#but it's deeply connected with every joyce book!

[pelorsdyke]

ronancetober - day twelve: spell [practical magic au, nancy wheeler as sally owens, robin buckley as state investigator gary hallett]

“Did you or your sister kill Jason Carver?” The state investigator asks Nancy, both hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket.

It’s stupid, but Nancy can’t help her instinctual deadpan reply. “Oh, yeah,” she says, leaning back against her kitchen counter. Distantly, she can hear Max and Mike taunting each other, the jingle of her aunt’s wind chimes as the pair race in and out of the porch door. “A couple of times.”

The investigator— Robin, she’d said her name was, insistent when Nancy defaulted to Detective Buckley instead— smirks. Nancy traces the line of her lips with her eyes.

“Nancy,” she begins, the word as hard-fought from the respectful detective as Robin’s own name had been from Nancy, “please. Tell me what you saw.”

“Jason Carver was a no-good shithead of a man, a bully and a bastard, and the worst kind of man, which is to say, one who put his hands on my sister. To be honest, Detective,” Nancy replies, pressing in on the word as she says it, watching Robin roll her eyes with barely constrained pleasure, “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass where he is now.”

It’s true, is the thing. When Nancy had first hit him— and she had been the first, the crunch of her car against his bones somehow a relief even as her mind had started racing through the implications of killing a man— a not exactly small part of her had thought about just leaving him where he was. A hit-and-run, maybe chalked up to his mob connections or violent behavior, letting Jason Carver rot in the woods. Better than he deserved, anyway. But Chrissy had insisted, fearful, that they needed to at least move the body, and once the two of them had hustled him in the car, it had seemed a little stupid to just… what? Bury the body in Joyce’s backyard? Hope no one dug the gardenias up too deeply next year? So they’d done something probably far stupider, if she was honest, and paged carefully through books Nancy had sworn off years ago to find a spell neither of them should’ve even considered casting.

And the second time, to be fair, he’d been a breath away from killing Chrissy. So Nancy had done it, in the end, had killed the man twice, the second time by shattering a pot over his head, and if she was honest, she’d kind of enjoyed it. Nancy didn’t intend to become a murderer, but she did revel some in getting to hand-deliver the comeuppance Carver had deserved, after what he’d put her sister through.

And then, yes, sure, they’d buried him in the garden. Fuck off, okay? Where else were they supposed to do it? Maybe one of their cousins had something resembling a better hiding spot for bodies by their mother’s house, but Nancy wasn’t about to start making calls to ask.

Robin mulls over Nancy’s words for a moment, and Nancy takes the time to observe the woman in front of her. Robin was tall but thin, most of her frame hidden away behind the bulk of her thick jacket and flannel, but where the sleeves were rolled up, Nancy caught a peek of muscled forearms. The detective was no desk jockey, certainly. She’d passed on the coffee Nancy had offered her on coming in, citing that it made her inexplicably sleepy, and had smiled fondly at Max and Mike when they’d scampered by, quietly letting on that they reminded her a bit of herself and her older brother. Nancy isn’t really sure why she’s so determined to hold onto every piece of information about Robin, but the woman is just so intriguing to her. There’s something about her presence at Nancy’s kitchen table, steady even as she thrums with energy, that Nancy can’t stop staring at.

It’s the moment when Robin opens her mouth, actually, that it clicks into place for Nancy. She’s saying something about how she’s certainly not about to deny Nancy’s assessment of the situation, not after chasing Carver across the country following a string of murders, but Nancy is only half-listening. Instead, she’s focused in what might be a semi-intimidating way for Robin on the blue of the woman’s eyes, how they flit between shades as the light changes.

—“And they’re going to have… bright blue eyes! Not like me, but like… like the ocean on a summer day.” Nancy remembers saying, Chrissy listening attentively at her side. “And one of those faces like an old Hollywood movie star, and an older brother who was born into parents who adopted them.”

“Is all of this important?” Chrissy had asked, and Nancy had shrewdly raised an eyebrow, breaking her concentration for only a second.

“Chris, it’s about making somebody impossible. I want to make sure I never fall in love,” Nancy had said, resolute and avoiding the sad curve of Chrissy’s lips in response. “Now shut up! I have to finish. And she’s going to hate coffee because it makes her sleepy instead of waking her up, which makes no sense to her or anyone else—“

“She?” Chrissy had piped in again, and Nancy had felt herself blush to the roots of her hair.

“Maybe,” she’d said, defensive and immediate, and her sister had just laughed and wrapped her in a hug, reminding her that they’d always have each other’s backs, no matter what. It was a promise they’d made with blood before Chrissy had run off, but it had been deep in both girls’ souls since long before that.

Nancy comes back to the moment with Robin with a certainty that grips her all the way to her soul. It’s her, she thinks, eyes locked on the cabinet beside her to avoid staring a hole into Robin’s head. Nancy’s magic impossible woman. And she’s doomed her to die.

[butternutrisotto]

13/30

The Journey of Meeting the Most Important People in My Life

Life has a way of introducing us to people who leave lasting imprints on our hearts. Some arrive during pivotal moments, shaping the course of our journey with their presence, wisdom, and kindness. Among these encounters, three individuals stand out as the most important people I’ve met: Joyce, Chef Wes and Chef Luis, and finally, myself.

Joyce: The Guiding Light

I met Joyce during my internship in the United States, a time when I was navigating unfamiliar territory, both literally and figuratively. From the moment we crossed paths, there was an undeniable connection. Joyce had a unique way of making me feel understood. She listened with a genuine heart, offering insights and advice that resonated deeply with me. She wasn’t just a friend; she was a mentor, a confidante, and a guiding light.

Joyce taught me the importance of resilience and self-belief. Her words were more than just suggestions; they were lifelines that I clung to during challenging times. With Joyce, although I was far away from home, family, and my friends in Indonesia, I just felt like her presence made me feel home. I felt like she was a friend, workmate, momma, and sister to me.

Even now, I often find myself returning to the advice she shared, like pages from a cherished book that I never want to close. Joyce's unwavering support helped me navigate my internship and beyond, reminding me that no matter where I go, there are people who truly care.

Chef Wes and Chef Luis: The Mentors Who Saw My Potential

Then there were Chef Wes and Chef Luis, two remarkable individuals I had the privilege of working with during my internship in West Virginia. Stepping into their kitchen was like entering a world of creativity, discipline, and unspoken challenges. Both chefs were not just exceptional at their craft; they were extraordinary leaders who saw potential in me that I hadn't yet discovered.

Chef Wes taught me to be bold, to take risks, and to believe in my abilities. He had a way of pushing me out of my comfort zone, challenging me to think beyond the recipe and add my own flair. His lessons went beyond cooking; they were about life, leadership, and knowing my worth. Chef Luis, on the other hand, had a quiet strength that spoke volumes. His patience, attention to detail, and the respect he showed to everyone in the kitchen taught me the essence of humility and grace under pressure.

Together, they instilled in me the confidence to step up, to lead, and to own my space. Their teachings went beyond culinary skills; they were lessons on self-discovery and personal growth. They helped me understand that being a leader isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about knowing your worth and lifting others as you rise.

Meeting Myself: The Greatest Discovery

But perhaps the most profound encounter of all has been meeting myself. Throughout my journey, I’ve made countless mistakes—stumbled, faltered, and, at times, lost sight of who I was. But each mistake was a stepping stone, guiding me closer to the person I was meant to be. I’ve learned to embrace my true colors, even when they felt hidden beneath layers of doubt and fear.

In discovering myself, I’ve found a strength I never knew I possessed. I’ve come to understand my worth, not just as a professional or a friend, but as a person deserving of kindness, respect, and love—especially from myself. The journey hasn’t been easy, but every misstep has been a lesson, every failure a reminder that growth often comes from the most unexpected places.

Today, I stand with a clearer sense of who I am and what I bring to the table. I’m not perfect, and I’m still learning, but I’m grateful for every part of this journey. Meeting Joyce, Chef Wes, and Chef Luis has been a blessing, but meeting myself has been the most transformative encounter of all. It’s taught me that the most important person I will ever meet is the one looking back at me in the mirror.

In this ongoing journey, I continue to carry the lessons and love from those I’ve met along the way, knowing that with each new step, I am exactly where I need to be.

[blindrapture]

I probably find this way cooler than it really is, but look, James Joyce doodled Leopold Bloom at some point!!! He wrote next to it in the original Greek, "Tell me, Muse, of that manyminded man, who wandered far and wide."

I’ll also take this time to share some stuff about Bloom. For purposes of relative convenience: The “present day” in Ulysses is June 16/17, 1904.

General Bloom Information: - His father was Rudolf Virag, Jewish, from Szombathely, Hungary. Virag had spent the 1850s/60s migrating westward and finally settled in Dublin shortly before his son’s birth. Leopold’s earliest memory of his father is of hearing the story of this migration, following the path on a map. Vienna, Budapest, Milan, Florence, London, Dublin. give or take. (Rudolf’s father was Lipoti Virag-- Leopold’s namesake.) - His mother was Ellen Higgins, Irish Protestant, daughter of another Hungarian Jew by the name of Julius Karoly who migrated to Dublin and married Irish-- Fanny Hegarty was the name of Leopold’s maternal grandmother. they took on the name Higgins in lieu of the more foreign-sounding Karoly, and speaking of... - Shortly after Rudolf Virag married Ellen, he changed his name to Rudolph Bloom. “Virag” means “flower,” that’s where the name came from. He also converted to Protestantism, though there’s some heavy implications that the Society for Converting Jews had coerced him with food. And it’s around this point that his son was born.

Leopold’s Life: - Full name Leopold Paula Bloom. Born in Clanbrassil Street, Portobello, Dublin, in 1866. - Leopold attended the Erasmus Smith High School until he was 16, where he got an interest in the sciences and developed his distaste with the Protestant Church (who funded the high school). He also dressed as a woman for a school play, and that may have sparked a long-standing deep affinity in him wherein he imagines what it’s like to be a woman, in contentment. - He spent some years working for the family business as a commercial traveller, walking about with orderbook. I couldn’t tell you specifically what it is they sold, though I feel like that information is in the book somewhere. At some point, the family also had some sort of significant ownership of a hotel. - Mother Ellen died of illness in 1886, and father Rudolph poisoned himself out of heartbreak a week later in the hotel, leaving a letter for his just-barely-adult son. - Leopold met Spanish-Irish singer Marion “Molly” Tweedy at... a place and time I honestly can’t tell you right this minute (but is probably in the book somewhere). At the time, Molly was big on the poetry of Lord Byron, and she thought Leopold bore a striking resemblance to the poet. He tried writing a poem for her, it was really silly and not very good. But they remained in each other’s social circles, Leopold charmed the hell out of her, they fell in love and got married in 1888. - Their first child, daughter Millicent (”Milly”), was born in 1889. On June 16, 1904, she is fifteen years old and away at Mullingar to study and work in the photography business. - Their second child, son Rudolph (”Rudy”), was born in December 1893, and died eleven days later in January 1894. Leopold and Molly ceased having sexual intercourse after this, indicative of a powerful grief which, by the “present day,” has lasted ten and a half years. - With Molly, Leopold has lived in a few spots across Dublin. During 1893-94, they stayed in the City Arms Hotel, as it was nearby to the cattlemarket, where Leopold worked for a Mr. Joseph Cuffe as a clerk (until he was fired because he kept giving opinions on civic development, whereupon he sent Molly to go and try and seduce him to get the job back. that did not work). The cattlemarket job comes up a lot in Bloom’s thoughts. It had a slaughterhouse on-site, which he detested. - At.. some point (???) after this, the family moved into the middle-class neighbourhood of Eccles Street, into house number 7. It is there that they remain by the “present day.” - Bloom has a library of something like 23 books at home (none of which I, Jordan, have read). They range from travelogues (In the Track of the Sun: Readings from the Diary of a Globe Trotter) to history books (History of the Russo-Turkish War) to practical (Thom’s Dublin Post Office Directory, 1886) to trite (Physical Strength and How to Obtain It) and scientific (A Handbook of Astronomy). - His wife, on the other hand, reads steamy sexy romance stories and pulp fiction, which Bloom frequently picks up for her on the cheap. With titles like Ruby: the Pride of the Ring, Fair Tyrants, and The Sweets of Sin, Molly flips through these within a couple days and judges them based on whether or not there’s any smut in it. The Sweets of Sin, in particular, is one name to keep track of if you decide to read Ulysses. - But most of Leopold’s critical reading comes with the newspaper-- he has an eye for advertisements and Opinions about how good or bad different ads are (Potted meat? Advertised just above the list of deaths? How tasteless!). By the time of the “present,” he’s got a job working for the Freeman’s Journal and National Press as an ad canvasser, so he needs to work with clients in representing their businesses with good ad design. - The household is economically secure for its time. Bloom has enough in savings. (This one is meant to be figured out by the reader, but uh, price inflation and changing of currencies and living standards has fogged it a bit.) - In the “present day,” Bloom is 39 years old, and five foot nine, and of slightly above-average physical build (even if he doesn’t think it).

I’ve been contemplating what else, exactly, to include here ever since I started making this post. There’s really many entries I could make. But I think a lot of them fall closer to legit Themes which the book deals with, and I think I’ll leave this post general. There are details about Leopold, after all, which are better off uncovered by the reader more gradually, allowed to evolve in a contrapuntal puzzling tension, allowed to be Figured Out. The Plots and Subplots, you could say.

But Bloom. Bloom endures. He is a character I cannot forget. Not everything about him is given to us; his life story is “spotty” in parts if you try to put it all down in black-and-white, but what is there is given with such precision and integrated with such... structure that I do think is comparable with ancient epic poetry.

..and, hey, if you do read Ulysses and don’t want to have to rely on my own spotty commentary, this website can help you with context.

[kaypeace21]

Hopper & lonnie (anon)

Tw: ab*se /dr*gs

So I’ve been reading your theories about Hopper being an interject alter who is going to figure it out after his “death” after season three. I really love it, I think it fits so well. But I was wondering something. 

Why does Will view Hopper, in particular, as someone who could protect him? 

If it was just about being an authority figure, he could have chosen any other cop. And I’m not sure it was about Hopper as a person either, because until the events, it’s implied he and Joyce aren’t close anymore. They had something in high school but Hopper moved away years ago and is kind of an outside observer in her life now, up until Will vanishes. 

So why Hopper? Why would Will attach so strongly to him? 

Then I noticed the time frame. I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but I think Hopper returns to Hawkins the year before, or maybe the same year, Lonnie leaves. Which makes a lot of sense.

Back in episode two, Hopper tells the woman he’s with how sleepy Hawkins is. There hasn’t been a murder since 1923 or a su*cide since 1969. And people keep making a big deal of how he’s “a big city cop” and “things like that don’t happen in Hawkins”. It’s implied that Hopper is used to seeing darker crimes, and would recognize them if they were happening on his patch. And then shortly after he arrives in town Lonnie - a bully who relished controlling his family and loved to freeload off Joyce’s hard work - packs up and leaves for a more anonymous life in the city. It’s deeply suspicious. Why would he do that? What was he afraid of? 

I think he was afraid Hopper would discover the depths of his abuse of Will. 

I don’t think Hopper actually did find any evidence of that before he left, or ran him out of town or anything. Hopper seems to view Lonnie as a deadbeat, but he still wants to call him, even after Joyce tells him about the verbal abuse Lonnie used to give Will, and we see Hopper look discomfited. But he still pushes the Lonnie thing and wants to get him involved in Will’s disappearance, like he would any other dad, so I don’t think he has any idea of the truth.

What I think might have happened was that Hopper caught Lonnie in some minor crime, and pulled him to rights on it in front of Will. It could have been anything. Maybe Lonnie was drunk and mouthing off and Hopper physically restrained him. Maybe the family were going hungry to pay his debts and Hopper intervened. We don’t know. But I think there was something, and Hopper was very much the “bigger guy” in the situation. The alpha male. And for Will, it was the first time he’d seen his dad defeated like that.

And then shortly afterwards, Lonnie left. And in Will’s little kid mind, the two things HAD to be connected. Hopper scared Lonnie away! I wouldn’t be surprised if Hopper spooked Lonnie. Maybe he got in his face and said something like “I know guys like you” or “What else are you up to, out here in the woods? What else are you hiding, huh?” And Hopper is thinking meth cooking or something, but Lonnie’s mind goes to darker places and wonders how much he might really know. 

When Will first sees the Demogorgon it’s as a faceless man in the woods. And he runs home and tries to call the police. Maybe he thinks it’s Lonnie or his friends and is hoping Hopper will save him again.

I just think something must have happened to make Will have such trust in Hopper as a protector, even if Hopper himself is unaware of it. I hope we get to see the flashback, and young Will forming that idea. Maybe as Hopper is wandering around the death scape figuring out what he really is, this memory will come to him as a flashback and he’ll be confused. Maybe he / the audience will misinterpret it as being about “protecting Joyce” . But we’ll see Will right there and join the dots. 

Side note: I wonder if Lonnie really was cooking meth? PCP / biker meth was big among poor communities in the Eighties, and it’s a scary drug. It causes hallucinations and increases aggression. It might have made Lonnie into more of a monster when he was on it, and if he gave it to Will to get some sick kick out of seeing a kid on drugs, the hallucinogen might have been what unlocked Will’s powers. The blurring of reality and nightmares. I have no real evidence for this except the historical context, but it would explain a lot. 

——–

Response (kaypeace21):

Tw: dr*gs/ ab*se

This actually makes a lot of sense on why Lonnie may have left and hates Hopper . He would be getting in the way of his “dr*g business” and other sick activities. Lonnie’s gf even has a biker shirt from Harley davidson- with the eagle logo and their saying “live to ride’. Which would imply lonnie is also in such biker circles. Harley davidson in the 80s had dr*g gangs too.

* the whole convo of Cynthia replacing 50 something Lonnie for a “younger model”. Is foreshadowing of Lonnie doing that to her. He replaced Joyce with a gal in her 20s. And will prob pick another young girl to use in s4/5. Like the movies hint his next gf is about Jonathan’s age-ick. They also called it “bathtub cr*nk” which is sketchy given the bathtub is what Will/mf fears and how the sensory deprivation tank is later called a tub by el . Becky even said he would get terry high and throw her in the tank/tub.

And s4 movies have quite a few biker gangs . Also would make the fact in s2 Will was forcibly injected with a needle more sinister. We see on the TV in s2 punkie brooster says they had a nightmare of having a needle forced into their arm - similar to Will

 And in s2 Billy (aka William) was injected in the neck and threatened with a bat. And in s3 robin and Steve were injected in the neck and got high. I thought hopper being in a upsidedown reflection of a spoon was more of a matrix DID ref. But there could be more to it. Like you mentioned such things were cooked in spoons. It would also explain Lonnie’s “debts”.

And yeah in the st books brenner gave the subjects drugs which activated/strengthened their powers yikes . Yikes . Yikes

update- WAIT!

“One reason m*th is so prevalent in rural areas is that it can be formulated, or “cooked,” by small producers and one of the ingredients is readily found on most farms – anhydrous ammonia fertilizer. Both farmers and chemical suppliers have experienced thefts of anhydrous particularly in the Midwest.“

WHICH REMINDS ME OF the FLAYED EATING FERTILIZER AND CHEMICALS IN S3 OMG. Nancy even says farmers/chem suppliers  are having fertilizer stolen omg! And she later thinks flayed tom was on drugs- “Nancy drew and the case of the missing fertilizer”. 

EVEN Nancy’s proof Tom is on dr*gs is a symptom of m*th use or withdrawl from it-excessive sweating (like all the flayed in s2-3). M*th causes hyperthermia (body is at a higher temp than usual)-so they like it cold!!!!! ahhhhh. Even clammy hands that she mentioned is a symptom of m*th use. in children it can even cause seizures- like Will :(

It also does take some chemisty knowledge to COVERT various substances (including fertilizer and other chemicals) to make m*th- which reminds me of the kids saying they can convert one substance into another (when referencing why the possessed are eating chemicals). I CRACKED THE CODE!!!!!!!!!!

when m*th is made via soil it first is made into a highly corrosive liquid which is sometimes green-like the Russian lab.

“six pounds of toxic waste is created for every pound of m*th manufactured. The waste is often dumped on farms, in rivers and and is harmful to the environment.” Like all the chemical leaks relating to Hawkins lab/mf that affected crops in s2/this pic of water in s3.

[ariel-seagull-wings]

TOP 12 BEAUTIES (FROM BEAUTY AND THE BEAST)

@princesssarisa @sunlit-music @mademoiselle-princesse @the-blue-fairie

@amalthea9 @theancientvaleofsoulmaking @astrangechoiceoffavourites @metropolitan-mutant-of-ark @superkingofpriderock @draculashaxanbride @lioness--hart @anne-white-star @gravedangerahead @grafedelweiss @lord-antihero​

Growing up, Beauty and The Beast has always been one of the fairy tales wich i have a deep emotional connection. I love how it combines elements of adventure, mystery, horror, comedy, drama and romance to form a beautifull narrative about external versus internal beauty, coming of age, self-discovery, familial love, friendship, building of a romantic love and redemption. And connecting me to this emotional rollercoaster of a story, is the heroine, the curious and sensitive Beauty, who faces her fear of the unknown to save the life of her father, and trough this act of sacrifice discovers eternal happiness in the most unlikely of places.

And tonight, i make this humble ranking in tribute to her.

12º Mitsuko Horie as Maria in Grimm’s Fairy Tale Classics (1989)

In this anime episode based on the german variant The Summer and Winter Garden, we are presented to Maria, a simple and hardworking peasant girl who is kidnapped by the Beast away from her family home. Maria lives a long period of silent sadness in the Beasts palace, until he starts to show a more sensitive and considered side, and she forgives him. When he lets her go visiting her family, Maria has to say goodbye to her father, who dies, and due to her grief, forgets for a moment of Beast’s castle. And after finally remembering, she rushes in despair hoping to save Beasts’s life...

Maria is the most vulnerable encarnation of Beauty, and one cannot help but constantly want to hug her in protection.

11º Léa Seydoux as Belle in Christophe Gans’s La Belle et La Bête (2014)

A young woman who tries to act always calm and serious, but inside herself hides deep sadness and melancholy, born from the feeling that she is considered guilty for the death of her mother at her childbirth. So she treats her journey to the Beast’s castle as a way to make amends, because she feels that if her father went to die at the Beast’s hands for picking a rose that she asked for, it would be another death that would be her guilt. And in the castle, exploring the mirrors that reveal the Beast’s past, she learns that someone shares her desire of becoming cleaned from any feeling of guilt, and take its right to happiness.

10º Trish Van Devere as Belle Beaumont in Beauty and The Beast (1976)

An older, more grounded and no nonsense, but still sensitive portrayal. Coming from a family formed by a well-intentioned but misguided father, two materialistic and mean spirited older sisters, a vulnerable younger brother and a cruel brother-in-law,  Van Devere’s Belle has great pressure over her shoulders to be the voice of reason to people around her, wich makes us empathize with the state of tiredness she gets in. She is always tough and honest when necessary, and kind and gentle when she also needs to be.

09º Nina Krachkovskaya/Amy Irving as Anastasia/Nastenka in Soyuzmultifilm’s Alenkiy Tsvetochek (1952)

In this animated short adaptation of the russian variant The Scarlet/Crimson Flower, writen by Sergey Aksakov, our Beauty is Nastenka, the youngest daughter of a brave captain of a merchant ship. Nastenka is a dreamer, shy, and prone to philosophical melancholy, even tough she doesn’t necessarily knows the reason of her sadness, what makes her self-discovery all the more relatable to audiences, specially young ones.

08º Marina Ilichyova as Aljona in Irina Povolotskaya’s Alenkiy Tsvetochek (1977)

Besides also sharing the shiness, sadness and melancholy of her animated counterpart, the peasant-girl-next-door Aljona is also a deeply frightened young woman, whose narrative arc involves learning to let herself loose a bit more, and not let her fears dominate her. This arc is highlighted in the moments where she gives a subtle smile when she talks to and plays along the Beast of the Forest.

07º Joyce Taylor as Lady Althea in Edward L. Kahn’s Beauty and The Beast (1962)

An elegant and confident noble lady, Lady Althea is the fiancée of the wise, brave and humble Duke Eduardo. She arrives at the dukedom excited with the wedding, but makes a discovery: since assuming power as a ruler, Eduardo is under a curse that turns him into a Beast every night. Now Althea has to deal with the dillema of staying to support her fiancée with her love, or leaving, in fear of his Beast side, and Joyce Taylor’s performance in the role engages us into this dilema till the end.

06º Dima Bawab as Zémire in Zémire et Azor (2014)

This comic ópera composed by the belgian André Grétry transports the story to a fairy tale land combination between France and Persia, presenting us to the adorable Zémire, a merry, romantic and idealistic young lady, who enjoys letting herself get loose in a world of dreams, reading books of fantastical stories. She also is curious and inquisitive, insistently questioning the servant Ali until he thells what concers so much her father, so she gets to take the journey to the palace of Azor, the Prince turned into a Beast. There, at first she is scared, but then, showing a sense of wonder, starts playing with the wolves that guard the palace and have merry conversations with Azor, with whom she eventually falls in love.

05º Josette Day as Belle in Jean Cocteau’s La Belle et La Bête (1946)

At the same time a relatable audience surrogate, and an individual character in her own right. Day’s Belle starts as a mysteryous woman, with a stoic, resilient face, and elegant, if rigid, gait. As the film rolls, we slowly get to piece her passions, her vulnerabilities and her fears. Specially her fear of leaving the comfort of her family home life, adventuring to the unknown, and falling in love.

04º Vanessa Williams as Beauty in Happily Ever After: Fairy Tales For Every Child (1995)

The sister of a tall and strong, tough lazy man, named Tree, and a pretty, tough vain lady, named Precious, William’s Beauty is brave, truthfull, altruístic, and also has a light hearted sense of humour and an introspective sensibility. The highlight of this encarnation is when she is at her home room’s window, she sings a song pondering her doubts between staying at her family home, or returning to the Beast’s palace.

03º Beauty from Megan Kearney’s Beauty and The Beast Webcomic (2012-17)

Made as a tribute to other Beauties that camed previously, while being her own version. An emotionally repressed young woman, who lost her mother at childbirth, and suffered bullying during childhood, being called ‘ugly duckling’ by other kids, Kearney’s Beauty grows burying her emotions in the hard work on her family’s farm, and is in search of an identity and a place in the world. One day she asks for a rose that grows in winter that appeared in her dreams, and this is the exciting incident that catapults her journey to the Beast’s enchanted castle, where she blossoms into a lady who is brave, witty and confident. 

02º Paige O’Hara as Belle in Disney’s Beauty and The Beast (1991)

The first encarnation i ever saw when i was a child. The young lady who newly arrived at a small village, with an introspective bookworm behaviour that is the target of her neighbours. She doesn’t pay attention to the gossip, but laments her loneliness, and longs for a friend who understands her sensitivity and shares her desire for adventure in the great wild somewhere. When she first meets the Beast, she resists coming closer to him,  who provokes fear and anger in her. But after the Beast saves her from wolves, Belle’s reaction, while still energic, becomes of compassion, empathy and zeal. As she spends more time with the Beast, learning to see him as her friend, Belle finally notices that her beautfiull discontentment was rewarded, because she finally found someone to understand her.

And now the moment that everyone was whaiting: My Number One Beauty is...

01º Zdena Studenková as Julie in Juraj Herz’s Panna a Netvor (1978)

Julie is the youngest of the merchant’s three daughters, and also the daughter born of his second wife and greatest love. This makes her the merchant’s favorite daughter, while in turn that favoritism makes her life very sheltered, since her father fears loosing her like he lost her mother. When she takes her father’s place and rides a horse to the ruins that the Beast calls his palace, you get the feel that is not only out of filial duty, but also a desire for freedom that motivates her decision. Arriving at her destiny, she is fascinated by the ruins and the magic that they contain, and gets even more fascinated by the voice of the mysteryous Beast, who unbknowns to Julie, is containing a violent desire to devour her. Slowly, Julie learns that it wasn’t just out of curiosity that she inquired and playfully talked to her host: even without seeing the Beast, Julie is falling in love with Beast, and must decide wheter she accepts this feeling or rejects it and returns to the safety of her family home.

Starting out as passive, but slowly revealing herself to be braver than she ever expected, showing strenght in her vulnerability when learning to find the sublime in the grotesque, Zdena Studenková’s Julie is both an easy to follow audience surrogate and a unique individual character, beautifull in her complexities, and that is why she is my Number One portrayal of Beauty.

HONORABLE MENTIONS: Susan Sarandon as Beauty in Faerie Tale Theatre (1984)

[windless-hurricane]

She's the One

Chapter 3: Eleven

A Billy x Reader x Steve Fanfic

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SUMMARY: You're One, one of the many kids experimented on in Hawkins lab. Eleven's sister. You were found and now, you're here to stay.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry for the long hiatus, but I'm finally back and here to finish this series! I hope you enjoy!

WARNINGS: Language, violence, and graphic scenes involving blood and/or death.

WORD COUNT: 3.2k

TAGLIST: @cherrym4rk @acidrain707 @torntaltos @evelynfreakinaddams @bun-dpdbny @qtmeryr @art-flirt @5sosxgrethan @kayln97 @uwu-bucky @thecornerstoreoftheuniverse @book--butterfly @laurmillen @gabyer0309 @colourado @supernaturalvikingwhore @gothackedalready @xxalice98xxblog @bhad-disposition @loveofmonstersandroses

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SHE'S THE ONE MASTERLIST

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You two stared at each other for what felt like hours. Hours and nothing less. That’s what it felt like to you at least. However, in reality, those hours were really seconds. 

She didn't recognize you completely, but who could blame her? It had been five years since you were put away in that tank. Of course she wouldn't recognize you right off that bat. However, all you needed, at least for the moment, was to feel that sense of remembrance within her. A feeling that told you she remembered you, but couldn't quite remember how. That...connection. And to your relief, you felt it. That would be enough for now. Right now, someone else had to talk to her more and that was Mike. You could feel it off of him. 

Without hesitation, Eleven turned to him. Her eyes glossed over and lips trembling as she smiled. It was sad yet full of relief, and his smile only matched hers once they met in the center of the room.

“I never gave up on you,” he confessed and the tone of his voice was so raw and adoring, it surprised you. The love you already knew he felt for her was so real and powerful, it was amazing. “I called you every night - every night for-”

“353 days. I heard,” she finished and you couldn’t help but smirk. They even finished each other’s sentences. It was adorable, but 353 days was still a long time.

“Why didn’t tell me you were there? That you were okay?”

“Because I wouldn’t let her,” Hopper interrupted and everyone’s eyes quickly darted toward him. They were mostly confused as they watched him with wide eyes. Mike, however, scowled at him.

“The hell is this,” he questioned harshly before turning back to Eleven. “Where have you been?” But seeing as she had no answer, he faced Hopper again, shouting at him angrily. “You’ve been hiding her! You’ve been hiding her this whole time!”

“Hey,” Hopper shouted back, “Lets talk.” And just like that, Hopper grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into another room. While the kids worried for Mike, you worried for Hopper. You could sense the amount of regret he had toward the situation, but it was something that had to be done and Mike had to understand that. Even if it did hurt him. 

“Hey,” someone called out, and you were quickly brought back to reality. You turned and met the brown-eyed gaze of Eleven once again. She was a lot closer now and for some reason, it made you incredibly anxious. You didn’t know why, but you were eventually able to place it on your fear. Your fear of her not actually remembering you, even if you did feel it. What if it had just been in your head? You were hoping that that wasn’t the case. That’s why you had to know-

“Do you remember me?”

You gazed at her intently, waiting for her answer. To you, everything depended on her answer. If she didn’t remember you, then everyone would believe that you just spouted lies to them about being Eleven’s sister. So not only would you lose their trust. but you would also lose the only family you had left. So please, Eleven. Say yes.

Then, her warm hand gripped your wrist and you gaped at her uneasily. Her grip was loose and gentle as she turned your wrist over, exposing and examining your tattoo at the same time. 

“One,” she let out quietly and you almost gasped. 

“Yes,” you asked and she gazed back at you with glossy eyes. 

“You're my…”

“Sister,” you finished. “You probably...don't remember me… You were still so little...but I was the one…”

“Who saved them,” she confirmed. 

“Yeah… how did you-”

“I remember.” Your eyes widened in surprise. “And Kali told me too.”

“Kali...Eight?” She nodded. So, it was really was Eight that you heard Eleven with before you woke up. 

“Is she okay?” She nodded again. “That's good to hear,” you muttered, but you still felt a bit guilty. “Listen, Eleven… I'm-I'm sorry that I wasn't able to-”

“It's okay,” she interrupted. 

“It is?”

“Yeah.” She chuckled slightly and you couldn't help the smile that made its way onto your face as well. Both your eyes began to well up with tears.

“It's been so long,” you noted and you both pulled each other into a long awaited, but much needed hug. You missed this and you probably always would - the warmth of another person, especially...someone you cared about. 

You glanced up and spotted Lucas and Dustin right behind her. As much as you needed this hug, like with Mike, they needed a moment with her too. They were her best friends after all. 

“I won't hog you anymore,” you whispered into her hair. “They need a hug too.” She nodded before pulling away and walking over to them. Your smile only grew as you watched their faces light up with happiness. That's what you wanted to feel. Not pain, but happiness. After you all dealt with the gate, you knew you definitely could. Everyone could.

__________________________________________

“I can do it,” Eleven responded confidently and you stared at her in awe.

“No, you're not hearing me,” Hopper explained. “It's not like before. It's grown...a lot. And even if we do get in there, the lab is crawling with those dogs-”

“Demodogs,” Dustin bluntly corrected and Hopper only shot him a glare. 

“That's not the point. The point is is that it'll be nearly impossible to get in there with those things.”

“I can do it,” Eleven repeated, sterner than before. You smirked slightly before Mike spoke up. 

“Even if El can, there's another problem. If the brain dies, the body dies.” You furrowed your eyebrows as you pieced it together.

“I thought that was the whole point,” Max questioned. 

“It is, but if we're really right - if she closes the gate and it kills the mind flayer’s army-”

“Then, Will goes too,” you concluded, causing Mike to nod. 

“Closing the gate will kill him.”

A silence befell on everyone as they processed this. It'll kill Will, so what can you do to keep it from happening?

“He likes it cold,” Joyce mumbled, almost inaudibly. 

“What,” Hopper irked. 

“He likes it cold. Will told me that and we just-we just keep giving it what it wants.”

“If this is a virus,” Nancy began. “And Will’s the host…”

“We need to make the host uninhabitable,” Jonathan finished. 

“You need to burn it out of him,” you told them, before glancing up at them. “You have to do it somewhere it doesn't know this time - somewhere far away.” So, Hopper suggested it be his house and they agreed easily. Jonathan, Nancy, and Joyce were on their way there now while Hopper took you to another room to speak with you.

“Do you think you can come with us,” he asked softly and you gazed at him in surprise before shaking your head. 

“I can...but it’s not my choice,” you answered and he sighed deeply. “It's Eleven’s. I know…she can close the gate by herself...that's for sure. I can help...but I have a feeling she wants to do it by herself. It's her...mission.”

“Her mission?”

“She was the one...who awakened the monster. So...it's her mission.”

“It is my mission,” Eleven confirmed and you and Hopper both shot her a look. 

“Are you sure about this,” Hopper asked and she nodded, looking at you now. 

“Can you...keep them safe,” she asked and you smiled gently.

“Of course.” Like you said before, you would help in any way you could. Even if it meant staying behind. “Just promise to be safe.”

“Promise,” she smiled. 

__________________________________________

It had been ten minutes since you were left with Steve and the kids and things weren't going well so far. You both had very different opinions on what should be done while everyone else was out. Steve was very against what you and the kids suggested. "This is not happening! I promised to keep you shitheads safe and (Y/N) did too, so I don't know why you’re condoning this.”

“Yeah, I agreed to protect them, which I will. But I think we could do more than just sit here too,” you argued, almost pouting. If you weren't in the situation, Steve would've thought it was cute. But you were in this situation.

“No,” he exclaimed. “We're staying here, on the bench, and letting the starting team do their job. Does everyone understand that?” His gaze flickered between you and the kids, but you felt like the question was mainly for you.

“This isn't a sports game,” Mike retorted. 

“Does everyone understand?! I need a yes!” Before anyone could answer though, a large roar was heard outside and you immediately jumped to your feet, preparing for an attack from what you presumed was another demodog. 

“Was that-”

“No,” Max let out panickily before running to the window and throwing up the curtain. She spun back around with fear flooding her eyes. “It's my brother.”

Brother? You didn't know she had one. No, you probably just didn't remember she had one. You had to have heard his voice before, but now wasn't the time to remember. The kids, especially Max, were starting to freak out. 

“He can't know I'm here,” she emphasized. “He’ll kill me. No, he'll kill us.” Your eyes widened almost immediately as she said that. He'll kill us? Her own brother? That didn't seem right. How could her own family - Then an image of Doctor Brenner flashed in your head. You took that back. He definitely could and you weren't going to let that to happen. 

“No, he won't,” you stated strongly. “Not while I'm here.” The kids seemed reassured by your response and you were about to make your way to the door until a hand clamped over your shoulder, stopping you. You glanced up to the owner of that hand confusedly. “Steve?”

“I'll handle this.” 

“Now’s not the time to be cool, Harrington,” Dustin yelled. “Just let the girl with the mind powers handle him.” 

“I got this,” Steve repeated once more before heading out the door and slamming it behind him. 

While you could have stopped him, you could feel that he had it out for this guy - like this was something that he always wanted to do it. So, you decided not to interfere for the time being. 

Once he stepped out, the kids immediately leapt onto the couch and gathered around the open curtain. You tensed, hoping her brother wouldn't see them, but your curiosity ended up getting the best of you as well. You ended up joining them right on the couch.

You saw Steve. He was still on the porch and you could faintly hear him. 

“What's he saying,” Dustin asked quietly. 

“I can read minds, not hear through walls,” you muttered. 

“Then, what's he thinking?”

“I want to beat this guy’s...ass?” 

“What's Billy thinking?” This time it was Max asking. You had been so focused on Steve, you forgot the reason why he was out there in the first place.

You looked past Steve and caught the sight of Billy for the first time, and he was not what you expected to say the least. From where you were, he looked like he was about Steve’s height. Yet his body was completely different. He was broader, more muscular, and he knew it too. His hair was kempt, longer than Steve’s, but tuft and curly. He took care of it. While you expected a monster, you didn't expect such a pretty one. Then, that monster met your eyes. 

“Shit,” Dustin exclaimed, and that was your que to all duck behind the couch. “Did he see us?” 

“Pretty sure he did,” you answered, moving away from the couch along with everyone else. 

“Can't you make us disappear or something?!”

“What?”

“You said you can make people see what you want them to see, right?! So can't you make it seem like we're not here?!”

“He already saw us, there's no-”

Then, the door exploded open and you looked to the door in shock. There he was. He was prettier up close, but looked a lot meaner. You subconsciously moved in front of the kids as he inched closer to the five of you. You frowned. What were you supposed to do against a person without hurting them too much?

“Well, well, well, if it isn't Lucas Sinclair. What a surprise,” he scoffed, looking straight past you. Honestly if that didn't make you mad, then his condescending tone did. You were right there. It wasn't until you stepped in front of Lucas that he decided to acknowledge you. “And who might you be, sweetheart?” Sweetheart? 

“The real question is who are you, breaking into someone’s house like that,” you sneered and he seemed taken aback by your response, but rather than show it, he simply laughed and shook his head. 

“Well, whoever you are, doll, I came for my sister. The redhead behind you.”

“She's not going anywhere with you.” This had him seething, his face nearly as red as Max’s hair. 

“Now, listen, you bi-”

“Billy, just go home,” Max yelled. 

“You know what happens when you disobey me, Max,” he tried taking a step forward, but you stopped him in his place. The action left your head aching, but you ignored it as he attempted to push forward again. Confusion overwhelmed his face, but that soon contorted into anger. "I swear, Max, when we get home, you're dead! You're so dead!” You flinched at his yelling and released your hold until-

“No, you are.” 

Steve twisted him around and punched him square in the jaw. You jumped back in surprise and watched as Billy quickly recovered, wiping his bloody nose. 

“You got some fire in your after all, huh? I've been waiting to meet this ‘King Steve’ they tell me so much about.” This was a challenge. Billy wanted to fight. You peered at Steve and he held your eyes for a moment before darting back to Billy. He poked into his chest and pushed him back slightly-

“Get out.” While it wasn't what you expected, avoiding a fight was the best option. Billy wasn't impressed though because in a brief moment, Billy took a swing for him. And in a few more, an all out fist fight broke out between them. 

You moved the kids out of the way, but they seemed to focus on the fight to even notice. They were cheering Steve's name, which meant he was winning...but for how long?

Your question was answered the moment you saw Billy grab ahold of something and break it over Steve’s head. “Steve!” 

The floor beneath you cracked as you called out his name. It was something you didn’t mean to do, but it still happened nonetheless. Later you would wonder why Steve getting hurt invoked such a powerful reaction in you, but right now, all you could think about was stopping Billy from hurting him further. 

You took a step forward, not knowing that the others already moved away from you, waiting for you next move.

“Hey,” you shouted, but Billy didn’t move from his current position on top of Steve. He only continued to pound on him harder. Your grew angrier and you felt your veins begin to burn. You shouted louder. “Get off him!” You jerked your head to the side in the process and his body went flying. 

“Shit,” Dustin exclaimed. Shit indeed. You didn't know what you were going to do, but you certainly didn't mean to do that. Luckily, he didn't go flying too far - just into the wall beside you. So, he should be fine...hopefully.

Before you could continue to scold yourself, Steve let out a deep groan and spoke exasperatedly. 

“You couldn’t do that sooner?” Your face flushed in embarrassment as you paced toward him and knelt down beside him. 

“You said you could handle it,” you responded, scanning over his face. You frowned as you took in the sight. His eyes were rimmed with darkness, his cheekbone and lips were swollen, and there was a rather large bump forming on his head. You could feel just how much pain he was in and now you were starting to feel guilty. “Steve...your face.” You subconsciously reached for his cheek and placed your hand on it gently. He hissed at your sudden contact, but not because it hurt, but because of how cold your hand was. It was a sharp contrast to his awfully warm skin. However, he couldn't lie and say that the coldness didn't help sooth his wounds. He also couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t like the feel of your hand against him. 

His vision began to blur, but he could still make out the red. "(Y/N)…your nose." You realized that it was bleeding, but wiped it clean. 

“It’s fine,” you insisted. "Come on." As you were about to help him up, a strangled groan cut you off. You could only recognize it as Billy and glared once you saw him attempting to get up from where he land

“What the hell-what the hell did you do to me,” he huffed, still on his knees. He rubbed his head in annoyance, moving his hair out of the way and making eye contact with you. It was now that you got a good view of his eyes, even if he was glaring at you just as much as you were glaring at him. They were blue and furious, but it still made you question how something as pretty as blue could hold such hatred. Especially towards you. 

“What did you do,” he asked once again, but seeing as you weren’t going to answer, he scowled at you. “Damn, bitch.” And just as he was about to get up, something unexpected happen. A needle went shooting into his neck. Everyone’s eyes went wide with shock, excluding Max, who was the one doing the stabbing. That must’ve been the extra syringe they took from the lab earlier. 

He stumbled back in a daze as he looked to his younger sister. He almost didn't seem to know what was going on, even as he pulled the syringe out of his neck.

“The hell is this,” he asked, before dropping it to the floor. Then, after stumbling around some more, his body dropped to the floor as well. He was starting to lose consciousness, but Max wasn’t letting him go that easily. She picked up Steve’s bat and stood above him, holding it over her shoulder.  

“Max,” you warned. 

“From here on out,” she started. “You're going to leave me and my friends alone. Do you understand?”

“Screw...you,” he slurred and moments later, she swung. 

“Max,” you exclaimed before jumping at the sound of the bat hitting the floorboard. You sighed in relief as she raised the bat again. 

“Say you understand! Say it,” she yelled. 

“I...understand,” he mumbled. 

“I couldn't hear you!”

“I understand,” he responded clearly before passing out. She started to dig into his pocket for something as you flipped your attention back to Steve. His head was in your lap and you didn't expect him to be passed out as well. You ruffled his hair softly as you heard keys jangle. You looked up at Max as she smirked. 

“Let's get outta here.”

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

New Conditions (Sriracha, Part. 39.)

Series description: A problematic college student gets the worst summer job of the ‘83 - Jim Hopper, the Chief of police in your hometown will have you as his secretary since his old lady Flo has two months lasting holiday. It was agreed so Hopper could let you far away from all the trouble.

Part Summary: You had enough of tiptoeing around James. So Jules, the badass she is, encouraged you to finally let go of the fear and to show him that you still love him.

A/N: I CAN FINALLY UNDERSTAND WHY JIM LOVES JIM CROCE SO MUCH. The ending of this chapter is heavily influenced by album You Don’t Mess Around With Jim and especially its love songs. Also, after not having Hopper in two chapters and having him in other four on the second rail, I think it’s time to have him back in the fucking game.

Warnings: Some smut I suppose, but nothing too explicit. And Hopper finally being James fucking Hopper again.

Word count: 3.2 K

Tagging: @nemodoren @missdictatorme @ysljordy @creedslove

Series master list: H E R E

GIF SOURCE

"I don't know what to do, Jules." - You sighed and leaned your back into the plushy wall of the box you and Julia chose to sit in in the Bloomington KFC. Jules told you all about her dating with the Biology class Steve she was seeing last few years. It looked like a proposal is lingering in the air. - "Like I'm trying to make him... Notice that I'm looking at him, that I hear what's bugging him off, that I'm here and waiting for the first step to maybe try it once again and he's just... Numb." - You sighed, looking into the streets of Bloomington.

You couldn't stand the mix of different tensions in the house. It was fucking you up for two days in a row. The constant fear of Jim just trying to punch you, again, feeling him being so distant and fearing that maybe, it was, indeed, over. That day, it was Tuesday, you called Julia and asked if she has some time to meet up with you. Of course, she had - she was more than happy to take you out somewhere. Especially when she heard that you're having some relationship trouble.

Hopper was... Weird. Since that accident on Sunday, the one where he almost broke your wrist when he caught it into his palm, he was out of order. You managed to freak him out one more time and it had the same result - he almost couldn't stop himself from punching you. On Monday evening, you watched him stand in front of the door leading into the garden and stare into the distance for more than an hour in a row. He was barely blinking the whole time, just chainsmoking next to an opened window. Which was as disturbing as it was impressive.

"Then stop waiting and make the first step. Show him. Get that Marvin Gaye or Foreigner on and do it. Do you think I don't know you can stand up for your ass when you want to?" - Jules chuckled and finished off her milkshake. - "I know since the first day in kindergarten, so shy up my ass, you're not this type."

"But what if he doesn't want this anymore? What if he has just straight-up mess inside his head that even I can’t cure? I don't wanna make him do something he doesn't want to." - You mumbled back and took another bite of the wings you've ordered. You weren't even that hungry; you were just worried that if you or Jules won't order some food, they'll tell you to leave the restaurant.

"So, a small recap. Three years ago, he fell for a girl who vomited all over his Blazer. He came back from... Apparently somewhere in the deepest ass on the whole planet, he was searching for you from all the people like Joyce or Eleven, he took five free days in a row to spend with you in the house and you still think that he maybe isn't into it anymore?" - Jules said back to you. Joyce didn't clap back the way she was, which, to be honest, was helping you big time. You needed someone to call you a dumb bitch.

"If James didn't fall in love with the girl who could kick his ass in an instant and who could have a huge argument with him because he didn't fetch his socks into the washing machine, he wouldn't stay in the first place back in ’83. Don't blame him for not taking the first step, girl, because if I had to point on a person who’s being more hesitant out of you two, it will be you." - She looked you in the eyes and you just opened up your mouth, but before you could say a word, she jumped in to continue.

"You have softened over the last year and a half. Ever since you and Hop had Eleven, which I still don't quite get, you, my friend, have been too gentle with him. You would either hurt him and scare him away with trying to turn the things around or you'll open up his damn eyes with being a bit bald. Come on, spice it up and stop playing the cold card on my man. It's painfully obvious you still have some feelings for Jim and he has some for you." - Julia exclaimed, making more than half of the restaurant to turn at you with confused looks. You took in a deep breath, but the didn't end there. - "So what you're going to do is that you will come home, get some music on to spice up the atmosphere, try your chances without shying away and you will call me after everything is said and done."

You didn't have the best feeling about agreeing with everything she said, but it was worth a try at least, wasn’t it? All you had to do was to try out how Jim’s feeling about all of this. You entered the house with a frown, hearing Jules honking as a goodbye as she drove off. Jim was sitting at the table, reading a book and spared you only a quick look and a quiet Hi. You caught his attention when you drew the curtains in the living room and when you rolled the jalousie in the kitchen, stepping to the stereo, playing Foreigner. Jim already started the fire, which was a big plus with setting the atmosphere. It wasn’t even seven p.m., so you had a whole night of trying the things anyway.

The songs on the mix were Mike’s, which was funny - including Foreigner, Air Supply, or Eric Carmen. Mike Wheeler was a man of a delicate taste when it came to cheesy pop love songs, you had to agree with that. You caught Hopper’s attention fully, the book was now closed, his finger was holding the page he ended on. Without a word, you stepped in front of the fireplace, slowly unbuttoning the shirt you had on just to let it fall on the ground. You were standing there only in your lace bra, which you thought its the cutest.

At that, Hopper inhaled deeply, looking away. It wasn’t like he tried to ignore you, he was just... Clueless. He didn't know what should he do since the things between you still didn't seem to exactly click and settle down. There was this buzzing on both sides which was making him rather uncomfortable.

"I don't think this..." - He started, but you were ready to snap. Just like Jules told you, you were about to give the former Chief the girl he fell for - the one who didn't like to be messed around with, who could bring hell upon his head when he made you angry. You still had that inside of you, you just had to show him that it's still just you and him.

"Bad idea up my ass, James." - You started in a sharp voice, making Jim widen his eyes and straighten up. - "If this is a bad idea, tell me, what's the good one then? Because I feel like trying not to bump into you more than trying to connect back to you since the day my family left for New Orleans. We’re carefully tiptoeing around each other but that's not what I want, you understand? If you don't know how to approach me, no worries, stand up right now and show me how to approach you and I swear to God that I'll do my best to make it work." - You sighed, now lighting up a Camel cigarette without a filter.

"Because every time you sit next to me, I can only feel how fast you're drifting away from me. You don't talk to me, you won't try to get the mood on, you won't try your chances and I'm just bored with this. Show me what should I do and I will." - You stepped next to him and carefully touched his shoulder, making him shift uncomfortably. Immediately, you put the hand away, sighing a bit.

"Listen, I know it’s hard for you, but it's hard for me too. I'm still in love, I think - because if I weren't, this wouldn't be crushing me the way it is. Don't be a pussy." - You whispered with a small smile, making him smile as well. Calling him out felt so ’83 if you'd ask James. Calling him a pussy, telling him he's too old and not too bold just to make him do something, you were doing that a lot back in the day.

"Are you ready to go down this path?" - He asked just as he asked the first night, making you light up in a matter of a second. You nodded, biting your lip.

"And are you ready for this?" - You asked back, hearing the first notes of REO Speedwagon just lurking into the room. Gently, you tapped out the cigarette and an idea flashed through your head. - "Wait a minute. Sit down there, make yourself comfortable, I'll be right back, yeah?" - You mumbled and ran into your room, still being dressed only in your favorite pair of jeans and that super slick lacy bra. You searched through your room, you almost threw everything on the ground just to find it - the sheer rosy lipstick you loved so much.

You put on a shirt, throwing the jeans along with the socks on the ground, and ran down the stairs with an excited smile. Hopper did as he was told - he was now sitting on two to three blanket laid down onto the wooden floor in front of the fireplace with pillows everywhere around him. The song was just ending, being replaced with Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes’ song sneak peaking some romantic movie coming out next summer. Carefully, you sat opposite of him, opening the lipstick.

"I don't know what you've been through in Russia but I noticed that touching some spots brings up a defensive reaction. So... All I want is for you to show me which spots are safe." - You whispered with a small smile, carefully coming even close. - "Or at least which spots are comfortable to touch for you, okay?"

"With lipstick? Like I'll be tappin’ the spots I don't mind?" - Jim smiled lazily. There he was, that old rascal you knew.

"You’ll draw me a map." - You answered with confidence, leaning to unbutton his shirt. You made sure he saw every move you made so there would be no space for accidents. You didn't want your wrist broken or your nose punched. So you were careful with each button and you constantly make sure he's looking you in the eyes or at your fingers.

Delicately, you slipped under the fabric, feeling him get real stiffing under you. You made sure you're quick enough so Jim wouldn't be stressing out for too long. Then, you popped the torturing device, as he used to call it every time you smudged it all over his face and circled his palm around yours. He was slim - almost too slim for your liking. He had to drop the weight rapidly fast because here and there, you could see his ribs just popping up. And my oh my, the scars he had there - you hadn't seen them before so, in natural conclusion, he must get them in Kamchatka. You were slowly able to understand why is he as careful with the touches as he was.

He furrowed and got to work, listening to Stand by Me in the background. Mike Wheeler had some spectacular taste with love songs. You watched as he completely left out the shoulders, so you figured out these were a no-no. You were watching your palm slowly traveling along with his down his ribs, taking a turn right above the belly. The only thing which seemed safe enough was chest - because Hop could see whenever you were approaching him to touch him. With that, he could have complete control over the whole situation. James could see what were you about to do.

When he put the hand away, you nodded. You could understand what was going on inside his head and let’s be honest, that was what was calming you down. Jules was right. A bit of pressure could do huge things sometimes. You took a short breath in, steadying yourself on your knees and you put the lipstick away. When you made sure he's watching, you put hands on his chest, slowly traveling up to meet his neck and the stubble there. When you were about to meet his jaw, you pulled yourself even closer.

You didn't kiss just yet - you asked for permission by looking him into eyes. But when James nodded, boy oh boy, that was a different story. You jumped right in, you were so passionate that you made him support his body with both his hands - otherwise, you would both fall and he would hit his head pretty bad. That kiss was saying everything that words couldn't - it was fast, rough, almost too hasty for a kiss of reunion but you wouldn't have it any other way.

"Jesus I missed this." - Hopper mumbled without thinking too much about it, switching the position immediately. It was easy to give in into the passion, it was. Especially after such a long time. It was more than easy to lose your head over a simple kiss when you felt as he rose your knee up to his waist, pulling you so close there was no space remaining. You were pressed body on the body in a whining, moaning mess and only the sounds of kisses and a song could be heard.

Jules was so damn right. Maybe if you'd play the cold card less, he would find his way to you way easier than you having straight-up daring him to do it. Ten minutes later, the lipstick was smudged all over your shirt and his chest was a sheer rosy mess. With a loud exhale and a frown, Jim pulled away, seeing you grinning at the sight.

"I don't know why you still use this torture device." - Hopper complained, having you laugh a bit at that.

"I use it because my lips are irresistible after using it." - You frowned jokingly, pulling the shirt off along with clipping the bra off.

"What are you doin’?" - Hopper stopped and looked at you throwing the clothes away.

"You missed a few spots and I'm envious of you looking so tubular, Chief, officer, and detective Hopper." - You explained. That was a stupid idea, maybe, more like definitely it was a dumb one - but you couldn't help yourself.

"Come ’ere, miss Y/L/N. We missed a few spots." - James agreed with a glowing smile. It had a taste of old times, but it was still something completely new for you, something different. First, he made you cum without taking your panties off - all he needed was his fingers, your sweet spot, and a lot of good flicks along with staring deep into your eyes. That was what finished you, having your body contract a few times. Then, you had a suspicion he's trying to kill you with kindness after spending almost an hour with eating you out. And when you thought it can’t be better, he finally finished you off with a few good tempos towards the end. No matter how long he hadn't touched you, it felt calming and familiar. He was still as good as ever before, maybe better than that.

It was almost eleven p.m. when you both laid there, basically finished off. heavy breathing, looking into the ceiling.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" - You got out with your eyes closed, unable to even move your fucking legs. Every time Jim put on a tempo like that, you couldn't even feel your thighs and what was between them for more than five minutes.

"Yeah, I heard that here and there." - James chuckled back, getting on his elbow. You didn't know what you brought upon yourself. It could cross your mind that waking up the man inside of him, the man who hadn't felt a woman’s touch for half a year, was a dangerous idea. - "But I would like to show you some more." - He smiled, lowering his head down do kiss a trail down your neck - you yelled loudly when you felt him making you a... Love bite. A forty-four-year-old man gave you a love bite? Jesus.

"James fucking Hopper, I swear to God! It's not enough for you to have the sheer rosy torturing device all over my torso and not feeling my legs because of you? What the hell?" - You laughed and felt his palm tickling you, crying out loud before laughing before pulling in for another kiss. Were you falling into the honeymoon phase again when love gives you pink glasses to look through? Was it possible? According to what was happening, it was possible.

"You still have the ring?" - Jim asked when you snuggled to him; he was controlling every one of your moves - but what could a naked woman pressing her body into his side do to him?

"Yeah, I still wear it. I never take it off." - You showed him just for James to take it off, holding in his hand to look at it. - "What are you doing, Jim? What kind of fuckery you're trying here? I'm not giving it back." - You tried to reach the silver ring, but your man’s arm game was too strong for you - he was like three times longer than you or so.

"Wait and you'll see. You’re so eager sometimes, baby." - He smiled at you, not giving you your engagement ring back. But the nickname made you almost melt on the spot. It was so kind, romantic, giving you all the green lights you needed to be sure that you and Jim are still only you and Jim.

"Well do it properly this time." - He got out and closed his eyes, yawning.

"Oh, fuck no. You, old man, are going to take a shower with me and then we'll go to sleep. My parents will be back tomorrow." - You stood up, looking in horror at your old dog who was lazily watching you back. You were standing there naked with your eyes widened.

"How long she’s been here?" - You asked James, abruptly taking a shirt. It was somehow embarrassing having your dog staring you down while you were naked.

"You didn't know about her?" - Jim furrowed and with that, you left the room at the speed of light, feeling so embarrassed it physically hurt you. You didn't know that Jim was just ducking with you, but he found it hilarious as he put on his sweats, petting Lady behind her ears.

[pinkykitten]

can’t argue with that

Stranger Things

Jim Hopper x abilities! female reader

Warning: mentions of abuse and torture on you from experiments, curse words, did not re read

Specifics: angst, comedy, romance, one-shot, abilities reader, race neutral reader

People: jim hopper, your mother, mkultra 

Words: 1,808

Request: By anon Hi! Could you please write something about Hopper x reader ? They were best friends at school, and one day the reader was kidnapped because her mother was part of the MKUltra program (now she came back at Hawkins and has powers) with prompt #18: "did I ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?" prompt #22: “I love you”, and prompt #33: “if you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this.” Thanks ! (The Hunger Games anon who loves your way of writing !)

Prompts:

18 - “did I ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?”

22 - “I love you”

33 - “if you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this”

Authors Note: hey guys i did not re read this srry. i luv all ur guys requests and this is my first time writing hopper so i hope u guys like this. this is taken more in the first season cuz thats where we learn about the secret crap of hawkins. also i made the reader in here have shape shifting powers so like mistique powers. 

You colored in your notebook as you twitched around in your seat. Itching for the school bell to ring and for school to be over with. You smiled as you drew a heart next to the name Jim Hopper, your fellow classmate. There was nothing going on between you high school teens except that you two were best friends. You were always there for him and he was always there for you when your mother wasn’t. Your mother had a job that she seemed to care more about than you. You were always lonely and left behind but Jim made sure you were always with him and happy. 

And you were. 

Finally, as if the two minutes remaining were for centuries, the bell rang. You got up and started packing your book bag until you felt a tug from behind you and then you were lifted off the ground my two strong arms. You gave a shriek as Jim lifted you lightly off the ground and twirled you, chuckling into your ear. 

“Jim! What the heck?” You playfully smacked his arm. 

“Oh my god you should of seen your face!” He bent over laughing, clutching his stomach. 

“You’re the worst!”

Jim raised his eyebrow, creating a smirk on his face. “You know you love me though.”

You pouted, “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“What are you drawing?” Jim asked as he inched closer to your notebook. He put his hands on the pages and tried to take a peak but you closed the book on his hands. “Whats in there?”

“Nothing,” you tried to pry it away from his hands but he would not let go. You pulled and pulled but realized how strong he was. “Jim I’m not playing. Give it back.”

“Why? Is this your diary? Oooh is it about Scott Clarke?”

You gagged, “In your dreams.”

“No y/n those aren’t dreams, those are nightmares.”

“Jim just give it back!”

“No not until you tell me whats inside you’re trying to hide.”

“Oh my god is that Joyce Byers?” You looked shocked pointing behind Jim. You knew Jim had a crush on Joyce and so he quickly turned around, granting you the pass to snatch your book back. 

“You liar.” Jim grumbled taking out a cigarette. 

You placed your notebook in your back pack and walked alongside Jim pulling the cigarette from his mouth. “Not in here mister.”

Jim everyday would walk you home from school. He felt it was not safe to have you walking around with no one to protect you. 

Those were the moments you treasured. He acted in a way as if he did truly love you but you felt afraid. Did he love you as a friend or something more? You two were the perfect combination. He was the laid back, big dude and you were the up tight, keeping things in order gal. It was the perfect. It was like a harmony. 

“Anyways I’ll catch up with you later,” Jim led you to your door step giving you a kiss on the cheek like all those other times. Every time he did it you wished it was on your lips. 

“Thanks Hop again for dropping me off.”

Jim placed his hand on your arm. His body towering over yours because of his height. “You know you don’t have to thank me everyday for this. I love to walk with you and drop you off even if you’re sometimes b*tchy.”

You gasped, “I think someone should look in the mirror.” You chuckled. 

Jim waved to you and left you with your heart thumping sporadically. You were in love. 

You walked into your empty, lonely house, your mother still at work. You were going to take a nap but you heard a knock on your door. 

“Oh my god Jim go away I do not have pizza in my fridge,” you grinned as you opened the door to reveal an unknown man at your door all in black. Before you could do anything he grabbed you and injected something in you that made you unconscious. 

You woke up being pulled by two men. You looked at your surroundings and it looked like jail or a lab. You wore a hospital gown. In the distance you could hear people screaming. Your heart was beating faster every minute as these men carried you. You were so weak. You tried fighting them but they were too powerful. Your mouth opened wide to produce screams. You shouted and turned trying to free yourself.

They threw you into a room and as they closed the door you saw your mother standing nearby crossing her arms. 

“Mom,” you ran to the door banging on it as it was locked. 

Who knew you were going to get kidnapped that day. And who knew it was by your mother.

Your body stung and ached all over. You tried running away. From them from the nightmares, the memories. You screamed as you shot up, sweat running down your face. “Mom!”

Somebody was there for you. Getting a hold of you. The couch dipped down as the person sat across from you, grabbing a hold of your arms. 

“Let me go! I’m not your experiment anymore! You can’t control me!” You tried to break away from the grasp as you had your eyes closed. 

“Its me! Its me! Y/n-”

Your e/c eyes opened wide to see a familiar face. Suddenly, all of the past came to you. “Jim?” You touched his face, feeling his facial hair and being overwhelmed with seeing him again. He looked so grown now. 

“Its me sweetheart.” He paused, “did I ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?” Hopper smiled as he rubbed your hands that were on his. 

Tears swelled up in your eyes and your lips quivered. “I thought I would of never seen you again.” You embraced him. Tears hitting his jacket as you sobbed into his neck. 

Hopper pulled in closer to you and held your back. He held on tightly, afraid that if he let go you would be gone like that fateful day. “I got you. You’re okay.”

Wiping you tears you sat beside him with his arm still on your back, “how did you find me? I shape shift.”

“Took us a long time but we ended up tracking up down and connecting you with a recent case. We have this young girl with powers that we’re looking for and its all connected with you, everything.”

“They took me Jim! They took me. Those men and my mother. My mother was working for the bad guys. She made me do terrible things. I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened to me.” You shook again, crying. 

Hopper knew you were damaged and you were hurt. You were stuck in that hell hole for who knows how many years. Never seeing the sun, never having friends, love, nothing. You never lived a life. “I know, I know. But its okay now cause you’re here with me.”

You shook your head, “you don’t understand Jim. They are always watching. They made me have these stupid powers so I could fight for them. I’ve killed so many people. I’m a monster.” You stood up and walked to Hopper’s door. 

“What the h*ll are you doing?”

“I can’t do this to you. What if they hurt you? What if I hurt you?”

 “Y/n you can’t think like that. Nothings gonna happen-” He motioned over to you kindly, soft, like if meeting a puppy. Someone fragile. 

“But what if something does happen. I could never live with myself. I rather be abused and tortured for all those years again than to have you hurt.”

“Nothings gonna happen to me okay, now will you just sit down and we can talk this through,” he pointed to his couch. His voice going higher with demand. He didn’t like talking to you this way but he had a temper and all he wanted was you safe. 

“I’m sorry Jim,” you opened the door about to leave. You shape shifted into another woman looking completely different than you.

“If you leave you’re going to prove to them that you are indeed really the monster that they created. You are choosing their side.”

“Its not that simple. These people are bad. I know this. I don’t want you hurt-”

“Then why’d you come back?” He rested his hands on his belt. 

“Why?”

“Yeah. Why’d you come back to Hawkins then? Its a simple question.”

“But its not a simple answer. I don’t know why I came back,” your eyes traveled down to the floor.

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not,” you two bickered like when you were teens. 

“Yeah you are. I know you y/n so well. You came here for a reason.”

You walked up to Hopper, getting on your tippi toes like when you two were young. “Listen here none of this is your business.”

“Don’t talk to me when you look like that. Its not you.”

You pouted. 

“Change.” Hopper ordered. “I want to hear the real you say this.”

Finally you shifted back into your real form. How you really looked. “What do you want to hear Jim?”

“The reason.”

“Fine I came back for you! Okay, is that what you want to hear? I came back for you. I had to see you at least one last time. I had to.” 

The air was silent as Hopper clenched his fists. You felt you were done talking so you tried to leave again. 

“If you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this,” his voice was low, almost sad.

“Like I said its not that simple. Its easier if we go our own ways and maybe never see each-”

“Do you love me?” Hopper asked all of a sudden, biting his lip in anticipation. 

You almost chocked as you hear his question. Your eyes widened as you stuttered. “Jim, you know I care deeply for you and you know I would do anything for you-”

With a jump in his step Hopper came closer, “I’m not asking that. Its a yes or no. I’m asking you y/n, if you love me? Yes or no?” His hands flew to your cheeks and you looked deeply into his eyes. 

Taking a gulp you straightened your posture and put your hands on his hands. With a shaky breath you whispered to Hopper, “... I love you.”

“You know you love me,” he giggled as he leaned in closer to you. “Can I kiss you?”

A tear fell down your cheek and you realized you couldn’t live without Hopper. You needed to be with him. You needed him in your life, to protect you. To make up for lost time. 

You brought Hopper’s head closer, “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

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[rllibrary]

Blonde / Joyce Carol Oates / 2000

Above: the British paperback cover (If you want a copy of this version, search ISBN 9781841153728)

Quotes (As always, for educational/entertainment purposes only! Full disclaimer at rllibrary.tumblr.com )

*

"Look, sweetie. You're making too much of it. You've seen a boy's- a man's- thing, haven't you?"

Elsie was so crude and blunt, Norma Jeane laughed, startled.

She nodded, just barely.

"Well, you know- it gets bigger. You know that."

Again, just barely, Norma Jeane nodded.

"It has to do with them looking at you. It makes them want to- you know- 'make love.'"

(130)

*

Monroe was a natural even as a girl. She had brains but operated from instinct. I believe she could see herself through the camera eye. It was more powerfully, more totally sexual to her than any human connection...Her problem wasn't she was a dumb blonde, it was she wasn't a blonde and she wasn't dumb.

(232)

*

And the director is thinking, This girl is the first actress of the twenty or more he's auditioned for the role (including the black-haired actress he's probably going to cast) who has caught on to the significance of the scene's opening, the first who seems to have given the role any intelligent thought and who has actually read the entire script (or so she claims) and formed some sort of judgment on it. The girl opens her eyes, sits up slowly and blinking, wide-eyed, and says in a whisper, "Oh, I- must have been asleep." Is she acting, or has she actually been asleep? Everyone's uncomfortable. There is something strange here.

(242)

*

She was fascinating to watch. Like a mental patient, maybe. Not acting. No technique. She'd put herself to sleep and out would come this other personality that was her yet also not-her.

People like that, you can see why they're drawn to acting. Because the actor, in her role, always knows who she is. All losses are restored.

(243)

*

Where at her audition Norma Jeane had spoken Angela's lines with seeming spontaneity, naively lying on the floor, now on her feet she was paralyzed with fear at the enormity of the risk before her. What if you fail. If you fail. You will fail. Then you must die. If fired from the film she would be obliged to destroy herself, yet she was deeply in love with Cass Chaplin and hoped one day to have his child- "How can I leave him?" And there was her obligation to Gladys in the hospital at Norwalk. "How can I leave her? Mother has no one but me."

(253)

*

"Norma, for Christ's sake. Your director will lead you step by step through your scenes, that's what movies are. Not real acting, like the theater; not where you're on your own. Why work so hard? Turn yourself inside out? You're sweating like a horse. Why does this matter so much?"

The question hovered between them. Why does it matter so much? So much!

Knowing it was absurd, what she could not explain to her lover- Because I don't want to die, I'm in terror of dying. I can't leave you. Because to fail in her acting career was to fail at the life she'd chosen to justify her wrongful birth. And even in her mildly deranged state she understood the illogic of such a statement.

(254)

*

You just can't take your eyes off her. Cass and me, we'd see Niagara a dozen times.... It's because Rose is us. In our souls. She's cruel in ways we are. She's without any morality, like an infant. She's always looking at herself in the mirror just like we'd look if we looked like her. She's stroking herself, she's in love with herself. Like all of us! But it's supposed to be bad... 

(347)

*

It was like only the camera knew how to make love to her the way she needed, and we were voyeurs just hypnotized watching.

(347)

*

About midway in the movie, when Rose is mocking and laughing at her husband for not being able to get it up, Cassie says to me, "This isn't Norma. This is not our little Fishie." And the hell of it was, it wasn't. This Rose was a total stranger. This was nobody we'd laid eyes on before. Out here, people thought "Marilyn Monroe" was just playing herself. Every movie she made, no matter that it was different from the others, they'd find a way to dismiss it- "That broad can't act. She's just playing herself." But she was a born actress. She was a genius, if you believe in genius. Because Norma didn't have a clue who she was, and she had to fill this emptiness in her. Every time she went out, she had to invent her soul. Other people, we're just as empty; maybe in fact everybody's soul is empty, but Norma was the one to know it.

That was Norma Jeane Baker when we knew her. When we were "the Gemini." Before she betrayed us- or maybe we betrayed her. A long time ago, when we were young.

(347-8)

*

So strange! The audience adored Lorelei Lee. They liked Dorothy, too- Jane Russell was wonderfully warm, attractive, sympathetic, and funny- but clearly the audience preferred Lorelei Lee. Why? Such rapt, smiling faces. Marilyn Monroe was a winner, and everyone loves a winner.

Oh the irony was, surely these people all knew: Marilyn didn't exist.

I can't fail. If I fail I must die. This had been Marilyn's secret no one knew.

(429)

*

I was terrified. I wasn't ready. I'd been up most of the night. I kept having to pee! I wasn't taking any drugs, only just aspirin. And an antihistamine tablet Mr. Pearlman's assistant gave me, for a sore throat. I believed the Playwright would take one look at me and speak to Mr. Pearlman and that was it, I'd be out of the cast. Because I never deserved to be there, and I knew it. I seemed to know this beforehand. I seemed to see myself going down those stairs. I held the script, and I tried to read the lines I'd marked in red, and it was like I'd never seen them before. My only clear thought was: If I fail now, it's winter here, freezing. It wouldn't be hard to die, would it?

(497)

*

Pearlman spoke of the Theater as you'd speak of God. Or more than God, for theater was something in which you participated and lived. "Die for it! For your talent! Scour out your guts! Be hard on yourself, you can take it. It's life and death up there on the stage, my friends. And if not life and death, it's nothing." It was what I revered in him. Oh, he could reach right in....

But he exploited you, didn't he? As a woman.

A woman? What do I care about myself as a woman? I never did....I came to New York to learn to act.

Why do you give Pearlman so much credit? I hate it, in interviews, you exaggerate his role in your life. He eats it up, it's great publicity for him.

Oh, but it's true...isn't it?

You just want to deflect attention from yourself. It's what women do. Defer to bullies. You knew how to act, darling, when you came here.

I did? No.

Certainly you did. I hate this, too, the way you misinterpret yourself.

I do? Gee....

You were a damned good actress when you came to New York. He didn't create you.

You created me.

Nobody created you, you were always yourself.

Well, I guess I knew...something. When I did movies. In fact I was reading Stanislavski. And the diary of, of...Nijinski. 

Nijinski.

Nijinski. But I didn't know what I knew. In practice. It was just...what happened when I had to perform. To improvise. Like striking a match....

The hell with that. You were a natural actress from the start.

Oh, hey! Why're you mad, Daddy? I don't get this.

I'm only just saying, darling, you were born with the gift. You have a kind of genius. You don't need theory. Forget Stanislavski! Nijinski! And him.

I never think of him.

Him messing with you...your mind, your talent...like somebody's big thumbs gripping a butterfly, smearing and breaking the wings.

Hey, I'm no butterfly. Feel my muscle? My leg here. I'm a dancer.

Bullshit theory is for somebody like him: can't act, can't write.

Kiss-kiss, Daddy? C'mon.

(503-4)

*

What kind of questions did he ask you?

My...motivation.

Which was?

To...not die.

What?

To not die. To keep on....

I hate it when you talk like that. It tears my heart.

Oh, I won't! I'm sorry.

(505)

*

Pearlman was always saying how surprised he was by you. What you're really like.

But...what'd that be? What I'm really like?

Just yourself.

But that isn't enough, is it?

Of course it is.

No. It never is.

What do you mean?

You're a writer, because being just yourself isn't enough. I need to be an actress, because being just myself isn't enough. Hey, you won't ever tell people, will you?

I would never speak of you, darling. It would be like flaying my own skin.

You would never write about me, either...would you, Daddy?

Of course not!

(505-6)

*

Why don't I remember things better, my mind gets stuck on a role I'm doing, and I...it's like I'm in two places at once? With other people but not...with them. Why I love to act. Even when I'm alone I'm not.

Your gift is so natural, you don't "act." You require no technique. Yes, it's like a match being struck. A sudden flaring flame....

But I like to read, Daddy! I got good grades in school. I like to...think. It's like talking with somebody. In Hollywood, on the set, I'd have to hide my book if I was reading....People thought I was strange.

Your mind can get muddled. You're easily influenced.

Only by people I trust.

(507)

*

It would astonish the Playwright when he came to know the Blond Actress better how, when she didn't wish to be recognized, she rarely was, for "Marilyn Monroe" was but one of her roles and not the one that most engaged her.

(513)

*

"I was thinking, what Chekhov does with Natasha, he surprises you because Natasha turns out so strong and devious. And cruel. And Magda, you know- well, Magda is always so good. She wouldn't be, in real life? I mean, all the time? I mean"- the Playwright could see the Blond Actress shifting into a scene, face animated, eyes narrowed- "if it was me, a cleaning girl- and I used to do work like that, laundry, dishes, scrubbing toilets, when I was in an orphanage and a foster home in Los Angeles- I'd be hurt, I'd be angry, how life was so different for different people. But your Magda...she never changes much. She's good."

"Yes. Magda is good. Was good. The original. It wouldn't have occurred to her to be angry." Was this true? The Playwright spoke curtly, but he had to wonder.

(513-4)

*

There was the Norma who spoke to him and there was the Norma at a short distance from him. The one an object of emotion, the other an object of aesthetic admiration. Which of course is a type of emotion, no less intense.

(586)

*

The Playwright had noticed, as Max Pearlman had pointed out, how women often took warmly to Norma, quite in reverse of expectations. You would anticipate jealousy, envy, dislike; instead, women felt a curious kinship with Norma, or "Marilyn"; could it be, women looked at her and somehow saw themselves? A man might smile at such a misapprehension. A delusion, or a confusion. But what can a man know? If anyone resisted Norma, it was likely to be a certain kind of man; one sexually attracted to her, yet wise enough to know she would rebuff him. What strategies of irony bred out of threatened male pride, the Playwright well knew.

(591)

*

"He doesn't love me. It's some blonde thing in his head he loves. Not me."

(600)

*

"Darling, maybe you should stop feeding those cats," the Playwright suggested.

"Oh, I will! Soon."

"More and more of them will be showing up. You can't feed the entire Maine coast."

"Daddy, I know. You're right."

Yet she continued, through the summer, as he'd known she would. How many scrawny, starving cats showed up each morning to be fed by her, he didn't want to know. Her strange stubbornness. Her powerful will. The man knew himself obliterated by her, in essential things. Only in surface matters was he triumphant.

(605)

*

She knew she did not deserve life as others deserve life & though she had tried, she had failed to justify her life; yet she must continue to try, for her heart was hopeful, she meant to be good!

(625)

*

Monroe wanted to be an artist. She was one of the few I'd ever met who took all that crap seriously. That's what killed her, not the other. She wanted to be acknowledged as a great actress and yet she wanted to be loved like a child and obviously you can't have both.You have to choose which you want the most.Me, I chose neither.

(638)

*

The fairy tale. The Blond Actress would herself come to believe in this fairy tale a man had written for her as a love offering. She would come to believe not just that luminous Roslyn could save the small herd of wild mustangs but that wild mustangs might be saved. These horses, only six remaining of how many hundreds and one of them a foal. A foal galloping anxiously beside its mother. Lassoed and roped by the desperate men, yet they might be saved from death. From the butcher's knife and being ground into dog food. Here is no romance of the West or even of manly ideals and courage but a melancholy "realism" to thrust into an American audience's faces! Roslyn alone would run into the desert in an action blocked out with care by the Blond Actress and her director that would allow her to express, at the top of her lungs, her fury at manly cruelty. (But I don't want close-ups. Not of me screaming.") She would scream at the men Liars! Killers! Why don't you kill yourselves!  She would scream in the emptiness of the Nevada desert until her throat was raw. Until the interior of her sore-pocked mouth throbbed with pain. Until more capillaries burst in her straining eyes. Until her heart pounded close to bursting. I hate you! Why don't you die! She may have been screaming at those men of her life whose faces she retained or she may have been screaming at those men lacking faces, constituting the vast world beyond the perimeters of the crimson velvet backdrop and the blinding-bright photographer's lights. She may have been screaming at H who had eluded her charm. She may have been screaming into a mirror. She'd told Doc Fell she would not need any medication that morning (after even the stupor of the phenobarbital night) and aroused now to pity, horror, rage by the spectacle of the trapped horses she had not needed any drug. She believed she would never again need any drugs. What power! What joy! She would return to Hollywood alone, and she would buy a house, her first house, and she would live alone, and she would do only work she wanted to do; she would be the great actress she had a chance of becoming; she would no longer be trapped by men; she would no longer be cheated of her truest self. The Blond Actress was expressing anger, rage. At last. Except (all observers would claim) it wasn't the simulated expression of anger and rage but genuine passion ripping through the woman's body like an electric current.

"Liars! Killers! I hate you."

(668-9)

*

"You feel genuine emotion, Miss Monroe! That's why you're a brilliant actress. That's why people see in you a magnified image of themselves. Of course they're deluded, but happiness dwells in delusion! Because you live in your soul like a candle that lives in its own burning. You live in our American soul. Don't smile, Miss Monroe. I'm serious, too. I'm saying that you're an intelligent woman, not just a woman of 'feeling'; you're an artist, and like all artists you know that life is just material for your art. Life is what fades, art is what remains. Your emotions, your anguish over your divorce or Mr. Gable's death, whatever-" with an airy impatient gesture taking in all of the world she'd inhabited in thirty-five years or even envisioned: the very memory of the Holocaust evoked out of much-thumbed secondhand books rescued from a used-book store, vessels of Jewish fortitude and suffering, the stale-rancid odors of the California madhouses of her mother's captivity, all the memories of her personal life, as if they were of no more significance to her than a screenplay- "you may as well see your trauma as a newsreel, because others will."

(679)

*

This doctor says there are miracle drugs now

to control the "blues." I said, oh if the

blues go, what about blues music? He asked

is the music worth the agony & I said that

depends upon the music & he said life is more

precious to retain than music, if a person is

depressed her life is endangered & I said

there must be a middle way & I would find that

way.

(683)

*

Mother? What did you want from me I could never give you? How did I fail? I tried so hard. She wondered if, if she'd played piano better for Mr. Pearce and sung better for poor Jess Flynn, her childhood would have turned out differently? Maybe her miserable lack of talent had contributed to Gladys Mortinsen's madness. Maybe something in Gladys had simply snapped.

Still, Gladys had seemed to absolve her of blame. Nobody's fault being born, is it?

(695)

*

Hey I love to act. Truly, acting is my life! Never so happy as when I'm acting, not living.

Oh, what'd I say?  Oh well, you know what I mean.

(Why am I so afraid, then? I will not be afraid.) 

(697)

*

Joyce Carol Oates, Blonde, ISBN 9781841153728

[dazzledbybooks]

From the prizewinning author of Mr. Timothy and The Pale Blue Eye comes Courting Mr. Lincoln, the page-turning and surprising story of a young Abraham Lincoln and the two people who loved him best: a sparky, marriageable Mary Todd and Lincoln’s best friend, Joshua Speed. When Mary Todd meets Abraham Lincoln in Springfield in the winter of 1840, he is on no one's shortlist to be president. Rough and reticent, he’s a country lawyer lacking money and manners, living above a dry goods shop, but with a gift for oratory. Mary, a quick, self-possessed debutante with a tireless interest in debates and elections, at first finds him an enigma. “I can only hope,” she tells his roommate, the handsome, charming Joshua Speed, “that his waters being so very still, they also run deep.”It’s not long, though, before she sees the Lincoln that Speed knows: a man who, despite his awkwardness, is amiable and profound, with a gentle wit to match his genius and a respect for her keen political mind. But as her relationship with Lincoln deepens, she must confront his inseparable friendship with Speed, who has taught his roommate how to dance, dress, and navigate the polite society of Springfield.Told in the alternating voices of Mary Todd and Joshua Speed, and rich with historical detail, Courting Mr. Lincoln creates a sympathetic and complex portrait of Mary unlike any that has come before; a moving portrayal of the deep and very real connection between the two men; and most of all, an evocation of the unformed man who would grow into one of the nation’s most beloved presidents.Louis Bayard, a master storyteller at the height of his powers, delivers here a page-turning tale of love, longing, and forbidden possibilities. Praise for COURTING MR. LINCOLN By Louis Bayard AN INDIE NEXT PICK AN APPLE BOOKS BEST BOOK OF THE MONTH   A PEOPLE MAGAZINE BEST BOOK OF THE WEEK  “An exquisite historical reimagining of a love acknowledged—and a longing denied.” —People (Book of the Week) “Bayard has written eight other novels, and he’s extraordinarily gifted at blending provocative fiction with history. The details of [Mary Todd and Lincoln’s] courtship are lovely to read, but Lincoln’s time with Speed is much more riveting. At book’s end, who’s courting Lincoln remains an enticing mystery.” —Washington Post “A house divided against itself cannot stand, Abraham Lincoln warned us. But a book divided against itself stands up quite nicely in Louis Bayard’s wonderful Courting Mr. Lincoln. …suspenseful and revealing…it’s a tribute to Bayard’s entertaining novel that he has imagined a love story for Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln that embroiders the truth but that also fits perfectly with what we know about these very famous figures.” —Minneapolis Star-Tribune “A miracle; an exquisite story exquisitely told. This glorious novel, big-hearted and clear-eyed, features the most uncanny incarnation of our sixteenth president since Daniel Day-Lewis strode onscreen in Lincoln. If you love Jane Austen, or Hamilton, or fiction—of any era—that transports and transforms in equal measure, look no further.” —A.J. Finn, bestselling author of The Woman in the Window “Courting Mr. Lincoln is a fascinating (and partly fictional) exploration of not only the 16th president, but those enamored by him.” —Advocate.com “A rich, fascinating and romantic union of fact and imagination about young Lincoln, the woman he would marry and his beloved best friend. Bayard’s compelling take on this question is not academic, nor is it a polemic; Courting Mr. Lincoln is intimate, warm and, above all, compassionate. Bayard is concerned with the possibilities of the human heart, and he presents an enigmatic Lincoln seen — and loved — from two other points of a romantic triangle. …the greatest triumph of Courting Mr. Lincoln is how effectively Bayard creates suspense, even when we know how the story ends. Love is love is love, after all, and he invests us deeply in the moving journey of three extraordinary people.” —Newsday “With wit and charm that only Louis Bayard can deliver, Courting Mr. Lincoln transports readers to 19th-century Springfield, Ill…Those familiar with Bayard's work will appreciate his sterling dialogue and ingenious humor. Bayard's masterful command of language enchants and thrills; his meticulous, almost otherworldly, understanding of his historical subject awes and inspires. When that all comes together, Courting Mr. Lincoln is Bayard at his absolute best. He offers more reasons to love one of the most admired presidents in U.S. history and proves yet again why he himself is one of the nation's greatest literary gems.” —Shelf Awareness (Starred Review) “A wildly clever imagining of Honest Abe's complicated personal life. In Courting Mr. Lincoln, Louis Bayard, an accomplished historical novelist, breathes life into the massive cultural icon whom we know so well, but really don’t have much of a clue about. Read the book. You’ll thank me.” —Washington Independent Review of Books “…thoroughly researched and thrillingly plotted…Filled with rich historical detail and compulsively readable... Fans of historical fiction will be up late into the night to uncover the next chapter of this fascinating time in history.” —NY Journal of Books “A gripping historical thriller … an entertaining novel by a gifted storyteller.” —The Washington Book Review “[An] acute and passionate portrait…[I]n Bayard's skilled hands, three complicated people groping toward a new phase in their lives is all the plot you need.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) “Bayard does an exceptional job of keeping readers engrossed as he weaves fact and fiction in this intriguing tale of intimacy between Lincoln and his two closest confidantes.” —BookPage “ What Bayard has accomplished is to take popular figures in U.S. history and not only make them more real --- if that is possible --- but humanize them to a level where we all can relate to them. Courting Mr. Lincoln is engaging because Bayard has such a fine way with words. The result is a triumph of a novel and an unforgettable read that is a true page turner.” —Bookreporter.com “Was Abraham Lincoln gay? The question, not a new one, is delicately and touchingly presented in Courting Mr. Lincoln … tenderly told.” —St. Louis Post-Dispatch “An exquisite novel about how Lincoln’s courtship of the brilliant, complicated Mary Todd intersected with his long and very (possibly VERY) close friendship with Joshua Speed. Courting Mr. Lincoln is so subtle and human and heartbreaking, infused with sly wit. I loved every word of it, and the end is note perfect. My heart broke for both Joshua and Mary, and at the same time, they were the lenses that let me think about my favorite president in new ways.”  —Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of Never Have I Ever “[W]ith a richly imagined setting and complex characters…a worthy addition to the fiction about-Lincoln bookshelf.” —Booklist “Bayard fictionalizes the early days of Mary Todd and Abraham Lincoln’s relationship in this delightful embellishment of American history. This charming love story delicately reveals the emotional roller coaster of two inexperienced adults traversing the unknown realm of love while trying to meet the demands and expectations of society.” —Publishers Weekly “In this sparkling tale of strategy and desire, Louis Bayard renders the origin story of the Lincoln-Todd marriage with a wit worthy of Jane Austen and the keen political insight of the best presidential biographers. When it comes to bringing our most revered historical figures to vivid life—and returning to them their full humanity—Louis Bayard has no peer. He is, quite simply, a master of the storytelling art.” —Liza Mundy, bestselling author of Code Girls “In exquisite detail and luminous prose, Louis Bayard has taken what might have been a footnote in the history of Abraham Lincoln and made it the story.  It is as if there was a secret door in Lincoln's life and Bayard has opened it and walked inside. Suddenly all the pieces fit. Utterly fascinating and brilliantly convincing, this is a terrific book that people will be talking about for a long time.” —Mary Morris, author of Gateway to the Moon “Superb, witty, gorgeously written. For the length of this dazzling, subversive novel, I was plunged so deeply into the sitting rooms and muddy streets of mid-19th-century Springfield, Illinois, that I too had fallen in love with and had my heart broken by the awkward, young lawyer from Kentucky. Courting Mr. Lincoln is an essential read: it makes the past a human place.” —Christopher Bollen, author of The Destroyers “Courting Mr. Lincoln gives us a young Abe Lincoln as we've never imagined him. It’s a moving portrait, told with cutting wit and intimately drawn detail, of three friends struggling to find their own identities against the weight of social expectations.” —Thomas Mullen, author of Darktown and Lightning Men “Louis Bayard is a writer of remarkable gifts: for language, for imagination, for that mysterious admixture of audacity and craftsmanship.” —Joyce Carol Oates About the Author: Louis Bayard is a New York Times Notable Book author and has been shortlisted for both the Edgar and Dagger awards for his historical thrillers, which include The Pale Blue Eye and Mr. Timothy. His most recent novel was the critically acclaimed young-adult title Lucky Strikes. He lives in Washington, DC, and teaches at George Washington University. Visit him online at www.louisbayard.com.

http://www.dazzledbybooks.com/2020/02/courting-mr-lincoln-spotlight.html

[whiterosebrian]

One Year Later, Part 2

This is the second half of a reflection on the year since I made the difficult decision to walk away from Catholicism. If you haven’t done so already, please go back and read what I typed in the first half. It’s necessary to fully appreciate what I’m about to type in this post.

I’m sure that I restated the various points in the previous post within in multiple previous posts. Why do I repeat them now? I think that yet again I needed to offer a reflection on what pushed me out of the Catholic Church. Given how much I still speak of the Catholic Church, I wonder if I am to work on building bridges. At the same time, I also believe that I am not a sage but instead a late-blooming cartoonist.

There once was a time when I constantly looked for wise leaders to guide me on the right path. When talking to a few folks in spiritualist or neo-pagan circles on the web, I am now told that I need to look deep within or look to my “higher self”. Am I ready to do that? I don’t know. What if one’s mind is misled by noxious lies or one’s spirit is malformed by pride and cruelty? Isn’t that a legitimate concern? Isn’t there a need to properly form one’s inner spirit and learn what is true, good, and beautiful?

I can say this, however. I do accept that God’s image, the imprint of the God of life and love, is in people’s hearts—not restricted to some redeemed obedient remnant elite, but within the heart of every ordinary person. That is something that I learned from the finer teachers within the Church. Sadly, that too seems to be dismissed as a heresy and apostasy by self-appointed Defenders of the One True Faith. They just might have pushed me into heresy. It would seem as if James Joyce was right about the flesh-and-blood human person being the heresy most abhorrent to the Church. Evidently, a wolf is a heresy, a falcon is a heresy, a deer is a heresy, a beetle is a heresy, an octopus is a heresy, an oak is a heresy, a sunflower is a heresy, a mushroom is a heresy, a waterfall is a heresy, a river is a heresy, a crystal is a heresy, and the very ground on which we walk is a heresy. Who is proving James Joyce wrong? Why can we not see God’s presence in humanity or in nature at all?

Why do I seem to obsess over Catholicism even now? First of all, being such a massive institution, it would do much good if it were truly as life-affirming as apologist claim it to be. Second, you can probably guess that I am still in pain over the breakup. Losing faith is like a very bad end to a deeply committed relationship. For nearly twenty-five years as a convert I hoped to find the God of love within life on earth. Upon looking back, I now believe that I rarely ever caught a glimpse. I wish to see, hear, taste, and feel a true presence of a Godhead as the source of all life and love. I wish to experience life as a joyous journey with magic and spirits, not as a dictatorship of fear or merely following orders. I do not view moderate or liberal Catholics as fools. I accept that they mean well and are trying to make a difference. I’ve simply come to the conclusion that Catholicism will not be good for me for the foreseeable future. Considering how vocal and driven and even well-funded the whole Christian Right is, those folks may be fighting a losing battle to boot.

I did read up a bit about Kabbalah. There was far too much dense theoretical theologizing for me to fully absorb. I did, however, sense that God was indeed a communion of light and love. That too is something that I learned within the Church and still sensed as I began exploring esoteric spiritualties. I still might want to explore it to some degree, even as a vaguely spiritualist gentile. I could respect and admire Jewishness and even as a practicing Catholic. There are reasons why I incorporated “Solomon” into my pen-name, even if I’m using the Anglophone form (I have no intention of stepping on the toes of actual Jews, pious and otherwise). I might even look into “practical Kabbalah”, though I do accept that it can be vulgarized into power-grabbing sorcery, meaning that I’ll have much careful reflection to do. Nonetheless, the basic ideas behind Kabbalah and general Jewish mysticism and magic resonate with me as much as aspects of my Northern European heritage and the heritage of the land where I live, North America. It seems that baptism (recall how even the Church has recently affirmed roots in Jewishness) has left an impact on my soul indeed. One book that I have on my wish list on Amazon, which my parents will order from for Christmas presents, purports to offer anew early Jewish tribal practices. I do wish to connect with the Godhead and the spirits and the earth as well as my fellow humans.

I have made multiple attempts to get myself into a properly calm and meditative state. I felt like I failed every time. I have tried to stay still before a shrine to positive spirits and the Godhead that I set up. I have tried to ground myself by going barefoot into the back yard of a house that I moved into with my parents early in the year. I have tried to meditate with native-style flute, rain-stick, and frame drum. I knew that becoming properly meditative would take much time and practice. Lately I have also tried to meditate on the Tree of Life and draw positive energy from crystalline pyramids.

I hope that my life settles down more now that I have a new part-time job and the process of moving into the new home is nearly complete. Where do I go from here? Eat more plant foods? Yes, I can do that and I am attempting to do so, even if there are aren’t many plant foods that I actually like. Exercise more? I hope that I’ll find more steady opportunities with a steady work schedule. Going outside for grounding will not be particularly feasible during the winter months and I doubt that my parents would understand. Draw more? I still wish I had the energy to draw more often. Write more? Maybe, but I’m still waiting on feedback regarding the first-draft prose treatments for my story, as I want to make sure to get it going strong before I go deeper into the development. Setting up a lovely space in the basement (go ahead and crack those jokes about basement-dwellers) serving as my art studio and idiosyncratic library might help with getting started.

Where would my self-healing lead?

It is my hope that I will bloom into a happy, healthy, and noble soul. I hope that I will become empowered and carry that power to cultivate and heal the world around me. You might already know that I dream of eventually creating truly beautiful things. I wish to connect with both heaven and earth and with new friends both visible and invisible. I wish to leave something wonderful over the course of my life on this earth. At this point I may be repeating myself. If I am indeed a mess, forgive me. Ultimately, this pair of journal entries is just a reflection as I restart my search for true spirituality, true beauty, and true love. Please send many blessings my way.

[killingthebuddha]

“All of us become pilgrims at one time or another, even though we may not give ourselves the name.” –Richard Niebuhr

PJ, who presides over Dublin’s dusty shop Sweny’s, has read Joyce’s Ulysses 51 times in 6 different languages. Over a dark pint of Guinness, with the mist from the glass melting on his fingertips, PJ speaks about the lines from the book that are making his pulse race that minute. He doesn’t try to persuade you of their sacredness or its genius. He just smiles slightly, revealing coffee-stained and wayward teeth, and nods as he cites whole paragraphs. PJ loves Joyce. To PJ, Sweny’s, the shop where Leopold Bloom bought lemon soap for his wife Molly in Joyce’s epic, is an invaluable relic of Joyce’s Dublin, and he would do anything to protect its legacy. Even as rent steadily increases, PJ continues to sell bars of lemon soap in the chemist’s shop, now cluttered with old photographs, various editions of Ulysses, and hundreds of small glass bottles. PJ says with a wry smile, “the soap cleans the body while the book corrupts the mind.” 

Every year on June 16, the same date that marked Leopold Bloom’s walk around Dublin in 1904, a host of literary pilgrims visit the city to pay tribute to Joyce. Sweny’s was a sacred stop on the tour for people I met last Bloomsday, people who came from Australia, Japan, Bosnia, South Korea, the United States, Germany, Spain, Argentina, England, France, and Switzerland. 

In the Catholic tradition of pilgrimage, a location that is considered sacred is often referred to as a “thin place,” a place where the space between heaven and earth wanes, and becomes rarefied or thin. Such places typically mark the site of a saint’s ascension, a miraculous act, or some epiphanic moment. In other religions, places may be considered sacred because they have been saturated with meaning by God. What might a thin place be in a conversation about literary pilgrimage? Perhaps where the distance between an author’s imagination and a reader’s lived reality narrows and eventually collapses. And where the human being who generated meaning in the place—the author, the artist, the genius—begins to acquire divine status. Joyce certainly seems to assume deific qualities every year on Bloomsday as devotees travel to Dublin and re-enact the events from Bloom’s life, visit the places he walked, and read excerpts of Ulysses aloud.

In the home I grew up in, we consider all books sacred, and one of my family’s South Indian traditions has become practically reflexive for me. When someone accidentally drops a book or grazes one with a foot, we place our hand on the cover and gently touch our closed eyelids. We thus symbolically ask forgiveness for treating a book with inadvertent disregard. My parents instilled in me a deep appreciation for written words. Literary pilgrimage provides an opportunity to reflect on that appreciation, and on what happens when it extends beyond an individual gesture to a collective expression of reverence. Why do people become dedicated to one author, or one text? And how does that dedication evolve from fleeting infatuation to persistent devotion? 

Last summer, on a quest to reckon with these questions, I attended the Bloomsday festival, which is primarily organized by the James Joyce Center on Dublin’s North Great George’s Street. Deirdre Ellis-King, the chair of the board of the James Joyce Center, notes that the center is committed to providing “different points of entry” into the text, be it “music and song, drama, costume, or food.” The entry points Ellis-King referred to are visible throughout Dublin on Bloomsday. As I walked down North Great George’s Street, people were dressed for the trends of 1904—most men sported black top hats, and carried walking sticks, while women donned petticoats, lace gloves, and parasols. One man even tipped his hat, saluted me, and said with a melancholic tinge, “what a shame, poor fellow, Paddy Dignam,” referencing the character whose funeral in Ulysses occurs on June 16. 

When I arrived at Davy Byrne’s, a central pub in the novel, I witnessed a joyful uproar of Irish anthems and songs from the book. There were productions of Ulysses all over Dublin, from the Abbey’s adaptation of the entire epic to the Bewley Café’s staged reading of Molly Bloom’s monologue, and her famed finale, “and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” There were pub crawls across Dublin, not to mention food tours that took visitors down Bloom’s bizarre trajectory of consumption, from kidneys for breakfast to gorgonzola sandwiches and burgundy for lunch. All these events were meant to challenge the notion that Ulysses ought to be abstruse and abstract for readers. Bloomsday participants come with varying levels of Ulysses knowledge, but even if you haven’t read the book, you can still down a pint or digest a kidney. 

Sam Slote, a professor at Trinity College Dublin, who has organized an academic symposium on Ulysses, cites Joyce’s remark, “If I can get to the heart of Dublin, I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world.” Slote comments that in order “to get to the heart of Dublin, Joyce represents the city in all its specificities.” In this way, he “gets to everywhere else and all their specificities.” Deirdre Ellis-King agrees, remarking that “Joyce and Dublin are synonymous, it’s any-man and every-man, you could be in any city in the world and enjoy the same kind of experiences of the streetscape.” Paradoxically, by being so precise, the text becomes universal. This stylistic technique is analogous to the character of Bloom. “It’s not that every man likes kidneys for breakfast, but every man has his particularities,” Slote says. It is in this way that Ulysses speaks to any reader, any person in motion, any pilgrim—not in the specifics of every human being, but in the specificity with which any human being can be represented. No one is special. Everyone is special. Stephen Dedalus, the other main character in the novel, has a line, “every life is many days, day after day.” This could be the motto for not only the epic, but also the festival commemorating June 16—any day, in any life, could be Bloomsday. The annual convergence of time and place restores significance to every ordinary and individual encounter, to every overlooked dollop of time. 

Jessica Yates, who oversees the Bloomsday festival and manages the James Joyce Center, tells me she “converted” to Joyce (her word) because of Bloomsday.  Unlike people who embark on a pilgrimage to honor the text they love, Yates casually went out to a pub on Bloomsday eleven years ago without any prior knowledge of Ulysses. It was there that she met “someone special,” and they set out on a project to read Ulysses before their first anniversary. She says with a trill of laughter, “I got so into Bloomsday.”      

She recommends I sit in on one of the storied reading circles at Sweny’s. I do, and am struck by the variety of voices present. Some readers sit with a cane or walker leaning against theirs chairs, and others sprint over to the shop after class. As Joycean phrases echo in the small confines of Sweny’s, I hear accents from Argentina, South Korea, and France. One Dubliner named Paddy has been attending the reading circle on and off for about a decade. Paddy wears long trousers, a light blue button down shirt, and round reading glasses. He seems serious, but he also has a toothy grin. While some wanderers came into the bookshop after one or two beers, Paddy arrives early, eager to pour over the text he deems so valuable. He has read the book in 6-month cycles about ten or eleven times—he can’t recall exactly. He views Ulysses as a vessel through which he can access his own ancestors, a thin place with miraculous possibility. He explains, “I am from Dublin. My parents, my grandparents too. I have no non-Irish connections. I think I am deeply of Dublin, and there are few books deeply of Dublin. Ulysses is one of them.” He explains why the book resonates with him emotionally by pointing to its melodic qualities: “There is a music in the language, a rhythm in the speech. I can hear my parents who are now dead, my grandparents who are now dead, I can hear them talking, when I read it, I can hear their voices.” 

Yet another regular at Sweny’s is Finon, a former student at Trinity College. He has been attending readings of Ulysses for four years, and he loves how Sweny’s regulars move “in a loop,” how the book itself is like a “carousel, no fun unless you get to do the whole thing.” “After all,” he chuckles, “if you haven’t finished, it’s not worth the money.” Like many sacred texts, Ulysses contains philosophical reflections, surprising imagery, and beautiful poetry. And like many religious holidays, which draw pilgrims from all over the world to a holy site, Bloomsday too, according to Finon, becomes a “spawning day,” to which “a lot of people return.” Both re-reading and pilgrimage are rituals of returning.

Attempts to disavow the sacred aspects of the festival sometimes sound inadvertently religious. When Finon describes the goal of Bloomsday, he seems a bit like a defensive missionary: “The attempt to popularize the text is really an attempt to create an invitation into it. I mean nobody’s looking to actively spread it onto people, but to keep it as welcoming as possible.” Similarly, Jessica Yates says she wants to get people excited about the text, but she insists, “I don’t want to impose it on everyone.” They are enthusiasts who hesitate to proselytize.

Indeed, Professor Slote of Trinity College Dublin notes with a hint of smug amusement that many people were asking him what he thought of Bloomsday from a scholarly perspective and he was “about to say something,” until he realized, “I’m not going to be this guy.” It would be understandable, from an academic standpoint, to scoff at some of what unfolds. For starters, many of the most devoted participants have never read the book. Take John, the James Joyce lookalike who has stood outside the James Joyce Center every June 16 for the last seven years. He carries a cane, and wears a black top hat, a suit, a healthy gray moustache and a tiny square beard. He peers through large circular spectacles, and takes photographs with tourists. Originally a hat-maker, John grew up in Dublin. He explains the mass of people at the James Joyce Center in an assured tone: “People don’t have to be readers to enjoy Bloomsday, people just like the association.” When I asked John what he thought when he read Ulysses for the first time, his eyes stretched open, and he raised his brows: “Read it? I wrote it!” I smiled, and he conceded, “I’m afraid I didn’t read it.”

For Joyce, a writer who said that if “Ulysses isn’t worth reading, then life isn’t worth living,” John’s confession could be considered blasphemous. But returning to Professor Slote’s less judgmental perspective, it’s unnecessary to “be that guy” who reads and analyzes Ulysses in order to have a genuine relationship with the text. Slote analogizes criticism of Bloomsday to what “we have in America—the [rhetoric of the] war against Christmas … the secularization of Bloomsday is not a bad thing.” 

Is Bloomsday a sign that the religion of Joyce is somehow being compromised, challenged, thinned out in the public’s touristic, commercial and dangerously superficial imagination? Or is Bloomsday’s existence reaffirming the sacredness of Ulysses to its readers? After all, not everyone who travels to Lourdes has read the Bible, and not everyone who journeys to Mecca has read the Qur’an. The mastery of a text is not necessary, or at the very least, not a prerequisite for meaningful motivations. Pilgrimage provides a different kind of proof of faith.

As Slote elaborates on not wanting to be the Grinch of Bloomsday, he says, Bloomsday “is not a bad thing—usually it falls on nice, sunny weather,” and it’s “a pleasant excuse to have a bit of a lark.” He concurs with the organizers of the Bloomsday festival that it’s good to get people interested, and even though he says “my job is generally not to think about popularizing Ulysses,” he believes offering various points of entry for readers is noble. He elaborates on Joyce’s mission with Ulysses: “While it is a book that is studied at universities, it’s not just for those people. It has a wider audience. The way culture has moved, these things tend to be more academicized, [and] something like [Bloomsday] is a good counterbalance.”

Leslie Daugherty, from the North Side of Dublin, plays Leopold Bloom in the James Joyce Center productions of Ulysses, and he agrees that the so-called “secularization” of Joyce is a good thing. He describes the text as “a fabulous read,” but takes issue with some of the academics who treat Ulysses with the wrong kind of “reverence,” effectively “making Ulysses unattainable.” He objects to the notion that Ulysses is for “the posh people,” and shook his head as he said, in a throaty voice, “No. Ulysses is for everyone who has a mind of his own.” 

 Marty, a man from Donegal, Ireland, who is a marketing and events coordinator at the James Joyce Center, first encountered Joyce when he read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and he says with a chuckle that “a lot of teenage Catholic dudes in Ireland identified with it.” He describes being deeply moved by the part where Stephen is called to the priesthood but says, instead, that he is an artist. The tensions between religious tradition, devotion, expectation, and the inclination towards the life of an artist resonate with Marty. 

Leopold Bloom, Ulysses, and Bloomsday itself are all fraught with similar tensions. Bloom is a man who loves his wife and preaches love but deceives her and behaves disloyally. Ulysses contains styles that contradict and challenge one another—clean prose, experimental stream-of-consciousness, advertisement jargon, and saccharine romantic-novel satire. Bloomsday has attendees who have read the text 51 times and people who have never heard of Joyce. The idea of “literary pilgrimage,” too, brims with ambiguity. Are books meant to be read, or to be revered? And does a book find its meaning in an isolated experience, or in a collective celebration? 

In 1996, Jonathan Franzen revised an essay initially published as “The Harper’s Essay” and retitled it “Why Bother.” In it, Franzen laments the demise of a reading-culture, and describes his “despair about the American novel.” He writes about one novel he read in reverent prose, marking his gratitude “that someone besides me had suffered from these ambiguities and had seen light on their far side—that Fox’s book had been published and preserved; that I could find company and consolation and hope in an object pulled almost at random from a bookshelf—felt akin to an instance of religious grace.” The experience of literature, of reading as an act of worship, is often seen as an individual one, as it is in this passage. Indeed, the collection for which Franzen revised his essay is called How to be Alone. 

 Yet Bloomsday’s beauty is in its social activity. As many literary pilgrims have pointed out, Joyce wanted his text to be democratic. The point of Bloomsday is for “any man and every man,” and the text is about bringing reverence to our everyday. Ulysses itself, in various bodily and granular descriptions elevates the profane to an esteemed status. For example, in one instance, Joyce satirically describes a man seated at the foot of a large tower as a “broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-limbed, frank-eyed, red-haired, freely-freckled, shaggy-bearded, wide-mouthed, large-nosed, long-headed, deep-voiced, bare-kneed, brawny-handed, hair-legged, ruddy-faced, sinew-armed hero.” And just as Joyce plays with his characters, gifting them gallant qualities (albeit in a sardonic tone), so does Bloomsday toy with its visitors and their expectations, until people find communion in a collective, at times gimmicky, at times reverent experience. Ulysses motivates its readers enough that they want to change their physical circumstances, embark on an embodied passage, and develop another vantage-point—beyond the systems of logic and reason that we so often subscribe to. The book inspires people to find one another, to derive solace and soul, from an admittedly kooky community. This somewhat paradoxical combination of the sacred and the irreverent is what permeates Dublin on Bloomsday. There are pub crawls and exclamations of Joycean passages made shriller by grand glasses of Guinness. But there is also something reminiscent of what we see in churches and memorials—pilgrims, persons in motion—seeking answers, inspired by something that has no neat ending, maybe realizing as they wander, that they too, will never be complete. 

Despite all the ambiguity and insecurity that is present when one sets out on a pilgrimage, there is also a yearning. People embark on a pilgrimage in search of something, be it healing, obligation, or understanding. And whether it is religious or literary pilgrimage, we can discover havens in vagrancy the way we do in words. As Franzen puts it, “to write sentences of such authenticity that refuge can be taken in them: Isn’t this enough? Isn’t it a lot?” There are not often clear answers in literature, but when paragraphs protect you, it doesn’t so much matter, does it? There are not clear lines drawn between the drawbacks and merits of Bloomsday either. Tourist Destination or Holy Site? One could easily say that the merits of Bloomsday are inits campiness, its accessibility, and its rendering a “thin place” palpable to readers. Franzen ends his essay with the image of a character discovering in a broken ink bottle “both perdition and salvation.” He writes, at peace without real resolution, “The world was ending then, it’s ending still, and I’m happy to belong to it again.”

Finon, one of the regular members of the Sweny’s reading circle, also embraces contradiction in Bloomsday. He believes that the festival is meaningful, but remarks with a knowing smirk that “on Bloomsday people like to drink and eat strange meat … [but] no one’s really talking about metempsychosis” (a concept of great significance in the novel). Finon asks if I had read Station Island by Seamus Heaney when I press him on the benefits and caveats of literary pilgrimage. I answer that I have not. He is keen to explain, “it’s a poem about revisiting a Catholic pilgrimage site, a catholic shrine …based on the idea that St. Patrick had a vision of purgatory there.” Finon outlines the context of the poem. “He was revisiting the place as a secularized figure … returning to a place he no longer believed in.” This raises an interesting question within a framework of literary pilgrimage. Is it possible to have a jarring return to a place you have lost faith in if all you have lost faith in is the sanctity of the literature (and not, for instance, the existence of God?) 

In Heaney’s poem, various characters appear from disparate significant moments in the history of Ireland. And at the “dead center,” Finon narrates in a thrilled whisper, “he meets the ghost of the dead James Joyce.” Heaney doesn’t name him. He refers only to the storied image of Joyce that impersonators and photographers and readers and writers have memorialized for a century: a tall man with a cane, and the voice of a singer. Heaney writes that the figure held out his hand— “whether to guide or be guided I could not be certain,” because the man seemed blind. In this poem, an itinerant soul reckons with the loss of meaning in a formerly faithful location. That a hero of literature, a genius, artist, poet, is ambiguous in his leadership—that it is unclear whether he wants to lead or be led, demonstrates the deterioration and dismantling of Joyce as an idol, of Joyce as a God. Here Joyce’s hand is “fish-cold and bony,” and the onlooker knows him “in the flesh …wintered hard and sharp as a blackthorn bush.” This is a weathered, human being, a worn body, tired, old, nothing divine or eternal-seeming about him. 

In many ways, this encounter could represent the ultimate challenge, a revisiting and reckoning with the sacred ground on which a metaphorical shrine to Ulysses was erected. In Station Island the character of Joyce does not seem wholly self-assured. He says, “your obligation / is not discharged by any common rite. / What you do you must do on your own … You’ve listened long enough. Now strike your note.” In this imagination of Joyce, the source of Ulysses’s genius, is not, on the surface, a divine force, because he feels entirely human. Yet, isn’t there something god-like in the command to strike out alone, to stop “listening,” and to embrace a new “rite”?

Considering Joyce as a simultaneously godly and ghostly figure is pertinent to the paradoxes of Bloomsday. Finon notes some logical dilemmas he observed on June 16 every year: “It’s a strange map in itself. I came to the real pub where a fictional character didn’t set foot. I came to the place where nobody bought the bar of soap. (laughs) It’s quite odd.”

Nonetheless, it seems hard to contend with the fact that Ulysses renders Dublin “a thin place.” It is the destination for wandering minds and bodies to relish and find refuge in words that feel mimetic of reality: the ugly, disturbing, devastating, and remedial stories that make up most of our lives. Letting Bloomsday be a thin place extracts communal joy from that solitary act of reading (or even of not-reading!) which can at times be isolating, and that private worship of Joyce, which can at times be embarrassing. A shared human soul pieced together from infinitely complex and individual particularities. One may plumb the mundane for miracles. 

Niebuhr describes pilgrims as people “passing through territories not their own—seeking something we might call completion, or perhaps the word clarity will do as well.” I was passing through a territory not my own, and when I walked the streets of Dublin on Bloomsday, I felt both spiritual and giddy. 

My very first interview, in the early morning of June 16, 2018, was with a couple from Trieste, and it felt like a moment of grace. I saw them loitering by the James Joyce Statue on the main street of the north side of Dublin. They were smiling and taking photos. It turned out that the man had read Ulysses as a young academic forty years ago. He matter-of-factly stated, “It was the text that inspired me to become a professor of literature.” As he spoke, his wife started laughing. I turned to her quizzically. She said, “Oh I’m sorry, it’s just my husband is really downplaying what this book means to him.” I asked her what she meant. “Well, when my first son was born—when I went into labor, what does my husband take along to the hospital? The thick fat book—Ulysses! He read it to me for twelve hours.” I turned to the man, now in his late 70s, a small smile playing on his lips, while a plum flush spread across his cheeks in patches. “Well,” he stuttered, “it’s sizzling…and brilliant…and so human.” This man wanted the very first words his son heard to be those of Joyce. What better anecdote could I have to demonstrate worship of this text? Yet, when I asked if he believed visiting Dublin for Bloomsday would lead to a more intimate understanding of Ulysses, he said, as his forehead creased slightly, “that would be too much, too big a claim.” His wife nodded knowingly. He added, “We’re here for more profane reasons.” 

Literature enables both profane pleasure and reverence. On Bloomsday, no one has to choose. 

[dailyaudiobible]

05/24/2018 DAB Transcript

2 Samuel 2:12-3:39, John 13:1-30, Psalms 119:1-16, Proverbs 15:29-30

Today is May 24th. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I am Brian and it is, as always, a pleasure and an honor to be here with you today. I'm excited that we can take the next step forward as we continue this adventure that we’re on through the Bible this year. We have fully gotten ourselves into the book of second Samuel and we’re continuing with the story of David's life and we see his humble posture and we see how that has turned the hearts of the people toward him. And today, David will become king of all Israel. Second Samuel chapter 4, 5, and 6. And we’re reading from the New Living Translation this week.

Commentary:

Okay. So, in in the book of John we are obviously moving toward the passion story. And as I've mentioned, this is the final time we’ll be coming this way this year. So, it's important that we drink deeply and embrace the story of our salvation. Jesus is at his Last Supper having this meal and He tells His friends, the time is so short. And it would've been just hours. Jesus was enjoying the final hours of His earthly freedom and He was spending some of that time with his closest friends. And it’s here that we get a direct commandment from Jesus. And we have to ask ourselves if we’re obeying this commandment. Jesus said, I'm giving you a new commandment. I am only going to be here so short of a time. So, I'm giving you a new commandment, love each other, just as I have loved you, right? Just like I've loved you, you should love each other. Your love will prove to the world that you are my disciples. So, think about it for a second. How does Jesus love us? And when you think of the love of Christ for you, what does that represent in your life? What does that mean to you? Because whatever that means to you, that is how you are to love. And that is how the world will know that you belong to Jesus. So, if we want to really embrace this story, knowing that we won't come through this story again in the Bible this year, then we have to consider deeply this commandment and whether or not we are adhering to it. Are we known by our love for Jesus? And is that love known and expressed through our love for one another? That’s something we should think about today but it's not just something we should give some passing the thought to and then forgetting about. It’s something we should be thinking about every day/ It’s something that we should generally be thinking about all the time. Am I revealing Christ in this situation? Am I showing the love of God in this situation? Am I allowing the life of Christ within me to spill out of me into the world in this situation? If we’re not then we need to consider what this commandment, this new commandment to love one another really means to us because this is one of the last things that Jesus had to say to his friends, before he entered into the time of suffering that would lead to his death whereby making all of everything that Jesus had done on this earth possible for us to do, which he said. I’m telling you the truth, Jesus said. Anyone who believes in Me will do the same works I have done and even greater works because I am going to be with the Father. So, let's give it some thought. Are we listening and obeying Jesus commandment?

Prayer:

Jesus, we acknowledge that this isn't something that we can do in our own strength and this isn't something we can do if we don't love You with all that we are, how can we love with Your love unless we have Your love within us. So, come Holy Spirit and well up within us, we pray. Let us see those around us with Your love, let us have Your heart toward the world, and let us reveal You in the world as Your hands and feet. Come, Jesus, we pray. In Your holy name we ask. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is the website, it's home base, it’s where you find out what is happening and what's going on around here. So be sure to check in and check it out.

If you want to partner with the daily audio Bible in our mission as a community year to continue to bring the spoken word of God read fresh every day and to build community around that rhythm so that we know we are not alone. We are on a journey together with her brothers and sisters all over the world as we do exactly what Jesus said, love one another as we have been loved by Christ. If that has been life giving to you and you believe in that mission as a community then thank you for your partnership. There's a link on the homepage at dailyaudiobible.com. If you're using the Daily Audio Bible app you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or, if you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996. Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always if you have a prayer request or comment, 877-942-4253 is the number to dial.

And that's it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

Hi. This is Kim from Kentucky and it’s Monday morning, May the 21st  and I just listened to the podcast and was listening to the prayers and Joyce called and because she’s graduating from med school the 19th. Glory be to God. Joyce, I’m a pediatrician in Eastern Kentucky and I still remember so well the days of med school and what an accomplishment. God bless you. And as you head into your residency, whatever that is where God has led you, to the place he’s led you, I know you will be his light there and you will make such a difference. I wish I had known the Lord so much better in my residency times like I do now. I would have been such a better doctor. But you do. And praise Gods glory. And I just want to quickly say, a couple of days ago Brian read in first Samuel, it was chapter 23 and 24, and it was about David and him being on the run and Saul right at his heels. I mean, like he was gonna get caught by him it sounded like and how the enemy can be right on our heels but God will send something that turns the enemy around, just like He did Saul. And at the end it said that that place was called the Rock of Separation. I never had got that before. That really resonated in my ears. In another translation it says the Rock of Escape. And I don’t know when David wrote it but then Psalm 18, he talks about the Lord being our rock, my rock and my refuge. And that just really blessed me and I wanted to bring that out and I just pray that it will encourage someone today that just needs to know, the enemy beyond your heels but Jesus Christ is our rock. Let’s pray…

This is Vickie from Arizona and I am calling just with an update. My husband passed away on Wednesday and he is, hopefully, in the arms of Jesus. I thank you for everybody who prayed. It seemed like his death was very peaceful. I mean, he never said, we never had the talk that he accepted Jesus but I have to believe in my heart because it was so peaceful. He went to take a nap and he never woke up. My friend was here, my girlfriend, was here with him and I was at work because we really didn’t think…we thought he had more time. So, if you would just lift up our family as we now transfer to the next chapter of our life without him. And just that God would give me wisdom beyond my understanding because I’ve been married for my whole life, we were 37 years in, but I’ve never known anybody but him. So, such a, you know, just, just a new chapter. That’s what I say. So, I just ask for prayers for wisdom. And that the peace that passes all understanding would just take over the things that I can’t deal with, that God will show me how to deal with them. So, I just thank you for your prayers. I covet your prayers. I love you. Thank you so much for your prayers. Thank you for praying for Boyd. Thank you for praying for my family. Have a blessed and prosperous day. And thank you Brian and Jill for this platform to just even be connected to all these wonderful people of God. And I love you. Thank you. Bye.

Hello Daily Audio Bible family. This is Terry the trucker. It’s Monday the 21st. I just wanted to say to everyone, have a blessed day. And for all those that have called in for prayer, I’m praying for each and every one of you daily. But the Lord’s laid it on my heart that there’s a lot of people that listen that don’t call. For what reason, I don’t know, but I know I listened last year off and on for pretty much the whole year, but off and on. I had to catch up but I never would call in knowing I needed prayer. I don’t know if it was pride, shame, for what I was asking for prayer for. But whatever your need is, the Lord knows. And I’m praying for you and I know there’s a lot of other people that are. You don’t have to call in. All you have to do is believe and have faith. That’s all he says…and have faith. But I wanted you to know that whatever your need is that I’m praying for you. You all have a blessed day. I have a praise report also. It’s gonna to be three days I believe. I just about huffed now but it’s 23 days, no drugs, no alcohol. Thank you Lord and thank you all for the prayers. I am truly blessed. You all have a great day. God, bless.

Hello my name is Evanya, Evan. And it’s been a while since I called. I lived in California. And I don’t know, I think some of you maybe remember, but I was dealing with issues with alcohol and drugs and a really bad relationship with my mother. And now am in Nicaragua in Central America and I’m calling from here. Just wanted to check in and ask for prayer. I heard a testimony of Terry and…who also was dealing with alcohol problems, drug addiction. And I totally understand. I can relate to you. It’s been very difficult for me. So, I’m just asking for prayer from my Daily Audio Bible family. Thank you so much. Bye-bye.

Good morning Daily Audio Bible family. It’s Monica in Kentucky and it’s May 22nd and I’m calling to pray for Cherry Chase Cherry pie. Dear heavenly Father, I just lift up my sister Cherry Chase Cherry pie and the struggles that she’s having with her job. Lord, it’s bad enough to have a difficult name, but to have that compounded with racism, that’s so present that she can feel it in her group, in her team, it’s just unfathomable to me because I’m white and because I blessed to work in a ministry and I don’t have to struggle with this. It’s hard enough without that being an extra added layer of job stress, pain, and frustration. So God, I just ask you to give Cherry just an extra dose of everything that she needs to do her job above reproach and in excellence so that there is no room for false accusation. Just fill her with so much love peace and joy that her coworkers look at her in complete amazement and embrace her as their sister. And Lord I just ask for justice. I ask for complete and total justice. I mean, you promise that in the end, but I actually pray that there be justice for her in the situation. Lord, you are the God of justice. And, so, I do ask that You would bring justice for her in this situation, peace, joy, prosperity, and justice. In Jesus name I pray. Amen.

[shearsghost2]

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This stress, incorporated with the enhancing normalisation as well as availability of surgical and non-surgical therapies, and also the absence of regulation around, has contributed to a boom in "genital rejuvenation". After an examination to make certain that you appropriate for the FemiLift therapy, the treatment is quick as well as pain-free. Making use of a. speculum, a little rod having the laser is gently inserted into the vaginal area. It is after that carefully drew back to make sure that the laser covers the full length of the vaginal wall.

How do you wash your hair after a facelift?

After the dressings are removed, shower and wash your hair. Use warm not hot water (much as you would wash an infant.) Use only baby shampoo. Let the water run through your hair to remove all dried blood and surgical soap.

Refinery29 spoke to the Advertising and marketing Requirements Authority to find out its position on the way vaginal restoration therapies are being promoted, provided the warnings. " We would certainly need to evaluate specific cases depending upon the level of the case," a representative claimed, including that "objective cases would need to be backed with evidence". Goodacre is likewise asking for higher understanding of women's sexual wellness, which positions much less onus on the body. He said the "treatment asserts to invigorate the vagina by permitting the vaginal area to normally generate brand-new collagen" which it "is done in a secure and controlled fashion adhering to the most strict standards and also cleanliness policies". He defined the absence of guideline around such treatments in the UK as "unfortunate" and also claimed Vivo Facility's procedures are covered by insurance coverage "and also satisfy well-known insurance coverage companies that our treatments will certainly not hurt the public". So is it any kind of marvel that some ladies are seeking hasty remedies to obtain their vaginal canals an action better to pornstar "perfection"?

What is the best treatment for deep wrinkles on face?

Wrinkle TreatmentsRetinoids (tretinoin, Altreno, Retin-A, Renova, Tazorac). Alpha-hydroxy acids. Antioxidants. Moisturizers. Glycolic acid peels. Deeper peels. Dermabrasion . Laser resurfacing . More items•

exactly How Will Your Skin Tag Be gotten Rid Of?

For several ladies, they just require to undergo a single treatment session for them to get optimum outcomes. But also for others, it might be essential for them to go back to the clinic for between two and three sessions for them to completely benefit. HIFU is the go-treatment for females looking to tighten their vaginas. While it's a subject that very few people, particularly females are certain talking about in public circles, it can help renew their personal parts. FemiWand is a non-surgical therapy that has been designed to restore firmness and suppleness. The innovation we use is risk-free and also non-invasive definition there are extremely few adverse effects, all of which are temporary.

Astudy of 28 post-menopausal women with symptoms of vaginal atrophyby gynaecologist Scott Evan Eder MD, discovered that "mostly all VVA symptoms were significantly improved at one month adhering to the initial treatment". In 2018, Julene B Samuels, MD, Cosmetic Surgeon and Martin A Garcia, MD, Obstetrician Gynecologist, checked into the effectiveness of lasers for symptoms of vulvovaginal degeneration in postmenopausal females. The outcomes showed that symptoms of dry skin, itching as well as pain during intercourse enhanced substantially, and that the density of the genital tissue had increased. Adhere to the web link toread more regarding the study and before as well as after photos. A 2017 studyfound that laser therapy was an "effective as well as easy-to-perform therapy method for menopause-related genital atrophy as well as tension urinary incontinence".

How much does a ponytail facelift cost?

Cost: $8,000–$11,000. The Hair Trick: A DIY ponytail placed just right will yield impressive results too, even if only for an evening.

Before being used in tightening genital cells, it was being used on procedures that involved boosting and also tightening up the complexion on various parts of the body including the face. At Pro-Moi Facility the HIFU Genital tightening also called the Femiwand is a non-surgical genital tightening up treatment. This treatment works well for looseness, dry skin as well as bladder weakness. If childbirth or menopause has created some modifications in the health and wellness and anatomy of your vagina, after that this could be your answer. If you would love to whine about the way vaginal rejuvenation treatments are marketed in the UK you can submit a grievance to the Advertising and marketing Requirements Authority. The process is relatively straightforward however you'll need an image, video or screenshot of the ad, that includes advertising on a business's site or social networks networks.

[thecaffeinebookwarrior]

Internal Conflict:  Five Conflicting Traits of a Likable Hero.

1.  Flaws and Virtues 

I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but characters without flaws are boring.  This does not, as many unfortunate souls take it to mean, imply that good, kind, or benevolent characters are boring:  it just means that without any weaknesses for you to poke at, they tend to be bland-faced wish fulfillment on the part of the author, with a tendency to just sit there without contributing much to the plot.

For any character to be successful, they need to have a proportionate amount of flaws and virtues.

Let’s take a look at Stranger Things, for example, which is practically a smorgasbord of flawed, lovable sweethearts.

We have Joyce Byers, who is strung out and unstable, yet tirelessly works to save her son, even when all conventional logic says he’s dead;  We have Officer Hopper, who is drunken and occasionally callous, yet ultimately is responsible for saving the boy’s life;  We have Jonathan, who is introspective and loving, but occasionally a bit of a creeper, and Nancy, who is outwardly shallow but proves herself to be a strong and determined character.  Even Steve, who would conventionally be the popular jerk who gets his comeuppance, isn’t beyond redemption.

And of course, we have my beloved Eleven, who’s possibly the closest thing Stranger Things has to a “quintessential” heroine.  She’s the show’s most powerful character, as well as one of the most courageous.  However, she is also the show’s largest source of conflict, as it was her powers that released the Demogorgon to begin with.  

Would Eleven be a better character if this had never happened?  Would Stranger Things be a better show?  No, because if this had never happened, Stranger Things wouldn’t even be a show.  Or if it was, it would just be about a bunch of cute kids sitting around and playing Dungeons and Dragons in a relatively peaceful town.

A character’s flaws and mistakes are intended to drive the plotline, and if they didn’t have them, there probably wouldn’t even be a plot.

So don’t be a mouth-breather:  give your good, kind characters some difficult qualities, and give your villains a few sympathetic ones.  Your work will thank you for it.

2.  Charisma and Vulnerability

Supernatural has its flaws, but likable leads are not one of them.  Fans will go to the grave defending their favorite character, consuming and producing more character-driven, fan-created content than most other TV shows’ followings put together.

So how do we inspire this kind of devotion with our own characters?  Well, for starters, let’s take a look at one of Supernatural’s most quintessentially well-liked characters:  Dean Winchester.

From the get-go, we see that Dean has charisma:  he’s confident, cocky, attractive, and skilled at what he does.  But these qualities could just as easily make him annoying and obnoxious if they weren’t counterbalanced with an equal dose of emotional vulnerability. 

As the show progresses, we see that Dean cares deeply about the people around him, particularly his younger brother, to the point of sacrificing himself so that he can live.  He goes through long periods of physical and psychological anguish for his benefit (though by all means, don’t feel obligated to send your main character to Hell for forty years), and the aftermath is depicted in painful detail.

Moreover, in spite of his outward bravado, we learn he doesn’t particularly like himself, doesn’t consider himself worthy of happiness or a fulfilling life, and of course, we have the Single Man Tear(TM).

So yeah, make your characters beautiful, cocky, sex gods.  Give them swagger.  Just, y’know.  Hurt them in equal measure.  Torture them.  Give them insecurities.  Make them cry.  

Just whatever you do, let them be openly bisexual.  Subtext is so last season.

3.  Goals For the Future and Regrets From the Past

Let’s take a look at Shadow Moon from American Gods.  (For now, I’ll have to be relegate myself to examples from the book, because I haven’t had the chance to watch the amazing looking TV show.) 

Right off the bat, we learn that Shadow has done three years in prison for a crime he may or may not have actually committed.  (We learn later that he actually did commit the crime, but that it was only in response to being wronged by the true perpetrators.)  

He’s still suffering the consequences of his actions when we meet him, and arguably, for the most of the book:  because he’s in prison, his wife has an affair (I still maintain that Laura could have resisted the temptation to be adulterous if she felt like it, but that’s not the issue here) and is killed while mid-coital with his best friend.

Shadow is haunted by this for the rest of the book, to the point at which it bothers him more than the supernatural happenings surrounding him.  

Even before that, the more we learn about Shadow’s past, the more we learn about the challenges he faced:  he was bullied as a child, considered to be “just a big, dumb guy” as an adult, and is still wrongfully pursued for crimes he was only circumstantially involved in.

But these difficulties make the reader empathize with Shadow, and care about what happens to him.  We root for Shadow as he tags along with the mysterious and alternatively peckish and charismatic Wednesday, and as he continuously pursues a means to permanently bring Laura back to life.

He has past traumas, present challenges, and at least one goal that propels him towards the future.  It also helps that he’s three-dimensional, well-written, and as of now, portrayed by an incredibly attractive actor.

Of course (SPOILER ALERT), Shadow never does succeed in fully resurrecting Laura, ultimately allowing her to rest instead, but that doesn’t make the resolution any less satisfying.  

Which leads to my next example...       

4.  Failure and Success 

You remember in Zootopia, when Judy Hopps decides she wants to be cop and her family and town immediately and unanimously endorse her efforts?  Or hey, do you remember Harry Potter’s idyllic childhood with his kindhearted, adoptive family?  Oh!  Or in the X-Files, when Agent Mulder presents overwhelming evidence of extraterrestrial life in the first episode and is immediately given a promotion?  No?

Yeah, me neither.  And there’s a reason for this:  ff your hero gets what they want the entire time, it will be a boring, two-dimensional fantasy that no one will want to read.  

A good story is not about the character getting what they want.  A good story is about the character’s efforts and their journey.  The destination they reach could be something far removed from what they originally thought they wanted, and could be no less (if not more so) satisfying because of it.

Let’s look at Toy Story 3, for example:  throughout the entire movie, Woody’s goal is to get his friends back to their longtime owner, Andy, so that they can accompany him to college.  He fails miserably.  None of his friends believe that Andy was trying to put them in the attic, insisting that his intent was to throw them away.  He is briefly separated from them as he is usurped by a cute little girl and his friends are left at a tyrannical daycare center, but with time and effort, they’re reunited, Woody is proven right, and things seem to be back on track.

Do his efforts pay off?  Yes -- just not in the way he expected them to.  At the end of the movie, a college-bound Andy gives the toys away to a new owner who will play with them more than he will, and they say goodbye.  Is the payoff bittersweet?  Undoubtedly.  It made me cry like a little bitch in front of my young siblings.  But it’s also undoubtedly satisfying.      

So let your characters struggle.  Let them fail.  And let them not always get what they want, so long as they get what they need.  

5.  Loving and Being Loved by Others

Take a look back at this list, and all the characters on it:  a gaggle of small town kids and flawed adults, demon-busting underwear models, an ex-con and his dead wife, and a bunch of sentient toys.  What do they have in common?  Aside from the fact that they’re all well-loved heroes of their own stories, not much.

But one common element they all share is they all have people they care about, and in turn, have people who care about them.  

This allows readers and viewers to empathize with them possibly more than any of the other qualities I’ve listed thus far, as none of it means anything without the simple demonstration of human connection.

Let’s take a look at everyone’s favorite caped crusader, for example:  Batman in the cartoons and the comics is an easy to love character, whereas in the most recent movies (excluding the splendid Lego Batman Movie), not so much. 

Why is this?  In all adaptions, he’s the same mentally unstable, traumatized genius in a bat suit.  In all adaptions, he demonstrates all the qualities I listed before this:  he has flaws and virtues, charisma and vulnerability, regrets from the past and goals for the future, and usually proportionate amounts of failure and success.  

What makes the animated and comic book version so much more attractive than his big screen counterpart is the fact that he does one thing right that all live action adaptions is that he has connections and emotional dependencies on other people.  

He’s unabashed in caring for Alfred, Batgirl, and all the Robins, and yes, he extends compassion and sympathy to the villains as well, helping Harley Quinn to ultimately escape a toxic and abusive relationship, consoling Baby Doll, and staying with a child psychic with godlike powers until she died.

Cartoon Batman is not afraid to care about others.  He has a support network of people who care about him, and that’s his greatest strength.  The DC CU’s ever darker, grittier, and more isolated borderline sociopath is failing because he lacks these things.  

 And it’s also one of the reasons that the Lego Batman Movie remains so awesome.

God willing, I will be publishing fresh writing tips every week, so be sure to follow my blog and stay tuned for future advice and observations! 

[windless-hurricane]

She's the One

Chapter 2: Your Name

A Billy x Reader x Steve Fanfic

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SUMMARY: You're One, one of the many kids experimented on in Hawkins lab. Eleven's sister. You were found and now you're here to stay.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This took a lot longer to write than I anticipated, but here it is! I'd also like to apologize to anyone who sent me an ask. I accidentally responded and now I can't find y'all. If you're still interested, just let me know in the comments. Thank you.

WARNINGS: Language, violence, and scenes involving blood and/or death.

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

TAGLIST: @cherrym4rk @torntaltos @bun-dpdbny @5sosxgrethan @acidrain707 @evelynfreakinaddams @qtmeryr @kayln97 @uwu-bucky @book--butterfly @laurmillen @art-flirt @thecornerstoreoftheuniverse

LAST CHAPTER

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“What can you do?”

“How old are you?”

“Are you Eleven’s sister?”

“Just how strong are you?”

“Can you show us?”

The kids continued to throw question after question at you, expecting them to be answered, but leaving you with no time to answer them. You just stared at them with wide eyes until Hopper cut them off with a harsh tone.

“I’ll be asking the questions here.” And silence befell on them once again. Wow, you thought. He really had a talent for getting people to shut up.

You looked to him and he reeked of frustration and worry. However, when he spoke, there was an ounce of sympathy in his voice. “Why were you in that chamber?” You knew he was going to ask that. It was obvious enough, but it still made you cringe with discomfort. You didn’t want to talk about that chamber, because for you, that thing was a personal hell you thought you would never escape from. It was frightening and you never wanted to go back. However, answers were something that they deserved. Not only would it have helped them through this crisis, it would also give them some trust in you.

So, you cleared your throat and began to speak, slowly but carefully. “Well...since you know Eleven...you must already know...what the lab did…to her...to us.” He nodded. “I was the first one...they did it to… They always said that…they got lucky with me. That I was their best experiment and...would lay the groundwork for the others after me. That's why...all the kids who did survive the experiments, got one or two of my abilities.”

“And what exactly are your abilities,” Dustin asked with a grin, but Hopper wasn’t amused. He shot Dustin a death glare, but he didn't seem to notice it.

“I-I can move things...with my mind,” you revealed. “And make people see what I want them to see… I can read minds too and...tell what people are feeling.”

“Can you control people?”

“No. I haven't been able to that...not yet at least.” You caught a glimpse of Hopper's annoyed expression and gulped nervously. “Anyway... The reason I was in that chamber in the first place is because...I helped the other kids escape. Three, Seven, and Eight.”

“You mean there's other kids out there right now,” he asked.

“Well, not ‘here’ here, but...around. That day...I wasn't able to get Eleven out, but luckily...she was able to get out on her own.”

“While I was in there though, I could hear things - voices. At first, I-I didn't know who they belonged to, but I slowly started to realize what was going on. The first voice I heard was from that woman, Joyce...and she was talking...about him.” You pointed to Will who was asleep on the couch with a blanket over him. “He went missing and you found him, but now...something's wrong with him.”

“You know what's wrong?”

You nodded, while never breaking eye contact with him. “I know everything...because...I heard everything. I know all of you too. I recognize you from your voices.”

At that, everyone glanced between each other in astonishment. You, you were someone that they just met, someone who had just entered the picture without warning. Yet, you seemed to know more about what was going on than they did. Hell, you even knew all of them without a proper introduction. So if that didn’t show a fraction of what you were capable of, then they didn’t know what could. You were someone worth the bargain. Even so, Hopper felt compelled to ask one last thing.

“How long were you in there?”

You shrugged, “5 years, give or take.”

“Shit,” one of the kids breathed out and you could make it out as Lucas. Hopper sighed deeply and you could tell it was from a mixture of sympathy and desperation.

“I'm sorry to ask this of you, but...we need your help.”

“And I'll give it,” you blurted out without hesitation. “I was going to give it regardless.” You said more quietly as you looked over to Will. “There’s a darkness in Hawkins that we need to stop...and it starts with him.”

__________________________________________

“Okay, so if this thing is like a brain that’s controlling everything, then if we kill it...we kill everything that it controls.” You nodded as you continued to stare at the page from Dustin’s D&D manual. Mike’s deduction made sense, but the same question still stood. How do you-

“How do you kill this thing? Shoot it with fireballs or something?”

You jumped in surprise as Hopper snatched the manual away, trying to find the answer for himself. Dustin eventually spoke up, but it was less than confident.

“Well, uh, you summon an undead army, um, because-because zombies, you know, they don’t have brains.” He began to stumble over his own words. “And the mind flayer, it-it… It likes brains. It’s just a game. It’s a game,” he finally confessed.

“What the hell are we doing here,” Hopper groaned. Things weren’t looking good and that became more evident as Hopper and Dustin started to argue.

“I thought we were waiting for your military backup.”

“We are!”

“How are they gonna stop this? You can't just shoot this with guns.”

“You don't know that! We don't know anything!”

“We know it's already killed everybody in that lab. We know the monsters are gonna molt again. We know that it's only a matter of time before those tunnels reach this town.”

“They’re right,” a voice interrupted. Joyce. “We have to kill it.”

Your face softened as you turned to face her. She was being overwhelmed by grief, sadness, and anger, but who could blame her obviously. She lost someone she loved.

“I want to kill it,” she declared.

“Me too, Joyce. Me too.” Hopper was doing his best to calm her; but deep down, he couldn’t even do that for himself. “But how do we do that?” And it hit you.

“Will knows.” Everyone stopped and turned to you. “Will knows how to kill it, because he’s connected to it. He already knows everything about it and that includes its weaknesses.”

“I thought we couldn’t trust him anymore - that he’s a spy for the mind flayer now,” Max reminded, causing Mike to shake his head.

“Yeah, but he can't spy if he doesn't know where he is.”

“Exactly,” you confirmed. “This will work.”

__________________________________________

You all decided that the shed in the backyard would be the best place for Will’s interrogation. It was small, making it perfect to disguise in a short amount of time. So, you all went outside to find materials that could help in your endeavor.

You were encouraged to not use your powers until the real threat came and while that wasn't a terrible idea, you also hadn’t used your powers in five years. You were rusty and needed as much practice as you could get. So, whenever the kids came upon an object that was either too heavy to carry or too high on a shelf to reach, you helped them. It was enough for now.

You let out a small sigh as you wiped the blood dripping from your nose. “You okay,” you heard someone ask and you turned to find Hopper. You nodded.

“Ye-yeah, I’m okay. Thank you.” You moved to go back into the house since most of the preparations were finished already, but stopped once he spoke again.

“I’m sorry again that all of this was so sudden and that...we weren’t able to save you under more normal circumstances.”

“Oh… That-that’s okay,” you told him. “I’m just glad that...that you got me out...and honestly, this couldn’t have been a more perfect time. You need my help to stop this thing. So… I guess what I’m really trying to say is...thank you. Thank you for saving me.” You managed a small smile as you looked up at him and he simply nodded in response. However, the tiniest of smiles reached his lips as well.

“I know you said you already know me, but I think...you at least deserve something more proper than this,” he reached his hand out. “Jim Hopper.”

You gazed down at his hand for a bit before taking it like you thought you were supposed to. You tried to match his grip as you smiled wider, “One.”

__________________________________________

You sat in the kitchen, hugging your knees to your chest. It was the first time you were left alone since being freed and now, you couldn’t ignore all the emotions floating around you. Anger, fear, regret, guilt, sadness, pain. To make it worse, you could hear every sad thing being said in the shed. It didn’t matter if you weren’t there. You could still hear everything like you always did.

Do you know what March 22nd is? It's your birthday. Your birthday.

Do you remember the day Dad left? We stayed up all night building Castle Byers… just the way you drew it.

I just felt so alone and scared, but… I saw you alone on the swings and you were alone too.

Tears ran down your cheeks and you couldn’t tell if they were for them, yourself and the life you could’ve had, or both. It was all becoming too much to bear and you couldn’t help the tears that kept falling and the sniffles that started to leave you. It wasn’t until you heard someone walk in that you tried to contain yourself. You tried to get rid of the tears with the sleeves of your shirt, but it seems like you didn’t try hard enough.

“Hey… Hey, are you crying?” And you froze. No one had ever spoken to you like that before. No one had ever used a voice that was so genuine and calming that it was enough to make your tears stop. That voice provided instant relief and you didn’t know why. You looked up to the owner of that voice and it was none other than Steve with a face of worry plastered on him.

You gazed into his eyes for a bit before answering. They were brown, just like most of the world’s, yet they still managed to be different. They still managed to be incredibly warm and beautiful. It was quite soothing. You gulped softly before averting your gaze.

“No,” you uttered, but of course he wasn’t convinced.

“Then, what’s all this,” he asked, gesturing toward your glossy eyes and red nose.

“Um, I- It just comes with the power.” You smiled softly in an attempt to make him believe you.

“Oh, so a bad case of allergies comes with your powers?” You looked at him in astonishment before bursting out in laughter, something you didn’t even know you were capable of.

“What? No.”

“Well, that’s what you said,” he began to laugh as well as he grinned a smile that could’ve made your heart stop.

“That’s not what I meant,” you tried to explain. “It’s just that...with my power...I can feel the emotions of everyone around me, but it’s not something I can really turn off. So sometimes... it can be very overwhelming...like right now.”

“Yeah, it really isn’t the best time, huh?” You shook your head, causing him to hum in response. “What if you just focused on one person?” Your eyes widened.

“Huh?”

“What do you feel when you feel me?” His eyes widened too. “Wait, that sounds weird.” You let out a small chuckle as he started to panic. “I mean, what do you feel when...um-what do you feel when you see me?”

You tilted your head to the side as you felt him. Not physically, but just through the way you gazed at him.

“Worry and...nervousness,” you confirmed. “You’re a lot more tame than everyone else here.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” you chuckled, and you didn’t notice the way his eyes scanned over your features or the way he smirked after.

“So, your name’s One, huh? Like the number?” You furrowed your eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“But it’s not your actual name.” You shook your head, only confirming his thoughts.

“No. I don’t remember what my actual name was. One was just the name they gave me. We were never...people to them. We were just numbers...experiments.”

“That’s really messed up. I’m sorry.” You shook your head again.

“It-it’s okay.” However, he could still tell from you expression that it wasn’t.

“How about...we give you a new name? A real name?”

For some reason, your heart flutter at his suggestion and a warmth flushed your cheeks.

“Um, I think-I think I’d like that,” you told him and his eyes gleamed.

“Ok, names names. What do you look like?” He brought his hand to his chin and pondered for a bit. “How about… Stacy?” You grimaced without meaning to and he took that as a no. “Alright... Oh! Heather.” You shook your head. “Really?”

“Really,” you responded.

“Ok, ok. How about… Let me think. (Y/N). That’s a nice name.”

(Y/N). It was simple and different all at once, and the way it rolled it off his tongue made you like it even more.

“I think that’s it,” you smirked and he mimicked you right away.

“Well, (Y/N). I’m Steve Harrington.” He stuck his hand out and you took it gently. His hand was a lot bigger than yours in comparison, but a lot softer. It was warm and careful, like he was afraid he would crush your hand if he squeezed a bit too tightly. It was sweet.

“Well, Steve Harrington. I’m…(Y/N).”

“Nice to meet you.” You both giggled softly until you were cut off by Mike yelling ‘We got something!’

“Duty calls,” Steve sighed and you nodded, letting go of his hand reluctantly.

Although the moment was short, you appreciated Steve going out of his way to make you feel better. He comforted you and even made you laugh. It was like for a moment, you weren’t in this situation. For a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you - living and living happily.

_________________________________ 

While you and Steve were talking, the group in the shed was able to bring Will back. Not fully, but partly. It turned out that the recollection of his memories was helping him gain some control within his body. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He tapped his fingers until he spelt ‘Here’ and with every memory someone spouted, a new letter came after. Eventually, you all got the answer that you had been hoping for.

“Close the gate,” you all read aloud in unison. Before you could even process that however, the phone started ringing and a nauseating pain was sent to the pit of your stomach.

The feeling only worsened when Nancy yanked the phone out of the wall. You already knew it was too late.

“They know where we are,” you stated and the monsters screeching in the distance only proved that.

“That’s not good,” Hopper muttered. “Come on. We gotta go.” He motioned for everyone to follow him, but there was nowhere to go. It was too dangerous to leave. It was too dangerous to even think about leaving. You could already feel those things nearby. 

You shook your furiously, “No, no. Get away from the windows!” Everyone was stunned by the volume of your voice, but seeing as you were the only strong enough to handle these things, no one complained. They easily compiled and started huddling up in the living room, preparing themselves for attack. You subconsciously put your arm in front of Steve and the other out in front of you. The growling steadily grew closer and closer and the closer it got, the more you tensed up. You weren't strong enough yet and you knew it, but that wasn't an excuse. You still had to protect them. You would protect them. 

So you waited, waited for something to come crashing through the door... But it never came. Instead, the growling was replaced by thrashing and you instantly knew who it was. 

Something came crashing through the window and everyone pointed their weapons at it. You glanced over and it was one of the monsters, freshly dead. Everyone else was alarmed but you. 

“It's okay,” you whispered, but they were more confused than reassured. The lock to the door slowly started to turn and everyone aimed their weapons at it.

With a small click, the door unlocked and creaked open. Once they set foot into the house, you smiled softly. 

“Eleven.”