#it must be going through a different and worse kind of dystopia

[thestuffedalligator]

I’ve never read all the Hunger Games books, but I do know that a lot of fanmade maps of Panem divide the districts among American states and label all of Canada “The Wilds” or something similar.

And I just want to know: Was there any canon justification for this, or was this a piece of fanon? Because either way the implications of this are wild. Fascist futuristic military dictatorship Panem does not have the manpower to occupy post-apocalyptic Canada. What’s going on up there

[tallysgreatestfan]

Dystopia made in Germany - damn yeah!

Finally came around to watch «Paradise» on Netflix, a dystopia with a somewhat similar concept as Time’s Out, in that poor people can spend years of their life time in exchange for money, and rich people gain life time in exchange for money.

German actor Kostja Ullmann plays the main character, who works as a salesman for the time exchange company Aeon, but finds himself on the other side as his wife is forced to "donate" fourty years of her life.

First of all: Americans will never understand just how exciting and in a sense freeing it is to see their country represented in genre media. This is, without joking, the first dystopian movie I ever saw that took place in Germany. It is such a cool feeling to see this futuristic city, but the signs are in German, not English. It is somehow a completely different kind of immersion.

(And remember, Germany is still part of the global west and an industrial nation, for people from the global south this must be even much much worse)

Also, I was somewhat worried for the upcoming Uglies movie (=relatively old Young Adult Dystopia about a seemingly Utopian world in which differences between all humans are obliterated by a mandatory beauty surgery) if Netflix could pull off the CGI and practical effects for this utterly futuristic world, and judging by this movie, they luckily could. The buildings look real, the interior design looks real. It is, to be honest, not quite as far as it would need to be for Uglies, but it works.

IMO it takes the allegory of how capitalism quite literally steals lifetime from the poor a bit further than Time’s Out, as here this procedure isn’t mandatory in most cases, but poor people still do it, because that just is how the fucked up capitalist system forces them to do.

Some of the names are a bit corny, like “Adam” for the resistance group, or “Lazarus” for the secret cemetery, but damn, I absolutely love the leader of the resistance movement being called Lillith.

It is only relatively understated, but I do like that this movie dares to go into criticizing how Europe, especially Europes borders, treat refugees. Europeans always have this air of being the most moral and just, and I consider myself guilty of that too, sometimes – but we’re not. Absolutely not.

I like the music though. Dark electronic tunes, mixed with more contemporary pop or rock occasionally. It is not outstanding, but it is good and it underlines the emotions and themes.

Spoilers under the cut:

I really love that the main characters wife, upon feeling on her own body just how draconic this “donation” process is, refuses to force someone else to experience this, even if it’s a rich person who took the donations dozenths of time already, and only complies because there are no other possibilities.

The boss henchwoman of Aeon (haven’t caught her name) has such an amazing charisma and totally commands every scene she is in. Doesn’t help that she also has a fairly unique face. I really hope for her that she gets big; that she becomes Germanys next big action heroine or something.

The short scenery with the wind turbines and the sea and the ship, wow. That looked so futuristic and alien totally set the scenes. The atmosphere of that!

The conflict with the young women they captured possibly being the CEOs daughter instead of the CEO herself is quite the interesting idea. No matter how it will end up, what will be true, it definitely is an good story choice.

Ooh, and now the dystopian resistance movement enters the scene. I love how the no nonsense scarred resistance leader is a woman here. A white woman, and its pretty, thin line scars, but still.

I love how claustrophobic and chaotic the scene with the main character trying to navigate through the battle Aeon vs rebels is. Other than him not getting seriously injured it feels very realistic and raw.

The music of the escape scene gave me goosebumps. There is just something so raw and eerie and sad and loss of innocence about it.

The moment of violence between the CEOs daughter after she tries to blackmail the main character and Helena, and Helena was refreshing in a way. Can’t even fully say why, but I guess its because in most movies, eruptions of brutality between previously peaceful characters only happen between two men.

Didn’t expect that Helena would loose her morality and panic in the end. Not quite sure if I believe it yet.

Damn yeah the moment where the cool henchwoman (Kaya) finally grows some morals and leaves!

At the end, and now I can definitely say that I don’t like the twist with Helena. Especially for the sake of a pregnancy of all things. Might just be happily childfree queer me, but I think I will never understand how people are willing to risk absolutely everything for that. It is also pretty gross to say a woman wishes that so much that she looses her morality.

But I do like that this has an unhappy end, like Fahrenheit 451 or Brave New World, and the fight of the normal people against cooperations seems almost impossible, but yet they still have to try, because it’s the moral thing to do

[jimlingss]

Arcadia

➜ Words: 9.6k

➜ Genres: 50% Fluff, 50% Angst, Dystopia!AU, Utopia!AU

➜ Summary: In a new era, the human race has largely been eradicated through warfare and disease. You are one of the few left, living in the forest and making use of the wild. Or at least that's what you think until a man quite literally crashes into your home.

cr.

It happened in the afternoon.   A deafening noise from the sky. A thin whistle that crescendoed. Louder than what you’re used to hearing. Ringing in your eardrums. It shrieked horrifically — rumbling the ground — roaring through the silent forest. And you looked up to see a streak of white in the sky. Immediately, you dropped the animal in hand, abandoned the trap at your feet and ducked your head.   But the explosions never came raining down on your skull.   Instead, it happened in the distance. An explosion that made the evening sky spark bright white.    It took a full minute for it to die down, for the smoke to fade into the horizon as if nothing occurred a moment ago. Yet, you stalked the fumes and commotion, crept in the shadows. You knew better than to approach foreign things, to approach clamor and potential danger.   But the forest had been quiet for so long that it provoked your curiosity.    What you found past the shrubbery and trunks of spruce is a giant white cylinder with rounded edges. A capsule. So white that it burnt to the back of your eyelids, in no way natural whatsoever. But the colour had been marred by dirt and foliage after it crash-landed. The mud and ground hugged it, molded against the shape after it quite literally smashed into the Earth.   Before you could approach the thing and investigate, there was another noise. An unfamiliar whirring. It made you flinch and stumble back, taking refuge behind the trees.   But as you peeked out, you saw something crawling out of the open compartment. A groan.    Someone.   You hadn’t seen another person in years.   Immediately, you stepped forward and he saw you. Eyes darting to look into yours.   He was in stark white clothing from top to bottom, pants that stopped too short at his ankles, a shirt that was cut awkwardly and too small for his broad shoulders. It was vivid against his dark hair and golden skin, almost made him look ridiculous. But you supposed at the time you didn’t look any better — ripped jeans, dirtied boots, a worn jacket taken years ago from some loot and your hair tucked into a baseball cap with a logo too faded away to discern.   “I-I won’t hurt you,” he stutters out, putting up his hands. “I...I’m Seokjin. I’m part of the rescue fleet of Arcadia.”   Arcadia?   The man, Seokjin, sighs after your ongoing silence. “Sorry. Of course you wouldn’t understand me. I,” he enunciates slowly and points to himself. “Am. Friend.” His hands wildly form a heart for you to see and then he points at you with his left while still making wild gestures with his right. He tries to smile brightly. “I. Help. You—”   “I understand you,” you deadpan with an impassive expression.   The man is visibly taken aback, eyes rounded as his mouth opens and closes comically. “Y-You can speak?”   Your arm lifts and your index finger points at his head. “You’re bleeding.”   ... .. .   He looks around the interior of the tree house like a lost child, seated on the floor and waiting for his parents to return. It’s a meager shack made of alder, large gaps for windows, tattered backpacks stained and collected in the corner by some pairs of shoes and an old radio. There’s a fishing line hung diagonally across the room and above his head, used to dry clothing. But he finds himself drawn to the radio and crawls over to try to switch it on, tugging on its antenna, turning the dials.   Yet, all that answers is noisy static.   “It’s been broken since a long time ago,” you pipe up, nearly startling him to death with your sudden presence. But you had simply climbed up the ladder quietly. “I’m still tinkering with it.”   Seokjin sets the radio down. “I have a device similar to it. Thought this one would work.” He pulls out a black and thick rectangular piece of plastic from his back pocket and you scarcely recognize it.   “A walkie-talkie?”   “Kind of. It’s called an Erewhon device. State of the art technology, even if it looks chunky. It transmits radio waves without any limit of range and it syncs to one other device. No third can ever join or hack into it. I use this one to communicate with my base. Or at least I usually would, if the thing didn’t break in the crash.”   You don’t understand anything he’s saying, so you chalk it up to gibberish.   “It stings.” Seokjin sharply inhales as you apply pressure to his wound. But the ache soon alleviates when you wrap bandages around his head. “What’s your name?”   It’s your last roll of bandages.    “Y/N.”   It’s not like you to be so generous or welcoming towards a stranger. The nature of your upbringing and life has ingrained an innate suspicion to anyone who isn’t yourself. But there’s a characteristic about the man in front of you that doesn’t make you doubt his intentions.   It must also be partly because you’ve been on your own for so long and your inner subconscious is willing to dance with danger if it means having some kind of contact with another. But whatever the case may be, you don’t feel wary of Seokjin even if you should.   “Are...there any others?”   “Other humans? There hasn’t been any for years.”   “There’s….just you?”   “Just me.” Until now. “Where did you come from?”   “I come from a place called Arcadia. It’s a utopian society just off the Zion mountain and Elysian Fields,” he says as if you know what those places are. “It has everything and it’s where the remaining people have gathered for years. I actually rescue people like you who are still alive and bring them back. How...how did you manage to survive on your own out here?”    “I just do.”    “How long have you been here?”   “I don’t remember. The apocalypse happened when I was young.”   Seokjin makes a noise of acknowledgment like he understands. “It happened when I was seven.”   “I remember celebrating my fifth birthday in an underground bunker with my parents.”   He doesn’t ask where they are. If they aren’t with you now, it’s safe to assume your parents are dead like his are.    “I had a lot of people help me along the way, a lot of people who died,” you say, “I’ve been in sanctuaries and communities until they fell. Everything was only temporary. So, I’ve been on my own for a while.”   “Arcadia is different,” he says with bright eyes, breathy voice full of wonder and hope. “It’s where the new world is beginning. I can take you there.”   “Isn’t your flying machine broken?”   “You mean my Xanadu Shuttle?” Seokjin scratches the back of his neck and chuckles. You notice how the tips of his ears turn scarlet. “Actually, it was my first time taking it out that far. I’m kind of new to all this. But don’t worry! When it crashed, it sent a notification to headquarters and gave coordinates, so they should find me soon. I’ll try to fix my Erewhon device too.”   You don’t pretend like you know the things he’s referring to. “Are you hungry?”   “I have dried pemmican!” He lights up as if remembering and pulls a transparent wrapped bar from his back pocket. You wonder what else is in those endless pockets of his.    Seokjin must read the puzzled expression on his face since his smile widens. “Want to try it?”   “Sure.” You rip open the wrapper and you’re met with a dark red and gray block, and a meaty scent that makes you slightly nauseous. But you’ve eaten worse before, so you take a bite.   Seokjin instantly laughs when your expression wrinkles up. “It tastes better the more you eat it. Promise.”   “It’s awful.” There’s a temptation to spit it out the window, but afraid that it might be considered rude, you swallow it down and quickly hand back the monstrosity to him. “Do you want rabbit?”   “Sure.”   … .. .   It’s odd to eat a meal with someone — an experience that you’re unable to pinpoint your last memory of. It’s rather mundane, but mundanity has long been a privilege in this era.   “You can sleep in the tree house if you want.”   “Where will you be?”   “I usually like to sleep on the forest floor anyway.” It isn’t a lie. One of the few things you love is drifting off while gazing at the stars, that the last thing you see is the sparkling horizon before it’s blue again when you awake. “How many people are there in Arcadia?”   “About twenty five hundred people so far.”   So far. But if what he tells you is true, then it’s a big settlement.   As if able to see how he’s piqued your curiosity, Seokjin continues, “It’s an amazing place and we’re completely self-sufficient. There’s an agriculture industry that’s growing and greenhouses underground that gives us all the food we need. They developed a water filtration system as well and it’s connected to the mountain springs nearby. There are pods that people live in, schools that kids can go to, jobs, medicine— you’ll see when I take you back.”   “I never said I was going with you.”   “What? Why wouldn’t you?”   You don’t answer.   … .. .   “Morning.” You watch as he climbs down the ladder and nearly slips off. It’s an amusing sight to see his hair in a disarray and his eyes swollen beyond recognition. “Glad to see you’re finally up.”   Seokjin, on the other hand, is baffled at how you’re already moving so energetically. “When….did you get up?”   “Since sunrise. Changed your bandages too, if you didn’t already notice. I’m getting breakfast prepared. There’s a stream down this path that you can wash your face in. Collect water for me while you’re at it.”   You hand him a silver pail.   Walking off, Seokjin finally gets a good look at the forest. It’s quiet, save for the chickadees he notices in the thin branches of the spruce, twiddling as he passes and the woodpeckers hammering against the alder. There was just enough rays of light bursting through to allow the saplings to flourish and shrubs to overgrow. And the verdant green almost blinds his vision with how vivid it is. He’s never been so surrounded in nature before — never has it encapsulated him completely.   When Seokjin returns, he’s more alert than before.   “Thought you got lost for a second. You can set the water over there. Do you want to help me look at my traps?”   He follows you and nearly steps into a trap before you yell at him. But he’s amazed. You’ve designated a whole section full of traps made of loose string and branches, and when he asks, he learns they’re treadle snares to drowning snares.   “They don’t yield a lot of food. It depends on the season, but it mainly depends on luck.”    “What do you usually eat then?”   “I have some canned stuff from the cities, but there’s a lot of berries and herbs around here that are edible. I’m in the process of growing some basil and tomatoes too, so I never really starve out here.”   Seokjin is astounded. You can see it on his face, but you don’t know why that is. It’s not like any of these things are impressive. It’s just things you learn once you’ve lived out here long enough.   “You’re making a fire now?”   He watches as you take out a curved piece of wood with string attached and another piece that’s pointed at the end. You saw it back and forth on some more wood and Seokjin watches the smoke, how the friction creates the heat, how you transfer the embers to tinder.   “Is this how you always make fire?”   “Nowadays. At the beginning when I still had materials, I would use batteries and steel wool. Even flint and steel. But the bow drill method works fine. I save my matches for when I need them.”   “That’s incredible. Is this what you do? I mean, collect food and make fires.”   “I guess.”   “Do you do anything else? Do you ever get bored?”   It’s an interesting question — boredom. A privilege in itself to be bored rather than worried. Though you suppose that in this quiet forest with no one else, it’s a wonder how you never went insane. But while loneliness sporadically plagues you, you’ve never necessarily felt isolated or deprived. It’s always been this way. You’ve learnt to adapt to it. Humans can handle more than they think when push comes to shove.    “There’s always something to do. Whether that’s upkeeping the tree house or making more traps or planting. But sometimes in the summer, I go exploring for a few days. Into the cities. There’re lots of places I haven’t been. It’s a good opportunity for me to get seeds, food, and clothes, so I’m never….bored.”   “Wow, t-that’s...that’s impressive.”   “There’s nothing impressive. It’s just the way things are.”   “I...went to Arcadia in its early days,” Seokjin explains, “It was established twenty years ago, right after the apocalypse began, so I’ve never really got to see the outside world.”   “They don’t let you leave?”   “It’s not that. It just isn’t safe to. Actually, that’s why I wanted to join the rescue fleet. It gives me a chance to see the outside world.”   “You haven’t even seen anything yet. If you want….I can take you somewhere. Better than this.”   “Really?!” Seokjin’s eyes widen, irises practically glistening.   Your lips tickle, threatening to upturn. “Sure.”   … .. .   Past the stream and thicket is a clearing. A meadow of daisies. It’s overgrown grass that reaches to your knees, white petals spilling over with yellow centers filled among them. The sound of insects buzzing and circling through the field is heard as the sun beats down. You found this place a good year ago and while it doesn’t serve much of a purpose, you left it undisturbed.    The apocalypse was a catastrophe, but it did a lot for nature.   “This….this….” Seokjin is breathless, unable to force a coherent word out. He looks over at the blue horizon that seems to steal the land as the abundance of flowers overwhelms his senses.    “It’s beautiful, huh?”   He stays silent, taking in the sight in front of him. He has seen a vase of flowers at best — most certainly not a boundless field of them. Not like this. Not in the entirety of his life so far. Not in a way where he could inhale the fresh air, count clouds, memorize the azure shade of the sky, and not where he is unable to see where the end or the start is.   Seokjin is overwhelmed, and he realizes why the choice to stay remains. Why you would refuse his offer of coming back with him to Arcadia. A part of him also wants to stay here. Where freedom lies.   “I’m sorry,” he murmurs while still taking in the sight. The colours are so rich that he feels regretful he couldn’t see it sooner. “I didn’t mean to push you to come with me.”   “It’s okay. I’ll come with you.”   Seokjin finally peels his eyes away from the scenery to gaze at you.    Yet you continue to look forward. “You made me curious about this Arcadia.”   And the corner of his mouth turns into a smile.   … .. .   The next few days are spent with Seokjin — noisy at your side, but it’s entirely invited.   He goes back to his vehicle, his so-called fancy Xanadu Shuttle, and tries to contact his people. Much like your radio, there’s only static on the other end when he flips and fiddles with switches and the lights eventually die off. He messes with his Erewhon too, the little walkie-talkie device, though it’s to no avail. But Seokjin never becomes discouraged. He remains optimistic, a rarity in today’s climate. The man has no doubts they’ll come for him and even reassures you.   In the meanwhile, you show him how to start a fire, how to collect berries and certain plants, and he helps you sharpen the knives you have. But the man looks away when you have to kill the animal you trapped and he makes you kill the bugs that land on him as well. It’s a bit ridiculous and outlandish, but frighteningly natural how quickly he falls into place and adapts.   You forgot what it was like to have someone with you. To be able to talk to someone.   … .. .   “Are you ever lonely?”   Seokjin asks one night when he’s laid on the grass, arms tucked underneath his head and staring up at the stars by your side. He copied you after several occasions where he found you like that. You immediately heard the gasp that left his mouth the first time he laid down. It’s beautiful enough that he’s unconcerned with insects and doesn’t get up until you chide him to.   “Sometimes. Then I think about how people are more trouble than they’re worth.”   He grins. “Why do you say that?”   “People mess up things and always have their self-interest at heart. Learned it after I had a gun pointed on me by someone I thought was a friend.”   “I’m sorry.”   “It’s alright. Just the way things are. Anything to survive, right?”   “Is that why you’re on your own?”   “Partly. It’s hard when people die too. I’d rather not deal with that.”   “Why’d you agree to help me then?” Seokjin asks after a moment. “If people always mess things up.”   “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone. I thought talking to you would be worth the risk. And it’s not like you’re not messing things up. I’m leaving with you, right?”   Seokjin grins, meeting your eyes. It goes quiet and then you pipe up again—   “I do sing sometimes to myself. Helps keep me sane.”   “Like what?”   “I don’t know.”   “Show me.”   You outright scoff. “No.”   “Please?”   A sharp exhale later, you start mumbling, slurring words together in some obscure melody. Your voice is rigid and stiff, out of tune even to your own ears. But you’ve heard it from your parents before. It’s some jingle on television back when electricity still worked.   Instantly, Seokjin starts laughing.   “Hey, it’s not my fault I don’t know the lyrics!”   “No, no, i-it’s amazing, please continue!” Seokjin squeaks out in the midst of a giggling fit and the corner of your own mouth twitches into a subtle smile.   … .. .   Unfortunately, these simple days don’t last long. Seokjin continues messing with his Erewhon device whenever he gets the chance — banging it on the tree house wall much to your dismay, curling up with it using a screwdriver kit he got from his capsule — and one evening, it suddenly comes alive.   There’s the sound of static and someone’s muffled voice.   “Hello?! Code White. R-six-four-three. This is Kim Seokjin from fleet seventy two.”   “R-four-......three-nine.”   It’s difficult to discern, but that’s all the other line says before the device goes silent again.    You look to Seokjin, anticipating dejection and disappointment. But instead, a grin spreads into his cheeks and his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. “Y/N. They’re coming soon.”   … .. .   It’s a morning of checking for traps, of hearing the orchestral songs of nature, of holding your breath as the breeze whisks through the strands of your hair. You’re tip-toeing to the simple snare laid on the ground when the familiar, deafening noise returns to the sky. A thin whistle that crescendos. Louder than you’re used to hearing. Ringing in your eardrums. It rumbles the ground, roaring through the silent forest. And you look up to see a streak of white in the sky.    It’s a larger white vessel with glass windows around. So white that it burns to the back of your eyelids, in no way natural whatsoever. And it descends to the same place Seokjin crash-landed.   Seokjin finds you and the two of you venture through the forest and shrubby towards it.   There’s a whirring and a compartment opens. Three different people step out, dressed in that unnatural white much like Seokjin is, pants and shirt cut off oddly. They look at Seokjin with smiles and incredulous expressions.   “I can’t believe you actually crashed.”   “It wasn’t my fault, JK!” Seokjin whines immediately and then quickly greets the other two females who he’s evidently less friendly with. “Amber. Lizzy. Good to see you too.”   “This something I expected from Namjoon or even Jimin, not you,” the shorter-hair girl named Amber huffs out as she playfully shakes her head.   “At least he’s safe,” Lizzy says with a smile. “Saves us from having to transport him back in a stretcher. But….who’s….that?”   Her eyes dart over to you and the other two strangers follow her line of sigh, re-directing their attention. Then their mouths drop open, eyes widening in surprise, having not seen you there.   Seokjin steps aside, allowing the light to shed on you. “She’s a lone one.”    “A-A lone one…?”   “Are you okay? Do you need help?” Amber whispers softly, lowering herself to meet your height and connect your eyes with hers as if you were a wounded animal. But then light flashes beneath her irises and her brows furrow. “Right. She might not know how to speak. Where’s my translation devi—”   The corner of Seokjin’s mouth tilts. “She does.”   You step forward, directly underneath the canopy spotlight coming through the spruce, walnut, and alder. “My name is Y/N.”

Arcadia. It’s protected by a dome-like structure reminiscent of glass, but as one of the strangers narrates, it’s supposedly a magnetic force field to protect against natural disasters. The place is ruled by tall buildings like the cities, but unlike it in the sense that they’re not decaying. They haven’t turned brown under wear and tear, don’t have moss growing on the sides of it. Rather, there are patches of green in between the paved pathways, flickering screens that are seemingly floating mid-air, masses of people walking past one another.    It’s a utopian society, they tell you. But you’re not sure what that means.   “Welcome to Arcadia,” the voice from above speaks rigidly.   The door whirs as it opens.   And white is all you see. White floors. White walls. People dressed in white. The white lights burn your vision as you stagger out, being aided by the strangers who were onboard with you.   They welcome you. Tell you they hope this place could be your refuge and new home. And you’re taken immediately by strangers until you begin thrashing, calling out to Seokjin until he consoles you. He promises that they mean no harm, that he’ll see you soon, and it’s enough for you to be relieved.   They lead you away, give you a new set of white clothing that are soft to the touch and a bin to place your old clothes in. You feel vulnerable as you strip from your grimy clothes and trade them in.   You’ve never been able to afford to hold onto sentimentalities. But it’s hard to let them go.   … .. .   “Hello—” The doctor glances at his clipboard. “You must be the new refugee, Y/N! Oh right, they call it newcomer now, not refugee. Anyway, nice to meet you, I’m Jung Hoseok. I’ll be assessing you today and setting you up to live in Arcadia. You understand me, correct?”   “Yes, I do.”   “Excellent! Makes things easier for me if we can speak the same language. But feel free to tell me if you want me to slow down. We’ll take things one step at a time.” The man grins brightly and sits on his stool, spinning around to a thin screen on the desk. “We’re going to be doing some tests together today, so I can figure out what I’ll need to help you with and we can make sure your transition is as smooth as possible.”   “Okay.”   You knew a doctor once. She was similar to him, whimsical as he seemingly is, until she had to amputate her own arm and then bled to death.   “Do you have any questions?”   “Not really.”   There’s an eye examination done until you tell him you don’t know all the letters of the alphabet. He switches to pictures afterwards and is enthused as he tells you that your eyes are apparently fine. He makes you lay down and open your mouth to examine your teeth. You spit into a vial, have your blood drawn. You step into a white capsule with black bars twirling around you. He shows you a picture of your bones and scanned brain with the excitement akin to a child’s afterwards.    And he asks too many questions.   “So you mainly ate rabbits, berries and other plants? Fascinating.” — “How often do you sleep?” — “So your bowel movements were pretty consistent?”   You miss Seokjin.   … .. .   “Seokjin, can you please tell us what happened on the fifth?”   The commander, chief, supervisor and several others are seated on the other side of the table.   “Yes. I was dispatched to forty one degrees, twenty four point two eight minutes north. Halfway there, I….became distracted by the scenery, and went off course. I became alert again when the shuttle skimmed along treetops. The console received a malfunction notification and I subsequently crashed into a forest area.”   “The maintenance record shows your Xanadu Shuttle was updated on the second of the previous month?”   “Yes.”   “Then do you accept responsibility for this incident?”   “Yes, I do.” There’s no point in putting up a fight. All the evidence is all in the machinery and Seokjin had made no attempt to hide it.   “I’m interested in the girl you rescued,” the Commander speaks up, tapping his pen on his clipboard. “When did you come into contact with her after you crashed?”   “After I crashed, I exited my Xanadu Shuttle and caught sight of her standing amongst the trees. I think...the accident got her attention and she came to investigate what it was.”   He nods and the people on the other side of the table look around at one another. There are soft murmurs and Seokjin stays quiet through their deliberation, keeping his eyes on his own report.   After a minute, it simmers down.   “The panel appreciates your honesty and integrity, Seokjin. In spite of your circumstances, you were able to rescue someone who will become a valuable member to our society and such a thing should not be overlooked. However, the crash was ultimately on your part and as such, you will have to be put on probation for a period of two months. The panel will also require that you retake your license class. Do you agree these actions are necessary?”   Relief washes over him. Seokjin thought this was it. He was anticipating that he’d lose his job.    “Y-Yes. Thank you.”   “You will have to pass your license class.”   “Yes, I will.”   “There is one more thing I would like to discuss with you, Seokjin,” The Commander speaks up. “I spoke to our Premier and Minister prior to this meeting and we came to an agreement that it would be in the best interest of everyone involved if you could foster the newcomer you rescued. Typically, as you know, we house newcomers for a while and monitor them. But she...seems to be a special case.”   The Chief furrows his brows. “Yes, she was isolated, wasn’t she?”   It’s known to all that the lone ones are usually the people that are most unstable. The ones with animalistic behaviour as a result of living in the wild and being socially deprived. The problematic ones. But they’re wrong. Seokjin doesn’t outright refute his own superiors, yet he’s certain that you don’t have any of those issues. You’re not violent. Uncivilized. Barbaric.   “Usually people are found in groups or clusters.”   “Exactly that. But it seems like Seokjin has built a rapport with her. It might lead to a smoother transition if there’s immediate integration. Or at least, it’s an experiment we want to try. He has a calm temperament as well which makes him an ideal candidate to attempt this new method. Would you be willing to house this newcomer for a period of time, Seokjin?”   He doesn’t need a second longer to think about it. “I wouldn’t mind whatsoever.”   ... .. .   Seokjin finds you and almost bursts out laughing with how relieved you look.   “Jin!”    He doesn’t mind the nickname either.   “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Hoseok twirls around with a blazing smile, his white coat fluttering with him. “But I have a feeling you’re here to see my little guest and not me.”   “You’re right.” He enters and stands by your side. “Has everything been alright?”   “Of course!” Hoseok interjects before you can answer. “I’m one of the best doctors here, what do you take me for? We had a very fun time together, right, Y/N?”   “Uh, sure.”   “I’ll take it.”   Seokjin smiles and looks at his old friend. “Is there anything…?”   “She’s healthy. She’s been taking care of herself well. Nothing that’s too concerning.”    Hoseok's eyes meet yours and he grins. “You’re approximately twenty to twenty five years old. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like you have any family here in Arcadia, but you don’t have any diseases, so that’s something to be happy about! Minimal dental work that needs to be done. Blood pressure is good. You have a slight magnesium and iodine deficiency, but nothing dark greens, whole grains, fish and eggs can’t fix. I’ll give you some vitamins to be safe and some medication to avoid illnesses you’re potentially susceptible to in Arcadia.”   “That’s good news,” Jin exhales.   “You’re also healthy enough to have children!” Hoseok announces and if possible his grin widens. You blink at him and he quickly reads your confused expression. “Right, you might not be aware but it’s one of the main ambitions of Arcadia to repopulate society. People with the most compatible genes get paired together into family units. Depending on how your integration goes, you might get paired up in a family unit by the end of the week.”   “What?” You’re reeling. Starting a family and having children are things at the very back of your mind, not even in the realm of what your thoughts are, and you’re not sure what to think at this news.   Jin sighs at his friend. “You’re freaking her out.”   “Am I? Sorry,” the man laughs and looks at you. “Don’t worry. No one will force you. It’s just...highly suggested and recommended.”   … .. . “That’s the dining hall.”    “What do they serve?”   “On Mondays, there’s quinoa. Tuesday is this dried beans dish. So on and so forth. Don’t worry, there’s poultry too, so there are eggs and chicken breast which you can order. There’s corn, milk, cheese and a selection of fruit too. They also serve protein powders you can mix with water that gives you the same nutrition value.”   “It’s not like...that stuff you gave me, right?”   “You mean pemmican? No, it’s better. Or at least I hope so.” He smiles. “Everyone has the same food. Sometimes during celebrations though, they serve different things.”   “There’s not much privacy, is there?”   Seokjin follows your line of sight to the glass buildings where you’re able to see the people working on each floor. “I guess not. I’ve never really thought about it.”   You suppose it’s something to get used to. “Are...people staring at me, Jin?”   “Don’t mind it. It’s not everyday we get a new face around here.” Right as he says that, you lift your head to discover your face plastered on one of the screens at the top of the building as if you were a wanted criminal. Seokjin laughs. “News spreads fast around here.”   “I bet it does,” you mutter, a bit unnerved.    “It’s a nice place if you follow the rules, trust me.”   “What happens if someone breaks a rule?”   “Well, there’s a focus on restorative justice for small crimes. So people often do community service or talk to victims or the people they affected and try their best to fix their mistakes.”   “What about big crimes? Like if you killed someone.”    Yet, Seokjin stays silent for a moment. “They disappear.”   Your brows furrow, not sure what he means. But he doesn’t elaborate and you don’t push for an answer, uncertain that you want to know more.   Arcadia isn’t as you expected it to be. When Seokjin told you stories, part of you anticipated it being lesser and merely blown up in proportion through his evident love of this place. You had predicted a community ridden with suspicion, like many of the sanctuaries you had been to before they inevitably collapsed. Leaders suppressing their people. Scarcity in resources.   Another part of you expected an otherworldly universe, full of gibberish and things you didn’t understand. Much like the technology he carried with him or the shuttle that crashed in the forest.   But what is presented in front of you is a sort of familiarity in a changed background.   People like you know them, except courteous and independent.   “This is my housing unit.”    It’s a blinding white, two stories with the top floor off center and extended off the right side. It looks like two boxes haphazardly stacked on top of each other with giant pane glass windows at the front.   “It’s not much but it’s my home.”   You nod as your eyes drift to his lawn — a tiny patch of grass that surrounds the path leading up to the front door. As if entranced, you launch forward towards it. But it feels different underneath your feet, past the soles of your shoes. The soil isn’t soft. There aren’t any lumps, no grip when you try to root yourself into it.   Seokjin notices your reaction. “It’s artificial grass.”   “What does that mean?”   “It’s fake.”   “Fake? You can’t get real grass?”   “Guess not.”   The interior of his home is less white than all of Arcadia. There are mismatched cushions, wooden tables and bookshelves, fake yellow flowers on his marble kitchen counter, paintings of oceans and cities placed on the wall next to photographs of himself growing up. You glance over the knick-knacks lining the shelves, snow globes and postcards, tiny things you’ve always seen lying around shops in the decaying towns, but never paid much attention to.   “Sorry. It’s a bit messy.”   “No, I like it.”    He shows you to your room, an empty one down the hall. It’s much less decorated than his living space and he quickly excuses himself to tumble back in with heavier blankets and proper pillows. “Had I known you were coming, I would’ve had everything already set up!”   “I don’t think any of us knew I would be here.”   He laughs. “That’s true.”   You walk to the window, taking a peek outside to the white city that towers over and covers the blue sky, the tiny patches of grass that alleviates the brightness of Arcadia, the flying shuttles hovering past the paved paths.    “You’re probably tired, right? Do you want to rest a bit? I have a few things to do, so…”   “You don’t have to worry about me, Jin. I can take care of myself. Probably.”   Seokjin ends up shutting the door after promising he won’t take long. But it’s the first time in hours that there’s finally silence. And you allow the quietness to simmer down on you as you take a seat on the edge of the soft bed that sinks underneath your weight. You stare at the sheets, the white walls and floor, the luminescent sunlight streaming through the windows.   You’re not sure how you feel.   … .. .   You stare down at your slab of white meat, so white that you wonder if everything in Arcadia is dyed in this blinding shade. It’s something you might have to ask Jin, even if it’s a bit ridiculous.   You’re just not used to having meat that isn’t charged by the flames of a bonfire. But still, you tear it with your fingers and when you bring it to your mouth, it tastes dry and heavy — like it’s fake.   “This isn’t very good, is it?”   “It isn’t?”   Jin blinks and you lift your head. Immediately, your eyes connect to a stranger who instantly turns away and it occurs to you that people are watching.   “Don’t worry. It’s because you’re not using utensils. Here.” He hands you a metal stick with three prongs at the end and another one that’s rounded. Understandably, it’s awkward in your hold, hurts in your grip. It goes silent as you fumble with it. The chicken breast almost flies off your metal tray.   “It’s okay.” He smiles at your visible frustration and reaches over to slice it with a knife. Jin gently takes your hand holding the fork and pierces the piece. “Like this, see? Not too bad, right?”   “It would be easier with my hands.”   He agrees, “It would be.”   “Hey, you’re Y/N, right?” A familiar red-head comes prancing up to the table and steals a seat next to you. “I’m Lizzy. We met on the Xanadu Shuttle, remember? I was the one telling you all about the history of Arcadia?”   “Yes, I do.”   “This is Namjoon. He’s one of our robotics engineers,” she introduces a gawky, strapping male with framed glasses. He takes a seat next to Seokjin.    “A pleasure to be of your acquaintance. I’ve heard quite a lot about you in the past two hours or so. I am friends with Hoseok. He doesn’t indulge me in much information, he told me he received a great person of interest in his office. I believe that person may be you—”   Seokjin interrupts his ramble, “Namjoon.”   “Don’t mind him,” Lizzy laughs, ignoring the two men as she leans over the table to intrude into your personal space. “How are you getting settled in? Everything okay?”   “Yeah. I’d say everything’s okay.”   “I heard you were living with Jin now. Tell me, is he as messy at home as he is at work?”   “I am not messy,” he protests.   “Only a little,” you divulge her with a small smile.   Namjoon smiles. “I heard you crashed. Glad to see you’re still alive and well.”   “Thanks.” Seokjin’s eyes roll as his voice drips of sarcasm. “I’m sorry you couldn’t use my body for your next humanoid robotic experiment.”   “Not now, but in due time,” the other man teases then turns to you. “It’s a shame you’re partnered with Seokjin. He can be quite clumsy and forgetful. You’ll end up becoming his handyman like I am.”   “His first time he got into a Xanadu Craft, he broke the console,” Lizzy tells, making your mouth upturn.   Namjoon swallows down his food before asking, “If I may be intrusive, Y/N, is it really true that you were alone? In the forest, I mean.”   “I...was.”   “How long were you alone for?”   “I’m not sure. I think maybe two years.”   “And before that?”   “I...uh...traveled around and met different people.”   He leans forward. “And what happened to those people?”   “Well, some...passed away and others went somewhere else.”   “What did they pass away from?”   There’s a loud scraping of a chair against the tiled floor, grating to your ears. “I’m stuffed. Aren’t you, Y/N? I think we should head back now. Sorry, Joon, Lizzy. Might have to cut your questions short there. Maybe you can ask more next time.”   “Oh, alright then.”   They bid you farewell and Lizzy waves with a smile. As you exit, you look at Seokjin. “Thank you.” He saved you from answering, from bringing up memories you had no intentions of returning to.   Yet he smiles and then looks away, feigning ignorance. “For what?”   … .. .   They’re wrong. It’s not a shame at all to be with Jin at all. If anything, you think you’re quite fortunate. Ever since you’ve met him, he’s proven himself time and time again to be thoughtful and considerate — traits that you thought were gone in this era. But it’s him who makes it easier to deal with these changes, to enter into this new world.   … .. .   “I thought you were gone,” he says, looking down at you with a smile. You’re laying on his lawn in the middle of the night in bare feet. “I knocked on your door and then searched my whole house.”   “Where did you think I was?”   “I don’t know.” Seokjin plops down on his artificial grass, stretching out his body and laying beside you like all those times before. “I was worried. I thought something happened to you.”   “I’m sorry.”   “Don’t be.”   “I couldn’t sleep.”   It’s quiet as the pair of you look to the sky with your hands folded on top of your stomachs. The lamp posts nearby casted warm glows on your visages. The warm breeze making his cheeks rosy. Yet, none of you can see the stars — not with the light pollution of Arcadia, not when all the buildings were towering so high and covering it, not like out there in the middle of the forest.   “Remember when we were in the forest, Jin?”   “I do. I remember that one time, you didn’t completely put out the fire and my pants almost set on fire.”   You giggle and Jin relishes in the sound. “I apologized for that and who told you to sit so close to that spot?”   “Hey, I just wanted to be next to you.”   You remember the nights when you were able to drift off while staring at the horizon and how you were awoken by the first blush of dawn, sunlight coming through the trees. You have a feeling it’s going to be a long time before you have an experience like that again.   It’s going to be a long, long time. If ever again.   “I feel homesick,” you whisper, finally being able to pinpoint your emotions and it’s the most honest you’ve been since you arrived. “I don’t want to be paired up with anyone or have kids.”   Jin reaches out and you feel his hand against the back of yours. He holds it, clasping it tight. You shift and your eyes meet. “Don’t worry. They can’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”   You trust him.   … .. .   “If you want, we don’t have to eat in the dining center anymore. We can eat at home.”   The corner of your mouth pulls. “Is that allowed?”   “I’ll find a way around it,” Jin promises.   … .. .   “Please, Hoseok.”   “You know that’s not how the system works. There’s not much I can do anyway.”   “But you can put in your recommendation.”   He’s silent in contemplation. “She’s compatible with you, but more so compatible with others. Plus, she’d assimilate better with someone stricter.”   “I want to protect her. She’s my responsibility. Pair her with me.” Seokjin won’t let you be paired up with someone else in a family unit, expected to stay together and have children. He’ll keep his promise to you and be with you until the end — it’s also his selfish wish to be with you.   The other man sighs. “I’ll make a note of it, but I can’t promise anything.”   … .. .   You’re unfamiliar with the devices at hand — the kitchen appliances with automated voices that speak when you come close, the machines with tens of buttons you can’t read. They’re all things you once overlooked when you scrambled for remaining supplies.   “Is everything okay?”   “I’m trying to heat this up. You said I could use it, right?”   “Yeah. Here.” Seokjin comes behind you and takes your hand, guiding you where to press. “Click this button and then this one.”   You don’t understand technology at all. Even the television is odd, an overload on your senses.   “What do you think?” he asks, watching your reaction in amusement and how your eyes are as wide as the screen flashing against your face.   “It’s...a lot to take in.”   “That’s okay. Do you want to go outside instead? We can, if you want to.”   You glance out the window. “I’m fine here. I’m not used to there being so many people.”   “How about we work on some more worksheets?”   “Again?”   Jin laughs and the sound is tinkling. “You have to learn eventually. Come on.” He pulls you up and is happy to sit next to you at his kitchen table to teach you how to hold a pencil, how to write each letter and answer your questions.    You’re a fast learner. Today your strokes are smoother and you learn how to spell his name.   … .. .    Seokjin often knocks on your door before going to bed to bid you goodnight. Yet he seldomly finds you there, where you’re supposed to be. He wonders if you’re outside on his lawn again, but instead, he discovers you standing in his living room. You’re gazing out the window quietly with an unreadable expression.   “Is there something wrong?”   You turn around with a small smile. “I’m just a little homesick.”   He joins you, staring out at the city and the lampposts lined on the paved paths.    “How do we go outside, Jin? Not just outside, but beyond the dome.” To the forest again.   “Most people aren’t allowed outside because it’s dangerous. You would need to have my job or something similar, and that’s after you graduate from a three year program and pass several exams.”   It’s quiet and neither of you look at one another or speak when you reach over, discreetly taking his hand into yours. Seokjin laces his fingers through yours and squeezes.   He’s the only reason you can starve off the longing sewed uncomfortably in your chest.   ... .. .   In the following days, he receives a notification. The leaders are interested in you as a newcomer and extended an invitation to the party. So he helps you pick an appropriate outfit and the two of you enter with your hand looped around his arm as he reassures you.   “You must be Y/N!” The strangers, leaders of Arcadia, welcome you with tall bubbling glasses, one of which that you receive from a waiter. It tastes disgusting, but you try to not let it show on your face.   “It’s good to see that you’re getting yourself accustomed to Arcadia. I see you’re with your future partner this evening.”   The man laughs boisterously while you exchange expressions with Seokjin.   “That’s supposed to be a secret,” the woman beside him chides.   “Right, right. The postings of the new family units go up on Friday. My apologies for ruining the surprise, but I assume it is a happy one.”   You look up at him, gazing meeting Seokjin’s at once. The relief is overwhelming and what follows is a kind of excitement. Part of the weight lifted off your shoulders and Jin smiles tenderly. He leans in close, whispering in your ear so you’re the only one who hears—   “You shouldn’t look at me like that in a place like this or I might just do something about it in front of all these people.”   It’s bold. Unexpected but you know with the heat that rises into your face, it isn’t unwelcome.   “Y/N, is it?” The intimate moment is intercepted by other individuals approaching in blue attire, form fitting dress simple and modest. “You must be the newcomer! I’ve heard so much about you.”   “Yes, how has your transition been? Are you finding everything accommodating?”   You hope they don’t come close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your cheeks. “Yes. Arcadia has been very welcoming to me.”    They smile. “It’s so fortunate you can understand us and we don’t have to use those translating devices.”   “You were alone, correct?” another asks. “How did you fare in the wild like that? How did you manage to even eat?”   “I trapped animals like rabbits and squirrels and roasted them over fires.”   Laughter is suddenly roused all around you.   “Aren’t you glad you don’t have to do such a primitive thing anymore?”   “What I’m curious about is how you’re still alive without any radiation poisoning.”   “I used a radon detector. It was given to me a long time ago by an older woman who was with me. She died.” Automatic silence sweeps through the crowd. You clear your throat. “But I used it when I traveled through the cities.”   “I see.” Some are fascinated while others aren’t. “How preserved are these old cities?”   “Most buildings are still relatively in-tact. There are abandoned cars and buses too, but they’re useless without fuel and everything’s been raided, so there’s not much left. It’s one of the reasons I started to live in the forest.”   “Poor thing,” someone sympathizes, “Someone should’ve rescued you sooner. You wouldn’t have to suffer so much.”   “I didn’t suffer.”   They’re taken aback, clearing their throats and moving on from the subject. A man directs to the refreshment table — all the while Jin pulls you closer to him and away from the prying eyes of Arcadia.   … .. .   Later on in the evening when Seokjin’s gone to relieve himself, you meet an old man seated alone at the table.   “I was outside too,” he croaks. “Until two years ago.”   Your eyes find his — past the wrinkles are bright irises — and you remain silent.   “Many things happened that the people here would never understand. But my biggest regret is coming here willingly. Arcadia offers many things,” he says, “it has everything but one.”   “Freedom.”   … .. .   The words stick to you. Like flies to honey. Or the magnets on Jin’s fridge. They don’t cease from your mind — a plague that spreads, a pollutant that you can’t shake off no matter how hard you try.    Jin worries about you, but he doesn’t ask. He knows every time he does, you’ll reassure him that you’re fine.   So one night, he takes your hand and shows you to his television.   “Put this on.” He hands you a black, heavy device and smiles at your visible reluctance. “Trust me.”   You slip it on top of your head and it sits comfortably over your eyes, obstructing your vision in complete darkness. Headphones are put over your ears and you discover both of your senses of sight and sound are completely disabled. “What are you doin—”   The words die upon your tongue the moment the machine flickers on.   There are chickadees chirping and woodpeckers digging against the bark. The sound of insects flapping their wings in the beating sun and the whistling wind intensifies. You see the forest, a forest. Canopies of spruce, walnut, and alder cascading light to the verdant floor overgrown in shrubbery.   A cry chokes in your throat, but then it bubbles into laughter instead. You jump up and down.   “I see it. I see it!” You whirl around, looking in each direction. To the blue horizon and the sound of the rustling leaves.    Your home.   But when you take it off, it’s all gone. You’re shrouded in darkness with Seokjin’s features barely discernible. You’re trapped in the very utopia you had followed him to.   And you cry.   For the first time in his presence, for the first time in a long while, sobs break through your frame at what you’ve lost — what you’ve traded in, what you’ve given up. Jin embraces you, arms wrapped around your frame, trying his best to keep you whole.   “I want to go back.”   … .. .   Jin makes it easier to be in Arcadia. He gives you reason to become accustomed to it. He makes you wish you wanted to stay. But he’s not enough to dissipate your constant wistfulness.    He isn’t the solution to your plaguing dilemmas, but you’re glad he doesn’t have to bear that burden.    You wouldn’t want Jin to harbour the hardship of being your fix.   … .. .   It’s in the dead of the night that Seokjin comes out of his room and finds you. In the dark, you’re seated on the floor with your knees folded to your chest and the virtual reality headset slipped on top of your head, over your eyes and ears.   You’re taking it all in. The orchestral songs of nature, the birds and leaves, the swaying of the grass and flourishing shrubs, bathing in the warm sunlight you cannot feel.    He sees you, but doesn’t say anything, merely turning away.   At same time, you feel the presence of another and slip the device in time to catch his retreating backside.   “Jin,” you call out for him, knowing you’ve been caught.   He hums, turning around and the two of you look at one another.   “I’m sorry.”   The dark-haired man smiles tenderly. “It’s me who should apologize. I’m the one who brought you here selfishly.”   “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who agreed to some and I’m...the one having trouble adjusting.”   “That’s not it. The problem is you’re not where you should be. Home. Not my home. Not Arcadia. But your home. “   You stand and he meets you halfway.   You press your face to his shoulder and he embraces you. “I’ll help you go back,” Seokjin murmurs against your hair. “I thought you would be happy here, but I don’t want to keep you against your will.”   “Come with me.”   “You know I can’t,” he whispers in spite of your soft-spoken plea. “I have a life here. Like how you can’t leave yours. Arcadia is my home. It always will be.”   You hold him closer, shutting your eyes to savour the moment. “Won’t you get into trouble?”   “I’ll find some way.” The corner of his mouth turns. “I always end up fine. You will too.”   … .. .   The year’s posting goes up and just as the man had said, you and Seokjin are paired together. The two of you hold hands as you look at it, taking your time to read it over. It’s slow, but you understand nonetheless.   You’re congratulated by those around him, people you recognize and friends you have yet to know. It’s fortunate it worked out that way, but it’s still bittersweet, knowing of your upcoming departure.   And that same night, five hours past twelve, Jin takes you across Arcadia. The white shuttle is ready when you arrive in the dark and you scarcely recognize its scratched paint and dented surface. It’s the same one that he crashed in, the one that took him to you.   “I programmed the path back. It’ll go automatically without you needing to drive it. And once you close the door, it’ll come back on its own. I’ll erase the data’s history. Take this.” Seokjin gently places the sling of a heavy bag on your shoulder. “There are clothes in here, blankets, medicine, a first aid kit, some canned food and seeds of new plants you don’t have. It should help you out.”   Tears threaten to spill from your lash line. “Jin. Wait.”   Hope blooms within him, wondering if you’ve changed your mind, that you want to stay. But he knows having such selfish desires won’t help him, so he puts them away. Just for a moment.   He tries his best not to hang onto you, to hold you down.   “It was because of you that I could even cope so well. You made it so much easier for me. I...I…”   But Jin lets his greed slip.   He closes the distance and kisses you senseless. The man swallows your soft gasp and comes to cradle the back of your neck as you ease into him. You relish in the gentle touch, his tender affections and taste one another’s lips. It’s bittersweet, yet he pulls away with a faint smile.   “You should get in.”   You nod, pulling away from him. Everything the two of you wanted to say has already translated through the kiss.   Still, you take every moment you can and look to him. “Thank you, Jin.”   The doors whir as it closes. He gazes at you till the very last second, till it shuts. The thin whistle diminuendos as it lifts into the air. He watches the shuttle fade from sight and when the sun lifts at the first blush of dawn, what’s left is a streak of white in the sky.

The world is limitless.    You have learned of such a fact at a young age, traveling from desserts to mountains, finding all the hiding places and safe spots that others had claimed no longer existed. But they did and you’ve sought refuge in this forest, found a home amongst the rustling foliage and canopies ruled by spruce, walnut, and alder. There was just enough rays of light bursting through to allow the saplings to flourish and shrubs to overgrow. And without the presence of others, you could listen to the woodpeckers hammering against the wood, the wings of insects fluttering about.   Everything was the way you left it. Unchanged from the time you left like it was waiting for you.   It’s as if Arcadia and Seokjin was a fever dream. Except the mementos brought back with you reminds you otherwise. You dig into your bag, looking through what he’s given you, everything he picked out that he knew would help. But you discover something special at the very bottom.   It’s a black, thick rectangular piece of plastic reminiscent of a walkie-talkie, synced up to only one other without a third in between.   You hold the Erewhon device to your lips and press the side of the button.   “Hello.” There’s a pause. “My name is Y/N.”   Silence follows.   But then there’s the sound of static and someone’s crystal clear voice.   “Nice to meet you. I’m Seokjin.”   A wide smile spreads into your cheeks.

[questions-for-christians]

How do we balance between "making the world a better place and setting up laws to improve it (utopia)" and "knowing this world is temporary and things are only going to get worse (dystopia)"? For context, I believe that the peace or pain we go through don't really matter because there's a spiritual war that's bigger than us. So do world improvements even matter? Doesn't Revelation say Satan is going to wreck it all anyway? I'd love to hear other opinions since we may not see end times the same.

This is a good question. It deserves a better answer than I am about to give it.

When I read the Bible, I see a lot that talks about the way we live in this life. I see “The Kingdom of Heaven” as the manifestation of our enacting all righteous instruction. In other words, the more righteous we allow God to make us, the more truly the Kingdom (rule) of Heaven has come to us.

To that extent, all our actions towards justice, fairness, kindness, mercy, and the acceptance of others who are different to us are part of the manifestation of God’s will for humanity. Actions founded in love and compassion for others are the evidence of what is commonly called the new birth. 

Our time in this world is temporary and none of us knows how long we have left. For as long as there are those who are salt and light - preserving what is good (utopia) and showing what is true - what is wrong and bad (dystopia) cannot be manifested. Better to pass into the next life having been rich in good works, righteousness and friendships than to bury what we have for fear of losing it.

As for what Revelation says, scholars and wise men debate it to this day. My understanding of that book is limited. However right here and right now we have the opportunity to be kind, gentle and merciful. We should seek to show loving-kindness, charity, and righteous behaviour today for tomorrow is not promised to us. Yes, all things pass away this does not stop the flowers of the field bringing forth beauty while they can.

Jesus taught that those that God will call His are the ones that cared for those in need. Making the world a better place must surely be a part of that. Improving the lives of those around us is how we defeat the forces of evil.

When our lives are filled with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control how can we do otherwise than to make the world a little better?

I would love to read other takes or opinions on this question and my rather limited answer. Over to you.

[travllingbunny]

The 100: 7x09 The Flock

And finally, the end of my and @jeanie205‘s little rewatch, and the last review I still have to post before the show’s return. And for once, I can write a shorter review than usual, because this episode isn’t all that interesting. It’s my least favorite episode at least since mid-season 5.

I have liked season 7 more than most people seem to - even though I miss Bellamy and want to see more focus on Clarke, and I’ve mostly been patient about waiting for the story to really kick into gear. I understand that BTS issues have affected the season and caused a lot of rewrites, that the first half of the season was mostly setup or it focused on developing stories for other characters (and I have enjoyed many of them, especially for Octavia, Murphy, Emori, Diyoza and Indra).

But the pacing hasn’t been the greatest, and that particularly became obvious with this episode. There was no reason to stall the action and go back and waste this entire episode on flashbacks to the 3 months that Echo, Hope, Octavia and Diyoza spent training to become Disciples. Some of this could have been included in 7x07, and this episode could have featured maybe 5-10 minutes of flashbacks and then returned to the present day action, instead of leaving Clarke, Raven, Miller, Jordan and Niylah in that same Stone Room where they have been for 3 (soon to be 4) episodes, and completely leaving them out of this episode.

I’m not even speaking from the perspective of a Clarke fan here - I enjoyed the Skyring storyline in 7x02 and 7x04. But these extended flashbacks strike me as unnecessary and far more predictable than the writers seemed to think. It’s not like we needed to see why they agreed to join the Disciples - we know it, they had no choice and that was the best solution at the moment. Clarke may be wondering whose side they are on and if they have been brainwashed, but we know better. It was never a mystery for the viewers. And this episode’s Bardo scenes are no “1984″, we aren’t wondering “oh no, are they really brainwashed?” There is little ambiguity - except maybe for Echo, the only one we could maybe wonder about “is she really going to be loyal to the Disciples now?” - but even that isn’t because she seems to have drunk the Kool-Aid, but because she may just think there isn’t anything better to do and no one else to follow. And that is probably not what’s going on, though it would probably be more interesting than the more probable and predictable plot about Echo pretending to be loyal to the Disciples while planning revenge on them.

Maybe it would be different if this episode had the Disciples deliver some important new info that would convince both the characters and the viewers that the “last war” is really something worth fighting. But the show keeps withholding information about what these concepts are - who is the Last War to be fought against? What is transcendence? And no one seems to ask about it - or they do, but off-screen.

In the meantime, the Sanctum storyline reached its climax - Sheidheda revealing himself, killing a bunch of people and staking his claim to the throne, so to speak - but it’s a climax that pretty much everyone has been expecting since Sheidheda took over Russell’s body in the season premiere. What’s worse is that this was made to happen through an incredibly OOC action by Indra. And I don’t think many will miss the Faithful - an incredibly annoying bunch of minor characters. (They are, of course, some of the titular “flock”, together with the Disciples. We get it! It’s all about blind faith and worshiping false gods! The entire season has been hammering it home!)

The episode started well, with Anders taking HEDO to the surface of Bardo to show them the crystallized forms of the extinct Bardoans. I guess the giant aliens story was true after all. This made Octavia realize “Gabriel saved us” (so I guess they won’t be too angry at him when they see him again, which they haven’t so far), It was supposed to show what kind of threat the humans are facing in the last war. Except that was all the info we got on that subject. No one asked: Who is the enemy? Where are they? When will they attack? Why do you need the Key to fight that war? Or, if they did, it was off-screen. (Surely they would have asked some questions during those 3 months?)

Instead, we get to hear more details about the Bardo society. They grow babies artificially, like Primes did with the other people in Sanctum. Not a huge surprise. They don’t want any family relationships, just like they don’t want any friendships or romantic relationships, no individual ties, except the worship of the Shepherd. We already knew that. We get it, they are ultra-collectivist. They want to get rid of emotions, etc.

We don’t know for sure how they feel about sex (if it is fully forbidden, or if it’s allowed if it’s supervised and people get approved sex partners they exchange on a regular basis, as in some dystopias) - so I’m not sure how they (would) feel about Octavia and Levitt getting it on, which was one of the few new developments in this episode (also easily predictable, especially after their tender face touching scene in 7x06). Echo mentions at one point that the Disciples are always watching them - so does that mean Anders also watched Octavia and Levitt having sex? Surely Anders must be aware of their relationship, or at least that Levitt is really into Octavia? I’ve always been open about my lack of enthusiasm for this romance, but I generally support the idea of Octavia getting a chance to enjoy herself with a nice hot guy who’s helpful. 

But Anders even letting Levitt be involved in their training and testing, without controlling him, makes no sense, unless Anders is incredibly stupid. This has been my problem with this storyline all along. I’m never sure if Anders is really that stupid to trust Levitt, or if he has some kind of smart plan and has been using Levitt on purpose to get Octavia to join the Disciples. There has been speculation about whether Levitt himself is manipulating Octavia, and/or she is manipulating him - and a part of me would want some of that to be true: this relationship and this entire plot would be a lot more interesting if they were manipulating each other (while also liking each other), but I don’t think that’s the case. Levitt is probably exactly what he seems to be, and I don’t think the writing here is that smart. But I can at least hope that Anders is not a total idiot and that he’s figured out Levitt is helping Octavia, but decided to use him anyway. 

Now, I did have a tiny flicker of hope that Levitt may be intended to be seen as a more ambiguous figure - when he was rating HEDO for “participation, stamina, strength and speed” (he rated Hope 1 for participation) - and Diyoza was suspicious of him and asked him: "You always have so many jobs?"

Another “are the Disciples really that stupid?” moment was when Levitt randomly told HEDO that they keep samples of the same Gem 9 that killed the native Bardoans, and that could kill everyone on Bardo. Why the heck would they be keeping it, let alone telling people about it? Does Levitt want HEDO to kill everyone on Bardo? I hope this is fake info and another test - but I fear this is just bad writing and a clumsy exposition to set up the Chekov’s Gun that our protagonists will be tempted to use.

We also learn Anders was Orlando's mentor, It’s weird that Hope mentions him as a way to try to get Anders upset (you’d think she would also be upset, since she made him think she was his friend and betrayed him). But Anders remain calm and cold, and Hope only gets upset when he mentions Dev.  

If there is any ambiguity, it’s only with regard to Echo - she is probably just pretending, too, but there’s a tiny possibility that she really has decided to join them because she needs to be a soldier and have a war to fight and someone to follow. which has been established as her trait. And Echo does point out that the brainwashed Disciples children have it much better than she ever did with Azgeda. Hope throws that into her face here when she says “You just like someone to give you orders”. But that’s probably just a red herring.

The Disciples breed a limited number due to the limited resources, Why don’t they all instead just go to Sanctum, or Skyring?

The simulations were somewhat interesting, but it was pretty clear that Diyoza, Octavia and Echo were pretending to be able to kill Hope because they were threatened they would be sent to Skyring individually to die alone. Diyoza even straight up told Hope it’s what they need to do, and Echo noted “they are watching us all the time” before starting to talk about how the Disciples have convinced her to believe in their goal. Hope was acting like a child and was unable to pretend - because she is still inexperienced, she has spent most of her life on Skyring with just a few people. Now, I did gasp at first when I saw Echo killing Hope, and to be fair, I can see Echo killing Hope in real life, but Diyoza and Octavia killing Hope? Hell no. 

The only thing that made me think a little bit was - is every detail in the fear simulations planned by the Disciples (probably Levitt) - or do their own minds fill in the blanks? In Echo's simulation, Hope told her "they took Bellamy from you" and called her out “I thought Bellamy meant something to you". If that was a product of Echo’s own mind, it’s a bit like Clarke calling herself out through Blodreina in her mindspace in season 6 - “I thought you cared about Bellamy” - which was the embodiment of her guilt. That would support the idea that Echo is not planning revenge, because why would she be calling herself out in her subconsciousness? But that’s a moot point if it’s all designed by Levitt.

Speaking of which, has Levitt seen Echo’s, Diyoza’s and Hope’s memories, and has he seen anything past Octavia’s season 3 memories? That has never been clear - the Disciples don’t know Clarke doesn’t still have the Flame, but they knew what Gabriel looked like (in 7x01), which they could have only learned from Octavia... and Octavia here says “You’ve seen me at my worst”, which seems to imply he saw her as Blodreina.

But while Echo may have wanted to save Hope from a worse fate when she sentenced her to 5 years on Skyring, that’s cold comfort since 5 years all alone would be terrible and drive anyone insane. (It did with Orlando.) Somehow I doubt Hope will get to be sent there - something will happen and she will probably be saved from that.

The highlight of this episode for me ended up being the mention of Etherea- because it confirms some of my theories and it’s a new planet we will be seeing soon and where Bellamy probably is.

On Sanctum, Emori is put in danger again, as Nikki’s hostage - and Murphy is worried and trying to save her. Which has been a recurring theme - it’s the only way to make people care about this plot. I doubt that many people care about the Faithful, a bunch of stupid a-holes who have so recently planned to burn their own children out of their misguided faith. I did feel a little tinge of sympathy for Jeremiah, the guy who keeps thanking Murphy for saving his son - because the guy is so clueless that he doesn’t seem to understand that he himself had the agency to decide what happens to his son. But this is probably why Madi’s friend is shown here with Madi (his name is Rex, according to the credits - he is the Sanctum boy who clearly doesn’t follow in his parents’ footsteps and invited the null boy from CoG to play soccer with him) - we need to see someone who will be hurt by what happens when Sheidheda kills these people. (The trailer shows Rex grieving one of the victims in the next episode.)(Trey, the “adjustor” who brainwashed Jordan and acted as the leader of the Faithful in earlier episodes, was not in this episode, so I’m afraid that a-hole is still around.)

But Murphy and Emori did have good moments in this episode. Both were very brave - Emori did not allow Nikki to use her to blackmail Murphy, and Murphy, this time, wasn’t just desperately worried about Emori’s life - but he offered his own life for hers. (He claimed to be the one responsible for Hatch’s death by saying it was his idea to use the prisoners - which is true; the part he left out is that it was Raven’s idea to lie to them.) This is huge - he has been willing to do a lot to save Emori, but has never offered to sacrifice himself for someone before, not even for her. The closest he had come to it before was telling her and Monty to leave him to save themselves in 5x13. 

And Murphy's line to Jackson "I'm 150 pounds wet and you can’t fight to save your life” was one of the highlights of the episode. 

Another development is that Indra and the others finally know that Clarke, Raven, Gaia, Miller and others are missing - but they still don’t seem to have any idea where they may be.

Sheidheda quoting Casablanca is one of the weirder moments of this season. I suppose he may have know about it from Becca or some of the other early Grounders.

Apart from being kind of boring, this episode’s biggest problem is what Indra does at the end. Of course Indra wants Sheidheda dead, but it would be a lot more in character if she killed him herself. She could have pulled a gun and shot him in the head the moment they had resolved the situation. She should be aware of what a good fighter Shady is, and that everyone in Sanctum sucks at fighting (especially when they’re not high on red toxin).

On rewatch, I realized that, while Knight (the Sangedakru who stans Shady) and another Grounder knelt immediately, Penn (who is Trikru) and another Grounder just stood there - so we’ll see how divided or not the Grounders will be about him in 7x10.

Rating: 4/10

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted’s Decade Picks

Heron Oblivion, still the closest thing to a Dusted consensus pick

Just as, in spring, the young's fancy turns to thoughts of love, at the end of the decade the thoughts of critics and fans naturally tend towards reflection. Sure, time is an arbitrary human division of reality, but it seems to be working out okay for us so far. We're too humble a bunch to offer some sort of itemized list of The Best Of or anything like that, though; a decade is hard enough to wrap your head around when it's just your life, let alone all the music produced during said time. Instead these decade picks are our jumping off points to consider our decades, whether in personal terms, or aesthetic ones, or any other. The records we reflect on here are, to be sure, some of our picks for the best of the 2010s (for more, check back this afternoon), but think of what follows less as anything exhaustive and more as our hand-picked tour to what stuck with us over the course of these ten years, and why.

Brian Eno — The Ship (Warp, 2016)

You don’t need to dig deep to see that our rapidly evolving and hyper-consciously inclusive discourse is taking on the fluidity of its surroundings. In 2016, a year of what I’ll gently call transformation, Brian Eno had his finger on multiple pulses; The Ship resulted. It’s anchored in steady modality, and its melody, once introduced, doesn’t change, but everything else ebbs and flows with the Protean certainty of uncertainty. While the album moves from the watery ambiguities of the title track, through the emotional and textural extremes of “Fickle Sun” toward the gorgeously orchestrated version of “I’m Set Free,” implying some kind of final redemption, the moment-to-moment motion remains wonderfully non-binary. Images of war and of the instants producing its ravaging effects mirror and counterbalance the calmly and increasingly gender-fluid voice as it concludes the titular piece by depicting “wave after wave after wave.” Is it all Salman Rushdie’s numbers marching again? The lyrics embody the movement from “undescribed” through “undefined” and “unrefined’” connoting a journey toward aging, but size, place, chronology and the music encompassing them remain in constant flux, often nearly but never quite recognizable. Genre and sample float in and out of view with the elusive but devastating certainty of tides as the ship travels toward silence, toward that ultimate ambiguity that follows all disillusion, filling the time between cycles. The disconnect between stasis and motion is as disconcerting as these pieces’ relationship to the songform Eno inherited and exploded. The album encapsulates the modernist subtlety and Romantic grace propelling his art and the state of a civilization in the faintly but still glowing borderlands between change and decay.

Marc Medwin

Cate Le Bon — Cyrk (Control Group, 2012)

There's no artist whose work I anticipated more this decade than Cate Le Bon, and no artist who frustrated me more with each release, only to keep reeling me in for the long run. Le Bon's innate talent is for soothing yet oblique folk, soberly psychedelic, which she originally delivered in the Welsh language, and continued into English with rustic reserve.

Except something about her pastoralism seems to bore her, and the four-chord arpeggios are shot through with scorches of noise, or sent haywire with post-punk brittleness. In its present state, her music is built around chattering xylophones and croaking saxophone, even as the lyrics draw deeper into memory and introspection, with ever more haunting payoffs. It's as if Nick Drake shoved his way into the leadership of Pere Ubu. She's taken breaks from music to work on pottery and furniture-making, and retreats to locales like a British cottage and Texas art colony to plumb for new inspirations. She's clearly energized by collaboration and relocation, but there’s a force to her persona that, despite her introverted presence, dominates a session. Rare for our age, she's an artist who gets to follow her muse full time, bouncing between record labels and seeing her name spelled out in the medium typefaces on festival bills.

Cyrk, from 2012, is the record where I fell in, and it captures her at something close to joyous, a half smile. Landing between her earliest folk and later surrealism, it is open to comparison with the Velvet Underground. But not the VU that is archetypical to indie rock – Cyrk is more an echo of the solo work that followed. There’s the sharp compositional order and Welsh lilt of John Cale. Like Lou Reed, she makes a grand electric guitar hook out of the words “you’re making it worse.” The homebound twee of Mo Tucker and forbidding atmosphere of Nico are present in equal parts. Those comparisons are reductive, but they demonstrate how Cyrk feels instantly familiar if you’ve garnered certain listening habits. Songs surround you with woolly keyboard and guitar hooks, and one can forget a song ends with an awkward trumpet coda even after dozens of listens. The awkwardness is what keeps the album fresh.

She lulls, then dowses with cold water. So Cyrk isn't an entirely easy record, even if it is frequently a pretty one. The most epic song here, reaching high with those woolly hums and twang, is "Fold the Cloth.” It bobs along, coiling tight as she reaches into the strange register of female falsetto. Le Bon cranks out a fuzz solo – she's great at extending her sung melodies across instruments. Then the climax chants out, "fold the cloth or cut the cloth.” What is so important about this mundane action? Her mystery lyrics never feel haphazard, like LSD posey. They are out of step with pop grandiose. Maybe when her back is turned, there's a full smile.

Who are "Julia" and "Greta,” two mid-album sketches that avoid verse-chorus structure? Julia is represented by a limp waltz, Greta by pulses on keyboards. Shortly after the release, Le Bon followed up with the EP Cyrk II made up of tracks left off the album. To a piece, they’re easier numbers than "Julia" and "Greta.” The cryptic and the scribble are essential to how Cyrk flows, which is to say it flows haltingly.

This approach dampens her acclaim and her potential audience, but that's how she fashions decades-old tropes into fresh art. She’s also quite the band leader. Drummers have a different thud when they play on her stage. Musicians' fills disappear. She brings in a horn solo as often as she lays down a guitar lead. The closer tracks, "Plowing Out Pts 1 & 2," aren't inherently linked numbers. By the second part, the group has worked up to a carnival swirl, frothing like "Sister Ray" yet as sweet as a children's TV show theme. Does that sound sinister? The effect is more like heartbreak fuelling abandon, her forlorn presence informing everyone's playing.

Fuse this album with the excellent Cyrk II tracks, and you can image a deluxe double LP 10th anniversary reissue in a few years. Ha ha no. I expect nothing so garish will happen. It sure wouldn't suit the artist. In a decade where "fan service" became an everyday concept, Le Bon is immune. She's a songwriter who seems like she might walk away from at all without notice, if that’s where her craftsmanship leads. The odd and oddly comfortable chair that is Cyrk doesn't suit any particular decor, but my room would feel bare without it.

Ben Donnelly

Converge — All We Love We Leave Behind (Epitaph)

Here’s the scenario: Heavily tatted guy has some dogs. He really loves his dogs. Heavily tatted guy goes on tour with his band. While he’s on the road, one of his dogs dies. Heavily tatted guy gets really sad. He writes a song about it.  

That should be the set-up for an insufferably maudlin emo record. But instead what you get is Converge’s “All We Love We Leave Behind” and the searing LP that shares the title. The songs dive headlong into the emotional intensities of loss and reflect on the cost of artistic ambition. The enormously talented line-up that recorded All We Love We Leave Behind in 2012 had been playing together for just over a decade, and vocalist Jacob Bannon and guitarist Kurt Ballou had been collaborating for more than twenty years. It shows. The record pummels and roars with remarkable precision, and its songs maniacally twist, and somehow they soar.  

Any number of genre tags have been stuck on (or innovated by) Converge’s music: mathcore, metalcore, post-hardcore. It’s fun to split sonic hairs. But All We Love… is most notable for its exhilarating fury and naked heart, musical qualities that no subgenre can entirely claim. Few bands can couple such carefully crafted artifice with such raw intensity. And few records of the decade can match the compositional wit and palpable passion of All We Love…, which never lets itself slip into shallow romanticism. It hurts. And it ruthlessly rocks.  

Jonathan Shaw

EMA — The Future’s Void (City Slang, 2014)

When trying to narrow down to whatever my own most important records of the decade are, I tried to keep it to one per artist (as I do with individual years, although it’s a lot easier there). Out of everyone, though, EMA came by far the closest to having two records on that list, and this could have been 2017’s Exile in the Outer Ring, which along with The Future’s Void comes terrifyingly close to unpacking an awful lot of what’s going wrong, and has been going wrong, with the world we live in for a while now. The Future’s Void focuses more on the technological end of our particular dystopia, shuddering both emotionally and sonically through the dead end of the Cold War all the way to us refreshing our preferred social media site when somebody dies. EMA is right there with us, too; this isn’t judgment, it’s just reporting from the front line. And it must be said, very few things from this decade ripped like “Cthulu” rips.

Ian Mathers

The Field — Looping State of Mind (Kompakt, 2011)

Looping State of Mind by The Field

On Looping State of Mind, Swedish producer Axel Willner builds his music with seamlessly jointed loops of synths, beats, guitars and voice to create warm cushions of sound that envelop the ears, nod the head and move the body. Willner is a master of texture and atmosphere, in lesser hands this may have produced mere comfort food but there is spice in the details that elevates this record as he accretes iotas of elements, withholding release to heighten anticipation. Although this is essentially deep house built on almost exclusively motorik 4/4 beats, Willner also plays with ambient, post-punk and shoegaze dynamics. From the slow piano dub of “Then It’s White,” which wouldn’t be out of place on a Labradford or Pan American album, to the ecstatic shuffling lope of “Arpeggiated Love” and “Is This Power” with its hint of a truncated Gang of Four-like bass riff, Looping State of Mind is a deeply satisfying smorgasbord of delicacies and a highlight of The Field’s four album output during the 2010s.

Andrew Forell

Gang Gang Dance — “Glass Jar” (4AD, 2011)

Instead of telling you my favorite album of the decade — I made my case for it the first year we moved to Tumblr, help yourself — it feels more fitting to tell you a story from my friend Will about my favorite piece of music from the last 10 years, a song that arrived just before the rise of streaming, which flattened “the album experience” to oppressive uniformity and rendered it an increasingly joyless, rudderless routine of force-fed jams and AI/VC-directed mixes catering to a listener that exists in username only. The first four seconds of “Glass Jar” told you everything you needed to know about what lie ahead, but here’s the kind of thing that could happen before everything was all the time:

I took eight hours of coursework in five weeks in order to get caught up on classes and be in a friend's wedding at the end of June. Finishing a week earlier than the usual summer session meant I had to give my end-of-class presentations and turn in my end-of-class papers in a single day, which in turn meant that I was well into the 60-70 hour range without sleep by the time I got to the airport for an early-morning flight. (Partly my fault for insisting that I needed to stay up and make a “wedding night” mix for the couple — real virgin bride included — and even more my fault for insisting that it be a single, perfectly crossfaded track). I was fuelled only by lingering adrenaline fumes and whatever herbal gunpowder shit I had been mixing with my coffee — piracetam, rhodiola, bacopa or DMAE depending on the combination we had at the time. At any rate, eyes burning, skull heavy, joints stiff with dry rot, I still had my wits enough to refuse the backscatter machine at the TSA checkpoint; instead of the usual begrudging pat-down, I got pulled into a separate room. Anyway, it was a weird psychic setback at that particular time, but nothing came of it. Having arrived at my gate, I popped on the iPod with a brand new set of studio headphones and finally got around to listening to the Gang Gang Dance I had downloaded months before. "Glass Jar," at that moment, was the most religious experience I’d had in four years. I was literally weeping with joy.

Point being: It is worth it to stay up for a few days just to listen to ‘Glass Jar’ the way it was meant to be heard.

Patrick Masterson

Heron Oblivion — Heron Oblivion (Sub Pop, 2016)

Heron Oblivion by Heron Oblivion

Heron Oblivion’s self-titled first album fused unholy guitar racket with a limpid serenity. It was loud and cathartic but also pure beauty, floating drummer Meg Baird’s unearthly vocals over a sound that was as turbulent and majestic as nature itself, now roiled in storm, now glistening with dewy clarity. The band convened four storied guitarists—Baird from Espers, Ethan Miller and Noel Harmonson from Comets on Fire and Charlie Sauffley—then relegated two of them to other instruments (Baird on drums and Miller on bass). The sound drew on the full flared wail and scree of Hendrix and Acid Mothers Temple, the misty romance of Pentangle and Fairport Convention. It was a record out of time and could have happened in any year from about 1963 onward, or it could have not happened at all. We were so glad it did at Dusted; Heron Oblivion’s eponymous was closer to a consensus pick than any record before or since, and if you want to define a decade, how about the careening riffs of “Oriar” breaking for Baird’s dream-like chants?

Jennifer Kelly

The Jacka — What Happened to the World (The Artist, 2014)

Probably the most prophetic rap album of the 2010s. The Jacka was the king of Bay rap since he started MOB movement. He was always generous with his time, and clique albums were pouring out of The Jacka and his disciples every few months. Even some of his own albums resembled at times collective efforts. This generosity made some of the albums unfocused and disjointed, yet what it really shows is that even in the times when dreams of collective living were abandoned The Jacka still had hopes for Utopia and collective struggles. It was about the riches, but he saw the riches in people first and foremost.

This final album before he was gunned down in the early 2014 is full of predictions about what’s going to happen to him. Maybe this explains why it’s focused as never before and even Jacka’s leaned-out voice has doomed overtones. This music is the only possible answer to the question the album’s title poses: everything is wrong with the world where artists are murdered over music.

Ray Garraty

John Maus — We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves (Upset The Rhythm, 2011)

We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves by John Maus

Minnesota polymath John Maus’ quest for the perfect pop song found its apotheosis on his third album We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves in 2011. On the surface an homage to 1980s synth pop, Maus’ album reveals its depth with repeated listens. Over expertly constructed layers of vintage keyboards, Maus’ oft-stentorian baritone alternately intones and croons deceptively simple couplets that blur the line between sincerity and provocation. Lurking beneath the smooth surface Maus uses Baroque musical tropes that give the record a liturgical atmosphere that reinforces the Gregorian repetition of his lyrics. The tension between the radical ironic banality of the words and the deeply serious nature of the music and voice makes We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves an oddly compelling collection that interrogates the very notion of taste and serves an apt soundtrack to the post-truth age.

Andrew Forell

Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society — Mandatory Reality (Eremite, 2019)

Mandatory Reality by Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society

Any one of the albums that Joshua Abrams has made under the Natural Information Society banner could have made this list. While each has a particular character, they share common essences of sound and spirit. Abrams made his bones playing bass with Nicole Mitchell, Matana Roberts, Mike Reed, Fred Anderson, Chad Taylor, and many others, but in the Society his main instrument is the guimbri, a three-stringed bass lute from Morocco. He uses it to braid melody, groove, and tone into complex strands of sound that feel like they might never end. Mandatory Reality is the album where he delivers on the promise of that sound. Its centerpiece is “Finite,” a forty-minute long performance by an eight-person, all-acoustic version of Natural Information Society. It has become the main and often sole piece that the Society plays. Put the needle down and at first it sounds like you are hearing some ensemble that Don Cherry might have convened negotiating a lost Steve Reich composition. But as the music winds patiently onwards, strings, drums, horns, and harmonium rise in turn to the surface. These aren’t solos in the jazz sense so much as individual invitations for the audience to ease deeper into the sonic entirety. The music doesn’t end when the record does, but keeps manifesting with each performance. Mandatory Reality is a nodal point in an endless stream of sound that courses through the collective unconscious, periodically surfacing in order to engage new listeners and take them to the source.

Bill Meyer

Mansions — Doom Loop (Clifton Motel, 2013)

I knew nothing about Mansions when I first heard about this record; I can’t even remember how I heard about this record. But I liked the name of the album and the album art, so I listened to it. Sometimes the most important records in your decade have as much to do with you as with them. I’d been frantically looking for a job for nearly two years at that point, the severance and my access Ontario’s Employment Insurance program (basically, you pay in every paycheck, and then have ~8 months of support if you’re unemployed) had both ran out. I was living with a friend in Toronto sponsoring my American wife into the country (fun fact: they don’t care if you have an income when you do that), feeling the walls close in a little each day, sure I was going to wind up one of those kids who had to move back to the small town I’d left and a parent’s house. There were multiple days I’d send out 10+ applications and then walk around my neighbourhood blasting “Climbers” and “Out for Blood” through my earbuds, cueing up “La Dentista” again and dreaming of revenge… on what? Capitalism? There was no more proximate target in view. That’s not to say that Doom Loop is necessarily about being poor or about the shit hand my generation (I fit, just barely) got in the job market, or anything like that; but for me it is about the almost literal doom loop of that worst six months, and I still can’t listen to “The Economist” without my blood pressure spiking a little.

Ian Mathers

Protomartyr — Under Colour of Official Right (Hardly Art, 2014)

Under Color of Official Right by Protomartyr

By my count, Protomartyr made not one but four great albums in the 2010s, racking up a string of rhythmically unstoppable, intellectually challenging discs with absolute commitment and intent. I caught whiff of the band in 2012, while helping out with editing the old Dusted. Jon Treneff’s review of All Passion No Technique told a story of exhilarant discovery; I read it and immediately wanted in. The conversion event, though, came two years later, with the stupendous Under Color of Official Right, all Wire-y rampage and Fall-spittled-bile, a rattletrap construction of every sort of punk rock held together by the preening contempt of black-suited Joe Casey. Doug Mosurock reviewed it for us, concluding, “Poppier than expected, but still covered in burrs, and adeptly analyzing the pain and suffering of their city and this year’s edition of the society that judges it, Protomartyr has raised the bar high enough for any bands to follow, so high that most won’t even know it’s there.” Except here’s the thing: Protomartyr jumped that bar two more times this decade, and there’s no reason to believe that they won’t do it again. The industry turned on the kind of bands with four working class dudes who can play a while ago, but this is the band of the 2010s anyway.

Jennifer Kelly

Tau Ceti IV — Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending (Cold Vomit, 2018)

Satan, You're The God of This Age But Your Reign is Ending by Tau Ceti IV

This decade was full of takes on American primitive guitar. Some were pretty good, a few were great, many were forgettable, and then there was this overlooked gem from Jordan Darby of Uranium Orchard. Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending is an antidote to bland genre exercises. Like John Fahey, Darby has a distinct voice and style, as well as a sense of humor. Also like Fahey, his playing incorporates diverse influences in subtle but pronounced ways. American primitive itself isn’t a staid template. Though there are also plenty of beautiful, dare I say pastoral moments, which still stand out for being genuinely evocative.

Darby’s background in aggressive electric guitar music partly explains his approach. (Not sure if he’s the only ex-hardcore guy to go in this direction, but there can’t be many.) His playing is heavier than one might expect, but it feels natural, not like he’s just playing metal riffs on an acoustic guitar. But heaviness isn’t the only difference. Like his other projects, Satan is wonderfully off-kilter. This album’s strangeness isn’t reducible to component parts, but here are two representative examples: “The Wind Cries Mary” gradually encroaches on the last track, and throughout, the microphone picks up more string noise than most would consider tasteful. It all works, or at least it’s never boring.

Ethan Milititisky

Z-Ro — The Crown (Rap-a-Lot, 2014)

When singing in rap was outsourced to pop singers and Auto Tune, Z-Ro remained true to his self, singing even more than he ever did. He did his hooks and his verses himself, and no singing could harm his image as a hustler moonlighting as a rapper. He can’t be copied exactly because of his gift, to combine singing soft and rapping hard. It’s a sort of common wisdom that he recorded his best material in the previous decade, yet quite apart from hundreds of artists that continued to capitalize on their fame he re-invented himself all the past decade, making songs that didn’t sound like each other out of the same raw material. The Crown is a tough pick because since his post-prison output he made solid discs one after each other.

Ray Garraty

[mst3kproject]

403: City Limits

I only have one story about this movie and that’s how a while back I had a dream in which Kim Cattrall and Jennifer Connolly were trying to escape from an evil toy factory owned by Nicholas Cage, and in the dream I was thinking wow, City Limits is different than I remember.  Moving on.

In the non-dream version of the movie, a plague has killed off all the adults except James Earl Jones – I must admit, if you have to keep one he’s a pretty good choice.  He adopts some bland kid named Lee, who grows up, puts on a Cubone costume, and heads off into the ruins of Los Angeles to find other badly-dressed, motorcycle-riding survivors like him.  If he had any sense, he’d have stayed in the middle of nowhere with Horse Girl, since the first bunch he meets try to arrest him and the second just aren’t impressed by his resume.  Lee ends up killing some guy named Dirty Bob, so the various motorcycle gangs that now rule the world decide to subject him to trial by combat, based on something they read in a comic book.  Somehow this results in smashing a couple of dinosaur skeletons and uniting the gangs to take on the federally authorized Sunia Corporation, who shoot anybody who doesn’t want to work for them.  What the hell happened to Horse Girl?

Yeah, I have a lot of trouble following what is going on in this movie.  Most of it takes place in poorly-lit darkness, the characters all look alike and dress like piles of laundry, and nothing anybody does is properly motivated. There’s something almost Ed-Wood-ian about the way scenes in City Limits refuse to add up to a narrative. Reaction shots get dropped in with no explanation of why characters are reacting the way they are, and there’s some bits, like the Beer Santa or what Yogi sees out the window, that I honestly can’t tell whether they’re flashbacks or not.  It’s a good thing the narrating voice of James Earl Jones shows up from time to time to tell us what people are doing, or else I would have no idea.

What does the Sunia company want?  They say they want to provide electricity and food for the world, and if this is just a front for something evil we never hear about it.  Shooting people who won’t work for them is pretty evil, but if there’s a larger Evil Plan at work I couldn’t tell.  What do the Clippers and the DA’s want?  They might have had some kind of system of their own at work before Sunia showed up but all we hear about is the truce between the two.  What was Lee’s plan at the end?  Why bother having people zoom in on armored motorbikes if Albert was right there with the air support?  Why the hell is Carver the main villain when he never even gets out of his fucking chair?

Note To Self: if I ever want to conquer the world, I should avoid saying I am inevitable.  It doesn’t go well for anybody.

Maybe Sunia isn’t the problem, but the government that sponsor them?  Possibly, but we know even less about what passes for ‘the federal government’ in this dystopia than we do about Sunia.  We never meet anybody who represents them.  What kind of government can you have after almost everybody over the age of twelve died of the plague?  This is one of those things that, if the movie hadn’t brought it up, I would never have thought about it – but once they’ve mentioned it, it bugs me.

The impression I’m left with is City Limits is basically a sequence of ideas somebody thought were cool, with minimal effort made to string them together into an actual story.  Skull Helmet?  Cool. Motorcycle race through dinosaur bones? Very cool!  Biker Viking Funeral? Extremely cool!  James Earl Jones blowing shit up with RC kamikaze airplanes?  What could be cooler than that?  And yeah, all this stuff is fun to watch, but unfortunately that’s just not the same as actually caring about it.

Without coherence or character development to get us interested, the audience is left in exactly the spot Space Mutiny managed to avoid: we just don’t see the point.  The only real entertainment value in the film is a few moments of amusing absurdity sprinkled in here and there.  The fake-ass dinosaur skeleton is hilarious – as is the establishing shot of the museum, which looks extremely well-groomed for having been ruled by motorcycle gangs for fifteen years.  The stinger moment of Bolo hollering in panic as the dinky RC plane closes in to blow him up also got a laugh out of me.  Even these would be much improved, though, if we had a better idea what was actually going on.

Because of all this stuff stacked against me giving a shit, I had to watch the movie twice to get anything out of it.  On the second viewing, when I stopped expecting to understand what was happening in the plot, I managed to find a couple of interesting ideas peeking out.  One was how, here and there, City Limits tries to create a culture for these people who were abandoned as children.  Like the film itself, this is based on what a twelve-year-old might think looks cool: the clothes and lairs made out of scavenged bits of 80’s culture.  The party-animal, bike-riding lifestyle.  The use of comic books as a guide to what life was like before the apocalypse.  The weird funeral they hold for Whitey.  There’s a Trashpunk Neverland sort of vibe to the whole thing, as if we really are in a world designed by children who never grew up.  I wonder if that’s brilliant, or just a poor reflection on the maturity of the film-makers.

The other is an apparently earnest attempt to say something about colonialism.  Dr. Wickings (who the hell is giving out doctorates after the end of the world?) argues that the bikers are human beings who are just defending their homeland, and should be treated with compassion.  Her bosses at Sunia reply that the bikers are barbarians who need to be gotten out of the way.  This is the logic of everybody, everywhere, who has ever conquered anybody else. The Romans said it about the Gauls, the Spaniards said it about the Aztecs, the bad guys in Avatar said it about the Na’vi.  In each case, the conquerors who call the conquered ‘barbarians’ use it as an excuse to treat them barbarously.

This is stated explicitly enough in City Limits that it’s clearly intentional, and the analogy continues: Sunia has technology the locals don’t, and that could be of real benefit to everybody – but Sunia aren’t interested in peaceful trade or selfless charity, and the only benefit they want is for themselves (presumably, since like I said, their overall plan is never gone into).  The natives had plenty of problems and enmities of their own before this outside force showed up, but they had a system and it worked before Sunia pitted them against each other for gain (again, presumably).

As a theme, this falls apart in two places, both of which I’ve already mentioned.  First, we don’t care – we don’t know who these characters are and we can’t tell them apart, so we’re not invested in whether they get conquered or not.  I think the laundry-heap costumes are also a major contributor to this.  They tend to make all the characters look alike, jumbles of colour without distinguishable silhouettes.  Costuming can say quite a lot about a character, but if there’s too much going on the details get lost.

Second, we don’t really have a compelling reason to consider Sunia the bad guys.  I swear I know better now than to expect that MST3K cut anything that really mattered, but it was still kind of a surprise to find that there was no missing scene that detailed Sunia’s Evil Master Plan.  A supervillain with no Evil Plan is a pretty lousy supervillain, even if his non-evil plan is to be achieved by evil means, and especially when we don’t care about the victims.  We just don’t know enough about what was going on here before Sunia showed up to be able to say if it was better or worse in any way.  As it stands, Sunia’s offer of food, medicine, electricity, and an end to the gang warfare seems like a pretty good idea to me.

A couple more random notes that didn’t fit anywhere else in the review: since I work in that field myself, I have to say that I’m happy glasses survived the end of civilization.  It must be much easier to rediscover all the other technologies when everybody can see.  Maybe that’s why there’s so much gasoline and electricity in this post-apocalyptic world – people like James Earl Jones and Kim Cattrall with their glasses could see well enough to keep them coming!

Then there’s the fact that everywhere Lee goes, girls kinda smile awkwardly at him and then immediately take his side.  Horse Girl does it, Kim Cattrall does it, Rae Dawn Chong does it… why?  There seem to be lots of boys around, so it’s not like the apocalypse left the world with a shortage of dick.  This is why so-called ‘incels’ go on shooting sprees – because movies like this have told them that dull white boys should have girls all over them just because they showed up.

Seriously, what the hell happened to Horse Girl?  Why was she even in the movie?  She comes and goes before the opening credits are over and has no effect on the plot.  Did she reappear somewhere and I just never noticed?  That’s one of the big rules of storytelling, folks – if you place a horse on the mantlepiece in Act I, you have to use it!

[seokeros]

A Ticket to the Sun — 2

GENRE — dystopia / best friends to lovers au.

PAIRING — min yoongi / jeon jeongguk / feminine reader.

WORDS — 17.7k words.

SUMMARY — in a world where your life is determined by a piece of paper on a monthly basis, love is practically impossible. but there's always an exception, and with that exception, there comes a price.

alternatively: yoongi gets punched in the face by a girl who believes she is cursed, and he stupidly, helplessly, falls in love.

INCLUDED — time jump. strong pining and angst. recreational drug and alcohol use. implied sexual content. metaphorical references to weapons and death. kind of unhealthy relationships? hinted infidelity?

Yoongi has never been without her for more than a week.

The only time he can think of is that one August, four years ago. Her father had to take her on a business trip, nine days abroad in a northern city. Yoongi had wondered, at the time, whether she would look different; act different; be an entirely divergent person after spending such a time apart from him. After tasting the flavour of a life untainted by his presence.

Though when Yoongi had rode to her house on the day she arrived home, he had realised that his concerns were groundless. She had been lugging her belongings out of the car boot, but the sound of his tyres skidding to a stop at the end of the driveway had hooked her attention. At once, she had dropped everything and clambered over to him, toppling their bodies onto the grass in a fit of laughter and whispers of I missed you, hidden in the dip of his neck.

Nothing about her had changed. She still had eyes that swallowed him whole. She still had a mouth and tongue that crafted angel’s lullabies. She still had a touch that surged enough electricity through his bones to bring him near death; forever teetering on the edge of ascending to her heaven, or keeping his feet grounded for a few moments longer. A constant tug-of-war with his soul, since she never went too long without knocking his knee with her own, or poking at his shoulder.

Now, Yoongi wonders how different somebody can become after three years. Surely, days upon days must bend and manipulate one in the long run.

Time does not fly. Without her, it slows to a near halt. Like wading through thick mud and never reaching the other end of the puddle. The sludge sinks into Yoongi’s pockets, dragging his feet down until he is neck deep, barely breathing, and she is still nowhere to be found.

Her hand does not part the clouds. It does not reach from the crystal clear skies, offering to pull him out and up into the stars where she sleeps, and no laws of such inhumane genocide are imposed. Where Yoongi can brush his fingertips over her cheeks, kiss the rosiest of lips, and feel the softness of her sigh tickle across his collarbone. He can love her without the fear of losing her to a mint green envelope, reeking of death, in her letterbox.

It is difficult to find somebody when they do not wish to be found. Or, more so, it is worse when you know precisely where they are, but they would rather have their spine twisted until it snaps in two than see you.

That is how matters go after their lips touch in flawless harmony, as if made for one another. She runs, and runs, and never comes back. She hides like the truths Yoongi keeps beneath his carpets, wedged in the crevices between the floorboards, tucked too tightly away to ever be properly found again. It is a game of hide and seek where nobody is found. They stay trapped in their bedroom. They never stray down the street. They never message, call, or provide an inkling of something. Anything, to at least hint that they are still alive and breathing.

Not necessarily okay. Just managing enough to live without you.

But Yoongi does not persist. No matter how much he misses her. No matter how desperately he wishes to, at the very least, hear her voice whisper that she is okay, that she is doing just fine. Because even if he were to knock at her front door until his knuckles were shredded bloody, or throw stones at her window until the glass pane smashes, or leave her cell phone to constantly vibrate with fifty-seven missed calls and texts, he knows it would only drive her further away. She would dig deeper into the grave of their friendship, just to keep the distance.

Instead, Yoongi did all of the above once, and then ceased to engage further. One visit to a door left unopened. One phone call that rang through to voicemail. One text message that never even received a read-receipt. He was too late. She had already taken to the axe and hacked the tree of their relationship to a stump, because the flowers that were blooming smelled of anything but death. They blossomed in glorious shades of hope and devotion. The tree bore a forbidden fruit that she let rot because the taste was too bittersweet; too intimate on the tip of her tongue when she took the smallest of bites in the shape of his lips.

Yoongi accepts, but refuses to forget. He cannot bear to be without the memories that are taped down in the photo album of the past seven years, albeit faded of their colour and eaten at by moths. A vanilla milkshake shared between them at the diner bar, no qualms about sharing saliva; no thoughts of indirect kisses. A hand clutched firmly at the hem of his school shirt until he would grin and throw an arm over her shoulders, tucking her into his vessel; not noticing the peculiar stares aimed at her shy eyes or his careless affection. A whisper, stolen by a midnight breeze that had the dead leaves in the gutters dancing, and encouraged her to wriggle deeper into his sweater which adorned her figure. All the while, he shivered with a smile, oblivious to the gentle knocking against his heart that did not belong to the tune of living. Rather, they mimicked the symphony of beating in time with another.

No. Yoongi cannot forget. Such memories are not poisonous. They are not tainted by her sudden, yet expected neglect of the truth that she so arduously demanded. That she received barely a glimpse of, though it was still enough for her to cower away.

Anger boils his stomach raw with its vicious tongue of flame as the days pass on; as the earth rotates without her. But forgiveness has been ready to extinguish the fire since the very moment she spun on her heel, and ran with no expectations of him trying to catch up.

They are not selfish. The world made them this way. Soulmates thrown into a war zone that was bound to tear them apart from the beginning.

Yoongi leaves for college two months after the great contretemps that severed the red string linking their pinkies and hearts. A new chapter, his parents insist. A time to start anew and breathe a fresher air that no longer tastes of honeysuckle and her laughter. A city that does not remind him of her cum on the back of his throat, nor her heartbeat in the silence of his bedroom.

Little do they know that Yoongi makes sure to bookmark the pages of her with the remnants of their scarlet thread. Horribly tattered at the ends. Nothing that a needle cannot mend.

THREE YEARS LATER...

Yoongi is dying. An overdramatic statement, but he would not be surprised if it were the honest truth.

An earthquake is taking place in his head. Sandpaper has replaced the surface of his tongue. Sunlight that drips between the drapes like honey feels akin to daggers against his squinting eyelids, rather than drizzling sweetness. Draped across his bare stomach is an arm that holds no familiarity. Yoongi has little to no recollection of what happened after he lost a game of beer pong with Seokjin last night. Cue internal damnation.

When he subtly shifts against the foreign mattress, the aroma of honeysuckle and vanilla arises from the lithe body laying facedown beside him. Bird nest hair conceals her make-up smudged face. A shiver that is neither unpleasant nor welcoming irritates his skin. He wonders if that is the reason why he ended up going home with her last night. The perfume of his nightmares.

“Morning,” croaks from beneath the midnight fluff, and Yoongi stills in his motion of exiting the situation. He fixes his eyes on the girl, vaguely concerned that she thinks this might have been more than what he was intending. It would not be the first time.

“You don’t mind me heading out, right? Got things to do.” Yoongi half-smirks. He spots his shirt draped over her desk chair and decidedly makes a beeline for it, stumbling when his hangover decides to drag his head by the nails down to Hell. “That was a lie. Jus’ hate awkward morning after shit.”

Yoongi almost gets down onto his knees to praise whoever is watching him from above when he discovers his underwear tucked nicely into the crotch of his jeans. He slips the both of them on, and then grabs his shoes.

“You and me alike,” the agreement is followed by a chuckle, which quickly dissolves into coughing. It seems like her night was just as rough as his own. Her heaving lungs sound like cigarettes.

“Well, it was nice fucking with you,” Yoongi says as a way of goodbye, and the girl, once her partial asphyxiation has calmed, half-heartedly lifts her hand in a wave. She does not bother to remove her face from the pillow and reveal her identity. He wonders if she even remembers who he is, too.

Thankfully, no other housemates are spotted on his Walk of Shame out of her room. All of them must either be still in bed, or in the same situation as he, but elsewhere. Yoongi, in a true streak of unbelievable luck in such an unlucky world, spots his cell phone upon the kitchen counter. Lighting up the screen, he discovers four missed calls from Seokjin, all sent in the earliest hours of the morning. There is a single message from Hoseok, received eight minutes ago.

Received [11:12AM]: Jung Hoseok

need me to come save u from some persistent hoe, damsel in distress?

Delivered [11:20AM]: Jung Hoseok

eat my ass

Received [11:21AM]: Jung Hoseok

oh baby don’t tempt me

shake shack on 5th?

This is not an unusual morning for Yoongi. Truly, it is his every single Saturday and Sunday (sometimes Thursdays, as well) since branching out and making friends within his Engineering major.

Jung Hoseok, of chocolate brown locks and a billion watt smile, is the campus known partygoer. He is greeted to every frat weekend, and welcomed by every night club within a twenty-mile radius of their university with open arms. He is gifted all of the VIP tickets, he receives all of the free rounds. Duly crowned as the royalty of their university party life.

Kim Seokjin, on the other hand, hones popularity within his charm and phenomenal appearance of slicked back blonde hair and a physique refined by hours at the gym. He is the A-grade student who finishes his assignments weeks before they are due, while still having enough spare time on the weekends to get absolutely smashed. Well, until he is sobbing and calling Hoseok and Yoongi. Or, on the other hand, is waking up the next morning with three unknown figures tangled amongst his sheets and limbs.

There is another, Park Jimin, who has been Hoseok’s best friend for the past four years. He can compete with a flute of champagne for effervescence. Since he majors in Theatre Arts, Yoongi only sees him amongst sweltering bodies while they are drunk or high, or both. But that is the thing about Jimin, with his misleading half-moon grin, and his jet black hair that frames a baby face. He is in the thick of the student body drug scene. All actors do it, Hoseok had once said, and Yoongi never questioned it. He is unsure if he has ever seen the guy without blown pupils or reddened scleras; a jitter to his voice and an incessant urge to be moving. Jimin is a nice person, nonetheless.

When Yoongi stumbles out of the apartment complex, he is not sure whether he should be concerned about the fact that his car is parked (albeit very crookedly) in the student parking lot, directly across the footpath. He is usually never prone to drink-driving. The boys always ensure that everyone catches cabs to their homes, or to their one-night-stand home-away-from-homes. But Yoongi must have managed to sneak around them.

Or, they were simply too intoxicated to even realise.

Delivered [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

I drank and drove

Received [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

fuckin idiot

Received [11:28AM]: Jung Hoseok

come pick me up then I’m at home lol

Ever the delight, that guy. Yoongi makes a mental note to cross Hoseok off the funeral attendance list for when his car bends metal around a tree trunk, or runs through a red light and finds its driver side crushed by an oncoming heavy-loader because he was too drunk on vodka or high on molly to swerve and brake.

Opening Google Maps on his cell phone, Yoongi is provided with three routes to get back home. He also notices that the campus he is currently on rings painfully familiar with a dream that was held by a girl deep in his past; never far enough to forget. The bitter acid that forms in the back of his throat at the memory is quickly swallowed down, burning less painfully in the pit of his stomach. He is beyond used to feeling flames eating away in there. The walls went numb long ago.

Driving back to his own college only takes ten minutes, and then another two while waiting for Hoseok to exit their apartment building. He, alike Yoongi, appears crippled by a hangover. Chocolate hair is mussed into a whirlwind; usually glowing skin dimmed down to neutral. The black shirt he wears is on inside out, the tag flapping beneath his chin as he somewhat skips over to the passenger side of the car, forever wrapped in delight. Even when the guy feels as though he has been dead for a century after a night like the last.

“You look like you made a pitstop at Hell and Satan fucked you ten ways to Sunday,” is the first thing Hoseok comments as he gets into the vehicle with his bright smile. The kind that somehow manages to glare like real, golden sunlight, and encourages Yoongi to wince away from the luminosity. His head seems to be splitting down the centre.

“Likewise,” Yoongi weakly mutters back, putting the gear into second and taking off. He ignores the indifferent comment made by Hoseok of: Wouldn’t mind that. Bet the Devil has top dicking game.

The drive onward is silent of words with their hangovers thick in the air. Only the radio plays softly between them. Yoongi mentally attempts to piece the fragments of his vague memories from last night together.

It started at a frat party, held by the fraternity that this one overly nice guy, Wang Jackson, currently leads. He was also the guy that gave Yoongi two ecstasy pills, which he popped roughly twenty minutes before the game of beer pong that Seokjin insisted they both play. Normally, Seokjin is not one for such party games, but the exception was that they were versing two girls he wanted to fuck. From then on, everything was lost in murky rivers of being too drunk, feeling too high.

Yoongi wonders how on earth he was able to score a night in an anonymous girl’s bed whilst in such a state. She was probably just as plastered as him.

Hoseok suddenly screeches when Yoongi almost rear-ends another vehicle as he distractedly tries to park in front of the restaurant. He swears to every entity that the sound makes the world end within his head. Aspirin and at least a week of sleep is required, pronto.

“I wasn’t going to hit it,” Yoongi grunts as he switches off the ignition, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Hoseok, as if to make the current struggle of living more of a damnation, slams the door with mild indignation. Glass shatters inside of Yoongi’s skull, and he tries to not collapse into a ball right then and there on the bitumen. Hitting his head against the gravel and falling unconscious sounds like less pain than the pounding migraine that inhabits his brain right now.

“The fuck you weren’t. Your headlight would have clipped the boot of that car if I didn’t help you pay attention.”

Normally, Yoongi would bite back until his point won. But his internal struggle to stay standing overrules all persistence to argue. “Whatever.”

The restaurant is particularly full for a Sunday, mostly with college students, some that the pair can partially recognise from their own campus, other parties. Everyone, of course, is either deadbeat hungover or hitting their comedown. Just like them.

A girl seated near the counter sparks Yoongi’s familiarity as one who he has been inside of beneath sweaty bedsheets. He barely manages a nod at her when they pass to make their orders, more out of pain than shame. Hoseok flirts ostentatiously with the young man at the till, offering a lewd wink that causes roses to blossom upon the cheeks of the employee. Yoongi wonders how on earth this guy has the energy to be so amorous when he is currently dragging his feet through a hangover. And ordering the greasiest meal on the menu.

As always, Yoongi skims past the words vanilla milkshake, ignores the gentle tug at his heart, and orders an iced tea. The three minutes spent waiting on the orders are ones of silent, slow-build regret as the hangovers claim their souls. Quicksand of the mind.

Once Hoseok grabs his tray of grease and Yoongi takes the perspiring plastic lidded cup of liquefied hangover cure, the pair find an empty table by the windows. Immediately, Hoseok launches into conversation, simultaneous with wrapping his mouth around the burger dripping with melted cheese.

“So, how was Seulgi?”

Yoongi cringes at his lack of memory, faintly assumes it may be the girl he abandoned no more than an hour ago to her asphyxiating lungs of smoke. “Who?”

“The girl you went home with last– Fuck, how can you not even remember that?” Hoseok drops his burger, throws his hands up in exasperation and then slams them down on the table. Yoongi swears something implodes within his head at the splitting sound. Probably his brain. “You really don’t give a shit, do you? Just fuck and leave. Rinse and repeat. What about feelings, man? Ever thought about making a connection?”

“As long as it feels good, that’s all that matters right?” Yoongi shrugs, sipping at his iced tea. “We’re all dying anyway. No time for love in this world.”

Hoseok blanks. “You’re really depressing, y’know? A serious downer.”

“Sorry that the sunshine doesn’t shoot out of my ass like it does with you, pal.”

“Maybe you should start learning from me.”

“I’d rather die.”

Hoseok slams his hands on the table once more, and Yoongi genuinely thinks about slicing them off. “There you go with death again. Do you really want to live your life being so miserable? Pessimism will send you to your grave sooner rather than later. It’s a proven fact that optimists live fuller lives.”

At that, Yoongi grins razorblades. “My one true wish.”

“Okay, enough,” Hoseok shivers, lips pulling into a pursed, triangular shape that flags down the end of the morbid subject. “Your obsession with ceasing to exist is going to start rubbing off on me. That girl who made you this way must have been a real shocker.”

Yoongi, at those simply spoken words, blanches. Ice water rushes in a flood over his skin, halting his motion of lifting the plastic cup to his lips. “What did you just say?”

But Hoseok only blinks, wedges four crinkle cut fries into his mouth, speaks before swallowing, “The girl. ___? You told–” Then, he is choking on the fried potatoes, eyes tearing up before he determinedly drinks his whole glass of water to clear the airway. Yoongi, all the while, continues to stare in shock. “Fuck me, man. I almost died and you just sat there like–”

“What exactly are you saying?”

Hoseok, after a few laboured breaths, sighs. “Jesus, you really don’t remember anything from last night, do you? It was after beer pong, right before you went home with Seulgi. When she walked past, you turned to me and started freaking out, blabbering how she smelled just like this ___ girl before you stormed over to her and began angrily making out with her against the kitchen table. She seemed pretty into it, so I guess that’s how you ended up at her place.”

Oh, shit.

The finer details are coming back to him now. The moment the girl, Seulgi, had strutted past was while Yoongi was attempting to control his rolling eyeballs from circling all the way back into his head. The aroma of her perfume, distinct honeysuckle and vanilla, had straightened him out within an instant as it wafted from her skin and into his senses. His dilated pupils had flicked back to attention. The drug and alcohol infused fog that was looming heavy around his mind had cleared for the faintest of seconds, because he was so sure that it was her, it was her, it was her.

The ocean of bodies had barely parted when he charged himself between the waves of limbs. Yoongi had pushed and shoved and waded his way to the home of the scent that his mouth watered for; that his every fibre craved. When he grabbed at her wrist, it was with the expectancy of her face. But when it was not her that was watching on with an oblivious, mildly curious expression, his heart had plummeted to the core of the earth. Shrivelled up and burning within molten lava.

Yet it did not stop him from taking her lips between his teeth. An unfamiliar kiss against his tongue that was dirt in comparison to the succulent heaven he knew, belonging to a girl he had bookmarked with torn red strings. He grimly wonders if he had moaned her name while he was fucking the poor girl, Seulgi the smoker, last night. That would not be another first.

Hoseok finishes wolfing down his chips and takes a large gulp of his shake. All the while, Yoongi is having this brain splitting revelation that makes death truly not sound all that bad right now.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Hoseok asks.

In response, Yoongi drops his forehead to the table with a bang that resonates around the restaurant. The sound catches the brief attention of the customers seated around them, until they realise he is just being dramatic. Unfortunately, not collapsed into an unforeseen coma. Or, you know, dead.

“I’m a great listener,” Hoseok encourages, all sweet and singsong. Yoongi presses his forehead harder against the wooden grain of the tabletop. “I already know part of it from what you were moaning and groaning about last night. The love of your life, or some shit.”

At that, in a quick movement that makes him lightheaded, Yoongi sits back up straight and lays his palms flat against the table. His gaze rests firmly on Hoseok, who suddenly pales, as if aware that he might have accidentally dipped his feet in poisonous waters. Ones that Yoongi would have no qualms about dousing Hoseok’s entire body in until the acid disintegrates the bones of the sunshine man.

Suffocating golden beauty was his speciality, after all.

“We were the same. Morbid and sad. But she was lovely. Born in the Culling year and everything. We were best friends back home.” Yoongi speaks quick in a mutter, nervously tapping his nails against the tabletop before running the same hand through his hair. The incessant pounding of his head has worsened, thumping in time with her name as it loops in a continuum through his mind. “But that’s all she thought we could be. Anyway, don’t mention her again. That was a mistake, she’s not worth talking about anymore.”

Hoseok nods, shrugs indifferently. “No worries, I get it. My lips are sealed.”

The conversation stalls to make way for silent eating, and Yoongi allows himself the smallest of moments to indulge in the sober thought of her after so long. He wonders what she must be doing right now. She would have finished up high school, endured the blood and sweat of exams, earned a score that can become meaningless once the clock strikes midnight on her eighteenth birthday. She would be twenty years old now, three-years-aged from the seventeen-year-old girl that taught him curses are not all so bad. Especially when they taste like the sea on his lips, and can moan so beautifully just by the work of his fingers.

But she was much more than that. Greater than a feeling induced by numbness. She was delight singing off-key in the passenger seat of his car. She was comfort tucked beneath a blanket upon a vanilla-flavoured diner, with the moon to keep them company. She was love curled in a calm smile, in star-strung eyes that always searched for him in the crowds, where nobody else mattered but each other.

Yoongi loathes how they screwed up so badly. How they ruined themselves to a split second of lust that felt more driven by their hearts than their desire. That may have been to forget the momentary pain, though was in fact their bottled up feelings, spilling all over his bedsheets where they soon after lay. And it was there that they were able to dwell in it, mull it over, become consumed it by until they were convincing themselves that it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

For more than the hundredth, even thousandth time, he wonders what would have happened if they had never hit that kink in the road. If they were never set on that collision course. If he had reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could sprint into the shadows and out of his heart. If he had whispered don’t leave me against her lips. If she were not so afraid of love in a world that suffocates honesty.

Too many if’s that he wasted time on; enough to let her escape.

Knives slice through his back and drive into his heart. Here, Yoongi remembers precisely why he never thinks of her when his mind is not clouded by white dust on the tip of his nose, or the acrid burn that stays slick on the back of his throat. Maybe, that is why he is content with spending the later end of his weeks in a drug-and-alcohol-induced illusion, since he becomes numb and invincible to the blades and spears that the memories tainted with her bear. He can think of her without the agony that the pair of them lived within. He can remember her touch without feeling as though her fingertips will shatter him like glass.

Hoseok suddenly severs the reverie straight down the centre. Yoongi, for once, is grateful.

“Jimin wants to smoke weed at his place. Wanna join?”

Usually, Yoongi would immediately be up for such an activity. He has nothing to lose anymore. Nowhere else to be. He left everything behind in his backyard, within the shadows that the large oak created. Right where he tasted infatuation and honesty in the crevices of her lips. Right where he realised that love in such a godawful world would be completely worth it if he was spending such affection on her.

But today, something holds him back. Whether it be the desperation for a shower, or this murderous hangover, or the unnerving memory of her bloody knuckles amongst ocean waves, Yoongi is unsure. The straw poised between his lips loses the watered down taste of tea, and starts to suck at air and chipped ice.

“Nah, I need aspirin and fifteen hours of sleep,” Yoongi huffs, dropping the empty cup and grinding the heels of his palms against the burn that thinly veils his eyes. “If I hang out with you any longer, I may fall into a stress-induced coma.”

“I’m delightful,” Hoseok quips, and Yoongi cannot help but twitch his lips. “You know what makes aspirin work quicker?”

“What?”

“Snorting it.”

Yoongi barks out a short, fierce laugh. “Pessimism may kill me, but drugs are gonna bury you.” There is no malice in his tone, no matter of care for wellbeing, just genuine fact. He stands up, jostling his keys. “And after the shit that went down last night, I don’t think I will be doing lines ever again.”

“Don’t eat your words, man,” Hoseok waggles his eyebrows, pushing away his tray and standing up. The pair begin their departure, but not without Hoseok blowing a kiss to the flustered cashier. “Ten bucks that on club night this Friday, you will have your nose pressed to a dirty basin like a cheap crack whore.”

Yoongi, amid his head-splitting ache, manages to file away the mental note of ensuring he brings a ten dollar bill this weekend. He reaches out his hand to the deal and clasps palms with Hoseok, shaking on a bet that he has already lost. Both of them can see it from miles away.

“Deal.”

Well, you only live once, they say.

“Jesus fucking– Hey asshole, your cutting game is weak,” Hoseok whines, forefinger pressed to the side of his powdered nostril. He inhales hard and winces as the rocks catch on the flesh. “It feels like I just sniffed shards of glass– Ugh, yeah my nose is bleeding now. Douche.”

“Shut your ass up or your free line days are over,” Jimin grunts, licking his dry lips and bending down to the basin to shoot up his own line. He tosses his head back with a hiss, blocking his nose and sniffing repeatedly. “Okay, alright, you’re right. But excuse me for not being able to crush this shit into baby powder on a goddamn basin.”

While the pair argue without malice, sweat gathers in Yoongi’s palms. His mouth waters as he stares into the dimly lit mirror, cracked right down the centre and separating his face into two. The pounding bass that thumps on the walls of the bathroom; the light bickering between Jimin and Hoseok; all of it becomes background noise as he squints, blinks, observes the saucers of his black pupils. The slight buzz that coats his hearing translates into his vision, and his surroundings attain a shimmering quality.

The pill that he popped two hours ago is already reaching its comedown. A dud. Or maybe, the ratio of ecstasy to dishwashing powder, rat poison, and all of the other toxic filler that was used in it (and is clearly stated on a package somewhere to not be consumed) was minimal in this particular batch. A cheap tactic to produce more product. College dealers are becoming stingy as fuck, lately.

“Move,” Yoongi mutters, elbowing a giggling Jimin out of the way.

He retrieves a small baggie of cocaine from the bottom of a cigarette packet, and takes to the credit card to start sorting it into thin lines. He licks the pad of his forefinger and swipes up the white dust that still clings to the plastic edge, rubbing it into his gums. Already too far gone to react when the acrid taste hits the back of his throat.

“Yoongi, what was it you were saying the other week? Never gonna do lines again?” Hoseok jeers, poking at Yoongi’s ribs as he rolls up the ten dollar bill and blatantly ignores the comments that bounce about the bathroom. Hoseok is practically tripping over his own words, sentences blurring together. “And look at you now, going at it like a pro! Didn’t you drop only two hours ago? Fuck me, this shit is working quick. I feel like I’m spitting bullets. Hey, that better not be the ten dollars you owe me–”

“It is,” Yoongi bluntly remarks. Then, he is positioning one end of the rolled up note to his nostril, aligning the opposite opening to the first line of cocaine, and quickly inhaling it all in a refined, unpleasant hit.

Yoongi makes quick work of the second and third lines. Not able to dwell too long on how many germs this dirty basin must be swarming with, for the intensity of his high slams into him like a truck. Yoongi’s eyes roll as he throws his head back, loudly exhaling.

Hoseok snatches the crumpled bill out of his hands. “Thanks, asshole. My hard-earned money is not only covered in drugs and bacteria, but also your blood. Go clean yourself up.”

Yoongi wipes his bloody nose on the back of his hand. He has no time to dwell on crimson rivers and cleanliness. It is time to drown in the sound that is leaking underneath the bathroom door and sliding across the tiles. Grabbing him by the ankles. Luring him into the heat of bodies and the dazzling strobes that intensify the ecstatic craze of his mind.

Effortlessly, Yoongi lets the techno notes take control of his limbs. Barely dancing, just simply swaying. Allowing the blood and bone that surrounds his form to shove him side-to-side. Head tilted back, he gapes at the fluorescent rainbow that drips from the black ceiling in brilliant, over-exposed colour.

The night at the club is alike any other. Hoseok and Jimin are dancing with more coordination, more momentum than they should be capable of after consuming so many drugs. Seokjin is wedged into the corner of the leather couches, a girl straddling his lap and very obviously grinding against his crotch, while another latches her mouth to his neck, fiddling acrylic nails down the first three buttons of his black dress shirt. Yoongi, as always, lets the numbing hum consume his being. Lets it drag him into the limbo betwixt life and death; reality and imagination; heart screaming against his ribcage while the lights entertain, distract.

He distantly believes he might have taken it a little too far tonight. Forced too many toxins through his bloodstream. Overworking the vessel that has barely kept him standing as it is since she left.

Oh. Oh god, that is right. Her. Herherher. Yoongi can think of her right now in this near comatose state where his body becomes invincible. The knives that stab through his back turn into plastic rather than metal, rebounding against the muscle. Or perhaps, still cutting through, though he cannot feel a thing.

Star-shine smile against a backdrop of pale blue sky. Laughter of the gods. Red dirt knees washed by a backyard hose. Electricity fizzling between joined palms. Lips like vanilla milkshakes and eyes drowning in expanses of infinity.

We will always protect each other.

Shallow insults made out of adoration. A car swimming in the salt of tears. Four hands touching dusty ivory keys and performing the sound of their love in terrible harmony. Blue icy poles licked up from wrists where they drip, drip, drip.

Your laugh sounds like home. Is that weird?

Her tongue, behind his teeth. His tongue, pressed to her cunt. Bloody knuckles cradled in his hands like the truth exposed. A cello and viola, they are. The End of The World by Skeeter Davis. Vicious stench of bleach.

The bleach didn’t work, Yoongi.

It’s grey, ___. It’s fucking grey.

Maybe this means you really will live until your old.

Jesus I hate you, shut up.

You are such a terrible liar.

It feels so good. Yoongi feels exhilarated. Alive. His heart is about to burst out of his ribcage and be trampled by the bodies that push and shove. He wants to die by these thoughts, he truly does. How pathetically unromantic. Hatred tastes like love. Another lie. Could never hate her. She just wears feet that betray the truth.

Wait.

There.

In the crowd.

Yoongi thinks he must be hallucinating, that he really did take it too far this evening. For there is a face across the dance floor that he has not seen, has nonstop thought of, since his feet were rooted to the earth in the shadows of his yard three years ago. When the face was turning away, never to be seen again.

He blinks, grinds the heels of his palms against his bloodshot eyes, looks again.

Has he died?

Lipstick clings like blood to a mouth. Smoky eyes of burned out charcoals, smeared with sweat, reside beneath arched eyebrows. The kind that have always had a querying angle, as if constantly doubting. Thick tresses are styled into a mess that he is all too familiar with; that has stirred his own heart into a whirlwind alike too many times for him to count. The dress that clings to the figure is all black, strapless, dipping in a tempting arrow between breasts and glorifying legs that sheen with sin. Hunched shoulders are cloaked by a leather jacket that screams bad intentions, yet hides a heart of gold.

If this is a hallucination, Yoongi never wants it to end. He wants to stay high for eternity and a day.

If he truly is dead, then he is more than glad to be welcomed through the gates of Heaven. Or maybe, this is closer to Hell.

She delicately sips her cocktail and glances between the half-circle of people that huddle close. Friends. Her crimson lips move to seemingly form responses.

A helpless bout of hope suddenly starts to bloom poison ivy inside of Yoongi’s chest. Because that is the thing, he has hallucinated not once, but twice in the past. So, he understands a little of the logistics. He knows in the dot points of the symptoms that imagined bodies may interact with life, but life will never legitimately return the favour.

Though the people surrounding her like shadows, without a doubt, respond to the shapes that her lips create. They laugh in perfect harmony when her chin tilts back, eyes scrunch, and she looks fifteen all over again.

Convenience plays its hand when Hoseok walks within arms reach, heading straight for the bathroom, fists already rummaging in his pockets for the next hit. He stops stock-still when Yoongi clasps a hand around his elbow. For a brief second, Hoseok stares him down with wide eyes, almost as if he cannot recognise the person that the hand belongs to. But then he is frowning with familiarity, and the boy of silver hair and a stone heart is scrambling to find words.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi barely manages, suffocating on his own voice. “H-Hey, man. Tell me, can you see that girl over there?”

“What? In the leather jacket? Yeah, why–“

Before Hoseok can even finish his sentence, Yoongi is throwing himself into the clutches of the crowd, parting the sea of bodies and wading over to her. She is real, this is no hallucination, she is real and here and oh my fucking god, she looks precisely the same. Nothing has changed, nothing has changed. They never kissed, they never fought, they never nearly fucked and ruined everything.

Yoongi does what he should have done three years ago before she was swallowed up in the oblivion of a black hole. A place where she could look out and see, but he was only ever faced by thick banks of darkness.

Yoongi reaches out, can feel every fibre of his hand, the movement of his knuckles, the stretch of muscle. Time seems to thin and extend, pulling out until seconds drag into minutes, where his movements are ones of underwater. Glacial and paced.

Contact is made, and she turns. No, whirls, like a tornado set on destroying him where he stands. A storm that he embraced to be ruined by long ago, though she was too kind; too selfish to let her rains come crashing down on him.

Her skin, beneath his palm, is searing flame. The pulse that flutters in her wrist is absolutely genuine.

When her eyes land upon Yoongi, it is as though she is seeing the ghost of the ouija board they did when they were kids all over again. Her complexion drains, bloody lips parting in silent horror. She seems to shrink into nothing but a speck.

Before Yoongi can tell whether she is going to speak love or claw out a scream, her wrist is being yanked from his grip and she is running away. Just like the first time.

Yoongi wonders if this is what dying feels like. If this is how it must feel to have someone dig their nails into your chest, cutting through flesh and bone to reach the vessel that only thrums because it avoided the monthly sentence. To have it yanked out from where it pulses, disposed in the dirt where it turns black and forgotten.

A rush consumes him. Before he can completely grasp onto any sense of abandoned rationality, his feet are moving.

Instinct, more than anything, directs him. Yoongi shoves and ignores the empty accusations made by those who are pushed, squinting and blinking when his eyes start to betray him; shuddering figures into doubles before they become single solid beings again. The strobes that soak everything in violent pink and deep ocean blue do absolutely nothing to help him.

Yet still, he surges. Must appear like a desperate fool when he bursts out of the club entrance, gasping and gulping for air. There, he realises that, from the moment she ran, he had been holding his breath as though he could not bear to let the oxygen they momentarily shared escape his lungs.

A stranger swathed in shadows asks if he is okay, and blindly, Yoongi waves them off. He stands up from his hunched position to take a few paces forward, right into the line of action where other club-goers stand to smoke, or wait for the bodyguard to allow them entry. He keeps still and stands on his toes, despite that his body jitters and seems to bend and wave beyond his own command. Surveying. Searching.

There.

Standing on the curb, she hunches into her jacket as though she is hiding, rather than feeling the chill of the air. Blue smoke plumes around her, dancing in a veil until it disperses. Though by that time, another curtain of toxins has already risen to take its place. Yoongi, for all his feet were worth in the club, is cemented to the pavement. His bones are now of lead, blood like tar.

Go to her. He urges himself, lifts his left leg and barely manages to plant it forward without toppling over. Gotoheryouneedtogogogo.

She looks over her shoulder, eyes locking.

But she does not run.

And just like that, his limbs become air, drained of all their weight. As if the consent of her willing to stay is all he ever needed. A ticket to approach the sun in all of her might and maybe (just maybe), she may not sear him into ash.

Yoongi comes to a stop five feet away. He firmly closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, she is still there. Watching on with an expression that he, in all of his years of knowing and not knowing her, has never seen before. Familiar, yet unrecognisable.

The cocaine sharpens her every feature. It defines the slope of her nose, the angle of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows, and the dip of her cupid’s bow in unadulterated clarity. Refined beyond a perfection he once saw her as, beneath the gentle light of the moon all but three years ago.

She appears to tremble. Yoongi is unsure whether it is the piercing cold of the evening, or the quiver of his pupils with the high. Perhaps, it is consternation over the boy she so earnestly escaped, now standing mere feet before her, high as a fucking kite. Soaked in the unfair stench of lost love that she long ago decided to associate with the putrid scent of despise.

She is the deer. He is the headlights.

When Yoongi parts his lips, the inside of his mouth feels like a volcano. Bone dry. Threatening to erupt with the slightest misplaced movement, to spew vulgarity held dormant since she decided to cut the ties with her bare hands.

“Say something,” Yoongi manages, taking a tentative step forward, ignoring the pain that fleets through his heart when she shuffles slightly back. “Anything. ___, please.”

In silence, she observes, analyses, swallows him in from head to toe. Yoongi wonders if she is more deprived than she first realised, greedily taking in all that she can while he exists in scarcely coherent state before her. He wonders if the rush that devastates her being is unidentifiable, the deja vu near sickening, as though everything she has held back since the moment within the umbra of the oak tree is starting to submerge from the places she confined them within. He wonders if her heart demands to soar, yet she tugs down on the reigns, knowing full well what occurs when it disobeys. A veteran of past experience in the field of the forbidden.

Yoongi can see that she will not let that happen again. She must believe that neither of them will survive the second time around.

“Are you high?” Despite that the words come out with a tinge of insult, they still hold that blue velvet quality, the lustrous flow that drapes his skin in years of comfort and warmth. It feels like coming home. He wishes to pluck the chords of her vocals from the air and tuck them to his chest for safe-keeping; to never let the gorgeous sound escape his hearing ever again.

Yoongi tilts his lips in a tiny smirk, a miracle in itself that he can shift his features into an expression other than awe. He fixates his gaze on the pale cloud she exhales. “Are you smoking?”

As if to spite him, she takes an especially long drag, eyes watering and all before she breathes out the smoke between smiling teeth. Her iron exterior cracks, only barely, yet it is still something. Enough to make his bones feel as though they are melting into butter.

“Touché.”

They are encompassed in private silence, consumed by the presence of one another. Yoongi, in all of his feeble bravery, takes another step forward, and this time, she stays still, save for the ash that she flicks from the tip of her cigarette. The flecks stir dizzily in the air that he disturbs with his precarious advance.

One pace. Two more. This near, the oxygen is stolen right from his lungs by the pleasance of her perfume pervading his space. The smoke hardly manages to veil the distinct honeysuckle that only she suits. On any other entity, it is utterly ersatz. The tension coiled in her shoulders noticeably loosens, newfound tenderness smudging at the circumference of her irises. Almost as though she is daring to give in. Head losing to heart.

Yoongi can feel her exhalation skitter across his cheeks. The cigarette is abandoned in the gutter. In one fell swoop, he could crumble her resolve right where she stands. The walls of the maze are collapsing, yet he knows the route like the back of his own hand.

When he focuses on the plush of her lips, he can still see the truths nestled in the corners. The secrets that only he could ever notice. She is a puzzle that he has solved a million times over, and he does not intend to kid himself with false hope. But by the way she is staring at him right now like she is being suffocated by her own mistakes, he can almost think that she is letting him get all of the answers right.

He presses his nose to the glass surrounding her heart.

“___! Jesus, I’ve been looking for you!”

It is a voice that calls in a tone dripping with depth, the sound of bottomless oceans, and it tears the two of them apart within a split instant. The approaching owner, a tall stretch of darkness, a shadow wrung out and pulled taught over muscle and bone, draws her attention immediately. Her hair fans out in her movement to acknowledge the new presence, and Yoongi soaks himself in a waft of ambrosia because christ, it really is her.

The guy seems nearly sober. His gaze passes through Yoongi as though he is not truly looking. Could not really care. “Who’s this?”

She hesitates, minuscule, though Yoongi sees it. “He’s a friend from home.”

He almost wants to laugh out loud. In disgust; in disbelief. The word friend has betrayed him so much throughout his lifetime. Even more so when it lacks the tag of best.

“The taxi is almost here,” the guy says after a brusque oh, gaze flitting away from Yoongi in an instant. He takes her by the shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“O-Okay.”

He has never seen her this nervous and unsure. Yoongi almost reaches out to grab her wrist and stop them both, but he is terrified she may yank it away again. Third time is a charm to break a heart. The only solace he clings to is the fact that, as she is whirled, her chin tilts back. The pair of eyes that deceived him so long ago anchor to his own with barely a hint of a smile.

“Next time,” she mouths, her voice ceasing to wash over his skin. But Yoongi can hear the words with perfect clarity in his mind, no matter the shroud of drugs that mantles his every other thought. She shines through, crystal clear, like she always has.

Standing on the curb as headlights swing by, dousing him in bright white while other club patrons holler and scream as though they hope for the stars to hear, Yoongi realises something. No hallucination could ever compare, nor think to perfectly replicate the experience that is her standing before him.

He stares at where she stood, merely a breath away. Faintly, in the silver lustre of the moon, Yoongi can make out the scintillations of glass fragments against the pavement where her obduracy had started to shatter.

Next time comes at a small convenience store, no more than a week after their encounter. It must be near three in the morning. An hour, nonetheless, that girls who run from truths should not be.

She fashions cheeks that shimmer with vulnerability, and a black sweater a size too large. They are matched with thin tights that hide legs known to take his breath away, and a pair of battered white sneakers locked at the ankles. Comfortable; approachable. She sits with a cup of steaming instant ramen, intently swilling the contents with pinched chopsticks, hood pulled over her hair in a meagre attempt to appear nonexistent.

As always, she shines too brightly to ever be completely hidden away.

Lit up with florescent, Yoongi sees her right there, through the window. Never for a moment did he doubt it was her as he leisurely strolled by the store. The glint of her damp face caught his eye before he had managed to completely walk past. He knows those tears like his own secrets.

Here, the subway shudders beneath his feet. Yoongi almost expects the train to travel explosively through the bitumen and crash straight through his heart. Maybe, with it smeared across the glass pane, she will finally understand the honest truth. She will see the gory details, painted out in crimson, that he can never stop loving her.

She, still unaware of his presence, barely flinches when Yoongi stands directly before the window; a thin pane of glass their only barrier. It is no more than a few seconds of him staring with a faint smile curving his lips, hands wedged into the pockets of his hoodie, that she calmly comes to a still in the process of lifting ramen-laden chopsticks to her lips. By the time her eyes have lifted to his own, slowly flaring with recognition, he is already entering the store.

Yoongi takes his time. Enough for her to notice that the person who just trudged through the entrance is well and truly him. Enough for her to forget the half-eaten ramen cup, abandon ship, and escape him for the third––or is it fourth?––time. Yoongi can no longer recall. The numbers are melding into a figure too many, to say the least.

He carefully selects the most bearable noodles that he can squeeze into his tight student budget, then approaches the counter to exchange coins with the clerk. Yet, the moment he turns on his heel, she is still there, observing his stride through the reflection in the window. Her expression, cast in the glaring white light, is one of forbearing.

For a sparse moment, Yoongi considers waiting; providing more of an opportunity for her to escape. Though he quickly finds himself completely fucking that idea off. If he does not continue moving forward, the courage will slink back into the shadows, and he will barrel himself right out of the store once more.

At a pace as languid as he can retain, he strolls down the aisle until he is standing right at the food bar, beside where she sits. He quietly peels open his cup, empties the seasonings inside, and fills it with hot water. Then, he circles around her ever-shrinking frame and sits on the stool to her right.

Silence has never felt so suffocating. This is newfound territory between them; their instances together have always been filled with their voices. But she was the one to build the wall, and she damn well knows that Yoongi will not be the one to bring it down to ruin.

She did this. She must deal the first blow.

Two heartbeats unite at a steady pace. Her lips part, and the quiet is so dense that Yoongi hears them separate. The sound is almost comforting. It rings with the familiarity of past conversations, had whilst lying side-by-side in the belly of darkness. It is the soft noise she would make before her younger voice asked a question about the stars, or idly commented on the pathetic performance that is existing in a world which crushes those who dare to defy the unspoken illegality of love. A world which strips your soul from beneath you, so effortlessly, by the bold-black of your name, inked on paper.

The click of his chopsticks snapping apart echoes around the store. Her voice is quick to follow.

“I can never find waffles as good as home around here.”

Yoongi freezes, stunned silent. He momentarily wonders whether it is due to her voice resembling that of nirvana. But he is quick to realise it is because he is completely unsure of how to respond to such an elementary statement.

She speaks as if the past three years were merely a blank spot in his memory. A period of amnesia where, for the entire thirty-six months, they were still best friends; red strings uncut and remaining to be tightly coiled around the knuckles of their pinkies. Or perhaps, an expanse of time where he was living in a nightmare in which she had become invisible, though she could still see everything in refined clarity.

A thickness builds in his throat, the welt of a sob. But it burns like furious indignation.

“That’s the only thing you have to say?” Yoongi, in all of his venomous tone, stabs his chopsticks at a vulnerable leek floating in the broth. He pretends that it is her heart. “Honestly, ___. Fuck you.”

She sighs, as if he is behaving childishly. “I know, fuck me. But you and I both know that saying I’m sorry will never cut the cake with what happened between us. It’s like shouting into the abyss and expecting something good to come from it.”

He realises, as she always used to be, that she is right. Apologies are more like weak excuses than a resolution for travesty. And when they are confessed this late, after all the excruciating damage has worn its wear, it is like attempting to stitch up a wound that has already scarred over. There is no point. An empty avow.

“I still want to hear you say it,” Yoongi says under his breath. He scoops noodles into his mouth and slurps loudly, just because he knows she hates it.

Her cringe is almost audible. He cannot decipher if it is from the sound he makes, or the way the words taste on her tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“Say it genuinely.”

Yoongi almost jumps when he feels careful fingertips through the fabric of his sweater, laying upon his wrist. His gaze instinctively tracks to them, noticing how they still look the same, shiny oval nails with chip-free edges. A small fondness swells in his chest, which he immediately attempts to trample down. If anything, it blossoms viciously as his eyes travel up her arm, her throat, until they settle on her own.

Her gaze is neither firm nor gentle; simply watching with that ever curious contour.

“Min Yoongi.” God, only now does he realise that she has not once spoke his name since they have reunited. His stare instantly surges down to her lips, just to catch the end of them shaping around the three syllables. What a sight, it can never get old. “For everything I have done: taking advantage of you in a moment of vulnerability; kissing you back while we were both drunk; running away and ignoring your calls; being born in a timeline where the world is so undisputedly fucked up that the both of us were doomed from the very start... I am deeply, and so sincerely sorry. The profundity of my contriteness is utmost.”

Her expression is so bona fide that Yoongi has to look away. Otherwise, he truly might convince himself that her apology is the only salve that can soothe the laceration she created on his chest. He might convince himself that the pain dealt by her own hand will always be worth it if that is the way her voice will sound––cold silk against hot flesh––when she makes her amends after the blade has damaged his heart beyond repair. No matter how deep she drives the knife.

“Christ on a bike,” is all that Yoongi responds with. But even she does not seem persuaded by his dismissive tone.

The contact is ceased; her hand slinks away. They return to silent eating without him uttering a single thank you or I’m sorry, too. Neither of them expect it, either.

When she finishes first, she does not get up and leave. Rather, she rests her elbows upon the tabletop and leans her chin into her palms, directly observing his chewing. The sheer weight of her gaze is enough to lure bumps to form across Yoongi’s skin. Tiny mountains of prickled flesh that she traverses with a regardful sweep of her tentative eyes.

If Yoongi were land, she has conquered him a prodigious number of times.

“So, instant ramen is the next best bet?” Yoongi leads on from her initial comment. An attempt at conversation to shake off the sensation of her emphatic vigilance, which follows his every move. It is almost as though she is waiting for the pin to drop, expecting him to abruptly implode in a rush of accusations and insults. Ones that have tied knots around his tongue over the past three years. No, even beyond that.

Her lips are a ghost of a smile. “Ramen fits the budget.”

“True,” Yoongi chuckles, and it actually tastes sincere in the back of his throat. “But you’re wrong about the waffles. There’s a diner ten minutes from my campus that serves them up just like home.”

Yoongi does not mention how many nights he has spent there, more than in the beds of other women who taste like honeysuckle. High or intoxicated, his forehead would be pressed to the cold tabletop. He would imagine that he is at their diner, and she is sitting across from him, sipping at vanilla and about to hit him over the head with a menu while her voice sings out: Wake up!

The version that exists beside him, the real-and-now girl––beyond better than what any figment of his fantasy could ever consider creating––gapes. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“What campus?”

“South, at the State University.”

“Oh, that’s where–! Oh,” she says, eyes lighting up, as if she is about to say the name of a friend. But her expression instantly falters, realising he probably would not know them. “I’m there often. Funny how we’ve never run into each other throughout my entire first year.”

Absolutely fucking hilarious, Yoongi should say. Though his tongue trips into something just as dangerous.

“I’ll take you there sometime. To the diner.”

Yoongi inhales the remaining noodles spooled at the bottom of the cup. She, out the corner of his eye, worries teeth to lips; habits playing his heartstrings like a harp. A tiny crease forms at the centre of her brow, though it smooths out almost as soon as it surfaces. Her gaze flits down to where her fingers pick at the peeled back lid of the ramen cup.

“I’d like that,” and she says it in a tone that reminds him of car windows rolled all the way down and red dirt caked on their knees. It reminds him of the girl who loved him before she ran away after realising how frightening the monster of truth is up close; how sharp its fangs gleam.

Yoongi chokes on a stray string of pasta. He does not miss the glimpse of a tiny smile tilting her lips before the heel of her palm comes down hard on his back.

Once he has calmed, the pair of them discard of their rubbish and exit the convenience store. They fall into step with one another almost naturally. There is no parting of ways, nor calling for taxis. The night opens its arms and welcomes them in, four in the morning already so near, telltale in the way the pitch black spills into a vague navy across the horizon. Neither of them consider the possibility of separating and saying their goodbyes. Even if he had to go the opposite way, Yoongi would have silently agreed that it was his route too. Home may have been safe for girls to navigate in the thick of the night, but the city is crawling with monsters.

They are both prime examples to that. Living paradigms, slinking through the shadows.

They stroll at a languorous pace. Not out of tiredness, but more so to make up for lost time. It is reminiscent of their lazy saunter home from school, all but five years ago as the sun would beat its fists onto their backs. They would milk the twenty-minute walk home until it would last up to an hour, merely so they could spend as much of their afternoon together before they would have to part ways.

“Are midnight walks like, your thing now?” she lightly teases. Yoongi’s heart is stirred into a frantic storm when she grazes her shoulder against his; barely a nudge.

“I had a lot on my mind.” I had you eating me from the inside out. “It helps to get some fresh air. Clears the thoughts up.” Ironic how you just happen to invade me, even outside of my head. Then, he remembers the streaks of silver. The shimmering diamonds against the skin that he once, a lifetime ago, had his lips upon. “Why were you crying?”

“No reason worth sharing,” she says without missing a beat, as though she had been expecting the question all night. The answer was just waiting to be up to bat. “Girl dramas that boys like you would know nothing about.”

“She, the bane of my every single drama says.” Yoongi states it bluntly, incapable of finding the audacity to care when she flinches. She wants it all out on the table, exposed and brutally honest? Well, he is going to take to the scalpel and cut himself open until he has pulled out every shred of agony that she has tucked between the joints; threaded through the sinew.

It is not as though she is unused to blood on her hands. The mere date of her birth year is sheer fact to that.

Once those two sentences surface in his overtired mind, Yoongi mentally punches himself in the stomach for ever conjuring such a disgusting thought. God. You would think it was hate instead of love.

She comes to a halt in the middle of the road. Yoongi continues to trail a few steps before he realises she is cemented to the bitumen. For a single, distressing moment in which his heart lodges itself in his throat and then plummets like lead into his stomach, he fears he thought those twenty-five words loud enough for her to hear. The only giveaway that such a matter is not the case is her expression.

Instead of pained or horrified, it is distant. Far from here.

“Hey, you know what you need to do?”

Yoongi raises a brow. “What?”

She was looking past his shoulder. Now, she looks over her own, and then twists to stare directly at him. He is in a constant state of reminding himself how deadly those eyes are when used in full, undeviating force.

“Yell it out,” she shrugs indifferently, as if she is no longer sure about the answer herself. “Have at me. Scream everything you need to say.”

What a joke, he thinks, like their emotions are some ridiculous game and one of them has to come out a winner. Neither can rule together; a fight to the death. But she has always called him sarcastic, and so it could not do much harm to humour her request.

“Right here?”

She shrugs again, looks at his feet, and then slowly tracks back to his eyes. “Better place as any, right?”

Silence passes between them, voices reduced to make way for the breeze that caresses the leaves of a neighbouring tree. The rustling is so dense that it sounds akin to rain. Yoongi buries his hands deeper into the lone pocket of his sweater, clenching them into fists so tight that he almost expects to feel the skin split over his knuckles. After a moment, he relaxes the joints and slides his palms out of the fleece, calmly resting them at his sides.

“I’m not going to hold back.”

“I don’t want you to.” It sounds like a lie. She almost seems nervous.

“Fine,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. When he speaks, there is no difference in volume, nor tone. “First of all, fuck you. From the very core of my being. Fuck. You.”

At that, she smiles, and the sheer sight has him scrambling for what he was going to say again. He inhales so deeply that his chest stretches with pain, and then he breathes out a calamity.

“I know that we took it too far. I know that we overstepped an unspoken boundary in our friendship. But what you did...” Yoongi can feel his voice crack. He does not notice how it rises in gradual increments; the build of a wave before it plunges down and floods the streets. “Christ, I knew you had it in you. But I never thought you would actually go ahead and do it, you know? At no point––not even when we were so close to one another on the beach that day, not even when I was touching you in my bathroom––did I convince myself that you would actually cut the ties.”

“For a few days? That’s reasonable. Two weeks? I would've given that decent leeway.” The water starts to break, hurtling down in a swooping undulation. The land is Her, and Yoongi encounters no remorse when the deluge swamps her coast and drowns the homes that they built when they were kids who knew no better. “But three years. Three whole fucking years! You picked up your things and left like the seven years of us being best friends never existed. As if we were living in some fantasy, and you decided to wake up without letting me know it was all just a dream too.

“I wanted to go after you so fucking badly. I wanted to beat down the front door to your house and grab you by the shoulders, just to ask you why. Why did you have to be so goddamn dramatic? Why did you have to act like one of us had received the envelope and it was safer to end things then and there? Why, ___, did you think I was so meaningless and insignificant that you could just throw me away without a care, after all we had been through?”

“You ruined me.” She is drowning. Yoongi can see it from here. He cannot tell if he should grin victoriously or reach out and save her. “The way you left made me feel like I was just some fucking toy that you grew out of. You tossed me away and left me for dead because you’re a heartless bitch. Yet here I stand now, still wanting– No, needing you! Here I stand, grovelling at your feet with my pleas for forgiveness, confessing the truth of how badly you screwed me up by leaving without glancing back. It’s almost as if I’m the monster who abandoned you when you knew I was going to be right by your side until the very end. No matter if the conclusion was made by a natural cause, or a piece of fucking paper sent by the government.”

“The thing is that I didn’t care if you wanted to stay as friends, or be lovesick idiots who should know better in a world like this, ___!” Air is tight in his lungs, fuelling wildfires. “I couldn’t have given a damn about whatever decision you made for us because as long as you were in my life, I was content. Don’t you fucking get that? Can you genuinely tell me that the past three years have been better off without me? Did you never sit and think that I would never push you into something that you didn’t want? That just because I know what your cum tastes like doesn’t mean I expect us to hold hands and fuck each other like we’re something more?”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be in my life. I need you. Not solely for friendship, not only for love. I just know that I have always, and will always need you!”

There are so many words left in his lungs, too many confessions and accusations that he needs to inscribe on her black as tar heart. But Yoongi’s throat crumbles; the sentences strain and fall limp. White flags are kept down. No draw is announced. Nobody is victorious because the game has been burned to ash.

Deeply, she exhales. “Are you good?”

Yoongi stares at her from across the street, partially washed in the muted orange of the overhead lamp, the rest of her concealed in the shadows. His shoulders still heave, teeth sunk in his bottom lip in order to keep the floodgates closed. She stares at him like she knows him, and god, nobody else in this world does as much as her. Even if she only discovered the raw truth of his emotions mere moments ago.

Before he can contrive any further blades in the form of his words to slice into her skin, she is gravitating close. The crunching of gravel is deadened beneath the soles of her sneakers until she stands as near as they had last week. A proximity that would have been considered mundane for them to be within beyond three years ago.

Now, all Yoongi can do is drop his gaze to their feet. Calculating the distance that separates them; only centimetres when it seems akin to vast oceans. So close, yet he has never felt so far.

“Good?” she murmurs once more, tilting her head down so that she can peer up at his drooped chin. Yoongi cannot even find it in himself to wipe away the tears. His fists loosen, useless by his sides.

What he does not expect is for her to breach the minimal space that remains. Her arms come around his waist, palms finding purchase against his shoulder blades and pressing him so tightly to her own chest that they may as well be a sole being.

It may just be his imagination, or the dissipating anger that leaves a dull ringing in his ears. But Yoongi swears he hears something break in her voice when she speaks again. Maybe, the last of her heart.

“Are we good?”

She holds on tighter when he precariously nods against the side of her head.

Yoongi does not hug her back out of fear that he may lose himself completely in her vessel. Become trapped within the bone cage of her ribs. Instead, he tips his chin back to face the stars, cheeks feeling damp and cold. He stares accusingly at the incandescents bodies, mere pinpricks of luminosity, as though it is all their fault.

How could you do this to us? Why did it get taken this far? Neither of us deserved such devastation, yet you awakened an apocalypse right where we both stood.

The stars are left speechless.

To say that matters resumed to how things were in the past would be obscene. Yet, genuinely, it is somewhat how the treacherous tides came to calm into clear waters.

The unbosoming that tainted the atmosphere of that isolated street was merely the chains to the drawbridge unhinging. From there, it plummeted back down so that the two of them could be on even ground. Enabled them to understand and embrace the differences, the hardships, which were emphasised and catastrophised beyond their initial extremity.

To themselves, they cannot help but wonder if such dramatics would have happened if they were born in a different timeline. If they existed in an entirely divergent world to the one where a ballot can tear their life from beneath their feet, even before they make it to the year’s end.

Adjustments are made with their developed maturity. Yoongi no longer waits at the bus stop to pick her up on a school-day morning. Rather, she drives to his campus and takes them to the local library to study for their courses every Wednesday afternoon.

The new diner is visited regularly, though not as often as the convenience store in the middle of the night. Usually, these ventures are planned. Yet they sometimes arrive unexpectedly when either one of them strolls up to the store entrance, discovering the other already watching with a sheepish grin through the window.

They rarely go out to parties together. Their assignments often conflict with the dates, or other responsibilities take the advantage. But Yoongi ceases with the narcotics, and instead sticks to the pleasures of alcohol. It is a matter that none of his friends seem to care for; they almost appear to admire him. He no longer needs to hallucinate in order to see the one person that his heart has been sewn back together for.

The wilted flower of their friendship slowly revives with every small step that they take forward, the petals blossoming into something familiar. Yet Yoongi cannot help but notice the vague restraint that she upholds with their every lighthearted conversation; in the small flinch that she makes when their elbows brush too close; when he squeezes her knee out of reassurance. The red strings are knotting back together, though they cannot deny the fraying of the ends. The ties are loose and unsure, as if suggesting that they may snap once again.

Yoongi only pulls tighter. All the while, she watches on with guarded contemplation, letting the threads go limp in her palms like she is wondering whether all of this was such a great idea.

Two and a half months, on the cusp of three, and only then does he discover her worst treachery of all. The reason behind her unwillingness to allow their bond to return to its utmost potential. Yoongi does not know how she hid it this well for so long.

It is made infinitely worse by the fact that he is so beyond hungover, his brain seems to have transformed into a cement brick.

On Sunday morning, he makes the trip to Shake Shack alone. Hoseok is still passed out under the dining table, Seokjin is actually studying something other than the female reproductive system with his dick, and there is the smidgen of a possibility that Jimin might be dead. It is eternally a mystery as to what happens to him after a hefty night out.

The restaurant door chimes, alarm bells that echo in cymbals through his head. Yoongi is focusing too strenuously on keeping his brain from splitting in half to realise that they might actually be warning him.

Honeysuckle captures his attention as soon as the door swings shut, sucking still air through a vacuum that drifts the aroma, like an instant hangover cure, into his senses. Yoongi, once he is convinced that his head is not about to topple off his neck, levels his gaze to see straight before him. Instantly, his eyes lock onto a figure that he could identify, even when she is merely a silhouette in the distance.

She turns from the counter, holding an extra-large takeaway cup of freshly brewed coffee. The world stutters to the slightest of stops before kickstarting again when she notices him watching on, probably appearing like a goddamn fool standing at the entrance of the restaurant. So, Yoongi decides to will his feet forward, casually calling out her name.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he sees fear ambushing her wide eyes. Yoongi almost does not notice him until her alarmed gaze sweeps away from Yoongi and up to his face.

It is the guy from the club. The one who had sundered their reunion with a single sentence. The one who had managed to draw her gaze away from Yoongi; something that always took a breath of a moment to do in the past, but was as effortless as blinking in the now. The one who had softened her eyes when he spoke, the way Yoongi always could. The one who had clambered her into his jacket and Yoongi did not, at the time, have a chance to think twice of it.

The guy from the club, who has his arm curled neatly around a waist that has always belonged to Yoongi. The guy from the club, who has the fucking stars gleaming in his eyes, because that is just the effect that belonging to somebody like her will always have.

They approach like royals striding toward a peasant. The heart thief glances between the two of them with mild scrutiny. But before the guy can say anything, she parts her lips. The sound that comes out is hardly a croak, yet it sets off World War III within Yoongi’s ribcage.

“Yoongi–”

“Oh! This is the guy– The friend from home right?” He affectionately jostles the arm around her frame, knocking her back into rationality. Her chin barely tilts in a nod. She no longer looks at Yoongi.

Underneath the seething rage that is making his migraine throb like the brink of death, Yoongi vaguely contemplates how to sever the foreign limb attached to her body.

When the guy extends his hand, Yoongi has to restart his dying heart in order to reciprocate the gesture. The defibrillator is charged, and he almost hopes that it will not work. He wishes that the flimsy vessel will collapse, and he will be sucked right out of this moment, swallowed by a most welcome eternal darkness.

“Hey man, I’m Jeongguk,” the guy says.

Three... two... one...

“I believe we already met. But I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself properly.”

Clear!

“I’m ___’s boyfriend.”

Yoongi feels his heart stutter back to life. He wonders how much betrayal the average human being endures in their lifetime, or whether he is just that fucking unlucky.

Jeon Jeongguk is one of the lucky ones in the form of a platinum certificate, declaring a free pass on genocide; cleaning his fingertips of scarlet. A promise to not die by an unlawful hand.

That is what happens, after all, when your life is deemed valuable to this world. When your intelligence is too good to be wasted. When the zeros tacked onto the end of your future inheritance are far too infinite to be ignored. They say this is the secret to immunity: hone pockets weighed down by gold, and bear diamond fangs that can tear through a piece of paper, splotched with the ink of your name.

In a town as small as their own, such a matter was deemed a myth. Then, she met him.

She never knew whether it was sheer fascination, or genuine attraction. Even now, she remains unsure. But Jeongguk was drawn to her; opposite poles of a magnet that met in unexpected harmony. He had knocked into her elbow at the campus cafe and spun to apologise. Instead, he had found himself struck silent by the graves that were on blatant, unadulterated exhibition in the cemeteries of her eyes.

Maybe, he was convinced that he could uproot the dead from where they slept. Thought he could dig his fingers into the soils, and grow bouquets from the minerals that the bones had scattered beneath the surface. Maybe, he wanted to know the secrets. The reasons behind the ghosts that lurked about her irises, eternally trapped betwixt the limbo of Heaven and Hell. Maybe, he was as selfish as the rest of the world. Precisely like her and the other, who was buried the deepest in the boneyard of her heart.

Too many maybes had filled her mind, yet she had found herself saying yes. Not just once. But again, and again, until the two of them were sharing coffee against the lips of the other instead of over a cafe table, and she could describe precisely how it felt when he entered her. Again, and again. Yes.

Now, the boy of platinum teaches her about things that she already knew, but from a different perspective. A preferable one, where one is not concerned with their fate. When their life is not threatened at the beginning of every new month, because their skin and bones are invincible to the bullets of a Government rifle.

Jeongguk takes her to the theatre. In the shadows of the back row, where their mischievous chuckles hide, he shows her what salt and butter tastes like on his tongue. He lets her listen to the sound of their voices blend off-tune with the song playing on the radio. The windows of his car are rolled all the way down, spring breeze curling through her hair, his hand resting on the sunlight that seeps gold onto her thigh. He shows her the bridge that connects the southern and northern ends of the city. The lights that are cast onto the glass surface of the river from street lamps resemble stars, flickering beneath their feet, shining on the gentle ripples rather than above in the hazy, dark skies.

This is where Jeongguk whispers that he loves her. This is where he accepts that she cannot find the voice just yet to say such a burden back. But he helps her take her dress off in the backseat anyway, and he kisses every inch of her skin as if he is trying to find the answer tucked somewhere between her joints. Engraved in her bones.

When he thrusts into her, he moans in such a way that she digs her nails deeper into his flesh, as though she can bury herself within him. Become a part of his platinum shield. She, too, can be untouchable.

It is not that she does not adore Jeongguk. Of course, her chest thrums with that certain warmth when he grazes his knuckles over her throat. Her gaze softens when she finds him walking into the room, lighting up with a grin that is specially reserved for her. He is a secure anchor amidst the raging ocean of this society, and she swears that such a matter is not the reason why she laces her knuckles together to connect at the palms, or swallows his laughter into her own lungs, or presses her lips against his bare spine when the moonlight turns his skin into stardust.

Somewhere, deep down, she thinks there may be a hint of love, too shy to reveal its face. Maybe, it is insecure; unsure whether its roots are woven through the carcass of a natural demise, rather than the tacky mint shade of an unwanted envelope.

No. That is not the reason why she desires him. She may be cruel, but she is not a monster. That is what she tells herself, at least, as she ignores the blood red gaze that watches on from the darkest shadows of her mind. It folds its talons in its lap, wearing the glint of a wicked grin.

The sight is too repulsive to even glance at.

Now, when she parts her lethargic eyes, it is to find Jeongguk already gazing at her through the tangle of her sleep-heavy lashes. He draws the tip of his finger down her nose, outlining the shape of her lips. A map that he marks with his touch before he presses his own mouth to them in a quiet good morning.

“What were you dreaming about?” he murmurs throatily, and it is then that she realises she is frowning. The sunlight that slides into his bedroom attempts to soften and smooth the crease between her brow, though it cannot seem to fade. “You were stirring and mumbling.”

She thinks back to the realm she was briefly visiting. It held the taste of vanilla, and the eyes of blackholes that would bend her at the edges. Although she had clung fiercely to the stars and suns that surrounded him, he let her be free, just like that. There was no fight left in him. No force. No will to drag her into his desolate infinity.

She is unsure if she is grateful, or if she would rather be dead.

“Nothing that I can remember,” is all that she whispers before her face finds solace in the dip of Jeongguk’s throat. There, he will not be able to see the betrayal that brews in her eyes. His ignorance is all the more confirmed when he hums indifferently and slides his palm beneath her rumpled shirt, gliding up her spine.

Because Jeon Jeongguk, with platinum luck threaded through his veins, with good fortune as a shield against unnatural fate, is not, and could never be Min Yoongi.

That day at the restaurant was like giving Yoongi all of the stars in the universe, only to rip them away into the mouth of a black hole. Leaving him with nothing but a handful of tenebrosity.

A boyfriend. A lover. A something that she claimed she could never have because this world took intimacy by the throat and squeezed until the skin blossomed blue. A lie that she threaded through Yoongi with barbwire, as though she could never actually love him. He was just another puppet that she controlled the strings of for all these years.

She was never his best friend. It was always betrayal that stuck by his side through thick and thin.

After the introductions had been made, she had dragged Jeon Jeongguk out of the restaurant without a second glance at Yoongi. She knew she had banjaxed the secret, that this took the cake for being the ultimate egregious bullet point on her list of perfidy. Yoongi did not go forth and make an order. Rather, he had waited five minutes before exiting the restaurant himself, praying on the drive back to his campus that his hangover would make him swerve off the road and bend his bones around a tree.

As per usual, he is never that lucky.

For days, they do not communicate. It eats at him; hollows his body out into a carcass of his true being. He can feel himself slipping back into the skeleton of who he once became; the version who has pupils the size of Pluto and snowy powder on his nostrils.

That is, until Yoongi is in the sanctuary of his dorm room with glass bottles containing the remnants of his heart strewn about the bedside table. He finally gains the liquid confidence to light his phone screen, pulling up a conversation that details the time and location of a recent meet up they had had. Sent over a week before he had discovered that all those times she had said she could not hang out––that she had more important plans––were probably to see him.

Delivered [2:11AM]: ___

why didn’t you tell me

It is late, and Yoongi expects no reply. He just needed to get those five words out of his head; the question that has been persisting his every thought. The memories of the past two months where she entailed no such relationship, never hinted that her heart belonged to another while Yoongi was still convinced that it was the fondest for him; they were all marked with that one word, now.

Why?

There is a gentle vibration that almost goes unnoticed, if not for the way that the shadows of his bedroom shrink away from the dim light that the screen emanates. A lump forms in Yoongi’s throat when he swipes his thumb across the device to unlock the two messages, labelled with her name.

Received [2:16AM]: ___

because it’s not important

why did I need to?

Yoongi is calling her before he even realises he has dialled the number. She, to his disbelief, answers after two rings.

“You know precisely the reason why,” he seethes. The words are laced in malice, yet airy in their tone; exhausted. “Not important, my fucking ass. What kind of horrible excuse is that? Aren’t you tired of making up bullshit? Will you ever be?”

On the other end of the line, there is the shifting of sheets, the distant scuffling of feet, the slide of a balcony door before it clicks shut. Her exhalations are shallow, hair rustling against the speaker with the hint of a breeze. Or perhaps, the distressed combing of her knuckles through the strands.

“You’re with him right now, aren’t you?” Yoongi almost laughs at the realisation, a dead smile drawn on his lips. She audibly gulps.

“Y-Yes. I mean. He’s my– Well, he’s–”

“Your boyfriend? That– That thing that you always claimed you could never have?”

She makes no acknowledgment, nor no confirmation of the aforementioned statement. Only when she sniffs does Yoongi realise that she is quietly crying. He suffocates the surge of regret that threatens to soften his anger. He is tired of being pitiful.

“What do you want from me, ___?” he barely whispers. His heart begins to detach from his body. “All this time, what is it that you wanted?”

Static crackles between them. When her voice finally sounds, it shudders.

“Everything. I wanted, no, I want everything from you. Of you. B-But it can never work.” The words are muffled around a sob, the kind that claws right out of the pits of your lungs. “Yoongi, everything you said all of those months ago is precisely the way I feel too. I need you in my life, no matter the circumstances. But being together is such a risk. We have lost so much already. And– And I don’t want to hurt you–”

“You’ve already done that, sweetheart,” Yoongi barks out with a humourless chuckle. He runs a clammy hand down his face. “You’re doing it right now. You’re doing it constantly.”

“I mean that I’m cursed, for christ’s sakes! You and I both know that!” she nearly shouts, and then her voice drops into an undercurrent. He can almost sense the way that her gaze must be darting back to the glass door, providing the view of a dark room where her lover may or may not be listening to her confess to another man. “You know that first night at the convenience store, when you asked why I was crying? A girl that I’d only just become friends with was drawn from that damned ballot. Honestly, a week before her name was pulled out, we exchanged numbers and made plans to meet for lunch.”

“This was a girl I had only just met. You would’ve been dead from the moment I gave in to you, Yoongi. I’m trying to protect you from this. I want you to live a long and happy life, as normal as it can be, without me being a burden. If that means hurting you in the process, then so be it. I refuse to let you die, especially because of my birth year...” her voice trails off, clamped down by a palm pressed to her lips.

Yoongi swings his feet off the edge of his bed and pads over to the northernmost wall of his room. Even after so many years, he refuses to believe that she still thinks of herself as a bad omen who drags those that surround her to their demise. That she continues to attain such a childish perception; a fib whispered by kids who know no better.

They are adults now. It would be moronic to believe a wives’ tale regarding the four numbers that signified the change for a better world, where all those who were born in that year supposedly honed the curse of death.

“Then why is he so different?” Yoongi murmurs, grazing his knuckles against the plaster. “Why is he the special one that gets to experience being in love with a girl who claims to be cursed?”

“Because he is exempt from the project, Yoongi,” she sounds so empty. A hollow heart. “The rumours about the wealthy families are true. They have no involvement in the ballot.”

Skin splits over bone. Scarlet streaks down his wrist and marks the wall in four bloody patches. Yoongi grunts, but the stinging sensation is soothing compared to the knife that stabs deeper through his back.

The hearsay was no new knowledge since he moved to the city. He has known a few people himself who honed the platinum certificate, bestowing them with normality. A natural end to this world that all human beings should be granted, no matter if their pockets are full of dirt rather than diamonds.

But Yoongi’s fist connects with the wall again when Jeon Jeongguk’s face violently blooms within his mind, eating up the space that she always accommodates. The guy who she can never claim to have slaughtered by the four digits of her cursed birth year. Yoongi swears she winces at the dull thud, followed by a short gasp between his gritted teeth.

“God, aren’t you just selfish,” he mutters, staring at the torn flesh of his knuckles. He clenches them tight when they remind him of her smaller, crimson hands floating amongst ocean waves. That memory, with her mouth that tasted of salt and untruths, should not be tainted by an incident like this.

There is no jocularity in her tone. “It’s a refined talent.”

The plaster is cold against his forehead; his palm is warm with drying blood. After a glacial moment of basking in the sound of her breathing––existing––Yoongi’s voice drops to merely a whisper.

“You need to realise that having you in my life is a decision that I make, not you. And what about these past two months, huh? If that were the really the case, I would be dead already, don’t you think? Stop being so ridiculous. Stop thinking you can make all of these choices for me when you’re ticking all of the opposite answers to what I want. If you don’t want me in your life, stop acting like you do. Don’t lure me in just to throw me back out in the water.”

“I can’t willingly cut you from my life, you know that,” her voice is weak, just like the both of them. “That’s why I’m pushing you away. I can accept it if you leave, but I can’t voluntarily let you go.”

“Why, ___?” God, he is so tired, the words barely come out coherent. “Why don’t you just do it already?”

“I can’t say it, Yoongi. I couldn’t before, and I especially can’t now that– Now that I’m with him.”

At that, Yoongi’s chest caves inward. The vessel within is sucked into the abyss, because the one person in this world who he cares infinitely for practically admitted the truth. She had ghosted over it, yet it was there. An echo of honesty. An admission so vague, though ringing with the utmost profundity through his head; a record that stutters back over that one same line.

I love you, Yoongi. I love you, even now that I am with him.

Yoongi sighs a lifetime of air through his teeth. “Me too, ___. Always.”

Between their paced exhalations that taste like devotion at long last divulged, there is background sound. A door sliding open. The crackle of a voice that is not her own.

She does not say that she has to go. There is no utterance of a goodbye. The line simply hangs up.

Yoongi, the next morning, cannot recall for how long afterwards he listened to the dial tone.

In July, the monthly draw lands on a Friday. The final day of the semester.

It is the end of exams. The return of the summer holidays, celebrated by a barbecue down by the foreshore. A place where all students alike arrive in their respective groups to rejoin before they part for home, but everyone mixes, mingles, and congratulates.

Friendly tournaments of beach volleyball are held between the colleges. The aroma of sizzling meat and charcoal manages to overpower the scent of salt that wafts from the waves. Laughter and conversation tucks itself into every available space. Alcohol is poured graciously and in volumes considered comparable to a frat party.

Yoongi cannot help but wonder how many of the students who have flocked to the beach are going to have their name drawn from the ballot. Whose exam scores are going to become insignificant. Who might be celebrating for the final time with their peers––their friends––before they return home to a family with cheeks stricken by tears and a mint green envelope, bloodied with their own name.

When Yoongi arrives at the foreshore, there is a solid seven minutes of texting back-and-forth with a half-drunk Hoseok––who is dreadful at giving directions as it is––to figure out where the hell he is. Though it is only when Seokjin puts the latter on his shoulders that Yoongi manages to find them amongst the dense crowd. Nobody could miss that Hawaiian shirt paired with a sunshine smile, arms flailing like one of those wacky inflatable tube men.

Their area consists of a canopy housing three coolers filled to the brim with ice and beer, and a scattering of chairs to take up the remaining shade. A portable barbecue is set up to the left of the arrangement, currently left unattended. The sausages are starting to sizzle beyond cooked, but everyone is too busy enthusiastically welcoming the new arrival to care.

Yoongi greets them all with muted excitement. Though his gaze immediately drifts down to the only person who had remained reclined throughout the entire feat, spread on the grass like a starfish. With his blank features partially concealed by his large black sunglasses, Park Jimin––who is known to be the most mercurial of the whole lot––almost appears dead.

“Is Jimin okay?”

“He’s sober,” Seokjin laughs, kicking at the ankle of the aforementioned, who grunts something incomprehensible.

Jimin shifts up from his leisurely position to lean back on his elbows.

“Three weeks off it,” Jimin squints so fiercely that it is even noticeable behind his glasses. He sounds slow, the words drawn out on his plump lips. “It’s not right to do it around family. Plus, my Ma would probably send me to the fuckin’ moon if she caught me shooting up on the coffee table that has been passed down through the generations for like, ever.”

“The fuckin’ moon, he says,” Hoseok quips whilst a safe distance from Jimin and his fists, dousing an overly burnt hotdog in sauce. “You’ve been there every weekend since the start of first semester, Mr. Low Hallucination Tolerance. Hey Yoongi, remember when Jimin literally thought we had managed to make it into outer space and we were walking on the moon like Apollo 13?”

Jimin seems to contemplate whether he should get up and beat the shit out of Hoseok. Ultimately, he decides to slump back onto the grass. “Eat my ass.”

Hoseok genuinely sighs. “You all keep offering, but you never pull through.”

“You mean Apollo 11,” Seokjin circles around Jimin to stand beside Hoseok, raising an eyebrow. “Apollo 13 never landed.”

“Amazing, Seokjin knows facts! And here we all were, thinking that he only knew the precise anatomy of the female body.” Hoseok jeers, the disparages flying out like they are a second language. “Who would have thought?”

“One, I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that,” Seokjin takes his hands out of his pockets and uses an elbow to knock Hoseok in the arm, causing the sauce he is squirting to spray over his own shoes. “Two, you’re honestly asking for a beating, from all of us. But I guess three-on-one is just your style, right?”

“Oh daddy, you know it,” Hoseok, despite that his eyes blaze lividly over the ruined shoes, takes a disgraceful bite out of his hotdog with a lewd wink as if to prove a point. Everyone gags in perfect unison.

“Speaking of, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Yoongi asks the feuding pair, wrinkling his nose when Hoseok offers him a sausage that resembles charcoal. He opts for a beer instead, and it fizzles pleasantly on his tongue. An old friend that his liver has known well for the past three years.

“My family lives in the town just beyond Hoseok’s, so I’m going to be dropping him there on the travel home.” Seokjin states while cleaning up the grill of the blackened mess, shooting the occasional accusing glare at Jimin, who appears to have initially been on barbecue duty. “God knows how I’m going to deal with that for six hours straight, but I consider it my good deed for the year.” Seokjin effortlessly dodges a kick to the shin by the insulted. “How about you?”

“You’re driving back with ___, right?” Hoseok questions, plonking down beside Jimin, who parts his lips in a demand for a bite. The poor guy nearly chokes when Hoseok eagerly shoves half the hotdog into his mouth.

A shiver is elicited when her name infiltrates the atmosphere, crawling up his spine in a sensation near pleasurable. But now, it is weighted with the touch of a forbidden truth. She no longer belongs to him, no matter if she still keeps her heart nestled between his palms.

Yoongi chugs back a quarter of the beer as if to wash away the feeling, cringing immediately afterwards.

“Yeah, it makes sense to go in one car. Her– Uh, the boyfriend is going to be visiting his family in the east, so he won’t be coming with us,” Yoongi speaks dismissively whilst running a hand back through his hair. His friends appear to not notice the fervent longing that resides beneath his skin.

Yoongi is about to take another sip of his drink. That is, until he stares directly ahead and finds the devil herself, drying off her hair with a beach towel.

It is eternally mesmerising watching her. From the way she moves with the fluidity of water, to the beautiful manner in which her features transform into her signature expressions. Most of them are private inclinations to an opposite emotion. A habit that only he knows of after such an extensive period of time observing her throughout their growth.

She laughs at something her friends says. The surrounding commotion swallows it whole, but Yoongi can hear it in divine clarity; the harmonious melody that has been the repeating soundtrack to half of his life. The calling of songbirds; the gentle notes of a piano; the tinkling of wind chimes in a summer breeze.

There is a faint vibration against Yoongi’s thigh. When he reaches into his pocket to retrieve the device, she makes eye contact from across the grass. A smile drifts about her lips that he cannot help but return, gazing at one another like a secret. Then, she purposefully distracts herself with the entertainment surrounding her.

Yoongi stands up and departs from the group, who are already indulging in other topics. He answers the phone without checking the identification. The line crackles with static, and then, his mother is sobbing through the speaker as though the world is about to end as they know it.

And when she finally manages to choke out the syllables, he realises that such a figure of speech may not be far from the truth after all.

NOTE — this has also been adapted into third-person perspective!! to those who have never read this before, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the piece. besides that, all likes and reblogs are super duper appreciated!! ♡

our finale should be coming very soon. get ready for a true rollercoaster of emotion. I’ve already cried twice while writing certain scenes of it dfsghs.

also, I’ve removed the links to the individual parts of attts because tumblr is being dumb by deleting posts/blogs that are using links or something. until they’ve resolved this issue, you can access the other parts of the series via my master list!!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © SEOKEROS. TRANSLATING, REPOSTING AND/OR MODIFYING OF THE MATERIAL IS PROHIBITED.

[ninja-muse]

Science Fiction Recommendation Masterpost

$ for LGBT characters £ for characters of colour € for characters with disabilities * for problematic content ! for #ownvoices

(all based on my slightly spotty memory, so feel free to correct if I’ve missed something)

Does not include time travel, superheroes, or alternate history.

Classics

1984 - George Orwell

Winston is a patriot, until a chance encounter and his job altering history start him thinking. Big Brother, it turns out, isn’t acting in his best interests.

A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter Miller

In the centuries after a nuclear war, a group of desert monks have devoted themselves to preserving scientific knowledge with the hope of someday rebuilding civilization.

The Chrysalids - John Wyndham *

In a Newfoundland rife with religious fundamentalism and genetic mutation, a boy, his cousin, and his sister must hide their telepathy or risk everything to live freely.

Dune - Frank Herbert $*£*

Even before fleeing to the open desert of Arakkis and its taciturn worm-riding nomads, Paul Atreides’ life was fraught with danger. Now he must use his understanding of people and politics to weather everything his world can throw at him, including sandstorms, a baron with a grudge, and those who want him to be a prophesied hero.

Foundation - Isaac Asimov

Hari Seldon has designed a program that predicts the paths of civilization. What better way to test it than to start a utopian colony at the furthest edge of known space?

Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

Victor Frankenstein is fascinated by anatomy and determined to prove resurrection possible. Once he succeeds, he’s equally determined to get as far from the sentient corpse as he can, when all the Creature wants is a hug and someone to talk to.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams

When Arthur Dent woke up, he thought the bulldozer levelling his house was the worst his day could get. By teatime, he’s halfway across the galaxy on a ship that runs on probability, with his alien best friend, the two-headed President of the Galaxy, and a depressed robot—and things are just getting started.

I, Robot - Isaac Asimov

A series of short stories that outlines the evolution of robotic technology and society around it.

The Planet of the Apes - Pierre Bowles

An astronaut crashes on an alien planet populated by sentient, speaking great apes. They put him in a zoo until he proves he’s not an animal. A brilliant examination of race and what it means to be human.

Space Opera

the Expanse series - James S.A. Corey $£€

Humanity has colonized the solar system, but hasn’t fixed its other problems. The Belters are disenfranchised and preparing a rebellion. Earth and Mars are in a paranoid arms race. Corporations can do just about anything they want. Throw in a terrifying virus, an alien threat, and a space crew who do the right thing and damn the consequences, and things are about to get very interesting.

Fortuna - Kristyn Merbeth - $ - *

Scorpia Kaiser is a screw-up, the family pilot, and out to prove she has what it takes to take over smuggling operations from Mama. Corvus Kaiser, exiled from his family to fight a war he doesn’t believe in, is finally coming home. Then a smuggling deal goes massively south and suddenly, what was going to be a difficult time becomes much, much worse.

the Saga series - Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples $£€

An inter-species family flees the military powers tearing the galaxy apart. Their luck goes up. Their luck goes down. They meet the best and worst the galaxy can offer—and through it all, a little girl grows up. A nuanced look at prejudice, hope, and love.

the Shieldrunner Pirates series - R.E. Stearns $£€

A lesbian couple arrives at the pirate base on Barbary Station expecting a welcome to the crew, but are assigned to take out the murderous station A.I. instead. As much about social skills and interpersonal dynamics as it is about guns and hacking.

the Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold $*£€

How do you solve a problem like Miles Vorkosigan? He’s too smart for his own good, too impulsive and progressive for his military culture, surely too disabled to amount to anything. And he (and his accidental mercenary fleet) are going to prove everyone wrong. Dryly witty and generally feminist.

Horror, Apocalypses, and Dystopias

The Rampart Trilogy - M.R. Carey $£€

Koli wants more than his future offers, starting with becoming a Rampart, with control of ancient technology. His attempts to change his cards send him on an unforgettable journey of discovery.

Devolution - Max Brooks $£€

An elite sustainable community outside Seattle finds itself stranded after Mount Rainier erupts—and there are creatures in the forest. Hairy ones, with big feet.

The Girl with All the Gifts - M.R. Carey £

Melanie gets up, goes to school, eats her food, and idolises her teacher just like any pre-teen. However, when her school’s attacked by Hungries and she, her teacher, a doctor, and the surviving soldiers have to flee, Melanie begins to realise she’s … not exactly normal after all.

The Giver - Lois Lowry

When Jonah turns twelve, his regimented community assigns him to apprentice to the Keeper of Memories. The memories Jonah receives throw everything he knows into question, and he must choose between the quiet life laid out for him and the emotion and independence he’s discovering.

The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood

In a world where most women are sterile, Handmaids are stripped of their identity and given out as surrogate wombs. This is Offred’s story of oppression, resistance, and escape.

the Hunger Games trilogy - Susanne Collins £€

In an America where teens fight to the death for entertainment and the survival of their District, Katniss Everdeen volunteers—and finds herself the unwilling face of the rebellion.

Into the Drowning Deep - Mira Grant $£€ !

Was the terror on the Atargatis a hoax? Are there mermaids deep in the Pacific? A ship full of scientists has been sent to find out. They are not prepared.

the Newsflesh trilogy - Mira Grant $£€ *

A generation after the zombie apocalypse, humanity’s secure behind blood tests and heightened security and Georgia and Shaun Mason, and their Newflesh team, have been hired to blog the Presidential campaign, which is perfect until the first outbreak. Conspiracies, mad and sane science, and social critique ensue.

the Parasitology trilogy - Mira Grant $£€

Sal awoke from her coma to a family she didn’t remember, a body that wouldn’t respond, and restrictions on her autonomy that seriously chafe. Now she’s on her feet and resisting, but at the worst time. People are starting to die from their miracle-cure tapeworm implants and it’s looking like Sal’s implant might be … different.

the Passage trilogy - Justin Cronin £

A century ago, a virus turned most of humanity into bloodsucking monsters or food. Now the descendants of a group of survivors must strike out across a wasteland, looking for a safe new home. Better and darker than it sounds. Christian overtones.

The Space Between Worlds - Mikaiah Johnson $£ !

Cara’s climbed out of the toxic slums and into a job as a traverser, visiting parallel worlds and capturing data. She’s this close to having all her dreams—and then she uncovers a murder.

Other

Blindsight - Peter Watts

An independent observer is sent on a first contact mission, but the aliens and the secrets on board push him into a completely different role. About perception and ethics more than anything else, and I nearly “shelved” it in the horror section.

Congo - Michael Crichton £*

A team of scientists push deep into the African jungle in search of a society of mythical sentient gorillas, but the jungle pushes back.

The Diamond Age, or, a Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer - Neal Stephenson £€

An inventor misplaces a one-of-a-kind book. A girl from the slums finds it and it changes her life. A nearly Dickensian future full of hope, tenacity, vim, and nanotech.

Eifelheim - Michael Flynn

An alien ship crashes in the medieval Black Forest and the village priest, steeped in heretical philosophy and medieval science, must intercede between the survivors and the peasants who see only demons.

The Martian - Andy Weir £

Mark Watney wakes up to find he’s been left behind on Mars. Fortunately he’s a botanist, he’s smart, and he has potatoes. A thrilling survival story paired with hilariously explained science that will leave you believing it already happened.

Passage - Connie Willis €

Joanna Lander is a psychologist studying near-death experiences, which is hard when you never know who in the hospital will have one. When a new (and cute) neurologist finds a way to induce them, she turns to the closest subject she can find—herself. The most heart-wrenching of Willis’s novels.

Shine - Jetse de Vries, ed. £

An anthology of optimistic, uplifting science fiction, with stories ranging from space opera to solarpunk and everything in between.

Snowcrash - Neal Stephenson £

Hiro Protagonist is the hacker’s hacker. There’s a virus in the Metaverse that’s killing people and he’s on the case. At least when he’s not delivering pizza. Both glorious cyberpunk and a send-up of the same.

[tamilhobbit]

Story Starters Meme

Tagged by @glorfindel-of-imladris

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!

Wow, 15 is a lot. Okay, I’m sticking to works that I’ve actually posted online, mostly because the unposted stuff was in a hard drive that is now broken and I’m still trying to salvage it. :( Also, there are various fandoms and pairings here, including some… odd ones. Don’t judge. Most of these were written in 2010-2012, when I was very into a particular rather niche fandom. This is actually kind of embarrassing.

1. Welcome to Imladris (Tolkien/LotR)

Eregion has fallen, and the refugees have fled to what was meant to be a military outpost and small settlement on the edge of Eriador. Imladris is as yet a collection of crude huts and tents and cookfires around the foundations of the central House and smaller dwellings, with livestock milling around and newly sown fields, but Erestor – lately of Lindon, now of Imladris – thinks it will become a fine Elven city, given time.

2. Chess Piece (Chronicles of Narnia)

Susan has just reached the well, leaning over to grasp the handle, when a small glint by her foot catches her eye. Frowning, she kneels and brushes aside the dirt and grass to pick the object up. It is an ornate, stylised golden horse with rubies for eyes – no, one ruby, the other seems to have fallen out. A chess-knight, she realises, rubbing dirt out of its indentations with her thumb.

3. Slytherin Vaguely Downwards (Good Omens/Harry Potter crossover AU)

Dear Professor Crowley,

   I regret to inform you that your application for the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts has been rejected. This is partly due to your stellar work as Potions Master in the last year and the lack of anyone to take over that post, and partly due to the presence of another, more eligible candidate for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.

4. The A-Z of Michael and Gabriel (Uh. Bible/angelology. Actually based on some AIM roleplay between me and a friend, which in turn was an offshoot of a vaguely Good Omens-based panfandom LiveJournal roleplay community we were in.)

 He misses Michael dreadfully; it is a dull ache that refuses to leave, and it only becomes worse when he can sense Michael nearby and must force himself to stay away.

5. A New Year (Same fandom. Ish. That roleplay comm issued writing challenges every now and then; this was A New Year, and I decided to go with ‘Biblical apocalyptic dystopia’.)

The end happens in winter. It is strangely fitting; after all, winter is death, but this time there are no hidden seeds of new life that will bloom in time.

6. Under the Rain (Same Bible/angel role-play. <_< )

Gabriel has read through the Hall of Being's initial reports on Weather. Therefore he knows that usually, if it is raining heavily, the sun cannot be seen.

7. Freedom to be Owned (Same, ish, though this features another of my RP characters with a different friend.)

Belial is still a little unsure about exactly what he has done – kissing, touching, caressing, he knows that, but this new slide of skin against skin is so much more – but whatever it is called, he wants more of it and often.

8. Belial’s Fall (Same, although it relies heavily on Neil Gaiman’s Murder Mysteries. Backstory of this particular character from #7.)

It would have been inaccurate to say that Belial had never meant to Fall; he had. He just hadn’t known what it was like, at the time; what it would feel like, what it entailed. What he would Fall from.

9. Challenge (Bible & apocrypha, influenced by Gaiman’s work and the Lucifer comics. Another LiveJournal writing challenge.)

The Earth is still new-made; with wisps of white clouds surrounding vibrant blues and greens and browns, it is the most beautiful of all the planets. On this, there is no dissent.

10. Bedtime Stories (Good Omens/Murder Mysteries/general Bible/apocrypha/angelology, written for my friend from the role-play-comm)

Night didn't exist yet, not as it would come to be known, but the soft glow of Heaven was muted, a dim amethyst light painting the silver spires of the City. In his room, the Archangel Michael was preparing to rest after a long day. He pulled on a comfortable tunic, twisting around sharply at the sound of a soft knock.

11. Eid ul-Fitr (backstory of my main character from that role-play, so Bible/apocrypha. In retrospect I’m really not pleased with this story.)

Contrary to popular belief, the desert was not always a land of blistering heat and scorching sands. In fact, it was rather cool during the dawn and dusk, and at night.

    It was not dusk yet, however, and Gabriel squinted against the sun, more for the benefit of the girl at his side than because it hurt his eyes.

    “This is reckless and dangerous, Sultana,” he murmured.

    “You help me escape my other minders, and then warn me? You are a conflicted man, Jibril.”

12. Untitled smutfic (I, um. Yeah. Same role-play.)

White sheets bunching up beneath Gabriel’s back, callused fingers skittering lightly over his skin, a warm chest pressed flush against his own, heated lips at the juncture of neck and jaw; every sensation is amplified, and he wants to give voice to this but all that comes out is a soft moan.

13. Public Display (Same deal. <_< )

Michael slowly moves his lips across Gabriel’s pale skin, drinking in the smell and taste, revelling in it, in the soft, choked-off sound he elicits. Fingers clench in his curly hair, tightening before releasing, moving down to his neck and dragging him up for a proper kiss.

14. Light (Same, ish, written for a different friend and based on another writing meme. Crackfic.)

Gabriel had never thought he’d say this, but Lux really was their last resort. At least temporarily.

15. Tears (Same. Roleplay character, Bible, actual history this time [conquistadores, historical massacre]. Written for a writing meme.)

It is warm and humid, the heat not helped by the huge bonfire burning in the middle of the town. A scrap of mulberry-bark paper escapes the fires, flying up towards the pale young man in priest’s robes standing nearby.

 … So apparently I like writing in the present tense.I don’t really know who to tag, so if you’re a writer and you want to do this meme, have at it!

[laniakeabooks]

February Wrap-Up

I technically read 12 books this month, four of which were novellas, and since said novellas have been compiled into one collection I’ll count all four of them as one (even though I did read them all individually). So, that said, I read 8 books this month!

Gasp by Lisa McMann - ⭐⭐⭐

After narrowly surviving two harrowing tragedies, Jules now fully understands the importance of the visions that she and people around her are experiencing. She’s convinced that if the visions passed from her to Sawyer after she saved him, then they must now have passed from Sawyer to one of the people he saved.

That means it’s up to Jules to figure out which of the school shooting survivors is now suffering from visions of another crisis. And once she realizes who it is, she has to convince that survivor that this isn't all crazy—that the images are of something real. Something imminent.

As the danger escalates more than ever before in the conclusion to the Visions series, Jules wonders if she'll finally find out why and how this is happening—before it's too late to prevent disaster.

 Good conclusion to the Visions series. I really didn’t like how Jules was so hell-bent on saving perfect strangers but then essentially hated her dad for being mentally ill (namely depressed). If anything, it was her dad who needed saving the most, and unfortunately, she didn’t make the character arc to that realization.

 Delirium by Lauren Oliver – ⭐⭐⭐

 In an alternate United States, love has been declared a dangerous disease, and the government forces everyone who reaches eighteen to have a procedure called the Cure. Living with her aunt, uncle, and cousins in Portland, Maine, Lena Haloway is very much looking forward to being cured and living a safe, predictable life. She watched love destroy her mother and isn't about to make the same mistake.

But with ninety-five days left until her treatment, Lena meets enigmatic Alex, a boy from the "Wilds" who lives under the government's radar. What will happen if they do the unthinkable and fall in love?

 I remember DNFing this book a few years ago, but it was mostly because I wasn’t into reading as much back then. But I finally got to this OG YA book and finally understand the hype that surrounded it back in the times of The Hunger Games, Divergent, etc. This is a much less gruesome dystopia, but a scary concept non the less. I can’t imagine not being allowed to love my family or my friends.

 The One Memory of Flora Banks by Emily Barr - ⭐⭐⭐

 Seventeen-year-old Flora Banks has no short-term memory. Her mind resets itself several times a day, and has since the age of ten, when the tumor that was removed from Flora’s brain took with it her ability to make new memories. That is, until she kisses Drake, her best friend’s boyfriend, the night before he leaves town. Miraculously, this one memory breaks through Flora’s fractured mind, and sticks. Flora is convinced that Drake is responsible for restoring her memory and making her whole again. So when an encouraging email from Drake suggests she meet him on the other side of the world, Flora knows with certainty that this is the first step toward reclaiming her life.

With little more than the words “be brave” inked into her skin, and written reminders of who she is and why her memory is so limited, Flora sets off on an impossible journey to Svalbard, Norway—the land of the midnight sun—determined to find Drake. But from the moment she arrives in the Arctic, nothing is quite as it seems, and Flora must “be brave” if she is ever to learn the truth about herself, and to make it safely home.

 I... what...? This book went in so many different directions very quickly. I don't know of I like how it went, but it did evoke some emotions which is a sign that the book did something right, especially since I rarely get emotional over books.

 Pandemonium by Lauren Oliver - ⭐⭐⭐

 The old life is dead. But the old Lena is dead too. I buried her. I left her beyond a fence, behind a wall of smoke and flame. In this electrifying follow-up to her acclaimed New York Times bestseller Delirium, Lauren Oliver sets Lena on a dangerous course that hurtles through the unregulated Wilds and into the heart of a growing resistance movement. This riveting, brilliant novel crackles with the fire of fierce defiance, forbidden romance, and the sparks of a revolution about to ignite.

 I decided I’m just going to marathon this entire series, novellas included, and I’ll just write a review on the entire series as opposed to writing a little blurb for every book.

 Annabel by Lauren Oliver – ⭐⭐⭐

 Lena Halloway's mother, Annabel, supposedly committed suicide when Lena was only six years old. That's the lie that Lena grew up believing, but the truth is very different. As a rebellious teenager, Annabel ran away from home and straight into the man she knew she was destined to marry. The world was different then—the regulations not as stringent, the cure only a decade old. Fast forward to the present, and Annabel is consigned to a dirty prison cell, where she nurtures her hope of escape and scratches one word over and over into the walls: Love.

But Annabel, like Lena, is a fighter. Through chapters that alternate between her past and present, Annabel reveals the story behind her failed cures, her marriage, the births of her children, her imprisonment, and, ultimately, her daring escape.

 “Delirium book 0.5”, I will include my thoughts on this novella in my series wrap up.

 Alex by Lauren Oliver - ⭐⭐⭐

 When Alex sacrificed himself to save Lena, he thought he was committing himself to certain death, but what he got was almost worse. Imprisoned and tortured by the guards, his mind forces him to relive a past he would rather forget. But in the dark he grows stronger. Both hopeful and terrified, he fights to find his way back to her and the love he still clings to.

In this digital story that will appeal to fans of Delirium and welcome new admirers to its world, readers will learn of Alex's time after the events of Delirium, as well as the dark past that he has tried to forget.

 “Delirium book 1.1”, I will include my thoughts on this novella in my series wrap up.

 Hana by Lauren Oliver - ⭐⭐⭐

 The summer before they're supposed to be cured of the ability to love, best friends Lena and Hana begin to drift apart. While Lena shies away from underground music and parties with boys, Hana jumps at her last chance to experience the forbidden. For her, the summer is full of wild music, dancing—and even her first kiss.

But on the surface, Hana must be a model of perfect behavior. She meets her approved match, Fred Hargrove, and glimpses the safe, comfortable life she’ll have with him once they marry. As the date for her cure draws ever closer, Hana desperately misses Lena, wonders how it feels to truly be in love, and is simultaneously terrified of rebelling and of falling into line.

 “Delirium Book 1.5”, I will include my thoughts on this novella in my series wrap up.

 Raven by Lauren Oliver - ⭐⭐⭐

 As a teenager, Raven made the split-second decision to flee across the border to the Wilds, compelled to save an abandoned newborn—a baby girl left for dead and already blue from the cold. When she and the baby are taken in by a band of rebels, Raven finds herself an outsider within a tight-knit group. The only other newcomer is an untrustworthy boy known as the Thief until he finally earns himself a new name: Tack.

Now she and Tack are inseparable, committed to each other, the fledgling rebellion, and a future together. But as they both take center stage in the fight, Raven must decide whether the dangers of the revolution are worth risking her dreams of a peaceful life with Tack.

As her story hurtles back and forth between past and present, Raven transforms from a scared girl newly arrived in the Wilds to the tough leader who helps Lena save former Deliria-Free poster boy Julian Fineman from a death sentence. Whatever the original mission may have been, Raven abides by a conviction that she believes to her core: You always return for the people you love.

 “Delirium Book 2.5”, I will include my thoughts on this novella in my series wrap up.

 Requiem by Lauren Oliver - ⭐⭐⭐

 Now an active member of the resistance, Lena has transformed. The nascent rebellion that was underway in Pandemonium has ignited into an all-out revolution in Requiem, and Lena is at the center of the fight. After rescuing Julian from a death sentence, Lena and her friends fled to the Wilds. But the Wilds are no longer a safe haven. Pockets of rebellion have opened throughout the country, and the government cannot deny the existence of Invalids. Regulators infiltrate the borderlands to stamp out the rebels.

As Lena navigates the increasingly dangerous terrain of the Wilds, her best friend, Hana, lives a safe, loveless life in Portland as the fiancée of the young mayor. Requiem is told from the perspectives of both Lena and her friend Hana. They live side by side in a world that divides them until, at last, their stories converge.

I’ll really get into it in my series review but, wHAT KIND OF A FUCKING ENDING WAS THAT???

 Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer by Katie Alender - ⭐⭐⭐

 Colette Iselin is excited to go to Paris on a class trip. She’ll get to soak up the beauty and culture, and maybe even learn something about her family’s French roots.

But gruesome murders are taking place across the city, putting everyone on edge. And Colette keeps seeing a strange vision: a pale woman in a ball gown and powdered wig, who looks suspiciously like Marie Antoinette.

Colette knows her popular, status-obsessed friends won’t believe her, so she seeks out the help of a charming French boy. Together, they uncover a shocking secret involving a dark, hidden history. When Colette realizes she herself may hold the key to the mystery, her own life is in danger…

 I read these books purely for shits and giggles, and I think if you go into this expecting just that, you won’t be disappointed.

 Archangel’s Storm by Nalini Singh - ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

 With wings of midnight and an affinity for shadows, Jason courts darkness. But now, with the Archangel Neha’s consort lying murdered in the jewel-studded palace that was his prison and her rage threatening cataclysmic devastation, Jason steps into the light, knowing he must unearth the murderer before it is too late.

Earning Neha’s trust comes at a price—Jason must tie himself to her bloodline through the Princess Mahiya, a woman with secrets so dangerous, she trusts no one. Least of all an enemy spymaster.

With only their relentless hunt for a violent, intelligent killer to unite them, Jason and Mahiya embark on a quest that leads to a centuries-old nightmare… and to the dark storm of an unexpected passion that threatens to drench them both in blood.

 I just love this whole series. I was missing my fave Illium but you know what, this book gave me a whole new appreciation for Jason. Also, I discovered I love Mahiya so yeah, all in all, me happy!

 Number of books read: 8

Number of pages read: 2647 Average rating: 3.2

Favourite book this month: Archangel’s Storm. As I said, I adore this series and will continue on with the… billions of other books Nalini pumps out.

Least favourite book this mouth: Requiem. I was just so disappointed in the end to that entire series…

 See a book you’d like a review for in depth? Let me know!

Keep up with me on Goodreads! (https://www.goodreads.com/LaniakeaBooks)

[beardcore-blog]

the day the horses drink from the trough

PRESS PLAY

lizzo SOULMATE

**********

one of the great myths in the NEO american empire of the misled is "the forever man".

this myth is literally crammed down the throats of the tiniest children in much the same way that people shove cornmeal down the throats of ducks and geese and cows to make them taste sweeter while killing them softly, lol.

the princess syndrome is so out of control now that any sense of an actual republic is long gone. but "the forever man" myth hasn’t changed.

young children are still taught that they must become parents, and i think we all know that parenting is one of the most BASIC TOOLS that the usurers can use to create loan debt. parenting is a very thankless job as well, so you get debt slavery and sht hours and there’s that baby that you can’t get rid of… or maybe you like your kid. lucky kid!!! but even though you like that kid, you will NOT be there in every moment and they will be neglected and abandoned to fate. so pray that your little one becomes a real princess or a true knight.

i’m not sure what the male dynamic is because little boys are so weaponized to create hostility that they always go for the swords and the guns to wreak havoc. nice work, parents!!!! way to create fake gender separation. pat yourself on the back for that one.

but we all got stuck with the breakage and wreckage of the "love that never dies" obligation to seek and find. i was oppressed by it as a child. it actually seemed like the coolest thing about the western dogma from religion — faith and love and unionizing.

of course, my strange and "briefly but permanently" mangled childhood proves how easy it is to destroy a child in really a mere matter of seconds. way to go, mom!!!

so naturally i have been weirdly taken with aldous huxley’s beautiful utopian dream that does not actually take place in his bitter and sad criticism of "the jews" (not to be confused with the jewish people in the same way that radical islamists are not a reflection of true path of the muslim journey — i note this because anti-semitism at that time in europe post wwi was at an all time high with printing criticism and outrage. anti-semitism was like a genre in a modern day bookstore it was so popular and had so many writings. picture that cowboy western section and the science fiction section and then the anti-semetic section.), fascist/idealistic germans and the north american noble savage.

all of that was a bitter pill for me. i literally was physically ill through sections of the book. it was a visceral experience that went beyond reading. it was an education.

but on the sidelines of the book was this curtain that had been pulled back on monumental ideas. it was like we were on the willy wonka factory tour and we’re in that massive cathedral of candy with an eternally churning chocolate fountain that sucks up agustus gloop and swooshes him away. and right at the moment every single person on the tour starts to formulate the actual "dangers" involved in this strange sugary fantasyscape.

but i was ready for the camera to ditch the sugarland phenomenon. i wanted to see where augustus gloop had gone and just how deep did this playland of machinery and artificial replication go. i was ready for a different kind of tour of the factory. talk about a psychotic dystopia…

plus, in huxley’s world, the glimpses that we get are very grown up and cool. they are not the childlike entrapping of a story for kids. it’s older, it’s stabilized. people of all people get along as one through class separatism. and a history of fulfillment through separation. we are told that each caste is trained to be content with their occupation in life and some are even dumbed down with alcohol in the birthing jars.

and this was an inceptive vision of the dawning corporate heirarchy/caste system of order/need. we are starting to experience its arrival. but in the novel, these were birth classes. everyone was born into their position.

further, these "corporatized classes" were arranged with the "controllers" and/or philosopher kings at the top and the class system below it with the alphas at the top of the class system. the alphas were all male and they were NOT clones. the betas are the female member of the caste which the alphas belong to in the novel and are NOT clones. but all the other caste systems were bred and manufactured to maintain different aspects of the system’s needs. they were all clones.

throughout the novel huxley continuously promotes the virtues of the THREE FOUNDATIONS for a great society:

identity, community, stability

and huxley presented ideas that blatantly/openly stated how evil it was to separate kids from self discovery and liberty and that by not allowing them to explore each others bodies and touch one another we were creating a repressed/suppressed curiosity that would grow like a monster inside the child — a childish expression that is encouraged through taboo.

and that’s pretty bold philosophy.

further, and logically, he presented a society that wasn’t afraid of children never having parents but rather, cherished the idea of each one growing up protected and looked over by people who loved their job of caring for little ones and they didn’t abuse them or prohibit the kids from discovery themselves.

and each one was genetically crafted and modified to fit perfectly into their role within the greater whole. this was the utopia. the novel, however, skitters all over the place like a drunken car crash. the passengers are not reflective of the society. instead they are are a TRINITY list of the "unusual suspects", the "anti-society types" through no real fault of their own, the anomalies, those who didn’t fit in — as explored through the sexual relationships of one woman. she bangs all of them.

which is weird because you never hear anyone talk about that. so my version™ would put her into the HERO BOX™ of the what used to be called a PROTAGONIST — see how lost we are?!??! a hero and a protagonist are not the same thing. and a soldier and a hero are not the same thing. unless you literally change the meaning of the word. a hero is someone who accomplishes a series of strange feats/tasks or labors. a soldier is someone who is willing to kill in exchange for commodities/livelihood.

take it up with the dictionary. i’m not making this up.

PRESS PLAY FOR MORE GOOD FUN from GALANTIS

anyway, the "star" of this series™ is not a hero because there is no such thing as heroes in BRAVE NEW WORLD. the mantra of IDENTITY, COMMUNITY, STABILITY is so deep that the society requires no heroes, no vigilantes, no protectorates, no nuclear arms.

and it would be the same story but it would be seen through her world and the experiences she was having simultaneously during the novel. like the film about jesus’ younger brother Agape who was away at college when jesus was a killed™ and the netflix film series™ would dive away from the very tiny blip of interest huxley’s novel provides.

not that it isn’t a great novel, it’s just that huxley was an intellectual surgeon and his storytelling feels very sterile, but the magnificent visions of the future that he is able to relay through description and attention to detail is brilliant even if it’s not the best writing.

and it is this world that is the skeleton of his novel. and the skeleton needs to be studied.

he’s given us the foundations and he’s created his own maps and he’s acutely aware of the beauty of the new mexican landscape and topography.

so instantly we know he’s got a crush on the noble savage whereas, personally, i’m more interested in hanging out with a beta and seeing what her best expectations are like in this fantastical land™. and the story was kind of about a beta in a very backward kind of way. and it was also about two types of failed alphas and then a hippie jesus guy from the "reservations".

but the novel does some time skipping and the tour doesn’t really take us much further than that disturbing garden that the the tour creeps up on.

aldous kind of magically skips from age four to the adults, so that’s a bit too fast on the timeline for me — where’s the COMMUNITY?!?!?! he picks up on this concept later in his book ISLAND — but i still kind of agree with him that really little kids should be allowed to discover each other physically and without the judgement parents impose and overimpose so fast. we are mistaken in sexualizing this curiosity. we make it rapey. we use our adult minds to be like "OH!!! RAPE, my baby’s a rapist", or "oh no, that little baby boy played with another little boy".

aldous suggested that this form of exploration was essential to humans understanding and experiencing themselves EARLY ON without the sexual element being present or worse, present and mature. further, that this exploration would lead toward a differnt developmental attitude which would in turn allow a society to bypass future rape and sexual misconduct breaches.

but his ideas were too radical for people in his time. they still are. considering what a powerful novel it is, when it was written and the brilliant ideas that are tossed around like a juggler who is bouncing balls and torches and chain saws of the walls of a racquetball court while teaching you squash at the same time, it doesn’t get much play.

he was, after all, such a BRIT who had been notoriously kicked out of his social life circle in england for writing hilarious tell-all novels about the people closest to him. so they’d given him the outcast card and he’d fled (as fast as a mostly blind man with a lesbian wife can flee) to new mexico in the post wwi era, near the future site of the u.s. secret city/laboratory, los alamos. and from there, hollywood by 1932, i think.

what a great story he lived as well, not just tripping out on acid as he died, but also his first wife hunting beautiful women for the two of them to share, and the screenplays, the vast library of single print editions by other famous poets and playwrights and novelists sent to him for his approval. and then his second wife, the beautiful violinist who escape that terrible canyon fire that obliterated all those never-to-be-written-again books, all those manuscripts, all those precious writings that vanished beneath the terrible heat. and she, taking only her Stradivarius, walking out knowing everything would burn. letting go. giving it up to the fire.

forever people.

we wish.

but there is no forever man. there is no living jesus. all things die.

and true love is more like paying attnention. like that nun says in "lady bird". true love isn’t sexual. true love may not even know itself. true love might just be paying attention and feeling joy? the joy of paying attention.

and i know how much we all long to feel joy when paying attention. and in an age of POST-DISTRACTION awakenings, isn’t it time you told your daughters that marriage is an OPTION. that having kids is an OPTION. that giving up your life to fulfill some fake darwinian NONSENSE is an OPTION.

but so is living your own life and having no one else that you’ve created. and so is fighting for new models of PROCREATION that don’t involve failing parents, parents that never wanted kids and people who can’t afford kids.

parents are most often the worst thing about kids. so don’t be afraid to tell your kids that you failed and how. maybe they even remember it and have blamed themselves.

and if all you can give your son is a gun or a truck or a logic game, you’re definitely part of the problem. it’s vastly unfair to use gender foolishness to masculinize a child. it distorts the idea of masculinity like a mental disorder in the same manner that physical sexual abuse destroys young children. they are both attacks against the child’s being.

we do our best to protect kids against the predators of the body, but we do very little protect our children from the predators of the mind and the consumer usurers who are taking the kids earlier and earlier.

who knows, maybe one day the movie of the book will be made. we live in a perfect time for it to just skip straight away from the book and into the BRAVE NEW WORLD right after the visitors on the tour see where the little kids are intermingling without any kind of ADULT IMPOSED intrusions.

the great thing about the BRAVE NEW WORLD was that the rapey issue had been addressed and fully considered. the society was developed around the understandings of sexual co-mingling without parentalizing adults.

since most of humanity ALLEGEDLY has a very low intellectual focus & MOST people don’t actively seek to better and improve their intelligence — this is not my fact, it’s how "they" talk about the 99%ers — it is easy to distract the general populace with "material gain" greed games and after life myths and unfulfillable promises like the forever man.

even now, fully ready to fall asleep again after being "awake" for so fking long, even now i still want the person i thought of to be my forever man.

i want him so bad. but he was never that man in real life. he was never the fake version of him that was presented. and that’s what kills me the most. i supported the lies without knowing it. i felt misled and bushwacked. not victimized, just super aware that i had participated in the set-up and had no grounds for complaint. i spent my liberty and freedom of time and it was gone. and he felt stronger and freer (which is good and i’m glad of that).

but in the process we burned through each other and the lies and the falsehoods and the deceptions and the weaknesses all became exposed and destroyed in the fire. he was never the forever man in the first place. and that’s the rub. the forever man isn’t a person. there is no forever man.

in that moment the forever man became a concept for me, a trap that so many others fall into as well. and then we fall out of it. a lot of people return to it, but that’s usually because they can’t see the permanent break.

so now, suddenly, there was this permanent break and it was known to both of us.

granted, at first i found this confusing. naively, i had always assumed the permanent break was already there. didn’t everyone know this intuitively? i hadn’t realize that this wasn’t a universal understanding. but, i only say this because i learned it from people who are born alone. they say it over and over again.

i was born a twin and i don’t think that the "born alone" perspective is "all there is" as much as it is "all that most people have access to, therefore"…

but i learned about the "permanent break" from people born alone. twins are generally super optimistic. and i’m guessing on this because i can imagine a family that takes joy in their twins and understands that they might be a little different. my parents made a permanent break with me. an unrecoverable intentional break.

and then, through a long process of hop-scotch education through the west coast public and private christian schools in north and south california, voila! aware of humans and how they formulate their kindnesses and their goodnesses.

so when i heard about the permanent break thing AT THIS STAGE IN THE GAME, i was a bit taken about. it was one of those horrible realizations where your mind goes all bird’s eye view and geomapping and speeds through all manner of timelines and conjugations and starts the "murder board" with the new thread.

you can visually see the wasted time as chunks of LIFE. tetris LIFE chunks filled with remembrances just "disappearing" the value of memories instantly. a radical cross-platform devaluation of emotional assets. worse than zero. worse than no memories at all.

and that’s when you realize that a rug has been pulled out from under you and your grand designs. it’s the dreadfulness of false manifestations, the celebrants of what you thought was genuine were really bound up in a bottomless sadness and a burning flame with their own downward spiral dance.

it’s that startling and irreversible moment when you realize that your eyes and your heart and the assurances of another had been used quite shamelessly to proliferate a bizarre and untrue fantasy.

and worse, it was TRULY the revelation that i had wanted but not with a ghost!!! not with a dancing apparition! not the hollow man!!! oh fk, not the hollow man!!

and so now i’m doomed to still want the forever man that i had created with my expectations and then with my desires and then was slowly filleted by…

or maybe it was more like the sides of my neck were slashed open to make gills. because i do feel lucky. the charade could have taken longer and bigger chunks of my life. and i had a great time in the delusion and i liked working for a relationship.

sometimes the process of aging is a vinting metaphor and sometimes it’s a venting metaphor. sometimes it’s all about the air and the breath.

either way, it wasn’t my first relationship and it gave me an opportunity to see whether or not relationshipping was even in accordance with my nature and liberty. could i be happy without unionizing?

and the answer is yes. or, at least, it’s a great position to be in.

there is a freedom to participate in life that comes from being a part of it without being forced to protect offspring and develop those kinds of natural enmities against your "greatest predator", men. that’s a lovely start to things. almost as fun as the fake "virigin" girl claiming it’s god’s baby. or worse, everyone forgetting that "god’s baby" meant bastard offspring.

PRESS PLAY for some louder harder better from galantis

whatever, it doesn’t matter, i feel lucky to have had a forever man and to be able to write a more complicated story of "royal romance" than the childish ones we tell other people’s children and even our own children.

the corporatized children’s engineering factories are already in their late pre-testing phases.

BUT, a bit of forewarning to those who would be wise when it matters, i was punished for my childish expectations. i lost everything i gave. and i lost the time it took to give it. there was no reward. no dividends. no happy ever after. it was just business in the end.

and the whole time i had believed my eyes and my ears and listened and had tried to hold up the "we". but it was hard. there was permanent breakage from the start, not the end. he was full of grief and loss. he was too needy. but i thought he was consciously aware of all these things.

so when we were dating, i thought he knew about the permanent break. he was so far away from everybody. he was deep in the valley of the permanent break trying to find his way to sea-level. like a crushed flashcard on the side of the road in death valley.

in that there was the permanent break. we were choosing to try to have a relationship despite the permanent break that existed between people. he had come to me and plied me with the tale of his sister’s suicide. he pulled me into his sorrow spiral because i had told him several months before she killed herself that he should come out to her. she was a lesbian and felt entirely alone in the world and i begged him to reach out to her and share with her that he was gay.

but he didn’t. he had this way of never doing anything i suggested and then blaming me later about "advice" that he would get when he had come back to ask for "advice" after not doing what i had suggested after being asked. it was all a bit dislocating for me

and i give him credit for being clear and levelheaded about it in the end, but he couldn’t undo the damage that i was doing to myself for being such a fking fool.

no version of "sorry, i used you" or "let’s be friends" would ever replace the amount of time he took from my life while the veneer of his "forever man" status diminished in front of me until finally it occurred to me to ask him on the phone one day, long after we’d broken up if his current boyfriend was okay with these calls. i asked because it had also dawned on me that he’d specifically asked me to give him a call and do check-ins every couple of weeks, "are you allowed to talk to me? is your man okay with that?"

and he admitted that they had agreed that he wouldn’t call me. at which point i was like, "oh, i see, so this is like cheating. great, gotta go, man. i just wish you’d be honest. and free. you know that’s what i always wanted for you. i told you that over and over."

and we’ve never connected since. such a drag. and this is the danger of relationships.

you can lose years of your life, but even more important, you can lose WINDOWS of your life.

the years are just time, but the windows are specific ages where wonderful and amazing things can happen that cannot happen during other windows of your life.

besides, relationships TAX you. they TRULY add surcharges and time-penalties to your existence. there will no end of speed bumps and dependency is anti-liberty at its core, so the struggle to be free cannot be achieved unless all parties of the relationship are unionized. and that’s business contracting, which is an artifice. grammatically speaking, relationships are duty bound and come with obligatory submissions of personal liberty.

who’d sign up for that?

as if that isn’t enough, relationships will steal your experiences and replace them SHARED memories. and on the surface this sounds great. but that depends on the how the shared memories end up affecting the relationship.

shared memories are indeed precious and the best ones are the ones that you cherish. but after a separation, the best memories are the ones that work as triggers for your sorrow or anger or grief or devastation. the best memories become the worst.

i knew a woman in grad school who had come out as a lesbian. her name was ceebs. and she was a quirky writer with an irish background and we we’re both from san diego where her dad had been police chief or something along those lines. and she’d grown up repressing a lot of stuff. i’d done the same thing until i decided that living a lie was so ordinary and that NO ONE in the whole history of western writing had ever said, "just be a liar. lie to everybody. tell them what they want to hear. then lie about that later."

she used to often say that the thing you really liked about a person and were drawn to about them would become the thing you ended up resenting them for and perhaps even disliking about them.

so it sucks if you hear a bunch of lies up front and then they unravel around you to become the thing you end up resenting. that’s a tough one. and the irony is that lying never ends. it just keeps reinventing itself.

on the other hand, in total fairness, ALL western literature has been littered with the ruins of people’s lies and the horrible effect that lying had on so many people’s lives. and not inadvertently, heaven becomes this place where the lies are all put back together in front of you.

contemporary christianity became so zealous it started to formulate this notion (an entirely post-television & televangelistic fantasy) about how you’d stand in judgement and your entire life would be played back to you. and you thought andy warhol’s film "SLEEP" was long and boring:

"John Giorno has said Warhol asked him to star in Sleep over Memorial Day Weekend in 1963, when the two retreated to the countryside and Warhol spent the night watching Giorno sleep. “I looked over and there was Andy in the bed next to me, his head propped up on his arm, wide-eyed from speed, looking at me,” Giorno later relayed. "

born a twin, i think my big one wish would be that i DO get to this illusory JUDGEMENT ZONE where god and his posse replay my life to see if i was good enough to get in the the party called heaven.

but, typical me, i could give a sht about the party called heaven. i want access to my unknown life. i want to watch my birth and everything after like a fking drone camera that i can move around and zoom in or rewind. i want to see what happened to me when i was left unattended. i want to see the things i already have been told happened and then re-lied to about it.

i have the cobwebs of all these weird myths that humans create in order to justify PARENTHOOD.

we don’t need parents. science and the bible have proven that parents are unnecessary and obsolete.

unfortunately pedophiles and religious structures/foundations/corporations and "neo colonist governments" will want to self-protect against this accord.

they want you debt-enslaved with college loans, home loans, bundled family plan phones and car loans.

but that won’t pay for the loans after the entire shipping and distributing INTERCONTINENTAL economy lays off all the drivers and starts running AUTOKAR in a color-coded lane that only AUTOKAR (pilotless vehicle) can use.

that’s a lot of truckers nationwide all hopped on speed and suddenly without jobs?? is this part of the MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN strategy? shall we name that condition/state right now?

maybe we could call it THE AUTOKAR METH SHADOW.

so keep your eyes open. maybe it will never, ever, ever, ever happen.

or, give that "new utopia glimpse" a try. read huxley’s book BRAVE NEW WORLD. it’s a deeply fascinating look into miranda’s query: "O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in’t! (5.1.215-218) — the tempest

happy birthday. i hope you’re free and happy.

Posted by torbakhopper on 2007-04-03 17:03:24

Tagged: , like horses waiting for the gates to open , tulip , macro , flower , torbakhopper , scott , richard , photographer

The post the day the horses drink from the trough appeared first on Good Info.

[ecotone99]

[SF] The Road to Hell is Through Kentucky

“Criminal Record?”, asked a highway billboard of James as he drove by. It was only after he’d passed it and cranked the radio up contemptuously that the sign’s red-lettered answer registered: “No pardon - only job! Call us!” A moment later, he was coating his borrowed ride in limestone dust with a wide 180, moving the transmission to protest as he turned. He steadied, facing the sign’s rear in silhouette, as the early evening sun stung his eyeballs. He grabbed his mom’s sunglasses from the console and got back up to speed.

A text alert sang out from his days-old phone as he pulled up across from the billboard. Seeing its preview from his lock screen, he sighed at the thought of reading it all and turned the engine off. Hey James, your mom gave me your number. I knew you and Tim were close and it was good to see u today-

A message from another world. One where driving high was a fact of life, and if people perished, God must have needed another angel. He wondered why they didn’t speak of God’s need for their man-slaughtered victims too - wouldn’t they need less reforming in heaven anyways? At least Tim had only killed concrete, and himself, and good on him for avoiding the condescending treatment by dying. That, and Kentucky. If only James had had the privilege…

He called the billboard’s number in a hurry.

“New Pathways Employment Services - how may I help you?” the exotic-for-Kentucky woman chirped.

“Uh, hi, yeah, uh, I saw your billboard and called about work. I have a record.”

“Great! So, I just need some information from you. You’re calling from where, sir?”

“Kentucky. Richmond’s where I’m closest to for big cities-”

“Good, good. Just needing to know which office to transfer you to, you’re good to hold?”

James checked his battery. This new thing was a tank.

“Yeah. Can you not play music though?”

“I’m afraid that’s automated, sir. I’ve heard worse holding music myself, though. Good luck with the position!”

“Thanks. You t...fuck.”

James flicked the phone to speaker and let it sing jazz in the passenger seat where his suit jacket lay crumpled. Even the birds were quiet, like an audience of kids for a transistor radio ball game.

At least you got invited.

And at least he got to see Tim’s parents, who actually gave a shit that he was still sober and had bothered to come out.

“Hello?” a man asked from James’s phone.

“Oh, hi,” James answered, seizing the phone and switching it off of speaker. “This is the Richmond office for New Pathways?”

“It certainly is! I am the HR coordinator here. You’re interested in working for us?”

“Yes. I could use that, yessir.”

“Well - you’re in luck. We call ourselves research, but really, that does us a disservice. We got federal funding, we got pay for you, obviously, and we’re even helping out this beautiful country.”

“Amazing! So - what needs to happen on my end?”

“We would just have to meet up in person to go over a few things. Confirm your record - maybe a first for you - and make sure you are up to the task as a participant.”

“I’m up to anything. I need the work, obviously, but I’m also glad if other people can be helped.”

“So are we...so are we. And we will. How is tomorrow, the Monday then, for you, uh…”

“James. James Alexander.”

“Alright, Mr. Alexander. You name a time, and we’re over at 584 McArthur Road here in town.”

“I can do noon.”

“Beautiful. You have yourself a good night then, Mr. Alexander.”

“Night.”

The sunset was warm as James slumped in his seat to smile at it.

/

New Pathways’ office building loomed like a new law firm; the glasswork must have used up a small beach. James braced himself and walked through into its drafty lobby, where a young man in the middle of the lobby glanced up from his typing to ask James:

“How can I help you today, sir?”

“I’m here for a noon appointment with New Pathways, with your HR person.”

The secretary kept typing at half-speed with one hand and pushed a separate button with the other.

“I’ve let Mr. Wilson know you’re here. Would you care to take a seat, and grab yourself a water or a coffee if you’d care to? He’ll be down right away.”

“Yeah, sure, sounds good.”

The seating area was an island of clutter off to the side of the bare foyer. Its resident coffee pot was burned to a crisp, and the seating was sparse. Still, James helped himself to coffee and picked up an old Psychology Today to read in a patterned armchair.

“Psychopaths Among Us! The New Norm?” read its title on top of a photograph of a pretty woman holding a mask of her face. James cracked a smile. Happily, as the title story soon told him, there was no literal danger of increasing psychopathy among humanity. The more pressing challenge was children raised right acting wrong and not understanding what they’d done wrong quite well enough. The article’s last segment had a picture of a priest, sans mask, talking about the importance of community - though quickly clarifying that this did not need to come from a church. His unpictured fellow, a school principal, expressed the same sentiment.

“Mr. Alexander?”

James dropped the magazine to meet the HR person, who seemed younger than James even, and had an honest-looking face.

“Yes…” James stood for a handshake, “You’re Mr. Wilson, the HR guy?”

Wilson smiled.

“Something like that. It’s good to see someone reading those things. Are you a psychology buff?”

“I took some in college. I like how they can present it so simply, you know? It’s different from reading however many news articles on my phone that have different conclusions…”

“I hear ya...are you good with some stairs?”

“Lead the way.”

The second floor was denser, save for a couple expansive board rooms. Wilson led him to a modest office at the very end of the hall.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like!” Wilson said with a flourish, giving the option of two whole chairs. James sat down in the straight-backed one while his interviewer settled in behind his desk.

“So…” Wilson began with a smile, “I am so excited to have you with us. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of questions, but I felt like a brief introduction to what we do could be helpful to start - I’m guessing you saw the billboard?” James nodded.

“That’s quite an approach to branding. How many other desperate bastards have ended up in here?” That won him a laugh.

“We have had a few. Though - and this may sound like a lot at once - you seem more promising than most. That’s not me being intuitive or flattering you, full disclosure. We work with the criminal justice system and have read the basics of your case, as well as the kind of man you’ve been since.”

James bristled. “Well I’m glad at least you think I’m promising, based on that. No other employer has cared enough to see the change. ‘Recovered felon’ is really only a badge of honour in movies.”

“I know. Whereas for us, it’s a big deal.” Wilson clicked his pen and scribbled a note on a clipboard. “Have you ever heard of H-A-T-T?”

“That’s not a familiar acronym. Is that a therapy? A procedure?”

“Yes and yes. I’d be concerned if you knew it, so you’re likely not a liar. In short - it is about transference of feelings with a clear goal in mind.” It was James’s turn to laugh.

“You can do that? Chemically? That seems neurologically impossible and/or dangerous for both parties…”

“Don’t forget how we actually used to put people on antidepressants, James. The limits of what works and does not work are always changing...”

“Well, fuck me. That does sound useful. Outside of how it could be abused. Seems like a short walk to dystopia from a world in which that’s possible.”

“You’re not wrong.”

James eyed an old-school portrait above and behind his interviewer. There was a likeness there, though the painted figure had a chest full of war medals.

“Is that guy a relative?” James asked. Wilson smiled.

“He was my father.”

“I’m sorry...when did he pass?”

“Two years ago.” Wilson turned, pen in hand, and pointed at his Dad’s likeness.

“He’s maybe even worth discussing here. This is what I mean. People I’ve interviewed thus far wouldn’t even have asked that. How do you suppose someone who wears all those medals ends up dead in his 50’s? It’s not a trick question.” And still, there was no good answer to it.

“Is it stereotyping to assume he killed himself?”

“Yes...but as usual, you’re not wrong. He had a mini-Rwanda type situation back in Yemen, where there was ethnic cleansing happening and the UN were cowards.”

“Shit.” “Indeed. And he didn’t write a memoir or end up telling middle schools about it, he just ate a gun one day. Unnecessary guilt. Doesn’t much matter to the brain if it’s unwarranted, right?”

“Right.” The coffee was scalding. James set it down.

“And that’s kind of where this all started for me. I was so goddamn pissed that someone like him would die when other people can’t feel appropriately guilty for anything. Not that you’re one of those, so far as I can see.” Wilson stood up and went over to the window, overlooking an empty park and streets full of traffic. “And I figured, what if people were to feel what they were supposed to feel? What could that look like?”

“You have my interest peaked, at least.”

“And as it turned out - I’ve worked in ‘agencies’ for years - I wasn’t the only one with that idea. Scientists have been working on feelings transference for a while, and the possibilities are endless. They’ve gotten people who languished in therapy for years to feel less guilty about stuff that paralyzed them for years...” James grabbed a stress ball of the desk, and used it as prescribed for once.

“So this is early stages stuff then? I haven’t read one news article even about any of this.” Wilson turned around and came back to his seat.

“Those are the good results I mentioned. The others...complications are likely, if not inevitable. Just like how a kidney transplant can be worse than none, so, too, can poor matching be awful - for both parties.” The notepad went untouched. Wilson was zoned in like a goalie at match end.

“And, really, that’s where we get to your case. We can keep making efforts at better matches with our procedures, and we will. But there is a population of society with less to lose and more to gain on this stuff.”

“Talk about an ex-prisoner’s dilemma…”

“Only your outcomes here are better than the original prisoner’s dilemma, I swear. What if I told you you could make a guilty piece of shit feel guilty for what he did? Reform him, preclude him from recidivism and thus from modeling criminality to his kids and the whole bit? That’s within reach, James. That is precisely what we are researching.”

“Goddamn…”

“The downside, and there is a real one, is that you would have to feel terrible things. Experience terrible things. And that shame and guilt or whatever is appropriate for the offender would be siphoned out of you into them, if you were a match.” James’s stomach dropped and he scratched at his armrest.

“‘...experience’?”

“Through VR. Very good VR. It makes use of brain matter from the original offender, while the transferee wouldn’t get the VR - they’d receive the physiological results of your experience via intraneural transfusion. And to you, your crimes would be 100% real until the whole process was complete. There would be no sense of self or even free will, per se - just you doing awful things. You’d feel similarly to how you felt when you killed your friend three years ago, to a much greater degree. That’s how we would be using H-A-T-T in this instance.”

“Fucking hell. I haven’t been through enough already to pass it on to someone else?”

Wilson sighed.

“If only. There’s a critical difference between contrition which obviously transformed you to be better and the kind of precursors to contrition that another person would require. And with getting you to experience new things too, there would be no limit on how much we could incentivize someone else.”

“That’s fucked up.” Wilson laughed.

“And isn’t the status quo? Isn’t broken people going back to broken families and expanding them while blaming the system? Isn’t 15-year-olds in the suburbs acting like how only terribly traumatized youth used to?”

James leaned forward unwillingly from the growing sense of weight.

“I don’t know if that’s a burden I’d want to bear…”

“We have no evidence that you would need to bear it past the procedure, though. We have more research into healing than re-incentivizing people, for obvious reasons. And, also, I lied.” James shot up out of his seat -

“Wait, WHAT? What…”

“On that first billboard you must have seen. There is a pardon at stake here. Not a chance, not conditional, but the real deal. You, free, with the potential to be a social worker or psychologist or whatever you want. Just think of that.”

James slumped down and eyed his coffee, awash with ripples from his near-outburst.

“Who’s the worst person I would have to be? Don’t tell me I have to be a serial killer.”

“You do have to be a serial killer, yeah. The alternative would be getting you to commit a bunch of more minor crimes which wouldn’t hurt you in the same way. We couldn’t map those to objectively awful actions the same as we can with famous murder cases - any robber could have secret good motives, after all.”

James tried his coffee again. It seemed stronger and more bitter, somehow. The mug at least made pleasant chiming noises as he drummed on it with his fingers.

“So there’s no way I will remember being Ted Bundy or whoever. I’ll just be Ted Bundy, then end scene, and I am me again, and Joe Pseudo-Psychopath is now Joe Repentant?”

“That’s close to it, yeah.” James looked at Wilson Sr. for a while. He still looked happy in his portrait, noble and American.

“I can do it with conditions. If I’m going to be on anything other than general anesthetic, I need to be confined for a few days afterwards. I break out in track-marks from any drug.”

“Absolutely. We have safe housing and medical as well as security staff.”

“And I want updates on whichever poor bastard ends up feeling what I felt, even if I don’t get his name or anything. I do not just want to be a lab rat.”

“Of course.”

Wilson’s right hand clasped his left. He didn’t blink very often for someone who thought so fast.

“And I guess naturally this is an ‘I talk I die’ kind of thing?”

“Not quite, though you would end up back in prison with no one to believe you. We have you on that one breach that no one else knows about, and would not hesitate to share it with your parole officer.”

“...Where can I sign?”

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[aestivetic]

Getting Heat: The Popularity of Teenage Dystopia (2017 essay)

For all the continuing complaint that “the current generation” of students is overtly coddled, the popularity of The Hunger Games, Rash*, Girl Parts**, Masque of the Red Death***, the Divergent trilogy, and now The Thinning shows a far different side to what may be termed the new meritocracy, the new intelligentsia--those hipsters, those SJWs, those whiners, those parasites, those fat, overgrown crybabies, and all their younger kith and kin. I will not argue that there aren’t certain painful, obnoxious tropes that go along with these books--the caring but caustic bro with a tragic backstory, the clumsy or tongue-tied genius athlete at odds with the eeevul genius athlete, the mock-gritty atmosphere, the lack of Internet (and books!) for one reason or another, and, worst of all, the first-person viewpoint that after a while feels clumsy and confining, as though you’re intentionally being restricted from seeing all this invented world has to offer because it’s the last dystopia blandly painted over again in another shade of grey and black, because that’s different.

But the more we look at those painted worlds, the more they peel away into the new world of teenage anxieties. When I was thirteen and The Hunger Games had just come out, my friend and I came up with the hypothesis that The Hunger Games was popular because it was so close to the high school experience--competing in an unkind world, acting The Right Way for favor from the godlike adults. 

In the Hunger Games, children kill each other for the favors of food, weapons, tools of survival; in reality, children fight each other academically, frigatebirds on their own Paper Seas. An AP class could make George R. R. Martin yell “objection!”, and we’d probably have been halfway decent around him. Stephen King might have put it best when he described the half-mad overachiever Craig Toomey with “Pressure. Pressure in the trenches.” (The Langoliers). But death in the Hunger Games has a slightly different connotation than ‘death’ in the classroom. Death in the Hunger Games might even be read, from an outside view, as a kind of weird freedom, finally away from the pressure to serve, to obey, to appease, to succeed and slaughter for the good of your patch of the world. In the classroom, death will not release us. A failing grade, a bad score, means you do not qualify. If you don’t qualify, you won’t get to a good school. Everybody knows what a good school is, even the people who say there is no such thing. If you don’t go to a good school, you won’t get a good job. If you don’t get a good job, you won’t succeed. If you don’t succeed...well then, you’ll have wasted your life and you won’t be happy. You settled for less. You didn’t have grit. You didn’t have an inquiring mind. Being eaten by mastiffs with the faces of your friends, at least, has a screeching, bloody finality rather than dragging yourself to a dead-end middle-management job where you spend thirty-plus years paying off your student debt and the rest of it for retirement, rent, food and utilities. And of that job, of the major you trained for 4+ years in, well, let’s hope it’s a mental Divergent.

In the world of the Divergent Trilogy, there are five factions, which you are placed into at the age of sixteen after a test examining your defense strategies, kindness, scientific knowledge, honesty, and willingness to commit to a group. From there on in, you are sorted out by whatever you scored highest on, and you will be in that clan for the rest of your life. This is where the idea of the “one test” starts to really get itself going--think of it as a boiling point to The Hunger Games’ melting point. There are no artists in these factions (well, one tattooist warrior, but does she really count as somebody who has dedicated her life and study to beauty, or somebody who has adapted to the world around her?), nor are there English majors or substitute teachers. There are, however, the Factionless, homeless and clanless, hated and feared for their lesser, mongrel ways. They are cast aside. Ignored. Useless. You’ll be a Scientist. You’ll be an Athlete. You’ll be a Soldier. You’ll be a Doctor. You’ll be a Lawyer. That is what the test has said, and the test is never wrong.

Paranoia is encouraged in high school like any other social event. Always, always, we are dogged with the whispers that college will be worse, college will be harder, if you can’t handle this you can’t handle college…. I believed, in my heart of hearts, that I would not live this long, that I’d die mad and alone long before today, where I sit writing this document. College may be harder, but academically so, and in a better way than I could have ever hoped. Oh yes, I’ve failed two classes out of ten, but those are good odds, coming straight out of high school and jumping into a class with all limbs flailing! But now there’s no necessary parties, forced dances, no tricks you must play with the rest of the school, the student body and teachers both, play the game, cozy up to teachers, get a job, get on a team, pass 2-5 AP classes a semester plus extracurriculars, play the game, pay for AP and applications and projects because you must play the game, and college will be so much harder. 

Now there is softer, richer quiet, with a warm power running beneath like an ocean under our feet, through our hands, behind our eyes, a shared intensity because we have chosen where we stand, what we do, here and now. ------------------------------------

* Rash is a charming combination of reeducation camp mock-horror, pro-football “boys gotta be BOYS” propaganda, and PTSD depicted with a skill last seen in “Fireproof”. 

** The result of somebody saying “what if we combined Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy with ‘Twilight’? Wouldn’t that be a real money-maker, mmm-hmmm?” 

*** They grave-robbed Edgar A. Poe to make this piece-of-shit title look halfway decent and there is no clock, no Figure, no dancing or apartments or madness, just a lot of Serz Stuff, y’all. Also a traumatic backstory for the bro, whose cousin (the evil king) tried to feed him as a child to the robot crocodiles/alligators--the two terms are used without explanation, adding biological inaccuracy of the most abhorrent type to the mix. Bite me.

[quyen82s7289915-blog]

Are actually Millennials Definitely The 1st Creation To accomplish Even worse Than Their Moms and.

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[nomorewritinganxiety-blog]

Nano Dump 1

Day one. I have very little inspiration and almost forgot to write. My roommates were up late last night fighting. It always keeps me awake. There are kids here today. It is distracting. I get frustrated with there being people here all the time that I don’t like. They get in the way of things I want to do. Sometimes they get in the way of things I need to do. I need to get words down though. Maybe these words will turn into a novel, or maybe I will just journal a few thousand words. Either way, I will write this month. Hopefully it will help with the anxiety. Maybe it won’t. (I wish I knew how to add the “read more” button) I should take time to work on a resume and job applications but that is aggravating my anxiety. For now I will leave that alone. I will be uploading all of my writing to my Tumblr. Years ago I did really well on Nano and my mom deleted everything and then wiped my trash. I’m not risking losing my work again. I lost 30,000 words that year and I’m sure it has something to do with my writing anxiety. I have shared some of this before but I’m getting words down. One of the tricks I’m going to have to use this year is mind dumping. That’s not what I wanted to call it but I’m going to write whatever comes to mind whether I like it or not. I am going to make an effort to only use the backspace button to fix spelling mistakes. I am going to make an effort to only edit by adding things. Deleting material is dangerous during Nano even if it is totally useless fluffy words and mind dumpage. There, see almost three hundred words and I haven't stopped myself. I’m keeping the negative thoughts and the editor’s voice in check. I can feel my story bubbling beneath the surface. I can’t access it right now. Maybe if I dump long enough I’ll be able to. I’m sue it isn’t helping that I’m hungry but I don’t have snack food and I’m not going to stop to make dinner. I wonder if Pages has a function of automatic indent when I start a new paragraph. I want to go play with formatting but that’s a procrastination technique. At least mind dumping gets words down on the page. 1,667 words a day to meet my goal. There will be days where I will not have time to write. I will have to write more on those days. That’s ok. Sam. Sam is still a mostly unfinished character. I have a lot of trouble getting in his head. I just tried and it almost stopped me from typing. This is not a readers draft. This is not for an audience. I am getting words on the page. Writing anything at all is better than nothing. It doesn’t have to be productive. This is good. This is more than I have written in a long time. The feeling of anxiety is somewhere else. I need a better writing surface. Stream of consciousness is what this kind of writing is called. That was the word or phrase I was looking for. I guess I’ll call it whatever works though. I need a better writing space but it’s not likely to happen this month. A cafe would work but I don’t want to go somewhere that I can’t bring the dog. There are also comforting things about sitting in my own bed. I don’t have to button my pants if I don't want to. I can go without a bra. I know I won’t be spending money that I don’t have on snacks and drinks. I don’t have to worry about people reading over my shoulder. On the other hand, it’s loud here. I would like a desk. It would be better for my back to be sitting up in a chair. Probably better for my neck too. I’m on a bit of a roll and I don’t want to get up but I need to use the restroom. It’s a bit embarrassing knowing that I’m going to post this to Tumblr and people might read it. It’s not for an audience though. I don’t have to be perfect. My writing doesn’t have to be perfect. I think the roommate is about to leave with the kid. It also sounds like she might be staying the night though. The kid should be in school. I don’t think this kid is homeschooled. She is a brat. Bossy, bitchy, alleyways has an attitude. So loud. Never heard a kid get so loud. Even my sentences are starting to deteriorate. Sometimes I want to wring this kid’s neck. That’s not cool though. There’s a reason that no one who knows me has access to my Tumblr. The roommate might actually be taking the trash out for once. I’m watching my word count rise and I’m proud of myself. It doesn’t matter that it’s all unusable junk. I’m writing. I’m getting words down. I’m not fighting with perfectionism or writers block. Time to break. I have to go to the bathroom. It will not damage my focus. Page two. Almost nine hundred words. The door is open. The dogs can play if they want. Hopefully some of the heat will come in. I’m freezing. Space heater in the other room is not enough. I sound like some sort of proper tortured artist. I think Snicket started some of his work like this. I love my auto correct most of the time but sometime I fight with it. I’m sure if I go back and look there will be plenty of things that I will have to fix that auto correct thought it fixed. It’s a computer program, it can’t think. But Gear can. Things I know about Gear: not distinctly male or female, possibly a robot but more likely a non-binary human, very cool human. There, see, question answered, Gear is a non-binary human. I will have to see how pronouns flow for Gear. Gear is young. Most likely somewhere between 13 and 20. I want to put this section on Tumblr separately as a character bio so I can find it again. Gear has short dark hair and almost pale skin. Not Asian. More greek looking. Gear wears a robe. Not sure if Gear’s robe is Association issued or one of the rebel items. I think the rebels need an official name. Dark hazel eyes. No romantic ties. Sam. Leader of the rebels. I need to get my computer cleaned. Sam has black hair and blue eyes. Light skin. Goes by M. I’m going back and editing for punctuation. I shouldn’t do that. No looking back at the writing until I’ve hit the daily word goal. Punctuation doesn’t count toward word count. I’m getting worse at typing. I shifted position. I think my watch may be bothering me. It was on too tight and in the way of my typing. Words are still coming. Maybe only a few of them are worth anything but I got them down and that’s worth something. Hunter needs a profile. Almost blonde. Green eyes. More tan than Sam. Not as dark as most of the population. I want a diverse cast of characters but feel I am unqualified to write for most of them. I’m hoping it will come anyway. If I don’t focus on that feeling it won’t get in my way. Strong statements. I can do this. Only about four hundred words left today. I can do this. Hunter is a writer. He has a collection of books. Those books come from a recent book banning and burning. I want to write this story as the government is starting to show who they really are. I also want to write it well after they are established because pieces would make more sense that way. I want Sam and Hunter to be involved in the whole creation of the dystopia too though. The washer is making an awful noise. I wonder if they tried to start the dishwasher again. Always breaking things. So distracting. I know where I want this story to go. I can feel bits and pieces of it. I know some of the characters. Getting them to flow from my mind through my fingers and onto the page is a whole different story. I want this to work. I will make this work. I don’t have to put the whole story down in this month. I just want to get back into writing. This is good for me. I’m feeling the type again. This is good. I need to know my topics better when I am writing. I can get the words out plenty fast if I can just let go and not care what goes down on the paper. A pause. I can’t let myself feel it. Must keep writing. I can cut out any junk later. How would I describe the notes that is coming from the dishwasher. It’s almost like the machine is saying “wrong, wrong, wrong” over and over again. Only a hundred more words. They don’t have to be good they just have to be there. I am doing this because I want to. No one is making me. No one has to like it. I don’t even have to like it. I just want to be able to say that I did it. May this be the right step in the direction I need to go. May it help me in all aspects of life. May it be good. Good for me if nothing else. Fifty words left. Some of them were helpful. I know I shouldn’t stop at today’s goal. I should keep trying. But I am having trouble grasping the story and what I really want to put down is my story. So for now this will be enough. I can say that I made goal today. I made goal plus a few extra words. Maybe tomorrow I will get some more of the story down. I feel good.