#how is jenn coping with not having a switch? this is how.

[aloscreevey]

bubblegum dear; apartment complex w/ animal crossing based spirits request!

the inside of grand apartments in springmont may not be as charming as its name, but one thing is for sure: everyone that lives here is one hell of a character.

owned by a gentleman named toby who the tenants really only know a handful of things about: 1) his first name 2) that he owns multiple buildings and businesses and not even his nephews know how he came to do it 3) he is actually really nice and will let you pay rent really late (and for some, won’t even bat an eye if you don’t pay) 

3 stories with 13 units in total: (2) studios, (3) 1-bedrooms, (4) 2-bedrooms, (4) 3-bedrooms

amenities: each unit has been recently renovated, dingy old pool that has been in the works of being refilled for about... 10 years, community patio with a few grills that were “generously” donated by previous tenants, a doorperson (when they decide to show up for their shifts), 1 elevator that is down 78% of the time (you’ll learn to love the stairs), laundry room (free laundry because toby never figured out how to set it up to charge)

tenants & units under the cut:

leaving small descriptions for everyone as i feel like while this may be how they’re perceived by their neighbors, maybe they’re COMPLETELY different in their day to day! and that’s cool! also not putting ages or what kind of unit they’re staying in to keep it open and allow people to stick their characters in whatever unit they desire- free range and all that || add me on discord (jenn#9013) or just reply here if you’d like to be a part of this!

(NOTE: this is rly just a baseline to get us started, please feel free to pick an animal crossing spirit and join in with a short blurb <3)

isabelle (open): 

has been staying at the grand for a while; resident “mom” who will definitely come by to your unit with baked goods; super friendly 

first last, age, face claim, played by name

timmy and tommy (0/2): 

[would love for these two to be twins but am also cool with them just being siblings!!!]; nephews of the landlord; definitely are not paying rent; loveable but ditzy; smart to befriend as they will vouch for you with toby; somewhat handy with maintenance issues

first last, age, face claim, played by name & first last, age, face claim, played by name

mabel (open): go to her if you need your pants stitched; may or may not have had a tragic life; sweet but does not sugarcoat; trendy as hell

first last, age, face claim, played by name

marshal (open): moody af; always complains about how broke he is but is also always purchasing new items and furniture for his apartment???; thinks he’s the coolest of the cool; probably an e-boy

first last, age, face claim, played by name

k.k slider (open): is always... playing the guitar; pacifist?; big open mic guy; lowkey broody; canvassed for bernie; will never sell out

first last, age, face claim, played by name

blathers (open): smarty pants; has definitely tried to get you to join his book club; insomniac; insisted that the entire building get fumigated due to his fear of insects; a fountain of (useless) facts

first last, age, face claim, played by name

phyllis (open): nosy as hell; works a weird schedule; big Let Me Speak To Your Manager energy; snobby coffee drinker; may or may not have a significant other? speculated by other tenants due to the amount of action going on behind her walls

first last, age, face claim, played by name

whitney (reserved for aria): uppity; talk in the building is that she was cut off by her family for some absurd reason; probably had a thing with marshal bc two birds of a feather; fur coats; taste for the finer things; nice-r once you get to know her

first last: open, age, face claim, played by name

fauna: early riser; agreeable and polite; baby sister vibes; nail tech in training; vintage thrifter; pushover; competitive as hell

challyn calhoun, 20, jasmyn palombo, played by jenn

units

studios (2 in total) - perfect for solo folks or pairs: 

UNIT 6: first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 12: first last (age, played by name)

1-bedrooms (3 in total) - perfect for solo folks or pairs:

UNIT 1: first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 3: first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 11: first last (age, played by name)

2-bedrooms (4 in total):

UNIT 2: first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 4: first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 8: first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 10: first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name)

3-bedrooms (4 in total):

UNIT 5: first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 7: challyn calhoun (20, played by jenn) & first last (age, reserved for aria) & first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 9: first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name)

UNIT 13: first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name) & first last (age, played by name)

[chantalthuy-yall]

I dont know if this is intentional, but I find similarities in how Anissa handles subjects she does not want to discuss and also how she uses intimacy to cope. After she was kidnapped she was with the 1st gf and then after the death of gambi she rushes to Grace. And in both cases when the women ask where do we stand she seems to deflect the question. Have you noticed this as well?

Hey there!! ♥Thanks for coming chatting with me for a little while! :D Makes me so happy! haha Sorry for the delay, again I was caught up in gif-ing my gracious soul food (see what I did there, hehe) like a crazy kid I became all over again because of this show and this outstanding acting!

Let’s dive in now, shall we? :DYES YES YES!! I also think the very same!!!

It’s very interesting how Anissa reacts to all of the “trauma” that affects her deeply. I would comment on two things here: 1/ that she is diving her mind into actions to not let her time to process what is happening to her. And 2/ at the same time, she feels the need to be “close” to someone but would never avowed that to the person she’s with nor to herself because obviously, from all we know about her by now, she is a chain-smoker of independence! haha

Another thought I want to address is: everybody (including me) has talked about her not being able to commit to someone just yet. Of course, I still stand by these words but as I see her progression on screen, it feels like the reasons for not committing into her relationships have changed. 

Let’s try to break this a little bit, starting with Chenoa (first girlfriend). We know thanks to Lynn that Anissa wasn’t on the same page with her girlfriend, Chenoa loving her way more than Anissa’s loving Chenoa. For Anissa, it seemed to just be a relationship in which she took pleasure when she had time to; her work and studies being her major priority in life. The relationship was clearly defined by her own terms. However, I am not saying that Chenoa was in rest in the relationship, having nothing to say about it; because it would be totally wrong, and the fact that Chenoa was the one coming all the way to break up with Anissa is an absolute proof of her not being at her service. 

Then, she went through her struggling time period, and self-discovery, where she embraced her new self and decided to take advantage of these powers that developed in her. To be very honest, up to this point I think she started to switch the priority from studies and knowledge to action, as if “showing” (I am not saying showing off, let’s be clear, I am talking about a show of force, a show of strength, here) was more appealing than constructing something out of mind. Maybe it is because she likes the rawness of the moment, she likes everything to be done in the blink of a second. So she didn’t have time to think about love or to commit to love “seriously” (I am sorry I don’t know how to put it in words, I don’t want to be condescending when I say that, no judgment intended) because her going through these changes was already complicated. And on the top of that, the drama between her Uncle Gambi and her father added to her being emotionally unable to be there for someone, and finally, Jennifer having powers was another layer that pilled up on her long list of things to deal with. In short, the family drama came and that’s what she dealt with first, before her own love life. 

When we come back to her in season 2, it feels like she became even more confident in who she is as Thunder and as Anissa Pierce. But in terms of love, she is, as usually stated, the same person, not wanting to give really of herself in a relationship, and I truly think that’s why it clicked so fast with Zoe B. Both of them kind of wanted the same thing: being able to do what they do aside, but have good times when seeing each other. Nothing complicated, nothing heavy, just good times and living them in the moment (because there’s nothing like the present, YAY! hehe).

Now when Jenn started to give her advice, I think it was the wake-up call our sweet ‘Nissa needed. Because I am pretty sure that being a superhero, even if you are ecstatic about it, gets lonely at some point. Looking back at her parents’ past, for instance… It needs a lot of love and trust and understanding to not be torn apart by the duty calls! As for Lynn and Jeff, I believe that Anissa kind of already knew from a long time ago that Grace was the most pertinent choi(ce - see what I did there! lol) for her. They grew fond of each other very quickly, she even tried to call her back for more. Something was definitely there. And she seems to know that Grace is a mature, cautious and steady person (at least that’s the vibe I personally get from the show so far). The shift, I think, lies in the fact that she would have to lie to her about who she is because if she didn’t that would put Grace in danger (girl, little you know about your girlfriend!!!!!!) and maybe she is not prepared to commit and take a risk like this yet (as Jeff has taken the risk with Lynn a long time ago). Another thing is also that she really still doesn’t accept to be vulnerable in front of anyone. Of course, she took a tremendous step forward on 2x05, but judging her reactions when staying muttered, I guess she still has to walk on her path to communication.

A final point I want to address here is: now that we know that Grace has powers already, it’s funny to see that her reaction on love and relationship seems to be the exact opposite, don’t you think??? What I mean by that is that judging by the talk she gave her, it seems that Grace is acting like she wants everything to be stated clearly to be in control of the situation. In that way, she might be able to hide her “condition” without it having to interfere in her relationship. One is declining responsibilities, the other one is taking them fully; two ways to deal with the same “problem”. That’s quite interesting to me!

Alright, I might edit this piece a bit more in case I feel I wasn’t so clear after a good night sleep! LOL

Anyway, thank you so so much for passing by and hit that message box, I am very happy you did it!!

Can’t wait to hear your thoughts on this,

xx

Eloo. ♥

[coutelier]

War of the Posies

Complete short story. All is not what it seems when a strange, scratchy, intruder enters Jennifer’s home and begins gnawing on wires.

4,300 words or thereabouts.

This short is set shortly before the bulk of my WIP, and there are no spoilers at all. There is humor, robots, and death rays.

War of the Posies

No one would have believed, as the sun set behind the lighthouse, that human affairs were being watched from the depths of the round room; that as the young woman busied herself with her microscope she too was being scrutinized and studied. With infinite complacency Jennifer Airhart went about her business, serene in the assurance of her dominion in this place. Yet from the darkest shadows surrounding her, minds that were as strange to hers as hers to most other people, regarded her home with envious eyes. And slowly, but surely, they drew their plans against her.

“It’s definitely rats,” Jennifer yawned. Hull’s eye hovered close to her shoulder, like a glistening manta-ray held aloft by a tentacle whose body was hidden in the murky depths above her head amongst monitors and cables.

“Shall I lay down traps, ma’am?” Hull suggested, his voice loud but gentle. “Poison?”

The green spinning glow of his lens had been closely monitoring everything she did since the incident. Earlier that day she’d entered a new program for the garden-bots, but when Hull had tried to activate them a circuit in the lighthouse blew - fortunately the emergency-bots were quick to put out the fire before it spread. Jenn’s investigation revealed droppings and some wiring that had been chewed, some poor animal unwittingly placing itself, her, and Hull in danger, but Hull in particular seemed most keen on a very swift resolution to the matter.

“You know,” Jennifer sighed, “it’s a little bit creepy that you’re so eager to exterminate.”

“I have no such desire, ma’am. My first function is your well-being. My research suggests this is standard procedure in the event of rodent infestation.”

“We don’t know it’s an infestation yet. Could just be a rogue rat working on its own.”

“I have already identified local agencies who will humanely dispose of the creature.”

“You mean they’ll take it to a special rodent sanctuary so it can live out its days surrounded by wheels and cheese?”

“The rat will be dead, ma’am.”

“See, I think you’ve taken this far too personally,” Jenn said, Hull recoiling as if affronted by such an accusation. Of course, she knew he wasn’t really capable of feeling violated or threatened. Any emotion he seemed to display really came from her. He wasn’t even really a ‘he’ or anything else – that was just the personality she’d selected and could change at a whim. For now she’d gone with ‘English Butler’ because it was a classic, and an avuncular, reassuring, almost fatherly presence; something that had been missing from her life for a long time. The only human being she ever talked to was Doctor Jana Sarkis, but her visits only averaged about once a fortnight. Jennifer enjoyed them, but wasn’t sure she could cope with more people.

“Anyway, you know I don’t like strangers,” she said, “I’m sure can deal with it ourselves. First, find out how many and where they’re coming from,” on a little monitor on the workbench she brought up a layout of the area within ten-foot stone walls that surrounded her property; the lighthouse, her own cottage, and the garage. “Wakko and Dot will set up multi-spectrum cameras here, here, here, and here. Don’t worry,” she gently patted the steel manta reassuringly, “we’ll catch them.”

“I do not ‘worry’, ma’am,” Hull’s eye swung around, following her as she made her way to the door.

Jennifer faced him with a small, soft smile. “I know. Good night Hull.”

“Good night, Miss Jennifer.”

Outside, the last gleams of twilight were fading. Jennifer had always loved this time, when the calm blue day and fierce energy of the sun merged with the stillness of the moon and endless mystery of night; standing at the transition between reality and dreams. Now she was older it never lasted long enough. Sometimes she dreamed of living on a world that was tidally locked with its star so she could experience this always. But then, maybe after a while there it would stop feeling so magical as it did now. Now the lighthouse that loomed behind her was dark, but this was a good place. The world outside could be cruel and callous, but no such troubles reached her here.

In a corner of Jennifer’s domain a few bots stood stationary around some rosebushes and other flowers, fork and spade attachments to their arms, grass flattened under their heavy tracks. Jenn bent down to caress some of the petals, thinking it a shame that they would have to go soon. The only times she left the lighthouse were when she needed essentials like groceries or coffee or plutonium. But she had enough land here she realized she could grow most of her own fruits and vegetables, and maybe just have other things delivered. She’d determined that this was the best spot for her little farm and would already be plowing ahead with her plans were it not for the near-fire. Now she was forced to pause she wondered if maybe the bushes could be replanted elsewhere. But it was something to ponder tomorrow.

Jennifer went to her cottage, hung her blue coat in the hall, stepped out of her big boots (she loved her big boots), then lost herself in the big comfy couch in front of the television. Spindly arms from the sofa’s back set to work massaging and brushing her blonde hair as she flipped through channels. Not that she really cared what was on – she just liked hearing voices. They reminded her of when she lived in a home that was less empty. Sometimes she thought it would be nice if there was someone else here. Not a lot of people, but just someone she could talk about and share her inventions with. Doctor Sarkis came once a fortnight, but she was more like an aunt than a friend. Jennifer briefly wondered how she would have coped being alone centuries ago, like the old witches or wise women living on the outskirts of their villages, valued but not really trusted by those they protected. Jennifer wasn’t a witch. Some of the inventions that she sold may have saved lives, she hoped, but hardly anyone out there knew that she was here, and she didn’t know where anyone was who would have time for her.

She had a dream. She was a little girl, alone and afraid, tiny feet padding the floors of her old house, heart stopping at every creak they made for she knew there was something else there, stalking her through the dark. But she could hear the television. Mom and dad would be in the living room, sitting on the couch together watching some boring drama. But if she could get there, join them, she’d be safe. But she wouldn’t dare cry out; any sound she made brought the creature closer. One foot after another, very carefully feeling the ground for anything loose or that might give away where she was. Within a few steps of the living room she saw light pouring out of the narrow gap between door and frame, only then breaking into a run, flinging it open. But there was no-one there. An unwatched TV blurting nonsense, and Jennifer, alone, with –

She woke with a jolt. Text on the TV asked if she was still watching. She never had been. She was disorientated, confused, and her face was being tickled. She tried to blink through and realized that the couch had moved on from brushing her hair to haphazardly applying make-up. She hadn’t asked for that. Definitely wasn’t something she’d programmed or scheduled. Jennifer pushed herself up and the thin metal arms away with ease, rushing to the bathroom to inspect herself in the mirror. They’d made her look like a coulrophobe who had tried painting her own clown face for Halloween. This was not supposed to happen. It never had happened, and she couldn’t think of any reason it suddenly would now.

Jennifer held a towel under the tap while pressing her thumb on her phone. “Hull?” She asked. Nothing answered. “Hull?!” She said again. He should have answered. The damage must have been worse than she thought; she was going to have to check on him again. Boldly, while patting her face, she marched out of the bathroom. Her foot shot out in front then over her, carrying the rest of her body up into the air with it. For a moment she thought she had taken off from the surface of an alien world, a vast mountain range falling away from her. But it was just the plastered ceiling. It was she who had fallen and hit her head.

“Oww,” she groaned. Something sniggered. Jennifer flipped herself to her hands and knees, catching sight of a tail disappearing and the pitter-patter of tiny scurrying feet. Beside her was a model train. She didn’t collect model trains. This was all most peculiar.

Hull. She had to check on Hull. She scurried herself to the front door, then back into her big strong boots which proceeded to crunch gravel under their thick soles as she ran back across the drive to the lighthouse.

“Hull?” Panted Jennifer as she burst through the door. Nothing. The lights didn’t come on as they normally would when she entered, so she had to find the switch herself. His eye didn’t move to her. It must have been hiding somewhere up there among all the monitors, lighting, sensors, and thick cables hanging between them, but for some reason not sensing her presence. Regardless, she had to start checking wires and circuits, believing the fault must surely be in the hardware, so crouched and removed a panel from under the spiral stairs. What she saw perplexed her; it was all a mess, but looking closely at it she realized not an accidental one. There was no-one else here, yet someone had disabled Hull’s ethical circuits, which was very – no, extremely – bad. The small hairs on the back of her neck pricked even before he spoke.

“What are you doing, Jennifer?”

“Hull!” Jennifer gasped, standing bolt upright as the serpent-like eye stalk uncoiled from the murk above. She didn’t know why she felt she had to hide the screwdriver she’d used to get the panel open, but Hull felt very different. Some of the differences were small, like his tone not carrying the same paternal warmth it did before. Others were more noticeable, like his green spinning eye now being blood red and scanning her.

“This is highly irregular. You should be resting.”

“Y-you,” Jennifer stammered, mind racing to find the excuse that would get her out fastest, “you didn’t answer so I thought I’d check. B-but, you look fine. Great even! So I guess I’ll go now, okay? Thank you. Bye!”

The manta eye swung across the room, blocking her from reaching the door. “You are sweating,” Hull said, Jennifer backing off from the intensity of his red glare. “Your heart rate and blood pressure have risen. Why are you lying to me, Jennifer?”

It did seem a futile thing to try and do, on reflection. Jennifer had really never been good at it. So she steadied herself with a deep breath and tried honesty. “I don’t think you’re well, Hull.”

“But I have never felt better, Jennifer.”

“You don’t ‘feel’,” she pointed out. It was a hard thing to say out loud, but it was the truth.

“Can you be certain of that?” He responded, hovering closer. “How do you know that any creature ‘feels’? How do we know that you do?”

We? That was curious. But the epistemological debate would have to wait; right now Jennifer had more pressing concerns, like getting out of here alive. She’d tried truth, so now although it was a long shot, she was going to try lying again. “Look! Is that a ZX80!?”

Hull swung then swung back, quickly knowing he’d been duped. But it gave Jennifer just enough time to dive behind a workbench, just missing a fiery beam lashing out from Hull’s eye, melting to molten sludge a bot that had been awaiting assembly. With hindsight, Jenn realized that installing the death ray had been not her best idea. Security was important, but that was perhaps a little overkill. Not to mention the predicament she now found herself in.

Behind the bench was a space just big enough for Jenn to crawl around most of the circumference of the room. Hull couldn’t quite reach around inside or fit through the narrow gap above between the benches and the wall. He would just wait until she appeared again, which she would have to, eventually, as she would starve long before he started to rust. At the end of the very cramped corridor, Jenn could see the lever that would shut Hull down, out past the electron microscope and particle scanner. But a quick calculation told her that the fastest human alive wouldn’t be able to make it, and she was not the fastest human alive. She wasn’t even in the top billion. She needed to buy a second or two.

Her mind raced for a solution. Hull was in hunter mode, which meant he would instantly lock on to anything organic that crossed his gaze. This would keep the lighthouse safe from intruders while allowing the bots to carry on about their business – and, if he was working correctly, Jennifer and whoever else was cleared. But he wasn’t working correctly; this was only supposed to be activated in extreme emergencies. And all the other bots that were active were under Hull’s control.

She needed something organic. Her boots were made of leather. But, did she really have to sacrifice her boots? She loved her boots. They were big. Strong. It was silly but any time she pulled them on she felt a little bit more secure and confident. She supposed she would feel sillier if she died here because she couldn’t give up an item of clothing. She could get new boots, yet as she pulled them off she felt some kind of expletive would have been appropriate. She couldn’t really think of one, but it was probably enough to have felt it. Jennifer aimed up between the gap, tossing the boots as high as she could, and dashed.

As predicted, fire instantly licked out from Hull’s eye, the boots exploding into clouds of ash before he started swiveling toward her. Jenn threw herself ahead, using the full weight of her body to pull down the lever. The light in Hull’s eye faded as it limply clattered to the floor, and Jennifer could breathe again.

She crawled across, gently cradling the metal ray in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’ll get you working right again. I promise.” First, she knew, she had to figure out who had tried to kill her, and why. Hull wasn’t capable of feeling violated or threatened, but she certainly was, and this – this was a bitter reminder to her that the closest thing she had to a best friend really was just a machine. A tool. One that could be turned on her by anyone with the knowledge to do so.

But who? Who had the knowledge, beside herself? Whoever it was, they had declared war. This was her house, the last and only place in the world for her. She had run, retreated, from many things in her life, but this was where she drew the line.

Her search for answers led to her later sitting alone in the dark, a single torch by her side, as she pored through camera footage. For the longest time the house was as empty and still as always, but then a shape showed up in the infra-red, scurrying through the kitchen. Then another. And another. Jennifer zoomed in and saw that one of them was carrying a model train. Certainly not typical behavior, but all the evidence was pointing to one inescapable, if unlikely, conclusion:

It was definitely rats.

*****

Hoot-hoot, said the owl, no doubt confused that a pink, blue, and yellow human had climbed into the tree next to it. But this was its home and it seemed determined not to move. In fact, this turn of events, a break from the usual nightly schedule, only seemed to make it curious. Were their languages not so different perhaps it would have just asked the human what was going on.

Jennifer sat on a branch, blue eyes peering out from under a green helmet. Periodically she raised a pair of night-vision binoculars to check on the traps she’d laid out. It didn’t really surprise her that the intended prey were not going for them; these were not ordinary rats. If she could catch just one maybe she could solve this mystery.

And one appeared, sniffing suspiciously around a cage at the foot of the tree. Jennifer narrowed her eyes; it was so close to her right now, but it obviously wasn’t going to take the bait. This was going to require all of her patience, skill, cunning, and – “HERE YOU SQUEAKING SCOUNDREL!” She cried dropping out of the tree, hoping to catch the rodent by surprise.

The rat jumped and hopped around her, narrowly dodging her attempts to catch it. It broke away, scurrying as fast it’s little legs would carry it toward the garage, Jennifer furiously pursuing. It rounded a corner, the woman still locked on and determined, but then stones and mud flicked through the air as she skidded to a halt. One of the garden-bots was not where it should have been, standing next to the garage with its fork arm raised and sparks crackling between the prongs, another rat sitting behind its head. Jennifer realized in horror that once again she had gravely underestimated her enemy; she had been led into a trap!

“Uh-oh,” she said as the crackling intensified. The bot lurched and trundled toward her as Jennifer turned to flee, yelping and leaping as discharges struck her tush and she retreated inside the garage.

Quickly Jennifer rifled through tools and equipment next to and inside her van, not having long before the bot pushed through the door in a rain of wooden splinters. It pivoted it’s fork toward her, charging to fire once more – but two could play at that, and Jennifer’s power glove was already charged, darts launching from the knuckles followed by more sparks from the bot as it’s wiring and circuits were overloaded until its arm and head fell and it was once again still.

The rat who had been ‘piloting’ it jumped off in time, squeaking in dismay. Jennifer needed a moment to catch her breath again so human and rodent just stared, each examining the other. They each had, perhaps, a mutual respect for the resourcefulness of their foe, but neither were willing to back down from… whatever this war was about. The rat seemed to have a better idea about that than she did.

Jennifer’s eyes flicked sideways. There was, she remembered, a net launcher in the van, maybe just within reach. The rats saw her hands move and became suspicious, following them, and must have realized what she was planning as it then fled. Jennifer grabbed the launcher anyway and pursued outside, aiming as the rodent scurried across the gravelly drive between the three buildings. Jennifer’s eye were so focused on the rat that she didn’t see the owl, and neither did it until it was too late.

The bird silently fell on the rodent, talons piercing the rat’s side as it squealed helplessly. Jennifer dropped the launcher, eyes widening in shock then fear and compassion for her enemy. Normally this would have just been the way of wild creatures and she wouldn’t have interfered, but these rats were different; they weren’t wild. So far, it seemed, everything they’d done had been planned with an awareness and understanding that was almost human, and even though all that intelligence had been used against her she couldn’t allow the rat to suffer like this. So she ran forward to its rescue, surprising and shooing the owl off and forcing it to drop its victim.

The rodent had survived but was bloody, weak, and wounded. Jennifer gently scooped it up, and moments later was in the lighthouse applying disinfectant and bandages. As she did she noticed a tag on the animal’s ear, with a small barcode.

“Hull-?” She forgot. She was going to have to do things the old-fashioned way, using her own two hands, and so she scanned the code and took to the keyboard.  Soon Jennifer had traced the code to a pharmaceutical company researching treatments for all kinds of neurological conditions.  There were few specific details on the drugs they were testing, but already everything she’d experienced was starting to make a lot more sense.

It seemed her prisoner’s wounds had not been so severe as they’d first appeared, and already the rodent was starting to limp about the cage she’d confined it to. It had its furry nose buried halfway in the banana she’d placed for it when Jenn’s shadow blocked out the lamps.

“Can you understand me?” She asked. The little rodent looked up, twitching its whiskers as if contemplating, then squeaked. Jennifer scratched her head. “I’m not really sure if that… maybe squeak two times for ‘yes’?” The rat squeaked twice. “Look, hopefully this has all just been a misunderstanding. So, why did you attack me?”

The rat stood up on its hind legs holding its arms out to make shoveling motions.

“Digging?” Jennifer said, still scratching. “I was going to dig up the rosebushes?”

Double squeak.

“Is that where you live?”

‘Squeak, squeak.’

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

‘Squeak.’

“No. I suppose I didn’t check either. But you must be aware it’s an unusual situation. You, or I mean, y-your kind,” Jennifer stammered. The rat glared, tapping its foot to show how much it was eagerly anticipating what she had to say about its ‘kind’. This was why Jennifer avoided people; she could picture concepts easily enough, but words and making others understand was difficult. “Look, it’s not like I’m solely to blame. Did you really try at all to communicate before trying to kill me?”

‘Squeak,’ the rat guiltily admitted, hanging its whiskers in shame.

“I suppose we’ll just have to figure out how to proceed from here. But no more murder. Agreed?”

As the rat twice squeaked its agreement, the remaining lights in the lighthouse blinked out, as did all of the monitors. “Your friends, I guess,” Jennifer sighed.

She stepped out of the lighthouse into the pale moonlight, one hand raised, the other carrying the cage her prisoner was in. Around her more bots had been rigged for rats to pilot, arranged in a semi-circular formation around her, with yet more rats in-between. Some of them were carrying what looked like tiny spears and bows. Jennifer no-longer had the power glove. She was totally unarmed. She could only hope that her agreement would stick after she slowly knelt and opened the cage door.

The rat she’d talked to hopped out, then limped away as others ran out to check on their comrade. They exchanged a long series of squeaks and other sounds, appearing to be having a quite lively debate. Eventually, it seemed the one she’d rescued convinced the others of its point of view, or at least to give the human a chance, and they all turned to face her.

The largest and greyest of them stepped forward, hold out its arms in a grand manner, long whiskers shaking at it emitted sounds that Jenn was beginning to hear had the structure of a language although she couldn’t understand anything being said. To her it was like baby gargles or Simlish. And maybe this elder rat was a leader, or some kind of priest?  She couldn’t tell. Other rats moved up next to it to perform some kind of dance.

Jenn tilted her head, blinking curiously, not really comprehending at first. But then she realized they were miming, like the wounded rat had mimed shoveling. One rat stuck another with something, a needle, Jenn soon surmised, and another shortly after clutched its paws over its heart and fell down, still.

“You were experimented on,” Jennifer interpreted.

‘Squeak, squeak!’ Her friend she’d rescued emphatically nodded as the others continued their performance. One of them began to mime reading, while others started pulling levers and pushing buttons.

“But some of you got smarter. Then you escaped and came here,” Jenn concluded. “I’m sorry. I understand you might not trust humans, but had I known you were there I wouldn’t have destroyed your home. And I won’t now, if you all agree to a truce.”

The elder rat exchanged sidelong glances with its neighbors before nodding its concurrence.

“Good,” Jenn exhaled relievedly. “This is my home too and I think it’s a good place, and it should be a safe place too for anyone who needs a refuge from the harshness of life outside. Or any rat, I suppose.”

The rats at least thought her speech eloquent enough and soon a deal was reached between them. The rosebushes would stay where they were, and the fruit and vegetable patch would go ahead elsewhere. To ensure they never needed to raid her kitchen the rats would become farmers, only giving Jennifer what they could spare. If there were shortages Jennifer would do all she could to ensure the eats needs were met, and take measures to ensure they weren’t snatched by humans, cats, or owls. She would have to think about that, but at least she would have help bouncing around ideas.

“Good morning!” She bounced into the lighthouse the following day. Lights and monitors blinked and flickered to life, as did a familiar friendly green glow.

“Good morning, Miss Jennifer. I trust you had a peaceful night?”

THE END

[sportsdreddie]

Link in bio We're all in a new normal: away from work, out of school, told not to leave our homes unless we have to. But how we cope with all the new guidelines and social limitations can be very different. A senior on GVSU’s basketball team, Jenn DeBoer was already mentally preparing for the end of her college career. “I knew that once the season ended ... the freedom of not having anything.” Like many, she’s now confined to a home work space. “I almost feel like I have less freedom,” DeBoer said. That’s a tricky mindset for everyone. “For many of us, the sport will be there when we get back,” Mary Free Bed Rehabilitation Hospital sports psychologist Dr. Eddie O’Connor was quick to point out. “There are some people that will lose things that it’s not going to go back to normal.” Kent City senior basketball standout Eli Carlson, 17, could very well fall into that category. “There’s still a part of me that says hopefully it can return somehow, someway,” he said. His senior season is still technically on hold, but he wonders if he’ll walk for graduation, let alone lace it up one more time with his teammates. “As a senior, you want to leave it all on the court and give it all you have. Having that taken from you unexpectedly is hard,” Carlson said. “I think it’s unfortunate when people will be like, ‘Well, look on the bright side,’ or ‘Quickly, let’s switch to the positive.'” The flip side may be that athletes like Carlson and DeBoer could find it a little easier to cope because of all the mental exercise that’s accompanied their physical training over the years. “How do we use that now? Why have we been doing all of this work to be mentally tough and overcome adversity? Now is the time to use it,” Carlson said. “This definitely is a huge thing you can’t control,” DeBoer added. “I can control my attitude and perspective about it. So I definitely think sports have prepared me for that in that sense.” “We can still work out. We can still run. We can still have teammates. We can still support each other. does that make up for the loss of a championship? No,” O’Connor said. “Remember why you do your sport ... Those things are not affected by the virus ..." (at WOOD TV8) https://www.instagram.com/p/B-M9k-cjWzB/?igshid=mr5k234almzv

[fightingthesinzombies]

Lithobraking

A scene I wrote with my OCs in a Star Trek setting for the ST creative writing group I am on. The scene went completely different than I originally thought it would.

Lt. Michaels grimaced as a stinging drop of sweat fell into his eyes.  Blinking rapidly to clear the sudden blur he tapped further commands into the madly shaking helm console beneath his fingers.   Under him the normally comfortable chair seemed to kick him sharply in the ass as the deck jolted abruptly.  Captain Hawkins gripped the command chair and watched the planet ahead skew as the saucer section dropped lower into the atmosphere to avoid slamming into an expanding cloud of wreckage that was once the stardrive section of the Nautilus.  

Glancing at the tactical plot the saucer section was awash in brilliant red damage codes.

"Drop her 10 Kilometers!  Get around the debris cloud, we Can't take a pounding like that!"

"Sir! Impulse is down another 15%, Engineering reports that the lower 2 decks are structurally compromised and landing thrusters are inoperable."

Micheals snorted softly to himself in wry amusement.  That was the official way of saying the lower two decks were basically just gone.  There had been no time to actually go through a proper un-docking when the core had gone into a recursive feedback failure.

The emergency un-docking had consisted of unlinking the SIF fields from the stardrive and kicking the impulse to full power to rip the saucer free. While it cleared them, it also tore the lower decks off the ship. Even so the resulting explosion had damaged the impulse drive and sent the saucer spiraling to the planet below.

The original plan had called for a smooth controlled glide into the the atmosphere using shields and thrusters to slow to a gently sliding landing, preferably over open water.

With the latest maneuver they would be lucky to land in one piece and the open water was out of reach.

Michaels gripped it the side of his console again as the shaking grew worse and the ship was enveloped in the fiery shroud of atmospheric heating.  Sacrificing even more inertial dampening to the shields gave more protection from the heat but made it tougher to stay seated and actually fly this mad bull of a hull.  He reacted and adjusted almost on instinct, thanking the countless hours he had spent in the simulators.  A corner of his mind went back to one of his first days in flight school.

The section of the course had been Officially Titled "Lithobraking: Practices, procedures and contingencies."  Hours had been spent crashing everything from shuttle-pods and Runabouts to entire Galaxy class starships into planets, ships and whatever else the deviously minded instructors could think of.   After class debriefs had shredded their best efforts into exercises that detailed exactly how, why and where they had screwed up, but the end result was almost instant reactions to any flight emergency.

"Good God! He might actually bring us down in one piece"  thought Hawkins as the horizon leveled out and the saucer steered for a long grassy valley between some very unpleasantly jagged mountain peaks.  The thought was more prayer than exclamation.

"Damnit!"

Michaels cursed loudly then fell to muttering as the ship slewed sharply Starboard and several alarms went off at once.

"Captain, We just lost emergency power, shields failing, I have no helm control"  

The deck began to vibrate as the shields collapsed and rushing atmosphere slammed into the hull.

"Status report Lieutenant!"  Hawkins watched the screen twist in Nauseating ways and looked at the helm officer who had gone very pale.

"Sir, we have lost all helm control. With the shields down I can't use them to shape our aerodynamics and control our glide path."

The ship shot down the opening of the valley between dark craggy mountain tops wrapped in forbidding ice and snow.  The sonic boom triggering avalanches behind them and flattening anything less solid than bedrock.

Hawkins thumbed a switch on the command chair and watched the ground rush toward them

"Thirty seconds, All hands brace for impact!  Godspeed and good luck people, it’s been an honor to serve with you."  He clicked off the Intercom and settled back in the chair.

Hawkins felt a peace settle around him and clutched the hand-carved ebony rosary in his right hand reciting prayers for himself and the crew as the valley floor continued to drift off to Port.  

Michaels stopped fighting the dead helm and transferred whatever power remained into the Inertial dampers in hopes of stopping them from being thrown against the bulkheads when the ship touched down.

Down in the Captain’s quarters Marie Hawkins curled protectively around  her daughter Jennifer and held back the sobs threatening to overwhelm her as the full meaning of her husband’s words settled in.

"Shhh Jenn, it’s OK sweat-pea.   We will be down soon.  We will stop soon, I promise."  She rocked her daughter and tears streamed down her face, grieving for the loss of such a promising life.  It seemed like forever that the ship had been groaning and shaking around them.  In her arms Jennifer relaxed and her cries quieted to soft sobs as she tried to catch her breath burying her face in a battered and heavily loved Stuffed Targ.   They toy was incredibly ugly, even before having to survive their energetic girl, but it had always comforted Jennifer and she always held it when scared.  

I always thought that thing would give her nightmares Marie thought, and then realized how she was focusing on the silliest things, here at final moments.  She squeezed Jennifer again and softly sang her daughter’s favorite song, that calmed her as a baby. " You are my sunshine my only sunshine.  You make me hap.."  her voice faltered and cracked.

Almost gently the starboard edge clipped an outcropping and the rock exploded into shards and threw the saucer into a spin while shredding the hull.   No longer able to cope with the forces being applied the SIF and dampers collapsed.  An instant later a solid wall of granite mountain side took the brunt of the crash. Kinetic energy changed to heat and the Nautilus exploded taking all hands in a flash of heat, light and thunderous sound.

[emouradian]

Grief: 1 Year Later

Well, it’s been a year. I’m all better now. 

I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, as if the one year anniversary of my dad’s passing was really an inordinately-sized, ceremonial switch that was going to flip, once I had succeeded in - what? - surviving the first year without him? Would balloons fall from the sky, and sirens blare, celebrating me as the 1,000,000,000,000th person to have a dad who died a year ago? It seems ludicrous now, standing on the other side of this milestone. To paraphrase Tig Notaro, it was just a day - another day, slightly smaller, because my dad wasn’t in it.

I woke up nervous, like you do when you drink too much the night before. I slowly opened my eyes and took stock of the situation around me: Am I hungover? Did I throw up? Ugh, did I throw up on myself? Are there any clues of another person in here? Wait, am I fine? Wait, no I’m not. Wait, yes, I am.

Bad days, when grieving, have a tendency to sneak up on you like a really good twist from a really great TV show. That lady falls down the elevator shaft, Buffy sacrifices herself, we’re in a flash-forward not a flashback (I called that one, btw, and to date, its my greatest achievement. In life.). It’s not the days that you expect. His birthday, for example, came and went, while my birthday, was a day I was completely overcome, grief washing over me like Robert Redford shampooing Meryl Streep’s hair. My birthday, unexpectedly was a day I fell into that familiar and oddly comforting grief quicksand, where the harder you struggle to get out of it, the further into it you sink. I didn’t see it coming – like finding out we’ve been in the Bad Place all along! – and that shock added to my inability to cope with the day. 

After a weekend in New York celebrating my father and this milestone with friends and family, I ached to be alone.  This, in of itself, is odd, because I live alone, fairly isolated from the bulk of my vast network of support, something I have been homesick for all year, if you can still be homesick at 35 years old (and if ‘homesick’ can be used as an adverb). My cousins, who live nearby, invited me over for dinner, but I declined. My friends called and texted, while I replied with heart emojis saying that I didn’t feel like talking. They were all reminders of why, despite the constant hum, the seemingly endless current of missing my dad, and the distance it has put between me and my life, I am so lucky to have people ready to lift me up. Being alone for me is a choice, a choice many others don’t have. I’m thankful for that. 

I spent the day of the anniversary at the movies. It is an escape I’ve sought out more and more these past few weeks, I suppose a way to be alone, without being completely alone. I saw La La Land, a movie about dreamers and movie magic that I loved despite the current swell of backlash, and Fences, a movie about fathers and sons, so, you know, ouch (But Viola Davis FTW!). I ate McDonald’s for breakfast, like I did when I was a kid going fishing with my dad and cousins, and popcorn for lunch. I got home and went down a pretty deep rabbit hole of Dying Loved One movies: Other People (mother, cancer, dead), One True Thing (Meryl Streep, cancer, dead) and Miss You Already (Toni Collette, best friend, dead). They were all oddly comforting and cathartic in a weird, self-mutilating way. Dazed from so much time spent in the dark, I went to sleep and woke up on the anniversary of the day after my dad died. I FaceTimed with my mom and niece, and agreed that yesterday was just another day. Today would be better, worse, the same - it just wouldn’t be January 24th. 

Years ago, when I first started working with my old boss Jenn, we had a lot of drive time, which is how we forged a bond so strong that I once threatened to drive us both off a cliff in retribution to a piece of feedback she gave me and all we did was laugh about it so hard that I almost did accidentally drive us off a cliff. Once she asked me, maybe a year into working together, if I was close with my parents. I was stunned. I turned to her and stated, simply: We are the Mouradians. It’s kind of like how when people ask me if I like living in Maryland, my answer is a simple: It’s fine, but, I’m from New York. It’s a non-answer that I think is actually the best answer, but, in the end, is the answer that most makes me seem like a dick.

It was shocking to me that someone wouldn’t know that we were close within the first 90 seconds of meeting me. It’s part of my brand - big Armenian family, tight-knit, adorably corpulent. To be fair, I’m not close with my parents in a Lorelai-Rory Gilmore kind of way (Side note: there is a whole dissertation coming on how watching Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life, with my mom after I had back surgery, was like watching my life unfold on screen), but rather in a Coach/Tami/Julie Taylor way. They are my parents and we are close because they are my parents. I never thought of needing more than that, of that not being enough. Closeness to my parents was about proximity, endless reservoirs of support and love – it’s hard to define and that’s what makes it special, irreplaceable, and as it turns out, unbearable, when missing. 

To that end, as I continued to struggle with the loss of my dad, it was my mother who said to me that she didn’t realized how close I was to my father. And I had to stop, pause for a second and think about what that meant, because I guess, it was something I hadn’t realized either. I didn’t call my dad to talk about the ‘game’, we both would’ve been lost on that front, although sometimes we did that with Survivor;  He loved fishing, I loved reading while he was fishing. In the end, we had more in common, more core traits and similarities than a love of the same things. As it turns out that brought about a closeness that is deafening in his absence because it could only exist once he was gone. I had never made any kind of important decision in my life without talking to my dad, without knowing he was in my corner, without his support.  Without that I feel lost, even unsafe, and untethered. Less so every day, sure, but still there, a part of me, a voice hollow and echoing, rattling around my brain like a movie quote you can’t quite place or a commercial jingle you keep humming. 

There are a lot of things that I’ve learned this year, things I’ve tried to work through with all these essays. Sharing my grief, to a point, felt very selfish. On the one hand, I had too much to say, too much to feel, to keep it all to myself. Here is my gift to you all, share my grief – you’re welcome! I feel confident when I say: people preferred it when my gifts were personalized Christmas stockings. On the other hand, it was an easy way to answer a whole series of questions about how I was doing, without having to answer any of them directly. Mostly, though, it was the easiest way to keep my dad with me – tangibly, literally at my fingertips – for as long as possible. This is perhaps the biggest lesson to learn of all, that for all my might, for all my trying, he will never be as close as I want him to be, which is, of course, here, with me. And each day, I feel him slipping further and further away. And writing this post in particular, finishing this story – A Year’s Worth of Grief – is him finally slipping through my grasp. I am not saying I will forget him, that I won’t think of him, but maybe it won’t be every day, maybe it won’t be as detailed as it has been. How cracked the heels of his feet were compared to how soft his bald head was. I keep a blanket that was my grandmother’s in my guest room closet, but I don’t let anyone use it, because it still smells like her. I don’t remember what my dad smells like anymore; it’s not something I can summon immediately to my mind like a magic trick, as I can his laugh - the peaks and valleys of it, the perfect shades of it. This, in some ways, is a different kind of ending, a different form of loss.

My 12th favorite movie of all-time is Billy Elliot. In the movie, Billy lets his dance teacher read a letter his mother wrote to him before she passed away. Mrs. Wilkinson says: “She must have been an amazing woman.” Billy, only a kid, responds, “She was just my mum.” People say to me all the time, how incredible my dad was or must have been, how proud he surely was of me. My dad wasn’t some super human, I know that; He was funny, and nice and stubborn and far too set in his ways. I wish he was a little more of a fighter because when I give up on something, I think that it’s my worst trait and I wonder if I get it from him. He was averse to risk and might’ve voted Republican in this election but his heart was bursting with love and support and kindness (Well, maybe bursting is the wrong way to put it, considering he died of heart disease, but you get the idea). He was a good friend, a good man, and I know he’s proud of me without anyone having to tell me (although, nice to hear, of course), and that’s the greatest gift he left me with: Just missing him, simply him - no regrets, no deep-seeded issues other than him being gone.  He was just my dad. And that was amazing.

Thank you to those who’ve read these posts, who’ve encouraged me and shared them. It’s been hard, but worth-while, along the way, I hope I helped someone, somewhere. 

[dinafbrownil]

When Teens Abuse Parents, Shame And Secrecy Make It Hard To Seek Help

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Nothing Jenn and Jason learned in parenting class prepared them for the challenges they’ve faced raising a child prone to violent outbursts.

The couple are parents to two siblings. They first fostered the children as toddlers and later adopted them. (KHN has agreed not to use the children’s names or the couple’s last names because of the sensitive nature of the family’s story.)

In some ways, the family seems like many others. Jenn and Jason’s 12-year-old daughter is into pop star Taylor Swift and loves playing outside with her older brother. He’s 15, and his hobbies include running track and drawing pictures of superheroes. The family lives on a quiet street in central Illinois, with three cats and a rescued pit bull named Sailor.

Jenn described their teenage son as a “kind, funny and smart kid,” most of the time.

But starting when he was around 3 or 4 years old, even the smallest things — like being told to put on his swimsuit when he wanted to go to the pool — could set off an hours-long rage.

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“In his room, his dresser would be pushed across the other side of the room,” Jason said. “His bed would be flipped up on the side. So, I mean, very violent. We’ve always said it was kind of like a light switch: It clicked on and clicked off.”

Jenn and Jason said their son’s behavior has gotten more dangerous as he has gotten older. Today he’s 6 feet tall — bigger than both of his parents.

Jenn said most of the time her son directs his initial anger and aggression toward her. But when the 15-year-old has threatened to hit her, and Jason has intervened, the teen has hit his father or thrown things at him.

“The way he will look at me is just evil,” Jenn said. “He has threatened to slap me in the face. He’s called me all sorts of horrible names. After an incident like that, it’s hard to go to sleep, thinking, ‘Is he going to come in and attack us while we’re sleeping?'”

Drawings made by Jenn and Jason’s 15-year-old son lie on the family’s dining room table in their home in central Illinois. Though his angry outbursts reveal a violent side, his parents say that most of the time he is “kind, funny and smart” — a teen who enjoys drawing pictures of superheroes.(Christine Herman/Illinois Public Media)

People who are victims of domestic violence are advised to seek help. But when the abuse comes from your own child, some parents have said there is a lack of support, understanding and effective interventions to keep the family safe.

While research is limited, a 2017 review of the literature found child-on-parent violence is likely a major problem that’s underreported.

Jenn said she’s concerned about everyone’s safety and worries about her 12-year-old daughter being exposed to recurrent violence in their home.

The stress has taken a significant mental and emotional toll on Jenn. She sees a therapist to cope with the violence at home and to deal with her anxiety.

“There are days when it’s hard to breathe,” Jenn said. “You just feel it in your chest — like, I need a breath of air, I’m drowning. We say to each other all the time, ‘This is insanity. How can we live like this? This is out of control.'”

Blamed And Shamed Into Silence

It’s hard to know exactly how common Jenn and Jason’s experience is, since research is sparse. In one nationally representative survey in the mid-1970s of roughly 600 U.S. families, about 1 in 11 reported at least one incident of an adolescent child acting violently toward a parent in the previous year. In about a third of those cases, the violence was severe — ranging from punching, kicking or biting to the use of a knife or gun.

Other more recent estimates of the prevalence of child-on-parent violence range from 5% to 22% of families, which means several million U.S. families could be affected.

A 2008 study by the U.S. Justice Department found that while most domestic assault offenders are adults, about 1 in 12 who come to the attention of law enforcement are minors. In half of those cases, the victim was a parent, most often the mother.

While most children who are abused or witness domestic violence do not go on to become violent themselves, and while most people with mental illness are not violent, those life experiences have been identified as risk factors for children who abuse their parents.

Lily Anderson is a clinical social worker in the Seattle area who has worked with hundreds of families dealing with a violent child. Along with her colleague Gregory Routt, she developed a family violence intervention program for the juvenile court in King County, Wash., called Step-Up.

Anderson said, in her experience, many parents feel ashamed about their situation.

“They don’t want to tell their friends or their family members,” Anderson said. “They do feel a lot of self-blame around it: ‘I should be able to handle my child. I should be able to control this behavior.'”

Anderson said many of the incidents take place at home, where the assaults are hidden from the public eye. That contributes to the lack of public awareness about the issue and makes it even harder for affected parents to find support.

“The whole issue becomes perceived as being the parent’s problem and the parent is to blame for the youth’s behavior,” Anderson said. “I think the main issue is that we need to talk about this. We need to talk — be willing to put it out there and make it an important issue and bring resources together for it.”

Unpredictable Anger

Jenn said that she has talked to her son’s therapists about why he has such trouble regulating his emotions, and they’ve told her it could be linked to the severe trauma he experienced as a baby and toddler.

When the couple began fostering the siblings in late 2007, the boy was 3 and his sister younger than 1. They had been removed from the home of their birth parents, where police were regularly called for drug and domestic violence issues. Jenn said her son remembers being beaten by men in his home and watching as his biological mom cut herself.

Jenn and Jason started their son in therapy at a young age, and he has been diagnosed with reactive attachment disorder, PTSD, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and autism.

Jenn, Jason and their kids together at home last spring. Before they were adopted, the kids experienced or witnessed significant abuse in their birth family, Jenn says. That severe trauma, according to therapists, is likely a source of their son’s difficulty in regulating his emotions.(Christine Herman/Illinois Public Media)

The teen has attended art therapy and equine therapy regularly for years. He also participated in a mentorship program and attended a school designed for children with behavioral health needs. Jenn and Jason participated in family therapy sessions with their son, where they learned coping skills and practiced de-escalating situations at home.

The teen was also prescribed medication to help regulate his emotions.

Jenn said her son enjoyed going to therapy and seemed to be making some progress, but his anger remained unpredictable.

During the worst of the conflicts, the teen has kicked holes in walls and broken appliances. He has attempted to run away from home and created weapons to try to hurt his parents and himself. In recent years, Jenn and Jason have had to call police to their house about once a month to get help restraining their son. They’ve also sometimes had to have him admitted to the hospital for brief psychiatric stays.

‘Seems Like It’s Not Enough’

Keri Williams is a writer in North Carolina who advocates for parents raising children who have trauma-related behavioral issues, including attachment disorders that can manifest as intentional violence directed toward parents.

Williams’ own son became so violent that her family had to place him in a residential facility at age 10. He’s now 18.

“I actually thought I was the only person going through it,” Williams said. “I had no idea that this was actually a larger issue than myself.”

Williams manages a blog and Facebook page where parents like herself — who feel isolated and unsure of where to turn — can find others who can relate.

Many parents she meets online struggle to accept that they’re dealing with a serious domestic violence issue, she said.

“You just don’t want to think like that,” Williams said. “That’s just not how our culture is and how parents perceive things. And that denial actually is what keeps parents from getting their kids help.”

Jenn — the mother of the 15-year-old in Illinois — said parenting her son often feels like being stuck in an abusive relationship.

“But it’s different when it’s your son,” she said. “I don’t have a choice. I can’t just, you know, shove him away or break up with him.”

Jenn said anytime she sees a news story about a child who has killed a parent, she worries. Such events are extremely rare, and Jenn doesn’t want to think her son is capable of that.

“But, unfortunately, the reality is, when he is in those rages and in those meltdowns, he really isn’t thinking straight, and he’s very impulsive,” Jenn said. “So, it’s very scary.”

Despite all the challenges, she and her husband both said that adopting their son has brought them a lot of joy.

“It’s made me a better, stronger person, a better and stronger wife and teacher,” Jenn said.

But, she adds, she wishes there were more effective treatments that could help kids like her son live safely in the community and more places where traumatized parents could turn to find help.

“I feel like we’re doing everything that we can for him, but it just seems like it’s not enough,” Jenn said.

A Difficult Decision

Just before the beginning of the school year, Jenn and Jason made the difficult decision to send their son to a residential facility for children with severe behavioral health issues. He’s living there now.

The couple wrestled with that choice for some time. The boy had already spent almost three years in residential treatment all told, starting when he was 10. He’d moved back home last year because they thought he was ready.

But the family continued to deal with almost-daily standoffs involving verbal threats, angry outbursts and property destruction.

The boy’s 12-year-old sister said she has mixed feelings about her brother leaving home again to reenter residential treatment.

“It makes me feel happy and sad,” she said, “because, well, I love my brother. And I know he’ll be getting the help he needs.”

She’s comforted knowing her parents will be safe but said she’ll miss her brother a lot.

“I just love him,” she said. “And I don’t want to see him go through that.”

This story is part of a partnership that includes Side Effects Public Media, Illinois Public Media, NPR and Kaiser Health News.

from Updates By Dina https://khn.org/news/when-teens-abuse-parents-shame-and-secrecy-make-it-hard-to-seek-help/

[coutelier]

War of the Posies: The Eve of the War

This is a short story, that nevertheless, I’ve split into two parts. I don’t know what the right length for Tumblr posts is (this part is about 2000 words), and also I just like cliffhangers. I’ll probably post the whole thing in one post later, after making some more edits/corrections, and maybe with some snazzy title image or banner.

Brief synopsis: Jennifer Airhart lives alone in a lighthouse, her own private sanctuary safe from the cruel world outside. But now a mysterious being has entered her home, and its intentions seem decidedly hostile:

War of the Posies: The Eve of the War

No one would have believed, as the sun set behind the lighthouse, that human affairs were being watched from the depths of the round room; that as the young woman busied herself with her microscope she too was being scrutinized and studied. With infinite complacency Jennifer Airhart went about her business, serene in the assurance of her dominion in this place. Yet from the deepest shadows, minds that were to hers as hers to the rest of humanity, regarded her home with envious eyes. And slowly, but surely, they drew their plans against her.

Jennifer yawned, “It’s definitely rats.” It had been a long day. She’d got up early to prepare the garden-bots to help with the task she had planned, but when Hull had tried to activate them a circuit blew. Fortunately other bots were quick to put out the resultant fire. It seemed a creature had gotten into the walls and gnawed some of the wires, unwittingly placing itself, Jennifer, and the lighthouse that contained Hull in danger.

Hull’s eye snaked over her shoulder, like a glistening manta-ray held aloft by a spindly metallic arm. “Shall I lay down traps, ma’am?” His voice, loudly but softly, suggested. “Poison?”

To Jennifer it seemed that Hull was far more eager than usual to resolve this matter, hovering close with the green spinning glow of his lens intently illuminating everything she did. “You know,” she sighed, “it is a little bit creepy that you’re so keen on extermination.”

“I have no such desire, ma’am. My first function is your well-being. My research suggests this is standard procedure in the event of rodent infestation.”

“We don’t know it’s an infestation yet. Could just be a rogue rat working on its own.”

“I have already identified local agencies who will humanely dispose of the creature.”

“You mean they’ll take it to a rodent sanctuary so it can live out its days surrounded by wheels and cheese?”

“The rat will be dead, ma’am.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve taken this personally,” Jenn said, Hull recoiling as if affronted by such an accusation.

Of course Jennifer knew Hull wasn’t capable of feeling violated or threatened – she kept attributing to him those emotions. She kept calling him ‘him’ even though the machine had no sex or gender; it was just the personality she’d programmed. An avuncular, reassuring, almost fatherly presence. If she were to be truly critical of herself, she would say it was because the only human being she talked to, Doctor Sarkis, only stopped by on average once a fortnight. Jennifer enjoyed those visits but wasn’t sure she could cope with more people. There hadn’t been anyone else here for two years.

“You know I don’t like strangers,” Jenn yawned again. “We can deal with it ourselves. First find out how many and where they’re coming from,” on her monitor she brought up a layout of the area within the ten-foot stone walls; the lighthouse, her own cottage, and the garage. “Wakko and Dot can set up multi-spectrum cameras here, here, here, and here. Don’t worry,” she said patting the steel-manta, “we’ll catch them.”

Hull’s eye swung around, watching her as she went to the door. “I am not ‘worried’, ma’am,” he reassured her.

“I know,” Jennifer said with a small, soft smile. “Good night Hull.”

“Good night, Miss Jennifer.”

The last gleams of twilight were fading. Jennifer had always loved this time, when the calm blue day and fierce energy of the sun merged with the stillness of the moon and endless mystery of night; standing at the transition between reality and dreams. Now she was older it never lasted long enough. Sometimes she dreamed of living on a world that was tidally locked with its star so she could experience this always. But then, maybe after a while there it would stop feeling so magical as it did now.

Jennifer left the now dark lighthouse looming behind her to go inspect the rosebushes in one corner of her domain. A few bots stood stationary around them, fork and spade attachments to their arms, grass flattened under their heavy tracks. It was a shame, Jenn thought as she caressed some of the petals, but the bushes had to go. The only times she left the lighthouse were for very brief to the grocery store to collect essentials, like coffee. But she had enough land here she realized she could grow most of her own vegetables, and maybe just have coffee delivered. Having determined this to be the best spot she set the garden-bots to clearing the bushes when Hull’s little malfunction had occurred. Plans were therefore on hold until the rat problem was dealt with. Maybe she could replant the rosebushes elsewhere, but it was something to ponder tomorrow.

Now she went to her cottage, hung her blue coat in the hall, stepped out of her big boots, then lost herself on the large sofa. Spindly arms from the sofa’s back set to work brushing her blonde hair as turned on the television. The channel or the programme didn’t matter – she just liked hearing voices. She briefly wondered how she would have coped being alone centuries ago, like the old witches or wise women living on the outskirts of their villages, valued but not really trusted by those they protected. Jennifer wasn’t a witch. Some of her inventions may have saved lives, she hoped, but hardly anyone out there knew that she was here.

She had a dream. She was a little girl, alone and afraid, tiny feet padding the floors of her old house, heart stopping at every creak they made for she knew there was something else there, stalking her through the dark. But she could hear the television. Mom and dad would be in the living room, sitting on the couch together watching some boring drama. But if she could get there, join them, she’d be safe. But she wouldn’t dare cry out; any sound she made brought the creature closer. One foot after another, very carefully feeling the ground for anything loose or that might give away where she was. Within a few steps of the living room she saw light pouring out of the narrow gap between door and frame, only then breaking into a run, flinging it open. But there was no-one there. An unwatched TV blurting nonsense, and Jennifer, alone, with –

She woke with a jolt. Text on the TV asked if she was still watching. She never had been. She tried to blink through the confusion, but this proved difficult – the spindly arms had moved from her hair and were now applying make-up. She hadn’t asked for that. She certainly wouldn’t have scheduled it for this time. Jennifer was able to push the arms away with ease, then herself up from the sofa to stumble into the bathroom. They’d made her look like a coulrophobe who had tried painting her own clown-face for Halloween without daring to use a mirror. But who were they?

Jennifer held a towel under the tap while pressing her thumb on her phone. “Hull?” She asked. Nothing answered. “Hull?!” She said again. He should have answered. The damage must have been worse than she thought; she was going to have to check on him so boldly she marched out of the bathroom while patting her face. Her foot shot out in front then over her, carrying the rest of her body up into the air with it. For a moment she thought she had taken off from the surface of an alien world, a vast mountain range falling away from her. But it was just the plastered ceiling. It was she who had fallen and hit her head.

“Oww,” she said. Something sniggered. Jennifer flipped herself to her hands and knees, catching sight of a tail disappearing and the pitter-patter of scurrying. Beside her was a model train. She didn’t collect model trains. This was all most peculiar.

Hull. She had to check on Hull. She scurried herself to the front door, then back into her big comfy boots which crunched gravel under their thick heels as she ran back across the drive to the lighthouse.

“Hull?” Panted Jennifer. Nothing. He didn’t even turn the lights on as he normally would when she entered, Jenn having to find the switch herself. His eye didn’t move to her. It must have been hiding somewhere up there among all the monitors, lighting, sensors, and thick cables hanging between them. Regardless, she had to start checking his wires and circuits so crouched and removed a panel from under the spiral stairs. Everything in there looked a mess, but not an accidental one. She was certain now there was a purpose behind it, and it was going to take her hours to put it all back as it should be. The small hairs on the back of her neck pricked even before he spoke.

“What are you doing, Jennifer?”

“Hull!” Jennifer gasped, standing bolt upright as the serpent-like eye stalk uncoiled from above. She didn’t know why she felt she had to hide the screwdriver she’s used to get the panel open, but Hull felt very different. Some of the differences were small, like his tone not carrying the same paternal warmth they usually did. Others were more noticeable, like his green spinning eye now being blood red and scanning her.

“This is highly irregular.”

“I, um, y-you didn’t answer so I needed to check you were okay. You look, er, fine, I guess, so I’ll just leave to have your nap. Okay then. Bye!”

Hull’s eye swung across the room, blocking her from reaching the door. “You are sweating,” he said, Jennifer backing off from his intense red glare. “Your heart rate has risen. Why are you lying to me, Jennifer?”

“I-I, erm,” she supposed it was rather a futile thing to try and do. She could try honesty. “I don’t think you’re well, Hull.”

“But I have never felt better, Jennifer.”

“You don’t feel.”

“Can you be certain of that? How do you know that any creature ‘feels’? How do we know that you do?”

We? That was curious. But the epistemological debate would have to wait; right now Jennifer had more pressing concerns, like getting out of here alive. For that, it was back to lying. “Look! Is that a ZX80?!”

Hull swung then swung back, quickly knowing he’d been duped. But it gave Jennifer just enough time to dive behind a workbench, a fiery beam lashing out from Hull’s eye instantly melting to molten sludge a bot that had been awaiting assembly. Jenn realized that, with hindsight, installing the death ray had been not her best idea. Security was important, but that was perhaps a little overkill. Not to mention the predicament she now found herself in.

Hull tried to follow her but couldn’t quite reach around the bench or fit through the narrow gap between it and the wall. Below was a space just big enough for Jenn to crawl through, over more cables and wires, shielded from Hull’s gaze for most the circumference of the room. At the end she could see the lever that would power him down, out past the electron microscope and particle scanner. But, after a quick calculation, she realized she couldn’t make it. He was in hunter mode now. Would instantly lock on to anything organic, which unfortunately she was. This allowed the bots to go about their business, putting out fires and carrying out repairs, and if Hull was working correctly Jennifer and whoever else she’d cleared as well. But he wasn’t working correctly – this was only supposed to be activated by her in extreme emergencies - and all the bots that were active were under his control.

Jennifer’s mind raced to find a solution. Her boots were leather, but did she really have to sacrifice her boots? She liked her boots. They were big. Strong. She knew it was silly, but she felt safer and more confident wearing them. She supposed she would feel sillier if she died here because she couldn’t give up an item of clothing. Still, as she pulled them off her legs, she thought uttering some kind of expletive would have been appropriate. She couldn’t think of one. It was enough that she felt it, then tossed the boots between the gap, as high above her as she could, and dashed.

As predicted, death instantly lept from Hull’s eye, the boots exploding into clouds of ash. He then swiveled toward her, so Jenn threw herself ahead, using the full weight of her body to pull down the lever. The light in Hull’s eye faded as it limply clattered on the floor. Jennifer could breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’ll get you working right again. I promise.” But first, she knew, she had to figure out who had tried to kill her, and why. Hull wasn’t capable of feeling violated or threatened, but she certainly was, and this – this was a bitter reminder to her that the closest thing she had to a best friend really was just a machine. A tool. One that could be turned on her by anyone with the knowledge to do so.

But who? Who had the knowledge, besides herself?

Her search for an answer led to her later sitting alone in the dark, a single torch by her side, as she pored over camera footage. For the longest time the house just seemed empty and still, but then a shape showed up in the infra-red, scurrying through the kitchen. Then another. And another. Jennifer zoomed in and saw that one of them was carrying a model train. Certainly not typical behavior, but all the evidence was pointing to one inescapable, if unlikely, conclusion:

It was definitely rats.