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flightfoot · 4 years ago

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Analyzing Reyna’s romance (or rather, lack thereof) arc and her feelings towards it throughout the series

Recently, Rick published a tweet about Reyna’s orientation, stating “Personally, I see her as romantic asexual and have written her arc with that in mind. (hence the prophecy in HoO) It’s been a struggle for her to figure that out, as she explains in Tyrant’s Tomb. But as always, interpret the text as you wish.”

After reading Tyrant’s Tomb, I figured she was somewhere around ace or aro, so it was cool to see it confirmed that he wrote her with that in mind! Especially since I’m ace myself, and we don’t get a ton of representation. It was just really neat.

In light of that, I wanted to lay out and analyze her arc as it relates to her orientation, to who she’s attracted (or moreso, not attracted) to, starting from her first appearance and continuing through to Tyrant’s Tomb.

Starting all the way from “Son of Neptune”, there’s hints and conversations about Reyna’s love life woven in, with Percy noticing how Reyna reacts to Jason being mentioned.

Reyna grimaced. Percy got the feeling this guy Jason might’ve been more to her than just a colleague. (SON 41)

Percy doesn’t know much of anything about Jason or Reyna or the culture in Camp Jupiter, so he doesn’t have much of a bias towards thinking they’re a couple because of those factors. For Percy to still pick up on Reyna being especially close to Jason is a pretty good indicator that that wasn’t just other people reading into it, seeing what they expect to see from Reyna - something which DOES happen a lot, and that Reyna goes into in Tyrant’s Tomb.

Jason… Percy couldn’t go very far in this camp without hearing that name.

“The way you talk about him…” Percy said. “Were you two a couple?”

Reyna’s eyes bored into him – like the eyes of a hungry wolf. Percy had seen enough hungry wolves to know.

“We might have been,” Reyna said, “given time. Praetors work closely together. It’s common for them to become romantically involved. But Jason was only praetor for a few months before he disappeared. Ever since then, Octavian has been pestering me, agitating for new elections. I’ve resisted. I’ve resisted. I need a new partner in power – but I prefer someone like Jason. A warrior, not a schemer.”

She waited. Percy realized she was sending him a silent invitation.

His mouth went dry. “Oh… you mean… oh.”

“I believe the gods sent you to help me,” Reyna said. “I don’t understand where you come from, any more than I understood it four years ago. But I think your arrival is some form of repayment. You destroyed my home once. Now you’ve been sent to save my home. I don’t hold a grudge against you for the past, Percy. My sister hates you still, it’s true, but Fate brought me here to Camp Jupiter. I’ve done well. All I ask is that you work with me for the future. I intend to save this camp. (SON 181)

Initially when she’s introduced, and in the early books especially, Reyna gives off this extremely dangerous vibe, with Percy especially being nervous about her. Her initial proposition here seems very opportunistic at first, with the emphasis being on the power that comes from being her partner first and foremost, and any more romantic (or otherwise) partnership being implied as an add-on. It isn’t really clear whether she has any actual feelings for him or not.

“The point is, Percy, you are the real power on this quest. You are a seasoned veteran. I’ve seen what you can do. A son of Neptune wouldn’t be my first choice, but if you return successfully from this mission, the legion might be saved. The praetorship will be yours for the taking. Together, you and I could expand the power of Rome. We could raise an army and find the Doors of Death, crush Gaea’s forces once and for all. You would find me a very helpful… friend.”

She said that word like it could have several meanings, and he could pick which one.

Percy’s feet started tapping on the floor, anxious to run. “Reyna… I’m honored, and all. Seriously. But I’ve got a girlfriend. And I don’t want power, or a praetorship.”

Percy was afraid he’d made her mad. Instead she just raised her eyebrows.

“A man who turns down power?” she said. “That’s not very Roman of you. Just think about it. In four days, I have to make a choice. If we are to fight off an invasion, we must have two strong praetors. I’d prefer you, but if you fail on your quest, or don’t come back, or refuse my offer… Well, I’ll work with Octavian. I mean to save this camp, Percy Jackson. Things are worse than you realize.” (SON 182-183)

Reyna’s giving off a “together we can rule” kind of vibe, though for benevolent purposes. And the emphasis on him not being her first choice necessarily but preferring him to other options, along with the casual way she talks about him possibly failing his quest or not making it back compounds the perception that this isn’t really about Percy personally, and not about any attraction she may or may not have towards him, but just what he can offer as far as strengthening the camp goes.

He could tell the audience was over. Reyna was having trouble holding herself together, keeping up the image of the confident commander. She needed some time by herself.

But at the door of the principia, Percy couldn’t resist turning. “How did we destroy your home – that spa where you lived?”

The metal greyhounds growled. Reyna snapped her fingers to silence them.

“You destroyed the power of our mistress,” she said. “You freed some prisoners who took revenge on all of us who lived on the island. My sister and I… well, we survived. It was difficult. But in the long run, I think we are better off away from that place.”

“Still, I’m sorry,” Percy said. “If I hurt you, I’m sorry.”

Reyna gazed at him for a long time, as if trying to translate his words. “An apology? Not very Roman at all, Percy Jackson. You’d make an interesting praetor. I hope you’ll think about my offer.” (SON 184-185)

The bit about Reyna having trouble holding herself together and keeping up this image shows a crack in her earlier portrayal, that maybe she isn’t quite as... impassive I think? As she appears while making her ‘offer’ to Percy. It does make me wonder though, how much of this portrayal of her during this scene was a deliberately planned part of her character arc since the beginning, and how much was Rick writing this in the early stages and slowly figuring out her character along the way. In later scenes, especially in later books, it seemed like less of a purely pragmatic offer, and more of one with at least some twinges of actual desire behind it, albeit only twinges (not like she knows Percy that well anyway).

She glanced up at the warship. Her expression turned a little wistful. “You say Jason is aboard… I hope that’s true. I’ve missed him.” (SON 512)

Even here, though, at the end of SON, the stalwart commander image she tries to project softens a little, and her closeness with Jason, her desire to see him again, is emphasized. Platonic or romantic, she definitely cares for him.

“Enough,” Reyna snapped. “Annabeth is what she says. She’s here in peace. Besides…” She gave Annabeth a look of grudging respect. “Percy has spoken highly of you.”

The undertones in Reyna’s voice took Annabeth a moment to decipher. Percy looked down, suddenly interested in his cheeseburger.

Annabeth’s face felt hot. Oh gods… Reyna had tried to make a move on Percy. That explained the tinge of bitterness, maybe even envy in her words. Percy had turned her down for Annabeth. (MOA 24)

Here’s where there starts being some pretty strong implications that Reyna did actually care about Percy more personally, her romantic offer was for more than just convenience sake. Especially with the ‘maybe even envy’ part. The bitterness could just as easily be from just the rejection, but the envy implies she actively wants what Annabeth has.

“Uh, Reyna,” Jason said. “if you don’t mind, I’d like to show Piper around before the senate meeting. She’s never seen New Rome.”

Reyna’s expression hardened.

Annabeth wondered how Jason could be so dense. Was it possible he really didn’t understand how much Reyna liked him? It was obvious enough to Annabeth. Asking to show his new girlfriend around Reyna’s city was rubbing salt in a wound.

“Of course,” Reyna said coldly.

Percy took Annabeth’s hand. “Yeah, me too, I’d like to show Annabeth-“

“No,” Reyna snapped.

Percy knit his eyebrows. “Sorry?”

“I’d like a few words with Annabeth,” Reyna said. “Alone. If you don’t mind, my fellow praetor.”

Her tone made it clear she wasn’t really asking permission.

The chill spread down Annabeth’s back. She wondered what Reyna was up to. Maybe the praetor didn’t like the idea of two guys who had rejected her giving their girlfriends tours of her city. Or maybe there was something she wanted to say in private. Either way, Annabeth was reluctant to be alone and unarmed with the Roman leader. (MOA 32)

Reyna did have some things she wanted to go over with Annabeth privately, but with the emphasis on Annabeth being able to tell how much Reyna likes Jason, her reacting coldly to him asking to take Piper around the city, along with the way she snapped at Percy for asking to take Annabeth around instead of stating her refusal more calmly, her reactions strongly suggest that she IS hurting from seeing both Percy and Jason with their girlfriends, that she does have feelings for them somewhat, and is trying to suppress it.

“Long story,” Reyna said. “But I remember you well. You were brave. I’d never seen anyone refuse Circe’s hospitality, much less outwit her. It’s no wonder Percy cares for you.”

Her voice was wistful. Annabeth thought it might be safer not to respond. (MOA 37-38)

I didn’t pull quotations emphasizing this specifically, but Reyna’s loneliness and the strain she’s under as a commander, especially having been the lone praetor for so long, is putting her under a lot of stress. I think at least part of the reason for her hints of envy towards Annabeth and coldness about Jason having a girlfriend, is derived from her not really having had the sort of support that Percy and Jason currently have, that intimacy, that ability to drop the walls and image she’s built up in order to lead and to protect herself.

“I wanted to hear it from you,” Reyna said.

Annabeth turned. “Hear what from me?”

“The truth,” Reyna said. “Convince me I’m not making a mistake by trusting you. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about Camp Half-Blood. Your friend Piper has sorcery in her words. I spent enough time with Circe to know charmspeak when I hear it. I can’t trust what she says. And Jason… well, he has changed. He seems distant, no longer quite Roman.”

The hurt in her voice was as sharp as broken glass. Annabeth wondered if she had sounded that way, all the months she’d been searching for Percy. At least she’d found her boyfriend. Reyna had no one. She was responsible for running an entire camp all by herself. Annabeth could sense that Reyna wanted Jason to love her. But he had disappeared, only to come back with a new girlfriend. Meanwhile, Percy had risen to praetor, but he had rebuffed Reyna too. Now Annabeth had come to take him away. Reyna would be left alone again, shouldering a job meant for two people.

When Annabeth had arrived at Camp Jupiter, she’d been prepared to negotiate with Reyna or even fight her if needed. She hadn’t been prepared to feel sorry for her.

She kept that feeling hidden. Reyna didn’t strike her as someone who would appreciate pity. (MOA 38-39)

The loneliness is really apparent here, and very explicit. I don’t think it’s even really about ‘romantic love’, as far as the whole thing with Jason goes, exactly, but... being that high level of priority. Having someone there for you closely. I think she at least thinks that a romantic relationship with Jason, or even Percy, may provide that. And that’s something most people need, regardless of orientation.

“You see?” Reyna said bitterly. “The spear is thrown. Our people are at war.”

“Not if I succeed,” Annabeth said.

Reyna’s expression looked the same as it had at Camp Jupiter when she realized Jason had found another girl. The praetor was too alone, too bitter and betrayed to believe anything could go right for her ever again. Annabeth waited for her to attack. (MOA 253)

Between this sudden attack out of nowhere, Jason disappearing and returning with having bonded with these new people, especially Piper, and having ‘changed’ as she said, no longer having anyone around she’s close to... well. She’s just managing as best she can.

In the center of the line stood Reyna, her metal dogs Aurum and Argentum at her side. Upon seeing her, Jason felt an incredible pang of guilt. He’d let her believe they had a future together. He had never been in love with her, and he hadn’t led her on exactly… but he also hadn’t shut her down.

He’d disappeared, leaving her to run the camp on her own. (Okay, that hadn’t exactly been Jason’s idea, but still…) Then he had returned to Camp Jupiter with his new girlfriend Piper and a whole bunch of Greek friends in a warship. They’d fired on the Forum and run away, leaving Reyna with a war on her hands. (HOH 247)

I couldn’t find much about Reyna’s relationships with others in HOH since she’s barely in the book. From the looks of things, he’d at least believed that Reyna wanted to be with him actively long-term, something which jives pretty well with previous passages concerning Reyna’s relationship with Jason. Makes me curious how exactly they interacted in the past, what went down between them.

Also more emphasis on Reyna being stressed and on her own. That seems to be pretty heavily associated with anything talking about her love life.

So far in the ancient lands, she’d only seen one place on her wish list: Diocletian’s Palace in Split, and even that visit had hardly gone the way she’d imagined. Reyna used to dream about going there with Jason to admire their favorite emperor’s home. She pictured romantic walks with him through the old city, sunset picnics on the parapets. (BOO 75)

And then comes Blood of Olympus, where we actually get to see Reyna’s perspective, her thoughts, instead of having to infer them from other characters’ perceptions of her. The daydreaming about going on trips with him and explicitly ‘romantic’ walks and picnics seems like she genuinely desired that to some extent. Though I do notice those are pretty cliche desires, so that may also feed into the part of her arc with feeling pressured to perform a certain way, to ‘be’ a certain way, and believing that this is how to find happiness.

She found Thalia’s eyes distracting: electric blue, intense, and alert, so much like Jason’s. (BOO 221)

Just wanted to note this bit, since she’s paying special attention to Thalia here, especially her eyes. Though I’m iffy about this representing attraction to Reyna, since Thalia’s eyes are often commented on (at least in their heads) and a major factor in paying attention to them seems to have to do with them being like Jason’s, which could account for the focus.

The giant’s eyes clicked and dilated. Red laser dots floated across Reyna’s breastplate. “Ah, the young praetor. I admit, I’ve been curious. Before I slay you, perhaps you’ll enlighten me. Why would a child of Rome go to such lengths to help the Greeks? You have forfeited your rank, abandoned your legion, made yourself an outlaw – and for what? Jason Grace scorned you. Percy Jackson refused you. Haven’t you been… what’s the word… dumped enough?”

Reyna’s ears buzzed. She recalled Aphrodite’s warning, two years ago in Charleston: You will not find love where you wish or where you hope. No demigod shall heal your heart.

She forced herself to meet the giant’s gaze. “I don’t define myself by the boys who may or may not like me.” (BOO 238)

It just occurred to me that I really have no clue how Orion knows about Reyna’s love life. Like I know Python can provide some intel, but was that detail REALLY that important?

Anyway, this statement by Reyna, “I don’t define myself by the boys who may or may not like me.”, is an important step in how she relates to romance in general, and in her portrayal in the series, particularly in the Tyrant’s Tomb. Before this a lot of emphasis was placed on her being rejected by Percy and Jason, and of at least somewhat wanting to be with them in some capacity, or at least believing that she did. After this she seems more at peace with herself and less focused on past or present pursuit of relationships for herself.

“Once in Charleston, Venus told me something. She said: You will not find love where you wish or where you hope. No demigod shall heal your heart. I- I have struggled with that for…” Her words broke. (BOO 492)

Near the end of BOO, she finally talks to someone about this. A lot of people know, but... well, with the emphasis on how alone she is, how she has to keep up appearances, it doesn’t seem like she’s really gotten a chance to break down and talk to someone. I’m glad she got to do it with Piper. And this proclamation, this prophecy, the seeming hopelessness of it that appears to re-emphasize her being alone, along with implying that she’s broken in some way with the reference to her needing to be ‘healed’... I can only imagine how it would torment her.

Reyna rolled her eyes. “If I had a denarius for every time I got that question… Aside from the fact that Thalia is in the Hunters, and thus sworn to celibacy… why does a strong friendship always have to progress to romance? Thalia’s an excellent friend. Why would I risk messing that up?” (TTT 228)

By TTT she’s had a lot more time to come to terms with her thoughts and feelings about relationships and romance, plus she’s not alone anymore, though the situation is still dire and stressful. While during HOO her being without support and having to manage everything by herself was interwoven with the narrative about her feelings towards Jason and Percy and her lack of romantic relationships, that’s not present here. In fact, it’s the opposite, with her having a strong friendship and having no desire to turn it into something romantic. It seems like those concepts became unbundled, with her having strong support and friendship unrelated to any romance.

Reyna broke a dry branch off a shrub and flicked it into the underbrush. “I went on that quest with Jason, what, two years ago? Venus took one look at me and decided… I don’t know. I was broken. I needed romantic healing. Whatever. I wasn’t back at camp a full day before the whispering started. Nobody would admit that they knew, but they knew. The looks I got: Oh, poor Reyna. The innocent suggestions I got about who I should date.”

She didn’t sound angry. It was more like weighed down and weary. I remembered Frank Zhang’s concern about how long Reyna had shouldered the burdens of leadership, how he wished he could do more to relieve her. Apparently, a lot of legionnaires wanted to help Reyna. Not all of that had been welcome or useful.

“The thing is,” she continued, “I’m not broken.”

“Of course not.” (TTT 233)

This conception about “being broken” is something aces tend to end up feeling, at least without knowing more about asexuality. I didn’t get it as much since I wasn’t surrounded with as much emphasis on dating and sex as a lot of other people are, so I started figuring out maybe I was different from most other people only awhile after having run across the term; I just figured it was normal to have this attraction thing start up sometime later, like late teens or so, and that I didn’t exactly know what people were talking about anyway so maybe I just didn’t recognize it. By the time I figured out that I probably wasn’t going to develop this “sexual attraction” thing anytime soon I already knew about different sexualities and was able to research the topic to see what best description best fit my own experience. So I’m glad Rick touched on Reyna’s discomfort here. With some of the earlier passages I think she may have come to view herself the same way other people were viewing her, as needing a romantic partner to help her, but now she’s realized that was never really necessary for her; she doesn’t need that in her life.

After this, the whole scene with Lester awkwardly asking Reyna out occurs, and she figures out how ridiculous all this stress over who she should be with is, that it’s not something she needs to force herself to do, to dedicate all this time and energy too.

“My whole life, I’ve been living with other people’s expectations of what I’m supposed to be. Be this. Be that. You know?”

[…]

“But the whole time I’ve been a leader here,” she forged on, “I was looking for a partner. Praetors often partner up. In power. But also romantically, I mean. I thought Jason. Then for a hot minute, Percy Jackson. Gods help me, I even considered Octavian.” She shuddered. “Everybody was always trying to ship me with somebody. Thalia. Jason. Gwen. Even Frank. Oh, you’d be perfect together! That’s who you need! But I was never really sure if I wanted that, or if I just felt like I was supposed to want it. People, well-meaning, would be like, Oh, you poor thing. You deserve somebody in your life. Date him. Date her. Date whoever. Find your soulmate.”

She looked to me to see if I was following. Her words came out hot and fast, as if she’d been holding them in for a long time. “And that meeting with Venus. That really messed me up. No demigod will heal your heart. What was that supposed to mean? Then finally, you came along.”

“Do we have to review that part again? I am quite embarrassed enough.”

“But you showed me. When you proposed dating…”

She took a deep breath, her body shaking with silent giggles. “Oh, gods. I saw how ridiculous I’d been. How ridiculous the whole situation was. That’s what healed my heart – being able to laugh at myself again, at my stupid ideas about destiny. That allowed me to break free – just like Frank broke free of his firewood. I don’t need another person to heal my heart. I don’t need a partner… at least, not until and unless I’m ready on my own terms. I don’t need to be force-shipped with anyone or wear anyone else’s label. For the first time in a long time, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. So thank you.” (TTT 405-406)

I understand her confusion here about whether she herself wanted to be with someone, or whether she felt like she should enough that she forced some facsimile of those feelings onto herself. I suspect that there were at least twinges of genuine romantic feelings concerning Jason at least - a lot of the focus around romance is in regards to him, and some of her reactions regarding him appeared to be more instinctual to me, like her reaction to him suggesting showing Piper around the city. Now how strong those feelings really were and whether they’d sync up well with a romantic relationship, I’m not sure. Just because you can imagine a relationship being one way, actually experiencing it you may find it’s not for you, that conceptually it’s appealing but not when actually trying to have one.

She doesn’t seem entirely sure of her own feelings as far as dating someone goes either, but she’s letting go of the idea, of the feeling that she needs to figure it out now. She can just... be.

When I was first trying to figure out what the heck my orientation was, I fretted about it for a bit, trying to analyze my own feelings and compulsions. I thought demisexual or asexual, and as for my romantic orientation... bi perhaps?

Eventually I just... stopped worrying over it. At least all that much. Pretty sure I’m ace, but romantic orientation I’m still unsure of, though I’m currently leaning aro. And even in my twenties, I’m not totally clear on it. And I don’t have to be. Neither does Reyna. If she ends up with feelings for someone, of whatever gender, that’s fine. If she doesn’t, that’s fine too. Maybe she’ll end up changing what she thinks of herself, what she believes her orientation is as she has more experiences. Or maybe she won’t. It’s good either way.

Joining the Hunters decoupled the themes of loneliness, of isolation from HOO with the idea of romantic relationships even more thoroughly. She has that sort of camaraderie with them. She doesn’t need to be strong for them, to be the high leader. She has that support, along with not needing to be responsible for so many people’s welfare and morale anymore, all without any romantic pressure. She can just chill. There’s a reason she regards it as a vacation. And seriously, good for her!

Side note: based on the focus Reyna has on male characters as possibly being viable partners while not seeming to consider any female characters in the same light, even listing Jason, Percy, and Octavian (though I kinda doubt that was romantic) as ones she considered, but listing Thalia, Jason, Gwen, and Frank as people she was shipped with, I suspect that she’s hetero-leaning. It’s hardly conclusive evidence though, headcanon what you like.

#reyna avila ramirez arellano #reyna ramirez arellano #trials of apollo #heroes of olympus #toa #hoo #asexuality #analysis #my analysis

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masterthespianduchovny · 4 years ago

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The Truth is Out There (Part 1):

Summer 2008

The utility worker makes his way to the building. The sun beats down his neck, but he’s unbothered by the heat as a thin sheen a sweat forms where the cap meets his head. Pleasantly, he smiles and slightly nods at the woman holding the door for him.

Unnoticed, the utility worker passes by customers and employers, expertly navigating his way to the boiler room.

Locking the door behind him, the man gets to work. He’s pulls out various items, some of which seemingly have nothing to do with the task at hand: a syringe, a black substance in a bottle, and a band.

Inspecting his items, he then pulls out a large wrench and a cylinder object. It has buttons on it and a countdown timer.

The man makes easy work of getting a tightly screwed pipe off, and then partially slides the cylinder into the pipe. Fiddling with the buttons, a beeper goes off and the cylinder slides completely within the pipe.

After the man finishes screwing the pipe back into place, he grabs the syringe and fills it with the black substance.

He waits.

His eyes are hard and determined.

Another beep. The man sits down and grabs his laid out items.

Tying the band around his arm, it doesn’t take him long to find the vein, and then insert the syringe in himself.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes snaps shut as the needle pierces his skin. The man exhales as the substance flows through his veins.

His eyes fly open and small, black lines are on his eyes.

Efficiently, he places all of the discriminating items in his worker bag, and then unlocks the door. He makes it a few steps before he and his bag falls to the floor.

No one sees him falls as everyone else fell unconscious themselves moments prior.

Fall 2008

“...I DO SO LIKE GREEN EGGS AND HAM! THANK YOU! THANK YOU, SAM I AM.”

The library worker strummed his fingers along the spine of the book as he smiled at the claps from children and their parents.

They waved goodbye at him as their parents gathered him.

“Carl,” said Majorie, extending a hand out to her daughter. “You’re just showing off at this point.”

Smiling, Carl bowed his head. “I’ve tried reading without the book, but you know kids, they love the theatrics. It’s only impressive to them if I start reading the book, and then tell the story from memory.”

Majorie chuckled.

“Thank you for this.” She gestured to the book. “Ever since the divorce, after school care has been so hard to find and...story time is a God send.”

“It’s no problem, really.” Carl crossed his arms, and then looked at the girl Bethany. “The kids are doing my wife a favor, it’s like an after school care of sorts for myself. If I didn’t have this I’d be driving my wife up the wall sending her thousands of emails.”

Amused, Majorie smiled. “I know parenthood isn’t everyone’s path, but I’m surprised you aren’t a father. You’re just so good with kids.”

Biting his lip, Carl looked off. “Uh...well, that wasn’t in our cards.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s fine, Majorie.” He waved off her concern. “I need to straighten up in here, but I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Carl stacked the surplus small chairs and put them in their designated corner. He then gently tossed the beanbags near the back wall. After collecting and putting away stray items, he exited the event room.

The next hour or so, he busied himself putting away returned books, but manned the information desk twice for a handful of minutes each. Once, so Ashanti could go to the bathroom and another as she made a quick personal call. Carl didn’t mind since he was almost finished with the return pile. Due to his eidetic memory, Carl remembered the location of books and the filing system as clear as day.

Filing was light work for Carl.

As soon as he finished with his last book, he joined Ashanti at the desk. Whenever they were assigned together, they chose a topic to debate through their shift.

The topic: Harry Potter v Percy Jackson

Who was the stronger protagonist? Which themes are embodied better in their respective series? Which series has stronger supporting characters? And which author was more effective in their series?

Knowing how beloved the Harry Potter series was to Ashanti, Carl let her argue in favor of the series. Although he enjoyed the series himself, he personally leaned towards Rick Riordan and his series. Because he knew how passionate Ashanti was about all things Harry Potter, the debate was going to be especially fun for him.

Just as Carl began to argue his position after listening to Ashanti, someone asked for assistance.

“No cheating while I’m gone,” Carl warned.

Ashanti rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to cheat, old man.”

Carl grabbed his heart as he walked backwards.

The two looked at each other and laughed.

In his life, Carl’s been accused of many things and paranoid was at the top of the list. As he assisted the visitor, Carl felt as if he was being watched. Men and women pretending to be occupied with books or the computer, hell, even making small talk with Ashanti, but casting quick glances in his direction.

Just because he’d been called paranoid more times than he could count doesn’t mean he was wrong.

Carl finished up with the visitor and pointed towards the information desk. Discreetly, he patted his pockets and he checked his mental map of the other exists. Obscuring the eyesight of him by going to the other side of the book shelfs, Carl hurriedly walked to the side door. As the distance increased between him and the other library occupants, he heard someone yell:

“He’s making a run for it.”

Carl put up a valiant fight. He ducked, dodged, and outran longer than anyone would’ve imagined, he’d bet. But, if only he was a little quicker--spotted them a little sooner, he would’ve made it out of the side door, instead of being tackled near the front entrance.

A knee was in his back as handcuffs were tightened around his wrists.

“What is this about? What do you want?” Carl yelled. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Fox Mulder, you’re under the arrest for...”

Mulder zoned out.

Granted, he knew the FBI could’ve found him if they wanted to, but he assumed that they didn’t give a shit where he was as long as he wasn’t the Bureau’s problem anymore.

Although he never felt truly comfortable due to being on the run, he thought he was in the safe. And yet...they were still trying to make him serve justice for a bullshit crime.

As Mulder was led out of the library, he saw Majorie and Bethany approach. They were shocked to see him in handcuffs being led out by FBI agents.

Scully.

He needed to talk to her.

Although she hadn’t been a fugitive like himself, since the FBI knew where he was, they had to know she was involved. Hell, they were together. Who knows how long they’d been surveilled.

An hour later, he was in an interrogation room, handcuffed to the table.

His old boss walked in moments later.

“Skinner? What is this? What’s going on?”

Looking at the two way glass, Skinner said, “Uncuff this man.” Sitting down, he looked at Mulder. “Long time no see.”

“Not long enough apparently.” Mulder rubbed his wrists after the metal rings came off. “Where's Scully?”

“On her way,” Skinner answered. “Don’t worry, she hasn’t been arrested.”

Mulder stared Skinner, and then the file on the table. Skinner has always inhabited many roles and leveraged his position as he saw fit. This wasn’t about Knowle Rohrer. Just like he thought, the charges were bogus and the FBI didn’t give a shit about the murder. It was all about having him out of their hair.

Leaning back in the metal chair, Mulder looked at Skinner again. “Why was I arrested?”

“That was the only way we could get you in a room.”

Biting back what he truly wanted to say, Mulder said instead, “I can think of other ways.”

“Cut the crap, Mulder, you and I both know you would’ve slipped out of our radar again.” Skinner gave him a hard stare. “Look, we need your help.”

“And why would I do that?” Mulder looked at the two way glass. “I just got re-arrested on bullshit murder charges again, Walt. The last thing I want to do is help the FBI with anything.”

Uncomfortably, Skinner shifted in his seat. “Shortly after you were escorted in here, the charges and...conviction was taken care of.”

“Oh really, that simple.” Mulder narrowed his eyes at Skinner.

He didn’t have anything against his former boss. Skinner did help him escape and most likely thwarted efforts of his capture years before it happen. But, Mulder was still angry about what happened--about all of it. Skinner was just a convenient scapegoat.

“I get it, you’re angry, but we need your help on this--you and Scully,” he clarified. “I don’t want to take credit for having your charges and conviction cleared because what happened was a gross interpretation and handling of justice. But, the FBI needs you.”

Skinner slid the folder in front of Mulder.

“No one knows more about this stuff than you two.” Mulder’s brows furrowed as he looked through the file. “You have every reason not to trust the FBI or--or want to work with us, but we have no one else to go to.”

“And, if I don’t help?”

Skinner caught Mulder’s meaning. “Your record will still be clean.”

“But, not my conscious.” Mulder closed the folder and looked at it in thought. “Any other cases.”

Skinner nodded. “A duplex in upstate New York and a chicken plant in Kansas. Officially, all three were said to be gas leaks. Spread far apart enough not to cause any panic or raise any questions.”

“For both the perpetrators and the FBI,” Mulder supplied. “But, someone or something has possession of live black oil and they're going around and weaponizing it.”

“An agent from the BSU made a profile suggesting that these...incidents are trial runs.”

“That much is obvious,” Mulder mumbled to himself. “Why publicly?”

“What do you mean?”

Mulder shook his head. “These tests are usually done under the cover of night. In the shadows. In controlled situations. But, with the duplex, the bank, and the factory, it’s an attack. A public one at that. And they're allowing the government to control the narrative. Why?”

#the x files #mulder #scully #iwtb rewrite #msr #the truth is out there

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a-hundred-jewels · 3 years ago

Text

cruel summer ch 12: i have these lucid dreams

Ao3 Wattpad

Summary: sabrina starr, pegasuses, and oh no! the fourth wall broke! do we have a carpenter in the audience?

Word Count: 9000 ish

Tags: Rachel Elizabeth Dare/Jane Penderwick, Rosalind Penderwick/Tommy Geiger, Nico di Angelo/Will Solace, Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Jane Penderwick, Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Rosalind Penderwick, Skye Penderwick, Chiron (Percy Jackson), Martin Penderwick, Elizabeth "Batty" Penderwick, Elizabeth Penderwick (senior), Iantha Aaronson-Penderwick, Ben Aaronson-Penderwick, Nico di Angelo, Will Solace, Annabeth Chase, Jeffrey Tifton-McGrath, Percy Jackson, Demeter (Percy Jackson), Apollo (Percy Jackson), Camp Half-Blood (Percy Jackson), Camp Half-Blood AU, Demigods, demeter!elizabeth penderwick, demeter!rosalind (second generation), demeter!batty (second generation), apollo!alec mcgrath, apollo!jeffrey (second generation), demeter!jane (second generation), demeter!skye (second generation), all of that's in no particular order, main focus is on jane because i love her and she's so so fun to write, tomsalind is there (and stuff will happen - i can't really say what, it will really be eventful though), yes of course there's solangelo, takes place right before Penderwicks In Spring, After Trials of Apollo, more tags to come??, Minor Swearing

Notes and Full Chapter below cut:

Hello everyone and welcome back! I'll admit, this is a little later today than I'd been planning to post (was hoping to get an early start), but hey! If the Puppet History season 4 finale can be late, then so can I!

First off, a massive massive thank you to waterbottle_stickers for being the best beta reader ever. This chapter would be a mess without you. Also, if you haven't already, please check out their enola holmes fic wherever you stray, i follow it's truly wonderful.

If you've been following me on tumblr, then you'll know that, in addition to reblogging an alarming quantity of good omens fanart, I've been making some plans for fics this month. The original plan from back in august was to post every day of the month, but... ahhh.... I just don't work that fast lmao. I'll have to be content with just posting a fair amount this month. Happy october! Anyway, stay tuned.

On this fine day, we've got two lovely QUEER fanfic recommendations that I'm very excited to share. Up first is one from the tumblr blog izzielizzie (which you should all absolutely check out! especially if you're into the one of us is lying fandom!). it centers around the skye/melissa pairing and their senior prom, which Skye is said to have only gone to last minute, and also wearing a lab coat, in a passage of the penderwicks at last. featuring some oblivious lesbians and also jane. once again a massive thanks to izzielizzie, as this fic is one of my favourites!. click here to take a look! (also keep an eye on her blog in general bc her penderwicks fics are awesome!)

The second fanfic is also one I'm very fond of, as it focuses on the siblinghood of skye and jane, which is one of my favourite topics on earth. check out rolling down the ancient high street by hanchewie/ramblemadlyon (tumblr and ao3 respectively) for the sibling antics of aroace skye and bisexual jane when the latter visits the former at her college in california! and, if you like it, ramblemadlyon has two other penderwicks fics from the past couple days that look fantastic as well, and that I look forward to reading.

This chapter is dedicated to my therapist, since I've decided this will be the month of oddly specific dedications. thank you for telling me to stop referring to cruel summer as my "trash baby" and help me recognize the true worth that it holds in my life.

Disclaimer: not my characters, you know the drill. Jeanne Birdsall and Rick Riordan are lucky ducks indeed. chapter title is (obviously) from "lucid dreams" by Juice WRLD.

FROM THE POV OF JANE PENDERWICK

The woods loomed around me, seeming as tall as buildings as they invited me in further. I took another step, the sharp pain of a pinecone digging into my foot barely registered in my mind. I kept walking. A crack sounded throughout the air, and, behind me, a tree splintered round its base and fell down, only inches away from crushing me dead, and completely blocking the path out.

Frightened, I began to run, looking for a way out of the forest. But no matter which way I went, there were only trees in front of me. Where was the path? Where was the grassy hill I had walked down to get in here in the first place. Had I even walked down that hill to begin with? Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I remembered coming here. I wasn’t sure I remembered waking up this morning, or going to bed last night, or anything besides existing in the forest. Who was I? What was I doing here? How could I get out?

Panicking, I stood in the middle of a clearing, looking frantically at the trees around me, trying to find something familiar. Nothing. I was exhausted. How long had I been here? An hour? A day? A lifetime? I collapsed at the base of a tree, sobbing as I tried to remember. Something. Anything.

Then, a voice echoed around me. “Welcome,” it said, and my mind went black.

I bolt upright in bed, a scream halfway out of my throat. I clamp it back, not wanting to wake my cabinmates. Thin light whimpers through the window--enough for me to see my white-knuckle grip on the sheets, but not enough to pass as daylight.

What time is it?

Our cell phones don’t really work here--that was one of the first things Miranda told us when we arrived, and Batty’s been gleefully lording it over us that her Mp3 player will still play music and, like, function, while our smart phones recline sadly in our duffel bags. That being said, I don’t feel quite brave enough to get out of my bed just yet and tiptoe over to the big analog clock that Rio bought at a pawn shop in Colorado. Maybe my phone will at least show the time.

I reach under my bed and fumble for my duffel, hooking my pinky through the zipper loop and yanking it out onto my floor. My phone’s in the front pocket, buried under two pairs of headphones, several gum wrappers, and some strawberry leaves (?????). A piece of gum peels off the screen as I disentangle my phone, and I mentally chide my past self for being so messy.

My phone does not turn on. Big clock it is.

I tiptoe across the cold tile and peer around the tree.

5:45 .

Jesus Pagan Christ.

It’s too early to wake anyone up (as I think this, Batty lets out a snore to rival any crabby Tyrannosaurus Rex), so I wrap a blanket around myself like a criminally attractive burrito, and creep out onto the porch, with my notebook and pen tucked into my shirt.

As long as I live, I will never get tired of summer mornings. There’s something deeply lovely about the soft light of the still-sleepy, pink lemonade sun, the quiet anticipation of the cool air, damp from dew and preparing for the upcoming heat. At home in Cameron, Skye’s woken me up many an early morning to go for a run or do soccer drills or for a grueling “Seven Minute Workout Except You Don’t Follow The Rules And Torture Your Sister by Making It Actually A Forty-Nine Minute Workout.” (But it’s okay, I’m not bitter). But, as delightful as those experiences have all been, I don’t think Skye really gets it. The beauty of the summer morning is not what it can do for your workout schedule, but rather in its gentle softening of an otherwise boiling day. It is to be appreciated in the way that I am now, sitting curled up on this frighteningly creaky porch (I mean, seriously, who built this?) and calling up the Sabrina Starr section of my brain to try and write away the residual panic from my nightmare.

Sabrina sighed as the plane took off. She wasn’t sure if she should have followed the voice in her head telling her to come here. Saying it out loud--even just thinking it--made it sound ridiculous. A dream, a voice in her mind. Barely more than a whim.

Worse than that, Sabrina wasn’t even sure where this whim was taking her. On a napkin in her pocket, she’d scrawled everything she remembered about the dream from the night before. The dark sky, lit only with spiderwebs of lightning, the shadowy figure huddled on a beach and soaked through with rain. The voice crying for help.

And a name. Aeaea.

After she’d woken up, Sabrina had looked up Aeaea, too tired to fully connect why the name felt familiar. Her heart had sunk further after reading the Wikipedia entry, and a breath of hopelessness had left her lips. According to the internet, Aeaea was not a real place. It had been the island prison of Circe. Fiction wasn’t new to Sabrina, and neither was mythology (she recalled an adventure spent with a ghost called Rainbow from a few years back).

Fictional places, though, were another matter. How could she get somewhere if she didn’t know where she was going? Was she trusting her gut with too much this time?

Sabrina folded up the napkin and put it back in her pocket. There was no point in worrying about that now. She’d looked at enough maps to make a guess at where Aeaea might be if it was real. When she got there, she could get more information. Sabrina Starr had survived this long in her career of rescues and whims. She could survive one more adventure. Worst case scenario, she said to herself, I spend a few days running around for nothing and have to brush up on my Greek.

She repeated it to herself like a promise. Worst case scenario, worst case scenario… Eventually, tired out from all her anxieties, and from trying desperately not to worry about what would come next, Sabrina fell asleep.

FROM THE POV OF RACHEL ELIZABETH DARE

“Okay, I give up. Tell me what’s wrong.” Annabeth’s voice startles me away from my plate of eggs, which I had been pushing around with a fork. Anxiety bubbles in my throat, just as it had been since I woke up, and food just doesn’t sound like a good idea.

“I--what?”

Annabeth waves her hand impatiently. “Don’t play dumb. I’ve been talking to you for five minutes and I don’t think you’ve looked up once. Also you’re always hungry in the mornings, so unless you, like, ate an entire cow before I got here, this ,” she gestures to my uneaten eggs, “is unusual behaviour.”

I give her a look. Sometimes, I get the feeling that Annabeth exists as a part of multiple different dimensions at once, like she’s having four other conversations that I can’t hear, and is still ten steps ahead of me in the one I’m actually a part of.

Or maybe I’m just easy to read.

“Nothing’s wrong.” I don’t want to talk about it. “I’m fine.” I’m terrified.

Annabeth sighs. “Is this about the prophecy?”

“No,” I spear another piece of egg, and don’t eat it. “Maybe. Yes.” I feel like going back to my cave and staying there for the rest of my life. Waiting with a book and some paints for the prophecy to get bored and go away. Maybe I’d take Jane with me, or Nico, for some company. That sounds nice.

My plate is pulled away from me as I aim my fork again. “I can’t pay attention when you do that,” Annabeth huffs. I think I wouldn’t invite her to stay in my cave. She’s too on the nose when I want to mope. Then again, she says the same about me.

“Fine,” I turn and face her. “Let’s talk feelings.” Connor Stoll, who had been making his way towards our table, abruptly turns around and walks the other way. I should get Chiron to hire a therapist. Gods know we need it.

Further proving my point, Annabeth’s eyes widen a little, before she remembers it is I who will be spilling. (I make a point to corner her later. It’s a routine we have). “Wow. You broke fast.”

I nod. “I’m tired and you’re annoying.” (False. We both know it. Another routine). “Like you said, I’m nervous about the prophecy.”

Annabeth nods. “And?”

I frown. “What do you mean, and ? There’s no and.”

Annabeth frowns back at me. A mirror, a mime, an annoyance. The nerve to look disappointed in me. “I thought you were spilling, Red.”

I roll my head back and study the roof of the pavilion, which Annabeth designed, and slowly lean my head down to stare at the table. I really don’t want to have this conversation. I go along anyways. “I’m worried about Jane.”

Annabeth leans back, triumphant. “Ah, yes. Your girlfriend.”

Maybe if I try reeeeeeeally hard, I can activate the Oracle of Delphi and freak Annabeth out enough to make her go away. “ Not my girlfriend. You know that.”

“You called Percy my boyfriend for weeks before we actually officially decided.”

I wave my hand dissmissively. “That’s different, you guys were dancing around each other for like three years. You needed a bit of a push. Jane and I kissed once! Over a week ago! And nothing came of it.” We actually haven’t really talked about it. We’re in this sort of in-between zone where we spend a ton of time together, but don’t have a label for it. Honestly, it’s been nice.

Annabeth grins, apparently reading my thoughts. “You’ve been eating lunch with the Demeter cabin, like, every other day. I saw you doing archery together yesterday. Both of you were awful at it, but you stayed there for hours. I’ve never seen you focus on something that long outside of your paintings.”

I stare at the ceiling again. Maybe Annabeth designed it so that a single square foot of rock might fall down onto my head and relieve me from this conversation. “Yes, fine, we spend a lot of time together. But that doesn’t make us a couple, and has nothing to do with what I’m actually worried about!” I can see in her face that Annabeth is more serious now, and is about to fully listen to me, when Percy and Malcolm show up, sliding into the seats across from us, and clanging several plates of pancakes down onto the table in front of them.

“Made them ourselves! Wanna share?” Percy gives Annabeth heart eyes and a kiss on the cheek when she folds a large blue pancake into thirds and bites it like a burrito. I roll my eyes at them because they are a horrifying and disgusting couple and also I kind of want to be them when I grow up. Malcolm ignores them, instead turning to me. “Were you talking about Jane?” he asks, pushing wire rimmed glasses up his nose.

I frown. “Sort of. Why?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “You know. Just, uh, just wondering.”

I narrow my eyes at him, then Percy, who tears himself away from looking at Annabeth to sigh dramatically. “Malcolm wants to ask out Jane’s sister. You know, the blond one.”

I snort. “ Skye? Seriously?”

Malcolm looks vaguely offended. “What’s so weird about that?”

“Sorry, it’s not weird.” I reach over the table to pat him on the shoulder with my fork. “Perfectly normal teenage hormones.” He glares at me and I smile sweetly back. “I just can’t imagine Skye going out with anyone, that’s all.”

Malcolm stares down at his pancake, disappointed. “Oh. You sure?”

I nod, feeling a little more normal with my friends and less doom-related breakfast conversation. My eggs are past the threshold of “warm and appetizing” but I take a bite anyway. “Pretty sure. Jane told me that she’s aroace and, based on past occurrences, there’s a seventy percent chance she’ll punch anyone who asks her out. Anyway, why the interest? I didn’t know you guys talked.”

Malcolm shrugs. “We don’t, really. She just seems cool.”

Percy pipes in, “He’s been practically obsessed with her since she won that soccer game against the Nike kids and made them cry.”

I nod approvingly. “Well, Malcolm, at least we know you have good taste.”

Annabeth pats him on the head, ignoring his complaints that her hand is covered in blue maple syrup. “Better luck next time, brother of mine.”

Piper and Leo join us next, contributing an alarming volume of grapes and a single hardboiled egg to the breakfast display. Leo grabs a pancake and wraps it around some grapes, before taking a big bite. “I hear you’re discussing Malcolm’s romantic failures,” he says around the world’s worst breakfast burrito. Piper gasps in mock offense, then swallows the unpeeled hardboiled egg whole, like a snake. (This is a regular morning routine. She’s trying to work up to being a sword swallower, since her dad did it in a movie once and she thought it looked like fun). “ Malcolm, why didn’t you come to me? I could have given you a verdict within five minutes!”

“I wanted advice on whether I should ask out that Heaphestus boy two weeks ago and you told me to fuck off.”

Piper pouts at him. “That’s on you, you caught me at a bad time.”

Annabeth holds up a pancake with the air of a respected royal and we turn to her. “As delightful as this is, Rachel and I were initially talking about her romantic prospects and also her worries and fears, and I feel that we should get back to that before she slinks off and avoids the rest of the conversation.”

I glare at her. “Why would you bring this away from the very nice conversation we were having about everyone else’s problems? Do you hate me?” Annabeth rolls her eyes. “No, dumbass, I’m just not letting you walk away from a potential breakthrough. Now, where were we? You were saying that you’re worried about Jane but it has nothing whatsoever to do with your relationship, or lack thereof.”

I give a long suffering sigh, and try to communicate telepathically with Piper that she needs to Save Me Now, but she’s looking at me in interest with her chin resting in her hands, her long fingers adorned with rings sent to her from her Mortal girlfriend, Shel, who bought them at a vintage punk store. The traitor. Defeated, I turn back to Annabeth.

“It’s just that, whatever ends up happening with this prophecy, I don’t want it to fuck her up, in the way the quests have sometimes done to us. Like, we’re used to this by now, but it hasn’t been a smooth road. I don’t exactly like going on quests, and at first I was really worried at the prospect of being included in a prophecy, since that’s fairly abnormal, but Jane was only made aware of her heritage a couple months ago! What if this turns out like Silena or Beckendorf or-or Jason, and the prophecy destroys her, and it’s all my fault because I’m the one who pulled her into all this?”

Everyone tenses up at the mention of Jason, but they continue to look at me with a mixture of concern and love that makes something soften inside of me. For the hundredth time, I think of how lucky I am to have these people who love me unconditionally. Even if they really, really need therapy.

“I know that I didn’t plan any of this, but we’re both tied in now, especially since both Chiron and I had the prophetic dream and I actually gave the prophecy that day in the woods, and, well, this isn’t her world yet. She’s only got a little bit of ichor in her, and she grew up knowing nothing of any of this. In a way, I did too, and I have no ichor, but I had clear sight. For me, it was ineffable, but she could technically leave any time, if it weren’t for the prophecy. She can leave, and I feel like it’s up to me to make sure that doesn’t change.”

“Oh, Rachel.” Annabeth reaches her arms out to me and I let myself be pulled into an embrace. “Jane’s going to be okay. We’ll make sure of it.”

Sabrina stood in line at the boat rental hut, her arms crossed and a frown plastered on her face. It had not been a successful afternoon. For hours, she’d been searching the coastal towns near where her plane landed, looking for some trace of Aeaea, or anything else she’d seen in her dream. She was used to working with dregs. It was normal for her to have to squint a little at the evidence, have to shuffle things together around big holes of “Maybe,” like she was working a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

But this was something else.

Sabrina had read about places where mythology shaped the culture. Places where the tourist draws were events that had supposedly happened thousands of years ago, or creatures that only existed in grainy photographs and people’s imaginations. Hell, she’d met the Loch Ness monster. Was it insane for her to have assumed she’d be able to find the same kind of thing here? All her training and years of experience had told her that, if you sniff around long enough, you’ll find a conspiracy theorist or a slightly off-the-rails guidebook.

So far, though, Sabrina had found nothing. Absolutely nothing. She hunted around, searching up library catalogs, checking every store on the street. “Aeaea,” “Circe,” even “the Odyssey.”

Nothing.

The line edged along slowly, and Sabrina ran her hands up and down her arms. The air was chilly from its proximity to the cold sea water. There were three people in front of her now. She just had to wait a little longer, then she would have a boat and be able to explore these waters herself.

Something was wrong with this place. Something was wrong with all of these places. And Sabrina was going to figure out what.

Later, Jane and I are taking our time walking to the pegasus stables to watch the riding lesson that Rosalind has reluctantly agreed to let Batty take (provided that Percy, who’s teaching today, doesn’t let her fly high enough that she’ll die if she falls off, and that Batty wears all of the necessary protective gear). Jane looks lovely, wearing a sunshine-y yellow bandana that sets off her dark curls and warm sepia skin. She has on her Camp Half-Blood shirt again, and a short green skirt, and all of it should clash horribly, but it doesn’t.

We’ve decided to cut through the strawberry fields, and I swallow a sun-warmed strawberry while Jane tells me about the dream she had last night. I think back to my conversation with Annabeth this morning when she tells me of the dark woods and the feeling of drowning, the memory warping and the echoing voice. At some point we sit down in a patch of grass, a simple circle amidst strawberry plants with a couple logs where the campers and satyrs take their breaks when they work here. Jane finishes her story and we sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, only broken by the grunts of annoyance Jane makes while trying to get her plant powers to activate again. She’s been doing that a lot.

“Well that sucks,” I say finally. “Have you been having other dreams like it?”

Jane shrugs, the neon orange fabric of her shirt wrinkling on her shoulders. “One or two, I think. Last night’s was the first one I really remembered. ” She smiles out of the corner of her mouth. “I hardly ever remember my dreams. It used to upset me. I thought I was losing potential writing material.”

I laugh. It’s such a Jane thing to think, that I can’t help it. She goes quiet, like she’s reminiscing, and I picture a tiny version of Jane, sitting crossed-legged on her summer quilt, writing. I look at her now, scrunched up nose and big brown eyes. Oh gods, she must have been an adorable child.

“My mother used to say that my imagination was the eighth wonder of the world,” Jane says. She’s looking down the hill at the cabins, plant powers temporarily forgotten, and I remember her telling me about her mother, the first Elizabeth Penderwick, who came here and was a daughter of Demeter and loved opera. The Penderwick siblings’ beloved mother who died so young.

I move closer to Jane on the log. “I can understand why she’d say that.”

Jane smiles again, a little sad this time, a little absent, but full to the brim with love.

“Bet you she’s in Elysium,” I say softly. I explained the Underworld to Jane a couple weeks ago, and she’d gotten this same absent look on her face, that I now know means she’s thinking about her mother. Jane nods, now, then turns to me. “Could we talk about something else?” Her voice is quiet, her eyes a little shiny.

“Course,” I say. “Shall I regale you with tales of dimwittery at this camp in the years past?” I told her last week about the time some Hermes kids tried to order pizza to the camp, accidently causing Chiron to think we were under attack. Jane had nearly fallen off the bench laughing.

She grins now, but shakes her head. “Tell me what it’s like being an Oracle.” I give her a look. She’s asked me before and I never really know what to say. When I give prophecies, it’s like I black out. I’m taken over by another entity who shares my body. (“Like that lady in Suicide Squad ,” Leo had said when I tried to explain it to him once, but I’d refused to be compared to such a gods-fucking-awful movie). So, in a way, I don’t know what it’s like to be the Oracle.

As if reading my thoughts, Jane shakes her head. “Not that part. I’ve seen you all green and smokey, and I know you can’t feel it. I mean the other stuff. How did you know it was you? What did you have to do to become the Oracle? That kind of thing.” I relax a little. Jane’s asked me all sorts of weird questions about Greek mythology and the gods recently. She calls it “research for her book,” but sometimes I think she’s just nosy. It’s cute.

Jane shrugs and looks off into the distance. If you tilt your head a little you can kind of see the stables from here. We have fifteen more minutes to get there, according to my watch. I decide to take it easy. “Delphi is this weird ethereal spirit,” Jane continues, “but there’s also just everyday, Oracle you, who likes paint and denim and bagels.” At that, I laugh. “I actually don’t like bagels that much. I’m just late to breakfast so often that they’re usually the only things available.”

Jane pouts at me and plays with the bracelet tied around my wrist--the one she gave me. “You know what I mean! You know all this weird shit about me because my siblings don’t shut up at lunch, and I know stuff about you, like the denim thing, which I still think is funny by the way. But you’re also the freaking Oracle! Your dormant self lies waiting!” I laugh at her, and she rolls her eyes, but I see the corner of her mouth tilting up. “Rachel, that’s very cool!”

I give in. “Honestly, there’s not much to say, that’s why I don’t talk about it.” I pause. “Well no, it’s that a lot of the stuff beyond the obvious is actually sort of creepy and weird, and not in a good way. There’s stuff I try not to think about, is what I mean.”

The edge of her yellow bandana sticks up as Jane tilts her head at me. “That makes sense. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

I shake my head. “No, it feels okay right now.” I mean it. Now that I’ve gotten into the swing of it, I do want to talk about it. Still, a small sigh escapes me. “I like being the Oracle, because that’s what brought me to a place where I feel like I belong and I have people who love me. It’s nice to know that I’m fulfilling my purpose in life.”

Jane pulls her knees up to her chest. “But?”

“But I also get lonely.” It comes out in a rush. “There are other oracles, but I didn’t know about any of them until the Apollo thing happened, and even then, they’re all supernatural beings--I know, I know, but not in the way I am. It’s not the same. Also, there are all these weird rules. Like I have to stay an unmarried virgin my whole life.”

“That’s fucked,” Jane says softly.

“I know! Chiron won’t even tell me why, just that it’s ‘the rules’” I let out an annoyed huff. “And, like, it’s not even that the idea itself bothers me. That’s pretty much what I was planning to do with my life anyway.”

“Same.”

“But it’s the principle of the thing!” I flick a strand of hair out of my face, offhandedly noticing that the tip of my pinky finger is slightly green. I ignore it. It’s not important. “Just because I don’t want to have sex or get married doesn’t mean it’s a fair rule to impose on me! Besides, why is it always the women in these things whose identities are tied up in who they do or don’t fuck? Last I checked, Grover didn’t have to sign an ‘I shalt not fornicate’ contract when he became Lord of the Wild!”

“Exactly!” Jane raises her hands and shouts up to the sky. “Don’t you fuckers realize we’re more than that?”

“The Hunters of Artemis, too!” I’m a jack-in-the-box, and something’s winding me up. “Thalia and Reyna send me letters all the time, and they seem really happy! Which is great!” I pause to emphasize the greatness of their happiness. My pinky is completely green, now. “But, they also had to make a stupid ‘ode of chastity,’ like I did!”

“Are you kidding me?” Jane’s hair flips as she turns to me. “I thought Artemis was one of the good ones!”

My voice lowers to a husky rumble, and I stare into the distance towards you, the reader. “In a broken system, there are no good ones. Abolish the police.” I clear my throat and my voice turns back to normal. “Sorry, zoned out for a second.” My green pinky has begun to vibrate.

“Happens to the best of us,” Jane’s voice is light and nonchalant. “And yeah, I know. Pretty much all of the gods have skeletons sitting on their shoulders, but it just seems out of character for her. I thought all of Artemis’s groups were supposed to be safe havens, not oppressive structures in their own right.”

I frown. “Yeah you’re right, that is weird. I’d never thought of it much beyond the gods having weird rules, but I wonder if something bigger is at play. The gods might be fucked up in the way that regular people are, and are undoubtedly responsible for all sorts of crap. But then there's more personal things, like the ‘chastity vows’ the Hunters and I had to take, and the fact that Nico was initially outed by Eros, and the weird unexplained eye condition that Piper had during some of her quests that made her eyes a bunch of bright, Eurocentric colors, rather than their natural brown. All sorts of other stuff, too.”

“Wow!” Jane says, sitting up straight on the grass. Her hand moves from where it was resting in her lap to cover her heart. “It’s almost like a bunch of genuinely good and inspiring material, such as including prominent queer people and characters of color in fun children’s fantasy, as well as having an immortal group of warrior women who support each other and are free from the gaze of men, was taken into the hands of a cis white man armed with unchecked misogyny and a fair amount of white Twitter feminism, both of which really showed when he tried to create an inclusive and empowering book series for children! Like yeah, it had its moments, and definitely some good characters, but overall, a lack of meaningful research in certain areas really made it fall flat!” Once again, I stare through the bindings of URLs and internet coding, now joined by Jane as we lock eyes with you, the reader. This time, we hold eye contact for nearly a minute, giving you time to read and process the long tangent spat out by this fanfic’s author, who, if we’re being honest, has gone just a tad off the rails right now. Finally, Jane and I look away from you, and resume our roles as fictional characters, still shaking off that strange cloud that comes with staring into the soul of those who give you life.

“Ugh, what’s going on with me today?” Jane groans at the same time I mutter, “What’s Twitter?” We turn to each other, blinking in the sunlight, then grin. This is normal. We’re fine. Jane looks up at the sky again. “I wonder if the gods are watching us. Maybe we should make them think we suck so they’ll leave you alone.”

I laugh as she sticks her tongue out, grinning wickedly at a nearby cloud. “Better yet, make them think we’re too powerful to be messed with,” I say. Jane sees me watching her and opens her mouth, sucking the cloud in between her teeth. The sky seems bluer in the space where it had been, and Jane’s eyes glitter with mirth as she swallows. “Mmm, tastes like sugar.” I giggle, feeling a small shiver on the top of my head. When I peer up, I see another cloud has floated over to me. I open my own mouth, and take it in, just as Jane did hers. “Sugar, yes. But there’s a touch of blood, too,” I say. Jane nods sagely. “What were we talking about?”

“The inherent misogyny in much of Greek mythology and the world of Camp Half-Blood in general.”

Jane nods again. “Right. A very important topic. It makes it weird when I’m writing sometimes. You know, cause I want to bring in Circe and Zeus and Apollo and all these fascinating characters, but there’s just so much bad stuff tied up with them that comes up when I research.” She looks down at our feet, which are standing in the midst of a strawberry patch. We seem to have been walking, crushing sweet summer strawberries as we go, which is odd because I don’t remember getting up. “You know Rachel, I’m feeling a bit strange.”

I look at her, and see an odd blankness in her warm brown eyes. “Now that you mention it, Jane, so am I.”

“My thoughts and words are my own,” Jane says, “But there’s something up with my body. I can’t really feel it.”

“I agree, I’ve honestly gone a bit numb.” I try to glance down at my fingers, wondering idly if they’ve gotten any more green, but find that my neck won’t bend.

Jane’s eyebrows furrow. “Yet, at the same time, I feel as though I could do anything. Grow another grass blade. Grow a flower. Grow a tree. Bend the world to my will if I wanted to.”

“Or is it the world bending me to its will.” I grin at my own philosophical point, but find that the smile won’t go away. Pretty fucking inconvenient, since the next thing I was going to bring up was part of the whole serious misogyny conversation. I decide to go for it anyway. “And I’m not the only one with weird rules!” Jane nods, as if this is a perfectly normal segway, and the only extraneous thought that floats through my mind as we find ourselves walking down a hill is how unfair it is that she still has control over her neck and I don’t. “Remember when I told you about the Hunters of Artemis?”

“Oh yeah! Your friends Reyna and Thalia, right?”

“Yeah, them! They send me letters sometimes, and seem really happy, which is great.” I pause, meaning to add emphasis, when I’m hit with a great sensation of deja-vu. “Wait a second, we already talked about this, didn’t we?” I try to remember, but something in my mind is rapidly melting. I cannot find it. I cannot find anything.

“Jane?” My voice quivers, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Oh gods, please let this be a dream. For a moment, I try to convince myself that it’s the Oracle of Delphi taking over, just like she did the other day and generally does a couple times a year. But I know that I’m lying. This is not what that feels like. “Jane, where are you?” I can barely move my mouth to say the words. I can feel nothing but the frozen fear of paralysis, of lost control. When I open my eyes, this other thing in my body has brought me to the edge of the forest. “Jane? Jane?” She could be right beside me, unable to speak, and I wouldn’t know because I can’t turn my head, can’t move my eyes, can barely even hear right now.

It’s okay, something says.

“Jane?” It’s not her voice. It’s no one’s voice.

It’s okay. You’re home.

With every cut the wooden oars made through the choppy ocean water, Sabrina knew she was getting closer. She could feel it in her bones, in her brain, a little voice that whispered in her ear. It had been three hours. Her body was worn down, energy levels dipping dangerously low, when she felt something scrape the bottom of her boat.

A rock.

Frantically, she peered through the fog that had begun to surround her boat a mile ago. The island. Had she finally made it?

As if answering her call, a peel of thunder rang out, and Sabrina’s boat began to fill with rain that pounded down from the sky. The storm from her dream. She rowed even faster, then, fear sparking a renewed strength in her tired muscles.

Just as Sabrina was about to reach the shore, a massive wave crashed over her, and her boat capsized. She came back up, sputtering, holding her sopping wet bag above her head. Another wave swept against Sabrina’s face, and she found herself spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. Finally, she washed up on the shore, heaving breaths raking through her lungs.

Sabrina blinked, pushing herself up onto her elbows. It was real. She was here.

She had made it.

FROM THE POV OF ROSALIND PENDERWICK

It’s been a pleasant day so far. Breakfast with my siblings and some of the Demeter cabin (though Jane did seem a bit absent-minded). Miranda, Florien, and Rio convinced me to practice some plant magic with them for a couple hours and I built up to growing a small sunflower. Lunch (again with Jane seeming distracted, though Rachel ate with us this time, which appeared to help). Then, Skye and Jeffrey disappeared with some of the older campers (supposedly for a regular game of soccer, but the unsettling gleam in their eyes had me doubting that was all there was too it), Jane and Rachel went to take a walk in the strawberry fields, and Batty and I were left to prepare for a pegasus riding lesson. If it had been up to Batty, the latter could have easily taken up the entire afternoon, but changing into durable pants and finding a bandana can only take so long.

After a somewhat restless hour, during which I grew three peonies and Batty rhapsodized about the stable of unicorns that another demigod camp apparently has, Batty and I arrive at the stable. We’re ten minutes early, and she’s been talking a mile a minute the whole time, not stopping from before. I swear I now know as much about pegasuses as she does. According to Rachel, the teacher today is Percy, her friend, who’s very responsible “when he puts his mind to it.” I wasn’t sure how to tell her that’s actually not very comforting, but Batty looked so excited and I figured there will be plenty of other people there, so. Why not. She’s been spending so much time there anyway.

Needless to say, I very much regret my decision now.

The stables are modest, made of wood and painted green, and I’ve been there several times by now. There’s a long line of stalls visible when we first walk in, but Batty skips straight to the far end, where a massive pegasus the color of a carrot pokes its head over the door and nuzzles Batty’s hair. She looks up at me with a smile that could melt anyone’s heart, and pats the horse on the nose. “Rosy, this is Queen Lotus Flower. Percy said we have a impenetrable bond.”

I look at the two of them with a questioning gaze. How can they both have the exact same puppy-dog eyes? I swear to god. The gods. All of them. “Batty, sweetheart. That horse is like ten feet tall.”

She nods enthusiastically. “I know, she’s so much taller than any other horse I’ve seen. Percy says she has the biggest wingspan of any horse at camp.”

I nod, slowly, wondering why my sister picked the biggest pegasus to fall in love with. At that moment, Percy pushes the door open. “Hey Batty! Ready for your lesson?” Batty leaves her post by Queen Lotus Flower to wrap her arms around my waist and nod. I look Percy over. He’s a few inches taller than me, with brown skin and curly hair. A beaded camp necklace, orange tshirt, and jeans. Weird arm tattoo aside, he’s one of the most normal-looking people at camp. I’ve only met him a couple times before, but, my nerves over Batty flying around on massive horses aside, I do trust him. Rachel seems to have a good taste in friends. Also, Batty likes him, and she’s still shy around a good number of Skye and Jane’s friends back in Cameron.

For the next few minutes, I watch as Percy instructs Batty on buckling Queen Lotus Flower’s giant saddle and looping the bridle over her nose. Not wavering a bit from the “lesson” aspect of all this, he steps back to let her show what she’s already learned from hanging around the stables so often, only stooping in to guide her when she gets confused. As the minutes tick by, more people show up for the lesson: three other students, and a good sized crowd of people who just like watching the pegasuses. By then, I’m seated on the grass outside the stables, soaking in the blistering sun and watching as Percy (seated atop a wiry black pegasus who Batty pointed out as Blackjack) darts around the large dusty enclosure, making final preparations for the lesson.

Skye and Jeffrey show up then, and sit on either side of me. I want to ask them where Jane and Rachel are, but they’re talking non-stop about a game they just played in the woods with some of the other campers, only switching the subject when Percy and Blackjack return and they begin discussing whether or not it should be scientifically possible for a horse to fly.

Just as Batty and Queen Lotus Flower begin a gentle trot around the enclosure, I feel a tap on my shoulder, and hear the familiar sound of Tommy’s chuckle. “She’s got a weird knack for that,” he says. I nod, grinning.

It’s been good with us. We’ve had breakfast together a few times, even played a game of basketball one afternoon. Our conversations aren’t the same as they used to be, and there’s a sense of newness that feels cold and strange every so often. But it’s good. It feels right. At least for now, this feels like where we’re supposed to be.

As Percy starts demonstrating how to take flight, I look around again. Jane and Rachel still aren’t here. They promised to come. (“For moral support!” Jane had said. “Wouldn’t miss it,” Rachel had added with a smile). I try to push it out of my head. This lesson is a big deal. Batty’s going to be flying.

She leans forward on Queen Lotus Flower’s neck.

They begin to run, moving together like a single being.

Just as they burst into the air, Batty’s euphoric smile lighting up the sky, Katie grabs my shoulders from behind. I shush her so I can lean forward and watch Batty silhouetted against the pegasus’s wide orange wings.

“Rosalind. Rosalind, guys. ” Something about the panic in Katie’s voice makes me turn around. Her usually tied back hair is loose and her clothes rumpled, giving the impression that she was dragged out of bed for this. (Some part of my brain distantly remembers her saying she was going to take a nap). Skye and Jeffrey turn around, too.

“What, what’s happening?” I reach out my hands, trying to calm her as she collapses into a squat, breathing heavily.

“Billie… found me in the cabin… had been looking for you guys… been running all over the camp… lucky I remembered about the riding lesson…”

Jeffrey leans over and puts his hands on her shoulders. She stares down at the dirt while her breathing levels.

“Katie, what are you saying? Why were you and Billie looking for us?”

She looks up, and I see that her forehead is drawn into well-worn creases of worry. “Jane and Rachel have gone into the woods.”

Something was wrong. Sabrina crouched on the wet sand, straining to see through the heavy rain. In her dream there had definitely been someone else on the island. She remembered the hunched figure, the sound of sobs leaking through the rain.

But she’d circled the shore at least twice by now, and there was nobody to be found. “Am I late or something?” she wondered aloud. Somehow, she’d gotten that dream It felt like it had been sent to her. Why did it show a person when there was no one?

Sabrina sighed and began to traipse inland, tucking a knife in her pocket. It wasn’t a big island, and she might as well find some shelter aside from her boat, which was now overturned somewhere on the beach. Circe lived here, didn’t she? There must be some sort of roof, especially if this kind of weather was standard.

Or maybe this was just a random island and there was no Aeaea and Sabrina’s dream had just been the unhinged work of her unconscious mind.

There was a small grassy hill set aside from the sand, which Sabrina crawled up with the determination of a dying warrior. Something was pushing her back. An invisible force, a last crumb of survival instinct, plain old fatigue, she wasn’t sure. But something wanted her out of here, and it pushed back harder and harder as she climbed.

She let out a cry of frustration, clawing at the ground, at the air, at whatever this goddamn thing was, and found a renewed burst of strength that pulled her to the top of the hill. Once there, the force that pushed back ebbed a little, like it was giving up. Sabrina let herself relax, and simply took in the view for a moment.

The hill she lay on top of gave way to a deep valley, sprawling and green. In one corner, there was a cluster of trees that looked healthy and comfortable, despite being on a random Greek island in the middle of the ocean. A modest garden lay next to it, somehow appearing unaffected by the rain, and a narrow river wound around the whole scene.

There was also a house.

Sabrina wasn’t sure what she might have expected from the lair of an infamous Greek enchantress, but it wasn’t this.

She hauled herself up on the hill and started down, rushing through the rain onto a wide wooden porch. There was a large stone vat of something dark and crumbly, with a heavy looking staff of sorts leaning against it. The door to the house was short, and Sabrina heard it scrape on the floor when she pushed it open.

The scene awaiting her was surprisingly cozy when she stepped inside. There was a fire in the hearth and rows upon rows of little viles arranged on a set of shelves beside it. A broom leaned against the wall. Sabrina looked around, noting the way that the rain didn’t make any sound as it thrashed against the roof and window, and the almost drug-like stupor that threatened to take over her brain, whispering that everything was fine, she was safe, nothing bad could happen to her.

Sabrina had encountered hypnosis before, and it only ever made her more jittery.

There was an open hatch in the floor with stairs that lead into darkness. She followed them down, feeling the air grow cooler with every step. Sabrina was quiet, taking tiny steps on her toes, and wincing when one of the stairs creaked. She didn’t know what was down there, and she didn’t want to find out the hard way. But there were no arrows flying up from the space below, no sounds of footsteps or slashes of swords.

Sabrina stepped onto a dirt floor and let herself exhale, shuffling along until her toe hit something hard. Only seasoned reflexes made her reach for the knife in her pocket instead of crying out in fear. She knelt down and squinted in the darkness, trying to see what she’d hit.

A leg.

She frowned, shaking it until she heard a low growl. “Stop that.” She stopped.

“Who are you?” Sabrina leaned closer. If they hadn’t killed her yet she was probably safe.

Instead of answering, they reached out a hand. Sabrina could see a gold ring on the thumb that glinted in a little sliver of light that had crept down from the room above. “Pull me up,” the figure said. “I’ve been paralyzed by the witch.”

Helping the stranger sit turned out to be no simple feat. They were tall and muscular, wearing a cape and a heavy metal chest plate. “The witch?” she questioned, propping them up against one of the cellar’s dirt walls. Her eyes were beginning to adust to the dark, and she could just make out their sharp chin sticking out as their head lolled back.

The figure made a noise. “The witch, the sorceress, the woman. Whatever you want to call her. I figure she sent you down too?” They snorted. “Good luck. I told Zeus not to sent mortals, but does he ever listen? You’re gonna die.”

Sabrina tried to piece together what she could from all this. The witch must be Circe, unless she’d wound up on an entirely different island. And if Circe was going around paralyzing people, then something must be going on. She must be hiding something. As for the person in front of her, Sabrina wasn’t sure who they were. By the way they talked about Zeus, and casually said “mortals,” she’d guess some sort of god? As if that narrowed it down. She’d have to be careful.

“Why did she paralyze you?”

Another weird gutteral noise. “She didn’t like my offer. It’s not the first time this has happened.”

She was growing impatient. Why’d he have to be so vague? “What?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why he always sends me. I don’t think he trusts me. He’d rather me stay her paralysed in the basement of a witch than come back home.”

Sabrina let out an exasperated sigh. This wasn’t working and she needed answers. A whole coast of people with mythology-shaped holes in their memories awaited her. “You’re going to need to be a little more specific. I don’t think we’re on the same page.”

The figure sounded confused. “What do you mean? Don’t you know who I am?”

She leaned forward and inspected them in the darkness. “No. No I don’t.”

They slid their eyes down to her face. “I am the god Apollo. I came here for Circe and she did this to me.”

“What? Why?”

The stairs creaked behind Sabrina and she felt a long nail drag up her back. “I just want to be left alone,” said a voice as deep and powerful as the smell of red wine. “You don’t mind, do you?” Before Sabrina could grab her knife and turn around, before she could even scream, strong arms had surrounded her shoulders and a hand was clamping a damp cloth over her nose and mouth. Shock made her breath in, sharply, and she smelled the sweetness of sleeping drugs.

A heartbeat, a brief struggle, and Sabrina Starr was gone.

#cruel summer fic #cameron writes #the penderwicks #penderwicks #camp half blood #camp half-blood #rachel elizabeth dare #jane penderwick #rosalind penderwick

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demigodsanswer · 4 years ago

Text

Once Upon a Pointe - Chapter 6

Story Summery:

“Annabeth, you’re with Percy,’ Chiron said. Annabeth. She looked like the figurine in a little girl’s music box had come to life to dance in City Ballet. Percy felt like every opportunity to dance with her was a privilege. Just don’t forget the choreography, Percy thought as he got into the right starting spot for the wedding pas de deux. Don’t forget the choreography, and don’t drop her.”

Percy is soloist with the ballet company, and he is offered one chance to dance with Annabeth, one of their star principals. If he nails the choreography, he might just earn a chance to dance with her. And, if he’s really lucky, he might get a date out of it as well.

Chapter Title: Vision

Read on AO3

Start from the beginning

Notes: I am in no way finished bringing attention to issues of race, religion, and cultural appropriation in Rick Riordan’s books & in the fandom. Do not misinterpret me posting an update as a desire to move forward.

Katheryn Morgan (soloist with the Miami City Ballet) has recently uploaded an interview with the dancer and author of "A Final Bow for Yellowface" Phil Chan, where they discuss race in ballet. Please consider checking it out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYw2pLn9CAg

Percy woke up to the soft February sun beaming in his face through Annabeth’s large bedroom window. When he opened his eyes, squinting in the sunlight, he saw that she had already gotten up. He rolled over to check his phone – 8:30 a.m.

They both had today and the next day off before the show as other casts ran their dress rehearsals. Usually he spent his days off wandering the city, catching up on TV, or hanging out with Grover once his boring and normal nine-to-five job at a nonprofit ended. But those days off didn’t usually start in Annabeth Chase’s bed – in face, none of them ever had. He hoped that maybe they’d end up spending the day together.

Or maybe she’d ask him to leave as soon as he left the bed.

He stayed there for another moment, trying to think of the perfect “spend the day with me” line, but he came up blank. He’d just have to wing it.

He opened the door and stepped into the living room. Annabeth was standing in the kitchen over a frying pan, still in her pajamas (now rumpled from a night of sleep), and her blonde hair was up in a high ponytail, the ends tangled together.

She looked up and smiled at him. Percy’s heart raced, fuck, he thought, she’s gorgeous. Before he could say anything to her, though, she told him: “You drool when you sleep.”

Percy flushed, a hand going up to his mouth to wipe away any trace of drool that might still be there. She laughed at him, and he smiled.

She turned back to the frying pan. “I’m making eggs. I hope that’s okay.”

“Eggs are great,” he said. “I thought you didn’t cook.”

She shrugged. “I told you, I’m not completely incompetent. I can scramble an egg reasonably well.” She said, dishing out the servings onto two plates.

Percy took a seat at the table. “Have you been up long?” He asked.

“No, ‘bout half an hour.” She said. “Coffee?” She offered.

He nodded, and she put a mug down in front of him, and then his plate of eggs and avocado toast.

She sat down at the other end of the table.

“Thanks,” Percy said, about to dig in.

He piled some eggs on top of his toast and took a bite. They were good, although he would struggle to find an adult who couldn’t make a decent scrambled egg. “How are you feeling?” He asked.

“Better,” she said. “A lot better. Thanks for listening to me and for staying the night.”

Percy smiled. “Of course, any time.” He realized what he said and felt his ears get hot. “Anyway …” he tried to think of literally anything else to say, but nothing came to mind. Annabeth saved him, though.

“Do you have any plans for today?” Annabeth asked.

It took a moment for Percy to register what she had said. He was preoccupied by the casual way she sat at the other edge of the table, sunlight bouncing off her curls, as if they sat together like this every day.

Finally, though, he remembered she’d asked him a question. “No, not really.” He told her.

“Do you want to hang out downtown for a little while?” She asked.

Percy smiled. “Sure, that’d be great.”

Percy stood in front of Annabeth bathroom mirror, which had fogged up with steam from his shower. She had showered before him and was getting ready in her bedroom.

He leaned forward and drew a smiley face on her mirror for her to discover the next time she showered.

He dressed quickly, only having the same sweatpants and tee shirt from the night before, but it would have to do.

Annabeth was waiting on her couch for him to get ready. She was dressed in a light pink sweater and light jeans with her hair braided over her shoulder.

“Ready to go?” She asked.

Percy nodded. They grabbed their jackets and headed out the door.

~*~*~

They walked down the avenue to Washington Square Park, stopping on the way to indulge in some hot chocolates. It was just starting to get a little warmer – they daily temperature tended to hang out in the forties during the day, rather than what Percy called ‘face hurting temperatures.’

Still, he wished it was a little warmer so they could sit on a bench or the grass for a while and just relax in the Spring sun. But the cold sun of the end of February would have to do.

It did come with its perks, Percy realized, when a cold wind blew, prompting Annabeth to instinctively move closer to him. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his chest for a moment as the breeze blew by. When it was over, they parted, neither blushing or uncomfortable.

Sure, he was usually physically close to her, but stage intimacy was far less erotic than many people assumed. On stage or during rehearsal, both were sweaty, trying not to breath too hard, and mostly worrying about their own steps and safety and the safety of their partner.

A gentle closeness so far removed from the studio, though, felt deeply intimate. He almost reached down to hold her hand, but she had it in her jacket pocket. He left his hand by his side in case she had the same thought, but she never reached for it.

When they reached the arch, Annabeth paused in front of it. “You know, if I hadn’t joined the company, I would have gone to school for architecture.”

“Really?” Percy asked, looking at her.

She nodded. “I guess I kind of am or was at least.” She said. “I was part time at NYU for a few years, but between being a principal, and planning a wedding, then calling off the wedding, and everything that came after that, I haven’t taken a class in almost …” she paused, “almost two years, I guess.”

“Why architecture?” Percy asked.

She shrugged. “Aesthetics, partly. I really enjoy aesthetic, design, and flow. Obviously, I do, or I wouldn’t be a dancer. But buildings can have all of those things too, just not in the same way.” She sipped her hot chocolate. “It’s also the opposite of dance. Buildings are static, and they’re so permanent.”

Percy nodded. The fleeting nature of ballet loomed over all of them. Most men could go until thirty-five at least, and a lot of women made it to forty, if not longer. But one bad injury could end a career in an instant.

“Do you want to be an architect when you retire?” He asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s a hard career to start at forty. Knowing myself I’ll end up teaching or choreographing. I don’t think I could ever really leave it behind, you know?”

“You could design theaters.” He suggested.

She smiled at him like she had had the thought before. “Yeah, I could.” Her hand dropped out of her pocket and rested near his, but he didn’t feel courageous enough to take it. “What about you?” She asked.

“Oh, I have no idea.” Percy said. “I barely graduate high school.” He admitted. “College is not my speed, so I’ll probably linger in the ballet world as long as they’ll have me.”

She bumped him with her shoulder. “Come on, you have no ideas?” He shook his head. “Wildest dream? If a genie showed up right now and told you he’d give you your dream career, what would it be?”

“Well,” Percy said, “if I’m wishing for stuff, I’d just wish to be able to dance forever.”

“Alright that’s on me,” Annabeth said, laughing, “I set the bar too low.” She took his hand, and his breath caught. “Seriously, I won’t judge you.”

It was a hard question to answer. Percy had spent a lot of time in his training thinking about what he’d do if he didn’t get a company contract when his training ended. Teaching was one option, but he didn’t know if he’d like doing that if his own dreams had fallen through. With his poor grades, he always figured he’d just get a retail or restaurant job and try and work his way through management and dance on the weekends.

But if today were the day that he had to stop dancing …

“I guess I’d teach,” he admitted, “but I don’t know if I’d want to teach at the academy.”

“Why not?” She asked. They started walking out of the park and towards the street, wandering aimlessly through the West Village.

He had never really wanted to teach at the academy, he realized. Sure, the prospect of training a new group of kids who would go on to join City Ballet, Miami, Royal Ballet, Ballet West, and all the other big companies was exciting, but he was lucky to have had that education at all. So many things had to go right in his life to even make it into their ranks – a good ballet teacher off the bat, scholarship money, his mom marrying a man who had a savings account and cared about her son. Without any of those things, Percy wouldn’t have a career.

“I was on my own at the academy,” he said, “one of the only kids who started late and didn’t have great training before that. Most other kids were,” like you, he though, but he didn’t say it, “born lucky. They had exposure to ballet young, good training, and they never had to worry about how they were going to pay for things. I had to worry about that all the time. And I was still luckier than most.” He said. “Just think about how many talented kids there are just on my block alone that will never get my chance.” He looked ahead towards the street. The West Village had once a bohemian shithole, but (thanks in no small part to NYU), it had been gentrified into one of the most expensive areas in the city. “I guess if I could do anything I’d just try and help those kids. Don’t know how I’d do it, but that’s what I’d really like to do.” He told her. “I know it’s crazy.”

She stopped walking and pulled him to the side of the path, getting out of every one’s way.

“It’s not crazy.” She said.

For a moment on the edge of the sidewalk, hugging the wall of some coffee shop, neither of them moved. She looked at him, tilting her head up just slightly to look him in the eye. When she licked her lips slightly, Percy’s heart almost exploded, sure that she was going to lean in. But instead she broke the tension, turning back to the middle of the sidewalk to keep forward, dropping his hand.

“At least,” she said, not looking at him, “not as crazy as wanting to pivot to architecture.”

He jogged to catch up with her. “That’s not crazy either. Besides, if I know you at all, I know nothing will stop you from getting what you want.”

She smiled, looking down at the sidewalk as she walked forward. “Nothing stops you either as far as I can tell.”

“I am notoriously scrappy.” He said, pulling a laugh out her, which dissolved any remain uncomfortable tension while taking away any remaining hope of a kiss.

~*~*~

When they finally got too cold to stand walking around any longer, they ducked into a dimly lit pub.

“Do you ever just wish you had a job where you didn’t have to worry so much about what you ate and drank?” Annabeth asked him. They did eat a lot, of course. They both probably ate more than the average person, they just also had to eat way healthier than the average person.

“Pretty much every day.” Percy said. “Every time a season ends, I just crush a cheeseburger, first thing.��

Annabeth had been to the pub before, and guided Percy through some good options on the menu.

Their conversation stayed light – childhood stories, embarrassing moments, favorite TV shows. When Annabeth started to ramble about architecture being a universal language for people, and how The Hunchback of Notre Dame is actually all about the building, and how the novel saved the church, Percy couldn’t stop smiling. Her gaze was distant, but her eyes were bright. Percy was delighted to see her so happy.

When the check came, Annabeth grabbed it off the table before Percy could even reach for it.

“Absolutely not,” Annabeth said when Percy reached across the table. “You’ve done so much for me the last few days, buying you lunch is the least I can do.”

Percy didn’t protest anymore, instead just choosing to thank her for the meal. He hoped it wasn’t the last one they got to share together.

~*~*~

As the afternoon went on and the sun started to set, Percy realized he needed to go home. He didn’t want to leave Annabeth, but he also didn’t want to be wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours.

“I can come back if you need anything, or if Luke comes around,” he said as they headed towards the subway.

Annabeth shook her head. “I should be fine. I think I’m going to call Piper or Silena and talk some things out with them.” You can talk to me, Percy wanted to insist. But he knew she was closer with them than with him, no matter what he wanted to be true.

“Call me if you need anything,” he told her. She nodded and promised she would.

They stood at the top of the subway stairs, doing their best to stay out of everyone else’s way, but that was almost impossible to do when you were standing still on New York City sidewalk.

“Percy,” she said looking up at him, “thank you. Seriously, thank you for everything.” She pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, trying to hold her even closer. Her hair smelled like lemons.

“Anytime,” he told her. He pressed a gentle kiss into the top of her head; if she noticed or minded, she didn’t show any sign of it.

Annabeth pulled away after a little too long (not that Percy minded) and smiled at him. “Get home safe,” she said, before turning to head towards her apartment.

~*~*~

Percy rested his head back against the subway window, grateful for a seat on his way back up town, trying to remember the way Annabeth’s hair smelled, and the ways her eyes lit up when she was excited.

He hoped that they stayed close when they weren’t dancing together anymore. The have to, he figured. They were friends now, not just coworkers or dance partners.

He knew from experience that performances come and go too quickly – a month of rehearsal just for four shows? It was almost unfair. Lee’s husband, a Broadway actor, had once complained about his eight shows a week schedule at a company party. Eight Sleeping Beauty’s a week was probably physically impossible, but Percy did sometimes miss doing six or eight ballets a week as an apprentice or corps member. He certainly wouldn’t pass up one or two extra performances of Sleeping Beauty if he had the chance. He wanted to hold onto it for just a little bit longer.

~*~*~

The next morning, Percy woke up feeling like he was an astronaut on the moon, hearing the air leave his spacesuit, but he could not find the leak. He didn’t remember his dream, but his heart was beating hard and fast. He performed tomorrow, he remembered. He took a deep breath, but it didn’t do anything to calm his anxiety. Throughout his morning routine, of breakfast, palates, and stretching, he felt like he was the vice president of anxiety, and the president was nowhere to be found.

He had fleeting moments of confidence as a dancer – moments where he was sure he was good, that he was going to succeed, moments where, if he closed his eyes, he could swear that he was flying not just jumping. But mostly he would bag on himself for things he couldn’t do or didn’t do well. Those fleeing moments of confidence could be diminished by any small error.

He had to succeed. Part of it was vindictive – people had always underestimated him. But most of it felt like debt. His mother had sacrificed so much just to get him to dance practice and to keep him enrolled at the school. If he never made principal …

When he was eleven and his YMCA teacher told Sally that he should be in more advanced classes, Sally asked him if he wanted to continue ballet. Just say no, he had told himself, knowing that there was no way his mom could pay for all the lessons he’d need. It would hurt less to stop dancing at eleven than to make it all the way to fourteen or fifteen only to give it up then.

He had spent as much time in dance classes dancing as he spent worrying that at some point the rug would be pulled out from under him, and he’d lose it all. That there would be a point where he just couldn’t continue. He already spent most of his training playing catch-up with people who had been dancing since they could stand, and he always feared his career being stunted on the other side.

But when he was eleven, and he told his mom he wanted to stop dancing, he had called him on his lie. “If you want to do it, we will do what we have to do,” she told him. That meant he had to switch to public school and work jobs to pay for summer intensives and after-school classes. Even with all that, and his scholarships, it was Paul that made any of it possible. He’d gotten lucky; finally, some of that luck that seemed to grace some of the worst people finally trickled down to him and his mom. She had married a man with a savings account and love of the arts. He had no problem helping them pay for his summer intensives or his academy tuition.

He thought his meeting with Chiron at the end of his last year in the school. The year before, he had been encouraged to try out for other companies but told that an apprenticeship wasn’t out of the picture. When he got back to his apartment, he tried not to tell his mom, to keep it a secret and to work as hard as he could the next year to earn his spot.

He’d cried as soon as he saw her though; guilt and disappointment cut through his stomach and chest like a knife. Sally had tried to assure him that he wasn’t a failure, but that didn’t change any of his thinking on the issue.

When Nutcracker season came, and Percy wasn’t offered an apprenticeship, he figured that it truly was over. He had almost gotten to a point where he thought his entire dance career was over, until Lupa Lopez had called him back about his audition, and offered him a spot at Miami. His mom had let him have a glass of Champaign to celebrate.

Chiron was less enthusiastic than his mother had been. When Percy told him the good news, he kept a straight face and asked, “Have you signed anything yet?”

“No.”

“Good, don’t.”

He was called into the office two days later. “Lupa and I have the same eye for dancers,” he said. “She’s taken some of my best away from me. So, it wasn’t surprising to hear that she was interested in you joining her company. She must see the same things in you that I see.”

Percy’s eyes went wide.

“You’re talented, Percy,” Chiron continued, “and disciplined,” that was the first time a teacher had said that about him, he realized. Chiron handed Percy a stack of a few papers. “And you should stay with City Ballet.”

It took Percy a moment to realize what he was looking at. His dyslexia only acted up when he got stressed. Finally, he deciphered it. “Wait … is this for real?” He was holding an apprentice contract with his name on it.

“Sorry for making you go on all of those auditions,” Chiron said.

Percy hadn’t even waited to get home to tell his mom. Instead, he found a quiet stairwell where he could tell her and cry with her. He thought she was going to break his ribs with how tightly she hugged him when he got home. “I’m just so happy,” she said, “that you don’t have to move to Miami.”

He was tired of barely succeeding – barely making it into the academy, barely getting an apprenticeship, barely getting leading roles. He wondered for a moment if she had these fleeing moments of confidence met quickly by self-doubt, before he remembered their last Diamonds rehearsal. Percy was terrified when she had stopped dancing, and he became more worried when he saw the frantic look in her eyes. She had broken, he realized; she had hit a level of doubt and pain that you can’t easily pull yourself out of.

He didn’t, Percy realized, have the luxury of breaking, though. If he left, there was no guarantee that his spot would be there when he came back. He could only bend.

Annabeth couldn’t break either. Percy could end up stagnant if the shows didn’t go well. If Annabeth broke again, though, her career could be over.

They both had to bend and bend far. Four shows, Percy realized, four shows to get it right. Just don’t forget the choreography, and don’t drop her. He told himself. And if you forget the choreography, just make it up.

Luke had left a principal male spot open that Chiron still hadn’t filled. In a fleeting moment of confidence, Percy told himself You’re the perfect fit.

He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, but he couldn’t see what was at the bottom. He was safe as long as he stayed on land. If he jumped, he could die, or he could land safely in the water. There wasn’t another way forward.

#once upon a pointe #percy jackson #annabeth chase #percabeth

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goodgreycious · 8 years ago

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How to Succeed in Fangirling Without Really Trying

[Insert nervous laughter here]

I guess we should start with the basics like introductions and the more important things you need to know about me. Hi, my name is Grey. I am a person of the adult-ish variety who is, more importantly, a fangirl. Very soon, I will be graduating from college with a degree in history. And yes, just history. And no, I do not want to be a teacher. (This is important to the overall narrative I’m trying to create here, but we’ll get to that later.) I am a Hufflepuff and I take almost as much pride in that fact as I do about my remarkable ability to eat and drive at the same time (my friends might say otherwise, but they’re lying to you). My idea of a “lit” night is when the light radiates from my Netflix account. I love a good book and a bottle of dry, red wine. Preferably together. If there is one other thing I know for sure about myself at the ripe age of “almost-22,” it’s that being a fangirl is all I really know how to do. Maybe through this blog, I can take people on a journey they can relate to. Maybe if I share my story, it can help someone else who is out there feeling the way I’m feeling. Maybe they’ll even start a blog. It’s what I did.

To kick off this shindig, there is a little bit more you need to know about me. Like where and how my story starts. From a young age I was encouraged to be the best I could be. Not the best out of everyone, but my parents knew what I was capable of and they wanted me to do well for me, not anyone else. However, I was an awkward kid. No matter what my parents say. Isn’t everyone? Throughout my K-12 education, I somehow managed to stick myself right in the middle of the herd. I guess the more appropriate description would be “average.” I played one sport in my four years of high school, so I was not jock material. I was in choir, but not a soloist. I was in the musical, but felt more comfortable being part of the stage crew. I spent most of my lunches in my school’s library. The average high school student will experience some form of bullying and I was no exception. Not to the extent that others were, but it was enough to scar me so that my goal for that part of my education was just to get through it with as few waves as possible. So, I adapted and figured out that being stuck in the middle of everything is what made me happy. I didn’t want to be the center of attention. That would’ve been my worst nightmare. I hated myself back then and I had already given people enough of a chance to hate me in my earlier years. It might not have been bad, but it was enough.

I, also, might not be able to remember all the details, but I can pinpoint the moment I knew I was a fangirl. I was in 6th grade and I held in my meaty little hands a copy of The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan. I read the opening part of the first chapter entitled “I Accidentally Vaporize My Pre-Algebra Teacher” and it is, to this day, the closest thing I can equate to finding myself. Tiny little me, reading a book about a kid not much older than her who feels it in every fiber of his bones that he is different and can’t do a damn thing about it at that moment, it just felt like coming home. I inhaled the words on those pages. I injected them into my bloodstream once every month. No other book could ever compare as I reread it over and over and over again. It was Wonderland and I was Alice, falling, falling, falling down the rabbit hole and but with no intention of ever stopping the free fall. And as I grew older and wiser, and my tastes expanded, I started to realize that I had always been like that. Disney movies were (still are) the pinnacle of my movie tastes. I wouldn’t watch anything other than animated movies until I was well over the age of 12. My mom begged me to play outside as a kid when all I wanted to do was sit down and watch Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network, or the Disney Channel. Percy Jackson and his journey finally put it all into perspective for me. And I’m still spiraling. I started to consume knowledge about Greek Mythology more than my studies. I read anything fantasy based that I could get my hands on. Harry Potter, Fablehaven, Peter and the Star Catchers, Oh. My. Gods., House of Night, the list is as endless as it is ongoing. As I grew, my tastes expanded. I got into anime, sci-fi, comics, crime, true crime, literally anything that took me away from the normal life I was leading. What I wanted more than anything in the world was to be there.

All of these things carried me through my high school career, but not in the way I was expecting. I loved my stories, my otherworlds, more than I ever loved the real world, but it beckoned. Not so much like a siren’s song, more like the annoying alarm clock in the morning that you just perpetually want to turn off, but somehow end up hitting SNOOZE so it keeps waking you up every few minutes. High school was a time where the answer to the question “So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” was finally starting to be the most important question you could answer. I’ll give you three guesses as to what girl never, ever had the answer to that question and the first two don’t count… Yup, t’was me. I’m pretty sure every time someone asked me that, my answered changed. The only thing I really knew, at least at that point, was there were two things I loved. History and what I’ve come to now realize is my all-encompassing, heart-stopping, soul-crushing love for the creative process. Everything in this world that is created has a story that I need to know. I fawn over fan art just as much as Picasso or Van Gogh. I think fanfiction and their authors can sometimes be written better than the original. I have music on at all times during the day. If I am not reading, I am watching something. If I am not watching, then I am trying to hone my own creative processes. Everything about being a fangirl appeals me like a drug. Where bullying knocked me down, I bathed myself in fantasy and used it as my armor. When the only thing I wanted to do was just get through, my fandoms taught me how I should live. Whenever I felt like I wasn’t loved or good enough or whatever enough, somehow, some way, fiction would wrap its arms around me, remind me that I was, and lift me up to carry me home.

Sounds like a wonderful thing to make a career out of, right? But if bullying had taught me anything, it was that I wasn't good enough. I was never going to be a content creator. It was always going to be my destiny to be a content consumer. I could never be J.K. Rowling, Chris Hardwick, Wil Wheaton, Felicia Day, Lin Manuel Miranda. If I could go back and tell my younger self anything, it wouldn’t be any of the clichés like ‘it gets better’ or ‘just stay strong.’ I’d tell that little punk to stick it to whoever told her that what was making her feel whole wasn’t worth making a life out of. I would tell my younger self to be brave enough to prove them all wrong. I was constantly told that I could not make a sustainable career out what I loved. So, I did what I do best and adapted. History was the only other thing I really loved. It was the real stories, the non-fiction that inspires fiction. If I couldn’t create the stories, I would learn everyone else’s. That would surely solve that problem? It’d be a good enough substitute, right?

While I love history, it was like going from Ferrari to a Honda. The Honda will most definitely get you from Point A to Point B, but more so because you can’t afford a Ferrari in the first place. Which kind of brings me to where I am now and the whole reason I started this blog in the first place. Here’s me, about to graduate college with a degree in a field I love (even though it doesn’t sound like it) feeling like I’m doing nothing more than staring into a deep, vast, dark thing called The Void of Adulthood when the only thing I really want to do is take a nap. Or curl up with a good book or a new TV show. Forget the horror genre, adulthood, or the precipice of it, is the scariest shit I have ever encountered. And I am looking at this Void, wanting to take a ForeverNap™️, neck deep in a big-girl-full-time job search, wearing a Captain America shirt, Prisoner of Azkaban clutched in one hand, sonic screwdriver in the other, screaming my throat raw about how I am just not ready.

But getting back to the present. I mentioned that my degree in history would somehow be important to the overall narrative I’m trying to weave here. This is why. It goes back to being too scared to do what I really wanted to do. While I love history, it just doesn’t compare to the other thing. But, I was also too scared by real life to ever do anything to change it. I was too scared to tell everyone: “DAMN THE CONSEQUENCES AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR COLLECTIVE ASSES, I’M GOING TO DO THIS.” I never wanted to shake it up, challenge the status quo, and now I’m kicking myself for it. History was a safety net I didn’t realize was there until it was too late. All this suddenly came into perspective because I found my dream job. Given the chance, it would be one that I would be really, really good at… but I can’t get it. I don’t have a degree in a relevant field, I don’t have the job experience. I’m not prepared. And it sucks royal hippogriff.

And that, dear readers who have stuck with me all the way to this point, is why I am here. I started this blog to finally break out of my shell. I am no longer content with being a consumer. I want to be a creator. I want to contribute to the discussions. I want to write things that matter and that people can relate to. I want to be fully qualified. If writing this blog and finally, finally being able to contribute something to the worlds that have loved me when I thought no one else did is the only way I can give back and get experience, then so be it. If it is the only way I can be apart of the things I love right now, then I’m going to do it. This is how I stick it to those people who told me I couldn’t. This is how I throw it back in the faces of people who tore me down. I hope that I can take people along this journey with me. I have some fun things planned. And if there are people out there who are listening to the voices of negativity in whatever forms they take, I hope I can help you realize that you are strong enough to face those demons and win. I hope that together we can find a way to forge our own paths. I don’t want anyone to ever feel like I felt. No one deserves to feel like that.

Hi again, I’m Grey. Welcome home. Here, you will always be encouraged. Here, I promise to help you in whatever way I can. Here, you are safe. And here, above all, you are seen and you are loved.

#grey writes #my stuff #personal post

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networkingdefinition · 5 years ago

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Noodles Quotes

Official Website: Noodles Quotes

<span data-mce-type="bookmark" style="display: inline-block; width: 0px; overflow: hidden; line-height: 0;" class="mce_SELRES_start"> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push();

• 3 years ago I was stocking shelves at Target, living on Ramen noodles, and crashing at Billy’s house. Now I’m on tour – Benji Madden • A lot of people in this country are obese because of a form of malnutrition. One thing I’d like to do is to help people understand the correlation between a steady diet of empty calories – though you may not experience hunger pangs, you can’t really function well if all you’re eating are things like ramen noodles, or chips, cookies, and sodas, things that are quite typically inexpensive and affordable because of the way we subsidize the ingredients that go into them. – Lori Silverbush • A professional player is smarter than a college man. He uses his noodle. He knows what to do and when to do it. He rarely goes up in the air as is the case with most of our college players when they get in a tight place. – Red Grange • All the dreamers in all the world are dizzy in the noodle! – Edie Adams • Almost anything can be stretched to serve more people by being added to a white sauce or canned gravy or undiluted or very slightly diluted canned soup and served over noodles or rice. With chops or chocolate eclairs, however, the only solution is to claim you don’t like them. – Jo Coudert • And what have I done?” What? WHAT?…You’ve stolen them.” With that, Cornelia fled, but Buttercup understood; she knew who “them” was. The boys. The beef-witted featherbrained rattledskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed BOYS. – William Goldman • As a musician and a guitar player, I can noodle as well as anybody. But from my background as a session musician, I always try to play what is called for by the lyric and listening to the song. As a writer, that’s what I do, too. – Richie Sambora

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Noodle', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_noodle').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_noodle img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Because real thoughts come from outside and travel with us like the noodle soup we take to work; in other words, inquisitors burn books in vain. If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh, because any book worth its salt points up and out of itself. – Bohumil Hrabal

• But I couldn’t draw as fast as she requested. Thus, I tried to create the worst abomination of a comic that I could, so as to make her not want comics anymore. That abomination, my friends, was Happy Noodle Boy. – Jhonen Vasquez

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling]

• Can’t make chicken salad out of chicken noodle – Mike Ditka • Carbohydrates, and especially refined ones like sugar, make you produce lots of extra insulin. I’ve been keeping my intake really low ever since I discovered this. I’ve cut out all starch such as potatoes, noodles, rice, bread and pasta. – Cynthia Kenyon • Censure is a limp noodle across the wrist of the president. I think the way we vote on the articles will express the way we feel stronger than any censure vote. – Larry Craig • Even now, when I do a slide show of the Geek Squad story, the first slide is a photo of ramen noodles. Because for me, ramen noodles are the international symbol for struggle. – Robert Stephens • He’s smaller than me, did you see him? He looked like a noodle next to me. – Adrien Broner • I can make things, but I don’t cook them, exactly. Like salmon, I can stick that in a pan. Or the other day I made noodles, but they were hard. It never occurred to me to check them; I just stopped cooking them when I felt they were ready. Really, I’m too absentminded. – Paula Poundstone • I cook everything. I love Mediterranean cooking, I love Asian cooking. I do lots of Japanese noodles. – Ted Allen • I don’t put cream in any pasta noodles ever. I would use a little butter, but I don’t ever use cream. – Mario Batali • I hate to admit this but I don’t even know how to make a cup of tea or coffee. I can boil a kettle for a pot noodle and I’ve been known to warm up some food in the microwave. – Michael Owen • I have a rescue dog named Fideo, which means ‘noodle’ in Spanish, and a cat named Hutch. – Ana Ortiz • I love Chinese food, like steamed dim sum, and I can have noodles morning, noon and night, hot or cold. I like food that’s very simple on the digestive system – I tend to keep it light. I love Japanese food too – sushi, sashimi and miso soup. – Shilpa Shetty • I remember when I couldn’t afford to eat like this. It was ramen noodles and the San Francisco Treat [Rice-A-Roni]. Dessert? Get you a honey bun and put a slice of cheese on it. Put it in the microwave for 45 seconds and you had the gift of a lifetime. – Rick Ross • I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘cooking’ but I can make noodles. That means I can boil water, put the pasta in and wait until it’s done. – Devon Werkheiser • I’m not as good as a man as you are, Sundown. I find it hard to give an enemy my back under any circumstance.” – Ren “Oh, I didn’t say I was giving her my back. I’m not lacking all my noodle sense. But I’m not holding a grudge neither. Sometimes you just got to let the rattlesnake lay in the sun.” – Sundown “Men? You do know I’m standing in this little box with you and can hear every word?” – Abigail “We know. I merely don’t care.” – Ren – Sherrilyn Kenyon • If it’s possible, I will have some noodles in the morning and start talking to people, start to think about a few things in my head – the project or a few ideas which are not finished or if there are possible directions and what will lead into another game. It’s always like setting up some kind of game you can continuously play. – Ai Weiwei • If you think you can lead your flock of sheeple and peeps to some glorified noodle fest on the mall, you got another thing coming, mister. – Stephen Colbert • I’m Italian. I love to cook Italian food, so I learned from my dad how to make sauce and meatballs and all that stuff. With my wife and kids, I started making homemade pasta. The very first time, I didn’t have a pasta maker, so I had to cut it with a knife, the old-school way! The noodles were all jacked up, but it was fun. – Joey Fatone • I’m layering away: sauce, noodles, I belong to you, cheese, sauce, my heart is yours, noodles, cheese, I hear your soul in your music, cheese, cheese, CHEESE. – Jandy Nelson • I’m not the kind of guy who sits around at home and writes songs. Once in a while I’ll pick up a guitar and noodle around, but it’s rare. – Scott Ian • Instructions for Adam Look after no one except yourself. Go to university and make lots of friends and get drunk. Forget your door keyes. Laugh. Eat pot-noodles for breakfast. Miss lectures. Be irresponsible. – Jenny Downham • It turns out that Molly wasn’t her mother’s daughter in that respect. Charity was like the MacGuyver of the kitchen. She could whip up a five-course meal for twelve from an egg, two spaghetti noodles, some household chemicals, and a stick of chewing gum. Molly … Molly once burned my egg. My boiled egg. I don’t know how. – Jim Butcher • Life was so much simpler in pre-video days when everyone refused invitations because the ‘Forsyte Saga’ was on. Now we all just have a long list of unwatched shows, all of which, it seems, our friends are raving about. I feel as outdated as if I wore a Fair Isle sweater, ate Pot Noodle and had a two-bar electric fire in the sitting room. – Simon Hoggart • Memory, in my opinion, is a complete noodle. It hangs on the silliest things but forgets the stuff that really matters. – Ellen Potter • My grandmother was a kind of Scarsdale, New York, society woman, best known in her day as the author of the 1959 book ‘Growing Your Own Way: An Informal Guide for Teen-Agers’ – this despite being a person whose parenting style made Joan Crawford’s wire hangers look like pool noodles. – Sloane Crosley • My mom cooked pot roast with noodles and frozen vegetables. Or she’d make spaghetti or hot dogs, or heat up TV dinners. Before I started modeling at age 19, I was 5’8″ and weighed 165 pounds. – Carol Alt • Noodles are not only amusing but delicious. – Julia Child • OH KYO KUN! Isn’t it said that eating pink noodles turns you into a horny pervert?! – Natsuki Takaya • Once you’ve started a film you don’t become a wet noodle. You must have that conflictual interface because you don’t know, and they don’t know. It’s through conflict that you come out with something that might be different, better than either of you thought to begin with. – Jack Nicholson • Peace will come to the world when the people have enough noodles to eat. – Momofuku Ando • Ramen is a dish that’s very high in calories and sodium. One way to make it slightly healthier is to leave the soup and just eat the noodles. – Masaharu Morimoto • Sam was starting to feel anxious. Nutella and noodles were fine. Great in fact. Miraculous. But he’d been hoping for more food more water more medicine something. It was absurdly like Christmas morning when he was little: hoping for something he couldn’t even put a name to. A game changer. Something…amazing. – Michael Grant

• She led him past the engine room, which looked like a very dangerous, mechanized jungle gym, with pipes and pistons and tubes jutting from a central bronze sphere. Cables resembling giant metal noodles snaked across the floor and ran up the walls. “How does that thing even work?” Percy asked. “No idea,” Annabeth said. “And I’m the only one besides Leo who can operate it.” “That’s reassuring.” “It should be fine. It’s only threatened to blow up once.” “You’re kidding, I hope.” She smiled. “Come on. – Rick Riordan • Since I’ve been on my own, I’ve been eating a lot of popcorn, cereal, instant noodles, and snack bars. I have a hot plate in my bedroom, a microwave, and a small fridge. That’s the kind of kitchen I know how to get around in. – Karen Marie Moning • Spaghetti… I can’t eat spaghetti, there’s too many of them. No matter how hungry I am, 1,000 of something is too many. I’ll have 1,000 pieces of noodles. – Mitch Hedberg • ‘Tampopo’ is a deeply odd film about Japan, ramen noodles, love and sex. It made me very hungry and desperate to travel to Japan. It started my love affair with this amazing country, its culture, its food, its cinema and made me buy my first ticket to the land of the rising sun. – Jamie Cullum • The boys. The village boys. The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dimdomed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys. How could anybody accuse her of stealing them? Why would anybody want them anyway? – William Goldman • There’s a Polar Bear In our Frigidaire– He likes it ’cause it’s cold in there. With his seat in the meat And his face in the fish And his big hairy paws In the buttery dish, He’s nibbling the noodles, And munching the rice, He’s slurping the soda, He’s licking the ice. And he lets out a roar If you open the door. And it gives me a scare To know he’s in there– That Polary Bear In our Fridgitydaire. – Shel Silverstein • There’s only one rule in photography – never develop colour film in chicken noodle soup. – Freeman Patterson • We can do anything. It’s not because our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making those long noodles you love so much. – Richard Siken • When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles and the bottle’s on a poodle and the poodle’s eating noodles… …they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle bottle paddle battle. – Dr. Seuss • When I would feel down…I’d have some noodles father prepared, and all the worries I had that day…Poof! They would all disappear. – Kim Young-kwang • Yes, but I’ve already made my fortune in other things. (Solin) Such as? (Geary) Viagra. My brother learned to take a personal problem and profit by it. (Arik) It’s true. It pained me to see a man as young as Arik stricken with impotency. Therefore I had to do something to help the poor soul. But alas, there’s nothing to be done for it. He’s as flaccid as a wet noodle. (Solin) How creative of you to project your problem onto me. But then, they say celibacy is enough to make a man lose all reason. Guess you’re living proof, huh? (Arik) – Sherrilyn Kenyon • You can’t be wishy-washy. That’s the most boring thing in the world, to be a middle-of-the-road wet noodle. That’s my greatest fear, to be like, “Oh, whatever.” That’s just not who I am. – Chris Black • You have to find a group that really desperately cares about what it is you have to say. Talk to them. They have something I call otaku. It’s a great Japanese word. It describes the desire of someone who’s obsessed to, say, drive across Tokyo to try a new Ramen noodle place ’cause that’s what they do, they get obsessed with it. – Seth Godin • You noodle around with tempo and sound until you get the perfect fit for that particular song, and then, so long as you can sustain it, God is on your side and everything comes easily and even the waiters smile. – Wilfrid Sheed • Zen is to religion what a Japanese “rock garden” is to a garden. Zen knows no god, no afterlife, no good and no evil, as the rock-garden knows no flowers, herbs or shrubs. It has no doctrine or holy writ: its teaching is transmitted mainly in the form of parables as ambiguous as the pebbles in the rock-garden which symbolise now a mountain, now a fleeting tiger. When a disciple asks “What is Zen?”, the master’s traditional answer is “Three pounds of flax” or “A decaying noodle” or “A toilet stick” or a whack on the pupil’s head. – Arthur Koestler • Zerts’ are what I call desserts. ‘Trée-trées’ are entrées. I call sandwiches ‘sammies,’ ‘sandoozles,’ or ‘Adam Sandlers.’ Air conditioners are ‘cool blasterz’ with a ‘z’ – I don’t know where that came from. I call cakes ‘big ol’ cookies.’ I call noodles ‘long-ass rice.’ Fried chicken is ‘fry-fry chicky-chick.’ Chicken parm is ‘chicky-chicky-parm-parm.’ Chicken cacciatore? ‘Chicky-cacc.’ I call eggs ‘pre-birds,’ or ‘future birds.’ Root beer is ‘super water.’ Tortillas are ‘bean blankets.’ And I call forks ‘food rakes.’ – Aziz Ansari

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equitiesstocks · 5 years ago

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