#because the person (tar pit) is just going to continue on with that behavior

[creative-anchorage]

^their tags:

#'oh lii you shouldn't tell people to be mean back' tough tiddies because it works #sometimes being mean is blocking and deleting their comments after telling them what a piece of shit they are #and they need to get a taste of their own cooking to learn

I wanna know where people have lately gotten the audacity to leave comments on fanfics talking about how much the fanfic sucked and negatively critiquing an author's fic like it's a published book review.

It pisses me off cause I've seen authors abandoned or delete their fics because of this.

You're getting fanfics for FREE! No one asked for your opinion.

I hope y'all know as authors we get email notifications when you comment so we see EVERY comment that's been left.

We also can see the negative reviews you leave when you bookmark our fics

[rottingdotcom]

i hope you learn to do kinder things with your time. i'm not sure where you got off thinking that you were doing good by attempting to socially punish someone for their mental illness. it was never any of your obligations to help cheavy at any point, and its baffling that you expected sympathy and pity because you regretted financially assisting him when he was in need. It was especially nasty when you tried to imply the 2000$ he gets in govt assistance is proof he is undeserving of that help. And I know you claim that deep down you "want the best", but if that were really true, you would have handled the situation like a rational adult and solved it person to person or blocked and moved on. the fact you went and deleted that post just goes to show you know all this was wrong to do in the first place. that being said the damage is still done and you've clearly only made his mental health worse and deleting the post will not change that. Human tar pit.

I have had Cheavy blocked for five months on all platforms. I have not unblocked him since the day he used five different platforms in an attempt to contact me after I blocked him on each one. If you had read the full statement, you would see that this was a result of months of this constant cycle of abuse.

I had resolved it on my end for a while until one of his victims came to me for help, and I realized that he had only gotten worse with his abusive behavior. That he had hurt more people and caused more harm to so many more people. That he had been lying about me for months and convincing people, such as you, that I was a one-dimensional villain.

I'm not a good person. I'm really not. I'm a tired, exhausted individual with loads of my own trauma and mental health problems to deal with, who wants nothing more than to see this individual finally stop continuing this cycle.

Cheavy is a repeat abuser. This is his behavior model. This is part of his long lasting, ever repeating cycle. The "psychotic episode" is one component of the "Begging for Forgiveness" stage of his cycle of abuse. As someone who was his punching bag for six months, and is now currently his scapegoat, I have learned to recognize the signs and the signals of when he is lying or being truthful.

Cheavy is not actually trying to kill himself. It's a final plea for sympathy and forgiveness. When he knows he isn't going to win with any of his other manipulative tactics, he resorts to threatening to commit suicide to force his victims into forgiving him and providing him with sympathy. I've called the local non-emergency line and spoken to their community response team (the mental health emergency team) multiple times. Every time we think he's attempted suicide, it turns out he hadn't even left his bed. It's almost always a false alarm.

I hope that Cheavy will one day accept their help and seek out more serious therapy to get out of this constant cycle. When I say we want him to get help, I really mean it. We want him to leave the Internet, get help from his local resources, succeed in college and graduate, maybe even make some friends in real life. We want him to live a healthy life. That's our goal.

But the first step he has to take is admitting he has a problem, and ending this cycle of behavior online. But until he does that, we want to prevent more victims from falling into his cycle.

[wyrm-wolf]

Could you listen to I'm not supposed to love you anymore by Bryan White and write a sterek fic on that with a happy ending?

First of all how dare you, second of all HOW DARE YOU!! This hurt a lot! Third off all, this took me a while because my muse suddenly said ‘Let’s add a plot twist!!” Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Angst, Feral Behavior

~~

Derek has only cried a few times in his entire life. Enough that he can count it all on one had. When his family was burned alive, Boyd was killed, getting married to Stiles and then getting his heart torn apart by Stiles.

Looking down at the photos taken on their wedding day, Derek feels like he’s on the verge of crying. He tosses them back into the shoebox and shoves that under his bed. Having the box under his bed isn’t the wisest choice. It feels like every time he walks into the room the box is haunting him; reminding him of the days when he was happy when things were better, when Stiles hadn’t… A tear slips down his cheek, and Derek rubs at his so furiously that his cheek starts going raw from the harsh rubbing. Standing up he leaves the room so he doesn’t get the urge to open up the box and pull out the shirt Derek stole. 

It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

Keeping a shirt that Stiles use to wear all the time around the house, the human wore it so much his scent is practically ingrained in the piece of fabric. He should just throw it away. Maybe burn it. But the moment his fingers touch it he’s rendered useless, his wolf whines and howls for Stiles to come back. It makes him go insane with want and yearning. The feeling of being slowly buried alive. But Stiles isn’t coming back, he’s moved on with his life while Derek’s stuck in time. Like a dinosaur who walked right into a pt of tar and is slowly dying of starvation until they finally just drown in the pit. Stiles may have moved on, but Derek was stuck. He couldn’t move on. He was stuck still loving Stiles because they were-

They were-

He can’t even say the word without breaking down.

Sipping the now cold tea he left in the kitchen, Derek gets lost gazing out the window. After the divorce, Derek made himself vanish from everyone’s lives. He couldn’t go to pack meetings without thinking of Stiles, couldn’t talk to Scott or the Sheriff to help out with the most recent monster of the week without thinking of Stiles, infant he couldn’t be anywhere near or around Beacon Hills without thinking of Stiles. The pain was too much for him to handle. So he chucked his phone off a bridge, moved to some remote location in the woods and wolf his car. He just wanted to be alone after all that happened, living seemed too much for him so now he was here in his cabin. Stuck. Crystalized forever.

He’s not supposed to love Stiles anymore. 

Stiles made his peace after they divorced, after he broke Derek’s heart. No. That’s to light of a way to put it. Too gentle, makes it sound like what they had was a high school romance, but that’s not what it was at all. At least not too Derek. Stiles didn’t break his heart, he demolish-annihilated his heart. There was nothing to pick up once Stiles had slaughtered him, and he woke up to an aching gap in his chest. When Derek thought too hard about the ache he thought about the last conversation he had with stiles before vanishing.

They had been sitting in the house they had bought together, signing the divorce papers. Derek struggling to even finish writing his name as his hands trembled with hot white anger. When he finished with the last paper, Derek had thrown the pen across the room watching the thing shatter against the wall, ink splattering against the tan wall.

“Dude! We still have to sell this thing, don’t damage it.” Stiles snapped at him.

“We? There is no ‘we’ anymore Stiles. I don’t care about the damage. It’s yours. Everything’s yours. Just take it all with you, or throw it away, it’s not like it matters to you anymore.”

Sighing, Stiles reached out to place a hand on Derek’s shoulder, only for the werewolf to recoil from he touch. If Stiles had touched him he wouldn’t have fought anymore, he would have folded in half and break down right in front of the human. Stiles made him weak. He made him human. But apparently Stiles didn’t seem to care about any of that, now did he?

 “You were the only person I could trust, Stiles.” Derek growled half heartedly, the anger burned inside him but the pain wasn’t easy to ignore. The wolf inside of him felt like it was tearing his insides apart, leaving him wide open. He left after that, slamming the door hard enough he could hear the wood shake beneath his fury. 

Sighing, Derek set the tea down and looked over to the couch where it was stacked with chains to hold him.

It was the full moon tonight and Derek didn’t know if he could hold the wolf back anymore. Last full moon he almost lost himself too the animal, but now as the moon begins to rise he thinks, ‘Would it really be so bad?’

He’d be ok with loosing himself. Stiles would have been dissappointed in him for giving up, but Stiles isn’t here anymore. Stiles doesn’t care anymore. This time when the moon rises, Derek lets the animal loose. He goes feral, claws and teeth shredding his last bit of humanity as he cries to the moon. Being a wolf is freeing; the ache is still there but he doesn’t think about it as much, can’t think of it was much when all the wolf want’s to do is run and hunt. So he let’s himself get lost, he forgets his life as a human, he forgets his name.

But most importantly he forgets Stiles.

~~

3 Weeks Later

The Wolf smells something strange in his territory. It growls and snaps at the air when it’s nose picks up the scent too close to his den. The wolf does not remember much. It thinks it had a name, or perhaps lived somewhere else. But the wolf knows that if he tries to remember that bad-pain-ache-hurt-no comes back and the wolf does not enjoy the unfamiliar ache in its chest. It growls and tracks the scent hoping to scare off whatever is rummaging in his den. When the wolf gets a few feet from its den it growls sharper when it smells another wolf, ‘bad smell’ the wolf thinks to itself. Not good.

The rummaging stops and then a two legged creature comes running out of the wolfs den. He has seen these weird things before, the two legs are tall but easy to scare once they see him, so he snarls and snaps. But the two leg does not run. Instead it shouts and makes strange noises the wolf does not understand. A noise catches his attention and he snaps his head to the side to bare teeth at the other wolf, strange-wolf-who-walks-on-two-legs seems confused by his warming and tries to flash red eyes. They seem familiar to the wolf, but the strange-Alpha-two-leg doesn’t deter his hackles from rising, he has no pack-at least not one he remembers.

Loud-two-leg takes a step closer which get Alpha-two-leg to make a noise that sounds like a warning. But Loud-two-leg is either braver than it looks or stupider. The wolf gets ready to pounce and maul the two leg when he catches wind of the scent.

It makes his body freeze up because he knows that scene. The wolf sleeps on a soft bedding made from that scent. That scent brings along bad-ache-pain and makes him feel weak and upset, but this same smell makes him feel things too hard to comprehend as a wolf.

“Derek? Derek are you in there? Give me a sign, please, anything?” Loud-two-leg says to him, the wolf understands simple words and the sound it makes brings back that ache.

The wolf whines when Loud-two-leg gets closer, he can’t fight back, all his instincts scream at him to lick two-legs face or bury himself against that scent. So he does neither and watches as the Loud-two-leg gets closer and closer, a strangely flawed hand reaches out and when he thinks he’s about to be attacked the wolf is frozen when the hands are gentle to touch. 

Hands.

Yes. That’s what they’re called.

Loud-two-leg continues to gently pet and caress the wolf until his hackles have lowered and he’s found himself pressing closer into that touch. When Alpha-two-leg tries to step closer he snaps and snarls, pushing Loud-two-leg behind him so he can protect that good-ache-smell. Loud-two-leg squawks and makes another sound that sounds like a wolf pup yipping. Maybe Alpha-two-leg and Loud-two-leg are packmates, but the wolf does not care, Loud-two-leg is his! 

Alpha-two-leg walks away after exchanging strange sounds with Loud-two-leg and all the wolf can think is, ‘Good riddance.’ He waits for a time until he’s sure the other wolf is gone before whipping around to push Loud-two-leg down on the ground and roll their scents together. Loud-two-leg huffs and says something but again the wolf does not understand the strange noises Loud-two-leg is making but he feels comforted by them and presses his muzzle against the two legs throat to comfort it. The two leg sighs, a hand reaching up to scratch at the wolf’s fur while continuing to make the noises. The wolf ignores the sounds enough that they become a buzzing sound to him, like when he listens to the woods at night and only hears the chirping crickets, the owls hooting and some of the nocturnal animals moving about.

“Derek.”

The wolf startles at the noise-no, the name. The wolf knows it was something other long ago, once it even understood the noises Loud-two-leg are making right now, but that one word strikes a chord. It makes him…remember…That aching feeling comes back and the wolf-Derek-wolf-Derek-it hurts! He snarls and jumps off Loud-two-leg-smell-good as he feels his skin begin to crawl, bones creaking and his teeth grinding in pain. When his body is done shifting and changing the wolf-Derek; his name is Derek and he…

Derek growls, blue eyes flashing at Stiles who is still sitting on the ground with his mouth open like a fish out of water, “What are you doing here. Haven’t you hurt me enough. I was just fine-“

“Fine? Holy shit, Derek, the little cabin you ‘lived’ in is in ruins. I had to track you by your car-which you sold three towns over, and then Scott heard something about a wolf living out here. He followed your scent to this shit hole, and when we find you your feral! Derek you didn’t even know who I was-how long-how long have you been out here likes this?”

“Does it matter?”

Stiles glares, “Of course it do-“

“Does it?” He snaps, claws extending and fangs begging to drop. Derek knows he would never harm Stiles, but he can’t stand being around him for long or else he becomes human again. “You wanted the divorce re-“

“Derek! That wasn’t me!”

What?

“What?”

Scrubbing at his face, Stiles breathes out through his nose before explaining, “A shaman kidnapped me when I was coming home work and kind of Harry Pottered us by making something that was like polyjuice, and was living as me for months. And then Peter came by after hearing we divorced to kill me, which ended up being how the pack found out it wasn’t me when he found the man changing from me to himself. He was trying to destroy our pack, and almost did until Peter came.” Stiles huffs, “I’m actually-and don’t tell him this, or I’ll ban sex forever-but I’m actually really grateful he came to kill other me when he thought we divorced.”

“How long?” He grits his teeth, “How long has he been you, did you-“

“Derek, if I really wanted a divorce would I have spent the last week spending every second of the day looking for you? Would I have dropped everything all together the moment I heard what the shaman did to you-to us? Just to come here and find you-”

Without waiting for Stiles to continue Derek leaps at the man, teeth clacking as they kiss, Stiles making a noise that goes from startled to pleasure when Derek swipes his tongue against the inside of his mouth. They lay like that for a while just kissing and touch, Derek’s primal need to rub his scent all over Stiles until those other strange scents aren’t driving him crazy, or Stiles just running his fingers through Derek’s too long beard and commenting how the werewolf could be the next Tarzan. They’re interrupted when Scott comes back and chokes as he sees Derek shoving his tongue down Stiles throat, “Seriously guys? Can we go now?”

“Fine. Fine.” Stiles mentions off handedly, before pointing a finger at Derek, “When we get back home we’re having so much sex. I mean all the sex.”

“Ok, Stiles.” Derek grins, stopping as he follows them back to the car to run back to the house and pull out the shoebox that he kept. He sighed in relief when he found all the contents still inside and intact. When Stiles raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Derek opened the box to show him the wedding ring and photos he kept.

“God, you massive sap. I love you so much.” Stiles tells him, tears in his eyes.

[stunudo]

Infiltrated: Part 7

A FBI Agent reader thrusts herself in the middle of the Reaper investigation, leaving the BAU questioning if they need her. Foyet unleashes another layer to his manipulation of Aaron Hotchner and his team. Is this consulting agent trustworthy? Something about her tells Hotch that this case is just as important to her as it is him. Can she work both sides of the law to meet her means? A salacious series of smut and betrayal….

Featuring: George Foyet x Female Reader, Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Setting: Season 5

A/N:  This is dark and dangerous. Our reader goes by Agent Turner to protect her identity. xoxo Stu

Series

Warnings: Minor mentions of violence, moral repugnancy, and general unsub behavior. Alcohol. Only implied of smut this time.

Your name: submit What is this?

There were days when you felt almost normal: going to work, grabbing groceries, drinking heavily, both coffee and other dark liquids. Then there were patches of time when you felt yourself cracking like a fraying rope, each layer of twine snapping as the two directions you had tied yourself to drew you apart. Splitting you open. The stress had you edgy, the booze made you weepy.

George was angry that you had no sway with the marshals, you told him to go find himself a hole to fill in that agency instead. It was petty, but you weren’t above that at the moment. You needed time to breathe and whenever you closed your eyes you saw Hotch in that hospital bed. It had been twenty days, when your phone rang unexpectedly.

“Turner?” You sat at your desk, mindlessly filling out a report. You coffee cold and your mind unfocused when his gruff voice woke you up.

“Y/N, it’s me.” Aaron Hotchner had all but dropped off the face of the earth since you left his hospital room to give him and his ex-wife privacy.

“Caller ID. How are you?” You kept your voice low and your tone light, each word clipped.

“Been better, apparently being stabbed is a real inconvenience.” He was being glib? Honestly.

“And you call yourself a profiler... So did you need something or just wanted to save me from the mountain of reports I’d rather not do?”

“If you’re busy, Y/N, by all means--”

“Aaron?” You cut him off. “Look, I should be out on time tonight. Do you want me to pick up some take out and stop by?”

“I’m not looking for pity,” He replied simply.

“That’s good, because I don’t feel sorry for you.” You switched ears as you let him work through your bluntness. “Aaron Hotchner, you faced the Reaper and lived to hunt him down. You have my respect.... Now, can I invite myself over or would you rather continue to wallow alone?”

“Call when you’re downstairs, the building’s security has been ramped up.”

You couldn’t help but smirk into the mouthpiece. “7-ish?”

Stepping through the glass doors into the BAU’s bullpen made you feel like a substitute teacher walking in on the wrong lecture. Slowly, the profilers unwrapped their brains from their previous case to acknowledge your presence.

“Sorry to bother you all,” you tried overtly polite as your invitation was getting stale after the attack on their beloved Unit Chief. “Just wanted to check in since, everything.”

Morgan’s eyebrows practically lept off his face, Reid’s mouth drooped widely as JJ froze. Prentiss was the first to break the uncomfortable silence, “Turner, have you been given a copy of the evidence and Hotch’s accounts of the attack?”

“I haven’t received any updates to the case files since Hotch has been out of the office,” you admitted, trying not to take the oversight personally.

“There’s an easy solution and she likes unicorns.” Prentiss smiled without teeth. “Walk with me?”

You fell into step with the raven haired beauty. “Thanks, I didn’t want to barge in, but I want to help. Especially--”

“Since its Hotch?” Her voice wasn’t condescending, it was almost curious. Her wise eyes held a kindness in them, one that you didn’t instinctively turn away from. “Look, we all want to get the bastard, but the others, they sort of circle the wagons when a profiler is down.”

“The strength of the wolf is the pack.” You recited a bit of Kipling.

“Pretty much. I might still be the novice profiler, but I’m not going to turn away an extra brain.” You smiled, appreciating her pragmatism. “Hey, Garcia-”

Prentiss got you squared away with all of the new details and listed on the BAU’s latest communication list with Strauss and the Boston PD. If there was anything more than a blip about Foyet, you’d be one of the first to be alerted. It was time to be a team player.

He woke you by nuzzling your elbow, his nose trailing up your arm as his strong hands found your backside and drew it to him. His breath was warm in the crisp night air, your body melding to his, you clutched his hand in yours, holding it to your heart.

“About time.” You mumbled, letting his huff of amusement fall against your hair. There was something oddly comforting about him lying beside you, his murderous hands stroking your body while at any moment he could end you. Sleeping with George was like sleeping with a boa constrictor, the pressure hurt so good, until you couldn’t take it anymore. Before long you were both asleep, relaxing in the fake safety of your circumstances.

It was just before dawn when he started with the questions, each one pulling you closer to consciousness until his voice was desperate.

“Y/N, are fucking Hotchner?!” It was a strangled plea. You sat up blinking, staring at George as if he was a figure from a dream come to life.

“What’s going on? What are you talking about?” Your heart banged against your chest, the shock of being woken and accused in the same instant adding to the adrenaline. He stood over your bed, dangling your work phone above your face like the proverbial carrot on a stick.

“Lots of calls for someone on medical leave... look here a winky emoticon.”

You rolled over and hid your head in between your pillows, there was nothing he could have figured out from that phone anyway. He was jumping to conclusions and all you had to do was maintain a perfect level of annoyance before he would drop the subject entirely. You kind of hated how much you could predict his moods at this point. Narcissistic ass.

You groaned dramatically and pulled the duvet up to your chin, leaving him to stew in his search. He plopped down at your feet not ten minutes later, almost sheepishly. “Done with your little tantrum?” you asked, not bothering to open your eyes.

He had stripped in his sleep, wearing just his shorts. His tawny body hunched over as he licked his teeth at your sass. “God, there isn’t anything better than making you eat your words, Y/N.”

Your head perked up, catching his drift.

You knew he was ready to get back on that jet, ready to be the man he was before he was broken and robbed of his family. But you didn’t want him back at Headquarters, not yet. You were far from a poster child of healthy coping habits, but you could spot the anger and bitterness before it slipped from his mouth. The stress of profiling would only exacerbate the resentment, but, naturally he passed every interview and clearance exam.

He was set to start in the morning, the files and photos covered his dining table. You had only been over a handful of times, just meals and movies. You made it clear that you wouldn’t overstep and he made it clear that he wasn’t ready to be with you, yet. That strand of possibility that brought you back and kept you at arm’s length.

“Tomorrow’s the big day, huh?” You made small talk, glancing briefly at the images you had memorized.

“Has the team kept you up to date on the case?” Hotch was in his concerned teacher mode.

“There hasn’t been much to update, unless--”

“Unless he kills again.” You pursed your lips at the stalemate you both felt. “Y/N, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you and before I do, I want to assure you that this stays between us, unless it is absolutely necessary to the case.”

Your stomach fell through the floor, his tone was methodical as if he was walking you through a cognitive interview. It made your skin crawl.

“Shoot.” You tried blase.

“Were you ever going to tell me who you were?” He watched you with those tar pit eyes, waiting for you to slip up.

“I was waiting for you to remember me. We met.” You bobbed your head, “Before.”

“Y/N Y/L/N, daughter to George Foyet’s fifth and sixth victims.” Hotch recited your past stoically, as only he could. “I remember a devastated teenager telling me to do my damn job. Contacts?”

“And Botox.” You shrugged. “Where does that leave us?”

@benedictcumberbatchstolemyheart @a-unique-girls-heaven @gummiishark @rottendaisies @sunnygubler @lovebodymindstuff @archaic-zugswang @darkheartednerdwithglasses @mikri-oneiropola @princesswagger14 @justwinchesterme96 @profiler-in-training @kennybud @onlyalittleteenwolfobsessed @conversations-with-you-61065 @dontshootmespence @moonlit-void-to-the-far-unknown @cynbx @cherry-loves-fanfic @hotchnerfuckmeup @illegalcerebral @omallieallie @creativecody16 @kandii395 @tiny-potato-lives @april1535 @gabriellewritermua @daisydukes34 @fandomsxo @sonhadoraativa @nea90sweetie @mimiashton @thespaceprincess @emeliapondraggedymanfan @hgal @yellow-goddess @kindlekix @shawtygonemad @praisethetalos @fand0trash03 @sweetmurder12345 @etp666 @briannavillian @heartsaved @beingbluntlyblount @musicalglitterunicorn @burningmusicmachine @whatwhatwhat

[peqachy]

“Why did you do this to yourself?”

:Hello, this Among Us oneshot is an emotional vent for me. Which means, there will be angst, thoughts of suicide, cutting, attempt of suicide, blood, gore, and death. If these themes trigger or bother you, DO NOT read this. If these themes don’t bother you, you may proceed at your own risk. If you hardcore relate to any of the events in this oneshot, please do not hesitate to seek professional help. Thank you for reading this message.:

[Impostor! Black x White! Reader]

[Summary]

After the death of your closest friend, Lime, you become distant towards everyone on the crew. You behavior in such a time is over looked by your fellow crewmates, them seeing it as very logical to do so when the person you befriended could stab you in the back or be stabbed in the back at any moment. However, not everyone is able to brush off your new behavior so easily.

***

The time read 5:41 am, my eyes staring at the ceiling with frustration. What’s the point anymore? I should just eject myself and be done with all this...after all, the one person who would miss me is gone so there’s no harm in doing it right? Rising from my bed like the living dead, I approach my suit that’s hung on the wall. Should I put it on? I mean, everyone’s asleep right now except for me and possibly the impostor, but that doesn’t concern me right now. I sigh, deciding to stick with the baggy shirt and sleep pants I’m currently wearing since it’ll be over soon.

Walking past admin on my way to cafe the putrid smell of iron brings me to a near gag. What in the-! My thought is cut off by alarm, the gory sight before me bringing me to near tears. There, with blood sprayed around like dried paint, was Orange’s body. Her skull had been crushed in with her torso ripped open. Disgustingly, all her organs have been removed and are nowhere in sight, this includes her lungs and heart which were most likely removed when a blow to her chest caused it to cave in. Just like what happened to the killer’s other victims, their arms and legs have been severed, the bones within the flesh having been broken with inhuman force. It’s just like what happened to Lime! I thought bitterly, shedding silent tears for the one who stood up for me after the last body was reported. I didn’t know Orange too well, hell I don’t know half the people on this ship, but that doesn’t mean my bleeding heart isn’t going to sing the blues about a fellow innocent’s death. Instantly reporting the body, I have to force myself to look away from the dismembered body of the ship’s captain.

To my utter frustration, no one but Black and Blue show up to the meeting, “I’m going to assume to others are too busy sleeping, correct?”

“We tried to wake them up, but they just rolled over and went back to sleep,” Blue sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose while also sporting his sleepwear like me.

“What are you doing up this early, White? You should be sleeping like everyone else,” Black adds, arms folded to rest against the table.

The dark circles under my eyes feel as though they became a hundred times deeper at just the thought of sleeping, but my skin goes cold whenever my slow brain figures out what he’s asking, “I was sleeping, but woke up and got thirsty. So, I was on my way to cafeteria when I smelled blood and found the captain dead in admin.”

It was only a little white lie, but Black didn’t look too pleased as his eyes scan over my slouched form, “You’re lying, what were you really doing?”

A bitter scowl contorts my face, a look of surprise showing on theirs, “I don’t care whether you believe me or not. Good night.”

Storming away, I go back to my room, the sound of my foot falls making my scowl deepen. I should be floating in space right now, not going back to my room. I thought as my door closed behind me, locking into place. How fucking stupid could I be to report Orange’s body? I should have just let it be so I could finish what I was doing. Anger pools in my chest like thick tar, hot and bubbly like an angry volcano. I will end this tonight Taking the knife I found in a vent a few days ago when I tried to get an impostor to kill me, I run the blade across the skin of my arm, leaving deep lashes instead of making small cuts. How fucking idiotic could one person be? Honestly I should have done this sooner! No one will miss me! There’s no point in trying to out who the impostor is on this ship when there’s no future for us out here! Hot tears dripped down my cheeks, all my anger seeping away like the blood pooling around my knees. Why couldn’t it have been me instead? Why did the impostor have to take Lime away from me? Looking down at my lashed up forearms and thighs I begin to tremble. What am I doing, Lime wouldn’t have wanted this! He...he would have wanted me to survive, but...I just want to see him again.. My tears continued to flow, my body flopping onto its side. This is the end isn’t it? I thought as my vision started going spotty. I’m going to die all alone.

Suddenly, the door to my room is busted open, a darkened figure appearing by my side quickly. They looked panicked as they lifted me from the ground and rushed out or my room with me in their arms. I couldn’t see who they were due to my blurry vision, but I could see they were crying. Why are you crying? It it because of me? I’m sorry... My thoughts trail off as I slip into unconsciousness for the last time...

Or at least what I thought would be the last time. 

When I eventually woke up I saw Black sitting next to me while I lay in a bed in Medbay. He is holding my hand as if he were to hold it any tighter it would break like fragile glass. Silently, I watch him, feeling the way he strokes his thumb over my knuckles so sweetly. After a minute or two, he draws my hand up to his lips, kissing knuckles like a gentleman.

“Black...” I breathed out to myself, the heavy ache I’ve felt in my chest for the past month disappearing.

His head swiveled quickly towards me, knocking his chair over from standing up so quickly, “White! You’re okay!”

He hovers over me, pulling me into a hug, “I’m so glad you’re alright!”

My eyes widen, “You’re...glad?”

“Yes, of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?” the look in his eyes are sincere, but his voice seemed to hold an under tone of venom in it.

That’s when I realized it...Black is fully dressed in his space suit. His gloves are damp. Did he recently wash them? I thought-no... “Black...are you the impostor...?”

“What?! What would make you think that?” he asks, almost offended and hurt.

“You’re constantly having to wash your suit...I know people can be clumsy, but no one is so clumsy as to spill gasoline on themselves as often as you do...” I whimper, holding his hand so he can’t run away from me, “Tell me why...tell me why you killed them.”

Black sits in stunned silence, looking from our joined hands to my expression, “I...I had to do it...I had to get rid of them so I could get close to you! I-I didn’t want you to forget me! I had to get close to you so you wouldn’t toss me aside like a bad dream! I-I mean...look how torn up you are over the captain! You only spoke to her a few times! Yet here you are, mourning her as if she were your family!”

At first, I was confused, but then I remembered the others who died before Lime. I had forgotten them like a bitter dream, ignoring they had even existed. My free hand comes to my lips, hot tears sliding down my cheeks at my heartlessness. How could I do that? Am I really that cruel? I really am no better than the impostors...My thoughts are drowned away by my sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Black...I never meant to make you feel that way,” I sob, feeling the pit in my chest return to be worse than before.

“Don’t be sorry! It’s alright because now, you’ll never forget me. You’ll remember me for the rest of your life!” the way he laughs this makes me flinch, his hysteria making me unsettled.

“Black...” I tighten my grip on his hand, “What happened to you? Y...you used to be so sweet and caring! What changed?”

“You chose Lime over me, White. You wanted to be with him instead of me, despite the fact that I was the one who comforted you after the first murder. I was the one who made you feel safe! Why was he so much more qualified to be with you than me? Tell me White!” desperation played in his eyes, the red iris’ that used to love showing nothing but anger.

My already worried expression became one of absolute frustration, “Are you fucking serious? You killed Lime over your jealousy? Black, Lime was in a relationship with Pink! Y’know, the one who died first! I was comforting him after you comforted me! I stuck by him in order to keep him calm! To be his emotional support in this fucked up time of death and you killed him because he ‘stole me away’ from you? News flash: I was never yours in the first place. I could have been yours, if you had grown a pair and actually hung out with me, but all you did was hide and stalk me from the shadows!”

He scowls, his hand returning my tight grip, only to soften at the angry tears that are running down my cheeks, “You’re such a crybaby.”

He hums to me, wiping my tears away with his free hand. I lean away from him, still holding his other hand for dear life. He sighs, noticing my bitter scowl through my h/c hair.

“I know you’re mad at me, and I don’t blame you for feeling that way. Just know, I love you and I don’t want to see you doing this to yourself again. When I found you on the floor in your room I thought I had lost you to the other impostor,” he draws me closer to him, his words melting my anger away.

Seeing no choice but to give in, I lean against shoulder, “Why do you love me?”

“Because you’re perfect,” his response is said in a lovey dovey tone, his strong arms holding me close to him.

“Perfect huh?” I nearly laugh, “I’m far from it...but I’ll let you believe what you want.”

“Does that mean you’re mine?”

“Until I die...” I answer sadly, not having the heart to turn him down when he went through the trouble of saving me, “...I love you...”

I look up to see his expression light up, “I love you more~!”

I smile, fully prepared to fake this love for him to be happy. At least one of is getting a happy ending. Right, Lime?

This is shit and I hate it, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.

[untoldtalesofasinner]

Oddly True

Flower-Gathering

 I left you in the morning,

And in the morning glow,

You walked a way beside me

To make me sad to go.

Do you know me in the gloaming,

Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming?

Are you dumb because you know me not,

Or dumb because you know?

 All for me? And not a question

For the faced Glowers gay

That could take me from beside you

For the ages of a day?

They are yours, and be the measure

Of their worth for you to treasure,

The measure of the little while

That I’ve been long away.

 R. Frost

  Its been four days since I have left my bed. Its been four days since a light has been on in the house. The metaphorical light has been dim to nonexistent for some time. I lay on my side watching the sun rise through the cracks of the blinds. My body aches, probably from being in bed for so long or from the tension of my stressed muscles refusal to sleep. The hours go by as the missed notifications and text messages continue to roll in. I make the first movement in hours which is turning my phone on do not disturb and delete all the apps I have notifications for then stare at the dark tv screen. Somehow the lull soothe me to sleep but it isn’t peaceful and dream free as hoped. I wake up to what feels like days later but its only been a couple hours. My body is hot and sticky, its also been four days since I’ve showered. The ache in my bones knocks and reminds me that the hot water might help. I drag myself from the bed and turn on one light. Progress.

The water is too hot but I let it burn my skin. Being naked and vulnerable in the shower makes the nakedness and vulnerability I feel on the inside much more prominent. Suddenly I want to get out of the shower but I am being held down by the thick steam. I manage to wash my hair and body but the pressure in my chest builds and I can’t breath. Shutting the water off before all the suds have been removed from my body, I yank the towel off the hook not even managing to wrap the whole thing around before pulling the bathroom door open. My breath comes in short huffs and I begin to shake. Firmly pressing my back to the wall I slide down to the floor hoping it gives me steadiness or maybe a sense of security. Minutes pass and I wrap my shaking arms around my knees, if I get small enough it will go away or hopefully I will disappear as a whole. Its not going to go away this time is it?

Water from my hair drips down my back its cold but it doesn’t feel cold. The vibration of my body has dulled but my hands still shake. An overwhelming urge to get out of this house, this state, this country fuck this skin takes over, not in waves but concrete, filling from my toes slowly to my head. I have to get out of this country. I keep running from state to state but that hasn’t provided any relief so far, well relief for long. I know I am running from my problems or whatever makes my body glued to the bed every morning and makes my eyes water every night but I can’t help it.

To Maddie: I need a no questions favor.

I’m happy I haven’t completely shut the world yet as my plan this morning was going to drown my phone instead of switching on a simple DND. How convenient technology has become.

From Maddie: Okay…..

To Maddie: I need you to go to my parents house get my passport and overnight it to me.

To Wanda: Where is my passport?

God, I knew when I was visiting recently I should’ve taken it. I have also brought it upon myself to enlist a middleman. I simply can’t ask my parents to send my passport so urgently. They believe that I am on day four of my new job and about to begin my long journey of going back to college. I mean part of it is still true just a very small part. To avoid any suspicion the middleman is required no longer preferred.

To Maddie: I’ll pay you

From Maddie: What is the overnight cut off?

To Maddie: I don’t know I just need it as soon as possible.

I begin to look forward to a long flight hoping I can sleep restless free or it just won’t seem that way with a plane full of restless passengers to drown me out.

From Maddie: The cut off is at 5PM and I have an appointment at 4:15PM. Does it have to be today?

I don’t reply.

My chest tightens and I rub my face in frustration. A dream is slipping away, no not a dream a salvation. Peeling myself from the floor to dress I stare into the closet at the multiple suitcases. I refuse to give up. I don’t want to spend the money and I don’t want to give into the never ending impression of my running from the world. But its too late I’ve made up my mind, perpetual disappointment seems to follow me anyways. If I can’t get my passport a whole wrench will be thrown to my plans. I don’t want to be limited to domestic, yuck. I play with the though of New York and scout another minion.

To Anthony: I need you to call me when you get out of school its important.

My phone rings and I almost miss it because of that damn dnd but I answer quickly trying to mental math the time zone difference.

“Are you out of school? I ask.

“No I just stepped out of class.” He says waiting for me to get to the point clear worry in his tone. Fuck.

“I need you to find my passport at home and overnight it to me.” I quickly blurt out. He’s quite.

“I asked your mom where she left it but I haven’t heard back and really need it as soon as possible. So if you could when you get home look for it and ship it to me I’ll pay for everything.” I add and wait patiently.

“Okay.” Is all he says after a long beat.

“Uh also don’t really mention anything, you know.” I say.

“Well I am going to have to ask mom where she put it and plus you already talked to her.” His voice is full of curiosity.

“Yeah, yeah its fine you are right. Thank you.” I say quickly and hang up.

One hour and forty three minutes later I am trapped again on the dreaded bed. I have picked my flight and Airbnb as well as scheduled my exam for tomorrow you know to soften the blow. I drag my hands over my face and my chest tightens. Everything hurts and its getting harder to breath again. I fall back at the end of the bed using an arm to cover my eyes from the tiniest of sun light that seeps in through the blinds.

To Anthony: Any luck?

Fourteen minutes later I drag my fingers through my hair. FUCK. I begin to pace around the room.

  I went outside today. The moment the sun hit me I immediately wanted to turn back around and go back inside. Yet several hours later back in my house my shoes are still on. Though I replied to a few messages and calls, saw the sun, and some lights are finally on I still can’t breath. My muscles still ache from trying to hold myself together all day. My passport arrives Saturday at 10AM which unfortunately leaves me over 24hrs to sit in darkness. Darkness that I know that will follow me thousands of miles but maybe it won’t suffocate me as much. There are moments that I catch myself concerned about my own behavior. Am I okay? Do I want to die? I go through the whole suicide questionnaire. Its not that I want to die I just sometime wish I never existed at all. This place is a comfortable one to be in and instead of fighting it I have fully succumbed. This is how its always going to be why continue to fight it and put a fake smile on. I fear I have put to many expectations on my get away and the guilt from lying is a faint background noise.

  didn’t even remember I stopped eating a couple days ago until the alcohol came back up. My chest doesn’t feel as tight but the ache is still there. This feeling doesn’t go away no matter how much I soak it in booze and drugs. I hoped that I would feel differently or feel something. You have no idea how much I hoped I would feel something different than this. God this must be what back sliding feels like. I guess you wouldn’t know since I am sure you haven’t read all the things I’ve written every time I have felt this way over the years. But for me defiantly back sliding. Oddly I am laughing at the thought, could be the booze or drugs.

Everyone loves the surface of me and maybe that’s my fault for keeping everyone at arms length. Its not that I don’t think that people wouldn’t love me this way, I’m just too scared to show people this side. You know that feeling when you’ve been in the sun too long and all the sunscreen you’ve put on hours ago is long gone? Your lips are dry and your eyes burn from the sun? For some damn reason that is the feeling I get when I wake up everyday. Then again I don’t do much of the regular human functions like eat or drink water at the right times. For some damn reason it has been less appealing as the days go by and I gag every time I force water or food down. I want it to stop. I don’t want this feeling to creep up upon me anymore. I mean for fuck sakes most of my life trauma is far behind be. I want it to stay far in the past and never again be tempted to fall into the comfortable black tar pit again. I may have describe it as a sweet thing before and it seems that way but it’s a sticky trap just like growing up is. Seems so great from a distance until you are days, months, years stuck into something you didn’t know how you got yourself into. But for some damn reason I can’t even scream for help anymore though you know I would never do such a thing.

This is not a new thing, it’s a new thing I’ve been more willingly to share. I keep pressing the send button on my true fucking feelings and its terrifying. The worst part is that I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about what everyone I send this to will think of me. I am worried that people are worried. God, when did I become such an empath. I am now realizing that when my mom was on her death bed and said to me that you are the most thoughtful person, she was right. She didn’t even know how right she would be. I wasn’t that thoughtful or what I thought was thoughtful at the time, I was loyal. As the years went by without her I have become the person she called at that moment though it wasn’t completely true yet, she knew I would turn out this way. I don’t care what people think of me, truly. I only care how they feel. I don’t want people to hurt for me. I’m not concerned with pity but more I whole heartedly don’t want them to feel pain. I’ve felt pain, true pain and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

My friends love me, the real me, no matter how much I keep distance or put up walls. I know they see through the cracks and still love me anyways. Maybe that could be why I am still around and can’t ever really give up. I know that though I am not perfect I am still loved. Why do I feel so alone still? They are there for me and I KNOW. I just can’t help but when I am surround by the people I love, I am happy but yet still feel so alone. Audrey Hepburn said I don’t want to be alone I just want to be left alone, or along the lines of some shit like that. Everyone left be to be alone when I needed it but then I pushed everyone further to the point where I became really alone.

Ignore my bouncing around because I am on a roll, okay? Maybe by the time I come back from wherever I go I’ll have it all figured out. HA I hope and I know you hope that for me too. My therapist awhile back said something to me that was oddly the biggest thing that stuck with me. Once I went through the whole background (if you’ve been to therapy you know what I mean) she said:

“You keep saying that people have it worse but you can’t forget to feel bad for yourself for the things you went through”

Fuck, right?

That’s why I am a little behind on everything, I am well aware. But now it’s a trait that is so fucking hard to break. I was never worried about comparing my life to someone else’s that had it better somehow comparing my life to people who had it worse has left me to not be sad, angry, confused or really any emotion for long. Even typing that reminds me that I used to only let myself cry on the bus ride home occasionally because for some reason being surrounded by people I didn’t know and know that wouldn’t bother me felt safe to feel. Majority of the time alcohol would be involved, duh, again not perfect. A few times I wouldn’t be able to gather myself together and everything I have literally ever felt, jeez my ancestors felt. Not to be dramatic but no joke that’s how it felt, a fucking tidal wave hitting me. I would call everyone I felt remotely comfortable to be slightly this person in front of, no one really experienced the full version except for Ashley. Its like how I feel now in a sense but with more emotion, I remember I couldn’t breath that’s what I would say over and over again to her. The difference is that I would cry then and right now I can’t, I feel nothing.

I’ve never done this before and reading the words back scare me but now that I have started I can’t stop. If this is the only insight a few have into my mind I am coming around to it, well getting there. I used to want to be a writer because I wanted one person to in the world to feel better that I wrote something that they related to. Long ago I stopped writing how I really felt because it became too hard. Not only is it hard to even admit but putting into words like this makes it more real. To be frank I wish I haven’t quit every job I’ve had in the last three months, I wish I didn’t need this beer I am drinking to be a little more honest, I wish I was in a different place then I am right now. You feel it too? Its not an unusual feeling. It’s my story though and don’t forget I was told to let me feel sorry for myself.

I don’t know if I am more afraid to go to sleep or wake up, lately its been a toss up. The dreams I have are so real I am unsure what real life is but then I remember and I can’t decided which I would rather live.

This is the most vulnerable I’ve ever been and I want to regret the things I say before they even come out, unfortunate for me I cannot stop the thoughts pouring from my head.

Right now I am scared to go to sleep. I am not desperately trying to catch my breath, which after six days is refreshing. I know I am going to wake up tomorrow feeling the way I have been regardless the bullshit I have put in my body.

Funny to think that I used to hide my writing from everyone, I still do in a sense. Who knows maybe I’ll be like Picasso and be appreciated long after I go.

 My chest hitches again but its not as hot and sticky as the other kind. Its fucking guilt. Taking another long sip of my espresso martini I try to shake the nerves. Probably not the best drink choice. I sit at a bar conveniently close to my gate at JFK the world literally continues to move around me. People pass by in a rush to another destination or maybe in a rush to be home. My phone rings and rings but I am not ready to confront my wrongs yet.

 Oddly refreshing that the first words out of my fathers mouth on that second dreaded call were “So what are you running from this time?” How did that guy get to know me so well. I’m silent for awhile reeling from the fact that he may actually know me after all and not ready to confront the truth he says so effortlessly out loud.

“I don’t know.” I let out in a long sigh.

“Yourself?” He questions quietly. I don’t reply. Forced to process words that I don’t let escape my mind let alone out of someone else’s lips. Would make sense why this running thing never seems to work for long.

“You know its going to follow you wherever you go, right?” He says matter of fact and it bothers me.

“Yeah, yeah I know.” I reply quickly hoping to bring this conversation to an end. After another dose of uncomfortable silence.

“It’s what I am good at dad, the only thing I’m good at. Running.” My voice is barley above a whisper not in fear of the words I’ve said but the fear of lingering ears.

 Fuck.

I sit on the floor outside of the gate as the people pass by in a slow march to board. Another wave of guilt washes over me. How could I think he would be upset with me? A part of me wishes that he was because it would have been easier to deal with than whatever the fuck I am left with now. Maybe I shouldn’t do this. The line gets smaller. Well, I’ve made it this far I’m getting on this flight.

 Of course I made a horrible decision. Justifiably in one of the most beautiful places but horrible nonetheless. I wake up fighting tears at thinking of all that has gone wrong and continues to go wrong. Was I stupid enough to think because I’m forcing a vacation I would get the refreshing feeling? Absolutely. Its 8:45AM in London as I sit in the Italian Gardens drinking an iced americano in 40 degree weather through a cardboard straw. No one to text, no one to call, no one to share a moment with. It feels like it should be peaceful as the freezing wind hits my face. Nothing but sounds of fountains gurgling and dogs at play in the park. Something still rumbles within, the peace feels far away though I am starring right at it. How do you begin to stop running from yourself when you can never escape it for a moment? I feel in some fucked up chemical biology that I will never stop running from myself until I feel the satisfaction of having a moment of peace from me. The sun hits my face and I’m hopeful for a brief moment, too soon the sun is back behind clouds and darkness rolls back in. Don’t you wish you that you could always feel the way you do when the sun hits your face? You tilt your chin up to get a better angle, take a deep breath and absorb the light. A calm comes over you that I couldn’t even attempt to explain, certainly worth harnessing or bottling for that matter.

I’d almost rather be alone completely than in a room full of people and feel alone. Drinking at 1PM seems more depressing with a hundred eyes on you. I mean it is Tuesday….and I am American. This is not a story I want to write anymore, it exhaust me.

You know how badly I just want to lock myself in my hotel room until its time to leave? Sadly enough to physically hurt when I walk the bends of the maze to leave my haven. The thing that gets me out isn’t “you aren’t home” or “take this opportunity to explore since you never know when you will be back”. People will say things like culture and finding yourself like they honestly know what they are talking about. I could be in some shitty run down motel on Pac highway and still feel the overwhelming need to barricade the door. The fact that I’m not seems to be the key in getting me out the door, even if it isn’t for very long.

I got a bit of pep in my step this morning. Could be that I’ve slid into a comfortable status now being here for a couple days. Could be that I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow. For now I’m going to just chalk it up to wearing my favorite nirvana shirt. My feet shake from the trains under me. I’m at some shitty café called Garfunkel’s and honestly I only came because of the name and now can’t stop playing America on a loop in my head while eating my undercooked eggs benedict. They do it better in the states I promise. London has given me an infatuation with guys that have one hoop earring, fuck I need to get to Paris quick.

Things will never be the same when I get back. Something about that makes me feel content though it’s a weighted mystery. London really is quite different when you aren’t underground.

In France they serve about a half pound of cheese just on the French onion soup. You won’t hear any complains from me. A part of me missies the UK but its not that I miss it whole heartedly but just miss familiarity. The moment the Eiffel Tower was within reach was the moment everything felt more real. I was a child again, arms rested on the window frame, eyes wide as the moon. Tears brimmed in happiness that didn’t last long enough. I wish my mom was here. I wish we got to experience this for the first time together. I wish she could of seen the things I’ve been able to see. Usually this isn’t much of a daily struggle but once you leave your bubble of hustle and bustle life continues to spin and continues to cycle the things that have been missing in front of your face. There was a time in my life when I wanted nothing more than to have the world continue to spin, funny how things change.

Though I’ve walked for miles and my feet ache Paris just makes me want to run like break out into full sprint and run. And not to run from anything for that matter, just to run. When I go out for dinner I get so distracted that I forget where I’m going and I keep walking. I want to breath this culture, I want to soak it in my bones and cleanse me. This is the culture I needed to set me free. As we drive further from the city I can’t help but feel a part of me is staying behind. Not exactly a piece of my soul but my heart. The most I smiled in months was in Paris and I wish I could forever be the person I was here.

[sincereiyleah]

Whispers in the Dark (Shyan)

A/N: Because I can? And I’ve been obsessed with possessed fics now? Basically, Shane brings an ouija board to one of their investigations and it was only suppose to be a joke.

Angst! Because I like making myself cry.

P.S! This is based off a real place/event. Villisca Axe Murder House. It’s pretty damn interesting!

Title: Whispers in the Dark

-

It was stupid, of course it was. And, it was one of Ryan’s biggest no no’s, but, Shane, being the skeptic that he was; wanted to see how far he could actually push things.

Countless of times since he’s knew about Shane’s little plan he told the elder no. That he won’t let them do that, that he won’t participate, but every time he got shot down. Now, as they sit in a house where two adults and six children were found dead; murdered by a person or persons they still didn’t know. The case is unsolved, has been for 105 years already, having been in 1912.

J.B and Sarah Moore were killed along with their six children, and still, no one knows what truly happened that dark night.

And Shane here was trying to contact them with a ouija board.

“No! We’re not doing this, if anything, we’re fuckin up the rest for the dead.” Ryan argued, the board was already placed down on the floor and Shane was retrieving candles from out his bag.

“What? Scared that this is actually all bullshit and ghosts and demons aren’t real?” He questioned with a smirk.

“Well- no! It’s just, if we even do this-if- who knows for sure whatever we do contact is the Moore’s family?” Ryan chided.

“So what? Like demons?”

“Yes! Exactly, like demons. They could disguise themselves as J.B or Sarah Moore. And, not to mention, all the rules we have to follow- and, the actual chance of speaking to something!”

Shane rolled his eyes and chuckled, “Whatever, nothing’s going to happen, here, we can do a test run while the cameramen are still outside.”

“No-”

“Ryan. Come on, what’s the worse that can happen? What are we going to do? Open the portal to Hell?” Shane interrupted, knowing well that Ryan was going to give in soon.

Ryan stared at Shane for a good minute, trying to find out if Shane was serious or not. After a moment, Ryan sighed, closing his eyes as he ran his fingers through his hair; messing it up a bit.

“Fine, fine, but just remember the rules.” Ryan compromised.

“Which are?”

“Don’t leave without saying goodbye, never play alone, and don’t leave the planchette on the board if we’re not using it.” Ryan recited.

Shane slowly pushed the resting planchette off the board and smiled, “You’ve never played this before?”

“No, because unlike you, I don’t actually want to die.” Ryan groaned, sitting down with his legs crossed on one end of the board while Shane sat on the other end.

“Boring.”

“Have you?”

“Nope.”

Ryan gave Shane what could only be explained as a bitch face before shaking it off. Pulling out a lighter, Ryan lit the two candles and put them on the either sides of the board. So all four angles were either covered by Ryan and Shane themselves, or, the candles.

Before grabbing the planchette, Ryan looked up at Shane who was staring at him. “Don’t fuck around.”

With a quick feign of innocence from Shane, Ryan placed the planchette on the board and put both of his pointer’s fingertips on one end. Seeing as Shane mimicked him shortly afterwards. With a deep intake of breath, Ryan circled the planchette around the board three times. Now, he could feel his heart pounding in his throat.

“If Sarah or J.B Moore is out there, we would like to talk about what truly happened to you on June 10th, 1912.” Ryan began, guiding the planchette to the middle of the board and waited. Nothing.

“Me and Shane aren’t here for any trouble, we just want to know what happened to you on that devastating day.” He continued, nothing.

“It must be hard, having no justice, for your family. We, and thousands of others, truly sympathize with you. So if you’re willing, we only have a few questions.”

Silence.

Ryan was about to call it quits and burn this thing when the slightest movement happened. A simple glide from one of the random letters on the board to the letter ��H’ and then 'E’. Ryan looked up at Shane, who was also looking down at the board. A shit grin ate most of Shane’s face.

“You dick! Are you serious?!” Ryan yelled, seriously annoyed as he tried to calm his frantic heart rate. Shane burst out laughing.

“Ah! You should have saw your face, you were really into it.” Shane teased, face turning red.

Ryan rolled his eyes and let out an irritated huff of breath. Letting go of the planchette as an reaction of his frustration with Shane’s childish behaviors.

“Hey, hey I’m sorry! Okay, okay, I won’t fuck around anymore. Let’s do this legit.” Shane nodded up at Ryan who still gave him a dissatisfied housewife look.

“Fine, but I swear to god if you fuck around again we are burning this board and sticking to the original plan.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Shane agreed absentmindedly, watching as Ryan placed his fingertips on the planchette again.

Three more circles.

“Mr. Moore? If you’re still there with us we would like to ask you a few questions if that’s okay. No one knows who truly murdered you and your family and all the suspects have been let go.” Ryan says, trying to keep his heartbeat down.

There was still silence.

But then the planchette started to move, Ryan whined as he let out a pissed off, “Really?” at Shane.

“I swear this is not me.” Shane quickly defends himself.

“Well I barely have my fingers on this!” Ryan says, the pointer first going to one corner to the board. Then another.

“U-uh, Mr. Moore? Is that you?” Ryan asked, his voice now shaky as Shane stared, unresponsive.

The last two corners were touched and the planchette moved quickly now.

“R-Y-A-N?” Ryan muttered, his mind now going ten times it’s usual speed. “Sh-Shane this isn’t fucking funny!”

“Ryan, I swear this isn’t fucking me!”

“So explain this.”

“I-I don’t know, wind? Maybe the board is slippery and slight movements makes the planchette move more than it actually does?” Shane racked his brain for an answer, solution, but nothing.

Their attention was quickly grabbed by the board again.

R-Y-A-N-R-Y-A-N-R-Y-A-N

“It’s my name, it’s Ryan, I-I don’t understand? Shane?!” Ryan asked, desperately.

Shane found himself completely speechless, the candlelights were flickering, the furniture was shaking. And then, nothing.

It all stopped.

Shane looked around the house, in total disbelief, and then, back at Ryan.

Ryan was hunched over, his face wasn’t showing. Hell, his body wasn’t even moving.

“R-Ry?” Shane asked, trying to control the fear that was bubbling inside.

Laughter, laughter that shook his body overcame Ryan. And for a moment, Shane thought Ryan was fucking with him for his earlier doings. That was, until, Ryan lifted up his head, still laughing. His eyes were closed.

“R-Ryan?” This wasn’t like Ryan, he doesn’t fuck around with supernatural shit like this. That’s just not his Ryan.

“Sorry, who?” Then his eyes opened, black tar pits, leading nowhere but more and more darkness. However, a single tear ran down Ryan’s face and down his cheek.

Shane’s breath got caught in his throat as he quickly scooted away from Rya-that thing. That wasn’t Ryan anymore and whoever it was-whatever it was, needs to stay the hell away. The thing stood up easily, as with grace, and a single flick of his wrist the board and planchette flew to the other side of the room.

“Honestly,” the thing croaked, “I don’t see your interest in this piece of flesh.” the demon, the only thing Shane can really come up with, said. It’s black eyes looking over Ryan’s figure and then back to him. “You do have feelings for this thing, don’t you? Deep feelings, that a friend shouldn’t have for another male friend.”

Shane quickly went red as he tried to stand up, only to have the demon place Ryan’s foot on his chest and push him back down. Immense power being placed on his ribcage made Shane cry out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shane spat. The strength was unbelievable, and his struggles went unnoticed by the creature as it barely flinched.

“Yes you do, don’t play coy with me. As if I care that you’re too chicken shit to fess up.” It’s head cocked to the side, “In fact, how would our little friend Ryan react to this?” it smiled, showing off Ryan’s teeth. “Perhaps he’d be disgusted, want to quit the show and your petty friendship. Or maybe!”

The demon stepped off of Shane’s chest, smirking. His finger placed on the bottom of Ryan’s lip. “He would just kick you from the show, block you from everything. I think I would be disgusted if some low life, pessimist, uninteresting,” it’s voice started to get louder, “good for nothing, piece of shit try to even want to waste my time more than he already does.”

Shane’s breathing was frantic, his head shaking. “You don’t know anything, you don’t know shit about me, nor Ryan.”

“Oh? I don’t now? So I also don’t know if I did this,” The demon waltz over to where Shane was still on the ground, frozen in fear, and placed both of its legs on either side of Shane’s body and dropped down. “and it was your precious Ryan, you totally wouldn’t kiss him right now?”

It’s features, that Shane could now see clearly, was somewhat soft, even accompanied with those dark orbs. The soft smile that unsettled Shane with how much it looked like his Ryan. “You’re not him.” Shane gritted.

“You know, we can play out some of your many fantasies about our friend-”

“He’s not our friend, he’s mine.” Shane quickly hissed.

“Ooh,” The demon purred, “possessive. Isn’t that cute?” it dipped, Shane’s chest now brushed against Ryan’s. The dark orbs now staring deep into Shane’s brown ones. And it smirked. “For a skeptic, you really are afraid. You’d think, since Ryan believed in this stuff so much that he would know the believers are more likely to have something… happen to them.”

The demon grinned, his hand now grabbing at Shane’s jaw, it’s thumb and pointer finger smashing in Shane’s cheeks. “Humans are so complicated, doubtful, scared, it’s pathetic. Your annoying love for Ryan makes this moment, that you should be fearing for your life, still heavily wonders if Ryan’s okay. So tell me,” It’s grip for harder, painful. “why shouldn’t I kill you right now? I could leave this pitiful body, leave you wondering if Ryan actually sees you as disgusting as I do.”

It’s head crooked, “You know that human saying, 'Nothing kills man faster than his own head’ hmm.” Shane was whining out in pain now, his jaw felt like it could crush any moment now. He couldn’t look at this thing anymore, his soul already crushed and the tears that were threaten to fall almost did.

The demon laughed, mockingly, shoving Shane’s head to the side. “Pathetic.” It groaned. Sitting up as it still straddled his waist, Shane watched, the black orbs looked somewhat amused with what it did. “You’re not worth my time, and neither is him.” And with that, Ryan’s eyes closed and he fell- well, would had fell if it wasn’t for Shane’s quick thinking.

Holding the shorter man up as he laid slumped over. Slowly and carefully, Shane sat up, still holding Ryan as he pulled the man close; now letting out the tears he’s been desperately hiding.

“R-Ryan, Ryan fuck, fuck man, you gotta wake up. God, please.” Shane begged, sniffing as he tried to protect Ryan from the world by holding him close.

Shane ran his fingers through Ryan’s black hair, shaking his own head as he choked up. “I’m s-sorry, I should have listened to you, please wake up.”

A movement, a light one, but it was a movement. Ryan groaned and Shane quickly pulled back to look at him. “We have to get out of here.” He said before Ryan had to chance to say anything. Helping Ryan up and standing himself, he ignored the tremendous ache in his jaw and the hurting of his ribcage.

“B-Burn the board.” Ryan said after he got up, “Burn the board!” he said even louder. Shane stared at Ryan, watching as the younger man held himself and looked down at the floor.

Quickly, without saying anything, Shane found both the board and the planchette, throwing them in the fireplace they had lit to give a more ominous introduction to the video. Turning away as it burnt.

Not spending anymore time in this hellhole, Shane took Ryan’s wrist and pulled him out. Practically dragging Ryan as they went to the car. The cameramen were staring in interest but Shane quickly waved them off.

“It’s over. We’re not doing this anymore.” Perhaps it was the tone of his voice, the ragged look from both of the boys, or how Ryan was speechless, staring blankly at nothing; with only a dried tear stain on his face.

[cedarrrun]

In her new book, Revolution of the Soul, social activist and yoga teacher Seane Corn details how ill and awkward she felt during her first yoga class and what kept her going back for more.

Seane Corn

After hearing about yoga for years and witnessing the changes it made in David Life, owner of Life Café in New York City, where I waitressed, and Sharon Gannon, the head waitress, I’d decided to see for myself what the hoopla was about. I’d come to Integral Yoga, where everyone dressed in white and everything was absolutely pristine. Except for me. I looked down at my gray sweatpants, grease stains on the thighs from where I had wiped my hands after working on my motorcycle. I hadn’t showered and knew without a doubt that black eyeliner and mascara lay smeared under my eyes. I was a bit of a mess.

I was told to sign in and remove my shoes, so I kicked off my black-leather Screaming Mimi combat boots and tossed them toward the rest of the shoes on the floor, but I left my socks on. Going barefoot in a public place that wasn’t a park or beach kinda grossed me out, plus I often cut and peeled the skin off my big toes and heels when I was anxious and I didn’t want anyone to see that.

The woman behind the counter, also wearing white, looked calm and sweet. I noticed, when she raised her arm to reach for something, that she had a thick patch of armpit hair. I wondered if Sharon shaved her pits. Note to self: Stop shaving, buy something white and... take a bath.

See also How to Change Your Life With Yoga

Now, Yoga

The woman behind the desk announces it is time for class. I follow the others up some narrow, creaky stairs and into one of the rooms above. The floors in the room are wooden and uneven, the room itself stark and smelling faintly of BO, mold, and incense. I hang back a little to watch what everyone else is doing; then, following their lead, I grab a mat and what looks like a little pillow, which makes a crunching sound when I squeeze it.

The teacher comes in quietly, an air of importance and reserve about him. I’m pretty sure he’s some kind of holy man, like a guru. But he looks more like an uncle or cousin from the Jewish side of my family. Less like a guru, more like a rabbi. He is white and older, with scraggly gray-and-white hair hanging loosely past his shoulders and a similarly colored beard. He gathers up his white pants, kneels down, takes his seat in the front of the room, and drapes a white shawl over his shoulders. He then picks up a pair of metal disks connected by a leather string and clinks them together three times.

The reverberation alerts the students, causing their spines to straighten and the backs of their heads to lengthen on their necks. I glance at the person closest to me and see that her eyes are still shut. I looked to the others and see that their eyes are also still shut. I look at the guru-rabbi. He smiles and makes a gesture with his hands, indicating that I should shut my eyes, too. I do.

See also Seane Corn: Safe Vinyasa Yoga + Getting the Fundamentals Right

I’ve never meditated before. I try to keep my back straight, all the while wondering how long we’ll have to stay there. My thoughts continue something like, I wonder if I’m doing it right. I wonder if I’m supposed to be thinking. But if I’m not supposed to be thinking, what am I supposed to be doing instead? Is everyone else thinking, too? That can’t be right. We can’t all be just sitting here thinking. Are they thinking about me, like I’m thinking about them? I wonder what I’m going to eat later and if yoga can help me stop smoking and if my boyfriend really loves me and if I should take the bus home this weekend to see my mom. I miss my mom. I really love my mom. My mom’s so cool. It’s really hot in here. Maybe it will rain? My nose itches. Am I allowed to scratch it? I fidget on the crunchy pillow, my hips ache, my right foot is asleep inside my sock. There’s no way I’m taking off my socks. Not ever. Maybe I should get a cat...?

Next up, the teacher asks us to breathe, in and out, very fast and deep through our noses. I try, but my whole torso keeps lifting up and down. A light trail of snot escapes out of my nose, and I repeatedly wipe at it with the back of my hand while glancing self-consciously around the room. This goes on for quite a while. Periodically I have to stop to cough, the tar from cigarettes reacting to the quick compression of my lungs. 

And then, after a bit, he tells us to breathe normally and reflect on how we feel. The deep breathing makes me feel dizzy and a bit sick to my stomach. I sit there reflecting on my nausea and reluctantly begin the breathwork again when he tells us to. Yoga isn’t particularly glamorous, I think, wiping away more snot and coughing up a lung.

See also Seane Corn: Social Justice + Game Changers

After that, we’re invited to come to standing. “Feet together, straighten your legs,” the teacher commands. “Arms to the side, long spine. Sturdy, like a mountain!” He tells us to feel our feet on the ground beneath us. “Extend your roots deep into the earth, and you will find your strength and refuge there, with the Mother!” I wonder, Mother? Whose mother? I do as I’m told—I think. But, truthfully, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I don’t feel like a mountain. What the fuck does a mountain even feel like?

From there, we begin to move. “Inhale arms reach up, exhale fold forward, bend your knees, place your fingertips to the floor, inhale look up, exhale step your left leg back, knee down, inhale arms reach” ... it goes on like this for a while. I feel awkward, but eventually my body settles in and moves more easily, as though it instinctively knows what to do next. I am naturally strong and flexible, which makes me feel like maybe I’m not so out of place after all.

The teacher leads us from pose to pose, and except for the constant nausea, a slight headache, and an overall achiness in my muscles, I feel pretty good. Finally, he tells us to “prepare for Savasana.” I lie down with the rest of them and completely pass out. The clanging of chimes startles me awake. I sit up cross-legged, like the others, and bring my palms into prayer. Another chant is followed by an Om—my first Om. The teacher ends class with a “Namaste.” I feel both settled and utterly sick to my stomach. I roll up my mat, nod a thank-you to the teacher, and leave. In the bathroom downstairs, I lean over the toilet and puke.

See also Off the Mat and Into the World

Aftereffects

I continued going to Integral, mostly because I liked telling the people at Life Café that I did yoga, too. The nausea I felt initially was apparently a sign that my system was cleansing itself from my diet, my smoking habit, and the environmental factors I was subjected to every day, such as car exhaust. The teacher said it was normal.

Although I didn’t notice many changes in my personality and wasn’t exactly having glimpses into enlightened states, the more I practiced, the more aware I became of how my behaviors impacted my physical health. Eventually, I didn’t want to put things into my mouth (or up my nose) that didn’t feel good—and that included alcohol, junk food, drugs, and, finally, cigarettes.

The Shift

After a long night of tending bar at Shescape, a lesbian party that floated among different clubs around the city, I managed to open my eyes about noon. I lay there staring at the ceiling. I was 22 years old, living with yet another boyfriend, and stuck. I didn’t feel particularly connected to anything. I felt purposeless.

As I lay there, I could feel my anxiety rise. I knew that if I called any number of friends, I could hang with them. Maybe we could grab an afternoon drink or smoke a joint? But I really didn’t want to drink or do drugs anymore. I thought maybe I could hook up with that guy I had recently stopped seeing. He had a girlfriend, but it was OK since I had a boyfriend, so it didn’t really feel like cheating. But I didn’t want to lie anymore. Crap. I sat down on the floor in the middle of my apartment, frozen with indecision. Not knowing what else to do, I looked around, picked yesterday’s sweats and T-shirt off the floor, threw them on, and headed out the door, trudging my way through the snow to Integral Yoga.

“Feel your feet on the floor, thighs lift, tailbone in, breathe!” the teacher commands. I am limp in my poses, and he keeps adjusting me. The changes he asks me to make are uncomfortable, requiring more strength than I have, and I can hardly keep my balance. He keeps saying, “Seane, focus, ground, breathe! You’re not breathing!” I think, Obviously I’m breathing, asshole, otherwise I’d be dead. He is picking on me! My body feels thick and tight.

See also Behind the Scenes with Seane Corn

During Savasana, I fall asleep, as usual, but this time my snoring wakes me up. I feel disoriented and embarrassed. I place my hands into Namaste, bow my head, chant a feeble Om with the class, roll up my mat, and split.

Outside, it has started to snow. New York is eerily beautiful when it snows; everything looks crisp, clean, and enchanted. I exhale completely, watching as the white mist rises from my mouth, and then take another full breath in. Suddenly, I stop in my tracks, exhale, and wait. Something is not quite right. I pat my pockets for my keys. Check. I open my bag to see if I have my wallet. Yep. Everything is where it should be. I look up at the large clock above Greenwich Avenue just as the sun is setting, and I see its pale-pink reflection against the white backdrop.

Slowly, I smile. Something is different. That something is me.

I stand there, my arms to my sides, my face still turned up toward the pinkish sky, and I know that everything in my life is truly OK. That everything is unfolding perfectly, and I am exactly where I am supposed to be. The word “trust” keeps bubbling up from deep inside. I speak the word, quietly. “Trust,” I whisper again. “Trust.”

My heart is full, so absolute and satisfied. Most days I leave yoga feeling good, but this time is different. This is beyond the body. Nothing has changed, I still have no sense of purpose, but somehow I know it will all work out. I place my hands on my heart, the snow settling on my face, and smile. I am immensely grateful. 

Revolution of the Soul by Seane Corn

Excerpted from Revolution of the Soul: Awaken to Love Through Raw Truth, Radical Healing, and Conscious Action. Copyright 2019 by Seane Corn. Excerpted by permission of Sounds True.

[krisiunicornio]

In her new book, Revolution of the Soul, social activist and yoga teacher Seane Corn details how ill and awkward she felt during her first yoga class and what kept her going back for more.

Seane Corn

After hearing about yoga for years and witnessing the changes it made in David Life, owner of Life Café in New York City, where I waitressed, and Sharon Gannon, the head waitress, I’d decided to see for myself what the hoopla was about. I’d come to Integral Yoga, where everyone dressed in white and everything was absolutely pristine. Except for me. I looked down at my gray sweatpants, grease stains on the thighs from where I had wiped my hands after working on my motorcycle. I hadn’t showered and knew without a doubt that black eyeliner and mascara lay smeared under my eyes. I was a bit of a mess.

I was told to sign in and remove my shoes, so I kicked off my black-leather Screaming Mimi combat boots and tossed them toward the rest of the shoes on the floor, but I left my socks on. Going barefoot in a public place that wasn’t a park or beach kinda grossed me out, plus I often cut and peeled the skin off my big toes and heels when I was anxious and I didn’t want anyone to see that.

The woman behind the counter, also wearing white, looked calm and sweet. I noticed, when she raised her arm to reach for something, that she had a thick patch of armpit hair. I wondered if Sharon shaved her pits. Note to self: Stop shaving, buy something white and... take a bath.

See also How to Change Your Life With Yoga

Now, Yoga

The woman behind the desk announces it is time for class. I follow the others up some narrow, creaky stairs and into one of the rooms above. The floors in the room are wooden and uneven, the room itself stark and smelling faintly of BO, mold, and incense. I hang back a little to watch what everyone else is doing; then, following their lead, I grab a mat and what looks like a little pillow, which makes a crunching sound when I squeeze it.

The teacher comes in quietly, an air of importance and reserve about him. I’m pretty sure he’s some kind of holy man, like a guru. But he looks more like an uncle or cousin from the Jewish side of my family. Less like a guru, more like a rabbi. He is white and older, with scraggly gray-and-white hair hanging loosely past his shoulders and a similarly colored beard. He gathers up his white pants, kneels down, takes his seat in the front of the room, and drapes a white shawl over his shoulders. He then picks up a pair of metal disks connected by a leather string and clinks them together three times.

The reverberation alerts the students, causing their spines to straighten and the backs of their heads to lengthen on their necks. I glance at the person closest to me and see that her eyes are still shut. I looked to the others and see that their eyes are also still shut. I look at the guru-rabbi. He smiles and makes a gesture with his hands, indicating that I should shut my eyes, too. I do.

See also Seane Corn: Safe Vinyasa Yoga + Getting the Fundamentals Right

I’ve never meditated before. I try to keep my back straight, all the while wondering how long we’ll have to stay there. My thoughts continue something like, I wonder if I’m doing it right. I wonder if I’m supposed to be thinking. But if I’m not supposed to be thinking, what am I supposed to be doing instead? Is everyone else thinking, too? That can’t be right. We can’t all be just sitting here thinking. Are they thinking about me, like I’m thinking about them? I wonder what I’m going to eat later and if yoga can help me stop smoking and if my boyfriend really loves me and if I should take the bus home this weekend to see my mom. I miss my mom. I really love my mom. My mom’s so cool. It’s really hot in here. Maybe it will rain? My nose itches. Am I allowed to scratch it? I fidget on the crunchy pillow, my hips ache, my right foot is asleep inside my sock. There’s no way I’m taking off my socks. Not ever. Maybe I should get a cat...?

Next up, the teacher asks us to breathe, in and out, very fast and deep through our noses. I try, but my whole torso keeps lifting up and down. A light trail of snot escapes out of my nose, and I repeatedly wipe at it with the back of my hand while glancing self-consciously around the room. This goes on for quite a while. Periodically I have to stop to cough, the tar from cigarettes reacting to the quick compression of my lungs. 

And then, after a bit, he tells us to breathe normally and reflect on how we feel. The deep breathing makes me feel dizzy and a bit sick to my stomach. I sit there reflecting on my nausea and reluctantly begin the breathwork again when he tells us to. Yoga isn’t particularly glamorous, I think, wiping away more snot and coughing up a lung.

See also Seane Corn: Social Justice + Game Changers

After that, we’re invited to come to standing. “Feet together, straighten your legs,” the teacher commands. “Arms to the side, long spine. Sturdy, like a mountain!” He tells us to feel our feet on the ground beneath us. “Extend your roots deep into the earth, and you will find your strength and refuge there, with the Mother!” I wonder, Mother? Whose mother? I do as I’m told—I think. But, truthfully, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I don’t feel like a mountain. What the fuck does a mountain even feel like?

From there, we begin to move. “Inhale arms reach up, exhale fold forward, bend your knees, place your fingertips to the floor, inhale look up, exhale step your left leg back, knee down, inhale arms reach” ... it goes on like this for a while. I feel awkward, but eventually my body settles in and moves more easily, as though it instinctively knows what to do next. I am naturally strong and flexible, which makes me feel like maybe I’m not so out of place after all.

The teacher leads us from pose to pose, and except for the constant nausea, a slight headache, and an overall achiness in my muscles, I feel pretty good. Finally, he tells us to “prepare for Savasana.” I lie down with the rest of them and completely pass out. The clanging of chimes startles me awake. I sit up cross-legged, like the others, and bring my palms into prayer. Another chant is followed by an Om—my first Om. The teacher ends class with a “Namaste.” I feel both settled and utterly sick to my stomach. I roll up my mat, nod a thank-you to the teacher, and leave. In the bathroom downstairs, I lean over the toilet and puke.

See also Off the Mat and Into the World

Aftereffects

I continued going to Integral, mostly because I liked telling the people at Life Café that I did yoga, too. The nausea I felt initially was apparently a sign that my system was cleansing itself from my diet, my smoking habit, and the environmental factors I was subjected to every day, such as car exhaust. The teacher said it was normal.

Although I didn’t notice many changes in my personality and wasn’t exactly having glimpses into enlightened states, the more I practiced, the more aware I became of how my behaviors impacted my physical health. Eventually, I didn’t want to put things into my mouth (or up my nose) that didn’t feel good—and that included alcohol, junk food, drugs, and, finally, cigarettes.

The Shift

After a long night of tending bar at Shescape, a lesbian party that floated among different clubs around the city, I managed to open my eyes about noon. I lay there staring at the ceiling. I was 22 years old, living with yet another boyfriend, and stuck. I didn’t feel particularly connected to anything. I felt purposeless.

As I lay there, I could feel my anxiety rise. I knew that if I called any number of friends, I could hang with them. Maybe we could grab an afternoon drink or smoke a joint? But I really didn’t want to drink or do drugs anymore. I thought maybe I could hook up with that guy I had recently stopped seeing. He had a girlfriend, but it was OK since I had a boyfriend, so it didn’t really feel like cheating. But I didn’t want to lie anymore. Crap. I sat down on the floor in the middle of my apartment, frozen with indecision. Not knowing what else to do, I looked around, picked yesterday’s sweats and T-shirt off the floor, threw them on, and headed out the door, trudging my way through the snow to Integral Yoga.

“Feel your feet on the floor, thighs lift, tailbone in, breathe!” the teacher commands. I am limp in my poses, and he keeps adjusting me. The changes he asks me to make are uncomfortable, requiring more strength than I have, and I can hardly keep my balance. He keeps saying, “Seane, focus, ground, breathe! You’re not breathing!” I think, Obviously I’m breathing, asshole, otherwise I’d be dead. He is picking on me! My body feels thick and tight.

See also Behind the Scenes with Seane Corn

During Savasana, I fall asleep, as usual, but this time my snoring wakes me up. I feel disoriented and embarrassed. I place my hands into Namaste, bow my head, chant a feeble Om with the class, roll up my mat, and split.

Outside, it has started to snow. New York is eerily beautiful when it snows; everything looks crisp, clean, and enchanted. I exhale completely, watching as the white mist rises from my mouth, and then take another full breath in. Suddenly, I stop in my tracks, exhale, and wait. Something is not quite right. I pat my pockets for my keys. Check. I open my bag to see if I have my wallet. Yep. Everything is where it should be. I look up at the large clock above Greenwich Avenue just as the sun is setting, and I see its pale-pink reflection against the white backdrop.

Slowly, I smile. Something is different. That something is me.

I stand there, my arms to my sides, my face still turned up toward the pinkish sky, and I know that everything in my life is truly OK. That everything is unfolding perfectly, and I am exactly where I am supposed to be. The word “trust” keeps bubbling up from deep inside. I speak the word, quietly. “Trust,” I whisper again. “Trust.”

My heart is full, so absolute and satisfied. Most days I leave yoga feeling good, but this time is different. This is beyond the body. Nothing has changed, I still have no sense of purpose, but somehow I know it will all work out. I place my hands on my heart, the snow settling on my face, and smile. I am immensely grateful. 

Revolution of the Soul by Seane Corn

Excerpted from Revolution of the Soul: Awaken to Love Through Raw Truth, Radical Healing, and Conscious Action. Copyright 2019 by Seane Corn. Excerpted by permission of Sounds True.

[amyddaniels]

Even Seane Corn Had an Awkward First Yoga Class

In her new book, Revolution of the Soul, social activist and yoga teacher Seane Corn details how ill and awkward she felt during her first yoga class and what kept her going back for more.

Seane Corn

After hearing about yoga for years and witnessing the changes it made in David Life, owner of Life Café in New York City, where I waitressed, and Sharon Gannon, the head waitress, I’d decided to see for myself what the hoopla was about. I’d come to Integral Yoga, where everyone dressed in white and everything was absolutely pristine. Except for me. I looked down at my gray sweatpants, grease stains on the thighs from where I had wiped my hands after working on my motorcycle. I hadn’t showered and knew without a doubt that black eyeliner and mascara lay smeared under my eyes. I was a bit of a mess.

I was told to sign in and remove my shoes, so I kicked off my black-leather Screaming Mimi combat boots and tossed them toward the rest of the shoes on the floor, but I left my socks on. Going barefoot in a public place that wasn’t a park or beach kinda grossed me out, plus I often cut and peeled the skin off my big toes and heels when I was anxious and I didn’t want anyone to see that.

The woman behind the counter, also wearing white, looked calm and sweet. I noticed, when she raised her arm to reach for something, that she had a thick patch of armpit hair. I wondered if Sharon shaved her pits. Note to self: Stop shaving, buy something white and... take a bath.

See also How to Change Your Life With Yoga

Now, Yoga

The woman behind the desk announces it is time for class. I follow the others up some narrow, creaky stairs and into one of the rooms above. The floors in the room are wooden and uneven, the room itself stark and smelling faintly of BO, mold, and incense. I hang back a little to watch what everyone else is doing; then, following their lead, I grab a mat and what looks like a little pillow, which makes a crunching sound when I squeeze it.

The teacher comes in quietly, an air of importance and reserve about him. I’m pretty sure he’s some kind of holy man, like a guru. But he looks more like an uncle or cousin from the Jewish side of my family. Less like a guru, more like a rabbi. He is white and older, with scraggly gray-and-white hair hanging loosely past his shoulders and a similarly colored beard. He gathers up his white pants, kneels down, takes his seat in the front of the room, and drapes a white shawl over his shoulders. He then picks up a pair of metal disks connected by a leather string and clinks them together three times.

The reverberation alerts the students, causing their spines to straighten and the backs of their heads to lengthen on their necks. I glance at the person closest to me and see that her eyes are still shut. I looked to the others and see that their eyes are also still shut. I look at the guru-rabbi. He smiles and makes a gesture with his hands, indicating that I should shut my eyes, too. I do.

See also Seane Corn: Safe Vinyasa Yoga + Getting the Fundamentals Right

I’ve never meditated before. I try to keep my back straight, all the while wondering how long we’ll have to stay there. My thoughts continue something like, I wonder if I’m doing it right. I wonder if I’m supposed to be thinking. But if I’m not supposed to be thinking, what am I supposed to be doing instead? Is everyone else thinking, too? That can’t be right. We can’t all be just sitting here thinking. Are they thinking about me, like I’m thinking about them? I wonder what I’m going to eat later and if yoga can help me stop smoking and if my boyfriend really loves me and if I should take the bus home this weekend to see my mom. I miss my mom. I really love my mom. My mom’s so cool. It’s really hot in here. Maybe it will rain? My nose itches. Am I allowed to scratch it? I fidget on the crunchy pillow, my hips ache, my right foot is asleep inside my sock. There’s no way I’m taking off my socks. Not ever. Maybe I should get a cat...?

Next up, the teacher asks us to breathe, in and out, very fast and deep through our noses. I try, but my whole torso keeps lifting up and down. A light trail of snot escapes out of my nose, and I repeatedly wipe at it with the back of my hand while glancing self-consciously around the room. This goes on for quite a while. Periodically I have to stop to cough, the tar from cigarettes reacting to the quick compression of my lungs. 

And then, after a bit, he tells us to breathe normally and reflect on how we feel. The deep breathing makes me feel dizzy and a bit sick to my stomach. I sit there reflecting on my nausea and reluctantly begin the breathwork again when he tells us to. Yoga isn’t particularly glamorous, I think, wiping away more snot and coughing up a lung.

See also Seane Corn: Social Justice + Game Changers

After that, we’re invited to come to standing. “Feet together, straighten your legs,” the teacher commands. “Arms to the side, long spine. Sturdy, like a mountain!” He tells us to feel our feet on the ground beneath us. “Extend your roots deep into the earth, and you will find your strength and refuge there, with the Mother!” I wonder, Mother? Whose mother? I do as I’m told—I think. But, truthfully, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I don’t feel like a mountain. What the fuck does a mountain even feel like?

From there, we begin to move. “Inhale arms reach up, exhale fold forward, bend your knees, place your fingertips to the floor, inhale look up, exhale step your left leg back, knee down, inhale arms reach” ... it goes on like this for a while. I feel awkward, but eventually my body settles in and moves more easily, as though it instinctively knows what to do next. I am naturally strong and flexible, which makes me feel like maybe I’m not so out of place after all.

The teacher leads us from pose to pose, and except for the constant nausea, a slight headache, and an overall achiness in my muscles, I feel pretty good. Finally, he tells us to “prepare for Savasana.” I lie down with the rest of them and completely pass out. The clanging of chimes startles me awake. I sit up cross-legged, like the others, and bring my palms into prayer. Another chant is followed by an Om—my first Om. The teacher ends class with a “Namaste.” I feel both settled and utterly sick to my stomach. I roll up my mat, nod a thank-you to the teacher, and leave. In the bathroom downstairs, I lean over the toilet and puke.

See also Off the Mat and Into the World

Aftereffects

I continued going to Integral, mostly because I liked telling the people at Life Café that I did yoga, too. The nausea I felt initially was apparently a sign that my system was cleansing itself from my diet, my smoking habit, and the environmental factors I was subjected to every day, such as car exhaust. The teacher said it was normal.

Although I didn’t notice many changes in my personality and wasn’t exactly having glimpses into enlightened states, the more I practiced, the more aware I became of how my behaviors impacted my physical health. Eventually, I didn’t want to put things into my mouth (or up my nose) that didn’t feel good—and that included alcohol, junk food, drugs, and, finally, cigarettes.

The Shift

After a long night of tending bar at Shescape, a lesbian party that floated among different clubs around the city, I managed to open my eyes about noon. I lay there staring at the ceiling. I was 22 years old, living with yet another boyfriend, and stuck. I didn’t feel particularly connected to anything. I felt purposeless.

As I lay there, I could feel my anxiety rise. I knew that if I called any number of friends, I could hang with them. Maybe we could grab an afternoon drink or smoke a joint? But I really didn’t want to drink or do drugs anymore. I thought maybe I could hook up with that guy I had recently stopped seeing. He had a girlfriend, but it was OK since I had a boyfriend, so it didn’t really feel like cheating. But I didn’t want to lie anymore. Crap. I sat down on the floor in the middle of my apartment, frozen with indecision. Not knowing what else to do, I looked around, picked yesterday’s sweats and T-shirt off the floor, threw them on, and headed out the door, trudging my way through the snow to Integral Yoga.

“Feel your feet on the floor, thighs lift, tailbone in, breathe!” the teacher commands. I am limp in my poses, and he keeps adjusting me. The changes he asks me to make are uncomfortable, requiring more strength than I have, and I can hardly keep my balance. He keeps saying, “Seane, focus, ground, breathe! You’re not breathing!” I think, Obviously I’m breathing, asshole, otherwise I’d be dead. He is picking on me! My body feels thick and tight.

See also Behind the Scenes with Seane Corn

During Savasana, I fall asleep, as usual, but this time my snoring wakes me up. I feel disoriented and embarrassed. I place my hands into Namaste, bow my head, chant a feeble Om with the class, roll up my mat, and split.

Outside, it has started to snow. New York is eerily beautiful when it snows; everything looks crisp, clean, and enchanted. I exhale completely, watching as the white mist rises from my mouth, and then take another full breath in. Suddenly, I stop in my tracks, exhale, and wait. Something is not quite right. I pat my pockets for my keys. Check. I open my bag to see if I have my wallet. Yep. Everything is where it should be. I look up at the large clock above Greenwich Avenue just as the sun is setting, and I see its pale-pink reflection against the white backdrop.

Slowly, I smile. Something is different. That something is me.

I stand there, my arms to my sides, my face still turned up toward the pinkish sky, and I know that everything in my life is truly OK. That everything is unfolding perfectly, and I am exactly where I am supposed to be. The word “trust” keeps bubbling up from deep inside. I speak the word, quietly. “Trust,” I whisper again. “Trust.”

My heart is full, so absolute and satisfied. Most days I leave yoga feeling good, but this time is different. This is beyond the body. Nothing has changed, I still have no sense of purpose, but somehow I know it will all work out. I place my hands on my heart, the snow settling on my face, and smile. I am immensely grateful. 

Revolution of the Soul by Seane Corn

Excerpted from Revolution of the Soul: Awaken to Love Through Raw Truth, Radical Healing, and Conscious Action. Copyright 2019 by Seane Corn. Excerpted by permission of Sounds True.

[csrgood]

Chevron Selling Major Oil Assets in Canada While Trying to Escape $9.5B Pollution Debt Owed to Rainforest Villagers

Ecuador rainforest communities trying to seize Chevron assets in Canada to enforce their $9.5 billion pollution judgment say they are “extremely concerned” that the oil giant is undermining the rule of law by selling off critical assets prior to a major court hearing in Ontario where the company faces the possible collapse of its main defense.  

Patricio Salazar, the lead Ecuadorian lawyer for the affected communities, announced that new research demonstrates that Chevron has sold or been in talks to sell close to $6 billion in Canadian assets since the case to enforce the Ecuador pollution judgment was filed in Toronto in 2012. The Chevron asset sales come at a time the Ecuadorian villagers have generated significant momentum in Canada in their effort to seize company assets by winning three consecutive unanimous appellate decisions – including one from Canada’s Supreme Court -- and are close to forcing the oil giant into a trial where it will have to defend itself against credible allegations of fraud and witness bribery employed to evade paying the liability. 

Salazar said lawyers for the communities are considering “all legal options” to prevent Chevron from further dissipating assets in Canada prior to the conclusion of the enforcement litigation. Chevron sold its remaining assets in Ecuador – mostly Texaco service stations -- during the eight-year trial that resulted in the pollution judgment, rendering the indigenous and farmer groups unable to collect damages in their own country even though Chevron had insisted the trial take place there. 

“We are extremely concerned that Chevron’s extensive asset sales in Canada are of such magnitude and frequency that they are disconnected from any legitimate business purpose and are designed to evade a legitimate court judgment,” said Salazar, who works for the Front for the Defense of the Amazon (FDA), the grass roots coalition which brought the case against Chevron and is seeking the collection of the judgment on behalf of 80 indigenous and farmer communities in the affected area.

The Canadian appellate court decisions in favor of the rainforest communities not only have shaken Chevron’s confidence in the outcome of the enforcement litigation – providing a possible motive to sell assets -- but they come at a time when the company’s large team of lawyers must appear in the Ontario Court of Appeal on April 17 to defend a problematic issue in the presence of national indigenous leaders from Ecuador and Canada.  The last court hearing against Chevron was attended by former Canada National Chief Phil Fontaine and Greenpeace co-founder Rex Weyler, both of whom were highly critical of the company’s toxic dumping in Ecuador.

The issue in the upcoming court hearing – whether the Ecuadorians can collect their debt from Chevron’s wholly-owned subsidiary in Canada – will be argued by noted litigator Alan Lenczner and aboriginal rights specialist Peter Grant. If the Ecuadorians win, Chevron’s main technical defense to the enforcement action would completely collapse, leading to substantial additional financial risk for the company, according to observers.

Chevron has sought impunity in the case by claiming all assets held by its wholly-owned subsidiary in Canada should be immunized from collection, said Salazar. Given that Chevron operates in Canada and around the world only through 1,500 wholly-owned subsidiaries, if the company’s argument is accepted then the 30,000 Ecuadorians who live in the affected area (called the “Amazon Chernobyl” by locals) will never collect even one dollar of their judgment anywhere in the world. 

“This is the ultimate in a cynical litigation strategy on the part of Chevron compounded by its chicanery around the asset sale issue,” said Salazar. 

“Our larger fear is that the Chevron asset sales are part of a broader strategy to inflict yet more harm on the company’s indigenous victims in the rainforest, just as it did in Ecuador during the trial when it sold off assets as the pollution evidence mounted,” Salazar added. “We are exploring all legal options to address our concerns while the Ecuador enforcement litigation is pending.  At a minimum, Chevron should give notice to the Canadian court when it seeks to sell any asset so a determination can be made as to whether the sale has a legitimate purpose.”

Luis Yanza, a Goldman Prize winner and community leader in Ecuador who helped to found the FDA, said:  “Chevron has a long history of fraudulent behavior in Ecuador so we are not going to just sit back quietly and let major asset sales happen again in Canada without seeking an appropriate remedy depending on what facts are found. The lives of thousands of Ecuadorian indigenous persons and colonists are far more important at this point than Chevron’s selfish interests in continuing to play tricks with court proceedings.” 

Chevron also has tried to prevent Grant, the aboriginal rights lawyer for the Ecuadorians, from arguing in open court that the judgment enforcement case against Chevron should be seen through the prism of indigenous rights instead of just corporate law -- a point that has infuriated some Canadian aboriginal groups, who believe the outcome of the enforcement case will impact their own efforts to achieve accountability for environmental harms caused by oil companies in their territories.

Research by lawyers for the rainforest villagers shows what Salazar calls a “disturbing level” of low-profile asset sales in Canada by Chevron and its wholly-owned subsidiary, Chevron Canada. Just last week, news outlets reported that Chevron is in talks to sell its large stake in the Kitimat Liquified Natural Gas Project in British Columbia.

In 2017, Chevron sold a $1.5 billion stake in its Burnaby refinery along with 129 service stations. The company in 2017 also was reportedly seeking to sell a $2.5 billion stake in its Athabasca tar sands project. Chevron also has sold significant stakes in various storage facilities and service stations, as well as a second tar sands project, according to the research. Given that Chevron is a company known for a secretive culture, it is likely in talks to sell even more assets in Canada that are not publicly disclosed, said Salazar.

The Chevron asset sales are controversial because after an arduous eight-year trial in Ecuador, the affected communities won the damages judgment after the company had accepted jurisdiction in the South American nation to avoid a jury trial in the United States. Chevron then announced it would not comply with the judgment, which later was unanimously affirmed by Ecuador’s Supreme Court. Chevron’s posture undermines the rule of law and forced the villagers to seek relief in Canada, where the company has substantial assets, said Salazar. 

After reviewing 220,000 pages of evidence and 105 technical evidentiary reports, Ecuador’s trial court in 2011 found that Chevron deliberately dumped billions of gallons of cancer-causing toxic oil sludge into the rainforest and abandoned more than 1,000 open-air waste pits, decimating indigenous groups and poisoning an area the size of the U.S. state of Rhode Island. (See here for a summary of the evidence and here for the cancer data.) Chevron operated in Ecuador from 1964 to 1992 under the Texaco brand.

Since losing the trial in Ecuador, Chevron has engaged in a pattern of bad faith conduct and fraud to evade paying the Ecuador liability, according to the evidence. A top-level Chevron official threatened the villagers with a “lifetime of litigation” if they continued pressing their claims, while Chevron’s General Counsel said, “We will fight this until hell freezes over, and then fight it out on the ice.” One Chevron lobbyist was quoted in Newsweek as saying: “We can’t let little countries screw around with big companies like this.” In an internal email, the company also admitted its defense strategy was to “demonize” the U.S. legal counsel for the Ecuadorians, Steven Donziger.

Chevron’s outside counsel at the Gibson Dunn law firm – led by a former New York City deputy mayor Randy Mastro -- also paid an admittedly corrupt witness at least $2 million to claim that Donziger approved a bribe of the Ecuador trial judge to be able to ghostwrite the judgment. The Chevron witness later admitted he perjured himself while a forensic report proved the ghostwriting allegation was false. (See here for a 33-page detailed report on Chevron’s fraud and this criminal referral letter to the Department of Justice regarding misconduct by the company and its lawyers.) Donziger asserts Chevron's false allegations are part of the company's criminal conspiracy to evade paying the judgment.

Gibson Dunn reportedly has billed Chevron well over $1 billion for its work on the case, which including coaching Guerra for 53 days prior to letting him present his false testimony in open court. The company has used at least 60 law firms and 2,000 legal personnel to attack the indigenous groups and their lawyers since the inception of the case.

In what appears to be another effort by Chevron to undermine the Canada enforcement litigation, company lobbyist and former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort – now under criminal indictment in the United States – secretly met with Ecuador’s newly elected President(Lenin Moreno) last May in Quito to lobby him to try to quash the case. That meeting happened just days after Moreno’s election and prompted the rainforest peoples to issue a stern warning to Chevron not to engage in further acts of corruption.

Salazar made it clear that any Chevron argument that the indigenous villagers and farmer communities cannot move to block company asset sales in Canada because they do not have a judgment is wrong. “We do have a judgment against Chevron from the court where Chevron chose to litigate and where it accepted jurisdiction,” said Salazar. “The peoples of Ecuador have fought Chevron for two decades to achieve the judgment that has been put before Canadian courts. And Canada's Supreme Court clearly has decided they have a legitimate right to be in Canadian courts to enforce their judgment

“We repeat that Chevron has no right to engage in yet more corrupt acts to dissipate its assets such that the enforcement of the Ecuador judgment will be rendered futile at the end,” Salazar added.

source: http://www.csrwire.com/press_releases/40848-Chevron-Selling-Major-Oil-Assets-in-Canada-While-Trying-to-Escape-9-5B-Pollution-Debt-Owed-to-Rainforest-Villagers?tracking_source=rss

[linneakou]

I gotta throw my hat into this.

I remember back in the day, close to 10 years ago, being part of one of my foundational ship fandoms and having fandom friends.

One of my friends posted a lovely little one-shot for the ship. This was during the dying days of LJ/DW groups being a hub for organizing and gathering. I was part of the IRC chats and regularly communicated with this person.

One day, they stopped talking. They deleted most of their presence online, including requesting their fic posts to be taken down. They mostly disappeared.

I found them and asked what had happened, and here's the gist of what they told me:

A group of rival ship enjoyers (this was at the start of an extensive and all-encompassing shipwar that eventually led to most of my fandom friends including myself quitting the fandom entirely) had gone through their fics and commented multiple times on several that the ship in question was 1.) bad, 2.) immoral, 3.) nonsensical, and 4.) stupid. Several commenters, ostensibly trying to be kind, said that this writer's talent was being wasted on this ship and that these fics would've been much improved if my friend would rewrite them for this rival ship instead (my friend Did Not Ship It and was very much disinterested.) The comments had started off as a trickle on that fic I mentioned at the start, and then over the course of a couple months became so unbearable that this writer wiped their presence online to escape it. They said their love of that ship had been tainted, and thinking about it gave them panic attacks. They were sorry that they'd effectively taken their ball and gone home in regard to their beloved fic, but they just couldn't take it anymore.

I was saddened by this but of course didn't hold it against them, because I am literally a lifelong bullying victim (it continues to this day IRL) and I know as well as any other weird kid who had the misfortune to grow up ostracized by my peers that the only way to stop this treatment is to cut yourself off from your tormentors.

Flaming is bullying, and if you don't want your fandom to dry up and die like an unwatered houseplant, you fucking nip that shit in the bud when you see it. Take advantage of moderation tools on sites like AO3. Be mean back. These people will have to learn by being shut out of the fun spaces and refused engagement on their nastiness. They learned in schoolyards that this is a great way to either get a response or remove an easily ignored annoyance, and frankly I'm sick of this childish behavior permeating adult spaces.

You want to behave like a tar pit in a place where people find joy and acceptance? I'm going to treat you like a tar pit. And you won't like it.

I wanna know where people have lately gotten the audacity to leave comments on fanfics talking about how much the fanfic sucked and negatively critiquing an author's fic like it's a published book review.

It pisses me off cause I've seen authors abandoned or delete their fics because of this.

You're getting fanfics for FREE! No one asked for your opinion.

I hope y'all know as authors we get email notifications when you comment so we see EVERY comment that's been left.

We also can see the negative reviews you leave when you bookmark our fics