#and i’m about to send it to my author/publisher auntie

[willowfey]

someone tell me to be brave and hit send on this email

[thetravelerwrites]

Courtship of the Headless King: Chapter One

Rating: General Audiences Fandoms: 忘却の首と姫 | Boukyaku no Shirushi to Hime | The Princess and The Forgotten Head Relationship: Female Human/Male Headless King Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Political Marriage, Power Dynamic, Headless King Words: 4366

This is not my original work!

This is a fan retelling of one of my favorite mangas, Boukyaki no Shirushi to Hime, whose original mangaka sadly passed away in 2014, leaving the series unfinished. I will start at the beginning of the manga and go through the entire story that has already been written. Once I reach chapter 20, which is the end of the published chapters, I will have to start extrapolating and imagining how the story may have played out. I hope I can do the original story justice and not disgrace the original author.

I will say that I will be fixing a few things that made me uncomfortable about the original manga, in that the female protagonist was 15, which I didn't like. Otherwise I will try to stick as close to the original story as possible, though I will be arranging it so that it's a bit more linear.

I hope you enjoy!

“Blessings to you, my lady,” The visitor said, bowing deeply in greeting. “My name is Aquamarine. I am a servant of the high king of Banfarie and a chosen attendant to the future queen.”

The summons wasn’t necessarily a shock, but it was definitely a surprise. Lilya, the third princess of the former kingdom of Tritsia, had come of age during a bloody war between kingdoms to either side, and her small, impoverished land had been caught in the crossfire. Tritsia had been absorbed by the victorious kingdom to the east, Couliea, and was now a vassal state. As such, the royal family of Tritsia were now hardly more than paupers in their own kingdom.

Lilya assumed that she would no longer be eligible for the marriage interviews that were famously, or perhaps infamously, conducted five times every month in the largest empire in the continent, Banfarie. The interviews had been happening since before she had even been born, but as of yet, no queen had been selected. Or rather, no woman had accepted.

The rules for who would be chosen for the interviews was standard for most monarchs looking for a queen: a woman of royal or noble blood with proof of lineage, at least eighteen years old but no older that twenty five, no previous marriages or engagements, no children, and… well… consent.

Lilya met most of the criteria… except for one thing: she wasn’t a high born woman anymore. Her family’s royal status had ended when the kingdom was absorbed into another. Besides, even when her father had been king, they had never exactly been what anyone would consider proper royalty. Her father worked in the fields with his people, doing the same back-breaking labor as his subjects. Back then, she could hardly be called princess, but now she was nothing more than a peasant farm girl, more suited to feeding chickens and mucking out stables than attending grand balls and high teas.

So there had been quite a stir when their unusual guest came to deliver the summons. She was a woman who appeared very young in age, no more than perhaps sixteen, though she spoke as if she were a far older creature. She had a short bob haircut and a thick fringe, but it wasn’t enough to hide her pointed ears, her sharp eyes, and her upswept eyebrows, belying a nature that wasn’t human.

Her cloak was plain, but well-made and of fine cloth, likely silk or satin. She had all the hallmarks of a servant of a wealthy, prosperous nation. She had been given entrance to the house by the only servant Lilya’s family employed, Sebastian, and was standing in the receiving room with Lilya’s mother and aunt.

“I come with greetings from my Lord King, to relay a question and to present a gift to you, beloved princess.”

Lilya tilted her head. “A gift? His Majesty didn’t need to send a gift.”

Aquamarine simply chuckled and bowed. “From his Majesty, with his kindest regards.” From her cloak, she produced a velveteen box and opened it, revealing a tiara of breathtaking beauty. Sizable diamonds and sapphires lined the circlet and rose up to create a lovely sloped and winding style like that of wind on water. It was a crown that would suit any head it rested upon.

“Oh!” Lilya breathed. “It’s breathtaking!” She rushed to her mother in delight. “This is the answer to the famine on the outskirts in the south! If we sell the tiara at the biggest market in the neighboring kingdom, we could feed the farmers for months, maybe a year!”

“Lilya!” Her aunt exclaimed in horror. “How could you suggest such a thing? This was a gift from a king, for goodness sake, you can’t just sell it!”

“But, Auntie, I can’t hoard something like this when people are starving!”

“You would not wear it?” Aquamarine asked, her face shrewdly assessing. “Is it not to your liking?”

“Oh, no, that’s not it at all!” Lilya insisted earnestly. “It’s lovely, more so than anything I’ve ever seen. I’ve never worn anything so extravagant. But… truly, for me to wear it would be like putting silk ribbons on a pig. It would be far less useful as a trinket in my wardrobe and better as a tool to feed the hungry. I’m afraid that Couliea doesn’t pay much attention to our struggles, so we have to fend for ourselves. This,” Lilya gently took the box from Aquamarine and turned it so that she could see the tiara properly. “This is indeed a kingly gift. This will save lives. There is no more noble a gift as that.” She bowed her head and handed the box back gingerly. “If his Majesty would not be pleased with my conduct, I understand, but I would hope he would see the sense in my actions.”

Aquamarine laughed a little. “I do not think his Majesty will be displeased. Quite the opposite. Even still,” Aquamarine set the box down on the table and carefully pried a dangling jewel from the very center, threading it through a silver chain she had worn around her own neck, and placed it on Lilya. “His Majesty will want confirmation that his gift was received. This will suffice.”

“Then I shall wear it to the marriage interview,” Lilya said, patting it fondly.

Aquamarine’s head cocked back in surprise. “I had not even had the chance to ask you, and yet you’re agreeing to go?”

“Well, yes,” Lilya said. “That’s why you’ve come to call on me, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Aquamarine said with a smirk. “But usually it takes much more convincing on my part. I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone so… eager.”

“At the very least, I have to thank him for his generosity,” Lilya said. “Even if he decides I’m not a good match for him, I have to express my gratitude in person.”

“You’re not scared? I’m certain you’ve heard the rumors about my Lord King.”

“Well… yes,” Lilya admitted. “I won’t lie and say I’m not apprehensive, but kindness like this can’t go unacknowledged. It’s only right that I meet with him.”

Where Aquamarine’s smile had been playful and mischievous before, it was now wide and warm. “I will happily go now and inform his Majesty of your decision. My sisters and I will return in a fortnight to collect you for your interview. You may bring a guest with you, if you wish, though I assure you that you’ll be quite safe in our care.”

“I have no doubt that’s true,” Lilya said, bowing. “Would you like some refreshments to take with you on your trip back?”

“How kind of you, dear, but that won’t be necessary,” Aquamarine said, patting Lilya’s cheek. “We shall return in two weeks. You make sure you take care now. Our Lord King would be much distressed should something happen to you in the meantime.”

Aquamarine snapped her fingers, and there was a flash of light from which everyone in the room had to shield their eyes. When they blinked, the young woman was gone.

“Witch...” Sebastian said in horror. “My Lady, you can’t meet with this monster! What kind of king employs such demons?”

“Likely someone who understands that people like them also need to earn a living, I’d imagine,” Lilya said reasonably. “Besides, I’ve already agreed and accept his gift. I can’t go back on my word.”

“I can’t believe you’d actually sell such a treasure,” Your aunt said disapprovingly. “You’re so like your father.”

She didn’t mean that in a good way. Lilya’s mother’s sister, Kiya, had always disliked her father and resented him for being too weak a king, unable to protect his people during the war. She had also resented Lilya ever since she had been born. There was worry that Sophie would not be able to carry another child at her age, and that the royal line would end as there would be no male heir to Tritsia.

The birth of Lilya’s little brother shortly before her father’s death was not enough to warm Kiya to Lilya. In fact, it seemed to drive the wedge even further, as Sophie and her brother were both terribly weak afterward and there was concern they wouldn’t survive. Kiya had gone so far as to blame Lilya, telling her that it would have been her fault if they died. As a nine year old, she couldn’t imagine what she’d have done to cause such a terrible thing, but now she understood it was just her aunt lashing out.

Perhaps it was because Lilya resembled her father the most out of all her siblings, or because she was most like him in temperament, but she doubted Kiya would ever view her favorably. She was still family, though, and Lilya tried not to take her criticism to heart, though her aunt’s cutting eyes often wore into her painfully.

“I’m doing this for our country, even if it no longer exists,” Lilya said, determinedly putting the box away in a case so that Sebastian could take it to the neighboring kingdom for appraisal. “The king has called for me. The least I can do is answer.”

“Lilya’s right, Kiya,” Lilya’s mother, Sophie, said reluctantly. “It would be improper for us to take his gift and ignore him. Though I can’t say that I’m pleased with the idea of this.” Sophie sighed unhappily. “Lilya would have been expected to marry soon as it is. I supposed we couldn’t hope for better than a king.” Sophie took her daughter’s hands in her own. “Still, I’m very worried. I should come with you.”

“No, Mama, they need you here. You’ll have to be the one to make sure that the tiara gets a fair price and oversee the distribution of the food to the needy. I’ll be fine on my own, and besides, Aquamarine said that she and her sisters were part of the Queen’s guard, and I liked her very much. I couldn’t be any safer.”

Lilya’s mother grimaced. “That doesn’t make me feel better. You have many lovely qualities, my sweet child, but being a good judge of character is not among them. All anyone needs to do is tell you a sad story for you to want to take them under your wing, regardless of their true intentions.” She smiled fondly. “You’re much like your father in that respect.”

Lilya smiled in return. “Father was not a good king,” She said sadly. “But he was a good man.”

“With that, I cannot argue,” Sophie said, but she frowned in distress. “You’re elder sisters had married before they got the summons, so I’ve never met with the king. Your father met with him only once, during a conference of kings, but he never told us anything about him other than he found him to be… striking. I think he didn’t tell us more because he want to frighten us.”

“Have you heard much about him?” Lilya asked anxiously.

“Reports are varied and hard to believe; that the king is a headless monster, thousands of years old, ten feet tall, winged and hulking, who eats the women who refused him. I’m not sure I believed any of that, but the rumors are still enough to make me trepidatious.”

Sebastian grumbled, his mustache shuddering. “It is the rumors that could be true that make me uneasy.”

“How do you mean?”

“I am an old man now,” Sebastian said. “Well into my seventies, so I remember when the interviews began sixty years ago. In all that time, and no queen of Banfarie has been chosen. It concerns me. The king himself may now be an old man.”

“Is that why he’s being turned down?” Lilya asked.

“No, young madam,” He said. “You see, even before the interviews began, Banfarie had no queen in nearly one hundred years. In fact, since that time, no new kings had been crowned, either. The king from one hundred years ago was an elusive man who few had ever met, and those who did were terrified of him. If the current king is that man’s successor, it’s certainly distressing. But if he is the same man, then he is a creature of deeply evil magic, and Lady Lilya should stay far away from him.”

“Even if he were the same man, which should be impossible, his reputation is less than ideal,” Sophie said pensively. “The house of Banfarie is known historically for it’s cruelty and harsh punishments, even of neighboring kingdoms. It instituted a law that allowed Banfarie to make judgments on the conduct of royals, indict them criminally, and even sentence retribution against them, up to and including execution. The neighboring kingdoms pushed back against this, of course, but eventually they all fell in line and wrote it into their countries’ laws. I don’t trust any man who could wield that level of power over others.”

“But think of what that level of influence could do for Tritsia!” Kiya said. “A king with that kind of power could protect us and provide for us!”

Sophie shivered. “I don’t want to know what he would want in return for that protection.”

“Well, I would think that’s be obvious,” Kiya said, looking pointedly at Lilya.

Sophie, normally a mild, even-tempered woman, grew angry. “And you’re alright with that, are you? You’re willing to sell my youngest daughter to a monster if it benefits you?”

“Sophie, don’t be sentimental,” Kiya said, folding her arms. “Political marriages are common for royalty. If we had been a stronger country, this would be completely normal, even for a third daughter.”

“We’re not royalty anymore,” Sophie said firmly.

“But we could be, that’s the point!”

“Please, don’t fight,” Lilya said, getting between the two sisters. “I’ve already made the decision. Kiya is right; if I were to marry His Majesty of Banfarie, our kingdom would then be his responsibility rather than that of Couliea. However he treats that responsibility, it can’t be worse than the wanton destruction from the war or the indifferent cruelty of Couliea. If he accepts me, even if it is only a political marriage and nothing more, it would greatly benefit us both. He would at last gain the queen he’s been searching for and our country will be protected. I will meet him. Perhaps the rumors are wrong.”

“I can only hope,” Sophie remarked grimly. After throwing an angry look at her sister, she pulled Lilya away from Kiya and spoke in an undertone. “But… is this what you really want?”

“I want my family and people safe and well above all,” Lilya said. “If this king can offer that, then I can ask for nothing more.”

“If this is what you wish,” Her mother said slowly. “Then I will respect it. But… it is not what I would wish for you.”

“I know, Mama,” Lilia said. “We don’t always get what we truly wish for. But this is as close as I can get.”

“If the king accepts you,” Lilya’s mother remarked sadly. “We may never see you again.”

“That may not be true. I would hope that his Majesty wouldn’t prevent me from seeing my family once I settle in.”

“Just be careful, my love,” Her mother said, pulling her into a hug. “Be careful.”

As promised, Aquamarine returned in a fortnight to collect Lilya to take her to the capitol of Banfarie, Rukruf. A carriage had come with them for Lilya’s comfort.

“Couldn’t you transport me like you did the day you first came?”

“I’m afraid that’s a rather disorienting way to travel for humans, My Lady,” Aquamarine said, taking Lilya’s luggage. “It would require some degree of acclamation, and I don’t think his Majesty would want you to be sick during your interview.” She lifted Lilya’s bag up with one hand. “Is this all you’re bringing with you?”

“This is all I have,” Lilya replied simply. “You admit that you’re not human?”

“I was never attempting to hide it. I’m a spirit, specifically an stone spirit, as are my sisters. There they are now.”

She jerked her head toward the carriage. There were two more women identical to Aquamarine near the carriage, one in the driver’s box and another holding open the door to the carriage. All three women had short, pale lavender colored hair and large, glittering eyes. They wore identical uniforms similar to that of an attendant, but the skirts were rather short, stopping just below the knee, giving them a freer rang of movement. Each one had a dagger hanging from their hip.

Both new sisters bowed deeply as Lilya approached.

“My lady,” They said in unison.

“Garnet,” Aquamarine said, pointing to the driver,and then to the coach-woman. “And Peridot.”

“I don’t doubt the three of you are sisters; I can’t tell you apart,” Lilya said.

“Ah, but see?” Peridot said, pointing to a white bow on the right side of her hair in the shape of a butterfly. She then pointed to Garnet, who wore a black butterfly bow on her left side, and to Aquamarine, who wore no bow at all. “Even people who know us well have trouble distinguishing us from the other, so we’ve taken to wearing these. Only his Majesty can tell us apart without them.”

“Here, my Lady,” Peridot said, swinging a beautiful, fur-lined, snow-white cloak around Lilya’s shoulders. “We’ll be going through the mountains and it’s likely to get cold. His Majesty had this made for you.”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Lilya said, petting the soft, veltvety collar that ruffed around her neck. “I’m starting to get anxious about meeting him.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” Peridot asked ash she helped Lilya up into the carriage.

“I can’t tell,” Lilya replied, laughing nervously.

“Don’t be nervous,” Peridot said as she came in and closed the door behind her, rapping sharply on the roof before settling. “His Majesty is only a threat to humans.”

Lilya looked at Peridot in alarm.

“It was a joke,” Peridot assured her, giggling. “…mostly.”

The carriage lurched forward and Aquamarine put a hand out to steady Lilya before she fell out of her seat.

“When will we arrive?”

“Around sunset tomorrow,” Aquamarine replied. “We’ll continue on through the night rather than stop at an inn. His Majesty is eager to meet you.”

“Won’t you be tired?” Lilya asked.

“Not to worry,” Aquamarine said. “Spirits like us don’t need much sleep, only a few hours a week. We’re all rested up.”

“That’s amazing. I wish I could do that.”

“Yes, it is awfully handy,” Peridot said rather smugly. “Are you hungry? We’ve brought things for you to eat.”

The two days passed pleasantly and Lilya spent the time having long, friendly conversations with all three sisters. Lilya had never had lady friends her age, and though the women were spirits and likely far older than she was, they seemed to enjoy her company and asked her many questions.

“Oh, Lady, come and see!” Garnet said, pointing out of the window. “You can see the capitol city from this vantage!”

Delighted, Lilya looked out of the window where Garnet was pointing. “It’s huge!” She exclaimed. “I can’t even see the end of it! It must be as large as my entire country!”

“Your country is larger by about fifty miles, in fact,” Aquamarine said. “It’s the smallest country on the continent.”

“Yes, that sounds right,” She sighed. “I mean, I didn’t know that for sure, but I’m not surprised.”

“Are you sad to be from such a small country?”

“No,” She replied. “My country is beautiful and my people are good. I just wish we were better able to defend ourselves.”

“Well, you may not have that problem anymore,” Aquamarine said. “We’re nearly there.”

“Will I meet his Majesty today?”

“No, you will be tired from the trip and will rest for tonight. He will conduct your interview tomorrow after you have your breakfast. His Majesty has instructed us to see to your every comfort.”

“That’s just going to make me more anxious,” Lilya said.

“The best things are worth waiting for,” Peridot said.

That evening, they arrived at the castle, which was every bit as colossal as described. Over it was a cloud of purple, blue, and pink particles, as if it were perpetual sunset over the castle.

“What is that?”

“It’s called the Aurora,” Garnet said. “It’s a magical field that has existed over the castle for hundreds of years and is the source of the royal family’s magical power. It ascends and descends over the castle, depending on how the king feels. It’s highly reactive to his emotional state.”

“Oh, goodness,” Lilya said. “It’s rather low right now. What does that mean?”

“Hmm…” Garnet said. “I believe he may be feeling rather withdrawn.”

“I wonder why that would be,” Lilya mused.

Standing at the front steps of the castle as they pulled up were two young men in uniform, one blond and one dark haired. The blond wore glasses and seemed to be the junior of the two. They bowed as Lilya exited the carriage.

“Miss Lilya, these are the King’s personal attendants, Larima,” She gestured at the dark haired one first, and then to the blond. “And Raba. They are meeting you in place of his Majesty today.”

“Does that mean his Majesty is watching?” Lilya asked, looking up at the windows.

“Whether he is or is not,” Larima said as he straightened. “We are pleased to meet you, My Lady. Please allow us to show you to your room.”

“Yes, thank you,” Lilya replied. Curiously, she noticed as they turned that there appeared to be leaves growing out of their hair.

The sisters were following behind her at a short distance. “Are they spirits, too?” Lilya asked them in an undertone.

“Yes,” Peridot said. “They’re tree spirits. All of the staff employed at his Majesty’s main castle are not human.”

“Why?”

“His Majesty distrusts humans,” Aquamarine replied.

“But isn’t his Majesty human?” Lilya asked in confusion.

“Yes,” Peridot responded.

“And no,” Garnet said.

Lilya made a noise of uncertainty under her breath.

“Don’t worry, my Lady,” Garnet said. “You’ll understand tomorrow.”

“This is all very ominous,” Lilya said uncertainly.

“Yes!” Peridot said. “Isn’t it exciting?”

Before she could answer, she was lead to an opulent guestroom, far larger than any of the rooms in her home, filled with luxurious furniture and carefully crafted decorations.

“This can’t be my room,” Lilya said with a laugh. “What would I do with all this space?”

Raba and Larima exchanged looks. “Do you dislike it? We have a number of other rooms. You’re free to choose any one of them.”

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Lilya said hastily. “It’s beautiful, I adore it. Please, it’s not that I’m ungrateful, I just feel like… I don’t know… isn’t it wasted on me?”

The triplets sighed sadly, having become used to Lilya’s unusual behavior, but the men continued to look confused.

“You do realize that if his Majesty chooses you and you accept, you’ll be queen?” Raba asked. “This,” He gestured at the room. “Is nothing compared to the queen’s suite.”

“Oh…” Lilya replied, a little disconcerted. “This will take some getting used to.”

“I understand,” Larima said. “You’re the princess from Tritsia, correct? The smallest, poorest kingdom on the continent, now a captured vassal state of Couliea. I suppose you must not be accustomed to living so resplendently.”

“Larima!” Aquamarine hissed. “Don’t be so tactless!”

Lilya laughed a little, relieved. “No, it’s alright. I’m not used to this at all, that’s true. Will that bother his Majesty?”

Larima smiled and shook his head. “No, I shouldn’t think so. Don’t worry so much about what’s appropriate and just enjoy your time here. Come.” He lead Lilya inside and showed her two cords right next to the bed, a small blue cord and a larger red cord. “The blue cord is attached to a bell in the queen’s attendants’ quarters. If you need for anything, just ring it and one of the triplets will be here in an instant. The red one is an alarm. If you pull it, bells will go off all throughout the castle. Ring it only if it’s an emergency.”

“I understand,” Lilya said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Raba and Larima bowed and left, and the triplets ushered Lilya into an adjacent dining room to have dinner.

After a restless night of sleep and a breakfast she barely touched, Lilya was dressed in a lovely blue gown that complimented her hair, which was pulled back with matching ribbons. The bodice was tight but comfortable, the cut of the dress was simple but elegant, and for the first time, Lilya felt like a proper grown woman.

A knock on the door revealed Raba.

“His Majesty is ready for you and is waiting in his office,” He said.

Lilya stood and clenched her hands to stop them from shaking and followed Raba out of her quarters with Garnet and Aquamarine following behind her.

“Don’t worry, my Lady,” Garnet said. “I think the king will like you very much.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes,” Aquamarine replied. “We’re more concerned whether or not you’ll like him.”

“Why wouldn’t I like him?” She asked.

“Well…” Garnet began regretfully, but then stopped.

“Here we are,” Raba said, gesturing to a set of large double doors. “One moment please.” Raba knocked on the door. “Your Majesty, I have retrieved Lady Lilya for her interview. Are you ready?”

There was silence, though Raba tilted his head as if he were listening.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Raba opened one of the doors and stood aside. “You may enter.”

Gulping, checking that the pendant was in place, and taking a deep breath, Lilya stepped inside.

There, standing rail-straight behind a desk, was a tall, thin man wearing elaborate garments in keeping with his status as a king and emperor, as well as a sash and badges of his station. Almost immediately, one of the many rumors about the king was confirmed with Lilya’s own eyes.

His Imperial Majesty, the king of Banfarie, had no head.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider becoming a Patron or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 2.1k

Masterlist link here

AO3 link here 

Summary:

Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dreams. He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears the echo of birdsong in her laughter, her songs to the gods in the wind.

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

Pro tip: Italics denote scenes in Akaashi’s dreams / past.  

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

Time passes. 

Akaashi graduates from university with top honours and gets recruited immediately by a publishing company. He’s mildly disappointed when he’s dispatched to the manga department instead of the literature department as he originally hoped, but it’s not all that bad, he gets to work with Udai-sensei on his new volleyball manga. 

He’s content, all things considered. 

His mother is constantly on his case to find a girlfriend - because she insists she’s growing old and wants grandchildren soon. To placate her, he goes on arranged dates with daughters of his father’s business associates, with nieces of his mother’s friends. While they’re pleasant enough, they all seem to come from the same mold - well bred middle class university graduates more interested in complaining about their bosses and talking about the branded bags they’re going to get next. 

Once he tried asking one of them about the type of flowers she likes best. His date blinked in confusion at first, but immediately brightened up and she said ‘roses, I guess? They look so good on instagram!’ 

He did not ask for a second date. 

Honestly, he’s not exactly looking to date anyone at the moment. He’s young, barely twenty three. Work is time consuming enough, with his days filled with constantly looming deadlines and chasing temperamental mangakas like Udai-sensei. His mother will just have to accept that grandchildren are very much not in the near future. 

But he does feel somewhat guilty -  ‘even Yuji-kun is seeing this lovely girl, auntie tells me,’ his mother nagged last Sunday, so he picks up a habit of buying flowers to soothe her every time he heads to his parent’s home for a meal. 

‘Pink carnations for your mother again?’ the florist asks brightly. 

Akaashi nods, insisting on paying for the baby’s breath she adds to the bouquet. The florist lets him when he assures her he’s no longer a starving university student, and pulls her gloves off to rifle in her drawer for change. 

‘Here you go!’, she chirps, holding out a tray with his change. His gaze is drawn to the pink burn scars streaked across her hands, and flushes when she meets his curious eyes with a knowing look. 

‘Sorry, I - uh didn’t mean to stare’, he begins to splutter, but she waves it off. 

‘It’s fine. I got them a long time ago’, she replies, a wistful smile twisting her lips, tugging her sleeves down to her wrist. 

He bows and takes his leave. He doesn’t spare a second thought on the encounter when he reaches his parent’s house, his mother exclaiming over the little bouquet.

The table shakes when his colleague slumps into his seat, sighing deeply. 

‘Did your boss get on your case for typos again?’ Akaashi asks, his spoon pausing on the way to his mouth. 

‘Worse’, his colleague groans. ‘He’s sending me to Hokkaido for next month’s feature on crimes that shocked the nation, and I have to travel all the way up the mountains to some dinky little town without a train station.

‘Hm’. Akaashi raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. ‘What’s the feature about?’ 

‘See for yourself’. His colleague dramatically slides his folder of articles across the table, bumping it into Akaashi’s plate. 

He thumbs through the folder. Nakamura Yakeru, the mayor of a small mountain town in Hokkaido, found guilty on a multitude of charges - breaking and entering, causing arson by fire, assault and attempted murder of a schoolgirl, her identity redacted. It’s shocking in and of itself - but there’s something awfully familiar about the man’s face. 

He smooths out the creases in the paper, bringing the newspaper clipping closer to his face, and oh - 

He knows that face. 

His mind echoes with the memories of flinching at the sight of Nakamura’s teeth, yellowed from nicotine and bared in a smirk, the acrid stench of cigarettes lingering on his shirt, cursing whenever that inconsiderate bastard left sparks smouldering in dry grass. But it doesn’t make sense - there’s no reason for him to have ever met the man. He’s never been farther north than Sapporo, a born and bred Tokyo city boy after all. And he doesn’t recall seeing the man’s face on the news either when the crime was committed. 

So why would his dreams feature this man? 

‘Akaashi?’ he hears his colleague call his name, but his voice can barely be heard over the pounding of his heart in his ears. ‘You’ve gone really white, is everything ok?’ 

‘I’m fine’, he replies, hastily shoving the article back in the folder. ‘Everything’s fine.’ 

His colleague doesn’t look like he believes him. Frankly, Akaashi doesn’t believe himself either. 

Try as he might, he can’t get the eerie coincidence out of his mind. And after a few restless nights, he finds himself back in his childhood bedroom, holding the old omamori in his hands. It’s just an inanimate scrap of cotton fabric, but he’s tempted to borrow his mother’s sewing kit to pick its stitches apart, to discover the secrets woven into its threads. 

It feels silly being so superstitious, but he can’t help feeling that he’s on the verge of discovering what his strange dreams have been trying to show him - so he tucks the omamori under his pillow, his thumbnail catching on a stray thread, before he surrenders himself to his dreams. 

‘Akaashi Keiji’, a cool voice pronounces his name with faint amusement. ‘Back to change the terms of our bargain? ���

His eyes fly open. 

This time he’s on familiar ground, kneeling on the twenty sixth step of the shrine he visits with his parents for  Hatsumode, the other twenty five steps below him shrouded in mist. But the woman standing before him is not familiar to him - in fact, she’s clearly not even human, not with her red eyes and pale lips, not with the wisteria trailing from her hair and disappearing into her skin. 

That should scare him, but it doesn’t because he can’t discern any malice in her eyes, and the scent of the wisteria is soothingly sweet. 

So his curiosity wins out over his sense of caution, and he asks politely - ‘I’m sorry, who are you exactly? And, um. What bargain are you referring to? ’

Her eyes gleam. ‘I’m offended. Don’t you recognise the guardian of the shrine you’ve been praying at your whole life? And as for the bargain you’ve made with me - I thought you already figured it all out by yourself, little boy.’ Laughing airily, she crouches over him, a wooden plaque dangling from her finger. ‘Remember this?’

He reads the words etched on the plaque.  ‘I wish I could have more time. I wish for yesterday to come again.’ Then he glances up at the shrine deity sharply. ‘I remember that from my dreams. Does this mean they’re real?’  

‘What do you think?’ Her lips stretch into a grin. 

‘Logic would suggest that they aren’t. It shouldn’t be possible to swap bodies, let alone with someone I’ve never met in my life. And yet…’ 

‘And yet?’ she prompts, tilting his head towards her with the nail of her finger.

‘It’s too much of a coincidence to ignore the fact that I know Nakamura Yakeru from my dreams, so that suggests at least some semblance of it is real.’ He looks at her pleadingly. ‘Are you here to help me?’ 

She laughs again, the sound ethereal like the flutter of butterfly wings. The sleeves of her purple kimono slide down her wrists, the scent of wisteria enveloping him growing sickly sweet. ‘Help you? Well, since you asked so nicely, little boy, I guess there’s no harm telling you your dreams are real. I granted your wish on a whim, and look how amusing you’ve been!’

Oh gods his dreams are real. They’re real. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, they’re real.  

Akaashi feels his stomach churn. He inhales a shaky breath. 

That means she’s real, doesn't it?

He thinks about the salaciously titled newspaper articles, the violence implied in its words. He thinks about the innocence in her impulses, the whimsicalness of her thoughts. He feels ill at the thought of someone deliberately trying to extinguish her. 

‘What happens in the end ?’ he asks, blood surging to his head, slamming his palms flat on the ground for support. ‘What happens to her?’

Sunlight pierces through the fog, and the wisteria spirit starts to fade before his very eyes. 

‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’, her voice echoes.  ‘You’ll find all the answers you’re looking for at the shrine in the forest. You know the way there - you’ve been there a thousand times, both in real life and in your dreams.’

He gasps as he jolts awake, hands clenching his sheets. 

He’s in his bed in his apartment. Everything is exactly as it was before he went to sleep. 

Well - everything except the scent of wisteria lingering in the air.

Udai-sensei’s eyes bug out from its sockets when Akaashi tells him he’s off to Hokkaido for an impromptu holiday. 

‘You aren’t burnt out, are you? Is it me? Is it the deadlines? Don’t quit on me - there’s no way another editor can provide the same input on my new volleyball manga like you!’ he begs, sounding dangerously close to tears. 

Akaashi sighs, muttering under his breath about ‘ highly strung mangakas’  but manages to reassure Udai that no, he’s not quitting, he’s just taking a four day break. He thought it’d be nice to visit the flower fields during summer in Hokkaido, and he has an old friend in those parts he might pay a visit to.  

So he puts himself on a short flight to Sapporo, and a painfully long bus ride further north into the mountains, arriving at the rural village he’s traversed countless times in his dreams. He drags his luggage past the high school, the  crunch  of wheels on gravel slowly knocking loose memories of bones aching, flesh bruising, from tumbles down the stairs, from falls off drain pipes, from predestined losses against cement floors. 

He exhales through his nose when he walks past the florist’s shop. It’s a hollow shell of bare concrete and cardboard shutters, a gap where the signboard should be on the shopfront, a stark contrast to the bustling bakery and  combini  it’s sandwiched between. Thank the gods, he mutters, the blaze of hurt and desperation in Hana-chan’s eyes haunting his mind. 

The only inn in the town is serviceable enough, though he’s looked at in askance by the innkeeper when he admits he’s an editor for a publishing company. ‘Another gossip hound ’, the old lady mutters resentfully, and Akaashi has to do damage control lest she assign him the dampest room in the establishment and assure her that he’s no journalist, just a flower enthusiast interested in the lavender blooming in the fields. He charms her enough with his politeness that by the time he checks into his room, she offers him free use of a bicycle to explore the town, and he takes her up on her offer once he drops off his bags in his room. 

The summer sun is starting its descent from the sky as he cycles past familiar dirt paths lined with trees, the anticipation in his blood thrumming as he passes sprawling farms he’s sure he’s eaten stolen eggs from, passes the gas station  she  bragged about stealing petrol from. The rush of blood to his head hits a roaring crescendo when he reaches the edge of the woods. 

Leaning the bicycle against a fallen tree, he sets off to the very heart of the forest, his feet seeming to recognise a path his eyes cannot see. The deeper into the forest he ventures into, the thicker the branches overhead seem to grow, leaves interwoven into a net that blocks the sun. 

The wind ripples over his skin. The trees seem to whisper out to him. 

Okaeri, he hears. Welcome home, the Kodama spirits murmur over the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Sunlight from the setting sun spills into a clearing just ahead, and though he’s almost blinded by the sudden flash of light, he can make out the outline of a shrine, situated dead center of the clearing and breaks into a run.  There it is , he thinks, dropping to his knees, hands trembling as he brushes fallen branches and leaves off the shrine, deaf to the growing whispers from the trees surrounding him. 

‘Please grant me your secrets’, he breathes, eyes closed in prayer. 

He can feel a pulse in the ground, a sudden shift in the air. Wisteria blooms from the soft earth in his heart. 

Oh. 

Oh gods. 

He remembers. 

Taglist: 

@forgetou @animeflower26​ @kageyamakock @underrated-fruit-tarts-official @bongofrito​

[takerfoxx]

In response to JK Rowling and Joss Whedon, my (former) idols

I really didn’t want to have to do this.

So in addition to…=gestures vaguely=…all of that, the last few months have been kind of sucky when it comes to learning some really unpleasant things about artists that I looked up to, admired, and was in fact inspired by. I’ve already spoken about the Speaking Out movement revealing a lot of ugly behavior from various wrestlers, some of which I was big fans of, and then later we got Chris Jericho being a full-on MAGA. Yeah, that all sucked. But those were just performers whose work I enjoyed watching. The one that really hurt were writers who I deeply admired, whose stories I love, and who I was heavily influenced by.

The first, of course, was finding out that JK Rowling, the author of perhaps the single biggest YA fantasy series of all time Harry Potter, is a TERF. This really sucked for a number of reasons. Firstly, I really like Harry Potter! I mean, I’m not a super fan or anything. I came into it when things were kind of dying down, like the whole book series had already been released and there were only a few movies left, but I still really enjoyed it, have all the books and movies and a fair amount of merchandise swag, including a nifty wand I got at Universal Studios. Shit, I got two replicas of the Sword of Griffyindor, thanks to them screwing up my order in my favor and sending me a duplicate! They’re on my wall right across from me as I type this!

But in addition to writing a book series I really liked, JK Rowling was supposed to be one the good guys. She’s been vocally progressive, often openly comes down on British right-wing nonsense, has supported various persecuted minorities, and is on record as being one of the few self-made billionaires to actually stop being a billionaire for a time because she donated so much money to charity. And while we mock it now, her revealing Dumbledore as gay was a huge deal at the time. Plus, she cultivated this reputation as Auntie Jo, that cool, supportive aunt we all wanted.

But for a while her stock has been dropping. Her preference for confirming “representation” via tweets instead of explicitly putting it in the text of her stories has raised the question of queer-baiting, especially with a whole-ass movie with a young Dumbledore and Grindelwald to make their relationship explicit but failing to do so. The whole Nagini thing from the latest Fantastic Beasts movie was pretty gross. And re-examination of various problematic elements from the original novels has rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Now, none of these really looked to be intentionally malicious, of course. Just about everyone’s early work will have problematic elements; that’s just how people work. And the later stuff smacked more of ignorance than anything. But after all this time, it’s like, c’mon. You should know better by now.

But the biggie came when her transphobic views finally came to light. Now, this one had been brewing for a while, due to some questionable likes and statements on her twitter. But then she decided to just go public and published what essentially amounts to a TERF manifesto, one with a very “love the sinner, hate the sin” condescending attitude and had a real persecution complex air to it.

Now, I’m not going to go into detail about what the manifesto was about, what the circumstances surrounding it were, or how wrong it was. It’s already been raked over the coals, dissected, answered, and debunked in detail by people far more qualified than me, so odds are, you’re already well aware of its contents and the subsequent rebuttals. But the gist of it comes down to her basically believing that transwomen are actually cis men claiming to be trans so as to infiltrate and invade female-only spaces.

Yeah.

Okay, that’s gross, but…why? Why is someone so noted for being progressive and wanting to foster an inclusive environment making this the hill of exclusion that she wants to die on?

Well, that’s where things get tricky. She mentions that prior to Harry Potter, her first marriage was highly physically and sexually abusive, and when she escaped from that, she had no place to go, leading her to be homeless for a time.

Oh.

Well, that makes sense. Someone goes through a highly traumatic experience with a member of the opposite sex, has no support structure when she escapes it, is left to fend for herself, only to suddenly get rocketed into fame, fortune, and influence, which in turn leads to a Never Again mentality. She was hurt, no one was there to help her, and now she’s afraid of men invading women-only spaces to victimize others like she was victimized. So…literally transphobic. Literally a Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminist.

Guys, this is so fucked up. Like, how do you even approach something like this? She’s a victim in every sense of the word, so of course she’s going to have physiological damage and a warped view of things. I mean, if I found out that a close friend of mine went through the same thing and had the same prejudices, I would be nothing but sympathetic! I mean, I’d still do what I can to convince her to overcome those prejudices, but I’d still show sympathy and support for what she went through.

Abuse warps people. There’s a reason why so many abusers are abuse survivors themselves. It makes you terrified of being hurt again and often causes people to adopt toxic behaviors, beliefs, and reactions to protect themselves. I’ve already talked about it at length while discussing She-Ra and its own handling of the cycle of abuse, which included franks discussions of Catra’s horrible behavior, why she was the way she was, while never losing sympathy for her and rooting for her to overcome it. So if JK Rowling is an abuse survivor, is it really right to come down on her for having warped views because of that abuse?

But that’s the problem. See, she isn’t your troubled friend that you’re trying to help. She isn’t your cousin Leslie who’s a really sweet person but unfortunately adopted some bad ideals due to trauma suffered. She JK freakin’ ROWLING, one of the most famous, wealthy, and influential women in the world. She has a platform of millions, if not billions, which means her voice lends credibility to her bigoted beliefs. Alt-righters and other TERFs have already swooped upon this for giving validation to their awful beliefs, which puts trans people even more at risk. And as horrible as Rowling’s experiences might have been, the trans community is often the victim of far worse, and they don’t have a mountain of money and an army of defenders to protect them like she does. I’ve said it time and time again: just because you’re a victim, that doesn’t give you the right to victimize others! And bringing things back to Catra, as much as I loved her redemption in the final season, she was still a TERRIBLE PERSON for a huge chunk of the show, one that needed to be stood up to and stopped.

So yeah. That’s the messiness that is JK Rowling.

Now, let’s talk about the one that really hurts. Let’s talk about Joss Whedon.

I’ve made no secret of what a huge Whedon fan I am. Unlike Rowling, I was a HUUUUUGE superfan. Seeing Serenity for the first time in theaters was akin to a religious awakening to me as a storyteller, making it one of my top three movies of all time. Firefly is my favorite show ever. And I adored Buffy, Angel, and Dollhouse as well. I love Cabin in the Woods and The Avengers. The very first fanfic I ever wrote was a Firefly fanfic that disappeared along with my old laptop. I know his style isn’t for everyone, but I cannot understate how much of a personal inspiration he is to me as a writer.

And like Rowling, Joss was supposed to be one of the good guys! Buffy was monumental in pushing the needle when it came to female empowerment. Will and Tara were groundbreaking as a gay couple. He’s been outspoken for years about his feminist views and beliefs and was seen as one of the most prominent and influential feminist voices in Hollywood!

And then things started to go bad.

One day he was on top of the world, the mastermind behind the first two Avenger movies. And the next, it seemed like he was in freefall. It’s hard to really pinpoint exactly when the change took place. Some would say him being brought in as a last-minute substitute for Zack Snyder to take over on Justice League after Snyder had to leave due to family tragedy, and the subsequent awful critical reception to that film tarnishing his image, even if those were very unique circumstances that couldn’t really be blamed on him. Others might point to Age of Ultron’s less than stellar reception, as well as criticism of some questionable jokes and certain creative decisions regarding the character of Black Widow, which then led to a more critical examination of how Whedon continues to write female characters, as while his work might have been revolutionary in the 90’s, his failure to evolve with the times had meant that many of his portrayals are now woefully outdated and problematic, with his vision for a Batgirl movie getting hit with a lot of backlash as a result.

Again, I’m not going to go into too much detail, as this is all public knowledge and can be easily looked up, but overall it seemed that Whedon entered into a period where he was getting criticized more than he was celebrated, and his image of a guaranteed hit maker was now in doubt.

But all of this wasn’t the big problem. All creators go through rises and slumps, and everyone hits points where they get hit with a barrage of criticism; that’s just part of being a public creative figure, especially a progressive one. And had nothing happened after, it would have probably faded, got forgotten, and Whedon would have moved onto the next project with no fuss.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t just a minor slump in his career. Instead, it was the priming of the pump.

In 2016, Whedon divorced his wife of sixteen years, Kai Cole, and in an open letter, Kai Cole accused him of being a serial cheater, who would have affairs with a great many women, from co-workers, to actresses, to friends, to even his fans. And in addition to raising questions of him possibly abusing his position as showrunner to elicit sex from those working on his projects, there also is the ugly question of how could someone who speaks so highly of women then go and backstab the person who was supposed to be the most important woman in his life, as well as lying to her and denying her the autonomy of deciding whether or not she even wanted to continue to have a relationship with him?

Furthermore, Whedon himself has not explicitly denied these accusations, and comments made by him seem only to confirm them.

Now if you’ll recall, I reacted publicly to this news, and despite my admiration of Whedon’s work, I came down on Kai Cole’s side, and stated that while things like marriage issues and infidelity were no one’s business but that of the couple’s, it did raise a lot of uncomfortable questions about how Whedon treated the women in his life and he really needed to get his shit in order.

But hey, a messy private life and a guy falling into temptation isn’t that big of a deal, right? Plenty of creators also go through multiple marriages and have problems staying faithful and still continue making great art. We’re all human, it’s a stressful job, and this shit just happens, right? Sure, it’s gross and a shitty thing to do, but ain’t no business of ours, right?

In late 2020, actor Ray Fisher, who played the role of Cyborg in Justice League, openly accused Joss Whedon of fostering a hostile work environment, claiming that the director’s behavior was abusive and unprofessional, and that Whedon in turn was protected by DC executives.

DC and Warner Bros. came down against Fisher, claiming they had done an internal investigation that turned up no evidence of wrongdoing (yeah, sure they did), and soon Fisher was out as Cyborg, apparently for rocking the boat.

But then Charisma Carpenter, noted for her important role as Cordelia Chase in both Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel, then spoke up, claiming to be inspired by Fisher in doing so. She described Whedon did indeed foster a hostile work environment on his projects, that his often acted in a toxic manner, from asking incredibly invasive and inappropriate questions regarding her pregnancy to insulting her on set. She said that she made excuses for him for years, but after undergoing a lot of therapy and reading what Ray Fisher had to say, she felt compelled to speak out.

And this just open the floodgates. Other actors and actresses also came forward, some with stories of their own, others to offer support. Even Buffy herself, Sarah Michelle Gellar, confirmed Carpenter’s stories and said that she no longer wanted to be associated with Whedon. Michelle Trachtenberg, who played the character of Dawn, stated that she also experienced toxic treatment from Whedon despite her being a minor at the time, and says that the set had a rule that Whedon wasn’t allowed to be alone with her again, which really raises some sickening questions of what happened the first time. Even male stars have spoken out, from words of support and apologies for not speaking up earlier from Anthony Stewart Head and David Boreanaz, to an earlier interview with James Marsters, in which he described being terrified of Whedon, mainly due to an instance when Whedon was frustrated with the popularity of Marsters’s character of Spike messing with his plans and physically and verbally taking it out on the actor. There have been many corroborating stories of Whedon being casually cruel on set, on seemingly taking delight in making his fellow show writers cry, and even the man himself admitting to enjoying fostering a hostile work environment during his director commentary of the Avengers. We’ve joked about Whedon’s supposed sadism for years, but that was in regards to how he treated the characters in his stories, not the people helping him make them!

So yeah. That’s the problem with Joss Whedon.

So, do I think that Joss Whedon is somehow some kind of sociopath who lied about his feminist principles and deliberately put on a progressive façade specifically to get into a position of power so he could torment people? No, of course not. I think he was sincere about his beliefs, and I do think he didn’t realize the wrongness of his behavior. But that’s kind of the problem. See, it’s one thing to have kind of a trollishness to your nature, a sort of sadistic side. No one can help that. But when someone with that quality gets put into a position of power in which they are protected by both the higher-ups and their legions of fans, they are allowed to mistreat and continue to mistreat people. And by never suffering any consequences, that sort of toxic behavior becomes internalized, becomes a habit, becomes their moda operandi. And when you’re constantly getting praised as a creative genius and a wonderful feminist voice, any self-criticism just gets wiped away, and you think yourself above reproach, leading to what Joss Whedon became and went on being.

And you know what scares me the most about this particular issue? It’s not that I am a fan of his stories. It’s that I can so easily see myself turning out the same way.

Look, I’ll be upfront about it: I’m kind of a sadist myself. You’ve seen it in my stories, you’ve seen me gloating after a particularly dark plot twist makes my readers freak out. That sort of stuff is fun to me. There’s a reason why I have a much easier time in the dark and violent scenes, because I’m channeling something ugly within me. We all have a dark side, and this is mine.

But UNLIKE Whedon, that doesn’t carry over to how I treat people in real life (unless Monopoly or Mario Party are involved, then it’s fair game). Maybe it’s because I wasn’t given the sort of power and praise he did so early, and I was always taught to be considerate of other people’s feelings, but if I ever find out that I hurt another person or went too fair, I feel TERRIBLE, and it just throws me off all day until I apologize. Even if I don’t notice right away that what I said or did wasn’t cool (autistic, remember?), when it’s pointed out to me and I have some time to think on it, yeah, the guilt is on and I make a point to apologize to whoever I’ve hurt. I’ve even made a point to apologize to members of my family for inconsiderate stuff I said years ago as a little punk kid because it wouldn’t stop bugging me.

So maybe Whedon got too big, too fast. Maybe putting people on these sorts of pedestals, especially progressive ones, is ultimately a bad thing.

So where does this leave us? How are we to treat JK Rowling and Joss Whedon, one who developed a lot of transphobia due to abuse suffered while the other became a toxic individual due to unchecked control and a lack of consequences? Can we still enjoy their stories despite them now being colored by their creators’ falls from grace? Can we separate the art from the artist, or do we have to do a clean split?

Honestly, I feel that has to come down to the individual. I can’t remove the influence Rowling and Whedon have had on me as a storyteller, and I still highly respect both of their talents despite taking major issue with their problems as people. And I’m not going go throw away all of my Harry Potter or Firefly stuff. Because that’s my stuff. It has value to me, it doesn’t represent the issues with their creators, and a lot of it was gifts from people who are dear to me. Though I do think it’ll be a long time before I return to either of their work, as I just don’t have the stomach for it now.

But I will be avoiding any projects they have in the future. I don’t want to put money in their pockets that might go on to support their toxic beliefs or behavior. And as for royalties for their past work that would also support the cast and crew of the Harry Potter films or those who worked on Whedon’s shows who do not deserve to lose money because we don’t want any of that money going to the creators? Er, that question is a little above my paygrade. I don’t know. You’ll have to all decide for yourselves. As for me, I still have a lot of thinking to do.

Regardless though, if I or anyone else is still able to enjoy their work, then it’s important to not divorce what these people said or did from the art they created, even if it makes enjoying that art less fun. It’s important to be critical about what we enjoy, to acknowledge the bad aspects along with the good, and open up discussion of those elements, because that’s what mature adults are supposed to do. 

And as for JK Rowling and Joss Whedon, whose stories I love, whose talent I admire, and whose past good work I’ll happily acknowledge, I do hope they both experience some sort of realization and enter into a period of self-examination that leads to them getting help for their issues, for Rowling to get help in coming to terms with her trauma and realizing that she’s wrong about the trans community and a full apology, and for Whedon to also come to terms with his toxic behavior and how he treats people, for him to make no excuse for what he did and sincerely apologize to those he hurt and work on bettering himself, as well as them both examining some of the more problematic tropes still present in their works. Because despite everything, I do feel that they can still be a creative force of good, and it would be a shame if they let themselves self-destruct.

But if not, then if it comes down to choosing between Rowling and the protecting the trans community, if it comes down between choosing between letting Whedon continue to make shows and protecting actors and writers from his abusive behavior, then I know who I’m siding with, and it ain’t the two individuals this whole essay is about. No story, no matter how good, no matter how creative, is worth letting sacrificing vulnerable people in order for it to be made.

[baegarrick]

ZUKKA ADVICE COLUMNIST AU! EITHER sokka as the columnist with a large readership/listenership bc of his elaborate plans to address typical relationship/work problems & zuko asking questions about social situations/making new friends when you've had a troubled childhood & your best friend is your uncle. OR: zuko as the thoroughly unqualified advice columnist (THAT'S ROUGH BUDDY)

yes 👏🏻

idk if it was inspired by this post or not, but if you haven’t seen it you should

finally got this done I'm the slowest actually

as much as I love “thoroughly unqualified zuko” (he’s my favorite dummy), I’m kinda so here for a “sokka’s elaborate plans” au

I’m thinking a little “you’ve got mail” and that post mixed in

so: Sokka is an advice columnist in the college paper. (this is a college au now sorry)

Zuko is one of his roommates (with like, Aang and Haru or something)

Sokka’s column is one of those “ask auntie” anonymous columns, and the name he’s forced to pen under is.... Aunt Wu. Katara and Aang both know he writes for the paper in the column, bc Katara’s his sister and Aang is their oldest friend and he figured it out (the kid is smart), but most of their friends don’t know, mostly bc the paper wants to keep it as anonymous as possible, and also he really didn't plan on staying this long. it was supposed to be one of those easy jobs for a semester until he got an internship in the robotics department, but it’s three semesters and one robotics internship later and he still!! has a job!! (partially because they told him if he quit they would do something unspeakably horrible to him, and also bc he’s..... popular??)

it started out as just a job, but Sokka’s an overthinker. he’s bright as hell, and maybe it’s his engineering brain, but he sometimes misses the obvious sometimes. Half his plans for “how do I deal with this guy who I’m dating who says either the fish goes or he does?” start out “dump him!!!” and then end with “.... actually wait, first of all it’s really shitty he wants you to get rid of a fish??? its a FISH???? it doesn’t even do anything????” and then three paragraphs of both a personal experience (sokka surprisingly has a lot of personal stories that Relate) and an elaborate plan for dumping this guy and then signing him up for like 12 free fish magazines.

He gets really popular, and while some of the questions he gets are weird and kinda over the top (”aunt wu, I’m blind but want to join the wrestling team, how do i tell my parents I’m both gay and stronger than them?”) some are just kinda sad (”aunt wu, my uncle is my best friend, how do I make friends?”). They’re all asked anonymously, sometimes with funny names attached. The latter is from a guy calling himself, “Blue Spirit.”

Anyway. Three semesters into writing this column, he lives with Aang, Zuko, and Haru. He picked Aang, the other two just came with the place (Suki, Katara, Yue, and Toph said “under absolutely no circumstances will we be splitting up so good LUCK boys we’re out.”)

He starts getting questions like, “How do I break the ice with my roommates?”, from the “Blue Spirit” guy, which prompts Sokka to get his roommates involved. He’s not against crowdsourcing. (only aang knows about the job, he tells the others its for school.) Sokka doesn’t really know Haru and Zuko, but like, this is a great way to get to know them, right?

Haru’s chill off the bat, but Zuko’s awkward and fumbling, and a little shy (though Sokka has heard him getting in a shouting match with the TV on more than one occasion), but after they get into it, throwing out ideas, Sokka thinks, you know, this was a good way to make friends with roommates. (he doesn’t write that, exactly, he’s got a reputation to uphold, but he includes “tricking them into hanging out with you by asking about a homework assignment” in the article) Zuko’s in the living room a lot more often after that, and even asked for Sokka’s help on a physics assignment once (ya know, bc Sokka’s super smart), so he thinks the method is tried and true.

A couple weeks of other mundane questions, he gets one that makes him pause. “What do I do if I have a crush on my roommate?” (Blue Spirit). and he thinks, “oh no, the ice breaker worked TOO WELL.” (but, of course, he doesn’t know what to do about this. He’s never had a crush on a roommate before. Aang’s like his little brother, Jet was a creep, and Hahn was the WORST. So he outsources again.)

[”Hey Aang,” Sokka says, hanging half upside down off the couch, “would you date your roommate?”

“Sorry Sokka, I’m flattered, but you know that Katara has captured my heart-- hey!” Sokka throws the remote at him.

“Not me! Just like, in general. Would you date someone you’re living with?”

“Oh, is this advice for your...... thing?” His eyes twinkle, “Or.... do you have a crush on someone I should know about????” (Aang is wildly unhelpful. He says he would date his roommate, no questions asked, but Sokka thinks he’s just thinking about Katara.)

He asks Zuko, next, the first person to come through the door.

“Would you date your roommate, Zuko?” Sokka asks. Zuko looks like he’s a deer caught in the headlights. “I’m asking for a friend,” Sokka says, whenever they ask. This was what had gotten him in trouble with Aang, but so far no one else had noticed Aunt Wu answering the same questions in the paper a week later.

Zuko relaxes, but he doesn’t look much better. “Uhhhh.”

“I mean, not like, us,” Sokka said, “I don’t know if you’re into dudes--”

“Definitely into dudes,” Zuko rushes to say, his cheeks pink all over again, and it’s cute. Sokka can see why dating him might be appealing. Oh no. That’s a thought for later. “Definitely gay.” And then, “I mean.... would you?”

“I don’t know,” Sokka says thoughtfully, looking Zuko over. Before he can think over it, Haru comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered.

Haru just shrugs. “I mean, isn’t your spouse just like your permanent roommate? It’s just like making a commitment really really early.”]

He publishes this in the paper: “What do you want to do about it?”

When he’s typing it up, he thinks about it. There are really two options for having a crush on your roommate. One, you can tell them you like them, or two, suffer in silence. He thinks about it. If he had a crush on someone-- his thoughts wandering to Zuko far more often than he likes-- he would probably do something about it. That’s what he did with Yue, that’s what Suki did with him. He details an elaborate plan with anecdotes about what he did with Yue, leaving out the part that they broke up. Giving her gifts, making her laugh, showing up at her workplace just to hang out for a little while. He details a 12-step plan that involves defeating your rival in hand-to-hand combat.

Of course, none of that would work with Zuko. They once got into an argument over how loud the TV was when neither of them were watching it, so he definitely wouldn’t want Sokka fighting his battles for him.

And then, oh no.

(He publishes the article. He tries not to feel like a hypocrite when he doesn’t immediately ask Zuko out, thinking about what Haru says. It’s a lot of commitment for an early relationship. He’s always the responsible one. For once in his life, he doesn’t go after what he wants.)

A couple months of this, living with these dudes, one of whim he now has a crush on!! thanks ANONYMOUS BLUE SPIRIT, the girl running the horoscopes segment of the paper quits and leaves that segment without an author. cue Sokka, reluctant horoscope writer. (He doesn’t even believe in this stuff!! but does he really believe half the stuff he writes in Aunt Wu?)

He half-asses it the first week. He looks up some bullshit guide to what everything means, listens to Toph describe what she thinks they mean over drinks at the tea place, and then sends it off to be published. He finds Zuko sulking in the living room two days later.

[”My horoscope said I’m going to make everyone around me miserable this week!” Zuko falls back on the couch, dramatically, like it’s a fainting sofa. “With my physics exam next week, I know it’s because I’m going to fail and drag you all down with me!”

“Oh,” Sokka says, stopping in the doorway. “You read those? ...and believe them?”

“Yes?” Zuko says, face a flushed red.

“Oh,” Sokka says, mind going a million miles per hour. “I have to, uh, go do my homework now.”]

The next week, Scorpio gets a nice horoscope about how everything is going to go right in the world and all that other sappy bullshit. Zuko looks better before his exam, and he’s happier. Sokka keeps that in mind whenever he seems Zuko looking a little down.

It’s not until the week before Winter Break that Sokka is forced to confront his feelings, in the dumbest of ways. His laptop breaks, and he asks Zuko to borrow his so he can finish the second-to-final Aunt Wu column. Zuko tosses his laptop over without thinking, from the other side of the couch, and he goes to open a document when he sees one already open.

It’s an early draft of a letter addressed to Aunt Wu, and it’s signed off with, “Blue Spirit.” He looks over at Zuko, who seems to realize what he left open at the same time, and suddenly--

[Zuko pounces, practically leaping into Sokka’s lap to slam the laptop shut. Sokka looks down at him, surprised. The only thing he can think of saying is, “You’re the Blue Spirit?”

Zuko looks more like he’s ready to die than ever, cheeks a furious red, “You read Aunt Wu?”

“Of course not,” Sokka says without thinking. “I write it.”

“Oh,” Zuko says, “that’s so much worse.”

Finally the implication catches up to Sokka, and this time, he feels his face heat, Zuko still sprawled across his lap. “You.... have a crush on your roommate?” Zuko doesn’t say anything. For once, Sokka’s mouth works properly. “Dude, I really hope your crush is on me because otherwise this is gonna be really awkward.”

“Wha--” Zuko tries to say, but Sokka’s leaning down to kiss him. When he pulls back, Zuko looks a little starstruck. “Oh. Yeah. It was definitely on you.”]

(Sokka doesn’t tell him about the horoscopes. He’ll tell him when he graduates, but for now, he likes making Zuko smile.)

[matrixaffiliate]

Christmas in Quarantine

New Story! FFN and AO3

Quarantine has a way of making us want to have the best things in life, the things we can't have now. For Harry and Ginny, this involves hauling out the holy, playing carols, holiday treats, and a little of Christmas, right this very minute. Modern Muggle AU.

This little story was requested and prompted by several wonderful people on Tumblr. @gryffindormischief named the fic and wanted it written for Hinny. @petals-to-fish (who put up so many wonderful fics in one day for all of us and it really was Christmas) wanted to see a snowball fight, baking cookies, and mistletoe kissing. @inakindofdaydream (who adores Christmas after my own heart) wanted to see them almost getting caught by Santa Clause. And @shining-jul-of-hope who pointed out that it's nowhere near Christmas right now. :P I'm so grateful to these lovely people for sharing in the magic with me, and trusting me with their fabulous ideas!

For those of us not part of the UK, cornflour, apparently is what we call corn starch.

Christmas in Quarantine

It was strange, how little Harry Potter's life changed with the Pandemic, but as a blockbuster author who spent most of his time in his office writing the next installment of his fantasy novels, he was more or less socially distanced to begin with. What changed the most was that Ginny was home now. The football leagues were all canceled and that meant Ginny's professional career had been put on hold until further notice.

For the first week or so, it was fun. Harry put off the manuscript in exchange for keeping Ginny company in all the best ways. But then his publisher was emailing him about maybe getting more done since the world had shut down, and his editor started calling and so Harry reluctantly went back into work mode.

He figured Gin would be alright. She had the treadmill and other assorted workout equipment and her team did daily Zoom meetings now. When she wasn't goofing around with the team - he's walked into the kitchen when she's in those meetings, he knows what they're talking about - both their mothers liked to call and check-in, Marlene hosted a Kindle book club now, and Luna taught painting lessons through live videos, so Harry felt confident that Ginny didn't need him to be underfoot trying to "entertain" her.

But he started to wonder if he had underestimated what social distancing would do to his wife when Harry walked out of his office for a snack and heard the sound of... show tunes?

"Gin?" Harry poked his head into the sitting room.

"Alright, Potter?" Ginny was lounging on the sofa in front of the telly, watching something that looked horrendous on their high def screen.

"What's this?" Harry gestured to the telly.

"My mum always said I should watch the musicals she loved as a kid." Ginny shrugged. "And I've got time now, so I thought I'd give a few a go."

Harry chuckled, "You had me worried there. I've never heard you listen to show tunes and I wondered if you'd gone stir crazy."

Ginny rolled her eyes at him. "Don't let that book keep you past dinner again."

Harry shoved his hand in his hair. "I've got an alarm today, I'll be all yours the moment it goes off."

Ginny's returning smile left him wondering if maybe he ought to move that alarm up an hour.

After a week of Ginny watching the musicals her mum grew up with, Harry became accustomed to the show tunes playing from the sitting room. Gin would put on whatever one he assumed her mum had recommended and Harry would come out to assorted big band songs playing. It reminded him of going to his dad's parents' home when he was little, which felt oddly comforting given the way the world was attempting to implode upon itself.

And that was probably why Harry didn't think to question Gin's newfound obsession.

And when she started watching the same one at the start of every day, well Harry just figured that she really liked the music or the story, after all, the bits that Harry had seen were set during the Great Slump and he was starting to wonder if the world wasn't heading for another 21st-century repeat.

Harry was a bit taken aback after a week of her starting the day with the musical Auntie Mame to walk into the kitchen to grab lunch and find Ginny baking mince pies.

"Alright, Gin?"

Ginny grinned up at him from the pie crust she was rolling out.

"Thought I'd make us a bit of a treat."

Harry brushed some of the flour from her cheek.

"Mince pies?"

"You love mince pies." She set the rolling pin down to smear a floured hand across his cheek.

Harry tried to pull back but wasn't quick enough and laughed as he reached for a towel.

"You're right, so I guess the proper response should have been more along the lines of 'thank you' or maybe enthusiastic snogging?"

"I'll take the thank you now and the enthusiastic snogging after these pies are baked and cooled." Ginny kissed him and Harry moved closer to her, letting his lips move slowly against her, loving the way she melted against him.

"Thank you for making mince pies in April. I'll make sure that you get far more than enthusiastic snogging once I'm done working on this blasted novel."

Ginny bit down on his lip. "I can't wait."

Harry was surprised by Ginny baking mince pies. But the next morning he was downright floored to find their Christmas decorations out and mostly up when he stepped out to refill his tea.

"Gin? What on Earth?"

"We need a little Christmas, Harry." Ginny adjusted where she hung an ornament on their tree.

"It's April…" Was all he managed to say as he realized how much she'd managed to get done in the roughly three hours he'd been writing.

"Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!" Ginny laughed and smiled at the telly where Lucille Ball's character was talking about building a home for Jewish refugees.

"Right…"

Ginny moved back to the last couple of boxes of their Christmas decorations.

"I have a surprise at lunch. So don't work through it."

Harry blinked. "This isn't a surprise?"

"We need a little Christmas, Harry!" Ginny pulled the Santa hat or if the box and stuck it on her head.

And then it clicked.

"Are we in that musical?" He gestured to the telly.

Ginny huffed and dug into the box closest to her. "Well, I thought it looked like fun!"

"I can't sing," Harry grinned and moved to the boxes with Ginny. "But we could haul out the holy, maybe fill the stockings, turn on the carols."

Ginny's eyes filled back up with hope, "Bake Christmas cookies, have a snowball fight, watch for Santa?"

Harry slipped his hand into the box next to him as he smiled down at Ginny.

"I have no idea how we'll have a snowball fight, but yes, I'll go close out of my document for today and we'll have ourselves a little Christmas."

Then he lifted out what he'd been digging through the box for.

"But shouldn't we start our Christmas off right?" Harry held up the mistletoe over their heads.

Ginny chuckled, "Very smooth, Potter."

"I had to write a few romance pieces at university." Harry leant closer to her.

"Why have I never seen them?" Ginny smirked, leaning back away from him.

"They were rubbish. I tossed them the moment I had the grade." Harry finally pulled her close enough to capture her lips.

She laughed against him. "Go tell your boss you're out for the day while I go hang this above our bed."

Ginny snatched the mistletoe from his fingers and skipped to their bedroom.

By the time Harry had finished saving everything and putting a few ideas down in his notebook, Ginny was standing at his office door in her bikini with his swimming trunks in hand.

"What happened to Christmas?"

"I figured out how to have a snowball fight!" Ginny tossed him his trunks. "Come on!"

Then she headed for their balcony.

Harry couldn't change fast enough.

"Here," Ginny shoved a bowl at him as he stepped out the door to join her. "This is your ammunition, use it wisely because I'm not using any more of our cornflour for it."

"Cornflour?"

"Yes, and hair conditioner, which I've already told Amazon to send more of."

Harry laughed at how Ginny had moved their two patio chairs to make a battle line.

"I can't believe you managed to get us snow when it's 19 degrees out." Harry stuck his hand in his bowl of fake snow and grimaced at the texture.

"YouTube," Ginny shrugged and then jumped to one side of the chair battle line she'd created.

The moment Harry shut the door, she threw a ball of the 'snow' at this bareback and he grimaced at the way it felt sliding along his spine.

"This is an awful cross between that wretched Halloween slime we made in primary and store-bought decor snow."

"Wouldn't know," Ginny shrugged, "seeing as I haven't been hit by any of it."

Harry didn't move fast enough as she threw another 'snow ball' at him and it slid down his side. He groaned as the feeling of it crawling along his side sent shivers across his skin before reaching into his own bowl and tossing a large handful back at Ginny. She ducked and it splatted against the wall behind her.

There wasn't really much 'snow' between the two of them and when he missed Ginny by a hair for the third time, Harry decided to go all in. He jumped up on the patio chairs and pushed his foot on the back of the chair, tipping it over and taking his wife by surprise as he dumped his bowl over her head.

Ginny yelled and shoved him back onto the toppled chair as she threw the last of her snow at his face. Then she collapsed on top of him and laughed as they tried to keep the 'snow' from their eyes.

"I think a shower is in order." Harry pushed his caked glasses up into his hair. "And then what would you like to do next?"

"I have everything out for some Christmas cookies, icing and all." Ginny wiped some snow from her forehead before it could slide completely into her eyes.

"Baking and Christmas carols?"

"And maybe a bit of something else…" Ginny moved to kiss him but immediately backed away when more 'snow' tried to sneak into her eyes.

Harry laughed and pushed them to stand. "Lead a blind man to the shower, won't you?"

After a long shower, Harry wrapped his arms around Ginny's waist as carols played through her phone and she measured out the flour.

"Aside from the tank top, this feels like Christmas."

"Maybe we should spend Christmas in a warmer climate from now on," Ginny brushed a bit of flour on his nose.

"Our mums would probably hunt us down for something like that."

"Ooo, adventure and a holiday, sounds like a book waiting to be a bestseller."

Harry laughed and helped with the cookies and icing. Slipping his phone out here and there to jot down a few notes.

"I thought you told the boss you were off for the day." Ginny pouted as Harry set his phone down to ice another cookie.

"Just writing a few ideas down," Harry leant over and kissed her cheek.

"Typing, not writing," she teased.

"You said you had a surprise for me and to not work through lunch." Harry redirected their conversation.

"Well, I was going to use it to convince you to go along with having a bit of Christmas in April. But since you decided to jump on board without it, I'm saving it for tonight." She bit her lip.

"Tonight, eh?" Harry stood and moved to the fridge.

"Alright, Potter?" Ginny frowned.

"I know that look," Harry started pulling out sandwich fixings. "I'm going to need more than sugar cookies and icing for lunch if you've got that look."

Her laughter felt more genuine in that moment than it had since the world hit pause, and Harry grinned.

They really did need a little Christmas.

They spent the rest of the day 'virtual caroling'. For which his parents not only thanked them but joined in, taking the phone along as they dug up all the Christmas boxes and argued if they could thaw the ham overnight or if they should just make whatever they had on hand for a family Christmas dinner the next day hosted via Zoom meeting.

Harry scrounged up everything for a shepherds pie dinner and they put on A Christmas Carol after as they ate the iced cookies and drank hot chocolate for dessert.

It felt like Christmas.

Harry felt light and he felt happy and he could see the happiness and lightness in Ginny as well. They definitely needed a little Christmas in all of this pandemic insanity.

"Thank you," he kissed her hairline.

Ginny smiled up at him, snuggling closer to his side. "Thank you for being on board. This has been so much fun. I forgot about how awful it is out there."

Harry kissed her, letting himself indulge in the softness of her lips, the taste of chocolate and sugar on her lips.

"Do I still get to see that surprise?" Harry kissed along her jawline to the spot behind her ear that made her breath catch.

Ginny laughed, "Wait here."

She pushed up and slid out of the room with a confidence that made it a strenuous exercise in self-control for Harry to not follow her out of the sitting room.

To distract himself he took out his phone and jotted down a few more notes.

"I might just throw your phone in your office and lock the door."

Harry quickly locked said phone and tossed it on the side table.

Then he looked up.

Ginny had on a Father Christmas cloak, white wig, and a set of glasses that had the white beard attached.

"Wow…"

Ginny laughed and undid the belt that held the robe shut.

Harry's initial confusion dropped instantly as his wife's body was revealed, no imagination needed.

"We're losing the beard," he smirked and moved to gently pull the glasses-beard combo off Ginny's face.

"What Father Christmas doesn't have a long white beard?" She teased as her fingers moved along his waistband.

Harry kissed her slowly as his hands moved slower against her freckled skin.

"The one who is actually my wife," he pulled back before sweeping Ginny into his arms and carrying her back to their bed, and the mistletoe hanging over it.

The sun long set and the moon high in their bedroom window, Harry waited patiently until Ginny's breathing became even and he was sure she was fast asleep. As quietly as he learned to move when he was a child spying on his Christmas gifts, Harry snuck out of their bed and down to his office.

It took the better part of an hour to get it how he wanted it. Then it took another half-hour to get the printer to print it the way he wanted. And another half-hour after that to find the freaking wrapping paper. But after roughly two hours of trying to be silent, Harry snuck into the sitting room to set the gift under the tree.

He went to grab this phone from the side table when a cloaked image came into his peripheral vision and he almost cried out as all the anxiety of a child being caught by Father Christmas came rushing up at him from years as a boy trying to spy on Christmas gifts.

"Why are you out here?" Ginny's groggy voice sounded and Harry felt relief rush through him like a tidal wave.

"Just grabbing my phone. I forgot to plug it in to charge while we slept."

"Come to bed, you're how I don't freeze to death at night."

Harry slipped his arms around Ginny and led them back to bed with a smile on his face.

He hadn't been caught by Father Christmas, but more importantly, his wife would still get her surprise on Christmas morning.

And just like childhood, Harry awoke far too early, and far too excited to go back to sleep. Though rather than for what he would receive, it was for what he was giving.

"Gin," he nuzzled her hairline and kissed her cheek.

Ginny made a sound that was a cross between a moan and a grunt.

"Don't you want to see what Father Christmas left for you?"

"I'm Father Christmas and I didn't leave anything out because it's not actually December the 25th." She mumbled into her pillow.

Harry chuckled. "Let's just go have a look."

Ginny blinked her eyes open and frowned. "Only if I get to come right back to bed."

Harry put his hand over his heart. "I promise, well go see if there are any surprises and then come right back to bed."

"Fine," Ginny pushed up from the bed, her Father Christmas robe slipping from her shoulders. "But if this is how you're going to be with children then we're rethinking our future plans."

Harry laughed and forced himself not to run full tilt down the hall and leave his adorably sleepy wife in the dust.

He held his breath as Ginny moved to the tree and his lone gift that sat wrapped below its branches.

She turned to look up at him, bewildered, "What's this?"

"Open it," he shrugged.

Ginny pulled the wrapping away and slid the booklet from the manilla envelope he'd used to hold it.

"A Holiday and an Adventure," She read aloud. "Harry, what is this?"

Harry stuck a hand in his hair. "Well since you're not on the team for the foreseeable future, and you've always got the best ideas when I'm stuck in a story, I thought maybe, maybe you'd like to write a book together, you and me. All those pages in the booklet are the notes I was jotting down all day yesterday. And I've organized them out the way I do with my novels. If you like the idea and we finish the story, we could send it over to my editor. See what she thinks."

Ginny looked up from the booklet, eyes wide. "You want to write a book with me?"

Harry smiled, "I kind of already do. You're my sounding board and you find more of my plot holes than my editor does. So I guess I'm really asking you to be an active participant so we can put your name on the cover too."

Ginny looked back down at the booklet before launching herself at him. Harry caught her and managed to spin them around so he fell on the sofa and not his back.

"So is this a yes?" Harry chuckled as he kissed her hairline.

Ginny kissed him enthusiastically before jumping up. "Come on! I want to start right now!"

Harry snagged her around the middle before she could go running off. "What happened to wanting to go right back to bed?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Ginny laughed, "do you have any idea how badly I've wanted some real control in your novels?"

"Now you have a story to be in control of." Harry kissed her. "Happy Christmas, Gin."

Ginny's smile shone like the rising run out their sitting room window. "Happy Christmas, Harry."

[voidgremlin]

An Oath to Hope (Chapter 6)

Chapter 6: Dear Diary, Today I think the stars went out.

Dear Diary,

Today I told my parents that I didn’t liked the sheep. They are smelly, they are loud and they annoy me. [Drawings of flowers]

Dear Diary,

Today I prepared my bag and re-told my parents that I didn’t liked the sheep, I called mean auntie Sharon to ask if she was ok with me being at Leadworth with her. She said nothing. But that’s not a no. [Drawing of Amy with orange hair inside a car passing by a sign named Leadworth]

Dear Diary,

Mom and Dad don’t like the idea of letting me go to town, they say they don’t mind driving me to school for hours. But I mind a lot ! I HATE THE SHEEPS !!!! [Drawings of sheep being crossed out]. 

Amelia Jessica “Amy” Pond is a kid that would make most parent proud. Bright mind under layer of passion and anger and at the core: poetry but of course no parents would be able to describe their own children with such clarity. To them, she is a kid that never caused much trouble and was helpful at the farm and slaughterhouse that the Ponds owned. Despite her many many attempts to tell them she hated it here, or the fact that all she wanted was to leave and her tantrums. To Augustus and Tabetha Pond, all is well in the best of the world. Parenthood is a difficult thing to be, but the Ponds were not trying that hard.

Amy is small kid who rather be close to friends than isolated and she understood that very quickly: she didn’t wanted to be alone and her family wasn’t good enough expect the sheep, they were good but smelly. So she provoked her transfer to Leadworth, it was long and difficult, she didn’t even liked her aunt. She wasn’t … Evil but had the special brand of Pond’s care. But in her head she will be close to school, close to friends and she won’t be alone anymore. So it was worth the argument. In the end it was the call of Sharon who begged her parents to make her stop calling her home and be done with it that changed their mind. If Amy could hear the tone of her aunt she would understand why the hell, the next day, her baggage’s were packed and she was off the Pond’s property.

The goodbye were short and curt, they told her that she could come back any time, even for tea.

The Hellos were as well, curt and short. Her aunt gave her a nod before showing an empty and bare room. Letting her installing herself on her own.

She was 9 years old.

And more maturity than her pairs.

First, she tried to go back to her parents each weekend but they never could go pick her up so she found alternative ways that required many buses. It was tiring but more than that was the fact that home was still awful. Her parents were busy, the cattle loud and her alone.

After a few weeks the going didn’t make any sense anymore. She stopped, and through the daily calls it didn’t seemed like they noticed her absence. But her aunt noticed her presence in the house.

“Is there nothing to keep you occupied those days ?” she said during the first holidays they had together clearly annoyed of someone being in her space during her little free time. Amelia doesn’t think she answered that day but it didn’t stopped her aunt to take action about it.

She hired a babysitter.

Well she hired the neighbor’s kid and asked him if for a few bucks he would like to play with her Amelia. The floppy haired kid who is dressed like Sharon’s grandpa, didn’t knew any better and wanted the money to do crazy and stupid stuff to his moms’ demise. He accepted and showed up the next day in front of Amelia’s door.

Which led to a lot of screaming because one, he showed up in front of Amy’s bedroom door at 6 a.m. on a rainy Sunday where all Amy’s wished was to sleep in peace. Two, he is a weirdo. Three, he was two years younger than her.

“Aunt Sharon ! What do you mean a babysitter !! He is seven ! I could be his big sister ! What the hell auntie !”

“Language young lady and he is your babysitter because I said so. You better not bother me anymore, I have a paper to write.” She snapped back closing the door in front of the two kids. Who awkwardly stayed still in silence before the door open again and aunt Sharon showed up, money in her hand addressing herself to kid in suspenders. “Here Alexander, watch over her would you. And you Amelia do not call me auntie again, it’s silly.”

Before the kid could answer a thanks, the door closed again with force and Alexander turned himself to Amelia who was shaking in anger.

“You… You can call me auntie if you want.” He said smiling at her.

She doesn’t know if it was because it was kind, or because he was the kid next door who keeps waving at her hello, but she didn’t snapped back. Instead she asked him to come to the kitchen, she wanted a good breakfast and he told her that he knew the recipes for the most greatest one, his words.

The breakfast he proposed, gave the young girl fear for her and the kid’s sake. Who eats fish fingers and custard in this world ?

“Are you from this world ?” Amy asked.

“Nope ! My mothers got me from somewhere else. I don’t where though.” He said thoughtful before beaming up “They told me they would tell me at my next birthday if I want ! I’m just not sure to want to know. What if they say I’m from the moon ?”

She smiles “ Alright moon boy, what do you mean by that ?”

“I’m adopted.”

“Oh !”

“But I am totally able to babysit you ! I already know how to read already and algebra !”

“Algebra… Wow. Doesn’t make you able to guard me.”

“Your ‘auntie’ thought it does.”

Amy let out a groan before digging back to her toast.

The ‘babysitting’ was meant to be for only a few days, the holidays, Amy said so, and it was nice to have someone to talk to and have fun with. Even if it a weirdo whose holiday project was to built a jiggily timey, aka a toaster that wake you with breakfast ready. It never worked but it was funny to try. Amy’s project was to write more in her diary but it was difficult with Alexander who was always requiring her time.

The holidays over, the kid kept showing up, after school showing her what he did and telling her how bored he was. He told her about nightmares he sometimes have, his stupid fear of being afraid that she couldn’t see him anymore.

How could she forget such a good and wonderful boy.

He listened to Amy’s calls and offered her cake for his mom when she was sad. Gradually Amy found herself into the boy’s home more often than not. The Songs where lovely, making a place for Amy’s at each dinner, if she ever needed to crash in there. Listened to her story and displayed her drawings in the kitchen. The Ponds got quickly the knowledge of the young boy who was all over their child’s life.  And their only reaction was to ask the size of the little one to knit him a sweater.

Also there’s sheep named Amy in farm. Family’s pet.

Amelia hearing the news took it very well, spreading the news with a grin.

“I got a little sister !” She says under the worried eyes of the Songs. She was hurt of course, she was hurt. She felt like she needed to be a sheep to be accepted in this crazy family. But she chose to not care to much. She was here. She was happy and she got her moon boy.

Dear Diary,

Today, Rory stayed with me all night for the studying. He stayed to read my writing. I think he liked my stories I have written. Even told me I should publish it. I think I am gonna marry this man.

She met Rory. Beautiful and smiling Rory, who wanted to help people. Wonderful and kind Rory, who despise it all was here.  Childhood was long over and she didn’t even saw him, in all her weirdness. She knew in retrospect that Rory did followed her around since the beginning but … She didn’t saw. It didn’t made her a bad person. Does it ?

Rory gave some stability, because to be honest Moon Boy was anything but stable, he gave up very early school and kept doing odds job, even introduced Amy to the job of kissogram. His house was a mess of trinkets and half assed invention and way too many times the fire alarm went on.

Rory was showing up everyday with a smile and asking the question of how she was doing. Rory was making sure she had a meal and a kiss on the cheek every day. He helped her with sending letters to different publishers for her books, helped her rewrite when needed through sleepless nights, he rewrote for her even when she gave up with his stale, matter of fact style of writing and... He didn’t stopped even when he started to be a nurse.

She loved him.

Amy was blessed she thought, maybe it was the sheep, maybe it was luck.

But even as an author, she didn’t think of a lot of things to say when went down on one knee showing him the ring that Alexander begged to make. He looked at her with those sweet eyes. And all she said was:

“Hey wanna spend the rest of your silly life with me ?”

The gasp that moon boy made was enough for both of them to watch him being all emotional about their moment, it made her add.

“And him, because Alex and I we are a weird package deal.”

He only laugh before kneeling in front of her and kissing her.

I guess that was yes.

[littlemisssquiggles]

RWBY CHIBI Musings #3: An adorably funny way for the CRWBY to introduce Oscar into the Chibi-verse for RWBY Chibi Season 3

I’m not sure if I’m going to make it a habit to muse about Chibi but I just couldn’t resist further developing and sharing this one idea I thought of over the weekend. 

At first I figured it’d be too ridiculous of a concept to execute but then I remembered that this is the magical RWBY Chibi-verse: a wondrous world of slapstick where characters killed off in the main series are resurrected for good humorous antics and shenanigans; where a tiny pooch can be a stage hand, a life guard and a well-published author at the same time and where the Creatures of Grimm; monsters feared in the main story, are reduced to talking animals with lines straight out of a cable TV sitcom.

So who gives a shit about logic for in the Chibi-verse, anything goes. So if we can get all those things and more, then the likeliness of my crack musing becoming canon could be plausible. Alright, hear me out with this one.

At first I figured it’d be something simple like maybe the RWBY girls magically wind up lost in Mistral and have to stop and ask for directions from a stranger and after giving the side eye to a brief surprise cameo from a shady looking Chibi Hazel or even Chibi Tyrian, they end up taking advice from a small gentle farm boy who was quietly enjoying a normal day on his auntie’s farm when the four girls came rolling by.

In the beginning, I thought that might be more canon-worthy but then I thought ‘No Squiggles! This is the RWBY Chibi-verse you’re dealing with! A cartoon reality that gives the royal middle finger to anything sensible. So think harder. Think less logical and more cartoon-spoofy that would make Bugs Bunny slow clap in approval!’

And that’s when I came up with this.

Imagine if...

The girls make the daring jump off the bridge all Thelma and Louis-style but instead of falling to their supposed deaths, they end up pulling an ole Looney Tunes trick and wind up bursting through the Chibi set designs that were modelled after Vale, flying straight towards a new unknown location never before seen in the show.

Cut to somewhere else in the Chibi-verse, a completely different set design placed in Mistral where we get our first debut appearance of Chibi Oscar. The young boy was sitting warily up in his room complaining out loud to himself that nothing interesting ever happens around his aunt’s farm in Mistral. It’s always the same old routine every day. He gets up in the morning, tends to his usual daily chores around the farm, returns back up to his room in the barn till his aunt calls him down for supper. He eats and then it’s time for bed to begin another day of same old, same old.

With a disgruntled huff, Oscar pleads to whatever ‘Writer Gods’ that exist in the Chibi-verse that just once he’d like for something interesting to happen on the farm. And just as the young chibi farm boy says this out loud...

BAM! The RWBY mobile crash lands right in the middle of his room, putting a nice big hole in his bedroom ceiling. Oscar stares at both the vehicle and the mess it did to his room in complete shock; unable to believe his eyes.

“Holy Shitake mushrooms! That actually worked! Auntie was right. Praying to the Gods does work! It’s not just a trick to get me to go the church.” Oscar remarks jubilantly. He then gets down on his knees in a praying position.

“Now I wish for an infinite supply of money!” Oscar says, praying to the Writer Gods once more. Of course, nothing happens this time and the young boy is displeased by this.

“Seriously? You crash a car into my bedroom but won’t send me the money to fix it!” Oscar gripes with huffed freckly chibi cheeks, “Well if I can’t have more money then can you at least give me a cute girl to love me!”

Just as Oscar utters those words, the back trunk of the RWBY mobile springs open and out pops Chibi Ruby who gets shot out of the vehicle right into the outstretched arms of Oscar who catches her in perfect timing. Oscar gives Ruby the once over, ogling her with wide hazel eyes and she in turn stares right back at him, waving and smiling awkwardly.

“...You...have silver eyes?” Oscar mutters bewilderedly.

“...And you...have avocado-eyes?” Ruby responds with an embarrassed shrug, “Sorry about your roof but do you mind telling us where we are, exactly?”

Oscar doesn’t answer Ruby. He just looks up to the heavens again and says “I will never doubt your magic again.” as he thanked the Writer Gods, before unsubtly breaking the fourth wall and winking to the audience watching.

And scene. Roll credits.

 Ey? Eyyyyy? Whaddaya think? Totally RWBY Chibi material, am I right or am I right?

I know the chances of this being Oscar’s intro into the Chibi-verse are slim to...never gonna happen in a bazillion years but a squiggle meister can dream, can’t she?

 ~~LittleMissSquiggles (2018)

[orbemnews]

A SPECIAL JOURNAL REPORT: Family still seeking justice one year after Macy woman's death Galen and Tillie Aldrich hold a photograph of their daughter, Ashlea Aldrich, whose lifeless body was found in a farm field on the Omaha Indian Reservation. Galen Aldrich speaks at a memorial service for his daughter, Ashlea Aldrich, at the Walthill Fire Hall on Jan. 7. Ashlea Aldrich was found dead a year before on that date. Galen and Tillie Aldrich talk about the death of their daughter, Ashlea Aldrich, during an interview in their rural Walthill, Nebraska, home in January 2020. The naked body of Ashlea Aldrich, a 29-year-old mother of two, was found in a farm field on the Omaha Indian Reservation. The Aldriches say her death was the result of domestic violence. Tillie Aldrich, center, and Galen Aldrich, right, give gifts to family members at a memorial service for their daughter, Ashlea Aldrich. Tillie Aldrich, right, and Galen Aldrich, left, give gifts to family members at a memorial service for their daughter, Ashlea Aldrich, at the Walthill Fire Hall in Walthill, Nebraska, on Jan. 7. Ashlea Aldrich was found dead one year ago on this day. MACY, Neb. — Framed inspirational quotes decorated Galen and Tillie Aldrich’s home on a bitter cold day in January 2020. Photos of their youngest daughter, Ashlea, once hung in their places on the light-beige walls. After the 29-year-old mother’s lifeless body was found lying muddy and naked in a cornfield on the Omaha Indian Reservation two weeks earlier, her photos were packed away and her clothes were bundled up in a gray star quilt. In keeping with tribal tradition, Galen then took the quilt to the old Cook homestead north of Macy, said a prayer and hung it in a tree. “It’s like our mourning process,” he explained. “We keep her for four days and then we send her off to heaven. If we cry too much or keep some of her photographs and clothes, that might stop her from going. Her spirit will just wander around here.” The Aldrich family holds a memorial service at the Walthill Fire Hall for Ashlea Aldrich who was found dead a year ago in January 2020. The Aldriches claim Ashlea lost her life because of domestic violence. But no charges have been filed in federal court against anyone in connection with her death. Since 2013, the Aldriches say they have called tribal police dozens of times after Ashlea’s longtime boyfriend assaulted her.  Native American women experience disproportionately high rates of violence, with more than 55 percent reporting that intimate partners have committed physical violence against them, according to a 2016 National Institute of Justice-funded study. “The court system and our law enforcement never protected my daughter. I’m going to make sure nobody ever forgets what happened to her,” Galen said. Last month, The Journal obtained a copy of Ashlea’s death certificate from Nebraska’s Office of Vital Records. The document, filed on Jan. 17, 2020, lists the immediate cause of death as “hypothermia complicating acute alcohol toxicity” and the manner of death is listed as an “accident.” Ashlea was “found deceased after she wandered off.” The time of death is unknown, according to the document. The FBI has not made public information about how Ashlea died. When The Journal asked about Ashlea’s cause of death, Amy Adams, a spokeswoman for the FBI’s Omaha office responded, “The FBI can neither confirm nor deny an investigation.” After the Douglas County Coroner in Omaha performed an autopsy, Ashlea’s parents said they viewed her body at Munderloh-Smith Funeral Home in Pender. Before the viewing, Galen said he met with an FBI agent who told him there was no evidence that his daughter had been strangled or sexually assaulted and there was no bruising on her body. “She had a black eye, her nose was swollen and there were little welts all over her,” Galen told The Journal in January 2020. After the viewing, Galen said he called an FBI agent and told him about the injuries he observed on his daughter’s body. He said the agent attributed the marks to the way Ashlea’s body was lying on the ground. Galen said he disagreed with that assessment and told the agent so. Ashlea Aldrich is shown in a photograph that was printed on the front of her funeral program. Her mother said she was creative and liked to do hair and makeup. Aldrich family photo During the interview, Tillie said Ashlea was found with no clothing, socks or shoes, less than a quarter mile from where she lived with her boyfriend. Tillie said Ashlea’s sister, Alyssa, who discovered Ashlea lying in the field, observed mud all over Ashlea’s back, which stretched down to her calves. However, Tillie said an FBI agent later told her Ashlea had no soil or abrasions on her feet. “It was hard to even wrap my head around anything,” she said at the time.  After receiving Ashlea’s death certificate last month, The Journal contacted Tillie. She said she feels “betrayed and neglected by the FBI.” “The agent who originally investigated was negligent and clearly wanted a quick, closed case. There are too many unanswered questions,” she said.  On Jan. 7, 2021, the first anniversary of when Ashlea’s body was found, dozens gathered at the Walthill Fire Hall and a bridge near the site to pray, sing and remember her. “Even we couldn’t protect her,” Tillie said at the fire hall. “The law enforcement can’t protect her. None of our laws can protect her. That’s what we’re fighting for. We’re fighting for justice, so that we’ll never have another Ashlea. I can’t bear any of my tribal members to go through what I went through this last year.”  Over the past year, candlelight vigils have been held in Ashlea’s memory on the reservation and in Lincoln, Nebraska. In a display of solidarity, a group of Walthill High School cheerleaders even stood with red handprints painted across their mouths during a basketball game. Red handprints have come to symbolize missing and murdered Indigenous women and relatives.  Judi gaiashkibos, executive director of the Nebraska Commission on Indian Affairs (NCIA), stated in a report published May 21 that the reservation saw a “wave of suicides among teenagers” in the aftermath of Ashlea’s death. “This was a clear sign of the desperation that can rise up during times of tragedy in a profound and dangerous way in communities that feel isolated and hopeless,” she wrote in the report, which was the result of an NCIA and Nebraska State Patrol study on the prevalence of missing Native American women and children in the state. Gwen Porter, a member of the Omaha Tribal Council, acknowledged that the tribe has faced one crisis after another, even before the COVID-19 pandemic, with methamphetamine, suicide and domestic violence. “It hasn’t broken us, but we’ve been dealing with it. Having people and other communities to reach out and support us during our time of need is what has gotten us through,” she said. ‘Fully investigated and prosecuted’  When Ashlea’s body was found on the reservation, the Thurston County Sheriff’s Office said federal authorities were in charge of the investigation. Although the FBI had a team onsite, they would not confirm that they were investigating a death or the location. More than nine months later, when The Journal asked her if the FBI was investigating Ashlea’s death, Adams responded, “The FBI investigates cases in tandem with the Omaha tribal police. The FBI has spoken directly to Ashlea Aldrich’s family with respect to the outcome of our investigation.” According to a background inquiry filed Feb. 10, 2020, in Omaha Tribal Court, three days after Ashlea’s body was found, her boyfriend was charged with criminal homicide, criminal contempt, and duty to give information and render aid. Tillie said he was held at the tribe’s detention facility in Macy, but then, in April, he was released.  The U.S. Attorney’s Office for the District of Nebraska has jurisdiction over major crimes committed on the Omaha, Winnebago and Santee Sioux reservations. While Assistant U.S. Attorney Michael Norris told The Journal he cannot comment on specific cases and investigations, he said his office is “confident” that the homicides that have occurred on Nebraska reservations were “fully investigated and prosecuted.” “We are not aware of any homicides that were not investigated or not prosecuted,” he said. “We can’t ethically file charges when the evidence does not support a charge of homicide.” Porter said she feels “there was due process” concerning Ashlea’s boyfriend, but she said “there’s a lot of unanswered questions.” She said the situation has been difficult for her, since she has close ties to both Ashlea and her boyfriend. “I grew up with Ashlea. She was a niece. Her auntie is my best friend, so I babysat Ashlea. We’ve had outings together. We went to birthday parties and went to the lake,” she said. “For the (boyfriend), I also babysat him, too. He’s my nephew, distantly. We all know each other. We’re all connected in one way or another.” Tillie described Ashlea as shy, but always smiling and happy. “She was just a little scrapper,” Tillie said with a chuckle, as she sat at her kitchen table behind a flickering purple candle on Jan. 21, 2020, just a couple weeks after Ashlea’s death, thinking about Ashlea as a child. “She was just aggressive when it came to her sisters, because she was so tiny. She always fought harder when they wrestled or did anything.”  Tillie said her daughter was also very creative and artistic. Ashlea liked to draw and do hair and makeup. After graduating from Omaha Nation High School in 2009, Ashlea studied cosmetology at La James International College in Fremont, Nebraska. She received her diploma from La James in 2010. The following year, Tillie was diagnosed with breast cancer and the Aldriches also lost their home to flooding. They moved to a small three-bedroom apartment in the middle of Macy. “We all struggled through that,” Tillie said. “I think that’s when I started to lose her. When I was busy fighting cancer, she was drifting away and getting into a relationship.” Tillie Aldrich, at home with her husband Galen, said she feels “betrayed and neglected by the FBI.” Tim Hynds, Sioux City Journal Support Local Journalism Your membership makes our reporting possible. featured_button_text Ashlea reconnected with her boyfriend, whom she had dated in high school. They had two sons, but their relationship was marred by violence, according to the Aldriches, who approached the Omaha Tribal Council about the matter.  In an email sent June 9, 2017, to council members, Tillie detailed a June 3 incident in which she found Ashlea standing in the shower of the apartment where she lived with her boyfriend fully clothed and covered in blood. Tillie wrote that the couch was also “soaked with blood” and that there were “splatters on the wall and mattress.” According to the background inquiry, Ashlea’s boyfriend was charged in Omaha Tribal Court with domestic disturbance and two counts of endangering the welfare of a child on June 3, 2017. Those charges were dismissed later that August. The document also lists four domestic abuse charges for four separate incidents that occurred in 2013, 2014 and 2016. It is unknown from the document whether any of those cases involved Ashlea. The charges were either dismissed, reduced or, in one instance, the boyfriend was found not guilty.  “As many times as we’ve turned him in, nothing has ever happened to him,” Tillie said. Since Ashlea’s death, Porter said roles have changed on the reservation. The tribe has a new attorney general, prosecutor and chief of police. She said the tribe is reviewing its judicial system and providing community training to respond to incidents of domestic violence. “It has our attention. We’ve been taking action,” she said. The Aldriches said they made it clear to Ashlea they would be there for her no matter what and she always had a room in their home. Galen said Ashlea struggled with alcohol use the last two years of her life. He said she was drinking daily and losing a lot of weight. During the summer of 2019, Tillie noticed that when her daughter would leave her boyfriend and come home, each time, she was staying longer. Ashlea laid on the floor and read books with her sons, who have been in the Aldriches’ care since July 2018, or worked on jigsaw puzzles with them. “(Ashlea) was always so content with them,” Tillie said, voice quaking, as tears streamed down her cheeks. “That was her happiness. She didn’t even need anything else.” Tillie Aldrich, right, hugs Aurelia Robinson during a memorial service for Aldrich’s daughter, Ashlea Aldrich. Jesse Brothers That September, Tillie took her daughter to New Town, North Dakota, where her sister lives. During the visit, Ashlea conquered her fear of heights. She sent her mother a photo of her standing on a ledge overlooking a lake. “She was just proud of the picture. ‘I did it, Mom. I faced the fear. I feel so much better,'” Tillie recalled. Before Thanksgiving, Ashlea went to a detox center in Omaha. She stayed four days and then sought a bed at an inpatient treatment facility. But, Galen said she never got into treatment because of the long waiting list. Ashlea returned to the reservation. Not long after Thanksgiving, Tillie heard Ashlea had been hurt. She said she called the tribal police department and was told Ashlea had been taken to Twelve Clans Unity Hospital’s emergency department in Winnebago. When Tillie saw Ashlea at the hospital, she said Ashlea’s fingers were purple and that one of her fingernails was coming off. She said Ashlea told her her hand was slammed in a vehicle’s door. Ashlea stayed at her parents’ home most of December. On Christmas Eve, Ashlea’s boyfriend came by to give her a mobile phone. Tillie told her daughter the gift was his way of keeping track of her. Ashlea was excited about the phone, nonetheless. Another present she really liked was a forest green winter coat with brown fur that her father picked out for her. “She put it on and she fit it just right. She was just happy with it,” Tillie said.  Around 2:30 a.m. on Dec. 26, Tillie said Ashlea came into the living room and put on the coat. As Ashlea was about to go outside to smoke a cigarette, Tillie told her daughter, “Ashlea, don’t leave.” Not long after Ashlea walked out the back door, Tillie saw the headlights of a vehicle. Ashlea was gone. Tillie quickly got in her black Kia Sportage and headed to Macy, where she found Ashlea and her boyfriend. She said she told Ashlea she was scared for her safety, but Ashlea reassured her she was OK. Ashlea stood by the front passenger door of Tillie’s vehicle and said through the rolled-down window, “I love you, Mom.” Tillie replied, “I love you, Ash,” and then drove away.  The evening of Monday, Jan. 6, Tillie couldn’t stop thinking and worrying about Ashlea on her way to work in West Point, Nebraska.  Earlier, she received a text from Alyssa, informing her that someone saw Ashlea “beat-up” in the passenger seat of her boyfriend’s SUV on Sunday.  As the setting sun painted the sky a blaze of orange, purple and pink, Tillie, who works as a certified nursing assistant, stopped her car, took some sage out of the glove compartment, burned it and said a prayer for her daughter. She asked God to watch over Ashlea and keep her safe. The next day, Galen said he was performing tribal home maintenance work, when he spotted the SUV that Ashlea’s boyfriend drove parked in a cornfield in the area of Main Street and Blackbird Creek, just south of Macy. He said he looked inside the vehicle and walked around it. “I could see her tracks where she got out kind of going around the front of the truck. I could see his tracks, but I really couldn’t tell which way they went,” he said. “Then, I had that feeling – I knew something was wrong.” Galen Aldrich said he is going to make sure that no one forgets what happened to his daughter, Ashlea Aldrich. Jesse Brothers, Sioux City Journal Galen went over to a nearby concrete bridge. He walked underneath the bridge, and, when he came back up, he said he saw Ashlea’s boyfriend pull up in a vehicle. He asked, “Where’s my daughter? When’s the last time you’ve seen her?” Galen said Ashlea’s boyfriend told him he hadn’t seen her since Sunday, when his SUV got stuck in the mud. Ashlea allegedly went to find help, while he stayed in the SUV. After the encounter with Ashlea’s boyfriend, Galen headed to the tribal police department to speak with then-Omaha Nation Police Captain Ed Tyndall. While he was there, he heard a dispatcher call for officers to respond to a female screaming for help south of town. He immediately took off for the site.  Just minutes earlier, at roughly 3 p.m., Alyssa was looking for her sister when she spotted the SUV Ashlea’s boyfriend drove parked in the field. Tillie said Alyssa looked around the SUV, but then she began walking toward an opening in the trees. That’s when she saw Ashlea’s long black hair blowing in the wind. Tillie said Alyssa ran to her sister’s naked body, which was lying facedown on the ground more than 100 yards north of the SUV. Alyssa tried to rouse Ashlea, but she was cold and stiff. She took off her coat, placed it over her sister and laid next to her until law enforcement arrived. When Tillie reached Macy, she saw squad cars, the SUV parked in the field and a white cover lying on the ground. She screamed and ran toward the white cover, until Tyndall stopped her. “I said, ‘Is that my baby?’ He said, ‘Tillie, you can’t come here. This is a crime scene,'” Tillie recalled Tyndall telling her. “He kept pushing me back and I kept fighting it.” Tillie said the FBI collected soil from her daughter’s body and the ground she laid on. She said those samples were sent to the FBI’s crime laboratory in Quantico, Virginia, along with Ashlea’s fingernail clippings.  “I voiced my concern to deaf ears,” she said. “If anybody listened then, I believe my daughter would still be here.”  A SPECIAL JOURNAL REPORT: Native women face epidemic of violence A SPECIAL JOURNAL REPORT: Questions surrounding death of Omaha Nation woman remain Dialysis unit slated to open in Walthill Twelve Clans Unity Hospital offering inpatient care Subscribe to our Daily Headlines newsletter. Source link Orbem News #Alyssa #anatomy #ashleaaldrich #Charge #criminallaw #Death #domesticviolence #Family #full-longform #galenaldrich #gwenporter #Journal #Justice #Law #lawenforcement #macy #Medicine #mmiw #omahatribeofnebraska #Report #seeking #special #SUV #suvashlea #tilliealdrich #womans #Year

[souslejaune]

Soon after Auntie Dee Dee’s burial... (Folio 1: Part 3)

Soon after Auntie Dee Dee’s burial, in sleep and wakefulness, a new buzz hovered over my existence, a filmy sub-ocular glaze of super sensitivity. I didn’t tell anyone what was happening, but my father saw me taking pictures of a dead lizard with my bright yellow battery-less camera from China.

“Ebo, what are you doing?”

“I want to compare it with the picture in the Encyclopaedia,” I lied.

Since I spent my entire youth flipping through volumes of the 1979 World Book Encyclopaedia, it was a safe lie.

“Oh, I see. Come to me if you need help, OK?”

“OK.”

In the next few weeks I took pictures of an endless collection of dead creatures: shy geckos, almost transparent with hunger; rats, still in the rigour of greed; flea-bitten dogs, dust-beaten cats, startled rainbow dragonflies, and a face-making toad.  I had no sympathy for dead animals generally – especially not rats and lizards. They were always encroaching on strictly human territories, like kitchens. One of my older cousins even told me that some of the boys in boarding school had the soles of their feet gnawed by rats sometimes.

I felt sorry for the toad though. It was the victim of one of our random playground challenges. Spotted while we were in the land by the local garbage dump playing a football game called four corners, it immediately became the fifth target. Four corners was played by four persons with each one defending a small target. You got two touches of the ball: one to defend your goal, and one to shoot at someone else’s. I was playing with Yaw a.k.a. Table-head, a short, wide-shouldered boy with a flat head and tooth-packed grin; Ato, who we called Tom Brown because his hair always faded to brown as soon as it grew beyond half-an-inch; and Kofi. Kofi used to be called Silas Marner because he always seemed to have more money than us and never wanted to share, but the name Silas Marner ebbed out of use after Ato named him Fagan and it stuck. We actually called him Kofi Fagan; it sounded nicer. Most of us were named after characters from the English books we were made to read at school. I was sometimes called Pip because I loved Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations so much.

Soon after the toad was spotted, all our shots started to head in Yaw’s direction as he was closest to the toad.

Ruffled by the unfair attention, he exclaimed, “I won’t play anymore!”

“OK Table, let’s stone the toad,” suggested Kofi Fagan grabbing a handful of pebbles. “First person to hit it wins the game.”

It was a ploy by Kofi Fagan to turn the game in his favour. He was lethal at throwing stones. He could rescue a ripe mango from its tree with a single shot.

Tom Brown grimaced.

“OK.” Table flung a smooth brown pebble towards the toad as he spoke.

He caught the toad as it was reaching its pink tongue out to catch a fly. The pebble flew across a suspended haze of dust, sneaked into the toad’s mouth and choked it; with its long tongue still out, decorated with a live fly. I ran home to get my camera. In secondary school I would show this picture to Mrs Ogbogu – my Nigerian biology teacher – when she remarked how rare it was to see a toad with its tongue out.

In addition to pictures, I had a single mounted creature. A giant spider. I had an illogical fear of spiders. Size was irrelevant. Once a creeper made the transition from six legs to eight, insect to arachnid, it had me shitting in my shorts. I accomplished many remarkable physical feats when confronted by spiders. Tom Brown, Table and Kofi Fagan often testified to that. I hurdled fences, jumped down trees, and outran cars. This spider, I caught because of the dreams that followed Auntie Dee Dee’s funeral. To confront my fear. I even wrote instructions for it.

Locate your fear

Find a suitable glass

Trap your fear under the glass

Lifting the glass slightly, spray perfume into it

Watch from a distance until your fear dies

I mounted it on a round piece of yellow card and labelled its body parts in a scrawl with sharper edges than my usual handwriting. Testament to the fact that I had perhaps not fully conquered my fear.  I had learned more about it, but it lay beneath the surface ready to stump me if I didn't remain vigilant.

In the dreams, black and red spiders swarmed the food that was served to me by dancing cadavers. I had to swipe them away to eat, but they kept multiplying and making a webbed playground of my body. My body became a living interpretation of Miss Havisham’s wedding room in Great Expectations.

After I mounted my fear, and learned to distinguish the cephalothorax from the abdomen, the spiders disappeared with a single swipe into the dark subworld of the tables around me. I was often the only guest at a cadaver cabaret with four faceless waiters to attend to my needs. On a green stage of knitted vapour, cooking and singing, was Auntie Dee Dee, her face still stuffed with the cotton wool the embalmers used to fill her cheeks.

“Dad, when you die, do you stop breathing first or does your heart stop beating?”

If I weren’t so curious nobody would have guessed that my interest in death was growing at the speed of sickness. I had done everything as I used to except for the pictures, which I had a good excuse for, and reading Great Expectations over and over again; wondering why, if there were so many cobwebs in Miss Havisham’s house, no spiders were ever mentioned. I later found that all the books we had read at school were obscure abridged versions produced locally. The full version – the one produced based on the serialised tale Charles Dickens published in his weekly journal All The Year Round – had “speckled-legged spiders with blotchy bodies.”

My father raised his eyes from his shop’s inventory list, crinkling his forehead in the process. He studied me with unwavering eyes – a spider contemplating a daring fly.

“It depends son. I guess if you die from a heart attack your heart stops beating first. If you drown you stop breathing first. The only way to know for sure in to ask a doctor…”

“…Or a dead person,” he added laughing.

“They don’t talk about it.”

“What?”

The fly was webbed. The room was suddenly too small. I felt like all the photos on our living room wall were watching me: My sister holidaying in Trafalgar Square with pigeons pecking her feet out of view; Grandma fanning flames under last year’s family feast, the entire Oppong-Ribeiro clan – my family – squinting and smiling at the Odwira festival… What year was that? Why wasn’t I in the picture? A photo of my father with his right arm lawfully draped over his Datsun iterated his silent authority. It was too late to change what I had said.

"What did you say?" My father persisted, his voice softer.

“They don't talk about it; I asked them.”

The creases in my father’s forehead deepened. “Who?”

“The dead people.”

“You’ve been talking to ghosts?”

“No, dead bodies.”

“Dead bodies?”

It sounded really silly once I had said it. I tried to make it sound better.

“In my dreams.”

He inclined his head slightly to the right.

“I don’t speak to anyone I don’t know. Just Auntie Dee Dee…”

“… and sometimes the waiters.”

“No, no, no.” My father sensed my fear of punishment. He had large rough palms that he rarely used on us, but, when he did, we felt the ridges of his rage on our buttocks for days.

“I’m not angry. Tell me about the dreams. Can you tell me?”

I told him about the cabarets and the food; platefuls of steaming jollof with the rice enlivened with colourful vegetables and geometric invasions of meat; endless bowls of oil-speckled groundnut soup; delicious fried plantain streaked red, orange and black by a ridged saucepan, accompanied by a bean sauce that climbed all over your senses in tracks of spiced palm oil, mouthfuls of tiger nuts – crunchy and juicy; yam and cocoyam graffitied with strips of chicken and kontomire; silver spoonfuls of strawberry ice cream; trays full of groundnut and coconut brittle; palmwine, “I didn’t drink it, Daddy”; and mangoes, mangoes, mangoes… Then I told him about the spiders and why I had to mount one.

“I had to eat. It was Auntie Dee Dee’s cooking.”

My father listened. Then he cried. Silver rivulets of sorrow that made him look old. He reached for me. Watching my father cry pulled a cord inside me and I began to sob.

“I’m sorry son.”

He shook. His dark skin felt like a minor earthquake beneath my hands.

“I’m sorry son.” He wiped his face and looked at me through glistening lashes. “Death is difficult for everyone.”

I never made sense of the dreams, nor did I understand why my father apologised, but the dreams stopped. They came back once. This time the food was devoured by the spiders before the plates got to me. The only evidence of the food’s existence was the intricate brown tracks left by the spiders, like dust patterns. I woke up with an acute hunger. It was early 1983.

In the same year there was a terrible food shortage in Ghana. Everything was rationed. The queues of people waiting to buy their provisions lasted for hours and criss-crossed the city. Brown patterns as intricate as a dust-stained spider web. Still, we were invisible. The West was reluctant to help a Ghanaian government that was sending its students to Castro’s Cuba to study. People begged. You can’t afford pride when you have children. The head of state called us comrades. He was thin too. We learnt to make a single meal last an entire day. A stillness enveloped the entire nation. School suddenly seemed difficult. We lacked the energy for endless football games and I soon forgot the spider dreams in the vortex of hunger.  

—–

continued >> here <<… | start from beginning? | current projects: The City Will Love You and a collection of poems, The Geez

[edc-creations-blog]

Yasmin Lewis finds herself in love with a married man but not your ordinary married man. He is Pastor Sidney Teal, a fine and prominent leader of the megachurch, Holy Word Holiness, with a membership of thousands. Pastor Teal treats her well in and out of bed. However, Yasmin knows he will never be hers, and she longs for more.

More comes in the form of sexy, successful, and single Ambrose Hunter, a man who’s willing and able to give her the kind of life she knows she deserves. Yasmin’s sins catch up with her when Ambrose finds out she is not only seeing another man behind his back but a man of the cloth at that.

Now Yasmin’s world spins out of control. Will she be able to redeem herself and find forgiveness in When The Vows Break?

  When The Vows Break Book Reviews:

5.0 out of 5 stars Outstanding The storyline throughout this story was very realistic and should be read in every women’s group. Women that read and share this story can talk about how easy judgments are perceived in the church, which often results in division, where true believers would understand the importance of forgiveness of self and one another, just as Christ forgave us from the cross, what better example can one follow.

5.0 out of 5 stars Enjoyed this book! This story was so realistic I feel like I know these people. Sidney and Yazmin were both selfish and wrong, they both got what they deserved. Off to find other books by this author, another one added to my favorites list!

5.0 out of 5 stars I love this book great writing kept my interest what I … I love this book great writing kept my interest what I would say though is this can happen to any man, not only Pastors, I don’t like the constant attack on Pastors. Real life situations highlighted, however.

  EXCERPTS FOR WHEN THE VOWS BREAK

“Will you be coming to the festival tomorrow,” asked Vanessa Stacey, who was no more than fourteen or fifteen years but could have easily past for eighteen or nineteen, especially with the tight t-shirt she wore, emblazoned with the logo of some urban fashion designer. Sidney sighed, remembering what he’d said to Brother Goodings earlier. Girls these days were far too well-developed for their own good.

“Of course Olivia and I will be there,” he answered smoothly, knowing that naming his wife would quell any ideas some of the ladies might have had concerning his marital state. “My children haven’t talked about anything else nearly all week.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw another young woman stride over to them as Sister Margie waved her over. He coughed, tried to hide his sudden discomfort.

Dark molasses skin glowed, set off perfectly by a fiery-colored form-fitting sheath dress that accentuated every curve. Sidney took in her short but well-shaped legs that would have given Tina Turner a run for her money. Sidney’s heart skipped a beat as the distance closed between them.

“Pastor Sidney, this is my niece Yasmin Lewis”, Sister Margie introduced proudly. “She’s planning to attend business school here and recently moved from South Carolina. I told her that I’d be getting her into this fine church the minute she arrived.”

Yasmin extended a slender hand and Sidney gently took it. Her skin felt like soft rose petals. The heady floral perfume she wore teased his nostrils.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Pastor Teal. Auntie Margie’s always talking about you.” Yasmin replied in a honey-sweet drawl, her smile warm, sincere and almost innocently sexy.

He didn’t understand it. No other woman had affected him the way Yasmin Lewis had. In less than a minute, something had happened.

“Likewise, Miss Lewis,” Sidney said, outwardly composed and inwardly a turbulent storm of emotion. “You will be at the Youth Festival tomorrow?”

Again that innocent smile that he was reading far too much into. “I sure will. I think what Auntie Margie’s doing with the children is just wonderful and I wish more churches would do the same.”

Sidney couldn’t help noticing the beam of approval from Sister Margie’s eyes. He should rebuke her for the sin of pride, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything negative in front of her niece.

“Have you attended service yet?” For some reason, he’d know if she had.

“I will this Sunday, I promise,” she said, warm brown eyes smiling. “Aunt Margie says you preach so good you could get the devil to change his ways.”

“Whatever,” muttered Vanessa from the side, obviously upset at being put in the shade.

Sidney laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about all that. I just let the Lord fill me with His spirit and the words just come. I don’t take any credit for it.”

“You’re too modest, Pastor Sidney,” added Sister Margie. “Remember that article in Ebony Magazine about the One-Hundred Most Influential Ministers in America. You were number fifty-seven.”

Yasmin’s eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, I saw that article when I was getting my hair done! That picture didn’t do you justice.”

Was the look in her eyes and her words sending him a silent message, or was it just his imagination running wild at the sight of the vivacious young woman?

Before he made a bigger fool out of himself, Sidney graciously bowed. “Ladies, I was on my way home for lunch. I hope to see you all tomorrow.” Especially you, Miss Yasmin Lewis, was the rest of the unspoken thought.

Once inside his SUV, he turned the air on full blast and closed his eyes. The divine vision of the woman he just met came into sharp focus. Something about her intrigued him. She touched him in a way that made his whole body respond in a totally inappropriate manner. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

Reaching down to switch off the air, his conscience raged at him. What in heavens name was he thinking? Just minutes ago he was counseling Brother Goodings about infidelity and giving into temptation. He needed to take heed of his own advice and stay well clear of Yasmin Lewis until he could make sense of his feelings.

( Continued… )

© 2018 All rights reserved. Book excerpt reprinted by permission of the author, Janie De Coster. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author’s written permission. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only.

Purchase When The Vows Break by Janie De Coster Genre: Contemporary Christion Fiction https://www.amazon.com/When-Vows-Break-Janie-Coster/dp/1983428639/

      Black Pearls Magazine Intimate Conversation with Janie De Coster

Janie De Coster’s love of writing began in her high school years with poetry. It wasn’t until many years later she heard a spiritual voice instructing her to write a book. Having no idea as to what genre it would be, she just put pen to paper.  Janie De Coster writes not only to entertain but to educate as her topics shine a light on today’s society such as Mental Illness, Domestic Violence, Infidelity, and Self-Esteem.  In her spare time, she loves to travel, shop and spend quality time with her family.

You can contact Janie De Coster by: Twitter: https://twitter.com/JanieDeCoster Website: https://sweetsmells2003.wixsite.com/janie-decoster Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Janie-De-Coster-192088097478061/

  BPM: It is such a pleasure to have you join us to discuss When The Vows Break. Describe yourself in three words. Passionate, Spiritual, and Witty.

BPM: What drove you to publish your first book? How long have you been writing? What drove me to write my first novel, believe it or not, was God’s voice telling me to do so. I’ve always read romance novels but I never imagined that I could have written one myself. I had no idea how to begin let alone what to write. But the Holy Spirit led me and several books later here I am. I’ve been on this writing journey for over thirteen years.

BPM: Introduce us to the people in this new book, When The Vows Break! Give us some insight into your main speakers. This novel When the Vows Break was a pleasure to write. I grew up in the church and we all know there’s more going on sometimes than the word of God. The main characters are Pastor Sidney Teal, his lovely wife First Lady Olivia and young and beautiful Jasmine Lewis who will test the strength of the Teal’s marriage.

BPM: What’s so unique about their story-line or voice in the story? What makes each one so special? I wanted to give each character a strong voice with raw emotions. I wanted the readers to be able to actually feel the characters deposition and be able to relate to what the character is going through. What makes these characters so special is at the end of the day they all love God in spite of their transgressions.

BPM: Share one specific point in your book that resonated with your present situation or journey. The one point in my book I would want the younger readers to capture especially females which resonated with me is searching for love in the wrong places. They tend to make bad decisions based on immaturity. It is so easy to be pulled into a fantasy world especially when it comes with money and status. They also fail to see the consequences that will affect them for the rest of their lives.

BPM: Do you ever have days when writing is a struggle? Yes, especially when it is a complex storyline.

BPM: Have you written any other books that are not published? Yes, I have one that I wrote years ago and it has been collecting dust in my desk drawer. But I’m thinking about pulling it out soon and perhaps bring it to light.

BPM: What projects are you working on at the present? I just finished a book that has been re-released called FRIENEMIES. It’s available now on Amazon.com

BPM: What legacy do you hope to leave future generations of readers with your writing? I want my children, grandchildren, and others to know that with God you can do all things. It’s not going to be easy. You may have to put in a lot of prayer, sweat, and tears. But the race is not given to the swift but to the one who perseveres.

BPM: What is your preferred method to have readers get in touch with or follow you? You can contact me through my website: https://sweetsmells2003.wixsite.com/janie-decoster

  BPM: How can readers discover more about you and your work? Check out my novels on my Janie De Coster Amazon Page https://www.amazon.com/Janie-De-Coster/e/B00547Y2DA

    When The Vows Break by Janie De Coster Yasmin Lewis finds herself in love with a married man but not your ordinary married man. He is Pastor Sidney Teal, a fine and prominent leader of the megachurch, Holy Word Holiness, with a membership of thousands.

[sunnyjames]

Are You There God? It's Me Sunny or How I Get Through Holy Week

Monday April 10, 2017

Holy Week is upon me. For me, that means a week-long fast. That’s right, nothing but water, tea and juice. Fasting isn’t anything new to me. Heretofore, I never talked about it. It was between me and “Are you there God?” About ten years ago I started a Friday-only fast. Today, it seems absurd for me to eat on a Friday. The only rules I have developed over time is that I’ll eat if it’s a meal with either of my children or a special occasion. I rarely invoke the special occasion rule. And I see my kids so infrequently these days, that to eat with them has been elevated to a spiritual form of communion.

I started fasting because I wanted God’s ear. Ok, for real doe, I wanted his whole, undivided attention. I figured after everything that I’d been through, I deserved his undivided attention. Initially, fasting may have been my way of throwing a foot-stomping, breath-holding, terrible two-style, temper tantrum.  I wanted God to tell me that I wouldn’t wind up on the street, be damned to hell for divorcing my husband or for the damage the divorce would surely inflict on my kids. I wanted to be this perfect vessel that God could pour his forgiveness into and who would answer the question: “What comes next?” Something akin to, but just a bit older than Judy Blume’s Margaret: “Are you there God?”

Can a sister get a sign?

Now, my observance of Holy Week is useful as a marker of time and season. Although, the Christian ritual on Maudy Thursday is still moving and relevant to me, along with Mary—not the virgin variety—but the Magdalene, Holy Week has less to do with religion and everything to do with the carte blanche I have taken in transforming myself away from Christianity as it was practiced and perverted in my family and by the Black church and claiming as my own the beliefs and mythology of the many other faiths outside of Christianity.  It’s odd to me, the notion, that because I’m African-American, I’m supposed to be a Christian.

The ability to control my appetite for a day or a week is unassailable. Holy Week 2017, my fourth year of undertaking a week-long fast, finds my belief, that I can do anything I set my mind to, cast in stone.  But I still question God: “What comes next?” And I no longer feel the need to be the perfect vessel, but I am a chipped, beautifully painted and well-used Spanish pitcher, the kind I bought in Barcelona years ago, pouring out the sacred feminine and never empty. Out of necessity, I have fashioned myself into a Warrior Woman and survivor who sees myself in QuanYin. I tap into my Mi’kmiq and Tuscorora (matrilineal society) roots, observant and considerate of nature, using fresh herbs, spices, flowers and even feathers in my daily living. The Blue Jay as a spirit animal helps. A few years ago, when I started making dream catchers from all natural materials, all of those beautiful feathers that I picked up on my path were put to use.  And, of course, my gris-gris changes as needed.

As I have healed from all things “divorce” and mommy and daddy issues, occasionally, I have made the mistake of looking over my shoulder to see all of the things that I have dropped along the way and sadness sits with me for a spell. I have missed some of the dropped things. Some things I didn’t know I was still holding onto. Casting off—letting go—has gotten easier, so has keeping my gaze in front of me. My arms aren’t too short to box with God (for me, that would be a bit of a grudge match that the Almighty would win). My arms are too tired.

So this Holy Week finds me struggling with several issues. One of those struggles will not be making it to Easter Sunday with an empty stomach.

This year finds me not living under my own roof. It’s too easy to say “I’m homeless.” But since I finished the care and feeding of my grandmother for almost five years until her death last year, I have become the Kato Kaelin of the 21st century—the professional house guest of O.J. Simpson fame. Given the extremely structured and abusive way that, I, an only child, was raised, probably too many years of full-time motherhood and most recently, eldercare, a year of few responsibilities has been welcome. I am thankful for the busy and bustling home that I’m living in and the friend that provides it. I feel more like a sister to my friend’s adult sons, even though they call me “Aunty” and the dreaded “Miss Sunny.” I have been allowed to entertain flights of wanderlust and imaginarily whittled down my bucket list. For the time being, I’ve landed in a unique, guilt-free place that “gets me”, allows my writing and the constant editing of my novel manuscript Seaton Place. It’s a way of living that I’m unaccustomed to. It’s a houseful of plain-spoken, laughing and challenging people, but I’d still like to walk naked to the fridge in the middle of the night.  

I even stayed with my son for a few months at the end of 2016. The shoe on the other foot-style living—just NO! Now he’s MIA along with a few boxes containing a bit of the jetsam from what was supposed to be my new beginning.  I’m concerned. Cue Susan Tedeschi singing “Lord Protect My Child.” My prayers this week are for him too. Are you there God?

My daughter went missing from my life several years ago, preferring the company of her father and his wife. Are you there God? And if I’m leaving it all here on the page I miss her. I’d like to get to know the woman she’s become. Again, the damage of a divorce? Perhaps, I didn’t do an adequate job of mothering? Or maybe God just didn’t appreciate my two-year-old-style temper tantrum. Are you there God?

I often wonder what I need to do to assuage my guilt at my inability to provide a family home, a touchstone structure for the kids and a place to regroup for myself. Was it a gate and picket fence that was missing or maybe the absence of an always burning hearth. Was that my downfall with them? Are you there God? Did I need to provide a gathering place at holidays or a place for them to regroup as life throws curve balls, like I write about my grandmother doing for so many people in Seaton Place and had most recently done for me? Are you there God? But post-divorce, the odds weren’t stacked in my favor. Are you there God?

There are, in fact, things in my life for which I remain hopeful. From a several-time over published author came these words of encouragement about my writing and Seaton Place manuscript.

“I made time to read your first two chapters, and I am delighted to say that you write extremely well. This book has a strong chance at publication … in May, you could send me your revised manuscript for me to read, at which time I’ll offer any necessary suggestions before I send the book on to my agent with my recommendations … Frankly, I would be happy to work with you on this book. You are a genuine talent.  It all starts there.​"

Are you there God?

Way back in December 2016 and January 2017 I applied for several jobs at NPR. Given the tenuous state of public broadcasting these days and under the new president whose preferred method of dealing with just about everything can best be described as slash and burn, I wait for some continued sign of life and interest in my resume and I choose to hold out hope for a great job at NPR, even if it’s not on the radio—my enduring love.

Can a sister get a job?

​So, as I, Warrior Woman and survivor stare down Holy Week—hunger? I got this! But, are you there God?

[char27martin]

2016 April PAD Challenge: Results

Okay, long overdue, but here they are: the 2016 April PAD Challenge results post. We tried a new method of narrowing down the poems via e-mail submissions, and well, then we changed e-mail platforms. So reading the poems was not as smooth as I was hoping, but that’s okay.

I did get through them all, and I loved reading them. Just as I loved reading all the personalized messages; y’all make me feel so lucky to do what I do. For real. Thank you!

*****

Order the New Poet’s Market!

The 2017 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer, includes hundreds of poetry markets, including listings for poetry publications, publishers, contests, and more! With names, contact information, and submission tips, poets can find the right markets for their poetry and achieve more publication success than ever before.

Order your copy today!

In addition to the listings, there are articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry–so that poets can learn the ins and outs of writing poetry and seeking publication. Plus, it includes a one-year subscription to the poetry-related information on WritersMarket.com. All in all, it’s the best resource for poets looking to secure publication.

Click to continue.

*****

This year, I’ve decided to share my Top 20 list (in no particular order) of poems that resonated with me. They’re not the only good poems I read, of course, out of the hundreds sent my way; they’re just the ones that jumped out at me more.

The Motley Fool, by Anders Bylund

The tart on his tongue has turned to tact

  Starfish, by Angie Bell

It’s funny how the unexpected can form an instant community

like that July morning

at Siesta Key when a delegation of starfish drew us all together as we dipped our toes in the warm gulf waters

beachgoers laughing and squealing

pointing and talking to each other splashing and swimming among the starfish that day

we formed a temporary friendship

over the joy of the ocean’s offerings years later across the land “remember when” will be heard

and tales of the starfish will be told

  In Response to Langston Hughes’ April Rain Song, by Arcadia Sturdivant

I wish I could like rain’s kisses I wish I could bear raindrops on my head I wish I could listen to rain like a lullaby I rather have the sun kiss me I rather have sunrays through my hair I rather have the sun beckon me to come outside

  Snipping Through Life, by Azma Sheikh

The distance from you to me is amusingly the same as the distance between two blades of a scissor. The more we close in, the more it cuts.

  Puckish Love, by William Preston

Love holds forth its humble hands and proffers new hope to the heart; hate, ensconced in iron bands, demands that love depart.

Hate, sufficient unto itself, boasts pride as its only rule; love, a peripatetic elf, is willing to play the fool.

Love willingly risks the flares of fear to gain a glimpse of glee; in love, therefore, I bid you, dear: play the fool for me.

  Their One Spring Task: Out-do the Other Sparkles, by Barb Peters

Ours hang against the April wall, the first to bloom then blink. They straggle, stretch their necks, all gawk and inexperience.

These jonquils shy too much–their counterparts are lonely clouds. No flutter dance near sidewalks, lacking in experience.

Come on, square shoulders, shout: “We’re better than the dandelions!” Instead, they cling in twos or threes, limp packs of inexperience.

If Wordsworth napped upon our couch, no dreams of blissful swathes. Let’s plant ourselves narcissus crowds enacting his experience.

We’ll write our names, dear love, each daff an edge of golden cursive on a flounce of white. We’ll rise in spring, forever back for our experience.

  Giddy Up, by Beverly Finney

Those leather boots with the pointed toe and the stout heel insist on a stirrup, the flash and smell of a lathered flank, the snort of a mane in the jingle of reins, the switch of a long tail, thunder of hooves pounding the earth. That’s where I go pulling them on, tugging hard with the red-handled hooks until my high arch passes the narrow turn and my foot settles into the swagger I know I will wear all day.

  Jaded, by Charise Hoge

Somewhere in the heart of harm I want to sweep you off your calloused feet, your callousness nestling in a hyacinth wreath – drunk on spring perfuming the crevices where love rots, where cradles splinter, to unearth the eager crook of your arm.

  Fool, by Connie Blitz

I’m just a fool who likes to spend time experimenting with rhythm and rhyme. I’ll never get rich in this word game. I won’t find fortune. I won’t find fame, but I have found a kindred soul or two, not a lot, just a few, who also like to put words in a string, creating pearls of wisdom, making lingual bling.

  Early Memory, by Connie Peters

My red plastic boots dangled as Dad lifted me up to peer down at Grandma asleep in her casket.

  First Time, by Christina Perry

That first time you whispered breathlessly I love you, as you held me in your arms all I could do was shudder, wipe tears from bloodshot eyes, and moan as I gazed over your left shoulder. Even in that moment of disorientation, with a lip already swelling from the impact of your fist, I knew you had just upped the ante–and I hated you for it.

*****

Are you having trouble posting comments to this blog?

Please, please, please, let me know about it. Even if you’ve let me know about it in the past, please send me a new message at robert.brewer@fwmedia.com with as much of the following information as you can share: what happens when you try to post (when it doesn’t work), how often can it sometimes take, what browser do you use? We have a new reporting system in place, and I’m hopeful that if we get a huge response that we can finally fix this problem. Please help make that happen by sending me an e-mail about your posting issues today!

*****

Three Cherry Tree Blossoms, by Sara McNulty

Raindrops fall through arcing pink umbrellas three cherry blossom trees

  Origami, by Sara Ramsdell

I crease you into the flat folds of a paper crane a thousand patient times, coupling wing and string into the repetitive rudimentary vessel of one lavish wish.

  Dead End Perspective, by Stevie Mitchell

If I paint myself into a corner, it’s so I know I’ll be part of the picture.

  Fulfillment, by Ellen Evans -after “Ode to the Flute,” by Ross Gay

A man sings by throwing his voice through the flute a man turns himself into air through the flute a man sings a ventriloquist song and the flute is at last fulfilled

  To the Girl Who Likes the Lady Horses Best, by Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming -response to “how to triumph like a girl,” by Ada Limon

It is beautiful to be believed. A little girl who thinks, who knows, who wants to run @ 40mph, who can solve a math equation and understand biology. She can draw the 8-pound heart of a lady horse, with heart valves, aorta and vena cava, heavy with blood. A girl who knows her own heart beats like a machine, a pump beneath her shirt. A genius girl who wants to win, who will win, if she is believed.

  Havana’s Sun, by Danielle C. Robinson

over turquoise water, we stretched and hovered like vessels until our skin broke through a ring of currents. then we stumbled ashore and laid flat under the Havana sun. shared lavish kisses, played rock, paper, scissors until my gap-tooth became gaudy. realizing, at that moment, you were no longer on my blacklist.

  You Can’t Buy Ruby Slippers at a Kansas Hardware Store, by De Jackson

That was no ordinary twister, Mister, and Dorothy had a dream and now she’s on the hunt for just the right shade of crimson heels. Blue and white check and black MaryJanes are, at best, as country bumpkin as it gets, and she’s had a taste of the just-right click of yellow brick, and emeralds. Auntie Em

disapproves, of course. And you and you and you were there, but now you’re frowning, doubting her judgment and her sanity and her desire for pretty feet. No need to worry. It’s just that she’s heard a faint cackle from the West, and she’s thinking it’s best that she work up the courage (heart, wicked smarts) to find her way back (home).

  Untitled (Woman Playing Solitaire), by Pamela Taylor -Inspired by Kitchen Table Series, by Carrie Mae Weems

The girls keep quiet and out of sight. They know to stay away from the kitchen table when mama plays solitaire.

The parakeet shifts over in its cage, peeks at the card held aloft, chirps once for black, twice for red.

She studies the upturned cards like tarot. This is the only time she controls the stacked deck, where she can deal a better hand.

Her nightgown shimmers in the stark light. She rolls the sleeves up to her elbows. The cigarette continues its slow burn.

  The Flute Remembers, by Bruce W. Niedt -after “Ode to the Flute,” by Ross Gay

And then a man looks at a flute beside him and asks How did you learn to catch the wind? and the flute remembers a time before silver and keys that locked in the wind and remembers days of wood and finger holes and how people would dance to its wind the same wind that has blown for ages and ages the same wind that blew across a hollow reed fifty-thousand years ago just as a man was passing.

  Skip Toodle-loo, by Candace Kubinec

Just skip it flip it right into the pond let that ring, sink, I think get lost in the muck stuck in the ooze skip the roses weak psychoses of apologies skip town instead go ahead I’m through with you so toodle-loo, buckaroo

*****

And there you go! I hope you enjoyed these poems as much as I did.

Because of how I looked over the 2016 poems, I couldn’t figure out a good person to name as Poet Laureate, but I hope to bring that back with the 2017 challenge. More on that later this week.

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is the editor of Poet’s Market and author of Solving the World’s Problems. Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

*****

Check out these other poetic posts:

Bryan Borland: Poet Interview.

Collecting Poems Into a Book: 5 Poets Share Their Method.

WD Poetic Form Challenge: Diminishing Verse.

The post 2016 April PAD Challenge: Results appeared first on WritersDigest.com.

from Writing Editor Blogs – WritersDigest.com http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2016-april-pad-challenge-results