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royallyanxious · 5 years ago

Text

Deep water

Summary: Roman used to have blue eyes.

Pairing: romantic roceit

Word count: <5k words

Trigger warnings: brief mentions of blood, injury mention, sea being cruel

Ao3 link here

The story was inspired by this post

Author’s note: Not gonna lie. This fic is for two amazing people @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 and @ellistruggle. Thank you for inspiration

The legend says that Roman used to have blue eyes.

Various versions of the story were passed around between ships of both mortal and immortal, of both holy and unholy ones… Every soul at the sea knew the melody of this song but nobody could sing it without a hitch. It was one of the tales that never made it to the books but lived in many hearts, for many years. For some, it was the proof of the highest price one must pay for living at the sea. For others it was a confirmation that gold is the only real treasure. Finally, there was a small group of people who didn’t believe the story - those led the loneliest of lives.

Because it was real. This legend. The tale of Roman and the love of his life. The love of his life gifted with the voice of an angel, the body of a monster, the soul of a devil and a quivering heart that ached for Roman only…

It was a tragic love-story between Roman and a merman.

***

“Logan… You’ve been sailing with Roman for so long…” sing-sang Patton, gently patting Logan’s forearms while Virgil subtly pushed the bottle with rum towards them.

“I will not ask for another free pass for you, Patton.” Logan stated sternly, suspiciously eyeing the bottle in front of him. Those young ones… so naive for thinking that something like that would make him talk.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare!” Patton innocently fluttered his eyes. Damn, his long eyelashes and soft lips. “It’s just that Virgil and I…” he stopped in favour of playing with the hem of his shirt, “It’s just that we…”

“Yes?” Logan arched his eyebrow. The rain outside intensified. Internally he thanked Roman for docking tonight, instead of setting off as they originally planned.

“Patton means to ask if you know what really happened to Roman’s eyes!” blurted Virgil, clenching his hands into fists. Logan couldn’t help but smile a little bit. In his opinion, Virgil was not a fit for a pirate. But he was undoubtedly loyal and loyalty was something highly treasured in the sea.

“Roman’s eyes?” Logan repeated, as if he didn’t know what they were talking about.

It was hard not to notice though. The flash of crimson at the centre, the dark shade of drying blood around the irises. The teasing sparkles that pulled out the most poisonous of scarlets. The brilliance of rusty reds and vivid corals paired with razor-sharp gaze that made people shiver and avert their eyes. Logan - quartermaster on Creativity - shuddered. It was hard to forget Roman’s blood red eyes.

And it was even harder to stop having nightmares about them.

Patton scooted closer, pulling Logan out of the maze of his memory. Patton’s hands rested on Logan’s shoulder, curse him for that warm skin.

“You know…” Patton started lowly, “They say that they weren’t always red. His eyes.”

Logan licked his lips and glanced at Patton and Virgil. Their round faces, scattered with freckles, their earnest eyes, the hollows on Virgil’s cheeks, the scar running over Patton’s temple. They looked like a good kids...

Completely ignoring the rum, Logan sat on the table, pushing Patton’s hands away. He didn’t need those forms of encouragement to tell the story. Sighing heavily, Logan wiped his glasses, leaving wet smudges. If there was one thing he hated in living on the ship, it was the constant humidity.

“First of all, I want you to know that when I met Roman, his eyes have already been red,” Logan started carefully, watching for reactions. Virgil and Patton immediately moved, pushing the barrels they were sitting on closer to Logan. Their noisy curiosity was truly endearing.

Once they settled down, he nodded with content. He was almost sure that they wouldn’t tell anyone of what they would hear today, “So mind you that everything I will tell you tonight is a passed story.” Logan added nonetheless.

“Is that a warning?” Virgil laughed anxiously. Not a fit for a sailor at all.

“It’s a promise.” grinned Logan in response. “It’s a promise that you will hear this story again and again and again from people who know Roman from legends only. Every single time you hear the new version, you will start doubting which is the authentic one.”

“And who told you your version of the story, Logan?” peeped Patton. He was practically shaking from excitement.

“Mine?” Logan’s thin lips stretched into a wicked grin, reminding everyone just why he was the quartermaster, “Oh, I heard it from Roman himself. He's, perhaps, the least trustworthy source...”

***

Roman’s eyes used to be in the color of the horizon. The color of the future. That peculiar shade of teal which can be seen on the thin line dividing sky from the ocean. The resemblance was uncanny.

And they said: one evening, as a child, Roman looked into the mirror and saw the world opening itself right in front of him. He saw the treasures hidden deep on the bottom of the ocean, the diamonds waiting for him in the caves that weren't drawn on maps and the pearls shyly peaking through the parted lips of the green clams.

The very map of the most valued of values was hidden behind the thick veil of Roman’s eyelashes, at the teal bottom of his eyes. And he saw that every route and every track leading to those riches was drawn with azure line that pointed beyond the horizon.

But, Roman saw something more. Something that he promised to never share with anyone before he could grasp it with his own hands.

He saw gold. Shining in the sunlight, shimmering under the water. He was young, so young back then, and he thought that it must have been golden coins glimmering in the crystal clear water. Twinkling brightly under the surface just like the stars twinkle on the midnight sky.

It became a sole purpose for Roman. To touch, to grasp, to own this gold treasure.

The sea lured him, the ocean tempted him, the salt on his tongue mocked him. The deep waters and secrets hidden within them were what he was meant for - he realized and set off into the open seas of the unknown future.

***

“Did he find it?” Patton gasped, clenching his fingers around Logan’s wrist. The quartermaster didn’t bother to shake it off.

“Shush, don’t interrupt him, Patton,” tsked Virgil. His eyes were as big as saucers. Beneath a thick layer of interest, first sparks of longing were waking up to life. Logan smiled internally. This must have been what Roman meant when he said that Virgil had a potential that needed to be encouraged. Just like everyone who ended up in the sea, Virgil too longed for an adventure.

“I can’t stand the tension!” pouted Patton, looking impatiently at Logan. “So… did he find it? Did he find the gold? The treasures?”

The quartermaster’s lips broke into a smile but his eyes remained sad. Troubled even. He reached out and swiftly pulled the abandoned bottle. The room filled with the biting scent of rum. Logan watched the liquid in the bottle. In the candlelight the glass looked as if it was made out of jade, reminding of the treasures hidden in the seas.

“Yes,” Logan said finally, corked up the bottle and put it away. “At last Roman found the gold, he dreamt of.”

***

Sun after the storm - that’s how Roman referred to that day, that hour, that moment. There was also another expression he used to describe it. The other term that he uttered in secret, in complete silence when he was alone as if he was afraid that the demons may come after him and rip the words out of his throat.

“The fateful day that gold came to life.”

He was the only survivor from the storm that wrecked their ship. That much was clear. Roman watched all of his companions sink in the sea. He didn’t remember hearing the screams but he remembered the loud crash of waves above his head and that was enough. It was his first thought when he drifted back into consciousness.

His eyes - his teal eyes - were heavy and his lungs - warm with red blood lungs - were still full of the salty water. The soil beneath him smelt of algas and fish. And yet there was no saying, even then, that Roman woke up to live up to his dream.

The island appeared deserted. As deserted as he could tell by far. The sand was white and warm and the forest teased him insufferably with the possibility of finding something edible. But Roman was smarter than this. The most beautiful sceneries were hiding the darkest secrets.

So he walked down the shore, watching the familiar line of the horizon, enjoying the softness under his feet, breathing the air that he missed deeply when caged under the water.

The cove was small, too small for any ship to dock there. It was beautiful, yes, but if on a ship Roman would pay it no mind. But he had no ship and it was still a cove - probably the only place on this island that could possibly keep him alive. Sighing, Roman slipped down the rocks, hand clasped around long, sharpened stick.

His footsteps were perfectly silent. The way he walked, the way he sneaked, it was an art itself, it was a part of Roman that he kept buried deep inside. The delicate, fanciful side. The side that yearned for beauty.

He became a part of the scenery before he realized it - the only survivor with his hair tossed back, with his shirt stiff with the remaining salt and with teal eyes that mirrored the color of horizon.

The colors were spilling into the cove like an avalanche, brashly flashing with intensive hues against the shy whites of the sand. The greens as fresh as spring sprouts, the bronzes that tasted like chocolate, finally the azures and pale-blues bearing a peace and comfort. Beauty and grace was blossoming in the cove as one watched, leaving no space for wrongness.

Nothing, however could prepare Roman for the beauty he saw when he crouched on the big rock and looked into the crystal clear water.

The way it shone in his eyes, the way it shimmered, the way it teased his senses. It was a song itself. The gold was singing to him before Roman even heard voice. Before he even learnt that his gold - his beloved dream - had a voice.

His eyes raked over the long trace of golden scales - tiny but beautiful. His appreciation was growing with every inch covered with golden beads. He was taking in the view for as long as long the tail was - until it started melting into something softer, something wavering beneath the surface, something that made his breath hitch.

“Mermaid-” he gasped, instinctively backing away.

That sound itself was enough. It had to be because - what Roman didn’t know by then - he also had a voice that sounded beautifully in mermaid’s ears.

The surface rippled, the miniature waves hit the rocks and tiny bubbles of air rose to the surface. Roman blinked and suddenly there was a person - a man - leaning over the stone right in front of him. He was gazing curiously at Roman, his head tilted a little bit as if Roman was something to examine - not something to lure into deep water and drown. Drops of water were scattered across his cheeks, neck and shoulder like tiny freckles. They sparkled like a brilliant glitter.

“Don’t come any closer!” squeaked Roman and the man smiled in response.

“It may come as a surprise to you,” he replied, his voice mellow and relaxed, “But I can’t really step out of the water whenever I can.” his golden tail for a moment appeared over the surface, splashing the water at Roman.

And maybe it was the pirate’s soul in him or maybe it was the velvet-like tone in merman’s voice but Roman reached out, trying to grasp the gold that he had been searching for all his life. And soon there was hand in his hand and it was cold and slick but somehow it fitted perfectly and if earlier Roman had any doubts on the situation, now his fears were long gone. He chase for long but now the treasure was under his fingertips.

“I’m Roman,” his thumb ran over the barely visible scales on merman’s hands.

“I don’t have a name that you could use beyond the surface.” the merman shook his head. His eyes - golden eyes - were earnestly shining with hope and something akin to shame. “Every name I would tell you, would be a lie.”

“May I choose a name for you?” Roman leaned down, gazing at merman from above.

“You may choose your name for me. And I will wear it proudly.”

“Then, I choose a name ‘Deceit’. Since everything is a lie.”

The merman - Deceit - laughed loudly and it was like thousands of bells started ringing all at once. “Darling,” he purred, “Everything might be a lie, but I’m plenty real.” he smiled showing a row of sharp teeth. And Roman? Roman smiled because before his heart was long gone and his eyes and teals were now meant for one person only.

That was how their fate sealed before it even finished forming and the maps in Roman’s eyes were flooded with hot and crashing waves of passion.

They talked about this moment later, sitting almost side by side - Roman above the water and Deceit beneath it. They talked about it when they were almost touching - nothing more than the delicate weight of one hand on the other. They talked about this moment trying to figure out what brought them together and how they knew that they were meant for each other. Trying to figure out how was it possible that they responded to bonding song so quickly.

Like the tidal waves, they meant halfway and clashed into each other with a force so strong that it was enough to wake up the monsters sleeping in the oceans. And by the way water flowed around them and by the way the horizon darkened, they knew that their love had no chance against the power of the sea.

***

In the books that are no longer readable and in the memories of people who died a long time ago there are stories. Legends. Warnings.

If a man or a woman are married to the sea, they have no right to fall in love with the Child of Waves and Tears.

The sea is not a forgiving lover, not a merciful partner, once it closes the heavy lid over your head - it won’t let you out. And if you try to escape it will reach out for you, it will chase after you until it catches you, crading the soft body and warm skin close to its chest.

That’s how the sea loves its lovers.

That’s how it forbids them to meld with its children.

***

Roman wasn’t blind. He could see the dark clouds over their heads. Deceit wasn’t mute, he could hear the way sea roared for them. Both of them. Every day was pushing them straight into the arms of tragedy.

Therefore, their first kiss was chaste and filled with as much excitement as fear.

Deceit was so close and when Roman leaned down like he always did, it turned out that they were much closer than expected. The smell of salt and home. Their shared home - the sea.

When the skin brushed the skin and when the lips brushed against the lips, the sky above them opened, tearing the taste off their lips.

Roman guessed that Deceit tasted like salt and water but he couldn’t be sure. The sea didn’t let him find out. He could watch and he could touch but he couldn’t melt into Deceit as he used to melt into cold waves that lulled him into sleep for so many years. He longed.

Once the rain stopped, they read the signs on the sand. Deceit’s tail was reflecting the colorful shades of the rainbow above their heads.

“It appears clear to me that Mother doesn’t want for us to stay together,” whispered Deceit, his lips dangerously close to Roman’s ear.

“Mother?” echoed Roman.

Deceit looked at the horizon. Its color reminded him of Roman’s eyes. Deceit had always dreamt of crossing the line of horizon.

“The sea may be my mother but you pledged yourself to her and she likes you too much to let go off you. It’s obvious by the way she favours you. She was merciful enough to bring us together. Throwing me into the cove and throwing you at the shore. It’s her doing.” Deceit ran his fingers up Roman’s thigh. He wished he was strong enough to fully pull his body out of the water. “She felt our destiny but didn’t expect for it to fulfill the rest of our life.”

“So the sea…” Roman’s voice broke a little bit. The song in Deceit’s ears had never been sadder. “She wants us apart.”

***

“But Roman loves the sea!” Patton explained, barely holding back his tears. “He couldn’t just give up on that!”

“He couldn’t,” Logan agreed quietly. The waves shook the ship, trying to push the memories out of his head. “Neither could Deceit. The sea made both of them. Gave them purpose in life, gave them solace and home. And they offered their life in return.”

***

Love is like a double edged sword - it is a perfect weapon but it could easily be used against the warrior holding it.

The sea was smart - she knew that they would give up their life for each other so she had to take something much more precious from them. She had to steal something imprinted in their memory. Something as precious as their most hidden treasures. She had to break them apart with their own weapon.

The storm broke in the middle of the night when everything was as dark as spilled ink. They never slept close - Deceit needed water to restore his energy and Roman needed the tiniest amount of warmth that a shelter could provide.

Two screams intertwined in the sky in one, shared song. It was barely audible over the loud thunder and thick streams of rain.

Roman could feel the sharp cut of the wind and water on his legs, arms and face. It didn’t stop him though, he kept walking towards the water, step by step, inch by inch. He thought he could hear a broken sob in the air. It was wet, heart-wrecking sound and Roman knew that it was the sea crying for him and Deceit. She hated their suffering but she also hated the idea of them being together even more. One final blow of icy cold wind slapped Roman across his face, digging into his eyes, forcing tears out of them, making the maps and plans slip down his cheeks. He didn’t stop to gather them. He didn’t shove them into pockets. Instead he walked over them, crushing teal veils under his heels.

One thought - get to Deceit as fast as it was humanly possible. He didn’t even get that only last chance.

Roman passed away midway through the beach. Just a couple of meters away from his beloved.

***

Deceit pushed himself up the shore while his arms screamed in pain. He knew that he had to get away from water unless he wanted it to throw him into the darkest corners of the globe, for so long that he would lose his way back to Roman.

“Better now or never.” he hissed through clenched teeth, focusing on the skin under the golden scales on his tail. Some merfolk could transform their tail into legs but Deceit had never tried that before.

He expected the pain, he expected the turmoil. He didn’t expect the fire. Filled with cold blood and used to the icy water Deceit knew no warmth except of Roman’s. The fire ripping his scales of was unbearable. Every scale felt as if it was set on fire as if it was trying to burn out the remaining gold.

He tried moving further, dragging his barely-legs behind himself.

He passed away midway through the beach. Just a couple of meters from his beloved.

***

“And what happened next?” Patton inquired, practically leaning on Logan’s side. His stubby fingers were digging into quartermaster’s arm. Virgil with fevered eyes was peaking over his brother’s shoulder.

Logan shrugged, knowing well that his answer would disappoint the audience. It happened to the best of stories - it was tempting to colorize the ending. But Logan promised to himself that he would tell this story as it was told to him.

“That’s the end. Roman and Deceit never met again.” he sighed, hopping off the table, “Few days later Roman was found unconscious on the drifting boat. His pockets were full of golden coins. When he opened his eyes they have already been red.”

Patton’s face dropped, “So the color…”

Helplessly, to show just as little of comfort he had to offer, Logan opened his arms. What was he supposed to say? That Roman’s eyes lost the color when the sea hit him with the final blow? That the teal canvas slipped off and buried down in the white sand on some neglected island? Logan was a pirate, he had seen many strange things but even he sometimes had doubts for this part of the story.

“I told you at the beginning,” huffed Logan, pushing the table back under the wall, “Roman told me this story and you know that he has a tendency to… embellish some aspects.”

Virgil nodded thoughtfully. The adventurous sparks were still shining in his eyes. Maybe he was a fit for a pirate after all.

“What did Roman do with the gold though?” Patton poked Virgil’s cheek.

“Oh, that?” Logan asked and drained the bottle, “He spent all of this money to buy Creativity and hire the crew. And, among many others, I was lucky enough to be a part of that first crew.” he added with a very self-pleased smile. It was clear that he was very proud of that.

The storm outside shook the windows. More of the violent raindrops drummed against the glass, splashing the streams that were already running down them.

“Now that you know this story you can stop asking.” finished Logan, talking a step towards the door. “But don’t mention Roman that you heard it from me. Although I know that he wouldn’t be angry for telling you, he just… doesn’t like being reminded of Deceit.”

With these words Logan left the room, leaving Virgil and Patton alone with their thoughts and silent mourning after the tragic love.

***

The rainpour was getting bigger and bigger as Roman slipped into the mostly abandoned warehouse. The door closed behind him with a barely loud squeak. Tentatively, Roman looked around trying to see through the darkness surrounding him. Slowly, as his eyes got used to the darkness, the shadows started reminding more of shapes than a blurry nothingness. The barrels, empty caskets, piles of wood and finally - the skeleton of a ship that was never meant to be finished.

Feeling vaguely secure Roman stepped further into the warehouse. He could hear the water splashing against the sharp edges of the stones where the water met with the ground.

His heart was pounding inside his chest. He really hoped that his feeling wasn't wrong. But no, it couldn't be. He doubted he could ever mistake the song in his ears for something else. Every sound and every tune was perfectly audible for him, despite the rain trashing the harbor outside. The song was growing louder and cleared over the past few days, ever since he saw the dark clouds of the horizon.

Rain, yes rain. The stormy clouds - the twin sisters of the sea.

It was… Familiar. How could he possibly forget both the song in his ears and the sound of rain that aimed to drag him away from the singer.

Roman took another step forward. Wet stone crunched under his heel.

"Silence did not become one of your traits, I presume."

Roman froze. He thought that he was prepared. He wasn't.

"Dee…" He uttered, frantically looking for a familiar shadow under the water. The song in his ears stopped.

Melodic laugh vibrated through the air, shaking Roman's body to the core.

"Last time I checked you called me another name," replied still shapeless, bodiless, faceless Deceit.

With shaking hands Roman tried to light up the matches he was clenching. Only lonely spark jumped into the water, for a moment, brightening the darkness beneath the surface. There was nothing there.

Letting out a shaky exhale, Roman laughed nervously, "I thought that giving you a nickname would be a nice touch." He said, fumbling with another match.

And suddenly there were hands on his hand - cold and silky wet - and there was a weight on his back and if someone was leaning over him. And there was a breath on his earshell and it smelt like salt and home.

"It is a nice touch, I must admit." The whisper was much closer this time. It was the voice of the devil, the voice of the monster, the voice of Roman’s greatest love.

Roman watched the cold hand lay over his and press the match against the flint. Fire erupted in front of his eyes. He quickly lit up the fuse of his lantern and the room filled up with warmth that Roman felt in his heart. It was hard to turn around. Not yet. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. Even though he waited for so long. The thunder slashed the sky above the roof, sending sparks through his body.

“Well, I guess that Mother’s not happy for our meeting.” laughed Deceit bitterly, pressing his cheek against Roman’s shoulder.

Wet laugh rolled down Roman’s tongue. It turned out to be more of a sob than a laugh. There was a shift behind him and then there were lips pressing against his neck and a whisper against his earshell.

“I want to look into your eyes, Roman.”

And Roman had always been weak for that sweet voice, for that beautiful song. In a split of a second - as if someone finally pulled his strings - he turned around and it was like all the air fled from his lungs.

“Deceit.” he uttered and pressed his lips against the lips, for the first time tasting its salt. It was somewhat sweet of Roman’s tongue.

The kiss was returned within a second, of course it was. It was the first time they could actually kiss even if it was just for a moment, even if it was just for a minute.

The wind and rain had already been banging against the doors and windows when Roman stepped away, his hands still resting on Deceit’s arms. Only then did he realize that Deceit was standing, standing, in front of him without any help.

“I learnt how to turn my tail into legs,” explained Deceit, seeing Roman’s gaze. He sounded almost embarrassed and Roman’s heart flipped in his chest.

Soon enough however that shy expression melted under the pressure of something gloomier. Deceit’s hand moved to cup Roman’s cheek, thumb running over the skin beneath his eye.

“I see. That Mother wasn’t entirely merciful for you either.” He said, letting out a pained sigh, “Your eyes.” he added, sensing Roman’s confusion, “They used to be different color.”

“I cried the color out of them when I realized that we parted.” said Roman smiling slightly, brushing his fingers against the reddened scales covering a half of Deceit’s face.

“Ha, and here I thought that I was the bigger liar among the two of us,” Deceit chuckled, winking at Roman. “I know the sea's doing when I see it.” His legs wobbled a little bit and he had to brace himself against Roman’s arm. The other didn’t complain. “I’m sorry, it’s still hard for me to stand like that for too long…” he bit his cheek, “Would you mind if I...?” he gestured at the dark pool inside the warehouse.

Instead of answering Roman scooped him into his arms and - as if Deceit was lighter than a feather - carried him into the water. It was obnoxiously hard to let go off this weight. Roman imagined that he could easily carry Deceit around all day long. The small pleasant noise that Deceit let out was at least a little bit of a reward.

“It’s not golden anymore,” Roman noted pointing at the newly reformed tail, without a surprise.

Deceit shrugged. “I wear my punishment proudly,” he added, waving his crimson fin at Roman.

Another massive blow hit the warehouse. This time both of them glanced at the creaking, wooden roof.

“I’m afraid we should go soon. The storm will calm down once you leave the dock.” said Deceit after a couple of moments.

Roman’s heart lurched to the side. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Shut the door, lay bricks in the windows. Just give him some more time.

“Will I see you again?” he asked instead. It came out weaker than he expected. He leaned down and gripped Deceit’s hand. It was so slippery in his own. He was afraid that it would slip out of his grasp any moment soon.

“Yes,” replied Deceit instantly.

“When? Where?”

“I don’t know when and I don’t know where.” Deceit shook his head, “You must look out for the dark clouds in the sky and red trail in the water. There I will be.” he added, trying to pull his hand out of the hold.

“Can you promise that?” Roman demanded, tightening his hold. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.

In a flash:

Lips against his lips. Salt that tastes sweeter than it should.

His hands left empty.

One echoed whisper. “I promise”

Roman was alone. The rain outside stopped raining.

***

They fell hard. As hard as the waves crash against the shore. As hard as the dead body falls into the cold water of the ocean.

Their love was hot and wild. As hot as blood pumping through their veins. As wild as the water under their fingers. Hot and wild like blood in Roman’s eyes and Deceit’s scales.

When they were apart they were singing lullabies for each other. The moonlight being the messenger. Their melodies danced on the peaceful surface of the sea.

When they were together, the tornado was shaking the world. The edges of their bodies were as hazy as the clouds in the sky.

One slash was enough to cut them apart, two slashes were enough to give them a reason to fight.

The sea.

The way it opens in front of them, cold and eager. Ah, so eager. Endless, deep, ruthless, selfish and demanding.

The sea.

The way it closes it shell, trying to keep the warmth inside, trying to keep its children away from each other. It doesn’t realize that it has already marked them as each other’s forever.

***

Roman opened his crimson eyes.

The waves were crashing against the sides of Creativity. The sky above him was darkening with beautiful navy color. He looked at the horizon. Where the sun was touching the sea, he could see the tiniest red glow.

“Change of the course, Logan.” called Roman sharply, “We’re sailing into the west.”

the end.

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eggmayowayo · 5 years ago

Text

I’m on cracc and quarantine is boring

A dumb Buster Bros headcannon (so everything is definitely not true!) that’s sad and kinda dark because I’ve been watching way too many Adventure Time analysis videos and I feel analytical myself.

SO! Jiro and Saburo are just figments of Ichiro’s imagination to help him cope with his terrible life uwu. Maybe Jiro and Saburo are manifestations of Ichiro’s psyche, kinda like an imaginary friends kind of thing. I guess Ichiro created his brothers in his head because he wants friends and maybe a family. We see that through The Dirty Dawg manga, he had been scammed by people he trusted such as the people in the orphanage and a partner he worked with to collect money. Thus, I believe (and assume) that he has abandonment issues and is very lonely and struggling with mental issues and Jiro and Saburo are meant to help cope.

To be fair, I did this for fun and I hope you enjoy reading and feel free to tell me why I’m wrong in the comments below. This is very baseless but I wanna get it off my chest uwu. Also, evidence is my memory of the manga and I’m not a psychologist!

Perhaps Jiro is a manifestation of Ichiro’s very notable delinquent side as shown by how the hypmic writers note that Jiro is especially influenced by Ichiro and looks up to him a lot. Jiro was probably the first “imaginary friend” he has and so Ichiro made Jiro very similar to him so it’s easier for Ichiro to connect with him?? I would think that it’s easier to be friends with someone who has a similar temperament to you, right? So maybe Jiro was the first manifestation of Ichiro’s personality. Ichiro might have been fairly young and still doesn’t really know much about himself, let alone others, so he created Jiro as a way to become fast friends and get companionship when he’s going through a tough time.

Then, there’s Saburo. Saburo is arguably the most different from the current Yamada brothers in terms of personality but he is definitely an “Ichiro-boy”. Unlike Jiro, it is quite ambiguous to ascertain which part of Ichiro’s personality was the one that succeeded in personifying to create Saburo. However, I have a vague idea of a one. This is so because Ichiro got a little bit more mature when he got to creating Saburo. That’s why Ichiro didn’t really feel the need to make Saburo just like him or anything like that, especially when he’s noted to being a good kid and not a delinquent like his older brothers.

That being said, Saburo is a manifestation of Ichiro’s honest personality (and perhaps his light “pretty boy” vibe). Ichiro is known to express his emotions very bluntly when he feels himself or others are wronged; Saburo is similar but he’s rude, snarky and sassy when it comes to voicing out his first impressions of people. They are both honest, but we should see the nuance in this honesty. The introduction of nuance means that Ichiro is better able to understand himself and doesn’t really need to be with people just like him to feel loved or understood. The larger age gap between Ichiro and Saburo versus Ichiro (5 years) and Jiro (2 years) is also telling because with the creation of Jiro, Ichiro’s mental state could have improved and he did more personal reflection in that time so he probably experimented until Saburo was born and Saburo was the one who stayed because of how strong he was.

Also, I thought of this later but maybe Saburo was someone Ichiro wanted to be: a clean, intelligent boy with a genuinely good heart who is able to survive on his own without feeling lonely as shown by Saburo’s introverted nature and ability to be nice when he wants to be. Of course, Saburo is not completely like that but maybe Ichiro really did want to be a good kid and that’s the kind of boy he imagined for Saburo. That’s sad because maybe he feels that he isn’t a good person or someone who deserves goodness innately so he tried to imagine someone who does - a cute pretty boy with endearing overconfidence.

So, allow me to talk about how this kinda fits into the lore. Well, for one thing, during the orphanage days what strikes me most is that the boys (Jiro and Saburo) hated Ichiro for quite a long time because Ichiro threatened their caretaker who was actually exploiting them. This is a conflict I find particularly intriguing. Here we have Ichiro who sees the reality of life for the first time versus Jiro and Saburo who are oblivious and pure. He’s particularly vulnerable because he is growing up and is trying to understand things for himself and that’s why he lashed out. Fun fact, the men who took advantage of Ichiro probably represent how the world is cruel and how life goes on whether you like it or not or the injustice of life, blah blah. However, as based by my nonsense earlier, Jiro and Saburo are just pure manifestations of Ichiro’s personality, they don’t see the things Ichiro himself had seen and so they don’t know anything. I guess Ichiro protected them to keep their purity so he can have a safe space of companionship and family far removed from the hardship in the real world to feel better, like an oasis. After all, Jiro and Saburo are very new when it comes to the Hypnosis Mic things and with life in general so maybe that’s Ichiro’s influence at play as well?

Anyways, at the orphanage, Jiro and Saburo hate Ichiro because Ichiro inflicted it on himself as a form of punishment. If we think that Jiro and Saburo are mere manifestations then Ichiro may subconsciously influence their feelings. Ichiro may have felt a little bad for threatening their caretaker or when he knows more about life: he feels horrible like he had been used and that all his efforts to help himself is futile. Because he’s feeling turbulent emotions, he could be projecting his inner self-loathing onto his “imaginary friends” Jiro and Saburo by making them hate him and feeling like he betrayed them. At this point, Jiro and Saburo are becoming real people and thus are more able to act on their newfound feelings more and really reflect Ichiro’s self-loathing as he is forced to come to terms with the situation he is in. To get out of it requires lots of courage that he does not have at the time and he knows it so that’s why he’s “punishing” himself for being so weak and cowardly.

If you think like why would someone do that to themselves? Well, I’d like to say that when you’re in between a rock and a hard place and you don’t know that such despairs are normal, you would have so much self-doubt and self-loathing as you think you’re pathetic and so you unconsciously go into a downward spiral as you pity yourself. In this case, Ichiro made Jiro and Saburo hate him as part of his “self-loathing” stage because he thinks that he deserved it.

Now, let us return to present day because I don’t want to waste your time.

Jiro and Saburo argue a lot for Ichiro’s attention and praise. This is probably because they may have acknowledged that they are mere creations but they love Ichiro dearly and thus they want to be equal with Ichiro, to be acknowledged as worthy. Even though Ichiro was growing up and had to learn to be independent, Ichiro still went back to save them and they treasure that so much and were even dumbfounded. With this, they want to be seen as real people Ichiro can rely on for anything and more than just companionship.

At this point, Jiro and Saburos’ personalities and characters are so solid and real that they simply transcend Ichiro’s imagination and become functional people in the real world. Ichiro’s happy for this though; they are all growing up. Maybe instead of the typical imaginary friends concept when imaginary friends disappear as you get older, Jiro and Saburo become real as Ichiro can learn to live with them not as coping mechanisms but as actual friends and even as a family. Ichiro has matured significantly during The Dirty Dawg era (I must acknowledge that Samatoki and Kuko had a large part in encouraging him and helping him develop) and so he doesn’t need to rely on Jiro and Saburo as a pure version of himself but as people. This thus allows their characters to develop naturally independent of his mental influence.

At the end of the day, I want to say that Ichiro loves Jiro and Saburo deeply on so many levels and that love is reciprocated today. I don’t exactly know how this will develop over time but I hope this theory makes sense and would be interesting for you. Anyways, like I said, please tell me why I’m wrong in the comments below.

#will delete later #buster bros #hypmic #hypnosis mic #hypmic theory

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floral-and-fine · 7 years ago

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Nerve-wracked

Fred Weasley x Female! reader

Summary: Fred Weasley realizes his feelings for one of his newest employees.

a/n: I usually struggle writing HP fanfic because I have a difficult time picturing them outside of Hogwarts. It’s a long complicated thing :P

The sound of shattering glass vials filled the shop and a small ‘oops’ along with it.

Fred inhaled a deep breath through his nose, trying to keep calm. This had to be the third time this week! He wasn’t in the mood to get into another argument with George over their newest employee. But her constant mistakes and errors were costing them money.

Fred rubbed his forehead, he hated having to be a stickler about these kinds of things.

In fact, it was 100% against his nature, but if Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was going to continue thriving then it was up to him and George to set an example. They had to be responsible and work constantly to make sure they were developing new and exciting products for their clients. Luckily, Fred loved his business, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else with his life. So in the end, if he had to be more mature in exchange, then it was worth it.

Not that they still didn’t get up to a little mischief now and then, but there was a time and a place. And that time and place usually involved one of their family members preferably Ron or Percy. How else could they test out their latest creations?

Sighing, Fred reluctantly headed downstairs to see y/n desperately trying to clean up the broken glass and mop up the spill.

She had knocked over an entire display of Ten-Second Pimple Vanishers.

Fred shook his head. Instead, charming the mop and broom to do the work, she was doing it all herself. Fred took out his wand from his coat pocket, with a quick little swish and flick he enchanted the broom and mop to start moving on their own.

The look of surprise on y/n’s face was adorable, her eyebrows knitted together as she watched the mess being cleaned without her help.

“That is one of the benefits of magic, you know?” he finally spoke up standing next to her.

“Oh Mr. Weasley!” she greeted him in surprise.

Fred’s nose scrunched up in disdain, he hated being called ‘Mr. Weasley’, made him feel like a boring old man.

“Sorry, sometimes I forget that magic can be used to help with mundane chores,” she said sheepishly.

Y/n was muggle born and often did things without magic out of habit. It was actually an endearing quality about her, like Harry, she was always fascinated by things he himself took for granted. And of course, she always marveled at his and George’s latest creations and inventions.

“And sorry I broke all those vials, it was an accident,” she continued.

Y/n shrunk back and stepped away from him worried he’d yell at her for making another mess. She could tell from his expression that he was upset.

“It’s alright,” Fred muttered rubbing his chin, he’d need to make more to replace what was lost. Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher was a big seller especially so close to the holidays. Self-conscious first and second-year students wanting to look their best for the holidays and for the return to Hogwarts afterward.

“Why don’t you feed the pygmy puffs, then prepare to open the shop,” Fred instructed. In his head, he was trying to determine how many bottles of Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher, were still stored away and how many he could possibly make this morning.

Fred went into his workshop, he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He took one of the aprons hanging on the coat rack and briskly tied it around his waist. Aggressively, Fred slammed tools and ingredients down on the large wooden work table.

In a cauldron, he started adding various things. It wasn’t too long before a fresh batch was brewing.

“Didn’t we have a full stock of Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher?” George asked hanging his jacket up as he came in to check on his brother.

“We did,” Fred replied not bothering to disguise his irritation. He continued to work without pause.

George could tell by Fred’s actions, that it probably had to do with y/n. Something like this always happened when it was just Fred and her working.

“Want help?” George offered.

“No, you should keep an eye on the shop. We’ll be opening soon.”

“Y/n can handle it.”

“I doubt that,” Fred replied in a short tone.

“She’s great with the customers, they really like her,” George added rather positively.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

George sighed, y/n and Fred on somehow got off on the wrong foot. She did make the occasional mistake, but she was helpful and interacted well with their young clientele. But for whatever reason when Fred was around, her little blunders would turn into even bigger ones. Y/n didn’t get flustered around him though. In fact, he believed that he and y/n were becoming friends.

That’s when George had his small epiphany.

“Switch clothes with me,” he suddenly demanded.

“What?” Fred questioned. His brother looked awfully excited about his idea.

“You make y/n incredibly nervous. I do not. If she thinks you’re me, then you’ll see how she actually is,” George explained in a single breath.

Fred shook his head, this was utter nonsense, “I do not make her nervous.”

George lifted his eyebrow, “Freddy, you are constantly on the poor girl’s case. Correcting each of her mistakes.”

“Still your idea is ridiculous!”

“When did you become so dull?” George complained, “Or are you really just Percy in disguise?”

Fred rolled his eyes, he didn’t have time to entertain George and play silly little games.

“That’s it!” George exclaimed. “The real Fred is playing a trick on me and has switched places with that old stick in the mud. Bet he’s getting into all sorts of mischief at the Ministry.”

George continued to tease Fred, while he tried to finish working. After a few more remarks from George, he finally gave in.

“Fine,” Fred stated, removing his work apron and slinging it over the counter, “let’s switch.”

“Now that’s more like it, George!” George said winking at his brother.

The brothers quickly switched outfits.

Fred walked back into the store from the workshop. Everyone automatically assumed he was George simply because he was dressed in George’s signature purple accented suit.

He spotted y/n standing by a boy who appeared to be 11 or 12 years old.

Fred pretended to work, writing notes as if he was taking inventory, as he maneuvered around the shop to get closer to her.

Y/n was listening to the boy go on about a rather cruel fourth year.

“Well that boy sounds absolutely dreadful, he’s got whatever coming to him. Could I make a recommendation?”

The boy nodded eagerly.

“Now this fourth year deserves the absolute worse,” Y/n plucked a piece of candy from the shelf, “These are Ton-Tongue Toffees, they’re tasty and the eater’s tongue will swell to about 4 feet long.”

The boy grinned, “wicked.”

“Exactly, it’s perfect for giving that nitwitted troll a taste of his own medicine.”

The boy grabbed an arm full of them.

Fred smiled hearing the exchange between her and the scrawny little first-year lad. George was right, she was great with the customers and she really knew her stuff when it came to their products.

“Nice work,” Fred complimented y/n.

“Thank you, George,” she chirped sounding quite bubbly.

Fred felt his mouth run dry, not because she called him ‘George’ people did that by mistake all the time. No, it was because she called George by his first name while she always insisted on calling him, ‘Mr. Weasley’. Fred wasn’t sure what he was feeling, something about her being on friendly and more casual terms with his brother irked him.

He looked at her face, she was smiling brightly at him. Well technically not at him but at George. She looked sweet wearing such a pretty smile, and her eyes shining. Did she smile and act this way all the time with George?

Something about all this was making him angry.

Y/n tilted her head to the side, “is everything alright?”

Gently, she placed her hand on his forearm, peering into his face, “your face is a little red.”

Afraid she’d figure out that he wasn’t George, Fred turned away and headed back to the workshop, he couldn’t keep this up.

Y/n watched him leave looking slightly puzzled.

All Fred could think about was how he really did make her nervous as he trudged into his workspace.

“Well, how’d it go?”

“I want to change back into my clothes,” Fred threw George’s jacket at him.

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Fred muttered. He still wasn’t sure why all of this was bothering him so badly.

“Did you yell at her?” George sighed, now she was going to act all weird around him, and he didn’t even do anything.

“No, I didn’t yell at her,” Fred retorted defensively. He flopped into one of the chairs in the room. “...You were right, I make her nervous. She acts completely different with you,” he admitted.

George smiled, “that’s because I’m the good twin.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “But I’m still better looking,” he added.

Both brothers went about their work, minding the shop and keeping the place functional.

However, Fred couldn’t get y/n out of his head. Somehow he wanted her to see him for more than just her boss. He didn’t want to become some intimidating guy that his employees fear.

After closing, Fred had finished restocking the new vials of Ten-Second Pimple Vanishers.

He inhaled deeply admiring the finished display in a magnificent pyramid shape.

Fred blinked his eyes a few times, his nose was picking up a familiar scent. It was y/n’s perfume. He could faintly smell it in the air. It was the same type of floral scent there was no mistaking it, she wore it every day.

“Y/n?” Fred called out. He could’ve sworn that he saw her leave. But maybe she came back, it would be just like her to forget her wand or purse or something just as important.

Fred called her name again but there was no response.

As he looked around the empty shop, he spotted the luminous pink display of love potions. He wandered over, as he did the fragrance of y/n’s perfume became stronger.

Finally, he spotted an open bottle sitting on the shelf. He picked it up and held it by his nose, the contents smelled just like her. There was no mistaking it.

The realization hit him hard, he was in love with y/n l/n.

In a daze, Fred replaced the cap on the bottle. He ran his fingers through his hair and sat on the bottom steps of the staircase. How could he be so ignorant of his own feelings?

It all started making sense now, the fact that he constantly kept an eye on her, why he felt jealous of George being on friendlier terms with her, how he thought about her almost every day.

Why didn’t he notice sooner?

The following morning, Fred didn’t know how to act. His eyes kept wandering over to y/n, but every time she was near he avoided her like the plague.

Fred smiled dreamily, watching her.

She looked so cute in her lilac dress with orange apron. Currently, she was petting the pygmy puffs.Y/n turned her head in his direction, she waved slightly, looking confused that Fred was staring at her.

In a rush, he tried to make himself look busy. By accident, Fred dropped an entire case of Extendable Ears, sending them flying all over the place.

George, who saw the whole incident, was grinning ear to ear.

“So… I see my little hunch was correct!” he announced slinging his arm over Fred’s shoulders.“Was it her shampoo? Or perhaps her perfume you ended up smelling last night?” George whispered.

“That was you?” Fred accused louder than he intended. “You left that love potion there so I’d smell her.” he continued in a hushed tone.

“Of course, it was me,” George smirked. “I can tell it’s been driving you insane.”

Fred wanted to strangle George, who looked so amused by it all.

“You’re a bloody fool, but you’re right,” Fred confessed. Discovering his feeling for y/n has changed his whole perspective. “George, what do I do now?”

“Let me help you,” George advised like it was the most obvious solution.

Fred returned his gaze over to y/n. A couple of guys around his age were chatting with her. His face fell for the moment, but soon his eyes narrowed and his frown became more apparent.

“Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that she’s pretty popular with our male clients,” George added cheekily. “You should probably make your move soon. That one with the dark hair comes in pretty often.”

Speaking of the dark-haired one, he did seem particularly chummy with y/n as he casually leaned in smiling at her. Fred had this sudden urge to march over and stupify the git. Although that would probably be terrible for business. A prank would be better, he could use him as a guinea-pig for one of their unreleased inventions.

Pursing his lips tightly together, Fred tore his attention away from y/n and the stranger, and back to George.

“What did you have in mind?” he finally asked.

“I’ll prepare a lovely romantic surprise for you two, to help set the mood, and leave,” George wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You’ll confess your burning desire for her, and just like that, she’ll fall for you!”

“That… sounds like a terrible plan,” Fred complained.

George shrugged his shoulders. Without any better suggestions, Fred reluctantly agreed. He groaned, why did life have to be so complicated?

“Alright! I’m out of here!” George proclaimed heading towards the exit.

“Really?” y/n asked in surprise, George typically hung around until everything was cleaned up and put away. The last few customers were, in fact, still paying.

“I’ve got a few things to do, you and Fred can finish up here.”

“Alright,” she muttered, looking a little concerned.

“Goodnight Freddy. Goodnight y/n.”

Y/n waved goodbye to George and returned to work.

“Y/n?” Fred called. “I’m going to check on something in the back.”

“Okay,” she replied starting to usher the last couple of customers out and locking the door behind them.

Fred’s face fell seeing what George had prepared. It had to be some kind of joke.

Sitting on the table, was a bottle of fire whiskey, 2 butter beers, and chocolate frogs. Was this really George’s idea of romantic?

There was a little note attached to the bottle of fire whiskey, ‘for courage! -G.’

“Explains why he’s still single,” Fred muttered to himself. He opened the bottle and took a big swig.

It looked so last minute and just thrown together without a thought. He could’ve done so much better. He imagined little floating lights to set the ambiance, flower petals strewn about, flutes filled with bubbling champagne, maybe a little music...now that would’ve been romantic.

Quickly, Fred enchanted several bubbles of golden lights that freely floated around the workroom. There wasn’t much he could do so he would have to settle for the butterbeer and chocolate. But he was able to throw together a makeshift bouquet out of some of the potion ingredients lying around.

Taking a look at what had done, Fred started feeling even more anxious. Maybe he was trying too hard and overdoing it? Would something casual be better? He didn’t want to come on too strong.

“Freddy, get a hold of yourself,” he whispered. “She’s just a girl, you can tell her how you feel.”

Running his fingers through his hair, as he tried working up the courage to talk to her. He wasn’t the kind of person who usually reacted this way. His past dating experiences were so effortless by comparison.

“Fred?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin hearing her voice. He prayed that she didn’t hear him talking to himself.

“Yes, y/n?” he replied, shouting at the direction of the door.

The knob started to turn.

In a panic, Fred pulled the door open, stepped out of the workshop, and slammed the door shut behind him, all in a blur.

“Wh-what do you need?” Fred questioned, hurriedly.

“I just wanted to know if there was anything else I could help with.” y/n looked quite startled over his frantic behavior.

“Yes of course!” Fred agreed rather quickly. “You can help me restock!”

“Alright.”

Fred turned to get the crates out of the workshop when he remembered what was lurking behind that door. “Why don’t you wait in the shop and I’ll bring the crates out to you?”

“Wouldn’t it be faster if we worked together?”

Fred rubbed the back of his head, “one would think, but y’know it’s a disaster in there, wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Are you hiding something?” y/n asked looking up into his eyes. Their workshop was always a mess.

“Nonsense!” he blurted out. Fred could feel his heart beat faster as she inched toward him. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her. “I-I’ll be back out in a moment.”

Silently, side by side they began filling the shelves that had become nearly empty. Fred kept himself focused on the work at hand, trying desperately not to look over at y/n. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume wafting around her.

He tried to prepare in his head what to say to her but then decided that it would be best to just get it over with.

“I’m sorry for making you feel nervous,” he started. “I’ve been on your case since the day you started working here and all that accomplished was making you anxious. You’re doing a great job.”

Fred continued to work.

“I think the reason, I’ve been acting this way, was my way of dealing with the fact that I’m attracted to you,” Fred confessed, his eyes remained focused on the work at hand. He started feeling panicked over her silence. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like you.”

Before Fred finished placing the last bottle on the bottom shelf. Y/n flung her arms around his neck, crashing her lips against his. The kiss took Fred by surprise. He stumbled backward knocking over several pieces of merchandise along the way. There was a small crash behind him, but he’d worry about that later.

Fred had no idea where to put his hands, carefully he placed them on her waist.

He chuckled, “Suddenly less nervous are you?”

“I wasn’t nervous because of work or how you treated me. Must I remind you, I had Snape for potions,” she laughed. “I was so nervous because I like you too.”

Fred couldn’t stop smiling. He leaned down capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. His fingers brushed against the side of her neck gently holding it as his lips traveled down the opposite side.

She could feel his lips smiling against her skin. He started chuckling again.

“What’s so funny?”

“I have a lame surprise for you in the back, thanks to George,” he explained.

“Oh?” she raised her eyebrows in excitement. “So he knows?”

“Of course he does, in fact, he knew before I did.”

Y/n laughed some more in response. It was a wonderful sound to Fred’s ears, in fact, she had the most beautiful laugh in the whole world.

“Well c’mon, I tried making it better…” he sighed. “but I may have made it worse.”

He took y/n by the hand, her skin felt soft under his fingertips.

“Oh wow, Fred did you do the lights? They’re so beautiful,” she murmured admiring them.

“Those I will take credit for, but the rest was mostly George.”

She let out the cutest giggle, covering her mouth slightly, “Butterbeer and chocolate frogs, how sweet!”

“So you like it?” Fred questioned.

“Yes,” she replied nodding her head with conviction.

“And you like me?”

“I do.”

“Suddenly, life seems simple again,” Fred stated smiling at his lady love.

Y/n was still admiring the whole scene, as he stepped closer to her. He ran his hands up and down her arms, as he started kissing her neck again. He nibbled on her earlobe, his teeth gently tugged on it. Turning in his arms, y/n pressed her hands against his chest, pecking him lightly on the lips.

“Simple for now at least,” she muttered playfully looking into Fred’s eyes that were shining mischievously.

Tags: @skellingtonbatz @harry-puddle @starfirette @captainbvckfire @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @zuni21798 @feelmyroarrrr

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #reader insert #fred and goerge weasley #fred and george #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley x you #harry potter fandom #female reader #harry potter imagines

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writevswrong · 7 years ago

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Eris Fanfic * When The Last Ember Falls * Chapter Fourteen

When The Last Ember Falls by L.J. LaFleur

Nesta:

I waited until he fell asleep, until his breaths were even before I rested my head beside his. My back was aching, just beneath my jagged scars. I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I had asked him.

I could use a woman in my bed, what a scoundrel.

Lying beside him softened the pain in my ribs. I couldn’t explain it, how his presence soothed the heartache. Maybe because he was my best friend; an easiness to our relationship I had never encountered before? These perpetual thoughts didn’t matter, only that he’s alive and well. Happy.

My eyelids grew heavier and heavier until I could no longer watch over Eris. I needed to rest so I could function tomorrow. Who knows what dawn will bring us.

A gust of wind made my teeth chatter, the bumps on my skin rising. I scooted closer, resting my head against his warm shoulder. “Goodnight, Eris,” I mumbled just before falling into a world that balanced between dreams and nightmares.

I stood on the shore, the same one I’ve dreamed of since waking up from the autumn war. The place where salty waves and thick grains of sand meet the endless rows of aspen and red maple trees.

Inhaling the salty, crisp air, I felt myself surrender. “I love it here,” I admitted, catching his fiery hair out of the corner of my eye.

Eris stepped forward to be beside me. Concentrating on the crashing waves, he asked, “is this the view from my window?”

“Yes,” I replied, the curve of my lips enlarging. I wouldn’t be able to explain it; why seeing an infinite amount of blue mended my broken heartstrings. It just did.

He stole a peek at me, “it’s breathtaking,” he agreed.

I turned away, drifting along the shoreline. The hem of my dress soaking into the frigid waters. I willed the fire from within to coil around my toes, just as he had taught me in the copper tub.

“I can tell you have something to say.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, I bent down to pick up a defective obsidian shell. “I hate that you read me so well,” I remarked, gently brushing my fingers against the ribbed edges.

Eris caught sight of another black shell, one in perfect condition. “I thought women loved a man who picked up on little details,” he implored, handing me the sea gem.

I analyzed the two shells, both so beautiful—whole and broken. Commenting on the rarity of finding two onyx shells, I finally answered him, “I cannot speak for all women, we’re complicated creatures.” I admired our findings one last time before releasing them back to the ocean.

“As long as you admit it...” he joked, rubbing his untamed beard as he waited for me to slap him.

“Miscreant.”

“Siren.”

We stopped only once so he could roll up his pant legs. He raised his hand, inviting me to step further into the sea. I reached for him, letting him guide me to where the water came up to his shins. Releasing his hand, I lifted my dress up. In hopes that I would avoid further restrictions since I was much smaller than him.

His legs wrapped with fire, extending all the way up to his thighs. As did mine. “So, fireheart, tell me your tale of woes,” Eris commanded, a signature smirk in place.

His term of endearment made my knees weaken. This was merely a dream and he was only a figment of my imagination. So, what did I have to lose? “Only if you hold your judgement till the very end,” I requested, turning to face my friend.

Eris nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. He raised to his full height to let me know that he was ready. He was taller than I remembered, broader in the shoulders as well.

I recited my story, even the moments I was sure he already knew of. Every fear, every event of shame and all the broken pieces of my history. I let him see me. The decent and the ugly.

Starting with my father, his failures that had damaged me so deeply that I intern failed my sisters. That Feyre, the youngest, turned into our provider as I let us rot in hopes father would do something—anything.

I smiled as I spoke of Elain’s gardening skills and Feyre’s paintings. Both so talented and all I had were my books. I told him I saw the world in the novels I read but I wanted more. I wanted to experience life outside of our human village—maybe travel to the different continents one day.

These precious pieces of someone else’s adventures that I clung to, in hopes that I too would write about mine, had been my light at the end of the path.

That was until she killed the wolf. The day everything changed.

I could no longer read due to the trauma—to my shame—that haunted me. I didn’t know that she couldn’t read. I didn’t know that she suffered in silence as I berated her out of guilt. I did not deserve happiness after all I had done to my sisters, that much I knew.

It felt easy speaking to Eris, maybe that was why I unloaded all the weight of regret, my “tale of woes” onto him. The only sign of emotion, a flicker if you will, was when I told him of what Tamlin did in the woods. When I moved the material of my dress so he could see the tips of the jagged lines; I saw his amber eyes ablaze.

When I was about to ask him what was wrong, he beckoned for me to continue.

I obliged, thinking nothing more of his reaction.

From explaining my experience in the cauldron as Ronan’s queen of death to what it felt like to emerge from hell. Why tubs and cauldrons scared me to my wits end. So much so that I had to bathe with buckets out of fear of seeing Ronan, afraid the whispers would drag me back to him.

I recounted our time in the copper tub, the one in his room. The day Eris forced me to step into it, to face my fear since I most likely smelled of piss and rot. It was when he taught me how to light up in the darkness, to catch fire, that I finally felt whole. Safe.

I backed up, forgetting an important piece of my past, the part that led me to him. Of what happened in Velaris. How I nearly killed everyone and not just once.

When he found me in the woods, I had lost my way in body and soul. I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin but he taught me how to control my magic—he gave me a second chance at life. I would have died in that forest if he hadn’t found me. Not from the trolling predators of the night but by myself. The string of sanity that was splitting, that’s what would have done me in.

Clearing my throat, I reached farther. I plucked out every bit of me for him to see.

As a human I felt things deeply, locking the emotions away without difficulty. But now, every feeling had amplified. I cried a lot, that was the worst part of it. That sometimes I couldn’t stop; how I begged the universe to make it stop.

I clenched my fist, digging my sharp nails into my palm. “When you stopped me,” I faltered, unable to meet his eyes. “When you split my being. My, my power—whatever it is,” I crooked my jaw to the side, this was harder than I thought. This wasn’t real and I could barely get the words out.

His mouth twisted into a grimace as he focused on the sea foam, “if it meant your survival, that you would live another day…” those burning, amber irises flashed to me.

“Eris…”

“Don’t. You do not need to apologize to me, Nesta.” His voice heavy, thickening with emotion, “I would rather lose you to him than to death. At least I would get to see you again. I would see your smile and hear your voice. You would get to live happily ever after, as they say. That is enough for me.”

I couldn’t tell him what happened between Cassian and me. How we fought like wild animals every day or that we broke up in an alley only hours before I arrived here. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

There was a lull in conversation as we both regained our steel composure. I didn’t realize we had walked all the way to the border between autumn and spring. Seeing the transition, the blending of the two courts looked unbelievable.

My mouth had opened, my compliments unable to reach my lips. Cream roses and maple trees intertwined effortlessly. A buzz of magic filled the air, the temperature rising. A beautiful sight, but my eyes always went back to the yellow, red and orange trees of this court. I focused on the pop of gold that sprouted between the dense tree line.

Red didn’t scare me—scar me—like it had before. I couldn’t understand it. How my fear of dark water and crimson didn’t cripple me anymore. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t still affected to a certain degree but I could do it; I survived. I guess I have him to thank.

Eris’ voice floated to me, enraptured me, “I would never judge you, whether for your past, present or future.”

My brows knitted together, holding my breath, “how could you not?”

“How could I judge you when I’ve killed my own brothers?” he scoffed, running his fingers through his windswept hair as he scrutinized the oncoming set of waves.

I closed my eyes, knowing he felt the same pain as me. “It’s not the same,” I replied with a burdensome heart, clutching the linen fabric of my gown.

“No, it’s worse,” he corrected me. “I’ve done some very cruel, awful things.” Eris didn’t continue, instead he sucked in his bottom lip and bit down as he debated what to say next.

A larger wave knocked into us, his body blocking me from a direct hit. “You will tell me in time. When you realize that I too, will not judge you.” I shook my head at the fire wielding High Lord, “you saved me, you fool.”

“It was merely a wave,” he sassed, “I think you would have been able to handle it, Gryphon.”

“You know I’m not speaking of the crashing waves.”

“I could not save Lys, barely saved Mor and Lucien. I am not worthy of being called a savior, Nesta.” He scratched his bearded cheek, opening his mouth to confess, “monster’s do not save people, they damn them.”

“Then why did you, the so-called monster, save me?”

He didn’t speak while his eyes searched mine. Pupils flaring as he shifted forward. I could feel the water luring back towards the open sea. The flames around our feet connecting with one another.

“If you are a monster,” I felt myself edge closer, my heart beating erratically, “then I am as well, Eris Van—”

The smallest noise distracted me. I turned my head away, scanning the edge of the Autumn woods. It was not a noise of the sea or the rustling of leaves.

Flames enraged, my eyes glowed white as the door creaked open. I slid off the bed, rushing towards the intruder.

“It’s me, it’s me!” the guardian shouted, her hands above her head in surrender. “Cauldron be damned, y, y, you are horrifying,” she sputtered, her face fresh with a sheen of sweat as she took in my mid-transformation stage.

The sun had barely made its way to the horizon, the sky still dark with fading suns. “What are you doing here this early?” I demanded, forcing the fire and onyx talons back into my skin and bones.

Cindra’s eyes caught on the busted seams of my bodice, “I’m sorry for the intrusion but I needed to speak with you before my lord was up.” She pointed to her breasts, then to me as she surveyed the ceiling.

Flustered, I held my ripped gown up. If anyone did ever create magical clothing so I could transform back and forth without being naked, that would be wonderful. “About?” I yawned helplessly, turning my head into my bare shoulder to not be rude.

“Your chambers are ready.”

“What?”

“The High Lord,” was all she said, venturing into the dimly lit hallway.

I glanced to Eris, he was still in a deep slumber. It wouldn’t hurt to look, I told myself. I followed the guardian out of the room, down the hall and to the last door on the right. “He has me on the same floor as him?” I observed with a hushed tone.

Cindra’s eyes widened with worry, her hand tightened around the copper doorknob, “unless you don’t want to be. I can see what other rooms are available, if you’d like.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just…” I stopped speaking, my head and tongue not able to connect as she pushed the door open. My heart unable to comprehend the beauty within the massive stone walls.

The room had a similar layout to Eris’ except there was a large balcony, facing the rising sun. A jeweled leaf ceiling made of sunstones, carnelian and citrine, intricately fell into a chandelier made of faelights. The warm, shimmering lights grew brighter as I walked through the doorway.

My jaw slacked as I looked to the bed. The posts were made out of magnolia trees, all connecting together to form a frame for the mattress. The branches held hundreds of blooms, ranging from white to pink and purple. I could barely breathe as I stepped further into the room—my room.

Throat throbbing, tears threatening to form.

To the left was a cabinet, blue like the bird eggs from the human realm. The stained glass was formed into the Autumn Court’s signature red maple leaf, one on each panel. From there I looked to the opened doors, the view…

With watery eyes I stepped forward, seeing straight to the ocean I had been so fond of.

“How do you like it?” Eris whispered from the doorway.

I turned wildly, feeling as if I might explode with so many different emotions, I didn’t know what to say. Cindra had left at some point, possibly retrieving him as I stood in a daze.

Eris was heavily relying on the wall to keep him upright, his complexion not as ghostly but his bandages were soaked red.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” I croaked. I raised my hands to my throat, horrified by the sound I had made.

He unleashed a smile despite the pain in his voice, “I wanted to see your reaction.”

Retreating towards the blue cabinet, I sniffled, “it’s beautiful.” I opened it slowly, unsure if I could handle another surprise from him. It was filled with books. My own private library of sonnets and star-crossed lovers. Amber droplets were in full attack mode as I brushed my fingers against the novel he had once read to me.

“I’m glad you like it,” he breathed with great effort while treading closer and closer.

I shut the cabinet doors, my body aching from such a gift. A treasure I did not deserve. “You shouldn’t be walking, let alone standing,” I attempted to nag him but all I could hear were the whispers singing his name.

Eris stood beside me, a pillar of steel, as his voice strained, “I’m tired of being in bed. It makes me feel weak.”

“You are far from weak,” I scolded him, still failing at keeping my cold demeanor. It didn’t sound like a reprimand. It was more like a whimper, a pathetic little cry. My eyes bored into the floor, I counted as many cracks as I could—wishing for my emotions to flee.

He tilted my chin up with a fiery knuckle. Admiration and light increasing with the passing seconds, “then take a walk with me?”

I bit my lip till it nearly bled so I would not weep. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, I wanted to smile. He deserved that at the very least. “You present this room and then ask me to leave paradise?” I chastised him with a devious look.

Eris shrugged, the muscles in his jaw feathering, “you can always come back.”

I knew what he really meant. I was always welcome here in his court for however long I wanted. A room with a view that had brought me great joy despite the pain I once endured. An escape from the Night Court, from the monsters of my nightmares.

I moved to his side, unleashing a smile made of affectionate starlight. Tenderly wrapping my arm around his, I asked, “where to?”

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1ooo-w0rds · 7 years ago

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Layers of Drew - Piper

A/N: collection centered around Drew, major Liper feels at the beginning. 😁 @midtownhigh

FF.NET link

“You’re trembling.” Piper sucked in a breath and twisted her head to glare at her partner in crime. Leo grinned back as they pressed against a wall, waiting for the night patrol to move on. The teacher idly walked down the hallway, tilting his head back as he yawned into his hand. Leo’s chest pressed against her back as he leaned around the corner to check. Piper could feel her heart thump against her chest. It’s the adrenaline. She thought ignoring how warm Leo felt against her. “Come on,” Leo grabbed her hand and tugged Piper down the hallway towards the staircase.

“Stargazing, Leo? Really?” Piper whispered as they found the flight of stairs leading up to the roof. Leo nodded his head as he confidently climbed the stairs, playing with something in his pockets. The door at the top had a solid padlock. Piper crossed her arms. “Now what, genius?”

“This wasn’t just a half baked plan, Piper.” Leo replied as he crouched down, pulling out a pair of lockpicks. She arched her eyebrow at the instruments. “Quit judging, everyone needs hobbies.” He said like he could see her reaction.

“Hobbies?” Piper echoed as Leo twisted his wrist. An audible click and the padlock fell into his hand. Leo held it in triumph. “Oh thank goodness, the great Leo comes through.” Piper said sarcastically as he pushed the door open, gesturing her to step through first with a bow like he was accepting her applause. Piper walked through, about to throw back another sly comment when she gasped at the beautiful scenery in front of her.

Wilderness School was built in the mountain. Tall evergreens surrounded the school. It snowed recently, dressing the trees with a light dusting of snow. A lake could be seen from the roof, still like a mirror. A growing moon shone above as it peeked behind a pair of gray clouds. Without light pollution, the stars dotted the sky brightly. Piper let out a small sigh, creating a tiny cloud in front of her face. “Wow…”

“I’m not one to say ‘I told you so’,” Leo started as he bumped his shoulder against hers. “But I told you so.” Piper pouted and resisted the urge to shove him away. The smile tugged at his handsome face, highlighting how young he was. The moonlight danced over his features, accenting amber eyes and sharp chin. A frown tugged at his lips as he tugged at her crew shirt sleeve. “Take my hoodie, you’re freezing.” He ordered as he peeled it off and draped it over her shoulders. “Girls’ pajamas.” He murmured, tugging the ends in front.

“You like our pajamas.” Piper teased taking a step forward, forcing him to take one back. Leo smirked but didn’t reply back, pulling out a blanket and thermos out of his backpack. They settled on the blanket, side by side, staring at the vast dark sky. Piper’s fingers played with Leo’s as he traced out constellations. “Leo, why are we stargazing tonight?”

“I didn’t tell you?” Leo asked as he turned his head, hand squeezing hers as she shook her head. She could see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes, feel the warm heat radiating from his petite body. Leo scratched his cheek nervously, looking away. “There’s a meteor shower tonight. I’ve been tracking it for days now and I really want to see it with you.”

“Leo,” Piper whispered as she inched closer. “That’s too cute.” She smiled at him. Leo pouted, his face inches away from hers.

“Cute? Guys don’t want to be cute.” He said, slowly sliding his arm around Piper’s waist. Just loose enough she could move away if she wanted to.

“Adorable?” Piper tried, tapping her finger against his chest. “Handsome? Attractive? Sexy?” Each word, her finger stepped up, grazing his Adam’s apple deliberately. His eyes dipped into darker shade, darting down to her lips. Instinctively, Piper wetted her lips in response.

“You know a lot of fancy words, Beauty Queen.” Leo murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. Still not taking the last step.

“And you talk too much, Repair boy.” Piper retaliated before pressing her lips against his.

Piper jolted awake, feeling her heart thumping against her chest violently. She gasped for breath, reeling from the vivid memory. She could feel each callous of Leo’s fingertips when he grasped her hand. Her lips tingled like they were freshly kissed. A light blush bloomed on her skin. “What?” Piper whispered, pushing herself to an upright position. The cabin was nearly quiet except for the babbling water fountain Lacy insisted she needed. “That…” She could say wrong because that wasn’t right either. The Mist memories she shared with Jason were fake but… “they had to be built off of something.”

She rubbed her eyes, rolling the new information in her head. From her cot, she could see cabin nine with orange lights glowing from the parted curtains. Many Hephaestus demigods were insomniacs, mind too busy with so many ideas. Leo wouldn’t be there though. His bunker was his haven. For a second, Piper wanted to sneak out there, confront the boy about this dream. But what would he say? Piper thought as she swung her legs out of bed, feeling the cool wooden floor underneath her bare feet. Would this change us?

Piper shrugged on a light robe and wandered through the cabin. She hesitated at the door, hand hovering over the knob before turning around and up the stairs to the second floor. It was one good thing Drew did to their cabin. While the Venus demigods slept on the bottom, the second floor converted into a common area. Couches and desks lined the room. A mini library tucked underneath a bench that sat beside the window. Piper’s favorite armchair tucked in the corner with stuffing falling out.

Piper paused at the top, noticing the former head of cabin ten curled beside the window. A green mug cradled in her left hand as she lifted a pamphlet in her right. A pair of dark read glasses sat on her nose. She wore a dark kimono-inspired robe with pink cherry blossoms cascading down the folds. Her dark hair fell in curls over her left shoulders. The moonlight made her naturally tan skin milk white. “Tea?” Drew asked suddenly without lifting her gaze. “Or would hot chocolate be better?”

“I’m fine.” Piper answered as she stepped into the room, sitting in an armchair nearby. Drew had a laptop closed beside her feet with constellation stickers. A few leaflets spread out in front of Drew. A few familiar names jumped out at Piper while others had Japanese characters. College… Piper haven’t even considered her future yet. “Why are you up?”

“Jetlag.” Drew replied as she massaged her neck and checked the thin silver watch she wore. “It’s three p.m. in Tokyo right now.” Piper didn’t even know Drew was in Japan. The current cabin head lowered her gaze. She didn’t know much about her older half-sister, not that the half-Japanese girl offered much. Piper didn’t bother to ask either. “What about you? Why are you awake?”

“Umm…” Piper hesitated. The two girls grown over the year, getting over their little power feud. Time apart has been good. Civil is the word Piper would use to describe them. They weren’t close. “I had a dream.” Piper finally said, knowing if she had a third party opinion would benefit her, even if it’s Drew’s.

“Good or bad?” Drew asked immediately, turning to face Piper. Her amber eyes glowed bright in the low light. Piper blinked, she never realized Drew and Leo shared the same eye color. She lowered her gaze, unable to meet Drew’s. A soft sigh escaped Drew’s lips. “It wasn’t a normal dream, huh?”

“No.” Piper said before explaining about the mist memories, the fabricated history Aphrodite created for her, Jason and Leo and now the dreams. This wasn’t Piper’s first dream of the Wilderness school but it’s the first one that really shook her. Drew listened without judgement, tilting her head at intriguing parts, frowning at others. Others may say Drew is an ice queen but if you really pay attention to her facial expression, they reveal her thoughts. At the end, a deep frown sat on her lips. “What are you thinking?”

“I think Mother is cruel.” Drew answered truthfully. Both girls looked at each other for a second before chuckling. It felt good being able to talk to someone who wasn’t so deeply ingrained with the Seven. Piper rested her head against the armchair, smiling. Drew lifted one of her legs, wrapping her arm around it as she sipped her tea. “And now you’re confused.” She stated.

“Yeah…” Piper replied as she ran her hand up and down her leg. “Why would I get these memories now? What’s the point?” Drew pursed her lips together.

“Does there have to be a point?” Drew proposed as she rested her chin on her hand. Her nails were painted a flashy red Piper could never pull off. “Maybe there is no point. Maybe she’s bored. Or maybe she thinks you can make your own decisions? You’re an adult.” Piper shook her head. “You’re not an adult?”

“Don’t be funny.” Piper ordered as she grinned. “It doesn’t fit you.” Drew shrugged nonchalantly, taking her glasses off as she rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know what’s the right choice?”

“Don’t live life thinking about the right choice.” Drew said as she stood up to stretch. “You’ll drive yourself crazy. Are you happy with Jason?” Piper bit her lower lip and Drew’s eyes narrowed. “Piper, you’re hesitating. What’s wrong?”

“It’s not widely known.” Piper started as she fiddled with her fingers. “But we’re on break. He’s in New Rome right now, visiting the family that help raised him. He’ll probably see some friends as well. Jason’s getting his memories back as well, slowly.”

“And so are you.” Drew pointed out as she set her mug down, gather her dark hair into a low bun. “And I’m assuming Leo as well. Hmm what an interesting position to be in.” Piper glared at Drew who laughed at the expression. “What? I’m glad I’m just an outsider. A piece of advice, little sister.” The term of endearment caught Piper off guard. “Don’t build your life around a guy. Take some time to yourself. Be single for a bit. Find out what you like, what you don’t.” She squeezed Piper’s shoulder as she walked pass. Piper turned, a question bubbled in her throat.

“Drew?” Piper called out, looking intently at her sister. Drew paused, turning her head. “Did you build your life around someone?” Drew brushed a stray curl out of her face, touching her finger to her lips like she was remembering something. She blinked, snapping out of a memory, and lifted a single finger to her lips before leaving. Piper sighed, shaking her head. “Secrets make a woman woman.” She murmured one of Drew’s favorite phrases.

#drew tanaka #piper mclean #liper #hints of liper #fanfic #mine

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clubofinfo · 7 years ago

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Expert: I’m back!! It has recently been reported that Senator John McCain has an aggressive brain tumor. Not long ago I would have thought: “Good. It’ll be great to be rid of that neanderthal reactionary bastard!” Not now. My kidneys are gone and I’m on (rather unpleasant) dialysis for the rest of my life. My separated-from German wife is in Germany and can’t fly because of the danger of blood clots forming and lodging in her lungs or heart. I’m an avid reader of medical news and almost every day I get choked-up and depressed by the never-ending heart-breaking stories of incurable pain and suffering of the old and the young. So I wish the senator a good recovery, if that’s possible. Probably no more possible than his politics recovering. He just condemned all the neo-Nazi actions in Charlottesville, this man who went out of his way to pose for friendly photos with neo-Nazis in Ukraine and jihadists in Syria. So far the dialysis does not seem to have helped, at least not with my two main symptoms: deep-seated sleepiness at home, resulting in repeated naps, making my writing difficult; and getting out-of-breath and having to stop and rest after a very short and slow walk outdoors. I’m curious about whether any of my readers knows of anyone with a medical problem that was clearly relieved by dialysis. It may be my advanced age of 84 that blocks any improvement. But, supposedly, the dialysis keeps me alive in the absence of functioning kidneys. Incidentally, nine of my readers and friends have offered me a kidney for transplant, but I can’t find a hospital willing to perform it; again it’s my age, though I’m very willing. At least I still have my eyesight and my hearing. My mind is okay. I have all my limbs and am not paralyzed. And I’m not in pain. Much to be thankful for. It’s also very nice to have gone past the hangups my condition thrust upon me and to be back writing my report for the first time in five months. During the recent American presidential campaign I wrote that if I were forced to vote and also forced to choose between Clinton and Trump I’d vote for the Donald. (As it turned out I voted for the Green Party candidate, Jill Stein.) I stated two reasons why I’d choose Trump over Clinton: presumably, a lesser chance of nuclear war with Russia and a lesser chance of the American government closing down the Russian TV station, Russia Today (RT), broadcasting in the US. There was at the time, and now again, growing Congressional pressure to do just that and I’m very reliant on the station. Because of such matters I was willing to overlook Trump’s many and obvious character defects, which I summed up with the endearing word of my people back in Brooklyn –- “shmuck”. But by now the man’s shmuckiness has been writ so large that little hope for him can be maintained. What is keeping Donald Trump from drowning in the very cesspool of his own shmuckiness is a gentleman named Kim Jong-un. Who would have believed that a single historical period could produce two such giant shmucks, men who tower over their pathetic contemporaries? There’s only one explanation for this remarkable phenomenon. Of course. It’s Russia. Moscow is using the two men to make America look foolish. And Russia, it may soon be revealed, gave North Korea its nuclear weapons. Did you think that such an impoverished, downtrodden society could produce such scientific marvels on its own? Is there any act too dastardly for Vladimir Putin? We don’t know yet whether Trump’s son, daughter or son-in-law made any deals with Kim Jong-un. Stay tuned to Fox News and CNN. Those stations, amongst others, put out a lot of fake news, but when it comes to news of North Korea nothing compares to the fake news of 1950. Did you know there’s no convincing evidence that North Korea did what they’re most famous for –- the June 25, 1950 invasion of South Korea, which led to the everlasting division of the Korean peninsula into two countries? And there were no United Nations forces that observed this invasion, as we’ve been taught. In any event, the two sides had been clashing across the dividing line for several years. What happened on that fateful day in June could thus be regarded as no more than the escalation of an ongoing civil war. Read my chapter on Korea in Killing Hope: U.S. Military and CIA Interventions Since World War II for the full details of these and other myths. The response to terrorism I still get emails criticizing me for the stand I took against Islamic terrorists earlier this year. Almost every one feels obliged to remind me that the terrorists are acting in revenge for decades of US/Western bombing of Muslim populations and assorted other atrocities. And I then have to inform each one of them that they’ve chosen the wrong person for such a lecture. I, it happens, wrote the fucking book on the subject! In the first edition of my book Rogue State: A Guide to the World’s Only Superpower, published in 2001, before September 11, the first chapter was “Why do terrorists keep picking on The United States?” It includes a long list of hostile US military and political actions against the Islamic world during the previous 20 years. So I can well see why radical Muslims would harbor a deep-seated desire for revenge against The United States and its allies who often contributed to the hostile actions. My problem is that the Islamic terrorist actions are seldom aimed at those responsible for this awful history –- the executive and military branches of the Western nations, but are more and more targeted against innocent civilians, which at times includes other Muslims, probably even, on occasion, some who sympathize with the radical Islamic cause. These random terrorist acts are thus not defendable or understandable from any revenge point of view. What did the poor people of Barcelona have to do with Western imperialism? Civilians are, of course, much easier to target, but that’s clearly no excuse. As I’ve pointed out in the past, we should consider this: From the 1950s to the 1980s the United States carried out all kinds of very harmful policies against Latin America, including numerous bombings, without the natives ever resorting to the uncivilized, barbaric kind of retaliation as employed by ISIS. Latin American leftists generally took their revenge out upon concrete representatives of the American empire: diplomatic, military and corporate targets – not markets, theatres, nightclubs, hospitals, schools, restaurants or churches. The terrorists’ choice of targets is bad enough, but their methods are even worse. Who could have imagined 20 years ago that an organization would exist in this world that would widely publicize detailed instructions on how to choose a truck to drive down a busy thoroughfare and directly into crowds of people? What species of human being is this? What is needed is a worldwide media campaign to make fun of the very idea that such men, along with suicide bombers, will be rewarded by Allah in an afterlife; even the idea of an afterlife can, of course, be derided; yes, even the idea of Allah, by that or any other name, can be derided; at least the idea of such a cruel God. Appealing to jihadists on simply moral grounds would be even more useless than appealing to Pentagon officials or Donald Trump on moral grounds. The jihadists have to be deeply ridiculed; the small amount of human empathy and decency still remaining in their heart of hearts has to be reached through embarrassing them before their friends and family. Femmes fatales can be used against young Islamic men, most of whom, I’d venture to say, have sizable sexual hangups. Bombing them only increases their numbers. Some thoughts on the question that will not go away: Capitalism vs. socialism The whole art of Conservative politics in the 20th century is being deployed to enable wealth to persuade poverty to use its political freedom to keep wealth in power. –– Aneurin Bevan (1897-1960), Labour Party (UK) minister The fact that Donald J. Trump is a champion –- indeed, a model, or as he might say, a huge model –- of capitalism should be enough to make people turn away from the system, but the debate between capitalism and socialism continues without pause in the Trump era as it has since the 19th century. The wealth gap, affordable housing, free education, public transportation, a sustainable environment, and health care are some of the perennial points of argument we’re all familiar with. So many empty houses … so many homeless people –- Is this the way a market economy is supposed to work? Twice in recent times the federal government in Washington has undertaken major studies of many thousands of federal jobs to determine whether they could be done more efficiently by private contractors. On one occasion the federal employees won more than 80% of the time; on the other occasion 91%. Both studies took place under the George W. Bush administration, which was hoping for different results. The American people have to be reminded of what they once knew but seem to have forgotten: that they don’t want BIG government, or SMALL government; they don’t want MORE government, or LESS government; they want government ON THEIR SIDE. As to corporations, we have to ask: Do the members of a family relate to each other on the basis of self-interest and greed? Speaking in very broad terms … slavery gave way to feudalism … feudalism gave way to capitalism … capitalism is not a timelessly valid institution but was created to satisfy certain needs of the time … capitalism has outlived its usefulness and must now give way to socialism … the ultimate incompatibility between capitalist profit motive and human environmental survival demands nothing less. The system corrupts every important aspect of our lives, including the one which takes up the most of our time -– our work, even for corporation executives, who demand huge salaries and benefits to justify their working at jobs that otherwise are not particularly satisfying. Several years ago, the Financial Times of London reported on Wall Street’s opposition to salary limits: Senior bankers were quick to warn the plans would cause a brain drain from the profession as top executives seek more rewarding jobs out of the public eye. Unlike other careers where job satisfaction and other considerations play a part, finance tends to attract people whose main motivation is money. … ‘The cap is a lousy idea,’ complained one top Wall Street executive. ‘If there is no monetary upside, who would want to do these jobs?’ As for those below the executive class … When they work, it’s too often just any job they can find, rather than one designed to realize innermost spiritual or artistic needs. Their innermost needs are rent, food, clothes, and electricity. For those concerned about the extent of freedom under socialism the jury is still out because the United States and other capitalist powers have subverted, destabilized, invaded, and/or overthrown every halfway serious attempt at socialism in the world. Not one socialist-oriented government, from Cuba and Vietnam in the 1960s, to Nicaragua and Chile in the 1970s, to Bulgaria and Yugoslavia in the 1990s, to Haiti and Venezuela in the 2000s has been allowed to rise or fall based on its own merits or lack of same, or allowed to relax its guard against the ever-threatening imperialists. The demise of the Soviet Union (even with all its shortcomings) has turned out to be the greatest setback to the fight against the capitalist behemoth, and we have not yet recovered. How could the current distribution of property and wealth reasonably be expected to emerge from any sort of truly democratic process? And if this is the way regulated capitalism works, what would life under unregulated capitalism be like? We’ve long known the answer to that question. Theodore Roosevelt (president of the United States 1901-09) said in a speech in 1912: “The limitation of governmental powers, of governmental action, means the enslavement of the people by the great corporations who can only be held in check through the extension of governmental power.” And what do the corporate elite want? In a word: “everything” … from our schools to our social security, from our health care to outer space, from our media to our sports. “We are all ready to be savage in some cause. The difference between a good man and a bad one is the choice of the cause.” – William James (1842-1910) A few years ago, when George W. Bush came out as a painter, he said that he had told his art teacher that “there’s a Rembrandt trapped inside this body”. Ah, so Georgie is more than just a painter. He’s an artiste. And we all know that artistes are very special people. They’re never to be confused with mass murderers, war criminals, merciless torturers or inveterate liars. Neither are they ever to be accused of dullness of wit or incoherence of thought or speech. Artistes are not the only special people. Devout people are also special: Josef Stalin studied for the priesthood. Osama bin Laden prayed five times a day. And animal lovers: Herman Goering, while his Luftwaffe rained death upon Europe, kept a sign in his office that read: “He who tortures animals wounds the feelings of the German people.” Adolf Hitler was also an animal lover and had long periods of being a vegetarian and anti-smoking. Charles Manson was a staunch anti-vivisectionist. And cultured people: This fact Elie Wiesel called the greatest discovery of the war: that Adolf Eichmann was cultured, read deeply, played the violin. Mussolini also played the violin. Some Nazi concentration camp commanders listened to Mozart to drown out the cries of the inmates. Former Bosnian Serb politician Radovan Karadzic, convicted by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia for war crimes, genocide, and crimes against humanity, was a psychiatrist, specializing in depression; a practitioner of alternative medicine; published a book of poetry and books for children. Members of ISIS and Al Qaeda and other suicide bombers are genuinely and sincerely convinced that they are doing the right thing, for which they will be honored and rewarded in an afterlife. That doesn’t make them less evil; in fact, it makes them more terrifying, since they force us to face the scary reality of a world in which sincerity and morality do not necessarily have anything to do with each other. Dick Gregory, 1932-2017 Mayor Daley and other government officials during the riots of the ’60s showed their preference for property over humanity by ordering the police to shoot all looters to kill. They never said shoot murderers to kill or shoot dope pushers to kill. When the white Christian missionaries went to Africa, the white folks had the bibles and the natives had the land. When the missionaries pulled out, they had the land and the natives had the bibles. The way Americans seem to think today, about the only way to end hunger in America would be for Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird to go on national TV and say we are falling behind the Russians in feeding folks. What we’re doing in Vietnam is using the black man to kill the yellow man so the white man can keep the land he took from the red man. http://clubof.info/

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Red September, is a contemporary, fiction, romance novel. It’s a coming-of-age narrative that tells the story of Constance (Connie) Brown. Set amidst the poverty of the 1950’s on an island in the Caribbean. After their father dies, Connie and her siblings live in fear of their alcoholic and abusive mother. Connie life changes when Nathaniel (Nathan) Hart, a charismatic twenty-one-year-old man arrives from New York City on family business. When they meet it is love at first sight for both.

However, Connie is forced to marry Mr. Henry, a wealthy landowner, for financial gain. He moves her into his home on the hill overlooking the town. Though this may seem like a fairy tale ending, events begin to unfold and secrets are revealed that subsequently fractured the center of angst that all of Connie’s conflict revolve around. Her life is riddled with lies, masquerades, and broken dreams.

Connie is left with the task of coming to terms with strong, ambivalent feelings towards her mother, staying in a loveless marriage, or risk everything for her independence and ultimately find her place in the world with Nathan.

Customer Reviews on Amazon.com

5.0 out of 5 stars. I really enjoyed the book. It was a page turner from the beginning to the end. I would definitely recommend this book for the young and the old. I brought five books for my friends and family.

4.0 out of 5 stars. By Rico One of the best books I have read lately I have always felt that the most compelling gift that a writer possesses is the ability to describe places and characters in such authentic detail that the reader sees himself/herself there in the flesh watching the story unfold. This was my experience as I read Marita Berry’s “Red September” and being transported to a small fictional Caribbean island,Taino, that featured the same people, culture, beauty and poverty familiar to my own upbringing. On one hand it is the story of a mother who was dealt a cruel hand, losing her father at an early age, living with an abusive alcoholic mother and having the responsibilities of adulthood thrust upon her at much too early an age. Among those responsibilities was having to care for her siblings. Thirty years later with a family of her own she tries to understand the mother who had caused her so much pain and discomfort in her early years and she finds solace retroactively in telling the stories of her upbringing to her daughter, Brenda and at the same time finding room to forgive her abusive mother. “Red September” is much more than a story of struggle and survival. It is also a love story with it’s own twists and turns of the heart. This is one of the best books I have read lately. My advice to you, the reader, is to get a copy and lose yourself in a great story of love, forgiveness and a mother’s triumphant survival in the end.

5.0 out of 5 stars. This book is a wonderful love story, chapter after chapter is gets more endearing that make you want to keep reading. A great buy!!

4.0 out of 5 stars. A great story of an innocent woman coming into adulthood through unexpected trials and tribulations and how things work out.

4.0 out of 5 stars. By S. Stone This was a Giveaway on Goodreads. Thanks so much! I really enjoyed this heartwarming debut novel by Marita Berry. The story travels from the West Indies in the 1940’s to New York City in the 70’s. It’s the story of a young girl has to endure the harshness that her mother’s drinking evokes. Forced to marry their landlord in exchange for a place for her mother and younger siblings to live, raped, and becoming a mother herself at the young age of 16, it is a story of survival, of hopelessness, and of a love seemingly destined not to survive. Recounting her past to her daughter, Connie relives that love and what it has meant through the years. I will definitely look for more works by this author.

Excerpt: Red September Book

Taino, West Indies (1944)

I awoke with the sun that morning, as I’ve done so many times before. I sat up on my bed, put my feet on the cold cement floor, walked over to the window and looked out. I gazed at the beautiful skyline of orange rays coming up above the mountains, while the candlelight’s flickered in the windows of the framed pastel homes that lined the side of the road. It was another tranquil morning on the small island we called Taino. The trade wind blew softly and the air laden with the rich aroma of freshly cut grass and the soil after a rain was invigorating. Lizards skittered, and a rooster crowing nearby signified a new day.

The grandfather clock in the parlor struck the hour, and my ears perked up at the familiar sounds of the screen door slamming shut as my brother Kevin strolled out to the hen house to collect the eggs. Then there was the pitter-patter of my sister’s feet and the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen as my mother prepared breakfast. We would have oatmeal porridge, scrambled eggs, fresh baked bread with homemade fruit jam and chocolate milk most mornings, and whenever we heard Mother stirring the cocoa mix into the tin cups; it signaled to all four children that it was time to eat.

By the time I appeared in the cozy kitchen and sat down at the table, my siblings were already there playing amongst themselves.

“Where’s daddy?” I asked, turning to face my mother.

“He still taking he bath,” she said. “We can’t eat just yet.”

When it came time to eat we knew that we’d have to wait until father was seated and served first. As an eight year old, I realized how important a father was in a young girl’s life. I loved my father, and he loved me too, so much, that he named me Constance after his mother. And as the eldest child, he was very protective of me. In fact, I was daddy’s girl.

My father was the essence of tall, dark, handsome and slightly built. He was adventurous, a great provider, and possessed a gentle, loving and understanding nature. With a chronically ill wife and four children to raise my father was devoted to his home and family. He never ran away from his obligations by escaping to the local rum shop like so many of the other men did. He regularly found the time to spend with each one of us.

My fondest childhood memories was of this little colored girl wearing a pink cotton dress tiptoeing out of the house with my father on a peaceful morning, just as the sun came up, to pick mangoes and sugar apples from the trees growing in an orchard beyond our house.

Our adventure began with us climbing over the fence in the yard and taking a shortcut through the cow pasture, until we reached the tree line. And then father held a long stick with a nail attached on the end as a hook, and bent the tree branches just low enough for me to reach.

Afterwards, we’d find a shady spot under a tree to talk as we ate some of the succulent fruits, before taking the rest home for mother to turn into jams in preparation for the rainy season.

My father taught me important things about life and the world that I could not acquire from any school. He often talked to me about God and how he made boys and girls different and if I did not give of myself too freely, when I grew up, some man would be lucky to have me. I didn’t realize until I was much older that my father was teaching his frightened little girl how to expect to be treated by boys, which later had a great influence in my matrimonial relationship.

I listened very carefully and deeply valued my father’s advice. Those were the times that I felt secure and the closest to him. It was a warm, comfortable bond.

But I knew only too well the consequences of being brought up feeling as though I lived in two worlds.

My mother a woman of average size and appearance, although semi-illiterate, her greatest ability was her firm, determined and strong-willed personality. She was the force around which our entire family existed. As a strict disciplinarian, she strongly believed in the saying, ‘spare the rod, and spoil the child.’ And if I so much as sucked my teeth or frowned when I was told to do something, I would be punished with a beating from my mother.

On the day my father suddenly died from a brain aneurysm, I never felt so empty, so lost and heartbroken. It was the saddest day of my life. My whole world shattered into a million pieces and life as I knew it changed forever.

About the Author Marita Berry – a self-published fiction author lives in New York City. She cherishes her family, exploring the meaning of life, chocolate, rainy days, salsa dancing, and meditation. Marita is most proud of raising her two sons as a single parent into successful young men, while continuing her education where she received a master’s degree in Social Work, and being a grandmother to two wonderful grandsons whom she says keeps her grounded. Marita’s debut novel, Red September takes the readers on a roller-coaster ride of emotions that will make them laugh, cry, wonder, and wanting more. Her book can be found on http://www.maritaberryauthor.com

Intimate Conversation with Black Pearls Magazine

Marita Berry, a New Yorker, retired after a thirty-year career in telecommunications. She cherishes her spiritual relationship with God; her strong, loving family; and close sister-friendships. She is proud of her two sons, daughters-in-law, and grandsons, as well as her master’s degree in social work from Fordham University.

BPM: Tell us about your most recent work. Is this book available on Nook and Kindle? My first novel, Red September, is a self-published, contemporary, fiction, romance novel. A coming-of-age narrative that tells the story of Constance (Connie) Brown, set amidst the poverty of the 1950’s on a small island in the Caribbean. After their father dies, Connie, the eldest of four, and her siblings are left to live in fear of their alcoholic, and abusive mother. Connie life changes when Nathaniel (Nathan) Hart, a charismatic twenty-one-year-old man arrives from New York City on family business. When they meet it is love at first sight for both. However, Connie is forced by her mother to marry Mr. Henry, a wealthy landowner, for financial gain. He moves her into his home on the hill overlooking the town. Though this may seem like a fairy tale ending, events begin to unfold and secrets are revealed that subsequently fractured the center of angst that all of Connie’s conflict revolve around. Her life is riddled with lies, masquerades, and broken dreams. For Connie, life is filled with hard choices. Will Connie bow down with the task of coming to terms with strong, ambivalent feelings towards her mother, staying in a loveless marriage, or risk everything for her independence, and ultimately find her place in the world with her one true love, Nathan? Can time truly heal all wounds? Also available on Kindle.

BPM: Give us some insight into your main characters or speakers. What makes each one so special? Connie is shy and naïve, but she has genuine inner qualities of being a good daughter, helpful, respectful, smart, self-sufficient, nurturing, sensitive to other’s welfare, and she has a strong obligation to her family. The kind of daughter that any mother would be proud of, but she’s never received any affection or compliments from her mother. It’s only through her relationship with her aunt that her self-esteem can be nourished, and she can feel treasured as children need to feel.

Nathan’s strengths are divided into his core values: having traveled the world in the Navy as a young man, he is brave, courageous, knowledgeable, open-minded, perceptive, and persistent. But as he falls heads-over-heels in love with Connie, Nathan is harboring a deep, dark, secret.

BPM: What inspired you to sit down and actually start writing this book? Red September began as a concept after listening to my mother’s countless stories about growing up on a small island in the Caribbean. It was where she lived without running water, nor electricity, and only the dirt roads on which she traveled. The passing away of my mother served as a catalyst that forced me to get down in accomplishing what I set out to do. She was my muse, and her fearless life anecdotes sparked my interest to loosely base this story about a dysfunctional family where the sorrows and afflictions experienced by the family are at the hands of the alcoholic, abusive, mother. It’s a story of hopelessness, survival, and of seemingly destined love.

BPM: Can you share one topic or scene from your book that will touch most readers? I awoke with the sun that morning, as I’ve done so many times before. I sat up on my bed, put my feet on the cold cement floor, walked over to the window and looked out. I gazed at the beautiful skyline of orange rays just above the mountains, while the candlelight’s flickered in the windows of the framed pastel houses that lined the side of the road. Another tranquil morning on the small island we called Taino. The trade winds blew softly, as the air laden with the aroma of fresh cut grass, and the soil after an overnight’s rain was invigorating. Lizards skittered, and a rooster crowed nearby signified a new day.

The grandfather clock in the parlor struck the hour, and my ears perked up at the familiar sounds of the slamming screen door as my brother, Kevin strolled out to the hen house to collect the eggs. Then, there were the pitter-patter of my sister’s feet and the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen as my mother prepared breakfast. We would have oatmeal porridge, scrambled eggs, fresh baked bread with homemade fruit jam, and chocolate milk most mornings. Whenever we heard Mother stirring the cocoa mix into the tin cups; it signaled to all four children that it was time to eat.

By the time I appeared in the cozy kitchen and sat down at the table, my siblings were already there playing amongst themselves. “Where’s daddy?” I asked, turning to face my mother. “He still taking he bath,” she said. “We can’t eat jest yet.” We knew we’d have to wait until our father was seated and served. As an eight-year-old, I realized how important a father was in a young girl’s life. I loved him dearly, and as the eldest, he remained very protective of me. In fact, I was daddy’s girl.

My father was the essence of tall, dark, handsome, and slightly built. He was adventurous, a great provider, and possessed a gentle, loving and understanding nature. With a chronically ill wife, and four children to raise, my father was devoted to his family. He never ran away from his obligations by escaping to the local rum shop like so many of the other men. He regularly found the time to spend with each one of his children.

My fondest childhood memories were of this little colored girl wearing a pink cotton dress, tiptoeing out of the house with my father just as the sun came up. We would go out to pick the mangoes and sugar apples from the trees in an orchard beyond our house for mother to make her jellies and jams.

Our adventure began with us climbing over the fence in the yard, and taking a shortcut through the cow pasture, until we reached the tree line. And then, father held a long stick with a nail attached on the end as a hook to bend the tree branches low enough for me to grasp. Afterwards, we’d find a shady spot under a tree to talk as we ate some of the succulent fruits, before taking the rest home.

My father taught me important things about life and the world I could never acquire from any school. He often talked to me about God, and how he made boys and girls different, and when I grew up some man would be lucky to have me. I didn’t realize until I was much older that my father was teaching his frightened little girl how to expect to be treated by boys. I listened very carefully, and deeply valued my father’s advice. Those were the times I felt most secure. It was a warm, comfortable bond.

But I knew very well the consequences of being brought up feeling as though I lived in two worlds. My mother, a woman of small stature, stood about five-feet-two. Although semi-illiterate, her greatest ability was her firm, determined, no nonsense personality. She was the force around which our entire family existed. As a strict disciplinarian, she strongly believed in the motto, ‘spare the rod, spoil the child.’ And if I so much as sucked my teeth or frowned when I was told to do something, I would be whipped by my mother. The day my father died suddenly from a brain aneurysm, I never felt so empty, so lost and heartbroken. It was the saddest day of my life. My whole world shattered into a million pieces. Then, life as I knew it changed forever.

BPM: Where do your book ideas come from? Are your books plot-driven or character-driven? My book ideas for writing comes from personal experiences and memories, and they are character driven. So far, my characters have been about sheroes, and I try to focus on their inner conflict. I want my characters attitudes, decisions, and personal evolution to change the shape of the plot by having the women encounter life through empowerment, and I want their confidence and strength to be admired without them having to feel ashamed or apologetic about it.

BPM: Is writing easy for you? Do you feel lonely being a writer? No, writing isn’t easy for me, because I find myself spending quite a bit of time just trying to come up with the right words to put on paper, and to have the clarity to know what I want to say in the first place. I do, however, find writing to be certainly challenging. Like any creative activity, I have my good days where I can come up with a great scene or dialog, and my bad days when my mind goes completely blank. I often wondered why people call writers lonely people. I know it can be a lonely activity. If sitting at a desk for six hours once or twice a week, not talking to anyone, or not having any social interactions with other people, while listening to smooth jazz music, lonely?…. then I may very well be lonely…. But what I feel is inner peace.

BPM: What did you enjoy most about writing this book? I enjoyed the freedom to write this book with no pressure or expectations. I wrote it “for fun,” and I didn’t have to worry about any deadlines, or what I wanted to do with the book once it was finished. It was a given that it would be self-published.

BPM: How long does it take to complete one of your books? It took me almost four years to write my first novel, Red September. I was determined it had to be the best I could write, quality was more important to me. Besides, being an indie author, it was a very challenging learning process as you go. My next book, I’m working on, I expect to take a year.

BPM: Do you have any suggestions to help me become a better writer? I would suggest for anyone to become a better writer, to read a variety of books in different genres. Write a lot. Figure out your own style of writing, because everyone writes differently. Share your work with others, and be willing to accept the good as well as the bad critiques without taking it too personal, so that you can grow.

BPM: What period of life do you find you write about most often? I like writing under the genre of coming-of-age stories, young adult, and contemporary women.

BPM: How do you feel when someone disagrees with something you have written? Honestly, if someone gives me negative feedback, it does dampen things momentarily. I’m lucky to have been in a writing group for five years, and we trust each other feedback by giving constructive criticism to improve on our writing. If there is someone in the group that differs with me considerably, first, I thank them for taking the time to read my work, then I take what I want from them, and leave what I don’t, and keep it moving.

BPM: Are there under-represented groups or ideas featured in your book? If so, discuss them. Yes, the under-represented group or ideas that I have featured in my book(s) thus far have been revolved around African-American women. Moreover, because I feel that female characters are less likely than males to have identifiable goals, or to be portrayed as resilient leaders of any kind. I have been surrounded by strong black women all my life. I am moved by the strength of my late grandmother who single-handedly raised thirteen children, or by my late mother who only went as far as the fifth grade, but raised six children, some of whom went on to receive college degrees, or became a pastor or a deacon of their church’s. My sisters, aunts, and sister- friendships have all given me examples of the embodiment of what a strong black woman can be. And so, it’s from them that I pull my stories.

BPM: Share one specific point in your book that resonated with your present situation or journey. My answer would have to be the romantic love that developed between the two main characters, Connie, and Nathan. Three years ago, I fell in love with a guy. At first, I thought it was just lust, but it evolved with time. As I’ve matured on my journey through life, I found out love is not only about the phone calls, the text messages, the I love you’s, the candlelight dinners or the gifts. Love is about understanding each other. It’s feeling that someone is always going to be there for you no matter what the situation. It’s about trust. It’s about growing old into a graceful couple.

BPM: Did you learn anything personal from writing your book? I learned that I’m passionate, optimistic, and dedicated with the utmost belief in myself.

BPM: Can you share some stories about people you met while researching this book? To make my book come to life, I had several pre-recorded tape messages of my mother’s words. The tape recordings that included questions and answers of my mother and I conversations were carefully translated so that I could capture the inflection of her voice, and the remembrance of her reactions. I also interviewed several of her friends, and family members who were born and/or raised in the Caribbean to ensure their interpretation of island living, and to dig deeper into the culture. What I’ve learned from my research is that although some people think living island life is a dream or fantasy, island life in not always paradise. With limited job opportunities, lack of good medical care, everyday power outages, few, or often no developed roads, between the mosquitoes, heat, humidity, hurricanes, and a limited supply of food and goods, it can be the reasons why so many migrate statewide.

BPM: How has writing this book impacted your life as a published author? I’ve always been a bookworm. Reading has helped me through a lot of crisis in my life because there is no better way of getting drama out of your mind than through the pages of a good book. However, I didn’t set out to write this book as a formula for someone else’s life, or as a get-rich quick scheme. I’ve had several Aha’s moments in my life listening to stories that touched my soul or spirit in some way, and it impacted me so significantly that I found myself on this journey of writing I never intended to go on. A journey on which I found myself. Writing gave me confidence, taught me how to take risks, forced me to ask questions about life, and most of all, it has helped me to meet new people, friends, that are on the same journey as me.

BPM: What does literary success look like to you? I look around on a daily basis and say with a very big smile, “Thank you” to the Universe. I set my goals, and I work tirelessly in achieving them. However, I do like to dream big. What literary success look like to me is self-publishing to great acclaim, getting an agent, publication offers, book tours, selling to film rights, and acquiring financial stability through writing. But in the meantime, I feel blessed to know that success is more of being on the right path, rather than a destination. It’s less about the doing and having, and more about the being.

BPM: What are the 3 most effective tools for sharing your book with the world? Social media such as Facebook, Twitter, and my personal website make it easy to share my book with the world.

BPM: What projects are you working on at the present? I’m presently working on my second book, “Soulfully Yours.” It’s about three single women who met in college, and together they established a public relations firm. But due to their busy schedule, the reality of dating in the new millennium isn’t what it used to be. Meeting a guy at the local bar has been replaced by encountering them on the Internet on a popular dating website named, “Soulfully Yours.” As the story unfolds, the lives of the women become entwined as they search for that special someone that will make each one of them happy. What these three women soon discover is a web of secrets and lies that surrounds the world around them.

BPM: How can readers discover more about you and your work? Share all of your social media links.

My readers can follow me on: Author’s Webpage: http://www.maritaberryauthor.com. Facebook/www.facebook.com/ritaberry.750 Twitter/www.twitter.com/Rebberry Goodreads/www.goodreads.com/meberry

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Black Pearls Magazine for the time to interview me, and in learning more about my work.

Purchase Red September by Marita Berry Genre: Contemporary Romance Novel https://www.amazon.com/Red-September-Marita-Berry/dp/149177696X http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/bookdetail.aspx?bookid=SKU-000501693

Red September by Marita Berry Red September, is a contemporary, fiction, romance novel. It’s a coming-of-age narrative that tells the story of Constance (Connie) Brown.

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