#i just saw a video of a like eleven or twelve year old girl approach her mom's car when she got home from work and without even saying hello

[lilaccatholic]

Physically I'm here but mentally I'm clawing the eyes out of everyone who talks crap about their children on the internet and posts them in their most vulnerable moments for clout

[kissestothesky]

Elevator (PART 1)

This is my first time writing fanfiction ('cause writing on Wattpad at twelve years old doesn't count, right?) so take it easy on me, pls. Also, wanted to point out that English is not my first language, you are most likely going to find thousen grammar errors here, I apologize.

Pairing: Namjoon (RM) x OC

Summary: Namjoon meets Nabi for the first time.

Word Count:  1103

Warnings: None

Nabi took a sip of her coffee. The old coffee machine, on the second floor, still had the worst coffee in the entire building, watered down and sour. However, it was the only place where she could take it in peace, without having Jack, the cameraman, hooked to her side.

“Bibi! Bibi!” Elsie exclaimed drawing her friend's attention. 

Nabi saw the girl gliding toward her and inevitably crashing into her right arm before she could move. The dark concoction splashed onto her white shirt and Elsie's blonde hair. 

“Watch out!” She said even though it was too late.

“Oh, I'm so sorry…” the blonde answered, before starting to quickly remove napkins from the napkin holder on the small aluminum table next to the coffee machine. “Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” She questioned, snatching the ball of napkins from her colleague's hand.

“BTS”

“Hum?”

“BTS” Elsie repeated, her voice higher than usual, excited as a teenager. “They’ve already arrived.” She continued while Nabi rubbed her shirt frustrated. 

She made an affirmative sound. She didn’t understand Elsie's euphoria over a boy band, her friend was almost thirty, too old to make such a scandal... of course if instead of BTS it was the Jonas Brothers, who Nabi was crazy about in her teenage years, she would also be jumping from side to side like a schoolgirl.

“Well, they are going to appear on the show today…” she replied not very impressed. “Maybe if you meet Bella in the makeup room, she'll let you stay and say hi.”

“I asked her before. They will bring their own staff, they will do their makeup.”

“Oh, well…” Nabi tossed the tissues in the bin, still staring at her shirt. She had no idea if the coffee stains would go away, but knowing how bad it was, she for sure would have to end up throwing the shirt away after only wearing it once. “Why do I feel like you're asking me for something…” she mumbled when she saw Elsie's sad puppy face.

“You could ask for an assistant... being the translator is tough work, the big boss will understand that you might need help” the blonde pleaded, clasping her hands.

"Elsie..." Nabi muttered when she heard footsteps approaching "That is too much to ask"

Just after that, a young man appeared holding a stack of papers and misplaced headphones. He hadn’t worked at the company for long, maybe a couple of months, everyone knew him though, but Nabi never managed to remember his name.

"You are the translator right?" The boy asked pointing at her with a pen "Ben has been waiting for you for ten minutes"

Nabi nodded and started to walk towards the elevator as she took her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. 10:15 am. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

When she came out of Ben's dressing room fifteen minutes later, Nabi was exhausted. Keeping her mouth shut had never been one of her talents, besides that man would make anyone lose their patience. It was one thing to scold her and quite another to try to humiliate her.

“As the host of the show, I can't allow there to be such unprofessional workers." He had told her even though that had been the first time that Nabi had been late. "You know how many people out there are capable of translating a couple of words as you do..." He continued, trying to impress the young makeup artist, who was trying to contain a giggle.

By then it was too late to entertain herself looking for a top that would fit her, so she grabbed the first shirt she found and got back into the elevator. Inside was a man whom she only politely greeted without giving him a single glance. The ride was short, but the elevator was old and had broken down a few times in the past month, so it was slow enough for Nabi to change her top before the doors opened. She heard a slight sound as if the man had opened his mouth to say something but closed it immediately when he saw her unbutton her shirt. Nabi didn’t care too much, she had only been at work for a few hours and the day had felt too long, besides she had never been too modest. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The shirt was too tight and thin, her bra could be seen through the fabric but at least it was not stained. She sighed and met the eyes of the man, who was staring at her, through the mirror. Nabi's eyes widened, recognizing him. He was one of the BTS guys, she had no idea what his name was but she had seen enough videos to know that he was one of the rappers. 

"I, uh ... I, well ..." She didn't know what to say, if it had been anyone else, she wouldn't have bothered to say anything, but he was one of the guests on the show and it already had enough bad reviews. "My shirt was stained" she explained in Korean hoping that was enough for him not to tell.

"I see" The rapper answered sweetly when he saw the girl's sudden anguish.

The doors opened, Nabi bowed, as her grandmother had taught her, and the boy did the same before she hurried out.

“Jesus Christ, can the day be any worse?” She murmured to herself as she hurried down the hall.

In fact, it could. At eleven o'clock they had started recording videos of small sketches that would come out throughout the week. Nabi had stayed off-camera, translating every word said, and unlike how relaxed she normally felt she couldn't stop moving uncomfortably. The boy's eyes, RM as he had introduced himself before starting, were constantly on her as were those of the other boys. She couldn't decide if it was because of the elevator scene, the shirt that wasn't her size, or the constant rocking from side to side. 

They then had a lunch break and the boys did not return until late in the afternoon. By then Nabi had changed, eaten, and calmed down. Her strange behavior was due to her feeling susceptible after talking to Ben. She wasn't used to making mistakes. 

"Good job, girl," the director said to her when Ben's interview with BTS was over.

Nabi took off her headphones and set them on the table. "Thanks" she replied as the man tapped her lightly on the shoulder. No one said anything else. BTS performed a couple of songs and the show ended.

[etregan]

The island empire

The small island empire of Kero a nation that has finally after a century of closed economic success has finally opened its gates and is allowing those from the outside world to visit its shores. Only recently noted as a superpower by the rest of the world due to massive technological advancements they have decided to allow people to enter and explore their country, they have a lovely island empire situated near the equator giving them lovely weather and climate. To the outside world it is unknow what they grow and produce on the main island and the chains of other islands that are situated under the protection of the Kero empire. There is one thing we know; this is not a standard empire nor do humans live within it. From what we know of the empires political structure they have three royal houses each running and governing a separate aspect of the empire.  

The face to the world and apparent head of the three family's is Yoroe Kyuu she is a golden-haired woman but not much else is known about her as all of her appearances to the outside world have been brief and through voice calls and the very occasional video conference. Iyumi Sayuri is probably the one that is most well know the leader of their military units and head general of their army a black-haired woman with purple eyes who rules over the island territories. She has yet to be defeated in a combat encounter and has generally been able to keep a level head over herself during political discussions. The head of their scientific divisions and head researcher on secret programs is Tsuzuki Chie a red-haired woman of slight stature and build never seen without the protection of several personally assigned guards. She is very reclusive and has never been seen at a political conference even among the other rulers of the empire. Each of them rules their separate section of the empire and rules together with the others voting among themselves on laws and rules that should be applied to the empire. 

The borders of the empire have opened and soon people will be enjoying the beaches and sights of the empires lovely island home. There probably is one thing I should mention about the residents of these islands though and that is as I said earlier, they are not human not a single human life on these islands and they probably never will. But I will let you all discover who and what lives here for yourselves as our ship has just arrived. With that final sentence the shutters of the large cruise ship opened the sun had been bright and I asked the automatic shutters to close outside I could see a long dock leading to white sand beaches and crystal-clear blue water. A smile crossing my face as I turn off the video I had been watching and stood up putting my phone into my pocket and grabbing my suitcase. I began to walk towards the gangplank of the ship exited to get off and begin exploring. This nation has boasted a massive number of natural landmarks and beautiful sights. First however I would have to check into my hotel they had recently been built by the nation to accommodate the human population that they expected to come into their home. 

Walking down the gangplank of the ship I smiled the warmth of the sun washing over me. That’s when I first laid eyes on a natural inhabitant of the islands I had no idea what to expect but it wasn’t that. Standing on the docks where people all women not a single man In sight, the one that caught my eyes was wearing a black military uniform with long tied back read hair and what shocked me most of all the pair of fox ears ticking up from her hair and the large bushy tail that swayed in the breeze behind her. It was obvious that I was staring, and she smiled nodding at me as I walked by. It was a simple matter for me to find the hotel I had booked a stay in a large building stretching towards the clear blue skies a young woman greeted me at the entrance and showed me to my room a top floor sweet for my month long trip around the islands natural and manmade wonders. The room I was led into was lovely it had a terrace looking over the port town I was stopping over in before heading out to the nation's capital to stay and begin exploring. There were a few close by wonders that I had booked tour guides for and was glad I had as apparently all the people here at least that I had seen where rather beautiful women. I placed my bag down and smile as I slip my shoes off and got into bed, the buffet down in the lobby wasn’t open though. It was rather lovely here and I could smell the salt water wafting in through the window the soft warm sea breeze rolling in ad warming me and the room. 

After a lovely dinner and nights rest in the hotel I went downstairs for breakfast, I greatly enjoyed that breakfast but out of the corner of my eye I caught the slightest afterimage of a red ponytail darting behind a wall out of my sight but brushed it off. While eating I asked staff about costumes and things, I shouldn’t do smiling and laughing with staff over misconceptions. The people here spoke very good English, but it was clear through accents and mispronunciations that where common with people using a second language. I smile and finish my meal while walking out of the building and towards the nearby forest I had arranged to meet my first tour guide in the city but out on the outskirts of it. I smiled as I saw a woman with lovely blond hair standing and holding up a sign with the name ‘August Genor’ my name. I approached her smiling.  

“Hello, are you my guide that’s my name on the sign your holding up.” I smiled asking very candidly as I pointed up at the sign. 

“Ah yes mister August its very nice to meet you we have a few places to hit today.” she smiled as she began packing the sign I noticed she wasn’t looking at me but behind me and turned around to try and see what she was looking at. I noticed nothing but shrugged maybe it was something I didn’t understand yet. After she finished packing up the sign, she stood up smiling brightly at me. “okay let's get going.” she had on a large bulky hiking backpack as she turned back towards the woods and began to walk waving for me to follow. 

I smiled and followed her listening to her as she went over and explained a few customs I hadn't learned for when visiting some of the sights she was taking me to handing me a small bag of salt and rice along with a bottle of water instructing me to keep hydrated as today was supposed to get extremely hot. I nodded and immediately took a swig of the water, strongly it tasted sweet, but I thought it may be just some residue from my breakfast lingering in my mouth. I didn’t mind the sweet water though it was actually kind of enjoyable. As we walked, I enjoyed explanations of flora and fauna that we saw as I was led down paths through dense woods and jungle. That’s when we arrived at the first site the thundering sound of water rushing down cliffs as we arrived at Seko falls bright colored flowers grew around the boiling basin at the bottom of the falls. A smile formed on my face as I stared down at the massive display the sweet smell of flowers and salt water wafting through the air as I felt a prick in my neck. Turning around I caught the glimpse of red again as a needle was removed from my neck and my body fell limp, I heard a voice I didn't recognize.  

“One target acquired, transport to the city requested at Seko falls.” that was all I heard as my eyes slammed shut and everything went black. I could feel movement as I slept. the next time my eyes opened I was no longer in the jungle around me lay a sterile white room nothing, but a single window graced its walls. Attempting to get up I realized rather quickly that my hands and legs where bound down to a cold metal table. 

My eyes dart around the room as I looked for any sign of another person, I heard a door open with a mild whoosh behind me outside of my field of vision. Stepping in front of me was a woman taller that the last with four scarlet red tails swaying behind her and smiling as she looked back at the window. Flowing down her shoulders where crimson red locks of heir nearly done into a bun as her ears twitched a small earpiece planted in one of them. She nodded as she waved and a cart was rolled over in front of her.  

“Hello there dear it's your lucky day. You get to become a member of our glorious nation and your special.” she smiled as she reached out a finger bopping my nose as she spoke reaching down with her other hand and grabbing a syringe with a swift movement she jabbed the needle into my exposed arm and pushed down the plunger the smile never leaving her face as she removed it and placed the needle in a orange box for disposal. She waited for the serum inside the syringe to begin to take effect clapping as she noticed the first of the changes. 

As soon as the plunger of the syringe was pushed down, I yelped out in pain feeling the effects begin to affect my insides as they burnt, and I felt strange my face beginning to round crack and change. It shifted and warped as my eyes grew larger and took on a purple color but that wasn’t know yet as after the pain of the injection, I had squeezed my eyes shut squirming against my bonds as I felt my fingers and hand shrink cracking and changing growing longer and more feminine my arms shrunk down as the bonds moved closer together my limbs legs and arms lost length as they proportioned themselves to something closer to a ten or twelve year old's the bonds tightening around my wrists so I couldn’t break free. It hurt as I felt my waist begin to pull in and torso shrink growing smaller like my head, hands, arms, and legs. My body proportions where no longer that of an adult male but simply that of a young eleven-year-old girl my chest grew sensitive as my hips pushed out and thighs grew a little thicker. My feet began to shrink compressing to properly fit my bodies size. My hair then began to grow slowly shifting and changing as it extended down below my shoulders and began to change color. It grew black in color as I began to get a splitting headache suddenly everything in the room got much louder as I heard a faint few words of someone happily cheering from behind the glass pane in the wall. I had grown a pair of extremely soft black fox ears and felt something very fluffy and soft forming under my back as a large very soft fox tail formed. My eyes fluttered open as I heard even more cheering in the vain of “yes she has my eyes yes.” with those words heard a mask was placed over my mouth a gas being pumped into me as I passed out again. Just before I fell int unconsciousness I heard a pop from down below realizing what had happened I wasn’t me anymore I was a girl now. 

While asleep I felt something being slipped on my formerly naked body then more movement. I woke up a long time later and shook my head my black hair scattering around me as I open my gleaming purple eyes. I was no longer in the sterile white room instead of a cold metal table I felt the soft plush of a comfortable and large bed under me sitting up I brushed black hair from my eyes and heard the lapping of waves against rock from nearby. I felt ward nice and warm as looking to my right a large glass paneled wall leads out to a terrace the gleaming blue ocean rolling into the distance as far as my eyes could see. I was very confused I felt my new body my hands running over super soft nice fabric that was covering me an off shoulder top hanging over my slender shoulders as I began to stand up my legs wobbly as I walked over to a door in the wall pushing open the pane of glass a calming breeze hit me a wafting wind smelling of salt wafted into my room. I heard the other door to the room open and a calming voice spoke. 

[bc] “Welcome home dear I hope you enjoy the view.” 

 💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮💮

(okay as this is a plot, I want to do some talking now that the story is over as this story is the basis of a plot I would love to do first off. 

Personalities of the big three: 

Yoroe Kyuu: She is stern and strict demanding the best of her children and only praising them when they succeed. She runs the finances of the empire and is their political face 

Iyumi Sayuri: She is extremely kind and lighthearted wanting the best for her children and has a keen mind, she loves games. She will always pamper children and only puts on a stern face when in military situations. 

Tsuzuki Chie: Having a scientific mind and being very analytical she is somewhat cold and distant to those outside of her family. When at home and relaxing she unwinds greatly enjoying anything but talk of work 

Now that that is out of the way lets get onto the transformations that can be used here. 

Male to female(required unless you start as female) 

Kitsune(required) 

Ar(minor)(not required start as teen) 

Mental(science or magic up to how you chose to do it)(making us docile and want to live there not required if your character likes their new life.) 

That’s really it hope you all enjoy ^-^)

[star-chlld]

This is my ML secret santa for @crypticcravings. It’s kind of the friends-since-childhood-au. I hope you like it! @mlsecretsanta

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When Marinette was five, her mommy took her to the park. It was a regular occurrence for her. One parent would take over the bakery, and the other would bring her to the park for an hour or so. Today was no exception. As her mommy sat down on the bench next to another woman, Marinette ran to the playground. There were lots of kids today, and so many people to play with. But then Marinette her crying, and yelling. She hated it when people cried.

Turning around in circles, she finally found the source of the noise. Behind the twisty slide, her favorite, was a group of older kids. Marinette recognized them as the second graders that liked to sneer and yell at her class across the playground at school. It the middle was a small boy, her age, with tears flowing down his cheeks as the other boys yelled and kicked at him. Marinette also hated bullies. She couldn’t stand them.

Stomping over to them, Marinette yelled as fiercely as she could, “Hey! Leave him alone!” All the heads swiveled in her direction. Two of the boys looked scared that they had been found out, but the third jeered back, “Ya? Make me, jerk!” Marinette had never been called a jerk before, and she didn’t like it one bit. Her pigtails bouncing, she walked right up to the bully. “I will tell your mommy.” She threatened, staring him right in the eyes. His grin dropped.

“Fine. We’ll go.” He said reluctantly, before leading the other two boys away.

Marinette tentatively approached the younger boy. He sat on the woodchips, his head in between his knees, long arms wrapped around himself. He shook as he cried.

Marinette sat down next to him. “It’s okay. I made them go away.” She said, hoping that would make him feel better. He lifted his head and looked at her. Messy, golden hair covered his green eyes, and the front of his striped t-shirt was wet with tears.

“You did?” He said in awe. Marinette held out her hand to him like she had seen her parents do for customers. “Yep! I’m Marinette.”

The boy shook her hand, just as he had seen his parents do. He still shook and his breathing was ragged, but wasn’t crying anymore. “I’m Adrien.”

Marinette gasped suddenly, jumping to her feet. “ I know what will make you happy!” She cried out. “My mommy brought cookies! Come on! Come on!” Not even waiting for Adrien to stand completely, the elated little girl grabbed his arm and dragged him to the bench where her mother was chatting with the woman next to her. “Mommy, this is Adrien. He needs a p-pick him up. Can we have cookies?” The other lady gasped.

“Adrien, sweetheart! What happened?” As Adrien explained how Marinette had heroically saved him, Marinette studied the woman. She was probably Adrien’s mom. She had a slender face, and the same green eyes and golden hair as him. She stroked his hair as he talked.

When Adrien was finished, Marinette’s mom held out a chocolate chip cookie to him. Adrien devoured it in one bite. He looked at Marinette, who was nibbling on her cookie, and said, “Do y-you want to go play?” She nodded enthusiastically, and together they ran to the playground.

The sky was turning pink and orange when Marinette’s mommy came to get her to go home. The two five year olds were having a contest to see who could swing the highest. “Come on honey, I’ve left your papa alone far too long.” She said. Marinette hopped off her swing, and Adrien’s came to a stop.

“Do you have to go?” He asked. Marinette nodded sadly.

Adrien’s mom walked up beside Marinette’s. “Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t play together again. Say goodbye, I’m sure you’ll see each other soon.”

Adrien jumped off the swing and gave Marinette a hug. Arms still wrapped each other, Adrien whispered, “Marinette, I think you’re my best friend.”

“Me too.”

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They day Marinette discovered fashion, she was eleven. She had replaced going to the park with helping her parents bake, but still had regular play dates with Adrien.

“Mom, how do people make their own clothes?” She asked one night. Sabine chuckled.

“Well, they would cut out the right patterns and sew them together. Add some embellishments, maybe.” She checked to make sure Marinette knew what embellishments meant, but her daughter was no longer listening. Marinette’s eyes sparkled.

“That sounds awesome! I could make my clothes anyway I wanted them too! I could have pockets!” Marinette gushed. Sabine put her book down and smiled.

“Not so fast! Sewing takes practice and hard work. You can’t just immediately sew perfectly.” This didn’t phase Marinette. For her next birthday, she got a sewing machine and a pile of scrap material.

The day Marinette's parents sat her down and told her that Adrien’s mom disappeared, she was barely twelve. She knew immediately that she had to do something for Adrien. Marinette ran to her sewing machine and began to sew.

The next day, her project was finished in record time. She nervously walked to Adrien’s house, the gift in a wrapped shoe box. Adrien’s dad answered the door. He was a big, imposing figure. Marinette had never spoken to him until now. “H-hello! I’m h-here to see Adrien?” Wordlessly, Gabriel let her past, but Marinette couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were red, like he had been crying.

Marinette hurried to Adrien’s room. She entered quietly. He was playing an arcade game, but obviously didn’t care about it. “Adrien? Can we talk? I have something for you.” As she got closer, she could see that Adrien’s tears were much fresher than his dad’s.

Marinette put her arms around him, and he didn’t fight, just leaned into the hug. “I’m sorry,” She whispered into his hair, “Don’t worry. They’ll find her.” Adrien looked down, noticing the shoe box.

“What’s that?” He asked, trying to change the subject. People had been saying they were sorry all day. He didn’t want to add his best friend to the list of people who pity him. Marinette handed him the box.

“It’s for you. I know you might miss your mom so I made this. I figured it could help, y’know?” Out of the box, Adrien drew a plushie. It was a replica of his mom. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Marinette, it’s beautiful! It looks exactly like her!” He cried.

The arcade game beeped, annoyed at being ignored. “Do you want to hang around, play some video games? I just got Mecha Strike 3.”

“That sounds great! But I call the red controller!”

“What? No! I’ll race you!” They both ran for the remote on the couch. Knocking heads, they fell against the couch, knocking it over. The friends lay on the floor, laughing.

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Marinette’s and Adrien’s life changed forever when they were sixteen. Unbeknownst to the other, they had been superheros for two years now. There was no one Marinette trusted more than Chat Noir, and no one Adrien trusted more than Ladybug.

It had been a rough morning. Two akumas before ten o’clock, the first at two in the morning and the second at eight. Marinette and Adrien had gotten no sleep, and no break.

Ladybug collapsed on the top of the Eiffel tower, Chat Noir not-so-gracefully landing beside her. They leaned against each other and the tower. “I don’t want to go to school.” Ladybug sighed finally. “I have a test in one class. An essay in another, and two hours of sleep.”

Chat Noir groaned, as if he had forgotten that he had to go to school. “Me too, Bugaboo, me too. Although I still wish you would tell me where you go to school. Or how old you are. Or what your birthday is!”

“I told you! We can’t risk it! Anyway, we don’t have to go to school quite yet. Let’s just sit here for a …. minute.”  Chat was asleep as soon as she said school. Ladybug was asleep as soon as she finished talking. They didn’t even hear their miraculouses beep.

               *                                     *                                       *                          “They are dead. She doesn’t come to school, doesn’t respond to my texts, and now I’ve found that they’ve been cuddling on top of the Eiffel Tower this entire time?”

“Alya, babe, cut them a little slack…”

“Slack?! He didn’t text either! They’ve been gone all day! I’ve been worried sick!”

“I’m sure they had a good reason.”

“They’ve better.” Alya growled as she paced in front of the sleeping, untransformed heroes. Nino stood behind her, trying to abate the fury a little. School had gotten over hours ago. The sun was going down, and Marinette and Adrien had slept through it all. Now, Alya’s shouting was waking them up.

Adrien and Marinette slowly opened their eyes. They looked at each other, brains not processing what they saw. Marinette realized what was going on first. She jumped to her feet, jumping back but running into Alya. Whirling around, Marinette came face to face with Alya’s death glare.

Adrien got to his feet, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Sorry to interrupt your staring contest, but what the heck is going on?” He exclaimed, pushing the hair out of his eyes. “I just remember falling asleep this morning, and it wasn’t with Marinette…”

“It wasn’t with Marinette?” Alya shrieked, “Well then who the heck was it with?” Adrien rubbed his feet together.

“C’mon, dude. Just tell us.”

“ Well, it was Ladybug.”

“LADYBUG!?” Alya and Nino cried. Marinette had paled considerably.

“And when I fell asleep I was with Chat Noir…” The realization came to the two heroes at the same time, and Marinette voiced what they both were thinking. “We must have transformed in our sleep, but that means that my best friend is Chat Noir!”

Adrien yawned. “Okay. That sounds legit.”

Marinette thought for a moment before nodding. “Adrien as Chat Noir does sound about right.”

Alya and Nino were lost. “Let me get this straight.” Alya said, “You two are Ladybug and Chat Noir?” Marinette and Adrien nodded.

“Why are you both just okay with this? Why didn’t you tell us?” Nino asked. Marinette frowned.“We couldn’t. Our kwamis told us not to.”

“Speaking of Kwami, where is he?”Adrien wondered out loud. As if on cue, a small snore echoed from the other side of the balcony. The group walked towards the snore, and found Tikki and Plagg curled against each other, fast asleep.

Nino chuckled. “I’m not sure what those are but that. Is. Adorable.”

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Adrien knew that he had a team to back him up, but he could never bring himself to skip a fight. After all, he was seventeen now, and he could fight his own battles. So, sniffling and racked with coughs, Adrien leaped out of his window. Getting to the Eiffel Tower was harder than it needed to be, seeing as he kept sneezing at unconventional times. It was throwing of his balance, and Adrien ended up three miles past the Seine before he realized that the Eiffel Tower was the other way.

Adrien landed on the balcony of the Eiffel tower half an hour late. Ladybug glanced at him before asking Rena Rouge where they should patrol. Alya liked to keep track of the high crime areas, when she wasn’t fighting or blogging. After deciding that they would hang around the bar down the road from the Champ de Mars, they headed over, traveling each in their own way. Alya ran, Marinette swang using her yo-yo, Adrien jumped from building to building, Chloe flew, and Nino ran along with Alya. Sometimes he tried to keep up with Adrien, but after taking a dive off a building and scaring the team half to death, he stayed on the ground.

It was a generally uneventful night until around midnight. They had broken up a few drunken fights, escorted some people home, and now they sat on top of the bar, playing rock-paper-scissors. “Okay, Adrien, you against me. Winner takes on Alya.” Nino said, turning to his friend. Adrien was fast asleep, and even  in his leather outfit he was shivering.

“What’s wrong with him? It’s not that cold.” Chloe asked.

“He seemed sick when he got here, but it didn’t seem that bad.” Alya added.

“Do we wake him up?” Nino asked the others.

Marinette stood up. “I’ll take him home. Do you think you guys will be okay for a bit?” They all assured her that they would be fine, and Marinette nudged Adrien awake. “Come on, Chat, time to go home.” The rest of the team chuckled as Chat Noir woke up, stood and stretched, then promptly fell asleep again on Ladybug’s shoulder. Marinette wrapped her arm around his waist then swung off.

Adrien had left his window open when he left, and Marinette, barely balancing Adrien on her shoulder, jumped in and laid him on his bed. It was only when Plagg de-transformed him that he finally woke up.

“What?” He mumbled, sitting up, “How did I get home?”

“I carried you.” Marinette said, de-transforming and sitting on the bed next to him. Tikki took off to go find Plagg. “You shouldn’t come to patrol when you're sick.”

“I know, but I hate feeling useless…”

“And I get it, but it’s better to miss one patrol then to work yourself so much you have to go to the doctor.” He looked at her, confused, and she added, “Been there. Done that.”

They sat on Adrien’s bed, leaning against each other for a couple minutes of almost silence. Adrien’s sniffling was the only sound. Finally Adrien spoke up. “Marinette, you’ve been my friend for a really long time.” He started quietly. “And - and your cool and nice and an amazing hero. And what I guess I’m trying to say is - Marinette, I love you.”

Marinette was taken aback, but only for a moment. She turned to Adrien, who was staring at his hands, and took his face in her’s. “Silly cat,” she playfully chided, “I’ve loved you since the moment we met.” Taking the fact that he hadn’t moved away as a good sign, she kissed him. It was quick, on the cheek, but they both grinned and blushed. “I bet I could do better than that.” Adrien said, grinning. Marinette laughed.

“No way! You’re sick!” They both fell back on the bed.

“So. My father’s making me go to this gala, and I was thinking, it wouldn’t be torture if you came with.”

“It’s a date.”

[fmdruan]

30 2 Days of Character Development

Day 1: Questions 1-15

+ Day One: Introduce your muse. Are they solo or in a group? What is their position in the group? Consider this day the day for writing the basics.

Wish’s June, lead dancer and lead vocal of the nation’s girl group, known for her infinite knowledge of choreography and sweet, if distant, demeanor.

+ Day Two: Talk about your muse’s childhood. Where did they grow up? Did they have any dream jobs besides being an idol? When did they realize they wanted to be an idol?

Jun was born in Taipei, raised in Shanghai, and realized she wanted to be an idol only when she was approached by a recruiter. She wanted to be a dancer initially, and attend school abroad to be trained professionally. When she was fourteen, she was approached at a dance recital and was determined from that point to debut with a BC group.

+ Day Three: Take us back to when your muse was either recruited or auditioned to become an idol. How did that go? How did they feel getting up on stage for recruiters? If your muse could give their younger selves advice before the audition, what would they say?

She was scouted when she was fourteen and was just thrilled at the opportunity. Actually being in front of the recruiters and panel, she was probably too confident, too sure of herself after being approached by representatives. She danced to Run Devil Run and sang Jane Zhang’s I Do, a song by a popular Chinese singer that she knew well and knew she could sing adequately, and thought she did best of all the candidates in attendance. There were no nerves then, not until she saw the current trainees when she arrived. The advice she would’ve given is to do a different song, one that showcased her vocal potential more.

+ Day Four: Remember the trainee days? What are some of your muse’s memories of being a trainee? How long were they a trainee? Were they worried about potentially not making a debut? Talk about any challenges they might have encountered.

Jun remembers a lot of the hard parts of being a trainee, but the people who were kind to her stick out a lot more in her memories that any of those that were unkind. In her two years as a trainee, she was only really worried in her first year and a half. Once she was on a tentative debut list, she was more relaxed. That was the hard part for her, proving she could manage the language barrier, and she didn’t think she’d lose her spot to someone unless they had a better voice and more natural dance ability than she did. Her biggest challenge was learning Korean from no prior knowledge. Languages don’t come super easily to her, so in her two years, she learned enough to speak at a primary school level. She was always happy when other trainees also knew English or Mandarin because she felt more equipped to speak with them (even though her English was rusty) and try to befriend them.

+ Day Five: Recall your muse’s debut. What was the song they debuted with? How did it feel performing for the first time on stage as an idol? Feel free to bring up their thoughts about the concept, choreography, lyrics, music video, or other components.

Wish debuted with Like Ooh Ahh and it was surreal to perform for the first time. The concept was unusual compared to their seniors’ sexier ones. She loved the styling and the song admittedly was not bad, though she didn’t think it fit the styling as much as she would have liked. Her own styling was borderline inappropriate for a seventeen year old, but it worked with the group’s image, which the public seemed to adore. Pretty girls singing a sweet song about wanting a realer love? Of course they loved them. June was less sure how they’d progress as a group from there, though.

+ Day Six: What concept does your muse think they can pull off best? Cutesy? Manly? Sexy? What concept do they have a hard time pulling off? What kind of concept would they want to do at some point?

June believes her strongest concept is a mature one. Not necessarily overtly sexy, but not really bright or innocent either. Something with a little more suggestion or a little more strength is what she feels most comfortable dancing to. The only concept she really struggles with is the concept of school girls, which she has been lucky enough not to have had to do very often, as she thinks it’s a little disturbing to be seen as a sexy member in a school girl’s clothes. She would like to try something more retro & cool, or something more chic than Wish has done.

+ Day Seven: Which era is your muse’s favorite in their career? Why is it their favorite (think concept, promotions, choreography, etc.)? If your muse has recently debuted, talk about what they would want to do for their next comeback.

Her favorite era has been the Fancy era. Though it has not performed as well as some of their past, the styling and music video concept were her favorite to date, surpassing Likey as her past favorite. She likes the very slight disco feel the song itself had and, while she thought the dance should have been different and they could’ve had more variety appearances, she had some of her favorite lines and received more attention independently with the new era.

+ Day Eight: Talk about your muse’s strengths and weaknesses as an idol. Feel free to discuss their own personal thoughts regarding these components. Think of qualities such as vocals, dancing, visuals, acting skills, and variety show skills, for example.

June’s biggest strength is probably her voice. She has an interesting color and a fairly wide range that has grown stronger over the years, especially when she’s not forced to sing how BC wants her to. Her dance would be next, though she’s much less charismatic than some of the other members. In a group of visuals, she would not stand out if not for her height, but next to other idols, she draws the eye to her with her doll like appearance. Her biggest weaknesses are her acting and variety skills. Though she’d like to try her hand at acting, she’s truly not the best actress and needs more lesson than BC is willing to invest in. Same with variety, though more because she’s not comfortable speaking still. She doesn’t want to risk controversy and her presence suffers for it.

+ Day Nine: What is your muse’s fashion style? Talk about what kind of clothes they love to wear. To them, what is the essential thing to have in their closet? What is their favorite outfit?

Her style changes pretty frequently. She wears a lot of what the stylists tell her looks good on her, lots of jeans and larger tops and sweaters that make her look even thinner than she is, more delicate. Her own style, personally, is dresses, skirts, and the occasional dress shirt. She likes wearing white & denim, but anything that looks feminine but mature is up her alley. She loves tennis shoes, Nike being her favorite brand, and that would be her essential, if not for Wish’s Spris deal a while back. Since then, she tries to keep a bracelet on at least, instead. Her favorite outfit is a men’s dress shirt, white or pastel, with fitted denim jeans and a pair of booties.

+ Day Ten: Talk about your muse’s three closest friends. How did they meet? How long have they known each other? What do they love most about their friends?

June’s closest friends are Yiren, Sooyeon, and Jeonghwa. Yiren & Jun have been friends for a while and have simply become closer since being in Korea together, balancing each other’s energy and giving each other a tentative form of family away from home. Sooyeon was one of the people Jun befriended as a trainee since the younger spoke Mandarin, to her delight, and she keeps tabs on her youngest member to ensure she’s not pushing herself too hard. She and Jeonghwa aren’t on the best of terms, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s one of June’s best friends, though she wouldn’t admit that currently. June looks for loyalty and humor, she likes someone who’s different than her to balance her out and hype her up when she’s down, something that’s clearly reflected in her closest friends.

+ Day Eleven: Has your muse had any scandals? How have these scandals affected your muse as an idol or as a person? If your muse has not had any scandals, talk about their views on scandals. Is all publicity good publicity?

No scandals that have actually blown up to the extent of being more than mentioned in passing. There was a time around debut where she was rumored to have a boyfriend, due to false accounts on social media, but they dispersed quickly enough. She’s received negative comments about her attitude due to her fear of having a scandal if she speaks too much or does something wrong, which usually stands to reinforce the idea that scandals have to be avoided because the internet already isn’t on her side. Not all publicity is good and she’d rather have none than bad, while in Wish.

+ Day Twelve: If your muse is in a group, what are the fun things about promoting with other members? What do they love about being in a group? What do they love about their members? If your muse is a solo artist, what are their thoughts on promoting alone? What do they love about being solo?

Her members are family for her now. The best thing about being in a group is the attention isn’t constantly on her, she’s able to take a step back and rely on them if she feels uncomfortable or out of place. Though they may not all be as close as BC would have the public believe, she would trust them not to back stab her — even if that might be naive of her.

+ Day Thirteen: For the muses in a group, what are the challenges of being one of several people in a group? Have there been any troubles that have come along with being in a group environment and times they wish they were alone? For the solo artist muses, have you ever felt lonely promoting alone? Do you ever wish that you were in a group instead?

The biggest challenge is standing out and proving herself, especially when she stays so quiet most of the time. She wishes she was a solo act only when she’s told she doesn’t fit a style or a concept as well as another member, and that’s when the jealousy peaks out. She wants her chance to shine as well, but it’s harder for her to stand out and therefore harder to prove that to the managers.

+ Day Fourteen: If your muse is in a group, how do you think they would have fared had they had a solo career instead? What kind of concept would they have? If your muse is a solo artist, how do you think they would have fared if they were in an idol group? What position of the group do you think they would have?

She wouldn’t have done well as a solo act. Her concept would have likely been bright and colorful still, but more focused on dance than it is currently. But it wouldn’t have landed well with the public, with her lack of language skills knowledge and general nerves on variety shows. She didn’t have the charisma to be a solo act.

+ Day Fifteen: Who does your muse look up to in the industry? Why do they look up to this person?

She looks up to Lipstick (especially Minhee, as someone she sees as somewhat of a mentor) and Silhouette’s lead vocal. Lipstick, for their strong images and longevity in the industry, even as individuals, and the lead vocal because of her ability, plain and simple.

[redditnosleep]

The 64 Wives of The Prophet of God

by cold__cocoon (click here to visit the author’s Tumblr!)

I’m an old woman now, but I still remember the year I was thirteen years old as the year I became the 64th wife of the Prophet of the only true church on the face of the earth.

For anyone else, I suppose, it would have been an honor to be wed to the one true mouthpiece of the Lord, the only Seer and Revelator, the last remnant of those miraculous centuries when the mighty hand of God made order from chaos, rained fire on cities, and brought forty days of rain to a wicked world.

But not for me. When I became his bride, I lost everything.

How strange to think that it all started with a fateful cup of coffee.

In 1952, my grandfather Ephraim LeBaron was deeply unhappy with his religion, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, more commonly known as the Mormon Church. As he often told his grandchildren, he had never been fully contented with the strict rules and senseless regulations. But the last straw for him had been his harsh reprimand by LDS Church authorities after his oldest son woke in the back seat to see his father drinking a mug of coffee on a long nighttime drive home from Idaho Falls to Salt Lake City. He’d been trying to stay awake. He’d been trying to keep from falling asleep at the wheel, possibly killing his three boys.

His intentions were meaningless to the authorities. Coffee was as wicked as alcohol in the eyes of the Church.

The following Sunday, Ephraim, a man of high status and favor in the Church, stood up and formally and publicly condemned the Mormon Church. He declared that an angel of the Lord had come to him in the night, as he joined hands with his sons in a circle of prayer in the True Order. The angel declared that the Church had begun to go astray nearly sixty years before, when it renounced polygamy for political reasons. He excoriated the resulting religion as a corrupt moneymaking institution focused more on the littlest sins than the sinners who governed it. He castigated the men who used the Church and its vast fortune as a way to advance their political careers.

His rambling, disjointed speech was recorded by his wife, Rosalyn.

“I have looked upon a Great and Spacious building,” he cries into the camera, standing straight and tall at the pulpit. “And in it, I saw many wind-up mechanical men who were pointing their brass fingers at the righteous, and mocking and scorning us, and yet! And yet, I was not ashamed! For the Angel of the Lord has covered my face with his veil of starshine, and walks with me upon the mountain, so high that we reach the astral plane. We look upon the series of chasms and caverns that was once the flaming ruins of Earth, and the Angel’s wings and sword are like pillars of fire. His eyes are dying suns, and his chanting mouth is a black hole where no starlight shines. ‘Come follow Me,’ he says, with not his mouth. ‘Come follow me,’ say the words he carved into the soft flesh of my belly with his mighty bleeding finger-claws. ‘My tomb is the deep sea, and my burial shroud will wash away your tears of blood.’ His love divine is better than wine. It’s warmer than a coffee sipped under a jeweled shawl of cold midnight sky.”

As the video continues, he then calls upon David O. McKay, President of the Church, to step down.

This was a fatal mistake.

There was no negotiation. Ephraim LeBaron was excommunicated for blasphemy and conduct unbecoming of a Latter-Day Saint.

Shortly thereafter, he left Salt Lake City and began his own church headquartered in the rugged and desolate deserts surrounding Manti, Utah.

He named his new religion the Church of the Saints of the Pillars of Fire, and set himself as its prophet. The only man on Earth to speak directly to God. The only man to hold the keys of Biblical priesthood. The only person to receive revelation that guided every action, every thought, every emotion of all his followers.

Under that self-granted authority, he ended the ban on coffee. He commanded that all the members’ property and money must be turned over to him for redistribution, a law practiced by the early Saints. He pronounced that the principle of plural marriage would be reinstated, to populate the planet with his Army of Heaven that would one day fight the inhabitants of that Great and Spacious Building.

His apostles were his three teenage sons Jehoram, Oswald, and Ulysses. His Apostles and disciples were the other men and their families who had apostatized after being moved by his rousing, yet incoherent speech at that church meeting.

The Mormon Church could have ignored this scandal. They should have become habituated to renegade prophets and polygamist breakoffs forming constantly. Even though polygamy—and having relations with a woman who is not one’s wife—was illegal and could land a man in jail, they simply didn’t have the resources to keep up.

But for some unknowable reason, they chose to target my grandfather. They sent their cronies from Salt Lake City to Manti to have him assassinated in the presence of his followers and his children.

Ephraim knew they were after him. He’d seen them in the corners of his vision, tall men wearing black robes and white plague-doctor masks, hiding their swords, always watching. Even when his wives and sons couldn’t see them, even when he closed his eyes, he felt their presence.

This is a story he told me often, when he was alive. It’s my favorite part of the story.

One night, he heard the rumble of car tires down the dirt road that led to the compound. He heard them come to a slow halt. He heard the car doors slam. Four sets of heavy footsteps trudging upon the frozen sagebrush.

He didn’t wait for them to break in and seize him. He crawled out the bedroom window, leaving his newest wife, fifteen-year-old Priscilla, behind.

“Wasn’t she scared?” I’d always ask my grandfather at this point in his tragic tale, even though I knew the answer.

“Certainly not!” he’d always reply. “Priscilla was as brave as I told her to be. She was always ready to sacrifice her life for her priesthood head. Just as you, Liahona, may be asked to do someday for your husband. We’re never safe here. There are always men watching us.”

When he’d say that, I’d suddenly be seized by a strange feeling in my heart, like a turning and twisting of the wheels of time. It churned out a mixture of apprehension and something more foreign, an emotion so distant to my heart that I felt as if I were seeing it, blurry and indistinct, from far away. I stood in that strange place and saw a vision of myself, another version of me, living a life as free as a whirling, twirling tumbleweed. A life of surprise and spontaneity with no rules, no roles, no barbed-wire fences. No hands holding me back from breathing in the wind of this beautiful world and tasting its red dust with the thirsty tongues of my mind.

But another part of me admired Priscilla for her willingness to offer her life. And give her life she did. Those hired cronies shot Priscilla dead in cold blood, as she weakly tried to defend herself with a potato peeler.

Ephraim heard gunshots as he was running to the home of his newest disciple, Helaman Barlow. But he never looked back.

Helaman opened his home and his heart to his prophet. He led him to the pig pen. Ephraim huddled down with the pigs, who did not squeal and run away. And when the henchmen came to his door and asked him where Ephraim LeBaron was hiding, Helaman lied. He told them Ephraim had returned to Salt Lake City to assassinate President McKay.

The men still didn’t believe him. They searched his barn, and came very close to the pigpen.

Here’s my other favorite part of the story.

My grandfather says that as he lay there among the calm, quiet pigs, he saw the angel with the wings like a pillar of fire descending from heaven. The angel approached the men from behind and shielded their eyes with his burning sword.

“They didn’t even know they couldn’t see!” he always shouted at this point in the story, hiding his eyes with his hands and then suddenly lifting them away, to make us little children laugh. “And they were looking right at me!”

The henchmen shrugged. They had searched the entire compound, and found nothing. So they left.

Ephraim stood up from the pigpen, and grasped Helaman’s hands in his. He poured out his gratitude upon his newfound friend.

“I’ll give you anything,” he offered. “Whatever I possess in my treasure chest belongs to you.”

“Your daughters,” Helaman replied, without a moment of hesitation. “Let me marry them, and be your son, too. Allow me to sit at the right hand of your glory, and bask in your celestial holiness.”

“They will be your heavenly banquet of queens and priestesses!” Ephraim vowed. At that time, of course, he had no daughters. Rosalyn had borne him only sons, and of his seven surviving new wives, only Lurleene and LaNora had given birth so far—also to boys. Tabitha, Lurleene, Claribel, Jorjean, and Pauline were still pregnant.

But soon enough, he had a whole beehive full of daughters. Seventeen of them, in fact, eventually married Helaman before Ephraim's death: Bathsheba, Davina, Marjory, Lottie, Constance, Freda, Enid, Nigella, Hattie, Sariah, Vonda, Hippolyta, Crown-of-Thorns, Nazareth, Loretta, Calpurnia, and Verlene.

As they came of age—eleven, twelve, thirteen, never older than that—they were all given in marriage to Helaman Barlow. All of them. I was only a little girl when they were wed, but I well remember my aunties’ tears as their hair was tightly braided and their white dresses were mended in preparation for the last day of their childhood.

For twenty years, the Church of the Saints of the Pillar of Fire prospered, growing to include over three hundred members.

Yet there was much discontent. These marriages of these girls made the other men angry. But not in defense of the girls. It made their furious jealousy grow like a moist fungus in their hearts. For all of the daughters of Ephraim were lovely and sweet, as precious to everyone as a flock of fawns, and these envious men were like hungry wolves who saw only fresh meat. They had already been rewarded for their loyalty with beautiful young wives, and yet this was not enough for those ravenous wolf-men.

So they rebelled, and overthrew my grandfather.

And it was Helaman Barlow who led this rebellion.

Some of the men, watching Helaman be gifted seventeen virginal child brides, were envious of his bounty. They saw him doing nothing in particular to be given such splendid rewards. These men, all of whom had labored and toiled and surrendered their life savings to build up the sacred kingdom of my grandfather’s church, were resentful of the wives Ephraim had granted them: older widows, ugly girls, deformed girls, tomboyish girls, opinionated girls, headstrong and adventurous girls who were not virgins.

Ephraim always kept the best girls for himself, always insisting that the Lord himself had sent an angel with a flaming sword when it was time to marry again. When he was killed after twenty years of governing his church, he had taken forty-six wives.

The other men, the hungry men, came to Helaman in the night. They dragged him naked from his home and his bed, out into the desolate desert.

They tied him to a fencepost with barbed wire and rope, and tortured him until the sun rose. They tied him to the back of a truck by the ankle and drove along a bumpy gravel road. They held flames to his feet until the skin charred and blistered. They carved holes in his hands and stuck rusty nails into them. They covered his skin with honey and biting ants. They did many other unspeakable things that none but God and the moon and the stars remember now.

“Please release me,” Helaman cried out to God, and to the men who bound him. This was always my least favorite part of the story, after all the times he told it to me and to our children. But I always let him recount it to me anyway.

“We’ll release you,” the men replied, “if you kill the Prophet in vengeance for his wayward lusts.”

I don’t believe those renegades needed to torture him. I think if he had known he secretly had the support of others, he would have committed the murder with no hesitation.

By that time the next day, my grandfather was found dead with his guts hanging out of his abdomen, a branding iron mark on his forehead, and a wound where his genitals had been torn off. For good measure, mostly to ensure there would be no power struggle among his heirs, all of Ephraim’s sons above the age of twelve were also dead, their eyeballs and tongues carved out, their scrotums carelessly ripped almost completely from their bodies.

On the third day, Helaman Barlow declared himself the new Prophet of the Church of the Saints of the Pillars of Fire. He claimed he had killed Ephraim and his sons according to the traditional Mormon doctrine of blood atonement.

“The blood of Christ cannot wash away all sins,” Helaman intoned from the pulpit that Sunday. I watched him with my own eyes, and heard him with my own ears. We all knew what would be said. There was no need to record this speech.

“There are some transgressions so unspeakable, so offensive to the son of God who shed his blood for us, that the sinner himself must atone for them with his own blood. And that blood must fall upon the Earth. Only then can Ephraim and his sons attain their noble thrones in their celestial kingdom.”

His first act as prophet was to inhabit my grandfather’s enormous mansion that he had spent years constructing and adding on, building walls upon walls crowned with thorny concertina wire. His second act was to marry all forty-six of Ephraim’s widows. Added to the seventeen of his own, that gave him sixty-three wives in total.

His third act was the make me the sixty-fourth.

How I begged my mother to hide me away, to open the window and toss me out with the old washwater, to throw me in a pigpen and let the pigs eat my flesh from my bones, to bury me alive under the sand. But she knew she could do nothing. Even as the wife of the former prophet’s son, she never had any authority. All our lives, we girls and women had been trained and conditioned to never say no to a man, never damage his tenuous ego, never thwart his divine authority. To honor his priesthood by upholding his gifts of dominion. To recognize that men were guided by revelation from God, and women were created to enact these revelations. Disobedience to a man was disobedience to God himself. So when the prophet ordered her to hand me over to him, how could either of us have refused?

On that day, I knew what was coming, and I feared it. I wept as I made myself ready, the same way my aunties had done. We all understood the purpose of a prophet’s summoning. We all remembered how the girls who had been called to his side had never returned, had given up everything they had ever known to be made reluctant wives, had suddenly been made from girls into women with no preparation.

I knew that once I went through the gate, I would never return.

My little sisters and helped my bind my hair into an elaborate crown of braids. I wore my most modest long-sleeved sky-blue dress with the single row of lace on the sleeves. It reminded me of a clear, sage-scented summer morning before the rainstorms arrived, when the fluffy white clouds perched poised on the horizon, like a cat about to pounce. I wish the memory could have calmed me.

Yet still, my heart trembled and twisted in my chest. I wanted to tear it out and bury it in the sand, letting it sprout and grow and become a tall, talk tree that I could climb and someday reach heaven.

When I arrived at his office inside the walled fortress, the room that used to be my grandfather’s office, he smiled to see me. A cavalier, condescending smile. A long, distant stare. A word that seemed poised on the horizon of his lips, ready to pounce. I suddenly regretted making myself so pretty.

“Liahona, I have seen an angel,” he whispered, in that low and serious voice of his.

I didn’t understand if he was referring to me, or was beginning a speech. My grandmothers once told me that Helaman was a rather ordinary speaker until he met Ephraim. Their minds grew together and intertwined like brambles, each melding and thriving off the other’s thoughts, until they became equally obsessed with speaking in metaphors and similes. That’s what made them both so charismatic—people took notice of their unusual words.

I looked away from my feet and into his face, and in the moment our eyes met, he reminded me so much of my grandfather—his smile a grand monument to false kindness, manipulative love. Displaying an artifice of affection towards the people in his life, one that only grew so far as we could return it back to him. People existed for whatever purpose we could serve in his life. His love was seasonal, conditional—shining or shunning based on how closely we followed his commandments. Never warm enough, always leaving us wanting.

“The angel,” he continued, “was the celestial being whose wings were like pillars of fire, whose mouth was a black hole, and whose sword burned with a mighty flame. You remember your grandfather’s stories of this angel, I’m sure? He appeared to me last night, hovering above the sacred altar, when I joined hands in chanting prayers with my sons. He told me a terrible secret. Do you know what secret that might be, Liahona?”

I looked away. I stared out the window that faced east. Through it, I could count seventeen tumbleweeds colliding against a barbed-wire fence. They’d been blown by the wind, and had only wanted to roll along with the breeze, but something hard and sharp and cruel had held them back.

“The angel told me that your grandfather was not your grandfather,” Helaman said. “He was your natural father.”

I turned my face to his.

“Jehoram was my father,” I whispered. “You killed my father. He’s no danger to you.”

“No, little one. Ephraim came to your mother on the night you were conceived, and he lay with her, but not as he lay among my swine. He touched her flesh with his own naked flesh. Do you understand? Do you comprehend how children are formed in their mother’s belly?”

I shook my head and looked at my feet as I felt my face grow hot. I wasn’t supposed to know, and yet I’d heard from other newlywed girls the details of a wife’s secret duties. All a girl needed to know about marital relations would be taught to her by her husband after the wedding. Keeping her ignorant would prevent her from wandering away from her virtue, her purity, a price greater than rubies, a treasure more valuable to her than her very life.

A girl who had lost hers before marriage might as well pray for death.

“Do you know what else the angel told me?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch yet lowering in volume. “He said that since your grandfather was your natural father, the eternal oath he swore to me is still binding, even in death. You are his daughter. Therefore, the angel commanded, I must marry you. Today.”

“I can’t leave my mother in her grief,” I said bitterly. “She mourns the death of my father so deeply, that she can barely leave her bed.”

“The Lord will care for her and mend her heart. We all must do things we are reluctant to do, in service to the Almighty. If you harden your heart to me, Liahona, you let Satan in, and he will tempt you toward further disobedience. A disobedient girl who has been seized by Satan will never be made glorious in the Second Coming of Christ.”

“But I’m only thirteen,” I said. “I don’t know if you knew that.”

“As lovely and docile as you’ll ever be,” he answered, and smiled again. “There are many men out there who want to snatch away your purity. I will honor and protect it, if you’re a good girl and do as I say.”

As he spoke, his words began to fade away. I felt the floor and the walls and the ceiling and the windows disappear.

I saw myself as if looking down from above. There it was again: the portal to another version of me, one where I walked, naked and alone, through a vast and unoccupied desert world, wearing a crown of thorns, free as a drifting cloud.

I watched myself wander, crossing through immense plains of sagebrush and salt. I climbed mountains so high, their craggy peaks scraped open the sky, leaving black holes where angels entered and exited. The wind from their enormous wings tickled my face and dried the blood on my bare feet. When I crossed the highest peak, I stood and looked down upon the land. I thought on the horizon, I could see the shine of—what was it? The sea? I began walking toward it.

By the time I came back to the old reality—the one I had left, standing there in the office that was once my grandfather’s—the wedding was over. I had become Liahona Barlow, wife of the Prophet.

Helaman immediately took me to his bedroom. He told me undress and get into bed lying on my back. Then he left the room, telling me he’d be back in ten minutes.

I let myself break down. I fell to my knees and wept, releasing all the anger and rage and sorrow and fear I’d kept silent for so long. “Keep sweet!” the mothers had always told us girls. “Keep sweet no matter what! Let the Holy Spirit in your heart, until it overflows and courses through your every vein. The enraged, the resentful, the stingy, and the sullen will not survive the judgement of God when his son returns. Keep sweet the fountainhead of your heart!”

With my heart, my mind, my tongue, my entire body, I cried out to the God who had betrayed me.

“Heavenly Father,” I sobbed, “What have I done to displease you? I have no secret sins, no transgressions deserving of this punishment, this torture! I have always ever turned my face towards your warmth and your holy brilliance! I have kept sweet and surrendered my feelings, and all this I have done only to honor and magnify your sacred priesthood and the men who hold it. Please, stop the forceful hand of the man I’ve married, and let me go home. Or at least, give me a few years. I swear to you, when I am old enough, I will submit to anything you ask of me. I will—”

And then—

A light.

A white light descended from the darkness of that cold and lonely bedroom.

A being stepped out of the light. A creature neither male nor female, neither human nor animal. Its eyes were like falling stars streaking across a black sky, and its mouth seemed to contain the entire universe in a small space. Its wings were of green fire that made no heat and no smoke, only light. On its belt was a sword that glowed with an unearthly radiance.

It spoke to me. Its voice was like the roar of a faraway river.

“Liahona,” it thundered. “Beloved handmaiden of the Lord.”

I trembled. I tried to make words, but my mouth was stopped as if with cold clay.

“I am a messenger of God, whose holy name you have called. He has heard you prayer, and now you must hear my voice! You will conceive a daughter who is not of the Barlow kin. She will be a peculiar and a marvelous child. But she wears a robe of blood and wields a corkscrew sword. One day, her touch will hold the venom of snakes, and the seas will rise at her command. Earthquakes will follow where she walks. With an iron rod will she strike down and topple the pillars of creation. You must guide her, Liahona! Be the compass of your namesake. If you fail, then so will she. Be ready to give your life for her, when the time comes.”

And then—before I could attempt to speak again—

The angel was gone, and the light was swallowed up by the darkness.

I stood up. I wiped my tears with the hem of my white wedding dress.

Then I removed that dress.

I crawled in to bed, and I waited for my husband.

I am sure he believed he helped me conceive on that night, but I knew the truth. She was already there, a girl not of the Barlow kin.

Nine months later to the day, I gave birth to my daughter, Zarahemla.

As the angel had promised, she was a strange and ethereal little creature, from the moment she became aware of the world. Always more sensitive than other children to loud noises and bright lights and raised voices. Her eyes rarely met those of the people around her. Her mouth forever seemed to have trouble forming the right words. Her hair was as fine and voluminous as cattail fluff, and dark, so dark, a black waterfall, unlike anyone else’s hair. She stood out in a room full of Helaman’s children, like a gamboling lamb in a meadow of fawns.

Yet I loved her fiercely. I adored her more than I’d cherished the parents and siblings and friends that had been taken from me when I became locked in the prophet’s fortress. She was a wellspring of peace and solace in my new life, my sudden adult life.

After her birth, I began to have more frequent visions. They were often brought on by stress, fear, or being suddenly startled. They arose in me every night my husband came to my bed. Sometimes a particular scent would trigger these mental wanderings; other times, the angle of light in the evening, or the color of the sky in the morning would cause my soul to float above my body. I’d watch myself wander through uncanny kingdoms of dust and rocks, always ending at the same place: at the summit of the highest mountain. I’d look down and see the alabaster city beside the great expanse of water, and I’d begin to walk toward it, eager to understand its mysteries.

I’d never make it there. I’d wake before I reached my destination.

Zarahemla traveled through worlds more distant and fantastic than mine, I was certain. I often wondered if she loved me at all, for she barely seemed to notice me, most of the time. Her mind was forever soaring and twirling in the angelic realm. Even when her body was with me, responding to my words, I could tell by the look in her eyes that her soul was travelling through the astral plane.

I’d often discover her to be missing from the home, when it came time to do scripture study with her three younger brothers. I’d find her outside in the yard, building little cities of white pebbles for the ants that crisscrossed the dust.

On one of those occasions, when she was six years old, I decided there would be no scripture study that day. I sat with her in the hazy autumn sunshine, and asked her about the cities. She smiled downward, turning away from my gaze.

“It’s the city you see from the mountaintop. Look! There’s the big water.”

She pointed at a small puddle in the dirt, a leftover from last night’s rain.

I felt my eyes fill with tears at this little soul’s deep wisdom.

“Someday we’ll go there, Mama,” she whispered, looking up briefly to catch a glimpse of my tears. “To the city of white towers and blue waters.”

“We will,” I told her, wiping my eyes. “And not just in dreams. We’ll escape this fortress, and we’ll walk there with the stars pointing the way like Nephi’s miraculous golden liahona. I’ll cradle you in my arms and carry you across the sharp rocks. Then I’ll set you down and let you run barefoot along the shore of the big, shining water until the sun sets.”

She beamed. Her hands reached out to catch the sunlight and drink it in, like a little sprouting plant. And once again, she became lost in her beautiful daydreams.

I would have let her stay there forevermore, spending her life drifting among the stars, if I could have. I would have let her keep her natural sweetness. This world is a frightening one for sensitive little girls, and I only wanted peace for my otherworldly little creature’s heart.

But that was not to be. She was shaken and yanked back to Earth by a cruel hand.

In 1986, when she was fourteen, Helaman stood up in church on a fateful Sunday morning.

“Zarahemla Barlow,” he announced, “is not of my bloodline.”

No heads turned, but I could still feel all eyes watching me. Watching us.

Of course she isn’t! I wanted to scream. She is the progeny of heaven’s angels!

“Brothers and sisters,” he went on, “I must tell you the most rare vision I have had. Last night, the Holy Spirit moved my heart, to tell me that the Lord wished to speak with me. I stood over the altar, and I prayed to let my eyes and heart be sufficiently opened. And it came to pass, that thereupon he sent his angelic messenger whose wings and sword are like a pillar of fire. He let it be known to me that Zarahemla is no daughter of mine, but the product of incestuous relations between Liahona and her late grandfather, Ephraim LeBaron.”

I could feel my soul slipping away from my body. It yearned to walk away from this humiliation, to escape into its supernatural haven. But I commanded it to stay. Just this once.

“And it came to pass that the angel also informed me that Liahona had deceived me. She was not a virgin when I married her, but was seven days pregnant with this abomination of a child. And Liahona is, herself, the natural daughter of Ephraim. As such, today I declare my intention to annul the marriage my adulterous wife Liahona, and take Ephraim’s daughter Zarahemla in marriage, as Ephraim promised me more than thirty years ago.”

Zarahemla, sitting huddled and drawn next to me, hid her face behind her untamed black hair. Her breath was coming in fast, and when her fearful eyes met mine through her shroud, I knew that this was the moment she fell from her celestial realm and became unwillingly anchored to this one.

Helaman divorced me the next day, a Monday. He tied my hands and ankles together, forced me into his pickup truck, drove me into Manti, and dumped me out behind an abandoned hotel. It took me hours to free myself, and when I had, I knew I’d be too late.

On Tuesday, he married Zarahemla in a secret ceremony.

On Wednesday, I knelt in a little grove of trees in a public park. As I had done thirteen years ago, I cried out to my God. But this time, I didn’t plea for help. I only apologized.

“You heard my prayer once before, Father in Heaven,” I wept. “Your messenger gave me a child that was a comfort and a blessing to me. And I’ve lost her. Through my cowardice, I stripped her of her crimson robe and her flaming sword. I failed her in whatever divine purpose you gave her. I deserve only hellfire. I’m sorry, Lord.”

There was no reply.

On Thursday, I was once again put into a car against my will, but this one was a police car. I was charged with loitering and spent the night in a jail cell.

On Friday, I was unchained. I spoke to the police officer who interrogated me. I told them everything I knew about Helaman Barlow and his burrowed hive of unwilling child brides.

On Saturday, the police made a few phone calls. They gathered the information they needed, and made ready to charge him with the rape of a minor child.

On Sunday, a week after Helaman declared his intention to divorce me and marry our daughter, the long line of police cars followed my directions to the massive walled compound of God’s Prophet, Seer, and Revelator.

“Is this a house?” Officer Aguilar asked me, of the sprawling adobe-brick fortress rising up out of the barren desert like a minor mountain. “Or a space station?”

“It’s his Great and Spacious building,” I said. “Nobody can mock him from the inside if he’s no longer on the outside.”

I remembered what my grandfather had said to me, many years ago. That one day, men who were our enemies would threaten me to make me surrender my husband. I would be asked to sacrifice my life to protect him.

That moment was now.

And in that moment—I remembered the tumbleweed I had seen in my first vision, decades ago, sitting at my grandfather’s knee, hearing his story of brave, obedient Priscilla. I recalled how that little tumbleweed had yearned and strained to wheel and spin across open desert, unshackled and unhindered.

In my mind, I opened the gate. I let the tumbleweed fly free.

In my mortal body, I opened another gate. I let the police officers in, and they knocked down the door of Helaman’s fortress.

His wives and children, all wielding various kitchen tools in self-defense, were gathered up within an hour. They were reluctant to leave at first, but quickly surrendered when I gave them my word that they would be safe, and would not be separated.

The other men in the compound, including Helaman’s quorum of twelve apostles and other such henchmen, were also rounded up, but for a different reason. Those whose wives were underage were not released.

After hours of searching, there were only two people we hadn’t found yet.

It was my idea to search the old pig pen where my grandfather had crouched on the night he hid from the big-city cronies. It was my testimony that convinced the police officers—that the pig pen, long empty of swine, was one of the most holy places in the colony.

Oh, how I wished I hadn’t surrendered the interest in my daughter to them.

They broke down the door of the boarded-up pig pen.

They were the ones who found Helaman dead, guts spilling out from his belly, tongue severed, eyes carved out, genitals torn from his body. His blood was shed on the floor of that filthy pig sty, where it belonged.

And they were the ones who found Zarahemla there, crouched above him with a sword in her hand, her teeth clenched like barbed wire, her eyes fiery with rage and fear, her breath heaving fast and hard.

I know what I saw as I ran, breathless and weak, to the pig pen where the police had gathered, guns drawn and pointed at my divine creature. I saw the sword she held in her trembling hands, burning with the smokeless, heatless fire of heaven itself. The policemen did not see this. They only saw it covered in blood. Helaman’s blood.

That was the last time I saw my daughter. They told me she was guilty of murder, but I told them she was only fulfilling the promise given to me by that angel on the night of her conception. She had toppled the pillars of creation. Where was the sin in that? Was the world not set right by the spilling of his wicked blood?

I don’t know what night it was when two police officers came to me at my hotel room in Manti, knocking softly on the door, standing there with hands clasped and faces shamefully downturned, the way my daughter used to do. Maybe it was Monday. Maybe it wasn’t.

They told me that when they tried to take Zarahemla’s sword away, she fought back. She kicked and screamed and bit, like a caged animal. Like a girl that was traumatized and expecting to be brutalized by a man again, I said.

They had been forced to restrain her.

But somehow, something had gone wrong. She had been inadvertently strangled by the too-tight restraints put upon her, and had died on the floor of her jail cell, unarmed, covered in pig filth and her own terrified urine.

I let out all my tears to the Lord Almighty, on that night. I raged and screamed with an anguish only a mother can feel, with a voice of a pitch that only God could hear. I howled with a mother’s madness, with the sorrow of Mary kneeling at the cross. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, to lead me back to my child, to rescue every other innocent little one in that compound, only to take mine away for doing what she had been born to do. Why had he not taken me instead? Why had he prepared me to lay down my life, only to take it from one who had only wanted to live a quiet and luminous life among the clouds?

I recalled the Biblical book of Job, the story of that kind old man who loses everything, and yet still, foolishly, praises God. I cursed Job, for encouraging God’s savagery. I cursed Abraham for his willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac to a capricious and unworthy deity. In my unholy furor and my mother’s agony, I cursed the Lord for taking delight in slaughtering the stainless, guiltless children of his most devoted.

As punishment for my impiety, God took my visions from me. My gift of wandering among the spiraling pathways of the cosmos was gone.

I had nowhere to run from my suffering and torment. I would be forced to bear my burdens with the shoulders of my reluctant body.

I moved on, in my own way, as time moves on. I pushed forward in the only way a grieving parent can, walking the path of reality with my eyes focused on my feet. Not seeing, not touching, not hearing anything around me. Walking steadily forward, unsupported, as if treading on a thin filament of spider’s silk, with only void surrounding. Crawling out of a deep pit whose walls were so high, they blocked out the sun. Some folks were kind enough to throw me a rope and encourage me to climb, but they never seemed to notice that my hands and feet were still tied together.

The Church of the Saints of the Pillar of Fire quickly disbanded. After Helaman Barlow’s death and the arrest of so many men, the remaining members were disillusioned and shattered. Their faith fragmented as their families did. They saw no point in continuing. They reclaimed their money, their land, their property, and their daughters, and they, too, moved on.

My three young sons and I went west, to San Diego, a city within sight of the ocean. We walked on the beach and they cooled their burning toes in the frigid waves. I thought this might be the shining city of white towers by the water that Zarahemla and I had both envisioned, but it didn’t feel familiar. The police officers in Manti had told me that the city of Salt Lake was right near a body of water—a massive, shallow lake so salty that a body could float when laid upon it—but I had a difficult time believing that this promised land could have been a little more than 100 miles to the north. I could have walked there in a few days. I could have picked my daughter up in my arms, held out my soul’s compass, and began the trek over the mountains of sharp rocks.

But this past autumn, when I visited Salt Lake City for the first time in my 58 years, I understood everything.

The visions have returned to me. When the sunlight brushes its delicate fingers against the clouds at just the right angle, these scenes flicker at the back of my eyes, like a memory of a place I’ve never been, like a portal to a reality where all of this never happened. I see it all as if from above, from the highest mountain of sharp stones.

And in these visions, the ghost of Zarahemla is standing on the shore of the Great Salt Lake. Fourteen years old, innocent, beautiful, connected, running along the shore with joyful feet, her white dress flapping like the wings of a dove. She’s in the reality where she belongs. Now, she doesn’t need to let her mind fly to a better place. She is anchored to the shore, to the one who loves her the most. She turns and she sees me, and she smiles with the delight of recognition.

She reaches out with an object in her hands.

In these visions, I have finally descended the mountain I tried for years to leave behind me. I cross the barren valleys and the alabaster plains of white salts. The ground crunches under my bare feet as I walk.

It saddens me that I always come back from the vision in the moments before our fingers touch.

But—very soon, perhaps, no longer will we be separated by space and the astral plane.

Now, I know what I must do to reach her. She’s whispering the way. She’s guiding me with the map she has drawn with stars and shimmering salts.

She’s guarding herself with a sword from my guilty hands. She is offering me this sword that flames like a pillar of fire, holding it poised above the skin of my belly. With fire in her eyes, she is telling me what must happen next, that I too must shed my blood upon the salt of the earth, to spill it in righteous atonement for what have done. Only then can I complete the journey to the shining expanse of silver water.

Only then, can we finally be together.

[sending-the-message]

Horrible surprise while watching pornos with a childhood friend by RosaPalms

I guess we were probably eleven. Maybe twelve. There was no school; some kind of teacher caucus or contract negotiations or bomb threat. I forget the reason. Vinnie’s dad was at work and we were at Vinnie’s house. We had recently reached that age where we could be trusted to be home alone, and not set the house on fire. This wasn’t the first time I’d been over there without supervision.

Today, however, Vinnie said he had something to show me. I remember being unenthused, as I was more preoccupied with the video games that we usually played. I had always loved going to Vinnie’s house because his dad bought him whatever games he wanted, even the ones with blood and swearing. Today I would guess that it was to try and make up for the fact that he was never around, but at the time I just thought it was cool that I could play Mortal Kombat without getting in trouble.

“What is it?” I asked him as he led me up the stairs towards his room. To my surprise however, we didn’t go to his room as we had so many times before, but turned suddenly and entered his dad’s. I’d never been in his dad’s room before. It was larger than Vinnie’s, with a double bed although Vinnie’s parents were divorced. Across the room from the bed was a corner-unit mahogany desk, with several locking drawers.

“What’s in here?” I asked, my previous question going unanswered.

“You’ll see,” was the only reply I got, a smile lighting up Vinnie’s face. Vinnie was much taller than I was, standing at 5’6” at only twelve years old. He was also considerably more muscular than me; I counted myself fortunately that he valued my friendship as much as he did, because if he hadn’t I surely would have been a target. As it was, his near-constant presence deterred most of the would-be bullies in our school.

Vinnie produced a key from his pocket and practically skipped across the room to his dad’s desk.

Whatever was in there, he was awfully excited to get it.

“Where’d you find the key?” I asked him out of stunned curiosity. In the past while we played video games, we had idly wondered what the contents of his dad’s locked desk drawer might be.

“He left it on top of the desk!” he laughed, “I had to try it when I came in here to do the laundry.” He turned the key and popped the drawer open.

“So what’s in there,” I asked, still standing in the door frame. I was wary about stepping into his dad’s room. Something about his dad was always a little scary to me, and I didn’t imagine he’d appreciate me being there.

“Come and take a look, jeez!” he responded, standing aside so I could approach. I sauntered over reluctantly and peered inside.

Inside the drawer, arranged in neat stacks, was a collection of VHS tapes. The tapes were held in paper sleeves which bore bright, fluorescent colors. I looked at the cover of the tape on top; I saw a photo of four dark-skinned nude women with large breasts and buttocks in a pile performing oral sex upon each other under the title, “Bangin’ Bomb Brazillian Bitches.”

“Is this -”

“Yeah!” Vinnie cried, cutting me off. “It’s my dad’s dirty movies!”

Even above video games, in those adolescent years, pornography had a grip on my imagination. The onset of puberty, not only in myself but in all the students at our suburban middle school, had caused a surge of sexual interest. It was what we all thought about, but with no real sex education program in our school, something that few of us knew anything about. We’d whisper our outlandish theories and pass along stories that we’d heard from older cousins and siblings when we knew there were no teachers – or worse, girls – around to hear us. Sex was an enigma; our bodies were changing, and we could see that those of the girls were as well, but we received frustratingly little information from our parents; I could never put the pieces together, myself. I’d heard things about movies that showed it, but I’d never seen one in person, and in the time before easy access to the internet, coupled with parental supervision, I had very few avenues of even verifying their existence.

Vinnie removed a tape from its box. “Anal Chiropractor” read the title above a photo of a large-busted woman in a low-cut nurse’s outfit. As Vinnie popped the tape into the VCR, I asked him, “what if your dad comes home?”

“He told me he was working late tonight,” he told me, “Probably until at least eight o’clock.” I wonder today when and what Vinnie had for dinner that night, but at the time I was too transfixed with the bouncing titties on the television screen.

I supposed that if I were to watch those tapes today, I would be endlessly amused by the badly-written, inane dialogue, and the implausible, contrived plot, but in my sex-crazed, pre-teen mind, this was fascinating, beautiful, dangerous. This was high art. That my parents would disapprove so vehemently only served to heighten my enchantment. As the doctor, wearing a labcoat, stethoscope, and nothing else entered the 18-year-old porn actress from behind, I knew that I was in the presence of something vital, something urgent, that penetrated into the very depths of my soul.

As the afternoon progressed, we watched nearly every tape in that drawer. I watched as my sexual questions became answered, but some of the tapes only raised further questions. If I had only two parents, why were there five people having sex in “Gangbusters?” Why did women insert things besides penises into their vaginas, and why did they also put things into their anuses as well? And in “Riding Bareback,” what on Earth did a horse have to do with anything?

Still, we moved from tape to tape, discovering new worlds that we had never dreamed possible.

Naturally, we made sure to rewind each tape and place it back exactly where it had been in the drawer to make sure that Vinnie’s dad would never find out. Through it all, I remember being petrified thinking of what might happen had Vinnie’s dad found out.

Around three hours later, Vinnie noticed a strange tape at the very bottom of the pile. In stark contrast to the other tapes, this one had no bright packaging; it was a simple black VHS tape, labeled only with a single strip of masking tape, upon which was written in pencil “9/21/96.” Apparently thinking little of it, Vinnie pushed the tape into the VCR and pressed play.

The tape appeared to be a home video, as the time and date were displayed in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. The camera was motionless, likely resting upon a tripod, and the image before us was that of a young woman tied to a chair. The graininess of the film and the sparse lighting of the room obscured the woman’s face, but she appeared to be gagged. She didn’t have the look of the fleshy, well-built women in the other films we had been watching. Her skin was ghostly pale, she was dangerously skinny, and she looked sick. I imagine today that she was a prostitute, but back then I didn’t know. I thought I was just watching more porn.

A man entered the view of the camera from the right side, completely nude except for a ski mask covering his face, and carrying a small knife. The woman began to shake and whimper as he removed her gag, held his knife to her neck, and grabbing her by the hair, pulled her head down to his groin. I had never heard the phrase “rape” before. I thought they might have just been acting. As he forced his penis into her mouth, I could hear, distorted through the poor quality of the camera, the woman sobbing. She sounded almost as if she were choking. Suddenly, he pulled his penis out of her mouth. The woman gasped for breath as the man walked behind her.

In a flash, he slashed the knife across her throat.

I listened in horror as the girl’s scream was cut off by the gurgling of her own blood, which gushed out of her severed jugular vein and flowed down her neck.

I was shocked. Beyond shocked, really. I was disturbed. I couldn’t reconcile reality with what I had just seen; I just didn’t want to believe it was real. I yelled at Vinnie to turn it off. He seemed as disturbed as I, as he wasted to time ejecting the tape and putting it back in the drawer.

We didn’t talk about what we’d just seen, and after seeing it, neither of us seemed to want to continue watching the tapes. I surely didn’t. At that time, it was around five o’clock, and I told Vinnie I needed to start walking home to be there in time for dinner.

We never talked about that afternoon again. I never really wanted to be at Vinnie’s house after that, either; when he’d invite me over, I’d make up some excuse as to why I couldn’t.

It wasn’t until several years later that I ever heard the phrase “snuff film.” The homemade tapes, showing real murders, filmed for the entertainment of jaded, evil individuals…my blood runs cold even today thinking about what kind of monster gets off to that kind of brutality. What kind of monster Vinnie’s dad must be. What I saw on that tape gave me nightmares for years.

The worst part about a snuff film is that it’s shot only from one camera angle. As I grew older, and my parents’ restrictions on what I was old enough to handle began to relax, I saw many big budget slasher films, shot with multiple cameras to maximize the carnage.

Cut to the gleaming blade in the murderer’s hand.

Cut to the bound, female, in-over-her-head detective.

Cut to the knife, stabbing down.

Cut to the opposite wall, painted red by the spray of blood, as she screams in terror.

Hollywood-fare horror didn’t resonate with me, not after seeing the real thing. No maniacal laughter on the part of the killer, no eerie lighting effects, no surging crescendo of the music as the knife comes down, no hysterical screams from the victim.

Just flat, emotionless acts.

Just a lamp, somewhere behind the camera.

Just sobbing.

Just gurgling.

Just monstrosity.

Vinnie and his dad ended up moving out of town several months later. No one knows where. Vinnie didn’t even tell me. One day they were gone, didn’t even sell the house.

It put me at ease. I had been petrified for months that his dad would find out that I’d seen his tape. I couldn’t imagine what someone twisted enough to own that tape could do to someone who knew his secret. It’s been a few years now, and I’m just starting to feel safe, although the memories of that tape will haunt me until the day I die.

I pray that Vinnie is alright, wherever he is.

Although I wonder…

Did Vinnie remember to rewind the tape before he put it back?