#hope that my desperate attempts to better myself and change my circumstances will pay off

[whoreishghost]

not that its particularly interesting for any1 else, but maybe it *is* time?

[destielshippingnews]

Edvard's Supernatural Rewatch & Review: 1x05 Bloody Mary

In this review, I’ll be discussing suicide, survivor’s guilt, and bad dialogue.

1x05 Bloody Mary enjoys a rating of 8.4 on IMDB. It’s a strong, atmospheric episode embodying the horror-show vibe the show was intended to evoke. It was originally conceived as being episode two or three of the show, and would have made a better episode two than 1x02 Wendigo due to its themes of guilt and bereavement linking into Jess’s death and Sam’s role in it.

Mirrors are one of the defining symbols of this episode, something made painfully obvious by the incredible number of mirrors the family owns. They are both the means whereby Mary kills her victims and the means whereby characters reflect on themselves. Sam’s info-dumpage that ‛mirrors reflect our soul’ should make it explicit to viewers paying attention that Mary is a metaphor for guilt. This guilt, however, is not necessarily the guilt that comes of commission of a crime or a moral evil, but the feeling of guilt borne of not being able to save somebody, or survivor’s guilt. A person burdened by such guilt looking in the metaphorical mirror must face a metaphorical Bloody Mary waiting to pass judgement.

Quite rightly, this judgement is not just, as indeed feelings of guilt, self-blame and survivor’s guilt are unjust. A discussion of the subject on Supernatural Therapy podcast raised the topic of self-blame when in fact one is not to blame: blaming ourselves is an attempt to feel in control of something and to understand it a little better. The deaths which the ill-fated father and Charlie blame themselves for are incomprehensible.

I can say from my own experience that losing a friend or loved one to suicide is impossible to understand. Grandparents dying of age is natural, and older relatives dying of long-term illness is understandable, though unjust. But when our driving instinct is supposed to be to stay alive, a friend’s or family member’s commission of self-murder undermines completely our comprehension of the world and our reality. It’s traumatic, and the mind seeks to understand and cope with something it simply can’t handle.

Returning to Supernatural Therapy, our feelings of guilt are misplaced attempts to control and understand, but they are more negative than positive. Thus Bloody Mary is an apt villain to don the role of avenging spirit in this episode, as she attacks people who feel guilty, regardless of whether or not they truly are responsible for a death.

This episode ties itself into the Sam’s character particularly closely, as Sam feels himself to blame for Jessica’s death. At first, his guilt is depicted as completely natural: he watched his possibly-pregnant girlfriend burn to death on his ceiling and was utterly unable to help her. Anybody in that situation would be dealing with guilt on top of bereavement and trauma, so he is naturally somebody Bloody Mary would go after. However, the revelation that he had ‛dreams’ (read: premonitions) about Jess’s death for days before it happened add another layer to his guilt.

That layer, of course, being his actual guilt in taking no measures whatsoever to ensure Jess’s safety. Sam is not a blue-eyed baby in 1x01: he is a man with deep knowledge of the supernatural world and was reckless to ignore them. It is never made explicit – unless something has slipped my mind – whether Sam had any experience or knowledge of humans with psychic powers, but it is clear that he knows about the paranormal. Any Muggle would be disturbed by having exactly the same dream of a loved one dying night after night, but would likely pass it off as stress, anxiety or some such. Sam’s no Muggle, and knows better. Was having a ‛normal’ life so important to him that he dismissed and ignored warning signs that the abnormal was coming for his lady? Is Sam partially responsible for Jess’s death here?

Knowing what I know of the circumstances surrounding Jess’s death, he likely couldn’t have stopped it, even had he called Dean and John for help. But he should have called them, and chose not to. If he had done so, she might have been saved. This is death by negligence.

What makes it worse is that he is aware that keeping his visions a secret got Jess killed, but at the end of the episode acts as though he is perfectly justified in retaining his secrets from Dean. Dangerous secrets overtly related to their mother’s death and the demon responsible for killing her, information which would be very useful to Dean and John if shared, but a danger if kept quiet. He learnt that not divulging his secret is dangerous for people around him, and elected to continue not divulging said secret to Dean. Please, dear viewer, bear this in mind in series 7, 8, 9, 15 and every other time Sam gets pissy at Dean for keeping things secret from him.

He even knows in this episode that keeping his secrets almost got Dean killed by Bloody Mary, but ‛just because we’re brothers, doesn’t mean I have to tell you everything’. Sam is supposed to be the hero of this piece...

Yes, some people are genuinely like that, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them, and I sure as Hell don’t like Sam. In the first five episodes, Dean is established as a flawed, contradictory hero who actually brings something to the table. Sam’s an entitled, spoilt prick who treats his brother like a joke and an embarrassment.

Returning to the theme of suicide and guilt, one thing that is not addressed in the episode is the dad’s own relationship to the mother’s death. That she overdosed on sleeping tablets heavily implies suicide, but for about half of the run time the viewer is expected to believe the father was somehow involved in her death, i.e. that he killed her, especially as the second victim was guilty of a hit and run where a boy died. What is never addressed, however, is that his guilt and the reason Bloody Mary targeted him is that he blamed himself for not being able to prevent his wife’s suicide. Charlie is allowed the catharsis of expressing her grief to Dean and Sam, but the father is not afforded the same opportunity.

Apropos Charlie, her precise meaning when she said her ex-boyfriend got ‛scary’ is left occult. He clearly suffered serious mental health problems, something which a lot of people simply aren’t equipped to handle, especially when the one suffering is a close friend or partner. Young male victims of suicide also tend to have been very good at wearing a mask to hide: did he try taking the mask off for her, and she didn’t like what she saw? From what little information she gives us, the implication is that he threatened her with violence or that he used hard drugs or something, but the viewer is at no point privy to what she means by ‛scary’ or to the man’s side of things.

Whether or not the young man intended to frighten and manipulate Charlie by threatening her with his suicide is also unclear. ‛If you walk out that door, I’ll kill myself’ can mean different things depending on tone and context, ranging from a desperate plea for help against an overwhelming mental illness to abusive, sadistic mind games. Having lost more than one man to suicide, the idea that someone would use it as a weapon is inconceivable, but without further information I simply can’t say.

From what little information we have, the man’s suicide was not Charlie’s fault. If we assume he was threatening her to keep her with him, she was right to run. Nobody should be mistreated or burdened like that, and no relationship should be built on a foundation of such abuse. She is important, too. Even if it weren’t a threat, the situation was intensely unhealthy for everybody involved and she was very justified in distancing herself. It wasn’t her fault, and I just wish Dean had told her that in the motel room, rather than simply talking about it to Sam in the car afterwards.

Speaking of said conversation in the car, Dean’s heart was in the right place as he tried to get Sam to stop blaming himself, but he perhaps revealed his own lack of coping tools whilst doing so. Dean is intelligent and empathetic, and far more caring than people give him credit for, but he was raised in an environment where he was not allowed to talk about his fears and anxieties. Nor was he provided any tools whatsoever to facilitate understanding and processing his traumas and illnesses; John wanted him as an emotionally-dead weapon to use in his war against Mary’s killer.

Dean feels, but with no healthy tools nor anybody to acknowledge and help in processing his issues, he bottles things up and pushes them aside as best he can. Of course, the best he can is not all that best, wherefore the drinks and the sex and the gallows humour. This is John’s echo in Dean: John silenced him, and Dean therefore is not best equipped to process his own trauma at the beginning of series 1, much less counsel somebody else (though this changes as the years go by and he learns how to act without John stymieing him).

He meant well in telling Sam he can’t carry on blaming himself for Jess’s death, but the problem is Sam can’t stop blaming himself. Nobody in Sam’s situation can stop themselves feeling what s/he’s feeling, and has to simply feel it. I knew my friend’s suicide wasn’t my fault, but grief, bereavement, and survivor’s guilt are not rational and can’t be controlled by the cognitive mind. The feeling mind is the one in control, all the cognitive mind can do is make suggestions and hope for the best.

Regarding grief and Sam’s situation, Sam’s nightmare and his conversation with Dean at the beginning of the episode are about as explicit as Sam’s grief for Jess gets int eh show, and it’s not much at all. They were together for maybe two years, she was possibly pregnant with his child and died on the ceiling above him, but he doesn’t do any actual mourning or grieving most of the time. That itself is okay as some peolel take years before they’re ready to process grief and bereavement, but Sam behaves like a slightly disgruntled, moody teenager which we’re supposed to interpret as him grieving Jess’s death, but we see next to no actual grief, trauma or expression of loss.

His discussion with Dean is supposed to give us the idea that this is a recurrent event, but it is very, very far from sufficient to genuinely make us believe that Sam is anything other than a little bit sad for Jess.

We have, however, already established that Sam is partially responsible for Jess’s death, but Dean doesn’t know that. In spite of it not being the most productive thing Dean could have said, it was valid. Grieving is natural and uncontrollable, but how we react to it is at least partially within the jurisdiction of the cognitive mind. We can’t resist grief, as even denying it acknowledges its presence, but rather we have to accept it as a natural part of life to be endured and felt, but not be controlled by it.

Similarly, Mary is herself a victim of trauma, having been murdered by her lover. Understandably, her mentis is significantly non compos after the experience, and killing people she deems to be guilty is perhaps her way of trying to process what happened to her. Referring once again to Supernatural Therapy podcast, Jovanna Burke (who played Mary in this episode) states she believed Mary saw herself as a vigilante trying to get restitution for people wronged by killing their murderers, but her world-view became so skewed and she lost all concept of a grey area. For her, things were black or white: guilty or not guilty. Dean as good as says that there is only guilty or not guilty for Mary: if somebody thinks their actions or lack thereof got somebody killed, that person’s guilty. Sam, after all, didn’t kill Jess, Charlie didn’t kill her ex-boyfriend and I don’t believe the father had a part in the mother’s death.

I would add to this that such thinking sounds like a trauma victim’s survival mechanism. If things are easily understood as either / or, good / bad, safe / dangerous, the risk of danger is theoretically reduced. Think wild animals assuming humans are going to kill them: it’s safest to assume and run away.

This has been quite the lengthy discourse on mirrors, but it’s time to switch from the metaphorical and symbolical to the more practical, that being the exact nature of how the magic works. Mary was bound to the mirror she died in front of, but as long as that mirror remained intact, she was free to wonder the mirror world when summoned. In the climax of the episode, Dean and Sam summon her to her mirror in the antique shop, smash it, then face her manifest form in the real world. Dean defeats her by showing her her own reflection in another mirror, whereupon her own reflection deems her guilty of multiple homicides and kills her.

Hawk-eyed readers will have noticed already, but if Mary’s power was bound to her mirror, how then could her own reflection have killed her when the mirror binding her was smashed? Was the source of her power in her, then, rather than the mirror? If so, then how would her seeing her own reflection killed her? A ghost in Supernatural doesn’t have the power to destroy itself like that: it simply can’t. A ghost has refused the Reaper’s invitation to pass on, and can’t therefore pass on, yet Mary does. I can’t make this make sense.

One more thing about that scene is that Dean’s eyes began bleeding, implying he is also hiding a secret where somebody died. Fans made a big number out of this at the time, and Kripke promised us we would find out in due course… but we never did. This is the first instance of one of Dean’s storylines getting dropped by the show, and it’s far from being the last one.

Kripke didn't like Dean. Dean was supposed to be the dumb, womanising popular guy who always gets the women but 'treats them badly' in comparison to Sam's sensitive nice guy act. Sam was Kripke's insert, and Dean was just a character the audience wasn't supposed to like either, so he didn't bother giving Dean his own storylines. Even series 3 is more about Sam's anger and 'grief' than it is Dean's.

Now that the main points are out of the way, there are more minor points in the episode to comment on. One is the lovely cinematography, especially during the cold open / prologue. I began this review by stating that mirrors are important in this episode, and the camerawork in the beginning really drive that home. Moreover, seeing Mary reflected in so many mirrors – and indeed seeing so many reflections – blurs the line between the real world and the mirror world.

The children’s sleepover is also pleasantly lit, with very dark shadows and lots of candlelight evoking the feel of a ghost story. The shot in the library with the rays of light shining on the boys also looked wonderful, and the visual storytelling in the antique shop at the end was impressive. Said visual storytelling refers to the close up shot of a blinking red light, followed shortly after by the headlights of the police cars drifting across the wall. This is intelligent storytelling that expects the viewer to be paying attention, and it’s definitely appreciated.

In spite of my apathy for Jess as a character, the final shot of Sam seeing her on the pavement was fantastic cinematography: as with the flashing lights, it told us a story without needing to tell us anything. Sam saw her, and then she disappeared. Coming at the end of an episode about Sam’s guilt, and roughly a minute after his advice to Charlie about not blaming herself, this strongly suggests something has changed in Sam: the guilt that he was holding on to has begun to ease, or even vanish. It is, however, just a suggestion, and Sam giving Charlie a therapy session he sorely needs doesn’t mean he’s going to follow his own advice.

I wish, however, that more had been revealed about the kind of pills the father was taking in the cold open.

Speaking of the library – which we weren’t –do you remember when Wi-Fi didn’t exist? I remember. Currently I’m sitting about two metres away from my computer which is tethered to my mobile phone, typing on a wireless keyboard, using a wireless mouse in a room with no working ethernet cable or modem, listening to sounds of an oil rig on Bluetooth headphones, but in 2005 none of that was possible. There’s almost as much time between now and then as there was between my birth and ABBA winning Eurovision in Brighton in 1974.

Which is a nice segue into the soundtrack of the episode. The music in the opening is effective, being both reminiscent of the prologue of 1x01 with its minimalistic, slow piano track building tension and unease, but with an underlying hollow, howling wind sound that I can only liken to the dementors in Harry Potter.

Less impressive, however, was Mary’s dialogue, showing a complete lack of effort put into it. ‛You killed them, you’re guilty’, ‛you did it, you killed that boy’.

I rewatched this episode for the first time in 12 years in December 2020, by myself in a silent flat very late at night. I was 29, and this episode still creeped me out, making me hesitant to look at the window in case my reflection moved. Whilst it’s not my favourite episode, it’s certainly a solid effort with a memorable – if dated – antagonist in a self-contained MOTW story. Like the pilot, it showcased Kripke’s initial conception of the show as being about American folklore (although Bloody Mary is very much a British thing, too), and boasts a very atmospheric miniature horror show. It also offers character development and growth, even thought Sam’s claim that he would die for Dean is laughable in retrospect.

After once more exploring folk tales in 1x05, in next week's analysis of episode 1x06 Skin I'll be looking at how the show expands its daemonology by introducing a series staple.

[ambivalent-anarchy]

Hurts So Bad... (Part 3)

-

The Week That Flashed By (Part 1/3)

Masterlist

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Summary: For the first time, Peter Parker meets someone he has no idea how to save...

Warning: angst(obviously), mentions of suicide, depression, self-harm, drug use, me just exposing myself

A/N- if you only see Flash as a villain at all times then these chapters ain't for you. Not a lot of Peter this chapter but it's integral to the story so don't skip lol

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe he was hoping it'd go away.

Maybe he was wishing for the best.

Maybe he was just disregarding and ignoring you completely.

But for whatever reason, it took Peter a week to finally act. A week.

In the grand scheme of life, a week is incredibly short. However, circumstances can always change the way you perceive things.

When you have an essay due, a week seems to fly by. But when you're waiting for the new episode of your favorite tv to come, a week seems to just drag on.

The normal, busy people don't realize is that when you don't have anything to do, and when you're so far gone into the abyss, a week can genuinely seem like forever.

And your week had been nothing short of endless.

You might've finally been done with the physical low, but the mental low was practically just as bad. You could exert energy without feeling like you'd drop if a feather were to touch your shoulder, but your brain was tired.

On the upside, no one bothered you.

On the downside, no one bothered you.

You hated the silence, but strangely that's what followed you everywhere you went. Deafening silence.

You wanted so much for someone to just talk to you. Talk with you. Even if they were lying. Doesn't matter. You just wanted someone to speak. To have some type of change in your life that forced you out of the mundane, redundant, silent cycle you lived in.

Flash Thomspon was your lab partner.

You'd seen him around. He was hard to miss. Always with his jokes and his livestreams. Forever with a smile on his face. Just like Cecilia.

You remember asking her once why they weren't friends. She'd called him obnoxious.

You wouldn't call him obnoxious though, just... loud.

That Monday when lab partners were chosen, you were completely out of it.

Staring at nothing, not making a sound, setting your head down on the table, obviously not wanting to be bothered by anyone.

So when Flash got to your table, he hadn't bothered you. He walked over, simply looked at you for a bit, and once it was clear you weren't moving any time soon, he started on his notes alone.

Which you respected. That meant he was at the very least a bit sensible, if not just lazy.

The next day wasn't much different. You still weren't up for doing anything and Flash still wasn't up to bothering you.

The day after though, Wednesday, that was the day everything changed.

"Hello?," you said into your phone.

"Hey, is this [Y/N]? That quiet chick in a.p chem?"

You chuckled at the beyond simplistic description of yourself. "Uh, yeah this is she. Who's this?"

"Flash Thompson," he responded. "Coolest guy in the class."

You rolled your eyes. "Mhm, and why are you calling my phone?"

"Well-" you heard a bottle open "-we kinda have a project that's due at the end of the week. And, believe me, as much as I love doing duo projects on my own, you need to do something."

His upfrontness took you aback, but not particularly in a bad way.

And besides, you were getting sick of moping. Your curiosity wanted to see where this was going to go.

"Um, okay. So we'll crack down tomorrow then."

"How about now?" You could practically hear the smirk on his face.

"No," you quickly responded. "You mean come to your house right? Hell no."

"Why not?," he snickered. "Strict parents? Or is the pole really just that far up your ass?"

You rolled your eyes once again. You really didn't have the patience for this. "Okay I'm hanging up-"

"Wait! I'll text you my-" Click.

You stared at the wall for a good minute in complete irritation after that phone call. You had to have lost at least a hundred brain cells during that small conversation. The last thing you needed on your plate right now was some guy giving you shit.

A notification on your phone caught your attention.

3069 Oak Street

"Oh so you text me your address and now I'm just supposed to show up at your door?," you scoffed.

-

In retrospect, ringing that doorbell was probably the smartest dumb thing you ever did.

When you told your parents you were going to a friend's house, they just paused and then smiled. Your parents had no problem at all with you going out. They hadn't even asked questions. Heck they encouraged you to go out. That meant you were trying.

But fuck them. You were trying everyday. Trying not to just take the kitchen knife and slit your wrists after every dinner.

When the door to Flash's house opened you immediately noticed three things.

1) The alleged butler he'd been rumored around school to have was nowhere to be found.

2) This was an extremely nice house. Maybe even nicer than Cecilia's.

3) And Flash's eyes were red.

"Yo!," he greeted with an obnoxious grin. "Wassup?"

"We literally just stopped talking like ten mintues ago dude," you responded as you stepped into the house. "And what's with the shirt?"

This idiot actually had a Spider-Man t-shirt on.

"Excuse me? This is drip in the finest form," he defended, hopping onto his couch. "So anyway, the project or whatever. What're we gonna do for it?"

You sighed. "Well, unless I was actually invisible for all the class periods, it's obvious I wasn't paying much attention the last couple of days."

"Yeah I guess," he chuckled. "What was all that about anyway?," he asked, to which you simply shrugged. He squinted at you, but then rolled his eyes and then picked up the remote for the tv. "Oh well, you're better now, right?"

You winced, but you were glad Flash still wasn't looking your way. "Sure."

"Wanna take off your jacket? You're not outside anymore y'know."

And that's where the problem started.

You didn't know why, but you could look over knowing you were depressed. You'd easily come to terms with it. But it was the small things in normal conversations that hit you harder than anything else. Small little suggestions that you couldn't hide it all from everyone. Hell, you couldn't even take off a damn jacket like everyone else.

"I'm fine," you answered. "So... um, about that project?"

"Yeah," he said leaning forward. "You got the instruction papers or whatever?"

You gave him a look, confused. "I never picked them up. I thought you had the papers."

"I don't fucking pay attention in that boring ass class."

"So what was the purpose of me even coming here if we can't even do anything?," you snapped.

He just shrugged.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged again.

Your jaw clenched. Cecilia was right. "Obnoxious dumbass..."

You turned to walk back out of the front door before turning back around. "Hey Flash?"

He looked at you and grunted in acknowledgment.

"Were you just crying before I came in or are you just high?"

"High," he said rather quickly. "Why? Are my eyes red?"

You nodded. "Yeah."

"Fuck," he mumbled. "Want some?"

"Nah I'm good-" But he was already gone down the long hallway of his home. "Flash?"

You stood there, waiting for about five minutes before deciding that he wasn't coming back. Great.

So now you could either go get him, leave, or just continue standing there awkwardly.

And due to your lack of better judgment, you did the most classic horror movie move and walked further into a house that you weren't familiar with to go look for a guy you barely knew. If I die, I die, you thought with a shrug.

Walking into the long hallway the first thing you noticed was the abundance of doors. You weren't a stalker, so you didn't bother to look into any, but you could've swore you saw a room full of spiderman pictures and newspapers through the crack of one of them. Fucking weird.

In an attempt not to succumb to your curiosity, you walked faster down the hall. You stopped in your tracks when you heard sniffles. Whimpering? Whatever noises someone makes when they're crying. Someone was crying, that's for sure. And you were also pretty sure Flash was the only one in the house.

'Walk away [Y/N]. This isn't your business.'

But of course you walked closer, and the sniffles got louder. Until you found yourself opening the door and coming face to face with a crying Flash on the floor in the middle of some gaming room.

"Shit!," he yelled, turning away and attempting to cover up his crying with obnoxiously fake coughing.

"Are you okay?," you asked.

"I'm high," he kept repeating in mumbles, desperately reaching for something. "I'm just high, okay? Fuck."

You watched as he continued to search for whatever he was making it seem like he looking for. You wanted to reach out and maybe say something, anything that would make him feel better. But you knew that probably wouldn't help.

After all, it never helped you.

"I'm just... really fucking high right now, alright?"

He seemed incredibly off, even with the squirrelly, rude way he was being earlier. Like he was just trying too hard at something.

You were at a loss for words. You knew it was wrong, but the only thing you could think of was, hm. Rich boy's actually got some issues.

When he finally turned around, his face was dry and he carried a bong in his hands, lighting it and practically shoving it into his mouth in a weak attempt to cover up his unsteady breathing.

"Thought you left," he said, staring at the floor.

Realizing you'd been standing at the doorframe awkwardly, you moved to sit on the floor, opposite to him. "Well, you kinda offered me some weed and then left, I think."

"I thought I heard you say no though."

"I did..." you gulped. "But..I still stayed though."

And now you sat here with Flash and his bong.

He sat back on the side of the chair, his back leaning against it as he blew out the smoke. "Wanna try?," he offered, holding the small object up to you. He didn't wait for you to respond before setting it up again for you and passing it.

Without a word, you took it and breathed the smoke in. You sucked it up and felt it fill your lungs before leaning back and blowing it out, letting out a small cough afterwards. "Thanks."

"Fuck, you're a pro," Flash chuckled.

You shook your head and shrugged. "No. Common sense just tells you how it works, I guess."

"I feel that."

You hummed in amusement.

And then suddenly it was quiet again.

You fucking hated silence.

Luckily, Flash was a talker. Or so you thought.

At school there wasn't a dull moment if he was there. But now, seeing him in his home, he was quiet as a mouse. Contemplative. Searching.

"Say something," you said, earning a confused look from the boy in front of you.

He squinted. "Say what? I don't even know you."

You rolled yours eyes, shrugging. "Look, whatever was going on before I came in here, it's not my business, man. I only said to fucking speak."

Flash groaned. "About what?"

"I dunno," you answered. "I just don't like the quiet. Say anything you want. Just... talk."

"Um.." he looked up at the ceiling. "I got some new shoes the other day." He pointed at the Jordan's on his feet. "My mother got it shipped in from where she's out on business in Bora Bora."

Something about the way he said it made you sure that she wasn't out "on business".

"My butler is out today cuz it's his niece's birthday. She'd be cute enough, if her nose wasn't so big. It's like the wicked witch of the west."

You scrunched up your nose, imagining a younger version of wicked witch minus the green skin.

"Umm, I dunno uh, chocolate chip cookies are better than sugar cookies?"

You snorted at that. Now he was just thinking of anything.

"And uhh, I'm having spaghetti tonight.. and- well I don't know what you really want dude I'm just kinda.. life is just too boring to always have something to say for every second of every day, [Y/N]!," he suddenly snapped.

"Woah dude, chill." You blew out another round of smoke and handed Flash the bong. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was asking for too much."

He held his hand over his forehead. "Nah you're fine," sighed. "It's just- you ask that cuz I talk alot at school right? Yeah that makes sense I guess. I-I'm sorry," he rushed out before going back to the small contraption.

You'd been snapped at alot in your life. Way too many to count. But from those experiences you gathered a small truth; if someone has snapped at you over the smallest thing, they probably have something else going on. Or most likely a couple of things, piled up and ready to blow.

And you could smell that on Flash from a mile away.

"Flash, what's your real name?"

He paused, lifting his mouth from the bong. "Flash is my real name," he lied before passing it back over to you.

"No it's not," you stated, picking up another bag and the lighter up beside you for the bong, no longer satisfied with the loss of flavor. "I don't pay that much attention but I know for a fact that's not your name."

He rolled his eyes, quickly becoming frustrated with the conversation. "Eugene."

"Nice," you said, contemplating your next move. "So.. what does Eugene feel right now? Not Flash, but Eugene."

He reached over each practically snatched the bong away from you.

"Eugene is feeling annoyed, and frankly aggravated because some girl he barely knows is asking too much of him."

"Hey I'm only asking for what you'll give me," you said, throwing your hands in your defense.

"Well what about you?," he accused. "You're always down in the dumps, staring at the wall, looking all depressed 24/7 so how about you start talking? I mean, are you fucking okay?"

"No," you answered blandly. "Not in the slightest. Your turn. What does Eugene feel, Flash? Is Eugene, quote, 'fucking okay'?"

Flash scoffed. "What're you trying to say, that I'm depressed?"

"I never said that."

"Oh fuck that, you implied it!"

"I didn't-"

"You don't fucking know me, [Y/N]," he spat out, throwing the bong on the floor, watching as you picked it up before the water spilt. "You don't fucking know what I'm going through everyday, so please don't be like everyone else and tell me what I am, okay?!"

Were you being rude prying into his life? Totally.

Had you reached the level of nonchalantness with your and practically anybody else's wellbeing that you really couldn't possibly bring yourself to care? Yes.

And was Flash finally cracking? Completely.

"Flash is fake. And obnoxious. And rude," you deadpanned. "I wanna meet Eugene. See how he's doing."

Flash scoffed, looking for a comeback. You could see the expressions on his face flickering like random. Annoyance. Sadness. Want.

You were no psychologist but anyone with a brain could see what he was going through.

The two of you sat in silence again. But you didn't really mind it this time. You were waiting. Even without actually speaking, Flash was telling you everything about him.

Takes one to know one.

"Eugene's aggravated," he finally said, his eyes becoming watery. "Eugene's fucking angry all the time because people only seem to want Flash." He gave you a bitter smirk before averting his eyes to the ground. But you let him. If that's what was easiest for him, then whatever.

"And people assume things about Eugene all the damn time so eventually he decided -what the hell- he'll just give em what they want. And Eugene's fucking pissed because he knows for a fact that if he were to just disappear, no one would fucking care. His old man would just put him in the ground and everyone would be back to normal before fucking dinner." His breath was heavy and you could see mocha skin begin to turn a dark red. "And most of all he's pissed because he's been able to hide for so long and some girl just strolls in and figures him out."

And now here you were just there with Eugene and his bong.

You'd lost count of how much you'd smoked, and you knew he did too. But it didn't matter.

Nothing did anymore.

Not the pressure from your parents. Not the endless cycle of running through all the motions without actually taking anything in. Not even the stupid project that was worth half your grade that'd brought the two of you together in the first place.

Life was full of nothing just in millions of various forms.

Things dressed up and decorated to seem all fancy and important but in the grand scheme of things were just was worthless as you were.

You looked at Flash's home and all you saw was fancy nothing. Wealthy nothing. And you looked at his clothes and all you could possibly see was nothing.

And looking at Flash, you saw a nothing that was attempting to cover up something.

But looking at Eugene, you saw something.

Sadness. Neglect. Pain.

He was completely naked to you.

"You should probably stop," he mumbled, finally opening his eyes and sitting up a bit. "You're looking at me all weird." He reached for the bong, laying it aside once he grabbed it.

"Is that a bad thing?," you asked.

"No," he responded with a small shrug. "...just scares me is all."

You smirked. The only resemblance of a smile you'd been able to make in a long while. "And how do I, of all people, scare you, Eugene?"

You could see his jaw clench. Could see him debating with himself. Even relaxed from the weed, his eyes still darted around the room, and he was shaking his head the tiniest bit. Finally he looked back at you.

"Because -fucking somehow.. you see me-" a tear rolled down his face. "You actually see me. Not Flash... You see Eugene."

His mother's words rang through his ears like a cautionary tale. Real men don't cry. Don't be weak, like your father...

But he wanted to be. So badly he wanted, just for one moment, to be weak and to be able to fall into someone's arms and not act like he was always okay on his own. To not act like he didn't desperately yearn for someone's compassion. Someone's trust.

Flash was fun. Flash was the cool, funny side character in everyone's story. Flash was the picture perfect of everything he wanted to be.

"-And Eugene's a mess," he let out in a small, quiet sob, his expression not moving, though the tears streamed down his face. "I'm just high... that's why I'm saying all this crap. I'm just being dumb and high. Forget all this. I never said anything okay?"

You wouldn't see him break. Not some girl he just met...

Regardless of how he already felt about you.

He slowly looked back up at your face, fully expecting to see pity or disgust. Instead, your face remained neutral like his, and you were crying too.

"I don't think you're a mess Eugene." You sat up straighter, moved a little closer. "Just hurt."

He gave a bitter chuckle. "Isn't basically everybody?"

You shook your head slightly. "No...at least I don't think so. Everyone goes through something- and then there are those people that, in some sick way, want to be hurting.. but with people like us.." You found yourself grabbing his hand, not even thinking for what reason. You just did. "With us.. it's real. And not some temporary problem," you whispered. "It won't ever stop."

Eugene looked back at you again and it was over for him. He felt small. He felt naked. He felt fucking pure.

And then it happened.

You went in for a hug and he went in for a kiss.

But he made it first... and you didn't push him away.

Feeling his lips on yours.. wasn't bad. It surprised you at first, but ultimately it was pleasant.

He sighed against your lips and you could taste the smoke in between the two of you. You hadn't had much experience with guys before. Practically nonexistent if you were being honest, but that didn't matter. Eugene pressed his kiss firmer on yours, and you began to reciprocate his movements.

He held the side of your head lightly as he pulled away, his face growing further apart from yours the slightest bit. He rubbed his nose against yours. You both closing your eyes.

"Stay here with me," he pleaded softly, his breathing slightly erratic. "I-i won't try anything, I swear. I just..." He sniffed and used his shoulder to wipe away at some of the tears on his cheek. "You really see me. A-and I see you, y'know? And we're just-"

You nodded, taking your hand to run through his hair. "Okay," you whispered. "I'll stay."

A small smile started to break through his tears. "Thank you," he mumbled against your cheek before planting a soft kiss onto it.

Your mind was blank. You couldn't think of more than one thing at a time. But you knew one thing; you wanted to be there. That much you were sure of. You still weren't happy. You weren't safe. Just content with this idea of change.

For once, you weren't overly sure of what you were doing. It wasn't routine.

For once, you felt like something was different.

----------Back on the other side of town-----------

You weren't home.

Peter had finished his patrol, swung to your apartment, and you were nowhere to be found.

"No. N-no please don't do this," he pleaded to himself. "Be in the bathroom. Please just be somewhere. Come on, get in here."

He'd already looked through every window available and he could only hope you were in some inside room. Your bed was completely untouched.

"I should've reached out to you. Fuck! I should've done something. Just please be alive..."

He waited anxiously to see if you'd show, even sending a drone to Cecilia's address to see if you were there in the meantime. "I-I'm so sorry I- just please! Be at a friend's house! Something!"

He didn't even realize how much he was shaking. How much your life was in his hands. If you were dead, he'd never forgive himself.

"She's not at the Gulliver residence, Peter. Are there any other places you'd like for me to check?," E.D.I.T.H asked.

"She's somewhere!," he yelled out. "It's one in the morning on a school night. Find her! Please...."

He looked back toward the window. After while he didn't even know how much time had passed. He was just staring. Waiting for you to walk through that door. And when you never came he could only hope that you'd be at school.

"I'll help you," he whimpered. "Just..please. Please just stay alive long enough for me to try."

---------------------------------------

Lmao don't worry y/n won't end up with Flash and this certainly won't end up being a love triangle

Taglist - @eridanuswave, @imahardcase, @jules-and-gemss, @yetchann, @captainamericasdaughter, @starlight-starks, @everydaymj, @rubberducky-jrr, @chiaramrvl, @dreamofaprilsblog, @hello--zuko-here, @spidey-mads, @cuddlefishpeter

[sonicringbond]

Sonic Ring Bond: the Journey - Scene 23

And with a lengthy little scene, we have moved away from the exposition for now. Or at least most of it. Rosy still has some exposition to give every scene just due to the story structure, but we actually have things getting started started again in this scene so i hope everyone enjoys...

    ~The biggest thing I love about adventuring is all the new people I meet and all of the wonderful places that I see. Sometimes though the people I meet need help, or just want a favor in exchange for a service. Tee-hee~♥ This time the people I met are little meaner though.

    ~To people who rely on Rings, they are irreplaceable. They do so much, and we rely on them so much. I don’t even think I really thought about it until I ended up in these strange lands with that little planet watching me every day. When I first discovered that most people here didn’t trust Rings it was so unnatural. Yet to them it was perfectly normal. Or so I thought until I met the Engineers.

    ~They were the first people here who actually used Rings like I was used to, but when Rings are treated as bad, they have to keep it a secret. It makes Ring Thieves even worse than they are back home. Stealing Rings is so hurtful, even helping a Ring Thief will get you hurt. I’ll have to talk Gill into changing his way of life when I finally catch up with him.

    ~Fortunately, though I was afraid that knowing Gill would have lost me an opportunity to catch up with Zooey, the cloud sailors were very understanding. They just didn’t trust me, or Draw, so they sent us out on a little quest to prove that we were trustworthy.

    ~Hmph! I think it’s ridiculous since they saw the photo with me and Zooey both in it. It should be obvious. But Gill did steal Rings from them, so it makes sense to help them gather Rings. I’m kind of excited too as I haven’t had a Ring gathering job in what feels like forever! Hee-hee! It’s what I used to do back home so it’s a nice little reminder of who I am. Which is fortunate too under the circumstances.~

    An airship that was barely more than a deck, cabins, and a hold wrapped around a metal balloon and further wrapped in sails, rigging, propellers, and wings soared across the jagged terrain. The mountains were unusual in that they almost appeared like domino tiles that had fallen on top of each other. The geography resulted in the top side of the mountains being covered as far as the eye could see in lush grasslands where sheep roamed, and Rings spun about on their axes arranged in any number of patterns. Despite being high enough for clouds to drift across the meadows the temperature was warm and balmy. From the deck railing Rosy watched the scenery passing by below with a huge and excited smile.

    “Ooh~! It’s so perfect! There are so many places to run, and so many Rings too! I bet there are all sorts of interesting things to find down below the cliffs too!”

    “You’re awfully excited considering they’re making you do their work,” Draw looked at Rosy wryly before a smirk adorned his face. With a shrug he closed his eyes and turned away. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when dealing with a weirdo girl like you.”

    “How many times do I have to tell you stop calling me names!”

    Rosy complained and Draw snickered before Rosy stuck her tongue out in retaliation. It earned them both a good laugh, but Rosy felt it would be rude not answer the implied question from her koala companion. Wiping a tear from her eye she explained her excitement.

    “Believe it or not, but this is what I did back home,” Rosy demonstrated vaguely drawing a doodle in the air with a finger. “My job was to collect Rings and I went all over the place doing it. Me and my best friend. Ooh~ I haven’t seen Tails in forever and I miss him so much. I really hope he’s okay.”

    “I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten him with how long you’ve been searching. It seems like something you’d forget.”

    Hopping off the railing, Rosy sat down on the deck beside Draw and pulled her knees to her chin. It made her look very small, even next to the younger and smaller koala.

    As Draw continued to clean his bow, he looked at Rosy wondering if she was upset about something. The mischievous grin she wore hidden behind her knees told him otherwise and he leaned in closer as she motioned to him with a wave of her hand.

    “Well that’s the thing,” Rosy whispered excitedly, her wagging tail thudding against the deck giving away her enthusiasm. “I’ve noticed that the things I’m most likely to forget are things that aren’t associated with what I normally do. I think that’s why it’s so important for everyone to have the defined roles that they do. It helps you stay you, I think. But adventuring is what I do, and what my friends do too so most of those memories are just kind of fuzzy now, but I can still remember them. That’s why I’m not worried about helping the Engineers out.”

    “I get it,” Draw contemplated as he absently rubbed down his bow. “They aren’t trying to have you repay the stolen Rings, they’re trying to use how everyone always forgets things to make you loyal to them.”

    “That’s what I was thinking too,” Rosy beamed as Draw had caught on. “But I know it won’t work on either of us. First and foremost, I know that the Rings will always remember. Secondly, they think we’re dumb because we’re kids.”

    “Well you’re certainly a weirdo girl,” Draw countered Rosy’s attempts to build up their confidence. She puffed up her cheeks at him and he simply flashed her another playful smirk. He did not prompt her to go off topic however and stayed quiet.

    “But they shouldn’t look down on us like that. I know you’ll be fine too because practicing to hunt golems is what you do, and I’ll be fine because I’m going to be doing what I always do. They won’t beat us so easily, and we’ll still help them and get to hear more about where Zooey is.”

    ~I felt like my belief was spot on. Why wouldn’t it be? This strange land may steal people’s memories, but I’ve been doing my best to pay attention and protect my precious memories as best as I could. I had gotten Draw involved too so it was important that I protect his memories too. The thing is though, I wasn’t prepared for how bored I was going to be. And after it looked so exciting too.

    ~Overlooking one of the best views I ever saw of the wide openness of the world was a weird little tower that was as much a part of an old ruin as it was something that looked like it grew out of it. It was like a smashed together building built from a windmill, a water tower, a lighthouse, and a giant boiler chimney. There were pipes everywhere and covered almost as much as the ivy and other plants that covered the stone brick building. But there was nothing else of interest.

    ~A kitchen, bedrooms, and a lookout post. Even the weird little arch that served as the airship port was just quaint. The old guy who worked at what they called an Engineer’s waystation was nice enough too, but he laid down a very strict rule about never going further out than he could see. And so, by the afternoon of my second day there, I was so bored and turned desperately to Draw to help me chase away the boredom.~

    “It’s your fault for collecting the Rings so fast,” Draw remarked dismissively as he fired off a practice shot into a target he carved into the side of an old tree within the outer wall of the ruin that held the waystation.

    “I know, but I get so excited!” Rosy whined. “It really is like back home. Rings show up in random places and patterns every day and I just can’t help myself. It’s so much fun but being limited on where I can run makes it so boring. I know they don’t trust me, but it’s still unfair.”

    “And why do you think I can change their minds?” Draw asked as he fired off another arrow.

    “I don’t,” Rosy admitted as she clasped her hands behind her back and began swaying her body back and forth. “I was just hoping you could help me chase off my boredom for a little bit.”

    “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Draw asked as he eyed Rosy wearily.

    Her cheeks puffing up, Rosy energetically defended herself. “It isn’t anything bad! Really! I just want to practice my fortune telling. I may consult the cards every morning, but I know so many other ways of reading fortunes too. Like I can do a really simple one right here and now. All I need is for you to show me you hand.

    “And if I say I don’t want to?” Draw challenged.

    “Don’t be like that!” Rosy fussed and snagged Draw’s hand in both of hers.

    “Why do you care about my future anyway?” Draw pressed as he yanked his hand away, not noticing that Rosy drew her thumbs along his palm as he did. “Or do you think I can’t beat your golem–?”

    Draw stopped short as he noticed Rosy’s mischievous grin had returned and he frowned in disgust and fear. “What did you just do?”

    “Nothing,” Rosy swayed playfully, teasing the poor koala. “Just read your fortune is all~♥”

    “What! That easily?”

    “I’m really good at it,” Rosy laughed as she shook a playful finger at the bewildered Draw.

    “No way! What did you learn!”

    “Well…,” Rosy started enthusiastically, but she seemed a bit perplexed and looked down at her thumbs. Draw swallowed loudly afraid something bad lay in store for him, but Rosy dismissed it as she reached into one of the shoulder puffs of her leotard. “It’s kind of confusing so I’m going to ask my cards to help clarify for me.”

    Without missing a beat, Rosy flopped onto the ground, her legs forming a ��W” like shape in front of her as she withdrew the small waterproof container. Carefully extracting her tarot cards Rosy split the deck and paused a moment before shuffling. Giggling, she lay the two halves on the ground in front of her. “I better give them a Ring first. I don’t want them getting worn out. They’re my oldest friends you know.”

    Draw gave Rosy a doubting look, but she ignored him and cheerily pushed a Ring into her cards. With a twinkle of golden motes of light, the Ring vanished as quickly as it had appeared from Rosy’s person. Her cards seemed no different, but it was obvious that they still looked brand new. Testing the snap of the cards Rosy smiled wider as she began to shuffle them.

    It was a mundane action, but a sudden breeze blew one or two free and Rosy gasped in apologetic surprise.

    “Ah! I’m sorry!”

    Scrambling to catch the errant cards, Rosy looked like a child chasing butterflies and Draw hung his head and sighed. The sudden urgency in Rosy’s voice as she spoke to him again though caused him concern as he looked back up at her.

    “Draw, we have to go.”

    “Eh! What!” Draw stepped back surprised, but Rosy’s face was desperate with seriousness. Still, he needed clarification as she hurried to put her cards away. “But if we leave… I mean won’t they never help us find your friend if we go now.”

    “They probably won’t,” Rosy conceded, but did not linger as she offered Draw her back so she might carry him piggyback. “But I know seeing them and how protective they are that Zooey is safe. I want to see her. Really, I do. But… but right now, someone else needs our help and we have to hurry before it’s too late!”

    “How did come up with that?” Draw guffawed at the absurdity of what Rosy claimed.

    “The cards told me!”

    Rosy’s claim baffled Draw even more and he gave her a doubting look and began to mouth a response but Rosy cut him off with a stern look as she forewent an explanation. “I know you don’t believe me, no one ever does at first, but my cards never lie to me. And right now, someone needs our help more than Zooey, so we have to go.”

    “Well… If you… argh! Fine!”

    With a shout Draw gave in and soon found himself whisked away at speeds he could not comprehend across the meadowed mountain sides.

Scene 23 · CLEARED A Tiny Voice, to be continued

-----

And with that, Rosy is chasing after trouble yet again. Draw seemed to have mellowed out this scene, but hopefully not jarringly so. I definitely need to get some excitability into him again. But we’ll leave that for the future.

Thank you for reading everyone! i hope you enjoyed!

-----

Special Thanks to Cutegirlmayra Story by @JoshTarwater/SonicFanJ Inspiring Song – What Makes the Sky Blue – Tsutomu Narita – Granblu Fantasy Original Soundtrack: Promise

Fair Use Disclaimer

Sonic the Hedgehog and all affiliated characters and logos are the express property and Copyright© of SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS used without permission under Title 17 U.S.C Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976 in which allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. “Fair use” is use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be considered copyright infringement. The Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey alternate universe (AU) consumer written work of fiction is a non-profit transformative work primarily for personal use and can and will be taken down without warning or prior notice at the request of the copyright holder(s) should it not be recognized under “fair use”.

*Sonic Ring Bond logo created by DEE Art – twitter.com/daryliscute.

Sonic Ring Bond AU and Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey are the creation of Joshua David Tarwater/ynymbus/sonicfanj/@Joshtarwater and is to be, including all contents herein considered for all legal purposes the property of the Sonic the Hedgehog intellectual property (IP) and copyright owners, SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS. All story contributors via prompt, suggestion, written scene, art, and all and every other contribution acknowledge that all contributed material is forfeit for legal purposes to SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS upon official request from SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS.

[alienspawnwrites]

Laying Hands Chapter 3

Read on AO3

End of Introductions

Tony Stark was clearly very rich. If having his own skyscraper hadn't been an obvious clue, the casual glamour of the interior of the building certainly reflected his wealth. The open floor plan and comfortable living areas were a far cry from Althea's previous arrangement with the group she now knew as Hydra.

Tony proudly escorted Althea through the building, showing her to the lounge first. A large sunken floor was ringed by deep, plush couches. A long row of window cushioned seats ran along the floor to ceiling windows of the room, looking extremely warm and inviting even in setting sun. The bar occupied pride of place near the center of the room, and he boasted that it held just about every liquor ever produced. One wall was dominated by huge bookshelves. Combined, they contained more books than Althea had ever seen outside the public library she had frequented as a child. On another wall hung a massive television screen, and she marveled at how thin the electronic was. Technology had certainly advanced during her years in confinement. The space had a small kitchenette stockpiled with various drinks and snacks as well as a large round table with room enough to seat ten, at least. Tony informed her he had once tried to initiate a game night, his tone indicating the attempt had not gone well.

A few floors down, the kitchen proper was no less impressive or technologically advanced. Tony pointed out various appliances, going over their functions with dizzying speed. Some looked familiar, others looked to her like something straight out of an episode of Star Trek. Even the refrigerator was outfitted with it's own display panel, though Althea couldn't fathom what possible purpose they could serve. It was a cold box; why would anyone feel the need to attach a computer to something so simple?

Steve, who had joined them for the tour, noticed her obvious confusion. "Don't worry," he whispered, leaning in. "It took me forever to figure this stuff out too. I still can't make a normal cup of coffee on that thing." He pointed to a device that looked to be more buttons than machine. "I keep making something Tony calls a 'frappe'." His exaggerated look of frustration earned a chuckle from Althea. He smiled, happy she was starting to feel at ease. "It is delicious, though."

Below the dining floor, Tony explained, were the sleeping quarters of everyone on the team. "Except for me, of course. I'm up top in the penthouse. They might call it 'Avengers Tower' but I still pay the bills. That comes with certain perks."

Tony had just shown Althea to what was to be her bedroom when they were interrupted by a voice emanating from the watch on Tony's wrist. "Sir, Miss Romanoff has returned. She is waiting for you in the debriefing room." Althea was hardly surprised to learn Tony had a stereotypical British butler. What kind of eccentric billionaire would he be without one?

"Ah. Looks like the rest of the tour is going to have to wait until later. We'll let you settle in while we get everyone caught up to speed. Feel free to explore if you want, though I imagine you're probably tuckered out after today. If you need anything just ask J.A.R.V.I.S."

"Jarvis?" Thea looked around. She hadn't seen anyone other than Tony and Steve during the entirety of their tour.

"How can I help you, ma'am," came the same British voice as before. Althea started and looked around, searching desperately for its source.

"J.A.R.V.I.S. is an artificial intelligence program, a computer if you must, of my own invention. He runs just about everything around here," Stark explained. "J.A.R.V.I.S., meet Thea. She's going to be staying with us for a while. Let's start with level 3 clearance for now and go from there."

"Very well, sir."

"We'll come get you later. You should meet the rest of the team once you've gotten some rest." Steve gave her a last parting smile before he and Tony turned, leaving her alone in her new quarters.

Althea examined the room. It was simple but incredibly spacious, outfitted with a king size bed covered with a plush blue bedspread, and a pair of long, low dressers. Curious, she opened one of the drawers, but found it empty. For a moment she debated asking Tony's A.I. butler for a change of clothes, but decided against it. Even if it was capable of filling the request, a new wardrobe would probably be too bold for her first day. The room only had one window, albeit a large one, located just behind the bed. Through it, Althea had commanding view of the city, no less impressive in the waning light of the nearly set sun. Again, she found herself captivated by the sight, unable to tear her attention away for several minutes.

When at last she turned away, she noticed a second door stood on the far side of the room. She opened it cautiously, revealing a pristine bathroom. As she stepped inside, her movement in the large wall-mounted mirror caught her eye and she stopped to investigate her reflection.

She couldn't remember the last time she had properly seen herself, and she was unimpressed at the sight. If she didn't know better, Althea would say she looked sickly. She fingered a lock of her lackluster hair, rubbing the dry strands between her fingers. The understated luxury of her surroundings only highlighted her pathetic appearance. Suddenly, she remembered Steve had mentioned meeting 'the rest', and she grew even more self-conscious.

She decided a shower could do nothing but improve her sad condition, and was pleased to find towels conveniently laid out nearby. Even better, she noticed, she was able to lock the bathroom from the inside. Althea couldn't recall the last time she had locked someone out, rather than been locked in. The small taste of power helped her relax. She removed her clothes, hoping J.A.R.V.I.S. wasn't somehow watching, and stepped into the shower.

She emerged from the bathroom clean and redressed, toweling off her damp hair. The shower had been well stocked, and she held out hope that the conditioner she had found would make some improvement on her unhealthy locks. At the very least she smelt a good deal better. A small platter of food had been placed atop a box on the dresser in her absence, and Althea became aware of just how hungry she was. She immediately set about devouring the simple meal: a turkey sandwich and a packet of crisps. It wasn't until she had polished off the last remaining crumb that she paid the box any mind. Opening it, she found a brand new pair of tennis shoes. The gift brought a smile to Althea's face. They had noticed her shoddy footwear and found her a suitable replacement without her needing to ask. She mentally added a check in the "good guys" column. She added another when she slipped the shoes on, finding them a near-perfect fit.

Althea found she was too nervous to take Tony up on his offer to explore on her own. Truthfully, he had been right: she was exhausted. She carefully laid herself down in the middle of the expansive bed, studying the ceiling above as she ran through the events of the day. Her nerves were far less frayed than they had been just a few hours earlier. The chaos surrounding her meeting the Avengers and her escape from the organization they called Hydra already felt so far away. She silently chastised herself. She didn't know these people. It was too soon to get comfortable and let her guard down. A hot shower and some shoes shouldn't be enough to win her trust; she knew better. Despite her renewed resolve to remain wary, Althea soon drifted into the deep dreamless sleep brought on by physical and mental exhaustion, still wearing her new shoes.

An insistent knocking woke Althea. She shot up and looked around blankly at the now dark room. Her mind raced as she groggily tried to place herself and remember how she had ended up asleep atop the covers of the strange bed. The rapping persisted as the circumstances surrounding her new quarters returned to her, and she leapt out of bed to answer the door.

Althea was still blinking the sleep from her eyes when she opened the door, revealing a rather annoyed looking Tony Stark. "Jesus kid, I was beginning to think you were dead or something. Come one," he waved for her to follow. "The gang's all assembled. They're just dying to meet you." He led her through the halls and to the elevator. Althea's nerves caught up with her as they rode up towards the lounge and she wrung her hands anxiously.

"Don't worry," Tony attempted to console her, noticing her distress. Despite the costumes and nicknames we're all nice enough, pretty normal even. Well, most of us anyway." Before she had a chance to ask for clarification, the doors slid open, revealing five persons scattered about the room.

"Cap you already know," Tony gestured to Steve, now casually dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans. Maskless and out of costume he looked surprisingly... normal. "As well as Natasha, though I don't think you guys had a chance to properly introduce yourselves." Natasha nodded towards Althea in greeting, even gracing her with a small smile though it didn't seem to reach her eyes. Despite the relaxed setting she still appeared to be all business.

"Let's move on to the new faces." Tony clapped his hands and spun to face the rest of the assembled group. "Bruce here, well he's probably the second smartest person on the team, next to myself of course." A timid looking man with graying hair gave her a small wave. "Don't be fooled though. He may look like a mild-mannered scientist, but he's got one hell of an anger issue. Best not to push it, unless you want to butt heads with the not-so-jolly green giant." Althea was suitably confused, and Bruce's bashful reaction did nothing to clarify Tony's meaning.

"I'm not, that's not really the whole story. It's.. it's complicated," stammered Bruce. Althea looked between the two men for an explaination.

"Oh 'complicated' doesn't even begin to describe you, does it Brucey."

"Alright stop it, Tony," Steve cut in. "You'll scare her."

"Sorry," he answered, dripping with sarcasm. Then, seeing Althea's anxious face, more seriously, "Sorry. Bruce is a stand up guy, really. Nothing to be scared of. Honestly." Althea gave Bruce a dubious side-long glance but nodded. Despite Tony's insinuations, she couldn't bring herself to be scared of the sheepish looking man.

"I would like to introduce myself to the new girl." Althea spun to face the loud, commanding voice. She found herself face to face, or rather face to chest, with an enormous, brawny man. He was standing so close that she had to crane her next just to see his face. Bright blue eyes sparkled above a broad, sincere smile, framed by a head of sandy blond locks. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Thea. I am Thor, son of Odin, Prince of Asgard and God of Thunder." He offered her a giant hand, which she took hesitantly. His grip was incredibly strong, painfully grinding the bones of her fingers together. Oblivious to her discomfort, he gave her hand a vigorous shake, the force nearly lifting her off her feet.

"God?", she repeated incredulously as he released her. She chose to ignore her sore digits, unconcerned with the obvious damage his zealous greeting had caused.

"Yes, the God of Thunder." He seemed unfazed by her skepticism. "I channel lightening through my hammer, Mjolnir. It was crafted for me by dwarves in the furnaces of Nidavellir. It is very impressive, it has no equal." His words were boastful, but his tone sounded matter-of-fact, as though he were merely conveying mundane facts. Althea slowly turned to Steve, whom she felt to be the most reasonable of the group, for some sort of explanation, but he merely shrugged and nodded.

She turned back to Thor, who was still beaming at her. Althea found herself smiling back, albeit tentatively, at his unbridled affability. "Nice to meet you too, Thor...uh, your majesty?" She added nervously. She had no idea what was proper etiquette when speaking with royalty, let alone a superhuman prince.

"No, no no no, don't do that," cut in Tony. "'Thor is fine. He only gets titles on his own planet. Besides, 'majesty' is for a king, you call a prince 'highness'."

"His planet ?"Althea wheeled on Thor, her eyes wide a saucers. "As in 'not Earth'?"

"This mortal appears denser than the average Midgardian," came a condescending voice from behind Thor. "Why is she here again? Is she some sort of pet?"

Althea noticed the tall, lanky figure for the first time. He stood a little apart from the rest, leaning casually against the kitchenette counter and looking entirely disinterested by the entire situation. He wore street clothes, but they were a far cry from the casual outfits donned by the rest of the assembled Avengers. Instead he wore a fine, expensive looking suit, perfectly tailored to his lithe frame. Every piece of the ensemble was jet black, barely distinguishable from one another. It matched his raven hair and highlighted the paleness of his alabaster skin. Looking at him, Althea was reminded of the marble statues of antiquity.

"Do not mind Loki." Thor strode leisurely over to the man. "It is in my brother's nature to jest." He made to land a good-natured pat on Loki's shoulder, but his hand met no resistance, instead passing through the illusion in a ripple of green light. Thor was caught off balance, and gracelessly stumbled forward a few steps.

The rest of the party momentarily joined in Althea's confusion, though none of them seemed to share her surprise. They all looked around the room. Movement from a dark corner drew their attention, and Althea saw the same figure, Loki, rise from the window seat farthest away from where the rest of the group was seated. Without acknowledging them, he made his way to the door.

"In the future, I ask that you only summon me for important matters... or at least interesting ones," he called out behind him, without turning around.

The entire interaction left Althea stunned, and she closed her gaping mouth, unaware it had fallen open.

"Like I said, most of us are nice," Tony grimaced.

"Forgive him," Thor pleaded on his brother's behalf. "Loki may not be the most courteous, but he has a good heart. It will reveal itself in time."

"Yeah, so you keep saying," came Tony's retort.

Althea turned her attention back to the rest, "Where's Clint...uh, Hawkeye?", Althea wondered aloud. She had been hoping to learn more about the quiet, sullen archer.

"Oh Clint doesn't like to hang around with us much. He's not really the sociable type." Tony didn't seem too bothered by the absence.

"He has his own place," corrected Natasha, and left it at that.

"So, that's introductions out of the way. These are the Avengers: Earth's mightiest heroes, and one sulky jerk. Why don't you tell the class a little about yourself." Tony offered her the floor.

"I, uh, well I don't really know what to say," Althea shifted uncomfortably under their joint scrutiny.

"You could start with what you were doing in a top secret Hydra hideout in the Alleghenies," prompted Natasha.

"I don't even know who or what Hydra is."

"They're an organization bent on world domination, evil as they come by all accounts," Steve explained. "They've got long arms and fingers in just about criminal pie out there. Weapons, covert governments, terrorism, the works. We've been after them for years. They keep us pretty busy, living up to their name. Every time we find one base of operation another two pop up. The raid this morning was just the most recent battle in a long fight."

"We received intel they were working on a special project in the mountains. Intel that led us to you." Natasha pinned Althea with a biting look. "The 'asset'."

Althea stared at her feel, overwhelmed by this new information. She had never entertained the idea that she had suffered in the name of some philanthropic cause, but neither had she imagined anything so heinous or with such a large scope.

"I didn't know what they were doing, or even what they wanted with me. I didn't have a choice."

"How long were you there?" Bruce's voice was soft and sincere.

"I don't know exactly," she conceded. "What year is it?"

"2015," Steve replied.

"2015?", Althea reeled. After a bit of mental math, she had her answer. "Eleven, maybe twelve years."

"Twelve... twelve years? You're telling me you've been down in the bunker since you were a kid? Since Martha Stewart went to prison? Since before Facebook?"

"What's Facebook?", Thor, Steve and Althea all voiced the question in unison.

Tony looked back and forth between the three of them. "Unbelievable. How is it nearly half of the people living in this tower are completely removed from modern, human culture. Honestly, if you only knew the jokes I've wasted on you lot."

"If they kept you around for so long, they must have had a reason," Bruce gently pressed.

Althea only ground her teeth in response. She wanted to tell them, to trust them. She wanted nothing more to unburden herself and count these people as allies, or even eventually friends, but she knew that was only the best case scenario. The countless other possible outcomes kept her mouth shut. True, they seemed trustworthy, if not odd, but she had been here all of a day. It was too soon to know for certain, and she had to be certain.

With a deep breath, she gathered the courage to speak up. "I don't know what they were trying to do. Honestly, I don't. I know you guys want to know why I was there, what it is about me that made them so interested. And I want to tell you, but I... I need time. I just spent nearly half my life held prisoner by what you tell me is an evil, global organization bent on controlling the world. I didn't even know their name until today. I promise I'm not going to hurt anyone. I don't even think I could hurt someone if I tried, let alone any of you. From what I've seen you could take me out without breaking a sweat. But I didn't leave one prison just to hand myself over to another, all because of something I had no say in." She held her breath, hoping they could hear the truth of her words.

"Pretty sure that's the most you've spoken since we picked you up," muttered Tony, breaking the tension that had permeated the room.

"We can give you time," said Steve. He looked around at each of his companions, making sure they understood that the decision had been made. "We'll have to keep an eye on you for now, I hope you understand, keep you confined to the tower. But you're not our prisoner, and when you're ready to tell us, we'll be here."

Althea couldn't help the appreciative smile that crept across her face at his understanding. She added another check to the ever growing 'good guys' tally in her mind.  

[hoeseamatthews]

In The Nick Of Time

A/N: My first fic for this fandom! I’m a lil bit nervous about this, but I still hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,796

Summary: You’re caught in a sticky situation, but luckily for you, an old, familiar face unexpectedly comes to your aid.

“Hey, you get your damn hands offa me! The hell d’you think you are?!”

You struggle to wrench yourself free from the client who’s currently dragging you up the stairs of La Bastille Saloon to his rented room. A drink is what you’d initially agreed to, and he’s obviously taken it too far with the booze tonight, which is a deal-breaker for you. You’ve never taken advantage of a drunk man in any way, shape, or form, and you’re certainly not about to start now.

Of course, when you’d told him you’d prefer to call it a night, and that maybe he’ll see you tomorrow night instead when he’s sober, he didn’t take too kindly to that. Even though he’s absolutely spangled, he still has you in a vice grip, and he holds you even tighter while he fumbles to open the door to his room.

“Shut up an’ keep quiet!”

He slurs, staggering slightly, momentarily releasing the handle on the door and steady himself with his free hand. His grasp is tight enough to bruise your forearm, and despite the fact that you haven’t prevailed in the struggle so far, you persist.

“I told you, it ain’t happenin’! Not tonight!” you fire back, “Someone’s gonna come along an’ put you in your place if you don’t let me go!”

Leering in, he laughs mirthlessly, and you can almost taste the whiskey on his breath, never mind smell it. You grimace, trying to turn away, but he’s got you cornered with nowhere to go.

“Yeah? Who’s gon’ come and help out some whore, huh?”

You’re silent, and for him, that says it all. He manages to get the door ajar, and you cling to the wall in a desperate last effort to get yourself out of the situation, proceeding to make a racket as you do so. He’s bound to overpower you, you already know that, but you want to at least try preventing the inevitable, or maybe give yourself time to conjure up a way to catch him off guard somehow-

“The hell is goin’ on out here?!”

A hotel room door swings open, snapping you out of your rapidly racing thoughts. Out steps a gruff looking stranger, and upon closer inspection, you come to realise that he is, in fact, not a stranger at all.

Arthur Morgan.

Not that you were ever expecting to meet him again, certainly not under these circumstances, you never did forget that name or face.

Back before everything had completely turned to shit for you, he’d once helped you and your parents out with trouble with bandits targeting your ranch while he was just passing through one day. Even then, his timing was perfect. Some things truly never do change, huh?

Your client turns to look at Arthur, and he scoffs, shaking his head at him, refusing to loosen his grip on you.

“Nothin’ for you to worry about. Get outta here! This ain’t nothin’ to do with you!”

Arthur strides forward, and his gaze is piercing, unfaltering. He stares the stranger down with every step he takes, until finally, he’s standing directly in front of him, keeping up the eerily calm resolve.

“The lady told you to let her go, mister. I suggest you listen to her.”

His voice is low, the hint of a threat behind his words. He’s almost challenging the man to argue back, and the poor bastard is drunk - more like dumb - enough to keep running his mouth. However, it’s enough to get him to finally release you, and without a second thought, you’re ducking out of the way.

“Get outta my face, boy, or I’ll knock you flat on your ass!”

He bites back immediately, sneering at an unflinching Arthur, which only seems to anger him even more. He draws an arm back, ready to swing at him and stay true to his word, but Arthur simply ducks to the side before it can connect.

Arthur simply shoves the stranger in the direction of the nearest wall with enough force for him to bounce back off of it, and he falls sideways, his head connecting with a side table. He hits the floor with a thud, flat on his face, and you stare, shocked at first. Then, the shock quickly morphs into fear. You’re honestly not sure if he’s just inadvertently killed this man or not, and before you can even stammer out an apology for intervening, Arthur is crouching down and rolling the man over onto his back, and he holds a hand out in front of his face, leaving it there for a second or two.

“It’s alright.” he hums, still crouching, “He’s still breathin’.”

Arthur glances at you before he rises back up to his full height again, and then, he turns his full attention to you. You bite your lip and nod slightly, doing everything possible to avoid looking him in the eye, but you know you’re going to have to at some point during this interaction.

“You alright, miss?”

“I...y-yeah. I think so.” you near enough mumble, and your eyes finally meet his, “...Thank you. If...if there’s anythin’ I can do to pay you back, just name it. I ain’t got much, but...I owe you.”

Now that Arthur’s had the chance to really look at you, there’s a flicker of recognition in his features. It doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and while he can’t place a name to the face to begin with, it eventually hits him like a punch to the gut.

“...(Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

He states your name, properly studying you now. What was once loosely braided hair now resembles a nest. Decent clothes have now become rags, and the bright smile you once wore has now turned into a semi-permanent frown. He can hardly believe it at first, but there’s no mistaking that it’s most definitely you.

You sigh and shuffle your feet, nodding slightly, and Arthur frowns, leading you away from the unconscious man laying before you both.

“What happened to you? Your daddy lose the ranch or somethin’?”

He asks, and that sets you off crying. But you don’t blame him. He has no idea what happened back then, and you sure as hell don’t owe him an explanation, but you’re about to give him one anyway.

“No, uh...y-you...well…” you stutter, pausing only to compose yourself, “...Remember those bandits, the day you met me, momma, and daddy?”

You ask, and he nods, willing you to continue in your own time.

“They...some of ‘em got away. Half of ‘em wasn’t even shot that day, and...they came back. Killed momma and daddy. They was gonna kill me, too.”

Your voice breaks, and the tears flow with no intention of stopping anytime soon. You momentarily turn your back on Arthur, praying you can calm yourself down to at least finish what you’re in the midst of telling him.

“Aw, miss, that’s real awful.”

Arthur sighs, and even then, he’s not sure if he’s saying the right thing, but he figures that it’s better than standing in silence. Your sobs turn into sniffles, and you slowly turn back to him, swiping the tears away with the back of your hand.

“...I got away. Hopped on the first horse I found and rode the hell outta there. Didn’t know where I was goin’, but...thought Saint Denis was promisin’.”

You clear your throat, looking him in the eye before you continue. Arthur is listening intently, arms folded, his eyes not leaving your face while he gives you the time to tell your story, knowing that nobody else is likely to have even asked about it anyway, so he grants you that, at least.

“I didn’t have nowhere to go. Slept in the backs of empty wagons an’ some folks barn when I knew they wasn’t gonna catch me there. Probably woulda shot me or somethin’. And...now here I am, waitin’ out on the street for whichever feller wants to take me with ‘im, just so I got enough money to eat, or maybe get myself a room if I’m lucky. Lord knows how I survived this long.”

You let out a shaky sigh, shrugging to yourself, trying to smile despite it all. But you fail. Your lip quivers, sobs threatening to resume all over again, even though you’re trying your hardest to put on a brave face.

Arthur could easily leave you here, give you enough money so you can at least attempt to start over elsewhere. But he doesn’t. Instead, he considers you for a moment, weighing both options he has in mind. Finally, he sighs, shaking his head slightly, but it’s meant more for himself, not you.

He doesn’t usually do things quite like this, but he knows you’ve lost everything you held dear, and he really does feel sorry for you. Had Arthur not already known you, maybe he’d see the situation differently, and even though you’re falling apart at the seams in comparison to the last time he saw you, he knows that the sweet and amiable rancher’s daughter from his memory is still hidden away in there somewhere.

“...C’mon.”

He stands aside, creating space to allow you to pass, but you don’t. You simply stare at him, dumbfounded and frozen in place, mouth slightly agape. Arthur gestures to the clear path in front of him, nodding his head to the side, signalling you to follow him.

“Wh-...What?”

“I’m gettin’ you outta here, somewhere safe. I ain’t just gonna leave you on your own like that.” when you step forward, he continues, “I’m with a group, where we’re camped out ain’t too far from here. You can stay with us.”

A few seconds later, your feet drag along the hotel hallway floor whilst your legs carry you towards Arthur. You open your mouth to speak, but no sentence, let alone any words, spill out. He waits until you’re by his side before he continues to walk, remaining close to you in hopes of you feeling some form of comfort from his presence. You do, of course, and it’s not until you’re halfway down the stairs that lead into the saloon that you’re finally able to speak.

“You...d’you think they’re gonna mind? I don’t wanna just show up if it’s gonna be-”

“It’s all gonna be fine.”

Arthur interjects, softly. He halts just before the next step, and he turns to gaze down at you, occasionally glancing down at your hand, as if he’s asking permission to take it. When you don’t shy away, he slowly reaches out, clasping your significantly smaller hand in his, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Come with me, sweetheart. I’m gon’ help you out. I promise.”

[feel199x]

 gang!au, gang member!han jisung, florist!reader, underground band!au

chapters: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X masterlist

warnings: angst and themes of abuse and trauma

🌸 a/n: i actually finished this fic, and it’ll be up in my queue to post over the weekend! it’s kind of exciting to be finally finishing this fic! a hint  for the next chapter is at the end!! hehe

🌸 song rec: arsonist’s lullaby

Your eyelids were still heavy when you awoke. In front of you, though your eyes still blurry you made out a flower vase. You tried to move, suddenly desperate to feel the petals against your fingertips. Even though they were azaleas, petunias, globe amarths, carrot flowers, and asphodels- all dressed in a void black vase. You knew what it meant, you knew what it threatened. But you found your arms sore, propped up and irritated from the handcuffs that hung from the ceiling. As you looked down, your head getting too heavy for your neck to support, you found yourself surrounded eglantines, lemon and peach blossoms, lungworts, phlox, and red rose petals. You couldn’t help but let out a choked sob, your wrists burning, the metal digging into your skin. You arms stayed propped up, but the numb feeling began to spread through your body. You didn’t even look up as he came in, even as he made sure to slam the door shut.

“You know why you’re in here?” You didn’t answer, your voice all used up from crying. You could feel his fingers on your jaw, propping your face up so you could look straight up at him. You couldn’t make his face out completely, your vision blurred but not fading. There were already bruises there you knew, and he pressed down on them further. “Do you? I try so hard to control myself, and here you are, still acting up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you? I should just leave you here, let you learn your lesson.”

His thumb rested against your chin, looking at you intently- what could almost be mistaken as sympathy. It was deja vu, sitting there like a doll. “But I can’t resist you, can I?” No, you guess he couldn’t. That was the funny thing, right? He couldn’t expect to, how could he resist these primal urges? He talked and talked about nothing, and you were glad that you couldn’t pay attention to his words anyway, mind foggy and complacent. “I even brought you flowers. You didn’t have these in your shop, huh? So I got them. I’m a good husband.”

“Husband?”

“Good thing you’re pretty.” He got up, reaching over you and pulled something off your, well, ring finger. “See that? That cost more than your stupid shop.”

Stupid shop.

He slipped it back on, sitting back down next to you as he continued to talk.

“How long,” you paused, voice weak and raspy, quiet, “has it been?”

He seemed surprised by your question, eyebrows digging into his forehead in sudden anger. He got up and paced around the cramped room, not even bothering to watch him as you stared down at your own clothes- crinkled and dirty. “Why do you care?” he seethed, “I could treat you better than he ever could. A low-level drug dealer and a shitty, amateur rapper. Do you see lover boy here? No, you don’t. ‘Cause he’s dead.”

You let out a small gasp, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes and you looked at him. “What did you do?” you weeped, “Please- please, please tell me what you did.” His pacing came to a stop as he looked at you, face contorted with anger. “I got my co-workers to shoot him and friends dead, that’s what I did. Because you’re mine. Always and forever.”

You didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t- he couldn’t exactly be trusted. You grew impulsive, angry with him. Jisung would never, Jisung could never. He wasn’t that type of person- he could never take advantage of people, he could never keep something like that from of you. And here your captor was, smothering ash over Jisung’s name. But you knew he wasn’t lying about shooting Jisung and his friends, even if you didn’t want to believe it. He had tried the same thing with your family back then too. You felt guilty, at fault like you were the one behind the trigger. Anger bubbled like sparkling in your throat like bubbling water, steaming with impulsivity.

“You should kill me too then. I’d rather rot in the ground next to Jisung than spend another second looking at you.”

You knew your goal should’ve been to play the long game, especially after your failed attempt some time ago. How long has it been? You weren’t sure, there weren’t any windows in the room- and the white painted walls burned into your eyes. If you made him angry now, it would only take longer to gain his trust, but the damage was already done- you could feel the blood pouring out of the back of your head. You might’ve been dying, but you didn’t really care. You couldn’t even feel the pain from the hit from the adrenaline, so you continued to push your luck. Because it was true, Jisung had kept you going, your shop had kept you going. How would you ever be able to look another flower without seeing his face?

“He loved me better than you ever did and he didn’t even ask me to be his lover yet. Lover boy is better than you even dream about.”

It wasn’t like you to speak out of your turn, especially with the looming threat of death. You were too far gone, the warmth of blood streaming down your back. The bruises on your jaw from your grip deepening in color as his grip tightened, yelling some nonsense.

Still, even as he looked into your eyes, his breath hot on you- all you could think about was Jisung. How could you not? Your mind swam through melancholy memories.

You were in his arms tonight. His arms drooped over your shoulder, his head pressed against yours- lips brushing against your jaw as he whispered commentary about the movie you were watching. You were leaning against his chest, feeling his heart beat against your back. Knees propped up as his legs circled around you.

“I love you,” he murmured, “probably more than like, shrek.”

“I would hope so, shrek doesn’t feed you,” you paused, “But I love you too.”

And it was true, but you were unsure of the extent of your infatuation and devotion he was refering to. You wanted to say you were in love with him, but it was too much of a risk. If you scared him off now, who would come by your flower shop to spend time with you? Who would carry you off your bed during the weekends just to go to the convience store. Who would wrap arms and limbs around you and sing you to sleep at night after nightmares, after remembering? Did it even matter? You’ve never felt like this before, the only thing that came close was your devotion was your flowers. Maybe it should’ve scared you, that suddenly there was someone with so much importace to you, on the same level as the only thing that got through the Incident. You turned your head, the side pressed against Jisung’s chest. His arms moved to wrap around you waist, tightening around you. Your nose was touching his, lips only a breath away- but he was crying.

“Jisung,” you said softly, “Why are you crying? You chose this movie.”

“Do you think people in love will always end up together?”

You laced your hands in his, intertwining the both of them. “Of course,” you whispered, “Love finds a way.”

You thought it would happen then, his lips practically on top of yours- but it didn’t. He turned from you, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down- something caught in his throat. “Even if the person lied?”

“I guess it depends on the ‘sung. As long as it wouldn’t change your perception of the person in a way that hurt the relationship too much, I think they could make it.”

“What if it did? What if the person wasn’t as good as you thought they were?”

“Sung, is something going on? You can talk to me, I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

“You can’t. I can’t. We can’t.”

“Sung,” You cupped his face, making him look at you. You turned around, and his embrace loosened but remained around your waist. “I love you. You’re my best friend. I love you more than my shop. I promise that I always will, no matter the circumstances. You’re a good person, I know that. I promise, I pinky-promise.” You held up your pinky, and he brushed away his tears wrapping his finger around yours.

You don’t remember exactly what he had said before he left, something about a band dropping out of the club he played at. He had gotten a call and gathered his things almost immediately. You offered to go with him, you always wanted to see him live with his fans but he always refused. He said that it wasn’t your scene, and all grimy- it wasn’t somewhere you should be, not a play for someone pure as you. But you didn’t feel pure and insisted that he was the purer of you two. But it didn’t matter, when Jisung’s mind was set, it was set. He kissed your forehead, and before the door close he wrapped his pinky around yours without another word.

And then Jisung disappeared again.

It wasn’t the first time, but it was one of the longest. The days dragged on, the day having to pull and drag the night up into the sky. Even the sky’s star shined dimly, there only because of obligation. Ever since you started making arrangements back home at your mother’s flower store, you never liked roses much. But now you were starting to understand people’s obsession with them. It was an iconic symbol of love, everyone’s go-to, and you supposed there was a good reason for that. Its smell was sickeningly sweet, and the petals like velvet. You started getting letters in the mail. It happened every day. And even though you were flattered, you began to get worried. Worry arising.

After four months, you finally saw Jisung again. He kept somewhat in contact, but he had been busy. There were two months with complete radio silence, and one night you saw news coverage of shots fired in a car chase. You hadn’t put two and two together then, not even as you saw Jisung slightly limp as he moved around your store. You remember being conflicted about asking him, but as he kept telling you about his stories featuring his group members, you got lost.

That’s the night it all happened.

But before that, way before that. Maybe it really was love at first sight.

After the hose incident, you found Jisung lingering around your store until closing time. He had brought sweets every day for two weeks until you invited him back up to your apartment.

“Thank god,” he groaned, “My grandmother said if it didn’t work this time, she was going to interfere. Jokes on her, though, I’ve been stealing sweets forever.”

You laughed, getting bold after closing the shop and tugging at his wrist as you pulled him up the metal spiral stairs. “I would be more worried about Minho,” you teased, “you’d better not be slacking off during practice or he’ll chew you out.”

“Ew, ugh! Don’t remind me.”

“So, um,” you looked down, “What do you want to do?”

“Can I pick a movie?”

He had chosen a romance movie, you could’ve gone to the theater instead, but he insisted that he would pay you back for the fee- and that going to the theater would never be better than streaming at home. You didn’t mind romance movies, they were fun to watch. But during the less tense parts of the movies, you could feel yourself falling asleep and before you knew it your head was on his shoulder. If you were less sleepy, you would’ve freaked out as he pulled you closer is fingers lightly drawing shapes on your hips. You awoke when you felt Jisung’s chest heave and you looked up to see him crying. It was the first time you saw Jisung cry, and it broke your heart.

“Jisung, are you okay? We can change the movie if it’s too much…”

“No! Sorry, it’s just…”

“It’s just?”

“I don’t think there’s anything more beautiful than love. I’m going to have a love like this one day. And I can’t wait. Thinking about makes me cry.”

 You were awake now. Eyes glazed over, still heavy with exhaustion and sleep. The blood down your back had dried now, you could feel your hair all bunched together and sticky with the flaky dried and blood. It was throbbing, pulsing almost- the headache was unbearable. How long has it been? How long would it be? You tried moving your legs, a numb static began to make you grow in discomfort. It was for the better though, because otherwise you would’ve felt the rope digging in and around your ankles. It was hard, you had to press your wrists further against the cuffs in order to help yourself. It was awkward, like a baby learning how to walk. It must’ve been hours when you stood there, the feeling finally returning to your legs. Your arms were relieved with the ability to relax, even if they were in an awkward position. They were still strung up, but at least your upper arm could relax.

The flowers in the room had been replaced, but the petals around you were starting to become crisp and brown. Alstroemerias, altheas, arbutus, red and yellow balsams, Japanese rose, jumpers, and kalmias. It made you shiver with disgust and fear. Where was he getting these flowers? Was he going back to your shop? 

You collapsed suddenly, your legs caving in on yourself. Your wrists pulled at harshly as your knees hit the floor. Have you eaten? You couldn’t have, how long has it been? Your stomach began to turn, you were hungry, but that was the least of your worries. Was Jisung really dead? What about his friends, Minho, Chan and everyone else? Were they dead too? How were you to expected to live with yourself, knowing you had brought his misfortune on all of them? If they were alive, how could you expect them to forgive you for the mess you had made? You couldn’t, and you would have to live with the guilt of hurting Jisung for the rest of your life. Because you knew it was dangerous, falling in love with someone knowing that it could be turned against you at any moment- but you did anyway. And now you had dug your own grave. Thoughts were growing difficult to form, the space growing through your coherent thoughts. All you could was feel.

How much time has passed? Months? Weeks? Days? Hours? Minutes? All you knew was white. You could see the walls fill in the spots in your vision. It was irrational, but you began to hate the white painted walls. The lack of color was draining you, except for the vase in front of you. You wanted to kick it, destroy it completely- you wanted to move and release everything- every emotion and irrational thought boiling with impulsivity in your head. The only thought going through your head, getting louder and louder, blocking the diminishing number of coherent thoughts.

Jisung is dead.

Jisung is dead.

Jisung is dead.

Jisung is dead.

Jisung is dead.

Jisung is dead.

You cried, even as dehydrated as you were. Your voice was raspy, and you couldn’t even speak words of comfort to yourself. You couldn’t remember, you couldn’t make them out.”It’s…going….to...be...okay.” Maybe it was pathetic but you were the only one you could lean on. You couldn’t hang on to the hope that someone was going to rescue you, especially if the only people you were dead- or angry because of the mess you had caused.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

You looked up, vision spotty and glazed with tears, and nodded desperately. You were mad at yourself for giving in so easily. “You’re pretty like this, “ he cooed, “All broken down and desperate.” He stroked your hair, fingers getting caught in your bloodied hair. “I bet you’re hungry, hm? I’m not going to let you go, so you’re going to have to let me feed you. I’d hate to have to...well, you know.”

You wish you didn’t.

 It felt like you were giving in as you ate, the food dry and difficult to swallow. He sat there for a while. The water he made you drink missed your mouth and streamed down your neck. You sat there, helpless, unable to clean yourself. “What a pretty mess,” he murmured, “What a pretty mouth. Just for me.” You hated him, you did. You hated him like forest fire, like the damage of a natural disaster. He disgusted you, he was disgusting- time and time again, he had taken everything that mattered to you. And he won. You felt pathetic, useless. Jisung was dead, dead and gone and you felt like it was all your fault. It made you shake, your heart thumping against your ribcage, begging to get out.

His phone rang, the ringtone burning in your ear. “Yes… I told you...Just get it...Dead.” He must’ve heard you lean against the metal cuffs, because he got up. He smiled, using his thumb to wipe the water off your lips. You were beginning to panic again, maybe it was a small chance that he was talking about Jisung and stray kids, but any chance was big enough to get worried. Before he closed the door, before you could give a second thought: “Help me take..a bath. Please.” Even with your soft, raspy and broken voice, it was enough to get his attention. Words were getting harder to form, it was getting to harder to even think- but you had to warn them, even if you don’t know what the danger was. Because if the call was about them, some of them were alive- and that meant you could clean up some of your mess, or at least make up for it. He ended the call quickly, uncuffing you. You arms immediately dropped, hands slamming against the floor.

“I knew you would come around. But you’d better behave. I don’t care if I have to hurt you to keep you complacent.” You watched as he pulled at your legs, untying the rope that kept your legs together. You struggled to get up, so he opted to carry you, throwing you over his back. It hurt your eyes to be flooded with color as he carried you to the bathroom. The bath ran and you sat in the warm water, he was watching you as he sat on the toilet cover. The feeling was returning to your body as the water in the filling bathtub lapped against you. “Help...me.” You didn’t want him to touch you, you never wanted to feel his fingers brush against your bare skin. You didn’t trust him, and you never would. Especially not after he did, or tried to do with Jisung. But more than anger, you felt guilt. It was overwhelming, contradictory feelings making your head spin even more. You shuddered as you felt the soap against your back.

“I missed you,” he murmured, “I’ve been searching for you for so long, waited for you so long.”

You swallowed hard, biting your lip as he continued. “I watched you for months. I wanted to take you and carry you away in the night, but I wanted to make him watch. He needed to know you were mine.” You felt hot water pour over your head, the bathtub becoming decorated in a red tint. “I almost gave up, I thought I had lost you completely. But then I saw you with lover boy. I wanted to kill him right there, I wanted to kill everyone but you. He gave a good fight though, beat the shit out of me. But guess who’s dead and who’s got the love?” He laughed at that, massaging something into your hair and picking at the flecks. You felt your wound burn and you moved to cover it, but he slapped your hand away. “Me. I won. You’re all mine, and if I ever see him again. I’ll kill everyone. I’m the only one who loves, okay? Not Jisung, not anyone else. You’re mine.” You heard him murmur that again and again. “I love you, you’re mine, mine.” You brought your knees to your chest, glad that the water hid the fact that you were crying. He didn’t push you to get up though, at least he was that decent. You watched as the red water swirled down the drain. He left and brought a towel, and your dress was clean and pressed. He sat on the toilet cover again, watching in case you wanted to pull something again.

This time you walked, content with being able to feel your weight shift as you walked. You knew this feeling, what it felt like to be completely devoid of basic powers. He led you back to the room, watching the phone in his back pocket. As you entered the room, you took an interest in the flowers. They were beautiful, despite what they meant. It was the only color in the white void of a room, and it mocked you. Your fingers caressed the petals, and the smell was haunting. Your heart was beating again, and you did your best to keep your face blank.

“Aren’t they nice? I got them just for you. You don’t even know what they mean, do you?

“No...tell me.”

“Nah. It’s a secret just for me.”

He moved to set up your ties again, and you got up, legs wobbling with a slight shake as your grip around the black vase tightened. It was now or never. It didn’t happen in slow motion- you knew that wasn’t possible. But you watched as the vase shattered against the back of his head, falling, bursting into tiny pieces as the flowers fell to his feet and he toppled. You knew there was no way he would be down for long, so you fished the phone out of his pockets. You panicked as you ran around the large house, searching for a room to hide in the meanwhile. His phone was locked, but you saw the screen unlock as you typed in your anniversary. You didn’t know where you were, a random room with various boxes. You slide the closet door open, met with the smell of mothballs but you entered anyway. There was a lot of stuff, and you piled things on top of you as you typed Jisung’s number.

It fell to voicemail, and you felt tears well up in your eyes.

“Jisung….it’s me….don’t have time, please...he’s send..ing...someone. Be safe..please...I’m in love.... with you. I’m sorry.”

You ended the call, typing in the emergency number.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I’m trapped...abducted.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“No.”

“Okay, stay calm okay? Please stay on the line as long as you can.”

“Can’t..he’s coming. Oh god, I’m as good...as dead.”

“Can you tell me his name please?”

“_____”

“____, as in the gang leader?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to stay on the line okay. Do you remember where you last were?”

“Boseong, my shop...flower shop..mirror.”

You heard the door slam open and the closet door slide open with a large creak.

“Sweetheart? Are you still there? Sweetheart, stay on the line. Is he in the room-?”

“Caught.”

azaleas: fragility

petunias: your prescense soothes me

globe amaranths: immortality, unfading love

carrot flowers: do not refuse me

asphodel in a black vase: death threat

eglatines: i wound to heal

lemon blossom: fidelity in love

peach blossom: i am your captive

lungworts: thou art my life

phlox: our souls are united, unanimity

alstroemerias: devotion

altheas: consumed by love

arbutus: love only for you

red balsams: touch me not, impatient resolve

yellow balsams: impatience

japanese rose: beauty is your only attraction

jumpers: asylum, aid, protection

kalmias: treachery

[ruecien]

Sharing Trouble

Three postal services between Pandaria and Silvermoon, nearly two weeks travel in the Eastern Kingdoms alone, all for one letter tattooed over nearly the entirety of its crinkled skin in innumerable stamps and markings; the crawling chaos of ink had grown with each stop on the long way home, but under it all a message in a familiar hand could still be made out in the upper corner, just beneath the address.

To the lovely Kharris Dawndancer,

from Ruecien,

with all fondness.

And inside?

Dearest Kharris,

There have been too many false starts for this letter, over the past month. I’ve finally decided to just begin at the beginning and end at the end.

First of all - you are dear to me, and to Sinobel, perhaps more than we will ever be able to express! Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you in some way. There’s a hidden humor in how the chime of precious metals summons your graceful sway to mind, or the slow coiling steam of fragrant tea winds its way into memories of nights and conversations spent with you. Too few of those, maybe, and too few letters from here, an error which I recognize with regret. Will you forgive me for not writing sooner? Or at all? I am ashamed. That feeling is all the stronger because of the circumstances under which I write, as I selfishly -

Apologies. I escape myself like an unraveling scarf. I’ll reveal the smallness of my character soon enough.

Regardless of my anxieties, it’s my hope that this letter finds you in good health and high spirits; maybe it will glide beneath your fingers as you saunter through the Exchange one evening, looking for another curiosity, or perhaps it may catch your eye at morning tea, one among many siblings vying for the warmth of your undivided attention. Part of me wishes that it reaches you quickly but is read slowly, patiently, saved for when the sun has traded stations with the moon and you’re safely enfolded in the darkness of your favorite, affectionate Shadow. That you’re happy in the deeply-rooted, painted-toes-to-tip-of-ears sense is what matters most and above all else.

It’s a concern about happiness that prompts this letter in the first place, as it happens. Sinobel and I are happy here, in the sun and the surf and the low drum of monsoon rains on our crooked roof. I never would have imagined how much one could love fishing before I met her, and now I take for granted being vicariously versed in all the little details of tackle and line and tides and so much more, now that she’s become an Angler proper. The community of Pagelites that live below our cabin recently inducted her as a senior member of their ranks, even. It keeps her energetic and up early - she’s kicked coffee almost entirely, did you know that? Wonders never cease - and helps me rise to the challenge of my own pursuits with the local apothecary. She runs, fishes, and lazes about in the sunlight like a hunting cat when I can entreat her to relax with me. Her hair has refined itself into a river of gold after hours under the sky here, a perfect marriage to the tan she now wears so well. It suits her, but she’s almost too beautiful to gaze on (You’ll agree when you see her). As for myself, you would scarcely recognize me now, if I had to guess; Sin says I’m finally a healthy weight, and she’s been quite the benevolent taskmistress in forcing me to cultivate a tan of my own - all over, and evenly shaded. “If you get burned, then what fun will you be? Ounce of prevention, pound of cure!”. Doesn’t that sound just like her? I was thoroughly scandalized at first, but like so much else here, there’s an ease and a wonderful comfort to simply lying in the sun and letting ones thoughts dry awhile under its rays.

Of course, it hasn’t all been sunlight. Rumors reach us of the world beyond, all dark murmurs and whispers of war. The worst of them cannot be true. I refuse to believe it or commit it to the page. My fits are no worse but also no better. Traditional Pandaren medicine, acupuncture, ‘alignment of internal energies’, all have proven as futile as any other treatment. Sinobel suffers new ailments. She has nightmares, now, that trouble me deeply; her face twists like a knife on the worst nights, while she wars against a past I cannot see to stave off a fearful future I cannot guess at. But we manage. She is always around me when I fall away, and I am ever at her side when the night is far longer than it ought to be. I am indescribably fortunate to have such a love as hers. Sinobel never once turns away from my brokenness, always putting her face to the wind and her shoulder to the wheel...

And, so, I will not turn aside from her growing sickness, no matter how painful the cure will be. I wrote to tell you this, and to seek assistance that only you can provide, Kharris: Sinobel is dying.

Don’t be immediately alarmed, but please, do not misunderstand me either. There’s no physical ailment, no lazily thumping heart or oozing vein, but she’s endangered nonetheless. Fatally so. I never did have a flair for the dramatic, least of all for its own sake. I’m saying the truth as plainly as I can, however, as honestly as I’m able. Sinobel, the woman who’s glove I return to like a trained hawk, your Crew, my Muse, is dying here. The sparking parts of her that make her who she is - “Trouble” - are falling away, and I fear that there will be lasting harm if I cannot steel myself to action. Or if you refuse to help me.

Kharris, I think Sinobel wasn’t built for this sort of pleasant idleness, in spite (‘because?’ is written and underlined, off to the side) of it being so idyllic. The same slow passage of time that deepens my roots withers her on the vine; salt water that invigorates me, strengthens me, seems to be rusting her passions; evenings spent leisurely make her anxious and bored; little routines of market visits bind her down and choke the life out of her without the contrast of another goal, another adventure, another moment of skills exercised towards a worthy end. She grew and grows listless. There has to be something more.

I discovered what that was, only a few weeks ago. I had the lock changed on the cabin, and her smile at picking us a way back in was the most complete I’ve seen in months. Later, I plied her with lockboxes - the fisherfolk beneath all contributed, and Master Ling provided me with two himself from the Interior - and basked in the glow of her focused glare, while she lost herself in the mystery of tumblers and pressure pads and locks and prybars. My answer came to me, then. I would write you and I would ask for a terrible favor, one that ends my sunny days and disrupts the heart of this peacefulness I’ve wrapped up tightly inside my chest.

I love her more than lif with all my he just as a drowning man loves

Forgive me. Words fail. I love her, and that is all. I trust you above all others to understand what it means to adore someone so completely, so inescapably, that their happiness is worth walking through fire, or burning for. To truly love another means recognizing certain expanses that may never be crossed or explained, and providing all the space for them to flourish in those places away from us even if we never truly understand their calling. This, too, you know intimately. And so I beg you, against the wishes of my jealous heart, to do what I would allow no other soul:

Take her from me.

You must steal my Trouble away, and soon. She needs to feel useful - you can find tasks to be completed. She needs a purpose outside of building a life here in Narsong Spires - you can inspire her. There is a yearning beyond all that I can affect - and I trust utterly, Kharris, that you can ensure that my weakness doesn’t shackle my Muse at my side until she wastes away, bit by bit, like sand sculptures at high tide. You love her in your own fierce way, as a member of your Atlas family. I vaguely recall that the salvaging company is defunct, but perhaps you could leverage old connections, or wrangle deals on the good reputation of the past as a reference? Anything at all. Please.

I know of no one else I could turn to. It’s an agonizing request, even if it weren’t so shameful to beg for your assistance after so many years apart from you, but it must be done before my will weakens. Selfishly, allow me to lean on your forthrightness and gentle, unyielding compassion once more, as I always did under the spires of Silvermoon. You’ve always been the very spirit of tenderness to me; honouring that spirit, I will find a way to repay you in whatever manner you desire for this undertaking. For her sake, there is no price I would not pay and no endeavour I would not attempt.

Well. There it is. I would fill more pages if I could, but she’ll return soon from the marketplace, and this must be kept a secret from her sticky fingers and cat’s eyes. Know you’re loved also, Kharris, for everything that you are to me. Writing to you seems to have unstopped something deep inside my head - or in the cage of my ribs - and I can feel as much as see the memories desperate to flow to the page. The nights spent drinking tea in your little home, Ylaise and Castien fluttering all about; Embraelle’s sudden visitations, unearthly air alloyed with authentic care; Cakes, even, Braedyn’s ever-adjusted hairpins, a stoop full of faces old and new, moderated by the Most High Xiuhteena’s gruff affection. You know, I even miss when she would tease me about my ‘cloud of women’, or hearing about Junarra’s latest energetic scheme? Acelynn, for as harsh a break as we had. There are other names, and faces, all spiraling out an-

Enough. My reverie has nearly cost me the stealth I require.

I have faith in you, and will await your response as Autumn’s seeds await Spring, and its unforeseeable changes.

Yours, Ruecien

(( @sinobel, @kharrisdawndancer, @embraelle, @saltsparkle, @xiuhteena, and @ylaisegreymist for mentions, with more tags missed because I don’t recall their blogs! ))

[chiseler]

RIDICULE IS MAN’S MOST POTENT WEAPON

During an appearance on Firing Line in December of 1967, radical activist, community organizer and author Saul D. Alinsky told host William F. Buckley Jr., “Controversy is a matrix of everything creative that comes out of life." He further quipped, “All progress comes in response to a threat.”  The core of his argument that evening, however, was that the only way people can get power is when they take it for themselves. As undeniably intelligent as he  was, Mr. Buckley seemed to have a difficult time comprehending any of these notions. Or at least he pretended to have a difficult time for the sake of his audience.

Out of simple contrariness, when I was about twelve or thirteen I began working my way through the entire political spectrum, from the extreme Right to the extreme Left and beyond. I became an outspoken True Believer at each stop along the way—I was a fascist, a conservative, a revolutionary Marxist—sometimes for a few days, sometimes a few weeks. By the time I was in high school, I considered myself a Bakuninist with strong Nihilist leanings. It was around that time I first read Alinsky’s last book, Rules for Radicals, originally published in 1971, less than a year before his death.

After three decades of working tirelessly to mobilize the nation’s urban poor to empower themselves one neighborhood at a time, the book was Alinsky’s attempt to distill the lessons he’d learned from personal experience, adapting them for the new generation of young student radicals emerging from the Sixties.

I found the book insufferable and obnoxious. Not only was I not interested in having some liberal blowhard preach to me about “rules,” I had no interest in organizing anything, let alone “communities.” What’s more, Alinsky’s standard m.o. for achieving social change—namely unifying a disparate group of people by identifying a common enemy for them, then letting their hate do the rest—struck me as not all that different from the tack used by Germany’s National Socialists in the Twenties and Thirties, and by the racist rabble-rousers who worked their way through the American South in the Fifties and Sixties. At the time I took it as more confirmation that at heart there was no discernible difference between the Right and Left, they simply used different vocabularies to achieve their goals via the same methods.

Forty years later, still an unrepentant nihilist, I decided it was time to reassess Alinsky. Considering the present circumstances, it only seemed fair.

Saul Alinsky was born in Chicago in 1909, and received a degree in archaeology from The University of Chicago in 1930. Quickly recognizing there wasn’t much call for archaeologists during the Great Depression, he went on to grad school (again at the U of C), this time studying criminology. He left grad school after two years, and began working part time as an organizer for the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO). But having attended college on Chicago’s South Side, all Alinsky had to do was venture a block off campus in any direction to be confronted with the sort of living conditions experienced by the city’s poor blacks. A firm believer in the value and power of participatory democracy, it occurred to him that a large percentage of the American populace had effectively been silenced and forgotten, and had no say in the kind of local policymaking that affected them directly.

Toward the end of the decade he began edging away from labor issues after recognizing the much more widespread and devastating issue of the daily nightmare facing Chicago’s poor black community. With his organizational skills, he took it upon himself to try and show the residents of a blighted neighborhood near the Stockyards how they might unite in an effort to get local officials to pay attention to them at last. It was a ballsy move in 1939 for a young Jewish intellectual, but having encountered pervasive anti-Semitism for much of his life, it was an issue he could relate to, perhaps even more so than the problems facing factory workers. 

After organizing several politically active community groups in neighborhoods around the South Side, and after those groups at long last finally started having their voices heard by city and state officials, Alinsky took his methodology on the road in the Fifties, helping organize similar community groups in the slums of other major cities around the country. In the early Sixties, he returned to Chicago to begin mobilizing disenfranchised poor blacks in some of the city’s other ghettoes, which did not place him in the good graces of Mayor Richard Daley.

For all his good intentions, Alinsky was, like most of us, a mass of contradictions. He once famously said, “I’d rather steal than go on welfare.” Although often wildly misinterpreted, the underlying message was that his goal in mobilizing these groups was to help them empower themselves. Help them become more self sufficient instead of being dependent on government entitlement programs. Ironically, had his intentions been understood, it was an idea and a goal that would have been roundly applauded by the same staunch conservatives who were attacking him at every turn, just as he was attacking them.

He insisted he only organized in neighborhoods  where he’d been invited, that he never marched into a new place like some kind of evangelist promising to give the people what they needed.  At the same time, as laid out in Rules for Radicals, the standard tactic went like this: He’d enter a community and establish friendly contact with a neighborhood church. Then he’d appraise the local situation, identify a major problem, and most important of all, finger a demon, usually a local politician, businessman, slum lord or the like. He’d make contacts and spread the word using the church as a headquarters. The new community activist group would then choose their own board of directors. In the best of all possible worlds, the newly-chosen enemy, after being publicly goaded and ridiculed by protesters, will in turn try to vilify, demonize or somehow discredit the protest’s leaders, and once that happens you’re good to go—it will only strengthen your position and spur other people to join up. Then he would offer a few tactical suggestions and back away, letting the newly-born activist group do what needed to be done to fix the problem. In short, it’s a process of not only pointing out, but often creating a conflict that needs to be solved. Again, it’s a tactic that works just as well for Nazis and  racists as it does for the struggling underclass desperate to be heard, and in many cases works much, much better.

He was adamant in his refusal to join any organization (“Even those I’ve set up,” he once said). He despised religious and political groups of all stripes, saying once you join one, you are expected to adhere to their dogma and doctrines, which was something he could not stomach.  At the same time, he was not reluctant to cut deals with religious or political groups when it was expedient or somehow served his purpose. It also seems a bit contradictory that a man with such disdain for the doctrinaire would go on to publish a book of rules he hoped people would follow.

That said, unlike most activists, Alinsky at least had a sense of humor, and was a major proponent of the unorthodox protest. The third rule he lays out in his book states, "Whenever possible go outside the expertise of the enemy.” Marching around with picket signs and chanting “The people united will never be defeated” simply wasn’t going to cut it anymore. He counseled newly-minted community activists to go beyond the general experience and thinking of the enemy. Give them something they can’t quite fathom. He further counseled them that people always do the right thing for the wrong reason, so they should use that to their advantage whenever possible.

Case in point, when it was learned a slum lord who owned several decaying housing complexes in Chicago lived in a wealthy white suburb, Alinsky arranged to send busloads of black protesters to picket on the clean suburban sidewalks for days on end. In time the slum lord’s neighbors began putting pressure on him to do something about the conditions in his buildings, not out of any solidarity with the protesters, but simply in an effort to make them go away.  

He also learned that sometimes merely the threat of an outrageous protest was enough to make local officials agree to hear the activist’s grievances. All progress comes in response to a threat, after all. A threatened Piss-In at O’Hare, in which hundreds of blacks would commandeer every urinal in the airport for as long as it took did the trick, as did a threatened Fart-In at a local philharmonic concert in Rochester, NY.

So I like to think of Alinsky as a radical who was earnest in his intent, but not righteous, which again sets him apart from most social activists.

As an aside, going back to Alinsky now after so many years it occurs to me how much an (utterly subconscious) influence he was on the Dadaist revolutionary group a friend and I formed in college, The Nihilist Workers Party. Particularly that third rule mentioned above, though we referred to it as “Semantic Interference.” Instead of threatening Piss-Ins to further the social good, however, we threatened to immolate (imaginary) puppies in public, marched outside the student union with blank protest signs and smoked large black cigars in fancy sweater shops for no reason at all.

Toward the end of his life, after spending thirty years attempting to empower disenfranchised poor blacks, Alinsky next set his sights on the white middle class, who in the early Seventies were feeling a bit disenfranchised themselves. Following the turmoil of the Sixties, their world had been turned upside down, they were frightened and dismayed and confused. THe comfort and security of the Eisenhower Era was gone. As Alinsky saw it, if he didn’t do something to help spur them to be more politically active and socially conscious, help them feel like they still had a voice in this new world, some Right Wing extremist kook would come along promising to set the clock back to a better day, and they’d follow. What’s more, if middle class whites and poor blacks couldn’t find some kind of unity, didn’t start working together to wrest power back from the wealthy, we would all remain as fucked as ever.

Well, forty-five years on now, it’s clear his warnings were fairly prescient.

What is interesting, however, has been the rise of countless grassroots movements across the country over the past eighteen months. Some are pro-Trump, some are anti-Trump, but most in one way or another arose in direct response to that single unifying figure, most are reacting to a perceived threat from one side or the other, and most, wittingly or not, seem to be employing Alinsky’s tactics.

But one widespread criticism of Alinsky’s tactics over the years holds that too often the activist groups in question lose sight of the real problem, that bit of social justice they were after in the first place. Instead they concentrate their energies on destroying their chosen enemy assuming this is all that needs to be done, or they get sidetracked and focus on some petty issue only tangentially related to the original conflict.

This is certainly what seems to be happening today, with most of the stated goals becoming so petty and wrongheaded as to completely lose sight of the larger picture. Will removing a bunch of statues really do anything to put an end to racism? Will impeaching the president really do anything to turn the clock back and make it all right again? Will burning down a Washington DC pizza parlor prevent a thousand children a day from being shipped to Mars to become sex slaves of the Satanic liberal elite? Of course not, But try telling any of them that. They’re doing something, they’re seeing immediate results, and that’s all that matters.

I do have more respect for Alinsky now than I did when I was in high school. What he told Buckley about the role of conflict, controversy and threat simply seems a given now. But looking at the present situation I have come to understand that his greatest, his ultimate failure—and this is true of most activist and political theorists of any shade—was neglecting to admit that most people are vindictive, bone-stupid sillyasses by nature, and we will always be fucked as a result.

by Jim Knipfel

[themockingcrows]

Two Fates, Two Kingdoms Ch. 13: Changing Plans

This chapter is SFW ao3 Mirror: [X]

Rest and recovery find Dave back on his feet and adjusting best he can to the world around him now that only half of it is in view. Yet for every step he gains, the world seems intent on tossing more and more stumbling blocks in his path, trying to make him hit rock bottom. News from Prospit's King offers a view of the future that seems bleak.. but when viewed with Jake and John at his side, that grim future seems like it can be twisted into a plan for something far more familiar set against a twilight sky.

    Dave resting in a portion of John's bed was a common sight by the time he'd started to recover and nobody had the status to argue the prince's actions. His own siblings certainly weren't going to argue with him. In fact, they were actually promoting the setup as it made it easier to care for Dave and ensured their sibling would not wind up lost in his grief. The sounds he'd made upon being called and rushing to Dave's side had not been human, far more primal in his misery even while he hovered off tot he side, terrified of moving him at all before a healer could get to him. The most he'd been able to do was clasp his hands and sob miserably, touch Dave's pale face and ask him repeatedly to wake up.

    He'd been certain on more than one occasion that his lover was going to die. Every time his breathing slowed down, he held his own breath and stared in terror to make sure the narrow chest was still rising and falling steadily enough, only exhaling when Dave made a sound or resumed a faster rhythm in his dreams. Snores were blessings, letting him know without looking too closely precisely what was happening.

    With John and Kanaya insisting, Dave's treatment proved straight forward enough. He needed to be propped up and kept at a good angle, easily achieved with cushions and blankets molded into place beneath his body. Medicine, bitter and terrible to try swallowing, needed to be taken at regular intervals to keep down the pain he'd be feeling. He needed to eat, needed to drink, needed to rest. As well, he'd need constant monitoring till he began to recover to ensure he wouldn't fall again and he could get the best care possible.

    The healer not bothering to hide their displeasure over having to treat Dave didn't go unnoticed. All it took was the phrase 'I'm a healer for humans, not for animals' for Kanaya to make a mental note to call in some favors from the house staff to ensure a steady stream of inconvenience for the next while and John to seriously consider replacing them.

    Jane ensured a steady supply of rich broth and sweet foods, filling and hopefully appealing enough to encourage Dave to eat even during fits of nausea and dizziness. She frequently visited to make the deliveries herself, trying to get more feedback on what he seemed to respond positively to most often. Really, without her coming by as often as she did, John was fairly sure he'd have forgotten to eat with any regularity. Jade, though her visit was only the one time in person to get a personal look at the Dersite once he'd woken back up, made a promise to deal with the perpetrator personally after a good long Winter had passed with him waiting in custody.

    Jake was a constant visitor, at least every day before Dave was able to start walking steadily on his own, wanting to be around to help him out and make sure John actually slept. Luckily, Dave didn't seem to mind his help, more than glad even in his medicine and injury induced haze that Jake's help was ensuring that John could actually catch a nap without feeling guilty.

    If anything, Jake was exuding more than enough guilt all on his own. Six days after Dave's injury John was tucked into his blankets with his head down, bags dark and pronounced beneath his eyes and breathing slow from how deep he'd immediately plunged from exhaustion, while Jake sat up with Dave, conversing quietly with him.

    “..You don't have to blame yourself, you know,” Dave said suddenly, making Jake go quiet and stare. A rebuttal was obviously on the prince's lips, and thought it tried desperately to rise to the surface at least twice in denial, he eventually went quiet and nodded.

    “I know. There's no way to know this would have happened, but. Still,” he murmured. “If I'd managed to do something different, make a better impression on the ruffian, he may have turned his ire towards me instead. It's less likely to result in actions like what happened to you, people tend to.. how to put it. 'Wuss out' when push comes to shove against royalty.”

    “You still shouldn't blame yourself,” Dave said. “It'd been building for a while and I was sure I could handle it myself,” he laughed wryly. “Even John's blaming himself. Kanaya's blaming herself. Everyone's blaming themselves instead of letting me blame myself and the idiot who fought with me.”

    He was so glad he could handle conversations now. For the first day or two, all it took to make Dave miserable was sound. Light. Any hint of motion. He still felt awful if he sat upright or walked at all, motion sick and headache stabbing at him even with medicine dulling him out of his mind in every other way. Now, at least, he could talk and listen more readily when he felt alert enough and interested enough in sticking it out. Not like he was able to just drop by the library and find a new book himself to pass the time. He didn't want to even try to think of listening to a story right now, let alone attempting to read it himself.

    The topic had to be broached eventually, though. Daily there came the question, and daily Dave had to address it instead of just quietly living in denial.

    “Has, uh. Has you si-”

    “I still can't see out of it, no,” Dave said too fast, a bit bitter. When Jake flinched and murmured an apology, Dave raised his hands to rub at his face with a heavy sigh. “It's. You don't need to feel bad for asking, I keep hoping it'll come back too. How about this: instead of everyone asking every day, just assume it's still gone till I excitedly scream about it coming back when it reappears? Everyone can celebrate at the same time and I can stop having to risk jinxing it.”

    “That, ah. That sounds like a smashing idea, actually. I've been hopeful but being asked over and over must not be very nice to experience.”

    “It's really, really not,” Dave agreed.

    “Then I'll do that and pass on the message, Dave, don't you worry. Leave it to me and John, you just focus on relaxing,” Jake said as he reached over to pat at Dave's fingers. He remained still when those fingers turned to suddenly clasp his hand, squeezing tightly.

    “..I need to ask a favor.”

    Well. This was new. Normally Dave hated asking for help, let alone asking for favors in times like this when he wouldn't be able to pay anything back even just with more kindness. Even rarer was he to ask direct favors of someone not John or Kanaya. How could he say no in the face of such a momentous occasion?

    “Ask away, Dave, you've got my ear and much as I can offer,” Jake said as he leaned in close, listening in case that soft voice went even quieter for privacy.

    “If anything happens to me,” Dave said, “or if I suddenly die or lose myself. Send word to my brother.”

    “I. ...I'll be sure to personally arrange it,” Jake promised. “Your family will be informed quietly instead of some huge display. I'll be sure to send work through some trusted venues then to Skaia and someone willing to pass the message to Derse if I can't make any of the rides length myself. Shouldn't be horribly difficult to find someone willing to pass a message for some coin.”

    Apparently satisfied, Dave nodded and released Jake's hand with a pat. “I think.. I'm going to try and rest now. Is that okay?”

    “Oh. Yes, why wouldn't it be okay?”

    “Everyone keeps acting like I'm going to die when I rest, I didn't want John to panic if he wakes up before I do,” Dave said dryly. “I appreciate everything. Really, I do. I still need a lot of help but I don't know how to handle all the fuss..”

    “Wouldn't your family have fussed if this happened to you there?” Jake wondered. “Different circumstances, I suppose, but.. Dave, you've been through a lot, it's astounding that you survived. Give yourself a bit of credit and let yourself be pampered.”

    “I'd have been fussed over terribly and been just as confused as I am now, though I also would have been chastised far harder for not speaking up and fixing the problem while I could,” Dave said, expression looking more and more tired the longer he was up and speaking.

    “Chastised! Well. ..Hm. Okay, I think I understand why at least. No doubt I'd be complained at something awful by John and my sisters if this had happened to me.”

    Nodding, Dave reached up to rub at his face and sighed tiredly. “I'm glad you do. ..But for now, I really think I want to sleep. Keep John from jumping out of his skin if you can?”

    “I'll even run interference with Jane next time she comes in with something tasty,” Jake offered, delighting in the grin Dave flashed his way. In some ways, the injury had made him even easier to talk to than he already was, which in itself was kind of astounding. He hoped to get back to the way of talking they'd begun to have prior to the fall, the open conversation, the free admitting of not wanting to remain in Prospit.

    Left to his own thoughts on that note, Jake still was at a loss as to what to do about their father's return come Spring. Surely he'd be wanting the way Dave was being treated to be cracked down on and altered, to have him behaving less like a valued guest and more like the trained beast he was sold as. He already knew there was no way that he and his family would be able to manage that, but.. their hands would be tied. If they resisted their father, he would do as he pleased anyway while ensuring they'd be barred entirely from the Dersite's company. It wouldn't do. Jake didn't want to even imagine what would be done to John, knowing how much he'd resist and how openly as well.

    As Dave settled and closed his eyes, dipping under almost immediately, he couldn't help but grin at the way his hand sought out John's arm even in slumber. It was terribly cute.. but continued to impart the knowledge that things could not continue on as they were for much longer within castle Prospit. Not for John and Dave.

    Nor for himself.

- - - - - - - - - - -

    “Took your sweet fucking time bringing those books back, didn't you,” Karkat noted the first time Dave was able to visit under his own power another few weeks on in his recovery. Dave's steps were unsteady and his gait uneven without something to hang on to, weak when upright too long, and his legs tried to lock up any time he approached stairs, but with John helping him out now and then he was able to arrive in one piece with books in hand. A triumphant moment that he'd likely be stuck sleeping off for hours after they got back to the room.

    “What else would you expect of me?” Dave asked, heading deeper into the room to set the volumes down on a tabletop near Karkat's arm. “I'd like some new ones. For both of us.”

    Karkat peered a the small stack briefly before looking back up towards John instead. “And the translation books?”

    “Not done with those yet. We wanted some fresh books in Prospitian and Dersian though. Haven't really been able to work on that, what with.. uh.”

    “Spare me, I know all the gory details already, it's the talk of the castle. Even reached me, do you know how hard it is to make gossip reach me? Very hard. Very, very, forcefully through my attempts to desperately lock doors and claw my own ears deaf hard.”

    Dave blinked at him before turning to go and sit down, tired already and not wanting a headache to start up. His body was on the mend, but that dizziness and headache was a constant ghostly companion haunting his every damned step, and there seemed to be no way to shake it off. The best he could do was rest often and not push himself, then rest it off when it came for him since there wasn't much else to be done for it. His bad eye was still unable to detect light or motion, useful as a marble in his eye socket for all the good it was doing him.

    “Sounds a bit... dramatic. You just heard it from someone on staff when you were going to eat, huh,” Dave guessed.

    “Yes, not that it's any of your damn business, but it was still impossible to avoid,” he said as he stood up suddenly, going to tuck the books safely away before even thinking of finding something new. “Seemed to think you were getting what you deserved in most cases. Though, the only people I heard, conveniently, were the loudest and most obnoxious ones. I've no idea how many people agreed or how many just didn't bother to shut them up instead of letting them continue to put everyone off their meals.”

    “Charming,” John muttered. “I'd love to know who they were. ...To show my appreciation of course. For the determination to speak their minds freely.”

    “You're not fooling anyone, you'd beat them about the head with that hammer of yours. Subtle,” Karkat scoffed. “What do you want, now.”

    “Books,” Dave said. “New ones in respective languages.”

    “Obviously, I'm asking if you have any fucks to spare about what you're going to be imbibing, or shall I spoon feed you whatever it is I'm feeling today?”

    “..That sounds pretty good actually,” John said with a hum. “Surprise me.”

    “Books on Derse and Skaia, then. Maybe some adventure stories. Nothing better if you're stuck inside than thinking of being somewhere far away,” Karkat said, heading off for the shelves, hemming and hawing to himself in thought. “He hasn't returned the volumes he took out yet however, so the options are limited. But should still be good enough to keep an invalid and his keeper busy.”

    “Who hasn't returned volumes yet?” asked John curiously. “Jake?”

    “I'm shocked he hadn't bothered you with them yet, he came and snatched them off the shelves himself in a flurry. Said he was studying up for some important business.”

    “...Dave, do you know what he might mean?” John asked, crossing the bit of space between them to hug him loosely around the shoulders, smoothing his hair back from his eyes a few times. It was getting longer and longer all the time, it felt. Soon enough he'd be able to tie the front at the same time as the back. “What would be important about Derse to Jake all at once?”

    Dave leaned himself shamelessly, taking comfort in the slight give of the solid body beside him. “I made him promise me that if I died or lost any part of my mind he'd write home to my family somehow and let them know I was gone for. Maybe he was looking up options after that first migraine hit.”

    John quietly sucked air between his teeth at the memory. Yeah, if that hadn't spooked anyone but himself, he'd be shocked. Splitting, screaming, vomit inducing, sobbing migraine was not the definition of Calm Quiet Bed rest in the slightest. “Fair enough guess. Next time we see him we'll ask if he wants to swap anything now that you're better.”

    “You'd better, he took a quarter of the fucking shelf and I want it back,” Karkat complained. He shoved two books into John's arm before walking past him and scaling a ladder a few steps upwards, rummaging volumes for something in Prospitian. “Not a 'please' not a 'thank you', just a 'good morning, Karkat!' and off he walks with an entire reference section. The nerve.”

    “Is it really that odd? I remember coming for a good dozen books whenever I'd been assigned work by different tutors..”

    “Yes, but he's a grown ass man and usually he's somber when there's work to do. Doesn't whine nearly as much as you, though,” Karkat snipped, going quiet in thought before selecting three books from that shelf and carefully sliding his way back down to add them to the stack John was already holding. “Are you going to be able to read any of that with one eye?”

    “The one that works is the one that understands what words mean, aren't I lucky?” Dave asked. “Pity, I lost the one that was nearly able to perfectly translate Prospitian and Skaian! Drat.”

    Karkat froze and turned to stare at the Dersite closely, looking him up and down with a steady gaze before nodding and heading back to his table.

    “Good, you're still an asshole. Nothing major happened, then. Bring those books back soon as you're done, don't let them dawdle on your shelf. Don't repeat falling down the stairs, I'll pummel you with the volumes till you're coherent.”

    Dave and John both grinned. Well, that went better than they'd thought, and frankly it was all Dave could ask for. Less sympathy and fussing, and more business as usual.

    “Think you're ready to go..? We can wait a bit longer if you need it,” John offered quietly.

    “Yeah. I'll visit Kanaya tomorrow, maybe,” Dave said. “Right now I just want to go lay down again, and I'm sure you're excited to get back into bed.”

    “By the fire more like,” John said, not able to hide much of a shiver beneath his cloak. “I'm still astounded you don't feel the same chill I do.. but perhaps I'm very lucky indeed.” He leaned in to softly whisper, “At least your feet don't feel like ice when we cuddle up, I'd soon jump out my skin if they did.”

    Bracing against John's arm, Dave got himself upright and sturdy before reaching for a few of the books to carry, not moving till he felt the gentle press of John's hand on his far shoulder scooting him that much closer for the walk back.

    “You don't say? You get plenty icy yourself, though I've no damned clue how. You practically bask in warmth, yet your feet are always freezing.”

    “I thought you liked the cold, my moon?” John crooned teasingly as they exited the library, Karkat letting out a soft, thankful sigh as they vacated his space and left him to his routine from before their intrusion.

    “I do like the cold. Quite a lot, compared to you, but if we're in warmth I expect to stay warm and not be.. be poked with something cold!”

    The lighthearted bickering grew quiet, all but halting by the time they reached the main hall and the stairs that lay in the way to reach John's room. There was no room for breaking their act too badly, even if they were the worst kept secret in the castle. Everyone, at least, knew how attached John was to the Dersite without question, but there was no point in fanning the flames by chattering about sharing a bed and flirting quietly back and forth. Dave took hold of the other books before John picked him up like a bride, carrying him up the stairs.. and then just continuing on.

    “John. Put me down, this is the easy part,” Dave complained, quieting when he was shushed.

    “It is. It's even easier because I'm toting you around, don't you think?” John asked, making a gentle dip as if they were dancing instead of making any sudden turns or twists before speeding his steps up. “I'd rather get you back to bed in a hurry. Spend a bit of time kissing your neck, see how the idea of a nice bath sounds once I spend a bit of time teasing you.”

    Dave smirked at him, reaching up to gently touch the side of John's face, fingers trailing the edge of his jaw and to cup behind his ear, making gentle drumming motions. “You're going overboard, you know. I'd like to try a bath.”

    “It's not just a bath I'm after,” John admitted, turning corners before going up another set of stairs. “There's a lot more of you I'd like to check on in excruciating detail.”

    “Well, when you put it like that,” Dave said. “How can I resist? If we're careful I don't think it'll be a problem. Just hold off when I say to.”

    “Your word is my command,” John said, leaning down to kiss the side of Dave's neck above his collar, pressing his cold nose to the flesh and making Dave wriggle in his grasp as if he were being tickled by how sudden it was. “Mind reaching the door handle for me? I'd hate to let go of you right now for anything.”

    “Yes, yes, just lean me down,” he laughed, feeling better for being back in the privacy of the tower. After a quick adjustment to the books he was holding, Dave reached for the handle and gave it a sharp tug, leveraging it open with John's help. Finally they'd be back in the safe, quiet space alone for a blessed while.

    “Oh, John! Dave, there you are, I'd been wondering when you'd be back for sure!”

    “....Jake?” Dave asked, looking up towards the fireside even as his now free hand rose to cover John's face, calling for a halt in his amorous attentions.

    “Yes, Jake!” he said with a grin, standing up and closing a thick book he'd brought with him. His eyes were sparkling bright, excited, and the way he swept close was not unlike how John had just been dancing momentarily before. Every so often he and John would sync up like that, casting no doubt on whether they were siblings or not. “I'm sorry I let myself in, but I'd hoped to catch you as soon as I could and you had already taken off. ..Ah! The library! Did you find anything good?”

    John's face twisted slightly, a little put off by the sudden intrusion in his space when he had his arms full of cute man to kiss upon, but he straightened it out soon enough before speaking. “Were you just wanting to visit and check on Dave? He's been getting more able to move around for longer periods, still kind of lists to the side the longer he's up though.”

    “Well, to be expected when an eye's light has gone out. But that's not quite why I came, I wanted to see both of you actually,” Jake said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded set of papers, opening them up. “..John, you might want to set Dave down and take a look at these. This is part of why I came.”

    “What is this?” John asked, not looking it over till he swept the rest of the way inside and closed the door with his foot, placing Dave and the books down onto the bed's turned down surface. Only when his hands were clear did he accept the papers and run his eyes over them. “..Father?” he murmured, scanning his eyes back and forth a bit faster, expression growing more and more bewildered. “This. ..This can't be right. Jake, are you sure this is really from him? What in the world changed?”

    “Far as I can tell, there was news from the front and a series of drastic losses.. so. I think this may be real,” Jake said. “Ill planned, erratic and cruel, but real.”

    “What. What's happening?” Dave asked, abandoning the books to crawl to the edge of the bed nearest the pair. He wobbled wildly when John suddenly came for him, dropping the papers in favor of hugging him uncomfortably tight around the shoulders, burying his face in his neck. “Fuck, what's happening?!”

    When John didn't answer, too busy clinging tightly to Dave's body as if he'd fade from view at any moment, it was Jake who took up the duty. “Our father wrote recently, detailing his wishes to be done prior to his arrival. Namely, for you to be made far more public and humiliated to send a message to those in Derse. There was an urging to keep you under tighter guard, and, ah..” he faltered, hands coming together in front of his body nervously, unable to put everything properly into words.

    “To make an example of you at Spring thaw, if we keep being threatened by your country,” John ground out. “That kind of wording doesn't give me a good feeling.”

    “Nor I,” Jake said. “And since none of us are interested in hurting you more than your time in our home has already done, I felt it was a good time to consider some tough options. Though, it does hinge on a few things. John. How afraid of Father are you?”

    “Now? Not scared at all,” John muttered. “I'd fight him myself if he tried to order a hand laid on Dave,” he said, leaving Dave to lift his chin in surprise, trying to look John in the face.

    “I figured about as much, and I'm in a similar situation. ..So. While I feel sad with the idea of the stress we will leave behind, I think it may be in our best interests to make haste and deal with the return price in the future.”

    “Return price?” Dave asked. “What return price?”

    “Why, treason most likely,” Jake hummed. “Escorting an important pawn of a slave to Derse and freeing him to the enemy? Abandoning our own station, assisting an enemy state? Sounds rather treasonous to me. ..Ohhh, Jane is going to be furious, and Jade'll have to wear a dress twice as often, wind up with more to do,” he sighed. “I'd hoped if I ever took up the idea of running for real, I'd have been able to entrust things to you in my stead. But it seems more likely that our sisters will be stuck with our mess. ..Well. At least they're terribly competent, I've no doubt Jane will do a far better job than I would in the long run.”

    Dave continued to stare, the information not making sense to him. ..Escort to Derse? Treason? Abandoning statio- “You're kidding, right?”

    “I'll do it,” John said suddenly, not even bothering to look up. “When are we going.”

    “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.”

    “No, not wait. Go. Going,” John corrected. “We are going.”

    “John, fucking wait I said!” Dave urged, reaching up to grip either side of his face. “Slow down, think for a second. Your entire family would do better with you here, don't throw that away. Jake, you too! If you're hellbent on helping me escape, just. Put me on a horse and send me on my way, I'd make it eventually.”

    Jake looked at him shyly and grinned, picking up the abandoned papers and folding them to stuff back into his pocket. “Oh, Dave, I don't think I could do that. Or slow down, even. I told you before I'd love to see beyond what's been laid out for me, and lo and behold: an opportunity of a lifetime for a worthy cause has been lain out in my path. How could I resist? John wanting to go was not my main plan but, looking back, I assume it's inevitable that if you left he would follow.”

    “Would you have just taken him and disappeared, potentially? Leave me to flounder and wonder where you'd gone?” John asked with a frown. “I'd have headed off with no direction to track him down!”

    “No, no, of course not. I was going to come and talk to you about it soon as I got the message, but.. I needed to be sure if this was even a real option. To see if it could be done,” Jake said. “I needed to research.”

    “So you weren't abducting all those books from Karkat in case I got worse, it was because of the letters.. and you were already wanting to leave,” Dave mused. “What did you learn then?”

    “That we need to pack and go before thaw,” John muttered, silencing himself when Dave placed a hand flat over his mouth to force the quiet.

    “Well. I learned what the terrain would be like, unless it's changed too terribly since that book came out. And.. I learned about some of the wildlife,” Jake said. “I'm kind of shocked how inhospitable it sounds, but there must be a reason your people live there.”

    “I mean. You could also just, you know. Ask me,” Dave pointed out with a lifted brow. “It's my home. I won't be able to warn for Everything and I don't exactly know every path, but I do know how to get to the capital with a good chance of survival. Things are different in Derse than Prospit, who better to ask than a Dersite from the motherland?”

    Jake's face flushed bright and he cleared his throat. “I. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Dave, of course I should be consulting you for that. We both should. I suppose I just wanted to get a gander at what was potentially ahead before even suggesting anything. Get a taste to see if I'd be able to actually handle the act before getting any hopes up. If I didn't believe I could handle it, I would have come asking if John wanted to help you flee, or even go with you to ensure your safety.”

    “Like I said, I can handle a horse, I could go on my own if I had to,” Dave said stubbornly before glancing to John. “..Think about this, John. Treason. You'd be as viable an option for the headsman as I would be if you do this and get caught. What about that? Do you think you can really handle that..? Not to mention Derse isn't exactly a source of heat and sunlight, especially now. This is a terrible season to be traveling in, Jade could tell you as much. Don't throw away everything and put yourself at risk when I can do it myself.”

    John frowned and slipped down to rest his knees on the floor, reaching up alongside Dave's neck to feel along the collar before finding the loop of the pendant he had given what felt like a lifetime ago already, the familiar swoops and curls of his crest still glimmering. Gently, he tugged at it.

    “I'm not letting anything separate us, not after all of this. If you went on your own out of some bullshit way of 'saving me' from something I want to do, I'd try to follow anyway. ...Besides. I hate to be the bearer of bad memories, Dave, but you're not exactly at the top of your game anymore. It'd take longer than the deadline to get back more towards normal to ride a horse those distances, let alone try to ride, travel, and potentially fight. ...Let me help you,” John said quietly. “Let me come with you. Let me keep you safe. Let me take you home.”

    Dave was quiet for a moment, a hundred arguments on his lips. He looked up towards Jake who was keeping his distance, arms crossed awkwardly as if he were unsure if he should be watching or if he even should have brought this conversation into the room. When Dave looked back, John was still staring at him expectantly, expression intense but worried.

    “...And if I asked you to stay, once we got to Derse?” Dave asked quietly. “If I asked my brother for permission, and asked you to stay instead of putting you at risk coming back to Prospit after breaking so many rules?”

    “Would I get to stay by you?” John asked.

    “Yes. But you might not be able to come home,” Dave warned. “If you follow me, I won't want to let you come back to a fate like that. Even if you got tired and came back on your own it might not work out how you want it to. You too, Jake. Leaving might make coming back impossible. Are you prepared to give your entire country up just to go see other places? ..I'm pretty sure John and I could manage alone.”

    “I've become quite attached to leaving by now, Dave, and regardless of what John chooses, I'm taking you to Derse. I wish to see you get there, and I'd also be protecting my younger brother, what kind of sibling would I be if I remained here?”

    “A responsible one,” John snorted, but went quiet when Dave directed his eyes forward again, attentive. “Mhmm?”

    “What do you say, though, to the potential of never being able to come back here? Would you still follow me, John?”

    “To the ends of this world and probably parts of the next if that's what it took,” he said without missing a beat.

    Dave smiled, though the smaller grin bloomed into something broad and bright. He stole a kiss and took his time with it for a moment, ignoring Jake's attempts to look anywhere but at the two of them, and slipped his arms up around John's neck as he spoke softly.

    “And if I asked for you to remain the sun to my moon, to walk with me till the ends of the skies and back? To hold my hand and brave the fires and ice side by side, would you still agree to do so?”

    Jake's head snapped up and directly to them, gaping. “Now, wait just a moment, I do-”

    “I do,” John said. He knew damn well what he was doing, what he was saying. The words were slightly different, but just like the fairytales and songs, there was enough overlap to give assurance that the words meant the same time. “Do you intend to light my skies in darkest night and lift my sorrows burden from my shoulders while I do the same in turn?”

    “I do,” Dave murmured. “You know I do.”

    “When else would I have gotten to hear you say it for sure, though?” John asked quietly, kissing Dave's forehead and hugging him tight.”There's no way I'd be allowed to do a vow with anyone who didn't gain my father's approval.”

    “Well,” Jake said, flustered and not entirely sure what to say now. He'd always assumed his brother would wish to wed someday in the future, but he never expected to see such a diversion from the predicted path with him. And of all people to fall so hard for, an enemy prince.. “While we're breaking a few big rules, we may as well break all of them I suppose. Try to keep it under wraps till we leave? If we survive to Skaia, perhaps we'll get lucky enough to find someone willing to do a proper rite for the two of you. I doubt Father would ever accept it, and I've a feeling Derse may not agree either, bu-”

    “I don't care who accepts it or not, I've never felt more certain about anything in my life. We'll survive to Skaia,” John said, fervor not only remaining sturdy but increased. “We'll survive all the way to the city beneath the mountains, and see what we can see while we're yet alive to see it Jake.” The stakes were just raised considerably, and in his mind it was all for the better. They wouldn't just be fleeing as lovers and family, but as two who were going hand in hand to eternity without the pomp and circumstance afforded to their stations and a steadfast guardian making sure they all made it safely.

    Dave smiled at him and stroked at John's arm before pulling away, trying to crawl further up the mattress to lay on his side and rest. “Just give me a few minutes.. I'm still awake. Just need a little bit of time down.”

    “Well. Since this seems to be an all around agreed on idea,” John said. “What, uh. What do we actually need to DO to go do this?”

    Jake smirked at him, coming close to snag his brother round the neck and scrub his scalp with his knuckles through the thick mound of wild hair till John struggled free and rubbed at his own head with both hands. “We need to do a lot of things. Namely, carry on business as usual first and foremost, but we need to arrange for leaving with as little hiccups as possible.”

    “How so, though?”

    “I'll be leaving instructions behind for Jane and Jade, as well as a brief memo for them both loosely explaining why this is happening. We need to be sure we have supplies packed. Food. Weapons. You know, general things. We'd also need to be sure the horses were able to be readied at a moment's notice, and if we keep this low key as we can it should be easy to manage this.”

    “...How do we not freeze to death..?” John asked worriedly. “It's not even thaw yet.”

    “We're going to wait as long as we can before going, I imagine,” Jake said. “We need to be ready to leave at any time, but holding off as long as we possibly can would be for the best. John, why don't you and Dave spend some time discussing the best way to do things, and I'll keep reading. We'll swap information and ideas as we progress.”

    “This sounds less like running away and more like planning a business excursion with father,” John said with his tongue stuck out. “Can't we just. You know, plan enough and hurry and go?”

    “He's not going to suddenly appear from the walls like the Boogeyman, John, we need to be methodical about this. Just because the need is urgent doesn't mean we can just leap in to this. We're trying to get Dave home, not get him out of the castle to freeze to death with us, right? Right. Take care of your beau. Mind yourself, and get bags together. We'll be gone before father comes home.. It'll be fine.”

    Dave hummed quietly but didn't say anything. He still had concerns both obvious and obscure, but there was no way to dodge the escalations if the pattern from before held true. This fall hadn't killed him but he might not be so lucky next time if anyone else got any ideas, let alone whatever the king might have in mind to make an example out of him. Fleeing was the best option. ..He just wished there was a less messy way to do such a thing, a way that felt less selfish even if he was ecstatic that John had so eagerly done a vow.

    “How about.. we aim for another week from now,” John suggested. “Come back in a week and we'll trade notes and plan more. Too often now that Dave's healing might seen suspicious. Time to think would be good.”

    “It'd give us time to go see Kanaya too,” Dave pointed out. “The library might be a bust now unless there's a good map available, but it's probably worth another shot. If we can at least see Kanaya though, I know she'd help find a way to make sure we were comfortable. The woman's amazing. ...It's going to be sad to leave her behind.”

    “A week sounds excellent,” Jake agreed. “..And don't worry, Dave. There'll be some way or another to get back in contact with her in the future. You're rather unforgettable.”

    “I hope you're right, Jake,” Dave said. “..I hope you're right.

[weloseeveryweek]

season review

Champions of Europe.

That, ostensibly, is how any United fan will start a 2016/17 review. I say that. I know, just like everyone else, we aren’t, really. We’re champions of second-tier Europe, winning a competition by beating sides like Rostov and Zorya and Anderlecht. We won the most mickey-mouse trophies of them all - the Community Shield and League Cup - and we finished where we’d spent most of our time in the league, marrying sixth place in a love story still better than twilight.

Not, perhaps, the most illustrious for a team who hadn’t spent a single season without European football before Fergie left.

We’ve been in a transition period ever since 2013 when last we won the league, and I don’t know how much longer it’s going to be. It seems forever since Moyes took over and aspired his way to seventh; whenever the conversation turns to bad football experiences, watching MK Dons thrash us 4-0 at 3am in the morning always ranks up there. While it’s gotten a little better (Van Gaal, in particular, was an expert in lifting spirits with his near-impeccable record against Liverpool) it is by no stretch of the imagination where we ought to be.

I remember our twentieth time in vivid detail. It was way past my bedtime, and at that point I was still living with my parents and studying for exams so I was supposed to be asleep. I woke up at about 4am to find out that we’d beaten Villa and the party was in full swing. I remember my phone literally burning up with how much I was using it (all data, because my parents used to switch off the internet at night), reblogging photos and watching videos of the celebrations, Carrick wrapped in his flag, Evra and his rubber arm, the lads lined up in a row bouncing up and down singing that old refrain.

It was the best I’d ever felt about United. I can’t even begin to describe what it feels like to win a league title (sorry, Liverpool fans). It was better than the Europa league, and I hadn’t even watched the game. If I had known that I wouldn’t have that feeling for the next three years, and god knows how long after this, I’d probably have treasured it even more.

But that’s the thing - no one knew what would happen after Sir Alex left. There were other departures that hurt us too, of course. Losing Scholesy was a huge blow, as we’d already found out after his first retirement. Losing the backroom staff was a catastrophe almost on the scale of Sir Alex. But nothing was worse than losing the manager himself, the force of nature who had conditioned the players to perform far above their quality, such that we would always, always win regardless of circumstances, of players, of odds.

And we’ve been floundering since. Moyes was an unmitigated disaster, although in fairness to him he was sacked too early and following directly after Sir Alex was always going to be an impossible job. Giggsy was at best a stepping stone. I so desperately wanted to like van Gaal, especially with the knowledge that we could not become a sacking club, but even though he delivered big results and the FA Cup it was not the kind of football that United fans were paying (or not paying - don’t tell anyone) to see.

When Klopp was announced for Liverpool I almost cried. I’d hoped so desperately for him and we ended up getting Mourinho instead.

Mourinho.

Chelsea’s Mourinho, who led them to the worst title defence in history before Leicester trumped that this season. Real Madrid’s Mourinho, who left after underachieving / wrecking the dressing room / driving out their most important player. If you search through my tumblr you’ll probably find a bunch of acerbic jokes about him and his legion of glory hunting rent boys.

I was by no means overjoyed with the decision. In fact I was basically begging for Pep to change his mind and realise that it was the wrong side of Manchester, even though he would have come with his own problems. Mourinho wins trophies, but not much else, and his youth record worried me the most.

How do I feel now, a year and three trophies later? I don’t know. It’s certainly been our most successful post-Fergie season, and he has invested in some youth (although the last game and four debuts came as more of an afterthought, to be entirely honest). If this is a turning point, it feels much more like one than any of the rest that have come before. And believe me, there’ve been a lot. They existed under Moyes and van Gaal, but this is the most protracted spell of Things Are Possibly Going To Get Better thus far.

I suppose that would mean I’m well satisfied with this season. Certainly it gives me great pleasure to point out to errant heathens that we’re the second most successful club bar Chelsea, and I do acknowledge that Mourinho is trying to fit himself into the United philosophy - I suppose it’s different when it’s a job you’ve wanted for ages. At the same time, though, we’re Manchester United. Enough with the complaining about number of games and all that bullshit; look at our squad, our reserve squad is probably (on paper, anyway, you don’t have to tell me about underachieving) better than half of the league’s. The ‘99 treble winners hardly ever changed personnel during their long, hard, game-stuffed slog. Gary Neville started 54 games in that season; Marcus Rashford made 53 appearances this season and 23 of them were substitutions. Jose needs to get his shit together if he wants to make something of his time here, because winning the Europa was a breath of fresh air, but things can go stale very quickly if the window slams shut again.

More than that, though. More than the basics of the week-in-week-out trials and tribulations, the countless draws and ridiculous conversion percentages that make me want to smack someone with a big stick (volunteers welcome). More than our mess of a transfer policy and the ultimate will-they-won’t-they saga that is David x Real Madrid.

When I first came to England I was freaked out of my mind. I talked about this in my first prompt response, but really - I can’t even begin to explain what kind of stabilising effect football had on my life. If nothing else, I was finally in the country where it all began; I was walking on the same soil as my heroes, I could take a train up to Manchester any time I wanted (you think I’m kidding? I hopped on a train the day before my final exam to catch us lose 1-0 to West Brom). It was the kickoff I looked forward to every week, congratulating myself that it was at 3pm and not 3am.

I watched the final of the Europa League in a bar in Belgium with my friend. We had our United kits on, and we were screaming our heads off while the Ajax fans next to us grumbled and this big group of Americans in the same bar looked completely confused. After the game I slumped back, completely emotionally exhausted, but still absolutely fucking buzzing from the fact that we’d managed to pull something out of the bag after all.

It was only much later that I realised the importance of it all, and it hit me so hard like a sucker punch that I just stopped in the middle of the street and got weird looks off people. I was in Brussels because it was part of my graduation trip. I’m no longer a student; I’m going off to the world of working rat racers and stuffy offices. I’m going to be leaving London in two weeks. And, I don’t know, but it felt like such a huge, symbolic moment, that. I, too, am at that proverbial turning point, stepping off the island (in this case literally).

For all the terrible beginnings I have grown to love London so very much. If I had a choice in the matter I wouldn’t even be leaving. Every day I think about the fact that I move out in two weeks and my heart gets heavy and I cry just a little bit more. My fingers are crossed that I’ll be back one day, but if I’m not, then that’s the last game I’ll ever watch at Old Trafford. The last game I’ll ever watch at Wembley. The last time I’ll ever walk down the Thames, looking at the way the London Eye lights up in the evening, Parliament sitting pretty just beside.

So I suppose this season was about endings, beginnings, everything in between. There was some kind of strange, spiritual handover between my life and my team’s. The Mourinho era has begun. God knows what will happen. More trophies, more dressing room fallouts, Wayne Rooney being sent off to China somewhere. There was drama for people who wanted it, boredom for people who weren’t so keen, and while there wasn’t quite as much entertainment as the Louis Saxaphone van Gaal seasons, Fellaini played enough to get a laugh. I, meanwhile, went for two games, caught almost every single one but the last (I even leeched off public wifi in Glasgow central to watch us fuck up 2-0 to Arsenal), integrated Carrick’s testimonial into my graduation trip.

And then it was over; and then we packed up and thought about next year; and then I packed up and thought about leaving.

Unless you achieve something spectacular in that year, a season doesn’t really matter. It becomes a footnote. A wikipedia entry to tell you that your club still exists. Even though we won the Europa - champions of sodding Europe - 2016/17 feels like one of those to me; one where we were not spectacular but firmly middle-road, where any attempt to pretend that we were ever challengers would be delusional. If we aren’t fighting for the league there seems to be no point.

But that’s what it is, isn’t it? Hindsight and the way football plays you for a fool with it. There’s this quote from Nick Hornby in a book I’m reading now, where he goes to watch Cambridge United draw nil-nil with Grimsby, forsaking the comfort and company of Christmas in his parents’ home. On the way back, he says, he realises how incredibly pointless it all was; but on the way there all he could see were the floodlights and the promise of the three points that were rightfully theirs. That is a season - the promise of something. Not all promises will be made good, but just the fact that they are there makes you pick yourself up, rejig the telly, put on your kit one more time.

United, the rock to which I tied my ship, will go on. As will I. We’ve both circumvented the crossroads and who knows what’s going to happen from here on out. I don’t know if the rest of my life is just going to be a string of footnotes. I don’t know if the rest of United’s seasons will ever return to league-winning wikipedia section entries. But there’s one thing I know - the rock will always be there, and as long as it is, my ship cannot sink.

[makwabear]

Darkspear Wax Seal Letter

Dear Makwa,

I hope this letter gets to you swiftly, I been trying to find a way to get to you but every attempt has been thwarted. I know the Arch Druids are doing what they think is best for you and me but I just don’t feel right with it. I’m sure you feel the same. I did ask them if sending a letter would be alright, if they denied me this I had a back up plan on getting letters to you one way or another. I really wasn’t going to take no for a answer but my question of writing letters the druids agreed with. I’m not sure if you are able to read and write but hopefully someone will aid you should you need it.To let you know I’m alright and I been trying my best to keep myself busy with tasks. To keep to my training as I’m sure you would want me to, to keep going and press on. But it’s a struggle, because I don’t know how you are. I don’t know how your progress is if you are doing well or not. If your having good days or bad days, how you are being treated? I trust in the Arch Druids to treat you with the utmost care so that their efforts to help you can help return you back to the Grove. To return you to me or they at least come up to me saying that I can visit you.

The night that the Druids showed up at the cave we were hiding out in keeps playing in my mind. I knew I was helping you, at least I feel like the days we were able to go hunt, to just have our own adventures like we done before. Just doing the normal was helping to keep you happy so you can shift out of bear form some day once you were ready. Maybe if I was paying attention better I’d of spotted we were being watched. The Arch Druids said they been watching us from the start and since they seen no improvement that they had to act. Because they feared you would become savage kin and that I do not understand what I’m doing. That I’m not helping. I really feel like I was and they have interfered with it all. But things have changed and I’m doing all I can to be patient.

I been praying to the loa to watch and protect you, to guide you, to let you know that in some way I’m still there. But the Loa have showed me a vision to go to my family, so I did. I stayed with them through out winterveil which has helped and I was hoping maybe you’ll be back in time to celebrate your first winterveil and I’m not upset that you weren’t able. They’re many more things that I can show you when it comes to Horde Celebrations and I know Winterveil will return. But I’ll keep hoping that you’ll be back soon.

Lately though….with all the friends I have met. Most are new faces others are faces that I haven’t seen in a while. I figured with the allies I made, if I keep making friends. When you return, you can meet all these people that I have gotten to know. Things can go right back to how they were, you can look forward to meeting Vin, Xert, Faer, Ama, theirs also Ishi of course. Drizz is usually always around and still gives out bacon or other sorts of food. They’re so many more to name that I just can’t remember right now but hopefully they are still around. The friends you and I know, I don’t know what happen to them. Only Ishi is still around and that’s about it.

Anyway, there is so much I want to write and I’m not sure how to begin. To tell you so many things that may help brighten your day. To tell you just not my good days but not so good days as well and to hear of yours, to know that your alright. For now the loa want me with my family, being among the friends I’ve made is not helping my moods. That’s another letter to write what has been going on but where I am, I am safe, any letters you write to me will be sent right to where I’m at. In the mean time I’m gonna help Kama and her mate with fixing a few things around their hut. Maybe it will teach me a few things so I can fix up my parents hut, maybe that’s something you and I can work on when your back.

I use to bump heads with my sisters mate but so far we been getting along, perhaps he’s not such a lug head after all. My Uncle is also coming to visit to help, my younger sisters are well and ecstatic that I’m staying around much longer than a few days. Know that I’m thinking of you always, I can’t wait to get your letter and I miss you. May the Loa guide and protect you…

Much Love,

Jai’kanu (Spots)

P.S. Remember,

You can count on me, like one, two, three.

I’ll be there.

And I know when I need it.

I can count on you, like four, three, two…

You’ll be there..

*Attached to the letter is a written song for Makwa.*

--------------------------------------------------------

Click, click, went wee dainty little cloven hooves that shuffled from side to side on the stone flooring. The little dryad Roe was as patient as she could be standing in one place. With quill in hand and parchments besides the one in her hand strewn all around her like freshly fallen leaves, she had been writing and re-writting down all that druid stuck in bear form had to say, or re-say. It was difficult work, but she greatly enjoyed doing it for the kindly troll that was stuck in a most awfully undignified circumstance.

“ Okay, okay... write dis, ‘ey mon, it be nice ‘earing from ya. “ He waved his ursine toe beans about to strike that. “ No, that’s not any good... “ He would have wrote the letter back himself, but it really sucked not having opposable thumbs. At least he could talk now, he just didn’t know what to say to make it sound all lettery like.

“ How about, Dear Jai’kanu? “ Roe suggested sweetly, Nacelia had been very kindly giving her this task. The druid night elf was the one that was going to mail this letter as soon as they were done.

“ Ayup... That sounds better den that otherr thing. Wait! Strike that. “ He grinned bearishly. “ Write, Dear Spots... That way he’ll know it’s from me. “ He frumped onto his side with a groan. Letters were hard, especially letters that someone really wanted to write, but didn’t have the words, or what was wanted to be said, said, without sounding like a complete idiot.

“What’s wrong? “ She could tell by the way he flopped to the ground and made such a sad sound, there just had to be something wrong.

“ I’ve nevar ‘ad to write a letter to anyone before, I just find them and talk to them if I need to... I don’t want to sound too, I don’t know, desperate? I don’t want him to worry, eh? “ Makwa drug a forepaw down his muzzle.

“ Oh you poor thing! “ She almost squeaked out, the big lug of a bear was causing her heart to just melt. “ Just say what you feel and everything will be alright. He’ll understand. “

He took a deep breath, and had upright on his haunches. “ Alrigh’ ‘ere goes...”

This is what Roe wrote down in fluid happy script that had hearts dotting the eyes, and very loopy letter. She gave the letter Nacelia to send to Jai’kanu spruced up with a wonderful floral scent to the parchment.

Dear Spots, Mon,

I’ve been working my tail off to get betterr. Good t’ing is, I’m talking, everyone is understanding me and I t’ink they got it down to what was causing da issue, it’s just crackin’ da code that ‘as them all stumped as to why I can’t shift back. I have good days and not so good day, in a not so funny way it’s balanced out. None of it be yer fault at all, so don’t worry none. Ya just do as ya do. Da Arch druids all understand why ya did as ya did so strike that... No not ya Roe. I mean strike his worries, I don’t want him worried about things. I just want to let him know that everything will be okay, all is working it’s way for the better. That’s all.... I t’ink dey’ll let ya come visit soon, I don’t know when but I feel a lot better now, I feel like I need a visit. Being stuck like this is a bummer. Not a butt Roe, a bummer means a downer, no not that, it means that it feels bad, or lonely or something. Ayup, that’s what I mean.

I hope you had a good holiday even though I wasn’t dere, I look forward to da next one. I’ve been praying a lot too. Sounds like you’ve been busy on the friend front, I hope I get to meet them all too. Ishi?! How’s that girlie doing?! She still swinging from that vine? Did she balance out any?

Mon, just you writing brightens my day, ya don’t ‘ave to go on and on, just seeing yer words be someting I look forward to. So don’t ya stop writing me! That be a order. Ya can strike that order part Roe, that sounds stupid. Ayup, just when ya got da time tell about how it goes with yer learning and family, I look forward to it. Just give that mate of yer sister’s wide birth, don’t say nothin’ it ain’t yer problems, it’s is own. If that don’t work, well... I’ll think of something.... Not Birth Roe, beeerth, burrrrr, like giving space, lots of it. Stop laughing... loa... Just write this down...

I miss ya too, yer on my mind all da time.

Spirits watch over ya.

Makwa....

There was that so hard? Did ya snort up some coffee or something--- Ya don’t have to write any more Roooooe....

[lifeoffaith]

Abide in Him

I have been living in this place of hurt, anger, rejection, disappointment, and life completely spiraling out of control. My health continues to be an issue for me, my kids continue to challenge me, and in my attempt to reconnect/grow relationships with family, I have only found more anger, and discontentment. In my efforts to regain control/make some headway somewhere, anywhere, I have fallen further down the rabbit hole. I have been struggling friends… My recent surgery to alleviate the pain from my migraines, has helped some, but I continue to have them every day. In addition to that, the surgery itself has further complicated my families’ and my life. I live with new and greater pain. I am limited in what I am able to do, so much so I have had to step back from ministry for a time. This isn’t what I wanted…this isn’t what was supposed to happen. I wanted to be better and dive deeper into ministry. I wanted to be healthier, feel better, be able to do normal things again. I want to be able to clean my house all by myself, to do the grocery shopping and errands my family needs done, to work, workout, have a sport I can do for fun, take up my hobbies again, sleep, be human again… That is what this feels like…I feel subhuman. I wanted to break free from the prison of this body I am in. I want to be happy again, to be me.

In my attempts to grow and maintain once lost family relationships, I have encountered more hurt and rejection. Anger surfaced once again, justified without question, but I do not want to live with it. My little sister no longer speaks to me.. She has rewritten history, and gone back to our abusers.. She has chosen to sever her relationship with me. One that I cherished, I thought she did too… I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, and I meant it. She left me feeling hurt and confused. To hear her name drives a knife into my heart. I would gladly have a relationship with her if she would allow it. So much hurt…

I absolutely love, adore, and truly like my eldest daughter. I am so grateful that she is in back in my life. I wish that I could go back to when my parents took her from me… I felt so powerless back then. If I had it to do all over again I would be stronger, and I would leave with her. I would hold her close, enjoy each moment of her youth, and never let go. I would choose a different path, a healthy one. I desperately want to be involved with and included in her upcoming wedding…. Unfortunately it seems that since my mother and sister have cut all communications with me, and my father does not ever want to see or hear from me again, that that will not happen. Further twisting the knife in my heart. The knife tears at me then.. I live in hurt, I am depressed. I feel lost, I feel myself spiraling out of control, the ground beneath my feet disappears. I am left grasping for anything to hold onto. I fall further, deeper, I try in so may ways to find the Hand that reaches for me, but I try in all the wrong ways…

Sure, I listen to worship music almost constantly, read my Bible, pray, but smaller prayers, desperate prayers, one way prayers that do not listen for a response. I surround myself with other trusted believers, go to church, listen to sermons online, and I seek the Lord half heartedly. That is the truth of it… It’s all empty if I am not actively seeking the Lord and His will. In the last couple of weeks, when I was able to go to church, we were supposed to pray for a moment about something. I do not recall what, because I remember knowing that I know what God wants me to do, and I am actively (for the most part) doing it. But I took that moment to pray, “what do you want me to know Lord?” I listened, truly this time, He said, “seek Me.” Wow, that took me aback. I thought that I was, but without realizing it I fell off track. My health, my circumstances, my blood family steered me there. And why, how? Well that is simple, as Lysa TerKeurst says, “we steer where we stare.” That is just what I was doing, not intentionally, but that is just the thing. I need to “be intentional,” the words God gave me at the beginning of last year…

By not purposefully seeking Him, by not focusing on Him, by allowing my pain, difficulties, and frustrations to be my focus, He no longer was. I put God on the back burner unintentionally. I became unintentional with Him. I allowed all of those other things to consume me. So He has redirected my focus, as He is a good God. I had to ask Him for help, He answered that call. It may not have been what I wanted to hear, but it was true, and it hurt… The hurt was good though. Months of sleepless nights, have now ended. Last night, without the aid of anything else, I slept better than I have in I don’t know how long… And God gave me a new word, “Abide… Abide in Him…”

I feel whole again, I have been corrected, lovingly.. So here I am writing again, just as He has shown me so very many times He wants me to do, through so many different means… I want to be a blank canvas, and in a way I am… Christ payed the way for me, to the Lord, I am precious, perfect, and new. But the fact of the matter is, in this world I am marred, torn, and damaged. I can not be, we can not be, perfect and new, not here. From the moment of our conception we are marred. Every single decision our parents have made, their parents have made, and their parents parents have made, as well as the decisions they will make, we will make, and all of the decisions that others make are a stroke on that canvas. They cause damage to the canvas that we are. We need a Professional, the Only Professional to carefully restore the canvas, and to create a new, far more beautiful and precious work of art.

That is what The Lord is doing with me, is doing with all of us that follow Him, that seek Him… I do not know what He has in store for me… I will abide in him, and He will make me into something far more valuable, far more precious, far more effective than anything I could ever hope to be. I am anxious to see what He will make of me, I know the process will involve difficulty, it will involve more change, there will be pain as the process of restoration is challenging, but it is so worth it… So here I sit, anxiously and NOT always patiently, LOL, waiting, listening, and seeking Him. He draws me near, draws you near, to help us become all that He knows we can be.. What is the Lord saying to you my friend? Will you listen? Will you become all that He has in store for you to be? Join me in this, be more, be love, be intentional, and be more effective. Answer the call, you will not ultimately, regret it!

[oneandonlykysra]

Autobiographical:  It’s Like This

This was written about a year ago and is a pretty accurate account of my struggle with infertility and the end of it.  I’m posting this now because - due to a recent stint with cancer my doctors all agree I should not try for a second baby which was the plan for April before I found out about the cancer.

It’s Like This

by Kysra

Here’s how it is:

Ammonia cooling on fingers shaking in the lamplight.  A clear Solo cup on the vanity, half-full and leaking (Need to get the disinfectant and clean that) with a stick – a lackluster reminder of coffee spoons I’ve had to give up – rising from the foam.

I should have brought a book, the porcelain warming beneath my lower cheeks even as the decision is made to get my feet and flush the nothing in the bowl and wash my tainted hands. The rest of a small eternity is spent half-pacing forth and frantically looking for something to do, willfully forgetting the empty sink, folded laundry, and dusted furniture.  

The book shelf is full but the contents have been read at least once.  The waiting is the hardest part (After all, what is two years of trying?).

Trying to be nonchalant is more difficult.   I barely know the date anymore, don’t really keep track of the days of the week or months of the year.  My calendar is all about the day of my cycle – Is it a fertile day?  What is my temperature?  Oh, it’s day 12, I should be seeing a spike now.  Why is my mucus drying up when it’s day 9?  Maybe I should start doing the ovulation kits today . . .

There are highs of course – the build up to getting that phone call, “You can trigger tomorrow at 8 A.M. and be here the next morning first thing” (like fertility is some sort of gun and synthetic hormones are the bullet); the hellish two week wait where every symptom imaginable is . . . imagined; and finally, today, when all the chemicals, mood swings, barely there self-hatred, public scrutiny and untamable Hope (too important for a mere lowercase) come to a head.

Returning to the bathroom takes some effort.  My breath is ragged from taking the ten steps from the hall.  A glance tells me everything I already knew, the screaming silence of a single line echoed in my heavy sigh.

I get the disinfectant, clean the mess.  The stick is in the garbage first.  I don’t want to see it anymore.

***

There are times I want to stand up, deform my jaw, and scream until my uterus explodes.  

“Do you want to hold her?”  The baby is staring at me with a baleful look that says, ‘I don’t know you. I don’t like you.  I don’t like how mommy’s fingers are digging into my pits either.”

I shake my head and make some excuse about not holding kids under a year old.  (It’s true but not the truth.)  

Social gatherings are almost as hellish as the two week wait only somewhat shorter and somewhat missing the desperate itching of anticipation that WILL.NOT.DIE.  I weather them with a staid sort of semi-calm that just barely masks the sinking isolation that I actually feel.

Because, seriously, when you’re going through a fertility journey alone (and make no mistake, even partnered infertile people are alone in their suffering) it seems as if the entire fucking population is in some stage of successful procreation just to spite you.

And in some weird twist of crazy, despite the bellowing green monster behind my eyes, I still like seeing baby bumps and talking mommy-shop and playing peek-a-boo.  If I can’t be a mommy (yet), I guess being ‘doting auntie’ isn’t such a short change.

It doesn’t stop me from crying myself to sleep though.

***

The thing is, after you’ve been molested as a kid, you never think of your body as fully yours.   Infertility reinforces this.   Unexplained infertility twists it into a psychosis.  Because if your body isn’t yours and it’s defective anyway, who the fuck is in charge?   YOU.  So you become a little reckless, a little crazy because this body isn’t yours but you’re the one having to deal with it.

You’re willing to do things most sane people would never entertain.  You take drugs and supplements and drink strange drinks and eat strange food and it doesn’t matter how much money it all costs or how many doctors you see or how many hours of work you miss.  You will allow anyone to touch, poke, prod, and manhandle your lady parts even though you hate being touched in even innocent places and want to kick these people in the face until their eyes are gouged.

And you do it, because this body that isn’t fully yours is telling you it wants to be an incubator for a brand spanking new baby.

And even though you know that spanking new baby and your spanking new incubator body will be touched, poked, prodded, and manhandled even more, perversely, even as you would prefer drinking acid under normal circumstances . . . you want it more than anything on God’s green Earth and you will do the aforementioned things-most-sane-people-would-never-entertain for as long as you can stand it.

***

Driving an hour and a half and missing work time stinks in and of itself, but being escorted to a claustrophobic little office with a huge cherrywood desk (cheerily justaposed as it is to the sickly yellow wall paint) and told, “At your age, with your medical history, and how you’ve responded so far, I have to think something is wrong with you” is just the straw that breaks the weary, beaten down camel’s pack-laden back.

My doctor is a certifiable jackass of the first water.  I don’t trust him a wit and even if I did think he had my best interests at heart, I would still want to bitch slap the smirk off his face.

I attempt to breathe through my nose, a painful weight in my chest, and try to stem the prickling in my eyes, nose, and whine that’s bouncing around between my vocal cords.

Something is wrong with you.  Story of my life.

He goes on talking about my three options (another IUI, IVF or laparoscopy) and I do my best to pay attention through the ringing in my ears.  I can feel the heated wetness of tears brimming at my lower eyelids and my nose is starting to run.  I faintly recognize my voice – stronger than it has any right to be – saying I want to move on to IVF.  

Nevermind that the last two years have cost me more than $30,000 already, I will find a way to finance the procedure even if I have to sell (excuse me, I mean donate) my precious eggs.  Who cares if it will absolutely kill me if they work for some stranger and I never reap the benefits of my own gametes, at least I’ll be able to give myself that good old college try.

He leaves to find the financing information and I let the tears come.   It’s not hard wracking sobs.  It’s not a steady drip.  It’s not a satisfying cry.  

It’s a weak, shuddering cry that cools my red cheeks and staggers my breath and drains my energy. I feel frail sitting here in this room with its pomp and polish.  I’ve never felt so lonely and in need of a simple hug.  

But there’s no one around (despite wishing for a nurse) and I probably wouldn’t accept a hug anyway. It would be like an agreement on my colossal failure.

Something is wrong with you.

I end up crying all the way back to work, through the day, on the way home, and into a bottle of tequila until I fall asleep on my bedroom floor.

When I wake, I feel scummy and dirty and to-my-toes sad.

My three options are in the back of my mind.  The doctor told me to let him know what I decide as soon as my period comes; and wouldn’t you just know it – “The Red Flood begins,” even my voice sounds weighted and empty as I look down at my soiled underwear. . . like Eeyore on estrogen.

After work, I pass my house and find myself at the park.  The green grass and canopied trees are brimming – ironically – with life, but I bypass them to walk all the way to the back where I can see cars pass but they can’t see me.  

I lower myself slowly to a swing, grasp the suspension chains and begin to rock.  The rocking becomes a creak-pull, the creak-pull smooths out to a soft aerial glide.

The sobs are not unexpected nor is the conversation-like prayer that breaks from my lips.  I want God to know how angry I am, how sorry I am, how hopeful and trusting and thankful I am.  I want him to know I’ll accept whatever outcome I’m given but how I will never understand how he could give me this imperative for motherhood yet not allow me to conceive.

“I guess that’s something I’ll just have to live with, right?”

Something is wrong with you.

That evening I call the doctor to let him know I choose the laparoscopy.

***

Missing a cycle hurts but (a grudging but) it was most likely necessary to my sanity.  I feel a renewed sense of positive anticipation and it shows in the smile on my face and the spring in my step.

I’m not even snarky with the doctor as he pulls the bandages off my “bullet holes” and he goes over the surgical report.  

Endometriosis . . . weeds in my garden.  Burned out but bound to regrow.  Time is of the essence.  “You will never be more fertile than you are right now.”

So how do we proceed? “You can do another Clomid cycle or a monitored cycle with injectibles . . . “

“I want to do IVF.”

“Well, then you just wasted a surgery.”

“I want to do IVF.”

“IVF isn’t going to give you a better chance of conceiving.  I recommend injectibles.”

“I’ll need to think about this . . . “

“Let me know what you decide before your next period.”

In the bathroom at work, I look down at my underwear with something between exasperation, laughter, and horror on my face.   The blood there taunts me.  

“Well, shit.”

***

Ask a woman who’s gone through fertility struggles what drugs she took and they will always fall into three categories:  stimulation, trigger, or arrest; and all of them take your sanity and stomp on it . . . because apparently, being through the emotional ringer every month when you see that negative test isn’t enough.

That being said, I dealt with the daily injections with grace (and the occasional rage-filled mood swing).  I say my prayers morning, noon, and night focusing my inner eye on the space just between my hips and beneath my belly button (where most of the medicine is injected).  I don’t complain about the near daily monitoring visits or the amount of time I have to make up at work.  And I never tell anyone I have decided to quit after this cycle.

I’m tired, and more than that, I’m stressed to the point of nightly body tremors and hair falling out. If I don’t quit, I might just give myself a heart attack.

Monitoring only makes my feelings of failure and inadequacy worse.  All it takes is the transvaginal ultrasound to make the air in my lungs thin out and my stomach drop.  My follicles – despite the stim drugs  - are not growing.

The nurse doesn’t seem overly concerned, but after every visit, I go to work with the knowledge beating down the crown of my head that it isn’t happening this month either.

And then it happens . . . Day 11.  The wand is prepped and inserted.  I crane my head back to see the blown up screen.  And there it is:  Big Bertha.  

The follicle takes up the entire screen  - a morbidly obese cell at once Frankenstein-ish and terrifically beautiful.  I have an insane urge to shriek, “It’s ALIVE!!!” but settle for tittering impotently.  Nonplussed, the technician says, “Oh yeah, that one’s ready . . . 18 millimeters.  You’ll probably trigger tonight.”

My jaw is still dragging on the floor.  Yesterday, that thing was only a tiny speck of light on a gray board and now it was Follizilla.

Another day comes and I pack my trigger shot with all the care of a desperate woman at the mercy of her ovaries.  I cannot take it till 8 A.M. and tomorrow I will lay on the table one more time, open my legs for a stranger in a lab coat one more time, and submit to the rigors of the dreaded two week wait.  ONE. MORE.  TIME.

I am almost giddy at the idea of – what will most likely be – freedom from fertility-related insanity.  So giddy, I book a trip to Cedar Point Amusement Park because after two and a half years of frequent doctor visits, blood draws, fertility drugs, acupuncture, teas, supplements, injections, ultrasounds, fertility yoga, inseminations, and negative pregnancy tests (not to mention painful HSGs, laparoscopies, and hormone-induced mood swings), I was ready to get on a few roller coasters and scream my grief to the world without worrying about being committed.

The trigger shot is injected.  The work day is done.  I have trouble sleeping, think maybe I’m not ready to let it go just yet.

I ask God silently for guidance, for peace; and that night I dream of a baby in a gray jumpsuit and dancing with Batman.

Maybe I need to be committed after all.

***

It is the stupidest, most crazy thing ever but as I walk into the doctor’s office and say hello to the receptionist, “You should go get some breakfast down the street.  It’ll be about a half hour before they’re ready for you,”  I realize I chose this blouse and these shoes and this hair style and put on make up because I feel sexy and –WORSE- randy.

Grinding my teeth, I go down the street and have a light breakfast then make my way back to the office and promptly lock myself in the bathroom.  

After two and a half years of charting my cycles, I am an old pro at feeling myself up for cervical mucus and for the first time ever, I have buckets of the stuff.  My underwear is soaked.   It’s mystifying but also exciting (in more ways than one!); and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

Failing any other ideas, I clean up as best I can, wash my hands three times, and step into the waiting room.  I have a book in my bag (along with an mp3 player with a new “insemination mix” and a few snacks, some water) but I can’t concentrate for all the involuntary rubbing of the thighs.

I am about to go absolutely batshit (in the most self-loving way) when my name is called.

The nurse is one I’ve never met before but I like her instantly.  She has long blonde hair in braids and reminds me of my mother. “We’ll take good care of you,” she says, and – for once – I believe her.

The doctor is also one I’ve never met before – an old lady with graying frizzed out hair and square-frame glasses.  She’s looking over my chart when she enters and looks me in the eye while shaking my hand. I am completely in love with her in an instant because after so many inseminations performed by so many doctors (never the same one twice), I finally feel safe.  She feels like a grand-mother.

It is done and over with in a seeming instant . . . I’m actually surprised because there was no pain, no discomfort, no violation and ask if maybe she forgot to do something.  She laughs and says she wishes me luck and just as she’s leaving, I remember to ask, “Can I have some progesterone suppositories, please?  I always have low progesterone . . . and this is my last shot.”

My main doctor – the one I want to slap – wouldn’t be happy with me right now; but I never did buy that the suppositories “wouldn’t fix my problem”.

Papers are ruffled as she looks through my lab reports, “I’ll get you some samples . . . Honestly, I don’t know why they haven’t given you this before.”

I want to scream, crow, beat my chest and poke Dr. Jerk in the shoulder and say, “BOO-YAH!!” Instead I say a quiet thank you and wait alone for the nurse to bring the samples.

As I move to get dressed, I can’t help but think, “Man, I hope I don’t leave a huge ass puddle on this table.”

***

It starts here:

Barely there, shuffling feet against carpet, heat radiating off skin like an invisible sunburn.  I haven’t seen or spoken to my family in a week (even though I live with them) because I wake up, eat, leave, work, get home before everyone, take a shower, cook a quick dinner (steak- rare- and macaroni and cheese), and then go to bed before 6 P.M.

Progesterone  - apparently – is a hard task master; and yet, I’m sort of relieved.  Being so tired means I can’t really think about the two week wait and all that entails.

I loyally take my temperature when I wake (yet another thing I will be SO happy to never worry about again) at around my 4 A.M. bathroom break, and a negative pregnancy test on day 20 revealed that the trigger shot medicine was out of my system.

All in all, I feel like I’m going through the motions rather than expecting anything to change.  Even when my temperature fails to begin falling around day 24 like it usually does, I know it’s most likely the progesterone. Nothing to do cartwheels over.

On day 25, I go to work (so tired I am caught dozing off in front of a spreadsheet that once had figures and now has a running commentary of ‘RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”) and feel a stitch in my back that feels something like, “Damn cramps.”

I shift and stand and bend and stretch but the pain gets worse till I imagine a storm cloud rolling into my belly, all black and gray and shot with lightning.  I laugh a little at the visual even as I wince and try not to be disappointed.

Carol offers me some pain relievers but I refuse – there’s still a small, itsy-bitsy, microscopic chance and I don’t want to screw it up with chemicals.   I’ve come this far, I can bear the pain, thanks.

I’m bone tired when I get home but manage to see my mother before heading off to bed, the sunlight still filtering through my window.  

“I’ve been worried about you,” she says, “You should call the doctor.”  I tell her it’s just the progesterone and soon I’ll be off of it, don’t worry so much.

I sleep hard that night.  Dreamless and restful, interrupted only once at 4-ish A.M. with a full bladder and the bleary knowledge that – oh yeah, still have to take my temperature.  I get up when the stick beeps, carry it into the bathroom, don’t bother to turn the light on (I know where the toilet is well enough).

Sighing as I feel the cool porcelain, I vaguely remember to hold the nearby cup under the stream before my bladder erupts.  I don’t care that I get some on my hand, care even less that a little bit runs down the side to create a urine ring on the vanity.  

These things can be washed. The months of disappointment can’t.

I do this every night and always forgo testing after convincing myself it’s too early.  I’m testing tonight just to give myself closure. The blood hasn’t come yet, but the pain of the day promises a negative.

Squinting as hard as I can to see the numbers spelling out my temperature,  I add two degrees for every hour until I usually get up.  It takes a moment but I suddenly realize how high that number is.

My brain wakes up and my heart trips.  

No.  No.  It has to be a mistake.  I’m calculating wrong and I’m too tired to get my hopes up.  Resolved, I finish my business, wash my hands, dip the test applicator into the cup, cap it and set it aside.  

Going back to bed is hard, a not-to-be-ignored what if? whispering softly against my doubts.  Sleep doesn’t come, despite that ever-present progesterone induced exhaustion, and I get up to look at the damn test and put this whole wasted chapter of my life behind me.

In the dark, I find the test, see the digital readout spells the result.  

It’s one word.

That’s about all I can make out but it’s enough.  To make sure, I bring the stick close to my face (cursing myopic eyes), but there’s no mistake.

Pregnant.

Squeezing my eyes shut then opening them again . . . the letters do not change nor do their order or meaning.

I put on the light.

Pregnant.

I shuffle into my dark room, don my glasses and return to the light.

Still Pregnant.

My thoughts are jumbled and I can’t decide what to do.  I pace towards the family room – no – and turn to the hall, to my brother’s door – no – I try to lie down – need to move – and I’m up again, pacing and talking to myself – jibberish – and trying to contain the fireworks zooming just beneath my skin wanting to explode from my mouth in a squeal and whoop of joy!

I open my mouth, muscles tight and eyes squeezed shut, and scream silently.  Then I jump up and down like a monkey on a caffeine high.  Yes, yes, yes!!!!

Then, I’m down on my knees, face upturned to the ceiling.  Thank you.  Thank you God.  Thank you.

And my hand finds that place between my hips, just above where the storm was brewing yesterday.  I don’t know you yet, but you need to know  . . . I love you more than anything and I need you to be strong and scrappy and grow because my one soul-deep wish now is to meet you and hold you and care for you.  I know you won’t always be happy, but I will do my best to be the best mommy I can be. I love you so much.

I give a little laugh and whisper, “I think we’ll need to cancel that trip to Cedar Point.”

And here’s how it is:

Infertility sucks. Fertility treatment even moreso; but I would do it again for the pleasure of seeing that Big Fat Positive and seeing the little hatching egg on my fertility chart and watching my waistline grow and change into some alien pod with moving skin and being unable to sit down or stand up from sitting because there’s an entire new person with bones and joints and independent movements nestled somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs (I can’t breathe!)  . . .

I would do it again to feel the elation of hearing that first cry – at once so new and familiar, to hold that weight that my hips know so well in my arms, to introduce myself and child to the crazy learning/bonding experience that is nursing, to change that first diaper, to barely sleep during that first nerve-wracking night,  . . .

And to stare into my child’s face every day and know without a single doubt or regret that it was all worth it.

[wellpersonsblog]

59 Lessons Learned from a 50-Day Run Streak

Back in May, after two months of almost no exercise, I decided it was time to start running again.

I didn’t have a goal, but I knew I had to get back out there. Running was one in a string of changes I decided to make in my life, having been armed (finally) with the skills of habit change and elated to see one change after another actually sticking.

Starting a running streak wasn’t my intention. But from what I had learned about how the brain forms the grooves that become our habits, it seemed that running every day was a surer way to success than taking even one day off each week.

Besides, I wasn’t training for anything, so what did I have to lose?

Fifty days later, that streak is still going strong. I started small, with just 20 easy minutes each day. Each week, I added 10 minutes to the daily run until it got to 70 minutes, at which point I’ve started to transition to more traditional training (but still running every day).

As running streaks go, 50 days isn’t anything to write home about — I have a friend who ran for 12 years straight, and I’ve read of people doing twice that or more.

But for me, it’s new, and having a streak to nurture has breathed fresh air into running. And the effectiveness of the method itself — at getting me moving again, but also at helping me understand what it really means to be a runner — has been incredible.

I’m writing this post to share my rediscovered enthusiasm, and (I hope) to inspire a few people who have never considered what a streak might do for their dedication to running. And, no exaggeration here, for their lives.

Quick Note: After writing this post in 2012, it has gone on to become one of the most popular posts I’ve ever written. This, is, I believe, because so many runners find themselves in the same situation as I was — unmotivated and desperate to rediscover a (seemingly) lost passion for running. Before I share the 50 lessons I learned throughout the streak, I’ve asked Doug, NMA Radio co-host and resident running coach, to add the who and how of run streaks, to help you decide if “going streaking” is right for you.

So Doug, take it away:

Should You Start a Run Streak?

Like Matt, I see a ton of value in starting a run streak. A few years ago I had one going myself, which lasted 442 days leading up to a massive group run on my wedding day.

But I’ve also seen them get in the way, or have an adverse effect on some runners. If you’re interested in starting a run streak, start by asking yourself this:

“How does a streak fit with my current running goals?”

It’s an important question because the streak could be a constant source of motivation, or it could turn into a distraction. It might build endurance and base strength, or instead take away precious rest days from an intense training program.

See what I mean? As a general rule, if you’re just starting or in the middle of a training cycle that leads up to a big running goal, I recommend you put the streak off for now.

So who is the run streak for?

Everyone else, really. But there are a few situations where I believe the value shines most:

If you feel unmotivated or uninspired with your running, a run streak can be just the boost of excitement you need (just ask Matt).

If you struggle with consistency in your training, a streak will get you out the door … every single day.

If you need an extra push to build a solid endurance base, a run streak can provide the platform.

Fall into one of those categories? Great. Let’s talk about how to go about starting one.

5 Rules of a Smart Run Streak

The run streak concept is simple — run every single day — and really, that’s all you need to know.

But after going through one myself, and watching several coaching clients streak (run streak, that is), I’ve developed a few rules for whenever someone asks about how to start one:

Keep the minimum run small. For me it was 10 minutes or a mile. Matt set his at 20 minutes. Over time you can increase the minimum, but make sure it remains approachable on a daily basis.

Don’t run the minimum distance very often. It’s easy to fall into a pattern of running just what you have to and call it a day, but your short distance should be used sparingly on days when you wouldn’t run otherwise.

Set an end date. You can always extend it after you race that day, but having a date — maybe 30, 50, 100, or 365 days down the road — will keep you motivated on the days you’re struggling to get out the door.

Push through the tough days. Do you think I wanted to run the morning after my bachelor party? No, I definitely did not. Nor did I want to run the day after a 50-mile ultramarathon. But that’s part of the streak, and to get the most out of it, you can’t give up on the first day you don’t feel like running.

Stop when you need to. Not because you’re tired or cold, but because either 1) you’ve come to hate the streak, and staying with it would make you hate running, or 2) you fear that moving forward will risk injury.

That’s it. That’s all you need to know. The run streak is a simple yet powerful tool to jumpstart your running and training.

And with that, let’s go back to Matt and his rediscovered passion for running (plus 9 bonus lessons I learned from my own streak):

50 Things I Learned During a 50-day Running Streak

Lesson #1

1. I finally understand those ��Running is Cheaper than Therapy” t-shirts. The difference in my mood before and after my run is so noticeable that my wife has several times suggested (on certain, grumpy mornings) that I make today an early run day. And rightly so.

2. You can dramatically lower your breath rate (and as a result, your heart rate) if you learn to breathe through your nose and focus on taking more steps per breath.

3. If you don’t have the same trigger for your run every day (waking up, lunchtime, etc.), it’s easy to forget, and find yourself running at dusk to keep the streak going.

4. On that note, running hills right after dinner is a terrible idea.

5. You can go from zero motivation to full-on, can’t-think-about-anything-else mode in only two weeks or so. The key, for me, was inspiring reading and using the tools of habit change to get started.

6. The 10% rule really doesn’t matter much.

7. Hiking up hills can be a much better exercise than struggling to run up them, especially if you’re training for a trail race where you’ll have to hike.

8. You’re more likely to feel the steep downhills than the steep uphills the next day, so be mindful and step lightly.

9. I will really miss my Green Silence when I can no longer get them (they’re being discontinued).

10. You don’t need music to run. I used to think I did, but paying attention to your breathing is far more interesting.

11. All these years when I’ve told myself I “need” a day or two off each week for recovery, it’s been nothing more than an excuse. I’m not saying a day off is bad, by any means. But if you really wanted to run every day (and don’t have some special circumstance that prevents it) you could.

12. Start small (really small) and have patience, and you’ll be far more likely to stick with it than if you go balls to wall out of the gate. I started with just 20 minutes a day for the first week. For some people, 5 minutes might be even better.

13. Running is a perfectly good time to meditate.

14. About 15 minutes after you finish running, I’ve found, is even better.

15. When you have an everyday habit, you can use it as your reminder, or trigger, for other habits. For example, I started spending the last 5 minutes of each run, while I’m breathing slow and cooling down, to remind myself of all the things I’m grateful for.

16. You can get by with three pairs of running shorts if you do laundry once a week, by washing them in shower with you after your run. After one shower wash, though, the funk becomes impervious to anything but the heavy artillery.

17. I’ve always been insecure about wearing tanktops, but I got over it. They’re so much cooler in the heat.

18. For runs of under about 45 minutes, it doesn’t really matter whether you wear fancy moisture-wick running clothes. An old t-shirt, gym shorts, and even cotton socks work just fine.

19. Running for time requires less planning and is less stressful than running for distance. Not as fun to log your minutes as it is your miles, though.

20. Blister Shield is your undercarriage’s friend for the first few weeks back to running, especially if you’re not taking days off. (Anybody know if it’s vegan-friendly?)

21. The less you run with food and water, the less you start to need it. (I suggest doing this gradually though, instead of attempting carb-depleted runs. For me, it has just happened naturally because I never like carrying stuff with me.)

22. There’s a ton of stuff about running form that you don’t know if you’ve never paid very close attention to your body. But I’m not sure that it all matters, if you just pay attention to a few things.

23. Fifty days is plenty of time to make big changes to your physique and body composition. I’m shocked that easy running (with some hills mixed in) and three sets of bodyweight exercises each day has done what it has for me.

24. Running every day for a year would be an accomplishment to be proud of.

25. Doing it in a manner that gets you across the country (and it needn’t take a whole year) would be far more awesome. I read Marshall Ulrich’s Running on Empty a few weeks ago and I got to thinking.

26. You don’t smell nearly as bad when an easy run in the heat makes you sweat, compared to a hard workout in any weather.

27. Don’t think of hills as an enemy that you need to overcome. Appreciate them as a part of the experience and enjoy them. (I got this tip from Running with the Mind of Meditation.)

28. Likewise with the jogging stroller. I used to hate it and refused to run with it — I’ve realized now that as long as I keep decent form, it makes for great hill-hike workouts. And it’s a nice way to spend uninterrupted time with my son and give my wife a break.

Lesson #29

29. The jogging stroller is also a wonderful place to dispense cheesy life lessons that even Danny Tanner would be proud of. Endorphins are flowing, your audience is captive, and it’s fun to talk to somebody who will repeat every word you say in his own little voice.

30. Cold apple juice after a hard run in the heat tastes better than any beer ever has.

31. Seeing a bear with her cubs one time has rendered me permanently unable to relax when I run in the woods.

32. I’m lucky to live in Asheville, NC, an amazing place for running (even if there are bears, snakes, and roosters in my neighborhood).

33. Action, plain and simple, is often the antidote to a lack of motivation. I wasn’t very motivated to run when I decided to start this, but once I got a little streak going (thanks to starting small), I came to love running again.

34. You could also try reading Scott Jurek’s and Rich Roll’s books in back-to-back weeks.

35. Having a streak can itself be your source of motivation. A dozen or so of my 50 runs have happened after dinner as the sun is going down — I’m positive that without this little streak, on those days I would have lazily settled on, “Oh well, I probably needed a day off, and besides, there���s always tomorrow.”

36. For as beneficial as that is, there’s also the downside: if keeping the streak alive is important to you, you have to run even when doing so is just silly. I’ve had to go out in downpours once or twice to get my run in. Good that I ran, I guess, but under normal circumstances I’d have stayed inside and been perfectly happy with the decision.

37. When you’re relaxed, there is a space between an exhalation of breath and the inhalation that follows it. If you pay attention to this pause and note when it disappears, it’s easy to see exactly when your “easy” pace has become no longer easy. (Thanks to Body, Mind, and Sport for this idea.)

38. I wear the same five running shirts all the time. Why have I been holding onto 15 of them, including duplicates of the exact same shirt that I don’t even wear one of?

39. Instead of a heart rate monitor, you can use your breathing to govern your training paces.

40. The best place to run on Hilton Head Island is not the beach or the bike paths, but the Nature Preserve. Just in case you’re headed there on vacation this summer.

41. Every once in a while (or maybe a lot more than that) you need to screw whatever plans you had for the day’s run and just go hard, or long, or do whatever feels right.

42. There’s no feeling like letting go when the rain starts pouring on you in the middle of your run.

43. Your body acclimates quickly to the heat and if you just tough out those first few runs in it, running when it’s hot will become more comfortable.

44. Badwater sounded like a great long-term goal until I went for a run on the beach while I was on vacation in Hilton Head. No shade and 100+ degree temperatures made for a brutal 10 miles, much less 135 of them … and I hear they don’t even give you an ocean in Death Valley!

45. I need to start routinely running in the mornings, so that the run is finished and isn’t on my mind as another to-do item all day long.

46. Although I’m far from a barefooter and never really got into running in Five Fingers, these 50 days have taught me how much I prefer shoes like the Green Silence and Minimus to traditional shoes. Every once in a while I’ll put on my New Balance 890’s, to mix it up a little or because my feet could use a break, but the experience just isn’t the same when you can step on a rock without feeling a thing.

47. This is the longest I’ve gone without even a nagging injury, in spite of taking no off days for the first time in my life. I suspect this is because I haven’t done any speed workouts or long runs — I’ve run mostly easy pace, for a steadily increasing amount of time each week, mixing in some hills and tempo runs now and then. If you’re always getting injured, maybe it’s not less running you need, but easier running.

48. This streak has caused me to drink less alcohol. A lot of times I like to have a beer (or two) with dinner, or perhaps while I’m cooking. But if I haven’t done my run by then, well, I skip the beer.

49. A daily run is the perfect trigger for a quick set of pushups, situps, pullups, or whatever you choose. These things are so easy to do, and so easy not to do. Running every day has helped me to remember to do them.

50. This has been way too good, for both my body and mind, to stop at 50 days. I guess it’s 100 or bust!

9 Bonus Lessons From Doug’s Run Streak

51. I often find myself obsessing over the tracking of each run on my GPS … “if it’s not recorded it didn’t happen.” My run streak broke that habit, and freed me up from constantly checking splits and distance.

52. When you run every single day, early morning runs become a must. And you know what? It’s not that bad after you start waking up early for a week or two. (Plus I rather like seeing the sun rise over the mountains!)

53. When each run is structured by a plan, it’s difficult to embrace spontaneity. Running every day becomes more about going for a run than what that run looks like, and gave me an opportunity to ditch the plan and go where and how fast I want.

54. Great fitness comes when I’m enjoying myself, and the lack of a watch, spontaneous routes, and new freedom within the confines of the streak brought back much of that enjoyment.

55. You can run the day after an ultramarathon, even when you don’t want to.

56. During the winter, start your run with the clothes you’ll need at mile three, not mile one. It’s better to start cold than to overheat after warming up.

57. A run will never be as cold, wet, or terrible as you think before you start.

58. Commuting by run, either home from work, to a friend’s house, or while running errands, saves time and makes something as mundane as your commute into an adventure.

59. You never regret going for a run.

The irony of commitment …

If you made it this far — and I don’t expect many will — then there must be something about all of this that intrigues and inspires you. In that case, I say go for it!

If you run for a week and decide you hate it, you can always stop. But if you’re like me, I bet you’ll find something like what that Anne Morris quote you might have seen on a Starbucks cup says:

The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating — in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around like rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.

Why not start your own commitment today?

The post 59 Lessons Learned from a 50-Day Run Streak appeared first on No Meat Athlete.

First found here: 59 Lessons Learned from a 50-Day Run Streak