#but after the exam i went to a pride parade :) and then i had another exam which went very well

[yohankang]

one of my exams today was so horrible i started crying lmao

[resllala]

Hello! Happy June! It's Pride and I have another question (2/30)

It is well known that the first Pride in June 1970 took place one year after the Stonewall Riots in 1969, but do you know who organised it originally? Her name was Brenda Howard, and I think she is best described by the bright pink pin she always wore, which said "Bi, Poly, Switch - I know what I want." She was friends with many of the people involved in the original riot and first organised a one-month anniversary riot in July of 1969. Then, one year after Stonewall, she and a committee planned Gay Pride Week and the Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade. Because of this, she is often referred to as "The Mother of Pride" and her original idea eventually transformed into the New York Pride celebration we see today.

One of the committee members L. Craig Schoonmaker is responsible for coining the word "Pride" in this context, and said in 2015 “A lot of people were very repressed, they were conflicted internally, and didn’t know how to come out and be proud. That’s how the movement was most useful, because they thought, ‘Maybe I should be proud.’”

Though the parade started off with only a few people showing up at the set time of 2pm, by the end of the event they had thousands of people filling 20 blocks of the city. Today, New York Pride regularly exceeds 2 million people!

So my question today is: have you ever attended a Pride parade? And if so, was it like you expected?

Happy Pride 🌈 🎉

i've only been once because pride in my city is in the middle of my exams and my time management skills are too poor to make it work, but the time i went i cried because it was so nice to see so many happy gay people at once and made out with a girl in some alleyway. perfect night no notes

also fun fact about pride in germany, it's actually called christopher street day here. always thought that was interesting because i don't think it's even called that in america right?

[blindedbythedarkness]

Josh,

We need to talk. I’ve been avoiding the topic of what led up to your death ever since it happened, but having worked through those events in counselling I think I might be ready. This is going to hurt, but I need to say it. We need to talk about this. So let me just take a deep breath.

I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t blame myself for your death, since I am not to blame for your suicidal thoughts. However, I will forever regret the opportunities I missed to help you when I saw you for the last time. I will live with the guilt of that for the rest of my life and I want to apologize for now and always. I feel like the best way for me to do this is to start from the beginning; for me to tell you what I remember.

The last day I saw you was a Sunday, the day before you took your own life. It was also the last day of the pride event in our city. It was the middle of exam season and I was feeling exhausted and close to burning out. But, since pride before had always felt great and so freeing, I wasn’t going to wait another whole year to go. I also knew it would be your first pride, having only come out to yourself and others once you got to uni. So, as I sat outside the pub we were supposed to meet at and you sent me a message saying you didn’t feel like coming, my heart sank. I convinced you to change your mind, but that should have been my first clue. I thought you’d feel better once you got there and you’d been so excited the last time we saw you. I remember you showed us the rainbow balls you’d got for your new scaffold piercing. I don’t regret making you join us, I just regret how disappointing it was.

I remember sitting in the shopping centre food court as you arrived and jokingly slammed your tray down at the table. 

“What’s the point in calling it a bargain bucket if they don’t give you a bucket. The bucket it the best bit!”

We laughed a little, but I never thought it was such a memorable joke that it would stick in my mind even now.

When we got to the pride celebration, we soon discovered it was shit. I absolutely admit that. The parade was long gone; half the stalls were closed; the on-stage act was dull and the place was half empty. The only large group was composed of the so-called Baby Gays(TM), which, though harmless can be a little intimidating with their loud shrieks, laughter and energy. The atmosphere was a million miles away from every other pride celebration I’ve known. I promise you that, Josh. If I’d known it would be such a flop I would’ve suggested we do something else. I’m so sorry that was the only pride you ever got to experience. I’m sorry if it made you think that’s all there was or that there was nothing to be proud of. 

I was so disappointed that I actively made the decision not to take my usual Group Selfie. I don’t think this is an event I want to remember, I thought to myself. Hindsight is a wonderful thing I guess; we could have had one last photo with you. One more preserved memory.

You soon told me you were “going for a sit down for a bit”, which was understandable. I could tell you weren’t feeling great. I asked if you wanted us to join you, but you didn’t. I should have followed you anyway. I shouldn’t have let you be alone, Josh. I dread to think what thoughts were going through your head. Not long after, I wanted to sit down too but when we couldn’t see you we sat on a wall elsewhere. My own depression was having a bad day and I was having a flare of my physical illnesses too, so I was in a lot of pain. I don’t mean to try and sound like I’m competing with the pain you felt, Josh. I’m just trying to explain why it all happened like it did.

“I think I’m gonna go home,” you messaged me, “I’m not really feeling it.”

I couldn’t blame you one bit. I wasn’t either. 

“If you’re sure.” I said.

I didn’t know where you were sat, but I saw you emerge from a grassy embankment. You walked across in front of us, maybe 3 metres from where we were sat on the wall. We shouted your name and waved but you didn’t spot us.

“Oh well.” I thought. I didn’t get up to hug you goodbye. I didn’t feel like moving and I simply expected we would have another chance. I’m so fucking sorry, Josh. I doubt one more embrace would have saved your life, but maybe you’d have died feeling a little more loved. My last memory of you is of you standing at the edge of where pride was being held, at the top of the road, looking back at the sea of people. You were looking for us. I knew it then that you were looking for us. I should have got the fuck up and ran after you. You didn’t walk away fast. It would have taken two fucking minutes for me to run to you. I didn’t. I never said goodbye. I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Josh. I will regret that decision for the rest of my life. 

That was the last time I ever saw you.

I wish I’d known.

A and I went home soon after that. It was only after we’d got home that you messaged me. You were still stuck in the city centre thanks to the buses, or at least that’s what you told me. I offered you a lift home. You said it was okay, that it was out of my way and would be an hour round trip. I conceded and instead told you to message me when you were home safe. Ironic, I suppose, when the biggest danger to you was yourself.

You messaged later messaged me that you were home safe. 

“Okie!” I replied. 

That was the last time we ever spoke.

That wasn’t the end of the warning signs though. Later that night B messaged me, asking if I was busy. She was hundreds of miles away attending a funeral for her grandma, but she was worried about you. She wanted someone to go over. I was feeling pretty dreadful that evening. My pain was bad, my depression was worse and I was conscious that I needed a good night’s sleep so I could get on with my mountain of revision the next morning. I knew I was in no state to be driving, especially not down the motorway for half an hour in the dark. I also barely had the money for an Uber.

I asked B why she was so worried and she told me you’d said that you wanted to die. That should have been my hundredth fucking clue. I’m so sorry. I know it’s no excuse, but the reason that statement didn’t shake me to my core like it should’ve is because it’s a statement I’ve heard from so many people on so many occasions. I’m sure you did too. Half this generation wants to die. I didn’t know this time it was imminent. I’m so sorry, Josh. I knew you were home alone and depressed. I’m so fucking sorry.

B then told me that A had already gone round, so it was all okay. 

“Okay,” I told her, “But if you think for a second he’s in any danger let me know. I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“No, I think it’s okay.” She said.

That was the end of that.

I really would have been there in a heartbeat, Josh. I would have paid for an Uber 100 times over if I thought you were in danger. I loved you. I still do. You were an incredible friend and I would have sat up with you all night to make sure you were okay. My bank balance and my revision and my pain management were never more important to me than your mental health. Than your life. I just didn’t know that was the decision I was making. I’m sorry.

That, Josh, is the story of the most regrettable day of my life. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been back there. Sat in the memory. Trapped on that wall. Watching you look back and never seeing us. You probably only glanced back for a second, but in my mind it plays in slow motion. I know that I may never have been able to save your life, but to know there is a scenario in which I could have lived without some of these regrets hurts like hell. None of us can live like it’s the last day of our lives, nor the last day of our friend’s lives. But I’ve certainly learnt that I can do a few things different. Now, I promise I always say goodbye properly; I will always take people seriously when they say they want to die and I will always take photos, no matter how I am feeling. 

Nothing I ever do will make up for the mistakes I made that day, though. I know you would never hold them against me, but that isn’t the point. The point is I’m sorry, Josh. I’m sorry I failed you so many times the last time you saw me. I would give almost anything to do that day again. I wouldn’t let you down again. I’m so fucking sorry.

Forgive me, Josh, I only ever meant to love you.

C

[purplesurveys]

920

What Rhymes With ADE?

[a-zebra-is-a-striped-horse]

ADE 1. Have you ever bade someone farewell? Well yes, I do this with my dad every few months because he mainly works abroad. It’s been 18 years too, and I never got used to how sucky the goodbyes are when we drop him off at the airport. Eventually I stopped going along. 2. When was the last time you felt like you could just fade away? Monday. Then again it had been my period’s first day and my hormones and emotions were all over the place. 3. Do you know anyone named Jade? i’ve met a kid named Jade on one of the journalism workshops I’ve taught at, but I only encountered her that one time. 4. What was the last thing that you made with your own two hands? Onion rings that I never got to recreate.

5. What’s the deepest water you will wade into? Water reaching under my lips. I mean I can tread, but it gets tiresome after a few minutes so I’d rather be safe and keep water out of my nose and lips.

6. How many blades does your razor have? Three, I think. 7. Have you ever tried to evade something? Yeah, a lot. If I’m not looking forward to an event because of anxiety, a lack of interest, or just whatever, it doesn’t take a lot for me to ditch it. 8. Do you use Glade products? My mom may have bought an air freshener once or twice. 9. Highest grade of education you’ve completed? Bachelor’s degree. 10. Lowest grade you’ve received on a test? In high school I remember getting an 18/40 (or 18/50? I failed either way lol) on one of the advanced math exams. The lowest test result I got in college was like a 46/100 on an economics class. 11. Do you enjoy sitting in the sun or the shade more? Shade. The only time I would enjoy the sun was if the sea was right in front of me; otherwise I avoid it at all costs. 12. Have you ever used a garden spade before? No, I’ve only used a trowel. 13. What would you like to trade? What this year has been so far. 14. Do you enjoy going to arcades? I love them. They were one of my favorite places to go to when I was still studying and wanted a few hours to let loose, and luckily we had one near our school. 15. When is your favorite decade? I’m very fascinated with the 1920s; just seems like a decade brimming with partying and class. 16. Would you invade someone else’s privacy? No. I’ve had my mom do that with my journals and wouldn’t wish the same on anyone. I find it so upsetting that she did that; I never owned a physical journal after the incident. If I want to know something about someone, I’d rather have a direct talk with them. 17. What parades do you like to go to? I only ever go to the Pride Marches. All the fiestas happen in the provinces, so I don’t get to go. 18. When’s the last time you went on a tirade? Couple of weeks ago when I felt angry with Gab. 19. Is your bed currently unmade? A bit, yes. I haven’t folded up my blanket yet and my pillows are everywhere. 20. Do you like to play charades? Sure, but I only play them with people I’m comfortable with because I don’t like acting. If I’m with a group of unfamiliar people playing charades, I’m only willing to be a guesser. 21. Do you use Cascade dishwasher tablets? No. 22. Have you ever created a blockade or a barricade? Sometimes we block certain areas in the house with a pillow so that Cooper wouldn’t run there and end up eating something he isn’t supposed to be eating. 23. Would you ever lead a crusade? Last two questions gave me big Les Misérables vibes, heh. Anyway I don’t think I can lead a crusade on my own, but I’d be happy to join one. Goodness knows there’s so much to be angry about at this point. 24. Have your parents ever forbade you from doing something? Yeah but they’re the typical Asian tiger parent things like having a boyfriend while in school, getting a piercing other than the ear piercings they already gave me as an infant, dyeing my hair, etc. They never banned me from something that would be deemed unusual. 25. Do you like the song “Grenade” by Bruno Mars? Yes I love that song omg. It’s so fun to sing along to. 26. When’s the last time someone said something degrading to you? Around a month ago. 27. Last manmade structure you’ve seen? The houses in this neighborhood, I suppose. 28. When’s the last time you got a phone upgrade? Two years ago. 29. Has anyone ever tried to dissuade you from something? Sure. 30. How easy is it to persuade you to do something? It’s always different on any given day. Sometimes my self-control is pretty rigid and other times I’ll give in to temptation quite quickly haha. 31. Do you go on many escapades? Not many, but I still go on them occasionally. 32. What’s the last homemade dish you’ve made? It’s a little sad that this is my only answer since it’s the one thing I’ve ever made on my own, but onion rings haha. 33. Do you like lemonade? What flavor(s)? Just the classic one. I’m okay with lemonade, it’s not my first choice or anything but I don’t hate it. 34. What kinds of marinades do you like on your meats? I don’t cook. 35. Has anyone ever serenaded you before? No and I prefer that it stays that way. Serenading isn’t my language at all. 36. Would you like to visit the Everglades? I’m willing to visit wherever, so yes. 37. Have you ever attended a masquerade ball before? I haven’t. AID(E) 1. Do you know anyone who is an aide? Sure. 2. Do you know CPR and first-aid? I’ve had multiple classes on those topics but I forget the steps every time. I wish it were something I can retain; but because I’ve never been in a situation where I had to do first aid or CPR, my memory of them kinda fades at some point until I’m yet again required to take another first aid class. 3. Have you lost anyone to AIDS? Nope. At least I don’t think so. 4. When’s the last time you got laid? March, shortly before lockdown. 5. Have you ever been paid for sex? No. 6. Do you like the game Old Maid? I’ve never heard of it so I guess not. 7. Have you ever had a maid in your home before? We had house help before so I guess, but I don’t like using the term maid. 8. Have you ever experienced a drug raid before? No, not personally. But I see drug raids all the time in the news. 9. Do you tend to raid the refrigerator at night? Not as often as I used to. 10. Do you know how to do different types of braids in hair? No, I can’t even do the classic braid :( I’m horrible with stuff like that; my hands can never keep up. 11. When’s the last time you wore a Band-aid? Where and why? I needed a Band-Aid on my right index finger last June because I got a paper cut while I was preparing my old readings to use as Cooper’s peeing pads. 12. Have you ever wanted to be a mermaid? Not really. I never liked the idea of losing my feet for a tail. 13. Do you qualify for Medicaid? idk. 14. When was the last time you were afraid? Of what? I’ve been afraid of the future pretty much all week.

[marril96]

The Distance Between Us

Chapter 6: With Friends Like These...

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Rowena is surprisingly generous, and Crowley is a drama king.

Editor: @cherrypierowena

The Sunday tutoring session went as well as the first one. You still had a long way to go, but at the very least you were starting to understand the few lessons that were on the test.

For a mean girl, Rowena was an amazing teacher. You could tell learning was something she was really passionate about, as was spreading the knowledge she had.

If only she were like that — that patient, that, dare you say it, nice — at school.

You might have even liked her.

Was that why Sam liked her? Her genuine interest in knowledge? Was that what they were talking about when they hung out?

If yes, you could somewhat understand where Sam was coming from. If you only knew her as a dedicated geek, you would like her, too.

But you didn't.

The majority of what you saw of her was meanness. Bullying. Snobbery.

A few hours of studying together couldn't erase that. Couldn't erase the fact that not only had she made the choice to be that way — she'd fought tooth and nail for it.

She was a mean girl by choice.

When the bell rang that Monday, Ms. Hanscum asked for you and Rowena to stay behind. Rowena rolled her eyes. You did the same. You'd had enough of math.

"So," Ms. Hanscum said in her ever-present overly cheerful tone, "how's it going, girls? Made any progress?"

"Yup," you replied. Not as much as she probably expected, but it was something.

"Great!" she beamed. "I knew this would be a great arrangement!"

"It's bloody epic," Rowena mumbled under her breath sarcastically.

You snorted.

Ms. Hanscum frowned. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Rowena said, picture perfect smile mirroring the teacher's painted on her mouth.

Ms. Hanscum grinned big and bright. "I'm so happy for you girls! This'll help you both out. You'll see."

Right. Because being forced to spend time with someone you disliked was so helpful.

"You gonna be ready for the make up exam?"

The question caught you off guard. "Um… well…"

"She totally will," Rowena cut in. You threw her a look she ignored.

You'd gone over a few lessons. There were still a lot of things you didn't get. A lot of things you were insecure about.

You would study, but you doubted it would help much.

The majority of the things that were on the test were still a foreign language to you, and that meant another big, fat F.

"Excellent!" Ms. Hanscum said happily. She reached into a paper bag she had on the desk, took out a donut and bit into it. Pointing at the bag, mouth full and smeared with powdered sugar, she asked, "Donut?"

Rowena made a face as if she'd just been offered rotten meat.

"Sure," you said just to spite her, and took a donut of your own. You took a large bite, basking in the sweetness. "They're awesome!"

"Right?" Ms. Hanscum said. "There's this bakery down the street from where I live. They make excellent donuts! Take another one."

You did as you finished the first one, then bid goodbye to the teacher and headed outside.

"You're disgusting," Rowena said, expression matching her words.

You smirked. "I know."

She rolled her eyes.

"What's with the whole 'she'll totally be ready' shit?" you asked.

"That." She shuffled her feet nervously. Looked around as if in search of spies. "I was thinking — maybe we could study today, tomorrow, and the day after, too."

She what?

"You crazy?"

As if two days wasn't enough.

She wanted to add three more days to it?

"We don't have to," Rowena said, annoyed. "Just saying we could."

"Isn't that a bit much?"

She shrugged. "There's quite a bit we still haven't covered."

"Maybe I don't struggle with that," you said.

She looked at you in disbelief. "Do you?"

If only you didn't.

There was no point lying. "Yeah."

She smirked. Triumphant. Smug. "So, what do you say?" In a nonchalant, overly fake tone, she added, "It's fine if you don't want to. It's your grade."

Did — did she want you to say yes?

"Fine," you said.

Your friends were going to just love you missing out on hangouts to study with her.

"Four o'clock?"

"Works for me."

It was a deal.

*****

"So?" Dean asked first thing he saw you at lunch break.

"So what?"

But you already knew.

"What was it like, studying with the evil skank?"

The hot topic in your friend group.

"Quite fun, actually," you said.

They all, except for Sam, looked at you as if you'd just admitted to killing a litter of kittens.

Awful, pathetic, and horrible were some of the expected answers.

Oh, well.

You lived to disappoint.

"What?" you said defensively and took a bite out of your sandwich.

Crowley looked you in the eyes, then, seeing you were serious, did the sign of the cross.

You rolled your eyes so hard Rowena would've envied you.

Seriously?

He wasn't even religious. His only gospel was You Only Live Once and he lived its word to the fullest.

"Fun? Fun?!" he said dramatically. Loud enough for the entire school to hear him. A few people turned their heads. Most ignored him, having gotten used to his theatrics. "You call spending time with my sister — alone — fun?!"

"Yeah," you said nonchalantly.

His face flushed red as a cherry. Or a bomb inches away from explosion. Which, given the circumstances, seemed like a likely scenario. "That's it!" he proclaimed. "Friendship over!"

God.

What was it that made you want to be friends with him in the first place?

Oh, right — this very behavior.

You sure knew how to pick them.

"Were we ever even friends?" Crowley kept ranting. Eyes wide. Hands flying in all directions as he gestured like a madman. Accent thick in every word. "Was everything a lie? Are you a lie? Do you even bloody exist?!"

"Oh, come on!" you said, irritation sparking through you like a rush of heat.

You were beginning to comprehend why he and Rowena didn't get along — they were too damn similar!

"You've gone team whore!"

You shot him an incredulous look. "'Cause I liked studying with her?"

"That's how she gets you!" he explained. "Pretends to be nice. Sucks you in. Digs the claws in. Then you're hers! You might as well be dead!"

"You're overreacting." You looked around. "Why are y'all so quiet? He's overreacting. Right? Tell him he's overreacting."

"He's overreacting" Sam said.

Your man! "Thank you!"

Castiel frowned in confusion. His signature move. "You really liked it?"

"Yeah," you replied. "She's a great teacher."

Crowley let out an inhumane noise that might have been a squeak.

Or a pterodactyl mating call.

"She is!" you said defensively.

"Wow," Meg said.

Dean scowled suspiciously. "You hit your head? Did she hit you in the head?"

"Jesus Christ!" you exploded, having had enough. Your gang was always a bit weird, but this was ridiculous. This was fucking crazy! "I just think she's a good tutor. Doesn't mean I like the girl!"

"You liked being with her. That's pretty much the same thing," Dean said.

"No, it's not," you argued. "Why do you even care? I mean, Sam's friends with her."

"Sam gets his at home."

The younger Winchester shot him his signature bitchface.

"You hate her," Dean added. "You've always hated her!"

More like disliked her.

Severely.

She hadn't — yet — done anything to make you hate her.

Even still…

"It was just one study session!" you defended.

Meg held up two fingers and said in a deadpan manner, "Two."

"Two study sessions," you corrected. A sigh escaped your mouth. "I don't get what the big deal is. Like I said, she's still a bitch. She's just also a good tutor."

"She'll fuck you over," Crowley said. "She'll play with your heart, then tear it out and eat it right in front of you!"

"Okay, drama king," you said exasperatedly. "You're right. You're completely right. Can you stop now?"

"She will eat it!" he exclaimed dramatically.

"I'm starting to think you're jealous."

He scowled.

You smiled, sugary sweet, overdone.

"Don't worry. You're still my favorite MacLeod. Even if you're annoying."

He flipped you off.

You returned the favor.

"I'm no fan of ginger-bitch, but I'm starting to see why she hates drama king here," Meg commented. "So fucking glad I'm an only child."

"Says the girl who sucked Lucifer's dick up until recently," Crowley retorted.

Meg shot him a look that threatened murder. "He wishes. Do you also wish I sucked your dick?"

"I'm not that desperate. Besides, a man my size? You couldn't handle it, darling."

She laughed. "Trust me, sugar, I've handled bigger and better."

She squeezed Castiel's arm as she said that, prompting him to blush crimson and turn his head.

Crowley snickered. "Never a real man, then."

"Clarence is plenty real," Meg said. Her way of calling him angel. "You? A waste. Might as well change your name to Tiffany and parade around in a pink dress."

Damn.

She was ruthless.

"I'd still look bloody fabulous," Crowley said, head high in feigned pride. "Better than Feathers here. You two are perfect for each other."

"Why, thank you!"

"It wasn't a compliment."

"It was to me."

"You take everything as a compliment. Like all those things Lucifer said to you. The rumors he spread. All compliments, right?"

Meg scowled. He'd hit a nerve. "Piss off, Fergus."

Uh oh.

There was a reason he'd insisted that everyone — including the teachers — called him Crowley. He hated his birth name. Loathed it to the depths of his soul. He claimed it sounded like a venereal disease and hated his mother for giving it to him.

Rowena, naturally, insisted on calling him that and only that.

His friends, on the other hand, called him as he preferred.

Meg sure knew how to run her mouth.

But then, she wasn't his friend. The two of them could barely stand each other, and had only hung out because she was dating Castiel, who in turn was sort-of-friends with him.

Calling them acquaintances would be generous.

"I'll piss on you, Meg," Crowley retorted.

Meg grinned. "Oh, you just know what turns me on, don't you?" she purred.

He flipped her off.

She laughed.

Good ol' Meg and Crowley. Always a great distraction.

As they bantered, Castiel, as well as you, Sam, and Dean stood there awkwardly. Unsure what to say. How to react.

Then you revealed that you would be studying with Rowena today, tomorrow, and the day after, and, to your grievance, all the attention and drama was back on you.

*****

"You what?"

Olivette was livid. She remained calm, but her tone, the strain in her voice, the ice on her face were dead giveaways of the storm that brewed inside. Tranquil fury. Lightning before the rumbling thunder.

As expected, she hadn't taken the news of Rowena having three tutoring sessions with you this week well.

Neither did Lucifer, but he, at the very least, had the decency to keep his anger to himself.

"You're really tutoring Dumbo three days this week?" he said. "Seriously?"

"It wasn't my bloody idea!" Rowena said. "Ms. Hanscum said I had to. And tried to force-feed me donuts."

She made a face.

Olivette made an even more disgusted one. "That bitch is such a pig."

"I drew the line at that," Rowena said.

Okay, so she said a wee lie. Or a couple. Or a bit more.

She couldn't exactly admit it was her idea. What would that look like?

A shudder ran through her at the thought, cold as ice.

"So you can't hang out today?" Olivette asked.

Rowena shook her head. "Or tomorrow, or Wednesday."

'What about us?" Lucifer whined, pouting like a child.

She pulled on a smile. He was an arse, but he could be impossibly cute when he wanted.

"She doesn't care."

He said something not very nice under his breath. "This is such bullshit!"

"I'll make it up to you," Rowena said, lacing fingers through his. Squeezing them together in a tight knot. Her eyes wandered from his to Olivette's. "Both of you. Friday night, I'm all yours."

The truth was, she was looking forward to studying with you more than the outing she'd arranged with them.

She thought having popular friends would be the best thing ever, but the truth was, it was the opposite.

She hated it.

Hated watching Olivette and her little posse bully girls they deemed fat and ugly and boys they deemed unworthy of looking at them.

Hated watching Lucifer shove kids into lockers and threaten them for nothing but the sheer thrill of it.

Hated being there when it happened.

Hated laughing along with them, encouraging them without a single word as their victims' eyes wandered to her in search of help, of mercy, only to turn down in disappointment at finding none.

A part of her knew it was worth it. The life she had — she'd fought for it. So what if a few people had to suffer?

At least it wasn't her.

Never again.

Now, she was on top of the food chain.

Didn't mean she had to like all it entailed.

She needed an out. A vacation. A wee bit of time away from it all. Needed something to make her forget all the bad she did — all the bad she was still doing.

She was a good tutor. A bloody great one.

And, for a girl who never did anything to better herself, you made for good company.

You did as told. It took you a while from time to time, but you did all the work she gave you. Contrary to what she thought, you weren't dumb. You just needed a bit of guidance.

There were sarcastic remarks and eye-rolls, often mutual, but other than that, tutoring you was a pleasant experience.

It was, dare she say it, fun.

"You'd better," Lucifer purred, then pressed his lips to hers in a hungry kiss.

"I promise," Rowena muttered as they parted for breath. Then his lips were on hers once again, and she gave herself away, let him do with them as he pleased.

That was the way things worked between them. She gave. He took. Anything he wanted, he could take, no questions asked.

Just like Olivette and her posse.

Oh, well.

Everything came with a price stamped on it in large, bolded letters.

Rowena knew what she was getting into.

She'd made her bed. Now she had to lie in it.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @gaysnakess @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @angel-e-v-a @tasyahilker @a-queen-and-her-throne

[sweetbitterpdf]

Hi em, do you think you can write a quick fix of eliott and Lucas celebrating pride month together?

ahh, absolutely! i was planning on writing something for pride month anyway. hope this is alright!!

this took forever— way longer than expected, my apologies!! hope it’s alright!

(also @ everyone, reminder that i’m always accepting prompts like these!! they don’t have to be from ask memes!!)

---

“Une vie pleine de couleur”

They’re eating breakfast when a grin stretches its way across Eliott’s face.

“It’s June!” His eyes light up, as if he were a kid waking up to a school cancellation, and not his— very nearly almost adult— boyfriend remembering what month it is. “Lucas, it’s pride month!” Eliott says then, and oh, right. 

“I didn’t know June was pride month.” Lucas genuinely didn’t, Eliott had brought it up a couple of weeks ago, but Lucas had let the thought fall to the wayside, far too busy studying for his French bac and providing moral support to Eliott throughout his several exams to remember such a thing.

“The parade’s at the end of the month!” Lucas can’t help but smile over at Eliott when he gets like this— which he does often— lively and enthusiastic about the things that he cares about. He thinks spending so much time around Eliott has made him a brighter person by association alone.

“Oh, yeah? I’ve never been.”

“Really? Never?”

“Eliott, I was deep in the closet until like, a few months ago. And with my parents? It was never the sort of thing we participated in.”

“Oh, right,” Eliott retreats a bit, deflating, almost. “That makes sense.” But then he bounces right back up again not even a moment later, “Do you want to go this year?” Lucas thinks of it. He thinks of hundreds of thousands of people, of them yelling and screaming as they line the streets, densely crowded together— it makes him feel sick. 

But then he thinks of seeing others like him, of seeing people living their truest and most honest lives, of seeing two boys together. He thinks of the times when he was little, when seeing two boys holding hands made something swoop low and foreign in his gut— something he never even thought about addressing until a decade later.

He thinks of him and Eliott being that, for young boys like he once was.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course! There’s no wrong way to celebrate.”

---

They’re having a picnic in the park when it happens.

It’s just the two of them— impromptu picnics have become their favourite date— and Lucas looks around the grassy field. There are groups of friends and families laughing and playing and enjoying the nice weather. 

But there’s a boy that keeps looking over at them. He can’t be more than thirteen, his limbs lanky with the beginnings of puberty, and he’s hanging out with his friends, but he looks over to where he and Eliott are sat every couple of minutes. Lucas can catch bits and pieces of the conversation that the boys are having as they kick around a soccer ball. 

“— just going to the bathroom—” Lucas catches, and then the boy heads away from his friends. Lucas pretends not to notice the way the boy gets closer and closer to their blanket, before—

“Excuse me,” the boy says, looking down at them as they sit. Both he and Eliott look up. “Are you two... Dating?” Lucas can hear, in the way that the boy gets quieter when he says the last word, that he’s not trying to be invasive. There’s something there, a certain kind of... curiosity, a longing, that hits Lucas deep in his heart, somewhere.

“Yes, we are.” Eliott says, his smile soft, assessing. He doesn’t seem as aware of what has been left unspoken in the boy’s words as Lucas is, but he’s his warm self nonetheless.

“Oh. I just wanted to say, um,” The boy is blushing furiously, visible even with the redness of his sunburnt cheeks, “You look really good together.”

“Thank you.” Eliott says, his smile growing into a full-on grin. The boy wishes them well, and they do the same— simultaneously, no less— and then he leaves them. Eliott coos and awws after he’s out of earshot, but Lucas thinks about it for the rest of the day.

He thinks of the boy, and how much of himself he saw in him. He thinks he may have done such a thing, once, if he had had a little more courage.

---

“Eliott?” Lucas says, one evening as they lay in bed together.

“Mm?” Eliott asks, half-asleep.

“I’ve decided, about the parade.” Lucas blinks up at the ceiling, then turns toward Eliott when he hears him stir.

“Oh, yeah?” Eliott leans into him, then, his warm cheek pressed against Lucas’ shoulder.

“I think I want to go.” Lucas says, and he can feel Eliott smiling against him.

“That’s awesome, Lucas. Don’t feel like you have to, though.”

“I don’t!” He knows that Eliott would be the last person to pressure him into anything, let alone something like this. “I just... Want to go, and celebrate pride, with my boyfriend.”

“Great, because it just so happens that I want to do the same thing.” Eliott says, pressing a kiss right between his shoulder blades, before nuzzling against him.

---

There are more people than Lucas could have possibly imagined. 

The streets of Paris are packed, the roaring cheers of hundreds of thousands of people are deafening.

It’s the single most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Eliott gives his hand a squeeze as they walk, an oceanic current pulling them down the street.

Lucas listens to the chants, the cheers, the love.

He joins in.

---

Lucas is stretched out in bed, the sheets thrown aside. It’s far too warm for any sort of covers— but, apparently, not too warm for Eliott to latch himself onto him like a sloth on a branch. Eliott hums softly with each exhale— a sleeping habit that Lucas finds way more endearing than he ought to— and pulls Lucas in every time he tries to move even an inch away.

“Hey,” Lucas says gently, “babe, please, I need to pee.” A moment later, Eliott lets go reluctantly, opting to snuggle against Lucas’ pillow in his absence. Lucas thinks that this side of Eliott is one of his favourites: half-asleep, ethereal in the morning light, and mercilessly cuddly. He pauses for a moment, looking down at Eliott, his heart fit to burst with how full it is, before padding down the hall to the bathroom.

He returns a moment later to see Eliott sat in bed, his eyes blinking open slowly, looking over at him. The smile that stretches across Eliott’s face seems to make the sun shine a bit brighter, and Lucas is already moving when Eliott opens his arms in invitation. When they come together again, Lucas sighs in contentment.

“It’s July.” Eliott says simply, into Lucas’ hair.

“I know, I can’t believe how quickly June went by.” The months move quicker and quicker now— and June was an incredible whirlwind. Another month older, another month together with Eliott.

“How was your first pride month, after coming out?” Eliott asks him over their morning coffee.

“Perfect.” Lucas says, kissing him quick before sitting across from him at the table, joining their free hands together. “Looking forward to many more. With you, ideally.”

“Well,” Eliott squeezes his hand, grinning at Lucas in a way that makes him feel nothing but secure, nothing but loved. “That’s good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

[merrylittlehogwartsrp]

Happy Holidays, Elva! We are thrilled to “invite” Neville Longbottom (fc Justice Smith) back to Hogsmeade for a little forced Winter Cheer. We loved the short evocative notes in your app that clearly put to mind 7th year as well as where Neville is today.

Please pack your bags and send in your tumblr. Additional information can be found here!

OOC DETAILS:

NICKNAME: Elva

AGE (must be 18+): twenties

PRONOUNS: she/her, they/them

ACTIVITY ESTIMATE: I check the dash daily, and try to post at least once daily, though sometimes replies take me a little longer to write. 

CHARACTER DETAILS:

FULL NAME & NICKNAMES: Neville Longbottom

BIRTHDATE: July 30th, 1980

BLOOD-STATUS: Pureblood

* GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender male

* GENDER PRESENTATION/PRONOUNS: Male, he/him

* SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pan-Demi Sexual

CHARACTER SITUATION:

OCCUPATION: 

Auror. After the battle of Hogwarts, there was little life could throw at Neville that he wasn’t ready for. After early graduation from Hogwarts, Neville went straight into work as an Auror. He’d already fought the battle that ended the war; he passed his training with flying colours, better than any exam he sat at Hogwarts. Neville is proud to have brought many a Death Eater to justice, but the job is wearing on him. If he’s honest, it was wearing from the start, only he was more used to it then. It was war and so what if he was tired if he was still alive and kicking? But the war ended three years ago. Why is it they’re still fighting? Neville needs a change of pace. He needs what his parents never got the chance to have, a life beyond being an Auror. He needs quiet, time to be in his garden, and he doubts the Department of Mysteries can offer that, but even if there’s just a small chance it’s better he has to try, right?

HOUSING: 

Neville rents a small two-bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere, outside Norwich. It’s easy enough to get to if you possess magic, meaning despite having no neighbours it’s not remote by a long shot, but the space is a necessity for Neville, who dreams of having a large garden. The garden is there, but Neville wouldn’t deign to call it one yet on account of the weeds that have wreaked havoc on it. He simply hasn’t had enough time to work on it, between his job and catching up with the DA. Each time Neville steps outside his door he’s confronted with his shame; for neglecting his plants, for taking so long to figure out this life he’s built isn’t for him anymore, shame for avoiding his own unhappiness, all so he doesn’t have to admit to Gran and the rest of the world that he can’t go on being the grandson or the wizard they all want him to be. 

SOCIAL STANDING: 

Being a pureblood on the right side of the war, not to mention a celebrity, Neville’s social standing is pretty good. Of course, Neville is oblivious. He doesn’t put much store in such matters. It’s all nonsense; doesn’t actually say the first thing about you. But if he looked at the facts, son of an Auror who became an Auror himself, he would guess he was relatively successful, and he knows people treat him differently now (Gran does, that’s for sure). But enough of the boy who was “practically a squib” remains that he doesn’t recognise his worth in the eyes of others. And he doesn’t let himself think about it either, lest he slip back into old habits. He values himself, finally, and for the most part that’s enough. 

CHARACTER CONFIGURATION:

TALENTS/WEAKNESSES 

+ Herbology, Duelling, Negotiation and Leadership. 

- Potions, Flying, Lying

STRENGTHS/FLAWS 

+ Courageous, Resolute, Kind

- Still clumsy (yes, he did just spill this tray of four mugs of tea over the entire sofa), Insecure (Neville isn’t only trying to live up to his parents’ accomplishments, but who he has been these past four years. All his old insecurities are still there, he’s just stopped listening to them so much.) 

CHARACTER HISTORY: 

FAMILY BACKGROUND: 

Neville’s magic made itself known only when Neville was tumbling out of a window, dropped by his great uncle Algie who forgot about him at the mere sight of a meringue. It’s a defining moment for Neville. Not only does it say alot about his magic and how it works (stubbornly–his magic voiced the defiance that Neville was too shy, too insecure to put into words), but it also says a lot about his family. They didn’t hang about waiting for his magic to show. They forced it and him. Neville wonders if it’s always been this way–if this is the method that worked on his dad–or if it’s because his dad is no longer around for a casual chat that his family treats Neville this way, if grief has settled into their bones, reshaping their personalities into something slightly more gruff and heavy-handed. All Neville’s life his parents have lived in St Mungo’s, but he feels their absence keenly every time he’s around Gran or his great aunt and uncle. Even more so now that he’s an Auror. It’s like they’re all trying to pick up where his dad left off. But how long can you be an Auror before you start to lose pieces of yourself? And how many pieces can you lose before you’re not yourself anymore?

LIFE DURING THE WAR:

If you need someone who isn’t there, sometimes you have to step up and fill that role yourself. This is how Neville came to be one of the leading figures of the DA in Harry’s absence, along with Luna and Ginny. They all needed someone to follow, someone to tell them this fight needed to happen; that even in defeat, they could still make an impact and keep the fight alive. Neville will tell you that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. And he’s not wrong. But he’s glad for all the hits he took on behalf of others, especially the younger students; that he became the human punching bag for the Carrows, absorbing whatever blow and hex they threw at him. It hurt, alot, but there was a silver lining to that cloud–the DA finally got to practise their healing spells.

Neville has never been one to stay on the ground when he’s down, though it used to take him longer to find his feet. During the war, Neville bounced right back up. He survived, despite mouthing off Carrow and Voldemort at every turn, speaking up when they spouted their bigotry, and defending other students against their cruelty. And he has a whole host of scars to show for it. Some wounds healed magically, and some took time, either because the spells were too difficult for the DA, the cut too deep, or Neville refused the help because there was another student in greater need. (There was always another student in greater need.) They’re on his face and torso mostly, dozens of little nicks on his skin and a few thicker scars from deep gashes, including one on his right cheek, one of the final cuts he received. Some days he wears them with pride. Others, he hates them, seeing nothing but the marks the Carrows left on him, on his skin and his mind. Neville response to pain is undeniably shaped by his experience during his seventh year. It makes him feverish, almost excitable. Neville has found what he’s good at. He doesn’t fear getting knocked down anymore, but maybe he should.

LAST THREE YEARS:

Neville threw himself into his work, and when he wasn’t on the clock, he was as good as working, checking in with his friends, scraping together the remnants of the DA and shaping them into something resembling people. Sometimes this meant having a drink down the Leaky Cauldron, and others it meant making sure they had food in the fridge or that their laundry hadn’t piled up. Either way, Neville kept on filling the role of DA leader that he’d gotten so comfortable in during his seventh year. That way he didn’t have to inspect his own damage. But if anyone wants a glimpse into Neville’s state of mind, all they have to do is look at his garden. The wildflowers hide it well, but anyone with a passing knowledge of plants would know instantly that Neville is not okay.

HOLIDAY DETAILS:

Neville’s one family tradition which he absolutely upholds is visiting his mum and dad at the hospital every day of the week before Christmas. He decorates their hospital room with paper chains and tinsel, and brings Christmas cookies and sweets. On the bad days, he only stays for a quick hello and goodbye, but on the good days, he spends hours with them, telling them about the good things, like the plants he’s planning on putting in the garden, or various anecdotes about Seamus or the lovely thing Luna said during their last meet-up. Neville doesn’t ascribe to any religious beliefs. He observes Christmas because it’s time he spends with his family. It gives him a reason to be at the hospital more often, doing something for his mum and dad. Neville loathes that he’s involved in the celebration. He would have nothing to do with it if it wasn’t compulsory (a fact which is setting off alarm bells in Neville’s head), except Gran is ecstatic. She wants to parade her grandson in front of everyone, talk about what a hero he is. Neville can’t wait…

OOC SUPPLEMENT:

SHIPS: Neville/Chemistry. 

CHANGES: Nope! All the bios are wonderful. I love them. 

FACECLAIM: Justice Smith, Henrik Holm.

[nataliesnews]

Tag Maier, Nasreen, gays, murders     7/8/2021

I got my third vaccination and have felt no bad effects. Maybe a bit more tired than usual.

This week our group, Tag Maier, went out to wish Ahmed a happy birthday.  Six  years ago he  lost his parents and little brother when settlers threw a Molotov cocktail into their home at night. He was saved and is now being looked after by his grandparents. It was his birthday and we went carrying presents. Varda and I took him eye glasses for swimming. Others bought him this setup for soccer and it took the  lady on the side to show the men how to set it up. We have visited every year since that horrible event.

But this is what his head looks like. Also he has no real ear. The grandfather said that when he is 18 they will have plastic surgery as it really bothers him. One does not want to think what memories he carries.

A happier occasion was when Varda and I went to Khan el Achmar for a party for Nasreen.. Her father gave a party for the village and he said that their hope was that this was to encourage other girls to follow her example. It was unbearably hot   28 degrees at 20.00 at night

Nasreen, the daughter of Eid Abu Khamis, graduated from high school in Jericho and passed her matriculation exam - the second ever in Khan

Celebrate in Khan al-Ahmar tonight!

 She smashed the glass ceiling and enrolled in university teaching and will try to fulfill her dream-to return to the mud school where she studied in Khan al-Ahmar, the first teacher from the community! Id, her father, is trying to get her into the best university on the West Bank. She will not be able to go back and forth and cannot live alone so Id will take a room for her and her mother.

 This is a particularly exciting event in light of the fact that many of the girls and boys in the Jahalin communities do not continue their studies in high school and only individuals of virtue are able to continue to university. Especially the women. Without the elementary school in Khan, it is likely that Nasreen would not have started high school at all.  This is one of the reasons why Id gave this enoromous party. To show other young girls what they could achieve. Unfortunately  we could  not photograph …the women and men celebrated separately and one is not allowed to photograph the women. Little children yes and what I found interested as how, out there in the desert, the city influence is felt.

 What seemed to worry the Israelis of the moshav more than anything else was the mudschool built with tyres. We, the people of the book, are doing everything we can to stop Palestinian children from getting an education.

 This little one I called the black widow,

  This is the food which was prepared

 Nasreen being given a laptop. She came out dancing with her hair uncovered and all the way down to her waist wearing a long cloak and carrying a basket with sweets….without the cloak it could have been a village maid in another country. I wish I could have photographed their dancing. So graceful and such beautiful hand movements.

     “Some Israelis have joined the struggle to prevent the demolition of the Sheikh Jarraqh , including some Jewish settlers who live in the vicinity.

Prof. Dan Turner is a doctor at Jerusalem’s Shaare Zedek Hospital. He is also a resident of the settlement of Kfar Adumim, next to Khan al-Ahmar. A year ago, after reading in the paper that his settlement was involved in efforts to remove the encampment, Turner decided to visit the site.

“I’ve been living in Kfar Adumim for 20 years and I’m embarrassed to say the local Bedouin were totally transparent to me – just people I’d seen driving on the road,” he explained”.

 He has been helping them for years and was also instrumental in having  the young man whom I accompanied to Sha’arei Zedek hospital admitted. My friend told me that when she met him with his kipa on his head he was very much on the right but what he  saw changed him completely. It turned out that Id, the girl’s father, had built his house for him. He only discovered this when he went down to the village. It just shows how transparent the workers were to the moshavnikiem, the workers who had lived in the area for 10s of years after being displaced. That he had no idea that this man was his neighbour. There is much pressure from the international community not to destroy the village. And also not to throw the Palestinians of Sheikh Jarrah from their homes.

 I think though that we are fighting a losing battle. I will not see a chance in my life time and nearly every day we read of a Palestinian who has been shot. This is what appeared in Haaretz and is so true. Even when it is obvious as in the case of a young boy who was shot in a car which was backing away from the soldiers, not only did the father lose a child but his work permit for Israel has been cancelled. And this happens always in the case, not only of terrorists, but when the army has shot an innocent Palestinian the family again are punished as they are then considered a danger to Israel because of what has happened to them. The opposite  of the man who shot his parent and then asked for mercy because he was an orphan.

 But it is not only Palestinians who are under attack. And this character whom I call Smokrich and is the leader of one of the religious  parties has come out with this statement about the gay community. When his wife gave birth, she refused to lie in a room with an Arab woman and, if I remember correctly, she did not want to give birth with an Arab doctor in attendance. Interesting to know if they know that without Arab doctors, nurses, pharmacists and cleaners the health system in Israel would probably collapse.  

MK Smotrich blasted for saying gay pride parade touched off virus wave

Health Ministry calls remark a 'dangerous combination of ignorance, populism, frustration and hatred'; Religious Zionism leader insists he was misquoted, video 'edited'

https://www.timesofisrael.com/mk-smotrich-blasted-for-saying-gay-pride-parade-touched-off-virus-wave/

Off to lunch with Gershon and Edna Baskin whom I invited out after a year of getting lifts from them to my Arabic classes.

Natanya

[born2battle]

My Innings as DDG at Army HQ

     In the beginning of Mar 2002, while Op PARAKRAM was still in progress, I reported in Army HQ to take charge as Deputy Director General, DDG (Equipment Management) in MGO Branch. It was an exciting moment to enter the South Block for the first time in my career, for shouldering new responsibilities, in an entirely new role, in an entirely new Organisation. It took me almost a month to understand the magnitude of the tasks involving “Equipment Management”. I was in the core group for the purchase, procurement, stocking and release of all types of equipment, for all the Units & Formations of the Army. It entailed inventory management of diverse weapon systems & ammunition, a large variety of combat vehicles for specific requirements of each Arm/Service, complex communication equipment and a range of clothing including special clothing for high altitude terrain. Additionally, the  entire supply chain management had to be monitored to ensure that the right equipment, of the right quality & in the right quantity, reaches the right location, at the right time. The challenges were numerous with multiple solutions.

     Soon on arrival in Delhi, I was allotted temporary accommodation in Army Battle Honours Mess. I got accustomed to the new lifestyle of carrying pack lunch & commuting by the Army Bus. The new office timings (9 AM to 5 PM) and observing a five day week were some other major  changes. It was quite a learning experience about new office procedures as well, since the MGO Branch had to interact with all the Command HQ  and the officials in the MOD (Ministry of Defence) & the OFB (Ordnance Factory Board) frequently. In the first week of Apr, I went to Bagrakote & returned to Delhi along with my mother, Sanjivani & Aditya. We shifted to temporary accommodation in Shankar Vihar complex, near the domestic Airport. Soon thereafter, Aditya got admission in Xth standard in Army Public School, Dhaula Kuan. Incidentally, our children looked forward to this process of change consequent to each posting, which certainly laid the foundation of their personality development.

    In order to familiarise myself  with the functions of the Ordnance Depots & the Base Workshops, I visited Agra, Kanpur, Jabalpur & Pulgaon  in the first one month.  In addition, I got an opportunity to attend the Review Meeting at OFB, located at Kolkata. It enabled an update about  the progress of achievement of targets by various production agencies and the PSUs, as also the progress of procurement of equipment and ammunition ex- import. Thereafter, we had the six monthly Review Conference at MGO Branch, which was chaired by the MGO and attended by the DGOS,  DGEME and the MG Adm of each Command HQas also  the members of the OFB. We had to modify our plans and  allot the critical requirements to each  Command HQ.  It was always a race against time, specially for equipment management of the formations deployed on the LOC & the LAC. Necessary priority was also accorded  to formations deployed  in Counter Insurgency operations as also the units deployed on the Siachen Glacier. It was a great learning experience personally, facing entirely new challenges, which I had never visualised earlier.

     In the end of May 2002, I felt elated to be selected as a member of MGO Branch  Delegation for an official visit to USA. Our schedule  included visits to several logistics establishments and the OEMs (Original Equipment Manufacturers) involved in manufacture of defence equipment. We had just one month to plan our itinerary, prepare the agenda for discussions for each visit and finalise the  arrangements for travel & stay during our visit.  Finally, in the last week of Jun, we took off by Air India, on our maiden long duration flight. On arrival in New York, we were received by our Defence Attache, who escorted us thereafter during the entire Tour. Our schedule commenced with an impressive briefing at the Operations Support Command. 

     Thereafter, we visited several Defence establishments and the OEMs on the West Coast and progressed in a sequence for completion of visits on the East Coast. The visit to the US Army Aviation Centre was really special. In fact every visit was unique and provided us an opportunity to visit local  tourist attractions as well. In the end, we came to New York and boarded the return flight, with memories of this professional experience. On return to Army HQ, we prepared the Delegation Report  and submitted it to the MOD, which was followed by a Presentation. I will always cherish this life time opportunity of a Defence Delegation.

     Meanwhile, we were allotted permanent accommodation in Sardar Patel Marg complex, which was just adjacent to the Taj & Maurya Sheraton hotels. It was a coincidence that Ashvini & Nandini had come over to  spend their summer vacation. So, all the members of the family again contributed their expertise of packing, shifting and unpacking before settling down in our new Home!! We organised visits to some of the major tourist spots in Delhi on the week ends. In the end, we went for a short trip to Jaipur, popularly known as the Pink City. It was a refreshing break for all of us, before Ashvini & Nandini’s  departure for Pune.  

     I continued my routine visits to various Ordnance Depots and the PSUs, on case by case basis. However, the most memorable visit was to the  Siachen Base Camp. I went there to acquaint myself urgently, about  the critical requirements of special clothing & equipment authorised to the Siachen Brigade. Initially, I went to Leh by the IAF Courier from Delhi  and completed the acclimatisation process at Leh. Subsequently, I travelled by road from Leh to Partapur, crossing enroute the famous Khardungla Pass located at 18,000 feet. This journey itself was a breathtaking experience literally. I had a night halt at the Brigade HQ at  Partapur before  proceeding ahead to Siachen Base Camp, which is located at 12,000 feet. I observed the rigorous training & acclimatisation being conducted at Siachen Battle School. It was a prerequisite before the induction of  Infantry Battalions & support elements onto the Siachen Glacier. I was also briefed about the logistic plans for supply & replenishment of various posts and methods of  casualty evacuation which were vital for operations in the challenging terrain and climatic conditions on the Glacier. I returned to Delhi after two weeks, with profound respect for all the Siachen Warriors.

       Next major event was the Army Commanders Conference in Oct. We had to compile the latest status of all types of equipment held by the formations, ascertain the essential requirements and prepare a plan for making up the deficiencies from the stocks held in the Ordnance Depots. In the Conference, all the Command HQ gave a review of their activities and projected their critical requirements. Similar Presentations were given by all the Branches & Directorates at the Army HQ. It was a great opportunity since I learnt about the methodology of integration of all operational and logistics  plans, with a long term perspective. The ultimate aim was to continually enhance the levels of operational preparedness, with higher priority for operations on the LOC & LAC as also the Counter Insurgency operations and the Siachen Glacier.

      2003 commenced with the preparations for the Army Day Parade & the Republic Day events. It was a privilege as we availed the chance to witness the magnificent Republic Day Parade, from the main enclosure reserved for the Armed Forces. The latest equipment on display was a matter of pride not only for the Contingents but equally for the MGO Branch. All the celebrations culminated with a splendid Beating the Retreat ceremony at Vijay Chowk followed by the illumination of Rashtrapati  Bhavan and North & South Block.

      It is often said --- “Time & tide wait for none.” It proved to be true as  one year of my tenure was completed so quickly, enriched with so many professional experiences.  Aditya completed his Board Exams and while  the results were awaited, Ashvini & Nandini  joined us for another summer vacation. This time, we visited the remaining tourist attractions in Delhi on every weekend. The most enjoyable visit was to the famous Red Fort where we learnt about it’s historical significance by watching the Sound and Light Show. 

     Thereafter, I arranged a short trip  to visit  Agra and Fatehpur Sikri. Our visit to the iconic Taj Mahal ---- one of the Seven Wonders of the World, was the most wonderful experience.

          By now, the results of the Board Exam were declared and Aditya was delighted with a score of  90%. It was perhaps destined that Aditya would pursue higher education in Pune as we decided to shift base. I took Annual Leave for a month and all of us went  to Pune. We completed the admission process in Fergusson College and rented accommodation in Kothrud. It enabled all the children to stay together and enjoy their college life. Sanjivani also stayed on in Pune and once again shouldered the responsibility as their coach, guide and mentor. I returned to Delhi and experienced an “Empty Nest” feeling for the first time!!

     There was yet another important  assignment  when I was detailed as a representative of MGO Branch to witness the trials and evaluation of BPJs (Bullet Proof Jackets). I had to attend these trials in different locations and carry out the comparative analysis. All the subsequent procedures till the finalisation of the  contract by the MOD were an educative experience. We continued to obtain monthly feedback about the state of holdings of equipment from the Command HQ and check progress of target fixation from the OFB. This ensured  that the rate of supply was always faster than the rate of expenditure, specially in case of weapons and ammunition. The result of this proactive approach was higher state of combat readiness and enhanced user satisfaction at all levels. At the MGO Branch, it created a ripple effect of enthusiasm resulting in setting higher targets, stringent timelines and further improvement of the supply chain management.

     In Jan 2004, Defence Expo was organised in Pragati Maidan. All of us at the MGO Branch attended this event since the exhibition showcased the latest trends and technological developments pertaining to military equipment. Thereafter, I got  another opportunity to witness the traditional Republic Day Parade and associated celebrations. Next month, I was delighted to be selected as a part of another Defence Delegation for visiting a few countries in Europe ----- Finland, Austria, Switzerland and Italy.  Our Delegation was specifically assigned the responsibility to examine the latest developments in Snow-clothing, Snowmobiles  and Mountaineering Equipment essential in Snow Bound area.  We left Delhi on 15 Mar 2004, and over the next two weeks visited several  OEMs (Original Equipment Manufacturers) in Helsinki, Geneva, Berne, Zurich, Vienna, Rome and Venice.

        We were shown the manufacturing process by each Firm and given a demonstration of the equipment in the Alps. We also got an opportunity to cross the Arctic Circle while travelling North of Helsinki. The Vatican City and the majestic Colosseum in Rome kept us spellbound. Finally, we went to Venice and enjoyed the enchanting Gondola rides. The Delegation was  privileged to have a meeting followed by dinner with our Ambassadors, both in Austria and Switzerland. On return to Delhi, we submitted the final report to the MOD. Thereafter, we gave a Presentation which was attended personally by Mr. George Fernandez (then Defence Minister). I will always cherish the memories of this fascinating experience of another Defence Delegation.

     Just after completing two years and three months of my prestigious tenure in the South Block, I received my posting orders to proceed  to Ahmedabad. I was required to take charge as DDG NCC, Gujarat by mid Aug. I looked forward eagerly to shouldering this new appointment which would be quite different compared to all my previous  assignments. It entailed training of the NCC Cadets, appropriately called the process of  “Grooming Tomorrow’s Leaders”. As I finally departed after a traditional farewell from the MGO Branch, I had a feeling of tremendous accomplishment having fulfilled  most of the expectations of the  Formations. The dedication and support by my Team of Directors -----  Col Sanjay Kulkarni, Col KJ Singh, Col Saini and Col Ratnaparkhi deserve special compliments. I consider my innings at the Army HQ as a feather in my cap. It was time to shift from the dynamic Army HQ to the tranquil NCC Directorate, with an attitude of gratitude.

[juiceb0x]

Trans Day of Remembrance.

I was in kindergarten. The girls and boys were playing in two separate groups. I strutted up to the boys, only to be told I couldn’t play with them because I was a girl. I sat down and started to play anyways. They were aghast. Before I knew it, they’d all left. At least I had all the toys to myself.

My hair was suffocatingly long. I wanted to cut it--I was always too hot, it was always in the way, people pulled on it for fun. My dad assured me that little girls were supposed to have long hair, and that I looked like a princess. It looked like a rat’s nest.

I first heard the words ‘lesbian’ and ‘gay’ in my friend’s backyard. Two girls were making fun of one another, using them like joking insults, the way they would say ‘stupid’. I didn’t know what they meant, so shyly, I asked. They told me it was when girls liked girls or boys liked boys. They said it was weird. I only knew to echo them. For years I didn’t even know what the LGBT+ community was, I just knew it was strange and alien--it was supposed to be.

    I heard stories from classmates about friends, acquaintances, girls who wanted to be boys or boys who wanted to be girls. We were all in unison; it was bizarre. Who would ever want that? It was just plain unnatural.

I didn’t know why I felt so nauseous when I started to develop curves. I would be pretty and mature. I’d break boys’ hearts. I’d grow up and have a handsome husband. So why did I hate looking in the mirror and seeing that my chest was no longer flat?

    I’d always been a quiet, sensible kid, especially in public, but I’d never felt more like throwing a tantrum then when I bought my first bra. It was at a Walmart, in Florida. There were two of them, that my mom picked out for me. Pink and white triangles that crushed my chest and wouldn’t stay in place, the straps cutting into my skin. I thought I wouldn’t mind them, if they kept my chest comfortably flat. But they didn’t.

    One of my neighbours dressed as a boy for Halloween. She won a prize in her class for her costume. I was incredibly jealous I didn’t think of that. I dismissed it as being envious of the attention she got, even though I really just wanted to dress as a boy.

    In seventh grade, people laughed and asked me, teasing, if I was a lesbian or something, because of the way I dressed, the way I acted. I laughed with them, too unsure to answer.

    In eighth grade, I thought I should’ve liked my clothes. I had nice enough clothes, didn’t I? They were expensive. So why did I hate the lacy bra that jutted off my torso, the tags scratching like cats’ claws; why did I feel so relieved when I got to go home and wear baggy pyjamas instead?

    I came out to my mom for the first time. It was terrifying, sitting her down and explaining things. She told me she knew I wasn’t straight ever since I was six. I didn’t get to tell my dad--he called from work a couple of days after I came out to my mom, solemnly telling me that he knew I’d discussed ‘something very personal’ with my mother. He didn’t know how to go about discussing it. I was in shock. I’d intended to tell him, but I didn’t realize how frightening being outed could be.

    I realized I wasn’t a girl somewhere along the line. I hated it. I hardly knew what being trans was, let alone how to cope with feeling that way. I finally got the courage to admit it to myself just after my depression was revealed to everyone, at the end of the school year. I thought I was nonbinary.

    I found solace in Rick Riordan’s books, and his character Alex Fierro, a genderfluid demigod. I’d been following Rick’s books for years, and seeing representation from him was mind-blowing. I thought I might be genderfluid, after that--I started presenting that way, but something still wasn’t right. I felt masculine most days, then wilted as I looked through my clothes. I resolved to presenting myself as feminine too many days. I knew I couldn’t pass, so why try?

    A boy texted me and asked me out on Valentine’s day. We’d been friends for months, and I had no feelings for him, but I panicked for another reason--he was straight. A straight boy was asking me to be his girlfriend. I never wanted to be anyone’s girlfriend. I turned him down as gently as I could. He found out, a few days later, that I was trans. We avoided each other for about a week after that.

    I wanted to cut my hair for months. I cut it to shoulder length, but I still hated it. I brought it up to my dad over and over, only to get shut down. I saved pictures of short haircuts on my phone. I finally announced I was going to get it cut short whilst on the way to getting it trimmed and dyed. My dad nearly got us in a car accident. He couldn’t fight when I discussed it with the stylist. I nearly cried when I saw myself in the mirror after it’d been done. I pranced out, prouder of myself than I’d ever been before.

    I found words to put to my feelings again, through one of my favourite Youtubers, MilesChronicles, formerly AmandasChronicles. I watched the video in which he came out, and the one where he elaborated on it. He felt connected to both being a boy and being nonbinary. I was ecstatic.

    I snapped at friends more than once because they kept referring to me as ‘she’. They introduced me to people as a girl. When I tried to bring it up, they played the victim. No matter how hard I seemed to try, people saw me as a girl. I was open, loud, and frankly obnoxious about it. I nearly flipped a desk when someone was mocking me, calling me ‘miss’. I snarled at him, telling him for the thousandth time that I was trans. He told me I was still a girl. I told him I hoped I never saw him again. He moved a few months later. I didn’t realize how just awful his ‘friendship’ made me feel until he was gone and I could breathe again.

    A debate sparked around me at lunch after I accused someone of being transphobic. “You can’t just call people transphobic,” said one girl. Another friend was playing Social Justice Warrior again. I just felt sick. I begged Casper to leave with me, to hide in the washroom with me. I thought I might cry. I couldn’t cry. I told Casper I didn’t feel safe. I took off into the hall, Casper assuring me the situation would be handled. I paced, gasping for breath. When I finally went back to the group, a friend gave me a hug. I got a few irritated or sympathetic looks before class started again. Honestly, going back to quietly working was a relief.

    I came out to my mom for the second time on the 14th of June, 2017, the day of pride month dedicated to trans boys. I had just taken my first exam for the year, English, and walked from the school to a fast food place with a friend. I told her what day it was when she came to pick me up, and tried to explain how I felt. She told me surgery was expensive. She didn’t get the message, so when I got home, I came out a third time, texting her and explaining everything. She was talking to me a few days later, going on and on about how happy she was when she found out she was having a girl. How all she ever wanted was a girl. I left the room not long after that.

    A friend texted me ‘OH NO LGBT RIGHTS WENT TOO FAR’ when he found out about a Canadian law recently passed essentially preventing harassment of trans people. I argued with him for far too long, trembling and on the verge of tears by the time I ended it. He tried to keep up the conversation, saying it was a good discussion and we should continue it sometime. It was only after I told him I’d hated it that he realized I was even upset. He said he ‘forgot it was personal to me’. I didn’t talk to him for over two weeks.

    I bought my first masculine clothes at the mall with a former friend of mine. Two button-downs with short sleeves, one navy with sailboats and anchors patterned across it and the other a plain blue-grey colour. The lady at the cashier laughed and joked with us, telling me to keep being me. She didn’t even mention that I was buying male clothes. I walked out of the store with a huge grin on my face.

    I went to my local pride parade over the summer, with the trans flag painted on my face. My mom called me by my birth name for the entire time she was there--thankfully, she left early on. I knew I didn’t pass as male, but people were kind to me anyways. One man told me I looked fabulous and complimented my bow tie. I talked to a nonbinary kid for hours, and stayed with them when my friends left me. They’re still one of the sweetest people in my life, and I couldn’t have been happier that I met them and was in a fully-accepting environment, even just for a few hours.

    I was writing my Christmas list. I addressed it to Santa, at my little sister’s request. It was incredibly frustrating, not being able to ask for what I really wanted--a binder, men’s clothing, cologne, to get my name changed. I left it for another day.

    A ‘friend’ of mine has been increasingly transphobic these past few weeks. It started as jokes, but at this point, he’s obsessed with my identity and tearing into me for it. That, combined with other factors, had me question my identity, want to go back in the closet, and push me to the point of breaking down. To think--it was the same friend who had asked me on a date so sweetly, who I had felt so guilty about turning down. I finally snapped. I told him I was tired of his obsession with my identity. I told him I didn’t give a damn about what he thought. I told him to back off and to shut up. I told him I was tired of him thinking this was okay. He apologized over the weekend, and even if it was a self-pitying apology, it was a start. I went into school today with the intention of talking things out. I cracked a few jokes and tried to get his attention. He made it clear he wasn’t going to talk to me.

    Today, he used the word ‘tranny’. He was sarcastic and degrading about me being a man. He had no idea it was trans day of remembrance.

    It’s funny, I only found out about it a few hours ago myself, but being trans has been on my mind. It’s been confusing, and hard, and has made me a target--and it’ll continue to be that way. I can’t even use a public washroom without getting dirty or confused looks. But I’m not going to be afraid anymore. I’m tired of ‘friends’ treating me like a joke, like a burden. I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not. I don’t have everything figured out, but I know, from here on out I’m doing what makes me happy. My identity is nobody’s business but my own. I stand with my trans family and all our supporters, and today, I hope that everyone knows we won’t be silenced. We’ve still got a long, long way to go, and hard battles to fight. We’ll still hear slurs, we’ll still hear about trans tragedies, we’ll still have to put up with all the little things that come with being trans. But we are worth the fight.

Today we remember, we mourn those we’ve lost, and we fight with everything we’ve got for those to come.

[girlwsoftsound]

Unspoken Promise || Matty Healy Oneshot

Word Count: 2,520 Summary: “Matty and the reader have known each other since high school and have been friends with benefits. They’ve never been in a real relationship with each other and they aren't good for each other (so like drugs and alcohol). Then later the reader becomes pregnant (not Matty’s tho) and all the boys are basically fathers to this kid and one day her child goes missing?? Author’s Note: Have you ever written something that you love so much that afterwards you just sit there and think about it for a while because you love it so much? That’s me with this fic. I hope you feel the same. Be sure to throw in a like or comment if you liked it! I love seeing feedback from you all. Please feel free to read my other work here! Enjoy!

You met him when you were fifteen.

A scrawny lad with too much hair and too much time, he should not have been as attractive as he was to you. He was loud, his friends were loud, he had a carefree attitude at times when it was the opposite of what was needed, he favored music more than his grades - he should’ve been appalling. However, something about the boy with blackish-brown hair drew you to him. Something made you want to ditch class, find him in the nearest hall and push him up against the lockers just to taste the sweet and harsh taste of his lips. When he took up smoking the year after, you wanted nothing more than to catch him on ‘smoke breaks’ of his and do the same. Two months into his habit, he obliged.

It never grew more than simple fooling around. Sure, Matty loved the feel of your skin against his and, over time, grew to love the way you gave head and made him laugh. Sure, you thought Matty was the closest thing to God that you would experience on Earth and wanted to never forget the way his hands traced up and down your body. But you never pushed it past that. Matty never asked you to go steady, and you never hinted to him for him to do so. Perhaps it was the drugs he fell into, or the fact that his alcohol consumption seemed to rub off on you to the point where it became trouble. You both agreed that you would be bad for each other as anything more than friends with benefits. And that’s where things stood, all the way until the end of school.

There was something sad about saying goodbye to Matty on the last day of school. You, smart as ever, were off to an amazing university with the world practically waiting for the moment it could whisk you away to a wonderful job and a beneficial life. Matty, on the other hand, was ready to get out of school and go with his friends, his band, on a quest to get signed and become famous. Your paths were going in two very opposite, very uncertain directions. You doubted you would ever see each other again. After one last secret moment together, Matty told you he would always love and be there for you. It was not meant to be romantic love, but rather a friendly love you could trust, one that you had a feeling in the pit of your stomach would last forever and never waver through the years. Teary eyed, you told him the same back. He smiled.

Contact fizzled out in the years to come. You went through Uni, getting high marks and eventually finding yourself in the middle of your dream job, living life to the fullest and making a name for yourself in your field. You found a great guy by the name of Keith, and ended up moving into a shared apartment with him in the middle of the city. Meanwhile, Matty struggled with his band, pushing through small gigs and begging to find someone who would pick them up. They took silly gigs, gigs that barely made sense for them, just to keep the dream alive. You remembered passing by a really grimey pub on your way to a work assignment and seeing their name, The 1975, plastered on the bottom of a list of performers for the night. All the while, his bad habits continued. For whatever reason, he couldn’t catch a break. His band couldn’t catch a break. His dream was beginning to seem hopeless.

The universe has a funny way of tricking people, though.

The changes came suddenly. Walking in, tired from a busy day, wishing to fall on your bed and not waking until fully rested. Finding instead the shape of another next to Keith. A meltdown. Panicked calls to anyone, someone, who you knew could give you refuge. A pay cut in your job, because the sting of losing one consistency wasn’t enough. Tears, turning your eyes red. Overnight, the little piece of heaven you had created fell apart into shambles.

Overnight, Matty became a star.

A connection to a man name Jamie, getting signed to his label, getting played over radio stations. Suddenly, the small venues grew too small. Matty Healy, the crazed boy with bad habits and a lack of responsibility, no longer unknown to the world. Money came in faster than he could count it. Sure, drugs were easier to get and alcohol no longer took a dip in his paycheck, but he was becoming happier. They were less of a necessity. His dream was finally becoming a reality. His time to shine, realized.

He did not expect to hear your voice again.

Desperate, pleading through tears for a place to stay, crying over some boyfriend who had cheated and left you to dry, homeless, hurting. He never heard you that way, not even after failed exams and family quarrels hit you. He accepted you back into his life without question. You took up a guest bedroom, and he made sure to send any extra money he could to make sure that you were well taken care of. That’s what friends were for, after all. That’s what he had promised to do, implied he would always be there to do, all those years ago before Uni.

It’s what he continued to do when you found out on a cold winter night two months later that you were pregnant.

No questions were asked. He did not have to ask the baby’s father, nor did he want to given your shattered state on the bathroom floor, the test proving your circumstance thrown across it and hiding behind the pepto-bismol-pink bathroom sink. He held you close, kissing your forehead, rubbing your shoulders, promising you would be alright. It would be alright. He would ensure you would be alright.

You lost your job two weeks later.

Matty held you then again, promising the same.

He held those promises.

On tours, people would approach Matty with questions about you, the girl that seemed to follow them on the bus yet never could be found doing much other than watching the shows from the sidelines and grow bigger by the day. Most probably thought you a groupie Matty had impregnated and felt too bad to discard to the side. You let them think that. Matty would correct them when he could, but you did not bother with it much. You were just happy to have somewhere to go, some place to exist. Did you feel bad about living off the boys and not having a way to give back? Surely so. But Matty refused to let you do anything else. Love, after all, made people do crazy things.

When your water broke, the band thankfully was in the middle of a break, a day gap between performances. You did not expect your child to be born in America, yet there you were, whisked away to some American hospital with the boys at your side, encouraging you through the pain and the agony. Jamie, considering you part of the family after all these months of knowing you, pushed the tour date the next day back a day. It would make them have to rush to the next city, but it would give you a day to adjust, and the boys a day to watch over you. The fans would understand. They would have to. Matty wouldn’t have performed even if the concert didn’t move, because even though he had no blood relation to this baby and no reason to stick along with it, he was the closest thing to a father figure it would ever have. He’d be damned if he missed its birth.

Your daughter, Elise Grace, was born in the wee early hours of the day.

Matty was the second person to hold her.

You both were smitten.

When the concert finally was performed, Matty walked out and, on the first chance he had, gushed to the crowd about the newborn that had caused the delay in their festivities.

“She’s not mine,” he assured the crowd, “but she’s gorgeous.”

The cool thing about your circumstances, living life on the road with the boys, was the fact that they got to be there with you for all of Elise’s firsts. Her first laugh came courtesy of George, who had been playing with a toy dog a fan had thrown up on stage for Matty and, in the process of shaking it around, amused her enough to emit a small giggle. You were the first he ran to, Matty the second. The look of pride on the man’s face was a sight you never would forget.

Her first steps came at the arms of Matty. As soon as she could stand, he had her holding his hands to try to walk every second off he had. She took her first steps backstage in Prague. Matty nearly cried, he was so happy. He paraded her around for everyone soon after. You felt your heart soar at the sight. It was the happiest you were until Adam and Ross collectively got her to say her first word. You were chuffed to know they had taught her ‘Mama’.

The first concert she fully went to without having to be brought back to the tour bus to sleep, Matty brought her out on stage and gushed about her to the crowd. She had curls now, big ol’ brown ones that framed her face and made her green eyes stand out that much more. Fans were smitten with her by then as much as Matty had been the first day he spoke about her to them. The Tour Baby, she was called. Everyone loved her. They loved her even more when, feeling like doing something special, Matty sang Old MacDonald for her on stage. The amount of cameras recording the moment ensured that her first concert experience was a day that never would be forgotten.

It was as if life had finally decided to relax.

Of course, that wouldn’t do.

A hot summer day. Some town in the U.K. on some random tour date. You were walking the town with Matty, simply looking for something to do before the concert later that day, little two and a half year old Elise walking alongside you. There was a clothing shop, and you just had to explore it. The three of you dove inside. Matty went to the men’s section, and you brought Elise to the women’s. He dabbled a bit in the women’s clothing before the both of you met to pay at the register. The door was open to let out the heat. You thought Matty had hold of her. Matty thought you had hold of her. When all was paid, you realized neither of you had her. Upon searching with the store owner, everyone realized your fears had been brought to life.

Elise was lost.

Someone had her.

That was what your mind immediately thought of as you scanned the streets outside the place. A two year old could not be hard to miss walking alone in the streets, could it? Matty’s voice was frantic on the phone, calling for police and then afterwards for the band to come help look. Alerts were issued calling all in the area to look for your little girl, brown curls, her father’s nose, your kind heart, your smile. The show was cancelled, to possibly be rescheduled at a later date. No one knew for sure. Jamie said he would care about that once the little girl was back home safe. George stayed out all night looking for her, having to be brought back home by Jamie so that he didn’t harm himself from not eating, drinking, or sleeping. Ross and Adam went on separate road trips to find her in adjacent cities. You stayed at home with Matty, returning to his flat in Manchester and sitting, waiting, even praying for a phone call, a sighting, anything. His arms wrapped around you and let you sob for hours. He couldn’t stop replaying the last moment he saw her in his mind, the guilt eating him alive. Holding you was all he could do to make him not feel so shitty about the situation. His arms around you was all that was keeping you from doing the same.

You went twenty-four hours without a single call.

Twenty-four heartbreaking, paralyzing hours, full of pleads through social media and rewards being issued for her safe return. Anything to get her home.

Then, the phone rang.

You answered in seconds.

She’s okay.

Found somewhere just outside of the greater Manchester area, her hair wet from rain, but safe. You did not know if she had been dropped off there by an abductor, too scared to face the crime but also not wishing to keep her hostage from her family, or if she had somehow managed to walk there herself. You did not care. Neither did Matty. Neither did the band. All any of you cared about was that she was going to come home, she was safe, and the nightmare was going to have a happy ending.

The five of you, plus Jamie, showed up to the station to pick her up. Other than her hair being damp and her clothes a bit tattered, she looked fine. Holding her again brought some kind of elation you never imagined existed. George pet her head, Adam and Ross kissed her softly on top of her curls, and Jamie reached to squeeze her little hand. Matty stole her from your arms to hug her close to his chest the moment you were able to stop crying so hard. He let his own array of tears fall.

You had never seen him cry like that, but you supposed it was fitting. Even though he had no connection to this little girl, nothing binding him to her other than the fact he shagged you a few times back before Uni and fell for your smile and the feel of you against him, he had been there for her every step of the way. He had loved her like his own, cared for her like his own, adored her like his own. He was more of a father to her than you were certain her true father could have been had things not fallen sour between the two of you. He had every right to cry his eyes out over finding her, because though he had made his spoken promise to love you all those years ago, that promise had unspokenly carried over to apply to her as well.

It always would apply to her.

That night, Matty fell asleep with her at his side on the bus.

Upon drifting off to sleep, you briefly heard him promise to never let her fear again.

Upon drifting off to sleep, you knew he would do his best to keep that promise.

You slept well.

[elonedion-blog]

Meet Nigerian M.C who speaks eight languages

Nigeria, despite her many challenges, parades incredible talents in all spheres of life. One of the shining lights is Adedeji Odulesi, a Warri born son of an Ijebu man, who mesmerizes his audience with eight languages at corporate events as Master of Ceremonies. His vast knowledge of languages and cultures helps him pronounce names most appropriately to give everyone, irrespective of ethnic background, a great sense of belonging. He is endowed with good command of British English, Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba (Ijebu dialect inclusive) French, German, and Spanish languages. The linguist, master of ceremonies extraordinaire, and Church minister tells his story in this interview with P.M.NEWS’ TAIWO OKANLAWON AND MICHEAL ADESINA. Excerpts: How has 2019 been so far for you? 2019 has been fantastic for me as a person, career wise because, I have been an MC since 2006 really. Recognition of what I do began in 2019. Odulesi entertaining guests at a public function. How did you discover that this is what you want to do? I am very passionate about learning languages. So in 2006, someone wanted to wed, so they asked me to come and anchor it. I said no, I don’t know how to really anchor an event but they said no I must do it for them, anyhow I do it. So I went ahead with trepidation and I did it. Even though, I didn’t know the rules of anchoring, I just did whatever I taught I saw people do in wedding and I gave the language flair. That time I could speak Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba, French and English, and in the hall, people began to clap and clap and that gave me a motivation. So I thought is like I can do this thing, it’s like people like this thing. Right from there people started to book me for events, but it was free and I was too glad too. That was how I started. Who is Adedeji Odulesi? Adedeji Odulesi is a hundred percent Yoruba man by birth, Ijebu to be precise, my dad is from Iperu in Ogun State while my mum is from Poka in Lagos State. Odulesi with the Minister of State, Niger Delta, Barrister Festus Keyamo at a public event. Can you take us through the journey of how you became a Polyglot? I was born in Warri, Delta State and I did my primary school there. Warri is a town where you have so many nationalities, you have Isoko, Itshekiri, Ijaw, Urobo. Then the variances of Ibo like Kwalian as other Nigerians that are all there. So what I could just pick there was Pidgin English but we have Ibo neighbours and they used to abuse me using their language like Onyeosi, Onyeara but I could not understand beyond that. So, there was that early childhood desire to know what other things they were saying about me. That was how I had desire to learn Igbo but I learnt Pidgin there, I learnt normal English and I learnt. My father was a civil servant in Warri, working as a teacher at Federal Government College, Warri. Eventually, he was transferred from there to Sokoto State. At Sokoto, I now made Hausa people my friends intentionally to learn the Hausa language and I enjoyed leaning the language. Actually, the Hausa language is a very simple language to learn and the people too would want to teach you the language, so I quickly learnt the language. I was in the North for ten years. All of my primary four to six and JSS1 to SS3 years were in the North. Then I came back to the North for my Youth Service in Kaduna. Nine years in Sokoto and one year in Kaduna. So I was able to, more or less, perfect the Hausa language. I went to Federal Government Sokoto for my Secondary school, while I was there, we did French in Junior class and in JSS3, I was like the best student in French but you know those childhood dreams of I want to be a doctor, I want to be engineer and so on, I went to Science class and I did Further Mathematics. So I couldn’t do French because there are some subjects you must combine together, so I had to drop French, it was painful. The pride of ‘I am a Further Mathematician’ robbed me of learning French in Secondary school. At that point, my parents had been transferred to the East, Owerri to be precise. So I joined them after finishing Secondary school in 1991. There, I started learning the Igbo language. I knew I had a short time because the plan was to study Agriculture in the West. So after Secondary school, I was thinking of becoming a medical doctor. So, I was taking JAMBs but could not meet up with cut off marks. Hence, I just aligned myself to my passion which is Agriculture. I like Agriculture, so I choose the course. While I was in the East, I stayed at home to learn and attend prep courses to prepare for JAMB. So, I didn’t really have the opportunity of mixing much with Igbo people but what I did was that, the church I attended they do interpretation there, so I when go to church, I go with an Igbo Bible and when they are reading in English, I am reading in Igbo even when I don’t understand, eventually when the interpreter reads, I would understand better. So I was doing that for about two to three years in the East. It was like I was in a language class and I also listen to radio a lot while I was in the East. There was Ibo Broadcasting Cooperation which had a lot of good music that I could flow with, so with that I was able to get the basics of Ibo language. From there I got admission into the Federal University of Agriculture, Abeokuta in 1992. I have passion for Agriculture and that is why I went there. So while I was in university, I picked up the French again. I ran into a friend whose uncle came back from abroad and came with cassette and book in French and German. I heard the German was a difficult language, so I put it aside and faced French. The book is titled ‘French in Three Months’. I copied the cassette and book and I started to use it. It was a fantastic experience for me and the secret was to do thirty minutes every day. There were some foreign students I interacted with too and before I left the school, the school had recognized somebody who could speak French and started using me for school activities when they had international programs and things like that. So I graduated as the best graduating student in General Studies and you know GNS is Art. When I go to library to read, I read about different cultures in the world and I was very good and came out as the best student in General Studies with my passion for Agriculture and up till date I still practice my Agriculture but the language side has kept coming up. So, by 2006 people saw in me somebody with qualities of an MC but I never saw myself, and when I was invited for that wedding, it was fantastic. Thereafter, I started getting invitations which I was attending for free before people started giving me two thousand naira, and two thousand naira meant a lot to me then, later it was increased to five thousand naira. How many languages do you speak at the moment? Right now I speak the three major languages in Nigeria, Hausa, Igbo and Yoruba. Then I speak English naturally. If you count Pidgin, because it’s a language, at BBC, there is a station for Pidgin entirely. They pay people to broadcast in Pidgin. Then I do speak French, German and Spanish. That’s eight languages and of course I understand my local dialect too which is Ijebu. Adedeji Odulesi in BBC How did you later learn German and Spanish? For German, in 2016, an organization called me to come and anchor an event for them at Ilorin, so I went there and still did the language stuff and people were fascinated. Then, somebody walked up to me and spoke German to me and I didn’t understand anything but I felt that the language looks a bit like English so I told the person that the next time we meet I will be speaking the language. So that 2016, I met a corps member who was attending GOETHE institute. She told me about the institute and by September 2016, I started attending afternoon and evening classes for German. When we finished the first three months I was the best in my class and I was offered a scholarship to proceed to the next level. Those exams are A1 and A2 Beginner, B1 and B2 Intermediate and C1 and C2 Advanced. So I did A1 on scholarship and somebody else took A2 and I now did B1 which means my German is at Intermediate level. For Spanish, I didn’t really find any place to study. I study online and I have books. This one is called ‘Beginner Spanish’. I also learn by watching YouTube videos. Then, another secret of my learning is that I have a bible in every language that I speak. At any point in time I pick up any bible. So when I go to church, people are looking at me, you know at times, you look at the Bible in your friend’s hand and you don’t understand anything. So all those things helped me to improve on the languages. Have you looked beyond MC, like going into academics? Yes, it is really a futuristic plan because many people have approached me that I need to open an institution. I don’t really need to teach but I can get good hands and can easily monitor them because, I know what the language is all about. Do you have relationship with others in the industry? Sure, we must work hand in hand. If there is an evening program like a Gala Night, a comedian will be needed aside from the MC who will pilot the program to come and give five minutes jokes, we call them just like we will call cultural group to come and dance. So, there is a role for each person to play. What would you say is the best part about being a Polyglot? A Polyglot is someone who understands many languages, is that not so? So anywhere I go to, I find it easy to blend and to be spotted out because as I come across people, it may be by somebody’s intonation, I can easily tell, this person is an Ibo or this person is a Hausa. So the ability to interact is there, and then, it is very rewarding, people will want to relate with you because once you can speak someone’s language, the person will assume you are the same with him, so he accepts you. Hence, I have so many friends and have accessibility. I have eaten different kinds of foods and I have been to different places. You have 8 languages at your disposal that you speak, which other languages are you planning to learning? I am planning to learn Portuguese because it is very similar to Spanish, which means if a Portuguese is speaking I seem to get what they’re saying. It is just like someone speaking Egba and I am Ijebu, I seem to get what he’s saying. Then, I also want to learn Arabic and Swahili because they’re languages spoken in vast area in Africa. The whole of Eastern block of Africa speaks Swahili and the whole of the Northern block of Africa speaks Arabic, so those are the languages I want to learn and I like the way the languages sound too, It is not just that I want to learn them, there must be something that keys you to the language. A language might be spoken by the whole world and you don’t like the way it is spoken so you are not interested. Do you have any one you can refer to as key influence to your success? There is someone who has been very influential. Who has been like a mentor, a young man like me. Not that he makes me go to events, rather what he does is that anytime I have an event, I go to him that how do I anchor this kind of event and he says do it this way. So he’s been a generous mentor but a reserved person not wanting publicity. He is a senior colleague in the same industry. What are those challenges you have faced? You see, the languages themselves don’t come easy. Learning Hausa for instance, I found it so easy. Learning German for instance, I found it so difficult even though I was the best in the class and I got scholarship. I ran away from it at first but because of that challenge I got in 2016, I picked it up because I like challenges. Another challenge is Spanish. I hardly come across a Spanish speaker in Nigeria, unlike French. I meet French people all around, you even come across it being spoken on radio. And for German, you don’t too often meet German speakers, but at least, you know that GOETHE institute is here and when you go there you see people speaking German. But Spanish, though a simple language and easy to learn, you hardly come across people to speak it to in Nigeria. Then, another challenge is that people think those who speak many languages are 419. So you’re a corporate MC and passionate about Agriculture. What else do you do? Aside those two, I’m a minister, a pastor, a committed Christian and a gentleman (laugh). Do your wife and children speak more than one language as well? Interestingly, my wife is French teacher. We met basically via French learning. I went to a French speaking church. We had a French session, so I went there to improve my French and that’s where I met my wife. So we do French together. I also speak French and German with my two children, Chioma and Chinedu, at home, whether they understand or they don’t. Why Ibo names? Well, if you watch my video, I ended it by saying I am detribalized. It is another secret of learning languages. A real Polyglot is detribalized, he does not hate any tribe, and he does not claim any tribe. He relates freely with all cultures. He just happened to have been born in a particular culture. I could have even married an Ibo woman but I could not find but I married the one I saw that could also speak French. So I love the Ibos like I love the Hausas. So, my first child happens to be a girl and I named her Chioma Oluwademilade Odulesi and it’s in the birth certificate. She’s actually Jumaih in Hausa because she was born on Friday. She’s a complete Wazobia. My son is Adebola Chinedu Odulesi, the Chinedu is in the birth certificate too. What advice do you have for this generation or people who also want to learn more languages? Age is no barrier for learning a language, let that be gotten clear. It is how you plan your time and in fact as a mature adult, you have the ability to even learn better because there are gadgets all around you that you can use, YouTube, subtitle of movies. A child cannot do that. Why children learn fast is because they are unbiased and unashamed. Even the English they speak when they make mistake and you correct them they keep speaking it but we adults, we tend to be shy, if I make mistake people will laugh at me and you watch what you say. So age is not a barrier. There are many Apps you can download to learn the languages. What I will say to this generation is that, parents in particular, open your minds, do not say because the child is learning Yoruba, his English will be affected, no, if he is learning Yoruba at home, his English will be better because the brain now has capacity to accept more, the brain is like boxes. So parents should encourage their children. And when they travel for vacation, why do you keep going to English speaking countries? Go to France, Belgium or Spain for vacations. You can even go to Togo, Benin here or even the North if you can’t afford to travel abroad. So don’t be born in Oyo, primary school, Oyo, secondary school, Oyo, university, UI and get married there (laugh), they won’t even come to Lagos, everything about them is Oyo. So, broaden the mind, the mind has capacity to learn and then, it gives added advantage for employments.

COPIED!

[mitchbeck]

CANTLON'S CORNER: WAYNE BABYCH RETURNS TO HARTFORD

BY: Gerry Cantlon, Howlings HARTFORD, CT - Every July over the last three years, the Babych brothers, Dave and Wayne, make a pilgrimage from Canada to Hartford, CT to share and enjoy the Whalers alumni weekend with the Hartford Yard Goats. The two played briefly together in Hartford, an experience that Wayne treasures greatly. “It was short, but such a pleasure for us,“ Wayne, with his trademark big smile, said. “We hadn’t played together since we were eight-years-old together and there is a two-year difference. It was clearly one of the highlights of my career. To play again with Emile Francis, who I was with in St. Louis, he put together a real good crew and made it a lot of fun a very special place as far I was concerned." For Babych, his connection with the fans was so important. “I always love to play for the fans. You really feed off them as a player. My time in Hartford I saw both ends of it. When I was traded from Quebec, the Nordiques were in first place, and the Whalers were in last place the year before. So, it was a tough adjustment, but the following season was one of my best as a pro. That’s why I come back. I really love to talk to people, hear their stories of what the Whalers meant to them. The folks here (the Yard Goats) are doing everything first class. I can’t thank them enough. We'll be back next year.” The 1985-86 season was the high watermark in the NHL portion of the Whalers life. Babych would gain a measure of revenge against Quebec when they swept the first place Nordiques in three straight - a team many felt that year would be a Stanley Cup Finalist. Babych enjoyed his time in the majestic Quebec City and playing at the now-closed Le Colisee for an all too brief 15 games. “I was on a line with the Dale Hunter, and Michel Goulet. We really worked well together and were a solid second scoring line behind the Stastny’s (Anton, and Peter) and Peter was simply among the best players in that generation. It was great to have played with a guy like that. Then to go to the Whalers, I admit I was a little skeptical at first, I didn’t like the trade.” He was dealt to Hartford for Greg Malone. He posted 28 points in 37 games for the Whalers. The Whalers played the behemoth Montreal Canadiens, the royalty of the NHL who featured Larry Robinson, Patrick Roy, and Bob Gainey in the second round. The Whalers won Game Six in dramatic fashion when Kevin Dineen (who was just hired to be the head coach for the AHL San Diego Gulls) got around Robinson off the left-wing and slipped the game’s only goal past Roy to force a Game 7. “We weren’t the biggest, fastest or strongest team, but we jelled over the last twenty games of the regular season and we battled right to the end of the series. Those two series are clearly among the highlights of my career. The reception we got back in Hartford was amazing (the parade). It was like we had won the Stanley Cup. There was so much pride in the team that spring, in Hartford. It was pretty special.” In Game 7, Roy was his usual stingy self in goal and then-rookie, Claude Lemieux, tallied a goal at 6:65 of overtime to end the Whalers' dream. “That was such a great series and easily the toughest loss you can suffer…Game 7 and Hartford was electric. Then everybody was talking Whalers hockey and game night you felt the real energy. "I always wonder had we won that series, I really believe we would have gone to the Finals. Beating that Canadiens would have been a rocket booster for us. We had really jelled as a team, and we had a lot of the right pieces that year,” Babych said. He had suffered an injury that altered his career in training camp in a game in Quebec City. A strong, two-handed but clean hit from behind to his right knee that he received from one of the Nordiques ruffians, Ken McRae, leveled him. To this day it still isn’t the same. “I played physical. It was part of my game, but he took exception to it then nailed me with a two-hander. I never saw it coming.” Babych lost all feeling to his knee and underwent a mid-1980’s style reconstructive knee surgery. “The techniques were nothing like they are today if I had the surgery today I could’ve come back for a few more years. They were using different body parts and everything to put it back together,” Babych joked. “When I went to a disability exam in California when they looked at my knee on MRI’s and x-rays, they laughed at me and said, 'Holy cow,' and asked, 'How are you still even walking?' It came at a really bad time because we were talking to Mr. Francis on a longer-term deal. I wanted to stay here. Of course, my brother was here and I really liked that group. It's one of the reasons we come back. I had so many fond memories.” Babych eventually sued McRae. The case was settled out of court, but as the saying goes, the damage was done. The end of his Whaler and NHL career was neither smooth or graceful. After returning from surgery he played four games, a three-in-three at home, then Pittsburgh, and Babych knew there was a problem. “I skated up to my brother during the game and said, 'Dave, I don’t think I can do this anymore.' The pain, I knew my skating was way off. When you have no feeling in your knee and parts of your leg makes it very difficult to play hockey. “ He was assigned to their AHL affiliate in Binghamton, but he refused the assignment and was suspended by the team. “A lot of people at the time thought I quit or was angling for a trade, that wasn’t the case. Even after the surgery, nothing felt right. I did go to Binghamton, put up some points (seven in six games), but I was nowhere near 100%. I tried to come back in the next training camp, but it was still very difficult. Several ice bags after a game, the pain was still there, and the loss of feeling around the knee was still there and still is.” At that point, Babych, like ex-Wolf Pack’s Stefan Cherneski, fulfilled the insurance requirements and retired with his disability claim The Babychs are a part of a rare fraternity of brothers to have played in Hartford. Just seven pairs have done so with the WHA or NHL editions of the team. The others included, among the first Europeans to come over to play hockey in North America, in goalie Christer and defenseman Thommy Abrahamsson (Thommy played half-a-season with the NHL Whalers in 1980-81), Jack “Killer” Carlson and Steve Carson (WHA only) who were the inspiration for the Hanson brother characters in Slapshot. Doug Roberts played just two seasons, both with his brothers, Gordie who played four WHA Whalers seasons. Gordie Roberts would skate just a season and a half years with the NHL squad before being traded. Mark and Marty Howe, of course, played in NHL and WHA along with their late great father Gordie. Tim and Neil Sheehy with Tim playing with the WHA team from 1972-1975 and in 1977-78 ) and 15 games with the Whalers in their first season. Brother Neil who famously wore 0 as a uniform number (the only player in NHL history to do so) for his 26 games with the 1985-‘86 Whalers. There were also the Wesley brothers, Blake Wesley (1981-82) and Glen (1994-1997) skated for the Whalers and Glen’s son, Josh, skated for the Wolf Pack last spring appearing in 15 games. The last of the brothers' crew was the Brownschidle’s. Jack played just 39 games over a three-season span claimed off waivers from St. Louis in March 1984 and Jeff played just seven games with the Whalers (1981-1983). Babych, now 61, resides in the Winnipeg area. He has a 12-year-old son, Cole, who's playing hockey with the St. James Canadiens (MBAAA). He wasn’t sure if his father’s tales of the NHL were real until a special lunch. Babych was taking him to Vancouver to see Uncle Dave and his cousins and wound up having lunch with Wayne Gretzky. “He never saw me or Dave play, so he wasn’t really sure about us whether we were putting him on or not, but last year we took him to lunch with Wayne. He and I go back to when we were kids and played in the World Junior championship (1977) in Montreal and I think the stories and Wayne’s presence made it click for him; like you really played with him,” said Babych with a good laugh at the irony. In fact, Babych playing with the young version of Gretzky in his coming out debut at the WJC at the fabled Montreal Forum, and two years he played in Pittsburgh with Mario Lemieux, so he got see greatness up close and personal. “Some guys would say they would pass you the puck and you never got it back,“ Babych said with a chuckle. “Wayne’s skill level was simply incredible, and his ability to pass was unbelievable, but not just where and when was his gift. He passed it and he not only got it on your stick but at the moment you were in the best position to shoot on a goalie. Mario’s size and agility were so difficult for a defenseman to play against. He could be tied up and yet still send a pass from twelve feet the other way in the other direction with a flick of his wrists. He was a scary big man to play against.” Babych also scored 54 goals in St. Louis in 1980-81 who had selected him in the first round (third overall) in the 1978 NHL Draft after back-to-back 50 goal seasons with the Portland Winter Hawks (WHL) with another great center, Bernie Federko. “l played a lot of time with Bernie and Brian (Sutter), but I really did even better when our coach (the great Red Berenson) switched me to the left-wing on the second line with Larry Patey and Blake Dunlop and getting a pass from a person’s backhand on the off-wing was so good and it really worked for me. The previous two years, I was on pace for 40 goals but had some shoulder issues, but that year everything clicked." He is a Tim Horton hockey Dad now and that brings Babych a lot of joy and new dreams. “I told him, 'You keep getting better and get that NHL bonus so I get that condo in Tampa and enjoy life on the beach. He is a forward and going through a growth spurt, but he wanted to play goalie at one point. He was doing well until one game he faced like 50 shots. He comes home and says, 'I don’t want to be a goalie anymore.' Seriously, whatever he does I’ll be proud of, and it's a lot of fun right watching him grow and develop." Hartford is certainly a hockey home for Wayne Babych. (Brother Dave was in attendance, but wasn’t available for the night session) Read the full article

[write-out-of-time]

Not A Superhero

Sabrie had never thought of herself as brave.

Clever, yes. Funny, on a good day. But she had never been good at quick comebacks, or the sort of witty back-and-forth that would make the boys in her class smirk and scream, “Ooh, burn!”

She was quiet and neat. Her best friend’s father, who had never lost his accent, called her ‘square’ – but it didn’t sound like an insult. She kept her head down and worked hard, paid a girl in her class to copy her homework, and went to a mid-tier university without particularly distinguishing herself.

In her final year, she met Edward.

Edward was a loud, busy geographer, with wild hair and a wilder schedule, and a girlfriend of five years who he broke up with a month before their final exams when he realised he was gay. Six weeks later, Sabrie waited outside the geography building with a bottle of cheap prosecco to spray over him as he left his final exam and a bottle of champagne for him to drink. He offered her the bottle, as he always did, and she shook her head, as she always did.

“You know I don’t drink.”

“I know.” He gulped a mouthful of champagne and pulled a face as the bubbles made his nose fizz. “I never expect you to drink it, but it would be rude not to offer.”

She smiled and tipped her head back to feel the sun on her face.

“Your hair’s showing,” Edward said.

They sat on the grass in an empty park and he watched through half-closed eyes as she tried to tuck her hair away. Her fingers were clumsy. She wanted to take off her headscarf and try again, but she shrank away from doing it in front of Edward, although he’d seen her hair hundreds of times before she began wearing it. He held up his phone for her to use as a mirror and turned away.

“Thank you,” she said when she had finished.

He nodded and swallowed more champagne. “It’s a good colour. Suits you.”

He was building up to say something important, but Sabrie wasn’t brave. If it scared him then it scared her, and she didn’t know how to tease it out of him so she sat quietly and wove daisies into a crown until he was ready to say it.

“Will you come to Pride with me?”

She looked at him, then laughed. Was that all he wanted?

That weekend, they met in his room and brushed glitter through their hair. Nobody would see Sabrie’s hair sparkle, but it made her feel powerful.

They walked to Market Square where rainbow flags flew and drums beat and shopkeepers hung out of upstairs windows with hoses to send cold water over the heads of the grateful crowd. Sabrie squeezed Edward’s hand so tightly the bones crunched.

Just when the heat became unbearable, the procession moved off. The floats bumped over the cobblestones at slower than walking pace, stopping at every corner to hand out water bottles and change the music and take photos. A tiny man danced through the crowd, blowing glitter into people’s faces. Sabrie pressed her rainbow sticker more firmly onto her t-shirt and tried to catch the eye of one of the girls walking nearby. She was young, early twenties, with blue eyes and hair in two buns. She didn’t smile.

The procession snaked through the medieval streets of the city and looped back on itself, back towards Market Square.

“That’s where the party starts,” Edward grinned.

The heat made it hard to breathe. Sabrie felt as though there was an elastic band tight around her chest and lower back.

Edward begins to drag.

“I need to sit down,” he said. “Just for a minute. It’s so hot.”

They stopped in the shade of a large, square building and Sabrie left him sitting on the steps while she went to fill their water bottles. The queue for the fountain was shorter than she had expected and she stopped to pour water over her arms and stretch the stiffness out of her lower back.

A crowd was gathering where she had left Edward.

She hurried closer, but he was standing up, on the phone to someone, away from the steps where he had been sitting. A woman stood shouting at several people who were still sitting there. Her hair stood out in coils of righteous indignation.

“Stand up!” She ordered. “Stand up! Stand up!”

“Hypocrite,” another man snapped. “You call yourself a Christian? Hypocrite!”

“It’s not your house,” one of the men said. He had tucked his rainbow flag into the belt of his shorts.

“Stand up!” The woman shouted. “This is a church. Stand up! What if people want to get past?”

“We’re not stopping them.” The second man stood up and ushered her through, but she stood firm.

“Stand up! Get away! Stand up!”

The men laughed at her and she whirled on Edward, who was leaning against the railings as he listened to the person on the other end of the phone.

“Don’t lean here!” She snapped. “Shame on you!”

Edward didn’t look at her, but he stood up straighter. His cheeks were flushed and Sabrie ran to him.

“Thank God.” He seized her arm, forgetting to pretend that he was on the phone. “Let’s go. Please.”

She led them away from the steps where the men were still arguing with the woman.

“What happened?”

“She’s a horrible person.” His voice cracked and he wouldn’t meet her eye. “We weren’t anywhere near the church.”

Sabrie looked back at the steps and the railings, and at the square building inside. “I didn’t even know there was a church there.”

“She doesn’t know anything about us. She saw me sitting down and she started shouting at me, and I didn’t know what to do so I moved, and then she shouted at me for being too close to the church.” Edward was crying now, swallowing down snot as he led them away from the parade. “I thought God was supposed to love everyone.”

“He does.” She took his hand. “Don’t worry about her. Do you want to go back to the parade?”

He shook his head.

They went to the supermarket for ice cream and wine. Edward picked up a bottle, then looked at her and put it back on the shelf.

“I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

He chose elderflower cordial instead and she didn’t tell him that the taste reminded her of cough medicine.

He paid, and once they got back to his house she slipped the money into his bag while he busied himself with bowls and spoons and an ice cream scoop. He was still very subdued.

She should have said something.

She should have sat down next to him and refused to move when the woman came along with her hate and her scorn. She should have stepped in when she had seen him faking a phone conversation to avoid getting involved.

But she wasn’t brave.

She didn’t have these ideas until an hour after the whole thing had been forgotten about.

But it hadn’t been forgotten. Edward, who had been so excited and proud and full of hope, would not forget that his God had scorned him. The woman, full of superiority, would not forget. The men on the steps would not forget.

It was too late for Sabrie to be brave.

She took Edward’s hand and he rested his head on her shoulder and sighed unhappy tears into her headscarf.

“I have wine,” she told him, stroking his hair and feeling his breath hitch. “My housemate left some when she went home. I’ll go and get it.”

[typei101]

“What do you dream of becoming when you’re older?” “A shit writer.”

Ever since I was 4 and learnt how to write simple sentences talking about who I am and where things are placed in a room, I knew I wanted to write. Something about writing phrases on a piece of lined paper put me in such a mental state I was addicted to. You could say I was my biggest fan. I used to parade my work into the face of teachers and family to read it and look in awe on how such a young person could write so well, but eventually as the years went on my fire slowly died away.

Whenever someone asked me “What do you want to be when you’re older?” I suddenly didn’t know what to say. My go to answer of an author just seemed like wishful thinking. Rather than parading my work into the faces of others I would tell them long, emotive stories about my dreams of being a writer and how my heart aches to regain the strength to write again. It would garner sympathy and passionate responses from people, namely my brother, but at one point it made me feel sick because I knew that what I was saying and what I was doing were simply lies.

I didn’t want to lie anymore: at 12 I decided I wouldn’t be a coward and I wanted to write again. I went on to Wattpad, the only place I felt safe in writing in. It had an environment of people too interested in bland generic stories to read my incomprehensible work, and it was such a large but accessible platform I could write comfortably without being judged. But what did I do? I still felt like there were eyes watching my work and I. Every second I wasn’t at the laptop checking on incognito to see if others could read my work, I was paranoid that somewhere, somehow someone I knew would use this as blackmail. So as an indefinite preventative measure, I made sure that everything I wrote was satirical. Over-exaggerated romance pieces on people doing disgusting or just stupid things with each other, with the themes matching up to whatever I knew the mainstream, or my friends would be into. When I was done making my confusing piece, I would send the link like wildfire to everyone I knew, just like how I used to when I was younger. Instead however, I was awaiting the reaction of confusion and horror instead of a proud pat on the back and the awe I was used to get high off.

I enjoyed being the funny friend in my circle, not only because I enjoyed making people laugh, but it lowered the standards people had of me making me feel so safe. I always wanted to feel safe in the company of others, always wanted to avoid being under the eye of scrutiny that I so mercilessly did with others in my spare time. I projected my biggest fears of someone latching onto my work to tear it down by doing it myself, and it only degenerated my work further and further. It got to the point where no one wanted to read my stories anymore. The shock and horror died down after they knew to expect weird wacky shit. I didn’t get the same kick out of writing it anymore either. It had seemed that what fire disappeared when I was 4 had died again.

I stopped writing for fun but instead found joy writing for my English GCSE. Tearing apart other people’s work, positively when writing for my grade but negatively when another person’s work was shown for us to learn about. I remember arguing with my English teacher about one particular piece that I found to be so stupid in getting that high of a grade. They made such a simple error in seeing a character as one dimensional in nature, when they were obvious layers to her, and the fact that 90% of the essay was building off of this bold assumption, it was bold of the examiner to give it an A grade. In a way, I felt jealous. Every time I wanted to answer an exam question, I would put so much thought into it, it seemed. I would make sure everything made sense to me as I’d write it, but then build on it so much more when writing it. I would proudly show my friends and teacher, and then when it came down to my mock exams consistently get low grades. It seemed like I wasn’t meeting expectations again, one of my biggest fears. All the passion I had for examining texts seemed to die, and right around the corner of the final exam season too. It all culminated with me getting a B in my final exam, when I had been projected to get an A*, one of the most crushing moments of my life. I left the hall that day with my grade close to my chest in quiet anger. My parents were disappointed in the way that parents would be no matter what the grade except for the ultimate best. But I was disappointed in what had happened. I escaped criticism for so long by not writing seriously and valuing my old works so much, but it truly seemed like I wasn’t on the same page everyone else was. I wanted to find my footing again. I wanted to write.

I began writing in secret, the only it would seem I could now. If I wanted to get on the same page as everyone I thought I had to do it alone. No one would care enough to cradle me and teach me how to be good, and it wouldn’t be good for me anyway. What I needed was strength, not a bullet point list on how to be a good writer. So began my long journey on figuring out how to the act of writing. I didn’t want to simply express whatever frustrations I had in jumbled words anymore. I just wanted to know how to convey feelings, thoughts and emotions through text again. The easiest way to do that was to write about what was easiest, and given my situation the easiest thing to do was to rant. So I opened up a private Instagram account where I would post pictures with long captions detailing frustrations I had in life with questions attached to almost every one of them. I needed to feel lost and confused, but more importantly I needed to keep the confusion in a place I could access later so I could hopefully learn from my mistakes. Soon enough my best friend found my account and wanted to read it. Though I was reluctant at first I let it happen, and soon my account changed back into a satirical account where I shitpost and repeated memes over and over again. So I deleted it. But the soothing effect that ranting gave me had reverted back to tension. So I opened another account. I let my friend follow. I shut the account down again. Again. Again.

I gave up on Instagram and began writing it on Tumblr. My friend didn’t know, but one day I told my brother about it and he read it. My Tumblr account emptied out shortly afterwards. I wrote some amazing things back then but I will never be able to get them back now. Regrets caused from being afraid of someone else’s opinion. In the end, I decided that I couldn’t even let the closest people in my life read my work, my fear and anxiety was deep rooted so far that I could only trust myself, even if that was because I didn’t have a choice. I moved back to Instagram, a private account.

My posts were brief at first, the first caption reading “I know I’m going to need to rant soon so I’m keeping this account open”. And so I did. I’ve been using this account for almost a year now, and no one follows it and it is one of the best things I have done. After writing there so much I decided I would give the old pen and paper a try. I began writing emotional rants with pretenses like “INCOMING EDGY TEENAGER FEELS !!!11” and other self-deprecating and satirical comments laden throughout the texts, so it was a safe way I could let out my feelings without taking myself too seriously.

These multiple venting methods stayed open, and along that came over a story, one I’m not proud of. But I’m proud of it. And I showed someone, and they didn’t get it and I didn’t care. I wrote something. I finished something. It stemmed from a place of irony in that I was mocking the vagueness of edgy fanfic but though at first I saw it as a joke and shared it as a joke, I enjoyed it. I analysed my own work, as vain as that is. And it serves as the main reason as to why I want to write again (again again).

 I finally realised today that I didn’t want to be someone who keeps ranting start and stop. I also realised my dreams of being an engineer stemmed from a place of anxiety because it was a safe option, and being an author isn’t. I still want to be an engineer, but I want to become a writer. A shitty writer. It’s better than being someone scared of other’s opinions, because at least the first title has “writer” in it. I’m here to make a fool of myself and I want to take pride in that.

[lockdowncreative]

PARADE

Parade - Anon

"What've you done now? What have you done?", his mum was standing at the end of the hall as he came through the front door, "don't give me any shit, Barry, it's all over your face, same as it always is."

He could read her just as easily. Silhouetted by the tube light in the kitchen behind her, he couldn't clearly see her face. But he knew the expression that would be on it because only one expression ever came with that tone. He hated it.

"Do you have to?", he was shrugging out of the backpack, pulling his jacket off. "Can I at least get in the fucking door before you start laying into me?".

"You better not have been out nicking again. What's in that backp…"

"Just fuck off, alright, mum?". He was already starting up the stairs, too distracted for the same old shit. Angry shouting followed him. 

He closed the bedroom door behind him and pulled the edge of his drawers in front of it, like he'd started doing when he was nine years old. The door wouldn't even stay shut without it. The battered old thing still had fucking He-Man stickers on it. It wasn't much of a lock, but he did it so he could lie to himself a bit, same as when he cracked the PVC window frame open a little and blew the smoke out when he had a cig. 

He did that now, jamming his face into the corner of the window frame as if an inch or two made any difference, and staring into the orange glare of the buzzing sodium street light just outside.

He couldn't do it. There was no way he was going to do it. The thought of even getting that fucking thing out of his rucksack knotted him up. He pushed even painfully closer into the window’s narrow gap and spat sour saliva into the night.

He'd said the same thing to Ian on the walk back home. I don't give a fuck, mate. They can't make me do it. And Ian would see if he did do it. Everyone would see. Not like there was anything else for them to do in this place. Even the cinema was gone, now.  

The fucking carnival. The fucking parade.

The front door slammed downstairs. She was out. He closed his eyes and rested his head a moment against the frame. It made him feel like shit. But if she wasn’t always on his case it wouldn’t happen. That was always it; if people were going to treat you like a dickhead anyway you might as well be one.

But she was his mum, and if he fucked up again he knew she wouldn’t even shout anymore. She’d just sit at the kitchen table and smoke and cry and he couldn’t fucking stand it. And if he could just do it she'd never even know how close he'd got. She'd still take the piss when she saw him, though. He sighed, flicked the butt glowing into the street, and went for the bag.

Inside was a bright red, shiny, fucking… apron thing. A tabard. It was scrunched into a loose ball from when he'd crammed it in there after Mr. Ronan had handed it to him, but when he pulled it out the fabric flowed out uncrumpled, unable to hold a crease. A bright purple slash crossed it from shoulder to hip, where short yellow tassels hung.

For fuck's sake. 

Ronan was usually alright, for a teacher. Like, it was actually better being sent to the Head rather than having to listen to one of the others have a go at him. At least Ronan didn't act like he was talking to a fucking idiot. He'd still give you detention or whatever but he didn't act like he was the big man when he was doing it. And once or twice he'd even let things go that any of the others would've called home about at least. Not always, though.

"The last straw was last week, Barry, or it should've been. And after this morning in the music room… I don't see how we've got any choice. You've a talent for drumming, you know, but you can't even get through a class." Ronan had taken his glasses off, was polishing them on his shirt. Probably so he doesn't have to look me in the eye. "You do this every time, Barry, you get given a chance that frankly you don't deserve and you throw it back in our faces. I told you if you didn't put the effort in this time you'd be expelled and -"

"You can't do that. Please." 

Honestly he wouldn't have minded going and just earning his own money. Fuck school. But his mum… 

"Please, Mr. Ronan. Mr Linny just winds me up. I'd be fine in his class otherwise. I would. Give me another chance. I'll say sorry and I'll try harder in his class."

"He doesn't want you back in his class, Barry, and I don't blame him. Even if you somehow remained here, now, you'd be taking the rest of the year in isolation, even your exams."

Barry had been through enough lectures like this to know when he was being shown a way out. "Alright, what would I have to do to stay? I'll do it in isolation, whatever. Please."

"I want you to demonstrate some pride in yourself and in our school, Barry, to show that you can put the effort in to do something positive. I'd like you to march at the head of our contingent in the carnival parade tomorrow, and keep time on the bass drum. Jonathan Spencer has broken his arm, which is unfortunate but nonetheless a lucky opportunity for you."

Ronan had fished the apron from a drawer and slid it across the desk. He'd had the whole thing planned, probably thought he was doing a favour. 

And now Barry was holding up in the mirror on the front of his wardrobe in the yellow light of his room. He looked to the corner of the room for a moment, then forced himself to look straight at it. 

Fuck me, I'm going to look like such a twat. 

There's two kinds of looking like a twat. If you do it on purpose - if you're just taking the piss - it doesn't matter. It's just a laugh. But it matters if somebody else makes you look like a twat.

Two years ago a cop had chased him and Ian halfway to the river for throwing chips at the beauty queen at the carnival. And now he was going to have to walk at the fucking front dressed like this with everyone watching. All the little dickheads from school, and the teachers, and Ian, and mum, and fucking everyone.

He could keep time alright. In his sleep, he could. But how have they actually managed to make something as sick as hitting a drum so fucking dry and stupid? And why do you have to wear a fucking apron? He balled it up and threw it at the mirror, but the material was so light and shiny it just sprang back open in midair and drifted down unsatisfying. He snatched it back up in disgust, and sat on the bed.

The worst thing about it was that everyone else in the parade would be there on purpose. He was twisting the stupid but if cloth between his hands as he thought about it. They'd all be grinning and waving, like they couldn't see how stupid it all was. Lying to themselves and everyone else.

Maybe he could do it and just fuck up the time on purpose. Watch those fuckers tripping over themselves and losing their place.

But they'd suss. There was no way anyone would buy that he'd fuck it up on purpose. If they were going to kick him out for that what was the point of even doing it. Might as well just turn up and throw rocks.

He stood up, walked to the door, shoved the chest of drawers aside, hesitated, then turned and walked back to the window. He couldn't face going out, and he didn't want another fag now either. 

Fuck it.

He pulled the apron over his head and stared into the mirror. It hung shiny and limp to half way down his thighs, the tassels still tangled up with each other and the strings loose at the side. He could do it. He fucking could. How long would the parade last anyway? An hour? Two? He could get through two fucking hours.

He closed his eyes, lifted his hands to mime playing a bass drum. Just two hours. The fucking drum would cover most of the stupid apron, he could see it in his mind. And he could finish school. He wouldn't even have to see anyone, and in six months he could fuck off and get a job and who would even remember the fucking parade?

He beat the imaginary drum, jaw clenched, keeping time. Two hours.

His mum's laugh broke his concentration like a slap, and his eyes snapped open. He hadn't even heard her come back in. She was standing in the doorway - I forgot the fucking lock - fumbling at her phone.

"What the fuck are you wearing?". It wasn't her real laugh; it was the biting, unhappy laugh that only showed up when they were arguing. She must've still been pissed off from earlier. “You look like…”

She had her phone out, about to take a picture.

"Just fuck off, mum, alright?". He'd crossed the room and slammed the door before he even finished the sentence, but he was sure she could hear. He could still hear her pissing herself outside. He jerked the check of drawers back across the door.

Fuck!

He was already pulling the fucking thing from around his neck. There was no way. No fucking way. It went back into a scrunched up ball, shoved back into his backpack with his dirty PE kit, the remains of his lunch, and his phone. 

His phone. He shoved his hand down to the bottom and pulled it out. Wasn't supposed to have it in class so he kept it hidden in his bag. 

Just one text. Ian: You ain’t going to do it?

He started to answer, jabbing out something supposed to sound much more relaxed than he was, then stopped, hit by an idea.

He wasn’t going to do it. Fuck that. But it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t if nobody else did either. 

He sat down on the bed, steadied himself. There was a way out of this. He waited a minute, listening to see if his mum was still outside, but heard nothing. Then he pressed four buttons and pressed the phone to his ear before he could pussy out.

They answered immediately.

“Emergency, which service?”. It was a man. For some reason, he’d expected a woman. It made him hesitate. They spoke again when he didn’t answer.

“Do you need police, fire or ambulance?”

“Oi, shut up a minute, yeah? Just listen.” He had the edge of his shirt pulled over his mouth to muffle it, and was putting on a voice anyway. “Wickford carnival, tomorrow. I’ve got a fucking bomb. I’m going to fucking blow it all up”.

The guy on the other end of the line was saying something demanding but Barry was already putting the phone down. Who knew how long it took them to trace a call? He held down the power button until the phone shut down, then tossed it onto the bed beside him and leant back. He could already feel all the fucking stress disappearing. There was no way they’d have the parade tomorrow now. They wouldn’t risk it. And if the parade didn’t happen, nobody could blame him for not being there.

A worrying thought seemed to come out of nowhere, and he felt a shot of panic in his gut. He sat up, clawed at the bed for his phone, then slid the back off and popped out the battery. Better safe than sorry.

He leaned back again. He'd been being a bit of a dickhead. He knew he could be when he was stressed. He didn’t want to piss his mum off, she did her best. He just couldn’t take her always fucking nagging him when he already had enough to deal with. He’d have a fag and calm down a bit, then he’d go down and apologise. Everything was going to be alright. 

Parade

"What've you done now? What have you done?", his mum was standing at the end of the hall as he came through the front door, "don't give me any shit, Barry, it's all over your face, same as it always is."

He could read her just as easily. Silhouetted by the tube light in the kitchen behind her, he couldn't clearly see her face. But he knew the expression that would be on it because only one expression ever came with that tone. He hated it.

"Do you have to?", he was shrugging out of the backpack, pulling his jacket off. "Can I at least get in the fucking door before you start laying into me?".

"You better not have been out nicking again. What's in that backp…"

"Just fuck off, alright, mum?". He was already starting up the stairs, too distracted for the same old shit. Angry shouting followed him. 

He closed the bedroom door behind him and pulled the edge of his drawers in front of it, like he'd started doing when he was nine years old. The door wouldn't even stay shut without it. The battered old thing still had fucking He-Man stickers on it. It wasn't much of a lock, but he did it so he could lie to himself a bit, same as when he cracked the PVC window frame open a little and blew the smoke out when he had a cig. 

He did that now, jamming his face into the corner of the window frame as if an inch or two made any difference, and staring into the orange glare of the buzzing sodium street light just outside.

He couldn't do it. There was no way he was going to do it. The thought of even getting that fucking thing out of his rucksack knotted him up. He pushed even painfully closer into the window’s narrow gap and spat sour saliva into the night.

He'd said the same thing to Ian on the walk back home. I don't give a fuck, mate. They can't make me do it. And Ian would see if he did do it. Everyone would see. Not like there was anything else for them to do in this place. Even the cinema was gone, now.  

The fucking carnival. The fucking parade.

The front door slammed downstairs. She was out. He closed his eyes and rested his head a moment against the frame. It made him feel like shit. But if she wasn’t always on his case it wouldn’t happen. That was always it; if people were going to treat you like a dickhead anyway you might as well be one.

But she was his mum, and if he fucked up again he knew she wouldn’t even shout anymore. She’d just sit at the kitchen table and smoke and cry and he couldn’t fucking stand it. And if he could just do it she'd never even know how close he'd got. She'd still take the piss when she saw him, though. He sighed, flicked the butt glowing into the street, and went for the bag.

Inside was a bright red, shiny, fucking… apron thing. A tabard. It was scrunched into a loose ball from when he'd crammed it in there after Mr. Ronan had handed it to him, but when he pulled it out the fabric flowed out uncrumpled, unable to hold a crease. A bright purple slash crossed it from shoulder to hip, where short yellow tassels hung.

For fuck's sake. 

Ronan was usually alright, for a teacher. Like, it was actually better being sent to the Head rather than having to listen to one of the others have a go at him. At least Ronan didn't act like he was talking to a fucking idiot. He'd still give you detention or whatever but he didn't act like he was the big man when he was doing it. And once or twice he'd even let things go that any of the others would've called home about at least. Not always, though.

"The last straw was last week, Barry, or it should've been. And after this morning in the music room… I don't see how we've got any choice. You've a talent for drumming, you know, but you can't even get through a class." Ronan had taken his glasses off, was polishing them on his shirt. Probably so he doesn't have to look me in the eye. "You do this every time, Barry, you get given a chance that frankly you don't deserve and you throw it back in our faces. I told you if you didn't put the effort in this time you'd be expelled and -"

"You can't do that. Please." 

Honestly he wouldn't have minded going and just earning his own money. Fuck school. But his mum… 

"Please, Mr. Ronan. Mr Linny just winds me up. I'd be fine in his class otherwise. I would. Give me another chance. I'll say sorry and I'll try harder in his class."

"He doesn't want you back in his class, Barry, and I don't blame him. Even if you somehow remained here, now, you'd be taking the rest of the year in isolation, even your exams."

Barry had been through enough lectures like this to know when he was being shown a way out. "Alright, what would I have to do to stay? I'll do it in isolation, whatever. Please."

"I want you to demonstrate some pride in yourself and in our school, Barry, to show that you can put the effort in to do something positive. I'd like you to march at the head of our contingent in the carnival parade tomorrow, and keep time on the bass drum. Jonathan Spencer has broken his arm, which is unfortunate but nonetheless a lucky opportunity for you."

Ronan had fished the apron from a drawer and slid it across the desk. He'd had the whole thing planned, probably thought he was doing a favour. 

And now Barry was holding up in the mirror on the front of his wardrobe in the yellow light of his room. He looked to the corner of the room for a moment, then forced himself to look straight at it. 

Fuck me, I'm going to look like such a twat. 

There's two kinds of looking like a twat. If you do it on purpose - if you're just taking the piss - it doesn't matter. It's just a laugh. But it matters if somebody else makes you look like a twat.

Two years ago a cop had chased him and Ian halfway to the river for throwing chips at the beauty queen at the carnival. And now he was going to have to walk at the fucking front dressed like this with everyone watching. All the little dickheads from school, and the teachers, and Ian, and mum, and fucking everyone.

He could keep time alright. In his sleep, he could. But how have they actually managed to make something as sick as hitting a drum so fucking dry and stupid? And why do you have to wear a fucking apron? He balled it up and threw it at the mirror, but the material was so light and shiny it just sprang back open in midair and drifted down unsatisfying. He snatched it back up in disgust, and sat on the bed.

The worst thing about it was that everyone else in the parade would be there on purpose. He was twisting the stupid but if cloth between his hands as he thought about it. They'd all be grinning and waving, like they couldn't see how stupid it all was. Lying to themselves and everyone else.

Maybe he could do it and just fuck up the time on purpose. Watch those fuckers tripping over themselves and losing their place.

But they'd suss. There was no way anyone would buy that he'd fuck it up on purpose. If they were going to kick him out for that what was the point of even doing it. Might as well just turn up and throw rocks.

He stood up, walked to the door, shoved the chest of drawers aside, hesitated, then turned and walked back to the window. He couldn't face going out, and he didn't want another fag now either. 

Fuck it.

He pulled the apron over his head and stared into the mirror. It hung shiny and limp to half way down his thighs, the tassels still tangled up with each other and the strings loose at the side. He could do it. He fucking could. How long would the parade last anyway? An hour? Two? He could get through two fucking hours.

He closed his eyes, lifted his hands to mime playing a bass drum. Just two hours. The fucking drum would cover most of the stupid apron, he could see it in his mind. And he could finish school. He wouldn't even have to see anyone, and in six months he could fuck off and get a job and who would even remember the fucking parade?

He beat the imaginary drum, jaw clenched, keeping time. Two hours.

His mum's laugh broke his concentration like a slap, and his eyes snapped open. He hadn't even heard her come back in. She was standing in the doorway - I forgot the fucking lock - fumbling at her phone.

"What the fuck are you wearing?". It wasn't her real laugh; it was the biting, unhappy laugh that only showed up when they were arguing. She must've still been pissed off from earlier. “You look like…”

She had her phone out, about to take a picture.

"Just fuck off, mum, alright?". He'd crossed the room and slammed the door before he even finished the sentence, but he was sure she could hear. He could still hear her pissing herself outside. He jerked the check of drawers back across the door.

Fuck!

He was already pulling the fucking thing from around his neck. There was no way. No fucking way. It went back into a scrunched up ball, shoved back into his backpack with his dirty PE kit, the remains of his lunch, and his phone. 

His phone. He shoved his hand down to the bottom and pulled it out. Wasn't supposed to have it in class so he kept it hidden in his bag. 

Just one text. Ian: You ain’t going to do it?

He started to answer, jabbing out something supposed to sound much more relaxed than he was, then stopped, hit by an idea.

He wasn’t going to do it. Fuck that. But it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t if nobody else did either. 

He sat down on the bed, steadied himself. There was a way out of this. He waited a minute, listening to see if his mum was still outside, but heard nothing. Then he pressed four buttons and pressed the phone to his ear before he could pussy out.

They answered immediately.

“Emergency, which service?”. It was a man. For some reason, he’d expected a woman. It made him hesitate. They spoke again when he didn’t answer.

“Do you need police, fire or ambulance?”

“Oi, shut up a minute, yeah? Just listen.” He had the edge of his shirt pulled over his mouth to muffle it, and was putting on a voice anyway. “Wickford carnival, tomorrow. I’ve got a fucking bomb. I’m going to fucking blow it all up”.

The guy on the other end of the line was saying something demanding but Barry was already putting the phone down. Who knew how long it took them to trace a call? He held down the power button until the phone shut down, then tossed it onto the bed beside him and leant back. He could already feel all the fucking stress disappearing. There was no way they’d have the parade tomorrow now. They wouldn’t risk it. And if the parade didn’t happen, nobody could blame him for not being there.

A worrying thought seemed to come out of nowhere, and he felt a shot of panic in his gut. He sat up, clawed at the bed for his phone, then slid the back off and popped out the battery. Better safe than sorry.

He leaned back again. He'd been being a bit of a dickhead. He knew he could be when he was stressed. He didn’t want to piss his mum off, she did her best. He just couldn’t take her always fucking nagging him when he already had enough to deal with. He’d have a fag and calm down a bit, then he’d go down and apologise. Everything was going to be alright.