#ask; bush runner (working title)

[musingsofella]

New wip??

yes! as of now, it consists of an outline, some vibes, a few character names, and a rough draft of the prologue! it also has a working title that will be changed

[mythgirlimagines]

Rushing into your inbox is this week’s Talentswapped Myth! Please give a quick hello to Myth, the Former Ultimate Sprinter!

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BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Myth’s motivation for becoming a pro sprinter was a pretty simple reason. As the daughter of two accomplished marathon runners, running was practically in Myth’s blood, ever since she learned how to walk. Myth was regarded as a prodigy amongst the crowds, for her innate stamina and her skill at running. In fact, Myth is currently planning on running in the Olympics, after graduating Hope’s Peak and chaperoning the Ultimates and Jr. Ultimates. Extra Fact: Let’s just say that all that running caused Myth to become quite the looker, for she became famous around her school for her looks, charming the pants off both girls and boys. In fact, people sell candid pictures of a hot and sweaty Myth all around the school for money, only to get stopped by Myth’s overly protective childhood friend. All while Myth remains completely oblivious to that.

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RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Emergency Planner

Despite her reckless, headstrong and almost delinquent-like behavior, Wyre is praised amongst her peer group for being prepared for any situation, whether environmental or medical. As the childhood friend of the simpleminded and scatterbrained Myth, Wyre is always one step behind her, making sure that Myth doesn’t get herself into any harm. Wyre is basically the Akaashi to Myth‘s Bokuto. Wyre also scares off people from Myth’s school who want to take candid pictures of a sweaty and undressing Myth and sell them for money in the school’s unofficial underground market, much to the confusion of the ditzy track star. Outfit: A construction hat on her head, a dark grey sleeveless parka over a red button-up shirt, a tool belt with a care kit for everybody and every occasion, blue jeans, brown steel toed boots and matching gloves, intact glasses.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Sharpshooter

Claiming to be cursed by an ancient parasitic spirit that inserted itself into her left eye, Anon Scar was nicknamed by the people of the shooting range she frequents as “Black Bullseye”, which obviously came from the skill she shows when she is in the booths of said shooting range. Acting like an old and grizzled war veteran and constantly speaking of “The Old War”, needless to say, Myth bought into Scar‘s chuuni act, much to the embarrassment of the sharpshooter. As Myth eventually figured out, Scar acts a lot like a mother to the more reckless and childish members of the Kibo-Con roster, but Myth especially.    Outfit: An black eyepatch on her left eye and a green military-esque uniform with black gloves and boots.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Gardener

Fusion made worldwide news thanks to the large grove of fruit trees and bushes that he managed to cultivate all by himself, which was a massive turnaround from the dry and sparse farmland that his grandparents abandoned. Fusion views the trees and plants that he grew almost like his children, and he applies the same philosophy to his conmates, much like Scar. It could be said that Fusion basically adopted Myth, along with the rest of the con. If Myth ever gets hungry while on a run, Fusion is always right by her side with some fresh and delicious fruit on hand. Myth regularly likes to go for nature runs through Fusion’s giant garden.

Outfit: A red turtleneck sweater, blue overalls, green rainboots and gloves, a blue bandana around his neck with small yellow sunflowers all over, flowers in his large afro, glasses from original design.

Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Finder

Being famed around her school for her cool and rebellious attitude and her ability to find objects that her schoolmates lost, she was nicknamed “Sherlock Jr.” by her peers. Eventually, Fusion II started her own business, helping the citizens of her hometown find lost objects and even pets and children. But much to Fusion II’s dismay, her cool facade is constantly undermined by her nerdy side and her love for memes. Because Myth loses things all the time, Myth regularly and tearfully turns to Fusion II to help find them. And with the finding of the lost items, came praise from Myth and an ego boost for Fusion II.

Outfit: A dark blue fedora that casts shade over her eyes, a matching trench coat over a long white dress and black heeled boots.

Just Anon, Ultimate Screenwriter

If you were alive in show business, than you should know the name of Just Anon, known for producing only the greatest in screenplays of TV shows and movies. That is, if he ever gets into a creative mood, in which last-minute panic seem to be the only thing able to perk him up. In layman’s terms, he‘s a chronic procrastinator, despite being an entertainment king. Janon’s lazy attitude, despite his massive potential to succeed, warrants a potential punch in the face from Myth, and she wants to get to the root of the true personality beneath that demonic hoodie. Hopefully, Myth would never find out about Janon’s soft spot for kids.

Outfit: A black face mask with a crooked smile on the front, a hoodie that resembles a cartoon devil, underneath the same formal wear from his original design.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Linguist

As the wealthy daughter of two ambassadors, Sparkle has been exposed to foreign tongues and dialects, ever since she was little, and still finds foreign languages fascinating, often watching stage plays from other countries to learn more about their native tongues. Myth always found Sparkle’s skill in foriegn languages to be fascinating, and Sparkle finds Myth’s athletic skills (and her bodacious body, particularly her strong and athletic legs) to be equally stunning. Unfortunately, Wyre wasn’t about to let Myth be gawked at by the eyes of the flashy and dramatic linguist, and tries to thwart the devious plans of Sparkle. 

Outfit: Same outfit from her original design, but with the Rubik’s Cube skirt replace with a blue skirt that has several languages printed on it.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Confidant, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Volleyball Player

Famous for running a blog that allows people from all around the world to vent their secrets to them, known as “What’s Crackin’”, Egg Anon seems to be way more reliable online compared to real life, where they sprout off cursed comments, alongside their equally cursed twin, famous volleyball star Wet Sock Anon. Myth seems to be the only person in the con who actually finds the cursed comments that the Freak Twins spout funny, often laughing when other Anons are staring in disgust. Myth, ever the open book, loves to vent to Egg, and Myth is happy to find that the famous volleyball star themselves is chaperoning the con trip alongside her.

Egg’s Outfit: A green hoodie over a yellow t-shirt and matching yellow hair clips, glasses, pants and shoes from original design.

Wet Sock’s Outfit: A black and white volleyball uniform, white socks, black volleyball shoes, hair tied back into a small ponytail, glasses from original design.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Tattoo Artist

Despite their yakuza connections and heavily tattooed arms, Curious wouldn’t hurt a fly (except if someone ordered them to) and takes all the stigma they face for their tattoos and connections with a smile on their face. After their family’s yakuza business went belly-up, Curious’s family decided to earn money the clean way, and opened up a tattoo parlour. Curious proved themselves to be a master at tattoo art and garnered popularity. Myth always wanted a tattoo on her arm, and asked Curious to give her cool lightning bolts on her left arm. Myth quickly bolted away, never to return, when she saw Curious holding a needle.

Outfit: A white button up shirt, black pants with black suspenders, heavily tattooed arms, shoes from original design.

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Carpenter

Famous for using his trademark goggles to burn patterns into wood and his masterful craftsmanship when it comes to creating wooden structures, it was no wonder that Nerd earned the title of Ultimate Carpenter. Nerd is also famous for his uncontrollable temper and rage issues, if he were to be interrupted, and the horrible burns that the poor shmuck who interrupted Nerd winds up getting. Unfortunately for Myth, she constantly interrupts Nerd in the middle of work, and has to suffer burns that have to be cared for by Wyre in the process. This means that Nerd and Wyre are mortal enemies, much to the dismay of the track star.

Outfit: Red-tinted goggles, a red flannel shirt with rolled up sleeves, brown gloves, tool belt, and shoes, blue jeans.

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Surfer

Born on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, Eldritch dominated all of the surfing competitions in both his area and foreign areas, garnering fame around his island as having an innate ability to find the biggest and most impressive waves in the deep and blue ocean. Unfortunately, being born on an isolated island doesn’t exactly translate into great social skills and trust in others, for he shows a hostile distrust in just about everybody, believing that they have harmful magical powers intent on harming him. This upsets Myth, because she genuinely wants to bond with a fellow jock, but Eldritch just continues to push Myth away.    

Outfit: Camo-hoodie from original design with nothing underneath, shorts from original design, seafoam flip flops, long hair in a ponytail.

Dream Anon, Ultimate Hiker

Famous for hiking long distances, no matter the terrain or weather, Dream Anon broke many world records in her trekking endeavors. Dream has a great love for nature and landscapes, and lives for the thrill of visiting new and obscure locales. Out of all of the Kibo-Con participants, Dream is the most similar to Myth personality-wise, and thus, Dream and Myth get along the best. Both of them bonded over their sporty personalities and their love for exploring new locales. Dream instantly realized she‘d be good friends with Myth, when Myth cleared Dream’s hiking spots in record speed, and now, they have hiking races together. 

Outfit: Black sunglasses, a heavy pink and grey jacket, a large backpack, black shorts, brown boots.

Iris Anon, Jr. Ultimate Tree Climber

Just like how Myth was good at running ever since she learned how to walk, Iris has been good at climbing things, ever since she was a baby. Despite being clumsy and uncoordinated when on the ground, when it comes to climbing trees, she’s a master, to the point that Hope’s Peak Middle School christened her with the title of “Jr. Ultimate Tree Climber”. Along with the innate ability to climb trees very well, Iris also is very knowledgeable when it comes to trees. Just like with Dream, Iris and Myth get along very well, thanks to their similar personalities, and they love experimenting with each other’s talents for the day.

Outfit: Same outfit from her original design, but with a tree motif in her design.

Purple Anon, Ultimate Lip Reader

Despite being born deaf, the timid yet determined Purple wouldn’t let her handicap stop her from communicating with others. On the side, Purple hosts lip-reading seminars for the deaf and is famed for her polite and wise nature. Off of the seminar grounds though, Purple is far more timid, but can still understand what others are saying, thanks to her expertise in lip reading. Myth may not really know what it‘s like to be deaf, but Myth would try her best to support the timid lip-reader regardless, even if Purple’s loquacious and old-fashioned vocabulary just confuses Myth, and she needs the smarter Anons to translate for her.  Outfit: Same outfit from the original, but without the beret and purple hearing aids.

This series would center around a simple-minded yet supportive sprinter getting babied and protected from her obsessive fanclub by the other Anons, Bokuto-style, much to the sprinter’s confusion!

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PERSONALITY 

The best way to describe Sprinter!Myth’s personality would be a female version of Bokuto from Haikyuu. Simple-minded, childish, and easily-impressed, Sprinter!Myth is what the modern generation would call a “her-mbo”. But as much of a simpleton as she is, she’s still really determined and steadfast, as well as kind and supportive towards her friends. Unlike Romantic!Myth, Sprinter!Myth is utterly dense to anything relating to attraction or romance, extending to her fanclub at her school.

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APPEARANCE

Sprinter!Myth has natural brown hair in a lightning bolt-shaped ponytail and an ahoge to match, contact lenses that she always forgets to put in, a headband colored like the bisexual flag, a bandage on her right cheek, a blue track jacket with white stripes over a white shirt with a “#6” on the front, red athletic shorts with white stripes and drawstrings, long white socks, and red and white running shoes.

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I hope you like this talentswap! Let me know what you think of this week’s swaps!

-Fusion Anon

[givemefic]

Chapter One: Sold

Title: Accepting Fate, Denying Destiny

Author: GiveMeFic

Fandoms: All for the Game/Harry Potter

Characters: All for the Game Crew, Harry Potter

Relationships: Canon AftG, Harry Potter/???

Rating: Explict, MA

Warnings: Explicit Language, Violence, Torture, Sexual Themes/Acts, Abuse of all kinds so be mindful (More to come I’m sure.)

Summary: Sold off at the tender age of five by his abusive uncle, and then again at ten, Harry Potter learned that life would always find a way to fuck you over.

~

“Because,” Kevin swallowed hard, “he starts this year.”

“Who?” Matt slung his arm over Dan’s shoulders. “Stop being so cryptic.”

He tapped his cheek, the number two stark against his skin. “Why do you think Jean is number four?”

Dan and Wymack both straightened. “Wait, so the third in your little cult court is going to play this year?”

“How can you be so sure?” Wymack asked.

“He’s the right age. And I heard that he came back to the Nest last year after I—“ He choked on his words. “After I left.”

CHAPTER ONE: SOLD

The boy shivered in the car, the warmth from the drive with his Uncle Vernon this morning had long since been replaced by the cold from the snow and freezing rain. He looked at the building his uncle had gone into. He hadn’t come back, and the boy winced when he felt like he was going to shake out of his skin.

“Don’t you dare get out or be seen, boy!” He’d almost recoiled from the hand that reached back, but he knew that the second hit was always harder if he did. Cheek blooming red and tender, the boy nodded and had been there, curled up in the floorboard ever since.

Only now he couldn’t stand it anymore. So he popped up, saw the lot empty of people, and he snatched his cousin’s spare coat from the back of the car. Dudley was three times his size, so the puffy coat was like a blanket. He stayed curled up and with practiced ease, the boy ignored his cramped stomach and fell into a light sleep.

He didn’t know how much time passed, but he came awake, trying to hold still. The door opened and the boy cringed under the coat.

“What the—“ The coat was ripped away. He looked passed his uncle and the sky had darkened and the snow wasn’t falling anymore. “Get out here, boy!” A meaty hand took him by the arm and the boy found himself falling out of the car and onto the now dirty snow covered ground. “Well, here he is.”

Lifted and barely able to stand on his own feet, the boy held back a cry as his shoulder was wrenched higher. One of his too big shoes fell off.

“He doesn’t look like much, tiny thing.”

He opened his eyes and saw a few people standing before his Uncle Vernon. Two men were outside a very nice looking town car. It was left running and the back door was open.

“Don’t let his size fool you, he works hard and listens well enough. Don’t you?” He shook the boy again and he couldn’t stop a whimper at the pain, nor his now bare foot was slipping in the snow. “You said,” Vernon cleared his throat and continued on in the same kind of polite voice he’d heard his uncle use when talking to his boss on the phone at home. “You said this would be enough to clear my debts.”

“Yes,” drawled the man in a heavy wool peacoat. “That’s if we find him suitable. Let him go.”

He fell to his feet and couldn’t stop himself from sliding to his knees. The overly large shorts, almost long enough to be pants on the boy, soaked through. He looked up at the strangers.

“Those eyes,” the other murmured. He took a cigarette out and lit it. “How old are you?”

He looked to Vernon and trembled.

His uncle answered, “He’s five.”

“Where did you find him? You claimed his parents are dead?”

“Yes,” Vernon spat. “My worthless sister-in-law and her husband got themselves killed when he was one. He was dropped on us and we’ve put up with him since.”

The man in the coat squatted down and leaned in to look closely at his face. “Any records?”

“None.”

“Medical?”

Vernon scoffed. “I wouldn’t waste money on him at a doctor.”

The coat man’s mouth thinned and the boy tensed, waiting for a rage filled hit or shove. Only he stood up and with practiced ease, lifted the boy from the ground and settled him on his hip. “Want to see, sister?”

From the open car door, a woman’s hand waved them over. It was dark in the car and the boy couldn’t see anything beyond the lit end of a cigarette. “He’s small, but seems willing to listen. Don’t you, young man?”

At first the boy didn’t know what to say, but the man holding him gave him a little bounce and raised an eyebrow. So he nodded and said, “Yes, Ma’am. My ears work good. Even though Uncle says they don’t.”

The other man burst into chuckles and the one holding him smiled. “Bit of an attitude too.”

Vernon was sputtering and took a step toward them with a shaking finger and a red face. “Listen to me to you loathsome brat—“

“That’s enough.” They cut Vernon off and stepped between him and the boy. “What’s his name?”

The boy frowned and said, “Freaks don’t get names.”

It was silent for a moment, then the woman spoke from the darkness. “Don’t they?”

“No, Ma’am.” He shook his head.

Vernon cleared his throat and with a croak he said, “It’s Harry. Harry Potter.”

The man holding him slid into the car while the other finished talking to Vernon and the b— Harry’s eyes widened when he saw the man backhand his uncle. He cringed into the lap of the woman he’d been passed to. He didn’t want to see what Vernon was going to do to the stranger. Only a moment later the door shut and when he peaked out, Harry saw both men sitting across from him and the smoking lady.

“Well, Harry,” she said, “welcome to the family.” He could now see in the dim lights of the street as they pulled away, that she was a very pretty lady. Her blonde hair was he same shade as Aunt Petunia’s, but longer and wavy. “I’m Mary Hatford. What do you think about coming to live with me now?”

“Mary?” The smoking man leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

Her hand came up and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the hit. Only her fingers crept into his hair and gently detangled the mess. “I’m taking him with me back to Boston, Stuart.”

“What for?” Stuart tossed the butt of his now finished cigarette out the cracked window. “He’s small, we could use him as a runner. I bet you’re petty quick, eh, Harry?”

Harry nodded, dislodging Mary’s hand. “I run a lot faster than Dudley and his friends. And! I fit under the rose bushes! I don’t care about getting scratched, but Dudley always cries if the thorns bite him.” He reached down and rubbed at his bare foot. It had begun to tingle from the heat of the car.

Mary leaned forward and saw what he was doing. She pulled a coat from behind her and draped it over him, tucking his legs and feet into the warmth. “He’s coming with me. Abram could use a playmate.”

Harry frowned. “Who’s that?”

“My son,” Mary said. “He’s all alone in our big house.”

“He doesn’t have no friends too?”

“Doesn’t have any friends,” Stuart corrected. “And Mary, I don’t…” He lit another cigarette and sighed out a plum of smoke. Harry wiped at his eyes when they stung as the smoke filled the car. “Aren’t you worried about—“

“It’ll be fine,” Mary insisted. “Don’t you want to come live in a big house, Harry? My son is your age too.”

Harry blinked and asked, “Is your cupboard big enough for me?”

“Cupboard?”

He nodded. “For me to sleep. I’m not scare of spiders.”

Mary closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked down at him and said, “I think we can do better than a cupboard. How about your own room?”

“Mary,” the other man finally spoke up, “what will your dear husband say about this? He barely tolerates his own son.” He waved at Harry. “What do you expect will happen with him?”

Mary bit her lip and Harry pulled her coat up higher to his shoulders. “I’m doing what I can to protect him, William.” She stroked Harry’s hair again. “If that means sacrifices, then so be it.”

“Um,” Harry huddled down and asked, “where do you live? Is it far, far from Uncle Vernon?”

“So very far away,” Mary promised. “I’m leaving tonight to head back. I need to make sure Abram is alright.”

“Still can’t believe that arsehole made you leave him behind,” Stuart grumbled.

“Collateral.”

Mary glared at William for his comment. “I needed to come back, to get away and help settle things here with father… I’ve got some people watching him for me. It’s only been three days.”

“A lot can happen in three days.” William sighed. “But, maybe your new whipping boy will help ease your heart.”

“I will protect Abram above anything else,” Mary said, and Harry trembled at the anger in her voice. “And Harry here, he’s going to help me. Right, lovely?”

He hesitated, but said, “I’m too small to help pro-prot...”

Mary leaned over and tapped his nose. “You’re just the right size. But you’ll have to do some things that might be scary. Or even hurt. I promise to make sure you have lots of things to eat, and a soft place to sleep at night. But you have to make sure Abram is safe. Can you do that? It’s a big job.”

Harry looked at Stuart and William, but both of them were looking out the windows. So he nodded. He’d been hurt a lot before, but at least this time there would be a reason. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would never say why they hurt him, they just screamed and threw things, or beat him.

He could make sure Abram was ok. Mary seemed nice, and he wanted to go far away from his family. “Yes, Ma’am.”

She smiled, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“You’re going to be perfect, Harry. They’ll love you.”

[kosmosian-quills]

[as of yet untitled Heroic!Anja]

A thing that has had me stumped for most of this month that I started a while ago. It’s not finished yet, but I’m working on it. I’ll think of a better title later. Thanks to @cirianne​ for the ongoing feedback with this one (even though it took me, like, forever) and because you love Heroic!Anja 😊.

Content warnings: kidnapping (at knifepoint), threats, and honestly I’m not sure what else.

I hope you enjoy!

Things have descended from bad to so much worse in barely a minute.

The man at my hip with my arm in his grasp is strong, he’s a soldier, and he isn’t looking at me.

He’s watching the man who commands him to restrain me, whilst he instigates this attack on the Princess.

Andzia isn’t speaking now, not when she has that knife at her throat. The General is though, and I cannot hear a word he’s saying.

I look from him - that angry, evil man that I once respected - to my friend, who daren’t move in case he slits her throat.

Just in front of me, on the floor, is Matylda, and she doesn’t need a soldier to hold her in place because she already is.

No, this can’t… why is he doing this? Trying to - no. What he said. I remember. “I do have a solution to your problem. And yes, it is your problem, even if you are electing to ignore it.”

The way he had stepped closer to her, as she answered him - "And what would that be? Your solution?" - Alarms were ringing in my head but I didn’t react fast enough.

Trust had me incapacitated for too long. He had her, and the soldier had me by the elbow, before I could do anything.

We need help. I can’t fight this soldier, not whilst Andzia is in danger like that. Besides, it’s clearly her they want. What if they hurt Matylda, instead?

And I am not stupid. Even if I do as they say, what is to stop them from hurting us anyway? From killing us?

The General is not looking at us anymore, he’s whispering something into the Princess’ ear, and I can see her cringe. She isn’t fighting. She isn’t resisting.

No.

The door behind me, it’s not open, but they certainly didn’t lock it. I could make a run for it. Make some noise. Get some help.

The soldier with his hold on me doesn’t seem totally interested in me at the moment. We outnumber them, three-to-two. None of us need fight. One of us just needs to get away.

I have a chance.

I remember what my coach once told me. He hoped I’d never need it, but I’m fast and all I need is a few seconds to stall someone, and I can be away before they have any chance of catching me.

I can do it.

I steal a glance at the door, then at the disinterested soldier.

Now.

I bring the elbow he had a hold of upwards sharply and make contact with the underside of his jaw. He cries out loudly, releasing me and buying me those precious seconds I need.

I don’t waste a single one of them.

“After her! Get after her, you idiot!” The General bellows as I reach the door, wrench it open, and sprint off to the right, back the way we came.

It’s isolated and empty around here, I don’t even know exactly where I am. I’ve never been here before. I can only assume it’s the General’s turf, the intelligence offices, or something of that nature.

But I don’t care about that. I can’t see anything but the wide-eyed fear that Andzia had on her face before I ran, and that’s what is keeping me running. It’s all I can think about.

I will get help.

This is forever the reason that I have not and will not ever wear high heeled shoes for this job, because I can’t imagine what would have happened if I was. I wouldn’t have made it this far, that is for certain.

I turn the corner, and I can hear the soldier pursuing me.

I am an endurance runner. I know all I need to do is simply keep running. He’ll probably be trained the same way, though, and the chances are that I will be caught at some point. I don’t think he’ll be as kind as to simply hold me back a second time.

I realise here that I am lost, though. The floors I had been on the whole time were carpeted, now they’re solid stone. I can’t remember how we got to that room, and I can’t remember which door it was, did I miss the staircase? I don’t know, and this is bad! He’ll have me cornered if I don’t think of something!

I need to lose him. Or at least, slow him down. He will catch up eventually, but at least I can regain my bearings.

If he catches me, if I fail, then no one can help Andzia.

There’s a door to my right, and I seize my opportunity. I shove it open and slam it shut, fiddling with the lock as I do, listening out for the click that will give me every moment I can use. The door is heavy, and I don’t even know why it was unlocked. I would have thought that intelligence offices would be locked after hours? It’s dark in here, but the light that comes from those huge windows is enough for me to see a huge table in the centre of the room. For conferences, perhaps? It’s the only thing I can -

Slam!

I’m still leaning into the door with my thoughts when I feel a heavy shove, which jostled the door and I was almost convinced it would fly off its hinges.

I get to my feet and stand away from the door. I have minutes, at most, to find another way out of here!

I rush to the windows, the huge things that span my knee height to about a foot from the ceiling. We’re on the first storey, and I can open the window, looking out and down at the ground below. I could probably survive that fall without much harm, but do I even want to risk it? I’d be landing right on top of a huge rose bush, thorny as anything. I’d probably get stuck, and he would have probably caught me!

I kick off my shoes, throwing them out of the window, watching them bounce off the roses and onto the dirt beside them. Next, I take off my blazer, and tie one sleeve to the bar of a radiator, and dangle the other out of the open window.

I hear a sickening crack, and turn back to the door. That door won’t last much longer!

I can’t get out of the window now, but I think I have an idea.

There’s a cupboard over on my left, against the wall, and I make a break for it. I’m glad I took off my shoes because the wooden floor would likely have made noise as I settled into place and carefully closed the door, enveloping me in more darkness.

Not a moment too soon, either, because I hear an even louder crash and the door hits the floor.

“Where did you go…?” I can hear him growling as he steps into the room, and I cover my mouth with my hands as light fills the room outside. I can see it through the crack in the door.

I hear him quickly cross the room, getting closer and closer to me, please don’t see me, please don’t open -!

“Shit!”

He passes my hiding spot, thankfully enough, and from the sounds of it, he sees my blazer and my shoes.

It worked, I think, because he runs just as fast as before. Where to, I wonder? To find where I went? To go back and report his failure to the General?

To go find an ally to assist him?

How many of these men… these soldiers under the General’s command… how many are aware of this?

My situation and desire to go get help seems hopeless now. How do I know who I can trust?

Who can I go get help from?

I wait until I can hear no more footsteps at all, before soundlessly cracking open the door and slowly peering out. I listen, for the sound of anything. Anything and anyone that could be around. Any footsteps. Breathing. Talking. Anything.

But I can’t hear anything.

I take my chance and crawl out of the cupboard, ignoring the stack of papers that fall out after me.

I wait a few seconds more, my ears still waiting for a telltale sign that the soldier who pursued me was, before creeping my way to the door I came in through.

Now that I am not wearing my shoes, it’s easier to move silently across the floor, and I realise that the soldier did indeed leave the door open.

Do I dare leave this way? I am far more likely to run into him this way, but then again, I don’t think that throwing myself out of a window is a better idea by any means.

At least I can make my way out of here in relative safety by going back the way I came in.

The corridor is mercifully empty, and I briskly make my way towards the door I missed before. The one I should have gone through earlier.

I can hear the distant sounds of shouts and yells, but where from and who by, I do not know. All I know is that I should stay quiet and assume the worst.

Once I am safely behind the next door, I break into a sprint back up the stone staircase, back to familiarity. It’s strange running without my shoes, it certainly hurts more, but this is honestly such a small price to pay at the moment.

If I don’t do something, who knows what will happen to Andzia or Matylda?

“Fire!” I scream as I break my way through a door at the next landing, trying to attract as much attention as I possibly could. The more people who heard me, the better. “Please help, fire!”

My choice of words is more effective than I had hoped, because within seconds there half a dozen castle guards, three household managers and a cleaner in the corridor with me.

“Where’s the fire? What happened?” one of the guards asked me. A tall, tanned skinned man with dark hair and strong looking muscles, probably taking in the sight of a shoeless young woman screaming ‘fire’ in the early evening.

“It’s the Princess! She’s been kidnapped, she needs help!” I tried to explain with concision, but even I know that such a sentence sounds strange in of itself. It seems so unlikely. In fact, it’s so beyond the realms of possible - at least, in this day and age, and in the castle no less - that I don’t blame them for their hesitation.

I can hear the various responses. “What?” and “the Princess?” are the most common, but I don’t have time for this.

Neither does she.

“Just, come on! Please!” I turn back towards the door, gesturing for them to follow me.

The guards aren’t armed with firearms, but they don’t need them. And all six of them followed me, as I led them back down the way I was led down before, back when I was naive and innocent, believing that we wouldn’t be in such big trouble barely fifteen minutes later.

I remember the room we were in before. The door was wide open, the door I emerged from before, where everything went to hell.

“Matylda!”

I call out to her. She’s still there on the floor, exactly the way she was when I left her. Her face still frozen with fear, pale and clammy skin with wide eyes.

I drop to my knees beside her, grabbing a hold of her hand. She’s freezing, she’s in shock.

“Where did they go? Matyldka? Where is she?” I ask her, and her response is nonverbal. It’s a simple gesture. Pointing to the open door she was facing.

The door opposite her, the one that’s just slightly ajar and leading to another room, is where she seems to think they went. It seems logical, after all, but I just hope I can help get these guards to the Princess. Who knows what the General will do with her if we don’t?!

I shoot up to my feet, rushing over to the door, vaguely aware of the command issued by one of the guards - “Get this girl to the medwing, Corporal Jelen. Corporal Nowak, stay here, make sure they don’t come back out this way. The rest of you, with me.”

They make no attempt to dismiss me. 

Good. I’m not going anywhere.

The room that I ran in to next was a small antechamber of sorts, simply filled with a few chairs and a decorative shelf lined with fine china plates. There are three doors in here, the one I came from, one to the right - which leads back to the corridor I led them here from - and the door on the left, that I have never been through. I highly doubt the General would take her anywhere through the door on the right. It would lead us straight to them, and I think he knew he lost the moment I got away. That’s what I *hope* at least. I can only hope that the left door will be where they went.

I’ve never had a reason to go through it, so I have no idea what awaits me.

Until now.

I wrench it open. It’s a staircase, leading down into some dark depths. I could swear I heard something down there, but I have no idea if it’s simply the guards that are following me, or whether it’s the echo of the door slamming open. Either way, it’s the best chance I - we - have at finding Andzia.

It’s her best chance too.

I practically leap down the steps, swinging around the corner with the handrails and sprint into the depths beyond, not knowing or caring how close behind me those guards are.

It’s cold down here, it’s certainly not a place I’m accustomed to. It’s a strange place that I’m not even sure who would even know what’s down here, or why. It’s like a labyrinth, an endless series of stone tunnels deep down here. Dark and damp and -

“Get -!”

I freeze, listening intently for the source. It’s the General, it has to be, and he sounded close. 

I’m so close, we’re so close, I know it. I don’t care. The more noise I make, the more chance we have of finding her. I can’t let her get taken away from here.

Who knows what will happen to her if that’s the case?

I don’t expect them to be so close though, and I’m sure he didn’t either.

Turning the corner, I see the General with Andzia still - stood facing me like he was expecting someone to appear where I stand. That knife isn’t by her throat anymore, but it’s not much better at her side. His other hand still holding her by the upper arm, keeping her close. She’s keeping her composure remarkably well, I have to admit. 

I suppose she’d have to, if she doesn’t want that knife in her side.

“Not another step,” he commands in that famous voice, the voice he normally uses to address huge assemblies of soldiers and guards, “or you’ll watch her bleed out from over there.”

I can only see that knife, only see how it’s dangerously close to killing her slowly and painfully. I can’t imagine that he would… would want to kill her. Earlier, it seemed to be like he wanted her for some other reason. I can’t rationalise why he would want to kill her now when he could have already done that if he wanted to.

Nonetheless, I have to treat his threat like it’s so very real.

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[thefanficmistress]

My Friend, My Beloved: Requested ☆

Requested by @nowiloveandwilllove - You lovely bird you! I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: Fluff Pairing: Richard Armitage x Reader, Richard Armitage x Female Character, Richard Armitage x OC Context © me _______________ TAG LIST: @deepestfirefun @shikin83 @catthefearless @patanghill17 @aelinninielelain @xxbyimm @nowiloveandwilllove @nellindreams @hails270105 @armitages-gisborne @jassy2101 @abiwim @anemiechen @nelswp @vaneaustation @fizzyxcustard @purplerain85​ @armitageadoration​ @princecami​ @princess-of-erebor1992​ @leah-halliwell92​ @vaneaustin​ @nellindreams​ @raindrops-on-roses142​ @wilhelmyna 

Please let me know if you would like to be tagged.

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Current Requests: JANUARY - Closed @purplerain85 ( A Kiss in the Wild ) - RA Request : Release 1/6/2019 @deepestfirefun ( Because I love you ) - RA Request - Release date : 1/13/2019 @nowiloveandwilllove ( My Friend, My Beloved ) - RA Request - Release date: 1/20/2019 @deepestfirefun  ( WORKING TITLE ) RA Request - Release Date :1/27/2019

Current Requests: FEBRUARY - OPEN

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Message me if you would like a FanFic Sunday Request. _____________

The snow fell like raindrops, thick and cold. Falling dancing flakes of ice landed on your lashes and cheeks as you looked at the gift in your hand. The blue wrapping paper was decorated with silver snowflakes, was made even more beautiful when the snow frosted the cover; the tag read “To my dearest Richard”.  This time of year, in New York was your most favorite. The snow, the lights, and most of all the giant tree that was put in the middle of Central Park. It was particularly special due to meeting one of the most important people in your life. Richard.  However, you weren’t sure about the events of tonight. You weren’t sure about what you would say to him when you handed him his gift. The words “ I love you.” was ready to leave your lips for some time now, but you were far from the kind of girl he would go for.  You thought back on when you met.  - PAST - 4 years ago, you decided to take your dog Bingo for a walk-through Central Park before it got too dark. You needed to get out of your house and away from your good for nothing boyfriend who was content on drinking on day, sitting his ass on the couch, and playing World of Warcraft with is friends. Don’t get the wrong idea, you LOVED WoW, but you also had a job, and bills to pay, so you knew how to balance yourself. Him on the other hand, didn’t seem to care that you had to pay everything for yourself, and his only concern is if you bought him anything…with your money. What did you expect? It’s not like you were going to meet your Prince Charming on Plenty of Fish. So, you settled. The truth was, you kind of loved him, but not enough to make real plans with him. You figured that you would find no one else, and he was the best you were going to get. You never had much confidence in yourself, and you thought that you were never good enough. You liked some parts of yourself, mostly your face. You had big eyes with thick black lashes, pouty lips, and a natural blush to your skin. Your hair was long, and could fit many types, but you liked it wavy, and bouncy. Everyone complimented you on your “pretty face, and hair”, but that was about it. You knew that you weren’t the type of girl that every guy would throw themselves at. You weren’t a size 2, but more of an 18. You were short, curvy, and had amble breast, a robust hourglass shape that did look good any anything that you wore, but a girl with extra weight, thick thighs, and hips, wasn’t the ideal person a man would want. So, you always shied away from the types of guys you were actually attracted to. You didn’t really want a model kind of guy, but even if you did see a handsome nerd, you were still too shy to say anything.  Needless to say, you knew that you weren’t happy with yourself, or who you were with. But Christmas was a magical time. A magic you only liked sharing with yourself, and Bingo. Once you reached the part, you were greeted by many runners, bums, singing groups, and other pet parents. Your sights however were set on the giant Christmas tree in the center of the park, but Bingo, his eyes caught the sight of a stray cat and he darted from your grasp, and he ran off. Of course, you panicked, and ran after him. You ran through the frozen fields of grass, through bushes, almost knocked over an old couple, and you did manage to run into a vendor who was handing out hot chocolate to everyone on such a cold day. You not only had to pay for the vending cart you damaged, but the price of each lost cup of coco. $1300. Not a good start to your magical Christmas day, but you weren’t going to let that top you. You were going to find Bingo and get to that damn tree.  After a few hours of going through the park, you finally gave up and went to the tree, and looked up at the bright star. You were at of breath, and hope and frankly in tears at the thought of never seeing Bingo again until you heard a familiar bark coming from around the tree. As a dog parent, it must be a sort of power to know the sound of your fur-child’s bark, because when you came around to the other side, you saw him there jumping on another person with a wagging tail. Your heart sank and you smiled with joy as you ran up to him calling his name.  “Bingo! There you are boy!” Running up to him, you dropped to your knees, and threw your arms around his thick neck. Bingo was a rescue dog, that you had for 3 years. A Husky, with one blue eye and one white. He was just as happy to see you, as he yanked from the stranger, and immediately sat in your embrace, and bowed his head to you to show submission, and most likely apology for what he did. His furry tail wagged in the snow behind him.  “Oh my god, thank you so –“your voice was snatched the moment you caught the man in your sights. He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen, and they did a quick scan of his entire being from head to toe. You had to tilt your head up slightly to meet him at his full height.  He was much taller than you, around 6’2 or 6’3, white male, with dark brown hair that was combed back, and fell down to his ears, and small curls. He had a trimmed beard, and piercing blue-grey eyes that mirrored the Christmas sky above your head. You could have sworn you saw flakes falling in them as well. He was warmly dressed for the weather, with an opened black pea coat revealing a black sweater vest, and dark blue shirt underneath. He was still holding onto Bingo’s leash as he met your eyes with a smile.  Then from his lips came the most elegant sound you had ever heard. “Bingo?! Well that’s a lovely name for such a handsome dog.” He said. It was deep, and rich like a warm cup of tea in the morning. Something that could have held your attention for hours or cradle you to sleep at night You swallowed hard and nodded up and down like an idiot not using your words, but continuously staring at him, while trying to comprehend what he just said to you. But it only took you a few moments to see what you were doing. Then your voice came back.  “Thank you so much.” You smiled, as you clothed your eyes to blush and tuck hair behind your ear. You blinked your embarrassment away and looked at him again. It hurt to look at something so pretty. “I almost thought I lost him, and I don’t know what I would do if something happened to him.” you confessed flustered. “I completely understand, I would freak out myself.” He said as he gestured to the tree, “Luck as it was, he came running up to me when I was admiring the tree.”  Bingo started to bounce around you, wanting your attention. He jumped up on his back legs and brought his front paws on your stained coat. You tried to calm him by petting his head and rubbing him behind his ears.  “He must have remembered it from last year. I come here every year to look at it.” You stated as you finally got him to sit, but your hands were sweating in the gloves and you needed to remove them. You pulled one off and then the other placing it in your pocket. You looked down and saw the stain on your coat and clothes. “Oh my god, my clothes.” you opened your coat to see that it definitely ruined the dress you wore. You were so flustered that you didn’t even realize that you were shaking. Your nerves were shot.  “Oh, how did that happen?” he asked, reaching out touch your coat to examine the stain. “I think I have a handkerchief here somewhere.” he started patting around in his coat.  “No, it’s fine, you really don’t have to do that. It was my fault really! I ran all over the place looking for him, nearly killed an old couple” You pointed behind you, and then turned to point to the other side of you to the vendor, “I killed his vending cart, and had to pay a fortune, and got hot coco spilled on me.” You gestured back to your clothes, and then palmed your face, as you tried to hide the embarrassment that was your life at this moment.  “Here,” he held out a white handkerchief out to you. “How about we get you both get you out of the snow and get you some place warm. You’re shaking and I think he may be hungry.” He reached down to pet Bingo on the head, who in return leaned into his touch, with his tongue hanging from his mouth, his breath floating in the air.  “You really don’t have to. You’ve helped me so much already.” You tried to deny, but the strange held his hand up to you. So, you stopped speaking.  “I’m afraid I would have to insist. What kind of man would I be if I left you so upset?” He gentle placed his hand on your shoulder. He was so gentle, and his touch was comforting. “You’re shaking, and I’m sure you were going out of your mind trying to find him. Let me take you somewhere warm, just until you calm down.” You took a deep breath and looked around at your surroundings. It was getting dark, you didn’t get a chance to really enjoy the tree, it was getting colder, and started to snow harder. Bingo would have been hungry, and God knows you were. Some place warm would have been nice and having such a nice escort was even better. You looked back at him with defeated smile and gave in. “Okay.” You sighed. “I can hold him now if you like.” You said reaching out for Bingos leash. “It’s ok, I rather like walking dogs. Plus, I think it would be nice if I gave you a little break for a bit. At least until it’s time for you to go back to your home.” He smiled charmingly as he straightens his back, and bent his arm at the elbow, and looked down at you. “Shall we?” You smiled as you slipped your hand between his arm and body. Your other hand came up to gentle close the circle of your hands on his arm.  “I’m Richard by the way.” He added as pulled you closed, and you both walked towards the east entrance of Central Park. “I’m (Y/N).” _ You and Richard laughed and joked over several cups of coffee, and he even surprised you with a change of clothes when his assistant showed up with a large pink bag from Liana that was located on the Upper West Side. You told him he didn’t have to do that, and he blushed, saying that he couldn’t let you leave with dirty clothes. So, it was a Christmas Gift from Santa. He revealed that he was an actor, and after telling you the roles he was in, you palmed your face from being so stupid and not realizing who he was. He was shocked, but actually thought it was very refreshing to find someone that didn’t know him. You promised him that you would then make it a goal to look at everything he has been in. He quickly blushed and begged you not to. At this point, you needed to get out of your clothes that were starting to smell like mold and chocolate, as scent you would never want to smell again. So, you took the bag, and changed in the restroom. When you came back out, his eyes racked up and down your body. You had let your down from the hat you wore, and it fell over your large breast. As you swiped it away, Richards eyes slowly hovered on them. He pulled in his bottom lip and dragged his eyes away to look out the large window that gave a stunning view of the busy street and falling snow. You blushed and put your coat back on. Has you placed the bag with your dirty clothes next to you, you reached under the table to pet Bingo who was soundly sleeping under the table. The manager was nice enough to let you have him in the shop, but he had to behave. Luckily, he was tired enough to pass out. After an hour or two, Richard escorted you back to your apartment, and hugged you at the door. He said his goodbyes to Bingo and left. However, he did look back at you with flushed cheeks as he walked away. You were so hung up on the day’s events, that by the time you got to bed, you realized you never got his number, but also didn’t offer it. The thought saddened you so much that for weeks after you cried over once again not feeling good enough. He was an actor after all, and you were far from his type. So, as you walked into the new year, you left behind the sorry boyfriend and the thought and memory of the handsome stranger in the past. That was until the following Christmas when saw a familiar face at the tree. He turned to you, with two coffees in hand and smiled as you approached. “Fancy meeting you here again of all places!” He joked, as he handed you the coffee. - PRESENT - You told Richard that you would meet him tonight, and that you needed to talk to him about something very important. He wanted to meet you earlier to see what it was, but you told him that you needed time to think and would explain everything tonight. 

You looked from the present to the large window of a warm living room and warm bodies full of alcohol. Music, and dancing, with the smell of grilled food and fruits swirling in the air. You both were invited to a party that was for both Christmas and a friend’s birthday. Your friend insisted that the day should just be about him, but others, so everyone had to participate in Secret Santa, and you pulled Richards name. 

There he stood with his friends, and a choir of beautiful women around him. One of them was lucky enough to hold his attention a bit longer than the rest. She had long curly brown hair that framed her thin body well, and she wore a bright blue dress. Plying him with compliments on his success, and his talent they all were doing, but, Samantha, his very recent ex and very still close friend was all over him. You could tell that she wanted him back, and she tried everything in her power to not have you near him. She was always so clearly rude to you, and Richard always apologized for her behavior. You didn’t want to make a fuss because, what if you did and he picked her side? What if you lost him for good? You couldn’t take that chance. 

“I can’t do this anymore” you said to yourself. “I can’t compete with those women, and not with Samantha.” You started to back out of the door. “What would he even see in me?” You looked down at yourself. Your body wasn’t right, you weren’t right for him, and he would see you as nothing more than his chubby friend and take pity on you. That’s all it was. That’s all it ever was these pasts few years. He must know how you feel, and just wanted to be polite and not hurt you. 

You looked back at the gift and then back at Richard. Sam had pulled him close and kissed him deeply in front of everyone. His hands remained off of her body, and his eyes opened from surprise, but when she pulled away from him, her eyes locked with yours. She grinned at you, and then went back to pressing her body to Richards. He hadn’t even noticed you were in the room, or that you were around him. 

“What am I even doing here?” you said looking around. Most of these people you didn’t even know and the only person you cared about was surrounded by groupies, and an ex-girlfriend that he would most likely ditch you for. You started to back away from the crowd.

 Something in you broke when you said it. You felt the pain and hurt rise in your chest, and when it hit your eyes, you knew that you had to leave. You couldn’t even bring yourself to walk through the door and speak to him. He wouldn’t have even noticed that you were here or let alone didn’t come.  As your eyes glazed over, your attention was shaken when someone in the room shouted your name, you made eye contact, and then blinked as a tear rolled down your face. You waved them off, and turned to walk out the door, dropping Richards gift in the trash.

 By the time you got back home, you stopped in your tracks, wide eyed at what was waiting for you on your steps. There were 2 dozen roses in front of your door and your entire doorway covered in twinkling lights with post cards, and letters that you recognized. Every letter that you ever wrote him. Every email. Little trinkets of things he took when you both went out together; napkins with doodles, bottle caps from drinks you shared, movie stubs, every single adorable selfie you took and sent him, and ones you took together and a un opened box of your favorite perfume. Everything about your relationship hug on your front door. 

You couldn’t say anything but bite your bottom and look at the door in confusion. 

“What do you think?” came a voice from behind you. You turned to see Richard standing there with his hands in his pocket and a smile on his face. He caught up to you. 

“Why do you still have all this stuff?” you ask, your voice shaking as you try to hold back the tears, and fear of what was going on. 

“Why do you think?” He said as you stepped to your side and slipping his hand into yours, he looked at the door with a smile.

“How…did you even?” you said, as you looked down at your intertwined fingers. The touch of his skin sent shivers down your spine. 

“I’ve loved you since the moment we met.” He said confidently, obviously ignoring your question of how he got all of this here without you knowing. 

“What?” you soft said, in disbelief. You turned your head to look at him. He chuckles as he looks up and over to the left in remembrance. 

“Do you have any idea how many times I came back to that tree the next year when we met? I showed up at different hours, and days with two coffees just hoping you would come back. Waited for hours actually.” He looked down at you with a smile, and twinkling eyes, “I needed to see you again. I even showed up at your flat, but the landlord said you moved, and didn’t have your new address.” He turned his entire body towards you this time, your one hand still intertwined, and as he pulled the other hand out of his pocket, to put it on your hip, he leaned into whisper in your ear. “I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” 

You put your hands on his chest to steady yourself, and gripped the lapels of his shirt, holding him close, your face pressed upward into his neck. Your lips grazed his skin, and you felt him shiver under them. The smell of his skin was so sweet, like honey and lavender. 

“I couldn’t get you off of my mind either.” You confessed, but now you felt so bad. You threw his gift away after such a romantic gesture from him. 

“Richard…” his name slipped through your lips slowly, and you felt as his cheeks grazed yours. His lips were so close to yours. You could feel his heart beating on your hands. “I feel so stupid.”

“Why?”

“I got a little upset and threw your gift in the trash.” you said as you laughed to yourself. 

“I don’t need anything but you.” He whispered onto your lips, “The best gift I have ever asked for.” 

Richard cups your face in his hands and your eyes connect with his.

“I love you.” He says as he connects his lips with yours.

 When your lips meet it was as if a spark went off in you, and now your entire body was ablaze. You grab one of his lapels. He smiles against your lips. You allow one hand to play with his collar, while the other tangle in his hair. He responds, grasping at the back of your clothing. 

A gust of wind rustles your hair, and Richard pulls back when he feels you shiver in his arms. He reaches out to brush a strand out of your eyes. You notice the beginning of the smile on his lips.

“What?” you ask, leaning into his ever so gentle touch. 

“Do you fancy a cup of coffee and walk through the park?” he asked.

“I thought you would never ask.” He smiled charmingly as he straightens his back as he did before, and bent his arm at the elbow, and looked down at you. “Shall we?” 

You beamed up at him as you slipped your hand between his arm and body. Your other hand came up to gentle close the circle of your hands on his arm as you so fondly remember doing every year.  “My name is Richard by the way.” He copied from the first time you met.  “I’m (Y/N)”, you chimed back.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”  “And where have you been my entire life?” You replied back, putting your other hand on your chest dramatically like an actress.  Richard chuckled, and picked one of your hands up from his arm, kissed your finger tips, then knuckles, and finally a lingering one on the back of your hand, and said... “Right here my love” He said, almost poetically. As he bent at the waist, and bowed at you with his hand over his heart. You looked up at you and with a smile, he rose, and lifted his arm up for you to twirl under it. after you did, he pulled you close to him, and kissed your forehead. 

You walked off together towards the park, knowing that every year would be magical as long as he was with you.   END

[plastic-mold]

mold manufacturers in China | Topworks-China Mold maker | 30% COST LOWER,10 DAYS LESS

Mold manufacturers in China

Many people assume that mold manufacturers in China are going to be of poor quality. However, a huge number of companies- including multinational corporations- still choose to buy such plastic molds. Does that mean these companies are naive or making a mistake? Of course not. In fact, Topworks plastic mold company, as one of the Top mold manufacturers in China, is capable of making some of the best molds on the market- for a much lower price( 35% COST LOWER,15 BUILDING DAYS LESS) than European and American companies can possibly offer. China has seen a steady increase in the number of manufacturers of plastic injection molds as the industry has grown to be globally competitive. Not only do Mold manufacturers in China have the skills required to make superior injection molds, but we also possess excellent English skills for technology and business. That extends into the Topworks marketing departments, too- most of our sales staff have a strong grasp of CAD drawing, and the technical capability to choose the right mold building project for you. This allows them to speed up the communication process between Topworks and the customer. When making a new plastic injection mold, not only in China but all over the world, the process usually starts with a rendering of the final product drawing. After reading the drawing, engineers can then adjust how to build the mold based on things like the size and structure of the intended parts, the choice of material and how to keep the cost as low as possible – all while considering everything the customer asks for. China mold maker Our factory has worked with multiple European and American companies for many years now, so all you need to do is send us your drawings- we’ll be happy to carry out a test to show you what we have to offer. https://res.cloudinary.com/dl8a9jvpa/video/upload/v1572574321/plastic%20mold.mp4 Mold manufacturing has been around in China for over 30 years, meaning there are plenty of high-quality manufacturers operating today. Many China mold makers possess the same skills and experience as their western counterparts. While those injection mold manufacturers in China may only be paid around 65% of what they could make doing the same job in the US, they will still produce top-quality molds that you can really rely on. " order_by="sortorder" order_direction="ASC" returns="included" maximum_entity_count="500"]

How should I go about choosing mold manufacturers in China?

To clarify, the reason why a lot of US and European clients are declining to get their plastic injection mold from China is mainly that they are often more affordable (up to 35% cheaper than in their country). It should not, however, be the only factor you evaluate when weighing your options- you should also consider the following as a second factor to make sure that the mold manufacturers in China you choose are likely to provide you with a comprehensive task when it comes to developing the mold. - Can they afford to serve customers worldwide? - Consumers who used the service earlier and gave us their recommendations - Tool steel quality - The China mold factory manufacturing plant and their gear are of an industry standard. - Measures for quality control and validation - If you opted for a service provider who doesn't understand what they are dealing with, you may not have to waste your time. - Ability– will the China mold maker be able to carry out the entire task themselves, or will they have to employ a third party to help them with it?

plastic mold structure

The process of China mould making

A design engineer is generally responsible for drawing a component pattern of the new part before the china mold factory can start the actual production of the mold. This blueprint gives the toolmaker an idea of what the new component will look like, so he can start designing the mold before proceeding with the work. In order to design a mold in a way to replicate the finished part very precisely, the specifications of the final part must be carefully reviewed. By performing the initial design on the computer, the mold designer who worked at mold manufacturers in China can get accurate results. The designer of a mold has to consider not only the gate on the part, but also the flow of water in the mold, to decide where the parting line will be on the part, and also to determine how the parts will be pushed out of the mold. Once these decisions have been made, the actual machining steps then begin. There are a variety of operations that need to be carried out in order to make a mold, the raw metal blocks need to be cut into rough dimensions. To obtain exact dimensions, precision machining is required, with this precision machining, this machining generally entails milling operations, grinding, drilling, and the use of electrical discharge machining or EDM. The process of using the lathe to polish the surface of the mold once it has been completed. There have been several trials done to determine how well the mold is able to produce good parts in an appropriate cycle time.

China mould making tips

It is a prevalent understanding that injection molds are as varied in profile, complexity, and size as are the parts they are used to produce. The most simple form of injection molding involves two pieces of steel plates (core and cavity plate) that can be easily installed in a small injection machine and which can also be molded using directly cutting the impression of the article to be molded into the steel. More complex injection molds made by China mold companies will have more cooling channels for controlling the temperature and means for ejecting the moldings. A sliding block may be provided for undercut sections of the part, unscrewing devices for moldings that have a screw thread, and plastic in the runner of the mold may be kept hot to provide a good fluid path. For the purpose of ejecting the moldings after injection molding, there are sometimes hydraulic devices installed, and sometimes compressed air is applied. The process of the production of an injection mold generally begins with the design and construction of the mold. Care must be taken to optimize the design of the components so that they can be molded by China mold makers, and then it must be ejected in the construction of the mold itself. Then, if necessary, it will be tested in the China mold factory and, if necessary, modified before the mold production department is entrusted with producing the mold. Steel is traditionally used to manufacture molds, and it is still the most common material that is used. Cavities and core inserts are crafted from high-quality tool steel that can be hardened as needed. Ejector pins and other ejectors are made with hard tool steel when it comes to the ejection systems, so the same goes for the guide pins and bushes as well. The molding housing, or bolster, is made of mild steel that is softer than the hard steel. In fact, in the production of the mold, it is best to use this grade of steel for all the parts that do not have to endure frictional wear and tear, as it results in minimizing the mold builder’s costs. Also, the steel grade must be selected carefully so that the surface finish required matches the demand is. In the past, like some other molders, injection mold manufacturers in China have been unwilling to accept other materials, such as POM, PVC, on the basis of the assumption that the abrasive action of the plastic passing through the mold will gradually wear away the surface polish. Thermosetting materials and compression are what happen in this process, and the process of making transfer molds is nearly always hardened and chromium plated.  

mold manufacturers in China In retrospect, thermoplastics have little abrasive action, and therefore most of the time, even when runs have run as high as one million or more, soft materials have been used after hardening, especially for household ware plastic mold. These materials include aluminum, brass, zinc, aluminum-zinc alloys (Kirksite). The two last materials are ideal for prototype work since they can be cast easily from them using machines. You need to always look for the best possible mold when it comes to long-run products. Such molds are very costly. However, their cost per unit item is calculated out of ten and one hundred thousand items per mold, which is very small. Over a long period of time, the value of a well-made mold will grow, and in its turn, the cost of the mold will rise. This is because a well-made mold will not require frequent repairs, while the value per unit of the finished product will be very high.

EDM shop   Nowadays, more and more customers want injection mold manufacturers in China to make prototypes so they can evaluate the market and then ask them to make several thousand pieces of the mold design with hardened steel. A prototype mold is exactly what its title suggests, a mold that is being created to serve as a prototype for a product. In rare instances, from a product mold from China, one could find a way to make a long production run, but this is never a matter of course in a business world. The good thing about a prototype mold is that it teaches us a lot about how molds should be manufactured and makes us a lot more confident that we will produce a good mold, but that is probably the extent to which a prototype mold can be helpful.

China Mould Classification

China Mould Classification is generally classified into three general categories: - prototype molding (25 to 1,000 pieces) - Production molding (from 1,000 to 10,000 pieces) - High volume molding (from 10,000 to 2,000,000 pieces) - China Prototype Moulds Creating a prototype thermoplastic injection mold is one of the preliminary steps in building a new product. To evaluate the properties of the resin for injection molding and the set-up requirements for the mold, original prototypes have to be produced from the resin to monitor the dimensional control, the set-up process, and the setting of the mold. In certain products, prototype moldings are designed to meet specifications for product Quality Control testing. Therefore, they are generally used for product quality control testing and (occasionally) as the basis for the initial market testing requirement. As China prototype molds are intended to mimic the production part before launching a production run, they can be used as a relatively inexpensive learning device to point out and correct potential design issues or material selection issues before moving forward on a production run. An existing prototype mold may be fabricated utilizing an existing mold frame, interchangeable soft cavity inserts, manual loading and unloading systems, and a simple cooling system. - China Production Moulds The construction of china production molds utilizes a low-cost mold base and hardened tool steel cavities; the cavities should be machined into predefined shapes and sizes on demand according to specifications at established production rates. The mold must allow for the ease of repair as well as facilitate the escape of trapped air and volatile materials during the molding cycle employing facilitating the venting of the cavities. In this context, a production mold must also incorporate an automatic ejection system and thermoplastic melting temperature control for continuous cooling, ensuring shorter cycle times, lower costs, and consistently high quality. - China High Volume Production Moulds For the China moulds to fully meet the requirements of production tools, the molds must have multiple cavities and be composed of interchangeable mold components. In addition, an efficient high-volume production mould made in China should be easy to maintain and be designed to be resistant to adverse outside forces. For instance, - How often do you begin dismantling a mold only to discover too many inserts that are not numbered or labeled with positions? - What about slots for pry bars? - Could jack screw holes be useful in the removal of cavities? A well-configured mold can help minimize the risks of its design and construction and prevent corrosion and erosion. In addition, a customized preventative maintenance program can be incorporated, as well as surface coatings. Read the full article

[life-in-the-bay]

Day 13 - Ambition

Is it possible to have an ideal amount of ambition? Being very ambitious is seen as being aggressive, and not being ambitious enough is considered passive. On the other extreme, being devoid of ambition is equated with being aimless in life. Like the title character Sid in the Bollywood movie Wake Up Sid. It is a coming-of-age movie revolving around Siddharth Mehra aka Sid. Only here Sid is not a school-aged kid but a young adult living in his rich parents’ bungalow in Mumbai. He sleeps on Spongebob Squarepants sheets, wears goofy shirts with cartoon characters, plays video games in his room late into the night, reads comic books, parties with friends on the night before his exams etc. He is portrayed not only as the stereotypical rich and lazy kid but also as being largely ambition-less and directionless in life -- literally wearing a t-shirt that says “Mr.Lazy.” As anticipated, Sid fails his undergraduate exam. He has a tug-off with his best friend who has passed the exams. When did you study, he asks, you partied and missed classes just like me! Sid feels betrayed. He goes home to his angry father who berates him for being a failure in life. He walks out of his house, and moves in with his “new friend” Aisha. Aisha on the other hand is the epitome of ambitiousness. She has moved from a small town to the big city in pursuit of fulfilling her dreams. She has taken a job as an assistant to the editor of her favorite magazine with the hope that it will lead to her dream job as a writer. When Sid asks her if she moved to the big city “like a holiday,” she quickly replies, “no, like life.” The cinematically exaggerated contrast between Sid and Aisha is night and day. Sid depicts the stereotype of the “man-child” while Aisha is trying to shoulder responsibilities of an “adult.”  Eventually, Sid takes up a job he likes as a street-photographer for the same magazine Aisha works at. The cliched, no-surprises ending has Sid embarking on a new life and livelihood built on his passion - photography. It would have  been non-cliched and more “like life” if he had to take on a 9-to-5 desk job in a typical office. At the end of it all, Sid is shown as a person with aspirations. He is still not portrayed as being ambitious, in the general sense of the word. He is shown as an aspiring photographer who finally gets his dream job. He loves to take photos, loves to roam the street, loves to be creative, loves to interact with people, loves being non-traditional. 

Often times, aspiration is equated with ambition. But I don’t see them as synonyms. Ambition, comes from the Latin root, ambio, which translates as ‘going around’ generally in pursuit of something. Aspiration, on the other hand, comes from another Latin root spiritus, meaning air or breath. Aspirate is the very act of breathing. While ambition, at its core, is a pursuit of achieving a quantifiable and tangible success that leads into networks of power, wealth, and fame, aspiration is more intangible, invisible, and innate -- like the act of breathing itself. It contains elements of vagueness and uncertainty. It fills the body with life. 

I can think of people getting through life taking two kinds of paths. One is something looking like a track of an urban marathon. And the other is akin to a nature trek. A marathon track is a pre-decided, well laid out path used by a multitude of people, all headed in largely the same direction. There are defined pitstops on the way for rest and rumination, and periodic milestones to achieve and celebrate. While all marathon runners are undoubtedly running a race, they all have different abilities and goals. Some just walk briskly, while some jog. Some have trained in advance and have chalked out a strategy to get ahead of the crowd, while others just want to finish the race in a decent form. Much like life itself. This track stands in for the ambitious path. The nature trek is representative of those on an aspirational path. The path here is only vaguely defined. At places, it might even need a quick clearing of bushes to proceed further. A trekker can stop and proceed as they please, at their pace, as there are no pre-designated check-points to pass. Sometimes the trek is a stroll in the park, quite literally. Other times, one might have to huff and puff, and perhaps get on all fours to get through a steep stretch or a difficult path. The path might be scarcely populated. More often than not, there is no one cheering from the sides as in a marathon. Some on the path may aspire to get to the top of a mountain. Some others might be there just for the love of nature. To aspire is to walk on an uncharted path. There are no well defined routes leading to predictable outcomes or even success. 

While one is not necessarily better than the other, they are certainly two different paths. Suited to different personalities. The journey is arduous in both. Only the frame of mind is different. 

[crashing-into-the-sun]

run away (but not from me)

simon and baz are on the track team together. tw: homophobia, homophobic slurs, cursing.

Simon couldn’t deny it. No matter how much he loved feeling the oxygen rush in and out of his lungs, the wind whip against his face, the tight pull of his hair strung back with a rubber band, the burning in his calves, there was one thing he loved the most about running track, and that was winning. The moment when he passed someone a few paces in front of him just before he crossed the finish line, his thresh hold of glory, was the most exhilarating experience he’d found so far in his seventeen year life. Sweat dripped down his forehead and pooled above his brow bone as he bore down into the final sprint, eyes locked on the blue-jerseyed runner in front of him. The only person between him and first place. The only person between him and his next blue ribbon.

He forgot he was running when this happened, forgot he was breathing, forgot he was moving or hurting or even alive. It was just him and Blue Jersey, fighting for the title. It was no longer about a place in the next run, because the top ten got to advance. It was a primal need somewhere deep in Simon’s head, and he needed victory more than he needed the air he was sucking in deeper and deeper with every second.

Simon was gaining on him with every second until they were running steady with each other, shoulder to shoulder. For a second, there was an air of cameraderie, a shared moment of brotherhood. The briefest acknowledgement that they both deserved this. But then Simon took off even faster than before, because no matter who deserved first, only one person could have it, and it was going to be him.

He collapsed onto the ground seconds after his feet flew over the finish line, clutching his stomach as he hurled up his lunch into the bushes. The vaguest remnants of a grilled cheese sandwich and a red Powerade splattered onto the ground, and Simon heard Blue Jersey rush past him and collapse similarly, coughing like a smoker. Two more people passed, and Simon didn’t move, hands still pressed against his stomach in pain. Then he felt long, bony fingers massaging his shoulders, and he knew Baz had crossed the finish line.

“I’m going to regionals, Simon! We’re going together!” Baz celebrated behind him, panting, and Simon managed a weak nod. “Fifth place, can you believe it?”

“You did great, Baz,” Simon breathed, forcing himself up from the ground and wiping his mouth on the shoulder of his t-shirt. “Coach is gonna be thrilled. You must’ve beat your best time.”

“I’m sure I did,” Baz agreed, taking a few steps forward and plunging his arm deep into the water cooler. “Want one?”

Simon nodded. Baz handed him a water, ice cold and dripping, and Simon uncapped it and poured half of it on the top of his head, letting it run in rivulets down the back of his neck and his face. Then he drained the bottle and crumpled it up, tossing it back into the cooler.

“Better?” Baz asked, sipping his water. His breath was mostly back by now, but Simon was still heaving.

“Yeah, much. Let’s go find a spot to watch the girls’ race.”

-

When Simon entered the bus for the ride back to school, he was met with cheers. The bus was already mostly full, and Baz waved from the back. “Our champ!” Simon heard as he passed by seats, meandering toward Baz. “First place winner, once again!”

The entire vehicle stank like teenage boys and BO, but it was a party. They made toasts with their water bottles, crankled up the music so loud on Dev’s Bluetooth speaker that it blew out and broke, and generally gave the bus driver a run for his money. Who could blame them? They hadn’t taken more than one person to regionals in years, hadn’t had a runner like Simon on the team in far longer than that.

It was dark when they pulled into the parking lot, teeming with the cars of parents here to pick up their kids. Coach Davy stood up at the front of the bus and quieted them all by raising his hands. “Listen guys,” he began. “I’d just like to say how proud I am of all of you, even the ones who didn’t make it into the top ten. We’ve had a fantastic year and I’m looking forward to taking four runners this year. But our work isn’t over yet. Remember, the practice schedule for the next two weeks is rigorous and not flexible. Especially for the regionals runners, you must show up to every practice unless you’ve got a doctors note. That’s all! Have a good night.” He sat down, making way for the flood of teens to exit the bus.

Simon and Baz lagged back and pretended to collect their things while the others filed off. “You coming home with us tonight?” Simon asked Baz.

“I was planning on it, yeah.” Baz slung his bag over his shoulderand stood up, taking his place at the end of the line.

“My room’s a mess,” Simon warned. He stood behind Baz and wrapped his hands around Baz’s backpack straps, tugging. Baz snickered.

“You’re a mess, Snow,” he replied. Baz reached behind his back and found Simon’s hand fleetingly. He gave it a gentle squeeze before retracting and shoving his hands back into his sweatshirt pockets. The line began to move.

-

In the passenger seat of his dad’s beat up Sedan, Simon listened for the millionth time to the Humility Speech. “Yes, you’re good, but that doesn’t mean you’re invincible, you hear me? You hear me?” Baz stifled a laugh in the back as Davy’s voice grew more and more urgent. “Simon Oliver, are you listening to me? You are not the king of the track. One of these days you’re gonna lose if you don’t take this shit seriously. You missed three days of practice this month. That’s unacceptable. You’re not a god, Simon. Do you understand? You don’t get a full ride for a second place title.”

This was a routine for Simon- run, win, take Baz home, get the Humility Speech, force feed himself pasta (for the carbs), early morning practice with Baz, rinse, repeat. That was what Davy thought at least.

Here’s how the routine really went- run, win, take Baz home, laugh his way through the Humility Speech, feed Baz half his pasta, make out sessions until it got light out, cuddling until five in the morning, pretending to go for an early morning run and really taking Baz out for early breakfast at the diner, where all the waitresses knew their names and orders. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat.

Davy finished talking a minute before their driveway appeared, and Simon felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He checked it, amused that it was Baz’s name on the screen. He’s finally done, eh?

For now.

As if you’d forgotten since your last race

Lmao, Simon typed back. Can’t wait til he goes to bed ;)

And why would that be?

Because I want to celebrate ;)

Quit it with the wink faces, Si. I feel like I’m talking to a preteen who just copped his first feel. Lol.

Simon chuckled, then tucked the phone back into his pants pocket as they pulled up the drive. Gravel crunched underneath the car tires, and it scratched to a stop at the top. Simon’s house sat on a hill. It was dark brown, with warm yellow light coming from the living room windows and illuminating the well-manicured lawn. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small. A good size for a single father and his son. In the front there was a small, sickly looking crabapple tree that Davy had been trying to tear up for years. Simon would never let him.

They carted their bags up the porch stairs. The inside of the house smelled like pulled pork, and Simon realized how hungry he was. He’d forgotten that Davy had prepared something in the crock pot. The smell made his stomach growl. “Let’s put our bags up in my room and eat, shall we?” Simon asked Baz.

“Sounds like a plan.”

The stairs were shiny hardwood, and the upstairs floor was small, with only a bathroom and Simon’s room. The door was already ajar, and sure enough, the room looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in several months. “Simon,” Baz chastised. “I just helped you tidy this place up last time I was over.”

“You know how I get, Basil,” Simon protested, throwing his bag onto his full sized mattress and rumpling up the blankets. He tossed his sweaty sneakers into a corner and grabbed a shirt off the floor to change into.

“Glasses?” Baz asked, plucking them from the hazardous mess of Simon’s vanity and shutting the door with his foot.

“Sure,” Simon said, slipping his jersey over his head. He let it fall to the floor, like everything else already was, then stepped toward Baz to retrieve the glasses.

“Allow me,” Baz smirked, slipping the glasses onto Simon’s face and settling them onto his nose. He leaned his head down and pressed his forehead against Simon’s, closing his eyes. Simon’s hands wound around Baz’s trim waist and danced their way up the hem of his shirt, fingers pressing against the knobbly joints of Baz’s spine, and their lips met, soft as spring rain.

The kiss was gentle, and they enjoyed it for itself, as it wasn’t going to lead to anything else at the moment. Baz tasted like peppermint gum and he smelled like cedar and bergamot, his signature cologne. Simon ran his tongue quickly over Baz’s bottom lip, then pulled away, grinning like a fool.

“We should get downstairs,” he whispered, but then one of Baz’s hands was cold and sure against Simon’s chest, tracing down to his stomach, and the other was knotted in his golden hair, and his brain took a flying leap out the window.

“Few more seconds,” Baz mumbled, pressing a lazy kiss to the space behind Simon’s ear. “Few more minutes.” Their chests pressed together and they kissed again, longer, with a strained kind of urgency that knew it couldn’t last long.

“I love you,” Simon said to Baz, tugging at a loose tendril of hair that had fallen around his dark, angular face. He kissed Baz’s cheek, then his nose, then his lips again, and Baz leaned, mindless, into Simon’s touch.

“Simon,” Davy called out, flinging open the door. “You forgot your-”

The gym bag Davy held fell to the floor. Baz immediately disentangled from Simon’s arms and flung himself back onto the bed, but it was too late. The door slammed shut, and all Simon could do was cry.

-

Hitchhiking was never a smart idea, even as a 6’ 1" eighteen year old man, but Baz needed a ride home, which Davy had not-so-gracefully declined to give him. His fahter was away on business and Daphne was visiting her sister, so here he found himself, late at night, wandering down the road with his thumb up. Cars passed him, but none stopped. And then it began to drizzle.

-

Davy had nothing to say, Simon surmised. That was the way it seemed, because they hadn’t spoken in days. He’d missed practice to stay after and do schoolwork just to avoid his father twice already, and he had no intentions of going today.

“You can’t let him push you away from what you love,” Baz told Simon at lunch, hooking his ankle around Simon’s under the table. “Running is what you were made for.”

“I can’t be around him. He’s got this dead look in his eyes Baz, you don’t understand. He hasn’t said a word to me. I’m nothing. I could win the national title for Christs’ sake, he wouldn’t give a shit.” He pushed the spaghetti on his tray around with his plastic fork. For the first time he could remember, Simon had no appetite.

“Look, Si, your dad is being a huge dick, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop living. Running is what you love best. Everyone knows that. Please go to practice. For me?”

“I can’t, Baz. I can’t face him.” The bell rang, and Simon got up from the table without meeting Baz’s gaze. “I hope you can understand.” He dumped his tray and went to class. Baz watched him go.

-

The crowd at regionals was wild for a track meet. Simon hadn’t practiced in two weeks, had barely spoken to Baz. He seemed to be a husk, going through the motions. They’d just sit there in silence when they were alone, Simon crying, Baz holding on as tight as he could to Simon’s hand, for fear he might lose him if he let go. But today was the big day, and Simon couldn’t miss it. This was his moment. Baz was determined to get him there.

He skipped out on the team bus ride, instead electing to drive his own car over to Simon’s after he knew the rest of the team had left and taken Coach Davy with them. When Baz honked the horn, Simon emerged, bleary-eyed and in pajamas, on the porch. Baz beeped again, to the tune of Jingle Bells, and Simon smiled. “Get in, babe. You’ve got a race to win.”

-

Simon denied that he wanted to race, but Baz knew he wouldn’t have gotten in the car if he didn’t secretly need it. When they arrived to the packed venue, he was practically shaking with anticipation. Simon shrugged out of his dirty sweatshirt and slipped on his jersey, tied his hair back. Baz recognized the determined gleam in his eye. “You ready to get out there and show them how it’s done?” Baz asked.

“I’m not wearing uniform shorts,” Simon protested. “And I haven’t run in weeks.”

“Who gives a shit?” Baz countered. And honestly? Didn’t that just sum up everything. Simon kissed Baz, slow and deep, then exited the car.

“Let’s fuck shit up.”

“Let’s.”

-

“Fag.” Simon heard it first from behind him, just a whisper. He whipped his head around, but it was impossible to tell who had said it. He and Baz had walked to their spots holding hands.

“Who gives a shit,” Simon muttered to himself, a personal mantra. “Who gives a shit, who gives a shit.”

“Faggot. Fucking queer.”

“Fairy.”

“Pussy.”

“Who gives a shit? Who gives a shit? Who the fuck cares?” Simon was yelling now, glaring all around him.

“Faggo-”

It was Blue Jersey. The insults were emanating from him, and he grinned, until Simon caught him in the act.

“Think you can throw me off my game? Well you know what, asshole?” Simon hissed menacingly, face flushed. He got up close to the kid’s face, almost nose to nose, and stared him down. “This faggot’s gonna win the regionals first place title. And you’re gonna fucking watch.”

Blue Jersey gulped.

-

The gunshot seemed louder than ever, but Simon didn’t hesitate a second as the sound reverberated in his ears. His feet pounded against the grass. He had more energy than he’d ever had at the beginning of a race. His anger fueled him as he thundered through the crowd of boys, clearing a path straight for the front. He flipped off Blue Jersey on the way, smiling, sickly sweet, as he took his rightful place at the head of the pack. He didn’t slow down one step.

-

This time, there was no competition.

Simon lead the runners with a wide berth. His legs went miles in a single stride, his lungs were open gulleys swallowing air by the ton. He was a god, and holy fucking shit, it felt good to be unbreakable.

“I’m made of fucking diamonds, you can’t touch me,” he panted as the finish line came into view. “I am fucking invinceable. Who gives a shit?” He was practically screaming now, every muscle in his body on fire, every inch of him drenched in sweat but it wasn’t sweat, it was liquid fucking gold and he was crossing, he was first, he was the winner, he was raising his arms for the crowd and they screamed his name, he was laughing, he was smiling, he was descended from Mount fucking Olympus and Baz was a king and when Baz came in second, they kissed in front of everyone. And maybe there was a collective gasp, and maybe Davy held his head in his hands, and maybe Blue Jersey cried when he got home. But you know what? Who gives a shit.

[keywestlou]

TRUMP'S JUDAS

Certain government officials have taken to testifying against Trump. More will probably do so. One may come forth with more information than that of all the others put together.

Politico Magazine this date has run an article asking who next will stand up to Trump. Who with great significance? More information than any other.

The cover of Politico is a picture of what purports to be the Last Supper. Trump, Jesus. The apostles surrounding him. An error or two. The “disciples” number 10 rather than 12. Also, there is no Mary Magdalene.

The purpose of the cover immediately obvious. Who of the men surrounding Trump would be his Judas?

There will be a Judas. Inevitable.

How Trump handles the attacks upon him I do not understand. So many. Daily. Such does not mean I am sympathetic to the man. As the good Book says, “As ye sow, so shall ye reap.”

He deserves what is befalling him.

A new book being released November 19. Copies are already in the hands of the media. The book titled A Warning.

The author strange. Anonymous. Unusual. Yet Anonymous’ book already receiving notice and acclimation.

The work anti-Trump. Its contents spell out reasons against Trump’s re-election. The author believes the re-election would be courting disaster.

The book appears to be directed at the undecideds. Generally independents. The author suggests they supported Trump 3 years ago and have lived in a cave since. Time for them to come out and observe what has been going on.

The author is thought to be a high ranking White House official. Described as a senior administration official. A Republican at heart. He appears happy with conservative judicial appointments, deregulation, and tax cuts. His concern is with Trump’s stability. As reflected by his “unbecoming” behavior and “unseemly antics.”

One example of Trump’s unforgiveable conduct occurred at the time of John McCain’s death. The flag above the White House was at half staff in memorial and recognition of McCain. Trump ordered the flag raised above half mast. Trump was “determined to use his office to limit the nation’s recognition of John McCain’s legacy.”

Out of the blue comes Michael Bloomberg! If he seriously intended to run, he should have joined the other Democratic hopefuls at the beginning. Not now after almost a year of them campaigning.

I respect Bloomberg. Think he would make a great President. Have said it several times over the years. I dislike however his method and timing for entering the race.

What Bloomberg is saying in effect is that he does not consider the present front runners as competent. Horrible! Hurting the candidacy of each!

By his announcement that he was filing for the Alabama primary, Bloomberg comes off as another Trump: I am a rich man and can do what I want.

By his conduct, he has hurt himself, the Democratic Party and the United States. He could very well be what Trump needed to get a second term.

Two thing have impressed me in my life. Man walking on the moon and the Berlin Wall coming down. Both impossible till they happened.

Thirty years ago on November 9, 1989, the people of East and West Berlin began taking the Wall down. At 10 in the evening. The impossible had become possible.

Two great American Presidents spoke at different times in Berlin re the Wall.

John Kennedy in Berlin June 26, 1963 before 450,000. He said, “Ich bin ein Berliner.” “I am a citizen of Berlin.”

Ronald Reagan stood before the Brandenburg Gate on June 12, 1987. His words, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

A side thought. What happened to Presidents the quality of Kennedy and Reagan? Trump is certainly no Kennedy or Reagan.

This day in 2016, a sad day for America. Trump defeated Clinton for the Presidency.

Yesterday, my primary care physician. Dr. Norris.

Neither he, my heart physician Dr. McIvor, and the emergency room can tell me why the chest pains. Probably good. I hope.

Next week, 2 more doctors to visit. I am on a “specialist” route.

Workers require unions. Without, management controls. Working people are in danger of getting screwed. They generally do.

Yes, I support unions.

Unions are at a low level today. Management and most workers are happy that is so. A mistake. Non-unionized labor can only survive so long before employers take advantage.

All this a lead up to a labor situation in Key West. Back a few years. It was 1899. A strike had been ongoing at the Gato Cigar Factory. It was settled this day in 1899.

One of the first successful union led strikes in the U.S.

Florida has been part and parcel of Presidential elections in the modern era.  On this day in 2000, the famous Bush/Gore recount began.

Wednesday night, the official college basketball season began for Syracuse. Syracuse lost to Virginia 48-34.

Virginia was ranked #1 last year. The team must be as talented this year as last.

My alma mater may be causing my chest pains. Syracuse’s football season absolutely sucked. Much better is hoped of the basketball team.

Enjoy your day!

      TRUMP’S JUDAS was originally published on Key West Lou

[manojisyoung-blog]

Miss Nepal 2018 Shrinkhala Khatiwada; redefining the beauty pageant!

All about Shrinkhala

I just watched a video of Miss Nepal 2018 Shrinkhala Khatiwada from Paradym TV entitled "All about Shrinkhala" and I am truly inspired by the video. She’s just nailed it. Here’s the link to the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cloHN1CoxUA&t=592s

Miss Nepal 2018 Shrinkhala Khatiwada

Source: The Hidden Treasure And surprisingly, if you don’t know or haven’t heard of Shrinkhala Khatiwada yet. She’s the Miss Nepal 2018 and represented Nepal in Miss World 2018 as well. Shrinkhala was one of the top 12 contestants in Miss World 2018 held in China. Similarly, she won “Beauty With a Purpose” award and Multimedia Award with the highest number of votes based on social media platforms, audience engagement, creative content and societal influence made, Second Runner up in Sanya Tourism Promotional Video award. Further reading: 30-Day No Social Media Challenge!

Redefining the beauty pageant!

I had always been against the idea of beauty pageants such as Miss Nepal and now, I think I have an answer to why it exists. The reason why I was against the idea of Miss Nepal and beauty pageants as such obviously (like many people) was mainly because of the objectification of women and judgement of their beauty on the basis of someone's height, color, makeup, and many other factors related to body sizes. I am still not convinced about the limiting factors of judgement of the beauty of a person.

Source: Shrinkhala's Instagram But, beyond the pageant, there are higher purposes. Shrinkhala Khatiwada has redefined the meaning of beauty pageant. She believes Miss Nepal, in her life, is just a stepping stone, a means to reaching greater good and not the end. That's the thing I was missing out of the concept of such competitions. She has become a role model for millions of people, conducted humanitarian works and helped humanity to level up. Her popularity has definitely helped in all the works she's currently involved in. Miss Nepal became the platform for her and undoubtedly, she's capitalized to the fullest. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPt8bK2gbaU

A small step towards bigger dreams.

During the interview, there were meaningful questions and her responses to them were impromptu, genuine and authentic as well. Here's the one which captivated me the whole time: Question: You’ve come a long way since last year. How does it feel to have come until now from last year?Answer: “I’ve become more confident, better with dealing people, got fame and popular than the previous year but, me as a person is exactly the same.” Answer continued; “A regular girl wanting to grow.” Shrinkhala believes that being a Miss Nepal is just a small step towards bigger dreams.

I truly believe, fame, confidence, personality are the things that give recognition and not the identity. That’s what she mentioned. RESPECT! It’s also a beautiful reminder every one of us who are aspiring and trying hard to become popular and earn fame. Maybe a question to ask ourselves; why is it that we’re trying to become famous? Some more of them: Social media is not 100% fake nor is 100% real. It’s because we tend to show one best picture out of 100s we click. “I don’t want Miss Nepal or Miss World to be the biggest achievement of my life.” My life will get meaning if I can step on it and do something more. It’s less of a pressure and more of a fuel to grow. Beautiful thoughts! And she loves Manchester United too. Wohooo!! HIgh-five! 😉 *Kidding*

Beauty With a Purpose

Shrinkhala won the title "Beauty With A Purpose" in Miss World 2018. The purpose behind the title is truly impactful to the society. A contribution has been made in health sector of Chepang village in Makwanpur district. As the title of the award suggests, impact was the purpose and Shrinkhala was the one deserving. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-0qiNj5v568&t=1s I am against the idea of judging someone’s beauty in terms of superficial human features such as height, fairness, body structure, dress up. But the title she won is something that she achieved through her actions. The hard work put into the project, sleepless nights and uncompromised efforts to level up the lives of hundreds of people will truly be remembered for generations. Further reading: 30-Day No Sugar Challenge!

What separates Shrinkhala Khatiwada from other people?

She’s humble and authentic. Every time I listened to her speak and read her stories on Instagram, she’s remained the same since the day I have known her. I haven't seen any sugarcoated responses from her. Besides the inspiring personality, her contributions to the society is equally praiseworthy.

Chepang Project

What a great work it is. Identifying the health needs of people of Chepang Village in Makwanpur district and establishing a health post is indeed commendable. Even though Makwanpur being very near to Kathmandu is still lacking from basic needs. I came to know the situations of those places from Shrinkhala’s Chepang Project. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Igo0WYbtgjE&t=30s Shrinkhala along with her team members conducted talks about handwashing, cleanliness, sanitation and hygiene which was helpful in spreading awareness amongst the people. Also, the blanket distribution helped provide warmth to hundreds of people during the bone chilling cold weather. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYAReYrGBwI The village which was unknown to larger chunk of people has been identified as one of the most needy villages in Nepal. A lot of people have known about the need of awareness, development and progress to be made. The helping hands have come forward and they’re doing their part (inside and outside of the country). Sadly I couldn’t be a part of it even though I desperately wanted to. I was fighting my own demons during that time. However, the vlogs from Sisan Baniya and updates were constantly inspiring me. Truly thankful 😊

Honesty and Authenticity

I was a huge fan of hers when she shared her vulnerability without any hesitation. She shared her experience of being too pressured because of expectations from millions of people during the Miss World Journey. And how she was constantly burnt out because of people taking advantages of her popularity. That was seen mostly on YouTube for short term gains and negative publicity. Most of them were negatively portrayed criticism related videos. Sad! ☹ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_GM732VM2Q8 Shrinkhala Khatiwada wants to promote tourism! Visit Nepal 2020 is almost around the corner. Wishing her all the best. Further reading: Mardi Himal Trek- 2019!

Thoughts about Shrinkhala Khatiwada: Miss Nepal 2018

One of the main reasons I'm so inspired by Shrinkhala is that she brought my faith back in beauty contests by being her fabulous self and not a recycled cardboard cut-out-version of an already seen and digested personality. She is a breath of fresh air in that field. Beauty contests winners usually tend to have a similar pattern. Not to belittle anyone, but most of the participants or winners in the past usually came from modeling/ glamour industries and the pageant would be a stepping stone in their glamour career and would later go on to join the movie industry contributing very little towards the essence of Miss Nepal agendas and social work-related projects. I'm not accusing the notion of building a career in the entertainment industry to be a bad thing, particularly. But we've seen it too many times. Trends, when repeated many times, become stale. Miss Nepal should not be established as a gateway to the film industry as they are two very different platforms (both important in their own way but very different from one another). Shrinkhala, on the other hand, is one of the few real people that has maintained her individuality along the way and not yet surrendered into the paths chosen by most of her predecessors. She instead, is carving her own way. We can gather from her social media account that her days are still occupied with projects that are still affiliated to her Miss World mission, and other similar campaigns which stick to her commitments that she made before the pageant. She is still working extremely hard despite the international pageant being over. And she does it with that big beautiful smile on her face. In her Instagram live sessions, she puts an effort to make it as interactive and therapeutic as possible with her followers talking about important issues and not just beating around the bush with a “hello” to everyone as a fan-celebrity interaction sort of an event which most Instagram live sessions usually turn out to be. I admire her personality and how unapologetic she is regarding the things that matter the most to her. Also, her humility and weird sense of humor make her even more lovable than she already is. Shrinkhala, now, is the perfect role model for young Nepalese girl. I would even dare to say she might be best Miss Nepal we have ever had till date (surpassing even the ever so cool Malvika Subba). Shrinkhala, as of now, is the person young girls truly need to look up to and emulate. To not only excel in academics but also conquer the glamour world. To not only face your fears but also defeating them with a smile. To not only being humble and down-to-earth but also knowing what you deserve and not accepting anything lesser. To not only flaunting your fabulous self on social media but also adding a funny caption that mocks the entire perception of beauty. To not only being the crowd favorite, but also acknowledging ones who seem to disagree with the most popular opinion available. To not only shining in self-confidence but also addressing the insecurities that surround the life of an everyday average woman. To remind everyone that no dream is too big to achieve if you invest yourself completely towards it. I believe Shrinkhala is the super-girl of Nepal for little girls growing up right now and I hope they will learn to grow up by building their own ‘super-powers’. As for Shrinkhala, I wish her the best in everything. I will also like to remind her to take care of her mental health in between all the madness of work that surrounds her. I hope she gets the chance to let her hair down occasionally and gets some time off for herself. I recently watched an interview where she said lately she has been getting only 3 hours of sleep at night. If anyone deserves a holiday in Nepal right now, I would say it’s her. It can be overwhelming trying to maintain the pressure of being the perfect role model to everyone whilst also trying to live a normal life of a girl in her twenties. Hopefully, the lifestyle won’t consume what’s left of her and she continues to add bright colors in her beautiful world. Best of wishes. :)  - Sahara Bhetwal (Find her on Instagram and her beautiful Poetic Musings. https://www.instagram.com/myserendipity19/ Find Shrinkhala on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/shrinkhala_ (Go through the inspiring stories and thank me later 😊)

In the end…

If I am to extract one important lesson out of Shrinkhala’s life, that’d be “Stay humble, strive for better and give back to the society.” Because that’s what she’s doing. Thank you so much for this beautiful lesson. 😊 Lastly, I would like to wish her all the best with the great work. Cheers! Read the full article

[amyddaniels]

3 Life-Changing Strategies for Processing Grief

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[krisiunicornio]

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[cedarrrun]

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[theresawelchy]

Complexity Year in Review 2018

Result of the year goes to

Oracle Separation of BQP and PH by Ran Raz and Avishay Tal

which we wrote about in June. This work solves one of the original open questions in quantum complexity using tools from both quantum and classical circuit complexity. How often do we see oracle results with popular articles in Quanta (ignore the hyperbolic title), The Hindu and CACM?

Runner up goes to the solution of the 2-to-2 Games Conjecture by Subhash Khot, Dor Minzer and Muli Safra early in 2018. Boaz Barak gave a nice two post overview.

In last year's review we talked about the magical breakthroughs of machine learning. This year we seemed to have moved beyond the magic to where machine learning has become a thing. We see the immense value of data and continue to struggle with the ethical challenges of collecting and acting on data, dominance of the big tech companies, training all these students who want to gain expertise in the area and trying to understand why ML works as well as it does. 

The big X-factor is China. Will competition with China spur science literacy and funding in the US like the cold war with the Soviets did? Or will isolation with China limit scientific collaboration like the cold war with the Soviets did? 

The big tech surprise was the rise of electric scooters. Georgia Tech has embraced them and it is a quick way to get around campus. Some of the other questions I asked last year didn't have interesting answers: What will the Internet look like post-net neutrality? (too early to tell) How will the new tax code play out? (too early to tell) Where will Amazon put HQ2? (New York and DC--only surprise was picking two cities) What can quantum computers with 50 qbits accomplish? (still a good question) Will bitcoin move to $300K or 30 cents? (it dropped but still has real value) Thanks to our guest posters Vijay Vazirani, Samir Khuller and Robert Kleinberg, and anonymous.

We remember Jean Bourgain, George H. W. Bush, Babak Farzad, Stephen Hawking, Ker-I Ko and Stan Lee.

We end the year with craziness, the stock market is going through wild gyrations, we have a partial government shutdown including all of NSF and an uncertain political landscape with different parties leading the two houses of congress. We're still in the midst of a technological revolution and governments around the world try to figure how to regulate it. I find it hard to predict 2019 but it will not be quiet.

Computational Complexity published first on Computational Complexity

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Garlands of gold leaves, this time with clusters of drupe branches, adorn the kitchen island. Adamant reindeer beleaguer the simple centerpiece created by application a white egg-shaped basin abounding with colossal ornaments. Photo by Hugo Garcia

You won’t acquisition abundant red or blooming (other than greenery) in this avant-garde mix of metallics and accustomed elements. The palette includes a lot of animation and flash choleric with beginning white and aloof elements. Photo by Hugo Garcia

Sound

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PArtificial greenery busy with LED lights silver, gold and animation booty an already affecting admission to the abutting level. It makes an actual appulse back you airing in the advanced door. Photo by Hugo Garcia

Robin Strickler started this decorating activity with the broiler mantel because its the focal point of the room. The album and timberline are abounding with silver, gold and rose gold ornaments brightened up with touches of white. Photo by Hugo Garcia

That was the claiming adverse autogenous artist Robin Strickler of Architecture Works back a ancestors whose aboriginal Hidden Canyon home she afresh busy (she was complex from the alpha of the project, acceptable with finishes and allotment the autogenous furnishings) asked her ample it with Christmas spirit.

She started with a beginning palette and an untraditional approach: beneath is more.

The palette: Silver, gold, rose gold and blush, all affected with sparkle, laid the background for décor agitated throughout the arena attic of the 6,200-square-foot home. “It’s basically the assumption and gold trend we’re seeing in autogenous architecture agitated into a anniversary look,” said Stricker, architect and arch artist of the Orange County-based firm. To those brownish elements she added a advantageous dosage of white in the anatomy of arctic buck and Santa figures, snowflakes and candles. The aftereffect is a crisp, apple-pie attending that works beautifully with the home’s décor, which appearance white woodwork and brownish accents. The décor already had alluring touches, which fabricated abacus anniversary animation and blush an accessible fit.

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The plan: Strickler and her aggregation started with the broiler mantel, because it’s the focal point of the room. From there, she transitioned to the affecting admission and assuredly to the 9-foot-tall tree. The album that apparel the mantel and admission adds a accustomed aspect to the mix, abatement the metallics and affairs the attending through the house. To ample out the bogus garland, she acclimated broiled stems, leaves and berries. They are alloyed into the boughs forth with the LED lights.

The tree: Bogus copse are acceptable added popular, Strickler explained, in allotment because they accept become abundant added astute attractive in contempo years. Another acumen her audience favor them is that abounding are accessible with lights, which eliminates the best bulky of decorating chores. And lastly, some of her audience don’t like the abstraction of acid bottomward a timberline for the account of a few weeks of anniversary décor. The timberline decorations mirror the blow of the décor with silver, gold and rose gold ornaments alloyed with simple white and sparkly balls. Accumulate the ornaments ablaze so the branches don’t sag and constrict some added into the timberline to accord it a fuller look. This timberline is from Roger’s Gardens.

Tabletops: The metallic/neutral mix was again activated to the dining allowance table, kitchen island, coffee table, table in the antechamber and added surfaces. Gold blade album creates a agent on the island and the dining allowance table, one with berries, one without. The island is layered with two runners, one raffia and one linen with a blow of sparkle, attached calm accustomed and arrant elements. The adamant reindeer “provide a little relief,” Strickler said, from all the shine. And creamy white arctic bears roam the coffee table, abreast the wire and bottle bean trees. The ambush with accessories, Strickler explained, is to actualize an all-embracing mix “that is cohesive, but not matching,” and to abstain bottleneck too abounding pieces together.

Take the time all-important to do it right: This decorating accomplishment took Stricker and her aggregation of bristles all day to do. Beneath is more, but it still takes time and absorption to detail to do well. Gather the elements, accomplish a plan and don’t be in a hurry. Enjoy the accomplishment as able-bodied as the result.

But what if you can’t alpha over – or you don’t appetite to? You attending advanced to demography out your calm keepsakes every year and adulation to accept them about you during the holidays. According to Strickler, you can activate up your anniversary décor no amount what already fills your Christmas crates.

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Don’t use everything: Just because you accept it, doesn’t beggarly you accept to put it out. There’s no harm, Strickler said, in abrogation some things in their Christmas boxes. If ataxia is the aftereffect of unboxing everything, you’re bigger off abrogation some behind. You can consistently circle them, bringing out altered pieces every year.

Find new means to use old things: Every annular brawl doesn’t accept to adhere on the tree. Accomplish a centerpiece by bushing a bottle cloche or basin with all the red ones. Clustering like-colored items can advice accumulate the blush anarchism beneath control.

Add neutrals: Mixing in neutrals can accord your bright adornment a beginning look. A few metallic, white or clear elements will accommodate abatement from red and blooming overload.

Shop about for accessories: Abacus a few new things to the mix can accord the earlier ones a new look. Strickler does a lot of her arcade at places that alone designers can access, and decidedly brand the less-traditional accessories by Roost. But she additionally brand the affection and array at Pottery Barn. So while you’re allowance shopping, analysis out the décor options.

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Holiday decorating, for best of us, agency unboxing our altered ornaments, garlands and added Christmas-themed tchotchkes and agreement them in their accepted locations. Ancestors heirlooms. Crafts our kids fabricated in elementary school. Ornaments bought on ancestors trips. Doilies crocheted by apish aunts. Alloyed calm they accomplish up our abundantly red-and-green anniversary collections.

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But what if … you could alpha over? If you had a glassy new house, or a anew adapted one, and capital new anniversary décor to accompaniment it. Where would you start?

Garlands of gold leaves, this time with clusters of drupe branches, adorn the kitchen island. Adamant reindeer beleaguer the simple centerpiece created by application a white egg-shaped basin abounding with colossal ornaments. Photo by Hugo Garcia

You won’t acquisition abundant red or blooming (other than greenery) in this avant-garde mix of metallics and accustomed elements. The palette includes a lot of animation and flash choleric with beginning white and aloof elements. Photo by Hugo Garcia

Sound

The arcade will resume inseconds

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PArtificial greenery busy with LED lights silver, gold and animation booty an already affecting admission to the abutting level. It makes an actual appulse back you airing in the advanced door. Photo by Hugo Garcia

Robin Strickler started this decorating activity with the broiler mantel because its the focal point of the room. The album and timberline are abounding with silver, gold and rose gold ornaments brightened up with touches of white. Photo by Hugo Garcia

That was the claiming adverse autogenous artist Robin Strickler of Architecture Works back a ancestors whose aboriginal Hidden Canyon home she afresh busy (she was complex from the alpha of the project, acceptable with finishes and allotment the autogenous furnishings) asked her ample it with Christmas spirit.

She started with a beginning palette and an untraditional approach: beneath is more.

The palette: Silver, gold, rose gold and blush, all affected with sparkle, laid the background for décor agitated throughout the arena attic of the 6,200-square-foot home. “It’s basically the assumption and gold trend we’re seeing in autogenous architecture agitated into a anniversary look,” said Stricker, architect and arch artist of the Orange County-based firm. To those brownish elements she added a advantageous dosage of white in the anatomy of arctic buck and Santa figures, snowflakes and candles. The aftereffect is a crisp, apple-pie attending that works beautifully with the home’s décor, which appearance white woodwork and brownish accents. The décor already had alluring touches, which fabricated abacus anniversary animation and blush an accessible fit.

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The plan: Strickler and her aggregation started with the broiler mantel, because it’s the focal point of the room. From there, she transitioned to the affecting admission and assuredly to the 9-foot-tall tree. The album that apparel the mantel and admission adds a accustomed aspect to the mix, abatement the metallics and affairs the attending through the house. To ample out the bogus garland, she acclimated broiled stems, leaves and berries. They are alloyed into the boughs forth with the LED lights.

The tree: Bogus copse are acceptable added popular, Strickler explained, in allotment because they accept become abundant added astute attractive in contempo years. Another acumen her audience favor them is that abounding are accessible with lights, which eliminates the best bulky of decorating chores. And lastly, some of her audience don’t like the abstraction of acid bottomward a timberline for the account of a few weeks of anniversary décor. The timberline decorations mirror the blow of the décor with silver, gold and rose gold ornaments alloyed with simple white and sparkly balls. Accumulate the ornaments ablaze so the branches don’t sag and constrict some added into the timberline to accord it a fuller look. This timberline is from Roger’s Gardens.

Tabletops: The metallic/neutral mix was again activated to the dining allowance table, kitchen island, coffee table, table in the antechamber and added surfaces. Gold blade album creates a agent on the island and the dining allowance table, one with berries, one without. The island is layered with two runners, one raffia and one linen with a blow of sparkle, attached calm accustomed and arrant elements. The adamant reindeer “provide a little relief,” Strickler said, from all the shine. And creamy white arctic bears roam the coffee table, abreast the wire and bottle bean trees. The ambush with accessories, Strickler explained, is to actualize an all-embracing mix “that is cohesive, but not matching,” and to abstain bottleneck too abounding pieces together.

Take the time all-important to do it right: This decorating accomplishment took Stricker and her aggregation of bristles all day to do. Beneath is more, but it still takes time and absorption to detail to do well. Gather the elements, accomplish a plan and don’t be in a hurry. Enjoy the accomplishment as able-bodied as the result.

But what if you can’t alpha over – or you don’t appetite to? You attending advanced to demography out your calm keepsakes every year and adulation to accept them about you during the holidays. According to Strickler, you can activate up your anniversary décor no amount what already fills your Christmas crates.

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Don’t use everything: Just because you accept it, doesn’t beggarly you accept to put it out. There’s no harm, Strickler said, in abrogation some things in their Christmas boxes. If ataxia is the aftereffect of unboxing everything, you’re bigger off abrogation some behind. You can consistently circle them, bringing out altered pieces every year.

Find new means to use old things: Every annular brawl doesn’t accept to adhere on the tree. Accomplish a centerpiece by bushing a bottle cloche or basin with all the red ones. Clustering like-colored items can advice accumulate the blush anarchism beneath control.

Add neutrals: Mixing in neutrals can accord your bright adornment a beginning look. A few metallic, white or clear elements will accommodate abatement from red and blooming overload.

Shop about for accessories: Abacus a few new things to the mix can accord the earlier ones a new look. Strickler does a lot of her arcade at places that alone designers can access, and decidedly brand the less-traditional accessories by Roost. But she additionally brand the affection and array at Pottery Barn. So while you’re allowance shopping, analysis out the décor options.

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