#his grandparents could share stories of their school days which would go on to their kids which would reach xehanort

[tiramisuwithmascarpone]

Hello! I'm a 15-year-old devotee of both Lord Hermes and Lady Aphrodite who is raised in an extremely Orthodox Christian household, and I would like to share my story with you ⋆˚ʚɞ

Hi! for safety reasons I will not use the name I usually use online for this account, but you can call me Jellyfish. I live in Eastern Europe, more exactly Romania, a country whose population is 98% devoted to Christianity at the time of speaking. My mother is a perfect example. She wholeheartedly believes in God, I grew up with pictures of him and the Holy Mary all over the walls, which I wouldn't escape even at my grandparent's houses. My house always smelled of myrrh, I would carry a picture of God everywhere I went, I would pray to him before bed, go to church on every holiday, but I never felt fulfilled or connected to him in any way. I didn't truly know what I believed in. My mother was telling me all about how should I praise God, but I don't think I ever did it because I wanted to or felt connected to what she was telling me or felt like it was the life I wanted to live. When she would fight with my father, even now, she would threaten that she would run away to a monastery and become a nun. She thinks you cannot change your religion and you can not be Christian if you were born with Christian parents and raised in that environment. I did not have faith in God because I wanted to and felt connected to his message and wanted to worship his divine being, I did it because my mother felt that way. And that destroyed me.

As I grew older, I started believing less and less in God. I was struggling with going through teenagehood, fighting my own inner battles, and dealing with friendship that slowly felt like they were taking away my lifespan, and it wasn't just that I didn't have faith in a divine being (which is completely alright. Please do not believe this monologue is Anti-Christian, I believe everyone is allowed to believe and worship the one who they feel most connected and inclined towards.) I didn't have faith in anything anymore. When my brother reached 15, he hated my parents for their beliefs. I will not get much I detail since his story is not mine to tell, but he had battled with alcohol and substance abuse. And I was his only shoulder for him and my parents to lean and cry on. My mother told me to pray for our family, she would pray to god every day, light up myrrh, take me to churches, and I would feel miserable. I felt like an imposter in that church. I truly wanted to have faith in a god, anyone, but I felt like my only choice was God since that's what my mother taught me. Both my parents trust God so I cannot be different, can I?

How foolish I was. I can only look back to my past self and wish to embrace and hold her till she cries all her sorrow out. She was so confused.

Back in 2022, I had first heard of Aphrodite. My brother was sent to a mental hospital for his substance abuse when they caught him on the verge of overdosing. I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder after a suicide attempt, autism and ADHD, but my father (who already couldn't accept the fact that my brother has ADHD) fought with them saying they ,,don't know me well enough" and,,there's nothing wrong with me". And he's right, there's nothing wrong with me. Not even If I am neurodivergent. I was at my lowest, I felt disgusting, I fought with my parents and was their therapist every single day, I stopped going to school, I was a mess. But, I was heavily active on social media because I had tons of online friends. While scrolling on tiktok, I found a video of an Aphrodite devotee. My interest was piqued. I heard about Greek Mythology before but never actually researched it. I liked the video and commented, talking about how gorgeous their faith sounds, and that's when it all started. I started getting more info about Aphrodite, the swans swum by me every time I would go to the lake with my family so we could ,,get some fresh air". I started getting lots of pins on Pinterest with her. I always had a desire for water and the beach was my safe place, where I felt fulfilled and free from all I'm feeling. I had a Dove make itself a nest on a tree next to the window of my classroom which I would always sit by while having lunch (on the rare occasions I would drop by to school). I started researching more about Lady Aphrodite, loving her story, beliefs, ways of worshipping, how it felt like silence was washing over me when I would make a non-physical offering to her. Her tales. The way it felt like she was always there to give me a warm hug and squeeze me while I was crying. I also felt a boost in my confidence! I started loving my features, taking care of myself again, etc. It wasn't always just sun and rainbows, I would still have breakdowns and wish it would all just end and all that, but it was more bearable with her. She made my life more bearable. I love, worship, and adore Lady Aphrodite for that. I worshipped her till this year when I officially felt strong enough to devote myself to her.

This year, actually, I started noticing my strong connection to Hermes. I was always attracted to the kind-hearted, mischievous, kind-hearted, highly intelligent and funny thieves. I always idolized them and wished to be like them. That's how I feel about Lord Hermes. I feel like he was reaching out to me all my life. Everything he is associated with I had an inexplicable obsession with for pretty much all my life. Turtles, golden or silver, travel, learning new languages, astronomy, astrology, everything you could think of. I have been devoted to him since last month, that's when I officially started labeling myself as a Hellenic Pagan, but I am still a beginner, and I need to hide all of this from my mother since I am afraid of what she would do if she were to find out I have another belief since she reacted super badly back when I was an atheist :( I set up the first altar for Lady Aphrodite, and the second one for Lord Hermes. I always had been an artistic soul and loved making my room all pretty randomly so I told my mother this is one of those cases and she believed it. She does not know english and is not at all cultured about any beliefs besides Christians, Muslims, and Jews. They are both hidden in my closet. I feel very bad for not being able to make them a bigger and more obvious altar, I hope I'll have that chance when I move out from my parent's house..

I wanted to ask if Lord Hermes would be mad if my mom kept setting random things on his altar? she even put a picture of the Holy Mary. I moved it to the other side of the closet and made a DIY necklace for him out of orange garnet or beads to apologize to him, and he didn't seem mad, but I'm not sure...I sketched drawings of both of them and rested them on their altars. Everything you see are either offerings I heard they may like or things that reminded me of them! the little notebook on Hermes's altar is specifically made for learning new languages and thought he would enjoy it. Do you guys think any of my offerings are disrespectful? or should be removed? I'm open to any advice! Thank you for listening to my story <3

[xas24]

I saw this on Tiktok and instantly thought of santiago and pedri, please write something short and fluffy on this 😭

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeRcB7cm/

solace ~ pedri

summary: in an eight hour road trip with her little brother and her boyfriend, y/n seems to find some solace where many would find frustration.

when y/ns parents suggested going on a road trip to granada to meet her grandparents for the weekend, y/n couldn’t be anymore excited. she loved her grandparents, as cheerful and kind as they could be. they treated her and santiago with the utmost love and affection and the two returned that with immense respect.

pedri had yet to meet y/ns grandparents. she just knew that they would wholeheartedly adore pedri as much as she and santiago did, which is why she thought of bringing him along. pedri didn’t mind as he didn’t have much planned for the weekend other than training, which he was able to take off with much convincing.

the thought of an eight hour drive sounded extremely boring but the three in the back seemed to make it all the more fun - y/n sat in the middle as santiago and pedri sat on each side of her.

their trip started off well - the all conversed with each other and talked about anything that came to mind. y/ns father had also joined the conversation, occasionally cracking a few jokes here and there. santiago was telling a few of his weird school stories again, which his family had no choice but to laugh along and ignore how the little boy loved telling the same stories over and over, without realisation.

pedri found that extremely humorous and adorable - the smile on the ten year olds face made it all the more worthy.

when the second hour hit, the excitement in the atmosphere in the car had started to die down. pedri and y/n shared a pair of airpods as they both watched videos on her phone, his head on her shoulder and his arm resting around her back. y/ns parents were in their own world whilst santiago played around on his ipad.

the low hum of the radio played in the background, filling the car with its usual play of spanish songs. the beating sun filtered through the tinted windows, splashing itself onto everyone. the warm heat of it was comforting and y/n could feel the tiredness starting to spark within her.

it was hour three and the sun had finally started to settle for the day. its dying embers painted the sky in a mixture of pink and yellow, y/n took a few pictures of the beautiful sunset view over pedris body before relaxing further into her seat. his hand returned to intertwine with hers as her head rested itself on his shoulder.

she bent her leg up onto the seat to be more comfortable but the feeling of pedris warm hands on her arms and waist was enough to lull her off into sleep. she could still hear the faint play of the radio and the partial silence in the car was comforting accompanied with the sound of santiago silently praising himself every ten seconds whilst playing his game.

“go to sleep.” pedri had whispered in her ear, kissing her temple as he watched her eyes start to flutter.

she fell asleep in her boyfriends hold, her one hand curled around his bicep whilst the other one held his hand, fingers intertwined and heart content.

it was around two hours later when y/n had woken up. it was hour five of the road trip and also completely dark outside. her head slightly hurt as she lifted it off the headrest of the seat, and felt a cramp starting to form from sleeping in that one position for so long.

her body slightly ached but she felt so much more refreshed from the fatigue that had circulated her body all day. one of the small blankets was draped over her body and when she moved, the cold instantly slapped against her skin.

she reached for the hoodie that pedri had given her before the trip, wanting nothing more than to cuddle into the warmth and familiarity that his clothing engulfed her with. she sighed in satisfaction when his scent invaded her senses.

“you’re awake.” santiago said with a tired smile on his face.

it was evident that he’d been playing on his ipad the whole time she was asleep, from the darkness under his eyes where he’d been rubbing them to the ruffle of his hair.

“yes and now you should sleep. you look tired, santi.” she raised her brows at him and the little boy nodded as he finished the fruit snack he was having.

y/n then looked over at her other boy to see him on his phone, or rather attempting to be. she chuckled as she saw his head drooping where it rested on his palm, his eyes were shut, and she knew he was just ‘resting’ them.

she also knew that he was refusing to sleep just because her sleeping body was laying against his, and her heart warmed at the thought.

y/n slightly shook her boyfriend, who instantly opened his eyes and turned to her with a questioning look before he relaxed.

“you’re awake.” he smiled at her, leaning forward to press a kiss to her cheek. y/n kept his face there, letting him rest it on her shoulder as she tapped his cheek with her fingers.

“sleep, baby. we still have three hours and i know you’re tired.” she muttered so only he could hear.

“you sure?” he mumbled, already starting to get comfy.

“mhm, go to sleep cariño, ill be here.” pressing a kiss to his head, she reassured him with a little smile on her lips.

santiago had moved to the absolute corner of the seats and rested his head on his palm against the window before he decided that wasn’t comfortable at all, so he moved to rest against his older sister instead.

y/n didn’t mind as his head lay against her arm. she slightly moved pedri so that his head was in her lap instead, and his legs were comfortable on the seat.

they both engulfed her body, practically using it as a human pillow as they fell into a comforting sleep. she was wide awake now, with nothing to do but let the two next to her fall into slumber. a smile graced her lips whilst her fingers combed themselves through pedris dark hair, playing with the soft strands and delicately scratching against his scalp just the way she knew he liked.

her mother and father were silently chatting in the front, and she had about two and a half hours left until they’d be with her grandparents. the ecstatic feeling returned.

they would finally get to meet the boy that had practically swept her off her feet, the boy that slept in her lap right now looking all too innocent and peaceful, the boy that loved her baby brother more than anyone did. they would get to see the reason behind her smile everyday, and santiago’s.

her body was squished between her two boys, but all she could think about was how grateful she was to have them in her life.

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

Hey I just wanted to ask you, what do you think of the fact that in ToA the fact that Apollo bullied Harpocrates was basically made up and has no basis in myths? I'm kinda conflicted, because I can get behind holding the deities accountable for the stuff they have done, but that one think was made up.

Hellooo <3

I have seen this as a common complaint about ToA. And yes, I see the view - it has no basis in the actual myths, and therefore shouldn't reflect on what actual mythological Apollo has done.

Buckle up. I've got some thoughts to share here.

There are a couple things to consider here:

The Camp Half-Blood Chronicles are not meant to be 100% accurate to the myths. Nor did Rick really intend to do so when he first created the series - after all, PJO started out as Haley's new bedtime story, and to give him a character he could relate to. That was the main goal of Rick's.

Does Rick do his best to stay true to the myths? I do think so. Sure, he trips up at times (details of the myths [ie, Midas was not the judge of the Apollo V Pan contest], characterizations of the gods [ie, Aphrodite & Ares), ect.) but all in all he does do his best to give us a well-rounded story that has Greek Mythology as its influence.

Because also remember - PJO started out as a story about the demigods, not the gods. If the gods had originally been Rick's focus instead, I think we would have a bit of a different tale.

So a bit of creative liberty can be taken here, especially since Rick basically decided 'all myths are true!' with his Kane Chronicles and Magnus Chase books - it makes sense, from a storytelling perspective, that (ToA) Apollo would have crossed paths with Harpocrates at some point.

With all honesty, the CHB Chronicles shouldn't even be taken as fact about the myths - about the gods. Because no mythological series is ever 100% accurate, and to assume they are is disrespectful to the culture these myths come from.

And continuing with the storytelling perspective...honestly I think it was a pretty interesting choice on Rick's end. It's not myth-accurate, but I think it does add more to the story Rick is telling us.

He's not using these gods to make them look bad, after all. He's using them to tell a story. To give us a message.

And ToA's mainly centers around abuse.

Zeus isn't an abuser in mythology, but Rick made him one in his books to show us how abuse works. How it can be difficult to accept that you have been abused.

How hard it can be to acknowledge the fact that you have caused pain yourself.

Because while it seems like Harpocrates would cause Apollo's whole character to take a bit of a dive (after all, nobody likes a bully, right? Who would!), I...disagree.

I think Harpocrates deepens Apollo's character.

Stick with me.

I have been bullied in school. Fourth grade and seventh grade in particular were Dreadful for me and in seventh grade I would come home in tears about 95% of the time. I would even skip track practice because I was so emotionally unbalanced from the day I just couldn't take another minute.

There was something that my parents, grandparents, the parish deacon, ect all told me. There is probably a reason why bullies picked on me;

They were jealous.

There was something wrong with them; or, connecting to this point;

They were hurting.

They were hurting.

Anybody else's brains go "Bingo!"?

Because think about it. By the time Harpocrates comes around, Apollo's already spent a lot of time under Zeus's thumb - under his abuse.

And personally, I don't think Zeus likes the other pantheons. And I bet he really doesn't like it when pantheons...mix.

Which is something Harpocrates is. A mix between his original Egyptian self, and what Ptolemy made him to be.

So imagine this: You are Apollo. You have been dealing with your father's abuse for centuries. You are hurting - physically, emotionally, and mentally. You come across this god who's a mix between Egypt and Greece. He is the opposite of you - silence where you are sound.

Wouldn't he be the perfect target to lash out at, without repercussions? After all...I doubt Zeus would care if Apollo was kicking around a mixed deity. Perhaps...he would even encourage it...

But I hear you - "But Apollo barely remembers Harpocrates!" And yes, he does barely remember him and it takes him a bit to acknowledge the fact that he did bully him.

So here's the kicker; I think Apollo lashed out at Harpocrates only a few times. He tried to transfer the pain he felt onto another, on the hope it would make him feel better.

But it didn't. Nothing made him feel better about himself.

And what's something we know about Apollo?

It's how much guilt he keeps bottled up. And I bet that after a few times, Apollo just...stopped going after Harpocrates. I think Apollo started feeling guilty about it, but quickly stamped it down and tried to forget about such feelings by forgetting about Harpocrates.

What you don't know can't hurt you, after all, right?

[unioncolours]

To love and never let go, the epilogue

The Shikajin-centric trilogy To love and never let go was one of my biggest projects (and prides) online. I wrote it 2019-2021, with a few months breaks between each story.

After I wrote the final fic, To find hope in the Universe in 2021, I wrote an epilogue I never planned to share online. Chosen friends have read it, but it never reached AO3 nor tumblr.

@aaaaiss read and commented the stories - specifically the final one (Universe), which I wrote during a bad time in my life, and their comments warmed my heart. So, thank you @aaaaiss, I am now publishing the epilogue of To love and never let go for you, here in this post, featuring the 18th Generation of Ino-Shika-Cho.

CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE TRILOGY!

Without further ado, here is the epilogue (2,6k of words).

Please, keep reading if interested 🤍

The girl touched the cactus aimlessly with her fingertips, testing how much pressure she could apply before the thorn would penetrate her skin.

“Are you torturing your dad’s cactus again?” Inojin asked from the kitchen, making sure the dishwasher was good to go.

Inosua turned around and pouted at Inojin.

“You don’t tell him, right?” she asked, looking down at the line of cacti on the windowsill. “It was only a bit of poking. Plus I would get more hurt than the cactus.”

“It came all the way from Suna,” Inojin pointed out as he started the dishwasher.

Inosua snorted loudly.

“As if anything from Suna is fragile,” she grinned. “You know that. Dad says we’re tough, you know.” 

Inosua liked playing the Suna card, as she had through Shikadai a citizenship to Suna as well. Though through blood Inosua was from Fire Country, she had picked up all the social and cultural aspects of Suna and she especially loved the Sunese cuisine Shikadai did his best to imitate whenever he had the zeal to create dishes. Most of the time they relied on more traditional Konohan dishes with easy recipes, for convenience sake. To have energy for a working every day with everything that entailed with a child, while dealing with a mental disorder and a disability, had forced Shikadai and Inojin to be creative and to also ask of help when they needed. Their respective parents came to visit and helped them whenever they needed, and Inosua grew up with loving, spoiling grandparents.

Inojin laughed at her.

“Okay, that one’s on me,” he said. “Have you got everything for your training?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Inosua said and walked over to her bag. “But I don’t need to go there just yet. Chosuki is always late, and I don’t want to sit there waiting for her for half an hour.”

Inojin smiled at his daughter complaining about Chosuki. It seemed like Chocho had gotten only worse at time management after she hit the thirty-year mark and it affected her daughter as well.

Inosua walked over to the sofa and began listing which items she had with her. Inojin listened with half an ear, as Inosua had a lot of items packed in her bag – also items not necessary for training, like a pocket mirror and lip-gloss. Since Inosua turned twelve she became sensitive to the way she presented herself and she had already made an image out of herself she wanted to present to her friends.

Inosua’s name wasn’t always Inosua. At first her name had been Sua, and Shikadai and Inojin had at first planned to not change her name. It would be difficult to decide whether to put Shika or Ino as a prefix, and to not anger eventual old clan members – who already were pissed at them for their situation – they decided to play neutral.

This was before Mirai’s youngest daughter was born, during the wait Shikadai and Inojin had before they could get their long-awaited child, and she surprised them by naming her daughter Shikaii. 

Now there were two members. Chosuki and Shikaii. And when Sua arrived, they made the decision to rename her to Inosua.

Shikaii was three years younger than Chosuki and one year younger than Inosua so there had been a lot puzzling with school and their training to get the team to work. Now Shikaii was eleven, Inosua twelve and Chosuki fourteen. The 18th generation of Ino-Shika-Cho was a sparkling blend of three girls, all different ages, with different backgrounds. Chosuki was the only girl who was genetically connected to the past 17 generations of Ino-Shika-Cho, while both Shikaii and Inosua came from other families. 

But it didn’t matter right now. They could work around that. They were a team and family, despite their backgrounds, and despite that Shikaii’s parents weren’t even officially part of Ino-Shika-Cho. When life throws damage at you, you have to work around the difficulties and the tradition had lived on, only in a different format than before.

“You wanna go yourself, or shall I come with you?” Inojin asked when it was time for Inosua to get ready for real.

“Do you have any business in town?” Inosua asked.

“I’ll go by the office and deliver some sketches and drafts of an upgrade to the security system,” Inojin said. 

Ever since he became a father his superiors at his workplace – bless how understanding they were – let him work at home twice a week, and three days a week at his office. This way he had a little more time with family life and could figure out every-day life with a little more ease. Today had been a work-at-home-day, but Inojin still had to go out to make a few errands.

“Hah!” Inosua said. “Then I go without you.”

“Why is that?” Inojin asked, tease audible in his voice.

“Because I know that you’ll drop my at grandma’s and then you sit and drink tea and talk flowers for ages and that’s so booooring,” Inosua said, purposely dramatically. “Then I’d rather walk by myself, so Chosuki and Shikaii won’t have to wait for me.”

“Your grandma misses you,” Inojin said. 

“I can drop by after training,” Inosua. “If not the other grandma snatches me first.”

“No fears for that, Temari is away today,” Inojin said. Inosua’s eyes grew.

“Does that mean dad is training us today?”

“Yes,” Inojin said. “He stepped in on a short notice.”

“Oh,” Inosua said. “Well, I have just the technique to show him what I got!”

“Mind Transfer?”

“Yup,” Inosua said.

“Perfect,” Inojin said. “Well, you’ll have to run now. Tell dad that daddy gives him a kiss.”

Inosua scrunched her face together.

“Ew no,” she said and Inojin laughed to her. She had definitely taken Shikadai’s side in the discussion about public affection.

“Tell him at least I go by my parents and that he can text me if there’s something he needs,” Inojin said.

“Yeah,” Inosua said and put on her shoes. “Well, I’ll leave now. Bye.” 

She opened the door and strutted out, heading for the elevator.

Shikadai and Inojin still lived in the same building they always had lived in since they moved in together, but they had a different apartment. When Inosua arrived, they applied for another flat within the same building with one more room, since they really wanted to stay in the same building but with a bigger space. The apartments in that building were designed to be accessible and it was an absolute must for Inojin as an almost fulltime wheelchair user to live in a home than enabled him to cook dinner, go to the bathroom and live a life where he wasn’t dependent on someone else. They received a positive answer for a bigger flat in the top floor of the building and moved up there, with a glorious view over the forest to one side, and the Hokage stone head from the other window.

17 years injured.

Inojin had lived this life for seventeen years now, for longer than he had lived an ablebodied life. Being paralysed is the greatest fear for many people, and some even tell – with confidence – that they’d rather die than living the life Inojin lives. Comment such as that hurt Inojin most of the time, because what they indirectly suggested as well was that Inojin would also be better off dead. 

No one knows what it will feel like before they’re facing their worst fear. And when one is done crying, gotten over the first shock and gotten a try at the first routine, and get home from the hospital, then what. Then what? Then, if one don’t want to rot away in the bed crying, the only solution left is to keep living with the new limitations, but also possibilities.

Inojin was happy of how his life turned out. Despite the injury not being the easiest to live with, he had a family and he loved them, and they loved him for who he was. 

And he was happy, he really was.

Inosua walked with confidence down the roads so familiar.

In front of her she noticed Shikaii, also on the way to the training grounds by the Nara forest. 

“Shikaii!” Inosua yelled and jogged up to her. “Did you hear? It’s my dad training us today.”

Shikaii gave her teammate a deadpan expression.

“Which one of them,” she asked and Inosua almost gasped. In her head it was so obvious.

“My… dad? Shikadai,” she said. “Wasn’t it a given?”

“It is never a given,” Shikaii joked. “Ever since you stopped separating them from daddy and dad, I never know who you’re talking about.”

Inosua muttered. She had as long as she was young always talked about Inojin as daddy and Shikadai as dad but now that she was twelve and a big girl she thought it was embarrassing to call Inojin her “daddy” because only little girls did it. Now she talked about dad when referring to them both and this confused her teammates.

“Association, hey? If we were going to be trained by Grandma then sure dad – like, Shikadai, would step in,” Inosua said.

Shikaii grinned to her and soon enough they reached the training grounds. No Chosuki to be seen, as expected, but Shikadai was there already.

“Dad!” Inosua yelled. “Hi!”

Shikadai cracked one eyelid open.

“Hey,” he said and stood up. “No Chosuki?”

“She’s late, like always,” Shikaii said and ran her hand through her jet-black hair set in a ponytail. She really looked like a Nara, if not she had red eyes, and Shikadai’s heart swelled each time he saw her.

He remembered when she had been born, right after he had gotten to know he was going to be a father. He remembered thinking softly You’re getting a sister to the little new-born bundle and Shikaii and her big brother Asuya grew up with Inosua, taking her in as if blood-related from her very first week.

“She is lucky you’re here instead of Grandma,” Inosua grinned. 

“Yeah, she is,” Shikadai joked. “Because Grandma would whip her for arriving late.”

“Thank heavens, you’re here instead,” Shikaii said jokingly back. Both she and Inosua sat by Shikadai, clearly anticipating something. “Weell…?”

“You girls are a nuisance,” Shikadai said, voice filled with love, as he opened his bag and delivered sugar free sodas to them, one bottle each. “No telling my mother about this, okay?” He threw Inosua a look. “Or daddy either, because he will tell Ino and Ino will tell my mother, so shh.”

Inosua laughed, though she was a bit irritated that Shikadai had used ‘daddy’. It belonged to the past! The soda made her happy enough to forgive him, but her fingers still formed into a familiar sign.

From the next time onwards, I’ll call you Father and Daddy for Dad.

Shikadai gave her a look and tried to keep himself from snorting to her rebellion. 

Sure, he replied into her head through the Mind Reading Inosua had learned during the year. She was rather skilled in both Mind Transfer and Mind Reading and was now itching to learn the Mind Destruction technique, but Inojin wanted her to be older when he teaches that for her. Shikadai knew, however, that when the night came and they’re preparing for bed Inosua would whisper goodnight daddy and dad  to them like always, so he wasn’t the slightest worried about this change in title.

He still had his rather early bedtime routine, the major factor in keeping himself stable through the hurdles of living with a chronic mental illness. He hallucinated sometimes and had cognitive struggles, like speaking coherently, when he had a slump in his well-being and sleep was a good way to keep the major struggles out of sight and mind.

Since Inosua had only even known a home with early bedtime and by default an earlier waking up, she had grown up to be a morning person and wasn’t bothered at all by the routine.

She knew to some extent what Shikadai’s illness entailed, but not all details. She didn’t know of the suicide attempt, and Shikadai never spoke of the hallucinations to her. All Inosua knew was that dad doesn’t feel well sometimes and then he can’t always speak. This became especially clear for her after the only deteriorating period Shikadai had had since she came.

It had been just after his beloved service dog and companion, Inori’s, passing. She passed away at eleven years old due to heart failure and it completely broke Shikadai. In the end, he had a long period – almost six months, when he struggled daily with depression and a more aggressive version of the disorder. In the end he decided to move back to his own parents to spare Inosua of his behaviour when she lived alone with Inojin, something he to this day was ashamed of. He still saw her every day, but he had to get a distance to focus on himself. Ino and Sai were a great part of Inosua’s upbringing during this period, and Shikamaru and Temari did their most to help Inojin raising her when Shikadai had to be away for most of the time, when he barely got out of bed and would succumb to staring and speaking nonsense. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and since that horrible time, Shikadai had regained a very stable mind, and for now the illness was less present.

Inosua forgave him for being away so much and welcomed dad back with open arms, and Shikadai got a taste of what happiness felt like when he had his husband and daughter never being there for him.

They still had no dog, but Shikadai was planning on getting another one soon.

Life was smiling again.

“Look!” Shikaii said after she had finished her soda. “Chosuki!”

Chosuki came running, with her white, wild hair looking like it had exploded on her head, barely brushed through.

“Sorry for coming late,” she panted. Her snake – her companion and fighting partner, Choru, was wriggling around her neck, apparently not too happy about being dragged to training with such abrupt force. “Did you just drink sodas without me?”

“Only early girls get soda,” Shikadai said and stood up. “Okay, girls, are we ready? Formation C. I won’t tell you if I attack with wind or shadows.”

Chosuki groaned and detached her snake from her neck, muttering come one now to him, while Inosua walked behind her teammate. Shikaii stood in the front.

“Come on then,” Shikaii said, teasing with her voice.

“Let’s beat him,” Inosua said.

Choru, the snake, fell on the ground, ready to follow Chosuki’s moves.

“You bet your asses we will,” she said.

“Language,” Shikadai said as he retreated to the shadows, out of view from his students.

“You’re not supposed to be like Grandma!” Inosua yelled. “Come on, let’s do it!”

The generational bond of Ino-Shika-Cho was embodied in these girls, despite their backgrounds, despite their parents. 

Ino-Shika-Cho turned, in the end, out to be more than blood.

It was something spiritual, deeper than that.

It was possible to carve out an entire new path, with shitty cards, with difficulties along the way, with love for another team member, with everything.

Shikadai, Inojin and Chocho were the living proof for that.

And the legacy lived on, through three girls, fighting with the spirit of the first generation, and for the first time, no one ever worried about the future 19th generation.

Ino-Shika-Cho lived on.

[solvskrift]

Not sure if you're still looking for hcs, but...

It isn't until nearly ten years later that Harry finds out Sirius and Remus used to date. The revelation comes unexpectedly—Fred brings it up offhandedly during a conversation, like it's common knowledge. Fred goes on to share that, back during the Order of the Phoenix days, while Harry was at school, the adults would often gather after meetings to drink, talk, and reminisce. Sirius and Remus would tell stories—some funny, some deeply nostalgic.

Hearing this, Harry feels an ache of sadness for the moments he never got to share, the version of them he never knew. But Fred offers what pieces he remembers, and in doing so, casually mentions something Sirius once said about Harry’s grandparents’ house.

That offhand comment leads Harry to the house—long forgotten, untouched. No one had ever gotten around to clearing it out in the chaos between James’s parents’ passing and the deaths of Lily and James. It’s like stepping into a time capsule.

Moved by the discovery, Harry decides to restore the house. What begins as a renovation turns into a journey of self-discovery—of reconnecting with the family he lost, of piecing together the life that was left behind. And through it all, he begins to heal, not just from the war, but from the loneliness he’s carried for so long.

(sorry, it's a super slow work day and that one really got away from me...)

Oh bonus Jonas: a conversation that I imagine happening at some point (either while they're in the thick of things or after) and someone casually says something like "don't you wish we could go back to before, when we were kids and things were easier" and Harry's like "no? Things have never been easier for me, I don't have a childhood that I can feel nostalgic about, all I have is a future that I'm fighting tooth and nail for and even that seems fucked"

HARRY MY SON MY BABY

it would be so sadly on-brand for his life to find out all of this stuff about his own life after everyone else smdh - PLEASE give him any and all tools possible to be able to heal as much as he can

also that bonus is very specifically one of my favorite things in fanfic - now that they're all growing into adults in a more peaceful world it creates the time and space for harry to so casually and accidentally reveal to everyone's devastation how totally bleak his childhood was and the extent to which it still affects him

[whosranda]

Meetings on the stairs

Prologue : Rosalie and Ayaan were neighbors since they were kids ayaan was always kind to Rosalie but she hated him back then but it seems like growing up changed Rosalie's mind and made her want to fix things but does he want to now ?

Chapter 1 : Who are you ?

In the quiet streets of a small city, where grandparents' houses whispered stories of yesteryear, lived a girl named Rosalie. She was sixteen, with long brown wavy hair that danced around her face when she walked. Her eyes, a piercing shade of brown, were often lost in the pages of her books. Rosalie was an academic powerhouse, a force that could conquer any test thrown her way. Her social life was a deserted land, a stark contrast to the lush gardens of knowledge she cultivated.

Her neighbor, Ayaan, was a different story. A year younger, he was the epitome of a teenage boy - obsessed with football and French music, his days were filled with the laughter and sweat of the field. He was the kind of person who could charm the birds out of the trees, or so it seemed to the giggling girls at school. Yet, beneath the flirty exterior, there was something more, something that made his eyes sparkle when he spoke of his judo training with his little brother, Alex.

Rosalie had always felt a peculiar pull towards Ayaan, despite her initial dislike of him. But as they grew, their paths diverged, and she pushed him away, her shyness morphing into coldness. The more she ignored him, the more he seemed to shine, and the more she felt the sting of her grandmother's comparisons.

One evening, while scrolling through her phone, she stumbled upon Ayaan's Instagram account. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew he wasn't supposed to have one, but curiosity won over caution. The photos were a window into his life, one filled with friends, judo tournaments, Rosalie felt a pang of regret for not giving him a chance.

The following weekend, as she sat in her room, lost in the world of math and chemistry, her phone buzzed with a notification. It was a new follower on Instagram: @Ar_hakai. Her heart raced as she clicked on the profile. It was him, Ayaan. He had followed her back. She couldn't believe it. For hours, she stared at his profile, analyzing each post, trying to understand the boy she had grown up with but had never truly known. His pictures were a tapestry of his passions - the football pitch, his judo friends. There was something about him that seemed to radiate from the screen.

Mustering her courage, she decided to send him a message. "Hi Ayaan," she typed, her thumb hovering over the 'Send' button. What if he didn't reply? What if he thought she was weird for reaching out after all these years? But she hit 'Send', and the message disappeared into the digital void.

Her heart racing, she waited. And then, a notification. "Hey, who are you?" he replied. Panic set in. She hadn't anticipated this. Quickly, she composed a response, her mind racing to come up with a lie that would bridge the gap. "It's me, luna" she sent, using a name she had never used before. It was a risk, but she needed to feel him out without revealing her true identity.

They began to chat, their conversation flowing like a gentle stream. She told him she that they were going to the same school which was a lie.

Rosalie felt a strange thrill as she weaved this tapestry of lies. It was as if she was living a double life, a character in a book she had always dreamed of reading. Yet, with every message she sent, she felt a pang of guilt. This wasn't who she was. But she couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth, not yet.

Days turned into weeks, and their messages grew longer, more personal. They talked about pressures of school. Ayaan spoke about his love for French music, and she pretended to know the lyrics to songs she had never heard before. He talked about the girls at school, and she felt a twinge of jealousy.

Rosalie decided to share her love for anime with Ayaan, hoping it might make him see her in a new light. She told him how she and her cousin, Arya, would spend hours discussing plot twists and character development. Arya had moved into the neighborhood to study at the same school as rosalie, and she had become an anchor in Rosalie's life. They were inseparable, sharing secrets and dreams.

One sunny afternoon, as they sat in the park, munching on sandwiches, Rosalie decided to bring up Ayaan. She hoped that by talking about him, Arya would uncover some clue to his heart, something she could use to finally connect with him. But instead, Arya suggested they all hang out together.

The day of the gathering arrived, and Rosalie's stomach was in knots. She had been so focused on her digital relationship with Ayaan that she had forgotten about the real one, the one where she had to face him in person. As they approached his house, she saw a group of people outside, laughing and chatting. There was his aunt, Ilina, her eyes crinkled with warmth, and his little brother, Alex, showing off a new judo move. His grandmother was there, too, a stern figure in the background, watching over them all.

Rosalie felt a sudden wave of panic. She had spent weeks getting to know Ayaan online, but she had no idea what to say to him in person. She was used to hiding behind her books, not engaging in casual banter. But as she stepped closer, she saw him. He was taller now, with a mop of hair that had grown out slightly. His eyes searched the group, and for a brief moment, they met hers. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. But before she could say hello, Arya grabbed her hand and dragged her into the fray, leaving no time to talk to him alone.

(To be continued...)

#writers #writing #storytelling #fiction #creativewriting #shortstory #originalstory #writerblr #writingcommunity #writeblr#tumblrwriters #tumblrfiction #tumblrstories #storytime #newwriters #supportwriters #writinginspiration#darkacademia #cozyvibes #angst #softaesthetic #dramaticwriting

[moondal514]

writerly ephemera

✨ share some little bits of you, easter eggs, memories, etc. you have left scattered in your fics or art. if you fancy it, tag a pal. ✨

thanks @seasy33 for the tag and thank you @decaflondonfog for this fun game! i love any opportunity to yap about my writing

🎻 “Neil being concertmaster this year means that he now has a clear vision of Andrew in his principal cellist spot. Today he has chosen to abuse this. Over the drone of Wymack giving an obligatory basic music theory lecture he stares at Andrew, blue eyes digging daggers into him. Andrew decides he is not going to look at him and pointedly stares down at his music stand”

there are quite a lot of moonie-isms in and we could be forever future bound. i was a cellist in my high school orchestra like andrew, though i was nowhere near as good as andrew in this fic 😂. all of the classical music pieces i mention or have the characters play are all pieces i’ve either (attempted) to play myself or pieces i enjoy listening to. andrew’s college app experience and existential angst about the future is based on a combo of what my poor little sister is going through right now with her college apps and what i myself felt in my senior year (of both high school and college, rip). this bit i chose to highlight is based on actual shenanigans i used to get up to during orchestra class with my friends in the violin section, which included our concertmaster. i was 2nd chair cellist, which meant i was sitting in the front row and had an extremely clear view of the violin section, so there was a lot of silent communications done during class 😂

🌾 “Chengling exclaims over the scenery they pass like a rich city boy that’s never seen a rice paddy before, oohing and aahing over the rice stalks and the animals he sees in the distance”

it’s me, i’m the city girl that likes to ooh and aah over fields and animals like i’ve never seen them before 😂. the vibe i was going for in i try to live in black and white, but i’m so blue is what summer break in an asian household would be like, which i based on weeks of summer breaks spent with my own asian grandparents. this included refusing to use air conditioning even though it’s really hot, going on long drives, and eating bingsoo, or baobing as is in the case of this fic

🌸 “Hyacinthus was a beautiful boy fought over like a child’s playtoy by two forces of nature. He was an unintended victim of the petty squabbles of immortals, those of vast power he could not ever hope to stand before, forever immortalized by blossom”

kevin is such a good character to write greek mythology references into his pov cuz it’s totally plausible he would be very familiar with them as a history major (speaking as a history major myself..though i'm also a greek mythology lover so i'm biased 😂). as soon as i saw the prompt of “kevin day with hanahaki” i knew i wanted to reference the hyacinthus myth cuz it’s such a good framing device for kevin and how he views his position with riko in this fic: a mortal subject to the whims of the careless god that has taken him as his companion. the title, in your sad wound (my own guilt), is even taken from the part of ovid’s Metamorphoses that contains the hyacinthus myth

☀️ “There is a child in a tree and he is burning with a fever. He is all that is left of what your beloved destroyed himself to protect, your beloved who burnt himself out in a blaze of his own glory. The suns have been shot, systematically plucked from the sky and destroyed. This one is the last one left, glowing weakly in your arms”

this passage from i am a wreck is a reference to the story of hou yi shooting down the suns, which was actually one of the earliest chinese myths i can remember learning in my childhood. iirc it’s even confirmed that the sunshot campaign in mdzs is named so as a reference to this myth cuz of the wen clan using suns as their symbol

🖊️ “That evening, you lie on the floor belly down and write a letter. You write slowly and carefully, your neatest writing yet. You feel like those girls in your school that write in curvy bubble letters, and for a moment you’re embarrassed”

idk if this is a thing girls still do or not but when i was in middle school, it felt like suddenly all of the girls i knew were writing in super neat bubble letters. when i was trying to portray the middle school aaron vibe for the beginning of now i'm third in the lineup (to your lord and your savior), this part of my own middle school experience slipped in

🍲 “Tonight Renee chops tofu and vegetables to be sautéed in teriyaki sauce, whisks together egg and a mirin and soy sauce mixture to make tamago, and boils miso soup on the stove. The rice cooker beeps merrily as she puts in the finishing touches: crunchy sunomono, small cut squares of kim, and potato salad bought at the Japanese market”

Prayers for Belonging is my renee projection ficlet series where i have granted renee the high honor of bearing the weight of my multicultural angst 😂. there are fun and not so fun bits of my life i’ve written into this series. this one i wanted to highlight since it’s based on an actual meal my family eats regularly and here i have renee make it for all of the foxes

tagging: @orionauriga @ataratah @awildtei and anyone else who wants to do this!

[whileiamdying]

Remembering a childhood in the South Bronx.

As an aspiring actor, Pacino, seen here in 1972, would practice Shakespeare monologues while wandering the city streets.Photograph by Jerry Schatzberg / Trunk Archive

By Al Pacino August 26, 2024

My mother began taking me to the movies when I was a little boy of three or four. She worked at factory and other menial jobs during the day, and when she came home I was the only company she had. Afterward, I’d go through the characters in my head and bring them to life, one by one, in our apartment.

The movies were a place where my single mother could hide in the dark and not have to share her Sonny Boy with anyone else. That was her nickname for me. She had picked it up from the popular song by Al Jolson, which she often sang to me.

When I was born, in 1940, my father, Salvatore Pacino, was all of eighteen, and my mother, Rose Gerardi Pacino, was just a few years older. Suffice it to say that they were young parents, even for the time. I probably hadn’t even turned two when they split up. My mother and I lived in a series of furnished rooms in Harlem and then moved into her parents’ apartment, in the South Bronx. We hardly got any financial support from my father. Eventually, we were allotted five dollars a month by a court, just enough to cover our expenses at my grandparents’ place.

The earliest memory I have of being with both my parents is of watching a movie with my mother in the balcony of the Dover Theatre when I was around four. It was some sort of melodrama for adults, and my mother was transfixed. My attention wandered, and I looked down from the balcony. I saw a man walking around below, looking for something. He was wearing the dress uniform of an M.P.—my father served as a military-police soldier during the Second World War. He must have seemed familiar, because I instinctively shouted out, “Dada!” My mother shushed me. I shouted for him again: “Dada!” She kept whispering, “Shh—quiet!” She didn’t want him to find her.

He did, though. When the film was over, I remember the three of us walking down a dark street, the Dover marquee receding behind us. Each parent held one of my hands. Out of my right eye, I saw a holster on my father’s waist, a huge gun with a pearl-white handle sticking out of it. Years later, I played a cop in the film “Heat,” and my character carried a gun with a handle like that. Even as a child, I understood: That’s dangerous. And then my father was gone, off to the war. He eventually came back, but not to us.

My mother’s parents lived in a six‐story tenement on Bryant Avenue, in a three-room apartment on the top floor, where the rents were cheapest. Sometimes we would have as many as six or seven people living there at once. I slept between my grandparents or in a daybed in the living room, where I never knew who might end up camped out next to me—a relative passing through town, maybe my mother’s brother, back from his own stint in the war. He had been in the Pacific and would take wooden matchsticks and put them in his ears to drown out the explosions he couldn’t stop hearing.

My mother’s father was born Vincenzo Giovanni Gerardi, and he came from an old Sicilian town whose name, I would later learn, was Corleone. When he was four years old, he came to America, possibly illegally, where he became James Gerardi. By then, he had already lost his mother; his father, who was a bit of a dictator, had remarried and moved with his children and new wife to Harlem. My grandfather didn’t get along with his stepmother, so at nine he quit school and ran away to work on a coal truck. He didn’t come back until he was fifteen. He wandered around upper Manhattan and the Bronx—this was in the early nineteen-hundreds, when it was still largely farmland—doing apprentice jobs or working in the fields. He was the first real father figure I had.

When I was six, I came home from my first day of school and found him shaving in our bathroom. He was in front of the mirror, in a BVD shirt with his suspenders down at his sides. I was standing in the open doorway.

“Granddad, this kid in school did a very bad thing. So I went and told the teacher, and she punished that kid.”

Without missing a stroke, my grandfather said, “So you’re a rat, huh?” It was a casual observation, as if he were saying, “You like the piano? I didn’t know that.” His words hit me right in the solar plexus. I never ratted on anybody in my life again. (Although right now, as I write this, I guess I’m ratting on myself.)

His wife—my grandmother Kate—had blond hair and blue eyes, like Mae West, which was a rarity among Italians. We were the only Italians in our neighborhood, and she was known for her kitchen. When I’d be going out the door, she would stop me with a wet cloth, which always seemed to be in one of her hands, to say, “Wipe the gravy off your face. People will think you’re Italian.” America had just spent four years fighting Italy, and though many Italian Americans had gone overseas to help, others were labelled enemy aliens and put in internment camps. There was still a stigma against us.

Our little stretch between Longfellow Avenue and Bryant Avenue, from 171st Street up to 174th Street, was a mixture of nationalities and ethnicities. In the summertime, when we went on the roof of our tenement to cool off because there was no air-conditioning, you’d hear all kinds of languages and dialects. The farther north you went, the more prosperous the families were. We were not prosperous. We were getting by. My grandfather was a plasterer who worked during the week. Plasterers were highly sought after at the time. He had developed an expertise and was appreciated for what he did. He built the wall that separated our alleyway from the alleyway of the building next door for our landlord, who loved it so much that he kept our family’s rent at thirty-eight dollars and eighty cents a month for as long as we lived there.

I was an only child, and until I was six I wasn’t allowed out of the tenement by myself—the neighborhood was somewhat unsafe. My only companions, aside from my grandparents, my mother, and a little dog named Trixie, were the characters I brought to life from the movies. I had a little silent routine I did for my relatives from “The Lost Weekend”—starring Ray Milland as a self‐destructive alcoholic—in which I pretended to ransack an apartment, looking for booze. The grownups seemed to find it amusing. Even at five years old, I would think, What are they laughing at? This man is fighting for his life.

My mother was a beautiful woman, but she was emotionally fragile. She would occasionally visit a psychiatrist when Granddad had the money to pay for her sessions. I wasn’t aware that my mother was having problems until one day when I was six years old and getting ready to go out and play. I was sitting in a chair in the kitchen while my mother laced up my shoes and put a sweater on me to keep me warm, and I noticed that she was crying. I wondered what the matter was, but I didn’t know how to ask. She was kissing me all over, and right before I left she gave me a great big hug. It was unusual, but I was eager to get downstairs and meet up with the other kids, and I gave it no more thought.

We had been outside for about an hour when we saw a commotion in the street. People were running toward my grandparents’ tenement. Someone said to me, “I think it’s your mother.” I didn’t believe it, but I started running with them. There was an ambulance in front of the building, and there, coming out the front doors, carried on a stretcher, was my mother. She had attempted suicide.

This was not explained to me; I had to piece together what had happened. I knew that she had left a note and that she was sent to recover at Bellevue Hospital. That period is kind of a blank to me, but I do remember sitting around the kitchen table, where the grownups were discussing what to do. Years later, I made the film “Dog Day Afternoon,” and one of its final images, showing the actor John Cazale’s character, already dead, being taken away on a stretcher, made me think of the moment I saw my mother brought out to that ambulance. But I don’t think she wanted to die then, not yet. She came back to our household alive, and I went out into the streets.

As a kid, I ran with a crew that included my three best friends: Cliffy, Bruce, and Petey. We were on the prowl, hungry for life. To this day, one of my favorite memories is coming down the stairs and out onto the street in front of my tenement building on a bright Saturday morning in the spring. I couldn’t have been more than ten years old. I remember looking down the block, and there was Bruce, about fifty yards away. He turned and smiled, and I smiled, too, because we knew the day was full of potential.

Every few blocks were vacant lots where victory gardens had been planted at the height of the war. By then, they were wrecked and full of debris. Once in a while, when you looked down at the sidewalk along the lots, you’d see a blade of grass growing up out of the concrete. That’s what my friend, the acting teacher Lee Strasberg, once called talent: a blade of grass growing up out of a block of concrete.

One winter day, I was skating on the ice over the Bronx River. We didn’t have ice skates, so I was wearing a pair of sneakers, doing pirouettes, showing off for my friend Jesus Diaz, who was standing at the shore. One moment I was laughing and he was cheering me on, then suddenly I broke through the surface and plunged into the freezing water below. Every time I tried to crawl out, the ice broke further and I kept falling back in. I think I would have drowned if it wasn’t for Jesus Diaz. He found a stick twice his size, spread himself out as far as he could from the shore, and pulled me to safety.

Another day, I was walking on top of a thin, iron fence, doing my tightrope dance. It had been raining all morning, and, sure enough, I slipped and fell, and the iron bar hit me directly between my legs. I was in such pain that I could hardly walk. An older guy saw me groaning in the street, picked me up, and carried me to my aunt Marie’s apartment. She was my mother’s younger sister, and she lived on the third floor in the same building as my grandparents. The Samaritan threw me on a bed and said, “Take care, man.”

It was customary for doctors to go to people’s houses in those days. While my family waited for Dr. Tanenbaum to come, I lay there on the bed, with my pants down around my ankles as the three women in my life—my mother, my aunt, and my grandmother—poked and prodded at my penis in a semi-panic. I thought, God, please take me now.

Our South Bronx neighborhood was full of characters. There was a guy in his late thirties or early forties who wore a suit and a collared shirt with a loose, tattered tie. He looked like he had gone to a Sunday service and got ashes spilled all over him. He would quietly walk the streets by himself; when he spoke, the only thing he said was “You don’t kill time—time kills you.” That was it. Our instincts told us he was different than we were, but we just accepted him. There was more privacy back then, a certain propriety and distance that people gave one another.

When Cliffy, Bruce, Petey, and I got a little older, eleven or twelve, we spent hours lying flat on our stomachs as we fished through sewer gratings for lost coins. This was not an idle pursuit—fifty cents was a game changer. On Saturday nights, we would see guys just a few years older than us who had started to date, taking girls out to the movies or on the subway, and we’d get up on the storefront roofs and pelt them with trash. Sometimes we’d split up a head of lettuce and toss it at them. A string bean thrown from twenty feet away could really sting.

In the summer, we opened up the hydrants, which made us heroes to all the young mothers who let their small children play in the water. We hitched ourselves to the backs of buses, jumped over turnstiles in the subway. If we wanted food, we’d steal it. We never paid for anything.

We played the old street games, like kick the can, stickball, and ring-a-levio, which involved splitting up into two teams. If you could stick one foot in the circle that was the other team’s jail and shout “Free all!,” your whole gang would get sprung. Kids were known to jump off buildings just to get a foot in that circle.

We were always either chasing someone or being chased. When we’d see cops, we’d yell out, “Hey, what’s a penny made out of?” And then we’d all answer, “Dirty copper!” The cops would yawn or laugh or take off after us, depending on their mood. But we all knew the neighborhood cop on our beat; he kept an eye on us. I don’t know how much violence he stopped, but we grew to love him, and he got a kick out of us. I always thought the guy had a crush on my mother. He’d ask me questions about her, and even at age eleven I sort of knew why.

There were a few others in our little gang—Jesus Diaz, Bibby, Johnny Rivera, Smoky, Salty, and Kenny Lipper, who would go on to become the deputy mayor of New York City under Ed Koch. (I later did a film called “City Hall,” directed by Harold Becker, which was based on his experience.) But Cliffy, Bruce, Petey, and me were the top bananas. They called me Sonny, and Pacchi, their nickname for “Pacino.” They also called me Pistachio, because I liked pistachio ice cream. If we had to choose someone as our leader, it would be Cliffy or Petey. Petey was a tough Irish kid. Cliffy was a true original. Even at thirteen, he was never without a copy of Dostoyevsky in his back pocket. He had talent. He had looks. And he had four older brothers who beat the shit out of him every day. He was full of trickery. You never had to ask him, “What are we going to do today?” He always had a scheme.

Often, when I looked down from my apartment window, I would see my friends—a pack of wild, pubescent wolves with sly smiles—looking up at me from the alley, calling out, “Come on down, Sonny Boy! We got something for ya!” One morning, Cliffy showed up with a huge German shepherd. He yelled up, “Hey, Sonny, wanna look at my dog? He’s my new friend, and his name is Hans!” He had got it from somewhere. Cliffy wasn’t known for taking dogs. Cars were more his thing. Once, he stole a garbage truck. He also used to burglarize houses—at a certain point, he could no longer go to New Jersey because he was wanted by the police there. He would tease me because I never did any of the drugs that he was into. He’d say, “Sonny doesn’t need drugs—he’s high on himself!”

There was one thing that divided me from the rest of the gang. My grandfather had instilled a love of sports in me: he was a lifelong baseball and boxing fan. He grew up rooting for the New York Yankees before they were even the Yankees—as a poor kid, he would watch their games through holes in the fence at Hilltop Park. Later, the Yankees got their own stadium, known as the House That Ruth Built, after Babe Ruth. That stadium is in the background of a scene in “Serpico”—shot by Sidney Lumet with such beauty—in which my character, Serpico, meets with a crew of corrupt cops. It was filmed the same day the actress Tuesday Weld and I broke up, and, if you notice the look on my face, you can tell I was pretty sad.

My grandfather would sometimes take me to baseball games, and we’d sit way up in the grandstand—the cheap seats. I didn’t think of myself as being disadvantaged—the more expensive box seats were just another block in the neighborhood, another tribe. The difference between Cliffy and me was that Cliffy would see those same box seats and want to go down there. If there was a line to get into a movie, he’d cut in front of someone and just go right in. It was like nobody existed but him.

I played baseball for the Police Athletic League team in my neighborhood. Sports were of no interest to Cliffy and the other guys, so it was almost like I lived two lives: my life with the gang, and my life with my pal teammates. One day, as I was coming back from a game in a bad neighborhood, a group of four or five guys not much older than I was got the jump on me; they had knives and God knows what else, and they said, “Give us the glove.” They knew I had no money, and I knew I was losing my glove, which my grandfather had bought for me. I went home in tears. If only I’d had Cliffy, Petey, and Bruce with me. It wasn’t just comfortable for us to be together in our group—it was necessary.

At the edge of the Bronx River, about four blocks from our homes, sat the Dutch houses, or the Dutchies. Built by Dutch settlers, they were ancient buildings, now dilapidated but not quite abandoned. Herman Wouk wrote about them in his novel “City Boy,” describing the surrounding territory as an area of “odorous heaps.” When we felt really daring, we would venture out to those ruins, which were populated by wayward kids and runaways—Boonies, we called them, because they lived on Boone Avenue. Wild plants grew along the riverbanks, including bamboo that kids would cut down and carve into knives, bows, and arrows. The Boonies lived in shacks, and the lore was that they had poison on the ends of their homemade weapons.

One day, I was on Bryant Avenue and saw the rest of the gang limping back from the Dutchies, looking defeated. Cliffy was covered in blood. He noticed the expression on my face and shouted, “It’s not me! It’s Petey’s blood!” Behind him was Petey, blood gushing from his wrist. They had been making their way down a hill when Cliffy suddenly screamed, “Look out, there’s a Boony there!” He shouted out a name that was notorious in the area at the time. Even now I can’t bring myself to say it. Cliffy had only been kidding, but the other kids scrambled in every direction. Unfortunately, Petey stumbled and fell, landing hard on something sharp and jagged that sliced through his left wrist. The cut was so deep that it went all the way down to the nerves. It was horrible, all because of a dumb prank.

The doctors eventually stitched Petey up, but in a botched way, so he couldn’t move his hand correctly. Cliffy always blamed himself for what happened.

I’m taking a bath in my grandparents’ apartment when I hear a rumbling in the alleyway downstairs. From five stories below, the voices reach up to my bathroom window:

“Sonny!”

“Hey, Pacchi!”

“Sonn‐ayyyyyyyy! ”

These are my friends calling to me. But something is preventing me from leaping out of the tub, throwing on my clothes, and joining them. I don’t mean my conscience; I mean my mother. She is telling me I am not allowed. She says it’s late and tomorrow is a school day and any boys who come to shout in the alley at that time of night aren’t the sort of boys I should be spending my time with, and, anyway, the answer is no.

I hate her for this. These friends are everything in my life that means something to me. And then one day I’m fifty‐two, looking in the vanity mirror at my face, fat with shaving cream, wondering whom I should thank in an acceptance speech for an award I’m about to receive. I think back to that moment in the bath, and I realize that I’m still here because of my mother. Of course, that’s who I have to thank. She’s the one who parried me away from a path that led to delinquency and violence, to the heroin that eventually killed Petey, Cliffy, and Bruce. I lost all three that way. I was not exactly under strict surveillance, but my mother paid attention to where I was. I believe she saved my life.

Pacino’s nicknames as a kid included Sonny, Pacchi, and Pistachio, because he liked pistachio ice cream.Photograph courtesy the author / Mark Scarola

I was lucky that I had people who were looking out for me, even if I didn’t always appreciate it at the time. One of those people was my junior-high teacher Blanche Rothstein, who selected me to read passages from the Bible at our student assemblies. I didn’t come from a particularly religious family. My mother had sent me to catechism class, and I wore a little white suit for my first Holy Communion, and that was it. But when I read from the Book of Psalms in a big booming voice—“He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart”—I could feel how powerful the words were.

Soon I was performing in school plays like “The Melting Pot,” a pageant celebrating the many nations whose people had contributed to the greatness of America. I was there to represent Italy, along with a ten‐year‐old girl with dark hair and olive skin. Our class put on “The King and I,” and I was cast as Louis, the son of the heroine, Anna. I sang a song with the kid who played the young Prince of Siam, about being puzzled by how grownups behaved. I didn’t take acting very seriously at that point—it was just a way to get out my energy, and especially to get out of classes. But I somehow became the guy that you simply had to have in these school productions.

In eighth grade, we put on “Home Sweet Homicide,” and I was cast as a kid who helps his widowed mother solve a murder at the house next door. Before I went onstage, someone told me that both my parents were in the audience. It threw me off. To this day, I don’t want to know who’s in the audience on opening night.

Still, I felt at home onstage. I liked that people were paying attention to me. Right after the show, my mother and my father, who was now an accountant living in East Harlem with a new wife and child, took me out to Howard Johnson’s, and we all toasted my success. A feeling of warmth and belonging came over me. It was probably the first time in my entire life that I saw my parents talking to each other pleasantly, not arguing about anything. At one point, my father even touched my mother’s hand with his own—was he flirting with her? It all felt so easy and natural.

When I was fifteen, a troupe of actors, as if out of some bygone century, came to the Bronx’s old Elsmere Theatre, on Crotona Parkway, to put on a production of “The Seagull,” by Anton Chekhov. The ornate theatre seated more than fifteen hundred people, and an audience of about fifteen came to see the play. Two of those audience members were my friend Bruce and me.

I don’t know how much of the play I really understood, with all its unrequited romances and the tragic character of Konstantin, but I was riveted by the performances. I saw myself in the lives of those fictional characters.

From then on, I started carrying Chekhov’s works around with me, amazed at the idea that I could have access to his writing whenever I wanted. I had just got into the High School of Performing Arts in Manhattan, and so had Cliffy, who had also acted in middle school and was very good. In the mornings, we’d ride the train together from the Bronx and emerge at Forty‐second Street and Broadway. For the four blocks we walked up to P.A., we were mesmerized by the tourists and gawkers. One day, as we turned a corner, I saw Paul Newman, the movie star, walk by with someone, and I thought to myself, Wow, he’s a real person, with real friends he talks to when there are no cameras around.

On one train ride, Cliffy’s thoughts were focussed on the teacher of our voice-and-speech class. She was an intelligent and sophisticated woman whose claim to fame was that she had dated Marlon Brando. Cliffy said to me, “I’m going to feel her breasts.” From the way he said it, it was clear this was something he had been thinking about for a while. I said, “What?” He said, “Watch. You’ll see.”

The class began that morning as it normally did, with the teacher giving us our lesson in her deep, resonant voice. Before long, Cliffy got up. He said something to her, I don’t know what, and suddenly the two of them were tussling. Then Cliffy reached his arms around her from the back, turned her around to face the class, and there he was, behind her, with both hands on her breasts. He looked at me and smiled.

This was the act of someone with no propriety, no limitations, and no conscience. Most of the students were silent. I broke into laughter, as did a classmate named John. It was just an involuntary reaction to the shock of what Cliffy had done. I loved Cliffy, but I was genuinely horrified by this trespass. John and I got tossed out of the classroom for the day, which I spent in the principal’s office until my mother arrived and apologized on my behalf. Cliffy was thrown out of school, and then thrown out of his house. After that, he disappeared from my life for a while.

One afternoon, I went out for lunch at a coffee shop near school, and there, taking orders behind the counter, was one of the actors from the performance of “The Seagull” that I had seen in the Bronx. I was a little bit starstruck, and I said, “I saw you the other night! Oh, my God, you were so great!” I couldn’t believe I was talking to him. He seemed pleased to have a doting fan.

By day, he wore a waiter’s outfit, and by night he performed in a play. One was a job, and the other was his artistic calling. He was an actor moving from role to role and theatre to theatre, like actors have done for hundreds of years. This was how I came to understand acting as a profession. You did whatever work paid you so you could keep acting, and, if you could find a way to actually get paid for acting someday, all the better.

Just before I turned sixteen, my mother started seeing someone new. She would say to me, “You know, we may live in Texas or Florida,” meaning her and her husband‐to‐be. I was relieved in a way, but I didn’t see how I belonged in this arrangement. This man was around fifty; I thought, This guy probably doesn’t want me around, plus I wanted the apartment to myself. By now, my grandparents had moved farther uptown, to an apartment on 233rd Street, so it was just me and my mother living on Bryant Avenue.

Then their engagement was abruptly cancelled. The guy didn’t even have the decency to tell her in person. He sent her a telegram saying that he couldn’t go through with it. When she received it, she was sitting at our kitchen table, and I was leaning against the arch of our hallway. Four feet away was the door, which I was always aiming for.

When she told me the engagement was off, I actually said to her, “I knew that was too good to be true.” It was one of the most terrible things I ever said to her. How could I have? It bothered me that she was hurt. But it also bothered me that she wasn’t leaving.

My mother did not react well to the breakup. She was diagnosed with what the doctors called anxiety neurosis. She needed electroshock treatment and barbiturates. These were costly things that we didn’t have the money for. She encouraged me to quit school and go to work.

I stayed in school until I was sixteen, when I was legally old enough to quit. I was O.K. with it—I had never seen school as my place. At one point, P.A. had picked me to represent the student body in a photo accompanying an article in the New York Herald Tribune. At the last minute, I was replaced with another student, who was a dancer. She was tall and had red hair; I had my dark complexion and my Italian name. It crossed my mind that she represented a more mainstream version of beauty than I did; you didn’t see people like me in detergent commercials or on soap operas. But I didn’t think the school was being biased. Performing Arts was just trying to draw in more students, and this was the status quo at the time.

After I left, I went through various jobs, all short-lived. I spent a summer as a bicycle messenger. At seventeen, I had a successful stretch working for the American Jewish Committee and their magazine, Commentary. I said to the woman who interviewed me for the job, “I love sitting around offices. I love the sound of typewriters. I love switchboards.” I’m sure she saw right through my bullshit, but she hired me anyway. The people who worked there—people like Susan Sontag and Norman Podhoretz—were intellectual heavyweights, and, though they were very welcoming toward me, I never felt like I fit in. But, at an office party with a drink in my hand, I’d be able to talk to almost anyone.

At eighteen, I was nursing a fifteen‐cent beer at Martin’s Bar and Grill, on Twenty‐third Street and Sixth Avenue in Manhattan. It was a place where I’d sometimes go and have ketchup sandwiches: two saltine crackers with ketchup in the middle. The bar had a big picture window that looked across Sixth Avenue, where I could see the Herbert Berghof Studio, an acting school I was trying to get into. A friend had told me about the school, and a great teacher there named Charlie Laughton. I said, “The actor Charles Laughton?” He said, “No, no, different guy—his name is Charlie Laughton. He teaches sensory work.” I thought, I’m lost already.

I was pondering this when suddenly the bartender, who went by Cookie, got an angry look on his face. He got out from behind the bar and banged on the door of the men’s room. The next thing you know, he had hold of two scruffy young women by the collars of their leather jackets, and he was throwing them out. Cookie returned to his post at the bar, where seven or eight working stiffs were lined up, and the two women stood in front of that big, wide window in broad daylight and began passionately kissing. They were doing it so that everybody in the bar could see them. There was a rift I was witnessing right there between two separate worlds: the brazen young women outside who were the very essence of liberation, and the guys at the bar who were shell‐shocked by something they’d never seen in their lives. The sixties were coming.

I was introduced to Charlie Laughton at that same bar sometime later. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought, This guy is my kind of guy. He was about ten years older than me. He loved the poetry of William Carlos Williams, who came from Paterson, New Jersey, like he did. I enrolled at the Herbert Berghof Studio. I had no money, so I cleaned the hallways and the rooms where they had dance classes, and they gave me a scholarship.

By then, my mother had moved up to 233rd Street to live with her parents, and I had our apartment to myself. The rent was still thirty-eight dollars and eighty cents a month. But I had lost the Commentary job and I was broke. Charlie, who was married to an actress named Penny Allen, was broke, too, so he and I worked together as moving men. We moved office furniture and a lot of books. Our friend Matt Clark, who was in Charlie’s acting class, ran the moving operation. How does an actor prepare? He carries a refrigerator up the stairs.

In my free time, I became a voracious reader. Charlie turned me on to many novelists and poets I didn’t know. He would suggest various writers to check out and places to go, like the Forty‐second Street library for warmth and the Automat for sustenance. At the Automat, I could make a single cup of coffee last all morning, sitting there for five hours while I read my little books by the great authors. I would be reading “A Moveable Feast” and thinking, I don’t want to finish the pages, I like it here too much.

If the hour was late and you heard someone in your alleyway with a bombastic voice shouting iambic pentameter into the night, that was probably me, training myself on the famous Shakespeare soliloquies. I would bellow out monologues as I rambled through the streets of Manhattan. I’d do it by the factories, at the edges of town, places where no one was around. On those side streets, I didn’t need anyone’s permission to play Prospero, Falstaff, Shylock, or Macbeth. I grew to love Hamlet’s rogue-and-peasant-slave monologue so much that I started to use it at auditions. I would say to the director, “I know you have your pages that you want me to perform, but I have a little something that I’ve already prepared, if you don’t mind.” Usually they would give me a look that told me they were already finished with me.

Another young actor in Charlie’s class was a guy by the name of Martin Sheen. In one session, Marty did a monologue from “The Iceman Cometh,” and he blew the roof off. He was the next James Dean, as far as I was concerned. I got to be friends with him, and one day he said, “You know what my real name is, don’t you? Estevez.” He was half Spanish, and he came from Ohio, where he had a tough upbringing. He was one of ten kids in a working‐class family that was always struggling for money. He had tenacity and grit, and I could tell he was one of the best people I’d ever know.

Marty moved in with me in the South Bronx so we could split the rent. We worked together at the Living Theatre in Greenwich Village, where we cleaned toilets and laid down rugs for sets. The Living Theatre had been founded by Judith Malina and Julian Beck, two actors who started it in their living room in the nineteen-forties and eventually moved it to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue. They did the kind of shows that made you go home afterward and lock yourself in your room and cry for two days, staring at the ceiling. They helped forge Off Broadway theatre, whose success paved the way for Off Off Broadway, which made possible some of the shows I was doing Off Off Off Off Broadway. When I appeared in “Hello Out There,” by William Saroyan, we would put on sixteen performances a week at Caffe Cino on Cornelia Street, and then we’d pass the hat to what little audience was there, hoping to come away with a few dollars for a meal. It was our Paris in the early nineteen-hundreds, our Berlin in the nineteen-twenties. That was the spirit of the scene.

The author, far right, with family in the South Bronx, including his grandfather, James Gerardi, far left, and his mother, Rose Gerardi Pacino, second from right.Photograph courtesy the author / Mark Scarola

Sometimes one of Marty’s brothers would stay over at the Bronx apartment, or this guy Sal Russo from acting class who was going with a woman named Sandra. Her best friend was a musician with long dark hair and piercing eyes named Joan Baez, who would occasionally drop in, sit cross‐legged in a corner, and play her guitar. She hadn’t linked up with Bob Dylan yet, but we knew Joan was going places. I don’t believe she and I even exchanged hellos.

I heard that Cliffy was back in the neighborhood again. Both he and Bruce had enlisted in the Army. Bruce made it as far as his induction ceremony, when he got second thoughts and threatened to jump out a window, so they let him go. Cliffy, on the other hand, served for a few months, but of course he got in trouble and was thrown into the brig before being discharged. I knew there was no risk that I’d be drafted myself, because I was supporting my mother. Anyway, could you imagine me, that boy I was, going around saying, “Hup‐two‐three‐four”? I can do it in a play.

Cliffy had come out of the Army in even worse shape than he went in. He was on the needle and doing and saying all kinds of crazy stuff. He said he had been in the same platoon as Elvis Presley, and it turned out he actually had. He said he went to Canada, got a Catholic girl pregnant, and converted from Judaism so that he could marry her. Every time he stopped by my apartment, he would go into the bathroom to shoot up, sometimes alone and sometimes in the company of other people he’d brought. Eventually I had to tell Cliffy he couldn’t come around anymore.

It was no surprise to anyone when he overdosed and died. It made me think of a story that he had told me. When he was in the brig, Cliffy said, he was watched by a guard, a Southerner who carried a .45 pistol. The guard would hold his pistol up just so and start saying ominous things about “the Jews.” In his Southern drawl, he would tell Cliffy, who was still Jewish at the time, “You know, I could just blow your head off and tell people you tried to escape. Would that be something to do?” He kept repeating it, day after day, until Cliffy finally turned to the guy and said, “Hey, man, you know what? You better kill me. Because if you don’t, when I get out of here, I’m gonna come back and kill you.” Cliffy may not have been the toughest guy I ever met, but he certainly was the most fearless.

It was Bruce who told me that my mother had overdosed. I came back to my apartment late one night to find a note on my door, saying that he had an urgent message for me. I went to his place; he lived with his parents in the building next door, and he took me into their kitchen and said, “Your mom’s in a lot of trouble. She’s really sick. You better go, man.” I jumped in a cab to 233rd Street.

Arriving at the building, I looked up and saw the lights on in my grandparents’ apartment. I went up the stairs, walked in the door, and there were my grandmother and grandfather, their eyes wet with tears. I was too late. My mother had died like Tennessee Williams would, choking while taking her own pills.

Some people thought that she had committed suicide, as she had tried to almost fifteen years earlier. But she left no note this time, nothing. She was just gone. That’s why I have always kept a question mark next to her death.

I’ll never forget the image of my grandfather the next morning, sitting in a folding chair in the middle of the room, nothing around him, crouched over with his head in his hands, almost between his legs. He just kept banging a foot on the floor. I’d never seen him that way. He didn’t speak, but I knew what he was saying. No.

I thought that maybe somehow I could have stopped it from happening. Therapy, financial security—these things could have helped my mother. I had known that one day I was going to be able to supply her with all that and more. It sounds like an Odets play, but it’s true.

here. Come with me.” I was stunned. But I didn’t go. I had moved out of the Bronx by that time and found a low‐rent rooming house in Chelsea for eight bucks a week. Something was driving me. I had to make it, because that was the only way I would survive this world. ♦

This is drawn from “Sonny Boy: A Memoir.”Published in the print edition of the September 2, 2024, issue, with the headline “Early Scenes.”

[light-darkness-dragon]

Other inserts backstory/facts Pt 4

Harper Weston

Okay yes, I know there’s only one episode of helping your Werewolf friend and who knows if it will get a part two. But I like making ocs and I loved the story. Plus Konrad is best boy and you can’t convince me otherwise!

So here we go with Harper!

Backstory:

Starting with Harper’s parents. She never knew her mother but it was due to her grandparents and their classist views on her father. He worked as an at home-mechanic while her mom was going to inherit her family’s business. They did love each other a lot but when he got her pregnant, they knew it would make her parents upset. They were saying that she either give the baby up for adoption or for Harper’s father to take her and go no contact.

Which she chose the latter, as she was young and needed to stay in her family’s business. Harper’s father gladly took Harper and raised her as best he could. He had to homeschool as he searched for another job to take on. As he didn’t have enough money to properly send her to school. But he taught her well and taught her somethings about being a mechanic and once she grew older. Taught her how to assemble her own bike. As he states it helps build character. Harper was happy to do so as she looked up to her father and wanted to be a mechanic like him.

They lived in the country side and one day while working on her bike, a neighbor’s Labrador attacked Harper. Her father managed to grab it and knock it away but Harper’s cheek was bleeding badly. He took her to the hospital but the wound left a bad scar on her face, which made her very fearful of big dogs. After this, her father started working harder in order for them to move elsewhere. He even got a license to get a gun in case another animal came to attack her. Harper managed to finish her bike (indoors) and she was very proud of her hard work and so was her dad.

They soon moved to a town, Harper went to middle and high school and worked hard just like her dad. Once she was old enough, she helped her dad in a mechanic store he worked in. She still went to collage to get a degree even if her dad said he would vouch to get her a job. Harper wanted to prove her hard work and still have a degree.

She graduated and started working at her dad’s shop and got another job as she wanted to save up to get her own home. Also, to pay her dad’s retirement as he did a lot for her.

Harper was on her bike, to go home and she noticed a man struggling with his bike. When she went over and asked if he needed help. He was a bit shy in stating his bike chain broke and he needed to get home quickly. Harper offered to help fix it at her dad’s shop. Which after a back and forth, he agreed and the two walked with their bikes. She learned his name is Konrad and he lived in the area but was a bit new to it. Once at the shop, she helped to fix the chain as well as oil the breaks. The two talking and sharing a laugh while she was fixing it.

Once asked what the price is, Harper half-jokingly said, being her friend cause she enjoyed his company. The two exchanged numbers and Konrad rode off and so did Harper. The two mostly stayed in contact on phone as Harper was busy with work. But he would visit her shop sometimes to chat, which she enjoyed and her dad liked Konrad too.

It wasn’t until one night, the two were hanging out and Harper had noticed a pattern with him. That being he’d always bike towards the forest and not towards the town on the nights of the first quarter moon. Which always confused her, so she decided to follow him to see what he was doing. This turned out going a bit wrong as Konrad shifted into his werewolf form, which made Harper scared. But her presence was noticed by Konrad and he was nervous that Harper would hate him.

But Harper took a moment to calm down before calling out Konrad’s name and once it was shown he was in control. She got closer and Konrad apologizes a lot if he scared her but was confused why she was here. To which she explained his odd pattern on this moon phase and now she knows why and apologizes for following him. The two talk more in a cave as Konrad feared hunters might be nearby. They accept each other’s apologies and Harper explains she was mostly scared cause of her fear of dogs, explaining her scar.

Konrad explained he’d never hurt her or anyone, stating he was happy Harper was giving him a chance. He then goes onto explain his side, why he left his pack, knowing his father and brother see him as the weakling of the pack and how it’s getting harder to hide from hunters. Harper flinches at times when Konrad growls but she brushes it off. She does say his secret is safe with her and that if he needed any help with the hunters she wouldn’t mind helping him. Which he looked grateful for and promises to keep her safe for the night.

After a few months, Harper bought her dream house and moved out of her dad’s place. He was very proud of her and reminded her to take breaks as he can see how tired she looked from working so much. Harper brushes it off, saying working hard got her to her goal and now she can work on her next phase. She was tired though after unpacking and giving her new address to Konrad and other friends. A few days later was the night of the first quarter and as Harper was getting ready for bed. Her phone blows up with calls from Konrad.

Looks like sleep would have to wait…

Facts.

Harper is 23 years old, 5’2, and is Unlabed, heteromantic and Gender-fluid. (Goes mostly with she/her tho)

Harper is okay with small dogs but not the best with medium/large dogs.

She hopes that maybe being around Konrad (mostly when he shifts) can help her overcome her fears.

She’s very much a workaholic, as she views hard work is the only way to lead a successful life.

Harper despite being short, always acts tough. As she tried to prevent Klay was wandering her home for Konrad.

She accepts Konrad as a werewolf due to being very open minded thanks to her father and giving people chances to explain themselves.

She tried to get Klay to leave as she thought he was a hunter at first but after seeing him sniff the air to find Konrad she knew he was his brother.

She hopes to one day have a pet parrot.

That’s all I have on Harper, this was a lot to write for a character with one video to work with. But I hope you guys like her!

Next time, I’ll do Louie!

[xtrablak674]

A Delayed Gift from My Father

You may not know but my father died in September of nineteen ninety-three, found dead and rotting in his apartment by his parents, an event that would haunt his mom until the day she died, well at least her memory of the event did. But this isn't a story about his death, this is the story about the kind of dad he was in the context of something he did for me, before I could even speak.

When you're an orphan you don't have a point of reference to get clarity on details about your life before your recorded memory, you have to do your best to be a detective and piece together the piece left behind to figure out the story, meaning and significance.

As a part of my Monday binge-watching I was partaking in the second half of the first season of Smallville, finally watching this early aught series about Kal-El, better known as Superman before he donned a cape and blue tights. In the episode in question the character Whitney's dad has just died and he had found his father's metals who like my dad was a Vietnam veteran.

Whitney was sharing the metals with his girlfriend Lana Lang. I actually had to pause the video because clearly the property team did an amazing job with accuracy, and one of the metals staring at me from the screen was the exact same metal that had been mysteriously returned to me a couple of years ago by a former co-worker of mines. We aren't going to get into why this friend had my father's medal, but it was odd enough to be noteworthy.

I was taken aback because I remembered this small corduroy yellow change purse with a bronze-coloured zipper from my childhood. I didn't recall the medal as much as I did the large liberty dollar coin from 1924, I think for a child a coin was more familiar than a trinket from a war no one really wanted. But the maize colored purse with the green stripes and the coin were indelible etched on my recollection.

Now this is where my age betrays me, because if my mom told me more about the strange trinkets I don't remember, and since she proceeded her alleged husband (I have yet to see an actual marriage certificate) by nine years its not like I can ask her to corroborate my piece-mail memory. I recollect she showed me the pieces near the closet to the front door of our apartment at 1101 Brown Street, yes where I lived, and my last name were the same, there were so many jokes I got about this in elementary school.

Memory is funny, I remember exactly where I was, to even the position in the room. I remember the colors, the weight of the coin because mom let me handle it, but the sounds of her voice and the words that she attached to these moments elude me. There was one thing that was undeniable to me now as an adult putting this together, this was a gift a loving father gave to his first born son probably as a baby, and left in care of the mother of his child to be given at a future date. Something out of a television movie or a book, and the kind of parental love you usually see given to whyte children. Black fathers loving their children wasn't something that was a regular part of my diet growing up as a dark-skinned child in America.

My father as I keep referring to him, because he had an odd relationship to the role, and never embraced it in any traditional way. I don't recollect a moment of calling him either dad or father. It was B.R. (his initials) or Khule (nickname) but usually nothing more than 'hey you'. This awkward dynamic spilled over into my relationship with his parents, not by their fault, but unintentionally by his. In formal conversations I would refer to his mom as my grandmother and his dad as my grandfather and together as my grandparents, but unlike calling my mom, well mom. I never used either honorific to refer to my father's parents.

He died with us being estranged, for reasons I don't want to taint this particular story with, which is a moment of me directly feeling his love for me, something I sometimes had trouble resolving because of his unforgettable words to me as a young teenager, he loved me but didn't like me!

I realize that my father's sardonic sense of humor was reflected in my own humor, but at this age I took these words as more hurtful than humorous. And this intensifies my judgement of him not always making the best parenting choices. During those years of puberty when so many things are changing in your body the one thing you want more than anything is to be liked, why doesn't my father like me? #RhetoricalQuestion

But at least one mystery has been solved this mysterious pouch and its metallic contents were an attempt at a new dad to show how proud he was of having progeny and his attempts to endow them with something of meaning and significance.

This was momentous as I would learn later about my dad, was that he loathed his service in the Vietnam war and the war itself and I don't recall ever seeing one memento of his service. His saving this sole medal and giving it to his first-born was a very loud and clear declaration of his love that took thirty years to be delivered.

[Photos by Brown Estate]

[briamichellewrites]

100

2011. Bria was able to regain her driver's license after years of being unable to do so. George took her to take a driving test at the DMV. She ended up passing. In addition to a placard allowing her to park in handicap spaces, the DMV issued her a special license for drivers with disabilities. It was a privilege to drive. It was also liberation from spending the entire day at home and depending on other people to get her somewhere. Her passing made him very proud!

Ella and Alexander celebrated their fourth birthdays last year. Despite having new teachers, they continued to attend the same preschool. They enjoyed playing pretend and dressing up in costumes. By caring for their infants, preparing meals, and cleaning the house, the kids acted like they were their parents. They could prepare plastic food in the school's kitchen.

Yum! Yum! On occasion, they stayed at grandma and grandpa's house for a sleepover with Otis. Those were a lot of fun! Their cousin needed to be reminded to share while they were playing. Their grandparents had to assist them because Otis did not yet understand the concept of sharing. He found out that Anna and Mike were expecting twin girls, so he would be an older brother! The prospect of becoming a big brother thrilled Otis! They were discussing the babies with him in order to prepare him.

Additionally, they asked him to assist them in ways that were suitable for his age. Muto and Donna were unsure of how to handle having two sets of twins in their family! When the girls grew older, they hoped Ella would take on the role of an older sister.

Bria made a comeback to the music industry with her first album in a long time. I am Alive received excellent reviews from critics. They complimented the lyrics and production, as well as her maturity. She moved to piano pop to accommodate her physical disability. The songs were written about her relationship with George, overcoming challenges, and being a wife and mother.

Since she was no longer a teenager, the switch to piano pop was also age-appropriate. She and George took the kids to a fancy restaurant called the Barton in Los Angeles to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. Alexander wore a nice shirt and pants like his father, while Ella dressed up like a princess. During dinner, they behaved themselves admirably. To keep them occupied, they had colouring books and crayons. Ella had her doll with her as well. They did not have time to travel to Italy because of their hectic schedules.

That was all right. They were both producing the movie he was going to be filming. In addition, she and Brad were producing Moneyball. Her career was flourishing once more! She made everyone very proud! She was planning to return to the road because of her new album. To talk about child care, she and George sat down with Muto, Donna, Mike, and Anna.

As she worked on her new album and got ready for her comeback tour, Brad spent time filming her for a documentary. It included videos and images of her in the hospital and during her recuperation, as well as interviews with her, George, Anthony, and the Shinoda’s. To get reviews, it was shown at the Toronto International Film Festival. After it was edited, he also showed it to her, the Shinoda family, and her friends. They saw it before anyone else did.

“Hello, I am Bria Michelle Clooney and this is my story.”

Mike and Anthony began the documentary by discussing the morning she was discovered unconscious and taken to the hospital. They had no idea what the devil had happened or whether she was okay, so it was the scariest part. It was unexpected. It was determined through testing that she had a brain tumour, which led to her stroke.

In order to remove the tumour, they had to decide to have her have emergency surgery. She was unable to walk, talk, or spell after the procedure. They were warned by the doctor that she might never be able to walk again. Anthony demonstrated how the board she used for communication operated. It was the only way they could tell what she needed or wanted, aside from her facial expressions. She underwent months of intensive occupational, speech, and physical therapy.

A video of her rehearsing her speech with Anthony in her hospital room was played. He had her look at a board and repeat basic colours. Orange, black, yellow, green, blue, and red.

“Good job. You are becoming more proficient at it!”

She grinned. It also showed her and her physical therapist learning how to use her crutches for the first time. As she walked down the hallway, she was beaming broadly. Everyone was supporting her. She would soon be bouncing off the walls once more, someone in the background joked. She laughed at that. One step at a time. When she arrived at the finish line, they all congratulated her.

She jokingly said, "This is what happens when I am late delivering breakfast."

She was shown feeding Max, Beau, the roosters, the chickens, and the rabbits. Due to their hunger, Daisy and Bugs thumped their hind legs. Beau was fed and groomed, and then she let him go outside to breathe. Max was wandering outside, snorting and sniffing the ground. Buddy, too, was aimlessly wandering. Brad asked her who everyone was off camera. She introduced the animals as Max, Beau, Buddy, Bugs, and Daisy. There were no names for the roosters or chickens.

“It is always amusing because Daisy and Bugs will give you a silence for a moment before thumping. The other animals, at least, express their displeasure more vocally. It is more subtle and muted when it comes to rabbits. Like the strong, silent type. Except more angry.”

That part made everyone laugh. It was clear that she loved her animals. They were like her children. She prepared dinner for herself, George, the kids, and the boys as the documentary came to a close. The kitchen was where they were all congregating. She and George were talking about what was going to happen tomorrow. He planned to go golfing with Noah after dropping the kids off at school.

That was not a problem for her. He was not sure about dinner because it would probably take the entire day. All she asked was that he keep her informed. He said he would.

"Noah, you are in charge of him!"

He answered, "I will make sure he is on his best behaviour."

"I can quickly prepare a salad if Rob and Bradford want it."

Rob said to her, "What do you have?"

"You can look in the refrigerator. I cannot recall what we have.”

Ella and Alexander wanted to help, so they accompanied them as they went over. For the first and only time, they consented to their children being shown in the documentary. George and Bria requested that Brad not interview them. That would be respected by him. He informed them that he had the kids while filming when he was done for the day. He played the video for them. They agreed it was okay. They expressed gratitude to him for informing them.

@feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon

[c-smix]

A/N

HIII THIS IS MY 1ST STORY ON HERE!! i wrote this for a short story comp for my school and ended up getting 2nd place!! i hope you enjoy reading this!

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I was five years old when it happened. It was the 16th of June 2005 when my entire world around me collapsed and crumbled into pieces.

That day I woke up being blinded by a glimpse of sunlight flashing through my sunlight washed curtains. The smell of a perfectly cooked breakfast coming from my kitchen making me realise how hungry I was. I quickly shot out of my bunk bed and climbed down the ladder to see my younger sister, Isabella, peacefully sleeping in her bed, her brown hair spread out on her pillow. I stood there for a few seconds before snapping out of it and quietly making my way out of our shared room, trying not to wake her with our old, squeaky door.

I waddled my way to my kitchen to meet my mom making breakfast. I think she could feel my presence because soon after I had been standing there for a while she swung her head around to face me and gave me her famous smile. My mom was always a very cheery and strong person, only showing her weakness behind closed doors. Her deep brown curls bounced as she looked at me.

“Good morning sleepyhead” she said in a calm but also excited tone as I made my way over to our wooden table and sat in a chair. I could hear our stove clicking off and the rustling and banging of plates coming from our cupboards. My mom reached over my shoulder to set my plate in front of me following it with the other plates. I looked to my left to see Isabella peeking out from the door to our bedroom with a broken toy in her hand, it was a Barbie that she had gotten for her birthday last year. It was missing one of her legs but that didn’t stop Isabella from loving it any less. Once she spotted me looking at her, she smiled and ran over to me, her arms reached out as she came near and wrapped them around my waist to hug me.

“Isa! Go sit down in your chair, breakfast is ready” my mom exclaimed as she finished up preparing everything before putting food on our plates on the table. A serving of scrambled eggs and a slice of toast with sliced bacon pieces on top plopped onto my plate which I didn’t even hesitate to dig into. As we ate my mom then switched on the radio, I could hear the faint lyrics of the song playing “And I would have stayed up with you all night, Had I known how to save a life” from a song that had just been released called “How to Save a Life” by The Fray. I paid little attention to it; all I could think about is the spread of food in front of me.

Later that morning my mom gathered me and my sister and our toys and took us to my auntie Eleanor’s house before she left us to go to work. Auntie Eleanor was a kind and gentle soul. Other than my mother she was the only family we had, my dad had died two years ago in war and my grandparents lived in a different country, so we rarely ever got to see them. The day continued on as normal and it was only the early afternoon when I noticed that somethings were unusual, like things were happening that weren't meant to happen. They were small things, like for example I saw massive flocks of birds flying in the air, but they seemed distressed, squawking loudly and flying all around. Then, Eleanor’s dog Coco was acting strange. He had seemed less playful and more worried, he would just lay in his bed and whined at us, like he was trying to tell us something.

It was 3:35pm when it started, the rumbling. I thought I was imagining things as it was just small. I looked around to see if my sister or auntie noticed anything, but they weren’t there. I got up from the chair to explore the house when the ground started to shake, it quickly grew violent. I was so scared, I didn’t know what to do so I just ran, leaving everything behind, the drawing I was working on, the toys scattered on the ground. I just kept running pushing myself to get out of here, struggling to keep my balance I managed to get to the town centre. All around me was commotion, I was surrounded by people gathering their families and running into buildings, I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do, I was just five years old.

I could barely keep standing when everything went dark. I couldn’t see anything, I could only hear the crumbling of buildings, I could feel the violent shaking coming from under me and the throbbing pain in my head and something digging into my side. It was hard to breathe, with every breath I took being filled with dust and debris. I laid on the ground, curled up praying that this will all end, that this was a dream. Warm tears streamed down my face I wanted everything to go back to normal, I wanted to see my family. All that was going through my mind were the intrusive thoughts of that I was going to die, that this was it.

I waited and waited until the shaking finally stopped. Was it over? Was this hell done? I opened my eyes to a glimpse of sunlight shining through two big slabs of rubble that surrounded me. I slowly reached my arms up and tried to push off the rocks that were covering me. The sunlight grew more intense and started blinding me. I didn’t know how long I was down there for. It took a while for my eyes to get adjusted to the brightness but once they did, I could feel my heart shatter in my chest. Everything was destroyed, everything was a pile of rocks and dirt other than a few buildings that were standing on their last leg.

Once I came to my senses, I realised I was still all alone. My mind raced and I did the only thing I could do. I screamed with all my might just hoping I could find them.

“ISABELLA, ELEANOR, MOM....” no response. I did it again, and again, and again until I couldn’t scream anymore, my voice cracked, and my throat was strained. I walked around trying to find them. I walked until I couldn’t walk anymore, I was so tired. I found myself a nice seat on the curb of a sidewalk and just sat there and cried. I wanted to see my family, I just hope they were okay. I saw family’s walking together, people looking for their loved ones, people all alone, I saw it all.

It was starting to turn dark when I finally got up again. I would not give up, I needed to find my family. I searched until I couldn’t search anymore. I had managed to do a full circle of my town until I finally decided to have a break. I sat on the remains of the once beautifully decorated water fountain with little intricate details, my towns pride and joy which was now destroyed. I sat there for a while until I finally drifted off to sleep on the hard, uncomfortable debris.

I woke up to seeing the same sight I fell asleep to. I had hoped this was all just a dream and that I would wake up from it, but I knew in the back of my mind that it wasn’t true, this was all real. At this point I could hear the faint whirring of a helicopter flying above the town, probably some news reporters. I turned a blind eye to it as I got up from my resting spot and started my search again. At this point I could think clearly again so I walked up to a few strangers and asked for help. I repeated this so many times but the answer still remained the same, no one had seen my family.

I had done another lap of the town before I finally saw a little girl standing with long silky brown hair and a woman with black wavy hair kneeling on the ground sobbing in her hands. I decided to walk over when I started to realise that they were crying over a lifeless body on the ground. The heaving continued to grow louder the closer I got. I didn’t know why but something was drawing me towards them. I had grown close to them when I finally recognised them, it was Isabella and Eleanor. I ran to them yelling their names. Their heads spun around shocked but relieved at the same time. I wrapped my arms around them and buried my head into Eleanor’s torso, it felt so good to see them again.

“Where’s mom?” I said in a tiny, muffled voice, my head lifted to see Eleanor’s face change. She loosened her grip on me and turned around to face the body buried in the rubble, I looked over to see my mom's lifeless body. Then and there I broke down and cried my heart out. I didn’t want to believe this was real.

The sounds of the helicopters grew closer when someone came up to my auntie, it was a rescuer. They talked briefly before I could feel my aunties hands grab and lift me up from my armpits and put me on her hip, she did the same thing for Isabella and she started walking away, following the rescuer. I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t want to leave my mom. I screamed and yelled and protested but nothing worked. I remember being strapped into a seat in a van at the very edge of town with a lot of different people and it started driving. The radio was playing, the song lyrics “And I would have stayed up with you all night, Had I known how to save a life” played. I just sat there, silently sobbing.

It’s been 13 years since that happened, the earthquake that destroyed my town. Life has gotten easier, but I still struggle with the loss of my mom everyday. It's just Isabella, Eleanor and I so we’ve grown very close since then, closer than ever before. The town has been rebuilt but we don’t live there anymore, I don’t think I can ever go back to that place ever again, maybe I will in the future but not now. I wish things could’ve ended differently but that’s not the way life works, and I’m okay with that.

I was five years old when it happened.

[jerzwriter]

🌱🐸 for of your OCs you so please 😊

Hey Nonny! Thanks so much for the ask! :) Since you didn't specify which OCs I'll do my best to answer for all where I feel they're appropriate. From this list.

🌱 - Share one of this OC’s early memories.

I just answered this for Astrid, my VoS MC, here.

Casey was a city girl growing up in Philadelphia. She loved growing up in the city and still prefers city life to this day. But each summer, she'd spend some time at her paternal grandparent's farm in rural Pennsylvania. It was a different world. From the time she was a toddler, she'd help her grandparents with their chores; she could milk a cow by the time she was five. She has lovely memories of this simple, peaceful life and being surrounded by beauty. But it's a place she liked to visit and did not want to stay. :)

Tobias: His best childhood memories were also at his grandparent's home, in this case, his maternal grandparents. He spent a lot of time there, and he wasn't a spoiled little boy there; he was just one of the many grandkids who were expected to be kind to one another and help out. They were spoiled, too, but with love and their grandma's home cooking. One of his favorite memories, playing stickball in the street at night while the old folks sat on the porches talking and cheering them on.

Ethan: His best early childhood memories were the summer trips he used to take to the New England seashore with his parents. They didn't always go the same places, but two frequent locations were Newport, Rhode Island and Mystic, Connecticut. He loves visiting there until this day.

Kaycee: Their family didn't have a lot of money while she was little, something only made worse when her mother became ill. So there wasn't much shopping, but she used to get big bags of hand-me-down clothes from her older cousins, and she loved going through them on the living room floor and picking out "new" clothes.

Trystan: Trystan's best childhood memories were reserved for time spent with his Nannies, who were more loving than his parents, or with his siblings - usually when they would sneak off and get into mischief - these were times when they were able to just be little kids and not have to be little royals.

Carolina: Attending the Puerto Rican Day parade in Manhattan with her family and then returning home to the Bronx, where the party continued in the form of a huge block party. It was something the children (and adults) looked forward to all year, not unlike Christmas. There was always great food, music, and dancing, and the party went on to the wee hours - even for the kids.

Eli: Pre-outbreak? Playing sports with his friends and visiting with his grandparents and cousins. Post-outbreak? Family nights spent around the fire, as they were locked safely (as safely as could be) in their cabin in the woods.

Zoe: She has very few pre-outbreak memories, and The Tower wasn't such a great place to grow up. But her best memories were nights she, Ana, and Troy would quietly sneak away and have sleepovers. They just talked, made up silly stories, nothing terribly special, yet it was super special to her all the same.

🐸 - What’s this OC’s sense of humor like?

Casey: She has a playful and sarcastic sense of humor. She loves making people laugh, and humor is a big part of her relationship with Tobias.

Tobias: He has a wicked sense of humor - as you can imagine, it's sarcastic and perverted - he is known to be a wise ass. He and Casey both infuse humor into their daily lives and their relationships with their girls.

Ethan: He has a dry/sarcastic sense of humor that not everyone gets, but those who do find it hysterical. During his med school days, he and Tobias just bounced off each other - and that continued when they reinstated their friendship as adults.

Kaycee: Much like Casey's (above) but a little goofier.

Eli: What sense of humor? lol Honestly, it's not something he shows often except for with those he's closest to, mostly Zoe. It's a dry/sarcastic/dark humor.

Zoe: For the world they live in, Zoe is often a ray of sunshine. She tries to see the good in everything, and humor is a big coping mechanism for her. She can joke from the sweetest, most innocent things with the kids of Olympus to really raunch humor with the grown-ups. She makes people laugh and smile a lot.

Trystan: Sarcastic wiseassery, but in a lighthearted, cheeky way. It's more along the line of Tobias than Ethan or Eli. Humor is infused into his conversation, no matter the situation.

Carolina: Has a very New York sense of humor - dark, sarcastic, and 150% a coping mechanism born of trauma. It's not a bright and fun kind of humor, although she definitely finds that side of herself, too, thanks to Trystan.

Thanks so much for the asks, Nonny! :)

[klarkkent71]

The Army is Family Business

The military is a family business.  I failed to really realize what this meant as a child but when I grew up the saying truly had more meaning.  With Veterans Day approaching this year I wanted to discuss my father James Thompson and both my grandfather’s John Thompson Jr. and Tillma Davis who was all drafted in the United States Army and went on to deployed to a war.  I want to break this post down into sections and share what I know about each of them.

James Thompson

James is my father and was one of my biggest inspirations to want to serve.  Growing up on random Sundays we would visit grandparents house and in the back room where I would usually play and watch TV was pictures.  The one picture I used to always stare was this colored picture of my dad wearing Sergeant ranks.  At the time I had no what that really meant or what my dad saw.  All I know was that he was in the Army at one point in time.  It wouldn’t be until I was an adult and already serving in the Army that I would truly learn his story.  After high school my dad moved to Kansas and worked for my aunt before moving back to Louisiana and starting college.  During this time the Vietnam War was already taking place.  My dad was a part time student pursuing a business degree and also worked in factory.  Because he was part time, he was drafted at 19 years old in the US Army as an infantryman.  He completed both his basic and AIT at Fort Polk and because of him being a good Soldier and showing great potential he was later sent to Georgia to go to NCO school from there my dad would eventually deploy to Vietnam.  While in Vietnam my dad was involved in plenty of patrols through the jungles that would lead to different ambushes or fire fights.  Even in his elderly year he could tell you how it was getting off the helicopter and the experiences of living out in the woods.  He still remembers ambushes that his Squad conducted and he have memories that will stick with him a lifetime.  During one engagement he was able to duck from bullets that went through his shirt and hit his radio.  That fractured his rib and he was eventually placed on light duty until his deployment was up.  My dad later went on to become a plumber and live what I would describe as a great life.  Although the horrors of war affected him and he was exposed to chemicals such as gang green he would always be in good spirit and as a Veteran he his happy and pride that he served his country.  To this day he’s involved with plenty of Veterans and Blind organizations.

John Thompson Jr.

I would not learn about my grandfather serving until his funeral which occurred in high school.  My grandpa passed away from prostate cancer.  What I do know is that he was honored with military honors at the service.  I would later learn from different family members that my grandpa was World War 2 veteran.  My grandpa served during segregation with honor and pride.  Even in Louisiana when the United States got involved in World War 2 it was frowned upon as a young black man to not serve.  My grandpa was drafted and answered the calling.  My grandpa served as an Engineer and was deployed to the Pacific.    As an engineer my grandpa would help build roads and land stripes for planes.  My grandpa was even exposed to combat as his unit shot down Japanese planes in the area.  Once my grandpa time in service was over, he move back home to Louisiana and worked in a steel mill.  My grandpa would eventually marry and have 5 kids. 

Tillma Davis

Mr. Tillma is my mother father and I know very little about his service.  I had opportunities to see him growing up but he really wasn’t involved in my mother life until way later when his time on this earth was up. I can’t really put nasty family business out there so I’ll choose to be respectful in this writing.   What I do know though is that he served in WW2.  I plan to one day reach out my uncle and other relatives that were close to him to get the full story of his service.  What I do know is that he served honorably and would eventually go on to lead a happy life in Mississippi.

[mushroom-winners-proof]

So thank you for the nice words and this is all just stuff that may be mentioned offhandedly

Now Daybreak Academy was founded by what we know as the Foretellers and MoM you know the whole shebang

And Daybreak Academy was destroyed by a sinkhole…that opened up during classes

Yeah this is going as well as you think

So I was thinking of Angel Beats when thinking of this which lead to the Player being fatally wounded but keeping the students alive but then dying from their wounds a little bit before they were rescued (Yes they saved Xehanort’s grandparent that's your connection here)

And then basically all of the surviving students scattered to the winds after being rescued (That's when the news coined the term Dandelions)

Ephemer comes back a few years later and has Scala University built upon the filled sinkhole and becomes the first headmaster

And ironically enough Xehanort ends up going to school there

(Dark, yeah but hundreds of kids died in the main timeline at least in this one they mostly survive)

NEXT TIME: Probably the next plot bunny that involves the Wayfinders

(I'm unintentionally doing world building and I don't know how I feel about that)

(No, for the purposes of not causing continuity snarls none of the union leaders save Ephie were here)

(Actually, going to school on a glorified tomb and having your friends die would certainly give you a feeling of you know what I'm gonna cheat death)

(Now I'm just thinking of all the lore that's going on in the background while Riku is trying to survive what is essentially The Devil Wears Prada)

fam got me sittin here at my desk like 👁👁🍿

[stnaf-vn]

Hello! I just finished playing Friend and it was a very good experience, I wish a could erase my memory and play it again lol I wanted to know if you had share Friend's backstory or past, if so, I'm interested in knowing about him and the other characters in your blog so please tell me where I can read it🙏🏻😩 I'm currently playing A Cry for Help and I look forward to your next project <3

I have! Back before I like knew how tumblr worked, so the comics and stuff I made may have gotten lost....

I'll make a short list here and add them to the FAQ!

TW: CHILD ABUSE, MANIPULATION, FAMILIAL DEATH, DRUG AND ALCOHOL USAGE

Just A Dream

Friend going to Therapy? Friend....crying? High School Friend Friend comes from a wealthy family Friend's Sexuality Friend wears makeup And feminine clothes How Far Would He Go to Have You? Keagan's Opinion on Friend Keagan Talking about....that night.... Aftermath: The 'Accident' Friend's Side of the Story Friend Falling out of Love?

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I'm gonna make a small recap of what Friend's childhood was like behind closed doors, as well as what the 'accident' mentioned before was....

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Friend's Childhood:

Friend grew up in a wealthy home. His mother was a strict and shrewd woman, and his father was also strict. They were both very serious people. Friend's mother wanted to have an heir for the family company that they inherited through their parents (Friend's grandparents). They birthed Friend, and they decided that they wanted to wait to give him a name until they can see what he is capable of, so he didn't receive his birth name until he was old enough to read and write. Because of their lineage of inventors and businessmen and women, Friend's parents expected him to be good at everything he touches as soon as possible. But he wasn't. And so, he was practically cast out of the family. He'd get hit often if he messed up and his mother was very homophobic and hated how "girly" he'd act when he sewed or sung or get in her makeup. Then, he met you. Elementary School. He uh....he was pretty rude to you as kids, and he'd always get annoyed when you'd call out to him.... but, he liked the name Friend. So, he wanted you to just call him Friend. He slowly started getting used to you being around, and he even started being nicer. Although....he was covered in bandages a lot.

His mother thought of him as nothing but a disgrace, so she birthed his sisters: the triplets. After that, his mother gave up on having children as they are "wastes of space" and "can't do anything right." So, she neglected them. Their father, even though he was also pretty stoic himself, was frightened of his wife. Friend practically raised his sisters from elementary to when he was just going into middle school. Which is when the first accident of STNAF happened.... His entire immediate family died in a car crash on their way to a corporate meeting. All Friend has left of them is the amount of wealth given to him and the hair clips his sisters wore. He moved in with his grandparents after that.

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Accident Two: Electric Boogaloo

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In high school, you and Friend were always together 24/7. At the time, he didn't realize he had feelings for you and he was just an average delinquent. His grandparents, although they are nice people, never really got involved in raising him. They just let him do what he wanted. If it wasn't for you, Friend would have probably not passed high school. And there, you met Keagan, an athlete of the school. One day, he suddenly asked you out, and you said yes. Keagan didn't like Friend very much due to the weird "serial killer" aura he gave out (in Keagan's terms), and you and Friend eventually started drifting apart. One night, Keagan started taking you and his friends home. You were the only sober one in the car. And his friend and Keagan thought it'd be funny if they left you in the middle of town, at like 3 AM. So, that's what they did. They drove off without you, leaving you stranded. As this was happening, Friend was also high at a different party. He started getting annoyed because other people kept hitting on him, so he went outside and was desperately wanting you to talk to him Then he got a message from you with your location in it. And he high tailed it to you. (This is where Aftermath: The 'Accident' comes in) That's where the...obsession started. At first, he wasn't sure what to call it. He never felt something like this before, but now.... he just can't imagine his life without you in it. And having you away from him for so long....what if you leave him again? But, he knew what it was when you two graduated and you asked him what his plans are for after high school. He wanted to be with you everywhere you go, do everything you wanted to do together. So, he cleaned himself up, cut his hair, cut back on the weed and alcohol (Although he does indulge from time to time). And, he started studying on how to be the perfect partner. He has mastered every domestic skill needed to have a happy fulfilling relationship. He started working out, and he started actually paying attention to his appearance. He has, and still is, learning how to be the best partner for you. How to be patient, how to make your heart skip a beat, how to be confident but not too confident..... he wants to be perfect for you.