplets to rain down onto his face. The whole time, his gaze remained fixated on the extension and representation of him that had become a weapon once again, fearing it would claim his heart next.

"Is this how you taunted my mother before you drove this hook into her jugular? Oh, sorry – I forgot you can't answer right now so I guess I'll just have to finish the statement for you. You took sickening pleasure in it, stabbing her repeatedly and leaving behind a huge pool of blood, but that was all I found – a pool of nearly dried blood in their living room. I promise you, before I kill you, you will tell me what you did with their bodies. I owe them a proper burial. I owe my son proper closure since witnessing their deaths traumatized him so deeply that he started hallucinating and inventing a fantasy world of fairytales that only he believes in. If it weren't for Dr. Hopper and his medications, my son would have lost his mind by now and it's all your fault!"

Killian started up at her from the slab with tear-swollen blue eyes, praying he'd see something of the woman he loved in the face that glared down upon him, but all he could see was rage. How could the Emma he loved do this to him? Was there nothing she could see within him to make her recall even a minuscule portion of their lives together? He must look pitiful – chained up nearly naked to a metal table, covered in burns, bruises and lacerations with eyes begging his True Love not to kill him. But no matter how long he stared into her darkened emerald eyes, he could find no love reciprocated in the coldness of her gaze.

His punctured shoulder throbbed but there was nothing he could do to ease the pain or stem the flow of blood since his hand was shackled to the slab beneath him. Every pore exuded fear that his hours upon this Earth were numbered.

"Should we take him back to his cell, Sheriff?" Gideon asked as Emma backed away from the table.

"No – leave him here. He isn't going anywhere and we can finish when I get back." Emma wasn't anywhere near done with her prisoner but the constant vibration of her cell phone in her back pocket was becoming a distraction.

"Yes, ma'am," Gideon grinned almost lecherously as he and their assistant, who had still yet to speak a single word, followed their boss out of the chamber. Leaving their prisoner stretched out and trembling on the metal table, Gideon switched off the light, plunging the cell into near total blackness before slamming the door closed. Killian clenched his teeth around the bit as he heard the bolt slide into place to lock him in, although he didn't quite see the necessity of it. He wasn't going anywhere and was likely already laying on his own deathbed.

Emma peeled off her leather gloves before ascending the stairs out of the underground prison secreted away beneath Storybrooke's Town Hall. She was ready to head out to lunch, having worked up an appetite this morning, but apparently, the mayor had other plans, evidenced by the two missed calls and three text messages her honor had sent over the past fifteen minutes. Emma quickly tapped out a response as she reached the main floor, informing Mayor Fiona that she'd be right over to her office.

Despite outward attempts to appear affable, Emma was well aware that Mayor Fiona Black had a much darker side. Who else would keep a subterranean prison beneath their place of employment? Her office itself was mostly impersonal, cold and austere, bearing only a few touches that hinted at her personality like the scattered portraits of various infants. But she and Emma had come to a tenuous agreement: when Emma had needed additional resources to hunt her parents' killer, Fiona had obliged with Emma promising to hire Fiona's grandson, Gideon, as her deputy. Emma had also agreed to keep Fiona apprised of any developments in this case and while Gideon's capture of the infamous Hook this morning had certainly been one of those developments, Emma had failed to keep her end of that bargain in her haste to question her prisoner. Her honor apparently wanted that information shared now.

Emma knocked tentatively on the frosted glass panel bearing Fiona's name that made up most of the upper portion of the door, immediately hearing an invitation to enter. Upon opening the door, she found the mayor leaning over a table beside the window, pouring herself a cup of tea from an ornate white china tea pot.

"Emma, I'm so glad you finally got my messages," Fiona began, flaunting a reptilian-like smile as she offered one of the porcelain cups and saucers to her guest. "Would you like to join me for a spot of tea?"

"No thanks. I'm really more of a hot chocolate girl myself."

"I see… Well, please – have a seat. I want to hear all about the prisoner we're holding downstairs. My dear Gideon informed me that he captured your parents' killer overnight?"

Yeah, I guess he did. Maybe I should have gone out drinking last night so I'd have stumbled into him, but anyway…" Emma casually flopped down into one of the two upholstered leather armchairs facing Fiona's desk. The mayor frowned at Emma's somewhat immature behavior but allowed the Sheriff to continue her story. "Can you believe the audacity of that son of a bitch – to sail back into my town on the tenth anniversary of their murders?"

"Some people have no respect for such important anniversaries," Fiona replied as she demurely placed her cup and saucer atop the desk before taking a seat in her own plush, ebony leather chair. "But I have heard that you've been interrogating the prisoner. How has that been going?"

"I can't say that he's enjoying it," Emma chuffed. "He's denied everything, even trying to tell me that my parents were still alive when he last saw them, despite all of the reports to the contrary. But he will talk soon - although honestly, I really expected him to be more of a braggart so his silence has been a little off-putting. Maybe he just needs a little more motivation…?"

"And you've found ways to motivate him to tell you what you want?"

"Unless it kills him first, although I can't necessarily say I'd be too torn up over that…"

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're making progress," Fiona smiled as she raised the cup and saucer, hiding most of her evil sneer behind the delicate china. The rage and disquiet she'd implanted within Emma's false memories through her curse were playing out exactly according to her ploy. Her grin widened as she caught sight of the snow globe decorating the bookshelf on the opposite wall. It was only a matter of time before Emma Swan unknowingly condemned her entire family to oblivion, their stories already unraveling as they faded from memory. All that stood in her way were Emma's True Loves – the new husband she was thoroughly enjoying beating the hell out of and her son, Henry. "Oh, and Emma – I'm a bit concerned about your young son. I've heard he's been a tad unwell as of late, spouting off with delusions and other nonsense."

"He just hasn't been the same since his grandparents were killed. He was only four at the time and I know he saw too much and it… it damaged him. Sometimes I swear he lives in his own fantasy world. I'm going to get him back in to see the Doc as soon as this is all over. Maybe it's time to adjust his medication again?"

"Yes," Fiona agreed, embellishing her response with a dramatic sigh. "It seems as though that may be necessary to better take care of him." She tried her best to sound sympathetic, but in reality, Fiona wanted to cheer. At this pace, Emma would break both of her True Loves before the day was through. "Well, Sheriff, I've taken up enough of your time. I know you have work to be done so I will let you get back to it."

"Right now, I'm breaking for lunch and then I plan to break a prisoner," Emma replied, her expression darkening with the fury raging within. She was going to enjoy this. "I'll update you later."

"Please, see that you do," was Fiona's dismissive response as Emma stood to leave. She was going to enjoy this nearly as much as Emma.

#ouat ff #ouat fan fiction #killian jones ff #killian whump #curse of undoings #tw torture #tw violence

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bthenoise · 6 years ago

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Celebrate 10 Years of ‘Constellations’ With August Burns Red’s 10 Favorite Moments From The Writing, Recording & Touring Process

When it comes to most album anniversary tours, some fans tend to think those 10, 15 or even 20-year treks are just for the longtime listeners and nostalgia chasers. Instead, many seem to forget about the bands actually playing those beloved records on a nightly basis.

Take metalcore juggernauts August Burns Red, for example. Gearing up for their 10-year anniversary tour for 2009′s groundbreaking LP Constellations, the seasoned outfit has thoroughly enjoyed tour prep as they’ve run through songs like “The Escape Artist” and reminisced about some of their fondest decade-old memories.

Be it playing tour games on the road, surviving terrifying snowstorms or the impact of playing “Indonesia” live for the first time in the Southeast Asian country, looking back on 10 years since Constellations was released, JB Brubaker, Brent Rambler, Matt Greiner, Dustin Davidson and Jake Luhrs have all accrued memories that will last a lifetime.

Speaking with The Noise about some of those life-changing Constellations moments, Brubaker, Rambler, Greiner and Davidson compiled 10 of their all-time favorite memories from the writing, recording and touring process dating all the way back to 2007. To check out the list to get you even more pumped for August Burns Red’s upcoming tour, be sure to see below. Afterward, to grab tickets, head here.

Lastly, if you’d like a chance to win free tickets – yes, FREE! – head here.

Brent Rambler

The Constellations recording process and touring cycle houses many fond memories for all of us. Here are three of my personal favorites that stick out. Let’s get cracking in chronological order!

“White Washed”

The lyrics for “White Washed” were some of the first more aggressive and “angry” lyrics that I had ever tried to write at the time. However, the words flowed like water because they were very in the moment. I started working on them immediately after a youth pastor surrounded me with a group of teenagers directly outside of our tour van. He proceeded to condemn [me] and the other members of the band simply for having a case of beer on our [tour] rider. He wanted to try and make an example of me in front of all the kids he brought with him. The whole thing was super inappropriate and out of line, BUT the lyrics for one of our most popular songs came out of it so it was worth it!

First Home

The recording process for Constellations was extra exciting for me because literally a week before we left I had an offer accepted for my first house. I remember being very proud because it was a big moment in proving to everyone that I could earn a living off of making music. For weeks while we recorded, I was heading to notaries and post offices to work on the closing process of the home, and since we were in Florida while making the album, I had to sign over power of attorney and do the sale over the phone. We returned home super late from Florida, but instead of crashing at my parents where all of my things were, I grabbed the keys and just sat in my new house.

Chicago House Of Blues

Constellations came out while we were on tour in the summer of 2009. The tour had some cool highlights, but I think the biggest one was selling out the Chicago House of Blues for the first time. At that moment it was our biggest headline show ever and packing such a notable venue felt amazing. Afterwards, we had a big celebration with the other bands backstage and it capped off a great night!

JB Brubaker

“Put Him Up!”

In December of 2009, we were on the road with Underoath and Emery. We became really good friends with the guys in Emery and would hang out with them every night after the shows. They had purchased their own passenger bus and gutted it and turned it into a tour bus. It was DIY but so cool. We’d hang out, drink beers, have dance parties and tell stories. Emery taught us one “game” that we still play on our tour bus today. Occasionally, when someone new would walk on the bus, Toby (Emery’s bassist/vocalist) would slowly start chanting “Put him up! Put him up!” The chant would catch on with other people on the bus until everyone was shouting it, at which point the newcomer would be picked up and crowd surfed to the ceiling of the bus. It was basically a “welcome to the party” greeting and always got a good laugh. We are happy to continue to carry the tradition on a decade later.

Touring Australia

It was August of 2009. Constellations had recently come out and we were invited by Parkway Drive to support them on a tour across Australia. It was our first time in Australia and an honor to be supporting them. They were the hottest metal band on the continent and drawing huge crowds. After the monster travel day to Australia, we arrived to find a bunch of luggage didn’t make it. Qantas Airlines outfitted us with small care packages to keep us afloat until our baggage was recovered. Inside were heather gray sweat shorts and matching t-shirts. The first show was in Brisbane at an outdoor hillside [venue] called Riverstage. They were expecting 7,000 people which was more people than we had ever played for at that time. When we were setting up our equipment on stage before the show, I failed to take into account the voltage difference between Australia and the US. I plugged in my pedal board and heard a pop followed by the smell of burning electronics. I had fried my pedal board’s power supply, rendering my pedals useless. I had to borrow a pedal board from Architects, who were also playing on the tour. (I think we need to do this same tour lineup again!). When we took the stage that night I was a ball of nerves. I unfortunately played sloppy for the large Australian crowd, but I don’t know if anyone actually noticed or cared. We debuted our song “Meddler” for the first time that night. (I played that song particularly poorly.) The tour was overall a great experience. I have very fond memories of hanging out with the guys in Architects and playing massive shows in every city.

Touring South America

In August of 2010, we were doing a tour of South America. It was our first time traveling there. Our buddies in Blessthefall were coming with us and it was going to be awesome. The first show was in Sao Paulo, Brazil and over 1,000 people showed up. We were treated like celebrities and it was a completely surreal start to the tour. The final show of the tour was scheduled for August 28th in Caracas, Venezuela. About a week before the show, we learned of political unrest in Venezuela. The president there was known for being a hot head and pulling stunts like closing down the airports. It was determined to be unsafe for us to travel to Caracas because of the possibility of getting stuck there should the president lock down flights out of the country. Instead, we booked a last minute show in Quito, Ecuador. With a week to get the word out, we weren’t expecting much. The show was held in a small youth center. There couldn’t have been more than 150 people there but it was such a special show for us. The appreciation and enthusiasm the crowd showed us was unmatched. We felt honored to have been received with such open arms and on such short notice. What felt like a disaster waiting to happen turned out to be one of the biggest highlights of our South American tour.

Dustin Davidson

The Day The Van Died

Thankfully I found a journal entry from Thursday, April 16th, 2009 so that I can write accurately with every detail about the day that our van died. We were pretty early into a tour with All That Remains and Born of Osiris when as you may have guessed -- our 16 passenger Chevrolet van (unnamed to my knowledge) took its last breath of air and sipped its last ounce of gasoline (which in those days contained 0% ethanol for you engine nerds). According to my journal, we woke up at a decent hour, grabbed continental breakfast from the hotel and headed out on the road for the next show. I was first up to drive on that day and while on the road about 60 miles away from our departure our sound engineer Jade asked me, “So how long do you think this van is going to last? Do you think it’ll make it through the rest of the tour?”

“Yeah, I think it’ll last for the rest of the tour - at least I hope so,” I replied. Just as I finished that thought our speed began to decrease rapidly while ascending a hill on the highway. I let off the gas and the engine shut off. As I was pulling over to the shoulder the temperature gauge shot up, the breaks were extremely hard to press because the brake booster went out and smoke poured out from under the hood when I was finally able to bring the vehicle to a stop. “Well, I think we need a new van,” I said.

I don’t remember how many miles that van had but it was surely over 200k so something like that was bound to happen at any time. Born of Osiris was able to pick us up so that we could make the next show which was in Syracuse, NY and after the gig our friend Ricky picked us up and drove us back to Lancaster so that we could van shop the next day and get back out on the road to meet up with the tour again.

The Storm That Left Us Stranded

In the winter of 2009, we did a short tour with Underoath and Emery. It was a very fun tour filled with hangs and packed shows. However, the drive home was something that I hope to never be a part of again. After the tour ended in New Orleans, JB and Brent flew home while the rest of us (Matt, Jake, TM Josh, merch guy Mychael and myself) opted to save some bones and drive the van/trailer home. We knew there was a huge rain storm coming but we had plenty of time to beat it home by getting on the road directly after that last show - or so we thought.

Sometime in the early hours of December 18th during our drive home, we blew a wheel bearing on the trailer and had to pull over to take a look at it. This was an ongoing problem for us back in the day. You see, this was a time before the Axe-Fx / Kemper. A dark time when we carried many guitar/bass cabinets. Our trailer was always filled to the brim. We were simply carrying too much weight and would blow out wheel bearings left and right no matter how we packed the trailer.

This blow out was one of the worst ones we ever had. Since it was still dark outside, whoever was driving the van couldn’t see the smoke so they ended up driving for a while after the bearing gave out which led to the bearing fusing to the spindle which meant that we couldn’t fix the problem ourselves. We had to wait for a small repair shop to open up so that we could have the bearing fixed and while waiting to have everything repaired the storm passed us. It was only rain at the time but we knew it would turn into a mild blizzard. We finally got on the road in the early afternoon but it was too late - the damage was done.

I don’t recall which highway we were on, but it indeed was shut down and we ended up spending the night in the van on the highway until we could get moving again early the next morning. Around 6am when traffic started moving again, we opted to drive to the next closest exit and get a hotel since the roads were still covered in snow. Our drive home was supposed to be about 18 hours without stops and it ended up taking us 3 days. It’s fun to reflect on it now and talk to those that I share that memory with, but it’s safe to say from that day on, I never drove the van home from the end of a tour again.

Matt Greiner

Constellations Artwork

It was December 2007. I was getting inspiration for album artwork from the most unassuming source, a black and white movie from the 1940s. It's A Wonderful Life is a movie about a supernatural intervention in the life of a frustrated businessman. In the movie, an angel is sent from heaven to show George Bailey what life would have been like had he never existed. At their high-school graduation party, George is reintroduced to Mary who has had a crush on him since they were kids. Under the moonlight, they're walking outside when George suddenly turns Mary towards the sky and asks, "You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."

As I watched the scene unfold, I played out the idea of a rope tied to a star in the sky. I put pen to paper and ran with the concept, pulling inspiration from Matthew 6 where the idea of Heaven coming to earth is introduced. The stars represented steadfast anchors by which we find direction throughout our lives. The kites represent our own fleeting emotions that will alter direction just as the wind changes. I remember getting on the phone with Ryan Clark, the creative mind behind the company Invisible Creature, and explaining the artistic concepts that would eventually come to fruition in the pages of Constellations.

“Indonesia”

In 2007, I awoke to find that a relative had died in a plane crash. David Clapper had always been passionate about flying. It wasn't uncommon to see his single-engine Cessna flying over our family farm in Lancaster County, PA. He devoted his time assisting those in need in Southeast Asia by flying the sick and dying from the bush to the nearest hospital, which often times was a several hour flight. On one of his return flights to the bush, he encountered a storm that blew his plane into the side of a mountain. I remember going for a drive after finding out the terrible news. I was so upset that someone doing such a good thing had died in such a terrible way. Here was a man who gave his time and energy to helping others and, in the end, sacrificed his life doing so. I remember wondering what his last words might have been as the plane spun out of control, crashing into the side of the mountain where it still resides today. I learned an important lesson that day. That is, not every question in life has an answer, at least not one that will satisfy. "This is the time to turn down our heads and turn up our hearts."

I remember traveling to Indonesia on the Constellations Tour. We played an outdoor venue for a large group of excited fans who were seeing us perform for the first time. When it came time to play "Indonesia," a feeling came over me that I'll never forget, an overwhelming sense of humility. The band I helped start in my parent's basement in Lancaster County, PA was playing in Southeast Asia performing a song written about my relative who had passed away on that very continent just the year before. The fans in the crowd seemed to sing about him like he was their relative, not some stranger who's name they merely read in the liner notes of a CD. Near the end of the song Jake screams the words, "David, rest in peace." I'll never forget hearing the crowd sing those very words so loud they could be heard over the amplification of our own instruments. A story goes a long way, sometimes even to the edges of the other side of the planet.

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#August Burns Red #Constellations #Solid State Records #Fearless Records #interview #Noise Exclusive

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yuhb0y · 7 years ago

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Hard to believe this post was 3 years ago. My first suicide attempt led me to be institutionalized and it was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever had to go through. I remember waking up in the middle of the night one day and crying harder than I had ever cried, I don’t really remember what it was about this specific day but at some point throughout the thought came into my head that this was finally it.

I wrote a letter to my family and texted the girl I loved a huge apology. This was all going on during the worst drug binge I had ever been on. I took one last shower idk why but I did, I sat down on my couch and really reflected on everything I could for as long as I could but in a moments notice I realized that I didn’t really want to overthink the whole situation so I gathered about 12 or 14 norcos in my hand and just swallowed them whole. I continued to do so til there wasn’t anything left of the 2 bottles I had gotten my hands on. I remember going in for the last handful and feeling some sort of relief.

And just like that I leaned back and could feel my head get lighter and lighter and I as I got higher all I could remember is crying. Even in the moments I had hoped to be my last I felt inadequate. There was no peace, there was no instance where this all made sense to me, I found nothing. This was everything I had allowed to eat away at me taking all control and I just sat there crying because it was the worst realization I had ever made.

Eventually I blacked out and I guess my mother found me with puke coming out my mouth. I was still a bit coherent but everything was so fucking hazy. I don’t really know how my mom did it but she got me into her car and drove me to the hospital where she worked at (and ironically the one I was born at.) It was about 5am and I remember seeing rain fall down on a world that wasn’t quite awake yet out the car window as I came in and out of this horrible state I was in, my mom kept shaking me to stay awake.

When I got to the hospital I was in a drug induced frenzy, I tried to fight staff and police cuz they wanted to strip me (staff even stole my phone charger but I don’t blame them) Eventually I was put into an er room. Too much time had gone by and they said they couldn’t pump my stomach, so I had to wait out the worst high of my life. I spent about 9 hours vomiting, crying with my parents, and slipping in and out of consciousness cuz I was not allowed to fall asleep under any circumstances in case I didn’t wake back up. This was it, this was my defeat, nothing after this would be the same whether I lived or died, everything would change.

All I really remember was thinking about my siblings and my late grandmother. My siblings and my parents are everything to me and all I felt was shame. More shame than I’ve ever felt in my life. I had to start training for a new job that week and all I remember thinking is “What do I tell them?” “Does the rest of my family know?” “How do I explain this to anyone?” I was at the lowest I had ever been in my life and I thought no one could understand.

The whole 9 hours I was in the er I wasn’t allowed water for fear of choking to death. I vomited the entire time and cried more than I had ever in my 19 years of living, I confessed my feelings to my parents and everything I had felt up to that point, I told them I had been depressed since I was a child and how I was hiding this drug problem from them, and they both just kept telling me they loved me and that everything was gonna be ok.

I really didn’t have a choice when it came to being put in the psych ward, my parents really pushed it and I didn’t really know what to do in this situation. I signed a dotted line and hugged my mom and dad like it was the last time I was gonna see them. I was stripped searched one last time and taken to a room with the clothes I arrived in.

I remember sleeping most of the time when I first got there. My roommate was a rich kid like two years older than me with a history of drug abuse and destruction of property. His name was Michael and he was there as part of court-sentenced rehabilitation, he had taken abunch of xanax and crashed his rich dads car into a building. He was kinda scary and read the bible all the time in order to “get right with god.” He even stole one of my tshirts by proclaiming to me one morning “This is mine now Eli.” We had planned to stay in contact when I got out but that never happened. Most nights we’d talk til one of us passed out, when you’re put into a setting like that it really changes alot of things, I feel like he knew me better than most people know me now. I hope he’s doing ok where ever he is, I hope he’s better cuz he atleast deserves that.

I actually made friends in there and they helped me out more than any of the therapy or group activities. Our lunch table consisted of me, this man Mark that was an alcoholic and decorated college professor with 4 kids, grandkids and a girlfriend, he attempted to hang himself from his bedroom window and ended up falling 3 stories and breaking his arm, this was his 6th stay in a mental institution. There was Greg, a theater actor that was down on his luck, he never told me how he tried to do it but that didn’t matter, he had struggled with depression since he was a teenager and by the end of his stay he was really stoked on getting this part in a play. There was another Michael he was also my age, he was in there cuz he almost drank himself to death and received alcohol poisoning, he had been away at college when it happened and his family thought it’d be good for him to check himself in before going to rehab, we talked about death metal and videogames all the time and he was the only one that ever wanted to take walks with me. Finally there was Dave, he was a terminal cancer patient with a degree in architecture, he had two kids and a wife, he slashed his arms with a kitchen knife, he was usually on bed rest but he was the only one that was ever up as early as I was and we were always the first ones up for breakfast, I think I helped him more than he helped me. These men helped me out so much, especially Mark, I couldn’t believe such a smart and experienced person could feel the way I did, he was the first person that really taught me about coping with depression and he just taught me so much about regular life stuff and I’m forever grateful for that, I had tried to contact him when I was out but could never get a hold of him. I hope he didn’t die, that’s my biggest fear. I hope no one died, I hope they’re all still here. It’s horrible to think like that but it’s hard not to.

While I was in there I got regular visits from friends and the girl I was in love with, she even made out with me once in there and some staff saw and scolded me but I just thought it was funny. Seeing her was the one thing I looked forward to the most cuz she came everyday and I would literally count down the minutes and hours til she arrived and I couldn’t help but get super stoked everytime, I was really in love. Visits helped me alot since I had no means of contact with the outside world. I remember writing letters to my mom and dad and said girl. I would draw alot and write alot and I even read some books which I never do. One thing I couldn’t do was listen to music and that was probably the most annoying thing ever. I watched movies everyday too with my roommate and we even started a “movie time” in the wreck room, I remember watching A Bronx Tale one day and 2 ladies were really offended cuz they swore alot, we didn’t care though.

I was in there for about 8 or 9 days until I was discharged on short notice. My aunt Maggie had lost her fight with diabetes and had passed away while I was in there. She was the only one that ever came to my shows and she was my mom’s best friend, she was a wonderful person and I loved her alot, it just made my situation worse losing her. The hospital let me out early so I could attend her funeral. I was diagnosed with dysthymia and prescribed anti-depressants and handed a 2,000 dollar medical bill and sent on my way.

It was all surreal, the day i got out my mom picked me up and we headed home to pack since we were headed to Wisconsin to bury my aunt on her tribes’ reservation, I brought my girl too. We were off to Wisconsin, here I was not even 12 hours out and on my way to send off my beloved aunt, I didn’t know how to feel, everyting was happening so fast. The funeral actually wasn’t sad, of course my family and i cried but it was a very beautiful native american ceremony. There was dancing and a huge bonfire and a feast and we told stories about Maggie, it lasted 2 days, there was a ton of my family and none of them knew what I had just been through so i had to just pretend like I was ok, but either way it wouldn’t really be appropriate to talk about that shit there. The only person that knew was my uncle who’s wife we were burying, I remember him hugging me and telling me he loved me and I just held him and told him I loved him too, I felt like a jackass cuz he already had enough going on. We burried my aunt next to her mother one morning and I put a rose on her casket. Death is a very real thing and I had been face to face with it and this whole experience was insane.

We stayed the whole weekend on this beautiful reservation and I remember just being with my girl and feeling lucky to be alive. It was like some straight up movie shit, I remember one night I was just hanging out with her in front of this lake and just kissing her and it was dark and we were in the middle of all this scenery and the whole time the weather was gloomy since it was fall and it was cold but I didn’t care I just kissed her and told her I loved her, it was intense.

When I was back home I got back into the groove of things and began to live life again cuz I didn’t really wanna think about all I had been through for a bit. I remember talking to friends and family members about it, some conversations were more sincere than others. When you almost die everyone loves you.

Depression is a very serious thing. It doesn’t take a break, it can take over anyone, your mother, your girlfriend, your boss, your teacher, no one is really in the clear. Depression is a monster that eats away at alot of us and some of us don’t make it out in one piece. If you ever feel like you’re going through something, please don’t do it alone, even if you feel like you are, you’re not. It took a drug overdose for me to realize that and it shouldn’t have been that way. Feeling like shit about yourself is completely normal, we’re literally the most complex organisms on this planet with even more complex feelings and ideas, it’s perfectly alright to feel down sometimes, it’s completely natural. I’m just saying you should never feel like you need to hide the way you’re feeling and you should never be scared of reaching out to someone, we all have people that care about us and if they’re all real, they’ll definitely understand. Don’t wait until it’s too late like I did. Don’t wake up one morning after bottling everything up and make a decision you can’t take back. Don’t break your mother’s heart. Don’t let this take you. You are more than this and you deserve more, you owe it to yourself. Love yourself and let the love of others guide you down this dark path, it’s the only way.

Three years have gone by. Three years. I still struggle everyday with these thoughts in my head and some days are harder than others. Sometimes I feel like giving up and making everything go away. Three years have gone by and I don’t do drugs anymore, I’ve had my moments of weakness but I never went back to that shit. Three years have gone by and the friends I had back then are still here, and I love them with all my heart. Three years have gone by and some friends have parted ways with me but I love them too. Three years have gone by and the girl I wrote those letters to burned them all. Three years have gone by and I attempted suicide again. Three years have gone by, I’ve made some progress and had some setbacks. Three years have gone by and I’ve fucked up alot of things in my life. Three years have gone by and I’ve hurt some people and have been hurt myself. Three years have gone by and I’ve done some cool shit. Three years have gone by and music has always been there for me. Three years have gone by and my relationship with my parents is better. Three years have gone by and alot has changed. Three years have gone by and I’m happy I’m still here. Three years have gone by and I hope if you’re reading this and you struggle with something similar I want you to know that it’s not gonna get better right away, this horrible feeling will probably never leave you but goddamnit you are strong and you are amazing and life is amazing and there’s so much of it you gotta see. And when it’s all said and done you will be more than this.

Always remember that I’ll always love you and I’ll always be here for you even in the darkest times. Maybe you’ll feel different when the sun rises.

#depression #anxiety #tw suicude #suicde

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tipsycad147 · 5 years ago

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17 Unusual Ways To Boost Your Sigil Power

SL Bear

What witch doesn’t love sigils? When you’re first starting out, they seem easy and quick enough, but also an old and trusted form of magic. Anyone can do them with minimal effort and tools. They look really cool. What’s not to love?

Today, I’m going to share some sigil tips I’ve learned over the years. Whether you’re brand new to sigils or not, I hope you find these methods as useful as I have.

Sigil Prepwork

Mastering intention: Sigils rely on a sentence of intention as the backbone of their magic. For witches just starting out, this is a great way to practice intention — which is so important for other spells and aspects of witchcraft. So, before beginning any sigils, here’s a crash course on how to get really good at knowing what you want. The more clear your intention, the better your sigil.

Get specific. “I win the lottery” may seem like a clear line of intention, but it’s actually missing a lot of information. When do you win the lottery? How much do you win? Why do you need the money? Who, what, where, when, why, how. Answer these questions before writing your sentence of intent to get as specific as possible. When I first started making sigils, I thought it would be best to be broader in the intention. The ‘ol spray and pray. By making my intention a little nebulous, I thought I had a better chance of something happening at least, and that would be better than nothing. I thought, well, the universe will decide the best way to make this happen. When that didn’t work, I’d try and jam a lot of intention into the sentence instead. “I win the lottery OR I get a promotion at work OR I find a drug dealer’s discarded bag of cash on the side of the road.” Not really, but you get the point. Too much or too little information doesn’t help you, and gives you nothing concrete to focus on later during the creation and activation processes. A much more effective sentence is “By the end of the week I sell enough merch on Ebay to pay for my $300 vet bills.” Clear, simple paths to success.

Make sure you know what you want. This seems easy, but it’s one of the main reasons spells and sigils fail. How many times have I made a furious, jagged sigil in the heat of the moment, or a quick, half-hearted sigil in desperate times… only to have none of them work? Knowing what you really want takes some time and thought. Think things through. What happens if you get what you want? Who does it affect? Will it really change your life for the better? Is there perhaps another course you haven’t thought of yet that would be more productive? What serves you best in the long run? I know it seems like I’m taking some of the joy out of making sigils, but you want them to work. Putting in this extra effort sharpens your intention like a blade.

Visualisation. This is one of the best ways to master intention. It transforms words on a page into a future reality. Instead of just repeating your line of intent, you see it. Any way that helps bring this sigil to life is good, and seeing the sigil already working in your head, how it’s working, the benefits, etc, brings it to life. It opens the door of possibility.

Sigil insurance. I’m not sure why it took me so long to think of this, but once I did it seemed really obvious. Before you make any more sigils, make one sigil with this line of intention: “my sigils are powerful and they always work.” I made this sigil a few months ago then built an entire ritual around its activation (which I discuss more below). It was without a doubt my most elaborate sigil to date and huge (I needed a fireplace to safely burn it). What this did was clear my mind of any doubt for future sigils, and it made all the difference. Instead of hoping my sigils work, I know they do.

Create!

Materials matter. Traditionally, sigils are drawn on regular paper using regular pens or pencils. But they don’t have to be! I’ve said it before, but the more effort you put into something, the better your results and that goes for sigils as well. I use a gold marker for drawing sigils and black paper. I love the way it looks, and my sigils just feel more potent. You can draw your sigil on a rock or a crystal. Draw it on a blank CD and load the CD with music that reinforces the intent or helps you focus (assuming anyone still listens to CDs — I do!), then play the CD to activate it. You’ve heard of the power of bay leaves, now use them as a canvas for sigils. I’ve drawn sigils on pens to help my writing, on pieces of cloth or wood, and even on my skin. You get the idea. Try to think of the materials as yet another way to strengthen the sigil’s purpose. What materials best mirror your intent?

Shapes. The way I learned it, sigils should be drawn within a circle. I’ve mostly stuck to this, however, certain sigils require a bit more pizazz. For sigils directed at an enemy, I draw them within a dagger. Travel sigils can be drawn in the shape of a wing. Power sigils can be drawn within a star. The possibilities are endless and should be explored.

Digital sigils. If you’re not a traditional artist and don’t enjoy spending hours working on a single image with graphite smudged all over your hands, there is another way. Open a photo editing program, add letters and manipulate them using the free transform tool or better yet, just draw the sigil using a tablet and print it out. Just as effective, less wasted paper.

Activate!

Most spells I cast are centred around sigils in some way. All tarot cards, herbs, crystals, candles, etc, are chosen to reinforce the intention of the sigil, and the sigil activation itself becomes the crescendo of the spell. I’m a tinkerer by nature and I love to streamline — probably what attracted me to sigils in the beginning; they are incredibly quick and easy — and after lots of experimenting, I’m going to share the activation methods and rituals I’ve found most effective.

Crystals and stones: Instead of placing stones around my work space, I wrap the sigil around the stone in an envelope, then activate the sigil by fire. The stone emerges from the ashes like a phoenix! For me, this charges the sigil with all the stone’s inherent power when they burn together. I’ll then re-draw the sigil on the stone with a permanent marker and place it on my altar. Just be sure your stone won't be damaged by the heat before trying this.

River rocks: These are smooth, round rocks found pretty much everywhere. I collect the darker ones, draw on the sigil with a metallic marker, then either drop the stone from a significant height to activate it, or smack it against another river rock, like I’m trying to start a fire. I like this method for times when fire activation is inconvenient. I leave the rocks in my backyard to constantly charge the sigils in the sun and moon and rain, and thanks to all the metallic shine, my yard has some major bling.

Ice: Freeze some water in a small tin, then etch your sigil onto the flattest surface of this block of ice. Leave it out in the sun to melt, giving you another activation by transmutation. When possible, I always try to make the sigils change in some way when activating. This method works well for healing and calming sigils.

Candles: One of my favourites, draw the sigil on the side of a candle and then simply let the candle burn through it. Another way is to draw the sigil on a piece of paper, activate by candle flame, then sprinkle the ashes into the melted candle wax as the candle burns. This wax can be crushed, mixed with other ingredients, and used for spellwork.

Powders and herbs: I’ve just started using this method and so far it’s been very effective. You can either add the herbs to the sigil’s fire while it’s activating, sprinkle the herbs around the sigil while it burns, or add the sigil’s ashes to the herb mix and save for later. Great for banishing and success sigils in particular.

Sigil paint: Choose the appropriate powders and mix with just a little water until you have a paint-thick liquid, then paint the sigil on a piece of paper and activate by burning. I’ve tried this method with oil instead of water, and it’s a much bigger flame so always make sure you burn in a controlled, safe way. Aerated space, fire-safe work surfaces, and water handy just in case.

Tarot: Considering how expensive some decks are, not too many people will be happy to draw sigils on their beloved cards or worse, set them on fire. No worries, just placing appropriate cards around the sigil’s activation will work fine. If you did want to use the cards as canvases for sigils, I recommend finding a cheaper deck online and having it be the “spare” for this type of work. Playing cards can also be substituted!

Water: Dissolving the sigil in water, instead of lighting it on fire, is a very gentle activation. You’ll have to have patience as this can take a long time, although the process will be sped up if you use a more water-soluble paper. This water can be discarded or used in other spellwork.

All of the above methods can be used together in whatever combination you wish to build a ritual around sigil activation, and these rituals can be repeated to strengthen sigils over time. Mini altars can be fashioned for these rituals and eventually, each sigil becomes its own entity — again, bringing it to life in a new way. It’s no longer a quick and easy way to do magic, but an essential part of your craft. Your sigils become personal symbols that you pay respect to at every step of their creation.

The Sigil Notebook

I’ve drawn hundreds of sigils and some of them have been so beautiful, it was almost painful to burn them. I thought that was part of the process — a sacrifice or offering, so to speak. But once they were burned, I could never quite remember exactly what they looked like, and so, I could never repeat the sigil to build that power or call on it when I needed it. The simple answer is to copy all the sigils you make in a notebook or grimoire, and write down their sentence of intent. This little notebook has become one of my prized possessions and I refer to it whenever I need a specific sigil. These sigils can be modified if your intent has changed slightly, or if it’s a sigil for health, for example, just added to spells. They can also represent you in spells if you’ve used them for a long period of time and put enough of yourself into them. It’s my belief that the more you use certain sigils, the more power you give them, and by having this personal reference book, I can call on any of their powers when I need to.

Sigils are fantastic tools and exploring all of their possibilities should be the goal of every witch who uses them. Happy activating, witches!

https://thetravelingwitch.com/blog/2018/7/31/17-unusual-ways-to-boost-your-sigil-power

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persuadedproject-blog · 8 years ago

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Chapter 7

From their first quiet but traumatic run-in, Wentworth and Anne were perpetually in each other’s company. He and the Crofts were folded into all the Musgrove’s fraternizing, and became an expected part of the family dinners and outings. Since CJ recovered inconveniently fast, Anne had no more excuses to keep her reasonably away from the sociable scene. Whether or not the old feelings were to be revived remained to be shown; being around each other could not help but bring back memories of the old times.

Wentworth’s natural disposition led him to talk at length with his new acquaintances, and to introduce them to his past. Since the year they almost got engaged was also the year he had officially joined the agency, he could not help but talk about that summer. He talked about it smoothly, like a well-rehearsed actor, without a single ‘um’ or ‘like’ out of the word’s proper context. Although his story was flawless and seemingly carefree, his eyes never so much as wandered down to her end of the table. Anne knew that his mind at least had to be leaning her direction while he told his story. She listened and felt the same pain that must have brushed his own heart at the careful omissions and half-truths that allowed him to skate entirely around their relationship. They had no lasting conversations, and there was no meat to their words when they were forced to talk to each other for politeness’ sake. Cold, nervous smiles, and a quick,

“How are you? It seems cooler today,” was as far as things got - never further than the weather. The only exception was at their first evening spent together, a game night at the Musgroves. While choosing teams for Catchphrase, Admiral Croft picked Anne with the comment,

“You must know so many words, with all your reading! The first time I was at your father’s office, I don’t think you ever looked up from the paperwork on your desk. And the next time it was a book, poetry or something fancy like that.” He scooted over on the plump floral couch to make room for Anne, while Wentworth involuntarily asked,

“Your father’s office?” With all the dignity she could muster, Anne replied,

“Yes, my father’s office. I am his assistant.”

“The best secretary in Washington, D.C.!” the admiral proclaimed. “She pretty much keeps the whole city afloat through her work.”

“A big favor to society,” was Wentworth’s only comment before he started picking his team. Anne was grateful for the Admiral’s display of friendship (she did not think he had remembered her from his visits to the office), but she wished he had not brought up her being her father’s assistant. After all her lofty hopes, all of the plans that she had not given up for Cap, now she was a secretary. She could see how it looked, and a part of her longed to sit down with him and explain how the chips had fallen, but from his body language and her own reserve she could not see a realistic situation where that could happen. They had once meant so much in their words and to each other, and now - nothing. Before, at a dinner they would keep returning to each other, having an anchor of someone they trusted and were entirely comfortable with. Now, they somehow managed to always be on the opposite side of the room from each other. Far from being respites, their brief interactions now required recovery on Anne’s part. With the Crofts as the only exception, no other two hearts had ever been so open, so unified; none of the other couples came close to their similarity in taste and opinions, no persons so cherished. Now they were like total strangers. No, it was worse than that; now they could never get to know each other, not in a meaningful way. It was just as good as (or possibly more effective than) a formal estrangement.

On one of their first dinner parties all together, much of Wentworth’s time talking was spent explaining basic things to the Musgroves, who had a general lack of knowledge about the real workings of Washington, D.C. To a Washington crowd, his story about being a diplomat without the legal ability to give any details would have brought on knowing nods and winks, but here it was accepted on face value (even by Mary, who was busy carefully avoiding the noodles, or anything they had touched). Once dinner had been cleared away from the wide table and replaced by dessert, the Musgrove girls pulled out the atlas, and had Wentworth show them all the places he had served across the world. The atlas had never moved from its display on the coffee table, but now there was an urgent need for it. Hazel and Louise, although educated, were pursuing a ‘ring by the spring’ mentality with greater zeal than an excellent GPA. Hazel had actually been going out with a Charles Hayter from Maryland, almost to the point of being seriously together. Anne was a little surprised to see how readily she listened to Wentworth’s bravado, how close she sat over his shoulder, with her own happy relationship taking a backseat. On the other hand, Cap was the sort of person that turned everyone into a bit of a flirt; everyone naturally wanted to please him, to be noticed by him, to have him think well of them. He had an unintentional pull on most people, one which was drawing in all of the Musgroves - not that he seemed to mind. Louise dusted off the atlas saying,

“You told me the name of your first post was Aher - Azeb -”

“Azerbaijan,” he said. Taking the atlas, he flipped through confidently until he found the correct entry. “That was a tiny office, really more like an apartment with lots of paperwork and no air conditioning.” After a pause for effect, he added, “And holes in the roof.” At the girl’s surprise, he explained, “The government bureaucrats sometimes entertain themselves by sending the young bucks fresh out of training (and full of plans to change the world) to their most remote, most monotonous offices in the world to push paper and suffer for about a year. I think I did more repair work trying to get us heat or cooling than actual work.” The admiral spoke up from his end of the table.

“You all were lucky to have work fresh out of training. Most college students can’t say the same thing! And the climate of Azerbaijan is not so bad, from what my friends who have served on the Caspian Sea tell me. Nice people, too. You could’ve done worse.”

“I knew I was lucky to be there,” he said seriously. “Those early experiences, and being immersed in a new culture - I would not trade them for a more glamorous first assignment. At the time, I desperately wanted to be out of the country, away from everything I knew. I needed to be doing something significant and meaningful.” With a rueful laugh, “Even if that meant tinkering with utilities for a year.”

“I’m sure you wanted to be out of the country! What would you have done with yourself, with six months on a job hunt?” With a nudge for his wife, the admiral theorized, “If a man does not have a wife he wants to be out and away, doing significant work, I think.” Anne concentrated very hard on her slice of pecan pie. Louise teasingly questioned Wentworth, from whom her attention had not strayed.

“You mean to say you weren’t disappointed, not even a little bit, when you got there?”

“Oh, I knew what I was in for when I packed my bags. Azerbaijan has been made a bit of a legend in the hiring process. It was kind of like taking an umbrella out that you know is old and full of holes. When you get rained on it’s not a surprise, it’s actually kind of funny. The embassy was in such a dry old building, I was the last to experience its wonders. One night an electrical fire started in our file room and burnt the whole building to the ground. It’s lucky I didn’t decide to sleep in the office that night, my eulogy might have been ‘Here lies Frederick Wentworth, who Served his Country for about Five Minutes’.” The Crofts laughed, since the story had been told to them many times, while the senior Musgroves and Anne shuddered quietly, and the girls made their horror known. Mrs. Musgrove, who was seated next to Anne, said,

“Then I guess you went up to Munich. A certain Someone must have been watching out for us, putting you in that city. We will never forget what you did.” Her feelings made her speak softly, and unusual thing for the hardy woman. Between her quietness and his mind being a literal thousand miles away from Rich Musgrove, Wentworth waited for her to fill in the blanks. What service was she talking about?

“My brother,” one of the girls whispered. “Mama is thinking about poor Richard.”

“He was so much steadier, much better at keeping up with me when he was hanging around you. It would’ve been better for him if he had not let the connection fade away.”

For a fraction of a second, a funny expression crossed Wentworth’s face. A gleam in his eye, a quirk at the corner of his mouth made Anne think that he had probably worked very hard to make sure his relationship with Mrs. Musgrove’s most beloved son had died out. Anyone but Anne would not have been able to detect it, much less interpret it. The amusement only lasted for a second, though - he quickly swallowed his smile, got up, and crouched next to Mrs. Musgrove’s chair. His back was to Anne, but he was just next to her. Placing a hand on the arm of the bereaved mother’s chair, he settled there for a while telling her about the genuinely best parts of her son. He spoke kindly, having a care for her poor parently feelings, trying to make her comfortable. He was actually right there - if they had been at a dinner party five years earlier, she might have reached out her rand, rested it gently on his back or shoulder as a, ‘Hey, friend. I’m here,’ gesture. But now she sat bolt upright, facing straight ahead, paying sudden attention to Charles. Or at least, her eyes were. Her ears were practically bent over to the right from straining. Although Anne’s agitation were shielded from him, we must give Wentworth a bit of credit for paying careful attention to Mrs. Musgrove’s sighing over her missing son, who nobody really cared for when they knew where he was. The admiral roamed the room, as if his seafaring self could not stand still. After circling the room once or twice, a quick shake of the head from Mrs. Cross made him come to a standstill. He was right in front of his brother-in-law when his march was suddenly halted, and said to him without the slightest idea he was interrupting,

“If you had been around for one more week in Munich, you would have had to help the Griers family out of that tricky situation at the embassy. You probably would have had to sneak them out of the city, to an airport over the border, just to be safe.”

This brought on an outcry from the admiral, who wanted to know just why Wentworth opposed the idea of being helpful. He defended himself by saying he would never willingly take ladies into his care, particularly in circumstances like that.

“Not for a lack of care for the fair sex - it might actually be the last bit of chivalry I have left,” he tried to explain himself. “If I were to make a trip like that, it would be fast, with no stops, fueled on gas station food. I’ve traveled solo for so many years, I would have no idea how to begin making a woman comfortable in that situation, emotionally or otherwise. And making the embassy presentable for women who did not work there?” he waved his hands, “Impossible. At least, it was in the out-of-the-way places I started in. I would never have a lady staying in our wards, if I had anything to say about it. They were nothing more than hostiles.” In explaining himself, he had only dug a deeper pit (at least, it was a pit in the quicker minds at the table). The wrath of Sophie was brought upon him, in a way that a sister can be all at once wrathful, loving, and pointing out unsound reasoning.

“Frederick Elias Wentworth! I can’t believe you. Mom and I raised you better than this! I have lived all over the world, in all kinds of houses, with varying degrees of safety, and I have never been more comfortable than in our shoddiest little house in the Philippines, even at the Kellynch House,” this with a nod to Anne. “I have lived on the road and out of boxes more than in a single place, and I am physically and mentally sound. Maybe better than the ‘ladies’ who have had the good luck to have men like you shielding them from anything mildly unpleasant.” Wentworth made the mistake of trying to argue back.

“You knew what you signed up for when you married a young Lieutenant Croft.”

“Plenty of women thrive in situations they did not sign up for,” Sophie retorted. “Also, I seem to remember you brought Maria Harville and her three children from Louisiana all the way down to Monterey. Where was this fine ‘chivalry’ then?”

“All from my friendship with her husband. I would bring anything from the world’s end if Will Harville asked me to - it doesn’t mean I did not have reservations about it, but my feelings on the matter did not stop me from driving them and a U-Haul trailer on a very long stretch of highway.”

“I just hate to hear you talk this way, assuming those feelings make you a better person - and that all females are these fine ladies, instead of rational minds inside female bodies. None of us - not one - wants to be in calm water all our days.”

“Sophie,” the admiral tweaked her shoulder with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “when he has a wife himself, he will change his tune.”

“He’ll have to correct that attitude before he can get one worth having,” Sophie laughed. “But I do believe you’re right.”

“We need to stop this right here!” Wentworth exclaimed. “Once married people decide to attack me with ‘You’ll think very differently when you are married’, all I can say back is ‘No, I won’t.’ Then it just goes back and forth until it devolves into Yo Mama jokes, which will not be pretty, since Sophie and I share a mother.” He stood up, and helped Mr. Musgrove clear and wash the dessert dishes (Mrs. Musgrove, being of old Southern tradition, could not be brought around to use paper plates, not even the pretty ones from Tuesday Morning).

The evening ended with all of them trooping down to the park, where a brass band composed of mostly retirees was playing old-timey swing songs. One of the band members was a new friend of Anne’s, the butcher from the Piggly Wiggly. Since Mary had very specific requirements for the kind of meat she ingested, Anne and Mr. Miller had spent a few long spells together, to ensure a satisfactory experience for her. Both playing and turning pages proved to be too big of a challenge, and after seeing Anne sitting on the lawn, Mr. Miller called her over to help. A precarious lawn chair was pulled up for her, and she began to follow the music. While the couples in the park swayed back and forth, Anne watched Mr. Miller for a violent bob of the head, which was the indication she should flip the page. The band was playing for a happy, rowdy-with-joy kind of crowd that whooped and hollered at the end of each piece. Even Walter and CJ hopped and spun around in a bizarre imitation of dancing. Lightning bugs glowed with abandon, and the warm air encouraged the merry crowd to stay late. No one seemed happier than Wentworth, surrounded solely by girls who admired him and people who thought nothing but good of him. While the girls had to sit a while on the grass, shooing crickets away and waiting for their turn to dance, he never sat down. It became a little difficult to track the notes because her eyes misted over several times, obscuring the notes and words to the old love songs, which now seemed to mock her. She was just glad to be busy - all she asked in exchange was to be unobserved. He charmed and spun and swayed in a way that was familiar to Anne, but a million miles away from how she was feeling. She found him looking over his partner’s shoulder at her once, probably trying to find the old structure amongst the pale ruins. Later, she knew he must have asked about her, because she hear Louise answer a little too loudly,

“Anne, dance? Never, I think she stopped dancing in elementary school, and gave it up for books. She always finds something to help the musicians, or picking the playlist. She is really good with music, I don’t think she ever gets tired of thinking it through for us.”

Before they parted, he did talk to Anne once. During the short intermission she had gone back to their picnic blanket to check on CJ’s shoulder. When she got back to Mr. Miller and his french horn, Cap was seated next to the old timer, making a new friend and asking about song requests. Seeing her, he stood up in the middle of the conversation.

“I’m sorry, this is your seat.”

“No, you don’t need to rush - take your time -” But none of her sputterings could convince him to sit back down. While the band struck back up (playing As Time Goes By for yet another dose of cruel irony), the Musgrove and Croft families retreated. Mary had begun to worry about the effects of all the mosquito bites she was acquiring, and the Musgroves had a big day planned. While her family walked back up the hill, Anne maintained her post, thinking that if this was to be the flavor of her and Wentworth’s interactions, silence would be better than this distant, dead politeness.

For the record, Azerbaijan is a real place worth Wikipedia-ing. As is Tuesday Morning. Thanks to my five readers for sticking around!

Chapter 8: http://bit.ly/2vAaSdk

#janeausten #persuasion #persuadedproject #ugh #stupid pride #jane austen #writing

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makeroomforthejolyghost · 8 years ago

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HERE IT IS!!! i’ve been waiting 700 fuckin pages for this omg; i have such fuckin Collector’s Pride about this passage in proust bc i think it is. the only instance in anything i have ever read??? where an author describes how the interaction btwn feeling compelled to hide vs. to draw attention to their being sick[bats] plays out--and where they get it right, bc proust speaks 1. from personal experience and 2. without either undue self-defensiveness or -mockery. SO I AM GOING TO QUOTE IT AT LENGTH, w/ regrets if ur on mobile.

Neurotic subjects are perhaps less addicted than any ... to “listening to their insides”: they hear so many things going on by which they realise later that they were wrong to let themselves be alarmed, that they end by paying no attention to any of them. Their nervous systems have so often cried out to them for help, as though with some serious malady, when it was simply going to start snowing or they were going to move house, that they have acquired the habit of paying no more heed to these warnings than a soldier who in the heat of battle perceives them so little that he is capable, although dying, of carrying on for some days still the life of a man in perfect health. One morning, bearing within me all my habitual ailments, from whose constant internal circulation I kept my mind turned as resolutely away as from the circulation of my blood, I came running blithely into the dining-room where my parents were already at table, and--having assured myself, as usual, that to feel cold may mean not that one ought to warm oneself but that, for instance, one has received a scolding, and not to feel hungry may mean that it is going to rain and not that one ought to fast--had taken my place between them when in the act of swallowing the first mouthful of a particularly tempting cutlet, a nausea and dizziness brought me to a halt, the feverish reaction of an illness that had already begun, the symptoms of which had been masked ... by the ice of my indifference, but which obstinately refused the nourishment that I was not in a fit state to absorb. Then, at the same moment, the thought that I would be prevented from going out if I was seen to be unwell gave me, as the instinct of self-preservation gives a wounded man, the strength to crawl to my own room, where I found that I had a temperature of 104, and then to get ready to go to the Champs-Elysées. Through the languid and vulnerable shell which encased them, my eager thoughts were urging me towards, were clamouring for the soothing delight of a game of prisoner’s base with Gilberte, and an hour later, barely able to keep on my feet, but happy in being by her side, I had still the strength to enjoy it. (2.92-3)

fjslahgsdf i love that (in addition to being complete nonsense in context) his rationalization re feeling cold teaches him to associate illness w/ punishment and thus w/ bad behavior??? and how he slides right from there to the more obvious connection btwn these phenomena, i.e. that as a child u feel compelled to hide both so as not to let ur parents deprive you of a privilege. also haha notice that in spite of his habitual lack of interest in food the narrator describes the cutlet as “particularly tempting,” vs. his later description of “eager thoughts” inside a “languid and vulnerable shell” holy... shit... yes??? i. get maybe unnecessarily excited, when i see depicted this, like. necessary cognitive dissonance. that comes w/ chronic illness; i often see that phenomenon reduced to “we fake being well, not being sick” but that never quite feels accurate to my experience. like it’s true that’s what ur doing when you go out n try to look nice and have fun, do school &c. w/out mentioning to anyone that ur not well, yeah, but. qua sensation it’s more like a disconnect btwn the state of the fleshcase and the standard by which u judge external phenomena. like? the threshold past which you lose the ability to do that--to aesthetically appreciate or even feel tempted by food you intellectually know would nauseate you, for example--gets way higher; you develop a tolerance to the altered state, i guess, as you would to an actual drug.

anyway, also this:

For some time now I had been liable to fits of breathlessness, and our doctor, braving the disapproval of my grandmother, who saw me already dying a drunkard’s death, had recommended me to take ... beer, champagne or brandy when I felt an attack coming. ... I was often obliged, so that my grandmother should allow it to be given to me, instead of disguising, almost to make a display of my state of suffocation. On the other hand, as soon as I felt it coming, ... I would grow distressed at the thought of my grandmother’s anxiety, of which I was far more afraid than of my own sufferings. But at the same time my body, either because it was too weak to keep those sufferings secret, or because it feared lest, in their ignorance of the imminent attack, people might demand of me some exertion which it would have found impossible or dangerous, gave me the need to warn my grandmother of my symptoms with a precision into which I put a sort of physiological punctiliousness. If I observed in myself a disturbing symptom which I had not previously discerned, my body was in distress so long as I had not communicated it to my grandmother. If she pretended to take no notice, it made me insist. Sometimes I went too far; and that beloved face, which was no longer able always to control its emotion as in the past, would betray an expression of pity, a painful contraction. ... And its scruples being at the same time calmed by the certainty that she was now aware of the discomfort that I felt, my body offered no opposition to my reassuring her. I protested that this discomfort was not really painful, that I was in no sense to be pitied, that she might be quite sure that I was now happy; my body had wished to secure exactly the amount of pity that it deserved, and, provided that someone knew that it had a pain in its right side, it could see no harm in my declaring that this pain was of no consequence and was not an obstacle to my happiness (93-4)

i just?? yes? exactly!!! that is exactly how it works like it feels fucking horrible not to tell anyone but also u. don’t want to, because it will inevitably sound like a Big Deal, and sort of is a big deal In The Grand Scheme Of Things re how much it affects your life, but in order to admit that (and thus not have to worry about how to Break The News when and if it becomes relevant) you risk making it sound Tragic or Scary, which it isn’t, because it’s. normal. i like that the only role he gives to fear, here, is worry about how to navigate social situations while ill; i’ve been so indignant lately about all the time i spent accepting other people’s perception that i was afraid of being or becoming ill when... no? he’s right; that stopped being scary ages ago. what u have is a constant quiet knowledge that u are Weak and Ailing--in a way/to an extent that it may or may not be safe or plausible to hide--and a fear of how that might affect ur social existence and ability to function. and it’s so fucking nice to see that mentality figure in a story!!!

#tell marcel i'm ignoring his text posts #screalth tag #alcohol ///#emetophobia warning ///

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mahlifern · 5 years ago

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A Great and Intimate Story of Now: Who wears the Crown?

Blessing from a soft leaf

When death and despair crush our Souls;

Leaving us in a puddle of fear, Grasping for that last square of two-ply.

When the tiny terrors of our world,, Slowly assemble a great monster

That charges through our news channels Into our fearful hearts and minds.

What choices are we left with?

What questions must we ask?

How can this soft leaf teach me

That everything I need

Is right

Here

Friends we are now in the grips of a great pandemic. The Monster that wears the Crown has assembled itself, and is now sweeping through our physical, digital, emotional and psychological worlds. It is exposing the fragility of our social and economic structure, our lack of toilet paper, and the fragility of our own bodies, hearts and minds. We may look to our technological, political and information sharing systems for answers; for a Hero or Heroine to reclaim the Crown, to quell our fears. But what are we really likely to find there?

What is the truth of this demon?

From where does it draw its power…?

Where does that Hero truly lie?

What are these times asking of us and what opportunities may lie hidden within their recesses?

And, finally, what is it telling us of the greater story we are living; both individual, and collective?

I am not the Keyholder. I am no expert. I am just like you. So whatever wisdom might come through here, is not mine, but the same that exists in all of us… Yet my story is as valid as any, and so I choose to share it. I would like to speak of fear, love and of that which unifies and empowers us all in these times.

If we were to scroll backwards through our last 6 months of social media; what patterns would we see emerge? No doubt fire, then flood, then the one who wears the Crown, would be found strewn across most of our screenscapes. Peppered amongst these topics might be our anger towards our incapable leadership and of course, the greatest story of our times; climate shifts and the death of our natural planet. If we were to tally the troops of hope versus despair; I dare say the latter would amass a much greater army… though of course I AM generalising.

Hidden amongst it all might be some less valued, yet possibly more important, personal stories. Of the lives we are living, right here, right now, day to day. Food, babies, dogs and socially valued outings are of course a given. Yet I am talking about those moments that communicate a much more intimate existence. Experiences which touch and move our hearts, challenge or inspire our Souls, and reveal our universal struggle to live a connected life. Such stories are often hidden from the world because they expose a tenderness, a vulnerability and the possibility of rejection. Yet these are our true stories… often told in poetry or art, tears and laughter…. They expose who we are in a dangerous climate, and so perhaps Twitter is not necessarily the place to reveal them. However they must find a home, and I would venture that they may indeed be the swords we best take into battle as we face the great Monsters of our times.

And so let us look at this Monster; for, just as the Buddha faced Mara, Jesus the Devil, and the Avengers Thanos (a derivative of Thanatos, the Greek personification of Death)… our mythopoetic history makes it clear... facing the demon is the only pathway to liberation. But what maketh a Monster?

Is it their size? The Crown bearer is smaller than the eye can imagine…

Is it their strength? Can a nightmare move a mountain, or even a grain of sand?

Perhaps it is nothing to do with the Monster itself, only the place it occupies in our own psyche.

I have avoided using a name thus far, though it appears that avoidance is no solution, in fact that is arguably the most nutrient dense food we can feed a demon. Coronavirus COVID-19. There I said it. Hmmm, perhaps not as dangerous a word to speak as I had imagined… or is it? What does your body do when it hears those words? Where does your mind go? Does it speak to you of statistics; that perhaps half the world are likely to contract this virus, and if so 1 in, say, 50 are likely to fall at its clawed hands? That there are currently 200 cases reported in your country, state, city? That gatherings of over 500 pose an unacceptable risk, but education, business and economic growth must continue as usual…

Perhaps instead it speaks to you of a loved one, whose job, age, or health might place them much more directly in the monster's path. Perhaps you are that loved one. For me, it is no doubt the latter two that is the stuff of nightmares. Am I ready to lose my beloved family members? Am I ready to lose my own life?

Let us then zoom out again; and witness another great “monster” of our times; the Climate Crisis. Having named it as such does it lose or gain power? Again it depends on the heart of the receiver. And again we might be drawn into the world of statistics; surrounding melting ice, rising sea levels, desertification, climate refugees, species loss, hectares or bushland taken by fires…. And on… and on…. and on. And of course, we might also turn our hearts to stories of sacred places of our childhood, once brimming with the verdant goddess of nature and her creatures, many known personally to us… now destroyed, or at risk. Or the heartbreak of a friend who lost everything, when those fires and floods swept through their home. Perhaps increasingly it will be the loved one who was lost. Or perhaps it is you.

I begin to paint a grand picture of the great monsters of our times, and a mosaic of the personal losses we are likely encountering… day to day, week to week. Yet friends I am not here to add fear to the fire. Our politicians, news channels, and wounded parts of our Self are doing a good enough job of that… so let me share some thoughts on the possibilities that are on offer right now… and how that links to the only Hero we can truly empower… the Hero inside of all of us.

I read today of the huge reduction that Coronavirus measures has had on the carbon emissions of the Chinese nation. Of the slow in economic growth and the positive immediate impacts it has had on the environment. I have also heard them sing in the dark hours of the night; confined to the cells that are their homes… yet connected by hope and struggle.

I have witnessed the collective and communal efforts that town after town experienced, in response to the bush fires that burnt our Country. Of how it brought people together, and brought light and life to the fight against climate crisis. And of friends who have walked their lands since the rains came, and been brought to tears by the green life that has re-emerged, and the little survivors that are still moving through the land.

Woven into it all; I have had friends, loved ones and family, share their day to day struggles, and victories, as they work with the mystery and madness of life. These stories are often told in much more intimate spaces.. A long car journey, a walk in the forest, a small campfire… a long overdue phone call. Some of you reading or listening to this would be counted amongst those.

I want to now bring this strange tangle of threads together.

What I am witnessing in my world (external and internal); is the eternal story of life, loss and love. Of the unavoidable struggle to survive, to find purpose, to accept the truth of death and loss, and to choose to love anyway. At the core of it all is a human’s irrepressible longing for deep connection. Connection to their Earth, their community, their life’s purpose and for those courageous enough, their true self. When we witness the effect that Monsters like Coronavirus have on those things… we respond. And we usually base those responses on either fear, or love. Or perhaps both. For it is love of our world, which creates a deep fear of loss.

FRIENDS LET US LOOK AT THAT FEAR… it is that same fear we experienced when our mother left us for the first time, when our father was not there to protect us from a threat, when we had to face death of a loved one, or our own death. It is the same fear that runs through our lives and keeps us small; avoiding following or revealing our hearts, revealing vulnerabilities and joining in on the game, speaking our mind, standing up for what we believe in, or being honest about our inability to cope with something in our lives.

We can project that fear out onto the world; and create monsters of a grand scale - that push us into anxiety, anger, panic or numbness. Then we can take this into our world, or run away from it. Either way it trickles into the collective energy… and feeds the Monsters still.

Alternatively, we can look at those projections, and ask ourselves where they truly reside…. what is really at risk here? What am I truly afraid to lose?

I dare say it will turn our attention away from the mass story, and back to the personal one. To the places and people we live with, day in, day out. To those intimate spheres of existence where we must play local Hero. Where we must feel into and accept all of the crazy fucking emotions and thoughts that pass through our beings, and continue anyway. Here is our true battle ground. Here we need to call on our inner Hero again and again, and do whatever it takes to love, in spite of the risks of loss. For those losses are the greatest we will feel.

Yet here the old saying, it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all, rings so deeply in our human hearts. For what greater tragedy, than to have withheld our love, not just for others, but for ourselves… when we might have instead opened.

And so to bring it back to the great collective story; the one where Crown wearing Monsters strike fear and panic into the world, or we feel the great despair of the loss of our natural Earth mother… for here the two intertwine beautifully; as represented by the un-expected effects that a global monster can have.

Firstly, it unites us, it brings to awareness that we are indeed all intimately connected to each other and everything. A beautiful realisation that yearns for deepening, through exploring the greater mystery of existence of spiritual connection and of the expansiveness of our self.

However, I think more importantly right now, it brings us home. Confined and crowded public spaces no longer serve.... Nor do social obligations, or journeys of great distance. We begin to rely on what is local, at the physical, social and emotional level. Reduced emissions and localisation aside, this is a beautiful thing. If we are forced to retract our sphere of existence to our own backyard; literally contained to our home, or family or to the intimacy of small groups… then we are given a great opportunity. To fully bring ourselves, present and vulnerable, into those places and to CONNECT. This is where our inner Hero might truly save our life, and the planet, in the same graceful movement.

Freed from our external claws of distraction we might sit with the trees and birds in our backyard, tend to our garden beds, drink tea with a neighbour, wander the quiet bushlands or beaches in our homelands or take to localised travel, by foot and bicycle, wherever we are called. In it we might share much more intimate experiences not just with our loved ones, but with our neighbours, the natural world, and of course our Self. And although there will be challenges; financial, relaitional, personal… there will likely be terror and panic... and there will be death, always... yet with the reminder that death is an ever present companion in the walk of life, we might be asked to surrender a little more into these precious moments of intimacy. Into our true Hero Self. And Reclaim our Crown. For what is a life lived if not in this place, this moment, this body, this Soul?

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