#i would set out one day find my people my home under big whale inc i need to let the people know whats going on with the economy the fish

[starsambrosia]

They dont, but they could. They could commit tax fraud.

instead of killing myself i will watch documentary about the ocean

[titusmoody]

It’s the end of the first quarter of 2021. Here’s a brief review of the things I watched/played/read.

Games

Donut County- pretty charming, very easy, fairly satisfying to play. I’d recommend Untitled Goose Game over this, though.

Heaven’s Vault- If you only have room in your life for one space archaeology game, play Outer Wilds instead. However, you get to translate alien writings yourself (in a simplified game way) in this one, so I’d recommend both. 

Donkey Kong Country 3 103%- so many fun level mechanics in this one. The difficulty of finding and completing everything in the game was spot-on for me.

Donkey Kong Country 2 102%- Each level mechanic in this one is explored and used in far more interesting ways than DKC3, though I honestly had more fun with 3 this time around. This one is the “dark, edgy” one aesthetically which is extremely dumb. Also, there was a lot of guesswork involved in finding some of the hidden stuff, which I didn’t enjoy.

The Room 4- I like escape room games. This one was good. It continued 3′s trend of trying to shake up the format a little, which is fine (better here than in 3, I think) but I wouldn’t have minded if all 4 stayed exactly the same, just with new puzzles.

Spider-Man: Miles Morales- Everything about it was competent. Not only was each gameplay activity fine-tuned to feel good, but the structure of the game also kept kept you experiencing a good variety of each activity. PS5 graphics are good, too. Nothing about it really got me excited to play it, it was just a good after work unwinding thing.

Cyberpunk 2077- Exactly the opposite of Spider-Man in terms of quality consistency. There are aspects of this game that are amazing, horrible, and every step in between. However, I’ve thought about it quite a bit and will probably continue to think about it for both good and bad reasons.

Yooka-Laylee and the Impossible Lair- Donkey Kong Country has better level design and controls. Well, the best levels of this were every bit as good as the best DKC levels, and maybe I’m just so familiar with DKC levels that I zone out a little during the boring bits, but had to pay attention to every moment of this game. Still, I didn’t have as much of an overall good time as the DKC games I played earlier.

Hue- Good 2D puzzle-platformer. I’m no longer surprised by these, but I still appreciate them, much in the same way as I like playing escape room games. I was under the impression for a few years that because I understood the potential of puzzle platformers, it meant I wouldn’t want to play any more of them, but that’s simply not true. I had a good time with Hue.

Shows

Gravity Falls- It’s fine. Pretty entertaining. I wish there were more low-stakes kinds of episodes, just to get more familiar with different sides of the characters. It would have made the characters and setting feel more rounded.

Cowboy Bepop- I didn’t get the hype for this show when I first watched it at 21, and now I can say that it’s simply not my kind of show. I have much more appreciation for it now than I did the first time, but it doesn’t hit me emotionally the same way that it seems to hit so many people. 

Seinfeld- It’s Seinfeld. There was precisely one episode that I had never seen before, plus confirmation that I didn’t dream the episode that’s told in backwards chunks like Memento and is set in India.

Paranoia Agent- While it was disappointing that this ended up being a more simple morality tale than every Satoshi Kon movie I’ve seen, I still enjoyed watching this a lot.

Aggretsuko- I liked the mundane, every-day storylines like a modern, more empathetic Seinfeld. Unfortunately as the show went on, there were more and more wacky situations that no one actually gets into. I might watch the upcoming season if I hear that it’s less ridiculous.

Over the Garden Wall- This was really cool and I’m glad it exists. It’s ten episodes long, which is perfect for it. I thought it was at its weakest during the more lighthearted or humorous moments--precisely the opposite of Gravity Falls. The word “classy” comes to mind to describe this show. 

Beastars- Really good when it isn’t falling into anime plot and dialog cliches. A lot of this first season is dedicated to introducing characters and the setting, which I thought was very well done. I’m curious to see what Season 2 is like.

Movies

Scott Pilgrim vs the World- It’s a fun movie to watch. It definitely makes many of the characters’ flaws seem like more fun than it probably should, but I’m more bothered by the criticism I hear that boils down to “it’s a bad movie because the characters are bad people” which I suspect is an impression you only get if you lack both empathy and media comprehension.

Big- Kinda bad. It has iconic moments that are only possible with its weird premise, but it’s just not a premise that supports an entire good movie. 

Phantom of the Opera- Way better and way worse than I remember. Has the precise right amount of horses.

Knives Out- Not really a movie I needed to watch a second time, but it sure is good.

District 9- I didn’t remember most of this movie and unfortunately I zoned out for most of this rewatch, so I still feel like I don’t know what it’s about.

From up on Poppy Hill- Not one of the top tier Ghibli movies, but still really good in a down-to-earth way that I like from Ghibli. 

Enter the Dragon- I knew to expect everything to be turned up to 11, which is good because it really is a lot. I liked it, though.

Shutter Island- I have never actually liked this kind of twist-reliant movie. I thought I would for many years, but I was always disappointed. At least now I am aware that it’s not what I’m into.

Soul- The premise is much too convoluted, but it does have an excellent moment near the end.

Onward- I liked this one a lot. Why don’t more people talk about this one? It’s definitely better than Coco, which itself was really good.

A Silent Voice- The kind of movie that reminds me that sometimes Japanese storytelling is more to my taste than Hollywood style, in that scenes can be more emotionally ambiguous. 

Tangled- Good in exactly the same way as Frozen and Moana. I can’t really complain, but this isn’t the same situation as puzzle platformers or escape rooms. In this case, I do get a little sick of being completely unsurprised. This movie was made first, so it’s only by chance that this is the one that I saw last.

Monsters University- A good movie, but it really doesn’t have to be about the same characters as Monsters Inc. 

Monty Python and the Holy Grail- Still funny

The Departed- Good if you want an enjoyable crime thriller to watch, bad if you want a Scorcese movie.

Titanic- Getting very drunk and watching this with Brittany might be the best time I had in the past three months. Maybe I won’t think too hard about why a movie about the overdue, violent death of a social order resonates with me right now.

Prince of Egypt- Impressive and grand, but I didn’t really care about the characters or story.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan- A good but not great (by TNG standards) concept for an episode that was made extremely enjoyable by the added budget and longer runtime of a movie.

Star Trek III: The Search for Spock- Not as good, but still watchable.

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home- The kind of ridiculous concept you’d only make when you’ve already had three successful movies and are confident that you’ll be able to make at least another couple. The gang go back to the 1980s (present day to the original audience) and save the whales. It’s apparently exactly the right movie to watch if this is the third consecutive Star Trek movie you’re watching.

Mamma Mia- A lot of fun, but has weird problems that seem like they would’ve been easy to solve at the script level. Maybe if the conflicts had been introduced early on instead of dragging the whole pace of the movie down for much of the last 20 minutes, I would’ve enjoyed the whole thing.

Books

The Well of Ascension- The second book of a trilogy. Very competent. Introduces a whole lot of minor conflicts that really keep the momentum going and give the characters short-term goals that contribute to the overall plot and their arcs. 

The Hero of Ages- The final book in the same trilogy. Equally competent. I wish there had been more long-term payoffs, which is the trade-off you make by stuffing the books full of those short-term conflicts. Spoilers ahead, but not ones that I think ruin the experience of reading. It’s very odd that of three of the central characters, one dies, one becomes a god and then dies, and one becomes God. 

Check Please- About as pleasant as it gets. Full of the type of minor character that sitcoms end up running into the ground because they’re too one-note (Creed from The Office, for instance) but in a series with a pre-planned length, there’s no chance for it to get stale. Plus, I really liked both of the lead characters.

Milkman- Good book about “The Troubles” in Ireland. Very odd collection of characters, but the narrator had an extremely enjoyable voice to read. 

And Then There Were None- Classic mystery story for a reason. Feels more like a Hitchcock movie than Sherlock Holmes. I read it in one day both because the prose was easy and I wanted to know what happened next. Not much substance to it, unfortunately.

Homegoing- Extremely ambitous book where each chapter is narrated by the descendant of a previous chapter, alternating between two branches of the same family. I liked it quite a bit, though because I only finished it yesterday I don’t have much reflection done yet so my opinion has yet to solidify.

[jenniferhettenbach]

Inside the Whale

This is something I wrote for a class I'm taking.

Inside the Whale

By Jennifer Hettenbach

If there was a response to my outburst, I didn't hear it. The only thing I could hear or focus on was the rapid building pressure, the emotion that roared inside my head, the numbness inside my fingers and toes, inside my chest, as if I could feel my body clamp down and try to keep me from exploding all over the small room. It wasn't working. Something was breaking in me, the pressure too much to hold back any longer. The fight to keep tears corralled behind closed lids to spilled over and roll down my cheeks. Pushed too far, and now I had gone crazy.

Society doesn't think much of people like me, low-wage workers, mothers, fathers, those of us who might have made a wrong turn or misjudged a step a time or two, us unskilled workers. Those of us who didn’t start with a leg up or even a lot of choices to begin with. Those of us who stock shelves, run registers, bring the food to your table, make overpriced coffee taste nothing like coffee or fulfill your online orders. We are all too often treated not like human beings, but cogs in a machine where our wants and needs don't matter. Where we don’t matter. Treated as if we deserve to struggle, to do without, abused and used because we didn’t make better choices, we weren’t born into different families didn’t try harder.

Society doesn’t take into consideration the brutality of low wage work. The constant stress, worry, of an unstable, unreliable, unrelenting job day in and day out with no promise of reward or finish line (Guendelsberger 10). A corporation that changes the rules as often as they change their CEO’s, to the benefit of its appearance rather than the toll of its employees. Or the manager who doesn’t pitch in when the work is in the weeds. Coworkers who look for a simple way out or customers who use you as a punching bag. Low wage work is “dehumanizing” (Guendelsberger 10) degrading and relentless.

I’d worked for Wally-World for almost four years when management approached me about a job. A supervisory position for the unloaders, someone to run the crew of maybe ten to fifteen people who unloaded the eighteen-wheeler trailer trucks and sorting merch for both the grocery side of the superstore and the G. M (general merchandise).

“You should apply for the position, Jennifer,” Larry, a support manager I had taken a liking to since he first appeared less than a year ago. We had a lot in common, as we both seemed to share that, “I’m not taking any more shit from you” vibe about us. When he worked, he often stopped by wherever department I was in to shoot the shit, but that night he had something different on his mind.

“I don’t know, I have a low tolerance for people, and even less for their bullshit,” I had told him between opening and breaking down cardboard boxes.

“Why do you think they always put you one the heaviest freight, Jennifer? Because you go in there and get the job done without having to have someone looking over your shoulder all the time. That is the kind of person this job needs. I think you will get the hang of the people in no time.”

And right there was my first mistake. I let myself be flattered by compliments, sucked into that game of sweet talk, none of which helps me pay my bills. One of my many flaws has always been looking for the approval of others, and when that approval comes with a side of encouragement, I let myself believe that other people know me better than I know myself. And what follows is the inevitable ignoring of that little voice in my head saying, “this is a bad idea.”

I took this news home and told anyone who would listen that there was a promotion available, and I was thinking of applying for it. I wanted advice, I wanted thoughtfulness, I wanted praise for my hard work. I wanted someone to tell me that I could do this job, but there was no one who could tell me what I wanted to hear. I had to find out on my own. I also talked to the higher ups, including the store manager, Daryl who would oversee the new spots. A fact that only added to the jobs appeal. I had worked for Daryl on the overnight shift, and I had liked him. He was easy to talk to, nice, and always made the crew under him feel like they were all working toward the same goal, unlike other managers I had worked for when they feel as if their crew should shutter at the sound of their voice.

The interview was conducted by Daryl, which he explained to me in detail what the job consisted of and what my responsibilities were, there was even talk about how my application bumped other applicants down a notch. A nugget that again stroked a very neglected part of my ego and started to add strength to my confidence. It felt good. And I was determined to get this job right. It didn’t take long for word to come back on my favor, a first for everything.

For about a minute and a half I was, dare I say, proud of myself. These people I had been working for, with had thought well enough of me and the job I had been doing to put me in charge of a bigger job. They didn’t think of me as trouble or a liar or untrustworthy, or a screwup. They trusted me to get the job done. I had earned it.

Hold onto something because here comes my second mistake.

I took the job as Cap Team Supervisor with the understanding of how things were going to run and who would be running them. I had asked all the questions and gotten all the answers, these were major factors in the decision of taking the job. But as always, nothing could be trusted, or counted on. From the start I had felt overwhelmed, unsupported, and left out there to survive on my own. Depending on what manager was on duty was the difference in answers or instructions. While one team of management might tell us to focus on the sort of the truck, the other on another day would tell us we needed to get the departments on the floor worked. Work unfinished by other shifts, departments, or just other employees often fell to the Cap Team to clean up or finish. Overstock that should have been binned on shelves in the back were left on carts we needed to sort incoming freight. Wrapped pallets of overstock taken down off a high stack to fetch one item would be left where it sat on the dancefloor.

Maybe it was Wally World Inc. or the store manager, Bret, or maybe it was Daryl himself, but one of them reached down and grabbed the edge of my metaphorical rug and yanked. Before I knew it, I was ass over elbows.

In a quick succession of moves, the job I had signed up for evaporated. The man in charge moved to another shift. Replaced by a mouthy little shit that loved the sound of his own voice more than any one of those plastic dolls on one of those “Real Housewives” shows. He thought a lot of himself, and I could feel it roll off him even before he opened his mouth. I had been in one of the outer offices complaining about one thing or another and looking for suggestions or resolutions to the problems that seemed to be piling up around me.

“I have big plans on how we can change this system and make it better, more efficient and less waste of time,” Danny had said sitting in the corner of the office looking at his phone the first time I saw him. That office was always crowded with management, a place employee out on the floor said they went to hide so I hadn’t paid him any attention. I didn’t know who he was or why he was commenting on a conversation he hadn’t been invited into when Daryl was nice enough to clue me in.

“Oh, this is Danny. He will be taking my place as Cap Team Manager.”

I didn’t like him from the jump. He wore his sunglasses on his head and spoke as if all the problems we had would simply vanish once “wait until they get a load of me”. And as much as I hoped that were true, I had my doubts. It didn’t take me long to realize that our new leader was there under his own set of skillful praise.

Our replacement leader was not only wanting the usual the two, sometimes three, truckloads of freight unloaded and sorted but was also looking to impress the elders. He volunteered us to have more and more departments on the floor stocked by the time the night crew came into stock. All of this with a constantly fluctuating crew of hires, fires, and quitters, not to mention the ones who were always continuous and on more than one occasion violent.

“Davidson!” I had shouted over the sound of rollers on the line, a stretchable line of rollers carrying boxes down off the truck and to the guys sorting it at the other end. Davidson, a new hire, was the size of a football player and easily must have weighed 400 pounds. He had only been working a week and even though his temper was quick triggered, he could throw an entire truck from one end to the other without complaint. The problem was he had a nasty habit of shoving the boxes down the line as if he were launching grenades at the enemy. Doing so, damaged freight, sent freight off the line and smashed fingers of the guys on the other end.

“Davidson!” I shouted again, trying to get his attention. When he finally looked at me, I felt a little spooked by the look on his face. “You are pushing too hard again!”

“Man, why don’t you tell these assholes to hurry the hell up!” he shouted back at me. “Look at the line, its packed full again!”

“Yes, I know, it does that when they have to move and reset pallets.”

“Fuck that!” he shouted and started down the line of rollers violently forcing the line of boxes to spill out onto the floor and bunch together. Boxes of every shape, size and weight spilled out onto the floor of both the trailer and the dance floor where guys on the other end shouted for the line to stop. But all I could do is watch this brute of a man as he stormed toward me. The only thing I could think was, “I hope he hurts me because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

For this job, I had stepped so far outside my comfort zone, so far outside the box, so far away from what I am and who I am, I couldn’t even find my comfort anymore. I was miserable and unhappy. All I thought about anymore was work. How to deal with it. How to survive it. I took a job I thought I could learn how to do and found myself drifting alone out at sea without a harbor insight. I did the best I could with every ounce of myself, and with little to no help or advice from the upper management. I felt used.

I knew even before I pushed open that heavy wooden door leading into the small manager’s office, that my six-month performance review was going to be a far cry from the positive reviews I had received before. But I didn’t really know how bad until I opened the door and found not one but three managers sitting around the tiny room, none of them make eye contact.

Walmart has a policy that when reviews or talks are given there is supposed to be another person in the room as a witness to what happened. The fact that Danny, thought he needed two other people with him meant that he was concerned with how that little meeting was going to go. It was unlikely that he was concerned that my happiness at my good review would send me into such gleeful hysterics that I would be unable to control myself and he would need these other two to pull my fat ass off him. I thought I felt something hit the floor between my feet, turned out it was that last bit of heart.

Standing there in that manager's office that day, my fight-or-flight mechanism twitched. It felt like a morgue, as if no one wanted to be in there, especially me. I thought I was going to be fired. I had wished, contemplated, threatened, and screamed and maybe even prayed a little over the past months for the strength to quit, to walk out of that building and never come back. But I hadn't, I kept pushing, kept trying to get it right. I tortured myself for absolutely nothing.

“Come in, have a seat, Jennifer,” Danny said, speaking first, and I did, reluctantly.

The small office was square in shape with just enough room to hold two desks on either side of the room. One desk was held a computer, files, and manuals, while the one across from it seemed to be the catch all for everything else that came into the room. Four plastic chairs filled the space between the desk, all but one was occupied. The room felt tighter than it had before, and I felt a twinge of claustrophobia, another kick to my fight or flight. To give myself a little room, I leaned my butt against the catch all desk and put my feet in the chair, giving Danny my undivided.

Danny sat with his back to the computer, papers in his hands. I had tried to like him; some days were easier than others. He was an average guy with average looks, but something about him just told you a bald head and beer gut was somewhere in his future. He had thin blonde hair, combed back from his face, and usually topped with his sunglasses, but not that day. He was one of those guys who was always warning people about what a bad ass he was which was probably one of the first things I didn’t like about him.

Brandon, the overnight manager, sat in front of the door, opposite of Danny. Handsome, sweet, and a good personality with a fondness for bike riding and music. I don’t think I ever saw him get upset, though I did see reflections of a bad day set in his face, though he never took it out on people. There was a woman there, but I cannot remember who she was and if she said anything I don’t remember what it could have been.

“As you know, it's time for your six-month review,” Danny started, some papers sitting on his crossed legs.

Sitting on the desk, my hands gripping the edge to the point of pain. I leaned on my hands, and let my head fall between my shoulders. I don’t know if my brain registered what he was saying at first or if I was just trying to save myself the disappointment of hearing it all by only reaching out to grasp ahold of certain words--

“--giving you the lowest score possible--”

“--this job isn’t for you--”

“--not good with people--”

“--complaints against you--”

Every word felt like a blow to my self-esteem, the pain of complete failure. I felt like an idiot. Nothing I had done, nothing I had tried to do, pushing myself out of my comfort zone, driving myself crazy with anger and frustration to do a good job did any good. It didn't matter that Danny had never pulled me aside and told me there was a problem. It didn't seem to matter then when the company instigated a new protocol; they asked for time to iron out the kinks; a courtesy not allotted to me. Danny gave me the lowest score allowed, so all the other scores I had received before this, all the hard work I did before, wiped out.

There was something about me that Danny didn't like, but the reason is unclear. I know that when he first arrived and increased our workload without the stabilizing the workload, we already had; I told him so. When a former manager I worked under came back as a regular Joe and didn't like me telling him what to do, tried to rile up the crew against me. I didn't hide my anger at him for putting me through it. Maybe it was me not liking him. I have never been good at hiding my disdain. And as he was reading off my review, he had made no effort to hide himself. Afterword, I heard rumors about his distaste for women who were less than cooperative. Of course, people could have just been saying that to be sympathetic.

I don’t know if it were the tears, I could no longer hold back or the feel like something alien like was about to come through my chest, but I very much needed to be out of that room and away from that man. Before anyone could move, I was on my feet weaving through legs and chairs, passed Danny and the witness to my humiliation, fighting to get out that door as if the room were on fire, mumbling through a tight throat and dry mouth about needing a minute. I weaved I was in a full-blown panic, but there wasn’t any relief on the other side of that door.

I poured out of that tiny office as if there hadn’t been enough air inside and hoped to find a great big lungful of relief in that grey hallway that ran the length of the store. To my annoyance, I only found more people. I had to get away from people. The voices, the energy, the words felt like fingers touching me, agitating me, holding me down and keeping me there. If I didn’t, I would draw attention, attention I didn’t want or need, and eventually someone would ask what was wrong, a question my ego wasn’t ready to admit out loud; that I’d been an idiot and a fool to think that hard work and determination would get me through, would earn me a little corrective feedback if I were doing it wrong or maybe a little respect. But apparently, that was another one of those fairy tales like unconditional love and they create all men equal.

There wasn’t a lot of praise in my family. Or understanding, support, or emotion for that matter. My mother was one who couldn’t hide her distain either, though hers was directed at me. She hated everything about me and wasn’t shy about telling me about it. She never would admit she didn’t like me, but I could feel it. She hated me for making her a mother, and maker her feel things she didn’t want to feel; like guilt at not being around. I tried everything to win her love. Changed who I was, what I want, what I looked like, but there was always something. It wasn’t until she got a call from Texas, two states away from her Kansas home. A man she barely knew on the other end. He was fighting with me, hitting me, spitting on me, and he was calling so she could listen. The man continued his tirade, cursing me, punching me, backing me into the corner of the room. On his way out of the room, he picked up the phone to tell her, I was a whore before throwing the phone down and leaving the room. When I felt safe enough to go for the phone, some part of me thought she might ask if I was alright, I was wrong. “How could any daughter of mine be so stupid?”

I squeezed past people, elbowed through groups and freight being rolled this direction or that, mumbling something that sounded perversely polite. I burst through the swinging double doors that lead out of the back and onto the sales floor. I was somewhere between the men’s department and the shoes when I caught sight of Carmon, someone I considered a friend, and she of me.

“Jennifer, what’s wrong?” the small woman said moving toward me. For the briefest of seconds, I wanted to tell her, “I fucked up!” I wanted to let go of all that anger and frustration, hurt and outrage, but I stopped myself. If I opened my mouth and let it out, it probably wasn’t going to be pleasant, or kind or quiet for that matter. I liked Carmen, she had been sweet to me when I first started, and even bought me a cake and present for my birthday once. I didn’t want to take this out on her. Before she could get to me, I waved a hand at her and hurried away, cutting through the baby department into the men’s department.

I dodged and weaved past people, carts, displays and shelves until I burst out into the night air, taking a sharp deep breath as if coming up from underwater. I moved out of the flow of traffic coming in and out of the store and over to the side of the building where there were no people and no lights. The cool night air felt good on skin soaked in sweat and heated with fever. I took long, deep drags of smoke, held it in my lungs before blowing what my lungs didn’t absorb out through my nostrils.

A smile that held no laughter spread across my face as my tightened throat grew unbearable as I completely let go. The tears that had all fallen where joined by others and leaning against the cement building, I slide down the wall until my ass met the ground. You idiot! You stupid fucking idiot! I wanted to scream, but the sight of customers passing by kept me from it, even in my state, I still tried to be a good employee.

I’m not sure how long I sat there on the dirty cement. I knew it wasn’t long enough, the only way it would have been to never have went back inside, and for a minute I thought about it, but even that was beyond my ability to do. My son was in there, working the third shift we had started together, but I had thought I was special, good. But there was also the freedom. My entire life had been at someone else’s discretion. I got married too young, had kids too young, divorced too young. Through all of it, I was helped by others until the choices I made for my life, my children’s lives were no longer my own. That job afforded me a freedom that I could have gotten nowhere else.

Once back inside the cell, I tried to busy myself with removing pens, printer pages, and lists that I always seemed to be stuffed or sticking out of some pocket or another. I stripped off the navy-blue vest with the built-in yellow target on the back in case an active shooter happened to wonder if half his work was already done for him, as Danny continued reading aloud my list of flaws and defects, rounding it off with my lack of civil tone.

“You have several complaints against you from your crew.”

“I give as good as I get, Danny! If they choose to be a constant pain in my ass, constantly take up time, constantly need attention and argumentative, we are not going to be buddies. This is a job not Romper Room!” I said, feeling my control slipping with every word I uttered. Out of the fifteen some odd guys that were on the crew at the time, I bet I could have narrowed down that list to the two or three that had the problem with me. They had had that problem since day one. Some of the guys didn’t like being put in departments where I needed them but wanted to be put in the departments where they wanted to go. They didn’t like that when they gave me shit, I gave it right back.

“Speaking of complaints, is there a reason why this review needs an audience?”

All three seemed to try and speak at once, but Danny’s voice won out. “There needs to be a witness…” Brandon jumped to his feet and volunteered to go as if he couldn’t wait to get out of that room. It wasn’t the only one feeling it. Danny continued to ramble about how much I suck and told me he couldn't make me quit the position, but he thought I would be better off as a department manager working by myself.

“Do you have any openings for department managers?” I’d asked, hoping to get away from him as fast as possible.

“No.”

I threw the nylon vest I had balled in my hands onto the desk behind him, by tomorrow the story would sound as if I threw a hammer at his head instead of a nylon vest. I was done. I was done with this conversation, with this company, with this whole job.

“And by that action, I can see I’ve made the right choice.”

As soon as I was out of that office, I was on my phone first texting my son who was at work somewhere in the building and then calling my husband. I was looking for support, compassion, an ally, but the more I told him the angrier I became. I had worked hard, done my best and gotten the work done. My voice became louder and louder echoing in the hollows of the back room. I felt out of control and on the verge of madness, while my husband kept telling me to stop and calm down before they fired me. His concern for the job, the paycheck, outweighed his concern for my pride, my hurt, my self-respect. I’m sure that if I had been in a different state of mind some part of me might have been able to understand that, but not nearly enough.

I quit my job as supervisor and went back to stocking shelves with my son for a couple more weeks at least. I saw Danny in the store from time to time until one day he was gone. I heard he took another job at another retailer. And one of the few females that had been on the unloading crew took my spot as supervisor, though I heard she didn’t fare much better.

I like to think I learned a little bit about myself. For one, I don’t play well with others. And I don’t like it when the fate of the project depends on others. Wally-World can say a lot of things about me, but they can’t say that I didn’t get shit done. After I left, I started looking for something better, something that might make me feel good about myself. Something to prove to myself that I am better than some egotistical blow hard. Something that said, not so stupid. I decided to go to college. I am currently working toward my bachelor’s degree in English and Creative Writing.

[lilacnestor-blog]

Damien and the Summer of the Flowers

So I found @alcordraws  ‘s headcannon on twitter (even though i follow them on here) and got inspired so have this unedited piece of garbage. this is shit and i’m not sorry for the shittiness/feels trip also it’s super long. also sorry that it takes place in two different times and universes i didn’t know how else to do it so there’s a lot of notes to help you along. tagging @mayor-damien-protection-squad and @darkiplier-support-group because they were really cool last time i made damien/darkiplier stuff. also tagging @warfstache-support-group and @colonel-william-protection-army because they might like to see it?

POV - DARKIPLIER TIMELINE - FAR AFTER WKM, FAR AFTER ADWM, A FEW MONTHS AFTER MPRTV (PRESENT DAY) SETTING - EGOS INC - BUILDING WHERE ALL EGOIPLIERS LIVE AND WHERE THE CONFERENCE PARTS OF MPRTV TOOK PLACE NOTE - THIS GOES ALONG WITH THE HEADCANON THAT WKM MARK, WILLIAM, AND DAMIEN ARE BROTHERS

Ego's Inc has a courtyard. It's directly in the center of the building and is quite expansive. It first appeared King begged one of the reality benders (myself, Wilford, and Host), though I can't remember which one, so it must not have been myself, for a tree so his "subjects" could have a home. If I had to guess, it would be the Host who conjured it, because the whole place has a certain sense of elegance and tranquility that his style leaves. Anyways, many of us enjoy being out in the courtyard, it is nice to have some fresh air, and Host regulated the weather so that if one of us were to step outside while it is raining and we wanted it sunny, or vice versa, the weather would change to our liking.

I often sit under the large tree to meditate, and by that, I mean I relive memories in my head. You see, I remember both of my past lives quite well, the one of Damien, and the one of Selene. When the souls merged together in this body, and created me, their consciousnesses merged as well, so they became one person, sharing the same thoughts, emotions, and memories. Though I suppose I have the most of Damien's consciousness, I share quite a lot of traits with him, not just the physical. I like to think back to his memories more than I do hers, it is a good way to spend an afternoon, sitting under the tree and reliving his memories, and a strange side effect is that whenever I get up from meditating, white roses grow where I was sitting. I think it's something to do with the reality bender I am, letting my emotions go can often produce unusual results.

I've come here so often, that I have to look for a spot where the roses aren't growing beneath the tree for me to sit. I know that I could physically make them disappear, and I probably will, when they cover the whole base of the tree, or King complains that he can't climb it without falling into thorns. But not today, as I am especially drained, physically and emotionally. Today would have been Selene's birthday, though time has passed so strangely here, even I do not know how old she would be. I sit underneath the tree and start picturing Damien's memories. I know that since it is her birthday, I should spend some more time with Selene, but it makes me tired to remind myself of all of the things she's done. It is almost comforting to go through Damien's mind, since we are so similar, I feel like I almost am him. Which I am, but not completely.

I enter the mindspace, and decide to go for something calming.  I decide on the summer of the flowers. Bittersweet, but has always been one of my favorite periods of time in my past life. I'll only relive that part, so I'll only be here an hour or two. I take a deep breath, and then, quicker and easier than falling asleep, I enter my memories, and I become Damien.

*** POV: Damien, age 15

I only know a few things about the groundskeeper. His name is George, he likes to keep to himself, and we both love flowers. I really enjoy sitting in the garden, admiring the flowers and reading my book, my hair slicked back in the only way I can get it to stay back, and still in a suit from my job as my dad's assistant. I hate the boring political work I have to do for him, but I know being the mayor's assistant will look good on college applications, so I suffer through it. Plus, he pays me pretty well, and I am saving up to get a motorcycle with my own money because I want something that's really truly mine instead of bought with my parents' money.

Some days, when I'm sitting in the middle of the grass, flowers all around me, pollen all over my wrinkled suit, and my head in a book, George will approach me and we'll talk about flowers, or whatever's on either of our minds, for a few minutes before he goes and takes care of something else, and I go back to reading. After he learned that my favorite flowers are roses, especially the white ones, (his are the giant sunflowers that reach almost as tall as Mark, though as the youngest brother, he'll always be short in my opinion,) George always brings me a rose or two from the rosebushes near the front of the house.

Today, as I was enraptured by Moby Dick, (I mean I know Dad said it was a classic, but I didn't know a book about whale fishing could be this interesting,) George walked up towards me in his dirt-caked overalls and handed me a freshly bloomed white rose. I looked up in surprise. "I thought we only had red roses growing here, where did this come from?"

"I convinced your parents early this spring that we needed more variety in the rosebushes out front. This is the first white bloom of the season. I thought you'd like to have it."

"Thanks, George, I really appreciate it. Man, I should really show Will this flower, it's a really nice one!"

"And how is William doing, by the way? I never see him in the garden anymore like I see you."

"Will's still set on joining the army next year when he turns eighteen. Dad thinks it's a good idea, he says it'll take all of Will's boundless energy and put it to good use. But I don't know, I don't like the idea of Will going off to war. He never seemed like the type to be able to just kill people cold-blood like that. Maybe I'm just scared, you know? I just don't want to lose my big brother, and I feel like if he goes to war, he'll come back... different. Less happy and bouncy, more hard and stoic."

"I'm sure everything will work out fine. Why don't you go show that beautiful flower to your brother? Maybe you can get him out of the house and come down to see the rosebushes."

"Alright, I think I will. See you around, George."

"Goodbye, Damien."

I went into the house to grab a small vase for the rose, to preserve the bloom longer, before setting off to find Will. He wasn't in his room, which was strange, so I searched the whole manor before finding him sat outside on a bench on the west end of the house, near the pool.

"Heya, Will! Whatcha' doing out here?"

"Oh, hi, Damien. I'm studying up on military history. Thought it would be nice to get out of my room, it's kind of stuffy in there, especially with this spring heatwave we're getting."

"Look, Will, I've got a flower! George, the gardener, heard they were my favorite kind, so he planted white rosebushes along with the red ones and this is the first bloom of the spring! Isn't it pretty?"

"Yeah, Damien, it is pretty."

"Do you want it? I put it in a vase so it wouldn't die."

"Well I think you should have the first bloom, little brother, but if you find another one and want to give it away, I'll take it."

And with that, a tradition had been formed. For that entire summer, I'd periodically get roses from George, and then I'd tell Will I had a flower, ask him if he thought it was pretty, and then ask him if he wanted it. After the first rose, his response was always the same. "Yeah, Damien, it is pretty, I'll put it in my room."

But as all things do, the tradition ended. It was a Saturday morning, and I didn't sleep well that night, so I ended up sitting in the garden, watching the sunrise. When I inevitably fell asleep in the grass, a book half open next to me, I awoke with a white rose as its bookmark, the bloom sticking out of the top, and the stem keeping my page. I grabbed the rose and the book, and headed up to Will's room. I knocked on the door, unsure of whether he'd be awake or not, and started on my routine. "Hey, Will, I've got a flower! Isn't it pretty? Do you want it?"

But to my surprise, Will wasn't at the door groggily in his pajamas with a tired smile because, well, it was 7:15 now that I looked at the wall clock. He opened his door with a resolute manner, his eyes stern, and his face stoic, dressed in full military uniform. When he saw me, still in pajamas, a hopeful look on my face and a rose in my hand, a sad smile graced his face. "Heya, Damien, that is a pretty rose. I'll put it... in my shirt pocket."

"Why are you dressed so early? And why are you wearing your uniform? You're not leaving yet, are you? I thought that wasn't for a couple months!"

Will gently took the rose out of my hand and put it into his shirt pocket. The stem was already short, so the flower poked out of his dull brown uniform just so that the late-August perfect bloom was the only thing sticking out. "I'm sorry, Damien, you were right. I wasn't supposed to leave until October, but I got a call last night and they need me today. They're running short on infantry soldiers because of the Great War, so they're calling up their best soldier's homes to send us in. Don't worry little brother, I'll see you in a few years, at most."

At this point, I had started to cry. I had been desperately trying to hold it back ever since he'd started speaking with such a melancholy tone to his voice, because Dad always said boys shouldn't cry, that it was weak. But I knew Will wouldn't judge me because he'd always rebutted that it wasn't weak to care so much about something, that your body showed its grief. He pulled me close into a hug, so that my tears left streaks down his uniform shirt, and he almost looked like he was going to cry as well. "Hey, there, Damien, it's going to be okay. You're going to have to take care of Mark for me, okay? He's only twelve, he's going to need a big brother to set a good example for him. I'll be back before you know it, kiddo."

"But what if you don't come back? What if you die? I'm so scared Will, god, I'm so scared. I've been trying to hide it this entire time, but I don't know what I'll do if you don't come back. I can't be the head boy, the oldest of the family, the role model for Mark! I'm just the middle child, the weird kid who likes flowers and reading. I'll never be able to replace you, and god damn it, I don't want to! Please, promise me you'll try to stay out of too much danger Will. You'll be all the way over in Europe, I won't know if you're dead or alive for months, or even years if this war drags on! I don't know what to do."

"Oh, Damien, don't worry about these things. You'll never have to be my replacement because I don't plan on getting myself killed. These next few months, or years, might be hard, but you and Mark will get through them with Mom and Dad. I have to leave now, Damien. I need to catch the train out of here. Remember, I'll be back before you know it."

And a few minutes later, he'd woken up Mom, Dad, and Mark, and told them the news. We got in the car, though since our Model T was only a four-seater, the three of us had to squeeze in the back. Will tried to make light of the situation by telling us we wouldn't need to all squeeze in once he left, but no one found it funny. I think the only one not about to cry, or crying in the car, was Dad because he was proud that Will was going off to war, and was never one to show much emotion unless at a public event. I was crying, to which Dad was giving me a look, Mom was sniffling, Mark's eyes were watering, and Will looked like he was barely keeping it together. He just kept twirling the rose in his fingers, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking down. I wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to go to war, he just did it because it was the right thing to do. He was always led by his strong sense of morals, and I guess if they told him to fight for his country, he would.

When we reached the train station, both Mom and Mark had started full on crying, and I was pressed against Will's side like I had been in the car, just of my own volition this time, while Mark was hugging him on the other side. Will's uniform had multiple tear tracks down it from the two of us, and there were a few drops that looked like they could've been Will's himself. I looked around the station briefly, and through my tear-blurred vision, I saw other soldiers surrounded by their families, though a few arrived alone. A train whistle blew, and I knew that meant Will needed to get on the train, so we exchanged our last goodbyes.

"Fight well for our country, son." "I will, Dad." "Goodbye, William, please be careful." "I'll be okay, Mom." "Will, don't get yourself killed out there, okay?" "Don't you worry, I'll make it back, Mark."

And then I realized I needed to say something. "I'll miss you." "I'll miss you too, kiddo, and remember, I'll be back before you know it."

Will boarded the train with the other soldiers in similar brown, tear-stained uniforms. I heard the engine start, and right before the train started moving, I saw Will poke his head out of the window. I ran up to the edge of the platform, even though I could hear Mom yelling at me, and listened to the last words my brother had to say before he was whisked off to a new world with guns and soldiers and death.

"Damien, thank you for all the roses."

It was two days after Will left that I left the house for the first time. I'd spent the time locked in my room, only coming out to eat and to receive disapproving looks from my father about the tear stains that seemed to be tattooed on my face. I left the house without telling anyone, with two dollars in my pocket, a face that was red and puffy, an idea in my head, and a determination to get to the shops in town by myself, on foot. It took me twenty minutes to get there, as we lived a decent ways out of town, and I wasn't used to coming out without being in the car. But soon enough, I arrived at the shops and there it was, a small and humble stationary store. I walked in, and after looking around at the different notebooks and journals, asked the lady at the counter if they had any books with special paper. Paper for pressing flowers.

I stopped crying every day, three days after he left. I started going out to the garden regularly after five. I got my first rose since he'd left, after six. As soon as I got the flower, I brought it upstairs to my room and picked up the thick blue book full of thin sheets of paper, with "WILL" written in all caps on the front. I placed the first rose in between the front cover and the first page, and gently closed the book before putting the copy of War And Peace that I took from the bookshelf in Dad's office, on top of the book. And thus, I created a new tradition, born out of the ashes of the old one.

I pressed every rose that George gave me between the dates of August 29th, 1917, and November 16th, 1918, because that was the day Will came back. The day Will came back started off like any other. It was a Saturday, and I'd woken up strangely early, early enough to watch the sunrise, which I'd only done a couple times in the past year. I sat out in the garden, and fell asleep reading, waking up to a rose as a bookmark. It hit me that the last time I'd had a rose as a bookmark was the day Will left, which left a strange feeling in my chest. I walked into the house, and was in the process of walking up to my room to press the flower, when I heard the phone ring, which was unusual, as we usually didn't get a lot of calls, especially this early on a Saturday morning. I looked up at the clock and saw it was 8:15, okay, so maybe it wasn't so unreasonable, but I knew it was probably for Dad, and he'd still be asleep, so I should take the call and tell him who wanted what later. I picked up the phone and heard a static-filled voice say, "Oh thank god, I didn't think anyone was going to pick up. Hello?"

"Hello, this is the Iplier residence." I replied, confused because the kind of people who talked to my dad weren't the kind of people to start a phone call like that. The voice sounded young and slightly familiar, but that might have been the static from what was obviously a payphone in a busy place playing tricks on me.

"Damien, is that you? It's me, Will."

"Will? What? No way. How are you talking to me, aren't you still in Europe?"

"I guess you guys didn't get the letter then, my group got shipped back this morning. I've only been at the station about twenty minutes."

"I can't believe you're back! I need to go wake up Mom and Dad and Mark! We'll come pick you up, okay? And when we get back, I have something to show you. It'll be like your late birthday present because your birthday was last Saturday! We'll be there soon, okay? I'm so glad you're okay, I know you sent letters, but I was so worried, and-"

"Okay, okay, I know you're glad I'm back, and I hate to cut you off, but this payphone is about to run out and I don't have any more change with me. See you in a few minutes, Damien."

"Bye, Will!"

I woke everyone up, and while they got changed and Dad made coffee, I flipped to a page near the end of my flower book; it had filled up quickly, and placed the last rose in the book, before quickly shutting it and putting War and Peace back on top. I put a dress shirt and some slacks on, but no tie, I wanted to be fancy, but not too fancy, before heading downstairs to join my family.

The ride to the station was uneventful. Mark and I were giddy in the back, we couldn't believe we were going to see Will again! We reached the station and Mark and I jumped out of the car and ran in, Mom and Dad trailing behind us. We looked around the station filled with soldiers reuniting with their families and then spotted a lone figure near a telephone booth. Could that be Will? We ran over, dodging people and getting stares, and once we came closer it was obvious that though he was tanned, muscled, and had a buzz cut, our brother was standing there waiting for us. We tackled him in a bear hug, to which he stumbled and regained his footing before saying, "Whoa, you kids are bigger than I remember. How are you guys doing? I missed you both so much!"

"We missed you too, Will!"

"Yeah, we're so glad you're back!"

"I'm glad I'm with you guys."

The reunion was sweet, Mom was crying, and when I showed Will the book full of pressed flowers that I had given him, he seemed to really like it. But after a few days, we noticed something small had changed in Will. Before, he was always open and trusting, but now he seemed a bit more closed off. He also seemed a bit erratic, but Mark and I figured he was just trying to adjust to normal life again. What we thought was the strangest was that he seemed to hate the war, he never wanted to talk about it, but after six months of being home, he announced that he was leaving to go be a part of the military occupation of the Dominican Republic. The only one who didn't seem surprised by this was Dad, who said at the table when Will announced it that once join the army, you don't stop fighting until your last days, or at least that was what one of his friends in the army had said.

A few days before he left, he came up to my room, a strange smile on his face that made it impossible for me to tell if he was happy or sad, and told me that this time, he'd be gone for a while, and I didn't need to keep the flowers for him. I smiled back and told him I might still do it. He ruffled my hair and told me I was his little man, to which I replied that I was sixteen and still looked Mark's age. I honestly made him laugh with that, which was rare, so I took special enjoyment out of it.

He left on a Tuesday, while Mark and I were at school, Dad was at work, and Mom was at some ladies' tea thing. He didn't even tell us he was leaving that day, or I would have cut class to see him leave. I cried when I got home, but strangely, I wasn't as affected by it this time. The next day, I was fine, though I bought a new book for flower pressing because the old one was in his room, and it was nearly full anyway. He told us in his first letter that the time he was leaving was a split second decision by the higher-ups, and he didn't have much choice in the matter.

Life went on. He sent letters once or twice a month, he'd met a nice girl in the Dominican Republic named Penny, and then broke up with her three letters later. He wished both Mark and I happy birthday in the same letter when I turned seventeen on the nineteenth of June, and Mark turned fourteen on the twenty-eighth. I continued collecting flowers, and by the time he'd sent us a letter explaining that he wished he could be home for the Christmas of 1919, but was needed there, I had three-fourths of a book filled. By the time he sent a letter explaining that he couldn't be home for the Christmas of 1920, I had filled a book and a half.

By the Will-absent Christmas of '21, I had two books of flowers filled and was contemplating moving out. I got a book for pressing flowers as a Christmas gift from Mom, and a talk about how the Mayor's assistant needed to focus more on his college studies, instead of picking flowers with the gardener from Dad. He didn't seem to care that I wasn't the one picking the flowers. He also hadn't seemed to care a year and a half earlier when I told him I hated politics, but here I was as a political science major at his urging.

By the Christmas of '22, I had a hard time remembering what Will looked like. A part of me was concerned by this, but a larger part didn't care. I was in my third year of college, still hated my major, still contemplated moving out, but wondered where I would go. I barely knew anyone there because I wasn't a boarder or a party animal. Dad didn't want me to board, so I didn't. It was that simple. I listened to him on everything but the flowers. I now had three and a half books, and it had become the one thing I would do for fun. Talk to George about flowers, press them with what was now my own copy of War and Peace, wonder if I was even doing this for Will anymore, and realize I did it because I didn't know what else to do.

Will came back from the Dominican Republic on July 10th, 1923. He'd been sent back because they were pulling troops out of the island country, and now had nothing to do but wait for the next thing. I was twenty, and Mark was seventeen, my age when Will left. Mark looked more like seventeen-year-old me than I did, and Will thought he was me at the station when Mark and I drove to pick him up. Mom and Dad didn't come with us, since it was a Thursday afternoon and they were out of the house at 4:30 when I got the call.

He only stayed for two months. He was more erratic and closed off than he was the last time, and I barely recognized him from the happy, shy, trusting, boy that was seventeen a lifetime ago. He was twenty-two now, a man, not a boy. He'd made friends, brothers in arms as he called them, that he would die for and kill for. When I tried to give him the four books of flowers, because we weren't allowed to send packages to him while he was in service, he took one look at them and said I could keep them. I ended up putting them in his room one day when he'd left the door open, and he never said anything, so I don't know whether he appreciated them, or just didn't notice.

He didn't even stay for his twenty-third birthday, though Mom was so excited to finally have a birthday party for him and invite the relatives who hadn't seen him in ages. He left on September 17th with his "brothers in arms" to go off to the Haiti occupation. I stopped caring enough to cry about it, I had other things to deal with. I moved out after I graduated in 1924, and with funds from my parents, and from my job as my dad's assistant, which I'd held since I was sixteen, moved into a house on the other side of town. It wasn't as nice as my childhood home, but for a just-graduated-college kid, it was pretty nice.

My dad retired in 1930, and I ran for mayor. Shockingly, I won, although I think it was because the people just wanted a familiar face. I became the youngest mayor of the town at twenty-seven and hadn't seen my brother in seven years. But it was okay, I had other things to deal with. Four years later Dad had a heart attack and died, and at his funeral was the first time I saw William since I'd graduated college. I learned that he'd just been assigned to come back and help lead new recruits, he was a colonel now. He decided to live in a town an hour and a half away, because it was the nearest military base without being right in the city.

I was thirty-one, he was thirty-four, and Mark was twenty-seven. It was strange that Mark was the youngest, but already had a fiance. Selene, who I'd met a couple months before, but Will had just met at the funeral, was strikingly beautiful, and an actress. Mark had met her because they'd been co-stars on a movie he'd been in, and they had become famous together. We caught up, and Will seemed a bit off, but I quickly realized that "off" was his default state. I delved back into my work, got re-elected, and time passed in a blur.

Only a year later, Mark had a party at his house, the mansion that was our childhood home. He invited Will, his friend the detective whose name I could never remember, and me, although with his permission I invited my friend the attorney general whose name I used to know. Things got blurry that night, and I found out that Selene had been cheating on Mark with Will. I honestly can't remember anything after about 1:30 am. Anything at all.

W h e r e  a m  I ?  W h a t  y e a r  i s  i t ? W h a t ' s  g o i n g  o n ?

PRESENT TIME - DARKIPLIER

I jolt back to reality to find it's now late at night. Where am I? What was I doing? Oh, yes, the tree. I must have gotten sidetracked and ended up playing Damien's entire memories. I have a wicked headache now. It always glitches out like that when I reach the end of Damien's memories. But at least I know the rest of the story, unlike that poor figment of my being. There are white roses all around the tree now, and I remember why they form, from my emotional energy. The memories of the summer of the flowers must have increased it.

I don't want to get up from where I'm sitting because of my glitch-induced headache. I think the science behind the damned things is that when I reach the end of Damien's or Selene's memories, that part of my shell cracks, which can lead to physical repercussions? I'm not entirely sure. This universe is weird, but I needed somewhere to go after I became Darkiplier, and this was the closest in both physical proximity and relation to my universe. This one is just so much more modern, and there aren't any demons that naturally occur in it. But there are alter egos here, and this universe's Mark is a good person, although not the most observant, so he accepted me as one of his egos when he saw me wander into Egos Inc. confused at all the people that look like me. I hope he never finds out that I'm not one of his carbon copies.

Unfortunately, I'm not the only one from my universe to come to this one. Will is here. I don't know how, I don't know why, but he is. He just showed up one day after I'd been here about five months, and he stayed. Well, it's not totally accurate to say that Will is here. He's Wilford Warfstache now, not William Iplier. But I know it's my Will, from my universe. Or what's left of him. After he murdered two people, though one of them wasn't his fault, and without the other, I would've never been able to return to a physical form, and then believed that when he killed people, they didn't die permanently, he became fully unhinged. He's now half serial killer, half reporter, though the reporter half is mainly the rest of the egos and I just humoring him.

It's strange, the other egos think both he and I are egos as well, especially because my first move was to cause accidental glitches across this Mark's channel, and his first move was to interrogate Slenderman. And I almost feel as if I am an ego, when I first showed up in this universe, although I was thirty-one in one of my past lives, and twenty-six in another, I just felt that I was twenty-three, the age of this universe's Mark, and I am sure Will feels the same, although I haven't talked to him about it, and don't plan on it.

The last time I tried to talk about something serious with the new Will, one thing led to another, and I had to convince all of the egos to watch and support Markiplier TV, because yes, Will had lost it, and yes, he acted like a child left unsupervised, but he cared about that project, and I still cared about my older brother. I would always care about my older brother, even if he looks several years younger than when he was in our universe, when he was sane. Even if now we aren't brothers anymore, we are egos, we are the same age, and have to pretend we are parts of the same person. I know we aren't because I know what it's like to be made up of different people. But that doesn't matter, I need to get up, go back to my room, go to sleep. And I will, in a minute. I'm just going to let this headache subside.

I wake up to the door to my room opening. Wait, this isn't my room. Where am I? Oh, wait, the tree. God, that's the second time I've said that tonight, I must have dozed off. Wait, it's not night anymore. It looks like it's early morning. I glance over to see who just entered. Ah, Bim Trimmer. He's an alright kid, he follows Will around a lot, which means... there he is. Will is sitting on the singular bench in the courtyard, but because of his reality-bending powers, the bench is now bright pink. He's scribbling something in a notebook, and I can hear him, even from on the other side of the tree where the two can't see me, mumbling something about a second episode. He must be talking about making the second episode of Markiplier TV. I swear to god if I have to convince everyone to show up to this thing again. Bim is saying something now, so I decide

"Hey, Wil! There are roses all around this tree." Bim declares, excited as he runs over to the tree that I am hiding behind to gaze at the white roses that have formed from my reality bending.

"That's nice," Will replies, distracted, as he scribbles more into his notebook and crosses something out with a frown. Bim reaches down and picks a flower before running back to Will.

"Look, Wil, I've got a flower! Isn't it pretty? Do you want one?" Bim says, suddenly seeming very familiar. Will doesn't look up before he speaks, still concentrated on whatever's in his notebook.

"Yeah, Damien, it is pretty, I'll put it in my room." Will responds before- oh, god. It's only a split second before...

"Who's Damien?" Wilford freezes, looking around before his eyes settle on Bim, who now that I think about it, strikingly resembles Damien in looks and clinginess to Will. His eyes are vacant, but scared, an emotion the new Will doesn't show often.

"Wil?" Bim is concerned, Wilford may be crazy, but no one knows who Damien is, even, seemingly, not even his own brother anymore.

"I-I don't know. I don't know." Wilford looks paranoid, no, vulnerable, and scared, his face almost mirroring William's face the day he left to fight in the first world war. He mumbles something under his breath and I catch the words "White roses, flower books," before Will runs out of the room, flinging the door open. Bim just stands there for a second, confused and concerned, before running out after Wilford, yelling an "I'm sorry!"

And I, I slump against the tree. Too many memories hit too close to home, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. I close my eyes and try to will the emerging memories away, but my broken mind replaces them with thoughts of Will. Not my Will, Wilford Warfstache.

Why does history repeat itself, just with different faces and names? Except for this time, only the names differ.

[sinitoooo-blog]

John B. Lacson Foundation Maritime University – Arevalo Inc. (Formerly Iloilo Maritime Academy) Sto. Nino Sur, Arevalo, Iloilo

In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex (https://kickass.cd/in-the-heart-of-the-sea-the-tragedy-of-the-whaleship-essex-tt8119888.html) I downloaded the pdf form of the book from a Torrent site

Francis Paulo G. Delos Santos Grade 11 – Bow

Ms. Joanna Jacinth Ferrer Instructor

About the Author

Nathaniel Philbrick (born June 11, 1956) is an American author and a member of the Philbrick literary family. He won the year 2000 National Book Award for his maritime history, In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex. His 2006 Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community, and War was named one of The New York Times' ten best books of the year and was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for History.

Personal life Nathaniel Philbrick was born on June 11, 1956, in Boston, Massachusetts, the son of Marianne (Dennis) and Thomas Philbrick, an English professor. He currently lives in Nantucket, Massachusetts. Philbrick is married to Melissa Douthart Philbrick, who is Executive Director of Remain Nantucket. They have two children, Jennie and Ethan. He moved to Nantucket, Massachusetts in 1986, and is a leading authority on the history of the island.

Education Philbrick graduated from Taylor Allderdice High School in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, earned his bachelor's degree in English at Brown University, and his master's degree in American literature at Duke University. Philbrick was Brown's first Intercollegiate All-American sailor in 1978; that year he won the Sunfish North Americans in Barrington, Rhode Island.

Career After grad school, Philbrick worked for four years at Sailing World magazine; was a freelancer for a number of years, during which time he wrote/edited several sailing books, including Yaahting: A Parody (1984), for which he was the editor-in-chief; during this time he was also the primary caregiver for his two children. After moving to Nantucket in 1986, he became interested in the history of the island and wrote Away Off Shore: Nantucket Island and Its People. He was offered the opportunity to start the Egan Maritime Institute in 1995. In 2000, he published In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex. This was followed by Sea of Glory: America's Voyage of Discovery, The U.S. Exploring Expedition, in 2003. In 2006, Philbrick published a new history of the founding of the Plymouth colony in the United States, Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community, and War. The Last Stand: Custer, Sitting Bull, and the Battle of the Little Bighorn was published in May 2010. His book, Bunker Hill: A City, A Siege, A Revolution about Boston during the early years of the Revolution was published on April 30, 2013.

Awards In the Heart of the Sea won the National Book Award for Nonfiction;[1] Revenge of the Whale won a Boston Globe Horn Book Award; Sea of Glory won the Theodore and Franklin D. Roosevelt Naval History Prize and the Albion-Monroe Award from the National Maritime Historical Society. Mayflower was a finalist for both the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for History and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and it won the Massachusetts Book Award for nonfiction. The Last Stand was named a New York Times Notable book, a 2010 Montana Book Award Honor Book, and a 2011 ALA Notable Book. Why Read Moby-Dick? was a finalist for the New England Society Book Award and was named to the 2012 Listen List for Outstanding Audiobook Narration from the Reference and User Services Association, a division of the ALA. Bunker Hill was awarded both the 2013 New England Book Award for Non-Fiction and the 2014 New England Society Book Award as well as the 2014 Distinguished Book Award of the Society of Colonial Wars. Philbrick has also received the Byrne Waterman Award from the Kendall Whaling Museum, the Samuel Eliot Morison Award for distinguished service from the USS Constitution Museum, the Nathaniel Bowditch Award from the American Merchant Marine Museum, the William Bradford Award from the Pilgrims Society, the Boston History Award from the Bostonian Society, and the New England Book Award from the New England Independent Booksellers Association.

Summary of the Book What was supposed to be a routine mission becomes an unprecedented disaster for the whaleship Essex. Launched from Nantucket in 1819, the Essex is expected to take a two-year journey to the Pacific Ocean before returning home with an estimated amount of 20,000 barrels of whale oil. Led by the newly promoted Captain George Pollard Jr. with his first mate Owen Chase and second mate Matthew Joy, the Essex was manned by a full crew of rookies that includes fourteen-year-old Thomas Nickerson and Chase's nephew Owen Coffin. Within a few days, the Essex nearly flips because of the captain’s orders to confront the storm. Though Captain Pollard wants to return to Nantucket for repairs, he was convinced to continue by Chase and Joy. In the next couple of days, they had a tough time finding whales, they don't spot a single one until crossing the equator. Thankfully, their luck turns around by the time they round the base of South America. After reaching the Pacific Ocean, the crew decides to head to the Offshore Grounds, a newly discovered breeding ground of whales but is thousands of miles away from land. During a hunt, the Essex is shockingly attacked by a sperm whale, the first recorded instance of an intentional attack on humans by a sperm whale. 1st mate Owen Chase missed the opportunity to kill the whale before it happened, which is a failure that haunted him for the rest of his life. The desperate surviving crew members rig their tiny whaleboats with sails in an attempt to make the long journey to South America. Each officer is placed in charge of a whaleboat: Coffin is on Pollard's crew, while Nickerson travels with Chase. Once again, Pollard has only been convinced of this course of action that he had wanted to travel to the Society Islands instead. If it wasn’t for Chase and Joy, they would have still been alive. Although they hit a few strokes of luck, catching a few fish for food and chancing upon a tiny deserted island for refuge, the whaleboats set off to the open ocean again and are eventually separated, and the starving sailors descend into cannibalism. At one point, Pollard's crew runs out of food, and Owen Coffin was killed and had been eaten by his crew mates. In the end, five sailors (including Pollard, Chase, and Nickerson) are rescued near the coast of South America (three men had remained on that tiny island and were rescued later), though the Essex tragedy continues to haunt them until their deaths.

Lessons Learned • That fame and fortune could lead you to the person you could not be – in the story, in the instance that the captain ordered to go back to shore for repairs but his chief mate disagreed because they will go back without even a single barrel of oil which would ruin the name he had built up in the whaling industry. • Desperate times call for desperate and just measures – unlike in the story, in desperation the crew led to cannibalism and eventually Owen Collin was killed and eaten, in times like that you could say that they did everything to survive but to sacrifice a life just to keep them alive? The value of one for the value of many? It is so immoral.

Critique and Reactions The story of the Essex was written exquisitely by Nathaniel Philbrick, full of adventure and thrill, a so called “imaginary” great big white whale, which inspired the story of Moby dick, was so entertaining on my part because we don’t know exactly what is lurking under our oceans and seas, that a creature that size could be true and is in existence. The attitude of the first mate was so realistic to the common first mate who worked hard but did not had the chance to be the captain, in his experience he was all ahead of himself that he would lead the Essex to success. The captain was so arrogant of himself because of his family name, he though ta=hat he would be perfect as captain even though he lacked the experience. All I can say is that the story was well written in the past and current situations of whaling or seafaring in the present.

References Wikipedia. (n.d.). Retrieved July 29, 2017, from (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nathaniel_Philbrick) KickAss Torrents. (n.d.). Retrieved July 29, 2017, from (https://kickass.cd/in-the-heart-of-the-sea-the-tragedy-of-the-whaleship-essex-tt8119888.html) Book Review: ‘In the Heart of the Sea’ by Nathaniel Philbrick. (n.d.). Retrieved July 29, 2017, from (https://writersedit.com/5398/book-reviews/book-review-heart-sea-nathaniel-philbrick/) What they're reading: Nathaniel Philbrick. (n.d.). Retrieved July 29, 2017, from (http://bookpage.com/the-book-case/19843-what-theyre-reading-nathaniel-philbrick)