#brother is illiterate in his late teens

[the-immortal-restless]

No to be critical but another reason why Casey is like a son to Leo is shown in the fact that instead of going through the portal himself, a man who has already lived these events and knows best how to complete this mission without mistakes, instead he sacrifices himself to give CASEY a chance at a better life. Even if Leo was injured, the past likely had better medical supplies than the apocalypse. Leo could have gone, but hounds were closing in and he need to save his son. So he did what so many parents have done.

He gave Casey his best chance, even if it wasn’t with him.

[halflingkima]

Did that thing where I felt like I wasn't reading and just accumulated a whole stack of library books. But I do actually wanna read 'em so lets see how we do before I gotta send them back.

May TBR

Dark Tides by Kimberly Vale: Following the events of Crossbones, the squad of teen pirate captains deal with the fallout from the pirate games.

Having been disappointed by the first book and unsure of why this one exists I really shouldn't read it. But if I do I gotta do it soon enough after the first one that I only have to read it once. It seems like they split the party in this one which... makes no sense to me. Also kicks off with a random new guy pov which is why I haven't picked it up in earnest yet.

Cleat Cute by Meryl Wilsner: A professional women's soccer rivals to lovers romcom. [read ✓]

Genuinely, I checked my library holds one day and said, out loud "I don't remember ordering that" the day before it arrived. I've heard lackluster things about the author and seen absolutely no one talking about this book since its release which is not promising. However, I really love gay sports romances so god i WANT to love this one so bad.

Seek You by Kristen Radtke: a nonfiction piece in sequential art exploring the phenomenon of american loneliness through numerous social lenses.

This is kinda where my extra page shifts at work have been detrimental. Was shelving the graphic novels and saw this one simply languishing there and decided: now's the time. I wouldn't have picked this up if I wasn't feeling particularly lonely but also, i am feeling particularly lonely lately, so i worry it'll make things worse...

Killing Moon by NK Jemisin: In an egypt-inspired society, dream priests harvest the magic in civilians' sleeping hours to heal, harm, and carry out justice.

I must read this this year. The library does not have the audiobook. I'm going a little crazy because I think my eyes are rebelling. I will read this book.

Land of the Sons by Gipi: a post-apocolyptic story of survival in which two illiterate brothers obsess over their father's journaling. [read ✓]

Was feeling slumpy and grabbed this in a panic. It looks like a quick but impactful read and I have heard some good things about it. Hope it doesn't wreck me.

Rusty Brown by Chris Ware: probably the most sincere and/or pretentious attempt at a literary graphic novel to exist?? i guess?? [read ✓]

Also a slump-panic pull. I ordered it from the online catalog and was thrown to find it's funking HUGE. idk how long it'll take to read and it's p mysterious/pretentious, seeing as there's no synopsis or anything. Can't tell yet if it'll be like a neo-meta narrative or just up its own ass but some of the blurbs talk about it as a revolutionary piece of art. so lets see.

A Taste of Gold and Iron by Alexandra Rowland: a prince takes over an investigation of local guilds to prove his loyalty to his queen

i saw someone rave about this and remembered absolutely none of what they said but was in a bit of a fantasy romance kick after reading The Hidden Paths (absolutely recommend) and snapped it up when i saw it "on shelf" but now it's just sitting there. it's so chonky. send help.

[thegirlwhohid]

I want to tell you about my grandma. I was thinking a lot about her recently, about the news from her village, and generation trauma, and war, and all the stories she told me. I want them to live not only in my memory. Her name is Oleksandra. Here's she in her youth.

My mom says that I look very much like her. I'm not sure if that's true. What is true is that my grandma affected my life a lot (not always in a good way). I spent most of my summers with her. Working in the field, cooking, or waiting for a buyer for her veggies, she told me endless stories about everything - and I was a grateful listener.

My grandma told me about her mother, Anna, and her extended family. When Anna was in her late teens, all her family - except her two younger sisters died of cholera. One of them, Maria, lived her life in the nearest town and her daughter was my grandma's best friend. Another, Daria, was executed with all her family by the Germans during WW2. Unlike her husband and daughter, Anna was a simple woman, almost illiterate. But we still keep rushnyky she sewed and embroidered. My grandma told me about her father, Savva. He was a school teacher and later - a principal. I'm sure she became a teacher because of him. Even after all these years, I felt how much she loved him. She even kept his portrait above her bed - not her sons' and not her husband's, but father's. My great-grandfather Savva was arrested on 10 May 1938. My grandma didn't say goodbye - one of her classmates told her he saw a black car near her house and she rushed there, but her father was already gone. About a month later, my great-grandma packed his belongings and went by foot to the city where he was imprisoned. She was told he was sentenced to 10 years in a correctional labor camp. Later, the family received a note that Savva died of pneumonia. Years after my grandma's death I found out that, in fact, Savva Towstanowsky was accused of 'belonging to a nationalist insurgent organization' and executed 15 days after the arrest. I try to find more information about his case, but the archives are inaccessible. But even without archives, I know that he was killed for being intelligent and for being a Ukrainian. My grandma told me about her brother, Hrihoriy. He was 2 years older than she was. In 1942 he was enlisted in the Red Army. Later, he was captured by the Germans, ran away, and hid from both the Germans and the Soviets somewhere in Crimea; later, the Soviets found him and mobilized him again. He was killed in February 1945 near Warsaw and buried in a mass grave there. He was just 19. (All my grandparents were raised by single mothers as none of my great-grandfathers survived the war). And, of course, my grandma told me about herself. I was curious and asked a lot of questions, though the real answers I got much later - when I learned how to compare facts. And... perhaps, many of my questions were indelicate, to say the least. I don't know know what my grandma felt when she told me about her childhood illness - she was about five when she fell ill so bad that her parents prepared a coffin for her. She was healed by a doctor from a German commune (one of the villages nearby). She didn't know his name, but was grateful to this man, and so am I. Most probably, he, and the rest of this village were deported or killed either during the Great Purge or WW2. There were themes I especially liked to know but she didn't want to elaborate much. Like, about the Holodomor. Her family survived - her father got some wheat for school members and pupils, and I know that he tried to save these resources to help others too. Unfortunately, he couldn't save all. His own brother died from hunger and exhaustion on the way from his village to my family's. (My grandma told me that parts of plants were edible and got very angry if we (me, my brother, and cousins) left food on our plates. I used to find it weird and frustrating. Not anymore). Another theme was WW2. There were a lot of books/movies/games about the war, and I was dying to learn about this time from a real witness. But my grandma was mostly silent. She and her mother lived under the occupation. A few times they heard explosions and hid in their cellar. Some German officers lived in the neighbor's house - one, a 'good one' gave her some chocolate, but she avoided all of them as much as she could. Then the Soviet army came. And in a few years, another famine came. They survived it too, miraculously. My grandma left her village to the uni in Zaporizhzhia and gained a stipend - some money and, the most important part, some grocery cards, that could be exchanged for flour, oil, sugar, etc. She sent some to her mom in the village and they survived. But... the neighbor's family didn't. After all these years, she remembered that family and especially - a girl of her age with long black braids. Maybe, they were friends. She never told me. (My grandma was very demanding about everything concerning education. Like, she asked me to draw pictures and then rated them - usually, not very high. Only now, I realize that it was her way to help me. Because in her world, if you weren't educated/skilled enough, you wouldn't survive. Or isn't worthy of living). The story of my grandparents wasn't a fairy tale. My grandpa was three years younger than my grandma and liked her a lot. But when my grandma remembered his courtship she sounded mostly... annoyed? She told me she didn't know why she'd married him - probably because they'd needed a man in the house and she'd felt pressure from people around (most of the men of her year were killed, and yet, unmarried girl in her late twenties was a laughingstock). They weren't heavenly happy together, but they were content and comfortable with each other. And when my grandpa died she grieved him. But some part of me is thinking... maybe, my grandma would've been much happier if she'd stayed alone with her books and studies. (My mom says that my grandpa - her father-in-law - was the wisest man she'd ever met. I wish I knew him better). My grandma had a long life. Her latest months she spent in the city, with my family. But a week before her death, she insisted on returning home; nothing could change her mind. My uncle drove her home on Sunday; my father promised to arrive on Saturday. But early in the morning on Saturday my uncle called and said that grandma was gone. That was 14 years ago. But I still miss her and dream about her village. It changed a lot and not the same, but still, it was my home too. I cannot lose it. Nowadays I feel like the echo of the past exterminations resonates strongly with the current one. I cannot avoid it; it affects me and my family even if tomorrow we return to our peaceful life at home (we won't). And sometimes... I wonder what will I tell my grandchildren about my life? If I live long enough to meet them, of course.

[pugperson99]

My Daredevil Fic Recommendations:

None So Blind by prettybirdy979

29,468 words • 2 chapters • Teen and Up

They say when you assume you make an ass of you and me.

Matt wishes that the Avenger's assumptions about his seeming inability to read the written word did something as benign as making an ass of him and them. Being called illiterate shouldn't hurt, not when he knows he's not, and it's not like he can tell them the truth.

Not that the truth would make much difference. He's just going to have to grin and bear it.

If he can.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: ‼️ableism‼️

basically the Avengers make an assumption and it’s ablest. it’s very good! (can be read as Matt Foggy)

You’re Not Alone by Lycosolen

2,245 words • 2 chapters • General Audience

Kind of a short missing scene from 2x02. Matt couldn't see, and now he couldn't hear. This was one of his worst living nightmare…

i really wanted to give Matt a hug during this scene, in this Foggy does so it works. (this can be read as MattFoggy too)

After Hours by Fernandidilly_yo

6,357 words • 1 chapter • General Audience

He’s still trying to figure out how this rekindled friendship between the three of them is supposed to work. There’s a sense of honesty that floats in all the spaces that used to be filled up with secrets and lies, and Matt…

Matt doesn’t know what to do with that.

(Or; some soft moments between Nelson, Murdock, and Page)

it’s really soft and sweet. nelson, murdock, and page feels.

Small Comforts by kfantastique

6,456 words • 7 chapters • Teen and Up

Matt is finally allowing himself some physical comfort from his friends and Foggy is so relieved. The friends are confused that Daredevil apparently likes cuddling?? Foggy thinks it's hilarious and adorable but he been knew.

TRIGGER WARNING: ‼️panic attacks, non-con drug use‼️

super sweet cuddly Matt with his friends.

Cats in a Bag by Vigilant_Insomniac

3,746 words • 1 chapter • General Audience

"Are you even blind"

Matt is increasingly under the impression that maybe he fucked up his explanation of his abilities.... Judging by Foggy's anger and mistrust thats directed his way almost always lately.

~~~~

Or: Matt and Foggy need to actually sit down and talk about... A lot. Since otherwise their frindship might not last much longer.

more misunderstandings for the soul! because nelson v murdock killed me

Disappearing Act by sleepynarwhal

14,045 words • 4 chapters • Mature

When Team Red started, and people took notice, a general consensus rose. No one knew how it started, but the idea that a weaker lied within the ‘team’ became common knowledge. See, Daredevil’s claim to fame was putting people into comas or taking down huge crime bosses. Deadpool’s reputation... everyone knew the merc with a mouth’s reputation.

Spider-Man... was your friendly neighborhood hero. Technically a vigilante, but a hero. He was kinder, softer, helped mundane people with mundane things. He wasn’t some big monster. Being a part of Team Red seemed akin to a little brother following his older siblings around because they were cool. Sure, when they fought together, Spider-Man’s fangs were sharper while the older two took less violent messures. Since they teamed up, Deadpool’s monthly kill count dropped, and Daredevil no longer caused terror in ordinary citizens along with the criminals. So, most considered Spider-Man non-essential, unimportant.

Until, Spider-Man went missing, and all the city learned that Spider-Man held a very, very vital role in Team Red. After all, when dealing with these vicious vigilantes and deadly mercenaries, someone had to keep the monsters on the right side of the path.

team red fics are a whole new level of chaotic that i love. this one’s very good.

[jjmaybanksbaby]

The Summer Game: The Kook Party (Chapter 1)

word count - 3.2k words

warning- a fair amount of swearing, underage drinking, some smut at the end, vomiting/throwing up

Meets the OCs! Ember Elizabeth Mason Blakely Marie Turner

Catch Up On the Story! Prologue

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The second that Blakely woke up, a wave of nauesa hit her. She covered her mouth with her hand and ran to her attached bathroom, desperately trying to avoid puking her guts all over her bedroom. She kneeled in front of the toilet just in time for the evidence of last night to make an appearance. A horrible headache loomed in the back of her skull. This was not an ideal way to start the morning but Blakely lknew better than anyone how to handle a hangover. 

The events of last night were still fresh in her mind and Blakely didn’t have much trouble remembering them. Blakely had swiped a bottle of champagne before Ember and her had snuck out of their own graduation dinner to escaped to the beach. While they had sat there, staring at the ocean, Ember had proposed a sort of game to ensure the summer was that much more interesting. The girls had laid on the sand ironing out details and drowning themselves in champagne until Ember’s mother found them. The disappointment on her face when she discovered the girls covered in sand and well on their way to drunk was obvious. But Blakely was use to disappointing her parents so she didn’t care much; however, she felt a bit bad for her best friend who was sure to get a stern talking to about responsibility or something like that. 

Blakely peeled herself off the bathroom floor and stood in front of her mirror. She went through her daily skin routine, something she’d been doing since the first signs of acne appeared on her face in 6th grade. If she had nothing out, Blakely had flawless skin. She twisted her long blonde hair into a bun at the top of her head, examine herself in the mirror for a moment more before finally heading downstairs in search of something to eat. 

Blakely entered the kitchen to find her mom sitting at the island, a cup of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. No one could ever accuse Blakely’s mom of being “tech-illiterate”. She was up to date on all the lastest who’s who and what’s what across every social media. While some kids might love having such a hip mom, Blakely found this extremely annoying. 

Blakely walked over the platter of pastry sitting in the middle of the island. Her dad had the biggest sweet tooth so there was always some form of sugar laying around the house. 

“Oh, honey. Are you sure you want to eat that?” Blakely’s mom said as Blakely reached for pastry. “Why don’t you have something a little healthier. You don’t wanna start the freshman 15 early now, do you?” 

This was subtle way Blakely’s mom had body-shamed her ever since she hit her teen years. It was never explicitly just a little comment here and there about what Blakely was eating or how great another girl looked in her size 00 whatever. You couldn’t even call it “fat-shaming” because Blakely had never weighted more than 115 pounds in her life. 

Blakely replaced the croissant she had picked and grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit instead. Sometimes she would ignore the comments from her mother and do whatever she pleased but right now, the hangover was putting her in no mood to get into a fight with her mom. 

Down the street in the Mason household, Ember wasn’t having that much better of a morning. Ember’s older brother, Dylan, had decided today was a great day to announce to the family that he was dropping out of Brown to focus his energy on his start-up. The concept for which had yet to decided so really he just wad dropping out of college. 

Ember had grabbed her plate of breakfast and made a quick exit from the kitchen after her brother dropped this bomb. Now, she was sitting on her bed listening to muffled sounds of the argument coming from below. In reality, she owed her brother a small thank you. His announcement would take the heat off her for a little while. Lately, her mom had been pressuring her to make some firm decision about what she was going to study in the fall but Ember couldn’t seem to picture any of her future. 

Ember reached over and grabbed her cell phone off her bedside table. She unlocked it and sent a quick next to Blakely. 

E: want to go for a drive? family drama bleh 

B: be there in 15 bb

Ember and Blakely’s drives were a staple of their friendship. They had taken the first one the day Blakely had turned 16 and been gifted a Jeep by parents and they’d only grown from there. Sometimes they would talk the whole time, venting to one other about their problems. Other times, they would blast the music and scream every word. 

Just as Ember was about to get up and change into something other her pajamas, her phone buzzed with another notification. She opened to find a text from Sarah Cameron to their group chat. 

Sarah: party tn @ kelce’s place 9pm be there bitches 

Ember shut off her phone without responding to the text. She knew Blakely and her would go, there wasn’t a party on Figure Eight that they missed. It partying was an olympic sport, Ember and Blakely would have more gold metals than they could count. They could turn any party into the best time and more importantly, they knew their limits so they were never the ones throwing up and having to be carried home. It was a science they had long mastered. 

Ember traded in her sweatpants for a pair of faded denim short and pulled a Georgetown crewneck over the cami she had slept in. She ran a brush through her gorgeous brown hair before finally pulling it up in a ponytail. Only a moment after she had finished getting ready she heard Blakely pull into her driveway. Ember slide her phone into the back pocket of her shorts, slipped on a pair of sandals and ran down the stairs. 

“I’m going on a drive with Blakely.” Ember yelled as she slipped out the front door. 

Ember strutted down the driveway putting on a little show for her best friend before she pulled herself up into Blakely’s Jeep. Ember plugged her phone into the aux cord, queuing up one of their classic driving playlist as Blakely backed out of the driveway. 

“So,” Blakely started. “What’s new in the Mason household?” 

“Dylan is dropping out of Brown to, and I quote ‘focus on his start-up’.” Ember replied. 

“Since when does he have a start-up?” Blakely asked. 

“That’s the best part. He doesn’t even really have one. My parents are trying to talk him out of it but he’s turning 21 in July so there’s really not much they can do to stop him.” 

“Shit.” Blakely laughed. “Didn’t see that one coming from Dylan.” 

“How life in the Turner home?” Ember question. 

“Just my mother preaching her ‘A man won’t love you if you weight more than 120 pounds’ bullshit per usual.” 

“You know that’s not true right?” Ember said. 

“Yeah, I know.” Blakely responded. “Half the time it’s just easier to eat the nasty whole wheat shit rather than start a fight with her.” 

Ember glanced over at her best friend. “Should we get coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” Blakely said a she turned onto Main Street, heading to their favorite coffee shop. 

•••

It wasn’t until later in the day, when the girls were at Blakely’s house, getting ready for Kelce’s party that one of them brought up the game. 

Blakely was standing in front of her full length mirror in just her undergarment holding up different dress opinions. So far, none of them were clear winners. Ember was sitting at Blakely’s vanity transforming her straight brown hair into beachy waves. 

“If I fuck Kelce tonight, I’m still counting it for full points because even though we’ve done it before.” Blakely declared as she held a leopard print slip dress up to her chest. 

“Are you gonna fuck Kelce tonight?” Ember countered. 

Blakely shrugged her shoulders. “It wasn’t bad the last time. Plus I keep getting vibes that he wants to do it again.” 

The first and only other time that Blakely had slept with Kelce had been during the senior spring break trip to Florida back in April. Both Blakely and Kelce had been pretty tipsy when it happened and they didn’t talk about it afterwards but Blakely wouldn’t be too surprised if it happened again tonight.

Blakely disappeared into her closet to search for her hot pink chunky heels to pair with the dress. “Who do you have your eyes on tonight?” She yelled out to Ember. 

Ember set the curling iron down for a minute and sighed deeply. “Nobody really.” She admitted. “God, I hope there’s some body new at this party.”

“Willing to take half points and slum it with a Touron?”

“You know Tourons never end up at Kook parties.” Ember answered as she went back to curling her hair. 

“You never know babe. Tonight could be your lucky night.” Blakely said. 

“I doubt it.” Ember muttered softly to herself, not feeling very optimistic. 

•••

Ember and Blakely walked into the party just after 9:30. The bass coming from the speakers was so loud it caused the walls to shake slightly. The furniture had been pushed to the sides of the room to make space for a dance floor which was covered with plenty of couples pressed up against each other. The stench of beer was overwhelming and the number of red solo littered around the house made it obviously that many of the night’s activity would be alcohol induced.  

Sarah Cameron jumped up from her spot on Topper’s lap when she spotted Ember and Blakely enter the room. 

“You came!” She giggled, pulling the girls into a hug. Her breath reeked of alcohol and she had to yell over the music for Ember and Blakey to hear her. “Oh my gosh Blakely! Kelce has already asked about you twice!” She held up two fingers in front of Blakely’s face as to emphasis her point. 

A smirk slowly spread across Blakely’s face. “Did he now?” Blakely threw her arm over Ember’s shoulder. “Should we go find the boys?” She asked her. 

“I’m sure they’ve been patiently waiting our arrival.” Ember replied. 

Sarah lead Ember and Blakely through the dance floor to the corner where Topper, Rafe and Kelce were currenlty camped out. 

“Look who finally showed up.” Rafe said as the girl approached. 

“We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Blakely responded as she plopped down between Rafe and Kelce. 

“Be a gentlemen and get us some drinks, Rafe.” Ember said, shoving him off the end of the couch so she’d have room to sit down. 

“Get your own damn drinks, princess.” He snapped. 

Ember pushed out her bottom lip in a pout. “Please Cameron.” 

Rafe rolled his eyes before stomping away in the direction of the keg. Kelce stiffed a laugh as Rafe walked away. 

“He’s for sure afraid of you two.” Kelce said. 

Blakely turned to face Kelce and ran one of her fingers down his biceps causing his adam’s apple to bob. 

“And what are you?” She asked him. 

Kelce took a long drink from the cup he was holding. “This feels like a trick question that I’m gonna pass on.”

Blakely playful smacked Kelce on the arm. “What a cop out.”

Rafe finally returned to the group holding a few couple of beer between his fingers.

“Rafe’s back with the beer. Thank God.” Ember said, taking the drinks from him.

“You’ll aren’t gonna fucking believe who’s here.” Rafe said. 

“Who?” Blakely asked as she took a sip of her beer. 

“Kiara.” 

Ember froze at the sound of Kie’s name. “She’s here?” Ember managed to say. 

“Right over there.” Rafe pointed over his shoulder to the kitchen. 

“What the hell is she doing here?” Blakely asked. 

“Oh! I invited her!” Sarah chirped. 

Ember’s eyes got big. “Why the fuck would you invite her?” 

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “We talked it and we’re friends again so I invited her. Friends invite friends to their parties, duh.” 

One look at Ember’s face let Blakely know that Ember was about two seconds away from going off on Sarah if she didn’t intervene. 

“Kelce.” Blakely said. “I think Ember here need’s something a little stronger than this beer. Where might you be hiding the good stuff?” 

“In my dad’s study. Third door on the right. Don’t mess up anything.” 

Blakely leaned down to whisper into ear, “You’ll be properly rewarded for this when I get back.” Then she grabbed Ember’s hand and pulled her up. “C’mon Ember, we’re way too sober to deal with this shit.” She flashed Sarah some deathly side away before walking away. 

“I can’t believe she fucking invited her.” Ember said the moment they were out of earshot of the others. 

“I can’t believe how fucking annoying Sarah is the second she gets a drop of alcohol in her system. Like learn how to hold your liquor.” Blakely replied as she opened one of the doors in the halfway. She sighed in frustration when it was only the laundry room. She spun around and opened the door across the hall. This time, the door opened to reveal an expensive looking study. “Bingo.” 

“She may have forgiven Kiara for all the shit she caused but I’m never going to.” Ember said as she followed Blakely into the study. Ember sunk down into the leather couch that was positioned under the large window while Blakely flung open the cabinets behind the large oak desk in search of some vodka. 

“Okay so simple solution. Just grind on Rafe all night and pretend Kiara doesn’t even exist.” Blakely opened the bottom cabinet on the right to find it stocked full of top shelf liquors. She shuffled the bottles around until she found a bottle of Tito’s. “Now were talkin’.” Blakely said. 

Blakely unscrewed the cap and took a decent size swig before walking over and handing the bottle to her friend. Ember happily accepted it and pressed the bottle to her lips, taking a decent sized swig herself. 

“You gonna be okay if we go back out there?” Blakely asked Ember. 

“Sarah’s a bitch.” Ember replied. 

Blakely laughed in response. “And Kiara’s a fake who doesn’t deserve the time of day from you. Now, let’s go.” She stood up once again and offered Ember her hand. Ember let Blakely lead her back out to party, determined to not let Kiara’s unwanted appearance ruin her night. 

When they rejoined the group, Ember grabbed Rafe’s hand and dragged him out to the dance floor.

“Woah, woah woah.” Rafe protested. “You know I don’t spend parties on the dance floor.” 

Ember turned around to face him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her face was inches from his. “Can you just shut up and let me dance on you for a while.” 

Rafe threw his hands in surrender. “Anything for you, princess.” 

Ember took another swing from the bottle of vodka that now had become permanently attached to her hand before turning back around and grinding her hips into Rafe’s pelvis. 

Meanwhile, Blakley had wasted no time climbed onto Kelce, straddling his legs.

“I think it’s about time you get that reward I promised you.” 

Kelce brought his hands to Blakely’s ass and gave it a little squeeze. “I think so too.” He said. 

Blakely cupped his face in her hands and pressed her lips against his. Kelce tangled his hands in Blakely’s hand as he slipped his tounge into her mouth. Blakely slide closer to him as the kiss turned increasingly sloppy. 

“Let’s go upstairs.” Kelce said as Blakely lowered her face to leave a hickey on his neck. She nodded and quickly slide off his lap. Kelce grabbed her hand and lead the way up the stairs to his bedroom. He had barely kicked the door closed before Blakely was attaching her lips back to his. 

The two of them stumped backwards in the dark room searching for the bed until Blakely back fell onto it. Kelce broke away from the kiss for a moment to pull his shirt over his head and Blakely felt a tingle between her legs at the sight of his perfeclty chiseled stomach.

Kelce slide back on top of her, moving his mouth down to leave little marks on her throat. Blakely wrapped her legs around his wasit in an attempt to keep him close to her. Kelce slide the straps of her dress down her arms until Blakely’s boobs slipped out. Kelce moved down her body and attached his mouth to her left nippled. He flicked her nipple with his tounge while he squeezed her other boob causing Blakely’s back to arc in pleasure as she screamed his name. 

Kelce started to plant kisses trailing down Blakely’s stomach when the door to his bedroom opened and Rafe bust in.

“Hate to interrupt what’s going on up here but Ember is puking her guts out downstairs and you need to go handle it.” 

Blakely let out an audiable groan as she sat up and slipped her dress back up onto her shoulders. She gave Kelce the kindest smile she could mangane. “Let’s finsh this another time, kay?” 

Even more than securing points for the game, Blakely was disappointed that she and Kelce had been interrupted. Blakely wasn’t interested in doing anything other than sleeping with Kelce but based on how the night had been doing, the sex would have been quite good.

Blakely hurried down the stairs to find Ember leaning over the kitchen sink. Sarah was holding back her hair and rubbing small cirles on Ember’s back as She vommitted into the sink. The bottle of Tito’s the girls had taken from Kelce’s dad’s office was on the floor completely empty. Blakely did a quick calculation in her head. She had taken a few shots of it but other than that, Ember must have drunken the majority of it.

“Oh fuck.” Blakely said which got Sarah’s attention. 

“Look’s who here. It’s Blakely. She gonna take you home and make sure you’re alright. How does that sound?” Sarah said to Ember in a voice usually resrved for puppies and small children. 

Blakely’s mentally rolled her eyes at the Cameron girl. “Thanks so much Sarah.” Blakely said in the sweetest voice she could muster up. “Ember is lucky to have you.” 

“I hope she’ll be okay.” Sarah replied. 

Blakely just smiled at Sarah and turned to Ember. “It’s time to get you outta here.” Blakely slung Ember’s arm around shoulder and half dragged, half carried Ember out of Kelce’s house, trying not to make too much of a scene.

They only had to stop one time on the way to Blakely’s car for Ember to puke. Blakely held back Ember’s hair as she barfed into the bushes out front of Kelce’s house. 

“We’re definitely gonna have to talk about this in the morning.” Blakely said to Ember. Tonight had make it incredibly obvious that Ember wasn’t over what had went down with Kiara four years ago. It hadn’t take one unexpected appearance at a party for Ember to throw all her boundaries out the window and get totally shit faced.

Blakely lead Ember to her Jeep that was parked just a bit down the street from Kelce’s house. She helped Ember up into the passenger seat then walked around the driver’s side and slide behind the wheel. 

“Please God don’t puck in my car Ember.” Blakely said as she turned on the ignition and shifted the car in drive. “And you definitely aren’t gonna remember this in the morning but I’m offically ahead in the game so at least tonight didn’t suck for both of us.” She added as she speed down the road toward home. 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

a/n - i hope y’all enjoyed the first chapter! there’s gonna be a whole lot exposed about kie’s and ember’s past in the following parts so get ready for that!!!

comments/feedback are always appreciated!! :)

check out my entire masterlist here!

taglist! (drop a “🦋” in my inbox to be added to The Summer Game taglist)

[karthara]

I went from being illiterate in grade two, (because kids books are boring) to having a grade 12 reading level in grade four because I found a book on my parents bookshelf that had a character with a name similar to mine who was riding a dragon on the cover and I wanted to read her story. Hey, it's almost like finding characters you can relate to is important for gaining interest. The book itself touched on murder, rape, and torture, and even the people the girl escaped too... let's just say that was dubious consent. Thankfully my parents were the kind of people who I felt like I could go and talk to if I had questions about 'adult things'. I had an older brother who had porn mags hidden in his room. My dad had Boris Vallejo art books. I also had access to the internet (before any of my friends did because my parents were computer nerds) and yes, I did get up in the middle of the night so I could go on the computer unsupervised. I also would sneak out of my room in the middle of the night to watch late night cartoons (I saw Ninja Scroll before age ten). But I could go to my parents and ask questions and get only slightly sanitized information. Because yeah, I was still a kid and didn't need all of the details of all of the bad things that exist. And yes, I was allowed to run around a library unsupervised for probably an hour once every couple of weeks. I was told 'this is the section of books aimed at people your age, here is the section aimed at people a little older then you, you probably won't be interested in the rest of the books in the library because you might find them boring or they might have bad things in them'. Kids are going to find access to things they are curious about no matter what you do. Raising kids is work. It takes effort.

So, was it my parents fault for having adult art books in their bedroom that I saw sex related stuff before I was a teen? Nope. I made the choice myself to look at those books that were not on the bookshelf I had been told I could take things off of.

Was it my brothers fault for being a teenage boy with a sex drive? Nope. I chose to go and sneak into his room and look at those magazines. I had a very basic sex talk before that even happened, the 'Sometimes older people who love each other want to play certain kinds of games with each other, this is probably something you are not ready for yet, but when you are you can come ask questions' kind of basic. I was aware of what I was getting into and went looking.

Was it the library's fault that I found books that covered adult topics? Nope. I was drawn by visually interesting and pretty book covers. Books on Greek, Roman, and other cultures myths often have covers with very pretty art or armour. And yes, there are myths that have incest, there are myths that have rape, there are myths that have cannibalism.

Was it the fault of the tv network for putting adult content on at night? Nope. I wanted to watch more cartoons and I went looking for them. And yes, I got in trouble for getting out of bed to watch cartoons at night. Didn't stop me from doing it because I made my own choices. Honestly I wanted to watch more She-ra, but that wasn't what was on. If I could have just hidden under the covers with a tablet and had access to the cartoons I wanted to watch then I would have gone for that before something that made me feel a little uncomfortable while I was watching it. Just the same way I would read after my bed time when I wasn't tired yet.

Children are curious and are going to go looking for things they think are interesting. I'm not saying don't put obstacles in their way for getting at things that are probably too old for them, I'm saying when they get into stuff they probably shouldn't have, it is the responsibility of the adults raising them to talk that stuff over with them.

I hardly ever swore as a kid or teen because I had that talk with my parents about how to use language to get across my point. The info I received? Swear words are words you don't use in polite company because it is rude and are used to emphasis something with strong emotions. They also lose effectiveness if you constantly use them. I decided that when I swore, it was going to hit people like a sack of bricks.

The sex talk I got when I asked for it was something along the lines of you can do what -you- want, -when you- want, with yourself or someone your own age, but there are some possible consequences, like getting pregnant or getting very sick, so use protection, and try things yourself first to figure out what you like. My mom showed me where she would keep a box of condoms under the bathroom sink just in case I ever needed them, that she would replace no questions asked. My parents were honest with me that they got married due to a pregnancy scare, had a miscarriage before the actual marriage so the pressure was off, and then decided that they wanted to go through with it anyway.

Yes, little kid me was capable of understanding that. My point is just, those kids need adults they can talk to and ask questions of without the fear that they are going to get in trouble for asking. You can't control every last thing your kid interacts with, so just be the person they can go to when they have questions? Doesn't even have to be your kid, if they are your niece/nephew/whatever you can be the cool aunt/uncle/whatever they can go to for help. Or the cool youth pastor, or teacher, grandparent, or adult authority figure of any kind.

It is not the responsibility of people providing content for other adults to not provide that content to anyone just because kids -might- find it. You can't pretend things don't exist just because you don't like them. Just talk to your kids and listen to what they have to say when they speak and answer their questions. If you don't know the answers, you're an adult who can use google or any other search engine you want. Is it really that difficult of a concept? Let adults read adult stuff, let teenagers be able to explore sexual themes without actually having to go out and have sex, just stop trying to tell people they can't have something just because you don't like it.

Listen. I lived through the pre-AO3 era of fanfiction, and I want to make one thing clear for the people who didn’t:

A world without AO3 is not a world where there is no fanfic about rape, abuse, incest, or child molestation.

It is, on the other hand, a world where that rape, abuse, incest, and/or child molestation comes completely the fuck out of nowhere because there’s no culture of putting content warnings on the stuff you publish.

[yasbxxgie]

'Gil Scott-Heron saved my life': After a traumatic childhood Abdul Malik Al Nasir seemed to be heading for jail or an early death. Then, at the age of 18, he met the famous poet and musician – with remarkable consequences

My brother Reynold introduced me to the music of Gil Scott-Heron. Little did I realise how it, and more importantly Gil, would go on to shape my life.

I was 18, had just come out of a childhood in care, was traumatised, illiterate and had no prospects. Reynold, who was older, showed me an album called Moving Target, which had a picture of Gil running through the streets of Washington seen through the telescopic lens of a gun. Reynold was politicised and well-read – unlike me. I didn't take life too seriously, partly because I couldn't face up to what had happened to me. He made me sit down and listen to the song Washington DC and the lyrics summed up so much of my life: "The symbols of democracy pinned up against the coast, the outhouse of bureaucracy surrounded by a moat./ Citizens of poverty are barely out of sight/ The overlords escape in the evenings, brothers on the night."

Gil was talking about the White House surrounded by the urban ghettos, the bits the tourists don't see – the reality of the city's ghetto life. My brother explained what the song meant. He drew a parallel between what Gil was talking about in Washington DC and what we, as black people, were facing in Toxteth, Liverpool, in the run up to the riots of 1981.

Reynold was trying to wake me up to consciousness. I had already got in with the wrong crowd, and he was concerned that if I didn't dissociate myself from them it would only be a matter of time before I was incarcerated again – and this time not in a care home.

Why had I been put in care in the first place? My name back then was Mark Trevor Watson, and when I was eight years old my father had a stroke. Dad was black from Guyana, my mum white Welsh. All the family (there were four kids, and mum and dad) were the butt of racist abuse. Dad, a former merchant seaman, was a real worker. Nothing could stop him. He even volunteered to work on Christmas Day 1974 for the Netherley Property Guards, who patrolled the warehouses on the Liverpool docks. It was a horribly cold winter. He left the house at 5am to wait for the bus to take him to work. It never came. Dad waited till 10am and eventually trudged home defeated. That was the only time I saw this big strong seaman cry. He didn't open his Christmas presents, he just went straight to bed. He had a stroke in his sleep and when he woke up he was a quadriplegic, paralysed from the neck down. He stayed like that for the rest of his life, in and out of the geriatric ward until he died four years later.

Mum, who worked in the Meccano factory, continued to struggle with the four of us. But she couldn't really cope. I was a handful – dyslexic and dyspraxic, but undiagnosed. I hated school. We were virtually the only black kids there, and the pupils used to be brought into school assembly to the sound of the headmaster's favourite recording – Black Sambo: "Black Sambo, black Sambo, living in the jungle alone, except for Big black Mumbo and Big black Jumbo." No one considered it a problem. After that everyone would turn to me and my sisters and call us black sambo. There were fights, and everyone called us troublemakers. At nine I was expelled from that school, which resulted in me being taken into local authority care in 1975.

I was "sentenced" to nine years under a care order having committed no crime. They didn't see it like that, of course. They labelled me maladjusted and told all of us that we were menaces to society; that society needed protecting from us. On the night they took me into care, they put me in an admission unit where they locked me in a room with bars on the window for 14 days and 14 nights. This practice later came to be outlawed following the infamous pin-down scandal in Staffordshire, but in the 70s it was common. It was the most traumatic experience of my life, for which I would later seek justice in the courts.

Just before Christmas 1975 I was taken to a place called Woolton Vale assessment centre, otherwise known as Menlove. It was a large, Victorian prison with bars on every window, locks on every door and an isolation cell inside. It had previously operated as a remand home for prisoners. In 1974 it had been converted to an assessment centre for kids, but still operated illegally under the old rules. Confinement might not have been permitted, but it didn't stop them. Meanwhile, the local remand centre, Risley, was full, so Menlove became an overspill for prisoners. This meant they were mixing children from broken homes with hardened criminals – and locking them up. Another matter over which I would later sue.

From there I was moved to several different community homes where I suffered varying degrees of physical and racial abuse over the years until I was 18 and my care order ceased. I was visited by my social worker who gave me £100, made me sign a form to say I would never come back for more money, and within a few months I was living in a hostel for homeless black youths.

That was when Gil changed my life. He was playing at Liverpool's Royal Court Theatre, and the gig was sold out. It was 1985, Gil had a record in the charts, and was at the peak of his fame. A friend of mine, the late photographer Penny Potter, got me in – she had a backstage pass and told his team that I was her assistant. I watched the show and was mesmerised. It was hard to describe what he did exactly – he rapped, he played jazz, he was a poet, he educated – he was just singing a song, but it was as if he was part of a collective soul that existed in the room.

After the show I went backstage with Penny. Gil was standing there with a bunch of people around him – photographers snapping away, reporters stuffing mics under his nose, promoters with bags of money, and the band members trying to get paid. Everybody seemed to want something from him. I shook his hand, thanked him for the performance and turned round to leave. He said: "Hold on a minute brother, what's going on round here? I heard you had some riots". I told him about Toxteth and how the black communities had rioted across the country in the long hot summer of 1981. He said: "Yeah we had some of them back in DC". He wanted to know about the people of Toxteth so I offered to take him to the scenes of the riots. The next day we toured the area and I gave him a running commentary of what had happened in each place, all the places that had been burned down and what had happened as a result.

Now if there's one thing they taught us in care it was how to cook, and I offered to feed Gil and the band. The trouble was I didn't have a place to live. So I asked my friend Dobbo if I could borrow his flat, cashed my giro cheque, and spent my two weeks' money on food. Gil bought his whole 17-strong entourage back to the flat and I fed them all. Entrees, starters, mango juice, the works. He tried to pay me £100, which was a lot of money then. I wouldn't accept it; he tried again and I refused again. When he realised there was no point in trying to pay me, he said to his promoter: "We'll be back in England in a few weeks. Give the brother the details of the hotel where we'll be." Then he said: "I'd like for you to join us on the tour." To do what, I asked? "Whatever the fuck you wanna do, carry some drums, whatever you want," was his response. And that's what I did.

Gil took it on himself to spend whatever time he could in the evening mentoring me, giving me encouragement and trying to foster in me a sense of self-worth. I had been indoctrinated by the care system to believe that I was maladjusted and useless from the age of nine, but Gil refused to accept it. He saw something in me that I did not see in myself – my potential.

I had told Gil everything about my life. Except for one thing – I could hardly read. I was just so ashamed. It was 1988 and I'd been on the road with him for four years. This time we were touring America with Richie Havens and Gil passed me a book and asked me to read a page back to him. I felt like my heart was going to stop. I'd always had the attitude that if Gil asked me to do anything I'd do it, and for the first time he'd asked me to do something I couldn't do. I'd always made myself useful by doing anything, from the band's laundry to flogging Gil's books at gigs, to helping the roadies, to navigating for the driver. I was always conscious of not trying to be a burden because I was aware he was paying for my flights and hotel rooms, and when he asked me to read and I couldn't I felt cold, and fumbled and fumbled, to the point when he said "What's the problem? Are you not fluent in reading?" That was the first time I ever knew a person could be fluent at reading. Being a child of the streets, fluency was something I'd always associated with talking; talking was my survival mechanism. Gil made me take stock of the fact that illiteracy was something not to be ashamed of, but something to address. I told him I'd never been taught – that was the first time I'd admitted it even to myself. In the care system education or literacy weren't encouraged, and most people came out of it like me.

Not many people know that Gil was a teacher – he had a Masters degree in English from Lincoln university. Despite not having a first degree he was accepted on to the Masters programme on the strength of two books he had written as a teen; The Vulture, a murder mystery, and The Nigger Factory, which was about life on black college campuses. I'd been running with the wrong crowd and he took it as a personal challenge to turn me around; to take me away from a life of hustling and make me productive. If I'd ended up like most of my peers in care I'd be dead or in jail by now. Gil's intervention saved my life.

He used to introduce me to people as his son, despite the fact that he has his own children. It was so touching. At the age of 12 I lost my father, and when I met Gil at 18 he took on that role and took it on seriously.

Back then, I had so many problems; my mind was like a spaghetti junction. There were so many narratives going on in my head that I couldn't unravel them, and Gil would listen to them all. At the end he'd invariably say one or two sentences that would sum up what it had taken me so long to say, and also direct me to what I should do about it.

In 1987 we were on tour and Gil suggested it was time for me to get a job. For two years I went to sea, working as a steward on a ferry, then on oil tankers, scrubbing decks, cleaning toilets, serving food. Every night from 6pm to midnight I taught myself to read and write. I started experimenting with language by writing poetry and songs. When I got to port I'd write to Gil, and enclose poems or songs for his appraisal. In between stints at sea, I would go on tour with Gil and he would appraise my work. By 1990, at the end of a period at sea, I had a considerable body of work; poetry, prose and songs. But I just put them in a box in a cupboard in my mum's house and left them for years

Gil then encouraged me to go to college and university and educate myself. The problem was, I didn't have any qualifications. So in 1990 I took a job with Littlewoods on a positive-action training scheme where they took on four black kids a year and trained them in management, and through that they sponsored me to go to college to study business and finance. I got a degree in sociology and geography, which seemed appropriate for a seaman with my background, followed by a postgraduate diploma in social research and a Masters degree in media production.

I continued to tour with Gil when I could. He was so proud of me. My degree was the culmination of everything he had invested in me and I'd invested in myself. What Gil gave me was a reason to live. At the age of 18 I couldn't see anything to live for.

In 1992 I met the Last Poets, a band that had been Gil's mentors and who are often credited as being the first rappers. Gil's famous song The Revolution Will Not Be Televised was inspired by the Last Poets' Niggers Are Scared of Revolution. There was a yearning in my soul for spirituality. I had lots of questions about religion, but Gil was more spiritual than religious. Jalal and Suliman from the Last Poets spoke to me about Islam, it struck a cord and in 1992 I became a Muslim and changed my name from Mark Trevor Watson to  Abdul Malik Al Nasir and started managing The Last Poets' leader Jalal. I later started my own record company and worked with the likes of Public Enemy, Run DMC, Wyclef Jean, Sly Dunbar, the Wailers and Steel Pulse.

Over the years things took a toll on Gil. For many years he had preached against the evil of drugs, but he became an abuser himself, and in 2001 he was sent to jail in New York State for possession of cocaine. When he got into trouble, it reminded me how much he'd helped me. So I flew to New York and visited him in jail – he'd been pumping iron, eating three square meals a day, which he rarely got when we were on the road, and looked more relaxed and fit than I'd seen him in years. I went through all the security checks, and they told me to take a seat in the visiting room while they got the prisoner. He didn't know who was coming, and when he saw me he had a huge smile on his face. The guard called him over and said: "Ah, the famous Gil Scot Heron . . . tuck your shirt in." It was just an attempt to humiliate him. I bit my tongue.

By 2004, I had received substantial compensation for what I suffered in care. I dug out my old poems from that box in my mother's house, and showed them to my wife Sarah. She said I should do something with them, so I set up my own publishing company, Fore-Word Press, and published my first book, Ordinary Guy, in my original name Mark T Watson. Gil was elated when I sent him a copy. Not simply because it was dedicated to him but also because he knew without his mentoring, I wouldn't have been able to read or write.

In 2008, I was producing an album at Wyclef Jean's studio in New York and there was a huge commemoration concert at Radio City Music Hall for Martin Luther King Day. Wyclef was performing, and he introduced me to Stevie Wonder. Now Stevie and Gil had been integral in fighting for a national holiday to celebrate Martin Luther King, and I told him about my relationship with Gil. "Is Gil out of prison?" he asked. Yes, I said. "Well, bring him here now." So I phoned Gil, and brought him to the show. When we arrived at Stevie's dressing room and I announced Gil to Stevie, Stevie Wonder stood up, and said: 'Gil Scott Heron y'all', and the whole dressing room burst into rapturous applause.

Last year Gil made a comeback album, I'm New Here, which got great reviews. I joined him on what would be his final tour of Europe.

It's three weeks since Gil died, and I'm still in shock. I'm 45, married with five children, and Gil has been the most important person to me throughout my adult life. His funeral in Harlem was a sombre affair. What touched me most was all the love in the room. After the band played a beautiful tribute and Gil's ex-wife Brenda delivered a eulogy, the rapper Kanye West took to the pulpit and sang Lost in the World, a song that contains a sample from Gil's poem Comment #1. It was a beautiful tribute.

After the service, I told Kanye my story and asked if he would take part in a tribute concert for Gil in Liverpool, the place where we met all those years ago and he took me under his wing. This is my way of saying: "Thank you Gil. You saved my life."

[s-media]

Changing Times

Over the weekend I watched this documentary called “Changing Times”. It’s the second part of the BBC series called “Child of Our Time 2016″, which follows the life of a group of kids from birth to their teen years.

In the documentary this experiment was conducted, that raised the question, what impact does social media have on today's teens? Psychologist Tanya Baran follows 25 teens throughout this time to see how they are actually adapting to the “New World”. She and a team of experts conducted this experiment where they monitored and kept track of time the teens would use social media and gaming networks for over a week.

In “Changing times”  they actually bring up some good points. They give an example of one of the teens, named Mabel. As a kid, Mabel was shy. She had a difficult time making friends, but as a teen she has changed. That would be because of social media. With Social media she was able to flourish. She was able to improve her friendships, meet new people and grow socially on the wide range of apps used today. Now Mabel has a lot of friends who she talks to frequently. She is an example of how social media improved society in a good way. She illiterates how social media helps people grow when they felt like they couldn't in real life.

Overall I like this documentary. It includes opinions from teens, as well as their parents. This brought diversity to this topic. You are able to see the different thoughts between the age groups. The younger generation likes social media and thrives off of it, while the older generation not so much. They believe it’s putting a damper on the youths social skills as well as their sleep. This was proven by Christopher- James Harvey, an expert in adolescent sleep patterns. He explains how teens need at lease eight hours of sleep, but due to social media and gaming, they are staying up late. This then affects their minds and bodies. 

In addition, it did a good job of telling a story. They provided old clips from when the teens were young vs being 16, which was effective. It gave us a glimpse of their lives before social media. That itself illustrates how they have changed in the years. One example of this would be Mabel. You can see how she was closed off as a kid vs how she is as a 16 year old. She's more open and social now. Mabel has friends that are other than her family. This helps show social growth, something social media helped her with.

Finally, this documentary opened my eyes to the idea of gaming being a form of social networking. Before I really didn't see gaming a way to communicate with others. After watching this, it made me think back to all the times my brother would talk to his friends while playing Fortnite. My friends also play and talk to each other via video games. Now it has me thinking the effect this has on society. The real question is what effect it has on us and our everyday lives?

(Source)

[badonkodank]

Who We Are, Who We Want To Be

ao3

A/N: Requested by reviewer: AvengeTheCap 

People assumed a lot of things about the Pines twins.

They assumed because Stanley looked bigger, bulkier, he must be the older one.

They assumed because Stanford was smart, he must also be an overbearing know-it-all.

They assumed because Stanford was the nerd, Stanley must be the jock; that if Stanley was strong, Stanford must be weak.

And because Stanford was a genius, they assumed he must look down on his brother and think him a moron. Because if Stanford was brilliant, Stanley had to be dumber than a stack of bricks. They assumed nothing ever bothered Stanley, because he was too stupid to realize he should be upset.

That was so far off the mark it might have been hilarious if it wasn’t so detrimental to the way the brothers were treated.

It wasn’t something Stanford had immediately picked up on, of course; he may have been smart, but with that intelligence came the awkwardness of trying to hold a normal conversation with his peers. They wanted nothing more than to ignore him, because they assumed he was going to flaunt his intellect and treat them like illiterates. It made picking up on a lot of social assumptions and cliches that had been thrown onto him and Stanley rather difficult.

Granted, those assumptions were hard to miss on days like today, when people made no attempt to veil the true meaning behind their words. Ford tried not to wince as he set the book he’d been reading down on the bleachers to watch Stanley walk out of the locker room with their coach looking annoyed, speaking in that harsh tone that echoed throughout the, by now, empty gym.

“...I don’t care if he looked like a baby or an adorable bunny rabbit! When someone steps in the ring opposite ya, ya take ‘em out! I don’t care how inexperienced they look, that’s how they get ya! Do ya understand me?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Ya old man ain’t gonna have it if ya lose. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it up an’ I just might ‘ave Stanford ‘ave a go.”

“He doesn’t wan-”

“Least he wouldn’ta looked like an idiot.”

“... Yeah.”

“A’ight, get outta here. Fix ya face.”

Ford might have attempted replacing his frown with something lighter when his brother came over to grab his backpack, but seeing that their coach had been right in saying Stanley needed to do something about his injury, he couldn’t bring himself to wipe away the displeased expression. He had paid attention to the fight, of course he had, but seeing how he’d been in one of the back rows he hadn’t been able to make out the extent of the damage. Stan had played it off as nothing in the ring and since Ford hadn’t been able to get a proper glimpse of his face, he’d figured that it must really have been nothing to worry about.

After all, the guy he’d fought had been small in terms of… well about everything.  It had been a win for Stanley, as everyone had assumed it would be the moment they saw the kid, but just barely, and it hadn’t been as easy as they’d expected either. That was probably why it had been so surprising when his brother had let his guard down in the first few seconds and allowed his opponent the opportunity to strike. Ford had been worried for half a second when that had happened, but when Stanley had recovered as if it had been no more than a subtle breeze that had hit him, he’d decided his brother was fine.

And while the split lip and black eye Ford now stared at certainly weren’t the worst he’d seen him sport after a match, they still looked painful and in need of a good icing when they got home. At least Pa hadn’t been there to watch, otherwise Stanley would’ve had to worry about dealing with more than just a short chewing-out from their coach.

His brother was probably thinking along the same lines, because when he spoke he asked Ford if he would back him up in saying the other guy was huge when their father inevitably asked how it had gone.

Whenever the man asked, Ford always had to swallow his waspish retort of, “if you wanted to know so badly you might actually come to a match once in awhile.”, that would do more harm than good in the end if spoken aloud. It was just so upsetting, seeing Stanley win in the ring nearly every time he stepped into it, and knowing Pa would only ever be showing up to the big, “important” ones. The man had practically forced Stanley into the sport, and now he couldn’t even be bothered to leave the shop long enough to support him.

Meanwhile, here Ford was, coming to every fight, whether it was practice or a real thing, big or small, because he cared about Stanley and was truly proud his brother had carved out a place in the school that was just his.

The pleased glint in Stanley’s eye whenever he landed a proper, solid blow, and the grin that would spread his face when he won made it worth it every time. And Ford would never say at times he thought himself better than their father, but… he did think that.

The proof was in the puddin’, as Ma would say, and there was an abundance of proof that supported the notion of his father not being as good a person as him when it came to Stanley. Perhaps that was conceited, but Ford didn’t care. The fact of the matter was he came to his twin’s events, he listened to him when he needed to talk, he helped Stanley with school, and Pa did none of those things. Ford cared about Stanley and showed it. Their father just didn’t.

Which was why he nodded in response to his brother’s request.

“What do you mean “pretend”, Stanley? The guy was at least half a foot taller than you.”

“Haha, that’s what I was sayin’!”

Ford could see some of the tension in Stanley’s shoulders bleed away and smiled softly as they made their way to their lockers where he’d left his backpack. He was always pleased when he was able to cheer his brother up, even a little, especially after someone had made him feel bad.

Lately Stanley got irritated when he tried to jump into a conversation in order to defend him, so Ford had resorted back to their usual form of comfort that did more to avoid the problem than anything else. This time Ford wished he had jumped in, because the smile his brother wore didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the reasons behind it were easy enough to deduce; even if Stan denied that Coach’s words had stung, he knew better.

He wished he’d just jumped in and told the man to back off, because everyone had their off days, even his brother. It wasn’t Stanley’s fault, anyway. Not really. That opponent kid had definitely used his youthful and slight appearance to his advantage, and it wasn’t like Stanley enjoyed hurting people.

He just liked feeling powerful, and brave. That was all. Ford could understand that.

“Coach doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about, you know.”

The heavy sigh Stan released had Ford wincing even before he heard his brother’s reply. That sigh always meant nothing good would be coming out of his mouth.

“He knows exactly what he’s sayin’, I screwed up today,” Stan said with a shrug, “It happens.”

“But-”

“Can we just drop it?”

“I…” Stan glanced back at him, an almost pleading look in his eyes that had Ford snapping his mouth shut, nodding tersely.

There was no point trying to tell his brother something when he clearly didn’t want to hear it, and he knew how quickly his encouragement could turn to gentle berating if he was allowed to go on. It was just so frustrating when Stan refused to listen when he tried to make him feel better. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t want to feel better.

Ford supposed he could understand that; he liked to feel sorry for himself too- more often than his brother, at any rate. That didn’t make it any less upsetting though.

When they stopped in front of their lockers Ford knelt and got to work with the combination. He sensed more than heard the approach as he pulled his pack out of the container.

When Crampelter spoke, he sighed so heavily he feared it might have echoed throughout the entire hall.

“Sup, Four-Eyes. Sweaty.”

“Oh my God, don’t you have anythin’ better ta do?” Stan’s eyeroll could be heard in his exasperated tone and Ford stifled a snort.

The bully’s harrassments were biweekly by now and the brothers had become more or less fed up with him. It had started to show, too. Crampelter didn’t seem to appreciate their defiance either, if the beating he’d arranged last week had been any indication. Apparently that still wasn’t going to stop Stanley from being difficult.

Ford stood swiftly, scowling at the junior in silent support of his brother. Crampelter only scoffed and turned his attention back to Stan.

“Heard ya almost lost to a wimpy half-pint.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t,” Stan said.

“Ya really sucked out there.”

“Mm.”

“Coach is pissed.”

“I know.”

Crampelter frowned when Stan shrugged, confusion taking hold of his features, and Ford couldn’t exactly laugh at him because he himself couldn’t believe how nonchalant his brother was being.

“W-Well, he’s probably gonna call your parents and let em know how ya messed up.”

Ford bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the older teen. What kind of cheap shot was that supposed to be?

“What’s your point?” Stan sounded more tired than anything by then and Ford narrowed his eyes at Crampelter, daring him to elaborate.

The only thing the other knew about their family life was what he heard his own father gossip about with his officer buddies, but if he was hinting at what Ford assumed he was hinting at, he wanted to hear him say it to their faces.

He couldn’t imagine why the bully would go at anything from that angle today, especially so suddenly and when they’d done nothing to provoke him… but he could be unpredictable.

And oh, Ford dared him.

Go ahead. Say it. Give Stan a reason to knock your teeth out.

“Nothin’. Just bet yer pop ain’t gonna be happy.”

“Probably not, but he never is, so...” Stan shrugged once more and lazily hooked his thumbs into his pockets. “You done?”

Crampelter seemed at a loss for words and Ford tried not to let his own shock show. He always had a comeback… though, Stan was also usually riled up more, which gave him something to work with.

Actually, come to think of it, why wasn’t he more upset? Usually talk like this got him red in the face and ready for a fight. Was something wrong or had he actually decided to heed his advice and not give Crampelter a reaction?

Whatever the reason, Stan’s apathetic responses had the effect Ford had hypothesized they would, and the older teen scoffed and walked away, muttering under his breath words that were better left ignored.

“Yeesh, what was his problem? Am I right?”

Ford started when Stan barked a harsh laugh, but quickly recovered with a light chuckle of his own.  “Yep. He has issues.”

“You could say that again.”

The sudden change in his demeanor made Ford relax, his smile smoothing out into something more genuine when Stan threw an arm around his shoulders and ruffled his hair. So he had just been taking his advice on ignoring Crampelter, then. Good.

A yelp escaped him when Stan exclaimed suddenly and turned to drag him towards the nearest exit. Ford opened his mouth to ask what the hurry was about, but stopped himself when he remembered it was Friday; he should have known Stanley would want to move as quickly as humanly possible. Honestly, his memory was better than that.

Ever since they’d found the broken-up craft they’d dubbed the Stan’O’War at age 12 the two had made a commitment to always work on it every Friday after school, whether they had homework or not. The only times they could temporarily pause that commitment were when their parents said they couldn’t go out, or when they were both so tired they agreed they’d do it Saturday. Both pause options were rarely ever needed after they’d hit 14, and now, two years later, Ford was pretty sure they’d only missed a week’s worth of boat work in total. Which was sort of impressive when he thought about it.

But then, it was his and Stanley’s favorite thing to do, their special pet project, so of course they would keep to the schedule.

Though, apparently they were stopping by their house first, since his brother was heading in the opposite direction of the beach. Ford didn’t question the choice, as it was pretty self-explanatory; Stan was usually hungry after a match, and he’d want to grab some ice for his eye as well.

Okay, actually, he wanted to get some ice for Stan’s bruises. His twin didn’t actually care whether his injuries were seen to or not. That was something that always worried Ford, but he never said anything if for no other reason that to avoid annoying him. Stan got awfully touchy whenever he was shown proper care nowadays. It was never something he’d enjoyed, sure, but he didn’t used to make such a fuss over it like he did lately. Ford didn’t know why exactly that was, but it saddened him all the same.

**

When they got home Stanford sighed at the throng of people they had to push past in the shop to get upstairs. Weekends during the fall and winter months were usually busy, but honestly, it was a little ridiculous that they had to struggle to get into their own house some days. At least the crowd meant their Pa was busy and wouldn’t notice them getting back.

They should be able to sneak in and out without being noticed.

Ma was on the phone upstairs and Ford flashed her a quick smile when she waved at him and Stanley as they made their way to the small kitchen. As suspected, snacks were the first order of business in his brother’s mind. Stanley made a beeline for the cupboard that had been dubbed “theirs” and rummaged around a moment before producing his last bag of toffee peanuts and a sack of jelly beans. After that it was straight to the fridge to retrieve some water and Pitt Cola.

Ford opened up his backpack when Stanley came over with the goods and allowed him to deposit them beside his notebooks. The routine was a familiar one and the brothers worked like a well-oiled machine, with Ford double checking that they had everything needed for the pen and paper aspect of the boat and Stan grabbing the few tools they had to bring home every week from under the sink.

Normally the time doing everything was passed with casual conversation about the day, some playful jabs thrown into the mix because why not, but today, it was different. Stanley was… awfully -uncharacteristically- quiet.

Ford wanted to ask what that was about, but feared he already knew the answer, and that he wouldn't be able to fix it, so he stayed silent. It was better to say nothing then to say something wrong, right? He thought so.

When they finished with that, Ford grabbed a packet of ice from the freezer that Ma always kept on hand for instances such as these, and handed it to his brother. Stanley fought it for maybe a second before relenting and placing it over his eye- probably to get him off his back. Ford would take it either way.

They were on their way back downstairs when Ma’s voice stopped them.

“So, Stanley, how’d that match go?”

Stanley barely missed a beat before answering, his tone bright and falsely cheerful in a way that made Ford cringe.

“Good! I won.”

“I figured ya would, Peanut. Good job.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Stan said, the smile on his face a little softer then, more genuine. “Sixer an’ I are headed out now, ‘kay?”

“A’kay, be back before ten, ya hear?”

“Gotcha!” Stan gave a mock salute despite the fact that their mother couldn’t see it, before quickly heading out once more.

While there were fewer customers downstairs than when they’d first arrived, there were still enough to keep their pop from noticing them and the two were able to get back outside without any further holdups, something for which Ford was immensely thankful.

Besides, he’d ask Stanley about the match, and unlike Ma, he’d want details. Ford never looked forward to seeing his brother so down after those conversations. It was better to avoid those situations altogether.

They walked to the beach in a silence that was both peaceful and tense at the same time, and Stanford wished he could ignore the latter feeling, but with every step it became worse. Still, he didn’t say anything to Stanley about it because he knew his brother was only trying to forget all the crappy things that had happened earlier in the day- if the way he kept shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders was any indicator, he was having some mental conversations with himself again.

Stanford knew the shiner his twin sported would be a sore and embarrassing subject should it be brought up -much like his grades were for him when he didn’t get 100%- so he knew to keep away from that line of conversation. Instead, he began thinking up things they could talk about when they got to the boat; things that would make his brother laugh and put the match and the homework looming over his head out of mind for the night.

It wouldn’t be too difficult considering Stanley already didn’t want to dwell on his own thoughts, he just had to make sure the transition back into talking was casual. Then again, even if it seemed forced, his brother would appreciate the effort and roll with it. That was just one of the great things about Stanley.

“So, Stanley, what do you wanna work on today?”

“Hmm?”

Ford repeated the question and sighed inwardly in relief when Stanley hummed in thought.

“I dunno… We finally got most a’ the hull finished up last week, so… mast?”

“Heh, I was actually thinkin’ along the same lines.”

“Cool.”

“Right,” Ford said as they stopped in front of the craft in question. She was starting to look fantastic, if he did say so. In fact, he bet it would only be another year or two until she was ready to be out on the water. He knew Stanley was looking forward to that day as much as he was.

It wouldn’t be too long after that that they would be able to leave that town behind and go on the adventures they’d only ever dreamed about before. The older they got, the harder it became to work out the logistics of how they’d do it, but thus far Ford had been able to. Sure, it would cost some extra cash they didn’t have at the moment, but Stanley was working on getting a job at the garage, and Ford was sure he’d be able to pick up some jobs around town for the library and school. They were always good for some extra cash, and they loved him.

It would take some time, but thankfully, that was something they had on their side.

“Oi, Poindexter, quit zonin’ out!”

Stanford blinked when Stanley dragged him out of his daydreaming. His brother was already on the boat and he laughed a little at how deep into thought he’d fallen that he hadn’t even noticed the teen move.

“Sorry.”

Ford climbed up the ladder they kept leaned against the Stan’O’War for ease of access and went to stand by him.

“So, what’s the first order a’ business?”

Ford didn’t bother giving that too much thought before jumping into the plan he’d worked up earlier in the day. He knew Stanley was feeling down, but experience had taught him that if anything would pull him from his stupor, it would be working on their baby. Stanley just needed a distraction for a little while, and Ford was all too happy to provide him that for the rest of the night.

Ma calling them down for breakfast was what finally roused Stanford from his comfortable sleep. He combed his fingers through his hair briefly -a habit developed after the insane, gravity-defying bedhead had warranted teasing from Stanley- before rolling off the top bunk with a groan. He proceeded to flop gracelessly onto his brother, effectively waking him too.

“Aw wha’th’hell?!”

Stanley shoved weakly at him until Ford relented and got off, dragging the blankets off as he went before the younger teen could pull them over his head.

“C’mon, Stanley, Ma called us down.”

“Uuuuugh, fine.” His brother sat up and took his sweet time stretching, eliciting an eyeroll from the other. When he finally got out of bed, a few minutes had passed and Ford had gone to the bathroom to change his clothes, brush his teeth and properly fix his hair.

He met Stanley at the stairs and frowned when he noticed the tight grip his brother had on the banister.

“Stanley?”

“Ma and Pa are talkin’. We should probably wait until they’re done.”

Ford tilted his head in confusion then. His twin was rarely concerned with interrupting people when they were in the middle of a conversation on a normal day, so what was different now?

He went to ask his twin that but got his answer when he heard their father’s voice raise enough that his words could be heard clearly.

“He ain’t tryin’ hard enough and you know it.”

“He’s doin’ ‘is best, Filbrick!”

Oh. So it was going to be one of those mornings. But… what had brought it on? Stanley hadn’t done anything bad, their report cards hadn’t come in yet, so what…? No matter how much Ford wracked his brain, he couldn’t find a reason Pa would be upset with his brother.

What he did know, though, was that the words were hurting Stanley, and that he would not stand for.

“Hey,” Ford grabbed his twin’s hand, pulling him out of wherever his mind had wandered, “They’ll live. C’mon, I’m hungry.”

Stanley resisted for half a second before following him down. Ford wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be encouraging. As soon as their parents heard them they quieted, and the two took their respective spots at the table. Ford knew it was a foolish to hope they’d get through the meal without conversation, but he still found himself flinching when their father finally opened his mouth.

“Coach Rogers called last night.”

“... He did?”

“Said ya almost lost. Again.”

“Wha- no I didn’t! I got hit but I didn’t almost l-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Pa snapped and Ford winced, the secondhand discomfort acute as Stanley hunched his shoulders as if he was trying to curl into himself.

“You been slackin’ again, Stanley, and it’s unacceptable.”

“But-”

“I’m tired a’ your excuses too, so shut it!”

“‘Kay.”

Ford glanced over and upon seeing Stanley’s defeated expresion, bit his lip until he tasted copper. This wasn’t fair. At all... But then, Pa’s lectures rarely were. As unfortunate as it was, they’d just have to ride it out like they always did.

“You been failin’ your classes. I ain’t havin’ you failin’ this too when it’s the only thing you got goin’ for you, understood?”

Stanley nodded dully.

“I mean, this is just ridiculous, Stanley! You need to straighten up and do the work. You ain’t gonna be livin’ here forever, and the world don’t accept failures.”

Ford wasn’t sure he managed to contain the scowl that wanted to settle on his face when that last word came from their father’s mouth. He hated that word, especially when it was directed at Stanley. It hurt his twin every time and made Ford’s blood boil.

He’s not a failure! He wanted to scream, but kept silent; yelling would get them nowhere but in deeper trouble. That fact rankled him even more. How come nobody else could see what Ford saw? That Stanley was really smart in his own way- That he was great!

Not that he expected their father to ever see, of course. He never saw anything unless it was staring him in the face. Unless he saw Stanley winning, he assumed he was failing, and nothing else was ever good enough for him.

But why didn’t Stanley stand up for himself? If anyone else were to be speaking to him like this, Ford knew they’d be on the floor sporting a bloody nose, and while he couldn’t imagine his brother raising a hand against Pa, he also almost wished he would. At least then he’d be doing something other than responding to the grilling with a whispered, “I know.”

And the words sounded so hollow, so distant and pained, and that was the last straw for Ford. Without knowing exactly what he was doing, he huffed to grab Pa’s attention.

“He did win. I would know; I was there.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

The cold anger suddenly radiating from the man made Ford step back involuntarily, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked at the floor. Funny… he hadn’t meant to ``stand up. He also hadn’t meant for his tone to sound so accusatory...

“Nothing. J-Just that- I mean, Stanley has been workin’ really hard in boxing. Yesterday was an accident… I, uh, distracted him, that’s why he got hit.” Ford could feel his brother’s eyes on him but he didn’t dare look while he continued, “He’s been doin’ his best in school too. We did some studying last night and he’s workin’ really hard… That’s all I was sayin’.”

Their father scrutinized him for another second before humming under his breath and nodding tersely. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Ford swallowed audibly and sat back down, forcing his breath to remain steady when he glanced over to see Stanley staring intently at his food, picking at it but not actually eating.

He wanted to do something to reassure him, but aside from nudging him with his foot, there was nothing he could do with Pa breathing down their necks. Besides, it didn’t sound like the man was done talking yet, and the last thing Ford wanted to do was make it seem like he wasn’t paying attention.

“An’ if that’s true, Stanley, then I expect you to be workin’ hard for all your classes from now on.”

“‘Kay.”

Stanley’s voice was steady but Ford could tell he’d just barely managed to keep it that way. It seemed to appease Pa, though, who went back to eating and reading the paper as if nothing had happened- as if he hadn’t just essentially told his son he was a huge disappointment and that he’d eventually be thrown into the adult world without his parents to back him up.

Stanford kept a tight lid on his anger towards the injustice of it all. He’d almost been hoping Stan would tell Pa to shove it where the sun don’t shine. Almost. He wasn’t dumb enough to think that doing so wouldn’t have ramifications, which was why he was glad his brother hadn’t, but… it never sat well with him when the teen just took the verbal beatings without so much as a scowl.

He’d gotten so used to them.

It wasn’t the first time Ford had acknowledged that fact, but he still felt sick to his stomach at the thought all the same.

The teen pushed his plate away without a word in the same moment his brother got up, excusing himself and heading out of his line of sight. The sound of his footsteps heading downstairs had Ford hastily standing and thanking Ma for breakfast, giving her a peck on the cheek as he did (she wasn’t the one he was upset with, after all) before going after Stanley.

They arrived at the beach without a hitch and Ford took his time catching up, giving his twin time to calm and gather whatever thoughts were bouncing around his head.

Stanley was leaning against the swing set they’d long ago claimed as their own, looking out at the crisp blue ocean with what Ford could imagine were eyes glazed over with misery as he played their father’s cruel words over in his head. To anyone passing by it would have looked like he was simply enjoying the scenery, but after so many years of being there to comfort his brother, Ford knew differently.

The way his brother’s shoulders drooped lower than normal, how he kept clenching and unclenching his fists slowly and shoving his hands into his pockets only to remove them a second later, it all screamed “NOT OKAY”.

“Hey,” he said softly, standing beside his twin.

He didn’t reply. In fact, if Ford was seeing things correctly, he shifted away from him. The movement was subtle, but it had him frowning nonetheless. “What is it?”

Once again, his twin said nothing, not even making eye contact as Ford narrowed his eyes, his earlier irritation towards their father resurfacing and directing itself outward.

Why was Stanley acting upset with him? He’d been the one to get Pa off his back.

“What? What did I do this time?”

“What didn’t ya do?”

The words dripped bitterness and Ford was taken aback by them even as he rose to his own defence. “You’re not seriously making this about me.”

“Technically you’re the one who made it about yourself.”

“I did not!”

“I’m sorry, what was that ‘what did I do’, then?”

Ford glowered at his brother and crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn’t often that his brother got like this. He swallowed the urge to yell at Stanley when his pulse spiked as his frustration levels rose; they wouldn’t get anywhere if he let the anger get to him. He acknowledged that he’d already made a mistake in conversation and steeled his expression as he asked his brother what was wrong.

“Ya had no right, Stanford!”

Ford startled at the sudden volume, his arms tightening their hold on his sides. He hated being shouted at, even when he understood, logically, that his twin was only yelling at him because there was nobody else to yell at. Still, it didn’t stop the stinging and confusion that the words brought on.

“What are you talking about?”

Stanley glared hard, his jaw clenching as he elaborated for him. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Wait, seriously? You’re mad at me for getting Pa off your back?”

His genuine bewilderment must have been evident because Stanley’s glare shifted into a less enraged scowl and he muttered, “I can handle myself.”

And that was a laughable statement if Ford had ever heard one! He didn’t laugh though- couldn’t find it in himself to do so. However, he did allow himself a small scoff before he spoke, looking past his brother so he wouldn’t have to see how the words affected him.

“Right, that looked like you were handling it.”

He knew it was a low blow before he’d spoken, and the way Stanley tensed out of the corner of his eye was all he needed to know he probably shouldn’t have said it at all. Never let it be said that he thought everything through completely before he spoke.

Ford braced himself for the cuss-out he knew he deserved, then, and frowned when it never came. All he got was a growled order to shut up.

Oh. All… right…

“Seriously, what’s wrong? You’ve been so… so passive these last few days.”

The reaction was immediate, if the complete opposite of what he’d had been hoping for. He turned away once more to stare at the waves beating against the shore, his entire frame tense. Ford scratched the back of his neck then, at a loss for what to do next. All he could think to do was stay quiet and hope his brother would eventually come out of it and talk to him… or prod at him until he gave in.

One of the options would be slower and might not yield any result, the other had the potential to make his twin angrier, yet it promised some form of answer.

In the end it wasn’t any sort of real contest.

“I’m sorry, Stanley. I’m not trying to make you mad, it’s just… I’m not used to seeing you this way. You know what I mean? You’re usually so… you, and recently you haven’t been.”

His brother’s stance sagged a little and Ford felt relief flood his system. Good, he was saying something right, at least, even if it was coming out less than eloquently. He wasn’t too keen on speaking from the heart without any sort of “nerdy stuff” (as Stanley liked to call it) backing him up, but at least his twin knew he was being sincere.

“You’re worryin’ me, Stanley, and I’m sure you’re not meanin’ to. I just… Aside from defendin’ you, did I do something?”

“What- no,” Stanley shook his head vehemently before leaning against the swingset, as if using solid weight of it beneath his hands to summon the courage to keep speaking. “I don’t know what it is. Lately…”

“Lately?” Ford nudged gently. He could tell he wanted to keep going, but just like he wasn’t great at speaking from the heart properly, his twin had trouble putting words to how he was feeling.

“Lately I just don’t see the point in tryin’ anymore.” Stanley sighed when Ford frowned, his confusion evident, “I mean, I wanna do better, but what good is trying when nobody cares anyway?”

“I care!” Ford ignored the pang in his chest with the knowledge that Stanley thought he wouldn’t and continued, “Of course I care, Stanley! Why wouldn’t I? And- wait, why didn’t you tell me when you started feeling like this?”

Stanley shrugged and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the sand. “Didn’t want you to think ‘m a loser.”

The admission was so quiet the ocean sounds almost drowned them completely, but Ford caught them, as well as the unspoken “like Pa”. He swallowed the lump that suddenly tried to form in his throat. He really thought he’d think so low of him? Why? Had he ever given his brother an indication that he could ever think that?

Oh, Moses, what if I did? When could that have been? Every conversation they’d ever have tried to spring to mind then and Ford nearly missed his brother’s next words as he searched through his own memories.

“Also didn’t wanna get your hopes up. Y’know, like Pa. Expectin’ somethin’ more from me even though I got nothin’ to give.”

“That’s not true,” Ford cursed the hoarse edge in his voice but powered through, “I don’t know where you got that idea, Stanley, but it’s not true. What made you think it was?”

The question was met with silence and Stanford wanted nothing more than to see his brother’s face then. Stanley could be his own worst enemy when he wanted to be, and if he’d really been feeling this way about himself for as long is it sounded, he was in a bad spot. Ford would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he felt awful for not noticing sooner.

Had Stanley been that good at hiding… or had he just not seen because he assumed he was fine?

Ford waited a couple more seconds for something, anything, that might tell him how his brother was doing. When he received nothing, he stepped forward so he was in front of Stanley; it was driving him insane, not knowing what was going through his head.

The sight of tears swimming in Stanley’s eyes was not what he’d been expecting, and it was enough to make Ford feel like he’d been punched in the gut. He bit his lip as his twin stared back at him, looking as scared as he’d seen him in a long time, and Ford’s hands shot out to grab his brother’s shoulders, steadying him even though he didn’t need it. He didn’t know what else to do.

Just how long had this been bothering him?

“Lee?”

His soft inquiry had Stanley closing his eyes tight and shaking his head. Ford’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. He hated this. This… he couldn’t even fully comprehend what “this” was, but it was awful.

Oh, Lee. I’m sorry.

Without putting much thought into his actions, Ford brushed Stanley’s not-yet-gelled hair out of his face, gentle even though he didn’t need to be. When he spoke again, he kept his voice soft.

“What makes you think you have nothing to give?”

Stanley shook his head once more, a shaky sigh escaping him. “It’s stupid.”

“If it’s upsettin’ you, it’s not stupid,” Ford countered immediately. Stanley needed to understand that, believe that, even if he didn’t believe anything else Ford ever said. If there was one thing he’d always cared about more than anything else in the world, it was his brother, and Ford couldn’t see that ever changing.

Stanley’s throat bobbed as he gulped. “Pa’s right. I’m never goin’ anywhere. And I don’t want you to be disappointed cuz of me. I know ‘m not smart.”

“Of course you’re smart!” Ford gaped and leaned back in his surprise, “Why would you say that?”

Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say, though, as Stanley wrapped his arms around his middle and looked back down at the ground. “Told you you’d think it’s stupid.”

“No, no, Stanley, I’m sorry,” Stanford ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to slow down. If he wanted his brother to keep talking, he knew he had to be fair and not continually interrupt him. It was just hard not to, when he was beating himself up. He wasn’t used to hearing him talk like that.

“S’fine,” Stanley sighed after a minute, “I know what you mean. But… I’m right. ‘M not smart- at least not in the way you are,” he quickly added when Ford opened his mouth to object again, “Not in the way that counts. An’ I never will be, so what’s the point in… in tryin’?”

As Stanley continued Ford noted with growing alarm that his voice sounded closer to breaking with every word he said, and that he had no idea what to do if he started crying. It was rare for his brother to shed tears -which was odd, considering how he wore his heart on his sleeve- and the fact that this was all coming out after a typical, if unnecessarily harsh, scolding from their father meant Stanley had probably been letting these thoughts fester for some time. It wasn’t a comforting realization.

“Sure, I got boxin’, and at least I can do that- or, at least I could - but people expect that. Why try any harder at anything else when everyone’s only gonna care about what they want you to do?

I… I bet I would do good in school, but… why bother? Nobody believes I can do it, and if I do, they assume I cheat, because you’re the smart one- a-and that’s not a bad thing! You’re a genius and you deserve to have people know it. But… I don’t know. I guess, I’m not goin’ anywhere in life, so it doesn’t matter what I do.

I could try to change, but at this point… it’d be pr-pretty useless. Ya know? They’ll never see me any different. I’m the spare, the idiot wh-who can’t do anything right… and I… Sixer, at this point I don’t even wanna have the option of being anything more than what they think I am.”

Stanley choked on the last word and Ford felt his heart shatter several times over. He hadn’t realized... hadn’t even considered… How could he have missed so much? How had he not seen that Stan was so torn up inside? He… he was his twin, his best friend, and he hadn’t noticed how much everyone’s words had been affecting him…

He didn’t even know what to say; how could he begin to apologize or make things better for his brother, but he found himself speaking anyway.

“You’re not stupid, Lee. I wish you would stop sayin’ you are.”

The whimpering noise that came from the back of Stan’s throat kept him going, filling the silence in hopes that he’d say something that would make his brother stop hurting so badly.

“Lee, you try harder than anyone I know- myself included. I don’t care if nobody else believes that so long as you do. You need to remember that. I know you try, I know how great you are. And, Lee, you are smart. Really smart! Sure, maybe not in the same way I am, but who says that’s a bad thing?”

“Uh, everyone?” Stan scoffed and Ford shook his head and gripped his twin’s shoulders once more.

“No. Forget everyone else. If they think you’re stupid, then that’s their problem, and they’re the real idiots. And, c’mon, I’m dumb in a bunch of ways myself-”

Stanley took a turn shaking his head and Ford couldn’t contain a harsh laugh before he pushed on. “Please, Stan, I can’t talk to anyone outside our family without sounding like a pretentious jerk- not to mention I don’t know how to talk to girls at all! Lee, I once had my wallet stolen by a kid who asked to see my library card!”

That pulled a little chuckle from his twin and Ford could’ve wept with joy.

“Exactly! I’m dumb in plenty of ways, if simply not knowing something is your definition of that word. So… you aren’t stupid. And… anyone who thinks you are just because you aren’t brilliant the same way I am, they’re morons- Pa included. Screw expectations, Stanley! Out of everyone in town, you’re the one who’s always saying, what was it? ‘Rules and expectations are for nerds and squares’? Those are things for people like me, Lee, not you, and that’s what makes you so amazing!”

Stanley’s head shot up in surprise and Ford thanked his stars that he was pulled back enough to avoid collision. His brother stared at him, eyes wide and damp and he took the momentary shock to keep going, rambling less as he realized what he wanted to say. What he needed to say. Stan needed to know just how special he was, and damn it all if he wasn’t going to do his best to be the one to get him there.

“Yes, you’re amazing! You think outside the box and you get things done in creative and sometimes downright brilliant ways because of it.” A frown marred his twin’s face at that and Ford huffed under his breath before a memory struck him upside the head.

“Hey, remember back in ninth grade, when we had to make that presentation on genetic functions, and I had been putting way too much thought into it, to the point where I was making myself anxious?”

His brother nodded slowly.

“I had been overthinking it, remember? You were the one who came up with the solution to it for me. I got an ‘A’ on that because of you. Just because you don’t think in ways considered conventional doesn’t mean you’re dumb. And you know what? Pa’s wrong if he thinks you’re gonna end up a failure, cuz you’re not. You’re going to go so far in life. You, Stanley Pines, are one of a kind!”

Stanley sagged forward then, dropping his forehead into the crook of his neck. Ford was quick to wrap his arms tightly around his brother, smiling softly when he felt Stan give him a light squeeze.

“And you could never disappoint me,” He added in little more than a whisper.

When his twin’s shoulders shook as a damp spot formed on the collar of his shirt, Ford shushed him quietly, rubbing small circles into his back until he calmed down. He wiped at his own eyes with his free hand before Stan pulled back, eyes red-rimmed but otherwise looking… Ford almost dared say, better. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either way, he didn’t look nearly as miserable as he had minutes prior.

“Heh,” Stanley chuckled, doing away with the silence as he gave Ford’s shoulder a light punch. “I still have to get good grades now cuz a’ you, you jerk.”

A smile overtook his own expression and Ford rolled his eyes. “I can help you. Besides, if all else fails, you can just copy off my work… at least enough to keep Pa off your back.”

“Alright, I guess I’m pacified,” Stanley nodded, going to take a seat on his designated swing.

“‘Pacified’, huh? That’s a new one for you,” Ford nudged him lightly in the ribs as he took his place on the opposite seat. Stan only sent an unimpressed raised brow in response, which served to make Ford snigger.

They sat like that for some time, until the sun was high in the sky and they both knew they should’ve been doing homework or chores, or something equally as productive. Ford hadn’t realized how long it had been since they’d both been that relaxed until that moment. Naturally, in the past he’d assumed that Stan was just as at peace as he, but now, after finding out all that he had, he could look back on those moments and see that his brother had always been… out of it.

Now, though, with nothing weighing down so heavily upon him, Stan seemed to genuinely be enjoying the quiet.

Or, perhaps not, if the way he shattered it meant anything.

“I still can’t believe ya actually thought that kid wanted to see your library card.”

“Wha- I didn’t- I mean-he was ten and looked innocent enough, and we’d been talking about books, it was an honest mista- Stanley knock it off.”

Ford huffed indignantly, his cheeks coloring as Stan’s booming laughter echoed around them. Yeah… that had not been one of his finer moments, he supposed. And, honestly, thinking back on it, Ford really could see the humor behind his blunder; it was no wonder his twin found it so funny.

At least Stanley knew he wasn’t lying when he said he could be a real moron. They both knew firsthand how true of a statement that was. The real amusing part of that memory, though, was how they’d gotten the wallet back by having Stan con the kid. To this day Ford wasn’t even sure he understood how his brother had done it so smoothly, but it still managed to impress him whenever he thought about it. He’d even convinced the kid to give them ten bucks for the trouble.

And Stanley thought he wasn’t smart.

[how2to18]

APRIL 30, 1992. NBC’s The Cosby Show ended its run as the United States’s best-case scenario: Negroes not of its dreams. The situation comedy wrapped one day after a bunch of black guys beat the shit out of Reginald Denny at Florence and Normandie. A quarter-century or so ago, America’s racial schism peaked enough to make our Trump stuff look like chump change.

A month or so after that unmasking of day and night, Darius James’s phantasmagoric dark satire Negrophobia was published. Spoiler alert: James’s debut novel was not a healing tonic for its times.

But it could be one for ours.

Published by Carol/Citadel Publishing over 25 years ago and rereleased this month by New York Review Books, Negrophobia blends satirical narrative propulsion with sci-fi through a 21st-century scenario, stocked with characters based on the most husky and dusky 20th-century racist stereotypes. Among the parade passing through James’s political nightmare are horror versions of Race Subconscious Hall of Fame players: Elvis, Malcolm X, and Walt Disney.

Last century’s broadly digested racist cartoons drive both the James style of storytelling and the substance of his comment. The script is full of action that leaps about like a stereotype-mining Tex Avery short one might have taken in before a film like as Gone with the Wind, as a kind of appetizer. The story James told a quarter-century ago turns aggressively sci-fi as it leans on an endless stream of lies about black people that were cool with your grandparents’ generation. And these monsters from their minds are lampooned deadeye.

James’s twisted beasts engage in a cascade of violent strife. The book’s most engaging star and primary signifier: A delinquent teen girl best described in 2019 as a cross between Paris Hilton and Little Annie Fannie. (In an email exchange, the author told me the female character was inspired by the latter ’60s-era Playboy comic and Terry Southern’s novel Candy.) Her name is Bubbles Brazil. A whole bunch of bad things of a sexual nature happen to Bubbles, and if you’re the sort of reader who found him or herself halfway triggered by the title of this book in itself, Negrophobia sho’ nuff ain’t the book for you.

Which doesn’t make it not a book for the times.

James credits voudou in his lineage as a kind of co-pilot. Composed in the form of a movie script, Negrophobia from its very first sentence comes across as conjured. Be it conjured or hallucinated, the piece could only have been created in that the 395-year epoch before black lives began mattering on this here soil. When mass stereotypes went unquestioned and famous Negroes danced for chicken on TV. Out of this rich cultural content, the author cultivates extreme black caricatures to play in Bubbles’s mind. The comic narrative, one disturbing image diving in after its predecessor, is capable of producing a laugh and a wince per page.

James’s “screenplay” gives minimal internal motivation, just the raw expression of devious acts and racial distortion. “TEEN SEX-BOMB BLOND” is how Bubbles is introduced to us.

So delinquent is Bubbles that she’s forced to attend an all-black public high school in New York City. And Bubbles ain’t into it like Ann Coulter ain’t into Day of the Dead activities. Which is to say Not At All, and for good reason: the blacks inhabiting the mind of Bubbles Brazil — the one she’s matriculating with in her dreams — are literally The Worst Black Folks Imaginable. Monstrously bad. Graphically terrible.

The Maid, Bubbles’s Act One archenemy, resembles a demonic and funky-ass Nell Carter, illiterate as all get out. She’s a big beast in Bubbles’s mind. Only when The Maid enters do the proceedings turn truly, mind-blowingly shameful.

BUBBLES

What’s a white girl to do in a school full of jiggaboos?

MAID

Mind her business. Yo’ parents spent all dat money sending’ yo butt off to fancy private schools. ‘N’ whatchoo do? Get hot little boll-daga ass thrown out!! ‘N’ den you end up in a crazy house fo’ rich dope fiends! Face it, you just’ gonna’ hafta put up wid dem niggas.

Reading satisfaction results will vary. As a 52-year-old black American male, the humiliation of having been stereotyped provides the book its gravity. If you’re a white American of about my age, you might be enjoying the mouth-feel of James well-wrought coon-speak. In your case, reading Negrophobia might feel like a treasured childhood brand returning to the local supermarket.

In Negrophobia, the previous century’s popular culture runs deep. Bubbles Brazil attends Donald Goines Senior High School. Lawn jockeys come to life. A take on Our Town in which Grover’s Corner is now Garvey’s Corner is in the play’s changes. Buppets are black muppet B-Boys in T-shirts that say, “IT’S A DICK THAANG! YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.” Shelley Winters gets summoned back from Wild in the Streets. Unfrozen President-for-Life Walt Disney delivers a really fucked-up speech. Bernhard Goetz makes a chilling appearance. And, of course there is zombie Elvis. Hellish-Manhattan trains and apocalyptic scenarios tap into the absurdity of America’s racial horror show, late-20th-century-style.

Always in play is shame. James weaponizes the indignity through razor-sharp send-ups that are as lean as poetry, scene after scene.

For this reader there’s a strange kind of gratitude, if not thorough enjoyment for the reissue. I had all but forgotten that White America used to label my people as chicken thieves. And that there was a recurring media image of us filing down our own teeth, as African cannibals. I almost forgotten about hophead, jungle bunny jigaboo, spear-chucker, shine, jug, tar baby, boom blasters, coon, pickaninny, Jimson weed, and being called wool-headed, as our times no longer dictate that I remember. The language was not that far below the surface of my mind.

The worst Negroes imaginable, Darius James so artfully makes clear, live vividly in the culture of unedited cartoons. The sexual violence imposed upon his Downtown Little Annie Fannie echoes those Tex Avery and Warner Brothers reels. It’s a neat trick, loading their takes into Bubbles’s mind, because she and so many real-world characters have been unable to “imagine the existence of things outside [their] sum of knowledge.”

The idea to present James’s narrative in screenplay format came from the great and emotional darkie Michael O’Donoghue. James’s mentor and friend Terry Southern supported the development of it, as did Kathy Acker and Olympia Press. All over the pages of Negrophobia — nearly as much as mid-20th-century cartoon shorts — is the voice of Richard Pryor. Rudy Ray Moore and Ralph Bakshi are heavy in the mix. Steve Cannon’s in there, too.

Johnny Depp loved his first-edition copy of James’s book. Members of the band Fishbone read and related to it, and the painter Kara Walker said reading Negrophobia in grad school “was one of those good but rare occasions when I thought there might be one other person in the world that would get what I was doing.” Bill Cosby, James says in a new preface, forbade a daughter from bringing Negrophobia into his home.

James wrote a crazy punk book, bringing to the page an ethos of a Lower Manhattan in the ’80s scene that he frequented so as to turn the indie-lit party out. “He had a pedagogical intent throughout the book that can easily be missed in all the sex and grotesquerie,” D. Scot Miller, author of The Afro-Surreal Manifesto, told me in extolling James. “Afro-Surreal presupposes that beyond this visible world, there is an invisible world striving to manifest, and it is our job to uncover it.” Where before there had been scarcity of surrealism this side of Chameleon Street, Afro-Surrealism has become, if not widespread, reassuringly present in television shows like Random Acts of Flyness and Atlanta and the feature film Sorry to Bother You.

Negrophobia is “a brilliant book whose time has come and whose time has always been now,” as Amy Abugo Ongiri calls it in the introduction. Bubble’s dream would make for the dirtiest film in the history of world cinema, but I cannot help but think James’s notes on a film could be an event in the hands of Jordan Peele. Then, James could work on the script and add a scene with Race Subconscious Hall of Famer Christopher Dorner. If I have one complaint about the re-issue of Negrophobia, it’s that I am missing Christopher Dorner. Cannot stop thinking of him, even when I’m not.

¤

Donnell Alexander is a writer whose work has been featured in Time, The Nation, Al Jazeera’s “Inside Story,” and Economic Hardship Reporting Project.

The post Pedagogy in All the Sex and Grotesquerie: On Darius James’s “Negrophobia” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[the-immortal-restless]

Troubled teen: (The Raphael Dictionary)

[inaneinthenextplane]

American Amnesia: A Case For Why Trump’s Administrative Evils Do Not Make bush Good

http://thehill.com/homenews/news/357109-poll-dems-have-favorable-view-of-george-w-bush

It's come to my attention lately that my fears have been verified, that a bunch of nice celebrity guest appearances and speeches condemning the obvious evils of white supremacy has worn away at American contempt towards one of their most vicious and prolific abusers. The news cycle has noticeably begun to handle this assassin of American moral character with kid gloves and in the ire & fire of public outrage against out current manchild-in-chief, his image has been successfully re-rehabilitated.

This is not okay.

Lets just go over some things this man has done:

The authorization of military force that has been used for years well into the Obama and now Trump administration to 'fight the war on terror' was tasked originally with hunting down Osama Bin Laden and deconstructing Al Quaeda, both of which were adequately accomplished. This same declaration fresh after 9/11 has been used to justify the executive branch occupying the countries of Afghanistan, Niger, Iraq, Libya (during the ousting of Ghaddafi), and many other countries. Normally wars have to be authorized via a congressional declaration of war, but the lawful lawlessness of every executive branch in the use of military force since Could Not have happened without this man.

This man also capitalized on 9/11 to push through the P.A.T.R.I.O.T. Act, an act which has effectively suspended habeus corpus & our fourth amendment rights, allowing the government clearance to access our personal information via a rubber stamp covering large swaths of many millions of Americans or if just suspected to be an enemy of the state.

The deployment of the Cuban naval station Guantanamo Bay as an extra-judicial prison designed to hold (largely foreign) captured enemies of the state in cruel conditions, & often subject to periods of torture during interrogation, began in 2002 not long after this man was elected. Part of Obama's path to the whitehouse was the broken promise of closing this HellHole, which stands in opposition to anything we ever say about human rights on an international stage.

This man was the progenitor of the drone program which left mechanized aerial warfare to what are fundamentally death machines in the sky. A military tactic we've used for taking out targets of interest, & that has resulted in the murder of many thousands of people unrelated to threats to our national security, for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time & they are used to murder doctors, rescuers, and mourners after the job is sloppily done

https://www.salon.com/…/u_s_drones_targeting_rescuers_and_…/

I normally hate a lot about Salon.com, but Glen Greenwalds article & the information presented in it can be corroborated by many sources.

The double-tap drone strike designed to hurt civilians is a war crime, it threatens our safety on the world stage, and it is us allowing our government cannibalize any sense of honor we hold claim to.

Footage of helicopters killing 10 men in a street of Baghdad (including two journalists for Reuters) were leaked by the private Bradley Manning to Wikileaks and published under the title 'collateral murder'. A van stopped to assist the wounded and was fired upon, two children were wounded and their father was murdered. Nothing happened to the people who committed this act.

Private Manning was imprisoned under conditions of solitary confinement, subject to torture & humiliation, and was essentially until the ass end of the Obama administration thrown away for life for bringing to light this and other leaks to inform the American people of a war crime committed by their government.

During the election that 'won' him the presidency, the state of Florida (then governed by Jeb Bush) purged 50,000 black votes in an election that was critically close in terms of delegates. The supreme court would decide the outcome of the lawsuit that would follow, filed by Al Gore, two court judges both having been appointed by this mans father George H.W. Bush. Not to mention, this man attempted to appoint his own personal lawyer as a SC justice.

This man infected the educational system of the United States with curriculum centered around unscientific ideas such as intelligent design in direct opposition to evolutionary biology, abstinence only sex education which resulted in continued upward teen birthrates, and with the institution of No Child Left Behind the emphasis on education was placed upon student performance on standardized testing. This resulted in failing students dropping from public school, low scoring schools being punished in terms of funding, and the general destruction of well rounded educations designed in part to teach critical thinking skills.

This man carpet bagged someone whose primary experience was in the Rodeo Show business to be the head of FEMA who would then oversee a failure to appropriately respond to the disaster of hurricane Katrina. Chaos would ensue in New Orleans & it was a dramatic blow to American confidence in disaster repose.

This man withdrew from the Kyoto protocol on greenhouse gasses & undermined American regulation on the environment by defunding enforcement agencies, & disbanding a pledge to tax carbon emissions. This has set the United States back basically a generation in terms of the environment on top of what we now have with Trump.

This man had the audacity to cut funding for veterans he was sending out to war, gutting services to them by billions of dollars.

In fact, this man so skyrocketed the use of mercenaries that at the height of the Iraq war there were more private military contractors in Iraq than actual army soldiers. These mercenary companies like Blackwater would be implicated in various war crimes, where civilians would be, again, slaughtered by men who would face no fucking punishment or trial.

This man used false evidence through then defense secretary Colin Powell to justify an illegal war in the face of UN opposition, implicating Iraq in the events of 9/11 and as having amassed weapons of mass destruction with intent to kill Americans on the US mainland. Also using the testimony of an acrimonious political prisoner of Saddam Hussein code-named 'Curveball' to implicate the regime in Iraq further in falsified WMD claims.

This man had twice as many CIA (not FBI) agents fighting the failed war on drugs than he did tasked with even investigating terrorism.

This man was the first president to initiate 'free speech zones', not content to just monitor our speech but to tell us how we were allowed to protest and where.

This man assaulted abortion rights for women, defunding family planning institutions designed to help those who needed abortions. An actual ban was instituted on stem cell research, which set medical research back for years (they even made a South Park episode about it). He opposed gay marriage and continued DACA, maintaining the homophobic-ally motivated national ban on same sex marriage.

the bright side of his being president was the fact that he decided to leave when he had to.

This man was a national embarrassment, his capacity for constant gaffes even created the popularization of the 'bushism', these brought us humiliation whenever we made the mistake of turning on the news-you could look them up but I'll link here a compilation that demonstrates his capacity to fuck up worse than even Trump https://youtu.be/Be6tunbRcs8

This man is now LIKED BY THE MAJORITY OF DEMOCRATS & I know what this is, this is that Democrats are typically younger and don't remember what went on. And hey, nobody has to agree with me that as far as impact on social/economic/legal/foreign issues his administration is worse than currently is Donald Trumps by miles, & definitely the Obama administration.

But he's not 'good'. If there is a hell, this man is as good as there already. The evil shit that he was up to, I mean, you just aren't informed to me if you have a positive opinion of him at this point. I question your political judgement in all things if you like the shit was doing, or think at all that some bullshit speeches taking swipes at the man that tossed his brother around like a RagDoll compensates for the institutionalized suffering of human lives & the environment committed by him. I don't even think you can have sincerely held liberal or even libertarian principles if you like him, he appeals to a very authoritarian and ultra-conservative side of politics and exercised those tendencies in the ugliest of ways. He is a war criminal who should remain shunned by all media circles, & you should be distrustful of Anyone who gives him a platform in the media.

I don't even capitalize his name when I type it, this man is and will always be george w. bush to me. This borderline illiterate moron with his entire family dynasty has ruined much of what actually made our country great.

I don't normally like to make posts this long and drawn out in details, but I just found out about this & its verified my fears about the re-calcification of positive sentiment towards bush in the mainstream media, & this is just intensely demoralizing for me on a visceral level. I am frustrated with the political amnesia of my countrymen, and also their underlying lack of political principle. I don't want to harp too much on this but let this post be a testament to the fact that I have no tolerance for this man & neither should any of you Even if you have political beliefs aligned with him on some of the social issues or on things like taxes, (which I didn't even mention the bush tax cuts) but there's probably like a thousand ways this guy could have fucked up in a single year I could talk about.

Bottom line: things are ugly right now.

[gossipnetwork-blog]

Charles Bradley, Acclaimed Soul Singer, Dead at 68

New Post has been published on http://gossip.network/charles-bradley-acclaimed-soul-singer-dead-at-68/

Charles Bradley, Acclaimed Soul Singer, Dead at 68

Charles Bradley, the acclaimed soul singer and live dynamo who saw his career ascend late in life, has died following a long bout with cancer. He was 68.

“It is with a heavy heart that we announce the passing of Charles Bradley,” the singer’s rep said in a statement. “Always a fighter, Charles battled cancer with everything he had. He was diagnosed with stomach cancer in the fall of 2016 and underwent treatment. Bradley headed out on the road earlier this year after receiving a clean bill of health but the cancer recently returned, spreading to his liver.”

Bradley’s reps added, “Thank you for your prayers during this difficult time. Mr. Bradley was truly grateful for all the love he’s received from his fans and we hope his message of love is remembered and carried on.”

“The world lost a ton of heart today,” Gabriel Roth, co-founder of Bradley’s label Daptone Records, said. “Charles was somehow one of the meekest and strongest people I’ve ever known. His pain was a cry for universal love and humanity. His soulful moans and screams will echo forever on records and in the ears and hearts of those who were fortunate enough to share time with him. 

“I find some solace knowing that he will continue to inspire love and music in this world for generations to come,” he added. “I told him as much a few days ago. He smiled and told me, ‘I tried.’ It was probably the simplest and most inspiring thing he ever told me. I think he wanted to hug each person on this planet individually. I mean that literally, and anyone that ever saw him knows that he honestly tried.”

“RIP to our dear brother Charles Bradley,” veteran Afrobeat group and Daptone Records labelmate Antibalas wrote on Twitter. “Your heart was too big for this planet. See you on the other side. We love you.”

Over the course of three albums – 2011’s No Time for Dreaming, 2013’s Victim of Love and 2016’s Changes – Bradley blended heartfelt ballads of love, longing and remorse with raucous tracks celebrating joy and the survival of a hardscrabble life. 

Charles Bradley was born November 5th, 1948 in Florida but his mother, who had left for New York, moved Bradley to Brooklyn. At 14, Bradley left home and became homeless, sleeping on New York subway trains for warmth. “I was afraid that she was going to hurt me, so I left,” Bradley said of his mother in the 2012 documentary Charles Bradley: Soul of America. “We couldn’t see eye to eye and I was getting blamed for everything, so I was very bitter.”  

A drifter as a teen who battled with illiteracy, poverty and chronic unemployment, the Brooklyn singer would later nearly die from a penicillin allergy and find his brother murdered by Bradley’s own nephew.

In 1962, at the age of 14, Bradley’s sister took him to James Brown’s landmark performance at the Apollo Theater. The show transformed Bradley, who would later find regional success in New York as a James Brown impersonator named Black Velvet.

“It was breathtaking,” Bradley told Rolling Stone of the Apollo show in 2016. “I didn’t know who James Brown really was but I wanted to go see. When they called James Brown onstage, I’ll never forget they had this purple light and yellow light – my two favorite colors. And when they introduced him, he came flying on the stage on one leg and I said, ‘What in the hell is this?’ [Laughs] And I was mesmerized. I was just gone. I was just shocked. Shocked. I said, ‘Wow. I wanna be something like that.'”

The fledgling impersonator went home, attached string to a broom to emulate Brown’s bombastic mic swings, and began impersonating the singer in private.

Bradley became an itinerant, traveling across the country in 1977 after spending 10 years as a cook at a Maine hospital for the mentally ill before ending up in California. After getting laid off from his job after 17 years, Bradley reconnected with his estranged mother Inez, moving back to Brooklyn in 1994 to take care of her.

At the time, Bradley nearly died from an allergy. “I was sick as a dog,” he said in Soul of America. “I was close to death. I’m allergic to penicillin and they was feeding me penicillin and my body had shut down.” After recovering, his brother Joseph told him, “Now do something that you want to do. Follow your dreams. You love music. Do it.” As documented in Soul of America, the singer was a functional illiterate, able to read at a first-grade level and seeing a tutor regularly to improve his reading skills.

Bradley never forgot Brown’s Apollo show and began to eke out a living in New York clubs covering the singer, incorporating wigs and costumes he would hand-sew himself. (During the day, Bradley worked as a handyman to make ends meet.) Roth saw one of Bradley’s shows and introduced him to label producer-musician Tom Brenneck. Brenneck would go on to produce all three Bradley albums.

“I’ll carry that man in my heart for the rest of my life,” Brenneck said in a statement.

In 2011, Bradley released his debut album No Time for Dreaming with the Menahan Street Band after a string of singles. The album, which included the galvanizing “The World (Is Going Up in Flames),” was named by Rolling Stone as one of the 50 Best Albums of the Year. “Don’t tell me how to live my life /  When you never felt the pain,” Bradley sings.

“I been struggling for over 42 years trying to make it in the industry,” he says in Soul of America. “And at the age of 62, I’m just beginning to find my way through. I never made enough money to support myself in music, but I’m hoping that this album will make a turning point for me … I ask myself why it took so long, but you can’t question God when he want to do things.”

Victim of Love, with its unlikely hit “Strictly Reserved for You,” would follow in 2013, earning near-universal critical acclaim and bolstering Bradley’s status as a bona fide soul star with unmatched authenticity. 

Bradley’s final album, Changes, arrived in 2016, its title taken from a cover on the album of Black Sabbath’s 1972 ballad. Bradley hadn’t heard of the heavy metal pioneers, but connected with Geezer Butler’s personal lyrics about transformation as Bradley watched his mom’s health deteriorate.

“The verse that really stuck to me was, ‘It took so long to realize/That I can still hear her last goodbyes/Now all my days are filled with tears/Wish I could go back and change these years.’ Because it was like my mom saying she was sick and she was leaving me and something about that song … I just took the last lyrics and wow. So I got stuck on it. I didn’t really have to ‘learn’ it; it just stuck to my brain.”

The minimalist video, shot after Bradley’s mom’s death, consists solely of a close-up one-shot of the singer at his most vulnerable.

Last year, doctors discovered a cancerous tumor in his stomach, forcing Bradley to cancel his fall tour. “I will fight through this like I’ve fought through the many other obstacles in my life,” Bradley said at the time. “Music is how I share my love with the world, and the love that my fans have given back brings me so much joy.” Earlier this month, the cancer metastasized to his liver.

“I love all of you out there that made my dreams come true,” Bradley said earlier this month. “When I come back, I’ll come back strong, with God’s love. With God’s will, I’ll be back soon.”

“Right now, I don’t see a stopping point ’cause I don’t see no place where I can stop at and rest in peace,” he told Rolling Stone last year. “But I know that from doing shows for the public, the love when I go out into the audience and hug ’em and the things that they say to me personally … [pauses] Wow. It’s not only me onstage doing it. I open their hearts up and they feel the love of my heart and when I go out there and really respond to ’em and talk to ’em, they tell me some things.”

This story is developing…

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[grimhappenings-blog1]

The High Priestess of Blood

In May 1963, fourteen-year-old schoolboy Sebastian Guerrero was wandering around the mountains in the northeastern state of Nuevo León in Mexico, when he heard a significant amount of unusual noises coming from one of the caves.

What he saw caused him to immediately run to the nearest police station, approximately 17 miles away in the town of Villa Gran to inform them. Despite initially being sceptical, the police sent investigator Luis Martinez with Sebastian to find out what was going on. This was the last time either of them were seen alive.

The Hernandez brothers

Santos and Cayetano Hernandez were two brothers who spent the early 1960s travelling around Mexico scamming and conning people in small towns out of money before they upped and left, moving onto the next and repeating. Towards the end of 1962, they reached Yerba Buena, near Monterrey in Nuevo León.

Yerba Buena in 1962 was a tiny farming community of around 50 individuals who all lived in poverty. They were mostly cut off from the outside world and the inhabitants were nearly all illiterate. Cars were rarely seen in the area and there was little, if any, electricity at all. Candles were still used as the main light source at night.

Location of Yerba Buena in Mexico

These petty criminals preyed on the naivety of the locals by claiming to be prophets sent by powerful Incan gods. In exchange for prosperity, they asked the townspeople to worship them and provide them with tribute. They promised that, in the mountains there were hidden treasures, and they would be given to the villagers as long as they stayed devoted to the brothers.

The Incas were not historically from Mexico, rather thousands of miles to the south in modern-day Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia, Argentina, Chile and Colombia. Despite this, the locals believed the claims of the Hernandez brothers and began to help them set up temples and clearing out caves in the nearby mountains for their rituals. Their rituals included consuming copious amounts of peyote, a type of hallucinogenic cactus, and taking many locals as sexual slaves.

For months, Santos and Cayetano were revered until there began to be unrest, and the people of Yerba Buena became impatient with the lack of noticeable improvement of life. The brothers had two options; run away to another town, or double-down and try to carry on the scam. They headed to nearby Monterrey, the state capital, in order to find help.

Magdalena from Monterrey

In Monterrey, the brothers found Magdalena Solís, described at the time as a “pretty teen-aged” woman working as a prostitute and Eleazar, her brother, who was working as her pimp. They all planned to head back to the caves of Yerba Buena to perform a ritual in which Magdalena would take on the role of a goddess which they would summon. This, they hoped, would convince the locals that they were being truthful, in order to keep extorting money, belongings and sexual favours from them.

Magdalena Solís

Using flash powder to conjure a literal smokescreen, Magdalena appeared before the shocked onlookers and convinced them that she was the reincarnation of the Aztec goddess Coatlicue. A shift in hierarchy began to take place as Magdalena was now seen as the new leader, and the three men who were in on the illusion were now her “high priests”.

Death in the mountains

When two members of the local community requested that they be allowed to leave the village as they had enough of the sexual abuse, Magdalena ordered that they were to be killed in order to stop them. The devoted believers followed through with Magdalena’s wishes and the two “dissenters” were lynched. The power that she had over these people began to get to Magdalena and it appeared that she began to believe her own lies. In a short amount of time, the rituals that she led were no longer just sexual in nature, she required that any “dissenter” was sacrificed. The victim was to be beaten, burned and cut open in front of everyone present. These organised murders were to get rid of the non-believers as well as to scare everyone else into conforming. The rituals began to evolve as Magdalena started to remove the hearts of her victims when they were still alive, and consume the blood of the sacrificed. She claimed this was necessary in order for her to become immortal.

Aztec ritual human sacrifice portrayed in the Codex Magliabechiano.

The last sacrifices

One of the last times that this ritual took place was in late May 1963. The victim was hacked to death with a machete and their blood was mixed with the blood of a chicken and consumed by Magdalena and her high priests. Unbeknownst to anyone, this was all being watched by shocked schoolboy, Sebastian Guerrero, who had stumbled across the cave by chance.

Sebastian ran to find police, who did not believe the terrified young man, almost incoherent in his panic. His ramblings of “vampires” in the mountains left officers believing that he himself had taken hallucinogens. Investigator Luis Martinez was given the task of taking Sebastian home and seeing what was in the mountains for himself.

Bodies

When Luis Martinez didn’t return, the police sent people to Yerba Buena. Here they found armed townspeople holed up in the caves. A gunfight ensued in which the police had to recruit the Mexican army to help. After a bloody battle which left various members of the village, including Santos Hernandez dead, the police began to investigate what had been going on in Yerba Buena.

The mutilated bodies of Sebastian Guerrero and Luis Martinez were found near to a farm where Magdalena and Eleazar Solís were caught and taken into custody. The body of police investigator Martinez was found to have had it’s heart removed in a similar vein to the other sacrifices performed.

The other Hernandez brother, Cayetano, was found to have been murdered in the panic created when the police advanced on Yerba Buena. A local by the name of Jesus Rubio had killed him in order to take a body part of a “high priest” in the belief that it would save him.

Punishment

Magdalena told police that she was the reincarnation of El Niño Fidencio, a famed Mexican curandero, a type of faith healer, who had died 25 years before.

Eleazar, at first, claimed to not be related to Magdalena but eventually confessed to being her brother. He claimed that he told people he was the reincarnation of St Francis of Assisi.

Magdalena and Eleazar Solís were both convicted of the murders of Sebastian Guerrero and Luis Martinez and sentenced to fifty years in prison. Despite the finding of six other dead bodies, mutilated in similar ways, they could not be found guilty as none of the villagers were willing to testify.

Twelve other people from the village who had been taken alive by police were each sentenced to thirty years in prison on six counts of “group or gang murder, or lynching.”

The High Priestess of Blood was originally published on Grim Happenings