#band ten hut

[bandmafia]

if you’re wondering how much power my band director has over 300 teens, this man whistles repeatedly like a bird to get our attention instead of raising his voice

[quitealotofsodapop]

OK!

Now ive seen the first two episodes of S5 and heres my gut reaction:

Wukong address that MK is a stone monkey like him - but he honeslty isn't sure how.

MK is super sleep-deprived from night terrors.

Macaque is living on FFM, covered in baby monkeys as per usual. Is def the more "rip the band-aid off"-sort of guy.

When Macaque worries on who brought back the Brotherhood - Wukong points out that Macaque sort of came back out of nowhere too, eliciting an angry growl from Mac. Hehehe spicy.

The noodle gang rebuild the hut!! Apparently after the mountain got messed up in S4, Wukong tried living in a hut made of his own hair.

Wukong hugs MK!

Pigsy notices that MK is eepy and instructs him to help make some noodle soup. Pigsy reminices about baby-MK, and smiles knowingly when MK immediately falls asleep after eating. Apparently that specific soup recipe is the one MK ate the first night he found him.

Also screenshot spoiler;

Dadsy and bby!MK! As I suspected, MK was a papoose baby.

All the monkey having nightmares before the Ten Kings portal they asses to Hell.

EP 2:

Li Jing's a dick. Nezha is too scared to even speak up to him.

Where's Xiwangmu? Shouldn't she be in charge? Or is it a patriarchal system since Li Jing is the Emperor's son-in-law?

Macaque screams and reaches for Wukong when he sees the circlet!!!

Monkey jail.

Nezha visits the monkeys and info-dumps the tale of the Heavenly Pillars - a story MK actually knows! He makes Wukong "act more like Tang" to tell the story. Tang be the parent that told MK fairytales!

MK points out that a Pillar of Creation was destroyed once - in the mythos it was an angry water god named Gonggong - and that maybe another forced is trying to destroy it.

Monkey prison break via trickery and hair clones.

Sandy's new truck gets KO'd by falling monkeys.

The monkeys are now fugitives.

Li Jing uses the Circle mantra to stall Wukong - and Macaque immediately attacks him!!! Looks like the theory that Macaque attacked Tripitaka for using the circlet might be true!!

Macaque uses a shadow portal to put MK and Wukong inside the gang's (repaired) truck, and rushes at Li Jing to keep him distracted.

Macaque is trapped inside Li Jing's pagoda. :(

The "hooded King" watches the whole thing and laughs. Why do I think this might be Nine-Heads?

Overall, i am cautiously hyper-fixating.

lots of shadowpeach fodder.

I saw a spoiler that says that sadly, Li Jing isn't the main villain. And that they sorta fumble Nezha's relationship with him - Li Jing is the Buck Cluck of lmk dads. Especially since trying to make Li Jing look like a good dad, when he literally tried killing Nezha like twice in the mythos, and Dadsy is right there. Damn filial piety.

[flashcs5]

BAND TEN HUT

[bigfootbeat]

Early Non-Native Accounts of Bigfoot in North America

There are many accounts of Native American encounters with Bigfoot recorded in history. However, European settlers and their descendants also had Bigfoot experiences. Here are some that occurred before the Bigfoot craze in the 1950s popularized the idea.

A white woman named Rachel Plummer, who was taken captive by a Comanche raiding band in Texas in the year 1836, is credited with making one of the earliest and most prominent references to Bigfoot by a non-Native American. After the Comanche set Plummer free in 1838, she wrote and published a narrative detailing her traumatic experience as a captive. She went into enormous detail about the creatures that lived in the prairies, in addition to providing specifics about their everyday lives and the roles that men, women, and children had in their lives. Among these animals were wolf packs, bears, elk, and even what her captors referred to as "man-tigers."

According to what she reported, "The Indians claim that they have discovered several of them in the mountains." They say, "They describe them as having the characteristics and proportions of a man." People report that they walk upright and stand between eight and nine feet tall. It was not until nearly a century later that five gold prospectors in Oregon documented the existence of a beast that was very similar to the one described. The men, venturing into the wilderness in 1924, claimed that an "ape man" had accosted one of their party members, Fred Beck, earlier that day, and had shot the creature, inflicting injuries as he fled. Later that night, a larger group of these animals battered the prospectors' hut with rocks and boulders. The men were certain that they were exacting their vengeance for the previous shooting that had taken place. The animals attempted to smash down the door of the cabin, but fortunately, the guys were able to delay their progress.

As soon as the sun began to rise, the apemen fled, and the five terrified prospectors made their way to the closest settlement. It was believed to such an extent that the United States Forest Service initiated an investigation and dispatched two rangers back into the forest with Beck to see if they could find any evidence of the beasts or even the beasts themselves. Despite the lack of evidence, the story quickly spread throughout the Western region, leading to the continued use of Ape Canyon as the name of the alleged attack site. Buffalo Bill and Daniel Boone, two of the most famous frontier folk heroes in the United States, have legends about Bigfoot in their backs. The Pawnee Indians of the Plains presented Buffalo Bill with a gigantic thigh bone as a gift, as described in his book, The Life of Honorable William F. Cody. Buffalo Bill also mentions this experience. According to their assertions, the bone belonged to "a race of man... whose size was approximately three times that of an ordinary man."

Daniel Boone's account went one step further when he told a story about how he shot and killed a "hairy giant" that was ten feet tall in Kentucky. He referred to the beast as a "Yahoo," which is a reference to the brutes that resembled humans that appeared in Jonathan Swift's classic novel Gulliver's Travels. As a result of the 1950s discovery of footprints in Bluff Creek, California, the search for Bigfoot experienced a surge in popularity. These tracks were believed to be the creature's. In the hopes of discovering some evidence that Bigfoot does in fact exist, a large number of people, including cryptozoologists, scientists, adventurers, and other Bigfoot fans, traveled to various regions in the state of Washington and Northern California. Despite the lack of conclusive evidence, people maintained their belief in the existence of a hominid that had been absent from human history for a significant period.

[zilabee]

"I wasn't there because ahead of the Quarry Men's evening performance I'd gone home for a bite to eat. I only lived a ten minute walk away and hadn't eaten since breakfast, so after coming off the church field and putting my kit in place ready for the evening's performance I'd nipped home for my tea and in the process I missed that historic audition."

- - - Colin Hanton

"I must have nipped out to the toilet because I have no memory of the greatest meeting in rock n roll history."

- - - Rod Davis

"I noticed Paul while we were playing. He was standing with Ivan... but I don't remember him carrying a guitar."

- - - Eric Griffiths

Pre:Fab! - by Hanton and Hall.

-

History quietly shifting itself into place, while half the quarry men are looking the other way.

I just I love that some people are out there writing meaningful fantastic remembrances about Paul's eyelashes and electricity in the air, and then others are like 'I don't know, maybe he was there..?'

Colin Hanton (quarry man) consistently claims that Paul met John before the Quarry Men went on to play in the afternoon. Colin was in the scout hut, playing his drums with one of the scouts, getting ready for the afternoon performance:

"At the far end of the hut, I noticed John had returned by himself. [...] He was standing talking to another scout. It was at this moment that Ivan Vaughan walked in accompanied by this dark-haired lad whom I'd never seen before. I carried on jamming while the three of them stood talking. This carried on for about five or ten minutes, after which John, Ivy, and the stranger left the scout hut together."

Sounds completely like what a constructed memory of that event would seem like, but also sounds completely like something that might have happened too, and we'll never know.

Eric, meanwhile, believes that he was there for the 'historic meeting' in the church, but that Paul never played guitar for them at that point, no matter what Paul, John, Pete, Len and Ivan have to say. He thinks John first heard Paul play a few days later when John and Eric went round to Forthlin Road specially for the 'audition'. That's where he thinks Paul played Twenty Flight Rock for the first time.

Beatles fandom is an incredible study in the vagaries of memory. I love it. It's fantastic how little we will ever know.

As Colin Hall (biographer) writes:

Like most bands, they met a lot of new people every time they were booked to play. Often there'd be a lot of people hanging out with them before or after a performance. No wonder that, in the interim, exact memories faded, details disappeared. It would be many years after the event that the Quarry Men would be asked to describe this day in the forensic detail people now want from them. [...] They were not all present in the same places for some of the key moments. At the time it was a fun day, but of no great significance to most of them beyond the moment of their performance.

He also points out that an article published just one week after the fete, ("All the Fun of the Fair at Woolton" in the Liverpool Weekly News) which is an eye-witness report written while everything was still fresh... claimed that Colin wasn't there, and the Quarry Men played without a drummer. Something easily disproved by any photograph of the day.

Give up, surrender! Beatles reporting has been pure fiction from day nought. Nothing is knowable. Everything is mist. You can keep trying, you will get nowhere. Honestly it's all an imagination, so imagine wonderful things.

[zoxsansnc]

BAND TEN HUT!

put what you would respond with in the comments

mine: FLY!

[nearen]

Prompt #7: Morsel

tw: child endangerment, death

“Stick with me, pup,” she’d told him. “I’ll look out fer ya.”

Her name was Violet. Violet was older than him. Not by much, but she talked like she knew all there was to know, so she must. She also had a head’s height on him, with chiselled shoulders carved for archery and arms broad as boughs. She’d taken a shine to him, so staying under her wing was smart for practical purposes.

He was a waifish scrap of a lad when the band took him off his mother’s hands. Barely looked his age then, and he was only grazing ten. The price he fetched? A good meal, but not for him. He went hungry that night, huddled alone in a cramped cage to keep him from bolting.

Not that he would’ve.

Violet shared her watery stew with him next moonrise. Antelope, mostly gristle, seasoned with nettle leaf. It was awful, and he relished every bite.

The next sun, they let her take him to the river to wash off the grime and the lice. She’d had to swallow a shriek when she moved the locks behind his ear and his scalp crawled. Apologising with every breath, she spent the next bell carefully shaving away matted hair at the root with a paring knife while he sat unshivering in the icy water, knees pulled up to his chest.

With nowhere to hide, his itchy passengers were rinsed away. Ticks were twisted ‘n’ plucked, leeches peeled off. She scrubbed him down and bundled him up in her own spare clothes, leagues too large. He said nothing the whole time, staring at her while she asked all kinds of questions and made up the answers when he wouldn’t give one.

“What was yer village like? Why did yer mum give ya up? Didn’t she want yer? Did ya do somethin’ bad? D’ya have any brothers? Sisters? Did they die? D’ya talk at all. C’mon, say somethin’. Did they take out yer tongue?” She grabbed his chin and made him open his mouth to check. He let her.

“Pff. Y’can talk. Say somethin’. ‘Ey. What’s yer name? Y’must know yer name. I’ll call ya… eh, pebble. ‘Cause rocks never say nothin’ but yer too small t’ be a rock. So yer a pebble. Like what y’get stuck in yer shoe.” She glanced at his bare feet, caked in river clay. “Oh, right. Y’need shoes. Should have some that’ll fit at the hideout. Let’s go, pebble.”

Violet took his hand and started to walk, but he dug his heels in, his hazel eyes pointed downwards. He muttered lowly, under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Osric. I’m Osric.”

The girl cracked a smile. “Y’can talk. Knew it. I’m Violet. Like the flower. I was born while they was in bloom. It’s too late t’ see ‘em now. Turnin’ cold. But when spring comes, I’ll take ya t’ pick ‘em. What’s yer name mean?”

She walked him back to ‘the hideout’, a cluster of huts and tents lodged into the rocky, wooded hills of the South Shroud, not unlike a true hornet’s nest. The hive that dwelt there was led by a wildwood woman who styled herself their queen. All Osric had known until then was life with his siblings and his mother, but the queen wasn’t his mother, and the wasps weren’t his kin. The hive wasn’t his home.

Violet felt like a friend, though. Maybe his first.

They wasted little time putting him to work. They’d taken him in for his potential uses, not out of the kindess of their hearts. He was small and slight, which meant he was the one getting shoved into a cellar through the window to unlock doors, or helping them empty larders. He’d climb into wagons to relieve them of their goods, waded through forests of legs in crowded markets to lighten pockets.

Osric was good at it, all of it. Too good, and that was the problem. It didn’t take long for his impulses to land him in trouble. Violet was the first to find things that didn’t belong to him hidden away under his blanket. A search of his pockets turned up more.

“Y’don’t take these,” she’d warned him, waving a bejewelled bracelet in his face. “Food, I get. They don’t give ya enough.” He worked harder than half the hive, and he still only ate what he could steal and squirrel away. They wanted to keep him small. Useful. “But what would ya even do with this?”

She’d laughed. It was always kind of funny, the first time. The first few times. They tried the bracelet on his slender wrist and it looked silly, hanging there like a loose, shimmering shackle. He didn’t know what to tell her, so he just shrugged. He hadn’t even remembered picking it up or where he got it. Violet knew whose it was, so she took it back before it was missed. But it wasn’t the last time she had to cover for him, and even her patience started to wane.

“D’ya want t’ get into trouble? I’ve told ya before. Y’don’t steal from yer fellow wasps. They’re not playin’ around, Os. They’ll have ya fer this if they catch ya.” He stared at her, like he always did. It was like he got it, but if he got it, why’d he keep doing it? Her face changed. “This is why yer mother got shut of ya. En’t it.”

It hurt. He could tell she was only angry because she cared. Violet’s anger was different from his mother’s. She didn’t want to see him hurt, or tossed out to fend for himself.

“Won’t happen again,” he swore. She hit him, and he fell back into the grass. He lay there, stunned. But he understood why. It was her way of saying she didn’t believe him. Because he broke his last promise, and he was going to break this one too.

They went fishing as the colder moons set in. She taught him things he didn’t know, like how to fashion together a makeshift rod, and the kinds of bugs that were better as bait for this or that kind of fish. He didn’t have much patience for it, and he usually ended up in the river, fishing for crayfish with his bare hands.

Violet showed him how to cook their catch, starting with how to make a fire. The rocks that made the base, first. “It needs t’ breathe,” she told him. Then the right tinder, and finally how to make a spark by striking firestone. “Cook it through,” she scolded. “Fish’ll make ya sick if the middle’s not done.”

She taught him how to set snares for small game, and the mechanism for basic traps. He wanted to learn how to hunt with a bow like she did, but he wasn’t strong enough to draw back the string. His arrows nicked off the outer bark of the tree they used for target practice while hers lodged themselves ilms deep. It made her laugh until she cried every time his shot went wide, and he started doing it on purpose just to see her smile.

He didn’t get it back then; why she did all that. He figured they were just having fun together. That she was proud to teach him all the things she knew and show him how clever she was—and she was.

The take got harder. It always did through the winter moons, Violet told him. This one was leaner than most, though. Bad weather set in and buried the roads in fulms of snow. They had to travel further, and the risks were greater.

Osric was sent out to scout. He didn’t mind the cold much and it meant he got lucky finding something to eat every once in a while. A warm glow amidst the trees alerted to him to a camp’s presence. The guards were few in number and half-asleep. He snuck in, clambering onto the back of a cart laden with salted fish and meat. He ate until he felt sick, then more, until his stomach hurt. It was tempting, too tempting to doze off right there in amongst all the bundles when he was done, but he willed himself to retreat—pockets stuffed with as much as he could carry—back to the nearest outpost.

He hid his haul before reporting in, but he smuggled some mackerel for Violet. Her favourite.

The ‘stingers’, they called them, were assembled. Archers all, and Violet was among them. Following Osric’s lead, they retraced his steps back to the camp to assess numbers and the viability of their task.

It was near dawn by then, but it wouldn’t get light until late morn this season. The boy had an idea of what was going to happen when he reported in, but he’d never been there for it before. They hadn’t needed to mobilise the stingers since he was taken on. His talents had helped to keep them well-enough supplied.

But they’d missed too many meals.

They took to the trees, found their positions: Clear sight of the guards and the tents they watched over. The boy stayed on the ground, with Violet. She was down there to give chase if they sought cover. A body dropped, its fall softened by the snow. Osric watched it turn red with clinical interest.

The next shot must have missed its mark. A man’s scream pierced Osric’s ears. He sounded so pained that it made his stomach lurch, and he regretted his earlier gluttony. Figures poured out of the tents, more than he’d banked on. They were in their smallclothes but had bows in their hands, and were in various stages of hastily slinging quivers over their shoulders.

A woman dressed in a long, woollen robe with a wooden staff took stock and said—

“Leave this to me.” The staff spun, palm over wrist, and Osric flinched back and ducked low as a fierce gale billowed out from her position, scattering supplies and raising up the snow off the ground into a whirling blizzard.

“Fuck!” he heard Violet cry, but he couldn’t see her. Cold winds blew right through him, chilling him to his core. He heard dull thuds and ivory cracks from the west and north, where the stingers had been poised to strike. Blinded and panicked, he pulled up his hood to shield his head and ran.

“Violet!” he bleated, but he heard his own voice die in the gale. He leant against a tree to gather his bearings, and a whistling thunk carried an arrow deep into the bark, ilms from his ear. Peeling away, he scrambled through thick brush that snared and scratched bare skin. He grabbed a skinny sapling for support and doubled over. Each panicked gasp was being stolen from him. I can’t breathe, he realised, cold dread pouring down his back.

He couldn’t muster a scream when a powerful arm closed around his torso, thrashing in vain against their strength. He was thrown over a shoulder, and jostled as his captor ran. Drifting in and out, Osric felt the winds die, watched the snow start to settle.

“Yer safe,” was the next thing he heard, and he trusted the voice that told him so. She set him down in a snowdrift and knelt over him protectively while she surveyed the woods. “Can’t say if we lost any. We’re s’posed t’ regroup at th’ outpost if somethin’ happens. But only if we’re not bein’ followed.”

Shivering, Osric sat up and buried his face in her chest for a moment, gripping her shoulder. Fear still prickled the inside of his skin, and he shook from the itch. “I dun wanna do this again, I hate it,” he choked, breath shuddering. “I wanna go home.” He didn’t know where home was. Just that it wasn’t here.

“I know, pup.” Taking his hand, Violet rose. “C’mon. Stick with me.” Osric climbed to his feet, unsteady as a fawn. He registered the whistle too late. The arrow’s path scored his cheek and struck her chest.

─ • ─

Come spring, her namesake was in bloom. Pretty purple petals that flourished where sunlight spilled into the forest. He gathered a bunch and brought them to her.

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 26: Forced to Choose Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet, Original Characters Triggers/Content warnings:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve

Swiftly and quietly, he presses on through the Shroud, heart in his throat. He's lost time, and lost the trail - but he clings to the one clue he has: Guydelot will be slain somewhere on the road between Gridania and Gyr Abania... and surely somewhere close. They'll not want to drag a struggling, likely swearing man through the entire Shroud in search of the perfect place. It may be the dead of night, but there will still be people about - hunters, Wailers on patrol...

So. Somewhere he'll be found, but not somewhere they'll be interrupted. Somewhere nearby, but not so near as to be suspiciously close to Astarnaix's old haunt.

Guydelot, he thinks, not for the first time. Where are you?

Guydelot, with his knowledge of the Shroud's many hiding spots, would be indispensable here, and Sanson has never missed him so keenly. He would know the most likely places a band of miscreants would take a man to dispose of him in such a way that might send a message... but the task falls instead to Sanson, whose strengths lay elsewhere.

So be it; I can do this. I must.

Not near the Hawthorne Hut. Not near any of the watchtowers situated along the path. Not near the docks, where any passing stranger coming to the East Shroud might stumble upon them as they carry out their bloody work. Not near Little Solace; the Sylphs there are friends to mankind, and would never allow for murder on their doorstep, even if there weren't men of the Adders stationed there.

Frustration tears at him, makes him indecisive. Where... where...?

"Captain Smyth!"

A voice, loud as a whipcrack, tears him from his thoughts. Sanson whirls. A small company of Twin Adder soldiers closes in on him, led by a Commander he doesn't recognize... looking furious. This bodes ill.

He salutes as best he can, his heart sinking, stomach churning. He'd known this was likely when he'd sent Raicheille for a healer - surely someone must have realized Nourval was no longer in his cell by now. Or that the girl had been missing for the better part of the day. Or that Sanson himself had paid a visit to Nourval twice in one day, once with the missing girl in tow. Whatever the case, his recklessness was bound to have its consequences.

He'd simply hoped they'd not rear their heads until after Guydelot was safe.

"Sir, I-"

"You have a great deal of explaining to do, Captain, and you'll be fortunate not to find yourself behind bars at the end of it." The man seethes. "You stand accused of-"

Obedience and duty be damned; he doesn't have the time for this. "Sir, I am in the process of disrupting a plot to foster war between Gridania and Ala Mhigo," he interrupts, urgency making his voice sharper than his wont when dealing with a superior officer. "And disrupting the murder of an officer of the Twin Adder in the aid of that plot."

The man flounders a moment, caught off-guard by the interruption. "You-"

"Did you bring a healer? Did you find Nourval?"

The Commaner's face purples; another man steps forward to answer. "A conjurer is seeing to the man's wounds. 'Twas Nourval himself who sent us this way to find you, Captain."

In the dark, he hadn't recognized the fellow; Sanson blinks, abruptly realizing the voice belongs to one of his own unit's members. "Liautroix?"

"Is it true the Lieutenant is in danger?" And that's Lariat. They'd brought his own unit to arrest him? The nerve-

He steadies himself. "Yes... yes. Even now, it may be too late-"

"Enough of this!" The Commander regains his composure. "Captain Smyth, if even half of what you claim is true, you should have reported it to the Order, not taken it into your own hands. Return with me to the Adders' Nest at once. If there is indeed a plot to disrupt relations between Gridania and Ala Mhigo, we must act quickly to see that the delegates are kept safe, and all knowledge of this plot brought to light. All other considerations can wait."

All other considerations- "You would leave Guydelot to die."

"One man, weighed against a war?"

Sanson hears the ice in his own voice: "A familiar dilemma."

The Commander seems to recall, at last, to whom he speaks. His face darkens once more; he has the sense to look ashamed. "'Tis a decision no man wishes to make, Captain, but a soldier's life is the coin a nation may use to defend her safety. If we are forewarned of this murderous attempt to spark a war, then even should his death be discovered, nothing will come of it. You must return with me to Gridania to tell us all you know!"

He doesn't move. Can't move. To forsake Guydelot now-

These are my men, he remembers. Hopes. "Liautroix," he says, ignoring the Commander. "With me. Lariat, find the conjurer; if they have done all they can for Nourval, follow me. Guydelot will have need of healing, I'm sure of it."

"Captain-" The Commander's voice rises again.

But Sanson's already running, relieved to hear footsteps behind him; his men have obeyed him - out of fondness and admiration for Guydelot, no doubt. He scarcely knows where he's going, trusting instinct alone to guide him in Astarnaix's footsteps. He leaves the Serpent Commander behind, shouting in vain about losing his rank, being arrested, being charged for treason on top of all else-

It doesn't matter. Sanson made his choice at the start of all of this; all that remains is to abide by it.

[glitteringaglarond]

'But my lord of Rohan, am I to be called a murderer, because valiant men have fallen in battle? If you go to war, needlessly, for I did not desire it, then men will be slain. But if I am a murderer on that account, then all the House of Eorl is stained with murder; for they have fought many wars, and assailed many who defied them. Yet with some they have afterwards made peace, none the worse for being politic. I say, Théoden King: shall we have peace and friendship, you and I? It is ours to command.'

'We will have peace,' said Théoden at last thickly and with an effort. Several of the Riders cried out gladly. Théoden held up his hand. 'Yes, we will have peace,' he said, now in a clear voice, 'we will have peace, when you and all your works have perished – and the works of your dark master to whom you would deliver us. You are a liar, Saruman, and a corrupter of men's hearts. You hold out your hand to me, and I perceive only a finger of the claw of Mordor. Cruel and cold! Even if your war on me was just – as it was not, for were you ten times as wise you would have no right to rule me and mine for your own profit as you desired – even so, what will you say of your torches in Westfold and the children that lie dead there? And they hewed Háma's body before the gates of the Hornburg, after he was dead. When you hang from a gibbet at your window for the sport of your own crows, I will have peace with you and Orthanc. So much for the House of Eorl. A lesser son of great sires am I, but I do not need to lick your fingers. Turn elsewhither. But I fear your voice has lost its charm.'

The Riders gazed up at Théoden like men startled out of a dream. Harsh as an old raven's their master's voice sounded in their ears after the music of Saruman. But Saruman for a while was beside himself with wrath. He leaned over the rail as if he would smite the King with his staff. To some suddenly it seemed that they saw a snake coiling itself to strike.

'Gibbets and crows!' he hissed, and they shuddered at the hideous change. 'Dotard! What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs? Too long have they escaped the gibbet themselves. But the noose comes, slow in the drawing, tight and hard in the end. Hang if you will!' Now his voice changed, as he slowly mastered himself. 'I know not why I have had the patience to speak to you. For I need you not, nor your little band of gallopers, as swift to fly as to advance, Théoden Horsemaster. Long ago I offered you a state beyond your merit and your wit. I have offered it again, so that those whom you mislead may clearly see the choice of roads. You give me brag and abuse. So be it. Go back to your huts!

And this moment is what helped solidify how much I love Theoden.

If the description of Saruman’s voice before he even started talking was enough to hold me spellbound, the dialogue itself is even more potent. And Theoden is the first one who managed to break that spell. Both Gimli and Eomer spoke up before Theoden, and yet their words seemed unimportant, and were easily overpowered by Saruman’s voice.

But then Theoden speaks.

Theoden speaks and his voice is a jarring contrast to Saruman’s, but in a way that’s refreshing… as if we were in a room filled with a pungent, overpowering, addictive perfume and Theoden opened a window to allow in a sharp winter breeze. And his words are harsh, but they’re all the more cleansing for that.

And then the spell of Saruman’s voice changes

His voice is still overpowering, but now instead of feeling like a net made of poisoned flowers, it’s a hedge of thorns entrapping us. The spell of his voice might not be broken, but it is revealed - just for a moment - for the cruel trap it really is.

[dark-raven-feathers]

How to get approx. one hundred band kids to behave:

DM: (Through the microphone) BAND TEN HUT

[bandmafia]

Band is the only activity where you can make 200+ people shut up instantly

[aroundtheworldwithphillyfogg]

December 9th: sleigh with sails

Throughout the night Aouda, full of sad forebodings, her heart stifled with anguish, wandered about on the verge of the plains. Her imagination carried her far off, and showed her innumerable dangers. What she suffered through the long hours it would be impossible to describe.

Fix remained stationary in the same place, but did not sleep. Once a man approached and spoke to him, and the detective merely replied by shaking his head.

Thus the night passed. At dawn, the half-extinguished disc of the sun rose above a misty horizon; but it was now possible to recognise objects two miles off. Phileas Fogg and the squad had gone southward; in the south all was still vacancy. It was then seven o’clock.

The captain, who was really alarmed, did not know what course to take.

Should he send another detachment to the rescue of the first? Should he sacrifice more men, with so few chances of saving those already sacrificed? His hesitation did not last long, however. Calling one of his lieutenants, he was on the point of ordering a reconnaissance, when gunshots were heard. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the fort, and half a mile off they perceived a little band returning in good order.

Mr. Fogg was marching at their head, and just behind him were Passepartout and the other two travellers, rescued from the Sioux.

They had met and fought the Indians ten miles south of Fort Kearney. Shortly before the detachment arrived, Passepartout and his companions had begun to struggle with their captors, three of whom the Frenchman had felled with his fists, when his master and the soldiers hastened up to their relief.

All were welcomed with joyful cries. Phileas Fogg distributed the reward he had promised to the soldiers, while Passepartout, not without reason, muttered to himself, “It must certainly be confessed that I cost my master dear!”

Fix, without saying a word, looked at Mr. Fogg, and it would have been difficult to analyse the thoughts which struggled within him. As for Aouda, she took her protector’s hand and pressed it in her own, too much moved to speak.

Meanwhile, Passepartout was looking about for the train; he thought he should find it there, ready to start for Omaha, and he hoped that the time lost might be regained.

“The train! the train!” cried he.

“Gone,” replied Fix.

“And when does the next train pass here?” said Phileas Fogg.

“Not till this evening.”

“Ah!” returned the impassible gentleman quietly.

Phileas Fogg found himself twenty hours behind time. Passepartout, the involuntary cause of this delay, was desperate. He had ruined his master!

At this moment the detective approached Mr. Fogg, and, looking him intently in the face, said:

“Seriously, sir, are you in great haste?”

“Quite seriously.”

“I have a purpose in asking,” resumed Fix. “Is it absolutely necessary that you should be in New York on the 11th, before nine o’clock in the evening, the time that the steamer leaves for Liverpool?”

“It is absolutely necessary.”

“And, if your journey had not been interrupted by these Indians, you would have reached New York on the morning of the 11th?”

“Yes; with eleven hours to spare before the steamer left.”

“Good! you are therefore twenty hours behind. Twelve from twenty leaves eight. You must regain eight hours. Do you wish to try to do so?”

“On foot?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No; on a sledge,” replied Fix. “On a sledge with sails. A man has proposed such a method to me.”

It was the man who had spoken to Fix during the night, and whose offer he had refused.

Phileas Fogg did not reply at once; but Fix, having pointed out the man, who was walking up and down in front of the station, Mr. Fogg went up to him. An instant after, Mr. Fogg and the American, whose name was Mudge, entered a hut built just below the fort.

There Mr. Fogg examined a curious vehicle, a kind of frame on two long beams, a little raised in front like the runners of a sledge, and upon which there was room for five or six persons. A high mast was fixed on the frame, held firmly by metallic lashings, to which was attached a large brigantine sail. This mast held an iron stay upon which to hoist a jib-sail. Behind, a sort of rudder served to guide the vehicle. It was, in short, a sledge rigged like a sloop. During the winter, when the trains are blocked up by the snow, these sledges make extremely rapid journeys across the frozen plains from one station to another. Provided with more sails than a cutter, and with the wind behind them, they slip over the surface of the prairies with a speed equal if not superior to that of the express trains.

Mr. Fogg readily made a bargain with the owner of this land-craft. The wind was favourable, being fresh, and blowing from the west. The snow had hardened, and Mudge was very confident of being able to transport Mr. Fogg in a few hours to Omaha. Thence the trains eastward run frequently to Chicago and New York. It was not impossible that the lost time might yet be recovered; and such an opportunity was not to be rejected.

Not wishing to expose Aouda to the discomforts of travelling in the open air, Mr. Fogg proposed to leave her with Passepartout at Fort Kearney, the servant taking upon himself to escort her to Europe by a better route and under more favourable conditions. But Aouda refused to separate from Mr. Fogg, and Passepartout was delighted with her decision; for nothing could induce him to leave his master while Fix was with him.

It would be difficult to guess the detective’s thoughts. Was this conviction shaken by Phileas Fogg’s return, or did he still regard him as an exceedingly shrewd rascal, who, his journey round the world completed, would think himself absolutely safe in England? Perhaps Fix’s opinion of Phileas Fogg was somewhat modified; but he was nevertheless resolved to do his duty, and to hasten the return of the whole party to England as much as possible.

At eight o’clock the sledge was ready to start. The passengers took their places on it, and wrapped themselves up closely in their travelling-cloaks. The two great sails were hoisted, and under the pressure of the wind the sledge slid over the hardened snow with a velocity of forty miles an hour.

The distance between Fort Kearney and Omaha, as the birds fly, is at most two hundred miles. If the wind held good, the distance might be traversed in five hours; if no accident happened the sledge might reach Omaha by one o’clock.

What a journey! The travellers, huddled close together, could not speak for the cold, intensified by the rapidity at which they were going. The sledge sped on as lightly as a boat over the waves. When the breeze came skimming the earth the sledge seemed to be lifted off the ground by its sails. Mudge, who was at the rudder, kept in a straight line, and by a turn of his hand checked the lurches which the vehicle had a tendency to make. All the sails were up, and the jib was so arranged as not to screen the brigantine. A top-mast was hoisted, and another jib, held out to the wind, added its force to the other sails. Although the speed could not be exactly estimated, the sledge could not be going at less than forty miles an hour.

“If nothing breaks,” said Mudge, “we shall get there!”

Mr. Fogg had made it for Mudge’s interest to reach Omaha within the time agreed on, by the offer of a handsome reward.

The prairie, across which the sledge was moving in a straight line, was as flat as a sea. It seemed like a vast frozen lake. The railroad which ran through this section ascended from the south-west to the north-west by Great Island, Columbus, an important Nebraska town, Schuyler, and Fremont, to Omaha. It followed throughout the right bank of the Platte River. The sledge, shortening this route, took a chord of the arc described by the railway. Mudge was not afraid of being stopped by the Platte River, because it was frozen. The road, then, was quite clear of obstacles, and Phileas Fogg had but two things to fear—an accident to the sledge, and a change or calm in the wind.

But the breeze, far from lessening its force, blew as if to bend the mast, which, however, the metallic lashings held firmly. These lashings, like the chords of a stringed instrument, resounded as if vibrated by a violin bow. The sledge slid along in the midst of a plaintively intense melody.

“Those chords give the fifth and the octave,” said Mr. Fogg.

These were the only words he uttered during the journey. Aouda, cosily packed in furs and cloaks, was sheltered as much as possible from the attacks of the freezing wind. As for Passepartout, his face was as red as the sun’s disc when it sets in the mist, and he laboriously inhaled the biting air. With his natural buoyancy of spirits, he began to hope again. They would reach New York on the evening, if not on the morning, of the 11th, and there were still some chances that it would be before the steamer sailed for Liverpool.

Passepartout even felt a strong desire to grasp his ally, Fix, by the hand. He remembered that it was the detective who procured the sledge, the only means of reaching Omaha in time; but, checked by some presentiment, he kept his usual reserve. One thing, however, Passepartout would never forget, and that was the sacrifice which Mr. Fogg had made, without hesitation, to rescue him from the Sioux. Mr. Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No! His servant would never forget that!

While each of the party was absorbed in reflections so different, the sledge flew past over the vast carpet of snow. The creeks it passed over were not perceived. Fields and streams disappeared under the uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Between the Union Pacific road and the branch which unites Kearney with Saint Joseph it formed a great uninhabited island. Neither village, station, nor fort appeared. From time to time they sped by some phantom-like tree, whose white skeleton twisted and rattled in the wind. Sometimes flocks of wild birds rose, or bands of gaunt, famished, ferocious prairie-wolves ran howling after the sledge. Passepartout, revolver in hand, held himself ready to fire on those which came too near. Had an accident then happened to the sledge, the travellers, attacked by these beasts, would have been in the most terrible danger; but it held on its even course, soon gained on the wolves, and ere long left the howling band at a safe distance behind.

About noon Mudge perceived by certain landmarks that he was crossing the Platte River. He said nothing, but he felt certain that he was now within twenty miles of Omaha. In less than an hour he left the rudder and furled his sails, whilst the sledge, carried forward by the great impetus the wind had given it, went on half a mile further with its sails unspread.

It stopped at last, and Mudge, pointing to a mass of roofs white with snow, said: “We have got there!”

Arrived! Arrived at the station which is in daily communication, by numerous trains, with the Atlantic seaboard!

Passepartout and Fix jumped off, stretched their stiffened limbs, and aided Mr. Fogg and the young woman to descend from the sledge. Phileas Fogg generously rewarded Mudge, whose hand Passepartout warmly grasped, and the party directed their steps to the Omaha railway station.

The Pacific Railroad proper finds its terminus at this important Nebraska town. Omaha is connected with Chicago by the Chicago and Rock Island Railroad, which runs directly east, and passes fifty stations.

A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the station, and they only had time to get into the cars. They had seen nothing of Omaha; but Passepartout confessed to himself that this was not to be regretted, as they were not travelling to see the sights.

[remarcely]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47022043/chapters/118460551

The Mysterious Mystery of one Thalia Grace:

“Where are we?”

“Hm?” She glanced up.

“This doesn’t look like a Helicopter, Nat.” He snorted and limply gestured to the interior of the hut.

“Some shack, I don’t know. We didn’t have a lot of options.” She tucked the end of the bandage into the rest and took a deep breath.

“Eh, we’ve had worse.”

“Come here, let me check your head.” Natasha went to stand but faltered when her boot crunched against glass. She lifted her shoe, only to find a broken picture frame coated in glass and a heavy layer of dust “What the…” She shook her head, not important.

Clint was fine, if a little concussed, and the only problem was the bleeding. She wrapped it as best she could with such a small first aid pack and told him to lie still, before reaching down to the picture frame. It was entirely shattered and the backing fell away when she tried to lift it. The picture, a little ripped, flittered free and was snatched from the air by Natasha's quick reflexes.

Whatever had been shown in the frame wasn’t the entire picture, one end folded behind. On the clearer sun-discoloured part was a young girl holding a toddler on her lap at a picnic. The girl was maybe nine or ten, her hair was short and an unbrushed black. She had clip on earrings, something cheap, and a large baggy band t-shirt. The boy in her arms, around two, looked nothing like her. He had blonde hair was grinning so wide Natasha was concerned it hurt, especially with the new scar on his lip.

On the hidden part, there was a woman. She was smiling too, but it looked more like a pose as she made eyes for the camera. The lady was holding the camera in a selfie, her kids behind her just in frame, with the little girl glaring something fierce her way.

Natasha flipped it around, wondering if there was anything written on the back, and lowered the photo slowly when Clint gasped. He didn’t try to sit up, a wise choice, but did start making grabby hands for the picture. Slowly, she handed it to him, and watched curiously when he snatched it up, holding it ridiculously close to his face. Maybe he was hit harder than they thought.

“That’s Beryl- whatshername.” He clicked his fingers, frustrated, and screwed up his eyes in thought “Uh, George, Gar-something, Grace! That’s it, Beryl Grace.”

[rausule]

Wesp smaak Lewe

die effens somber kaggel, die bokse sonder versuikerde amandels, die marmervrugte beskerm deur glasklokke,

5. 'n skaars speelding, die kissies gemaak van mossels,

die voorwerpe met die vermaning, hallo, ek onthou, die klappers,

Venesië uitgebeeld in mosaïeke, die effens dowwe waterverf, die afdrukke, die koffers, die geverfde albums van argaïese anemone,

die doeke van Massimo d'Azeglio, die miniature, 10. die daguerreotipes: dromerige figure in verwarring,

die groot ou kandelaar wat in die middel van die sitkamer hang en goeie goed van slegte smaak in die kwarts gooi,

die koekoek van die ure wat sing, die stoele bedek met damast

chermisi... Ek is wedergebore, wedergebore uit eenduisend agt honderd en vyftig!

15. Die boeties en sussies kan vandag net versigtig die eetkamer binnegaan (hulle het die kussingslope van die meubels afgehaal: dit is 'n galadag). Maar hulle het in groepe ingebars. Die groot suster Speranza het saam met haar lewensmaat Carlotta op vakansie aangekom.

Ouma is sewentien! Carlotta amper dieselfde: 20. hulle het onlangs toestemming gehad om 'n hoepel by die romp te voeg;

die baie groot sirkel waai die romp met turkoois rose:

die wesp-middellyf kom slanker uit die krinoline.

Albei het 'n tjalie met lemoene, blomme, voëls, kranse: die hare is verdeel in twee bande wat halfpad teen die wange afsak.

25. Hulle het sonder moegheid van Mantua aangekom by die Lago Maggiore

al het hulle veertien uur per verhoogkoets gereis.

Hulle het die beste eksamen van die hele klas geslaag. Wat 'n asem

verskriklike verlede! Hulle het die kosskool vir altyd verlaat.

O kalm Belgirate! Die kamer kyk uit oor die tuin: 30. tussen die regop stamme skitter die spieël van die blou meer.

Stilte, kinders! Vriende - kinders, vat dit stadig! - die vriende probeer 'n bondel ou musiek op die klavier:

ietwat kunsmatige motiewe in die blaarryke sewentiende-eeuse kuns van Arcangelo del Leuto en Alessandro Scarlatti;

35. verspreide minnaars, kreun die «kern» en «<l'augello»>, lompe van Giordanello in soet lelike verse:

"... my skat, glo my ten minste,

sonder jou,

my hart kwyn!

Jou getroue

sug elke keer, hou op wreed

so streng! >>

45. Carlotta sing, Speranza speel. Soet en blom

die lewe maak oop vir die kort romanse van duisend beloftes.

O musiek, sagte fluistering! En reeds in die verborge siel van elkeen glimlag die beloofde bruidegom: Prins Charming,

die bruidegom van drome het gedroom... O madeliefies in kosskool 50. blaai vir towerspreuk op die teer verse van Prati!

My oom het aangekom, deugsame heer, baie respekvol,

lojaal aan die Passato tot Lombardo-Veneto en aan die Keiser. Die tante het aangekom, 'n baie waardige vrou, baie eerbaar, getrou aan die Verlede alhoewel verlief op die koning van Sardinië.

55. "Soen die hand van die Ooms!" sê Pa en Ma, en lig hulle gesigte na die onwillige kleintjies.

die son is geklee in goud, die maan is geklee in silwer.

En dit is haar vriendin met vakansie: Mademoiselle Carlotta Capenna: die mees geleerde leerling, Speranzas se naaste vriendin.

Maar goed... maar wel... maar wel... sê hy Jesuïties en laat

60. die baie respekvolle oom maar goed ... maar wel ... maar wel ...

Hut? Ek het 'n Arturo Capenna ontmoet... Capenna... Capenna....

Veilig! By die Weense Hof Safe... Safe... Safe...

Wil hulle 'n bietjie marsala hê? Mevrou Suster miskien. En op die gala-leunstoele het hulle mooi gesels.

65... maar Brambilla het nie geweet nie... En dis al vet vir Ernani; La Scala het nie meer soprane nie... - Wat 'n aar is Verdi Giuseppe!

...in Maart gaan ons werk by die Fenice hê: hulle het vir my gesê dis splinternuut: Rigoletto; ons praat van 'n meesterstuk.-

... blou of grys?-En hierdie oorbelle! Wat 'n pragtige 70. robyne! En hierdie kamele?... Die groot nuwigheid van Parys...

Radetsky? Maar wat! Die wapenstilstand... vrede, vrede wat heers... Daardie jong koning van Sardinië is 'n man van groot oordeel!

-Hy is beslis 'n slapelose en sterk en wakker en skerpsinnige gees. Hy is aantreklik - Glad nie aantreklik nie ... - Hy hou baie van vroue

75. Hoop! (leun stadig af, in ek is 'n bietjie sibillyn)

Charlotte! Gaan af tuin toe en speel pluimbal!

Toe is die rustige vriendinne weg met 'n perfekte een

buig baie ri

of ek respekteer die Ooms baie goed

Oime! Omdat, speel, 'n vliegwiel te verwerp vir die aanranding. 80. nie meer van die top van die takke van 'n perdekastaiing neergedaal nie!

Die vriende buig op die balustrades en kyk na die meer, droom van die liefde wat ek in hul pragtige driester-drome voorsien

... as jy kon sien watter pragtige tande!-Hoe oud?-Agt-en-twintig -Digter?-Gereelde Gravin Maffei se sitkamer

85. Hy wil nie sterf nie, die dag kwyn nie. Die pers verlig nog meer: ​​soos 'n dagbreek gestigmatiseer met bloed.

dit gaan uiteindelik uit, maar stadig. berge verdonker in koor:

Romantiese maan in 'n ligte nimbus, soen die hare

90. van die populiere geboë soos 'n kind se wenkbroue,

die droom van 'n hele verlede kampe in jou kurwe: is jy nie gebore uit 'n afdruk van die Illustrated Storyteller nie?

Het jy nie die verlate huise van Parisina die pragtige gesien nie? Is jy nie die een vir wie jong Werter lief was nie?

95. ... Mah!... Drome wat nog kom. Die meer het digter geword van sterre... wat dink jy?... - Ek dink nie so nie... - Sou jy graag wou sterf? <<Ja! - Dit blyk dat die lug meer sterre in die water en meer skyn openbaar. Buig op die balustrades: so droom ons tussen twee hemele...

<<Ek is geskors: Ek sweef hoog!... - Jy weet Mazzini...

100. En is jy lief vir haar? Watter goddelike verse!... Hy het vir my daardie boek gegee, onthou jy? wat vertel as liefdevol sonder geluk

iemand maak homself dood vir een: vir een wat my naam gehad het>>.

Charlotte! Naam nie mooi nie, maar soet! Mag stagecoaches, tjalies, crinolines herleef word soos essensies...

105. O vriend van Nonna, ek ken die blombeddings waar jy die gevalle van Jacopo mesti in Foscolo se teer boek lees.

Ek sit jou met groot hartseer op die kennisgewingbord vas, waar die datum in jou hand is: agt-en-twintig Junie van eenduisend aghonderd-en-vyftig.

Jy is asof bekoor in 'n lied: jou blik na die diep lug, 110. en jou wysvinger na jou lip, volgens die romantiese houding.

Daardie dag - melancholie! —jy het 'n pienk rok gedra om vir jou 'n baie nuwe ding te doen!-uitbeeld in fotografie...

Maar ek sien jou nie in die blom, of vriend van Nonna nie! Waar is jy of alleen wat dalk - kan ek liefhê, liefhê met liefde?

* Die teks is aanwesig, met variasies, in I colloquia, waar dit kommentaar gelewer sal word.

[lowkey-ok]

I am currently goobin' I did my chores yesterday and the stuff I ordered arrived. The chores were tough but so much easier because I was home alone, I faked being sore from marching in order to stay home from clothes shopping... I hate clothes shopping because my dad might like something that I don't but I have to go with it or I will get lectured about why I don't like expensive clothing (my dad works his ass off and worked very hard for the position he has, he is the straight A student, not because he is more talented it's because he works harder than everyone else... he often talks crap about his coworkers because they don't work as hard as him to know their stuff. In the field he is in he has to he very careful, even one slip up could kill him... though I doubt it will kill him because he has been doing this for a while. Though everytime I think about him dying I start sobbing, I don't want him to leave) anyway I love my dad, but then we have to go through the chaos that is my brother and my sister. Me and my sister are like water and oil, and my brother is like koolade mix. It's mixed best with water (sister) and could possibly mix with the oil but it would be unnecessary and not that rewarding... but that isn't even the worst part... the crowds scare me to death, during my sister's birthday I was freaking out the entire time and then when I finally got the courage to say something I got instantly shut down. I was and am a mess, I made their trip less fun because I went.. same with the Colorado trip where I spent most of my time taping on my mom's shoulder and asking her if I could get this adorable pink bunny stuffed animal.. she just told me I was weird so I didn't get it... I got pens though, I gave one to my sister of which she destroyed with her friend and threw it away... well that and I sat in the hotel room and watched bluey for the majority of the time. We there for the hot springs and I hate swimming... just something about it makes my spine shiver, speaking of shivers my body randomly shakes a lot... I don't get it... I don't understand it... but I have to live with it I guess, in band the instructor does the "band ten hut" then we have to scream a phrase (I don't want anyone to even potential find out the town i go to, let alone school) then get into position... I never scream the phrase because feel uncomfortable yelling for some reason... anyways that's when we have to go into position and we can't move.. my posture is horrible so the position it hurts. Btw the position is feet together, legs together, slightly bent knees, shoulders rolled back, puffed out chest, neck straight, head straight and arms put to the side in a very specific way in a very specific spot. I always fail to stay in position when I goof up, to my coping mechanism to failure in front of a large crowd doesn't work.. because I am a dude I can't and don't want to cry in front of people... so I always try to make a joke about it and laugh it off while tearing up... sometimes that doesnt work. Especially here, another thing I do to help is music and when I put some in I got instantly told off for having an earbud in. So then I just resorted to silently crying so nobody noticed.. but then some people noticed and started complementing me... I don't need their pity, they only complemented me because they know that I am the worst one there. I also got my stuff yesterday, I got an acrylic dangler and a figurine. It was a mari dangler and a basil figure from OMORI... I made a funny video with them both so I am just going to like the tiktak I made with them because I am proud of it

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8LH34CC/

So those are cool and I love them, I am ordering a jacket from the OMOCAT store along with another dangler this time a boss rush blind bag I want the Pluto one, or the Jawsum one, or any of them because they are all cool... oh yeah, so I was planning on hanging out with a friend, (I only say friend to protect their identities and so I don't single one of them out if they ever find this heavy doubt though) he ended up not being able to come over because he was exhausted, which is fair. But before I asked him I asked my parents and they told me to clean my room and do all my chores, so I did them and they asked for proof.. so I sent them like 10 pictures of my room and they said sure. So anyways I woke up today, for some reason I was dreaming about escaping fnaf through a metal cage and the animatronics where just like "hey that's not fair" or something, but anyway I woke up to banging at my door... I said "wut doyu wan?" My sister said breakfast. Bad way to walk up, I am not a fan of waking up to people banging on my door because it scares the shit out of me. I am going to keep this short bc i have been typing for way too long. So pretty much I asked my mom if I could hangout with the friend and she said no, when I asked why she said, "today is the snooze day right?" Because I was talking about how it was rainy and the lighting was perfect to nap and how I was going to sleep all day, but then I remembered I did that yesterday. So I asked her, "so NOW you are all in for the snooze day?" She said no and wanted to check my remessied room or else i couldn't hang out with my friend then decided to give me like 3 more different chores I had to do before noon or she would steal all my electronics, phone, laptop, drawing tablet, tv, roku, the random handheld I bought, like every single bit. It's so infuriating that she bought a thing to regulated my internet use, so she could just turn off my internet whenever she wants (she hasn't found out that I can bypass it will mobile data and hotspots yet though) she wants me to read so bad but she refuses to buy any books I ask for, she tells me "find it in the library" so I check in the library and they don't have it. So I tell her that and she tells me to buy it with my own money, see I am 15, you know how hard it is to get a job at 15. Especially with issues because I can't work on grills or any machinery so that means the places I can work are numbered and I am not good enough to beat out the competition that also want a job. Also I found out that if I take a shit ton of Tylenol in the morning for like the first half of the day my brain doesn't melt and I don't have as many of the effects of a panic attack.. my heart still pounds though. Back to the book thing, so with my limited money she expects me to buy a book, that I wanted because you wanted me to read so bad that you will steal the stuff I am enjoying to make me not read.. because I will just find other shit to do, it's not that hard... pencil drawing is fun as well as digital, but I prefer digital.. one book that I want to read, like actually is the art book and strat guide to OMORI just because I love OMORI it's so good

Anyways I have been typing too long, have a good rest of your day... I am doing fine

[crimsun-n-clover]

hey so i’m panicking for a stupid reason

sugar is just fucking OUT THERE. SOMEWHERE.

there are places i know to avoid. boston coffee house, beauty stores, tacky ass new age cafes, anywhere that promotes themselves as omg healing self care, beaches, all that shit.

there are places she probably avoids. gas stations, thrift stores, diners, comic stores, empty retention pond pits (literally so fun you just throw yourself into them), all the shit i do.

like today i was in a nice downtown area she likes, but because i stuck to the creepy antique stores and record shops, chances of contact were very low. i simply cannot see her strolling into main street music, absolutely covered in scary posters n shit, nearly impossible to walk in, and go “yeah i’m gonna look around.” i got a megadeth cd, two dio cds, one smiths album, an old comfort album, and a siouxsie album. if she doesn’t see taylor swift advertised on the door she’s fucking OUT OF THERE. thank GOD actually. i know i would’ve made her come in if we were still talking and went together, showed her where the things she likes are at, all that, but it’s better to know that my interests probably ward her off.

my brain on the other hand? helpfully supplying paranoia.

my sibling / bestie / hive mind member (jesus christ i need to come up with names atp) likes going to the beach and i’m the only person who can get her there. sugar goes constantly. i don’t know which beach she goes to or where at said beach she hangs around, but i’m terrified of running into her there. because chances are, she’ll see my friend first and go “omg hiii it’s so good to see you!!” and then see me hiding under the umbrella and immediately fucking 180 on her mood. i don’t want to see how she reacts to me. i know it’s bad, and i don’t want to know how bad it can get coming face to face with me.

i felt my chest get all tight and i couldn’t breathe or sit still or uncurl my body. i felt a strong and horrid urge to hurt myself. it happened in my head, but just knowing that it’ll probably happen someday?? i can’t bare it.

i ran into the gym rat girl i’m kinda into and her boyfriend this weekend. i see people i know all the time. i’m biding my time until it’s her. because then, statistically, it’ll be a long time before i see her again, if ever.

god, just writing this, i’ve unlocked a new fucking phobia. sure, i dream about it, but now that it’s summer, she’s fuckin out and about probably. i could go to the movie theater and put a quarter into the pac man machine and then fuckin whoops inky got my ass because i smelled the perfume she always wears and i went into fight or flight. it’s happened more times than i’d like to admit.

i don’t even know how i’d react.

i wanna say i’d play it cool and indifferent to fuck with her head, because she deserves that. but really, i’d probably catch a glimpse of a pale chick under five feet tall, do a final girl scream, and bolt the fuck out of there. not that i’m good at running. i probably have POTS, i have legs that are disproportionately long, and i’m usually wearing ten pounds of tacky jewelry and maybe some six inch platform boots if i plan on behaving. i’d be a blurry fucking stick of jingling chains and fucking fag terror.

i still know her exact pizza order, and yet, this is how i think about her. pizza hut, sometimes stuffed crust, plain with mushrooms. i doubt she remembers anything about me. i always was the archivist out of the two of us, keeping track of inside jokes and personal preferences. she probably only remembers hating my stupid queer guts. or maybe she also remembers how cold my hands are, and how i could pick her up bridal style when she got a bit too bold, and the time i brought her cotton candy from the fair just because she said she hadn’t had any in a long time. and i sat in her driveway for hours, listening to van halen while she took pictures of herself on my phone. i was late for band practice that day. and now she has me blocked on everything.

i wish i could say i hate her. i could say it, but i wouldn’t mean it. i’m weak like that.

i hate that i miss the way she made me feel. i hate that something in me still needs her. i hate that i lost so much of myself with her. i hate that i can’t be vulnerable again. i hate that the kiddos now either don’t know what’s going on, got a basic summary, or know that mom and dad are divorced as fuck. i hate that i have to worry about if the places i go would be somewhere she would be. i hate that i still dream about her. i hate that the whole area her house in makes me feel heavy and sick, not fluttery and warm like it used to. i hate that i feel so small, yet too big to handle at the same time. i hate that i have a pile of her things. i hate that my favorite sweater that i shared with her is on my bed. i hate that i showed her all the things i loved. i hate that i know everything about her and anything she ever told me. i hate that i know her guitar was strung right handed, even though she’s left handed. i hate that i can’t listen to some of my favorite songs because the warmth they bring me is too much like how i felt with her. i hate that i’ll never see her dog again. i hate that i won’t ever again lean against her kitchen counter while she stacks cups and refuses to let me help her prepare for a party. i hate that i miss when she would give me the wrong time for an event so she could be alone with me before it. i hate that i lost someone that would count down the days until i came home whenever i left, even when we didn’t see each other afterward, because she “likes having me close, even if i don’t see you.” i hate that all i wanna do is sleep, do reckless shit, self destruct, and lay under my weighted blanket. i hate that when i lay on the floor, i almost feel her sitting next to me, on my left side, leaning over me to continue the conversation. i hate that i remember that she always stood on my left. i hate that she told me that when she thought of me, she’d get a tingly feeling through her right arm. i hate that i’d get the same thing in my left. i hate that so many people thought we’d work out. i hate that i rarely wear leather anymore because she always commented on it. i hate that she would always be so jealous about me talking to other girls, which gave me false hope that led to me cutting them off. i hate that i know exactly where she wants to live and exactly what job she wants. i hate that whenever something she enjoys comes out with more content, i think “oh she must be ecstatic right now.”

i can’t stand any of it. fuck this.