#and murdered a pencil sharpener in the process

[tainted-darling]

All killjoys die young, but nobody should die that young.

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[gaybarbiegirl]

00s Barbie rewatch - Rapunzel (2002)

Is it bad that I always found this movie kinda boring?

That opening sequence, though

Going inside the pencil sharpener in first person, amazing

Storyteller Barbie, my beloved

THE LITTLE PENELOPE PAINTING IN THE BACKGROUND 🥺❤

Ok, I think its kind of iconic that Barbie made "Rapunzel loves painting" so ingrained into Rapunzel canon that all other mainstream adaptations of this fairytale since have decided to keep that in

Like, that was NOT a thing in the original fairytale, the thing Rapunzel loved/was super talented at was singing. Barbie really changed the public perception of a story that already existed for hundreds of years. Amazing

Why does Rapunzel have super long hair in this version of the story? She doesn't live in a tower, she lives in a castle, and Gothel just walks in through the front door every day. What was the point of the hair?

Listen. Listen. I can take a lot when it comes to gay coded villains. But you gotta draw the line somewhere. And a gay coded horny evil ferret crosses that line

Penelope is baby

How did no one ever find that passage before? Rapunzel presumably cleans this room regularly, how did she never touch that statue? If a spoon was heavy enough to open it, I'm sure her hand would be too

Penelope's relationship with her dad is the plotline I care about the most in this movie

"Does he ever smile?" "Not around me..." 💔

Rescuing that little girl was the PERFECT opportunity to have Rapunzel use her hair, are you kidding me?

Rapunzel's dad really was ordering traps to murder children... Yikes

The amount of times I'm forced to hear a ferret moan in this movie is criminal

Barbie really had the best lullabies, though. I 100% plan on singing constant as the stars above to my future nieces and nephews

THE MAGIC PAINTBRUSH!!!

BEAUTIFUL, WONDERFUL, ICONIC

How are these two in love already? They literally know nothing about each other

I know this is a fairytale, but still, in most Barbie movies we actually get to see a bit of the process of the characters falling in love, or at the very least we get a reason as to why they're into each other. In this movie these two just like each other overnight for no good reason

Ok but why is her hair long? There's genuinely no reason

The name's Penelope, bucko 😡

NOOOO I can't believe I was subjected to this again

THE MAGICAL DRESS SCENE ❤

Ok, we all know this scene is beautiful and magical, but does anyone else think that all of these dresses were kind of ugly? Like, including the final one?

I feel like that haircut could have been more dramatic

Stefan, my man, you just saw her face. That is very clearly not Rapunzel, why are you still following her?

YES PENELOPE IS THE MIGHTIEST DRAGON

I don't care, Penelope is the real protagonist of this movie

Wow, Gothel has really bad aim. How has she been missing Stefan for this whole time?

Here comes Rapunzel's dad's murder army to kill a bunch of civillians

Why is Gothel confessing like this?

How long has Rapunzel been standing there to understand the whole context of the fight + Gothel's backstory?

Rapunzel's murder dad can fuck right off with his half assed apology

Honestly, why did Stefan's dad forgive Rapunzel's dad? He very much attacked his kingdom unprovoked and tried to kill civillians, even if it was because of a misunderstanding

That ending with Kelly is really cute

Final thoughts:

I'm gonna be honest, I'm actually surprised with how much fun I had with this one. For pretty much my whole life, Rapunzel has been my least favorite out of the original 3 Barbie movies, but I'd say I enjoyed this rewatch even more than I enjoyed rewatching The Nutcracker. Actually, I think I enjoyed it more than any other viewing of this movie I ever did before.

I think the main issues I have with this movie are that I always thought Rapunzel and Stefan were pretty boring characters, so it's hard for me to root for them, and also that the movie has a lot of plot holes, like, way more than in your usual Barbie movie. And while I still agree with all of that, I think typing out my frustrations here instead of bottling them up for the whole movie helped me not get too stuck on them and enjoy the good parts of the movie more. Because don't get me wrong, even if this movie has some flaws, it still has a lot of goods parts. I love Penelope with my whole heart, love the magic paintbrush, really like the soundtrack, really like the 'listen to your dreams' message, etc. Rewatching this was a great time, and I love that all these years later, my opinions about the Barbie movies are still changing and evolving.

[emachinescat]

The Rich Girl Next Girl (Just Tried to Kill Me)

A Psych Fan-Fiction

By @emachinescat ​

@febuwhump ​ day 7 - poisoning 

Summary: Shawn will never complain about being ‘barely poisoned’ again after he’s ‘fully poisoned’ by a woman he’s investigating - via her poisoned lipstick and an non-consensual kiss.

Characters | Pairings: Shawn, Juliet, Henry, Gus, Lassie | Shawn/Juliet

Words: 3,199

TW: non-consensual kiss

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging! :)

It was the beautiful ones you had to watch out for.  

She was tall and dark haired, with green eyes that twinkled like twin emeralds, and high cheekbones and plump lips colored with the most devastating red Shawn Spencer had ever laid eyes on.  She had squeezed into a tiny black dress with an open back and plunging neckline, with legs that seemed like they would go on forever.  She wore closed-toe, diamond-studded, four-inch heels that perfectly matched the color of her lips.  

Somehow Shawn had managed to charm her into asking him to be her date to a charity gala at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art, and he was very well aware of the many eyes on him as he moved through the crowd with her on his arm.

Well.  It would be more accurate to say that he was on her arm, because she was most definitely in charge, had been from the moment she’d picked him up her limo and she’d already had another, better tux waiting and pressed for him - and had refused to let him in the car until he’d made the switch.

She wasn’t only a total knockout, though - she was also a local celebrity, a socialite, born into enormous wealth but not the heir to the bulk of her late parents’ fortune.  That honor went to her older sister, who had, just a week ago, gotten into a terrible accident on her yacht.  Part of her had been recovered on the deck after the explosion.  The Coast Guard were still looking for the other part in the ocean.  They weren’t optimistic.

So now Aria Thorton, the twenty-seven-year-old millionaire goddess, was Shawn’s date to a high-end charity event, and they were the center of attention.  

Shawn should have been in heaven.

There were three things that dampened the occasion, though - for one, she thought he was a billionaire from two counties over named Chaz Hemsworth (no relation to Chris or Liam, but his rugged good looks and fabulous hair had made many people think he was).  

Then there was the fact that she was the SPBD’s number one suspect in her sister’s supposed-accident-but-Shawn-had-revealed-that-it-was-murder-yet-again case.  Hence, why she thought he was Chaz - he was undercover with the help of the police department, much to the chagrin of Lassie and Jules, because he was the best person for the job.  (Well, he had barged into the case and presented himself as Chaz Hemsworth, and she had been interested, and now he was the best chance they had since he was already on the inside and it was a time-sensitive case - just like he’d planned it).  

Oh, and the third thing was definitely the worst of them all: His actual girlfriend, the aforementioned Jules, was here too, acting as Lassiter’s date and ready to provide backup.  And she was pissed.  

Shawn forced himself to focus on the case, though.  Technically, he’d already solved it, put all the final puzzle pieces together, just half an hour before the gala.  But by that time, she was already at the luxury hotel the SBPD had reluctantly put him in as part of his cover (“Any snacks or room service ordered will be paid for by you, Mr. Spencer, not this department,” Chief Vick had warned with that iconic raised eyebrow of hers.  And no, she wasn’t going to sink funds into a ticket for Mr. Guster - Shawn had thrown himself into this investigation alone, so Gus would just have to sit this one out.  Needless to say, Gus had not been pleased.).  

Now, there were just a few more loose ends to tie, a few more t’s to cross and i’s to dot and little squiggly fancy things to add to capital S’s - namely, he needed to do the reveal.  And since Lassie and Jules would be at the gala anyway, it would be the perfect time to do the reveal (and he’d get to live it up as a male socialite for a few more hours).

He waited until he’d tested all the hors dourves (Why the hell had no one told him caviar was fish eggs and not really fancy boba, and that it did not taste good in even the fanciest of cocktails?), but as soon as the moment was perfect, he called everyone’s attention to him by accidentally-on-purpose smashing his cocktail glass with a knife a la the Princess Diaries, jumped onto the nearest table, and presented his case.

As he revealed the truth of the tragic death of Selena Thornton, and how her sister had taken freaking Skill Share lessons on yacht safety procedures so that she could backwards engineer them to arrange an accident for her sister and swoop up her portion of the inheritance, he noticed something odd - Aria didn’t try to get up, she didn’t argue or yell something like, “That’s ridiculous!” or “You have no proof!” or even “I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you muddling, hunky psychic!”  Instead, she opened her shimmering handbag, calmly applied some sort of thick balm to her lips.  Then she pulled out her lipstick and reapplied it.  Maybe if Shawn hadn’t been so focused on his wrap-up, he would have noticed that the lipstick was the same shade, but that it came from a different tube than when she’d reapplied earlier.  Later, in his hospital bed, he would kick himself for missing that tiny, crucial detail.

He finished by announcing, “And remember, folks - this murder reveal was brought to you by Skill Share.”

And then he was getting off the table, and Jules was preparing the cuffs while Lassie held Aria, and the rest of the rich guests were sitting in stunned silence or otherwise whispering among themselves, already spreading the gossip for the next Tabloid, he was sure.  Then, out of nowhere, the formerly docile homicidal heiress lashed out, slamming the pointed heel of her left shoe - it looked like the heel had been shoved into a pencil sharpener - into the top of Lassie’s foot, buried the elbow of her perfectly tanned right arm into Juliet’s stomach, and broke away from the detectives.

Shawn thought she would turn tail and run, try to escape, but to his shock (and confusion), she lunged straight for him, zooming forward in those ridiculous heels with a speed and grace Shawn couldn’t even achieve with sneakers.  He braced himself for an attack, got ready to defend himself, even as Lassie and Jules recovered and dove for the sabotaging socialite.

They were too late.

What happened next was the literal opposite of what Shawn had anticipated.  She crushed her body into his, grabbed his face the way they do in every rom com ever, and pressed her lips against his in a kind of tender but still somehow aggressive kiss.

For a moment, he stood in shock, trying to process what the hell was happening.  Was she glad he’d caught her?  Did she look forward to being stripped of her wealth and going to prison for life?

Then he realized that as pleasant as her soft lips were against his, he had not authorized this transaction, and even though she was a rich, drop-dead gorgeous socialite, she was also a sister-killer, and his girlfriend whom he loved very much was watching, and he pulled back.  She held on, forcing her lips on his even as he tried to squirm away from her touch.  Her expertly manicured fingernails dug into his skin, and left scratches on the side of his neck when Lassie and Jules dragged her off of him.

Shawn stumbled back, neck stinging where she’d scratched him, lips tingling where she’d kissed him.  He could taste her lipstick - it didn’t taste like cherries like he’d thought.  It didn’t taste good at all.  He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and spun on Aria Thorton, who was now being wrestled into cuffs and passed off to waiting police officers.  “Hey, I know I’m irresistible,” he said, trying to fight off his growing discomfort at the kiss - any other time, he’d probably be thrilled to have a beautiful woman throw herself at him and surprise him with an attack-kiss, “but I’ve got a girlfriend.  And she’s way more hot and bad-ass than a homi-sister like you.”

Jules turned to him and there was a little smile on her face that told him maybe he wasn't as deep in the doghouse as he'd thought.  “Homi-sister?”  

“Yeah,” said Shawn, rubbing absently at his chest.  He needed to change out of this tux.  It was too hot, and it was too tight.  “Sister-murderer.  Like homicide, but for sisters.”

“Sororicide,” Lassiter corrected.  

“I’m sorry, Lassie, when did you take on the role of Scooby Doo?  I can only keep up with one fictional dog at a time, man.”  Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead.  A muscle twitched in his upper arm.

“It’s the actual term for killing one’s sister,” Lassie sneered derisively.

Shawn opened his mouth to retort, but he coughed instead.   And suddenly he couldn't stop coughing, and his chest was being squeezed, and the muscle in his arm jumped again, this time painfully, and he promptly deposited a disgusting mixture of fourteen varieties of hors dourves on Lassiter’s shoes.  A strong hand grabbed his upper arm and kept him semi-upright even as Lassiter groaned, “These are $400 loafers, and they’re rentals!”

“Shawn!”  Juliet’s face had gone white, Shawn noticed through tears and haze as she surged forward and gently lifted his chin with her delicate hand.  

He struggled to answer her, but his chest was so tight, and his left calf muscle contracted then, and all that came out was a strangled cry of pain.

“Call an ambulance - now!”  Lassiter’s voice was far away, though Shawn could have sworn that the head detective was standing right by his side, keeping him from face-planting in his own caviar and cocktail sludge.

Vaguely, over the sound of screams and murmurs and cries of alarm, he heard Juliet’s voice, scarier than he’d ever heard it before - he’d never been so convinced she was about to murder someone before - growl, “What did you do to him?”

He never got the chance to hear if Aria Thornton gave up her dark little secret.  His eyes rolled up into his head, and, muscles twitching and lungs scrambling for air, he passed out.

***

He woke up to pain.

It was a slow process, getting his eyelids to cooperate, but he could feel a soft hand in his, and he would know it anywhere, and someone was crying.

When his vision had cleared enough for him to make out more than just blobs of color, he saw Juliet sitting slumped in a hard plastic chair by his bedside.  Sure enough, it was her hand in his.  But she was fast asleep, her neck crooked back at an awkward angle and small, adorable snores wafting out of her slightly parted lips.  So it wasn’t her who was crying.

His gaze dragged languidly to the right, and everything made sense.  Gus was in the chair next to her, quietly sobbing into his hands.  Poor bastard.  

Shawn spoke, his voice raw and trembling and the effort seemed to squeeze every bit of air out of his already starved lungs.  “G-Gus?”

Gus’s head snapped up, he leaped out of his chair, and in a loud voice reminiscent to an all-black hallelujah choir, he exclaimed, “Shawn!”

Juliet startled awake, her hand instinctively squeezing his, and he saw the worry in her stormy blue eyes as soon as they landed on him.  She smoothed his sweaty hair from his forehead.  “Thank God you’re awake.  How are you feeling?”

Shawn didn’t answer immediately, but let his eyes wander around the room, confirming what he already knew.  He was in a hospital - a private room - and there was a heart monitor beeping above him and an IV lead ran from his hand to a pole, where two different bags were feeding his veins with who knew what.  He took a moment to remember what had happened and shuddered internally when he thought of the kiss of death.  

It took everything he had in him to speak again, but he had to know where he stood, “S-so, more than b-barely poisoned this time?”

Juliet laughed, a short, manic sound of mingled relief and exasperation.  “Yeah, a lot more than barely,” she agreed.

Shawn didn’t get to enjoy his moment of validation, because his left pectoral muscle spasmed, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending bolts of agony through his chest.  It was like the muscle was twisting itself into the most complex pretzel known to man.  An agonized guuuh burst from his mouth and he grasped at his chest, as if trying to tear the pain away.

Gus was panicking now, tears still streaming down his face, and Jules looked stricken.  Shawn was certain he was actively dying now and tried to call for help.  The door to his room burst open and distantly, beneath the mound of pain that had erupted in his muscle, he heard his father’s voice.

“Jules - it looks like it’s his chest.  Massage it.  Remember, small, gentle circles.  Gus, pull it together, you’re just making him panic.”  And then he could feel Jules gently massaging the screaming muscle, and Gus hiccuped into relative silence, and his father was there, seated in a chair on the other side of the bed.  He grabbed Shawn’s hand - the one with the IV - and for a wild moment, Shawn was convinced his father was going to rip it out like he had the last time his son had been poisoned.

But instead, he held on firmly to Shawn’s hand and said, “Squeeze as hard as you need to, pal.  Ride it out.  It’ll be over soon.”

The heart monitor was screeching now, and a nurse ran in just as the spasm was beginning to ebb, leaving the entire muscle feeling weak and squishy like play-doh.  She injected something into one of Shawn’s IV bags and checked his temperature and fed him ice chips and told him to try to rest and be patient, that it wouldn’t be long until the spasms would stop.  She might have told him her name at some point, but he didn’t hear.

Whatever she’d given him made him sleepy, and he felt his twitching, tense muscles relax the tiniest of fractions, and the last thing he saw before falling asleep was his father’s face leaning over him.  He must have been hallucinating, because he could have sworn that his father’s eyes were red and puffy and that there were tear-tracks down his face.

***

The next time Shawn woke up, he was still sore, and his muscles still gave the occasional, defiant twitch, but he wasn’t in blood-curdling agony anymore, so it was a definite improvement.  This time when he woke, no one was crying, and his dad had washed his face, but his eyes were still rimmed with red.

“What happened to me?” Shawn asked, his voice weaker than he could ever remember.  “What the hell was in that lipstick?”

His dad chuckled humorlessly, not because anything was funny but because it wasn’t crying.  “You figured out it was the lipstick, then?”

“I’m psychic, dad, remember?”  Shawn had put the pieces together the first time he’d woken up, but he’d been too out of it to realize he’d made the connection.

Henry didn’t dignify that with a response.

“I can’t believe you went to a millionaire’s gala and almost died, Shawn!” Gus chided irritably.  “If I had been there -”

“You would have hyperventilated and passed out on your plate of hor dourves,” Henry finished dryly, and Shawn couldn’t help but grin.

Juliet was the one who brought the conversation back around to his question.  “She refused to talk, so we took her purse and had her fingernail polish, lip balm, and lipstick tested for toxins,” she informed him.  “We thought that she might have done it when she scratched you, but it was the lipstick that was poisoned.  The lip balm was actually a protective buffer between her lips and the lipstick so that the poison wouldn’t reach her skin.”  With a heavy sigh, Juliet revealed, “It was VX poison.”

“What’s that?” Shawn asked.  “It sounds like something from a spy thriller.”

“It’s a nerve agent,” Gus supplied.  “It can be made into gas, but it’s base form is about the consistency of gasoline.  It’s super fast-acting, especially when inhaled or ingested, even in small amounts like with you, and it causes muscle spasms, respiratory issues, nausea, headaches, fever, and a whole lot of other nasty symptoms.”

“But there’s a cure?”

“Atropine and pralidoxime,” Gus answered promptly, and Shawn resisted the very strong urge to tell his best friend to, for the love of every 80s movie they’d ever loved, get a hobby.  “Both were administered the second the results came back.  It was a close call, but thankfully they were administered on time - though it was touch and go for a bit.  The nurse gave you another dose of a muscle relaxer the first time you woke up.  The other drip is saline.”

“I guess the real question is how the psychotic rich girl next door got ahold of poison like that in the first place,” Shawn muttered, head swimming and eyes burning and body feeling like it had been run over by a monster truck.

Juliet answered promptly: “Lassiter was finally able to crack her.  Turns out she’s also got some contacts in the black market.  She had that tube of lipstick custom-made and infused with VX two years ago in case any of her many boyfriends cheated on her.  Surprisingly, she hadn’t used it until you came along, but when you exposed the truth, it was her way of getting revenge.   She knew there was no way she was going to be able to escape, so she decided to take you down with her.”

“Damn,” said Shawn, faintly.  He was drifting off again, but he was so happy to be alive, to see his friends - even his dad, imagine that! 

“Go back to sleep, Shawn,” Henry ordered.  “It’s going to take a while for you to heal, and you’ll need all the rest you can get.”

Not knowing what had come over him, blaming the poison and trauma for the words that spilled unbidden from his lips, he found himself asking, “And you guys will be here?  Next time I wake up?”  

Gus grinned and leaned over to give Shawn a one-sided fist bump, and Juliet kissed him delicately on the forehead.  His dad ruffled his hair in a manner that could almost be construed as affectionate if he wasn’t careful.

“You bet your ass we will.”

Overall, Shawn reflected as he allowed sleep to claim him, being fully poisoned fully sucked, but it was kind of nice getting a glimpse of just how much his friends and family cared. 

They could find other opportunities to show their love in the future though. Shawn had had enough of poison, barely, fully, or otherwise, for a lifetime. 

[teabreen]

moonbeam; chp 1: sunrise

the sunlight devours you, no mercy

- supernatural!nct x fem!reader

warning( this warning will be put in every chapter): polyamory, vampire/werewolf themes, some chapters involve smut, dom/sub relations, sub!reader, female!reader, dom!nct, some violence, blood, slight occult mentions, slight elements of horror, mentions of alcoholism and murder.

You moved to a new town in South-Korea. It was like this: quite petite, had a cozy feeling, small houses standing side by side.

The sky was mixed with a light blue and angelic violet. clouds losing their porcelain white and mixing thinly together. You smiled faintly at your mom, who was driving the car around the new neighborhood. When you left, it was sunrise.

The car stopped, plummeting you back to your reality as in front of you, stood a house with a soft beige roof, a peachy outline with lacy white curtains decorating the edges of the crystal clear windows. The house was surrounded with bushes with red velvet roses peeking out from them, you huddled out of the car and went to retrieve your bags.

As you looked around, you spotted two charismatic-looking young men. One had scarlet hair and a sharp face, his eyes were a deep brown and he sported an eyebrow slit. The other man looked younger, his hair was colored with the perfect nutmeg-and-sunlight mix, his features were delicate and his face was small yet godly, his eyes were the same chocolate brown that looked more delicate and light as the sun hit them slightly from the side. 

Strutting yourself into the house, you were slightly taken aback by how large it was from the inside. It had warm peachy and beige shades enveloping around it, draping the house with warmth. You sighed and went to what was supposed to your “ room “.

Climbing up the stairs, you acknowledge the view from the large window at the side, where the stairs ended in front of you. The hall stretched out in front of you and divided their ends into different rooms. Your mom told you yours was a door named “ 565.” You walked down and surely found a room with the exact numbers in the door. 

Entering your room, you were met with a ray of golden sunshine exploding in your eyes. Sighing, you plop your bag on your bed, hearing a faint thud.

“ What a day, what a day.” You repeat to yourself, not willing to unpack; probably doing it at another time. Probably at 12 at midnight when you’re delirious with exhaustion.

You don’t tell your mother that you’re leaving the house, she trusts you enough probably, you could go anywhere, as long as it was close. You took your bag with you. 

Exploring the outside, you walk up to the public streets. Tea shops, stores, bakeries, gift shops, and salons lined up each other on the street. They were close and binded.

Coming to the lake, you see people clustered into tight groups, cameras in their hands. You sighed, figuring it was just tourists.

As you walked more, you went to a street with more wealthy people in it. One particular house stood out. It was tall, dark, and almost palace-like. It had a garden of black roses in front of it, a large parking space that divided from two ends. There was a stone in front of it, reading APHRODITE. You assumed Aphrodite was the name of the mansion, more like the palace.

As the darkness envelopes the sky and the moon peeks out, you slowly walk. The streets were swallowed dark, only distant lamps seem to provide with little lamps. You hear footsteps scurrying behind you. You were too hazed to pay attention, but you walked faster, not looking back to waste time.

As they seem to get closer, the faster your legs move, trying to get away from whatever seemed too interested in following you.

Your head was too hazed to process, you now dunk into an alley, your face against the floor. You turn around and see a masculine figure, he was tall and his silhouette was illuminated slightly by the pale moonlight. You quickly stood to your feet, quickly grabbed your blue earbuds and wrapped them around his neck. He was surprised, yet quickly fought back, wasting no time and ripped the earbuds off of his neck. You stared back at the red and blue wires rising from each end. You glare at him, lunging at him. He pins you down and smirks at you. You feel his nails digging in at the skin under your collarbone and scratched them down, you yelp but are quickly silenced. His nails were sharp.

“ Can’t fight back now?” He taunts, you push your legs up to his stomach, extracting a gag from him. You stand up and he falls lower at his knees. You quickly grab your purse and make a run, only to be grabbed back down and put in a choke-hold. After desperate attempts to fight back, your vision slowly fades away. You see a red-haired man walk up to him, holding a bat. Hitting him with it, the man falls to the ground. The red-haired man quickly holds him down, leaning closer to his neck, burying himself in it. The man yelps, squirming into the red-haired man’s grasp. You wondered what in the actual Hell was going on, but didn’t bother, you were probably being saved.

After a few minutes, the man passes out and is thrown into the dark by the red-haired one. The red-haired one faces you, you recognize his eyebrow slit and eyes. It was the man you saw from when you first saw your house. You didn’t tell him, not wanting to look impolite and have him know you were staring.

He slowly trails himself into your path, concern sprouting from his eyes. “ Are you alright?” He asks. “ Did he hurt you?”. He reaches a hand out to you, you take it, having him help you up to your feet. “ My mom’s probably waiting for me.” You quickly say, going to your purse and quickly reaching for your phone. “ You’re bleeding, sweetheart.” He says, eyeing the blood softly gushing from your collarbone area, you hadn’t noticed it. It looked as if he was holding back from something, from some sort of urge, but you didn’t push too much. The wound looked bloody.

“ I’ll take you to my mansion, my friend can take care of you.” He says, a hand slowly reaching your waist and guiding you down the road. He reaches to his mansion, which you quickly recognized, it was Aphrodite.

Walking you down the road, you admired the street view, and feeling a tingling of luckiness and fortune, since you were to see the inside of Aphrodite.

As he opened the doors, the words inside your mouth quickly jumbled up into nothingness. The mansion was huge, the ceiling was raised and had a beautiful chandelier perfectly dangling down from it, the halls were divided everywhere, and some spaces were opened for you to see inside the other rooms.

“ By the way, my name is Taeyong. I own the mansion, I and a few friends live here.” He says, knocking you out of your thoughts. “Jaemin! ” Taeyong calls out, earning the sound of steps from down the stairway. Out came another man. He was younger-looking, his eyes were a deep shade of brown, and his hair was a nutmeg-sun mix. He was the other man you saw with Taeyong. You blush to yourself, seeing yourself interacting with the two charming men.

“ I didn’t seem to get your name. Rude of me not to ask.” Taeyong chuckled, giving you a tenderly soft stare, causing butterflies to explode in your stomach. “ I’m Y/N, I just moved to this neighborhood.” You say, becoming extremely shy. 

“ Hello, Y/N. I’m Jaemin, a friend of Taeyong’s.” Jaemin kindly greeted himself to you, having a warm aura, the softness in his voice almost making you forget that you were just attacked by a stranger.

“ You see, Nana. Y/N was attacked by some guy, she’s bleeding from it. I suppose there may be a way you or Kun could fix the wound. It’s not that serious, but still.” Taeyong said as Jaemin went to examine your wound. Jaemin eyed the blood slowly oozing from it, the same way Taeyong did as if he was holding some urges back. “ Kun went somewhere with Ten.” Jaemin softly said, walking up to you. Jaemin and Taeyong exchanged sympathetic looks, you just moved here and were already attacked.

“ That’s far from a small wound, we may resort to stitches,” Jaemin suggested, looking at Taeyong.

“ Nana, stitches may take too long. She said her mom is waiting for her. Wouldn’t she be worried.” Taeyong almost burst there.

“ I’ll be as quick as I possibly can. Stitching someone up whilst being rushed is never a good choice, it can bring messy results.” Jaemin almost shot back at Taeyong, but his tone was covered. 

With that being said, Jaemin escorted you up the stairs, your head was kept low, you heard faint footsteps following you, Taeyong was following.

Leading you into a room, Jaemin softly placed you down on the bed. You took a deep breath in, you were almost baffled to know that Jaemin had medical supplies, staring around you saw fragments of messy paper-filled sketchbooks and used pastels. You saw pencils, some were sharpened and some needed to be, you saw unfinished yet divine portraits of people or sceneries.

“ Are...you medically experienced?” You asked, looking down at the scissors, you would be scared, but you saw worse.

“ My father was a doctor, he taught me how to do stitches,” Jaemin said, picking at a piece of thread. “ It will hurt but not to an unbearable point.” Jaemin hushed, getting to work at your collarbone. “ These ones are dissolvable, it’ll take a week or two for them to dissolve.” Jaemin reminded you, holding you down even though you didn’t squirm.

Throughout the procedure, you grew tired. Taeyong held your hand as Jaemin stitched you up. But now, you had no time to yelp or flinch. You were slowly falling into slumber, everything went black.

And then, it will be sunrise.

Your eyes lazily opened, feeling sunlight ooze out of the window. Hearing a knock on your door, you welcomed whoever was there, your mind to hazy to remember last night. You see a figure, it wasn’t Taeyong or Jaemin. It was another man, he had dark hair and dark eyes. He wore a black sweater that bagged slightly around his body, along with black jeans. He was covered with a soft pink apron, not matching the darkness of his clothes, yet somehow mixing perfectly in the same way. He held a silver tray with a teapot and cup.

The man was tall, yet he looked unintimidating.

“ Who...who are you.” You say, trying to get out of the haziness. “ I’m Yuta. Yuta Nakamoto.” The man said, placing the tray beside the table. He poured a cup of tea, the scent was earl gray.

He hands you the cup, making sure you didn’t drop anything. Guiding the teacup to your lips, you sipped and felt the warmth spread across your body. You felt better.

“ Last night....I-” You tried to bundle your memories together but Yuta cut you off.

“ Taeyong said something happened, you had to get stitches. From Jaemin.” Yuta said, helping you take another sip from the tea. “ By the way, Jaemin said not to worry about him. He got to sleep on the couch.” Yuta softly chuckled at Jaemin’s words.

“ How did you and Taeyong meet? Or you and Jaemin?” Your curiosity was excited, wanting some answers.

Yuta looked a bit hesitant. “ Taeyong met me in Japan. Jaemin’s family used to live in Italy, his father was a doctor and his mother was a painter. We started living in Aphrodite.” Yuta’s tone sounded hesitant. You didn’t want to push him further for answers. “ Is Taeyong here?” You ask, after taking another delicate sip. “He and the others are out. I was tasked with taking care of you. Taeyong didn’t want you to wake up all alone.”

You had to admit, your heart sort of jabbed at your throat at Taeyong’s kindness. You smiled at Yuta; he returned it. His smile was like a burst of sunshine.

And then it hit you, your mom was probably worried. You quickly grabbed at your purse. “ I’m sorry, Yuta.” You quickly say, going to your feet. “ My mom’s waiting for me.” Instead of worrying, he gave you a smile. “ It was nice meeting you. Take care.” He says. “ And welcome to the neighborhood.”

“ It was nice meeting you too.” You say before running down the stairs and out of Aphrodite As you looked back at Aphrodite, you smiled, eager to encounter Taeyong, Jaemin, Yuta, and the other residents.

What a magical day.

[mirasloss]

idle headway

02/14/08

i fell in love today. well, ive been falling for a while but today i finally accepted it. its weird. ive never been in love before, so i find this experience thoroughly exciting, but i know i cant be with someone forever. i can only hope that the sweet memories i carry after this ends will far outweigh the bitter ones.

05/23/08

i feel dirty. i had sex with someone that isnt the person im hopelessly in love with. we arent even dating! i dont know why i care so much! maybe id feel different if the sex was any good — they kept begging me to punch them in the jaw. now im not against a little violence in the bedroom, but i would rather not be the one inflicting it.

06/28/08

we made it official today, but nothing feels different. im just as in love as i was two days ago, except now theres a title associated with that love. i guess im a little disappointed — i wanted this to feel like a new chapter in my life, but it feels more like a new paragraph. maybe i just need to give it some time.

09/02/08

theyve only become more detached since we officially started dating. i feel like its been weeks since we last had a conversation. im a ghost around them — we walk past each other in my kitchen and out eyes dont even connect. come to think of it, ive felt that way around everyone lately. my friends threw a huge party without me, i havent talked to my siblings in over a month — hell, even my parents stopped answering my calls. maybe im already dead and i just dont know it.

11/14/08

i made a new friend today. her name is miss pencil sharpener, and she is by far the most complex character in my life. she’s not that useful on her own, but you can appreciate her versatility once you break her down into each individual part. her plastic shell protects against predators while her stainless steel blades lie dormant, waiting for her prey to willingly give itself to her. she gifted me one of her blades, hoping that itd help me feel alive again. and oddly enough, it did

01/17/09

on january 17th at 3:31 am, i stabbed my partner to death. there is no punchline, no metaphor, not even a smidge of irony in that declaration. i didn’t even mean to kill them. i was convinced that i had died long ago. but i was real. and i remembered every action i hadnt taken, every word i didnt speak, all the love i didnt show — it was all my fault. and it took someone else’s life for me to realize it. i dont think they even had time to process that they were being killed. they didnt even scream. it was like they were lifeless from the start of the ordeal. or maybe they saw it coming and didnt care.

i left their body and started driving — i don’t know where i went or where i’ll end up going tomorrow, but i know i can never return home

09/09/09

it’s comforting knowing that the only pieces of evidence linking me to the murder — my knife and my diary — are kept in my backpack. i’ve been keeping up with the investigation, and everyone back home seems to believe i was kidnapped. works for me.

i found a local porn production company that was willing to pay me cash to edit their content, allowing me to comfortably live in my car while police back home hope they find my corpse in the river.

and maybe one day i’ll give them what they want

[previously-writer-zero]

The Witness

{After about 6 weeks of not writing anything, a person in the writeblr Discord finally helped me get back to it. So even though it was 5AM, I went to work and wrote this short story. Hope you like it!}

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and concentrated. Come on, all eyes are on you, big guy. I relaxed as I felt the office around me melt into darkness.

I returned to the crime scene I visited so many times already and opened my eyes again. There he was, the president. The vistim whose murder I had to solve to stop an all-out war between several nations. We already know who the murderer is. He is back in the present that I just left, cooling down in a cell, waiting for his sentence. We know which country he belongs to.

But I'm not here for him. I identified him during my first Visit. I also immediatelly knew the murder weapon, the technique, and how it all went down. Of course I did, I was "there" when it happened. I'm a Witness.

I was born with a strange gift. We've all read stories about time travel when we were little, but they weren't anything like what some people could really do. They were just exaggerations. Real time travellers, or Witnesses, can only travel to a specific time and observe, not being able to affect the moment they are visitng at all. The Lesser Witnesses can barely Visit at all. Some of them even need a link, like a person or an object. Us Greater Witnesses aren't bound by such restrictions. With talent and a hell of a lot practice we can even control the time we are Visiting, such as pausing it and rewinding it to Visit it from a different angle. With a good feel for orientation, we don't even have to physically go to the place want to Visit.

I practiced, and I trained, and I got good enough at it for the government to employ me as an Official Witness. Now I earn a monthly paycheck to investigate a murder or two. Most of them have turned into such a routine we have the culprit crying behind bars within an hour, all I have to do is follow them home after they've committed a crime.

But this one isn't as simple as taking a look at the perp's face and following him home. We already did all this, but the problem is with the victim. It's our president.

I didn't really like the guy or what he stood for - hell, I don't think I even voted for him - but a foreigner killing our president is an international incident.

Unlike in the old mystery novels back when there weren't as many Witnesses, normal detectives had the most trouble figuring out the "whodunnit". A little bit of reasoning later immediatelly told them the "whydunnit." With us Witnesses, the "whodunnit" can be as easy as memorizing the killer's face and bringing the knowledge back with you when you come back, but the "whydunnit" usually requires interrogation and investigation, the things that take the most time while the culprit is sitting behind bars.

This is a lot harder when several countries are involved, every one of them afraid of war just enough to have a few weapons stockpiled when they thought the neighbours weren't watching, and the murderer isn't cracking even under our best interrogators. I don't try to think of the screams I heard when I last passed his cell.

I paused the scene in front of me. During the investigation I've seen that knife enter the persident's skull so many times that I've learned to not pay attention to it at all. I resumed and paused the scene many times, looking at the two men in the center of the president's office from many angles, even the floor if there was room underneath them.

This man is a foreigner and he killed our president, but why? Why?

I've been in this Visit for several hours during this session and my headache was telling me I was slowly reaching my limit. I would have to come back empty-handed and rest for a while, while half of the world gets ready for war.

I rubbed my eyes and resumed the scene one last time before I went back.

Suddently, my instincts kicked in. They noticed something before my brain processed it. I rewinded the scene again and fixed my eye on one point of the culprit. His pocket. There was something in his pocket. Why haven't I checked his pockets? Did I think this case too important to stick to the goddamn basics?!

I resumed the scene for fractions of a second at a time, pausing and trying to sneak a peak at the piece of folded paper the culprit had in his pocket. I was a Witness, not a time traveler, but I wished I could just reach my hand into his pocket, and read what was on that piece of paper.

But the more I tried to read it, the more I realized the paper was folded in a way it was entirely impossible for me to read it the way it was placed in the guy's pocket.

He knew.

He knew this crime would attract many Greater Witnesses like me to try and figure out. He knew we would try and figure out why he did what he did.

He put the piece of paper in his pocket just deep enough for us to see it, but folded in a way so we couldn't know what was written on it. There could be names on that paper, lists, organizations, conspiracies. And then, it could just be the culprint's morning shopping list!

I rewinded the scene again and again, analysing if there was any indication of what could be on that piece of paper. If I could sneak a peak. If the pencil left a visible indent on the other side I could see. If the pen leaked through the paper. If I could see the scheme or drawing that was on it. But the more I looked at it, the less I could see. The piece of paper could be empty for all I knew.

He was taunting me! Taunting US!

I stomped my foot and let out a loud, furious roar. Suddenly. The world started speeding past my eyes. In my moment of anger, I momentarily lost control of the Visit.

I tried calming down. It's okay, it happens. Admittedly, it hasn't happened to me since I was a Lesser Witness, but this was a crucial case. I lost my cool. Just rewind and start the Visit again.

But the more I tried stoping down the scenes flashing past my eyes, the more they sped up.

The culprit ran away.

The president let out his last breath.

Hours flashed by in moments, and the secretary found the body.

I know all this...

The police arrive, and the technicians examine the body.

And there I was, in the Visit. I can see myself looking over the case I was just put in charge of. The Real Witness' eyes passed right past me. Of course, they couldn't see me.

But the Visit kept going.

No, stop...

Days passed in seconds.

I said stop...

I looked out the windows and I could see big planes flying over the city. I don't remember seeing those planes before.

My head felt like it was trying to tear itself apart... Please stop...

I barely had time to shield my eyes from the insanely brigt light I was suddenly assaulted by.

My eyes were shut tight, and yet I could see the outline of my hand that was in front of my face.

In a few moments, the light subsided. I sheepishly opened my eyes, but all I could see was dust settling over the rubble of what used to be the president's office. Time finally felt like it was flowing at the right speed, so I was afraid of speeding it up again until the dust settled and I knew what I was looking at.

My instincts, they knew what my brain didn't know yet again. I should have relied on them more.

The cloud settled, and it took memoments to realize where I was. I didn't really need to wait, my many years as a Witness sharpened my orioentation enough to know that my position was still the same as before.

And yet, my stupid brain took it's sweet time recognizing the city I knew so well.

What... city?

There is no city.

Only a flat valley, littered with rubble and red-hot metal.

I watched in disbelief as my brain finally caught up.

I felt someone shake my shoulder, and that finally brought me back from my Visit.

I was lying on the floor of my office, looking up at my partner. Around him were the concerned faces of my fellow Official Witnesses, along with my Superintendent.

"Hey fella, had a bad Visit?" Brenda was smiling with one of those sympathetic smiles she had when the coffee machine broke when you wanted some coffee. Except it tooked worried, as if the coffee machine can't be repaired anymore.

"What... happened?" I asked weakly. My head was throbbing and I was exhausted. I haven't felt this bad after a Visit since my first murder case.

"Well you went and Visited the president, when you started convusling and dropped out of your chair. You had us worried," the Superintendent said.

"The president... The Visit..." I mumbled, trying to form a coherent sentence, trying to make them understand what I just saw. "The planes, I saw the future..."

"Easy there buddy, what are you talking about?" Joshua lost his concerned smile and replaced it with a concerned frown.

"There was a piece of paper, and then I lost control, and then I kept forwarding and forwarding through the Visit until I saw the future! I saw the future! I saw the planes!" I frantically yelled. We have no time! We have to do somethg!

"Hey there, calm down! What planes?!" The Superintendent grabbed my shaking head, forcing me to focus on his face.

Just then, a low rumbling started shaking our windows, loose in their frames.

"Those planes," I whimpered.

[pizzamaximoff]

The Sketch Artist’s Obsession (Jerome Valeska x Artist! Reader)

Here’s a request for @avengers-and-jedis , I’m so sorry its late I've been bogged down with a bunch of school work and assessments AND Inktober. Again I’m so sorry I didn't get it done earlier but damn I’m tired af. I’ve had to change up a little of the canon storyline just to do this how I wanted to. Just adding in some lil bits to add to the case to fit in with the reader being an artist. BTW they sent me some hella good art of Jerome and it kinda inspired parts of this.

Word count: 2,701

Working in the Gotham City Police department had its ups and downs. Sure it was dark and generally solum with petty criminals being filed in everyday and new cases being raised and brought to attention. That was something Gotham was never short of: crime. Yet with all the misery brought in you can’t help but find it thrilling, even though you were the lead sketch artist you still end up working with the main department, often being present for various interrogations.

It was a a cold day when you first met Jerome Valeska. A light snow covered the city but the office was warm with life, yet it wasn’t a reassuring warmth. More like that of raging fire. Full of anger. Making your way from the break room to your quaint little office you stopped in your track in shock at your surroundings. The department was heaving: an entire circus was literally brought in, their brightly coloured costumes contrasting against the dark office area. Your mouth was slightly ajar, shocked at the odd scene you were witnessing. Detectives and officers kept two groups of the circus workers apart. One clearly being clowns, their makeup heavy and costumes absurd. Judging from the tight spandex of the other groups you made an educated guess that they were acrobats. It was obvious their was some form of family feud going on here. The absurdity of the whole situation made you laugh quietly to yourself. You were about to move to your tiny office when you heard your name being called out amongst the babble of angry performers. You turned to see Detective Gordon waving you over, his face dark and brooding as usual. You weaved in an out of the various people clogging up the department to reach him, letting out a sigh once you emerged from the mass. 

“What is it Jim?” You asked. He smiled lightly at you, the dark mood in his features lifting for a moment. You had always been the department baby, being the youngest there, he had a soft spot for you. “Just as a precaution, I might need you, the victim’s son said he saw a strange individual around the circus but has no idea who he is. An outsider” He spoke giving you a small pat on the shoulder before leading you into the small office. You rolled your eyes at this, instantly certain that your witness wouldn't be able to give you much to go on. It wouldn't be the first time. Placing your work sketchbook and pencil set on the desk you took a seat next to Jim. Looking up you finally noticed the boy in the room. His fiery red hair was parted and swept to the side neatly. Slight sniffles, the lasting remnants of tears, shook his body in every few moments. Your initial distaste was dropped in an instant as sympathy for the boy filled you. He wasn't much younger than you by the looks of it and you instantly felt terrible for him, if you were in his position you wouldn't be much different. “Hi Jerome, we just need to ask you a few questions to help us find out whoever murdered your mother” Jim spoke sincerely with a gentle but forced smile on his face. Jerome, as you now learnt, looked up from the desk. His sea green eyes were glazed over with tears threatening to spill, his nose and cheeks were a soft pink making him look delicate and vulnerable as ever. He quickly wiped his eyes before muttering a quiet ‘sure’. You couldn't help the small endearing smile     you sent him as he glanced over to you. His lips twitching ever so slightly in a shy manner.   Jim began to ask him questions and Jerome answered, clear and precisely. You listened intently but as you did so you were unequivocally aware of how pretty he was. Even in this state he was rather gorgeous. You managed to keep these views hidden, for your face was stoic. However it was when Jim asked him of his opinion on his mothers ‘love life’ you cracked. “Sex is a perfectly healthy and normal human activity, Detective” Usually you would be perfectly fine with this statement but with the lingering gaze he gave you and the faintest hint of a smirk you lost it. Your usually composed face was tinged with pink as you coughed lightly and fidgeted with the papers on the desk. As for Jim his eyes slightly widened before moving swiftly along. He asked of the unknown man and if Jerome had seen him before and where. This was your turn to step in. “As you said you got a clear view of this strange character, I’ll leave you with my colleague here to draw up a sketch of the man. With that it should be much easier to identify the suspects.” With a nod to you Jim exited the room leaving you and Jerome alone. You held your hand out to him with a smile. “Hi, I’m (Y/N), lead sketch artist at the precinct.” He softly held onto your hand and gave it a small shake. It was surprisingly warm, contrasting with the cold office. “We’re going to start with a general shape of the man and then move into the features. I’m going to need you to be as specific and with as much detail as possible so we can get the most accurate depiction, Is that okay?” You spoke as you opened the book to a fresh page, setting out your pencils. “That sounds good to me” He spoke, his voice seemed much more confident than before but you brushed it off as nothing, ready to begin the work.

Around half an hour later you were finished, the process being surprisingly easy and quick due to Jerome’s immense level of description of the man. You looked over the sketch, something about it seemed familiar but you couldn't place your finger on it. You passed the book to Jerome asking if it was correct. He let out a small noise of surprise before speaking. “Wow, that’s him, you managed to get it perfect…” He trailed up looking at you with awe. It was a heartwarming sight and you smiled brightly in response. You simply looked at each other for a moment, it was strange but comfortable yet it ended as soon as it began. You shook your head slightly and stood. He passed the book to you gently as you spoke quietly. “I’m going to hand this to the detectives, hopefully they can catch the guy who did this.” He looked down again sadness seemingly washing over him again. You reached the door and as you were about to leave you stopped abruptly before turning to face him over your shoulder. “Oh and Jerome,” He looked up quickly, eager to hear what you had to say,” If you ever want to talk, my office is the fourth on the left. Feel free to drop in anytime, don’t bother knocking I would love to chat sometime” And with one last smile shared between the pair of you, you left.

You waited for Jim and Leslie to finish their conversation with a blind elderly gentlemen before walking to them, sketchbook in hand. Exchanging a quick greeting to Leslie you turned to Jim presenting the page of the potential suspect. “Jerome says this is what the unidentified man at the circus looked like. I feel like I recognise him but I can’t pinpoint it” You explain to him, it takes him a few seconds before his eyes widen and shock registers on his face. He jogs to a computer, yourself and Lee following confused and intrigued. He delves into some files and soon after a newspaper scanning is brought onto the screen. A missing person of interest. Deacon Blackfire, for suspicion of leading the infamous Hellfire club. You gasped shocked at the sight. “Do you think he killed Lila?” Lee questioned excitement at the revelation in her voice. Jim shook his head, skeptical. “No, it doesn't make sense, Blackfire hasn't been seen in a decade. Its highly unlikely he comes back just to kill a snake dancer-“ You cut him off speaking yourself. “I’m not sure Jim, Jerome was certain it was him. Blackfire has a memorable face, theres not many psychos like him. You’ve got to at least take a look into this, Jerome lost his mother at least give him closure” Jim sighed, you  He was clearly unsure but with you and Lee both pestering him he promised to research into it the next day.

That night, you went home content. Hopeful in the crime being on its way to being solved. After entering your apartment and changing into something comfortable, you boiled the kettle and made a cup of chamomile. Popping the mug on the side table you then not-so-gracefully threw yourself into your armchair, pulling the throw over yourself. You reached for your personal sketchbook ready to express your emotions on the pages. Sharpened pencil in hand you began to draw, built up stresses leaving your body as the graphite dragged on the page. Clowns, acrobats and various characters danced around the edges of the page, you weren't concentrating on the specific subject of your drawings, just eager to create. Once the pages had been filled you placed the book on your lap content with your work. As you looked you halted, there in the centre of the many doodles was a sketch of Jerome. Your palm met your face and a hopeless sigh left your mouth. How did you not even realise you were drawing him? You had been with him for maximum an hour yet he he was forever in your book as a drawing. It came naturally to you, maybe it was his pretty face or gentle sweet nature that was hiding something beneath. Oh wouldn't you like to know what was lurking behind the piercing green eyes. You closed the book and placed it back on the side table. After finishing your tea you prepared for bed for it was late and you were already exhausted. You began to drifted into the realm of sleep, just before you passed over you could distantly hear the buzzing of your phone. Someone was calling you but you ignored it already too far gone. Whatever it was could wait till tomorrow.

You rushed into the precinct a hot mess. Hair was messy and clothes thrown together rather unprofessionally. You had slept in: kept in a blissful dream with a certain ginger. You stuck to the walls, not too keen on being scolded by Captain Essen for being late. You passed Harvey who gave you a quick look over before grinning. “Damn Kid, you look like you just came back from the dead. What happened?” Well at least someone was finding this funny. You rolled your eyes and gave a gruff response. “Slept in” before pushing past, deperately trying to ignore his loud laughter. You loved Harvey, he was a great guy, but damn was he annoying. You walked into your office and not paying attention to your office you walked straight into Jim. You apologised quickly and walked to the desk, not bothering to ask why he was in here. “We solved the case.” He spoke, you pricked up at this, however the dark expression on his face caused your stomach to churn. Did something bad happen, was Jerome hurt? “It wasn't Blackfire who killed Lila Valeska.” He walled towards you a brown case file in hand. Your head tilted in confusion. If not Blackfire than who? They had managed to solve it in the night so it can't have been too obscure a suspect. “It was Jerome.” With that he chucked the file on your desk. The mugshot spilling out. With shaking hands you lifted the photo, gasping in horror and shock. A manic smile twisted his features, this was not the same boy you met in that dark office. You look up at Jim, eyes wide. He held no emotion in his as he continued speaking. “He’s been sent to Arkham, the boy’s insane.” With no more words he left. Leaving you in your shock as you continued to stare at the photo in hand.

Months passed but you still thought of him. You knew it was wrong: he was criminally insane, the boy committed matricide! Yet the attraction never left. He found his way into pages upon pages of your books, getting to the point where you were drawing him at work and hiding from your colleagues. ‘It’s harmless’ you would tell yourself, just a school girl crush. He was locked away so its not like it would blossom into anything. A slightly odd obsession, yes but it would cause no issue. This was the case until you were all called into the main area of the department. A breakout in Arkham, a group of so called ‘Maniax’ were formed, causing chaos in Gotham. There he was. That insane grin, the shocking eyes and fire like hair. Jerome was out of Arkham. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight. Slipping away from the gathering of workers. Your breathing had quickened. Both fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He was out. You knew he was dangerous, yet the ‘love’ grew inside you.

Gunshots, screams, yells of agony and insane laughter. You hid under your desk shaking like an autumnal leaf. The precinct was being massacred. There was nothing you could do to protect yourself, your job didn't permit you to carry a weapon nor have you ever needed one. The best chance you had of survival was under the dark oak of the desk. Luckily it covered all view of you from the door, but it was an obvious hiding place. Your heart was thumping in your ears and breath shallow.  The door slammed open, almost being knocked straight off it’s hinges. Footsteps entered and the door was slammed shut again. Contrary to before your heart seemed to stop as the voice filled your mind. “(Y/N)! I’m back, you did say not to knock!” It was Jerome, his voice dipping with the confidence that you had only imagined you heard before. So that was the real him. “Although you might have to pay for that, does the insurance cover it?” a sickening cake bounced of the walls. It was deranged but in no way did you hate it. You were simply too shocked to respond, frozen in your state of disbelief. His steps got closer, the thin wood of the desk being the only thing separating you from his sight and him from yours. The sound of paper and pages being turned, were all to be heard. He was silent, absorbed in the work. “Well it seems like I have quite the admirer” he chuckled, it was low and raspy, incredibly attractive. A blush filled your face as you began to feel faint. Still without reply he continued.  “You”re as good as I remember, although I did prefer your pretty face to your amazing skills” His voice got closer; he was walking around the desk. His legs came into view. “I have to say (Y/N), this conversation is feeling rather one-sided,” he down to your level, his green eyes met your own (e/c) ones. “And I do remember you stating you’d love to chat.” That manic grin stretched onto his pale skin, which was stained with blood, you were unsure if it was his or another’s. At that moment you didn't care, a bright smile made its way onto your face. Shock flashed in his eyes for a short second. You spoke up for the first time. “I missed you, Jerome”. “Well Princess let’s get out of here” Pulling you out from the hiding spot he laughed again and you count help but join in with him. Deep in your head there was a voice, nagging at you to run, to stop this madness and ignore this obsession, but it was too late. You were already in the grasp of Jerome Valeska.

Sorry if its crap I'm having a shit life atm guys but I’ll try to post more often!!

[gaiatheorist]

Testing boundaries.

OK, I did it, I went ‘out’. No big deal for most people, but I’m not most people. I’m socially awkward, and have, historically, had a tendency to get catastrophically drunk, to avoid just lurking in the corner, like an unwanted ginger standard-lamp. As it turns out, I don’t ‘need’ the booze, which was fortunate, because it was quite expensive.

I’d seen the ‘flyer’ for the Twitter meet-up a few weeks ago, and just dismissed it with “Can’t go.”, because it was 2 hours travel away, and an unnecessary expenditure. Some time on Thursday, I’m not entirely sure when, I started looking at train-prices, and dabbling in the arena of ‘could go, if...’ That’s abnormal behaviour for me, and I’m still not entirely certain whether it was turning-away-from this episode of poor emotional well-being, or holding my nose, and jumping straight into it.

Crowds freak me out, unfamiliar locations make me uneasy, I don’t cope well with excessive noise, flashing lights, and the proximity of unknown-people. I know, let’s travel to another city, alone, and spend a few hours in a pub, with a bunch of strangers! Add to that the facts that I’m probably more neurotic-protective than most, and never really went ‘out’ much on my own for 20 years, and my anxiety probably burned off the three glasses of wine before I eventually threw myself back in through my front door. (Without falling out of the taxi, which I did last time I was ‘out’. No, for anyone familiar with my back-story, or PIP-assessors, I didn’t fall off the toilet, either.) 

Yesterday, I went ‘out’, this waffly-blog is likely to be the very dull story of how I didn’t get murdered, or wake up in a gutter with my pants on inside-out. I know I ‘should’ have saved the money I drew out of the cash-point, but, in my off-centre logic, it was ‘spare’ money, left over from last month’s salary, and I virtually never do anything for myself. (Yes, there was a really weird side-thought about ‘What if the washing machine breaks, and I have to do my laundry in the bath for a month?’ I wouldn’t be doing my laundry in the bath, washing machines are relatively easy to reverse-diagnostic repair.) Welcome to the less than wonderful world of ‘What if?’

First up “What if somebody takes a photo, and I look half-dead?” Well, that’s easy, I DO look half-dead, but I tend to dye my roots on pay-day anyway, so I’ll at least look less like I’ve walked through cobwebs if I do show up in the background of someone else’s photo. I’m not ‘big’ Twitter, nobody’s going to want to snap a selfie with me to prove they’ve met me.

Next, “I have NOTHING to wear.” Don’t be an idiot, you have cupboards full of clothes, as was demonstrated by pulling EVERYTHING out of said cupboards, and raging at myself for putting things ‘out of the way’ instead of ‘away’. I’d wanted a particular top, I’m not as emaciated as I was this time last year, but I didn’t want the glockenspiel look, people have a tendency to try to make you eat pies when they can see your ribs, and if you complain that wheat doesn’t suit you, the automatic assumption is an eating disorder. I’m a pain in my own arse, because once I’d found ‘that’ top, I decided I didn’t want to wear it, and settled on another one. 

“Is that going to be enough money?” It’s going to have to be, and that will ensure you don’t go overboard with the drinks. (Half-grinning, because it turned out to be exactly the right amount of money to cover my slight miscalculation.) 

“Where’s my make-up?” Ah, remember when you threw a tizz about the ‘expectation’ that women should tart themselves up, and smear tonnes of crap on their faces to be deemed acceptable? Remember your ‘refusing to be aesthetically objectified’ tantrum, when you threw the make-up in the bin? It’s in the bin. Your entire make-up collection now consists of the one mascara that hasn’t completely dried out, a black eyeliner pencil that needs sharpening, and the boy has had off with the sharpener, and several red lipsticks. Challenging.

“Why is my hair so shit? Why won’t it behave?” It’s shit because you’re overwhelmingly stressed, which in turn leads to you not eating properly, the combination of stress and poor diet is responsible for the fragile hair, and the hair-loss. It won’t ‘behave’ because it’s part of you, it is ‘behaving’ entirely as it always does, which is like a dead ginger mop. (Interesting couple of minutes on the train, where I realised I’d used some gel the boy had left here to stop the frizzy-cloud effect, but not scrunched it through, leading to stiff tendrils here and there, and a very difficult to manage urge to shout “It’s not spunk!”)

“What if I miss the train?” Just get the next one, you nine-tonne mega-idiot, you’ve already allowed additional time for when you invariably get lost. “What if there are no seats on the train?” In that case, you’ll regret wearing five inch heels a bit sooner, won’t you? “What if I get on the WRONG train?” Seriously? This was getting tedious, bearing in mind I hadn’t even left the house. Occam’s razor is applied to my thought process even less often than razors are applied to my skin. I’m Stig of the Dump, and I ALWAYS start at the most ridiculous-unlikely, and work my way back from there. I’ve generally completely forgotten what the ‘problem’ was, by the time I’ve explored all the disturbing tangents my brain likes to send me off on. “What if I trip over something?” can very quickly morph into “What if I’m murdered, I don’t think I closed the living room curtains, and next door will assume I’m ‘in’, and nobody will realise I’m missing.”

Given the cyclic nature of my peculiar anxieties, and the fact that I’d imagined myself murdered and dumped in the canal about seventeen times before I even put my impractical boots on, the logical thing to do would have been not to go. I’m not logical, and I’d set myself the ‘task’ of travelling, alone, from the arse-end-of-nowhere to Leeds, having a couple of drinks with a load of strangers, and then finding my way back without my head being discovered in a bin, and my body only being identifiable by my tattoos. No, I don’t know why, either.

Neurotic-protective. I’d let different people know where I was going, which is awkward, because of the cross-over. I was ‘going’ as @GaiaTheorist but I’d also notified two real-world people, and alluded to my plans on my tiny, locked Twitter account. (Not Fakebook, though, the ex is on there, and the boy would flip shit if he knew I was trotting off out unsupervised. Oh, and there’s the “Well, she can’t be THAT ill if she can go out!” tangent.) Welcome to the messy web that is me, remembering to use the hashtag on the Gaia Twitter so I could be ‘tracked’, but not mentioning the # on my quiet-Twitter in case I was cross-referenced-outed. I’m like a really shit James Bond.

I set off earlier than I’d originally intended, and stood, freezing cold, wearing make-up in the day-time at the bus stop. (DID I lock the door?) The USB charger-point on the bus didn’t actually increase the battery-power on my phone, because I kept flicking between screens, checking routes that I knew I wouldn’t remember. (What if the battery completely dies?) Two kids on the bus appeared to be having a game of “Who can make the most annoying noise?”, and I had an intense desire to bang their heads together. The man on the seat in front of me for half of the journey had appalling body odour, and I could smell wee from somewhere else. I realised I’d forgotten to put any painkillers in my bag, and hoped that I wouldn’t have to use the hospital codeine, that’s probably expired by now.

The reason for setting off early was to make sure I didn’t get stuck in a queue for the automated train-ticket machine. I didn’t actually know where the ticket machines were, and had a bit of a panic about “What if I buy the wrong ticket, or the machine over-charges me?” I walked into the ticket-office instead, and managed to ask the man behind the counter for the right ticket. No biggie for most people, but, when I’m anxious, I sometimes muddle my words. I was anxious. I didn’t however end up with a yearly Oyster card or anything, so that’s a bonus. I’d also set off early so I could empty my bladder in the interchange toilets. I’d already walked past the toilets, and my fucking stupid head won’t let me ‘walk backwards’. I was half an hour early for the train, standing outside, in the cold, concentrating so hard on not ‘jiggling’ because I sort-of needed a wee that my thigh decided to do that weird tremble-spasm thing it does sometimes. Nice. In those heels, I’m a touch over 6ft, I’d just re-dyed my hair a fairly intense shade of auburn, I was wearing scarlet lipstick and heavy eyeliner, and my leg wouldn’t stop shaking. I had sufficient personal space.

Train. OK, there are seats, so I wouldn’t have to stand for an hour and four minutes, with my left thigh having its own personal disco, I also didn’t use the toilet on the train, due to five inch heels, and the aforementioned disobedient thigh. About ten minutes before Leeds, I found all the stiff bits in my hair, the person behind me might have thought I had headlice with all the fluffing and scrunching going on. (I’m SO 1990s, ‘scrunching’ my hair is still pretty much the only thing I do to it.)

Train station. In a very boring aside, the last time I alighted from a train in Leeds, I walked in the wrong direction for 20 minutes, completely lost, and alone, in a city I didn’t know. It was bad enough then, when I was trying to find a training venue in the daylight, it was dark by the time I hit Leeds, and I was wearing heels and lipstick. I excelled myself by getting lost IN the bus station, which didn’t help with the general panic situation. That tripped-out to me not text-messaging the person I was going to contact, because I ‘had to’ save my phone battery for emergencies. I’m a knob. After several laps around the train station, becoming increasingly aware that 5-inch heels don’t make stairs or escalators easy, I found the right exit. I also ‘found’ a probable homeless man, who offered me the use of his cigarette lighter. Then he asked me if I had a boyfriend. Of COURSE I do. Would I go out with him if I didn’t have a boyfriend? Well, I couldn’t answer that, because I DO have a boyfriend, but thank you very much for the light. Yes, I have a spare cigarette for you. Yes, enjoy your evening too, I’m going to meet some friends now. At that point, I pulled a ballpoint pen out of my bag, and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, in case of needing to stab sex fiends/muggers in the eye. Off I strutted, in my impractical heels, with my imaginary boyfriend. In the wrong direction.

I don’t know Leeds at all. I had a vague idea of where I should be going, but I have no sense of direction, and irrational anxiety about being mugged for my phone, so I’d wandered about, trying not to look lost for a while before I caved in, and tried to get Google maps to work. I CAN read a map, but reading a map in stilettos, on cobbles, while you’re having a massive panic about being mugged for your phone is a whole different kettle of fish. I’d saved the photos of the maps on my phone in case I didn’t have enough signal for Google maps, but a static map is only any use if you know which direction you’re walking in, and I didn’t. I managed to get the voice-directions working on Google maps, but couldn’t really hear it over the traffic, cursing myself for not bringing the earphones, but aware that wearing earphones, on your own, in the dark, makes you more vulnerable to muggers, sex-pests, and people who might cut your head off and put it in a bin. I then had an irrational burst of anger at the bits of the instructions I could hear “Walk east...” Which way is east? The sun had already set, so I couldn’t walk away from west to ascertain east. There’s a compass feature on the phone, but that would mean coming out of the ‘map’ app. I had many strange and interesting things in my bag, but not a compass, I only went to Brownies twice, remember?

I found the bar about half an hour before the thing was scheduled to start, and ‘stuck’. I accidentally tweeted a photo of the outside of the bar on the wrong account, in a desperate “Somebody come out and get me?” panic, and then deleted the bloody thing, because I like my quiet Twitter as it is. I didn’t know if I ‘could’ go into the bar before the thing was due to start, so I stood outside, like an absolute pillock, absolutely resolute that I WASN’T going into another bar to sit on my own with a drink, in case someone mistook me for a prostitute. So I stood on a street corner. Like a prostitute.

I eventually made my stupid legs take me inside the bar, and realised I didn’t ‘know’ anyone in there. Well, of course I didn’t not everyone has their face as their avi, do they, and the ‘function’ was in a back area. 17 million people pushed in front of me at the bar, and, when I eventually was served, I didn’t count the change from my allocated £20 for drinks, but it looked like a glass of wine was over £6. (I’m SO Yorkshire-stingy.) Shitsticks, not counting fire-escapes, that I’d have no idea where they came out, there was only one entrance/exit, which disturbed my not-claustrophobia PTSD ‘knowing where the exits are’ thing, and would have led to a panic-loop if I didn’t MOVE.

I moved. I found the event organiser, and introduced myself with “See my comfort zone? It’s all the way back over there.” I babble when I’m anxious, and I was very anxious. I wrote my @-name on a sticky label, and wondered where to put it, not wanting to draw attention to my ‘impressive rack’, but the alternative being my forehead. Then I stood in a corner, like a 6ft ginger spider. Some boys rescued me, and I didn’t realise I was talking to a man I’d followed, and interacted with for years, because I didn’t want to stare at his sticky-label. I drank my wine slowly, because I was only ‘allowing’ myself two drinks, then had a minor panic about ‘spacing’ alcoholic drinks with non-alcoholic ones, and wetting myself on the train home, which was lovely. 

Other than Venus’ funeral, that was the first Tweet-up thing I’d been to. Contrary to popular misconception, we didn’t all stand about staring at our phones, but it was still weird. Not in a bad way, in an “Oh, I don’t think I follow you, do you know so-and-so?” way. Pointless fact about me: when placed in a situation where I feel uncomfortable, my default-setting is to make it MORE uncomfortable, which makes the initial uncomfortable-thing more bearable. I used to think that was the alcohol-impulsivity, that would often see me presenting strangers with teaspoons, sweets, or all manner of jumble from my bag, but it’s not, it’s just ‘me’. By the time the only other person there I’d ever met arrived, and asked me to hold her cut-out-ferrets-on-a-stick, and her drink, I’d already produced a neon pink bra from my bag, and was wondering who to give the vibrating cock-ring to. You can’t take me anywhere.

I drifted about, giving people bouncy-balls, and yo-yos, and spinning tops, and mini-slinkies from my bag and pockets, I let lots of complete strangers put their fingers in my craniotomy scar, and I was generally a bit of an arse. Not a complete arse, because I couldn’t risk missing the train home, and ending up sleeping on someone else’s hotel floor. I sleepwalk, and talk in my sleep, and I hadn’t brought a change of pants. I only hugged a handful of people, and I didn’t lick anyone, if I am in any of the pictures, it will only be in the background. I didn’t fall over, and, when I showed one of my tattoos to someone, I did it out of the way, around a corner.

I knew I couldn’t walk back to the train station, so one of my babysitters took me outside, and managed to phone me a taxi. I missed the train I was supposed to catch, and had to get the next one. A gaggle of drunks boarded, and one sat next to me, it was bad enough when she started to do the drunk-wobble-falling asleep thing, it was hideous when she vomited into the aisle, but at least it didn’t splash on me. I’ve been in that state myself, and I don’t ever want to be that drunk again. Her ‘friends’ weren’t interested, which shook me up, and made me wonder where I’d be able to put my phone if I had to perform CPR if she asphyxiated on the vomit, after they just hauled her into the toilet and left her there. 

Missing the ‘right’ train also meant I missed the last bus from the city centre, and had to phone a taxi. Warpy-wrap-around-head phoned one from a company that DBS checks their drivers, and text-messages you the registration plate for the car. I had my ballpoint pen in my hand, and was ready to send the text-message out onto Twitter if the driver started going the wrong way. He didn’t, but that’s a worrying train of thought to have when you’re on your own, and going back to an empty house. I managed to cobble together enough money for the fare and a small tip, so had stayed within-budget for the night. I tweeted a photo, to let people know I was home safe, and I’ll periodically flick onto Twitter today, to check if I’m in the background of any photos scratching that spot inside my left nostril. 

I did it. There was no real point to doing it, other than to prove I could. I have no unexplained bruises, I won’t be the subject of any gossip, and I managed to get myself there and back without incident. There’s something to be said for going out and not getting drunk.

[infolibrary]

25 Interesting Facts About Prisoners

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25 Interesting Facts About Prisoners

Here are 25 Interesting Facts About Prisoners.

1-5 Interesting Facts About Prisoners

1. The Indiana State Prison started a cat program where inmates are allowed to adopt and keep a cat inside their cell. The cats are believed to improve the mood and temperament of prisoners and they also provide some hope behind bars. – Source

2. Texas no longer offers a special “last meal” to condemned inmates. Instead, the inmate is offered the same meal served to the rest of the unit. – Source

3. The Nazis forced roughly 90 Gypsies to drink only seawater while also depriving them of food. The Gypsies became so dehydrated that they reportedly licked floors after they had been mopped just to get a drop of fresh water. The experiments caused enormous pain and suffering and resulted in serious bodily injury. – Source

4. In 1987, a prison inmate named Ronnie Lee Gardner broke a glass partition and knocked out the lights in a visitation area to have sex with a woman who was visiting him. Fellow inmates cheered him on while barricading the doors. He claimed it was an accident. – Source

5. Alcatraz was once the only federal penitentiary in the U.S. that provided hot-water showers for its inmates, but the motivation was hardly humanitarian. Prisoners used to hot-water showers, the reasoning went, would find the frigid waters of San Francisco Bay almost impossible to withstand during an escape attempt. – Source

6-10 Interesting Facts About Prisoners

6. Joe Arridy was called the “the happiest prisoner on deathrow”. He was liked by both the prisoners and guards. He had an IQ of 46 and played with a toy train given to him by the prison Warden. Due to his lack of understanding, he was reported to have smiled while being taken to the gas chamber and was only momentarily nervous until the warden grabbed his hand and reassured him. – Source

7. There was a fire at Ohio Penitentiary in 1930 that killed 322 and seriously injured 150 inmates. Reports say that many guards refused to unlock cells when smoke entered the cell block and left the prisoners in their cells, although some did provide help. Some inmates overpowered a guard and took his keys, which they used to rescue other prisoners. However, a riot developed and firefighters arriving to fight the blaze were attacked with rocks. – Source

8. Guards at New Mexico State Penitentiary had a “snitch game.” to control uncooperative prisoners. Officers would simply label inmates who would not behave as informers, let them be abused, and wait for them to turn into informants to escape their tormentors. – Source

9. Timothy Leary, upon his arrival at prison in 1970 was given psychological tests used to assign inmates to appropriate work details. Having designed some of these tests himself (including the “Leary Interpersonal Behavior Test”), Leary answered them in such a way that he seemed to be a very conforming, conventional person with a great interest in forestry and gardening. As a result, he was assigned to work as a gardener in a lower-security prison from which he escaped in September 1970. – Source

10. In 1995, Robert Lee Brock, a Virginia prison inmate, decided to take a new approach to the legal system. After filing a number of unsuccessful lawsuits against the prison system, Brock sued himself. He claimed his civil rights and religious beliefs were violated when he allowed himself to get drunk. After all, it was inebriation that created his cycle of committing crimes and being incarcerated. He demanded $5 million from himself. However, since he didn’t earn an income behind bars, he felt the state should pay. Needless to say, the case was thrown out. – Source

11-15 Interesting Facts About Prisoners

11. Eugene Debs was prison inmate in Atlanta, Georgia while he ran for president in the 1920 election. He received nearly one million votes. He was serving 10 years for a speech he gave in Ohio. – Source

12. Merle Haggard was an inmate in the audience when Johnny Cash played at San Quentin. The performance inspired him to take his talents more seriously upon his release. – Source

13. At a prison facility in Nuuk, Greenland some inmates reportedly hold the keys to their own cells (to afford them privacy), and others may leave the premises during the day to go to work or school. Perhaps surprisingly, inmates are even allowed to go hunting with rifles to shoot birds and seals.- Source

14. Private-enterprise prisons have recognized that providing inmates with cable television can be a more economical method to keep them quiet and subdued than it would be to hire more guards. – Source

15. Norway has a minimum security island-prison where inmates are almost free to do as they wish. The criminals interred there are among Norway’s worst, but it has the lowest rate of re-offending in Europe, if not the world. – Source

16-20 Interesting Facts About Prisoners

16. McIntosh, a convicted con man, managed to slip away from the minimum-security Federal Correctional Institution in California in 1986 during a transfer to another prison. He returned eight days later in a hijacked helicopter and whisked away his girlfriend, who was serving 50 years for bank robbery, as inmates cheered and whistled in a recreation yard. – Source

17. In 2010, two inmates simply walked out of the medium-security prison in northwestern Wisconsin by using fake prison release records. Staffers processed the paperwork and let the two go. One of those who escaped the state-run facility had as much as 50 years remaining on his sentence. The pair were nabbed just a day or two after being released. Based on a tip from another inmate, authorities caught the two when they reported to their probation agents. – Source

18. The last prisoner of war from the Second World War to be repatriated was a Hungarian soldier named Andras Toma, who was taken prisoner by the Red Army in 1944, then discovered living in a Russian psychiatric hospital in 2000. – Source

19. On August 5, 1944, one of the biggest jail-breaks in history involved hundreds of Japanese POWs attempting to escape an Australian prisoner camp. The Japanese considered the Australians weak because they treated the prisoners well. 234 of the Japanese were killed and another 108 wounded. – Source

20. In Japan, prisoners on death row are not told when they will be executed until a few hours’ notice before they are hanged, and relatives are not notified until the prisoners are already dead – Source

21-25 Interesting Facts About Prisoners

21. Thai prisoners are released early if they take part in special kick boxing matches against foreigners. Those who win will receive money and have the opportunity to meet with the warden and have their sentence reduced. The more fights they win, the more time is taken off. An inmate is also expected to display good behavior and personal development in addition to his fighting prowess. – Source

22. Bayer, famous for producing aspirin, bought prisoners to use as research subjects for testing new drugs. – Source

23. On March 10, 2011, Guinness World Records certified Japanese former boxer Iwao Hakamada as the world’s longest-held death row inmate for a 1966 mass murder that became known as the Hakamada Incident. He’s was in solitary confinement for 46 years. A 2008 DNA test suggested the blood on the clothing used as evidence did not match Hakamada’s. On March 27, 2014, Hakamada was released from prison. – Source

24. A California prison inmate managed to get two boxes of staples, a pencil sharpener, sharpener blades and three jumbo binder rings in his rectum, earning him the nickname “O.D.”—“Office Depot.” – Source

25. A prisoner inmate at Baltimore City Detention Center impregnated four women guards. He reportedly made $16,000 in one month off the smuggled contraband. – Source

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[richardprice-blog]

Review of “Mindset”, by Carol Dweck

I recently read Mindset, by Carol Dweck. The gist of the book is that there are two mindsets, the fixed mindset and the growth mindset. People with the fixed mindset think that they have a certain set of abilities, and they can’t do much to change those abilities. People with the growth mindset think that you can substantially change the abilities you have.

In discussing how to foster the growth mindset, Dweck writes:

“We should keep away from a certain kind of praise - praise that judges children’s intelligence or talent. Or praise that implies that we’re proud of them for their intelligence or talent rather than for the work they put in. We can praise them as much as we want for the growth-minded process - what they accomplished through practice, study, persistence, and good strategies. And we can ask them about their work in a way that admires and appreciates their efforts and choices:

‘You really studied for your test and your improvement shows it. You read the material over several times, you outlined it, and you tested yourself on it. It really worked!’

‘I like the way you tried all kinds of strategies on that math problem until you finally got it. You thought of a lot of different ways to do it and found the one that worked!’

Dweck says that this approach to praise is not always easy:

“I know it feels almost impossible to resist praise based on character and abilities. We want our loved ones to know that we prize and appreciate their successes. Even I have fallen into this trap. One day I came home and my husband, David, had solved a very difficult problem we had been puzzling over for a while. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out: “You’re brilliant!”. Needless to say, I was appalled at what I had done, and, as the look of horror spread over my face, he rushed to reassure me. “I know you meant it in the most “growth-minded” way. That I searched for strategies, kept at it, tried all kinds of solutions, and finally mastered it.” “Yes,” I said, smiling sweetly, “that’s exactly what I meant.”

Dweck also writes:

“One more thing about praise. When we say to children, “Wow, you did that so quickly!” or “Look, you didn’t make any mistakes!” what message are we sending? We are telling them that what we prize are speed and perfection. Speed and perfection are the enemy of difficult learning: “If you think I’m smart when I’m fast and perfect, then I’d better not take on anything challenging.” So what should we say when we complete a task - say, math problems - quickly and perfectly? Should we deny them the praise they have earned? Yes. When this happens, I say, “Whoops. I guess that was too easy. I apologize for wasting your time. Let’s do something you can really learn from!”

Dweck mentions an example where a teacher has to deal with a class bully:

“Him Ginott, the renowned child psychologist, also shows how teachers can point bullies away from judgement and toward improvement and compassion. Here is a letter from a teacher to an eight-year-old bully in her class. Notice that she doesn’t imply he’s a bad person, and she shows respect by referring to his leadership, by using big words, and by asking for his advice.

‘Dear Jay,

Andy’s mother has told me that her son has been made very unhappy this year. Name-calling and ostracism have left him sad and lonely. I feel concerned about the situation. Your expertise as a leader in your class makes you a likely person for me to turn to for advice. I value your ability to sympathize with those who suffer. Please write me your suggestions about how we can help Andy.

Sincerely, Your teacher’”

Dweck makes a point that the care with language also applies to talking about people in the third person:

“Sometimes people are careful to use growth-oriented praise with their children but then ruin it by the way they talk about others. I have heard parents say in front of their children, “He’s just a born loser,” “She’s a natural genius,” or “She’s a pea-brain”. When children hear their parents level fixed judgements at others, it communicates a fixed mindset. And they have to wonder “Am I next?”

Another area that Dweck writes about is schools and pedagogy. She highlights some teachers who she thinks bring the growth mindset to their classroom.

“Garfield High School was one of the worst schools in Los Angeles. To say the that the students were turned off and the teachers burned out is an understatement. But, without thinking twice, Jaime Escalante (of Stand And Deliver fame) taught these inner city Hispanic students college-level calculus. With his growth mindset, he asked “How can I teach them?” not “Can I teach them?” and “How will they learn best?” not “Can they learn?”

But not only did he teach them calculus, he (and his colleague Benjamin Jimenez) took them to the top of the national charts in math. In 1987, only three other public schools in the country had more students taking the Advanced Placements Calculus test. Those three included Stuyvesant High School and the Bronx High School of Science, both elite math-and-science-oriented schools in New York.”

And “On the first day of class, Marva Collins, the renowned teacher, approached Freddie, a left-back second grader, who wanted no part of school. “Come on, peach” she said to him, cupping his face in her hands, “we have work to do. You can’t just sit in a seat and grow smart… I promise, you are going to do, and you are going to produce. I am not going to let you fail.”

Later in the book Dweck provides more stories from the life of Marva Collins:

“Marva Collins taught Chicago children who had been judged and discarded. For many, her classroom was their last stop. One boy had been in and out of thirteen schools in four years. One stabbed children with pencils and had been thrown out of a mental health center. One eight-year-old would remove the blade from the pencil sharpener and cut up his classmates’ coats, hats, gloves and scarves. One child referred to killing himself in almost every sentence. One hit another student with a hammer on his first day. These children hadn’t learned much in school, and everyone knew it was their own fault. Everyone but Marva Collins.

….On the first day of school, she always promised her students - all students - that they would learn. She forged a contract with them. “I know most of you can’t spell your name. You don’t know the alphabet, you don’t know homonyms, or how to syllabicate. I promise you that you will. None of you has ever failed. School may have failed you. Well, goodbye to failure, children. Welcome to success. You will read hard books in here, and understand what you read. You will write every day…. But you must help me to help you. If you don’t give anything, don’t expect anything. Success is not coming to you, you must come to it.”

“Her joy in her students’ learning was enormous. As they changed from children who arrived with “toughened faces and glassed-over eyes” to children who were beginning to brim with enthusiasm, she told them “I don’t know what St Peter has planned for me, but you children are giving me my heaven on earth.”

“Great teachers set high standards for all their students, not just the ones who are already achieving. Marva Collins set extremely high standards, right from the start. She introduced words and concepts that were, at first, way above what her students could grasp. Yet she established on Day One at atmosphere of genuine affection and concern as she promised students they would produce: “I’m gonna love you…. I love you already, and I’m going to love you when you don’t love yourself.”, she said to the boy who wouldn’t try.”

“As you look at what Collins and Esquith demanded of their students - all their students - it’s almost shocking. When Collins expanded her school to include young children, she required that every four-year-old who started in September be reading by Christmas. And they all were. The three- and four-year-olds used a vocabulary book titled “Vocabulary for the High School Student”. The seven-year-olds were reading The Wall Street Journal. For older children, a discussion of Plato’s Republic led to discussions of de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America, Orwell’s Animal Farm, Machiavelli, and the Chicago City Council. Her reading list for the late-grade-school children included “The Complete Plays of Anton Chekhov”, Physics through Experiment, and The Canterbury Tales. Oh, and always Shakespeare.”

“As Marva Collins said to a boy who was clowning around in class, “You are in sixth grade and your reading score is 1.1. I don’t hide your scores in a folder. I tell them to you so you know what you have to do. Now your clowning days are over.” Then they got down to work.”

“What about students who won’t work, who don’t care to learn? Here is a shortened version of an interaction between Collins and Gary, a student who refused to work, ripped up his homework assignments, and would not participate in class. Collins is trying to get him to go to the blackboard to do some problems:

Collins: Sweetheart, what are you going to to? Use your life or throw it away?

Gary: I’m not going to do any damn work.

Collins: I am not going to give up on you. I am not going to let you give up on yourself. If you sit there leaning against this wall all day, you are going to end up leaning on something or someone all your life. And all that brilliance bottled up inside you will go to waste.”

At that, Gary agreed to go to the board, but then refused to address the work there. After a while, Collins said:

“If you do not want to participate, go to the telephone and tell your mother, “Mother, in this school we have to learn, and Mrs Collins says I can’t fool around, so will you please pick me up.”

Gary started writing. Eventually Gary became an eager participant and an avid writer. Later that year, the class was discussing Macbeth and how his misguided thinking led him to commit murder. “It’s sort of like Socrates says, isn’t it, Miss Collins?” Gary piped up. “Macbeth should have known that ‘Straight thinking leads to straight living.’” For a class assignment, he wrote, ‘Somnus, god of sleep, please awaken us. While we sleep, ignorance takes over the world… Take your spell off us. We don’t have long before ignorance makes a coup d’etat of the world.”

Mindset is a short book, and it’s fun to read. Dweck says that she herself grew up with a fixed mindset, and part of the story is about how she struggled to evolve her mindset to a growth mindset.

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Plotting a Mystery: Plot Ascension Plan the twists!

My keyboard is heating up as summer winds down. It helps that recently I met with a writer’s group, which inspired me to crave pumpkin fudge, crunchy-leaves walks, and keyboard clack-clacks. (I recommend a late-summer meeting with your book mates. It’s a fantastic way to get inspired for writing season.)

In June and July, I offered tips about seasons and time, both of which support this final summer blog post discussing plot ascension. To review, I’m a reformed pantser who needs to plan before she writes. Before I begin any fiction piece, I must understand the season in which the story takes place and how long the story will take to unfold.

By “seasons,” I refer to a season of life and/or a time of year. And by “time,” I mean the length of the narrative. Will it take place during the course of a week? A month? A year? Further, will the story be linear and move forward in time according to twenty-four-hour days? Or will time move forward and back, incorporating flashbacks (not backstory) as part of the narrative?

The great thing about these summer writing prompts is that they require only pen and paper, and this month’s exercise about plot ascension needs only pencil and graph paper. Fantastic, eh? Ditch the keyboard for another few weeks and write the old-fashioned way. I love doing it. It boosts memory and improves conceptual ability, which assists with writing. I’ve had a wonderful two months to outline my novel on actual paper. Good for my writing soul!

Develop Plot Twists to Support Ascension

Do plot diagrams haunt your dreams? They do for me because I’ve studied so many of them. One of my favorites is featured on the Mystery Writer’s websiteand it’s created by the talented Hallie Ephron. She concisely outlines the traditional three-act structure, plus offers ideas about avoiding a “circle-the-drain” plot. She discusses vital elements including a dramatic opening and a climax that features a narrative payoff where the mystery is solved. Good stuff, all of it, and worth a read. For further study, I recommend Larry Brook’s Story Engineering. Dive into the chapter about story structure. It’s a definite rainy-day read!

Check those and other sites to get the basics of the three-act structure; it’s a universally accepted format and any fiction writer should be well-versed in its elements. For this blog post, I am focusing on the plot twists that support plot ascension. Ms. Ephron suggests including three major twists, others just two. It’s the writer’s choice depending up the length and complications of her novel.

One of my professors described plot twists as the protagonist’s point-of-no return. What complication has occurred that leaves the main character with no way back? I’m not talking about simple conflict; I’m talking about major events that force the characters to change direction. In mysteries, one of the major twists is when a character is found dead. The other (or others) is something that impacts the protagonist such as a lost romance, a new romance, a job loss, an antagonist’s interference, or a complication from the initial murder including the introduction of another character or even another death. In The Girl on the Train the points-of-no-return are when Rachel awakens, bloody and bruised, to find that Megan is missing, and when Megan’s body is found and she’s discovered to be pregnant by a man other than her husband. This major-plot-twist structure holds for non-mystery books, as well. For example, in Juno, the twists are when Juno finds she’s pregnant, and when the adoptive father falls in love with her. She can’t undo those complications and they drive the story in new, unexpected ways.

Can you identify the two or three major plot twists in your novel? If not, this month’s exercise is for you. The major plot twists are arguably more important than the dramatic opening and pay-off climax. Without plot twists, there is no story. A great beginning and ending aren’t enough; plot twists are the story and developing them eliminates the dreaded circle-the-drain dynamic.

To do this exercise, sketch a three-act structure on graph paper. Enjoy the moment, let your mind explore ideas. Fill in a timeline of events, which you should have created last month. Take a walk and then come back to what you’ve written. Have you included major plot twists? Are they satisfying and shocking enough for your novel? If you change them, what will happen? Develop the major twists and then build the open and close around what happens. Enjoy this process as you build your novel.

Backstory Tip

Last month, I offered my professor’s sage advice regarding backstory: “Do not ‘download' background information all at once; it slows the momentum of your plot. Rather, weave backstory into the narrative.”

Successfully incorporating backstory is an ongoing issue for writers. How does one incorporate background information into forward-moving action? Practice makes perfect, of course, but a quickie study of the practice is available via soap opera television shows. Watch an episode of The Young and the Restless to understand what I mean. A character will offer one or two sentences about past action and then discuss a current dilemma. (Listen to the dialogue rather than watch the characters — and don’t get hooked on the show. You’ve got writing to do!)

Next month, I’ll discuss how exercise supports writing goals.

I’m off to sharpen pencils and purchase graph paper. Happy writing!

Blog Shout Out: Kathleen Ernst

Kathleen Ernst is a nonfiction and fiction writer who has created the Chloe Ellefson mysteries. The stories take place in southwest Wisconsin as well as the Upper Midwest, and the books are packed with interesting characters, plenty of plot twists, and fascinating history. Kathleen’s blog is a wonderful behind-the-scenes glimpse at her prolific writing process. In addition, A Memory of Musketsis being featured on Wisconsin Public Radio’s “Chapter a Day” program until September 1, 2017. Kathleen’s latest book Mining for Justice will be released on October 8, 2017.

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Is there a way to sharpen my pencil using a hand sharpener without murdering my thumb in the process