#and I told them my grandparents because they’ve been struggling with a lot recently

[yuribalisms]

Nothing quite like a random couple asking if they can pray for you because they just felt the need to at work to put you in an extremely weird headspace for the day

[schrijverr]

What Your Heart Says

When they’re hunting a spirit that targets kids after they’ve fought with their moms, Sam realizes why he could have been a target and all Dean has done for him.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: suicide mention.

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

Sam and Dean were working a case. Three children had dropped dead, all bruised necks, all inexpiable.So, the Winchesters had rolled into town and started asking around.

They had made their way to a party in the neighborhood under the pretense that they were new in town. The parents were split, with the dads talking around the barbecue and the moms sitting and talking around the picnic table. Dean said: “Dude, the only thing that’ll make this okay if I get to talk to the hot moms.”

“You are terrible, but sure,” Sam rolled his eyes, “Remember, we have a kid, but he’s with his grandparents.”

“Yeah, yeah, and his name is Bobby,” Dean said, “I know.”

Then he was off to the table, politely introducing himself: “Hi, I’m Dean. My partner, Sam, and I are new here and we thought we’d introduce ourselves.”

The women introduced themselves as well and looked over at Sam, who was introducing himself to the men and asking around there. Linda asked: “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about the game with the boys?”

“Nah, Sam has always been more into that stuff than me,” Dean shrugged. “But don’t mind me, what were you all talking about it?”

“Oh, you know,” Karen said, “the kids.”

Dean nodded: “Ahh, of course, do you all have kids?”

The five women nodded and Dean decided that this was a great ice-breaker to them, so he brought up their fictional child: “How sweet. Me and Sammy over there have a little guy as well, although he’s not so little anymore. They’re growing up more and more everyday, am I right?”

The women seemed temporarily shocked by that revelation, but Linda picked up the conversation again: “Totally, so what’s his name and how old is he?”

“Bobby, he’s ten already.” Dean said.

“How cute,” Sharon fawned. “My Jane is five now, but it sometimes feels like my little girl is maturing more and more.”

Dean had come over to flirt a bit with the women, but now he let himself be comforted by stories about little Sammy, remade for suburban ears. He had shared Sams first school play and his cute Halloween outfits, when an opportunity arose to bring up the attacks. Linda said: “Maybe Ronald and Bobby would like to play sometime. He could come over tomorrow if you want to.”

Easily Dean lied: “That seems like a lovely idea, but with the recent deaths… We’ve been pretty scared of bringing Bobby here, so he’s been staying with his grandparents in Sioux Falls.”

A quiet fell over the table, but soon Dean had weaseled out of the women that all three of the kids had been fighting with their moms the night it had happened and that all the moms swore they had heard a strange laugh-like noise the day after.

Once he had the information he made a bit more small talk. He was in the middle of telling them about the Science Fair Sam had won in fifth grade when Sam came to get him. They said their goodbyes and left.

“What did you talk about with ‘the boys’?” Dean grinned.

Sam pushed him away and said: “Shut up! We talked about football, I don’t even know anything about football. What did you talk about, Deanna?”

“Hey, don’t use my amazing jokes against me,” Dean huffed, he got an eyeroll back, but he went on to answer: “But if you must know, we talked about the kids and complained about our men.”

“You complained about me?” Sam said indignantly.

Dean grinned and said: “Yeah, seems like a lot of men struggle with snoring and bed hogging.”

“Dude.”

Dean just laughed at Sam.

“Tell me you at least got some information out of them, because the dads knew nothing. One hadn’t even heard about the deaths.”

“Well, the moms were a bit more informed and talkative. Seems like all the vics had a fight with their moms the night of their deaths and all of them had heard laughing the day after, like someone was laughing at their pain.”

“Good job, now let’s get out of here and do some research.”

“You don’t have to sound so excited.”

Deans comment was ignored.

~

“So get this,” Sam started out his speech while walking over with his laptop, “apparently a girl killed herself a few years ago, by hanging herself.”

“The bruises.”

“Precisely, she did after she had a fight with her mom. She had been struggling for a while with mental health issues and this was the last straw. According to the police she had done it to get back at her mom, to make her feel guilty about what she had said, she even recorded herself laughing and left that for her mom to find the next day.”

“Sounds like she’s our ghost,” Dean agreed.

“Sounds like it, but there’s a problem.”

“When isn’t there a problem?” Dean complained. “Why can’t there just a be a clean easy salt ‘n burn?”

“Because that isn’t how our life is, man,” Sam said. “Anyway, it doesn’t state where she is buried and there are three big cemeteries in this town, so we’ll have to search every one if we want to find her bones.”

“Ugh, why does a town need three cemeteries? It’s not even that big,” Dean complained again.

“They have a catholic one, a protestant one and a public one,” Sam answered. “Lots of towns have that, so stop complaining.”

“I’m not complaining,” Dean replied indignantly.

“Yes you are. You always do,” Sam sighed

“No, I don’t,” Dean pouted.

“Yes, you- You know what, I’m not playing your childish games,” Sam was starting to get frustrated.

“Oh, yeah of course, now I’m childish. I’m sick of it, why can’t you just let me have my fun. I’m never harming anyone, so why do you care?” Dean said with an angry tone.

“Because your fun consist of annoying me to death or drinking yourself to death. One is nerve grating and the other makes me worry,” Sam bitched

“Oh, god, I’m not talking about that now. Leave me and my drinking alone. It’s nothing,” Dean huffed.

“it’s not not-” Sam began, but Dean cut him off: “We have three cemeteries to search better get started now. Lets go.”

Then he stalked out of the door, a silently fuming Sam following behind him.

~

“She has to be here, otherwise we’re fucked,” it was the first time the silence had been broken since they’dleft the motel.

Sam nodded tightly and went back to looking at the headstones. They were at the public cemetery and they had already searched the other two entirely with no luck.

Dean was about to call out to Sam that he had found it, when she appeared in front of the younger Winchester. He screamed as she put her hands around his neck and leaned in to whisper something. She didn’t get to say anything, however, because Dean shot her with a round of salt.

They quickly made a salt circle around the grave and caught their breath. Dean said: “You dig, I’ll keep her busy.”

“No, man, I know you’ve hurt your knee on the last hunt. You shouldn’t be running. I’ll take her on, you dig,” Sam said.

“No, Sam, don’t-” Dean didn’t finish, because Sam was already out the salt circle yelling for the spirit to come get him. Dean started digging after a moment of hesitation as he sighed to himself: “Stupid frigging kid.”

~

Sam had manged to run from the spirit for most of the night, but right now he was pinned down by her. He knew Dean was almost done, but he hoped his brother would hurry, because he was slowly suffocating.

The spirit cackled and whispered in his ear: “I’ll make him regret it. He will regret every word he said.”

Sam chocked out: “Why are you…targeting me? I don’t, ugh, I don’t have a…mom.”

The spirit looked confused for a second, then she whispered: “That’s not what your heart says.”

Then she went up in flames, screaming all the way.

Dean immediately yelled: “Are you okay?”

Dazed Sam sat up and rubbed his neck as he yelled back: “I’m fine, I think.”

“You think?” Deans voice sounded concerned as he hurried over to Sam to check him over.

Sam felt his hands run over his head and hissed a bit when they hit the bump on the back of his head. Dean forced him to look down and inspected the small head wound closer, when he was satisfied with what he found he let go of Sams head and said: “It doesn’t look that bad, but if you feel dizzy or disoriented you have to tell me.”

“No, no, I feel fine,” Sam reassured him. “It’s just what the spirit said that is bothering me.”

“She talked to you?” Dean said with a frown, then he asked: “What did she say?”

Sam hesitated before saying: “She said she’d made him regret it, every word he said.”

“Who the fuck is he?” Dean groused.

Sam thought about it and suddenly it clicked into place. The spirit wasn’t attacking just mothers, but also people who were seen as mothers, he remembered the girl had been adopted. He had argued with Dean just that day, Dean who had cared for him his entire life, who had talked to other mothers about his kid. Dean who had been there at school plays, who had been there when Sam was sick, who made him lunch and taught him how to tie his shoes. Dean who had tucked him in at night and told him not to worry about the monsters under the bed. His brother, who had taken on the roll of mother.

Tears filled Sams eyes with the realization and he felt the need to hug Dean, so he pulled his brother into a tight hug. Dean seemed shocked for a moment, his hands in the air for a second before he slowly wrapped them around Sams tall frame. Confused yet softly and with a gentle tone, he asked: “Whoa, hey, what brought this on?”

“You,” Sam managed to push out between the silent sobs.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, buddy, don’t cry, it’s okay,” Dean hushed, carding his hands through Sams hair on autopilot.

After a while Sam had managed to calm down. Dean wiped away the tears staining his cheeks and asked: “Wanna tell what made you cry like that?”

“You always cared for me, raised me and I never, I never even thanked you,” Sam hiccuped. “You gave up so much for me and I ran away. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Then he started crying again.

Dean didn’t react, he was sitting there, wide eyes with his boy crying in his arms and he was just playing Sams words over and over in his head. Sam was sorry. Sorry for not thanking him. The absurdity of the thought snapped Dean out of his daze.

He gently grabbed Sams chin and made him lock eyes with him. Then he said in the most caring voice Sam had heard in years: “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, alright? You haven’t done anything wrong. Raising you was never something I didn’t want to do. And although I hated – hate – it, I get why you had to get away, just for a while. It’s okay, no need to apologize.”

Then he let go of Sammys chin and pulled him into a tighter hug as the younger boy murmured: “Doesn’t make it alright,” into his shirt.

After a few more seconds of hugging Sam pulled away and Dean let him. When they were sitting opposite to each other in the empty graveyard in the middle of the night, tears still wet on their faces, they shared a look and burst out laughing. Dean chuckled: “This is ridiculous.”

Sam nodded and let himself be pulled up by Dean. Dean cracked his back and said: “If you’re still feeling guilty you can close the grave as a thanks.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but started to shovel the dirt back into the still smoking hole.

When the last dirt was thrown on the grave Dean broke the comfortable silence: “I’m guessing it was the ghost who pushed you to your conclusion.” Sam nodded and unsure Dean asked: “What did she say?”

Sam thought about it for a second, then he said: “First she told me she’d make him, meaning you, regret everything you’ve said, which made me confused. So I asked her why she was attacking me, because I didn’t have a mom. Then she gave me with such a perplexed look and said ‘That’s not what your heart says’ and then she died, again.”

Dean chocked up a bit and looked away. He swallowed heavily and tried to casually say: “And that made you connect me to being a parental figure, how?”

“I went over her MO, she was adopted so it didn’t have to be a mother by blood and we did fight today. SoI just thought why it would be you and then I thought about our youth and it just suddenly all clicked somehow,” Sam confessed, then he smirked and added: “And it was mom, not parental figure.”

Dean shot him a glare and said: “I’m not some chick, dude.”

“If that’s wanna tell yourself, sure.” Sam said, still smirking.

“Bitch!”

And just like that his brother was back.

Sam smiled.

“Jerk.”

~~

A/N:

I found this on my computer and had forgotten about it completely. I do hope, I could cheer someone up with this :D

[cosmicclownboy]

Alex has been stirring his milkshake for half an hour his fries completely untouched getting colder by the minute. Alex loves dipping his fries. What the hell?? Michael knows somethings up his Alex senses are tingling. Getting their friendship on track has been a struggle at times but he fought against his need to put his face on Alex’s face to support Alex’s needs. He knows it’s not the Forest breakup. It was amicable they even went to a concert as friends the other day. So it’s not Forest. And it’s not him because Alex smiles a lot more recently at him which his alien heart isn’t prepared for in the slightest. The Alex Manes protection squad protocol has jumped out so he’s surveying when he can get a minute to maybe see if Liz has any details. When Alex sighs for the third time before quietly excusing himself to pee it’s when he hops to it.

The responsible party for making Alex Manes sad isn’t a person.

It’s a rocking chair. His grandfather’s rocking chair.

The last storm that hit the reservation had wilted whatever life was left in it. When Greg went to sit down the next evening the thing snapped in two.

“Alex once told me his mom used to rock him in that chair before she left and that his grandparents took over until he could sit in it himself”

Beautiful loving memories his father never touched it’s not hard to see why he’s sad. Alex slips back into the chair chewing with an air of disgust at the cold plate of fries he’s doing it for Liz’s benefit no doubt.So instead of watching his soulmate dejectedly chew cold potato Michael concocts his brain into action.

He calls Greg for starters asks if he can maybe take a look at the damage.

“You can take a look but there’s not much to look at the wood mites have been at it for years”

And upon inspection, the rocking chair is very much dead. There was no way he could bring it back to life and sadness washes over him. He can’t take away Alex’s pain in the way he wants to so he kindly asks Greg if there’s a picture he can borrow.

Woodworking is a pain in the ass. He’s been to several woodworking classes when he started out under Sanders's thumb he knows chances are you aren’t leaving without a splinter or two. And making a rocking chair is probably one of the most intricate and difficult things to make. Yet he’s clutching a photo of a young Alex playing with trucks in front of the chair happy as Larry. And maybe Michael wants to make him happier then any Larry he could find.

It takes months of blood sweat and tears he pours all of his unspoken love into it. Is it the best thing he’s ever made?  probably he’s been hyperfocused on it wanting it to be perfect. Alex’s birthday is in a week and he’s nervous. He has made one alteration. The detailing in the head of the chair and the arms are still exactly like the one previous but when he was working on the legs he was thinking about Alex - how brave and beautiful he was and he wound up doing something a bit different for the legs. One of the legs is littered with music notes and stars winding up and stopping three quarters away from the top. Even if there are days in the world where it gets hard for him he wants Alex to feel like he fits.It’s his home and he matters.

The little shit winds up working on his birthday. He can’t tell who’s more pissed himself for not getting to spend time with Alex or Isobel who was planning a party. He knows Alex will be tired working on his feet all day and he probably shouldn’t park his truck on his garage but even he’s worked a six-hour shift it’s still his birthday. And he misses him.

Alex is a little stunned when he spots him swinging his legs on his tailgate humming judging by his warm smile he’s greeted with he thinks maybe Alex wanted to spend part of his birthday with him too. Alex has stopped attempting to date. They've held hands twice. It feels like everything's finally falling in their favour.

“Please tell me I am not going to walk into a surprise party with streamers thrown into my face. I've already had my unit give me a very special cake that I really can’t unsee”.

Alex spends the better half of three seconds juggling the keys and the cake box before Michael takes it off his hands. He's ushered into the kitchen. 

“You almost did but I dissuaded Is. You still are getting one Saturday though so make sure your free and act surprised. Now let me see this monstrosity”

The box is flipped open on the counter and WOW. He's holding a laugh Alex is staring him down for a second before handing him a fork.

“Since I have a poor lack of restraint when it comes to cake.Head or balls?”

 They don’t eat the whole thing that’s a whole level of buzz neither one could take at this hour. Somehow after Alex takes a sip of his wine he takes a tiny step closer to him.

“Is it bad that I’ve had so many people wanting to celebrate me but all I wanted to do was see you” his hand finds his cheek softly tracing it.”Everyone kept asking me what do you want for your birthday and all I could think about was this”.

He slowly steps into his legs to which Michael enthusiastically opens his legs to him.Yes to all of this yes to the touching yes to their lips meeting and kissing.Yes.Yes.Yes.It isn’t until Alex is on top of him on the couch tracing his neck with kisses he remembers he hasn’t given him it yet.

“Oh um I got you a present. Well, I made you a present. Long story. Is it okay if I bring it in? you have to close your eyes though”

Alex softly nods lips puffy dazed from kisses. God, he’s beautiful.

How he manoeuvres the door without squeaking it and the chair is anyone's guess it all pays off the moment Alex opens his eyes. Alex is so bewildered and taken aback he’s almost choking on air. Eyes watering looking up at him with the most achingly soft eyes is the love of his life.

“You did all of this for me? It must have taken forever the detailing it’s just ......how?”

“I know you Alex.You don’t care about objects or have a materialistic bone in your body. It doesn’t matter what you have it’s the memories. Liz could give you a pair of socks and you would treasure it because that’s who you are. And you’re just...there’s a lot of ugly people on this planet seen the worst of them you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And your majestic ass deserves a throne”

He wipes away the tears holding him as he can trying to throw as much unconditional love towards him.They wake up to one another that morning knowing there isn’t going to be a day they won’t.

Takes three months to realise he’s already sort of moved in.His clothes are in spread about in drawers.His books his plans are all decked about the house along with little mementos of their relationship.He finds his boyfriend in the garden book in one hand reading watching their dog prance around the grass.It’s so domestic it hurts.And as he sits on a battered lawn chair he realises something is missing....His rocking chair. This is the big leagues the endgame. And when Alex sings a song about growing old together in rocking chairs he takes the concept and runs with it. For the first time in a long time Michael slaves on something purely for himself. He puts nods of Alex’s chair to his, of course, wanting them to be almost a matching pair but he covers his in constellations, the cosmos the galaxy. When he finally finishes and places the chair next to Alex’s holding a book it’s the first time it hits him. He’s finally home.

[just-dreaming-marvel]

ONE HUNDRED TWO - WAKANDA

LEGACY: A Tony Stark Daughter Story

MASTERLIST

< previous

Word Count: 1,875ish

Summary: The Team goes to Wakanda for help. Steve and Bucky are reunited.

The quinjet ride to Wakanda was mostly silent. We were mentally preparing ourselves for what we knew was coming, or what we guessed was coming. I was still trying to keep my connection with Tony. I could feel that he was still alive, but I was trying to reach into his mind to speak to him. Even just to say goodbye and that I love him one last time. Steve had been next to me for most of the flight, holding onto my hand. But once he stood up and began walking towards the pilots seat, I knew that we were almost there.

“Drop 2600, heading 0-3-0,” Steve instructed. 

“I hope you’re right about this, Cap,” Sam said. “Or we’re gonna land a lot faster than you want to.”

I looked up to understand what Sam was saying. We were heading straight into the trees. I stood up and walked over to Steve, our hands brushing together as I stood beside him. He quickly grabbed my hand. As the quinjet continued on, the trees were revealed to be a camouflage force field and the grand city of Wakanda appeared. 

Steve gave me a quick kiss on the head before turning us around as the quinjet landed. I walked out, still holding Steve’s hand, with Natasha on the other side of us. We were followed by Rhodey and Bruce, who were followed by Wanda and Vision, with Sam finishing up powering down the quinjet.

“Seems like I’m always thanking you for something,” Steve stated as his free hand reached out to shake T’Challa’s. I looked over at Bruce and watched him awkwardly bow to the King.

“Uh, we don’t do that here,” T’Challa said, waving for Bruce to stop bowing.

 He reached out and took my hand, putting it to his lips for a kiss before I could stop him. “Miss Stark. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Like wise,” I said as Steve gave my hand a gentle squeeze. 

“The Captain has spoken very highly of you.” I gave him a small smile as a light, embarrassed blush came to my cheeks. T’Challa continued, “So how big of an assault can we expect?” T’Challa turned around and we started following him towards a building.

“Uh, sir, I think you can expect quite a big assault,” Bruce answered, trying to push his way closer to the front.

“How we looking?” Nat asked.

“You will have my King’s Guard, the Border Tribe, the Dora Milaje, and…” T’Challa trialed off and I quickly followed his eye line to see who he was looking at. I let go of Steve’s hand and froze in place as Steve continued to walk on.

“A semi-stable, 100-year-old man,” Bucky joked. 

The two long-time friends shared a hug as visions of the Winter Soldier beating me played through my mind and, without me realizing, began projecting outwards. I could feel that Bucky was no longer the Winter Soldier, but it didn’t change my fear. It didn’t change what had happened. I tried to remember what it felt like when I went to help him in Bucharest, but my recent time at HYDRA was affecting my feelings towards the man. Bucky and Steve continued to chat as Sam came up to me.

“You okay, Bailey?” He asked, stepping up to my side. The visions played through his mind as he got closer. “Woah, Bai—“ He went to put a caring arm around me, but I quickly shook my head and flinched away. He retracted his hand, a concerned expression etched on his face.

“I’ll be fine.” I couldn’t take my eyes off Bucky, fear evident on my face, and Sam could see all of it.

“I don’t think you’ll be fine. And that’s okay… He has changed though. At least that’s what we’ve heard.”

“Doesn’t change what happened and the fact that I’m still scared… I know he wasn’t in control. And why I’m feeling this way isn’t exactly his fault. But—” 

“But he still did those things.” Sam looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. “Does Steve know?”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe he knows the whole story.”

I believed that Steve knew that I knew the Winter Soldier, but not what he had put me through. I took a deep breath, trying to stop the projections so that they wouldn’t hit Steve. Steve turned around, excited for me to finally know the Bucky he remembered and saw the fear plastered on my face. He rushed over to my side.

“Bailey, are you okay?” Steve worriedly asked.

“Bailey?” Bucky questioned, stepping towards me. He studied me carefully. “It is you… It’s been awhile.” My breath began hitching and I couldn’t form words. 

“Bailey?” Steve worried. “Sweetheart?” I flinched at the nickname but my focus never left Bucky. “You remember trying to help him, right?” 

“It’s not that, Steve,” Bucky answered. “It’s about years ago.”

“Did you know her?” Steve questioned.

“Yes,” Bucky sadly replied. 

Steve looked at me, finally noticing the fear in my eyes. “What exactly happened between you two?"

“I… I, um… the Soldier…”

“I used to train with the Soldier and he… he would beat me,” I quietly stated, stepping forward.

“What?” Steve questioned, snapping his head my way. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was never a good time…”

“A good time? Really, that’s your excuse?”

“Do you ever think there’s a good time to tell the man you love that his best friend used to beat you for not training hard enough?” I snapped. Steve took a small, cautionary step back. My anger projecting outward a little. “He was— is your best friend, Steve. Would you have believed me if I told you?”

“But you went to Bucharest to help him, why?”

“Because she loves you,” Bucky answered. “At least that’s what she told me when she showed up that day… It’s okay, Bailey. They’ve taken HYDRA out of my head.” Bucky tried to reassure me and move on from Steve’s questions. “I am so sorry.”

“Can I see your hand?” I reached for Bucky’s human hand. “I can feel that you’ve changed, but I just need to be sure… So that I can trust you and not be scared anymore.” 

Bucky willingly set his hand in mine, knowing that I wasn’t trying to control him, and I searched through his mind. They had cleared HYDRA out of his mind and I was surprised to find that he even remembered me, since his memory was still being repaired. I let go of his hand and took a deep breath before forcing him into a hug.

“I am so sorry for what I did to you,” Bucky whispered as he hugged me back.

“It’s okay,” I responded. “It wasn’t you.” I took another deep breath, readying myself for what I was about to say. “I forgive you Buck,” I whispered into his neck. He held me a bit tighter.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“Well too bad. I forgive you, for hurting me, for killing my grandparents.” He tensed up. “For all of it… Everyone deserves another chance, Bucky. Even you… Plus… My fear is not all your fault…”

Bucky pulled back, giving me a worried look before looking at Steve and then back to me. “So… You two, huh?” He pointed at Steve and I.

“I guess,” I laughed. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

“How did you end up with this old man?” Bucky joked.

“Hey!” Steve said, faking offense. Though, I could feel a tinge of real offense flow through him.

“It’s a long story,” I said. “And I still don’t know if we’re actually together. Perhaps once this is all over we can get a drink and catch up.”

“I’d like that,” Bucky responded, a hit of hopefulness in his voice. 

Steve and I then left Bucky, Sam, and Rhodey to watch the grounds as we went to see what they could do for Vision. When we got to the lab, Vision was lying on an exam table with Shuri studying a hologram projection of the stone over him. Bruce was on the other side of her, watching her every moment. He was in awe of Shuri’s brilliance and the technology that she had at her finger tips. 

“Whoa. The structure is polymorphic,” Shuri stated.

“Right, we had to attach each neuron non-sequentially,” Bruce says.

“Why didn’t you just reprogram the synapses to work collectively?” Shuri asked.  

Vision turned to Bruce, seemingly asking the same thing. It was a solid question, what hadn’t we? Maybe because we were rushing to stop a murder bot. Just no big deal, there was no reason that we had to rush into creating Vision. Plus that he was basically created by Thor’s lightning after he had disappeared for 24 hours. So we had plenty of time to rethink everything.

“Because, we didn’t think of it,” Bruce answered with uncertainty. 

“I’m sure you did your best,” Shuri reassured with a smile. 

“Can you do it?” Wanda asked. Her worry was strong but I knew that it wasn’t my place to help calm her. 

“Yes, but there are more than two trillion neurons here. One misalignment could cause a cascade of circuit failures.” Shuri turned to T’Challa. “It will take time, brother.”

“How long?” Steve asked, giving my hand a squeeze before he let it go and stepped closer to the group.

“As long as you can give me.” A chime went off and I watched as Okoye, T’Challa’s head guard, brought a hologram of the Earth up in her palm.

“Something’s entered the atmosphere,” Okoye stated.

“Hey, Cap, we got a situation here,” Sam warned over the comms. I watched out the window as a shield appeared over the city and one of the alien ships slammed into it. 

“Gosh, I love this place,” I heard Bucky say.

“Yeah, don’t start celebrating yet, guys.” Rhodey warned. “We got incoming outside the dome.”

I watched as the shock waves and debris from the ships destroy the forest and boil up against the dome. I look to Steve as him and T’Challa share concerned glances. 

I felt how scared they both were, how afraid, and the need they had to protect everyone. They have no idea what we are getting ourselves into. I turned towards the exam table when I heard Vision struggling to sit up and slide off the table.

“It’s too late,” he said. “We need to destroy the stone now.”

“Vision, get your ass back on the table,” Nat demanded.

“Agreed,” I stepped in. “Vis, I don’t want to have to force you down but you know I can and I will.”

“We will hold them off,” T’Challa stated as he and his guards started for the door. Steve turned to Wanda.

“Wanda, as soon as the stone’s out of his head… you blow it to hell,” Steve instructed. 

“I will,” Wanda said.

“Evacuate the city. Engage all defense procedures,” T’Challa commanded. He stopped before fully exiting the room, turned, and pointed to Steve. “And get this man a shield.” 

next >

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

A World Beyond Yours (UtivichxFem!Reader)

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Requests are Open :D

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The basterds all hovered around the newest, and perhaps most intriguing addition possible to the team: You. Sent by the OSS, the general guaranteed Aldo that you were the best they had to offer. Aldo couldn't exactly be too picky at that point. The basterds were down quite a few men. In a recent ambush, they lost both Andy and Michael. Simon was sent back home, overseas because of his wounds. Omar was injured, and had to stay back at the basterd's camp, where Utivich was  standing guard, and taking care of him. So, the OSS sent the closest thing they had to a basterd. You. You were like a god send to them. They were supposed to meet with you in a town, thirty minutes away from Paris. On their way, they were ambushed by nazis. But... there was a catch. The nazis hadn't exactly kept quiet about their presence in the area. And you heard. So you pieced it together, and naturally walked in on the scene. So you ambushed the nazis back. Frankly, you saved lives that day. The basterds all stood back, amazed and amused: watching as you intimidated the nazis, without a single shot fired, but with a single knife. The last nazi watched as you made a bloody mess of his commanding officer with seemingly effortless, elegant strokes of your blade. When there was no more damage to be done, you looked at the next nazi in line, who looked at you in spite, "What more can you do to him?! He's dead!" You rose to your feet, with a sly grin as you wiped the blood from your knife on the sleeve over your forearm, "You're right." You tilted your head side to side, cracking some stiff bones. Then you crouched right in front of him, "So I'm gonna ask you one last time, huh..." You reached your blade out. The grimey, sticky, red stained metal grazed his throat. "Where are the other patrols?" He stuttered. "Tic toc." You pressed your knife up against his skin just enough to draw a single drop of blood, and he screeched, "FORTY MINUTES NORTH FROM HERE. THERE'S A VILLAGE ACROSS A CREEK. THEY'RE STATIONED THERE. ALL OF THEM." "Spasibo!" You stood up, and looked to Aldo for the next course of action. He nodded at you with a sly grin. A stamp of approval.

"Thank you, Private L/N." He stepped up to the lone survivor, "Now, listen here, boy." He crouched by the terrified nazi, "Ya can't tell em you told us. So you gon' tell em this. We let you live so you could tell em fuckers that we may've lost a good man or two. But we ain't gon' slow down. Nah. Now we got another basterd. She's outta her goddamn mind. You seen what she did, aint'cha?" The nazi nodded, tears of terror collecting at the brim of his eyes. Aldo leaned in and muttered, "Well...don't you cry now, shithead, you're almost done. You just gon' see one last thing." Aldo pulled put his knife, and marked the nazi's forehead. Then, you were all off, marching back to camp with them for the first time, as they introduced themselves (properly, this time). They also complimented your work with the knife. "Not too shabby, kid. Not bad at all." Hirschberg nodded, "Yeah,  how'd you get so good at that stuff?" You smirked a little, "Practice." Donny chuckled, "None of that bullshit, come on, kid." You smiled, "I come from a line of carpenters and carvers." You'd been with the boys for about two hours at that point, and had already proven yourself to be a real basterd. "Well shit." Donny smiled and nodded. Aldo asked, "Speaking of which, where'd you come from, kid?" Of course, he was talking about the fact that you came from out of nowhere in the middle of that attack. But, that was lost in translation. "A village in northern Siberia." You spoke matter of factly, but with a grin of pride. It wasn't an easy life, but it was yours. Hugo raised his eyebrow, and nodded once, the corners of his mouth lowered in acknowledgemnt. He respected the hell out of you. Anyway, you all marched back toward camp. Along the way, you heard that Wicki had lost his knife on the way to find you. Before the war, it would have been a most unusal choice, but after marching out of your home, as a wide-eyed kid without much to your name, you learned a thing or two. You figured you'd carve a knife for him. You'd just decided that when you made it "home." And Aldo introduced you to the rest of the team. Omar and Smitty. As you got settled in, (you'd be sharing a tent with Utivich and Hirshberg) the boys filled Utivich and Omar in. Utivich cocked his head to the side, and looked into the tent in the distance, then back at the basterds, "She doesn't look that scary." "You shoulda seen her earlier, Uti." Donny chuckled, "Ah you'll see her in action again, kid." *** Utivich couldn't stop thinking about you. Honestly. The boys were all sitting around the fire, eating and smoking, and he couldn't help but sneak a glance at you. You were sitting somewhat further back than the others, your back to them. You didn't seem so scary to Utivich then, but  you did seem rather lonely.

He smiled softly,  and walked up to you. And then panicked. "H-hi!" ��You smiled a little and turned to him, "Hi." His eyes widened as he realized he hadn't thought of anything else to say. 'Hi? HI?! THAT"S IT, UTI?! REALLY?!?'

He cleared his throat and looked at you, "You...you uh... looked lonely." You shrugged as you glanced at him, "I come from a lonely place," Still you said it smiling. Those weren't words he'd expect to hear with with your smile. "That...must've been rough." You shrugged again, "Neplokho," You looked up at him "Not so bad. " You sighed, and set down your current work in progress, "I was born there. It's not so bad." You smiled and he knew you meant it. "What's that?" He looked at your project in curiosity. "For corporal Wicki." He chuckled a little, "We all just call him Wicki." "Wicki, then." You nodded and went back to carving. "He lost his knife, so I'm making one for him." "Out of wood?" "Da." He nodded, and was quiet for a moment. He reached his hand out to you, "My name's Smithson." "Like the gun?" "No," He laughed a little, "That's Smith and Wesson."

You laughed and sighed, "Isvinyaius!" You pulled your hair behind your ear as you shook your head, "Sorry!" You looked at him, but you'd caught his eye long before, "I didn't know a lot about these things until the war." He nodded, "Yeah..." He nodded, "Yeah, me too." You shrugged, and tried to make it up to him, "Nice last name though!" He couldn't help but laugh and cover his face, "No, no Smithson's my first name!" "I am so sorry....I mean! It's a nice name! But...Oh!" You couldn't help but laugh together and he explained, "You can call me Smitty, or...anything you want, really! I don’t.." He looked up at you shyly, cheeks turning red, "I don't mind." "You don't mind?" He shook his head, "No, they've called me worse. Much worse. Y'know they've called me U-T-I before." "Private U-T-I...Who'd think of that? Unless..." You smirked a little and laughed. He shook his head, even more embarrassed, "Oh no, no! They got it from my last name!" "Your last name? Well...what is it?" "Utivich! There's where they got Uti...and UTI from...well..they didn't get a UTI but you-" "Utivich?" You repeated, and looked to him, "That's a Russian name." "Yeah, my grandparents were Russian." You nodded, "There's people in our town with that last  name." "Really?" "They live a little to the south from us."  You raised your carving up, the blade was as sharp as you could make it, the hilt was intricately carved.

Utivich's head tilted to the side in curiosity, "Can I see?" You handed it to him, hilt first, as you were sure he'd underestimate the blade. ... and you were right. You sighed, spotting drops of red collecting at his thumb. "Zdes." You reached your hand out, he put the knife on the palm of your hand, but that wasn't what you meant. You looked up at the sky, as if asking for patience, and you set the knife down on the ground. You reached for his hand, and rested it on yours. He looked up at you, and gulped. He had no words. You used the knife to cut a piece of cloth, and wrap it around his thumb. "Neplokho. Not so bad."  You smiled up at him, and  he melted, and smiled back. He stammered a little, and moved his hand away from yours. "T-thanks." "No problem." You leaned back and looked at the sky, the stars were bright, but not quite so bright as they were back home.

Why, you didn't know. "What's that say?" You turned, and panicked for a second, seeing that he'd picked the knife up again. Then you remembered, he was a basterd, and perfectly capable of- ...getting another cut. "Shit..." You chuckled a little, as you took the knife from him. "I'll hold on to that now, thank you." You sighed and wrapped his hand again. "Thanks...So..what's it say?" You smirked, "Kak auknetsya, tak i otkliknetsya." You looked him in the eyes, with the sly grin until he sighed, and answered, "You know I don't speak Russian." You shrugged "I know." He groaned, "Come on, Y/n."

You laughed, "Ok, ok. It's like saying as the call, so is the echo. Whatever goes around, comes around." He looked at the hilt, the words surrounded by impossibly intricate designs, and he was amazed. He was amazed by you, your art...and your work as a basterd.

"Beautiful..." He'd say, with star-struck eyes, and a dreamy voice, whenever he saw your carvings. Whenever he saw what you'd done to a nazi. He'd aways look at your work, then glance up at you, and say it, with the intonation of a soft breeze on a summer evening, "Beautiful..." As time went on, you hung around the basterds more often, sometimes you went off on your own in the woods. Sometimes you came back with a few scalps for Aldo. Sometimes you came back with little carvings. Now, this time, the boys noticed both you and Utivich were gone. Donny chuckled, "They're gettin' a little friendly, huh?" Omar shrugged, "Ah, good for Uti." Wicki smirked, "They in your tent, Hirschberg?" Hirschberg was laying on his back, reading the same newspaper he'd had in his pocket for four months. He didn't even look up "Don't know. Not gonna check." Donny smirked, "I'll check." Aldo rolled his eyes, "Leave 'em kids alone, Donny."

************ "Y/n!" Your eyes went wide. You shoved your knife and newest work on the ground, and turned around, "Smitty..." You hid your hands behind your back. He raised his eyebrow, "What's behind your back?" "Nothing!" "Come on, lemme see!" 

You sighed, and showed your hands. He spotted a gash on your palm, and his tone changed, which was unusual for him. "Why didn't you say anything?!" You shrugged, "Neplokho. Neplokho." He shook his head, and took your hand. "Not bad? What if it gets infected? When did it happen? Was it the patrol? I swear I-" You couldn't help but giggle a little. He was the sweetest basterd out there, you couldn't help it.  "It wasn't them." "So how'd it happen?" He was already wrapping up your hand. He kept a little medic kit on him at all times. You grumbled, and admitted it was a carving mishap. He chuckled, "As much as I love your stuff, you can just talk to me, or anyone really, if something's bothering you. You don't need to hack at wood all the time." You smiled softly as you looked at him, and watched as his eyes were intent on your cut, and felt how gentle his touch was. You sighed, "I know, I know..." "Speaking of which...Is that it?" He reached for the carving. You tried to reach for it, but he was quicker. "Gahvno...."  'shit', You muttered. He looked at it with endearment, "You made this?" "....maybe..." "It's beautiful." He smiled, and he picked it up, and raised an eyebrow, "It's...me?"

You muttered into your hand as you covered your face, flushing and heated with embarrassment. Then, you felt his hand over yours again. His thumb gently sweeping over your knuckles, "Hey...I love it." He heard your muffled voice, "Don't lie to me, Smithson." He laughed softly to himself, and then he put his other hand on your hand that was covering your face, and gently pulled it away. "Yeah, I do!" When your face was revealed, you moved your head down, but your eyes couldn't help but slowly look up at his smiling eyes. His finger rested under your chin, and guided your face towards his, "But not as much as I love you." Your heart froze for a moment, and he rested his hands on your cheeks, both of you smiling...

Then, he kissed you. And you stayed there, for hours. Until the sun set, and far past midnight, just talking... You looked up at the stars. They were brighter than they were the first night you were with the basterds. Stars can only be so bright where there's love, you knew that. You smiled, knowing that when you were with him, you weren't so far from home. And you heard his voice, "Y/n?" "Yeah?" "What's it like where you live?" His heart melted when he saw the way you smiled, thinking of home. "It's small." "And?" You giggled as you looked at 'the little man,' and then back at the sky,  "North as you could be. You can see the northern lights, that kind of north. Everyone lives near the edge of a lake... I used to think we lived at the edge of the world. Because you've never seen such beauty, Smitty...Never, until you go there." He was still smiling, but 'You're wrong,' he thought. Because he had seen something so much more beautiful... He didn't tell you what he was thinking. He didn't think he could quite put it into the right words. But to him, the most beautiful thing he'd seen was the wonder and the memory in your eyes, along with the reminiscent smile of a soldier, lost in a world beyond their own. Still, he listened. "Never needed anything. Never needed to go anywhere. There was no need to leave. Everyone I loved, everything I knew was there. But now..." You sighed, and looked down at Utivich. Now you knew heartache. Now you knew the world beyond the edge Now you knew true love, because in his eyes, you found a world beyond yours. "Now I've seen the world." Your hand ran freely and playfully in his hair, as he looked up at your eyes, as you went on, "I could say that it’s not worth it. Not worth leaving my village, leaving the ends of my world... But I see so many people fighting for their end of the world, so many people wishing to see their part of the sky again, it has to be worth it," You looked down at him, and he met your eyes as you asked "Verno?" 'Right?'

He nodded, with a slight smile, and a voice marked by two generations that separated him from the sky you knew. "Verno." He took your hand, and kissed over the cloth wrapped around your palm, and nodded again, because when he was with you, everything was worth it.

[seancerpg-archived]

THE MEDIUM 

Name: Wu Xinyue

Age: 33

Pronouns: she/her

FC: Liu Qian Han

BIOGRAPHY

There was a time once, long ago perhaps, when it was quiet inside her head.  A time when dead were dead and the living were living, and the lines between them did not blur. Her childhood was happy, but she was a quiet child, seeking company of those older than her, flocking to her parents and her grandparents, not quite enjoying befriending the children. In fact, while she was open hearted and lively, there was an aggressive side to her that often made others misunderstand her; especially those close in her age. But, she was all right with being alone, or being in company of her family - never once regretting her isolation from everyone else. The bonds she’s shared with her family could have been broken by one thing, and one thing alone, and it was at the beginning of her teenage years that she’d known loss, known death - and it brutalised her, hardened her. Gone was the silence in her head, gone was the lively and vivacious girl, and what became of her was a withdrawn, isolated shell of a person. It was not an easy transition, but death was never meant to be easy, not for the living.  The more she struggled with reining in the voices, the more she lost control over it, over herself, and finding a way to vent it had not been easy. At first, she tried shutting them out, building a wall around her mind that no spirit could seep through; but, such defensive mechanisms scarred her more, paranoia and anguish being the price to pay for the moment of sanity - yet, it was in those moments, without the voices, that she had been the most insane - and after a while, she stopped resisting, and in return they stopped keeping her awake at night. 

Leaving her hometown was a lot easier than she’d thought it would be - if only it was that easy to leave emotions and memories behind. But, the distance from her birthplace had seemed to have calmed the spirits in her head and once she’s finally put the beloved ones to rest, she’s decided to travel the world, maybe put her skills to good use. She was educated and intelligent, but she couldn’t really settle on a job - and then she heard about spiritism and the occult, and so she blindly stuck a finger on the map and decided to try her luck wherever it landed - in London. She thought that London would be different, but while it certainly wasn’t Beijing, or Istanbul, or Paris, it wasn’t what she’d expected of it to be. Everything she had known about the spirits had come from them, a knowledge coming from the primary source soon made her into something of a celebrity amongst the others who shared her… talents. She was not one of the Masters, wanting to stay away from the limelight, desiring to work alone rather than with others - for a while, they pestered her relentlessly to join them, but after they'd seen how she would not budge, they gave up. But, she was also not one of the Charlatans; she did not do what she did for fame or cheap scares - she did it because she could and because she was damn good at it. 

Her prices were never steep, but her services were not cheap either - they were at the middle, ever changing, ever befitting her clientele. She didn’t care if the noblemen came to her house, or if the beggars asked for a fortune; she greeted them and sent them away in an equal manner. Her talents laid more with the dead, with mediumship and banishing of the spirits, but she keeps the true extent of her madness hidden - and so, she focuses more on tarot cards and runes, choosing to read fortunes rather than conjure the departed beloved. It has been five years since she’s come to London, but in all that time she’s always been polite and courteous, but never friendly - mysterious and withdrawn; not to nurture her image, but to shield her heart. Still, she is somewhat friendly with her regular customers, occasionally going as far as to invite them to stay for tea after a reading; but those offers are rare and far in between. She has always felt there was something strange going on with the town she’s settled in, something dark and sinister lurking beneath the surface - one look at the Tower told her everything she needed to know, and the anguish in her head had not left her for a week. Yes, the town was riddled with pain and death, but so was every other place on Earth. After all, it is wise to remember that not all of the departed ones move on - and not all of the spirits are benevolent. 

THE GHOST

They always change. Traipsing around until she sends them away, sends them to cross over to another life, or sends them to Diyu where they belong, unworthy of living again until the filth in their soul is washed away.  The current one, he helps - the face white as death, with a pale hair cut to his chin and a dark, black velvet attire that resembles a lot like those portraits of old kings, of a time long, long gone. He seems to be sailing from the 14th century, but he doesn’t seem to want to cross over - he doesn’t want to abandon her. We know each other, he whispers, and I am here to guide you, stay with you. And warn of the horrors that come knocking. He never calls her by her name, but nicknames her as the Necromancer - or simply calls her my Lady.

CONNECTIONS

THE FRAUD: It started as an annoyance, and truth be told she would’ve been more than happy if it stayed as an annoyance. She knows they are as false as it gets, the real Charlatan, but since they are younger than her, she’s… started to feel a little protective of them, sometimes taking on a role of an involuntary mentor, veiling it as a dare. They are young and wild, vivacious and proud, and often they remind her of her; of who she’d once been, before death claimed her. She has to admit that once annoyance turned to exasperation, she’s found that she rather enjoys their company. They are the one of the rare ones she ever truly bothers to invite for tea, or ever really bothers to ask if they’re doing okay.

THE WAIF: They’ve known each other for a short while, but she’s pretty fond of them. Perhaps, if she would let herself feel vulnerable, she’ll admit that she regards the other as something of a friend. With the darkness that settled over London, she is terribly worried about them, given how the victims were of the same profession. She often offers them to work with her, whether it is a measly task such as brewing a pot of tea, or helping her scrub wax off her table for an additional few coins - anything to make sure her friend remains safe, especially if she knows they would have to return to the brothel at night, when the hour is dark and the streets are overflowing with monsters - and monsters made of flesh and bone are worse than any ethereal spirit.

THE PEELER: He’s the newest acquaintance and his eagerness to advance is quite amusing to her. But, she sees the wariness in his eyes, sees the horror that marred his innocent soul and sees how the fear begins to eat at him. He was the one who found the most recent victim and she knows it was a sight that would never stop haunting him. She knows he’s visiting her for a routine check, the questions about whether or not she’s ever been in contact with a dubious person, but as of late his offer turned more tempting - and strange. She’s still uncertain whether to accept it or decline it, but she does like him well enough to attempt to help him - if only to soothe his fears.

THE WIDOW: They’ve known each other since her husband has died. The grieving widow held up a lot better than the society of London had liked, and so tales of her questionable morale and the alleged “poisoning” of her husband started to circulate. She rolls her eyes to the rumours, and she’s very impressed to see the widow feels exactly the same. They’ve struck a lazy, easy friendship that started with a séance and ended with a glass of gin and shared tales of life, happiness, woe and death; and in her, she’s found something of a kindred spirit.

THE MEDIUM IS PLAYED BY ADMIN EVA

[serpentes-lupus]

OC Interview: Tarra Lyall

Repost, don’t reblog

Tagged - By no one

Before Year 6, Chapter 18

name ➔ Tarra let out a long yawn before rubbing her eyes. “Can I go back to bed? It’s too earlier.” She grumbled before sighing. “Fine. My name is Tarra Lyall.”

are you single ➔ At the question, the young girl blushed a bit and averted her gaze. “I...think so? Like Talbott and I have been on two dates now and he did kiss me on the cheek. He does know how I feel and I guess he has admitted the way he feels for me in his own manner. But we haven’t gone on any other dates nor made it official. Well, with the Cursed Vaults going on and Talbott preferring his privacy, I think it would be best to keep our relationship on the down-low for now.”

are you happy ➔ Tarra looked a bit confused before taking a few seconds to think about her response. “Yeah. I mean, I found my brother and he’s alive. I have friends who care for me and my parents are still around. Like, things could be better but I can’t complain.”

are you angry ➔ Again, Tarra became confused and even more off-guard. “Yes. I am angry. I’m angry that Jacob just up and left without making an attempt to stick around. I’m angry about what Rakepick did to him and us. I’m angry that...that I’m not strong enough.”

are your parents still married ➔ “They sure are. Happy at that too. Especially after they got over Jacob’s disappearance.” She said before realizing how she said then frantically waved her hands. “Nononononono! I didn’t mean that they were happy to get rid of him! Like, it broke their hearts and they were...rather apathetic with each other. But after accepting what happened and that Jacob was, probably, never coming back, they moved on.”

-

NINE FACTS

birthplace ➔ “I was born in Cuenca, Spain. I currently live in Dumfries, Scotland. I moved when I was a baby but I would visit Cuenca during the holidays.”

hair color ➔ “Obviously, it’s dark brown,” she grinned as she twirled one of her curls with one finger. 

eye color ➔ “Hazel brown. Although, I’ve been told by various family members that they look bronze.” Tarra hummed before lightly shrugging. “Must have gotten it from my father’s side of the family because none of the Lyalls has my eye color.”

birthday ➔ “March 10th.”

mood ➔ “Eh? Like what I’m feeling right now? Tired. You did wake me up for this bloody interview...”

gender ➔ “I identify as androgynous. I have both masculine and feminine traits, and my style says so as well.”

summer or winter ➔ “Summer!” She exclaimed excitedly. “I visit my family in Spain during the summer, and I spend time at my uncle’s ranch and play soccer with my cousins! Celebrate birthday parties and go to festivals! Travel around Scotland, visit the grandparents and explore the old Lyall manor. I’ll probably get some souvenirs for the gang this upcoming summer. They’ve given me gifts before and I have returned few but I always enjoy sharing my cultures.”

morning or afternoon ➔ Tarra laughs before answering her question. “Strangely enough, I prefer the morning. I don’t know why but I like the stillness of dawn. Where it’s quiet and you have that momentarily peace to yourself. Now I can understand why Talbott prefers his privacy.”

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

are you in love ➔ Tarra become so flustered that her glasses fogged up. “I eh..ah..um..” she struggled to say before shaking her head. “Yes!” She exclaimed in embarrassment. 

do you believe in love at first sight ➔ “To a certain degree. You might have an attraction to someone but it might not be love. Perhaps it’s until you start to learn more about them, befriend and such that your feelings might develope to love.”

who ended your last relationship ➔ “I didn’t have a previous relationship.”

have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ Tarra looked down in shame. “Yes. It was Barnaby’s. It was when my love note was read by Professor Snape and Barnaby confronted me about it. He thought I had a crush on him because I went to the Ball with him. I thought I fancied him but it was not romantic love. I should have been honest after that. I know that he didn’t take the rejection well. His cries still haunt me.” 

are you afraid of commitments ➔ “Who isn’t? But if you truly love that person, then you have to conquer your fear!”

have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔

have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ “If I did, I guess that it was Barnaby. Especially after he talked to me after the love note was read out loud.”

have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ “Yes.”

-

SIX CHOICES

love or lust ➔ “What kind of bloody question is that? Love, of course!” Tarra exclaimed, a deep blush on her cheeks. 

lemonade or iced tea ➔ “Lemonade! I like that sweet taste with that pinch of citrus. Tea is just bland and bitter. Blah!” 

cats or dogs ➔ “I like both of them! They can be equally as goofy and playful. And each serves different purposes in different circumstances. You get to see a lot of their personality while they live on a ranch.”

a few best friends or many regular friends ➔ “To be honest, I prefer a few best friends. Too many regular friends might just cause trouble. Like, I’m glad that I have friends in my life right now, but I believe a few of them I would consider my best friends.” Tarra said before scratching the back of her neck. “I don’t like the idea of choosing one over the other though.” 

wild night out or romantic night in ➔ “Depends on who I’m going with. A wild night out would be with my friends. A romantic night in would be someone that I fancy, like Talbott. And if it’s a wild night out, then I have to be careful about which friends I go out with.”

day or night ➔ “Day. Despite me saying that I enjoy the stillness of the morning, I do like the activities and hustle of the day. The night doesn’t offer much for a teenager.”

-

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

been caught sneaking out ➔ “Yup. By Professor Snape, no less. He destroyed Andre’s broom! I still owe him one but I saw that he got another one. Still, best to have a second broom in handy just in case!” 

fallen down/up the stairs ➔ “Like I’m gonna tell you.” Tarra huffed. 

wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ “Maybe a toy when I was a kid? But I can’t really recall.”

wanted to disappear ➔ “Who doesn’t? There have been times that I just want to be left alone, especially with all of the recent events.” 

-

FOUR PREFERENCES

smile or eyes ➔ Tarra softly blushed. “Oh, we’re getting personal again. I guess a smile would be my preference.”

shorter or taller ➔ “That’s a tough one. Either height is okay with me. But if you want me to be specific, I guess if I’m dating a boy, then I would prefer them being taller. And if I’m dating a girl, I guess either height is no issue for me.”

intelligence or attraction ➔ “I guess intelligence? Super attractive people make me intimidated. Intelligent people might be playing a gamble though since they can be self-centered with their smarts. Or they can just be humble about it.” Tarra grumbled in frustration. “I don’t know!”

hook-up or relationship ➔ “Relationships, of course! Hook-ups may be fun for others, but not for me.”

-

FAMILY

do you and your family get along ➔ Tarra softly sighed, becoming quiet before answering. “Well, depending on the family members. I get along just fine with my parents if that’s what you were wondering. My relationship with my mother’s parents is good too. They’re a bit uptight but know when to ease up. The same goes with my cousins on my mother’s side. As for my father’s parents....that’s a different story. I get along with my uncle, my father’s younger brother, and his kids but that’s it. I know that I have more relatives on that side of the family but I never met them.”

would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ “Not really? I mean, all is good back at home but after Jacob’s disappearance, things became rocky and lots of wizards and witches gave me and my family a hard time. Then again, muggles still too due to being mixed blood. Then there’s Rakepick and the “R” organization. But I wouldn’t consider that a “messed up life”. In fact, I really have myself to blame since I decided to seek out Jacob by unraveling the Cursed Vaults.” 

have you ever ran away from home ➔ “I have no reason to.”

have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ “No. Wait...I faintly remembered being with my parents. We were visiting someone but I can’t recall who it was. I might have been too little. But I remember shouting and screaming, and then, we were all ushered out. I guess we were kicked out. Does that count?”

-

FRIENDS

do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ “How could you ask such a question?! I don’t hate any of my friends!”

do you consider all of your friends' good friends ➔ “I think so. Many of my friends are good people with good intentions. Although, it is true that I do talk to some more than others. But overall, they haven’t done anything to wrong me.”

who is your best friend ➔ “My best friend? That would be Rowan. She was the first friend that I ever made coming to Hogwarts. She was the first to give me a chance when everyone else was quick to judge me because of the lies that the Daily Prophet had said about Jacob and my family. Honestly, if it wasn’t for her, I might not have had any friends today.”

who knows everything about you ➔ “That might be Penny. I wouldn’t be surprised since she’s a popular kid in Hogwarts. It’s her job to know everything and everybody. It feels weird knowing that she might know about you before ever meeting her. It seems like an invasion of privacy. Aside from her, then the next person would be Rowan.”

[forsythiias]

hey ! i’m rachel. i’m 20 - almost 21 ! - she / her pronouns, gmt timezone ( i live in ireland and spend like a week in england every month at this rate . u guys will get used to it ). a fun fact abt me is that i spoke to hugh jackman & gave him a wolverine pin rly recently . that’s all i got . anyway. i’m playing jellybean jones, the baby of the fp jones fam ! she’s my absolute KID and i would LOVE to plot , so please feel free to shoot me a message or smash that like button and i’ll come at you in the not so distant future. 

⌜   genderfluid, she / they / he   |   out of time by the rolling stones, the local record store, the pop culture fiend   ⌟   ⏤   hey, isn’t that FORSYTHIA PARTHENIA JONES? the NINETEEN year old SOUTH SIDER has lived in town for their WHOLE LIFE, and has always denied their resemblance to DIANA SILVERS. they’ve been a STUDENT & WAITRESS for a while now, and i guess it makes sense - they’ve always seemed so TENACIOUS & INDIVIDUALISTIC, though i have heard that they can be pretty GARRULOUS & ACERBIC. did you hear about how they SOLD JACKED CARS IN TOLEDO TO PUT THEMSELVES THROUGH COLLEGE? i always knew that there was something up with them. you can check out her pinterest board HERE and her stat page HERE.

you can CHANGE the world, girl,                                     you really, truly can.

part one of three : bullet point history. trigger warnings for talk of infant health issues.

august fifth, 2000. it was a sticky autumn night when FORSYTHIA PARTHENIA JONES entered the world with a pitiful cry. the only daughter of two south siders, gladys and fp, and the younger sister of a one jughead jones, she wasn’t born to MUCH ; which made all that she did have matter all the more. a mother and a father who loved her? check. an older brother she would someday idolize and love like no other in the world? double check. a small ventricular septal defect, discovered only after her birth? triple check.

forsythia was, it seemed, destined to be a sickly child. her first few months were dotted with trips to the emergency room and visits to a local doctor, something always seeming to be wrong. infant colic was ten times worse. she caught a chill when she was two weeks old and needed to spend a WEEK in the icu because of the resulting chest infection. the doctors who treated her at birth had been confident over time that the hole in her heart - jellybean shaped, on the very first ultrasound - would close by itself, as many do. hers, however, didn’t. as she got older, the effects became more pronounced. she kept catching chest infections. she couldn’t seem to put on weight. breathing was, at times, a struggle. and she was SLEEPIER than any baby they had ever known before. the original plan had been to wait and see and hope that her tiny heart healed on it’s own. at ten months old, it became apparent that this would never happen ; and the surgery was scheduled. 

your baby is supposed to be PERFECT. she isn’t supposed to take ill every few days and ultimately be wheeled into a room for open heart surgery. it was likely a very harrowing experience, and those first few months of her life were understandably marred - but if there had ever been any doubts before, it became clearer than day when she came out of surgery that the youngest jones was a FIGHTER, through and through. they’d been prepared for a month long wait to bring her home again - it ended up being a fortnight. she didn’t cry, after. she didn’t FUSS. it was as if she had known that the first little while had been tough, and was trying her hardest to make all of their lives that little bit easier. lord knew that the jones’ needed it, especially when the stress of all that was going on with her had combined with their bills. 

now affectionately named jellybean for the defect she had survived, she grew into a remarkably NORMAL child. there were differences, of course, between her and the kids that she grew up surrounded by - she required regular checkups, she needed to dress extra warmly in winter, and she always got that little bit more wiped out than everybody else - but anyone told the story behind the scar in the middle of her chest gaped in shock. the girl who swung from the lower boughs of the trees at the edge of sunnyside trailer park and sprinted after her friends at full speed had once had a hole in her heart? impossible. that sort of health issue was reserved for those with a lot less life in them than the high spirited girl that jellybean became known as being, and never once did she allow it to define her. she was a SPITFIRE, pure and simple, and she’s proud to say that never once did she let herself sit out of an experience just because she was worried about what would happen if she partook.

life was not all sunshine and adventure, though. not every child notices the cracks in their home life appearing. jellybean didn’t. not until the rug was pulled right from under her feet. to her wide eyed and rose colored self, everything seemed to happen overnight. one day, they were happy. the next, her dad was an alcoholic and she and her mum were in transit to toledo, where they would move in with stony faced grandparents who treated her with corporate coldness. she didn’t understand the why of it all - couldn’t have even hoped to, when she was still so young. the reality of her father losing his job and their lives going to shit thanks to it didn’t sink in. all she knew was that she had lost the father she idealized and the big brother that she had always wanted to BE. 

she spoke to them both on the phone, of course. she was even lucky to see jughead a couple times, though their grandparents never wanted to hear about it afterwards, no matter how excited she was. it must have been jarring for him the first time he turned up to find that the pigtailed little girl who loved kids pop that he remembered had sheared her hair and was now listening strictly to pink floyd and other classics. but none of it was the same. not really. it wasn’t having her family together. to say that her drastic transformation might have stemmed from a place of resentment towards whatever forces were at play in ruining her family - that starting to go by JB, so similar to the FP that her nana and granddad refused to allow be mentioned around them might’ve been an act of defiance - wouldn’t have been incorrect. she wanted things to go back to normal. the fact that they didn’t killed her.

and they never really did. she and her mom returned to riverdale, a new opportunity spotted, but things never went back to how they had been before. she learned not to talk about it, though - and now she’s older, wiser, and she knows how to hide her feelings behind an easy bluff. there’s nothing to do but make the most of what she does have, right? a new brother. a new life. a new self. she has to stop dwelling on what she used to have, she supposes ; though sometimes, it hurts to think about what she’s lost. 

part two of three : headcanons.

jellybean is gonna be a lawyer someday, but she NEVER really wanted to be one. her dream from ages 3 to 11, she wanted to be a princess. she overheard some of the older serpents sarcastically referring to the jones family as royalty, and she really chose to run with it - refusing to take off a makeshift crown for the first month and getting called princess jellybean by her father for the next few years. after that phase had passed, though, she found her real passion - and for most of living memory, she’s wanted to own a record store. nothing too extravagant, really, just a first floor, one room sorta deal - she’d plaster the walls with posters of the greats and keep the merchandise in crates resting on rickety tables, and every friday night she’d hold a jams night where people could come and lounge around the floor on beanie bags, listening to some of their favorites. she had it all planned, and it’s still something of a dream - but if there’s one thing that jones’ family knows how to do, it’s sacrifice their dreams for harsh reality. with penny peabody DISGRACED, the serpents and southsiders in general need someone who knows them to represent them, when things go to trial, and feeling a sense of duty to the people she was raised around, jb bit the bullet and stepped up. she’s got a love for arguing and a knack for winning, so much so that god HELP whoever goes against her in a courtroom, someday.

she has yet to officially join the serpents ( her parents wouldn’t approve of it, for one, not now, and there’s a whole host of OTHER reasons ) - but jb went right ahead and got a tattoo on her right hand anyway, cause as a jones, she’s still serpent adjacent. the only difference between the picture linked and the one she has is that hers is done in white ink - her way of keeping things lowkey while still honoring her heritage.

miss her with a motorbike. they’re COOL and all, but jb values her life a little bit too much to trust a two wheeled death trip waiting to happen. she’s more into classic cars, anyway, and has pretty recently invested in the frame of a 1979 pontiac gto from the scrapyard that she plans on fixing up to perfection.

her style is southside meets cute. of course she loves her leather and fishnet combos - but jb is ALSO a huge fan of dungarees and sloganed t-shirts in a whole assortment of colors. anything ‘edgy’ she wears ( big boots, mesh tops, the list .. could go on ) gets coupled with something a little less so ( pink scrunchies, colorful makeup, a disney bag … again, the list could go on ), and that makes her her.

and finally, for now, cause i’m not sure i’ve done a good job of conveying it - jellybean is a good kid. she REALLY, truly is. she’s got some bite to her ( enough of a short fuse that it’s advisable not to test her limit ) & wouldn’t be her fathers daughter if she DIDN’T, but she’s also genuinely sweet. being a serpent doesn’t equal being a bitch, and so long as people out there treat her with respect, she’ll do the SAME. jb doesn’t turn unless she’s given reason to … and if they do, she won’t hold back.

part three of three : wanted connections.

fp & gladys jones ! 

kids from the south ( or north ) side that are in or around the same age, who jellybean would have grown up with / went to school with !! they might have reconnected after she returned to riverdale and now know her as who she’s become, but they also might be people who she lost contact with for a LONG TIME and who never got to see her post transformation - any and all variance on this wc would be fun!

anyone attending carson college who she might, maybe, rub shoulders with !!  i’d love the most mundane of connections - maybe they sit with each other during lunch, or they help each other study, or one time, jb dropped a book on their head in the library and they’ve been friends / enemies since! gimme anything !

regulars at pops / the speakeasy. 

so .. she’s pretty self sufficient, and she’s paying her way in terms of college by working shifts at pops and picking up extras in the speakeasy. she’d know a lot of people from that, i’d wager, and i’m sure she has her favorites!

more people southside serpent adjacent who she can play off of !! one of jb’s goals in life is to become an OFFICIAL member of the gang, which she hasn’t yet - but she is something of a southside princess, and that means she’d know most of them in some way!

p much anything else !

[ofbandits-archive]

⋆ ◦ ° ☾ emily blunt + cis female + she / her — have you seen abigail prescott? they sure have been hanging out at andy's jazz club a lot recently. they are a thirty seven year old known as the clean slate, and they currently work for the cobras as a police officer, which they’ve been doing for ten years. a bisexual taurus, they are astute + duitful, as well as reticent + fractious. music on a constant loop, half-eaten chinese takeaways, a perpetual shiver ×

tw: shooting, death, underage pregnancy.

       guess who’s back with a fourth and final muse !   i never write ladies, but i always want to and since it’s a new year ( new me ), the time has arrived. if you’d like to plot with her, pls give this a like because i need ! anyway, without further ado -- time to learn a little bit about my babygirl abi. 

born and bred in the upper east side, abigail prescott never wanted for anything. her grandparents moved to america from the united kingdom when their gin company became particularly successful and they gained enough to make it multinational. they fell in love with the country and decided to make it their headquarters and their home, moving their two young children with them; one of these being abi’s father; michael. 

michael never allowed the change in routine or destination or the money negatively affect who he was. he became successful in his own right as a police officer, a passion that followed him through the entirety of his life. michael met candice ( her mother ) at an event his parents were hosting. she was beautiful in an ethereal sense, and had captured the attention of the room as soon as she had entered it. their love was real and burning brightly and it didn’t take them long to become pregnant and subsequently, get married. 

candice had a dream of becoming a broadway star, one dream that having a family wouldn’t dissipate. once her children had reached the age of three (abi) and five (her sibling), she started auditioning for shows and touring with the music she’d been playing in clubs since she herself was a little girl. it’s a case of a mother living vicariously through her daughter. candice would never allow that for her own daughter, but the alternative wasn’t much better.

abi’s a daddy’s girl, always has been, though it became all the stronger once her mother wasn’t there as regularly as she wanted. michael remembers her crying for her mother when she was three to four, but after a time of not getting her -- it’s as though she learnt inwardly that it wasn’t going to happen. at first, however, abigail suspected she should follow in her mother’s footsteps. 

this is something she bought to her mother’s attention when she was only eight years of age, and by the time she was ten she was starring on broadway. the majority of her roles were quite small; an orphan in oliver, one of the less used von trapp children in sound of music, but eventually she acquired the role of annie in ‘annie’ and it absolutely blew her mind. she adored being on stage, was a natural it seemed like but there was always something missing. it didn’t fit her as perfectly as she suspected it might. as a hobby? it was one she’d enjoy, but as a career? she wasn’t so sure. 

still, life was good; she achieved good grades in school, didn’t struggle to make friends. she suffered through a bit of bullying because of the stage work she’d done as a child, but she knew her own mind enough not to let it drag her down and the friends she’d made helped her stay confident and proud of what she’d achieved when she was so young. her relationship with her brother and father blossomed and her mother was around more often. life seemed so plain-sailing and abigail was too young not to be suspicious of that fact. 

it comes as an utter shock to her when she’s sat down by her parents at fourteen and told that as a family they had to relocate. it wasn’t until she was much older that she learnt the reasons behind it. that her mother had squandered away all their money and her grandparent’s had given her father an ultimatum. divorce her, or lose your legacy. he chose the latter. the man was a hopeless romantic and knew there had to be reasons behind candice’s deceit. marriage meant forever in his eyes and he wouldn’t let her go, or let her down. even if she had let the family down, herself. 

this is when the family was relocated to valdez. michael quickly found a job as a police officer in the town, and her mother found a good job as a lounge singer. more often than not she’d sneak in to watch her sing. she was still one of her heroes, still one of the most talented people in the world. her father too was her hero, someone who had always pursued the good. 

by the time she’s fifteen, abigail considers herself settled in the town of valdez. she’d never heard much about it before, but she felt connected to it in a way she never had new york. she made good, firm friends here and she enjoyed spending time in town. she even had a boyfriend who was a year or so older than her. he was smart, and interesting and she spent the majority of her time with him. she’s also oblivious to the gangs ( or at least, her parents involvement ), she was happy with the decision that had been made, even if she no longer gets to see her grandparents. it’s not long into her fifteenth birthday, however, roughly two months, in fact -- that she finds out she’s pregnant. of course, the first person she tells is her boyfriend, thinking that he’d help her through this rather life changing circumstance, however, things don’t go to plan and by the time the parents find out, he’s moved out of the town with his parents, and her parents are very unsure that she’s ready for her life to change in such an enormous way.

whilst she’d always loved children, and she did hope to have them...eventually, it was far too soon and with her parents in her ear the whole time, well...she was left without much of a choice. she got them to agree to let her carry them to full term, before ultimately giving them up for adoption. she wasn’t allowed to know much, but she knows they were a little boy, and they were small, and they were better off without her. at least that’s what she eventually became to believe. her parents sorted out the adoption process, something she trusted them with -- without question. though, now she’s still filled with questions, questions that she suspects she’ll never get answers for. 

at eighteen, her whole life changed once more. her father was shot and killed, and it ultimately shook the world that abigail had come to know and love. she didn’t see a life without her father, someone who’d always put her first, been her hero and tried his damnedest to be a good person, father, husband, police officer. what she was initially told by both her brother and mother is that it was a raid gone wrong. she doesn’t believe it though. there’s something that doesn’t feel right and so she digs. 

she digs and she digs until she’s stuck in a pit she wishes she wasn’t. she learns the truth about all of it. about how her father was a bent cop for a gang called the cobras, how her mother’s job was connected to them too. how her brother was now a soldier for the same gang. she felt betrayed, lied to, disgusted. but most of all she felt stupid. she should’ve known; all the signs were there. 

it turns out that their lucky break was due to a cobra giving her father a chance, successfully taking them in and giving her father a position he might not otherwise be able to find elsewhere. it was an opportunity they had to take. it wasn’t until she sat her mother down and begged her to tell her everything that she was told this, and told about how it was all her mother’s fault. she tried to harbour anger for her, but she couldn’t. she was her only parent left. 

she came to the realisation that being a police officer might have been a better fit for her. cobras became a bigger family, on her side no matter what the circumstance. it wasn’t their fault her father died, it wasn’t something that they could help. they’d given her teenage years she’d never be able to have otherwise, even if she was oblivious at the time. she trains as a police officer, and by the time she’s twenty five she’s in the valdez force. now this feels right, the career she’s supposed to have. 

now she’s been doing it for ten years and she absolutely loves it still, the best decision she’s ever made in her life, unlike the decision she made when she was still a teenager, one that she constantly finds herself question, hoping that it really and truly was...for the best. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS 

ex; this is her childhood sweetheart, all signs pointed to them getting married and being happy, moving away and having a family, but then the family plan came a little too quickly, and it scared him off -- or at least, made him move out of the town with his family. she’s not entirely sure what his perception was, but she’s decided to hate him for it just the same. 

housemate; she hateshateshates being alone. will make sure she isn’t, if she can help it. after her mother died when she turned twenty eight, she started a search for a housemate. they can get on, or not. either way it seems like a fun and fitting connection! 

old friends; she’s been in valdez since she was fourteen, so it’s likely she’ll have some school or college friends that are here still. their affiliation doesn’t really matter since she knew them prior to either of them joining gangs. though there might be an underlying tension if they’re a savage. 

past flings; she likes to have fun, likes sex and likes a lot of it. it’s likely there’s a few people she’s had flings with in the past. whether it’s awkward or not, is totally up to us when plotting. 

ride or die; of course she needs one of these! someone who keeps her on her toes, tells her when she’s being stupid. she’ll do the same too, of course. they might’ve known each other for a handful of years, or forever -- either way they’re her biggest weakness and she’d bury an entire town for them, if need be. 

[putthison]

Digging in the Crates: Talking with Brian Davis of Wooden Sleepers

Wooden Sleepers is the kind of store I wish was near me. Brian Davis, the shop’s founder, has been around the menswear scene forever, but first opened his shop seven years ago on Etsy. Back then, he just had simple listings for his vintage finds, which ranged from classic Americana to workwear to Ivy Style items. A few years later, he opened a brick-and-mortar shop in Brooklyn, which has been since become a destination spot for men’s style enthusiasts. Japanese menswear magazines such as Free & Easy have featured the store; GQ called it the best new vintage menswear shop in NYC. 

When Brian opened his brick-and-mortar, he took down his online web shop in order to focus on his physical location. Carefully setting up the interior decor and presentation was a lot of work, too much to also include shooting photos and selling online. Now that Wooden Sleepers is more established, however, they’ve jumped back on the internet. This past month, they launched a fully dedicated online site (although inventory is still being added), and they’re been developing an in-house line of Wooden Sleepers totes, caps, and sweatshirts (we love all of it). They even shot a fall/ winter lookbook. 

I recently sat down with Brian to talk about his store, his history with vintage clothing, and his style suggestions for guys who are are looking to incorporate a bit of vintage into their wardrobe. 

Tell us about how you got into vintage clothing and how you started Wooden Sleepers.

I grew up on the east end of Long Island, skateboarding and listening to punk and hip-hop music. I lived with my grandparents at the time, a long way from any of the shopping malls. Buying second-hand clothes from local church shops was a way for me to rebel against the Abercrombie & Fitch crowd -- this was around the early- to mid-90s, when A&F was big. Looking back, a lot of the stuff I used to rummage through would later influence my taste in clothes as an adult – seersucker suits, oil-stained mechanic jackets, vintage Levi’s, etc. 

Fast forward to 2010, I was working a corporate job and wanted a creative outlet. My girlfriend at the time, now my wife, encouraged me to set up my own clothing shop. This was when heritage and Americana were huge online. There were sites such as A Continuous Lean, Valet, and Put This On; New York City had the Pop-Up Flea; Etsy was just getting started, but was still a fairly unknown thing. So I started listing stuff online for my thrifted finds. We launched on Etsy in 2010 and then opened a brick-and-mortar in 2014.  

That’s surprising because, right around that time, many brick-and-mortars started struggling. Do you find it difficult to do a brick-and-mortar business in NYC nowadays?

The New York Times had a story not too long ago about Bleecker Street, a big commercial area here with global brands such as Marc Jacobs and Ralph Lauren. At some point, the landlords got greedy and raised rents, and now all those businesses have had to move out. Maybe they could have afforded the rents, but it probably didn’t make sense given the amount of business they were getting from the area. And now, when you walk down Bleecker Street, there are a ton of empty storefronts.

My goal as a business was never about being part of that world. When I was looking for a shop space, I was looking for a place with a thriving community of small businesses. We found that in Red Hook in Brooklyn. Our street is very much orientated around mom-and-pop businesses, with great restaurants and small shops. We’ve actually seen our business grow year after year.

But many small NYC clothing stores have closed – Gentry, French Garment Cleaners, Carson Street Clothiers. It’s not just big brands that are struggling, it seems like it’s everyone. People are so used to comparison-shopping online, they’ll find the cheapest price possible for any given item. Do you feel you’ve been able to escape this as a vintage clothing store?

I think so. Although you can still comparison shop with vintage clothes, nothing is ever going to be the same exact piece. If you find something and it’s “the one,” you may never see it again. Sometimes there are idiosyncratic details or nuances that make it just right.

I also think we’re lucky to have a community that supports us. As a consumer myself, I try to support local and small businesses because I know those companies can easily disappear. And that’s not great for the neighborhood. We have many customers outside of NYC, but we’re also lucky to have lots of guys in the neighborhood that enjoy shopping with us. And they’re guys who aren’t going to get on the computer to see if they can find something for ten bucks cheaper.

How do you get your stuff?

No two days are the same. There are wholesale places that sell bales of vintage clothing. So, you go and buy these dirt-cheap lots, sorted by types of clothes – sweatshirts, t-shirts, jeans, etc. But you have to buy so much junk order to get a few gems. That’s how you get these huge vintage stores with a ton of inventory, with racks and racks of stuff.

Our business model is the exact opposite of that. We have a very small store, which forces us to edit. I only want the gems. Which means I have to go out and source things myself, often piece-by-piece. That can mean anything from crawling around an attic to get vintage chore coats to digging around an estate sale. Sometimes I’ll follow a lead I read about; sometimes I network with other pickers around the country. The key is to always be sourcing because out of ten leads, only a few will be good.

You network with other vintage sellers?

Yea, it helps to have people out there who can tell you when they’ve found something, but aren’t in your specific market. I once met an antiques dealer at a flea market who had a stack of old work clothes. I bought the jackets and told him I had a vintage clothing store in Brooklyn. So, we traded info.

A few weeks later, he called me out of the blue and told me he found an old, boarded up mom-and-pop shoe store in Ohio that has been closed since the 1970s. Inside were hundreds of deadstock boots. He wanted to know if I was interested in buying them. 

I was skeptical at first since sometimes things are deadstock for a reason – maybe they’re in odd sizes, for example – but he promised they had a good size range and everything was in great condition. So, I told him I was interested. He ended up driving all the way to NYC from Ohio and we met up at my store at midnight. I bought 150 pairs of boots from his inventory. Had shoeboxes going up to the ceiling that night.

I’m surprised those things still happen. I can imagine finding up an old boarded-up place with deadstock items in the ‘80s, but with the internet, it feels like anyone can offload stuff online. 

I’m as surprised as you are, but those pickers still exist. From a business perspective, you’re getting the best margin. You’re getting stuff that people think is garbage, so you’re getting it for the lowest price, and then you’re able to find specialty collectors or buyers. It takes a ton of work. These people are often waking up at 3am just to find things, driving around searching for old stores, looking for hidden gems. It takes a certain kind of person.

Do you ever get people coming in off the street with an unusual find for sale? 

Not yet, but I once got a call from Richard Press, the former President of J. Press. It was great because I’ve always been a huge fan of the company. He helped broker a sale where I was able to get a bunch of stuff that was in the personal collection of a former J. Press tailor. One that had worked for the company from about the 1960s to the ‘80s. In the collection, there were hundreds of ties, sport coats, trousers, and deadstock shirts. It was so great to see Richard’s face light up, to see how excited he got about clothes. I feel like it’s so easy to get jaded about things, especially in the fashion industry, but Richard had this youthful excitement about him when he saw old things from his family’s store. It was really special.

Are there things you’ve picked up along the way that you’ve decided to keep it yourself?

Well, I always want to give my customers the first crack. I’ve always hated those vintage stores that dangle the best stuff from the ceiling, but only for decoration. That said, I’m an outerwear nut and NYC winters can be brutal, so I was pretty excited to get a Brown’s Beach jacket to go along with the vest. The jackets are rarer than the vest, and I was lucky to find one that fits. My 1940s USN deck jacket is also a favorite. Mine is olive; the navy one is a bit of a unicorn.

A lot of the stuff I wear, however, isn’t that rare. I like madras shirts, old Brooks Brothers button-downs. I like cut-off military khakis, vintage military jungle jackets. Anything from that ‘60s and ‘70s Vietnam War era, in the OG-107 cloth. Some of those vintage military fabrics were made from a cotton-poly blend, especially in the later years, but the earlier stuff was often pure cotton. That’s the stuff you want because it ages in a really nice way. 

As a guy who cleans and repairs things for his store, do you have any tips on how to clean vintage clothing?

A lot of it is common sense. Cotton things can be thrown into the wash; wool items will often need to be hand-washed or dry cleaned. A lot of what I buy is vintage workwear, so they’re things that have been through a lot – a washing machine isn’t going to hurt them. There are some things I leave behind because they’re too raggedy, but there’s a lot you can save with a bit of mending and cleaning.

If you find a vintage item with a musty smell, you can also spray it with a 50/ 50 mix of white vinegar and water. It helps freshen it up a bit. The vinegar smell goes away, and with it, it takes out some of the smell you occasionally find in vintage clothes. 

For readers who are interested in trying out vintage clothing, do you think there are some pieces that are easier to wear than others?

Definitely, go with the classics. A French chore coat or a Levi’s trucker jacket. Unless you’re shopping at the very high-end of the market, buying brands such as The Real McCoys or RRL, you can often get a vintage piece that’s cheaper and cooler than more mainstream items. Even a Levi’s trucker jacket from the 1980s is going to look better than a mainline Levi’s jacket in the same style, but new.

I also really like getting guys into bigger pants. The pendulum has swung so far into the slim-fit trend that guys can feel like it’s a revelation when they wear something fuller. Maybe a pair of fatigues isn’t right for the office, but they’re great for the weekend. For spring and summer, you can wear them with simple, canvas sneakers, such as Jack Purcells or Chuck Taylors. For fall, they look great with brown, plain-toe service boots. For me, the key to wearing fuller pants is that you don’t want a break. Otherwise, they can look really messy. If you roll them up a little, you get a fuller cut without any of the bagginess.

M-65 military jackets are also really easy to wear. 1950s and ‘60s military issue khakis. Denim chore coats. Especially with chore coats, if you’re not a connoisseur, you’re not going to care if a piece is from the ‘40s or ‘50s or ‘60s. The look is the same, which means you can come up on something that looks great, but is reasonably affordable. Again, they go great with jeans, sweatshirts, and heavy boots. They can fit a bit roomy, but I think that’s the charm.

I know what you mean. Sometimes when the fit is too precise, especially with workwear, an outfit can seem too precious. Ethan Newton once told me how he likes vintage leather jackets because they fit in idiosyncratic ways – which is just another way of saying they don’t fit perfectly. I think that can be good with certain looks.

I agree. We’ve spent so much time talking about effortless style, but sometimes guys get too worked up over details. Just put on the jacket and wear it. A lot of this is much simpler than sometimes it’s presented online. It goes back to the first day of school and wearing a jacket that makes you excited, a jacket that makes you feel cool. It can be about a feeling.

Thanks for your time, Brian. 

Readers interested in Wooden Sleepers can visit them in Red Hook, Brooklyn or shop from their new online store. They’re also on Instagram and Twitter, where you can keep up with their daily happenings. 

[zauniteenforcer]

TW: Anxiety, Depression and Medical Mentions

TL;DR: I’m going crazy, and just needed to put my thoughts on paper.

PS:  If you aimlessly flame in norms in League of Legends, delete the game.

// Honestly, I’m just trying to get better at things, and have a little fun in my free time. I’m tired, and have quite frankly been really depressed recently. Every other game someone’s flaming something over something fucking stupid, and half the time it’s me -- no matter how good or bad I’m doing. You don’t need to tell me I did poor -- I already know. People like that, I really wonder if it makes them feel any better about themselves. I hope it does so maybe SOMETHING productive can happen with it at the very least if it has to happen at all. People like that are the reason so many of my friends quit the game, and I don’t want to think like that. I love this game with all my heart; I’ve gained many friends playing it and it’s something we can share. But like... IT’S JUST A FUCKING GAME. Like holy shit. I’ve been called so many names over the years I’ve lost count and been screamed at... hell, how many times have I been told or seen someone who got told things like ‘Kill yourself.’ -- You should NEVER say something like that. To anyone. You don’t know them. You don’t know what they’re going through... and you certainly don’t know where they’re at mentally. You could just say that to the wrong person.

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

That rant aside, I’m just gonna put my thoughts into words. I’ve been so stressed out of my mind for WEEKS. I had to file taxes pretty last minute, and I hadn’t had a haircut in almost a year and a half. These are the little things that were just icing on the cake. That being said:

I just got laid off with work, and nothing available around here would remotely pay my bills (here’s to hoping unemployment pulls through for me. My boyfriend did manage to get a job, but it’s honestly not gonna cover even his half of the bills unless he gets a quick pay raise. Everyone has been pressing me about getting a job too. Sending me stuff at all weird hours, shoving down my throat things I’ve already told them I’m not interested in. Just -- Generally making me feel like I’m completely just a useless waste of space because I no longer have a job... and yeah, that’s really helpful to me getting one.

My last job was as a customer service rep. I took calls assisting with account support and tech support.... So what I really mean is for the past 3 years, I’ve worked 40 hours a week to get fucking screamed at. I’ve been told 8 hours a day for 7 days a week that everything is my fault. I think my favorite quote I heard from a customer was this:

“I bet you feel so proud of yourself. You just love taking money from little boys.”

I have two points that I would like to make to this person who said this to me, but they would never believe me. 

1. I absolutely do not. I do not like what I have to say to you. I am required to do things how I am presenting them to you because I have to have income.

2. If you can’t afford $15.00... you probably shouldn’t have a Netflix account.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Every other call towards the end of my time there was exactly like that. I would be almost in tears if not outright nearly having a panic attack several times in a work night. When I sleep, I’m not resting.

For another thing... my grandmother has been in the hospital since Wednesday of last week. So it’s almost a week now. She had open heart surgery that day, and I don’t think she’s been conscious since. They’ve had her on oxygen, and at this point she has pneumonia and is possibly getting a Tracheotomy tomorrow from the sound of things.... It’s not inherently looking worse, but honestly, it feels like there’s been virtually no improvement. She’s the last direct grandparent I have at this point, and it scares me. It scares me so much, and I just don’t know what’s happening. 

I need to get out of this mindset... but I don’t get a lot of time to myself right now. There’s always someone to please, and it’s never myself. Where do you go when you’ve been at your wit’s end for several weeks... always saying “Just a few more days and then I can rest.” How do you tell family to get off your backs before you lose your goddamn mind? Especially when they don’t believe there could ever be anything wrong with you because “you handle things differently.” Isn’t... that... the point... of a mental illness??? 

I’ve struggled with anxiety my whole life. That much I know for sure... but at this point, I’m not sure that’s all it is. I know my anxiety is bad but... every day I lie in bed not wanting to get up. Like taking a shower is such a chore. I stare at the ceiling, stuck in my own head because anything I could start just doesn’t sound like fun anymore. It always feels like a lot of people are just out to make fun of me. I lay in bed unable to sleep because all I want to do is cry... and looking back on my life, this isn’t the first time I’ve been like this. It just hit me like a ton of bricks this time around. 

I also have the attention span of a squirrel sometimes. I was told by my teachers back in elementary that they thought I had ADHD because I would act out and practically couldn’t focus on the lesson. My parents told them that I was just bored because I would finish the work early. Now I wonder as an adult if there was any merit to this, or if they were right. Someone can get my attention, say something directly to me, and I just won’t hear it. Like my brain hears sound, but it doesn’t process it sometimes. If more than one person is talking, or more than like 1-2 different things are playing (games, shows, etc.) the conflicting sounds legitimately make me crazy. It just sounds like jumbled static and my brain tries to pick apart what’s different and focus on anything, but I can’t. It gives me a headache. It makes my whole body feel like the static I hear, and I want to throw up when it happens. It basically feels like what I’d imagine could be called sensory overload at that point. 

To be honest, I haven’t spoke with a professional about these things, and maybe one day I will. I’ve mostly been functional enough that I don’t really feel like I need to. I just need a day or two to breathe. I just want the world to slow down for 5 goddamn minutes.

If you’ve read this far, just know that I’ll be okay. I just needed to put it somewhere and my IRL friends and family follow a lot of my other media. -- And honestly, some of my interactions here are some of the happiest things I have to cling to recently. You all are amazing. 

[auguryfaun]

Ok as an addition I’m not trying to complain at all. My parents have done a lot for me over the years and recently my moms hours have been cut. She used to work 50 hours a week but the hospital cut overtime so she is making less than she was and even though I’m not exactly stable I’m really good with figuring out bills and making sure im okay with money for the most part so When I got my tax refund I had already decided to help them however they needed. Especially since my dad is FINALLY seeking help for his PTSD after all these years and the medical bills from the VA for his meds and therapy have been an unexpected expenditure. So I’m totally happy to help them, but it’s difficult when my dad doesn’t tell me until a week after I was like “Hey let me know”, literally a day before it’s due he finally texted me and asked if I could pay in for them for federal taxes because they just don’t have the money.  My point in this is that I’m happy I am more stable as a human than my sister was (even still is) Like, I love her but she did so many impulsive things when she was my age that resulted in her taking a lot of money from my parents and grandparents and never repaying that. She still struggles now as a 32 year old who doesn’t have to pay rent or utilities. They live with her fiancee’s grandparents. Like I’m 10 years younger than Jen but I can handle steep rent and student loans and make a good amount more than she does in a job that isn’t in my field. I get that I’m the first in the family to do the college thing but I think I need to sit some of my family down and educate them on how to actually live paycheck to paycheck.....I mean I struggle and stress out and also work between 50-60 hours a week at my job, but I’m doing what I have to do so I can support myself and be able to help my parents.. They’ve done a lot for me and its selfish not to return the favor just because I’m their child.

My mom didn’t move to another country to raise an idiot. I told her since I was a kid that I was going to take care of her, and dammit it may not be how I dreamed but I’m doing the best I can. 

[creativitytoexplore]

Use Your Writing to Subvert, to Inform, to Speak Truth to Power: An Interview with Christina Hammonds Reed https://ift.tt/2CptXGZ

Though our 2020 Literary Debutante Ball has been postponed, we’re still promoting the work of our incredible 2020 Debs. We hope you consider supporting Christina, and all the authors who are releasing books during this challenging time, by purchasing their books.

In Los Angeles in 1992, race relations are reaching a fever pitch. As riots roar through the city in response to the police beating of Rodney King, high school senior Ashley Bennet is facing her own reckoning. The school year is coming to an end, she feels as though she’s losing everyone she loves to other priorities, and a rumor she starts reaches a fever pitch of its own, at her wealthy, predominantly white, private high school. With significant parallels to our current times, Christina Hammonds Reed’s The Black Kids, out now, is about coming-of-age in a fire, both literal and figurative – little sparks of tragedy in a teenager’s life, as the world quite literally, burns around her.

Vanessa Chan: Where were you when you found out The Black Kids was going to be published? How did you celebrate?

Christina Hammonds Reed: I was at my day job at the time, which incidentally was the day job I most enjoyed out of the many random jobs I’ve had over the years. My agent called me so I rushed out of the office to take a “coffee break”. When he shared the news with me, I could barely contain my excitement. I was jumping up and down in heels outside a very corporate building in Downtown Los Angeles. Then I calmly and rather anti-climactically went back to work. I didn’t really share it with people outside of my super close circle of friends. I was terrified it would all be taken away. Eventually, I had various celebratory dinners and drinks with my family and closest friends. But the day itself was especially meaningful to me because I received the news finalizing the deal on the one-year anniversary of my grandmother’s death, so there was so much joy to be had in a day that otherwise would’ve been painful.

VC: Which did you write first, the novel or your short story (published in One Teen Story, Issue #41)? And how long did the novel take you to write?

CHR: I wrote the short story first! I had the idea kicking around in my head as a graduate thesis film back in 2010, but ultimately decided against it. However, the story wouldn’t let me go, and just felt increasingly imperative with the rise of smartphones documenting police brutality and the effects of unequal policing on Black and Brown communities over the last decade. When the short story was published, I was un-agented. My (eventual) agent reached out to me and we had a really great meeting where he asked if I had considered expanding it into a novel. My first impulse was actually to say I’d said what I had to say, and was ready to move on to the next story. But the more I thought about it, it really did feel like there was so much left to explore, specifically as it relates to class, race, mental health and what it’s like to come of age as a Black girl with some degree of relative privilege. The novel took about two and half years to write from outline to submission. I had a job that entire time and was grieving the death of both of my maternal grandparents, so it took me a little longer than I’d hoped. But it also helped me stay focused on something other than grief. The task of completing it felt like a way of honoring them.

VC: In the novel, there is a point where a well-meaning friend tells Ashley that she’s not, “Blackity Black.” A lot of the story references the different ways where Ashley is either “too Black” or “not Black enough.” Why is this part of her identity important to interrogate?

CHR: I think for those of us who grew up in non-Black areas and going to non-Black schools, this is very much part of the microaggressions we were regularly subjected to because the media portrayals of Blackness, up until very recently, have been so limited. Film, music, books, visual art, all of these, seep into our consciousness as a society and when those images are focused solely on Black struggle and degradation, non-Black people will look at a Black person who doesn’t fit that stereotype and say, “Well you’re not that. Therefore, you’re not Black.” Which is absolutely incorrect. The Black community isn’t and never has been a monolith and while we have this powerful shared and unique experience of being Black in America, Blackness doesn’t only look like one thing and never has.

VC: It seems as though this novel is both an homage to and an indictment of the city of Los Angeles. What do you love and mourn for in LA?

CHR: I love the socioeconomic, cultural and religious diversity of this place. I love the geographic diversity of this city. I love that LA in its current iteration was actually founded by Black and Brown folks, as well as originally being the land of the Tongva people. And what I mourn is that these same people who helped make this city as beautiful and culturally rich as it is are being pushed out because of the economic realities of being unable to compete with wealthy transplants, rising housing costs, and a more stratified economy. Even homes in what was traditionally considered the hood up until fairly recently are now going for over a million dollars. Gentrification and revitalization projects are good for some but often they come at the expense of Black and Brown people who get pushed out of places they’ve called home for generations. And really that gentrification has been enabled by years of neglect, of political and economic disenfranchisement in the years leading up to and following the riots, from which many of these Black and Brown communities never fully recovered.

VC: You were eight years old when the LA riots broke out; your character Ashley is a senior in high school. What did it take to imagine her world at the time? What were your resources—your own memory, or conversations with family/friends, or historical research, or anything else? Did you draw from parallels in the present?

CHR: I was young at the time, but old enough to remember the fires, the anger and hurt of people who looked like me on the screen. I remember wondering why they were in pain and how it related to my personal experience of blackness. Similarly, Ashley is questioning herself and her community albeit in a much more mature way. That said, I still had to do a lot of research to make sure I was getting things right, even down to flipping through old issues of Seventeen and Vogue, etc. to see what Ashley and her friends would be wearing. Of particular help was Anna Deavere Smith’s Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992 and a compendium of articles by the LA Times called Understanding the Riots, among others. I also spent hours on YouTube watching news reports, listening to music, and watching music videos of the era and the stories told therein. I wanted to fully immerse myself in 1992 and what it looked and sounded like. Also, one of the benefits of writing about somewhere where I currently live, is that everyone I spoke to about writing the book would offer memories of what their experiences of the riots had been. It was like we had shared this moment as a community and there was absolutely a desire to reminisce and reflect on it.

Honestly, I didn’t have to try too hard to draw parallels to the present. They’re inherent in this moment, unfortunately. Things have changed a bit, but also as we’ve seen with the recent George Floyd protests and the national and international outcry over the deaths of Black and Brown people at the hands of police, almost thirty years later we’re still grappling with how structural and systemic racism lead to a police force that doesn’t actually protect and serve all of us.

VC: You have a career and background in film and TV production. Did that aid you in writing this book?

CHR: Traditionally, screenwriting is very structured. There are very specific moments at which the inciting incident, rising action, climax, and denouements should theoretically take place in a conventional three-act structure. I relied on that in the outlining of the novel and making sure that I was moving plot along even within the more meandering context of Ashley’s interior shift. That said, I frequently blew up what I thought the plot was going to be along the way, most especially in the third “act” of the book. Mostly, I think it helped me not feel overwhelmed by what at the time felt like a very Herculean task. Especially given that it was my very first attempt at writing a book.

VC: What is the one thing you want your readers to take away when they read The Black Kids? What kind of advice would you give young Black writers?

CHR: I purposefully wrote Ashley as an incredibly flawed character because I thought it was important to illustrate that it’s not about where you start, it’s about where you end up. She makes huge mistakes over the course of the book. She hurts people and herself. She isn’t as informed as she should be. But she grows to be kinder, more empathetic; she takes ownership of her mistakes, and speaks up and out. She starts to love herself and really see herself as part of a larger community. I hope to convey to younger readers that it’s OK if you don’t have all the answers. Messing up is part of life and what’s important is personal growth. And I hope that it builds empathy, awareness and an even stronger desire to advocate for Black lives in non-Black readers who may not have inhabited a world like Ashley’s before.

To young Black writers, I would say, Your stories are important and worthy of being shared and you don’t need to seek validation from the “right” schools or the “right” programs before you can consider yourself a “real writer.” Also, be kind to yourself right now. This is a moment that can be especially stressful for one’s mental health given that not only are we in a pandemic, we’re also in a moment of huge racial reckoning in which the oppression of Black, Brown, and trans bodies is at the forefront of the national conversation. It’s OK to feel drained or depressed and less focused on writing as you normally would. Take care of yourself and eventually, when you feel stronger, use your writing to subvert, to inform, to speak truth to power, and to showcase our joy and our love.

Vanessa Chan is a Malaysian writer who writes about race, colonization, and women who don’t toe the line. Her fiction and non-fiction have been published or are forthcoming in Conjunctions, The Rumpus, Porter House Review, and more. Vanessa is a Fiction editor at TriQuarterly Magazine, an Assistant fiction editor at Pithead Chapel, a reader for One Story, and an MFA candidate at The New School. Her writing has received support from Tin House, Mendocino Coast Writers’ Conference, Aspen Words, and Disquiet International. She is at work on a novel.

[oakmd]

professor oak’s rp plotting cheat-sheet!

Want new-and-exciting plots for your character? Long to reach out to more of your followers, but don’t know where to start? Fear not! Fill out this form and give your RP partners both present and future all the of juicy jumping off points they need to help you get your characters acquainted.

Be sure to tag the players whose characters YOU want more cues to interact with, and repost, don’t reblog! Feel free to add or remove sections as you see fit. Template here.

Mod name: :v OOC Contact: Tumblr IM; but if we’re mutuals I’ll give you my discord! I have Skype too, but I don’t really use it much. 

WHO IS HE:

 Professor Oak is a renowned Pokémon Professor most notably known for his invention of the Pokédex, his Welcome To The World of Pokémon! lecture / documentary and his extensive research surrounding the relationships between pokémon and people. He’s a very recognizable icon in the pokéworld; it would be impossible not to know who he is. 

Alternatively, while he’s mostly known for being a scientist, he has wide recognition for his Pokémon poetry. He also does regular recordings with DJ Mary at Goldenrod Radio Tower. 

The Professor resides in Pallet Town, Kanto, in one of the world’s most impressive laboratory reserve - stretching across acres upon acres of land, built entirely to replicate all types of pokémon’s natural habitats and terrains. 

As a former pokémon trainer ( as well as Kanto Champion ), he has one grandson, Gary Oak, who is also former pokémon trainer, but is now currently on the path to becoming a Scientist himself, specializing in fossil revival.

Points of interest:

My portrayal of Professor Oak is mostly anime-based. This means I do not consider game function as canon or as character trait (ex. Professor Oak forgetting his grandson’s name. I have heard this joke enough to last me a lifetime, please Don’t™.) However, I include some elements of the manga/game, I guess, but usually only to fill in the many gaps untouched in the anime. With that being said, Green / Blue / Red and even Daisy do not exist. I have exceptions of interactions with some people, but it does not fall under my Main Canon and is more of some weird, blended AU, lol. 

Professor Oak is a 50+ year old man. On top of that, a parent and a grandparent. Because of this, most of the time ( not always ) he will naturally be more intuitive and perceptive to situations than a younger muse might be. He has had many, many life experiences to draw from that he applies to current context; empathizing and offering advice comes easy. With that being said, please communicate with me if I’ve crossed a line with this; I won’t take offense!

Professor Oak has interacted with legendary Pokémon. See: Celebi, ft. Suicune. Professor Oak is not immune to... strange occurrences. He’s interacted with the legendary pokémon Celebi ( and Suicune ) when he was a young boy. However, I portray this muse as someone that has seen much more ( of the unexplainable, not necessarily legendaries ), yet appreciates them within the comfort of his own privacy. 

Professor Oak has very high public status! While the man certainly lives his life as a regular person, his life is anything but. Hailing from Kanto and living peacefully in Pallet Town, Samuel’s demeanor is very humble, but his Net Worth is one of the highest, given his important influence, multi-faceted popularity and on-going relevancy among the citizens of the poké-universe. It goes without saying that he has made some of the most important contributions to the field of science and world of pokémon, but he is also sort of a pop culture “idol”. His name is attached to hundreds of awards, recognitions, lifetime achievements, entertainment achievements. Whatever there is to do, Professor Oak does it all: Scientist, Writer, Artist, Humanitarian, Pokémon Professor, TV Host, Radio Host, University Lecturer, Motivational Speaker, Activist, League Advisor, Parent. There is nothing he won’t dive into if it’s for the greater good.  List of Awards: here. 

What they’ve been up to recently:

*POST-CANON. Same ol’, same ol’. Professor Oak has many years left in him yet! You can still find him on his happy little hill in Pallet Town doing what he does best: giving trainers their starters, and babysitting those same 9482536 kids under his care. Including, but not limited to all the 3948357927682294 pokémon he and - everyone’s favorite personal assistant son - Tracey Sketchit share responsibility for. His life will pretty much be the same, as it has been; the perks of being old and well-adjusted.  *I use ‘post canon’ loosely. My default timeline is ongoing with the show itself, but since time never seems to progress, I’ve taken it upon myself to lazily assume some years have passed since S1E1 ( hence why I say Oak is 50+ rather than actually 50 ). 

MULTI-VERSE. If you are a non-pokémon muse, Professor Oak will happily accept that you’re simply not someone from his universe. As mentioned above, stranger things have happened to him. Because of his own experiences, he’s very open-minded about the possibilities the universe has up it’s sleeve. I like to think of his corral and his lab are portal spots for the unknown to materialize. Maybe a point deep in the mountain and forest terrain. Or perhaps from the forest ( between Kanto and Johto ) where Celebi dwells. This concept isn’t necessary to follow for the multi-verse, just a suggestion! TL;DR Let Professor Oak be your away-from-home grandpa, he has lots of Experience™.

Where to find them:

DEFAULT VERSE. There are a lot of places to find the ever-active Professor Oak. However, the top three most common places are: his research lab ( corral included ) in Pallet Town, Kanto, Goldenrod Radio Tower, and Celadon University. Because he is so famous, he can be anywhere, though. Whether it’s doing charity work, raising awareness, doing lectures, being a guest at internships, working with media across regions, visiting other pokémon professors, being on a much needed vacation, traveling for work. Pretty much, wherever your muse is, I can find a reason for Professor Oak to be there. 

POST-COLLEGE. I don’t actually have a ‘verse’ for this but it takes place shortly after Samuel finishes grad school and takes position as Kanto’s Pokémon Professor. He’s the first one to reside in Pallet Town. The lab itself is still under renovation; he’s moved back home after being away for years at school, and still trying to mourn the loss of his fiancé. He’s a single father, struggling to balance work and parenthood, but he gets by. ( Further down this timeline, about thirteen years later, he suffers the loss of his children, and becomes the guardian of his grandson, Gary Oak. )

To find Professor Oak is the other ‘verses’ from the Offered / Desired sections, just ask. 

Current plans:

Keeping busy. Professor Oak is a very goal-oriented person and although he finds relaxation necessary, he also prefers to be active. His hands are always full running the biggest pokémon lab, but he’s always throwing himself into new projects of all kinds of varieties.

Travel and meet new people. Ever the social butterfly, the Professor is always welcoming new faces to his growing list of companions. Although his reasons for traveling are no longer for becoming a Pokémon Champion, he finds that there are plenty of things he hadn’t quite noticed or appreciated before. It’s interesting to see how some things have changed, and for others, how they’ve stayed the same. It’s all for business purposes of course ( mostly ), but coming full circle provides closure for memories he’d only reminisced about for years after he graduated from college. 

Supporting Gary. As his grandson begins his journey in the field of science, Professor Oak prioritizes helping him adjust and giving him the support he needs.

Otherwise, the plans depend on what your muse brings. :O

Desired interactions:

Retired Oak! Literally everything is the same except he’s wearing tropical shirts and jorts. B^) Alola cruise, anyone?

Alzheimer’s Oak! LISTEN, I KNOW.. ... .. Game-mechanic jokes aside, lmao - I have no real excuse. It just hurts so good. ;^(

Grandpa Oak. I’m sure raising Gary and Ash was nothing but and Experience™.

TRACEY. MY PURE ASSISTANT SON -

College. What goes on in college, stays in college. College timeline: here.

Celebi, Again! Starring... Professor Oak! B^) Swapped into the body of his younger self. How does he fix this? Calamity ensues.

Dr. Fuji, Who? No, Professor Oak isn’t part of Team Rocket but he did get roped into helping them create MewTwo with the desperate attempt to also bring his family back to life. Did I rip that from Dr. Fuji? Yes I did, and I don’t care, let me live -

Team Rocket? Or, alternatively, he does work for Team Rocket with this ridiculous concept that he was blackmailed into working for them post-grad because of his unremarkable intelligence and promise. While his public face is the friendly Professor Oak everyone knows and loves, his lab holds darker secrets, the darkest being that he could no loner resist their persistence in making him comply, after they staged his children’s death as an innocent car accident. : ) ... Anyway, 

Persistent Press. Be annoying and invasive. Start scandals. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Unrequited. Get rejected by the notorious man himself. He will be gentle.

Agatha. How dare you,

CROSSOVERS!!!

Offered interactions:

Are you a Pokémon Trainer™ or some other kind of pokémon-specializing person ( pokémon watcher, photographer, breeder, ranger, etc. )? Ring up your Professor when Officer Jenny arrests you for something he told you not to do in the first place so he can judge you with a proper scolding. For the others, show him your talents and skills! If you’re not a Kanto Trainer, I’m sure one of the other Professors can send you his way, either to drop something off / pick something up / for general help, etc. and he’s always excited to meet his colleagues’ kiddos. Also excited to see others contribute to the world of pokémon in some way! He loves pokémon and humans interacting! 

Are you a Pokémon Professor? Doctor, Nurse? Let’s gather ‘round and be stressed about Ash our reckless trainers. But also drinking and karaoke! Pokémon Discourse™. Camping retreats. Boring, obligatory conferences. Peer Review. Or maybe you just need a little advice from one of the pokéworlds more experienced Professors! Unless you’re Professor Rowan - in that case you’re BFFs that get into shenanigans nobody would ever believe. 

Are you a Science Major? Limited internships available for college students.

Do you live in Pallet Town? Hi, neighbor! B^) Professor Oak ( and Tracey ) most likely talk to you in passing, should it occur. ( Please message me about pre-established relationships first. ) Common places include, the mart, post office, movie theaters, etc.

Summer Camp? Boom, Professor Oak has summer camp for the kiddos at his corral. 

Are you a big idolizer of Professor Oak? Lucky for you, there’s more than one way to be a fan! You can reach him via fanmail, @’ing him on social media, finding his personal phone number from some sketchy fan forum, hogging up the radio show hotline, stalking his schedule to make each appearance panel, hovering outside around his lab, stealing candid photos, bombarding him in public with intrusive questions, shoving your notepad out for an autograph... You can even be one of those weird people who try to proclaim your love to ‘celebrities’ too old for you that you know little about. Who knows what this poor man will do?

Are you into Traditional Kanto / Johto? You may share the same passions if you’re into calligraphy, ikebana, haiku, tea ceremonies, etc. 

Are you a Celadon University Student? Feel free to talk to your Intro To Pokémon ( or Pokémon Sociology 101, etc. ) Professor about anything unclear about assignments, to offer questions or concerns... or try to make excuses for not turning in homework and being late, you lazy student. :T Doubles as an Unofficial Guidance Counselor to said students even though that’s not his job - but he can’t help it, he’s a parent before he’s a Professor.

Are you a child associated with Make-A-Wish Foundation? Professor Oak offers terminally-ill children the opportunity to choose their starters, and spend time with their favorite idol. : (

Are you affiliated with the media? All press can inquire about guest speakings, giveaways, promotions, advertisement deals, interviews, volunteer work, hosting/co-hosting, etc. and Professor Oak will get back to you at his earliest convenience. This INCLUDES those working at Goldenrod Radio Tower!

Are you a business person? Politician? High-Profile Celebrity / Figure? Meet Professor Oak at a Gala! Or any other formal event. Feel free to offer business negotiations, inquire about his residence, or other sketchy things. :v 

Are you affiliated with Kanto’s Pokémon League? Albeit not as recently involved as per usual, he’s an advisor, so he and your muse are at least associates, if not more.

Are you one of the developers that helped with the Pokédex? Nerds will be nerds.

Do you know Samuel from his days prior to being Professor Oak? Whether it be from childhood, training days, or college, they all matter. ( I’m aware this is highly unlikely because nobody RP’s old pokémon muses, but with that being said, I’m open to interacting with kids / grandkids of the aforementioned. )

Are you Team Rocket a villain? Have you reached your Kidnap-A-Scientist quota today? 

Current open post/s:

I had very few, but I’m too lazy to look for them. Plotting is probably better. /gestures to this post

Anything else?:

Threading is not limited to this list. I’m always open to more ideas!  

I’m not sure what the huge difference is between the Desired / Offered interactions -

You don’t need a pokémon verse to interact with me! 

Your muse does not need to idolize Professor Oak to interact with him.

CROSSOVERS.

Tagged by: i stole this from @undinaes

Tagging: Whoever sees this!

[newstfionline]

America’s Forgotten History of Illegal Deportations

By Alex Wagner, The Atlantic, March 6, 2017

It was a time of economic struggle, racial resentment and increasing xenophobia. Installed in the White House was a president who had never before held elected office. A moderately successful businessman, he promised American jobs for Americans--and made good on that promise by slashing immigration by nearly 90 percent.

He wore his hair parted down the middle, rather than elaborately piled on top, and his name was Herbert Hoover, not Donald Trump. But in the late 1920s and early 1930s, under the president’s watch, a wave of illegal and unconstitutional raids and deportations would alter the lives of as many as 1.8 million men, women and children--a threat that would seem to loom just as large in 2017 as it did back in 1929.

What became colloquially known as the “Mexican repatriation” efforts of 1929 to 1936 are a shameful and profoundly illustrative chapter in American history, yet they remain largely unknown--despite their broad and devastating impact.

Back in Hoover’s era, as America hung on the precipice of economic calamity--the Great Depression--the president was under enormous pressure to offer a solution for increasing unemployment, and to devise an emergency plan for the strained social safety net. Though he understood the pressing need to aid a crashing economy, Hoover resisted federal intervention, instead preferring a patchwork of piecemeal solutions, including the targeting of outsiders.

According to former California State Senator Joseph Dunn, who in 2004 began an investigation into the Hoover-era deportations, “the Republicans decided the way they were going to create jobs was by getting rid of anyone with a Mexican-sounding name.”

“Getting rid of” America’s Mexican population was a random, brutal effort. “For participating cities and counties, they would go through public employee rolls and look for Mexican-sounding names and then go and arrest and deport those people,” said Dunn. “And then there was a job opening!”

“We weren’t rounding up people who were Canadian,” he added. “It was an absolutely racially-motivated program to create jobs by getting rid of people.”

Why, specifically, men and women of Mexican heritage? Professor Francisco Balderrama, whose book, A Decade of Betrayal: Mexican Repatriation in the 1930s is the most definitive chronicle of the period (and, not coincidentally, one of the only ones), explained: “Mexican immigration was very recent. It goes back to that saying: Last hired, first fired. The attitude of many industrialists and agriculturalists was reflected in larger cities: A Mexican is a Mexican.” And that included even those citizens of Mexicans descent who were born in the U.S.

The so-called repatriation effort was, in large part, a misnomer, given the fact that as many as sixty percent of those sent to “home” Mexico were U.S. citizens: American-born children of Mexican-descent who had never before traveled south of the border. (Dunn noted, “I don’t know how you can repatriate someone to a country they’ve not been born or raised in.”)

“Individuals who left at 5, 6 and 7 years old found themselves in Mexico dealing with process of socialization, of learning the language, but they maintained an American identity,” said Balderrama. “And still had the dream to come back to ‘my country.’”

The raids, as detailed in Balderrama’s chronicle, were vicious. With national concerns over the supposed burden that outsiders were putting on social welfare agencies, authorities targeted those Mexicans utilizing public resources. “In Los Angeles,” explained Balderrama, “they had orderlies who gathered people [in the hospitals] and put them in stretchers on trucks and left them at the border.”

The efforts were equally chaotic. “The first raid in Los Angeles was in 1931--they surrounded La Placita Park near downtown L.A.,” Dunn recalled. “It was a heavily Latino area. They, literally, on a Sunday afternoon, rounded everyone up in park that day, took them to train station and put them on a train that they had leased. These people were taken to Central Mexico to minimize their chances of crossing the border and coming back to the U.S.”

Dunn continued, “It was not like there was a master committee mapping out blocks. It was more fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants. As in, Here’s a park where Mexicans go, okay let’s go there.”

Mexicans in the United States--and Americans of Mexican descent--had little understanding of what was happening, and what their rights were. Elena Herrada, one of the founders of the oral history project, “Los Repatriados: Exiles from the Promised Land,” is the grandchild of Mexican-Americans who were targeted in the raids. Her grandparents, she recalled, lived in a “mostly Mexican neighborhood” in Detroit, known as Court Town.

“It was the welfare officials who were doing it. A worker came to the door,” Herrada said. “My father remembered his father being asked by the worker, Where are you from?”

The family, Herrada recounted, was “de-patriated” to Mexico.

“My grandfather didn’t have work at the time, and they were forcing them to leave. There was no gun put to his to head, but [they said he] wouldn’t be eligible to receive assistance--and he would starve.”

“Many people didn’t believe they had a choice,” Herrada explained, “so they didn’t resist. My family didn’t believe they had a choice.”

Herrada’s father and uncle would spend two years in Mexico before his parents were able to bring him back to the United States--after her grandfather, a veteran of the U.S. Army, returned to the country and once again found work.

If American deportees made it back to America, according to Dunn, it was often because a friend or family member back in the States managed to obtain a copy of their birth certificate, proof of citizenship. And if they weren’t U.S. citizens, by the onset of World War II and the departure of much of the able-bodied workforce to the front, Mexican labor was back in demand: bodies were needed for low-paying agricultural work, and the xenophobia subsided under the auspices of the Bracero Program (a bilateral agreement between the U.S. and Mexico, the program brought Mexican workers to the states for short-term labor).

But some never made it back to America. “We are who we are because of what people did in that moment,” said Herrada.

Each state handled the raids differently--sometimes federal agents were involved, sometimes it was social workers and local law enforcement who targeted people for removal. Hoover’s precise role in directing the deportation efforts is unclear, but, according to Professor Kevin Johnson, Dean of the UC Davis School of Law, and a specialist in public interest law and Chicano studies, “There was a lot of correspondence between the different levels of government, and there was logistical support.” This support included reimbursing states for the chartering of busses and trains to transport people to Mexico.

Deportations took place across the country: Los Angeles had the largest concentration of Mexicans and Mexican-born Americans, but communities in Detroit were also targeted in large number. “America’s most industrial city was in many ways the promise of the age in terms of economic prosperity,” according to Balderrama, and because of this, its Mexicans and citizens of Mexicans-descent were not exempt from deportation. “The archival evidence points to a full map, across the nation,” said Balderrama. There were deportations in states as far flung as Alaska, Alabama and Mississippi.

And yet, confirming the precise number of people who were deported during this era is difficult, said Balderrama. “Both governments”--Mexico and the United States--”weren’t very interested in keeping records about what happened. It was a problem and they wanted to get rid of it. That’s why the numbers are very difficult.”

Dunn, however, spent nearly three years doing archival research, enlisting his state senate staff to comb through federal, state and local records in a bid to reconcile California’s tortured legacy. He feels confident in his citation of 1.8 million people deported. “That number came out of several documents we got from the federal government,” he told me.

Beyond the travesty inflicted upon hundreds of thousands of U.S. citizens, the Mexican deportations of the 1920s and 1930s are also shocking--and at this moment, particularly enlightening--for the illegalities visited upon non-citizens. Trump is unlikely to willfully deport American citizens, but he appears perilously close to replicating many of the mistakes Hoover did as it concerned the undocumented. And given the number of mixed-status families in the U.S.--as of 2015, 16.6 million Americans lived in residences with at least one undocumented immigrant--these deportations will affect citizens and non-citizens alike.

Given the burden mass deportations would have placed on the federal bureaucracy, Hoover’s administration outsourced the raids, targeting and deportation to local and state officials--persons not particularly well versed in constitutional law, nor the sensitivities surrounding deportation.

Trump appears ready to do the same: while the administration has directed the hiring of 10,000 new Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officials to oversee the dramatic increase in deportations, the administration has also revived the controversial 287(g) program, which recruits local law enforcement and sheriff’s deputies to assist in deportations.

Only a limited number of Americans seem to even be aware of the gross mistakes their country made in the name of security. While still a state senator, Dunn successfully sponsored the Apology Act, an official mea culpa from the state of California to its Mexican residents--it passed in 2006. He also led efforts to have a memorial erected in La Placita park, the site of the first raids on L.A.’s Mexican community, where it now stands in memoriam.

And yet, when Dunn took his apology proposal to members of the U.S. Congress, no one was interested. “They would say, ‘Immigration is really volatile right now. We’re gonna look like we’re only fighting for Latinos.’ We couldn’t convince anyone to pick it up.”

As for all the records and material unearthed during his research? Dunn said, “Those documents are still sitting in my garage. Nobody really wanted them.”

Those whose families were affected by the deportations--in some cases forever changed--appear no more eager to delve into the sins of the past. “They never talked about it,” said Herrada, “there was a lot of shame associated with it … They didn’t know why they got deported. They didn’t know what they did to bring that on. The only thing they knew was that they were Mexicans--and this only happened to Mexicans.”

[ericpoptone]

If you’re American and you recognize names like “Bad Boys Blue,” “C.C. Catch,” “Sandra,” or “Modern Talking,” there’s a good chance that you, or someone close to you, is Vietnamese. For the uninitiated non-Viet Americans, those are the names of three German (and one German-Dutch) pop bands whose songs have been compiled, covered, and claimed by a subset of the Vietnamese American community as “New Wave.”

There are other groups in the New Wave canon like Gazebo, Ken Lazslo, Fancy, Joy, and Silent Circle whose hits are familiar to thousands of Vietnamese Americans. Meanwhile, having worked in record stores for more than ten years, I can say that none of my coworkers, no matter how knowledgeable, had ever heard of any of them.

How, I wondered, did these Eurodisco acts become so cherished by such a specific segment of a specific population of refugees and their descendants — especially when there’s no obvious connection between West Germany‘s pop industry and Vietnamese refugees in the US. I never solved that riddle, but my curiosity and love of those songs led me on numerous occasions to parties and nightclubs in North Orange County‘s Little Saigon.

Last year, a filmmaker named Elizabeth Ai contacted me. She is currently in the process of making a documentary and television series, both called NEW WAVE. More recently, she started companion Instagram and Facebook accounts to which people can submit photos of themselves from that era, hair immaculately fixed with hairspray, and often clothed in black.

ERIC BRIGHTWELL: Hello Elizabeth, can you tell us a bit about yourself — who you are, where you’re from, and what you do?

ELIZABETH AI: The short answer: I’m a Chinese-Vietnamese-American filmmaker from the San Gabriel Valley. 

The long one: It’s hard to talk about who I am without talking about my family and the multi-generational fleeing they’ve done from war-torn countries — a family tradition I might continue depending on what happens this November. My maternal great-grandparents fled China to Vietnam in the 1920s because of the Chinese Civil War. And my grandfather, an ARVN captain, upon release from re-education camp, fled Vietnam with his wife (my grandmother) on a fishing boat to Hong Kong in the late ’70s. Fortunately, they had family members already situated in the US that helped them figure out sponsorship through their church. My aunt and uncles arrived right in time for the golden age of MTV. I was the first US-born person in my family, raised by my grandparents, and have struggled all my life with these multiple historical narratives that make up my DNA. 

Are you asking me where I’m from or where I’m really from? JK. — I grew up in the SGV (San Gabriel Valley) in the shadow of the L.A. riots. Where I grew up, at the time, looks vastly different than the safe neighborhood it is today. Somehow I managed a 4.0 GPA when I used to sneak out with friends to cruise Valley Boulevard on school nights in lowered cars, with modified exhausts, to hang in Hong Kong-style cafes or party with fake IDs in Koreatown nightclubs. Back then, in the SGV, there was a lot of gang activity, even drive-by shootings at my school, and I was a young latchkey kid that was stupid enough to not care. My experiences from hanging out in these streets were just as informative to who I am as my time in the classroom, if not more. 

Professionally, I’m a writer, producer, and director working in documentaries and narratives for almost fifteen years. I’ve focused on stories that illuminate subjects and issues from marginalized and underrepresented communities. It’s been a long circuitous path fighting upstream against a white, male-dominated, entertainment industry that still diminishes the value and work of women, BIPOC, and LGBTQIA+. I don’t take what I do for granted. Never would my teenage self dare dream that my adult self would be working in such a privileged profession and be in a position to tell stories. 

When did you become aware of “new wave?”

New wave has been in my life for as long as I can remember. It was the soundtrack to my childhood. While this music was really my aunt’s and uncles’, who were in their late teens and twenties, growing up with them meant it was ever-present in our home, and my grandparents hated everything it represented in this era of excess. On the flip side, I fondly remember tracks by Modern Talking, C.C. Catch, and Bad Boys Blue playing from the boomboxes in their bedrooms while they meticulously teased their mile-high Aqua Net-styled hair and slipped into their beat-up leather jackets, and thinking, I could not grow up fast enough to join them. For better or worse, that didn’t happen. I came of age in a different era, listening to gangsta rap, ’90s R&B, and the oldies that Art Laboe was spinning, but that new wave sound has always held a special place in my heart. 

Modern Talking’s music video for “You’re My Heart, You’re My Soul”

What made you decide that “new wave” would be an interesting subject for a documentary?

Let’s get one thing straight, this music is fucking amazing! I didn’t realize how many bangers there were until I fell down the rabbit hole of research and started making playlists. Everyone who is not listening to it is missing out. 

View this post on Instagram

1980s: This is my uncle, Danny. When I was a kid, he was my hero. He used to live with my family back in the day when we were in Orange County. I remember being really young and trying to do my hair like him. He had mad style and the freshest clothes. I loved his music back then and still do now. He was a big time music fan and introduced me to Modern Talking, Bad Boys Blue, C.C. Catch, Gazebo, etc. I cherish the "new wave" vinyls that he passed down to me. I get a kick out of knowing, now that I’m spinning new wave as a deejay, he comes out to my parties sometimes. – Ton aka DJ ALPHA @djalphamusic FYI: DJ Alpha is spinning new wave tonight and every pandemic Saturday night on Twitch and Facebook. @limelightcommunity #newwave #vietnewwave #vietnamesenewwave #refugee #refugees #refugeestories #vietnameseamerican #vietkieu #vietnamesediaspora #asianstories #asiannewwave #fallofsaigon #boatpeople #vietnamwar #resettlement #immigrants #1980sfashion #asianamericans #eurodisco #italodisco #moderntalking #cccatch #gazebo #badboysblue

A post shared by NEW WAVE (@newwavedocumentary) on Aug 15, 2020 at 4:43pm PDT

While I was pregnant a couple of years ago, I was racking my brain for stories to share with my daughter about our people and why we’re here in the US, then felt pretty deflated thinking I might have to resort to rote stories about the war. That was until my mind wandered into events I experienced first hand like my family’s early days rebuilding their lives in the ’80s. Like most children of refugees, I didn’t have an ideal childhood. The trauma in my household was real and the generational gap between my disciplinarian POW grandfather and his children, all of whom were struggling to find their identity in a new country, led to many explosive clashes. The lows were really low, and the highs weren’t that high. And when I look back, what really stuck with me was witnessing my young adult uncles and aunt living their best new waver lives. I often kept their secrets and told lies of their whereabouts to my grandparents (their parents) in exchange for passage on weekend car rides, where they’d blast new wave all the way to the mall and hang with their friends. It sounds silly to say but, new wave was a necessary diversion, a coping mechanism that brought them joy. Wherever new wave was playing was a safe space. They knew they could congregate with other young Vietnamese, and momentarily escape pressures from home, their past trauma, and just be whatever version of themselves they wanted to be. 

Lynda Trang Đài’s cover of “You’re My Heart, Your My Soul”

Reviving these long-buried memories inspired me. Knowing there are so few stories about the Vietnamese diaspora experience that aren’t tied to images of war and destruction, Vietnamese new wave felt like a great personal point of departure. So much that after giving birth in 2018, I wrote a rough draft of a TV pilot based on these recollections. Reading it over, I realized, something was missing. I was pulling from cobwebbed memories that didn’t have the specificity I craved. That’s when I began scouring the internet about the evolution of the Vietnamese-American community in Little Saigon, the beginnings of its music industry, and eventually came across your Vietnamese New Wave Revival blog post and discovered that the music was actually Euro/Italodisco. Wait, what? Why did everyone in the Viet-Am and diaspora community call this music new wave? These artists were from Germany, France, Italy, and everywhere else but the US? I had so many questions. I scrambled to call up family members that sent me off to call up other relatives that told me to call their friends that knew more about new wave. I was shocked when a couple of them confirmed that none of this music had played on the radio. They told me they bought all these European records and Viet New Wave covers/cassette compilations at record shops in Phước Lộc Thọ (aka Asian Garden Mall) because there was nowhere else to buy them at the time. It was a big “what the fuck?” moment that flooded my head with even more questions.  

  Was the music of my childhood really some imported Eurodisco fever dream? There was enough of a mystery there that I pivoted the story of my TV pilot and then enlisted some friends to help me jump start the documentary, namely, my co-producers Tracy Chitupatham and Anh Phan, as well as some advisors to make introductions and discuss that specific era. I’ve been filming since early 2019 with over a dozen people from the Vietnamese-American music community, including Lynda Trang Dai, Thai Tai, Ian DJ BPM Nguyen, some die-hard new wave fans/party promoters, and I even flew out to Europe at the end of last year to film with some of the big-name Eurodisco acts of the ’80s. 

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Thank you to @matthewvu for sharing this photo (him + his mom), this song, and this personal account: . . My fondest memory of Vietnamese new wave music would be my early elementary school years. My family lived on a cul-de-sac so the school bus would drop me off at the top of the street so I had to walk a short ways to get home. We had a screen door and my mom would leave the front door open. Everyday she would be either cleaning or cooking while blasting her Asia New Wave cassette tapes, so loud that I could hear it the moment I got off the bus. The music takes me back to these simpler times of just being a kid. . . . During the early 80s there was an influx of immigration to the United States of Vietnamese fleeing a war torn country in search of a better life (like my parents). My dad came to America with the clothes he wore and one extra set in a plastic Pan Am bag, and the only two words he knew were “yes” and “no”. I’ll always remember the story, when he first got here he would listen to the radio and it seemed like every other song played was Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough.” He didn’t understand any of it, just knew that it was a popular song. . . . Coming back to why Vietnamese new wave is so important, it served as cultural acclimation and a way to fit in. It wasn’t traditional music it was youthful and the songs sung bilingually helped teach/familiarize the English language. . . . Modern Talking song “Brother Louie” – covered by Kieu Nga

A post shared by NEW WAVE (@newwavedocumentary) on Apr 24, 2020 at 4:07pm PDT

There’s a lot to unpack about the resettlement and reestablishing of a people and culture. I’ve narrowed my focus to examine the evolution of refugee youth identity and the cultural bridge built during this fraught time with this music. Moreover, I’m telling this story for a few reasons: one, as a time capsule for my daughter and younger generations to learn a story about our resilient community beyond the war; two, to keep a historical record that will otherwise be lost when the artists and fans disappear; three, because this work is therapeutic, cathartic, and honestly, I’ve just fallen in love with it all over again. The more I listen to it, the more I wonder why new wave and I have been estranged for so long. 

What was the incentive behind the Instagram feed, @newwavedocumentary?

  View this post on Instagram

SUMMER NEW WAVE: Summers in SoCal don’t normally feel so dark, morbid, and horrific. In honoring these feelings/moods, I present this Summer New Wave cassette cover with some strong Mistress of the Dark vibes. Hope it helps you get over the hump today. @therealelvira #newwave #vietnewwave #vietnamesenewwave #asiannewwave #vietnamesediaspora #refugeestories #littlesaigon #displaced #vietnameseamerican #vietnamese #immigrants #summernewwave #túquynh #cassettetapes #mistressofthedark #elviramistressofthedark

A post shared by NEW WAVE (@newwavedocumentary) on Jul 15, 2020 at 1:22pm PDT

Production for our film halted in March because of Covid-19. Coincidentally, this was the same time we learned of NEW WAVE’s first grant award from California Humanities. In making the most of it, I pivoted and immersed myself in archival research and I quickly realized the limitations and lack of Vietnamese-American archives, that aren’t of the musicians and don’t involve the war in some capacity. 

  View this post on Instagram

NEWAVE: Who remembers Tuyết Nhung? #newwave #vietnewwave #tuyetnhung #apahm

A post shared by NEW WAVE (@newwavedocumentary) on May 19, 2020 at 1:39pm PDT

My team and I started the Instagram account in hopes that it’ll motivate others to share photos or videos from their personal archives. 

What has the response been?

It’s been positive. I’ve had friends and strangers inquire about the film and how they could support. Some rad photos and stories have come through. Thanks to everyone who has shared. My team and I are still digging through everything and hope to post all your stories and photos soon enough. 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0f75TgsQ7HyShuJUixmERJ?si=DdG9ucFbQti85nf1xGxQAw

How can people get involved? (social media, etc)

We want to hear from you. Please get in touch and share your stories with us on Instagram and Facebook or via researchnewwave@gmail.com. We’re searching for photos and videos after the fall of Saigon from the ’70s-’90s focused on the era of resettlement, rebuilding, and all things new wave, or tangentially new wave.

Q&A with filmmaker Elizabeth Ai about her latest project, NEW WAVE If you're American and you recognize names like "Bad Boys Blue," "C.C. Catch…