#it’s like a civil war in my ask box and replies daily

[moonyinpisces]

just wanted to say I fucking love your fics, my friend and I have been reading & sharing screenshots the past couple days. “The air is expectant. Crowley misinterprets it.” imma let you finish but that is literally the best seven word description of all time. ALL TIME. and then i come to this hellsite and your blog is completely unhinged and I fucking love that too. keep on keeping on my friend. hope your 2024 is soft gentle romantic and also feral

AHHHH THANK YOU that’s so flattering!! i’m glad you and your friend have been enjoying my fics and also that you like my blog despite it being the insane ravings of an asylum patient <3

[muchadoaboutbucky]

all the time in the world | oneshot

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Native American!Reader WORD COUNT: 3,954 WARNINGS: slow burn, eventual smut, fluff, minor injury NOTE: Imagine if Bucky hadn’t been injured in Civil War and went on the run with everyone else. The reader’s face claim is Crystle Lightning. I also used Sebastian’s “Destroyer” look for inspiration as well. Enjoy!

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I do not consent to minors (17-) reading my work.

It’s been six months since Siberia. Six long, rough months of dodging the government and living off the grid. No phones, no computers, no connection to the outside world other than the daily newspapers you manage to pick up. 

Living in close quarters isn’t the easiest. The jet doesn’t have the best sleeping quarters, just five open bunks on the lower level. The other two have become storage, a cluttered mess of papers and empty weapons boxes and ammunition that has yet to be organized. 

It doesn’t help that you and Bucky have become a little more than friends.

He’s become different since you went on the run. He’s quiet, broody, and absolutely merciless when it comes to getting a mission done. To say the sight of the former assassin taking down the bad guys with nothing but a couple weapons and his bare metal hand doesn’t get you all kinds of riled up. 

The five of you have just finished up a weekend in Portugal. A weapons bust had gone almost perfectly to plan, with the small exception of you getting a bullet graze on your thigh from one of the barely-alive arms dealers on your way out the door. You’d hit the ground hard, and before you could say anything or make a move to recover, Bucky scooped you off the ground and took the fire escape all the way up to the roof and into the jet without a second glance back.

Fortunately the medical bay’s been fully restocked, and Nat quickly gets you on the examining table while Sam takes off, the jet’s cloaking technology vanishing instantly into the dark three-am sky.

“Suit off,” Nat directs, reaching into one of the storage cupboards for a prepped cleaning kit. You strip out of your suit, wincing as the fabric grazes your wound. Natasha bends to examine the wound, gently pressing along the edges with a gloved finger.

“No stitches, please,” you mutter.

“Nope, you won’t need those.” Nat grabs an antiseptic wipe. “Just some bandages and you’ll need to take it easy for a couple days.”

You grumble. “Gross.”

“Could be worse.” Nat dabs the antiseptic wipe along the thin red line of your injury, and you wince, trying not to jerk away. “So… you and Barnes, huh?”

You frown, glancing down at the shimmer of her red hair. “What?”

She chuckles. “He carried you outta there like his ass was on fire. You two’ve been dancing around each other for a couple months.”

Your cheeks flush hot. “We just… it’s complicated.”

“How complicated can it be?” She smiles. “Two people like each other, they go out on a couple dates, maybe they fall in love.”

“It’s not like we have a lot in common,” you explain. “It’s just fooling around, right now, at least.”

If ‘fooling around’ counts as the time he pinned you up against the side of the jet and kissed the shit out of you with his thigh between your legs… or the time he’d waited for everyone else to be occupied with organizing the weapons closet before tugging your panties aside and sliding two fingers deep inside—

“You don’t have to bond over all the bad stuff.” She tosses the wipe into the trash and peels the wrapping off a patch of gauze. “Maybe you have small similarities. Maybe you both like chocolate, maybe you used to go to the same park as kids. It’s the little things.”

As slick and smart as she is, Natasha has no idea about the dirty things you and Bucky have done in the dark.

“I’m just not sure it would work.” You peer down when she lays a pair of large Band-Aids over the patch of gauze. “He’s a little more rough around the edges than I am, he’s still adjusting to this whole modern-life thing, I’m not sure saying ‘hey, you wanna be my boyfriend’ in the middle of it would be smart.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Oh please, he knows what he wants, he’s just afraid to ask for it. Men are like that.”

The privacy curtain slides back, and you and Natasha look up so fast you both nearly get whiplash. Bucky’s standing there, eyes wide as he takes in the full sight of you sitting on the table, clothed only in a plain black bra and panties. 

“Oh.” He swallows, and his cheeks flush bright red. “Never mind, I was just—”

Natasha grins. “Barnes, if you have something to say—”

The curtain swishes shut, and the heavy tread of his boots fades away. You giggle, raising a hand to cover your mouth. He’s never seen you this degree of undressed before, much less seen a naked woman in the last several decades. 

“Teach him how to knock,” Natasha jokes, sweeping the used kit into the trash and tugging her gloves off. “I’ll grab you some clothes, we don’t need all the men stroking out from seeing a pair of boobs.”

***

You emerge from the medical room dressed in a pair of pajama shorts and a tee shirt. Steve and Sam are settled comfortably in the pilots’ seats, and Natasha herself has changed into flannel pants and a one of the tee shirts she’s stolen from Sam. 

Bucky’s nowhere to be found.

“We’ll find somewhere to land in a couple hours,”  Steve says, glancing back at you. “How’s your leg, kid?”

“Hurts, but I’ve had worse.” You offer a smile before turning to Nat. “Where’s Bucky?” you ask her silently. 

“Downstairs,” she replies, the corner of her mouth turning up into a little smirk. “Alone.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning as you head to the descending ladder for the lower level. Bucky’s sitting on the floor, earphones on, eyes closed. He somehow hears you approach, because he opens his eyes and reaches up to pull the scuffed headphones off and pause the old cassette player clutched in his left hand.

You’re so used to him being big and strong and dominant. Now he just seems… weary. A side you don’t see very often.

“Hi.” You slide down to sit next to him. “It’s late, Nat and I are going to bed, you should wash up and get some rest.”

“I’m not tired,” he replies softly. 

“Are you worried about walkin’ in on me half naked?” you ask, reaching up to run your fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head. Since almost shaving it off, it’s grown back, and he almost looks like he used to back in his time.

His cheeks flush. “You were a little more than half naked.”

“It’s not a problem, I didn’t mind.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “You look exhausted, you should really get some rest.”

“I’m not tired.” Bucky sets the cassette player and headphones on the floor next to him. “Been trying to get some alone time with you for a long time, and tonight when you went down… I just got a lot of ‘what if’s’ goin’ on in my head.”

You hum. “I’m fine. My leg hurts and Nat’s gonna kill me if I don’t take it easy, but—”

“I wanna take you somewhere.” He turns to face you. “I hate dancin’ around like this, and I get that it’s risky for us to be… involved, or whatever we’re trying to be, but…” he swipes his tongue over his lower lip, “I think we deserve one night where we aren’t gonna be sleeping in these stupid bunks. Just you and me.”

You wrap your fingers through his warm metal ones. “We do have that tent in the storage cupboard… we could make a camping night of it?”

He sighs. “I want a real bed. In a real… house, or hotel, or whatever, but I wanna be alone with you. We deserve that, we’ve been playing back and forth for the last six months and I’m tired of it.”

Smiling, you press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “What else do you want?”

He lets out a soft breath before tipping his head back against the wall. “I wanna make love to you, and I can’t do that in a stupid little bunk where three other people can see us.”

You stifle a flustered giggle in his chest. “We can still fool around, Bucky.”

He grunts, dissatisfied. “Can’t you pretend your leg is worse than it is and they can drop us off somewhere?”

“I don’t know, they’ve seen me walking just fine.”

“You could be in shock and not know how bad it is.”

“Bucky.” You slide onto his lap and cup his face. “I’ve been in shock before, several times, and I’m not in shock.”

He smiles lazily, skimming his hands up your sides. “Really? You look a little cold.”

“Because we’re at fifteen-thousand feet,” you kiss him softly, wincing when your bandage pulls, “and Sam’s slacking on fixing the temperature regulator.”

“Maybe I should take you somewhere with a fireplace.” He peers at you through the dim light. “I could do a lot with that.”

“Oh yeah?” You run a finger over his cheek. “Like what?”

He grins wolfishly. “Put some blankets out in front of the fire… get you all warm and toasty before I make love to you.”

You bite your lip, shifting on his lap. “Bucky…”

“Hmm?”

“Hearing you talk about making love to me isn’t making the fact that I really want that right now any better.”

He chuckles. “I can be quick, you know that.”

“I’m not having our first time on the jet floor.” You stand up, pulling on his metal arm. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

He stands obediently, eyes raking up your bare thighs and the bandage on as he rises. “You know, you look really hot with a bandage on your thigh.”

“Oh, so you’re glad I got shot?”

“I didn’t say that.” He wraps his arms around your waist. “I mean I like seein’ you with things on your thighs. Holsters… those thigh-high socks you wore a month ago, that made me…” he shivers and digs his fingers into your hips.

“Freak,” you giggle. “Bucky, if you don’ let me go...”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mmm.” You slip a teasing finger into his belt.

He grins, slowly backing you up until your shoulders press against the steel wall. In a playful attempt to duck away, you try to slip just to his left, and warm metal wraps around your arm, pinning you firmly in place. 

“Hold on,” he mutters, “you think you can just do that and walk away?”

You let out a long, soft moan when he presses his lips to yours, stepping up so close you can feel the firm heat of his body. Your fingers twist in his shirt, and he slots a knee between your thighs, careful to avoid your injured one as flesh fingers twist into your hair. He hums when you give an instinctual push of your hips against the rough fabric of his pants, and you 

“Better rest up, then, honey.”

You giggle when he lands a firm swat on your ass and scamper up the ladder, heaving yourself onto the upper level with Bucky close behind you. The grin on Bucky’s face earns you a quizzical look from Sam, but you roll your eyes and head down to your bunk, making sure that nobody can see before stretching up on your toes and giving Bucky a goodnight kiss. 

***

The jolt of the jet landing just over four hours later wakes you. You sit up, almost banging your head on the top of your bunk, and curse Sam for winning Rock Paper Scissors for the top one. You emerge blearily, shoving your privacy curtain aside with a grimace as a ray of sunlight smacks you in the face.

“Ow,” you mutter as Sam drops down from the bunk above you, “what time is it?”

“It’s late morning,” Steve replies, emerging from the cockpit. “We’re in Austria. Found us a place to lay low for a couple days. We’re gonna have to do a little bit of hiking and wear disguises when we check in, but the jet’s on stealth mode. Town’s about a twenty-minute walk away.”

Town. Thank God.

The four of you stumble around, stuffing things into your bags and checking your nanomasks before stepping off the jet. It’s a brisk morning, and you tug a jacket over your shoulders as you take in your surroundings. 

Steve’s touched down in a large field of flowers. The jet’s invisible to your eye when the hatch closes, and you set off to the East, keeping your heads low as you head into a more-populated area and onto busy streets. There’s a market across from the closest hotel, and you make a note to sneak out and get some of the pretty fruits and breads on display.

When you get up to the counter, Steve shoves a wad of cash from his duffel bag at the attendant and asks for two rooms, which you get with a three-night guarantee.

“Okay,” Sam murmurs once you’re in the elevator heading up to your floor, “who shares with who? I’m not havin’ Barnes hogging all the covers again.”

“Mmm, you won’t.” Natasha slips you a sly look. “Barnes and Y/N together, I’ll share with Steve, so you, Sam, can have all the covers you want.”

You cast a quick glance at Bucky and find his cheeks stained bright pink. “That’s fine,” you cover when he fails to respond, “we’re gonna get some rest anyway.”

Nat smirks when the elevator doors slide open, and you roll your eyes before accepting the key card Steve offers you. “Sure, sure,” she replies, “make sure it’s a good rest.”

You give her a playful glare as she follows Steve and Sam into their room and closes the door, leaving you and Bucky to slip into your room across the hall with burning faces.

It’s definitely not the biggest—or best—room that you’ve ever stayed in, but it’ll do the trick. The bed is king-sized, with several lumpy-looking pillows stacked on a thin white comforter. You set your bag down on the floor and toe off your boots, stretching your arms over your head while Bucky goes to inspect the bathroom. 

“It’s not bad,” he calls out, “just a shower stall, no tub.”

“That’s good enough for me.” You tug a fresh set of clothes out of your duffel and snag your almost-empty toiletries from the front pocket. “You wanna go first, or…”

“Nah, you.” He runs a hand up your back and leans in to press his lips against yours. “I’m gonna try and get some shut-eye. I never sleep well on the jet.”

You hum against his mouth, grateful for the sudden solitude. “I’ll be out in fifteen. Knock if you need anything, ‘kay?”

He smiles and slumps down on the bed, watching you slip into the bathroom and leave the door slightly ajar. 

The water pressure isn’t too bad. It’s been a few days since you’ve been able to properly clean up, and your hair gets washed thoroughly, pits get shaved, well… everything that isn’t permanently done gets shaved, and you emerge from the steam-filled shower dressed in panties and a tee shirt, towel held to the now-exposed wound on your thigh. Bucky’s stretched out on the bed, a pillow tucked under his head, eyes closed. The medical kit’s in his bag, and you tug it free and watch one crystal-blue eye open as you perch on the edge of the bed.

“How’s that?” His eyes rake over the bare skin of your thigh as you pull it away to inspect the slowly-scabbing graze. 

“Healing.” You gently poke at the angry bruise along the side and wince. “I still need to bandage it.”

Bucky sighs, watching you tug out a roll of gauze and tape. “Want some help with that?”

You smile gladly in return. “Please?”

“You got it.” He slides off the bed and reaches for the paper-wrapped supplies. Nimble fingers tear open the packets, and you lean back as he kneels on the carpet, flesh hand gently splayed out against your knee as he gently lowers a folded strip of cause to cover the exposed flesh. Medical tape snaps off between his teeth, and you watch him lay four strips, one on each side until he’s satisfied that your injury is sufficiently protected. 

“Thanks.” You reach over and rub the top of his head. “So walking in on me in just my bra and panties didn’t… that didn’t bother you?”

He chuckles. “No, it didn’t bother me. Just surprised me.”

You giggle. “Really? ‘Cause you looked like a total virgin.”

“Shush.” He kisses your knee and gazes up at you, eyes wide and almost deceivingly innocent. “Not a virgin, honey, just… you look hot in that suit, and seeing you out of it was… a shock. Good shock.”

***

The rest of the day passes slowly, with you and Bucky dozing in and out of naps until Sam knocks on the door, asking if Bucky wants to go to the market outside. You watch him leave, donning his nanomask and swiping a couple bills from the plastic bag he keeps in his duffel before slipping out the door. 

He’s back in an hour, carrying a large paper bag full of what looks like bread and fruit and all kinds of goodies. You eat slowly, sneaking kisses between bites of fresh, juicy watermelon for a mock-dessert. 

Around six, Natasha comes by, inviting you to the other room for a much better dinner of pizza and drinks… which, as it turns out, hasn’t even been delivered yet. You and Bucky spend the first ten minutes enduring innuendo from Natasha, which Steve is quick to defend, although he snorts at one comment about peaches that makes Bucky choke on his bottle of ale.

The pizza finally arrives, three boxes to cater to two supersoldier appetites, and you’re able to unwind, laughing and joking and teasing each other until it’s late and Sam starts to yawn incessantly. You and Bucky make an excuse for being tired as well, and Natasha watches you leave with a glimmer in her eye as the door swings shut.

The moment you and Bucky are safely tucked in the seclusion of your room, he pulls you into his arms and plants a warm, sweet kiss on your lips.

“Baby,” he breathes, “we only got three nights here and I… I wanna take you, tonight…”

You giggle. “Bucky, we’re not in your time anymore. You can tell me what you want.”

He swallows, metal fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. “I wanna make love with you.”

You roll your eyes and wind your arms around his neck. “Is that all?”

He grumbles. “Baby, you’re making it harder than it needs to be.”

“Sorry.” You stretch up on your toes and kiss him again, hips rubbing deliciously against his. “Only thing I need to be hard is this… and looks like you’re way ‘head of me.”

Bucky groans, breaking away to tug your shirt over your head. “If you keep doing that, you’re not gonna feel it for a while.”

You bite your lip, watching him strip his own shirt and toss it to the ground. Before you can do anything else, he lifts you up, careful to avoid your injured thigh, and lays you out on the bed, reaching for your pajama shorts and tugging them down to leave you in just a plain pair of panties. 

Now he’s nervous, you can see it in his eyes. He’s had you open before, got his fingers wet inside your pussy, and kissed the shit out of you until you could barely breathe, but he’s never had you completely naked and exposed.

“Hey.” You reach for his hand, guiding it to the little blue bow between your hips. “It’s okay, baby.”

He chuckles, easing his fingers beneath the elastic and watching with held breath as he teases them down, letting them fall off the edge of the bed with a soft pat. His palms smooth down the insides of your thighs, spreading you open, and when he trails the pad of his thumb over your clit and you press your hips up to get closer, he lets out a strangled groan and curls over you, completely helpless. 

Your hands push at his sweats, and you giggle when he clumsily kicks them down over his feet, leaving himself completely bare for you as well. When your fingers drift to wrap around his thick, heavy shaft, he stops, gritting his teeth against the side of your neck.

“Baby…” he clears his throat, raising his head to look at you. “We’re not movin’ too fast, right?”

“Don’t get soft on me,” you reply, “we’re good, Bucky, I’m happy, I wanna feel you…”

He nods, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Good, it’s just… it’s been a long time and—”

“Shhh.” You rub your hands over his hips. “I don’t care, I just want you.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, and he reaches down to grab himself, experimentally running the swollen tip of his cock through yout pussy until he finds your opening, and you grab on tight, a cry of pleasure dying in your throat as he pumps his hips forward and sinks in. 

“Ahh, fuck—” he grunts quietly against your lips when your nails dig into his ass, “baby…”

You can’t even find the words to reply. He’s so deep, thick and hot and pulsing inside where your body grips him tight. All you can do is give a little tug, trying to urge him on, and he gives you what you want without question. 

All sense of awkwardness or anxiety melts away as he props himself up on both arms, watching your body roll and move under his as he searches a rhythm, inexperience getting the better of him when his hips stutter and slide. He finds it, a steady, rough beat back and forth that makes your clit rub against the skin above his cock and high-pitched sighs and whimpers to rattle in your throat.

“C’mere,” he pants, hooking his flesh arm under your shoulders to keep you close, and you brace yourself as his thrusts grow hard enough for your bodies to slap together. It’s been so long since you’ve been able to feel this good that when his lips find one nipple and latch on, your body decides to follow its own path. 

All it takes for you to cum is a few quick rolls of your clit under your fingers, and Bucky lets out a choked gasp when he feels the rapid contractions, burying his face in the crook of your neck and matching your moans with his own, panting harder and louder as he stutters, pushes in as far and hard as he can, and cums with a growl that resonates deep in your soul as you wrap your legs tight around his waist.

You come back to reality slowly, sweaty bodies sticking as he drops down over you, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips. 

“That was fast,” he murmurs, “sorry, baby, I couldn’t—”

“It’s okay.” You run your fingers through his hair. “It’s been a long time for me too, it was… that was good.”

“Good.” He chuckles and pulls away, watching the first dribble of white slide from your core. “We got three more days to make it longer, huh?”

“Yeah.” You reach for his hand, fingers intertwining with his. “Right now, we have all the time in the world.”

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[mggpleasedontlookhere]

winter reminiscence pt . 2

Summary: Upon meeting Timothee on the bus, Y/N goes to her favorite bookstore, while Timothee goes out to his study place, to get their minds off of each other. Unfortunately, for both of them it is a small world they live in and luck was not on their side, or was it?

word count: 1,967                                                                                     reading time aprox: 7 mins

timothee's pov

From the turn the bus had taken after she had gotten off to a few stations down, I sat despairingly in my seat, cooped up in evident mental suppression. I ran my fingers through my curls, while my other hand played with the ‘Columbia University’ tassel that hung from my side pocket, scanning the surroundings and finding the bus a ghost town. 

“Kid, this is the last stop” The bus driver announced over the loudspeaker, the wheels screeching to a halt, catching my attention.

“Sorry, thank you” I apologized, apprehensively waving a hand to gesture my atonement. With that I stepped off the bus and made my merry way to the coffee shop where I would buy my daily dose of caffeine. 

The sign read “bon café” in luminescent script, surrounded by cartoons of miniature succulents and vines that draped across the cafe’s door frame. The aesthetic of the place reminded me of the trips to Marseille with my dad whenever I’d fly to France to meet him. The greek inspired textured walls, the little ornaments of boats, and the paintings of water would be what my father called “la plus belle époque architecturale”.

Standing by the counter, I took my place in line while listening to the muted tracks of ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘White Christmas’ that battled against the chatter that filled the atmosphere. As soon as I got to the front, I ordered a hot chocolate and a buttered bagel, knowing that I was going to be here for a while. 

I picked up my order from the counter, and chose a two-seater in the corner where a single ficus stood, an overhead light illuminating the table. I rested my Anthropology textbook in front of me, opening to the review page as I studied for my Midterms. 

The rings of the welcome bell by the front door would take me out of my concentration, although I tried to focus on the material in front of me. But what really did it for me was the change of music in the place, the cheery seasonal playlist was swapped out for a Beatles song, specifically, ‘Here Comes The Sun’, more specifically:

her favorite song

It seemed as if I suddenly forgot how to read as my eyes scanned the same phrase over and over again. With this, I closed the book aggressively, shutting my eyes in irritation and dragging my hands over my face. In addition to this, as the song ended, ‘She Loves You’, another song from the beatles, came on. 

With a groan, I rested my head on the surface of the table, banging my head in attempt to physically shake out all the sensations and memories I wish I regretted. 

-

“She’s my best friend Y/N! Why can’t you understand that” I muttered in a low tone, pinching the bridge of my nose as I tried to keep this stupid and unreasonable fight to rest. 

“I’m not saying I don’t understand Timmy, I get it! She’s your best friend and I understand that completely. But how do you expect me to react when she’s telling all her little friends that you, quote on quote, told her you wanted to kiss her” She counteracted, crossing her arms while shaking her head at me, which seemed to fuel me even more.  

“That’s how we joke around and it was through text. Gosh, can you even take a joke?” I justified

“So that’s joking around, huh. Right Timmy? That’s joking around” She asked, sarcasm dripping off every word she spoke. “But whenever another guy dm’s me, suddenly, you want to log into my account to check them out and then magically they get erased from my message box. Right Timmy?” 

I stood silent as anger began bubbling through my veins, traveling upwards towards my face as rouge began to show through my pale skin. With clenched fists, and gritted teeth, I managed to get out “So what do you want me to do, huh, do you want to stop being friends with her?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying Chalamet, I’m literally just here confronting you on a situation that I’ve heard of” She stated, letting out a breath as her passive-aggressive words slipped out from her lips. 

“But that’s what you want, don’t you? You want me to stop talking to her?”

“That’s not what I’m sayi-”

“No you tell me” I stated firmly, cutting her off mid-sentence. “If that’s what it takes for you to drop this, I will” I confessed, staring at her blankly, my lips frozen in a line. 

“Yes” She nodded, sighing as she rubbed the side of her temples. “But I don’t want you to do it, if you really don’t want to. I don’t want to sacrifice your convenience for mine” She added on, her natural compassion trickling into her speech. 

Taking out my phone, I searched up the contact that I had of my best friend and with a little hesitation, clicked the block button and placed my phone back in my pocket. 

“There” I replied dryly. “Anything for you” 

-

y/n’s pov

Trudging through the melted ice, I made my way to a modest bookstore that nobody really knew about. It was in a quaint neighborhood in Brooklyn that had old fashioned cobble streets, filled with extraordinary and history filled antique shops, charming eateries and cafes, museums, and statues of people long gone.

Quickening my pace, I pushed against the glass door and into the, fortunately, heated space filled with countless amounts of literature. What I loved about this secret library was that it was a hidden gem in the area as it isn’t particularly visible compared to the garnished and well-decorated buildings beside it. 

The plain peach walls and the small reading benches created a cozy atmosphere, a perfect place to sit down and embark on adventures through other people’s written words. 

Shimmying through the aisles, my fingers ran to touch the spines of the old books as I, once again, found myself in between the ‘coming-of-age’ and ‘historical dramas’ section. Closing my eyes, I continued to feel the books until I landed on a random novel, plucking it out of the shelf, I opened my eyes to see printed “Little Women” as the title. 

With a curious smile, I read the blurb eager to set upon another expedition. Maybe one to get my mind off of my own trying times. It seemed to be about four sisters, set back in the Civil War Era, that described the values of poverty and family. 

Approving the book, I read the first few pages and walked over to the counter, where a brittle old lady with an obnoxious hat and humongous reading glasses sat idle. 

“Good afternoon” I greeted, handing her the copy I had taken from the shelf, waiting patiently as she tried finding the barcode for the book. 

“Little Women I see, I remember when I was about your age I would find myself gravitating towards this book again and again” She grinned, releasing a hearty chuckle that ended up in a coughing fit. “Pardon me, I guess the old lungs don’t work like they ought to” She admitted. 

Throughout her spiel, numerous scans had been demonstrated and nothing but a red bulb light up, indicating there was some sort of error. “Oh golly me, I apologize for the inconvenience young lady. I guess I’m not the only one getting old” She joked. 

I politely joined in, but ultimately grimaced as she proceeded to bang on the machine with unknowing force. “This might be a while” She bashfully disclosed. “If anything, please feel free to browse, this’ll be about 15 to 30 minutes”

With a courteous nod, I notified her of my return later on as I stepped outside of the store, basking in the imposing village around me. With a breath of fresh air, my eyes landed on an archaic coffee shop embellished with shrubbery across the street to where I was. 

I squinted my eyes at the outside menu plastered on a chalkboard near the entrance, although my nearsightedness limited me as I only recognized blots of white chalk and of what looked like script. 

An abrupt grumbling noise broke the quiet air and I felt a twist in my stomach. Suddenly, I felt the craving for a chocolate croissant and maybe a brownie or three. The scent traveling from the crepe cart near me didn’t help with the situation, my sense of smell lolling in the piquant aroma. 

I walked across the street clutching my stomach as I was rather not keen in being cold and hungry. The glass front came into view, squaring in on various college students chatting about or studying and business men absorbed into typing furiously on their laptops. 

Opening the door, I was instantly hugged by the smell of coffee and the warmth provided by the old fashioned heaters, finding a spot on line to order a few things.

timothee’s pov

The ringing of the cafe bell snapped me out of my thoughts, bringing me back to reality, where I suppressed those memories in the back of my head. Opening my textbook once again, I forced myself to invest my full fledged attention to the course. 

At least that was the initial plan, when a phone dropped in front of my table for the second time today, causing me to do a double take as the scene from my memories has discernibly come to life in front of me.

y/n’s pov

“Shit!” I cursed gracefully, tripping over an old rug and hearing the sound of my phone’s impending doom. With a sigh, I turned around with a croissant stapled to my lips and a brownie bag in one hand. “I’m so sorry-” I mumbled through the baked good, but stopped when found my phone in the same place as it was before. 

Realization hit me and mortification soon inundated my stance, my current appearance giving a sharp blow to my dignity as Timothee sat handsomely in his seat. 

“You seriously need pants with deeper pockets” He quipped, handing me my phone with an uncomfortable smile. Gazing at my state with condolence. 

“Thank you...” I paused, “Again for, you know, saving my phone” I replied stiffly. Never meeting his fixed stare, I focused on the tips of my shoelaces, reminiscing on my favorite episode of Phineas and Ferb, my thoughts carelessly diverting my attention to these fond memories. 

“So, um, how have you been?” He asked with a tight smile, folding his textbook close. 

“I’ve been great” I replied a little too enthusiastically like I had something to prove. I looked at him chastely, noticing the flecks of brown in his irises, something I’d spend hours fixated on when we’d lie in bed. “How’s college going on for you?” I asked, referring to the book in front of him. 

“Oh yeah, college, it’s difficult, I guess” He answered with a dry chuckle, scratching the back of his head. 

Sensing the unpleasantness in the air, I nodded at him and smiled, the chattering voices in the background unable to fill the awkward silence between us. “Um, anyway. I best be going” I said, the words basically fumbling out from my tongue. 

I hastily reeled around, making a full 180 as my heartbeat threatened to fall out of my chest with the pace it’s been going at. Tucking my phone in my back pocket, I pursued an escape route from the arduous ambience. 

However, the action was pulled to a halt when I felt an all too familiar hand grip my wrist falteringly. 

“Wait” 

Timothee spoke with a dawdling and reluctant voice, in which I turned around prudently, looking into his unreadable eyes. 

But at least this time, he was looking back at mine. 

-

finale

[thecomicsnexus]

SUPERMAN #423, ACTION COMICS #583 SEPTEMBER 11986 BY ALAN MOORE, CURT SWAN, GEORGE PEREZ, KURT SCHAFFENBERGER AND GENE D’ANGELO

This is an imaginary story (which may never happen, but then again may) about a perfect man who came from the sky and did only good. It tells of his twilight, when the great battles were over and the great miracles long since performed; of how his enemies conspired against him and of that final war in the snow-blind wastes beneath the Northern Lights; of the two women he loved and of the choice he made between them; of how he broke his most sacred oath; and how finally all the things he had were taken from him save one. It ends with a wink. It begins in a quiet midwestern town, one summer afternoon in the quiet midwestern future. Away in the big city, people still sometimes glance up hopefully from the sidewalks, glimpsing a distant speck in the sky... but no: it's only a bird, only a plane. Superman died ten years ago. This is an imaginary story... Aren't they all?

SYNOPSIS (FROM SUPERMAN HOMEPAGE)

Summer has come to the Midwest, and the only thing that breaks the warm peacefulness of this little village this afternoon is the ring of a doorbell. The door opens framing a beautiful woman. "Ms Lane?" a young man asks. "It's Mrs. Lois Elliot, now," corrects the woman, opening the door for him to enter. "You must be Tim Crane, from the Planet," she says, and the young reporter the Daily Planet had sent to interview Lois for the Superman Memorial Edition makes himself at home on the couch.

To break the ice, Tim Crane tests his tape recorder then begins by asking about the two year period leading up to Superman's disappearance. "Were those happy times?" he asks. "Happy?" puzzles Lois. "I don't know... at least they were quiet," she begins. As if in a trance, Lois starts to tell her story. "Luthor had been quiet," she began, and "Brainiac had been pounded into scrap metal, save for the head that had never been recovered." Mostly, Superman worked in space doing research for the government, until one day he returned and found complete city blocks horribly destroyed. Jimmy rushed up to tell him that Bizarro had gone berserk, smashing buildings and injuring innocent people.

Walking into the shell that had once been a department store, Superman saw the destruction Bizarro has caused, and called to his imperfect replicate. "This am part of genius Bizarro self-improvement plan," laughed the grotesque creature, telling Superman that he had already destroyed Bizarro world, as Krypton had been destroyed. Then, realizing that to be the perfect imperfect double he must do everything opposite of Superman. If Superman cannot kill, Bizarro must kill millions, and if Superman is alive, then Bizarro must die. Holding a large piece of blue Kryptonite before himself, Bizarro collapsed to the floor, smiling. "Everything...him go dark," whispered Bizarro. "Hello, Superman. Hello." It didn't make sense even by Bizarro standards; genocide, homicide then suicide.

Several days later, at the WGBS television studios, two packages arrived just before Clark Kent made his daily newscast. Opening the smaller box, Lana Lang saw a group of Superman action figures and told Clark that they worked when the legs were squeezed together. Lifting one from the box, Lana demonstrated on one, and suddenly heat rays shot from its eyes. Suddenly, all of the figures became animated, and flew out of the box focusing their beams on Clark. "They're slicing him up," screamed Lana racing toward Clark, but Jimmy grabbed her. "It's too late. We can't save him," he yelled. But as the smoke cleared, Clark stands before them, his suit torn and burned revealing the familiar blue and red costume of Superman. Lana stared at him in amazement. "Clark, it was you. All of these years...it was you all of the time."

Their amazement is challenged when the voice of the Toyman and the Prankster crackled over small speakers in the figures. "He just combed his hair and stuck on a pair of glasses!" they laugh. "What a great gag!" "How did you know that I was Clark Kent?" screamed Superman. "Why don't you look in the big box," they replied, laughing wildly. The box was lead lined, but when Superman ripped it open the body of Pete Ross, who had known Superman's true identity since they were boys in Smallville, fell into view. The Prankster and Toyman continued to laugh hysterically at their apparent victory. "Do you know what radio waves look like..." Superman yelled, taking off faster than the eye can follow. Seconds later he smashed through the walls of their hideout. "...Because I do!" The next day, the world is shocked to read the headlines of the Planet that no one would have ever thought true: "Clark Kent Exposed as Superman." Later, at Pete Ross' funeral, Superman mused, "They were all just nuisances. What turned them into killers? If the nuisances from my past are coming back as killers, what will happen when the killers come back?"

Using a sophisticated detector, Lex Luthor searched the arctic circle, and finally located Brainiac's head. At first Luthor is ecstatic, but then he noticed the mask amazingly disassemble, then moved rapidly up Luthor's body to his head. With a disgusting "sludge", probes attached themselves to Luthor's skull, and took control of his motor and vocal pathways. The new Brainiac-Luthor team had been born. Turning slowly, Luthor began walking, stiffly, inexorably toward civilization one step, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another...

Several days passed before another event, almost as an omen, took place. In front of the Daily Planet building, an army of Metallos, hundreds of them, began climbing up the sides of the building, crashing through the glass breaking into the newsroom. Each of the Metallos attacked a member of the staff, a friend of Superman. But one sought Lois Lane, grabbed her, and threw her out of the broken window. "You alien loving tramp," he screamed at her. The reds and blues flowed together as Superman sped down and saved Lois as he has done countless times before, then turned upward to the roof. Using super-speed, he magnetized the giant planet on the top of the building and used it to gather up all of the Metallos.

But the danger was obvious. Superman decided that he must take all of his closest friends to the Fortress for safety. One by one, Superman transported Perry and Alice White, Lois and Lana, then Jimmy Olson. Almost on cue, Krypto returned from space, and stared at a life-size photo of Supergirl, almost tearing that she was killed in Crisis. The tension was so thick that focused heat vision could not cut through. Perry and Alice, at ropes end in their marriage, headed off to separate rooms. Lois and Lana, for so long rivals, consoled one another and themselves in their own fears.

Suddenly, the air crackled and the time bubble of the Legion of Super-Heroes appeared. Stepping from the bubble were all of the Legionnaires, including a young Kara... Supergirl. Brainiac V moved forward. "We thought you might appreciate the sight of a few friendly faces," he said. Then Kara greeted her cousin with a hug. "Is it cheating if you tell me if I grow up to be pretty," she asks. "You... grew up beautiful, Kara," choked back Superman. As the Legionnaires looked around the Fortress, Brainiac V took Superman aside and presented him with a gold statue of him holding a Phantom Zone projector. "We came here to meet with you again, and salute you," said Brainiac V solemnly. Superman looked at him sadly. "And pay your last respects, is that it?" Supergirl interrupted the tense moment. "I just thought of something," said Kara. "I thought I couldn't materialize in an era where you already existed?" "You're right," says Superman. "Right now, Supergirl is in the past."

Tearfully, the Legionnaires boarded their time bubble and slowly disappeared in an electric crackle. Left alone, Superman and Krypto sat quietly among their many trophies, the tributes to their heroic deeds... and their thoughts. "He never told me exactly what had happened the night before the siege began," says Lois. "But as soon as I saw him the next morning I knew something had upset him. He looked funny. He looked as if he had been crying."

Lois and Tim Crane take a break to have a cup of coffee. The wonderful aroma attracts Jordan Elliot, Lois' husband into the room. Sitting at the table, Crane looks at Elliot and asks whether he minds that his wife is being interviewed about her life with Superman. "Nah, I can live with it," dismissed Elliott. "He weren't nothin' special. Us workin' slobs, we're the real heroes." Turning, he left them to resume to their interview and Lois continued. "We stood on the balcony and watched as he destroyed the golden key. I think that's when we first realized that he was preparing for a siege... Superman's last stand."

Inside, the people were tense. Perry and Alice bickered. Lois and Lana waited. Outside, the villains gathered. Brainiac-Luthor and the Kryptonite Man emerged from Brainiac's rebuilt ship and to their amazement, Saturn Woman, Cosmic King and Lightning Lord, members of the Legion of Super Villains, arrived from the future hoping to share in the victory. "Why should I share," asks Brainiac-Luthor. "Because, in the future, we know things," said Saturn Woman. "According to legend...Superman met his greatest foe in battle and was no more," said Lightning Lord. "It is said that during Superman's last days, all of earth's champions flocked to help him," added Cosmic King. Brainiac-Luthor returned to his ship. "I shall erect an impenetrable force-screen immediately," the voice drones and a huge bubble, two miles across appeared enclosing the fortress.

Around noon, they began firing on the fortress with weapons from Brainiac's ship. Superman was able to destroy most of the weapons with his heat vision, but the force generator was too well protected, and a frontal assault by him and Krypto was turned back by Kryptonite Man. Soon, other heroes arrived. Friends, rivals, lovers; none of them could get through the barrier. And when night finally fell, everyone assumed that they had until morning.

As quiet came, Superman sought out Perry white. The two men spoke of fear, and dying in hushed voices. "I think I'm going to die," said Superman sadly, "and I have so much to get straight, like me and Lois, and me and Lana. They've wasted their love on me while I couldn't love either of them the way they deserved. I wish I had explained. I wish I hadn't been such a coward." His voice tailed off. The noble are always the ones most troubled by conscience.

Suddenly, a flickering flashlight captured a figure moving in the darkness. "Lana, what are you doing here?" asked Jimmy. They looked at each other realizing that each had come to help. Locating the serum that had once transformed him into Elastic Lad, Jimmy lifted the flask with a wry smile then drank. Before them is a pool of water that had once given Lana temporary super-powers. Telling Jimmy to turn his back, Lana immersed herself in the water, and one-by-one her senses expanded: x-ray vision, microscopic vision, and super-hearing... then overhearing a voice... of Superman. "When I was Superboy, Lana was the only girl I loved, but since I've grown to become a man, there's only ever been one woman for me. Lois. I love her Perry, but I can't tell her without hurting Lana. I'd never hurt Lana, so I'll just walk around with this secret, the weight in my heart. I'll carry it in my heart, and neither of them will ever know."

Standing, Lana lifted herself from the pool and dressed in the costume hung in the trophy case behind her. "Are you ready yet," asked Jimmy. "We'll show 'em," Lana says. "Nobody loved him better than us. Nobody!" and they sped from the fortress.

Brainiac had assumed that Kryptonite Man would keep Superman and Krypto at bay, so what happened took them totally by surprise. First Lana pummeled Kryptonite Man while Jimmy ran to disable the force projector. Then Lana turned on Brainiac-Luthor. The Brainiac portion spoke in bravado, but the part that was still Luthor pleaded with Lana. "Kill meee... Lana... Please... Kill me... Do it now," said Luthor, his voice feeble and weak. Lana landed a thundering blow which snapped Luthor's neck, collapsing him into the snow.

But then the Legion of Super Villains took command. Cosmic King used his elemental transmutation powers to turn the radioactive particles of the pool into normal body salts stealing Lana's powers from her. Lightning Lord approached Lana, offering a hand, but electrocuted her. Elastic Lad had watched this, and leapt at the villains from the future. "You murdering scum," he screamed. "The force screens wrecked and you're finished," but no sooner have the words left his lips when a blast from a ray pistol struck a fatal blow, and Jimmy lay dead in the snow.

The Villains wondered where the blast had come from, and then saw Brainiac stand clumsily, stiffly. "I.. am Brainiac...reducer of Kandor...and his greatest foe. My victory...is preordained. Do you think... that I would let... the death of this body... stand in my way?" The villains look at the scene in amazement. Kryptonite Man then noticed that even though Jimmy had destroyed the force generator the screen had not collapsed. "Some other force must be maintaining the screen," wheezed Brainiac who then ordered that they prepare for their final strike and launched a nuclear missile.

The nuclear blast had little effect on the fortress other than to open a gaping hole in one side. Inside, Perry rushed from his room and saw a wall begin to crumble on Alice. Quickly, he knocked her aside, saving her life. Safe for the moment, the two look at each other and realize that, even now, they still had love one another. The thing they did not have was time.

The first villain to approach the fortress was Kryptonite Man. Passing through the hole in the fortress wall, he called out defiantly, "Where are you Kryptonian?" The response came from a different Kryptonian than he expected, when Krypto blasted through the wall. Kryptonite Man radiated the dog, but Krypto kept coming, biting a slashing at the villain. "I'm killing you, you stupid animal. Don't you understand?" Krypto did understand and was unrelenting. In a pool of green blood, Kryptonite Man died, and with his final breaths, Krypto emitted a mournful howl then joined the green man in death.

With Lois in his arms, Superman flew through the fortress witnessing the destruction. Using his x-ray vision he located Perry and Alice, but told Lois that Jimmy and Lana were nowhere to be seen. "Perhaps they're dead," laughed Lightning Lord. "Want to buy yourself some time, Kryptonian? Why not throw me the woman to fry the way I fried your other girlfriend." "You hurt Lana?" Superman screamed. His eyes glow red, with the heat of many suns, and slash out slicing Lightning Lord's shoulder. Saturn Woman is completely taken aback. "He's prepared to kill," she says and the trio, knowing that Superman is to be defeated this day, rushes hurriedly to their Time Bubble and escape to the future.

Together, Superman and Lois fly off to face Brainiac. As they approach, Superman can see that rigor mortis has developed and Brainiac can no longer control muscular function. Luthor's body betrayed Brainiac in death, collapsing in the snow. Disengaging himself from Luthor's skull, Brainiac walks, crablike toward Superman. "I am coming for you Kryptonian. My victory in inevitable.' But Brainiac could only move a few inches, powered only by pure malice. In a blink, it, too, expired.

It's over. But no! There are too many loose ends. The force field is still intact. No one can enter or leave. As they return to the fortress, the truth suddenly dawned on Superman. "Mxyxptlk!" he screamed, and the 5th Dimensional imp appeared, changed somehow, darker. "What do you do when you're immortal," he asks, "other than fill time." Part of the time he was good, part of the time funny now he is evil. "Did you honestly believe that a 5th Dimensional sorcerer would resemble a funny little man in a derby hat? This is how I really look," he screams and again changes into a distorted, grotesque apparition with height, length, breadth and a couple of other things.

Suddenly, Brainiac V's meaning dawned on Superman. The statue he was given... facing his greatest foe... he was holding a Phantom Zone projector. Racing through the fortress, Superman sped to the chamber where the projector was hidden, with Mxyxptlk right behind him. "Time to die!" screamed Mxyxptlk. "That's right, Mxyxptlk," says Superman. "Time to die."

It takes a moment for Mxyxptlk to recognize what Superman had in his hands, and in that moment, he realized that there is no escape for him, save one. As the Phantom Zone projector beam hits Mxyxptlk, he yelled out his name backwards. A numbing scream rends the air. As he attempted to return to the 5th Dimension, he was also sent to the Phantom Zone; torn in half between dimension.

And now it is over. But was it. In the fortress Superman appeared distraught. "I broke my oath," he sighed. "I killed him. Nobody has the right to kill. Not Mxyxptlk... not you... not Superman. Especially not Superman." "Superman turned and walked down a hallway," continues Lois to Tim Crane. "I ran after him, calling his name. He didn't reply. Opening a chamber labeled "Gold Kryptonite" he entered and walked into the gold light. He turned and looked over his shoulder. He smiled at me... I never saw Superman again."

The force field crackled and disappeared and the heroes of earth approached the fortress. "Carnage and destruction was everywhere," adds Lois sadly. "Bodies of his enemies, and his most loyal friends were strewn on the ground. They found me outside of the Gold Kryptonite chamber, but Superman was gone. They found a passageway leading out of the fortress and it is believed that he walked out, powerless. They never found his body. As far as I am concerned, Superman died in the arctic. I was there."

As Tim Crane gathers his notes and prepares to leave, Jordan Elliot walked into the living room with his son, Jonathan. Once alone, the couple settled in for the evening. "I guess the media won't be bothering us for at least another 10 years now," says Lois. "Let's hope so," added Jordan. Sitting Jonathan down beside the fireplace, the couple hugged lovingly. "Work was great," began Jordan. A friend brought in a photo of his grandchildren and they had worked on a '48 Buick. "You really love it, don't you? Going to work everyday, taking out the garbage, changing Jonathan's diapers... all the normal stuff," says Lois knowingly. "Yep. Can't beat it," laughed Jordan who casually glanced at his son, now black from coal soot.

"You were pretty hard on Superman earlier," admonished Lois. "Superman was over-rated," laughed Jordan. "Too wrapped up in himself. 'Thought the world couldn't get along without him." At his feet, young Jonathan playfully squeezed the coal in his hand. Opening it he stared gleefully at a large, glimmering diamond.

"What's for dinner," asked Jordan. "Pizza, then bed, a bottle of wine," winked Lois, "then we can live happily ever after. Sound good to you? Grinning widely, Jordan walked to the door, and stared out at us. He nodded, then winked, then closed the door.

CONTEXT

REVIEW

Yes, the dog dies.

There aren’t many sad Superman stories (at least not that many that do not end with some kind of hope). To me this story gets sadder with the Legion sequence. Everything about those pages is sad, including the last splash page. That is the moment Superman confirms he is about to die.

Some fun facts: Jordan Elliot is a homage to Jor-El. Lois’s son is named Jonathan for the reasons you already know. (Jonathan Kent).

On the cover of Action Comics #583, you can see DC people, Murphy Anderson, Curt Swan, Jenette Khan and and Julius Schwartz.

There are some things I consider “off” in this story that I forgive for the emotional factor. Time travel logic in particular seems fishy. There are a couple of rules mentioned, but the intervention of the Legion of Super-Villains kind of breaks history (unless of course, that they were there all along in some kind of loop). The same way with the golden statue, was that there all along?

It’s unclear to me if the force shield covered everything under earth as well, as Superman could have easily made an underground tunnel and put all his loved ones in another safe place.

Then what about the crazy room full of Golden Kryptonite? Is that safe to have around?

One thing is cool about the “suicide” ending. We saw Bizarro take his life earlier with Blue Kryptonite, and he does the opposite, so I take that as a clue that he is not dying.

I also like the small character moments. Lana and Lois in particular as they weren’t treated with respect all along (one of the reasons Byrne did away with the love triangles). But also Perry and Alice have a beautiful moment.

Lana, Jimmy and Krypto sacrifice themselves. As Jimmy said, “it’s time to pay the price for being Superman’s pal”. Lana died a hero and Lois pretty much helped Superman figured out how to end the menace.

Moore did good use of Superman’s supporting cast, something that most writers usually ignore (as they are usually used to fill pages or help with quick expositions).

I always forget George Perez inked the first chapter. It is clearly Perez without losing Swan’s style (but you can find Perez’s style in the backgrounds).

This is the end of the Bronze Age for Superman. To be honest, I do not know if this is a Bronze Age or a Modern Age story. I think both would be correct, but because it feels more in harmony with Modern Age stories, I decided to put it in that category.

I give this story a score of 10.

[a-strange-world]

I Lost My Grace - Chapter 2

Summary : When an angel becomes human, there’s a lot to learn and discover. For him, but for you too.

Pairing : Future Castiel x Reader ?

Word count : 2,140

Warnings : None.

[Note 1 : Okay, first of all, this is my first fanfic that I post on tumblr so pleaaase be indulgent. Also, I apologize if there are spelling mistakes or agreement errors or whatever else. I’m a french woman and I don’t have a perfect level in english, but I would love to improve it. So, if there is any mistake, just let me know and I’ll correct it :)

Note 2 : I wanted to try something in this chapter about the way of writing (check the italic and bold type text (some sentences are from the original script by the way, not mine)). The scene is very clear in my mind but I don’t know if I transcribed it well. I hope you’ll understand what I wanted to do. In any case, don’t hesitate to tell me if it’s comprehensible or not.

Note 3 : Okay, I stop the “blabla” now and let you read the chapter ! :) I hope you’ll enjoy it. I’ll try to post the next as soon as I can ! Oh and don’t hesitate to send a feedback ! I would be glad to know what you’re thinking about the chapter. I wish you a nice reading ❤ ]

Cas is human.

You couldn't realize it. Castiel, angel of the Lord, who had saved Dean from Hell and Sam from madness, who had fought by your side against demons, leviathans and even angels, was now human.

His face suddenly popped in your mind. Those eyes. Once again, you could see so many things in them.

Distress. Pain. Emptiness. Your own old demons.

You hated the fact that Castiel had to feel all these terrible feelings. He didn't deserve all this suffering and most of all he hadn't been prepared for that. You didn't know how he would react but you were sure about one thing : it wouldn't be good. You knew too well these feelings and their consequences. You had experienced them before and they hadn't been a good phase of your life. Not at all. You just hoped that Castiel would not live what you did.

At the thought, you instantly felt your eyes getting wet and you bit your bottom lip, trying to control yourself. Not now (Y/N).

You focused on your breathe, letting in and out the air in your lungs very slowly and finally managed to get back your composure.

That's better. You thought to yourself. I have to be strong. For him. He will need the three of us to overcome this situation.

You paused a moment, starting to remember all the hard times he went through. Lilith, the apocalypse, the civil war in heaven, the purgatory... He had survived to everything.

He is brave and strong and good. Being human will not change anything of that. He will survive to this too. And I'll be there for him, like I'm here for Sam and Dean. I'll pay attention to every single of his needs. I will do everything I can to help him and he will be ok. Everything will be o-

The sound of footsteps approaching suddenly cut your thoughts and you blinked a couple of times, knowing that it would help you to come back to reality. Then you looked down at your hands to see that without even realizing it, you had finished the batter's preparation.

"So, what are you cooking for us, little head chef ?" Dean asked while he rubbed his hand against the top of your head, causing your bun to get messy. You faked to grumble in frustration, hiding your smile from Dean. You didn't want him to know that you loved when he did that. That it conforted you and made you feel really part of their family, like a little sister.

You felt Sam coming closer to you and watching over your left shoulder. "Flour, eggs, milk..." He started to enumerate, noticing all the ingredients that were placed on the countertop. "Oh wait, I think I know." He started to say proudly. "Is that-"

"Salty pancakes !" You said joyfully, knowing well that the boys loved that recipe.

"Oh God bless you ! And pancakes too !" Dean exclaimed, raising his fist toward the sky after having kissed it.

"You. Are. The best." Sam stated with a big grin.

You chuckled at their reactions.

"I thought that it would be a good..." Your voice lowered. "first meal for Cas." You ended your sentence in a whisper, the words hurting your throat and the memories hurting your heart.

"Of course it is, (Y/N)."

You raised your head to look at Sam who was smiling at you. You perfectly knew this smile, this look, this face. He knew. And he knew you knew he knew. He always guessed your feelings. It was like this with Sam. He had this "super" empathy that made you feel naked but safe at the same time. And more you tried to hide your emotions, better he understood what was happening in your head. It was destabilizing at first but you were now used to be an open book to him. He wasn't your friend for nothing after all.

"So." Sam said, changing the subject on purpose. "Do you need help ?"

You faked to think about the proposition before answering. "Actually yes. Dean, can you take care of bacon's and egg's cooking ?" You asked him.

"Sir, yes sir !" He said abruptly, saluting you military way what made you smile.

"And Sam, what about making some salad with it ?" You suggested, exchanging a knowing look with him.

"Oh no !" Dean suddenly spoke before Sam could say anything. "Please, don't tell me that this meal will contain some green healthy things." The eldest brother said, looking desperate.

"Haha, I think it will !" Sam replied, winking at you.

"Compromises Dean. Compromises." You said with a laugh.

You perfectly knew that all of this was just an act. Smiling, joking like nothing had happened earlier. In fact, it had always been your way to escape the reality and its hard times. Sometimes the three of you simply needed to relax and think about anything else that the daily crap. And today you really needed that. Castiel really needed that.

You felt your heart clenching at the thought

"How is he going ?" You asked to Dean with sad eyes.

"I..." Dean sighed. "I don't know, it's hard to tell." He went to the fridge and opened it, searching for the bacon's box. "I explained him how to use the shower, how to regulate the water temperature, how much use shampoo etc. I think we'll have to do that with everything now." He suddenly straightened up, his head only poking out above the door fridge. "And before you too are saying anything, I tell you : I won't be the one who will explain how to flush the toilet !" He said, laughing a little while returning to his task.

A sad smile crossed your face, knowing that behind the joke, Dean was really concerned about his friend. Humor was his best defense against any emotional stuff.

"Ah got it !" He suddenly exclaimed, finally finding the box. "Anyway. I think it won't be easy. When I left him, he seemed still in shock. I never saw him like that before."

"Yeah. Me neither." You replied quietly.

You saw Dean contorting himself as he was going deeper in the fridge. He muttered something inaudible - where you just heard the words "Damn it !" and "this shit" - then he finally get out of it with a bag in his hands, a disgusted expression on his face.

"Ew..." He said while putting the salad in Sam's hands.

You shook your head and smiled at his funny behavior while Sam rolled his eyes.

"You're really a lost cause, ya know." Sam said what made you giggle.

The three of you were going to focus on your respective task when you realized that something were missing for doing yours.

"Oh Sam, wait ! Just before you start, can you grab me the frying pan please ?" You didn't wait more of 4 seconds until he was handing it to you.

"Thank you." You said to him as you grasped the pot. But instead of letting go of the pan like he would have to, Sam had a tight hold on it. Slightly destabilizing by the unexpected force, you looked at him to discover that he was totally still, his gaze locked on something unmaterial in front of him.

"Sam ? You're okay ?" You asked, suddenly worried.

Dean moved in front of his brother. "Sammy ! Hey !" He said, starting to shake his left shoulder with one hand.

"Yes, Sam is fine." Sam finally answered with a neutral tone while putting the pan on the countertop.

There was one second of silence during time seemed suspended, before Sam's eyes moved again and fixed on you and Dean. His face wasn't reflected any emotion, it was just like a stone. Hard, cold and empty. That's when you understood what was going on. Ezekiel.

"Ezekiel." Dean repeated your thought out loud. "You know that we discussed about this, don't ever do it like tha-"

"Castiel cannot stay here." Ezekiel proclaimed, cutting Dean off.

The statement made you freeze. Your heart skipped a beat as you instinctively held your breathe, your body's reactions following the state of shock of your brain.

In the corner of your eyes, you saw Dean shaking his head then frowning. "Wait what ?" He said, not believing what he just heard, just like you.

"Castiel cannot stay here." The angel repeated patiently. "He will bring the angels down on all of us."

Your eyes fixed upon the angel again and all your suspicion about him came back to the point.

"No, no, he's got the Enochian tattoo. He's warded."

You never trusted him. You just couldn't.

"He was warded when some angels found him, and tried to kill him."

There was something in him that was bothering you.You didn't know what exactly.

"Yes, I know that, but this is Cas, okay, who vouched for you when I didn't know you from Jack. The bunker is safe."

Of course, Dean have had his own doubts when you first met Ezekiel. You two agreed about one thing : there was no coincidence. You couldn't believe that just when you needed it, an angel just presented himself right away with a solution, without any ulterior motive. It was way too good to be true.

"Bartholomew is massing a force. We cannot stand an incursion. Castiel is in danger, and if he is here, I am in danger."

But the strange situation wasn't really what setted you thinking. It was more a feeling. A terrible bad feeling that was eating you away since the first day.

"Wait, you're in danger? From who, the angels?"

You couldn't explain it but you were deeply convinced that there was something wrong with the angel.

"If he stays, I am afraid I will have no choice but to leave."

You couldn't explain it but you always felt that something were...

"Oh, no, you can't do that. Sam's not well enough. If you leave his body..."

... fake.

"I know. I am sorry."

The last words suddenly cut your thoughts and brought you back to reality. You felt your checks starting to burn red, anger flewing through your veins. Sorry ? He was sorry ?

“Okay, that's enough." You interrupted them. "Listen to me carefully, Zeke !” You said with a revolted face when your mouth prononced his name. “I don't know what's on your mind and what you're planning but let me tell you that." You made a pause to let some air filling your empty lungs. "YES, we need you to heal Sam and bring him back in one piece. YES, you are our last hope for this. But NO, this act doesn’t give you the right to order that Castiel has to leave. HE is our friend. Don’t forget that YOU are still alive only because we need you to keep SAM alive ! I could simply kill you right now !" You finally said, raising your blade from under your top and placing it on Sam's throat.

You detected a slight flinch coming from Ezekiel but he didn't let anything appear on his face. And as your gazes were silently fighting, you could feel your own eyes slowly getting wet due to the outpouring of emotions.

"Wow wow, (Y/N). Hey, calm down okay ?" Dean spoke to you quietly while grabbing carefully your hand to push it away from his brother's body.

"I am calm. I just want to be sure that this stupid and selfish angel understands well my thought." You replied, still holding the gaze of the angel.

You felt Dean's hand slowly pulling yours, forcing you to step back.

"Threatening me will not change anything (Y/N)." Ezekiel said, looking at you emotionless. He then turned toward the older brother and stated once again. "If Castiel stays, I will leave."

The ultimatum let Dean voiceless. You could read so easily his pain on his features as he didn't know what to do. Castiel, his best friend. Sam, his brother.

"Know what ? I'm done with it !" You intervened just as he was opening his mouth to speak. "We won't choose between the two of them. If Cas has to go, then I'll go with him ! I will not let him all alone, especially now. This is the time when he most needs us." You paused, looking at both of them. "I guess that everybody will agree with this." You concluded in a low voice.

You then turned toward the countertop to finish cooking the pancakes, not wanting to talk to the angel anymore.

"I suggest Sam should look after Cas to see if he's okay." Dean said to Ezekiel and you heard footsteps moving away from the kitchen.

Tag list : @thehoneybeecastielfollows

[brokenmusicboxwolfe]

On a post about the social isolation Mom and I experience here....

toenzy said:                                                                                                                            Sounds like you gotta move      

It sounds so simple, doesn’t it. And without responsibilities or with plenty of money it probably would be.  We can’t just leave.

I could rattle off a list. The land that’s been in my family for centuries. Our “big boat” in the docked in the river we wouldn’t know how to give away (and without Pop, we stuggle to keep from becoming a navigation hazard). The houses, including the one from the 1700s that’s the only house in town not burned in the Civil War, none  (including the ones we live in) of which we can afford to repair even up to rental standards. We couldn’t sell ‘em if we wanted to, what with no one buying and the area full of unsold houses. We have belongings dating back generations crammed into spaces with a solid floor and roof, and NO, I am not interested in throwing them away in some idea of spartan souless living with no ties to history being morally superior. That I can root around in boxes and find a book belonging to my great, great, great whatever in 1785 is kinda cool....

But the animals are what really make it impossible. 

We have six dogs, one pig and a herd of cats. Not one of them did we decide to have. The cats are part of a colony of farm cats that have lived on the farm as long as it has been a farm. The dogs are two strays, and the puppies one was pregnant with when she showed up. The pig was, shocking as it sounds, a stray too. We didn’t choose them, but they are family. 

Now someone on Tumblr once said we should just give our pets away so we could move. Even if we were eager to free ourselves of this “family”, how the heck could we find people to adopt them? These are outdoor pets, not housebroken. Some of the cats are borderline feral, unpettable, and we have to spike their food to knock ‘em for routine medical care. One of the dogs has a health problem that takes daily treatment. Two of them are extremely high strung and I spend an hour a day with them to ease this, but most the time I can’t even pet them. Some of the dogs and cats have various psychological quirks most people would never put up with...

And then there is the pig.

Ryoga is no little potbellied or mini pig, He’s a full on commercial pig. He showed up as battered piglet the size of a cat, but now he’s waist high on me and hundreds of pounds! Just the other day he got on his hind legs jumping on the fence and I realized he was huge and “taller” than me. He’s no backyard pet.

Truth is, he’s very high maintance. A pet that requires you to build a house four times the size of my bathroom, fence in a large area you keep having to maintain (and always wanting to make it bigger as he roots the place into a swamp during rainy periods) , constantly struggle to try to “pig proof” his hog feeder and water dish, feed him twice a day as you constantly haul around 50lb bags of feed and tons of apples...And that’s before the fact he’s a smart, getting  bored and annoyed if you don’t spend enough time with him. An annoyed pig will let you know!

There are people around that would take Ryoga. They would take him for the local specialty barbecue! Folks joke about it all the time, and laugh at us for not killing him. I really do think that that would be his fate without us.

So, ignoring everything else, I can’t go anywhere until Ryoga dies. He’s not even close to 2years old, so that could be a while.

There was a little window where I could have escaped the trap. For a few months at 19 I was determined to leave on a road trip to Alaska, with the intent that afterwards I would be “just visting” when I came back. Long story, but I got talked out of it. I was needed. Pop needed me in the family business that he’d been running alone since my grandfather had died. Mom got in a car wreck that nearly killed her, and I needed to help with her recovery. The longer I was here the more rooted I was, the harder it would be for my parents to fill the gap I’d leave.  They needed me, and I loved them dearly, so how could I abandon them? 

But history repeats itself. When my parents graduated college they had plans of PhDs and working as scientists, but life happened. My gradfather developed serious heart problems and the KKK was threating them, so they were desperately needed here. They came back for my grandparents, never intending it to be forever. Even when I was a child Pop hoped we’d get to take the boat to travel the world one day. But the deaths of my grandparents and great grandmother didn’t free my parents but instead trapped them completely. 

There is a reason It’s a Wonderful Life has always been unbearable to watch. It’s all too relatable to watch someone trapped in the home town they always dreamed of leaving. Worse though, it creates the myth that helping folks creates loyal friends. My family voluntered and helped out constantly. I mean, both my parents were mayor, Pop until he got sick. When he died less than a year after resigning I’m not sure we even got five sympathy cards. We had no visitors. The town gave us a plaque in memory of his service a few months later, but that’s it. Pop sacrificed his dreams for responsibilities to family and community, but I seriously doubt anyone would have come to his rescue if he’d been in George Bailey’s place. Most a lifetime here and he was still the weird, but useful, outsider. He’d be asked for advice, help, or the loan of tools, but not be invited to parties.....

Anyway, you have to weigh your responsibilities and resources against how well you endure loneliness. I generally take being alone very well, both because it’s most of what I’ve known in my life and my basic nature. But sometimes it aches, overwhelming with that awareness that everything we face we face completely alone. 

And then I write a rambling post venting, to be followed by comments and another rambling post in reply. You poor things! LOL

Don’t worry. I probably won’t moan about it again for a couple of months! 

[bestfriendforhire]

Entry 376

 “That insufferable young pup is worse than his father if you can believe that.” stated Zachary as he came strolling into the room.  “Who are our… guests?”  His eyes darted around the room.  Then he smiled and said, “I should have recognized the scent immediately.  That should tell you how frustrated I am at the moment.”

 I nodded and said, “Godric does seem a bit…”

 “Infuriating?” questioned my wife with a smile.

 “I probably would’ve gone with ‘childish’, but sure.” I replied.

 Zachary shut his mouth without commenting, staring at us instead.  “You’ve changed.  Your posture is entirely wrong.  Whatever happened to you two?”

 I glanced to where Portentia and Cosette were, nodding slightly.  Then I told him “We visited Carl, but marriage has been good to us.  The pink one on Papak’s back is our daughter, Dani.”

 “Oh!  Marvelous.  She really is pink, isn’t she.”  He watched her for a moment before turning back to us and saying, “Your cousin tried giving me orders after he proclaimed his greatness and claimed that he was going to lead the family into a new era that his father had dreamed of.”

 “He kicked down my door and expected to make it inside.” I replied.

 “Ah.  I imagine that didn’t go as he planned.”

 “James had Raine deposit him home.  I would have loved seeing his expression.” teased Alma.

 We had asked Aaliyah to show us later that evening.  She had obliged, providing us with commentary as a video of him destroying part of his own house had played.  The kid really was his own worst enemy.

 “Well, I am sorry to have left you in the hands of my brothers all this time.  The tour must’ve been terrible with their embellishments.

 “Did you really engage in a drinking contest with the Romans to upset the next day’s battle?” questioned Alma with a smile.

 Zachary glared at Vito for a moment before saying, “Look, they hadn’t proven themselves on the field at that point.  I couldn’t have known that a dozen hungover officers wouldn’t really affect the battle.  That tactic had worked brilliantly a bit earlier.”

 “Around six hundred years.” replied Vito.

 “Yes-yes, but did Vito happen to tell you about that time he spent years micromanaging the people of the Indus Valley only to pick the worst time in hundreds of years for a vacation?” questioned Zachary.

 “How was I to know that the rivers would shift course that much while I was away?  Besides, there would have been only so much I could have done about the diseases that spread in my absence.  They might have fallen apart even if I had been there.”

 Papak joined in within minutes, expanding the history lesson for the rest of us even more.  Listening to the three argue about who helped most in shaping the greatest civilizations of ancient history was fascinating, especially considering that many of the details they knew hadn’t even been discovered yet by archaeologists.

  Ariadne pointedly ignored them, chatting with Dani, Cosette, and Portentia.

 Sometime later, Dani wandered over to me and said, “Daddy, let’s get them to play Fall of a Perfect System.”  She smiled sweetly at me in a manner she often used when instigating trouble.

 “As you wish.” I told her, nodding and smiling in return.  “Gentlemen, would you mind indulging my daughter’s wish and join us in a little game that can serve as a test for each of us?”

 “What’s this?” questioned Vito warily.

 “No clue.” replied Cosette, stepping closer.

 Portentia followed her, remaining quiet as she watched everyone.

 “A good friend of mine wrote a little game to help Dani study the repercussions of various actions.  When used as a multiplayer game, we each can try our luck in creating the most prosperous civilization in a binary solar system with three habitable worlds.  The game allows you to micromanage to the extent of having meetings with advisors and reallocating sums daily.  If war happens between us and/or the NPC civilizations, you can choose to enter individual battles as generals to make the most of your military’s training regime.  The game ends after twenty thousand years if any players are still in the running by that point.”

 “I doubt all of us will still be around by that point, unless you plan on having us turn your daughter.” stated Vito with a smirk.

 The idea had certainly crossed my mind periodically, but I said, “No need.  We’ll just choose in advance how many hours to play per day with extensions granted for those of us who can’t move as quickly as well as adjustments for battle lengths, so those can be tedious.  I hope no one is against Mila handling the time adjustments?”

 “How long does this game typically take in real time?” questioned Zachary.

 “Depends on how well we manage to keep our civilizations flourishing.” I replied.

 “I think I’ll sit this out.” stated Portentia.  Then she sighed and said, “Nevermind.  Mila’s insisting that I try.”

 I shrugged.  “I think I’ll invite Maxine too.  I’m curious what type of civilization she’d create.

 Papak laughed.  “She’ll probably think hers is Marvelous.”

 “This game is computerized, yes?” questioned Zachary.  When I nodded, he said, “Should I get it downloading then?  These things can take some time.”

 I pulled out my phone and said, “Mila, please ask Raine to bring us what we need.  Tell her that she’s invited to play too.”

 “Of course, master.” replied Mila.  “She’s setting up on floor eighty-two on recommendation from mother.”

 “Not my card castle!” complained Papak, rushing off.

 “Finally.  That thing is an eyesore.” stated Vito.

 “He uses a whole room for a card castle?” questioned Cosette.

 “Half the floor.  He keeps rebuilding it, smashing it, and repeating.”

 Zachary smirked and said, “Don’t forget the laughing to himself.  He’s actually creating cities he misses and finds how quickly they vanished amusing.”

 “So… cards because they’re flammable?” inquired Cosette.

 “No-no.  He simply enjoys them.” replied Vito.  Holding out a hand to Ariadne, he asked “Shall we?”

 The rest of us followed them out, chatting on the way.  When we arrived, Papak was hurriedly boxing and stacking thousands of cards.

 Raine stepped out of an adjoining room and said, “F-Finished.”

 “Oh!  In there!?” questioned Papak.

 “Aaliyah said y-you… d-don’t use it.” mumbled Raine.

 Zachary laughed.  “No, he doesn’t.  That’s his storage room for the cards.  Er… was.”  The last was said as he peered into the room.”

 Papak was looking between his stacks and the room with annoyance.  “I didn’t have to dismantle Vijayanagar.”

 “Looks like most of it still stands.” argued Cosette as she looked down the long room.

 He smiled and said, “If you want, I’ll tell you what it was like back when I was first there.  Beautiful place for its time.”

 “Sounds delightful.”

 “No, don’t get him started or we’ll be here for the rest of the day.  I want to see what this game is like to come so highly recommended.” stated Vito.

 I showed him.  The brothers took to the game even better than I had hoped, which led me to suggest that they do a second game among the three of them between turns with the main one, since most of the rest of us wouldn’t be keeping up with their pace.  If I were to be honest, I was quite curious to see if they’d beat my high score.

[thekrazykeke]

Title: Mad, Mad World

Fandom(s): Black Panther, MCU

Relationship(s): Sam Wilson & reader. T’Challa x reader.

Summary: Sometimes when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried, but truthfully, you’ve only been planted.

Warning(s): Captain America Civil War spoilers, angst

Now that I’ve gotten a taste of soulmate au’s, I’m hooked tbh. This story was inspired by what my Dimples, @lovelylittlekittn, told me about her day and also, this post. The Ryan Destiny gifs come from @kbunburyhelps like usual, seriously, check out her blog.

Naturally, if you like what you’ve read, give it a like or reblog. 

Without further ado, let’s goooo!

~

Bzz-bzz-bzz!

You desperately wanted to ignore your cellphone, which had not stopped it’s incessant buzzing but as a light sleeper and someone who’d been suffering from insomnia for the past few days, that’s impossible. Grumbling heatedly underneath your breath, blindly reaching out for the device with your left hand, eyes still partially closed as you’re so tired... 

The cellphone is knocked off the bedside dresser and lands on the plush carpet. 

Letting out a frustrated huff, you lean over the side of the comfortable bed to snag the device, which much to your irritation, still hadn’t stopped buzzing. Ripping off the eye mask, you quickly entered the numerical code to the phone and answered the call. 

“Hello!?” 

You listened to the person on the other end, tone shifting from aggressive and angry to something more...polite. “Sir, it’s...No, I haven’t watched the news recently.” Rolling your eyes, you paused, listening to what’s said next, lips pursed. “...I see. No. It’s not an inconvenience at all, sir. I’ll be there. See you soon, sir.” Pressing the ‘End Call’ button, you lean back against the pillows, touching the silk black bonnet on your head, thankfully it hadn’t come off while you were dozing. “I better see a nice, fat bonus on that next check or a raise or somethin’. Tryna work a bitch like a modern day slave and shit...” Throwing the covers and sheets off of your body, you swung your legs over the side. “Got me fucked up. Just fucked up! He knows good and damned well it’s my day off.” Still complaining bitterly, you toss the eye mask onto the bedside dresser before sluggishly half walking, half stumbling, towards the bathroom. 

Once inside, you shiver as the chill that permeates the room washes over you. Goosebumps pepper your beautiful, brown skin as you quickly strip out of your night clothes and turn the knobs for the hot and cold water for a shower, then step inside. For a few seconds, you let the warm, borderline scalding, water, sluice over you, then began to quickly go about completing your daily hygienic routine. 

After showering, brushing your teeth, and toweling dry, you re-enter the bedroom, towel wrapped around your waist as you opened the closet door. You’re on a timed schedule, so you shove aside the pre-planned weekend outfits for the more conventional and convenient work uniform; a pretty white blouse, black dress pants and comfortable dress shoes. Sighing near silently, you mentally wave farewell to those grand plans of yours. Placing the uniform over the back of a chair, you sit down on the bed again after grabbing some necessary items to complete the morning routine. Then when you’ve moisturized, put on some deodorant and slipped into the uniform, you run a hand down the front of your outfit, smoothing away any imaginary wrinkles.

‘Yaaas, I look amazing, as always.’ From the tips of your hair to the soles of your feet, you were that boss bitch and endeavored to show it off everyday of your life. Cellphone buzzing again, you rolled your eyes as you snagged your purse and car keys, closing the bedroom door on the way out. 

Tapping the code to unlock the device, you absently admitted that while you loved your job, you weren’t going to hop, skip, and jump. The link that’d been sent to your phone gave details about the Winter Soldier having blown up a building in Vienna, several people had been injured, even more dead, among them being the late King of Wakanda, T’Chaka. 

You picked up the pace.

~

“This is Y/N Wilson’s desk. Excellent at her job, she demands that same thoroughness of her subordinates. We probably wouldn’t have even caught actual footage of the Soldier without one of her people being on the late shift.” Ross stated, leaning against the mahogany desk.

“You’ve been singing her praises since we got here.” Sam pointed out, ignoring how Steve told him to relax wordlessly. “I’m just saying, the curiosity is killing me.” 

“It’s the same for me, actually.” he paused. “Is Wilson here or not, Agent Ross?” Steve asked, trying to keep the accusing note out of his voice. The agent opened his mouth, about to bluster some more, when the door opened. 

“Present and accounted for.” 

Sam maintained his professional countenance but only just barely. 

Steve wasn’t faring any better. 

You ignored them both, merely swept your gaze to your boss, “Some files needed my signature, a few boxes with paper files needed updating to digital form as well. Apologies for my tardiness.” That had always been your go-to excuse and Ross rolled with it, nodding along, though you were sure you’d be reamed out later. Snapping your fingers together, you pointed at Steve, “Gotta admit, I love the way you work, big fella.”

A little crease formed as his brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“The way you and Barnes were just throwing the German Special Forces around like ragdolls. Whew! Jee-sus. Talk about strong. My favorite part is when Barnes picked up a cement block and threw it into the agent’s chest. I hear that poor shmuck’s still in surgery.”

Realization dawned on Sam’s face and he sighed, “Body cams.”

“Bucky was anxious. He didn’t mean...I didn’t mean...”

“To hurt anyone?” Brows raising, you smiled blandly. “Yes, I can understand that. You probably didn’t even think twice except for eliminating the threat to your other half.” 

In every textbook, in all the tragic romances of all time, the love between Captain America and Sgt. Barnes continued to sell the most, besides Romeo and Juliet. Teachers loved to use their SoulBond as an example of what true love should look like. Personally you thought it was bullshit, but hey, what did you know?

“However, it’s a flimsy defense that will get torn to shreds in court, so I’d suggest getting a damn good lawyer and not doing anything else to escalate this shitty situation. Your reputation as the revered all American national hero grants you some leeway, Barnes doesn’t have that luxury. So just sit back and let us do our job. Do you understand?” Steve didn’t reply and you frown. “I said, do you understand?”

Sam spoke up. “Hey. Ease up, alright?”

You gave him the evil eye. “Don’t worry. You and I, we’ve got a lot to discuss too.” He grimaced and you glanced back at the silent super soldier. “I just want to ensure that we’re all on the same page.”

Steve nodded, fist propped underneath his chin. “We’re on the same page.”

Nodding sharply to Ross and Rogers, you crook your fingers, beckoning Sam to follow as you turn, opening the door to leave, “Let’s talk in private.”

Private turned out to be a small, empty conference room that doubled as storage space. You’d barely closed and locked the door before Sam was blowing up at you. “What the hell was up with that interrogation in there? The way you talked to Cap, like you didn’t even know him? Like I haven’t invited him to Ma’s for dinner with the rest of the family?”

“Let me see if I have this straight. You’re chastising me for doing my job?” You raised your eyebrows, mouth pulled into an unamused smile. “Boy, check yaself. Don’t make me get out of character up in here, Sammy.”

His shoulders raised defensively. “Don’t call me that stupid nickname!”

“I’m not going to cut corners for Steve because you’re friends with him. Hell, I refuse to cut corners with you and you’re,” Voice lowering, even though the door is closed and locked, “My brother.” Tone raising back to a normal level, you continue on to say, “As it is, the Avengers have fallen out of public favor ever since the Ultron debacle and what happened in Sokovia. Then what happened in Lagos?” You snorted derisively. “Let’s just say that y’all skatin’ on some very thin ice. Keep following after Steve and someone is gonna end up clipping your wings.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his disapproving frown would have stung any other time, but you couldn’t, wouldn’t, be swayed. “So, from your tone, I can assume that you’re pro-Accords.”

“The Accords, yeah. The politics, not exactly. I also think that things should be made harder for villains, and...” Sam had turned away from you and was about to walk out the door. “Is you forreal right now? You ‘bout to walk out and we ain’t done talking?”

He glanced back at you briefly. “It’s better I walk away now before I say something hurtful.”

“Sammy...” he shook his head, half out the door. “Sam.” You made an aborted move to follow but the way he gently closed the door was telling. Sam wasn’t one for dramatic or explosive fits of anger. 

He was a pro at silently expressed disappointment. 

Sucking in a fortifying breath, you fanned your face, blinking back sudden tears. ‘This is your workplace, damn it. Get it together.’ Counting to thirty, you manage to mentally get yourself in check, or at least enough to fake it to your colleagues if necessary. Straightening your spine, you exit the conference room, taking a turn to the left, only to bump into someone. When you glance up, it’s...

“I am so sorry! Oh, your coffee. Sorry again.” You’d accidentally knocked his coffee out of his hand. “Let me get you another.”

He held his hands up in a ‘calm down’ gesture. “That is unnecessary. It is fine.” The son of the late Wakandan king, T’Challa, shrugged. “In truth, it was horrible and I was looking for the excuse to throw it away.” 

You did a double take. “Wait, what?” He adopted a neutral expression. “What?” Feeling onto a hunch, you cautiously stated, “The coffee’s great here.”

“I imagine that sewer water would be far more appetizing.”

That startled a laugh out of you, even as realization slowly dawned. Pulse spiking with sudden anxiety, it’s hard to maintain eye contact now. Fingers brushed underneath your chin, encouraging you to look up and reluctantly, you obeyed. 

“Please. Don’t look away from me.”

Everything is suddenly too much, too quickly, too intense. “I...I can’t do this.” You feel on the verge of a panic attack as you stumble away from the royal. Shaking your head, mumbling under your breath, you do the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life.

You walk away from your soulmate. (He’s royalty! He’s minemineminemine. Oh God, this is so fucked up. Soulmates can’t lie to each other, which means--)

And he lets you.

[bffhreprise]

Best Friend For Hire Reprise, Entry 374

 “That insufferable young pup is worse than his father if you can believe that.” I stated as I strode into the room to see my brothers.  The past hours of dealing with the latest Slayer kingling grated my nerves to nothing.  “Who are our… guests?”  I looked around, and couldn’t believe how distracted I had allowed myself to be.  “I should have recognized the scent immediately.  That should tell you how frustrated I am at the moment.”

 Nodding, James said, “Godric does seem a bit…”

 “Infuriating?” questioned my Alma, smiling to my surprise.

 “I probably would’ve gone with ‘childish’, but sure.” agreed James with a fond look to his wife.

 I studied them, unable to explain how completely comfortable they were with one another.  When had Alma lost her pious belief in her family?  “You’ve changed.  Your posture is entirely wrong.  Whatever happened to you two?” I told them.

 James glanced over to where Cosette, and even Portentia, were nodding in agreement with me.  “We visited Carl, but marriage has been good to us.  The pink one on Papak’s back is our daughter, Dani.” he informed me.

 “Oh!  Marvelous.  She really is pink, isn’t she.” I told him, unable to explain her appearance either.  The bright, blue hair seemed as natural as her pink skin.  She was far more comfortable with my elder brother’s visage than anyone who just met him should be.  Of course, James hadn’t been bothered either.  Turning back to him and his wife, I said, “Your cousin tried giving me orders after he proclaimed his greatness and claimed that he was going to lead the family into a new era that his father had dreamed of.”

 “He kicked down my door and expected to make it inside.” stated James flatly.

 “Ah.  I imagine that didn’t go as he planned.” I replied, happily imagining what James might have done with him.

 “James had Raine deposit him home.  I would have loved seeing his expression.” teased Alma.

 I silently wished to have seen that as well, letting my mind play out such a scene.  If Godric didn’t wet himself before Raine, he must’ve nearly done so.  That boy had no real understanding of his place in the world.  Forcing myself back to the present, I apologized, saying, “Well, I am sorry to have left you in the hands of my brothers all this time.  The tour must’ve been terrible with their embellishments.”

 “Did you really engage in a drinking contest with the Romans to upset the next day’s battle?” questioned Alma with a playful smile.

 I glared at Vito, knowing he had to be the culprit.  “Look, they hadn’t proven themselves on the field at that point.  I couldn’t have known that a dozen hungover officers wouldn’t really affect the battle.  That tactic had worked brilliantly a bit earlier.” I assured her, though I mentally conceded that she might consider a few hundred years more than a bit.

 “Around six hundred years.” replied Vito, as if correcting my mental calculations.

 Well, two could play that game.  “Yes-yes,” I admitted, “but did Vito happen to tell you about that time he spent years micromanaging the people of the Indus Valley only to pick the worst time in hundreds of years for a vacation?”

 “How was I to know that the rivers would shift course that much while I was away?  Besides, there would have been only so much I could have done about the diseases that spread in my absence.  They might have fallen apart even if I had been there.” he argued, the tightness of his lips betray his irritation at the reminder.

 Papak, of course, couldn’t resist the urge to take a jab at the both of us as well, which led us to discussing our great failings at considerable length.  With no one appearing bored by our discussion, we probably carried on a bit too far, but that was always easy with James around.  His presence affected us, though probably not as much as most.

 “Daddy, let’s get them to play Fall of a Perfect System.” suggested Dani after splitting her attention between listening to us and chatting with Ariadne.

 “As you wish.” he told her, nodding and smiling in return.  “Gentlemen, would you mind indulging my daughter’s wish and join us in a little game that can serve as a test for each of us?”

 “What’s this?” questioned Vito warily.  He knew that Dani’s smile was trouble.

 “No clue.” replied Cosette, appearing perfectly honest as she stepped closer, Portentia following on her heels.

 I wouldn’t bet on my ability to tell if she lied.

 “A good friend of mine wrote a little game to help Dani study the repercussions of various actions.  When used as a multiplayer game, we each can try our luck in creating the most prosperous civilization in a binary solar system with three habitable worlds.  The game allows you to micromanage to the extent of having meetings with advisors and reallocating sums daily.  If war happens between us and/or the NPC civilizations, you can choose to enter individual battles as generals to make the most of your military’s training regime.  The game ends after twenty thousand years if any players are still in the running by that point.” explained James with his usual charm.

 “I doubt all of us will still be around by that point, unless you plan on having us turn your daughter.” teased Vito with a smirk.

 “No need.  We’ll just choose in advance how many hours to play per day with extensions granted for those of us who can’t move as quickly as well as adjustments for battle lengths, so those can be tedious.  I hope no one is against Mila handling the time adjustments?” he proposed, knowing we wouldn’t argue.  None of us would make an accusation against Aaliyah’s daughter even if she blatantly cheated us.

 “How long does this game typically take in real time?” I asked, wondering what sort of time investment this would be.

 “Depends on how well we manage to keep our civilizations flourishing.” he told us with a friendly smile.

 “I think I’ll sit this out.” stated Portentia.  Then she sighed and said, “Nevermind.  Mila’s insisting that I try.”

 That interested me, since I saw no writing and heard not a whisper, not that Portentia could hear at all.

 James shrugged.  “I think I’ll invite Maxine too.  I’m curious what type of civilization she’d create.”

 Papak laughed.  “She’ll probably think hers is Marvelous.”

 “This game is computerized, yes?” I asked.  When James nodded, he said, “Should I get it downloading then?  These things can take some time.”

 In response, James pulled out his phone and said, “Mila, please ask Raine to bring us what we need.  Tell her that she’s invited to play too.”

 “Of course, Master.” replied Mila.  “She’s setting up on floor eighty-two on recommendation from Mother.”

 “Not my card castle!” complained Papak before bolting for the door.

 “Finally.  That thing is an eyesore.” stated Vito with a smirk.

 “He uses a whole room for a card castle?” questioned Cosette with interest.

 “Half the floor.  He keeps rebuilding it, smashing it, and repeating.” my brother explained.

 I smiled and said, “Don’t forget the laughing to himself.  He’s actually creating cities he misses and finds how quickly they vanished amusing.”

 Looking from Vito to me, Cosette asked “So… cards because they’re flammable?”

 “No-no.  He simply enjoys them.” replied Vito.  Holding out a hand to Ariadne, he asked “Shall we?”

 The rest of us followed them out, chatting on the way.  When we arrived, Papak was hurriedly boxing and stacking thousands of cards.

 Raine stepped out of an adjoining room and said, “F-Finished.”  She had traveled thousands of miles, carrying equipment for us, set everything up, and was looking at James as humbly as if she were some servant who had filled a cup.  How little effort was such a feat for her?

 “Oh!  In there!?” questioned Papak, pleasantly surprised.

 “Aaliyah said y-you… d-don’t use it.” mumbled Raine in answer.

 I laughed.  “No, he doesn’t.  That’s his storage room for the cards.  Er… was.” I corrected, looking at the large computer system awaiting us.

 Papak was looking between his stacks and the room with annoyance.  “I didn’t have to dismantle Vijayanagar.”

 “Looks like most of it still stands.” argued Cosette as she looked down the long room.

 He smiled and said, “If you want, I’ll tell you what it was like back when I was first there.  Beautiful place for its time.”

 “Sounds delightful.” she told him, seeming perfectly interested.

 “No, don’t get him started or we’ll be here for the rest of the day.” insisted Vito quite correctly.  “I want to see what this game is like to come so highly recommended.”

 James quite gladly showed us.  The game’s intro was deceptively simple, but every menu had sub-menus and sub-menus for the sub-menus.  There was no doubt Aaliyah had designed this, which intrigued me further.  Where my brothers and I had thirteen thousand years spent seeing civilizations rise and fall, Death had witnessed them all.  There was none who would have greater insight into all aspects involving the fall of a civilization, and her attention to detail was vastly beyond my own.  This game would certainly be a pleasant diversion.

[bettsfic]

stuff i’ve learned about writing after 1 year in an MFA program

my post “stuff i’ve learned about writing after 10 weeks in an MFA program” was a big hit, so i thought i’d write an updated one after two full semesters in my program, which is halfway through. one more year to go!

find what you’re afraid of and let it hurt you. this is a tall order and it’s one of the most important things i’ve learned. if you’re hesitant, if you’re blocked, if something is keeping you from moving forward, recognize that thing is always fear, and the sooner you put a name to it, the sooner you face it, the sooner you embrace it and let it do its damage to you. you don’t have to be immune to fear, and you don’t have to be stronger than it or better than it. you can let it knock you down and kick you a few times, but you’ve got to stand back up. you don’t need to be impenetrable -- fuck having a thicker skin. you can let shit hurt you. you can drown in how afraid you are. but you have to be tenacious. if your writing is important to you, you’ve got to fight for it. 

you can do whatever the hell you want, for whatever reason you want, and you don’t owe anybody anything. in workshop we talk a lot about who can get away with what in writing (and by that we mean, white men can get away with everything). sometimes i read faulkner and i think, i hate this. this is everything i can’t stand about writing. but i respect that he got away with all his weird quirks -- useless repetition of words, minimal revision, overwrought exposition, atrocious pacing. all the rules we give ourselves, all these constraints are useless. like. fine, tell don’t show. use hanging participles and run-on sentences. invert freytag’s pyramid. ramble. lean into your purple prose. it doesn’t matter, none of it matters. if you like it, keep it. you don’t have to justify your own taste. and if someone calls you out? shrug and say, “stylistic choice, buddy. i do what i want.” it’s important to know the rules exist but it’s more important to break them. it’s your writing, nobody else’s. your words answer to no one.

be vulnerable. i’m a little biased since this was also my new year’s resolution, but it’s been a wild ride. i told myself in january that my focus this year was going to be on allowing myself to be vulnerable all the time, take opportunities and communicate with people how i feel about them, and it’s had a huge impact not only on my life and relationships, but on my writing too. opening myself up to non-judgmental introspection and setting down the drive to be tough has made my work way more emotionally nuanced -- i no longer write to tell a good story, but to explore some facet of living i hadn’t previously understood. i’ve found a level of self-acceptance i didn’t think i could ever achieve. reading has become easier, because i no longer get petty or jealous of writing that is better than mine. receiving rejections has become easier, because it’s a reflection on my work, but i still appreciate the work for what it is. it’s kind of amazing living life like this, and some days it’s hard but some days it’s thrilling. but vulnerability, like everything else, takes practice. you know when you confront it because it’s about leaning into discomfort and testing the limits of your own boundaries. being able to write it all down and see how all sorts of interactions affect me now where previously i wouldn’t have let them in is kind of staggering -- the difference is so obvious. i’m a kinder and gentler and more open person because of it, and i think my writing shows that. 

become a good literary citizen. being a good literary citizen means watching out for your fellow writers. i subscribe to so many daily newsletters and do so much research every day, and i’m always looking out for my friends, for opportunities for them or resources that might help them. when i read things i like, i try to share them with people who will get something out of them, and i’ve been working harder to get in touch with the author to let them know their work inspired me. i reply to all emails and offer my feedback to writers who want an additional eye on their work. i didn’t realize i guess how much of writing was networking and being a good bro, but i feel like my time is split solidly between reading, writing, and building partnerships with other writers. don’t be afraid to reach out to people you admire and offer whatever you have to give, be it your appreciation for their work or a story or article you think they might like. the writing life is often a lonely one, but being a good literary citizen makes it a much better place for all of us. 

talent is meaningless. everyone can learn to write. “you’re so talented!” is a compliment i hear thrown around a lot, and it makes me cringe, because i don’t really believe in talent. i believe that some people might have genetic inclinations or predispositions to creativity, they might fundamentally see the world in a way that would lend itself to beautiful strings of words, but writing, brass-tacks, is a discipline. it is a learned skill, and that means when you start out, you are going to be bad at it. you wouldn’t expect yourself to grab a log and a saw and be able to make a coffee table out of sheer talent, but you might be able to build the table if you experimented a little with it, thought about it, researched it, and maybe took it to someone who had already built a few tables before to give you their input on the project. and then once you’ve built your table, maybe it’s not great, but it’s something, and the next one you build will be sturdier and fancier and maybe have a little drawer for your keys or something. i say this because there are some authors, really famous ones, who believe that you can’t teach writing, and you can’t learn writing. you’re either a writer or you’re not. it’s just not true. you are going to be bad and that’s okay. you’re going to get better and that’s okay too. you’re never going to get better at the pace you want to improve, but the point is as long as you keep writing, keep asking for feedback, keep implementing that feedback, keep thinking about writing, you are going to get better, and you can be just as great as all the famous authors who think otherwise.

battle familiarity. this is more or less the usual “avoid cliches” advice you hear all the time, but on a bigger-picture level. avoiding cliches doesn’t just mean rewording things like “she let go of the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding,” but constantly subverting expected language by pointing to whatever is weird about the scene you’re writing. if you have two characters in a diner, we can see the booths and the coffee and the sassy middle-aged waitress. readers don’t need any of that pointed out. what they need is details they wouldn’t expect. maybe the booths are covered in peeling electrical tape, and the one closest to the door has a spring jutting out, but normally that’s rasheed’s booth anyway, but he isn’t here today for some reason. maybe the coffee has chicory in it. maybe the waitress wears air jordans and has a gold front tooth and a sleeve tattoo, and she’s the mom of a guy you went to high school with and you’re pretty sure he’s a sheepherder in nova scotia now. whenever you’re establishing place or character, the task isn’t fitting them in a box we’re already comfortable with, but constantly asking yourself, “what makes this weird?” then point out all the weird things until you can close your eyes and see every strange inch of this otherworldly diner that doesn’t really exist anywhere but your imagination, filled with people who have full, rounded, fucked-up lives. write in a way that every word defies expectation, and reflects the strangeness of the experiences you want to convey.

TAKE RISKS. this is a repeat from the 10 week article, but good god, it’s so important. take a risk every single day. risks nearly always pay off, especially in writing. if you’ve faced your fears, if you’re vulnerable, then writing becomes more than a discipline. stories get bigger and deeper and more meaningful even if you’re focusing on the microscopic. you can write a 200-word story about a dying houseplant or a 200k novel about a gay Civil War romance, but if you’ve put everything you’ve got into it, it’ll show. you should put so much of yourself into your writing that you’re trembling holding the pages in your hand as you pass them off to someone else to read. you should feel exposed. you should be afraid. you should feel like you’ve just jumped out of an airplane without a parachute. and if you’re not feeling those things, you’ve got some exploring to do. what does the story look like that makes you afraid? that makes you want to take risks? if you stare these questions down and commit to finding their answers, your writing will always improve, and your risks will pay off.

i have a whole writing advice tag if you want to check out my other stuff, and a collection of my writing advice posts from 2016. and always feel free to shoot me an ask if you have any writing-related questions.

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S  ‘SHAME’ “There isn’t much that gets through…”

© 2019 by James Clark

     With many Bergman films now having thrilled us by their confrontation of distemper and ecstasy, we could conclude that a standoff has reached its outer limits. But we would be far off the mark. Our film today, Shame (1968), has something very new to impart. But it doesn’t come in a straightforward way.

As we’ve often found in these treasures of semi-theatrical drama, the very endings turn out to divulge the marvel, and here again it brings to light our foothold in a slippery terrain. A former musician, Eva, finds herself, with civil war rampant, in a small fishing boat crowded with escapees (including her husband, Jan), where the seas are strewn with corpses. She tells Jan of a dream she’s just had. “I was walking down a very beautiful street. On one side were white houses with flowering arches and pillars. On the other side was a leafy park. Dark green water flowed beneath the trees lining the street. I came to a high wall overgrown with roses. Then an airplane came and set the roses on fire. But it wasn’t all terrible, because it was so beautiful. I looked down into the water and watched the roses burn. I held a baby in my arms. It was our daughter. She snuggled up to me… and I could feel her mouth against my cheek. And the whole time I knew there was something I should remember. Something someone had said. But I’d forgotten what it was…”

Neither ecstasy nor distemper has enveloped her. What that was is the heart of this very strange film—a vision ripping the constraints of not only cinema (the first seconds entail a reel of film shredding), but also theatre and every kind of art. In many ways, this conundrum looks to Bergman’s early film, Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), where physical triumph is a drug and machination and advantage have saturated the landscape. (However, the death march there would be a Rose Bowl Parade beside what’s in store here.) A second ingredient to consider is the aura of goofiness and malignancy being a specialty of the suspense films produced by Alfred Hitchcock. (Hitch, however, would be Violence Lite in light of Shame.) To cast some light upon this virtually incomprehensible phenomenon, we should remember that the term, “shame,” covers many degrees. Mainstream morality is never at a loss to hammer a roster of the “shameful.” Mainstream morality and the reflections of Ingmar Bergman have nothing in common. Maybe someone had suggested to Eva (that name being about the primal) that the crowning shame of world history, a factor reducing social and scientific action to childishness, is the fakery of immortality and its compensatory  assaults in lieu of fully creative power.

Along a trajectory of the pair, in single beds, being woken by an alarm clock—Eva, Hollywood-style (with a Swedish supplement of her nudity), quick to get into action, while Jan remains inert, has trouble finding his slippers and fusses with a wisdom tooth—Jan gives us the other bookend of a dream. He gets going, at last, with, “You know, I had the strangest dream last night.   Know what I dreamed? We were back with the Philharmonic, sitting side-by-side [she being the Concert Master, he being a second fiddle], rehearsing  the 4th Brandenburg Concerto, the largo tempo [slow and dignified style], and everything happening now [the orchestra having been shut down, due to the sporadic deadliness] was behind us. I woke up crying…” Eva’s only response is to wonder if he’s going to shave this morning, in meeting a delivery of two flats of loganberries for the mayor of the town across from the island where now they own and work a small farm. Before they hit the road, Jan has a panic attack. As he huddles by a window, she reasons, “You mustn’t be so sensitive. Try to control yourself. I do.” Tearful Jan replies, “Can’t you ever shut up?” Soon he apologizes, and nothing is right going forward, toward excitements you’ve seen many times before; only, you’ve never seen what this excitement brings your way. On the ferry to the client, they encounter him and his wife, and bourgeois patter clicks in like a nice brunch. “We just went out to check on the summer cottage… We won’t be home today, but Mrs. Almberg should be there… Why don’t we get together for dinner sometime and make some music? I’ve missed our soirees…” Thrilled by the generous transaction by the leading lights’ servant, they visit an antiquarian friend, Fredrick, who also sells wine they can now afford. He’s been drafted and is very unhappy about it; but he counters his anxiety by showing them, “the finest piece I own,” a rococo ceramic music box which his mother left for him. “I’ll never sell it!” Eva and Jan furtively smile at the indulgence, never noticing that the practice of their musical energies have dwindled to music-box proportions. Or, was this regime never more than about correctly following others’ initiatives to secure cozy elegance? While they clamor for wine and chat about civilized overtures, they feel no need (or no hope) to counter the plague of domination on the move. (And yet the essence of music–a carnal action illuminating problematic dynamics and against facile conclusions–invokes a significant rejoinder against the mayhem having its way.) The mayor’s wife had remarked, “My sister was evacuated to a transit camp, and they’re bombed almost daily.” A cut away from the precious music machine reveals a clock face with Hercules struggling to support it. Herculean effort, seemingly not for mortals. Also in view, an old photo of a royal family, prominent by way of mass murder.

The little stopover does allow something else, from out of the forgotten wisdom Eva presumably brushed past, lost forever within her shabby recollection. Fredrick’s homage to his mother’s taste (perhaps deeply felt) does involve, for the wide-awake, the modesty of reaching out to others who may not derive the real deal, but a facsimile from which to be brushed and to constitute a player, of sorts, in the motion of primordial creativity–involving a transaction with the cosmos itself, a transaction of disinterestedness, the antithesis of the savagery having its way and bragging about it. During the early moments of the protagonists’ resembling forgettable movies, Eva nags Jan for failing to repair their radio. Fredrick, asking them, “Do you listen to the radio?” poses an exigency to be fully alert about what the rest of the world is doing. The conscript spoons out, “Yesterday, our side threatened to take the most atrocious measures. And the other side congratulated us on our imminent destruction…” Slipping, it seems, Fredrick calms himself with, “I suspect we needn’t take it too seriously… Taste this [wine]. It’s quite good… Cheers!… When I sit here all alone among my things, I start feeling so miserable. I’m not sure why. [A tug in the dark, like Eva’s forgetfulness.] Maybe because no one would miss me if I were gone.” Jan would have to say, “You’ll be back before you know it.”

Of course, that miasma would presage some kind of downfall. The descent to their disaster here is not at all confined to the register of bemusing coincidence. Back home, there’s an al fresco dinner with that lovely, head-turning wine, comprising new (but dubious) frontiers, ranging from her supposed resolve to take up Italian again (“You have to tell me every night to study”)/ He promising, “I’ll be very strict”); to, “practice our instruments a half hour a day” (Did anyone say, “music?”); to, have a baby (her idea)–in fact three, before she’s 40: “It’s not something one can explain” [another wisp of errant essence, with the addition of his seeing a doctor to discern if during their separation Jan’s promiscuousness may have compromised the plan]. She ramps up   the pressure, by questioning his knowing what love is–“Self-love, you know a lot about that!” He tries, “I’ll be a better man next year, next week! I believe one can change completely if one wants to… I’m not a determinist, you know…” (As she runs amok with the term, she manages to look about 13.) He ends the discussion with, “Let’s not do the dishes, now.” She sails him to bed with the knowing smile, “What should we do instead?” During the chores with the chickens and such, next morning, several deafening air force jets dive close to the yard of invention, and one of the heroes of a parachute drop lends up in a tree close to their property. (Bourgeois plans on hold.)

The fantasy converts have, in the midst of that crude show of shock and awe, commenced to deal with each other and the world on a basis of obliterating every irritant. The sighting of the man in the tree, subsequently dead, elicits sharp opposition. Jan, seeing Eva racing toward the casualty, asks, “Where are you going?” Her response is, “He’ll die hanging there.” He argues, “It could be the enemy…” “You coward!” she cries out, after his holding her back, and her slapping him. “Then go!” he screams; and despite qualms he does want her gone, as she wants him gone. Precious gestures notwithstanding, their patience with each other–requiring sharing of mature objectives–has ended, replaced with sporadic and desperate damage control. Soon he’s fetched his rifle and she, now again an ally (for a bit longer), tells him she’ll phone for an ambulance. Seeing that the invader has died, Jan returns to the house where the skies scream with more planes, more pronounced troubled kinetics. A partisan unit arrives, and the officer asks him if he was the one who shot the sitting duck. (Not then, but soon, Jan becomes a mass murderer.) “I suggest you clear out,” was how the leader of the supposed security force left them. That figure wears a contraption on his head, resembling a helmet of mail, a medieval throwback, bringing the era of jets back to burning witches and invoking Death to give good news, as in Bergman’s film, The Seventh Seal (1957). Also prominent in that film are the crusades and the plague.

Car trouble, on the part of the semi-gentle and inept farmers, lands them in the midst of the forces who wield machinery to deadly  effect. The other parachutists of that day are particularly galvanized by the cheap shot; but they also get down to making the best political (machinational) outcome for the world at large. (The preamble had Jan proposing, “I’ll put it in gear, and you push. It’s downhill, anyway.”) One bright aspect of their capture is the flashing of their headlights about to hit what they think is the open road, after they actually repair the vehicle, but only as the enemy arrives to stop their escape. The play of lights, all-round, affords a topspin from out of an execution. But the process to particularly watch is the instance of ugly mobs appointing themselves to crush their like and the unaffiliated. The commander of the aerial unit uses Jan, and especially photogenic Eva, to dish out special insult to those they, the invaders,  love to hate, and contribute to the sense of impossibility of anyone choosing integrity. Jan and Eva, bereft of creative traction, cannot, unlike protagonists and secondary figures in many other Bergman films, carry us to viable, though outnumbered, illumination. Smallish touches–like that flare of light, and the medieval helmet–dimly guide us. But the heavy lifting must entail an incisive renunciation of the mantra of advantage, by which disinterestedness may come to bear.

The clever jumper has brought along a movie camera to bring about a propaganda coup, whereby irresistible Eva is encouraged to put out inane personal facts to be dubbed over by a seeming cri de coeur against the homeland. The klieg light bathing her in the night catches her blonde presence in such a way that she emits an instance of uncanniness which has force, while being entangled in a cheap fraud. After the soldier/ director has enough fodder to swing the trick, he asks Eva about her “political affiliation,” and learns that she doesn’t have one. “Don’t you care what political regime governs you?” the pushy one asks. Though her discernments are shabby, her vague skepticism from out of the world of music gives her some room to move, if she has initiative beyond wine. As the politician turns to Jan, the latter cries out, “I have a weak heart,” and then faints. This prompts the ugly documenter to order, “Keep rolling! Get him passing out.” (This moment being a couplet with the clever and malevolent actor/ prize fighter slaughtering the ringmaster in Sawdust and Tinsel.) The locals then rebound and run the strangers away. And the patriots catch up with the pacifists regarding the bogus hatred to the home team. (In the interim, that same night on the silver screen, they are wakened by a blazing bombardment all around their supposed sanctuary; and their abortive escape finds them operating on empty. Before the shattering of their sleep, Eva agonizes, “It’s good we don’t have kids…”[vapid Jan smoothing over, “We’ll have kids when peace comes”]. “We’ll never have kids,” she ripostes. The bombs scare them, but (Hollywood-style–Hitchcock’s Tippy always immune to those damn birds) they’re spared to provoke us to imagine what real trouble looks like. Eva initiates an evacuation, while Jan holds his head. (This being a stage before that self-sparing protagonist turns out to be a Psycho, for our edification.) Her move is to head for the seaboard–Jan insisting, “as long as you drive;” but before that Jan proposes killing the chickens during the paucity of food. But neither of them has the nerve to slaughter the hens. On their junket, they see many corpses. Eva stops to regard a dead toddler in a farmyard. At this, she realizes there is no leeway to avoid a steady assault of Byzantine madness. (Its impossibility comprises a clue to a never-ventured range of logic.) Once again, her demand, “Pull yourself together,” hasn’t a hope. The surface of their vehicle has become encrusted with the industrial-level detritus, as if an ancient wreck, an ancient poison. Back in their dining room, Jan remarks, skittishly, “It sounds that they’re at the crossroads…” The complainer complains, “I can’t stand it!” And Eva goes to the window that does not constitute a window of opportunity. He suggests hiding in the basement, and she tells him, “I won’t be trapped like a rat!” (Easier said than done.) After a bomb blows open their door, their barnyard becomes fiery but not fiery enough for their plight. (Jan crazily commences to babble about the provenance of his violin, which he might touch one day, for half an hour. And yet, such a seeming cop-out, regarding a soldier/ artisan–serving in the Russian army against Napoleon and his stunted vision of power–and that soldier’s loss of a leg and return to musical machinery to the point of majesty, may have been the coward’s brush with lucidity. From there, he lobbies for a declaration of love from Eva. Do you care for me a little? She, now fully cynical, replies, with no warmth, “Yes, I care for you a little…” He proceeds to have a cramp in his leg. The busy, but fragmentary, day ends with her command from her bed, “Get over here…”

They’re rounded up at a grocery store. Then, along with other suspected traitors, they’re trucked to an elementary school being used as a detention centre. Along with other “intellectuals” en route, the protagonists nearly disappear in the public hubbub of the event. (Their being loaded into the truck is filmed from an abstract distance.) In their case, we eventually come to realize that the mayor, doubling as the last word for military order in this pocket of stress, would have realized from the first that Eva’s declaration of “longing for liberation” was a crock. But within the sadistic talent pool of amateur or semi-amateur soldiers, intent upon crushing some supposed evil ideology, the opportunity to rough up rather recent and rather odd arrivals gets legs. Those, including the vicar, who were misinformed that the other side (very rich in aircrafts) had won the war, and went on to welcome the neighbors, receive savage beatings. Eva (and Jan), along this current of paranoia, are made to hear her heresies–“We’ve been suppressed for too long, etc.”–and the projectionist relishes spewing “Lights out!” and fondles her breasts in dumping her into a holding room, where a corpse and someone dying from torture are seen. The officer of the division has argued, “How do you explain the fact that paratroopers liquidated every civilian within almost two square miles of you, and spared the two of you?” Her response was, “I don’t understand any of this.” Soon Jan is tossed into the room where she is trying to make some sense of her homeland. (A jailer makes light  of the vicar’s dislocated shoulder. “No tennis for a few weeks.”) Jan’s typical complaints do ring an important bell, namely, Jof, in The Seventh Seal, being beaten up by an ugly mob in the 12th century; and reporting, “They hit me on the head…” Eva notes, “I don’t see anything.” Jof and his wife, Marie, go on to hold the powers of acrobatics and juggling–as hopelessly far from the goons as you can get. And hopelessly far from Jan and Eva. Later, after Jan misbehaves abominably (as we’ll soon set out its timbre), they find themselves in single file on a ridge at twilight, the echo of the Dance of Death, in The Seventh Seal. (The holding room displays multiples of two patterns which the kids had colored-in: a three-leaf clover; and a bull’s-eye.)

Their music associate, the mayor, shows up, in the courtyard, where all the suspects have been herded. He addresses the disappointing by pointing out a figure having been dragged to a stake and covered by a cloth bag. “This man collaborated with the enemies and caused us heavy losses. But the government has pardoned him and commuted his death sentence to life at hard labor. The rest of you will also receive more clemency than you deserve.” The chief, not completely on the same page as the “government,” points his cane, as if effecting a benediction, to indicate those who can go home immediately. He announces, “Some of you will be freed immediately and transported home.” “Transported?” (Just as the execution was to go off unofficially, Eva, now in his office, was to be made a bogus example to dilute the tyrant’s massacre. “I gave orders not to touch you.” Eva replies, “They behaved… almost correctly.”

The mayor, one Jacobi, now  has Eva as his mistress (another event shimmering under the radar). Also down there, Jan has figured that out. Digging potatoes and looking like medieval serfs, they quarrel in such a way you’d think they’d never been exposed to the chance to love music in its dynamics in the form of mortality being also a vital correspondent of the cosmos itself. Jan, fed up with the work, announces he’s going into the house to listen to the radio Jacobi has given them. “You do that,” she sneers. “It’ll be a relief not to see you.” He recalls, “Just the other day you said that it was good we had Jacobi as a friend…” She declares, “I’m going to ask Jacobi to stop coming here. Filip [a friend and source of fresh fish and another loose cannon having put together a gang] says it could make things worse for us.” For the nonce, Jan, implicitly often drunk, goes out of character: “It’s none of Filip’s damn business who comes here!” She, finding transparent his insipid bravado, accuses him of being “such a suck-up” in dealing with both of the men. (Her also being a lover of Filip.) She threatens, “I don’t suck-up!” “Suck-up, suck-up, suck-up,” he disagrees. Eva says, “When peace comes, we’re going our separate ways. It will be heaven to get away from you and your childishness!” He sits down beside her and apologizes. “You say that, but you don’t mean it. The words just fall out of your mouth,” she pursues her hopeful attack. Root-systems shot, if ever they seriously functioned. Hence, Jan’s, “Can we be friends?” And her rush to embrace him. Jacobi knocks (now a daily drug). She opens the door and, to his, “Am I causing trouble?” she assures him, “Not at all.” “Jan!” he yells, “Where the hell are you?” [he had been hiding]. The Big Daddy of the North brings to him the score of Dvorak’s Trio in E flat Major. “An uncle left it to me” [a bid for a placid musicale?] To Eva he gives a ring, “an old family heirloom.” “Eva, talk to me… Don’t be sad,” he pleads. She eventually tolerates his embrace (as with Jan, not long ago), as the trio proceeds to get drunk on something strong. Before Jan collapses on the table, Eva suggests he not come anymore. He tells them, “I happen to like you two… I could have sent you to a labor camp… Jan Rosenberg, are you afraid? Are you an artist or a mouse?” “Oh, I’m a mouse,” he replies, in a non-mouse register. At that, Jacobi smashes his cane on the table. He goes on, unpleasantly, “The sacred freedom of art. The sacred gutlessness of art…” After a long and stressful pause, he goes out to take a piss. Eva reasons, “God, I wish I could sober up!” “We have to get rid of him,” the unimpressive farmer declares. (Soon we’ll see that the mild-mannered hanger-on has a reservoir hitherto hidden. As with his adversaries, Jan proceeds to short-circuit the phenomenon of force.) Before we see Jacobi, we hear him announcing, “The woods are full of people”–people following Filip’s lead. “I’d often wondered what they’d do to me. They have no reason to torture me. I have no secret information… But perhaps they just feel like making me suffer… Don’t worry, I’m just kidding. This part of the island has been pacified” [wiped out by the enemy]. (Fredrick had used a similar pacifier.) With Jan dead to the world, the militant mayor turns, sadly late, to introduce a new incisiveness with Eva. “Can you feel that I’m here? Touch my eyes. Can you feel who I am?” “No,” is her answer; and pragmatic Marie comes by, from the 12th century, by way of, The Seventh Seal. Jacobi keeps trucking, “It’s odd, you see. I’ve only felt close to others a few times… It’s not something you can talk about. There’s nothing to say. Nowhere to hide. No excuses. No evasions…” (An oracle, in the oddest way, within an extended work springing with rare direction.) He concludes with, “Just great guilt, great pain and great fear… Damn, it’s cold!” Prosaic Eva wants to shoo him out. He, though, takes her to the bedroom and gives her his life’s savings. (More instinctive discernment appears in his feeling the change in the weather hurting his lame leg. Power of a different species.) In face of Eva’s adamant hostility he perseveres with stories of his grandson and the death of his mother–each vignette endeavoring to open a new world. “There isn’t much that gets through…”

The preamble of his familiar lovemaking with her in the greenhouse posits a maelstrom of nonsense in both of them. He divulges that he accepted his leadership because he was afraid of going to the front. She jangles drunkenly, “I’ll never be unfaithful to Jan. Sometimes it frightens me to think about it. So I don’t.” Jan wakes up and drinks more firewater. He rushes to the bedroom, sees the wad of money and puts it in his back pocket. (A Hitchcock touch, for a shredding purchase upon the cosmos per se. Implying a whole different [mundane, advantage-drunkenness] direction of cogency.) He holds his head. He calls out, “Eva!” Church bells ring. He sees them emerging from the tryst. He experiences a silvery atmosphere, recalling Alma’s intensities, in Sawdust and Tinsel. He cringes in the dark stairwell. Eva fetches Jacobi’s cane, and then he leaves. She sees Jan crying, and tells him, “Cry if you think it will help.” As she prepares a pot of tea, that throng noted in the woods materializes as Filip’s rebels apprehending Jacobi and demanding all of his money to finance a stand against the expensive armament of a superior (and yet pathetic) force. Filip and Jacobi enter the house (at which Jan retreats to a nook). Jacobi explains, “Filip says I can buy my freedom because their organization needs cash. So, I’m asking you, dear Eva. Lend me the money I gave you.” “Jan has it,” she tells him, from out of a precinct of careless contempt. Jan, now with a coward’s advantage, declares, “I don’t know anything about money…” Eva, in shock, sees a hard setback, in the making for many years. Thus ensues a futile search, the removal of her recent present, and Filip’s commanding Jan (all now in the yard) to shoot Jacobi. The troopers proceed to trash the house in the mode of a tornado (depths going nowhere), the end of the farmers’ supposed haven in the wake of a feeble grasp of music. Jan cradles his violin of a noble craftsman, while soldiers slaughter the chickens. The house is firebombed. On the first wave of his molten assignment he aims the handgun, and then throws the weapon to the ground. But the juggernaut of humiliation clicks in and he discharges several volleys into a Jacobi who screams and crawls under a wagon where the execution continues. Eva leans upon what’s left of a wall.

The soldiers leave and the soldiering of Jan and Eva crashes into the realm of metaphor. Eva asks where he hid it. Jan tells her it was in his back pocket. (Amateurs? Hollywood? Too much, to continue in that vein?) Next morning they leave their retreat and stage a retreat to death. Still unconvinced that Jan wasn’t a pushover, she demands, “Why didn’t you hand over the money?” His shot is, “They’d have shot him anyway.” Her feeble, “That’s not true,” is followed by a roar of crying. “Stop it! he commands. Then he smashes her face, sending her to the ground. (An itinerant not wise enough to beware of a killer, as in Sawdust and Tinsel.) Now it is she who covers her face with her hands. Along a war-blasted road, he pushing their effects in a wagon, Jan marches jauntily and menacingly. She is slouched over and far behind him. She falls down, being heavily disoriented. He doesn’t miss a beat. (Killing becomes him.) She catches up. At a charred farm, someone shoots in their direction, in fact an adolescent in uniform who has deserted in seeing his war not ending happily–that latter term seeming hard to place for a youngster with a mind of his own. Jan claims to be peaceful. Eva asks, “Are you hungry? We’ll give you food…” He’s in another greenhouse–another point of transport, another coincidence stemming from a Mad Hatter. She asks, “Did you hurt your hand?”/ “A dog bit me” [He’s lucky]. “Shall I have a look? I’ll bandage it up… I’ll get you something to eat…” He’s not hungry–the atmosphere sucking up all taste. Jan, quickly getting past the boy’s name (Johan; music), wants the location of “Hammass” (where a boat, for hire, plies). Over tea, they learn that the boy hasn’t slept for days. His alert having flagged in the vicinity of Eva, Jan strikes like a rattler. Now holding the gun, he hunts the stranger along the coastal path, as if the kid were a rabbit. And, with Eva onscreen, the fatal shots come very easily to the killer. Her eyes are beyond horror.  They trudge to the port and they coincide with the Dance of Death on a ridge not without powerful beauty they can’t read. Jan’s shapeless (Death) cap goes medieval. The prime of the neighborhood has convened. On embarkation, fine hors d’oeuvres are distributed. Jan seems to be seasick. and thereby he doesn’t share the rowing. But he hops to it in using an oar to push away the hundreds of corpses in the still water, comprising another link of lostness. In the same vein of this vision of absolute dead-end, the skipper quietly steps overboard, joining the drowned. Trouble in Paradise. Jan covers his face. There is beauty in the texture of the harsh sea. And then Eva musters her feel-good poem, with its forgotten theme.

That tincture of another direction holds for us a new twist, in lieu of very poor sports: one is obliged to generously shore up and celebrate little, and maybe big, overtures.

[sheepydraws]

I'll Kick Your Ass! I'll Kick My Fiancee's Ass! I'll Kick My Own Ass! (9/11)

From: DeanK@nsj

To: All Students

Aloha, everyone!

I know some of you might be thinking that spring semester is a misnomer when the ground is so covered in snow, but I assure you all that before long the snow will melt, the buds will bud and suddenly you’ll all be too warm to think straight, instead of too depressed like y’all are now!

[Lists of activities this semester, including a concert and de-stressers before finals week]

I wish to be transparent with you all when I admit that the case of the illegal duels has gone cold over winter break. If anyone has any information regarding them, please come to my office any time between 4 and 5pm Monday through Friday, or send me an e-mail. I promise that your identity can be kept a secret if you so wish.

On that note, have a cool semester!

Koadchi’s Journal,

Amir Kahn

Senior. Captain of the rythmic gymnastics team.

I sent her an e-mail over winter break,

And she actually replied.

She’s sweet.

But she’s still trying to sell me on gymnastics.

Says we’ll need a captain when she’s gone.

Says I have what it takes.

Says I have perfect form.

Says I have drive.

Says I’m right about how the sopranos should have ended.

Says her mom’s a good cook

Talks and talks and talks

And I all I want to do is listen

She wears oversized red flannel

She fought Ranma for Akane

Everyone wants to know if she likes girls

I want to know if she likes me.

From: NabikiTendo

To: TKuno

YOU CHODE

All those flowery words and you purposely misinterpret things? Katara was supposed to be with Zuko! ‘Too dark’? How about writing a show about a global war where massive destruction and genocide took place? Is that too dark?

Zutara is thematically consistent, but they watered down the ending for people like you who think everything has to fit into neat little boxes.

From: TKuno

To: NabikiTendo

Nabiki Tendo, I would admire your insistence on thematic consistency if you hadn’t begun this debate by declaring that Zuko and Katara would have ‘hotter’ sexual encounters.

I still say that the true beauty in a sexual encounter is how it acts as an extension of the relationship. For some reason many people insist on portraying sex as gritty and dark, but Katara and Aang could likely have fantastic sex because they would have it on crisp bedsheets, in a well lit room, with ample time to enjoy each other.

From: NabikiTendo

To: TKuno

Life isn’t always, ‘crisp bedsheets’ and ‘well lit rooms’, Kuno-babe. Sometimes it’s damp caves or fluorescent lighting. That’s when you want someone with you, and that’s when Zuko would be there for Katara. That’s why Kataang is so unrealistic. If you can only get it up for someone on a bed made with clean sheets can you ever really be there for them?

Facebook Messenger

Akane: Fight Ranma Again

Ryoga: No one wants to see that.

Akane: Fight Ranma Again

Ryoga: Who cares if I fight Ranma? You know, if you want to go out on a date all you had to do was ask ;)

Akane: This is no time for winky faces. Either you fight him or I do.

Ryoga: I think I’d like to see that.

Akane: You wouldn’t. Even when we’re trying to be nice we hurt each other. You don’t want to see what happens when the kid gloves come off.

Ryoga: What’s wrong? What did he do to you?

Akane: He fucked me up, that’s what. He got my emotions so twisted up I want to punch him and patch up his wounds. I want to scream at him and then cry and then scream some more. I want him to feel stupid and scared and angry.

Akane: I want him out of my life. Permanently.

Ryoga: Okay, before you hire a hit man, have you tried to talking to him?

Akane: I don’t want to talk to him. Talking to him made me think I liked him.

Ryoga: Why’d you stop liking him, then?

Akane: I talked to him some more and realized he only cares about himself and what’s best for him and what his dad tells him to do. My feelings don’t matter. He can kiss me and then forget about it. He can make me dream about mysterious men and better versions of him and then trample them.

Akane: Please fight him so I won’t have to.

Facebook Messenger

Ryoga: I want to duel you again.

Ranma: Tonight. Field behind the science building.

Ryoga: Isn’t that a little dangerous?

Ranma: You’re right. We should do it on the basketball court in the gym. Hell, let’s smoke some weed, and have an orgy while we’re at it! We can invite Dean Kuno! He’d have a blast!

Ryoga: What did you do to Akane?

Ranma: Liked her??? I KEEP TRYING TO PROTECT PEOPLE AND THEY KEEP SAYING I’M BEING SELFISH. I’M TRYING SO FUCKING HARD OVER HERE.

Ryoga: You know, there’s a difference between protecting someone for their sake and for yours.

Ranma: Who you ripping off there? Goethe?

Ryoga: I’ll fight you. But first I have to tell my girls I love them.

Ranma: Plural? WAHAHAHAHA. Go ahead, but tell them that when it comes to beating you up we gotta take turns!

From: TexmexTesco@gmail.com

To: Prettyporkchop@gmail.com

Dear Akari,

I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I ignored you so I could keep chasing other girls and not feel guilty. I’m sorry I held on to you like a safety school. I thought I was doing you a favor, but I was just jerking you around. I was talking to someone today and I realized I wasn’t telling you I’d fallen for someone else because I didn’t want to deal with you. Which is probably why you got as pissed as you did and killed my phone and…all the other things you did.

Also, I’m sorry I thought some mystical connection with another girl made it okay to treat you like shit. I’m not sorry about believing in mystical connections, but I feel a little silly. I mean, you can meet someone and instantly feel good around them. Right away you think they’re cool and you want to know them better, but then you have to get to know them better. Maybe that means you fight about sitcoms, or their exes, but I think that’s a lot more important for the whole falling in love with someone thing than just deciding they’re the most amazing person ever. That’s pretty detrimental to it, actually.

My point is, love can sneak up on you, but break ups shouldn’t. I let you be the last person to know that I was going to dump you, and that was really shitty. Thanks for not letting your pig eat me.

Love,

Ryoga Hibiki.

From: Prettyporkchop@gmail.com

To: TexmexTesco@gmail.com

Thanks.

For finally being honest.

(And not calling the cops on me)

Akari.

—You thought you could make me better/And I hoped it’d turn out right/You know I’d sell my soul to change it/But we’re out of time

Gymnastics Team Group Chat///Jumping Gymnasts

You didn’t hear it from me, but there’s another duel on.

Ranma and that guy he’s fought already.

Kuno?

The other one.

What is wrong with these guys?

I dunno, but I need a kick tonight. I’ll be there.

Me too.

Cap?

Will you be there captain?

It’ll be a club event!

Say you’ll come cap!

Cap!

Cap!

Cap!

Okay, Jesus. I’ll be there. Though, I’ve got to say, I’m a little disappointed all of y’all don’t have better stuff to do.

And what are you doing cap?

Nm. I’ll be there.

Shampoo’s phone——> Ukyo’s phone

Did you hear? Ranma

and Ryoga are fight-

ing tonight.

                                                                        Seriously? Didn’t school just start?

Eight P.M. Behind

the science build-

ing.

                                                                        See you there?

You bring the ice pack

I’ll bring the bandages?

                                                                    Sounds like a plan. I swear, if  Ryoga

                                                                    gets hurt over Akane…

Why? Are you jealous?

                                                                     Jealous? It’s a snowy hill in the dark.

                                                                        I’m worried he’ll break his neck!

So you don’t care who

Ryoga dates?

                                                                        No? I mean, it would suck if he

                                                                        pulled that ‘my girlfriend comes

                                                                        before anyone else’ thing on us.

That’s such bullshit.

What would you think

if someone put you

before everyone else?

                                                                         I think you should be checking

                                                                         our first aid kit, not making

                                                                         up riddles.

The Daily Times Post              All the news we can report                  February 1st

                                     THE WEIRD AND WILD

Cologne Clueless

A man at a nearby law firm is currently engaged in a large legal battle over what he deems to be wrongful termination. Another employee reported him for consistently coming to work reeking of marijuana. He claims that what his colleague mistook for smoke was actually the scent of his very expensive cologne. He is expected to bring several bottles to court, but he’s not sure how he will light up in the court room…For comparison purposes, of course.

Deuling Downfall

It’s been a while since we’ve had any impressive catastrophes from our local adolescent angst farm, Nancy Sullivan Junior, but recently four freshmen were taken to the hospital en masse due to an incident involving an illegal duel preformed on slippery terrain behind one of their science buildings. What was the fight over? Only the most time honored instigator of fights there is—the hand of a beautiful young lady.

Mixtape Mixup

Local club XS was dead silent this Friday night, except for the sound of Cotten-Eyed Joe, a song which had accidentally slipped into the dj’s playlist and left it’s audience cold, as well as momentarily motionless.

MY DIARY

Once, when I was a younger man, my father took me to a production of Macbeth at NSJ. It was small and low budget but well done, by which I mean that the witches' scenes were phenomenal. They were unearthly, cackling shrilly as their bodies contorted into painful postures. They rooted me to my seat, partly out of appreciation for their performance, and partly because I was worried if I drew too much attention to myself they would leap upon me and tear the meat from my bones.

I thought that once the witches departed from their final scene there would be no more magic for the evening. Then Macduff’s wife appeared, laughing gaily and playing with her son. I recognized in her gait and the cut of her chin the woman who had only a few scenes before been a bent and haggard witch.

It is truly something to see a witch shed her skin to reveal the woman underneath. A woman of kindness and civility, and then dire vulnerability as Macbeth’s men sent her to her grave. It is a magic all it’s own.

No no no, this simply will not do.

There is something I must admit to you, gentle reader, with no further ado, allusions, or passionate ramblings.

I kissed Nabiki Tendo.

Akane’s Diary

I don’t know how this happened.

That’s not true, I know I know it, but the pieces won’t come together in my mind. It still feels like things shouldn’t have gone this way. Like I’m living in that totally blown out of proportion worst case scenario that you think of for a a second before shaking yourself and saying it could never happen.

Ranma isn’t very big is he? It isn’t the hospital bed being huge and playing tricks on me, he’s never been that tall or wide. Hell, I’m taller than him. Still, when he’s up and angry he can add five inches just by standing right and staring down at you. Asleep and covered in bruises he looks like half the man he usually is.

I don’t know why I sent Ryoga that message. I’m not sure if I don’t want to be engaged to Ranma because I hate him, or if I don’t want to be engaged to him so I can do things that might lead to us being engaged. I fell back on Ryoga, and now he, Ranma, Kodachi, and Ukyo are in the hospital. And the only one who deserves to be here is me.

Nabiki is here too. She’s pacing like she wishes she wasn’t, and I’m writing because it feels wrong to be dicking around on my phone or doing anything other than explaining how this is all my fault. Genma was called, and we called dad so he knew. We also told him Ranma might be expelled, since we aren’t sure if anyone has told Genma that. I wonder if it’ll happen before Ranma even gets out of the hospital. Dean Kuno is here to be with his daughter, and I can’t tell if that counts toward Ranma’s time being officially enrolled or against it.

Nabiki says she’s going to find the cafeteria, although I think she just wants to stretch her legs. Good. I want to be alone.

I should write this out so I don’t forget it. This is going to be on me forever, so I should at least have the details straight.

I almost thought this fight was going to be cool. Ranma posted something about it on face book and tons of people showed up. More than I think have been there for any other fight. It was kind of cinematic, all the dark people milling around under crystal clear moonlight, glittering on the snow.

Ranma and Ryoga circled each other for a few minutes, feeling out the terrain more than each other. The snow was thick but powdery, and I felt safe that there wouldn’t be too much slipping. Some people were smoking, and the acrid scent made everything feel sharp.

Ryoga made the first move. He flew at Ranma so fast I was shocked. Even Ranma was caught a little off guard. He dodged though, and spun to make an attack. Snow flew up and caught the light. For a second, this seemed like a good idea.

Ryoga took some of the kick, but managed to turn so a lot of the force bounced off of him. He tried to grab Ranma’s leg, which was a mistake. Ranma punched him and Ryoga recoiled. Ranma went in for another strike, Ryoga jumped back. Then he went to the left, which I thought was a little weird, because he lined himself up for a hit. He ducked left again and I saw that he was leading Ranma to the edge of the slope that rolls toward the science building. I started to worry. With the help of some slippery snow Ryoga could launch Ranma off the edge of the plateau we were on.

Ranma didn’t notice. All he wanted to do was hit Ryoga as hard and as fast as he could. Ryoga was taking blow after blow, but he kept leaning left, and Ranma kept following him.

Then Ranma did a spinning kick. After all the punches he’d been throwing Ryoga was caught off guard. Ranma’s knee slammed into his stomach so hard everyone winced. He fell to his knees.

“Time!” Ukyo screamed. She broke out of the crowd and ran into the part of the ground that had become the ring. She planted herself in front of Ryoga, who was still shuddering on his hands and knees. He looked like he was going to throw up.

“What are you doing?!” Ranma yelled at her.

Ukyo didn’t flinch. She leaned into Ranma and said, “I’m keeping you idiots from hurting each other.”

“You want to fight me?” Ranma was fuming. He would have grappled with a hungry rottweiler if we’d thrown one at him.

“This isn’t how we’re supposed to solve problems anymore.” Ukyo said. “We don’t throw down behind the science building, or in the parking lot off the basket ball court.”

“This is the only way to solve problems.” Ranma spat. “I’m sick of trying so hard to fuck with people’s feelings. All that happens is that we still hate each other, we just pretend we don’t and try to be nice or whatever the fuck, and we sit on all this anger and hate and we smile and want to kill each other.” For a second something flickered over Ranma’s face that wasn’t rage, but it was gone too fast to say what it was. “I can’t do that. I’ve got to be honest. You want Ryoga to tap out, fine. But you’ve got to take his—“

Ukyo kicked him across the face. I don’t know if Ukyo does martial arts, but she’s definitely kept up on her flexibility exercises. The bruise along Ranma’s left temple is a purple negative of the bottom edge of her boot.

Once Ukyo got on the offensive, she stayed there. For a minute I thought she had Ranma cornered. Only he wasn’t shaken. He was plotting how to trip her up. He sent her to the ground and jumped on top of her.

I could see that purple haired girl I talked to once helping Ryoga up. He was a little too heavy for her, as unsteady as he was on his feet, and she motioned to a group of admirably muscly girls for help. One of them was Kodachi, wearing a flannel shirt that fit her so weirdly I’m pretty sure it belonged to the taller girl standing next to her. I don’t know why seeing Kodachi made me spring into action but it did. She reminded me that we were all going to have to explain the bruises, and possible bloodstains on the snow tomorrow. I ran to the other side of the ring and threw myself onto Ranma’s back. He screamed, but between Ukyo and I we managed to grab enough of his limbs to keep him still.

He wouldn’t stop screaming, though. Kodachi appeared at my side and started grabbing at us. I don’t know if she was trying to free Ranma or help restrain him, but when he lurched sideways she was knocked over, crashing into Shampoo and Ryoga—who had been walking towards us for some reason, even though the part of the ring we were in was nearer to the science building than the dorms.

It was also closer to the edge of the hill, and that collision sent us sliding down. At first we were just slipping, but when we struggled to pull ourselves up we gained speed, and soon we were shooting down the hill.

Stupid fucking north-east school with rolling hills.

We crashed into a tree stump. At least, the clump with me, Kodachi, Ranma, and Ukyo did. Shampoo and Ryoga went farther before they hit a tree. I think I was unconscious for a minute, crushed between Kodachi and Ranma.

Maybe longer? I remember crashing and then campus security showing up. I’m not sure how much time passed between that. Then there were ambulances because Ryoga and Ukyo were out cold and Ranma had a huge, jagged cut on his arm. Also, I heard the only thing Kodachi was wearing was that flannel shirt, and she took a few bumps to the head, so they put her in an ambulance too.

Nabiki’s back. The cafeteria has cream horns??? She got me one. She’s really flustered. She got lost a lot on the way.

It’s pretty good. The cream horn. I feel kind of sick, but also like I should eat. I guess there isn’t much we can do right now. I want to track down Dean Kuno and confess that this is all my fault, but I think he should have some time with his daughter first. Also, if I talked to him right now he’d probably want to kill me rather than expel me.

Is it bad if I’m tempted to let him?

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Fuuuuuuuuuuukkkk………Whyyyyy….

He was so freaked out. Pale and somehow tiny in his huge, puffy coat. Then he took it off and his sweater was too big, his sleeves covering his hands, and I started at him like I’d never seen a human male before. He looked like he was going to cry. His sis is okay, but he kept asking me stuff like, ‘What was she thinking?’, ‘I heard she wants to quit gymnastics. From someone else!’, ‘Should I have seen this coming?’.

Tatewaki Kuno. Taking responsibility. For something that wasn’t even his fault.

His hair was standing on end cause he kept fucking with it. It’s so thick.

I mean, I was worried about Ranma, but I knew it was his own damn fault. I didn’t feel like I didn’t even know him anymore. Kuno was on meltdown mode.

I just wanted to calm him down. I went to shake his shoulders, I was going to slap him like a hysterical woman. I’ve always wanted to do that…

But then I was holding him by the shoulders and looking into his eyes and whispering stuff? And then I was holding his face, and then I was kissing him. It was supposed to be short.

It was long. And slow. I could feel my heartbeat, but it wasn’t scary like when you’re full of adrenaline. It was like awareness spread out from my chest and I could feel every inch of my body. And every inch of his.

Then we stopped kissing and just breathed for a long time.

Too long. I had to get to the cafeteria. I asked Kuno if he knew where the cafeteria was and then I ran away. Like a coward.

[studentofrhetoric-blog]

Part 1, Thursday, April 13th, 2017

International News:

--- "The United Nations Security Council voted unanimously on Thursday to end its 13-year-long peacekeeping mission in Haiti and replace it with a smaller police, which would be drawn down after two years as the country boosts its own force. The peacekeeping mission, one of the longest-running in the world and known as MINUSTAH, has been dogged by controversies, including the introduction of cholera to the island and sexual abuse claims. The 15-member Security Council acknowledged the completion of Haiti's presidential election, along with the inauguration of its new president, as a "major milestone towards stabilization" in the Caribbean country. "What we now need is a newly configured mission which is focused on the rule of law and human rights in Haiti," British U.N. Ambassador Matthew Rycroft said on his way into the meeting. "Peacekeepers do fantastic work but they are very expensive and they should be used only when needed," Rycroft said. "We strongly support the ending of this mission turning it into something else. And I think we'll see the same thing elsewhere." The shutdown of the $346 million mission, recommended by U.N. chief Antonio Guterres, comes as the United States looks to cut its funding of U.N. peacekeeping. Washington is the largest contributor, paying 28.5 percent of the total budget."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-un-haiti-idUSKBN17F230?il=0

--- "A U.S.-led air strike mistakenly killed 18 members of a Kurdish and Arab militia backed by Washington south of the Syrian city of Tabqa, the Pentagon said on Thursday. The U.S.-led coalition forces struck the position on Tuesday after another partner in the fight wrongly told them its was occupied by Islamic State militants, the Pentagon said, underlining the complex nature of the conflict. "The target location was actually a forward Syrian Democratic Forces fighting position," the statement added...The SDF said its leadership was working with the coalition to investigate the incident and prevent it from happening again. "In the area of military operations near Tabqa and as a result of error, a painful incident took place" causing several casualties, the SDF said in a statement."

Source:  http://www.reuters.com/article/us-mideast-crisis-syria-air-strike-idUSKBN17F1OT?il=0

--- "Global chemical weapons investigators have gone to Turkey to collect samples as part of an inquiry into an alleged chemical weapons attack in neighbouring Syria last week that killed 87 people. The fact-finding mission was sent by the Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons (OPCW) in The Hague to gather bio-metric samples and interview survivors, sources told Reuters on Thursday...Samples taken from the poison gas site in Syria's Idlib governorate tested positive for the nerve agent sarin, the British delegation at the OPCW said on Thursday. "UK scientists have analysed samples taken from Khan Sheikhoun. These have tested positive for the nerve agent sarin, or a sarin-like substance," the delegation said during a special session on Syria at the OPCW in The Hague. The UK result confirmed earlier testing by Turkish authorities that concluded that sarin had been used for the first time on a large scale in Syria's civil war since 2013. The OPCW mission will determine whether chemical weapons were used, but is not mandated to assign blame. Its findings, expected in 3-4 weeks, will be passed to a joint United Nations-OPCW investigation tasked with identifying individuals or institutions responsible for using chemical weapons."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-mideast-crisis-syria-chemicalweapons-idUSKBN17F0TP?il=0

--- "Syrian President Bashar al-Assad said an alleged poison gas attack blamed on his government last week in Idlib province was "100 percent fabrication" used to justify a U.S. air strike, news agency AFP reported on Thursday. Syria's military had given up all its chemical weapons in 2013 after an agreement made at the time, and would not have used them anyway, AFP quoted Assad as saying in an interview."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-mideast-crisis-syria-assad-idUSKBN17F1NE?il=0

--- "China would step up its protection of North Korea should the isolated state halt its nuclear program, an editorial in a state-backed newspaper said on Thursday, as Beijing tries to ease tensions on the Korean peninsula..."As soon as the North Korea complies with China's declared advice and suspends nuclear activities... China will actively work to protect the security of a denuclearized North Korean nation and regime," said the editorial in the Global Times, which is published by the People's Daily, the Communist party's official paper...China's foreign ministry on Wednesday reiterated Beijing's position of calming the situation via a "dual suspension" of North Korea's nuclear tests and the United States' joint military drills with South Korea."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-northkorea-usa-china-paper-idUSKBN17F0GD?il=0

--- "China's foreign minister Wang Yi said Thursday military force cannot resolve the situation on the Korean peninsula and he expects an opportunity to return to talks will arise amid current tension. Wang, speaking to reporters following a meeting with the Palestinian foreign minister in Beijing, also said that whoever provoked the North Korea situation would have to assume historical responsibility for it."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-northkorea-usa-china-minister-idUSKBN17F0MN?il=0

--- "An arson attempt left very minor damage at the Paris building where French presidential candidate Marine Le Pen has her headquarters, a police source said, and Le Pen accused leftist groups of the attack. The police source said the ground floor of the central Paris building was targeted and graffiti mentioning Le Pen's National Front was found nearby. The source said the damage - to a door and a doormat, according to news agency AFP - was likely to be the result of a criminal act and not an accident. The party's premises are higher up in the building. Interior Minister Matthias Fekl condemned the attack. "These are unacceptable acts, the democratic debate must take place in the ballot box," Fekl told RTL radio, without giving any details about the attack itself. "We have been in touch with the National Front candidate's team since last night and will see with them if it is necessary to strengthen security procedures.""

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-france-election-fn-fire-idUSKBN17F0R5?il=0

--- "U.S.-backed forces fighting Islamic State in Syria launched a new phase of their offensive on Thursday, a statement said, but they have not yet begun to attack the militant group's stronghold of Raqqa city in an apparent delay in the operation. The multi-phased campaign by the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), an alliance made up of Syrian Kurdish and Arab fighting groups, was launched in November and aims ultimately to drive the jihadists from Raqqa, their de facto Syrian capital. Officials in the Kurdish YPG militia, a powerful component of the SDF, said last month that assaults on Raqqa city itself would start in early or mid-April. But the fourth phase of the campaign aims to clear Islamic State pockets from the countryside north of the city, the SDF statement said. It did not say when the assault on Raqqa itself would begin. "We aim to liberate dozens of villages in the Wadi Jallab area and the northern countryside ... and clear the last obstacles in front of us to pave the way for the operation to liberate Raqqa city," it said. The SDF have closed in on Raqqa from the north, east and west."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-mideast-crisis-syria-raqqa-idUSKBN17F11I?il=0

--- "Poland is working on regulations that would allow it to detain asylum seekers in border camps, the interior minister said on Thursday, arguing such a policy has served Hungary well despite it being criticized by the United Nations. Poland, Hungary and other central European EU member states are opposed to an European Commission plan to distribute migrants from Africa and the Middle East across the bloc. But unlike Hungary, Poland - a country which issued over a million work permits for neighboring Ukrainians last year - has not seen thousands of migrants from Africa and Middle East storm its borders. "My task is to assure the safety of Poles. We must be also prepared for this bad scenario, which I hope will not happen," Blaszczak told state television. "The bad scenario is a wave of migration that could sweep across Poland." Asked on Radio Zet if Blaszczak would place migrants in camps made from shipping containers behind barbed wire, he replied: "This is an idea for an emergency situation which has worked well in Hungary." Hungary, one of the focal points of Europe's migration crisis since 2015, last month approved a law to detain migrants in border camps, a step which the United Nations said violated EU law and would have a "terrible physical and psychological impact" on asylum seekers."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-europe-migrants-poland-camps-idUSKBN17F1I2?il=0

Domestic & International News:

--- "U.S. President Donald Trump said on Thursday "things will work out fine" between the United States and Russia, a day after he said U.S.-Russian relations may be at an all-time low. "Things will work out fine between the U.S.A. and Russia. At the right time everyone will come to their senses & there will be lasting peace!" Trump said in a note on Twitter."

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-usa-trump-russia-idUSKBN17F1R9?il=0

Domestic News:

--- "The U.S. State Department will maintain a hiring freeze imposed shortly after President Donald Trump took office, even though it was lifted for the rest of the federal government, according to a memo seen by Reuters and a notice to staff. Secretary of State Rex Tillerson informed State Department employees of the decision in a brief memo on Wednesday. A notice to staff on the hiring freeze was also updated on the State Department's website. The decision to keep the hiring freeze comes as Tillerson reviews a reorganization of the agency, which will include staff cuts over several years, two State Department officials said, speaking on condition of anonymity. "Although the Office of Management and Budget lifted the federal hiring freeze effective April 12, 2017, the Department will maintain its hiring freeze in effect for the present time. Any change to this policy will be notified promptly," according to the internal memo obtained by Reuters. A notice to staff on the State Department's website was updated on Wednesday and read: "At this time, the Department's current hiring freeze guidance remains in effect including with respect to hiring under a Family Member Appointment (FMA) or Temporary Appointment.""

Source: http://www.reuters.com/article/us-usa-trump-budget-tillerson-idUSKBN17F1QW?il=0