#it's a magnificent relationship that is surrounded by tragedy since it's in

[glitternightingale]

@jaijeijayjei thought I'd make a new post to continue our conversation about Meljay bc I'm about to be more personal here.

So true!!

The time skip in season 1 was borderline criminal too! Especially for someone like me who watched Arcane from the perspective of the Jinx-Vi conflict being the b-plot. There's so much lore missing that we can only guess at. I want to see more of Mel sugar mama-ing Hextech and Jayce dealing with its success (and the Meljay flirtations, obvs.) Mel has absolutely made Jayce go to the tailor and watched him get dressed up all handsome. ;))

He looks at her like she's his lifeline! And Mel looks back at Jayce with the purest, most tender expression I've ever seen. I'm not a romance-y or shippy person by any means, have been in and out of fandoms for almost 15 years and always appreciated platonic relationships the most, until I saw Meljay. These two completely changed my brain chemistry. And then I realized why.

Mel and Viktor are characters I can relate to on a spiritual level in terms of social masking, being introverted and accidentally manipulative (in the sense of feeling responsible for/guilty when others' actions go awry and I've only been indirectly involved), overly ambitious but feeling inadequate at the same time. And then there's Jayce. A pure bean. Someone who so wholeheartedly believes in people that it makes them feel okay with how and what they are. Someone who trusts so easily and makes enigmas like Mel and Viktor drop their walls around him. Someone who makes you feel empowered and appreciated.

Jayce is also somewhat of a goober. But that's okay! He has people around him who point him in the right direction and give him honest advice. "If you do that, this will happen", "If you want that, you need to do this". This is peak Meljay (and also a similar dynamic I can imagine Jayce and Viktor had but with a different flavor, ofc).

It's just like you said! They are transparent and open with each other all the way through. (When Jayce got angry at Mel in season 2 I was like "Really, Jayce? Okay, you might have been stuck in the pining hell-cave for months but pls." I was glad he reminded the audience that he had self-awareness when he apologized after, or I would have added it to the many gripes I have with season 2 in general.)

Mel had her own motivations with Hextech and the Man of Progress, but never with Jayce as a person.

Bonus:

Jayce: *omigosh omigosh omigosh---*

[gingerbloof]

Glimpse of Us (An Ascended!Astarion x Spawn Fem!Tav Ongoing Series)

summary: When Tav helps Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension, she realizes that he is no longer the man she had fallen in love with. However, she does her best to make her true love happy. But will the cost of her self worth and identity prove too much to pay for the price of love? contents: 18+, blood/blood drinking, hurt/no comfort, tragedy, manipulation, abusive relationship, anxiety, panic attacks, eventual smut, major character death chapter word count: 1,019

chapter 1: The Day of the Ascension

“Ecce dominus, Has animas offero in sacrificio, Nunc volo protestatum quam pollicitus es mihi!”

Tav listened to the foreign, dark words that left Astarion’s lips as the blinding red light surrounded him. His arms thrown out and his eyes glowing a terrifying hue. She watched as all his siblings’ bodies burst apart, their blood pooling down towards him.

Her eyes were wide with bewilderment. She was so proud of him… Everything he ever wished for was coming true, and that’s all she ever wanted for her love. So why did she feel like something terrible was happening?

She briefly heard Shadowheart shout, trying to stop him. A low growl left him as he stared at her angrily. “Don’t you dare,” He said, his eyes glowing ever brighter. “I can feel their power flowing into me!”

Cazador was the last one to burst. He let out a deafening scream as he did, his blood flowing to the sigil that Astarion stood upon. Soon enough, the light dimmed down and Astarion let out a sigh of relief. “I… I can’t feel it,” He muttered breathlessly. “The hunger, it’s gone! I’m free!” The smile on his face could bring light to the darkest day. Tav had never seen him so happy, and she was happy for him.

“You did it! You really did it!” She smiled wide and ran to give Astarion a big hug. He smirked devilishly as she did, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “I did… We did.” He said, placing a soft kiss on her head. As she let go and turned around, she saw all the disapproving faces on her other companion’s faces. Shadowheart looked undeniably hurt, and Gale shook his head as he looked at her with furrowed brows. But she didn’t care what they thought. As long as her love was safe and happy, she would do anything for him.

Astarion holds his hands in front of him, that devilish smirk still pinned to his face. “This is it…” He said triumphantly. “The hopeless dream dreamt by all my kind… I am the greatest vampire to ever walk this land!” He grinned a fang filled grin. Tav smiled back at him, getting ever so lost in his happiness. “You are magnificent,” Tav said in a whisper. It was true, though he looked the same there was something very different about his stature, the way he held himself. He had more confidence than she had ever seen in anyone. He deserved to feel this way, he always had.

“I felt so very little, for so long…” He said, his voice starting to twinge with sadness. “My edges dulled over the numb years rotting in the boudoir and kennels,” It was true. For so long, too long, Astarion was only ever made to be consumed and to consume. He never had any ounce of self worth these last 200 years, and now he was finally, truly free from it. 

“Now…” He began, a growl in his voice. “I can hear it at last… See it at least. How all the lowly creatures of this plane are begging to serve. How to call upon them.” These words made Tav’s heart drop. Lowly creatures? Serve? Maybe he was still chasing the adrenaline high from achieving his goal… This wasn’t Astarion at all. 

“Scurrying footpads in their safe-houses, rats below our feet in their filthy holes, the crows in the night above! They will… Obey.”

Tav’s face began to grow with worry. What in the hells was Astarion talking about?

His eyes met hers for the first time since the Rite began. His eyes grew with hunger and demand. “In you, too,” He said, pointing at her. “I can tell… Your heartbeat races. You go quiet when I speak… You await my command… The world will stir with fear.”

Tav started to slowly back away from her love, her heart aching at his words. He was so different… Too different.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she spoke, slow and wary. “Star… You’re starting to scare me…” She expected him to stop this dramatic, power hungry speech when she said this. She expected him to realize what he was saying, but unfortunately he didn’t. He continued, not even batting an eye to the fact that he was striking fear into the one he loved most. “Our lives will never be the same again. Everything will be our’s. Everything. I can already hear the world whispering in sweet surrender. And I feel alive!” He chuckled darkly, closing his eyes and basking in his new found power. It was as if he was the only one in the room. He paid no mind to show concern when Tav began to shake with fear at the sight of her lover, completely reborn. He was unrecognizable.

She let out a nervous chuckle, trying her best to not overthink about what her love was saying. “I’m just happy you’re happy, Star…” She said with a sad smile on her face. “You deserve nothing more than to be free.” Astarion smiled and walked toward her, placing a searing kiss on her lips. She kissed back reluctantly, getting lost in him. He pulled her in by her waist with one hand and cupped her face gently with the other. He broke the kiss quickly, staring into her eyes hungrily. “My treasure,” He said, the new pet name surprising Tav. “You are going to be wonderfully obedient.” 

He let her go and started to leave the palace, leaving Tav and his other companions behind, still acting like he was the only one who was there. The way he let her go was almost like batting a fly away. Dismissive, and crude. Tav felt her heart crack and splinter a bit at his words and the way he let her go. It felt as if he only acknowledged her when it benefited him.

As the rest of the party slowly left Cazador’s palace,Tav stood there silently, looking back at the gruesome scene behind her. There was only one thought drifting through Tav’s mind…

What have I done?

authors note: trying out a chapter by chapter series :') it's my first one and i'm so excited to see how it turns out! i have also decided to make a special playlist for this fic series! each chapter is going to have a song from the play list associated with it, and i will link it with each chapter that i post! i am planning on releasing a new chapter every friday, but if that falters i do apologize. i hope you all enjoy! reblogs and comments are much appreciated

[nacentart]

Yorkshire Sculpture Park

Yorkshire Sculpture Park is a great day out for those who love walking and sculpture. It is set amongst 500 acres of rolling Yorkshire countryside and will get you to Olympic fitness if you want to tick off each of the art sculptures that have been made a home at the park. The park contains sculptures from a cavalcade of celebrated artists and sculptors from the last 100 years. Many pieces are quite new with some more famous older pieces from the likes of Henry Moore, Barbara Hepworth, and Anthony Caro to name but three. On the day I was at the park, the rain was torrential and did not yield, however, this added to the whole strange atmosphere of being set free in the estate on such an occasion. I felt alone with the art, for the most part, I was, not many others would brave the weather. I had crashed onto an alien world and was trying to piece together what or who could live on such a planet. Indeed, there is a statue of the astronaut, Neil Armstrong called Bronze Eroded Astronaut to guide me.  Daniel Arsham’s Unearthed Bronze Eroded Melpomene from 2021 was one such piece where it felt like my crash site was at the epicentre of a fallen ancient civilization, reminiscent of the film Planet of The Apes. It depicts a character called Melpomene, a Greek goddess and muse of tragedy. There is a part of the brain that believes what it sees, and this can have a discombobulating impact on the senses, especially as it was situated at the bottom of some neo-classical steps and balustrades from the formal gardens of the sculpture park. The sculptures and their decay are influenced by Arsham, as a child, having his family house destroyed in the early 1990s, by a hurricane.

I loved a few of the pieces, sometimes by the way a sculpture would just look or how it would interact with other close-by pieces and the landscape. At other times, just the size of a piece would have me feeling that sense of awe and a kind of diminishing of my importance under their vastness. Henry Moore’s Large Two Forms was sculpted in bronze from 1966-69 and was a magnificent work that felt like it had lived there for a thousand years. As with any of the best sculptures, I was left just staring at it from different angles and looking through its many contours and planes, which revealed and vanished as I walked around its dense solidity, that jolts up against the softness of its form.  Moore was raised local to the park, so it seemed very fitting for it to be part of this particular landscape.

I also loved the Barbara Hepworth group of sculptures called The Family of Man. I think this was my favourite set of sculptures at the park, I loved everything about the pieces and their relationship to each other. These were sculpted by Hepworth in 1970 and have been at the park since 1980. There is a family of nine pieces, and they are set upon a gentle slope surrounded by trees. ‘Set’ is the correct word as they appear like the gemstones of a fine necklace or ring. The patination of the pieces are sublime, the abstract nature betrays their very humane and familiar aura. I intensely felt that these have been made by a human. The rain gave the pieces a lustre, and the overcast sky would still allow some light to rebound off the remarkable perspectives of their surface; it was otherworldly and serene. My visit was worth it just for this personal moment with Hepworth’s work.

Moving on to the fungible fanatic Damien Hirst, there were one or two dramatic pieces at the park. The Virgin Mother 2005-2006, The Hat Makes the Man 2004-2007 and, I hate to say it, but I felt a deep nostalgic connection to Hirst’s other work, Charity 2002-2003. It consisted of a giant charity box statue of a little disabled girl wearing a calliper, which you would normally have found outside a 1960s/80s British Butcher’s or Newsagent’s shop. It was an outmoded way to pull at the heartstrings to make us part with our pennies for the Scope charity.  Its sheer size shrank me back to wet winter shopping outings outside local shops and how I would have viewed the little girl as not a charity case but maybe an upset little friend at that time. Anyway, it gave me a Proustian rush and it shows you can even like a piece of art from someone you do not like as an artist, be it just by tapping into nostalgia, which does tend to be a weak point, I admit. There were a few other notable pieces from other sculptors at the park. David Nash had some wooden steps rising up a grassy slope; there were many other sculptures from artists such as Anthony Gormley, Ai Weiwei, Willem Boshoff, and Elizabeth Frink, to name but a few.  It is well worth a day out for those who love art, and nature.    

[kryptoniancape]

This is probably as good a day as any for me to finally materialize these thoughts that have been gnawing at me since the end of April. This is going to be messy because I’m writing it in between innings of my softball game.

What is the likelihood we get some form of canon by the end of the series?

When this all started, the crackhead in me really had to wonder, what if this is all a sick ruse to cover up a fake out?

As much as I regard that notion as the chaotic timeline, I think those theories were actually fair considering the very odd incompetence that we’re observing in marketing surrounding the final season, and just, franchise direction in general. Of course, the idea that this is all some conspiracy for next gen clout becomes more favourable than the less spectacular reality, which is just, people in the positions of creative authority at AMC not valuing their characters and stories as vehicles for great art, as much as their fans.

I do think it’s possible we could see some form of fake out death in the final act. It could be Carol, or Daryl (since tracking indicates a potential rescue mission) as an easy means for propelling their development. It could also be Judith, based on the set photos where she is apparently injured. Either way, I’m almost certain there are going to be a lot of major and minor character deaths to clean up the inflated cast, and go for basic shock value in classic TWD fashion, so at least one fake out for a major character could balance all that tragedy.

I feel certain evidence says Carol won’t die. However, I have a feeling we could be looking at Rosita, Aaron, and/or Gabriel biting the bullet. These would be the characters that need to go imo, in order to justify any narrative where Carol becomes leader of Alexandria and stays behind, which is what I assume they will try and do. Daryl and Carol would be next in line for leadership in the absence of these figures in AZ. At the very least, I like the idea of everybody finally looking up to and appreciating Carol’s contributions.

I actually believe they are going to give us canon in some capacity. If they don’t, several chunks of several seasons of storytelling will have amounted to a complete waste, including the bizarre separation of their two leads for two whole blocks. Since s7 I haven’t underestimated this show’s capacity for wasted potential, in fact, I routinely bank on it. But to me, fully wasting Caryl will be next level failure for AMC. They really should have gone canon in s10, to give time for the relationship to materialize, but I always suspected they would procrastinate out of fear of writing mediocrity after so many years of anticipation. I think losing their planned season 12 probably played into why the current season is so unhinged.

There are frankly too many cues pointing to a Daryl and Carol romance to just ignore. Their last scene with the lunch date in particular seems to be spelling it out. Even the 11C sneak peek they gave us juxtaposes Daryl and Carol relative to their relationship to the Grimes kids. I think we’ll see lots of solo Caryl moments that allow them to emotionally unpack, and just maybe, bring them together before the battle with Commonwealth peaks, with the meat and potatoes of the relationship happening during the time jump—a lacklustre consolation to a post-war honeymoon road trip any way you slice it. This is why I’m inclined to think they will get the lead on Rick post time jump. It could at least open the floor for some emotion heavy scenes between Caryl as they have to very suddenly deal with this news that is both magnificent and damning to their present situation. This is how I presume they will attempt to string their fans further—not with no canon (as we’ve long worn that out) but with their first “reunion” as an actual item. I don’t want to comment on the infamous wedding theory at all tbh, but where I brushed it off before as being kind of corny, maybe it will prove to be the only thread they can utilize to tie Caryl together in a way that is unmoved by whatever life has to say about it.

The thing I hate most of all about this whole situation is how it’s only made me anticipate 11C more. Lmfao. The cruel irony, and inevitable emotional damage to my person is palpable. Once I’ve pledged my love for the characters, I have to see through the whole shitty shebang to the end. Though there will continue to be no orthodox viewership from me until season 11 proves it can entertain me. Their perception of what constitutes thrilling storytelling these days is just sad. These bold claims they’re making about the “humanity” of the ending are either going to have to smack their viewers like lightning, or be gaffed at by reviewers like typical TWD self flagellation. It’s depressing to think that they’ve already shit the bed, so for now I still find it plausible to follow the motions, with my cynicism in my back pocket. But I genuinely think there may be something of substance that can still surprise us beneath the horizon.

[loyalflutist]

Stony Expression (F!Byleth x Edelgard)

Rating: General Audience Archive Warning: Major Character Death Category: F/F Summary:  It's a compliment to Byleth. Any sort of emotion beyond the generic smile and cheeky attitude never saw the light of day, even in extreme situations. But in her life, there were only three people who saw through her facade.

A/N: RIP, I had an idea after reading the screenshots of dialogues from Byleth in Fire Emblem Heroes. Decided to write a somewhat... heartwarming... not really... kind of work? (We need more Mama Edelgard, if you know what I’m saying.) Hope you enjoy the work! 

----

“Gosh, don’t you think the professor is scary, Dorothea?”

“How so?”

“She’s never shown any sort of emotion to us!”

“Um… why are you so bothered about it? Isn’t that the point of keeping cool-headed?”

“It is, to an extent.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard that when her dad died last week, she didn’t even shed a tear!”

“Whoa. Talk about creepy.”

“You sure you’re telling the truth, Ferdinand? You always seem to blow these situations out of proportion.”

“Um, duh, Casper. I’m sure someone else can attest to it.”

“I doubt so—”

“I did.”

“Lindhardt? YOU?”

“I saw it with my very own eyes. Mmgh… I’m gonna skip class and take a nap, ‘kay?”

“HEY! Don’t you leave us hanging like that!”

“Geez, why are you so loud, Petra?”

“U-Um… don’t… you think we should be… you know… comforting her?”

“I would, Bernadetta, but Teach is clearly keeping her guard up. I mean, just… look at her right now.”

Caspar, Dorothea, Ferdinand, Lindhardt, Petra, and Bernadetta shot a glance at their professor. In the classroom where lecture won’t start for another fifteen minutes, the early birds were given the treat to gossip, jest, and horseplay. The perfect occasion for learning about the hottest rumors too. Today, Ferdinand brought up a rather morbid rumor—No, it wasn’t even a rumor. It was facts about their professor, Byleth.

They kept an eye on Byleth. The young woman in her early 20s fingered through the worksheets behind her desk. Based on their observations, their instructor remained the same. Diligent in her duties, attentive to her colleagues, and always there for her students. That’s the Byleth they knew all too well. However, Ferdinand wasn’t wrong from his remarks. The Byleth they envisioned was a bit more… reactive. Byleth’s stony expression and lack of anything beyond her rare, cheeky attitude painted her in a different light. Strange is a euphemism about the older female. Cold-hearted as a dysphemism about the ex-mercenary.

‘ I’m used to it. ‘

Byleth was not oblivious to their dagger-like stares. It pierced her exposed skin and armor without a moment of hesitation. Despite the mental remark, her shoulder’s muscles became rigid, hidden by the worksheets tossed onto the wooden podium.

‘ They’re just like everyone else. ‘

The male student was not wrong with his impression of her. Her father, whom she looked up to so dearly, died in the heat of battle. It was supposed to be a practical lesson in warfare for her students. The once-a-week “field trip” the staffs put together as part of the Officer’s Academy curriculum. Tragedy hardly described the scene that had befallen them.

Byleth and her father were chaperones and commanders of last week’s trip. A simple mission of pushing back the rebels that dare disrupt the peace near the monastery. It was the usual skirmish to counter any troublemakers and doers. Little did they know of the rebel’s leader. It was an old-time friend of theirs back when they were mercenaries. An older male roughly the same age as her father now stood on the opposite end. They tried to reason with him. The students were uncertain of their role in the fight. He rejected their proposal with a spear thrust into her father’s chest.

The spear

that

pierced

his heart.

It was a complete blur afterward. Byleth knew she didn’t lose her composure. That would be disastrous for the remaining troops and students left on the field. In lieu of fury, she coolly commanded the units to defeat the rebellion. Victory was easily achievable… but at what cost?

She shook her head and refocused her attention to the present time. From the far back, the green-haired spotted Edelgard and Hubert make their entrance into the classroom. The chatters from the other Black Eagles simmered down at the appearance of the two intimidating figures. Both the noble Edelgard and commoner Byleth made eye contact. Byleth smiled. Edelgard’s cheeks reddened before hurrying to her assigned seat at the front. Hubert narrowed his eyes at the professor and seated himself in the back. As if the death of her father hadn’t occurred, her classroom ran exactly as how it should’ve operated. Even the addition of a romantic relationship that recently sparked between Edelgard and Byleth didn’t disrupt the natural order for education.

It was

all so normal.

Like he

never

died.

Was this… really what she wanted though? Did Byleth want some sort of validation?

“Good morning, everyone.”

Byleth’s mature voice rang throughout the premise. If there were any remaining whispers and giggles, they were hushed by the more responsible scholars. She approached the podium. Then, with both hands lightly gripping the surface’s edge, she scanned her surroundings.

Nothing out of place. (Right?) Lindhardt was also present, which was a bit of a surprise. Byleth had lowered her expectations ever since he skipped class for a nap in the garden. The fact that he was here was a huge plus. That amusing idea screeched to a complete halt when he began to nod off. The corner of her lip twitched. At least he did try to come to class…

As for the others… Ferdinand was eyeing the white-haired rival with a small smirk. He twirled a feather between his index and middle finger, eyes twinkled in excitement. A typical reaction from their competitive relationship. Petra toyed with her hair and rolled her eyes at the sight of Ferdinand’s obvious reaction about their future lord. Casper stifled a yawn, elbows on the table and chin resting on the palms of his hands. Bernadetta had beads of sweat fly out of her head as her thumbs toyed with one another. Dorothea sat at the front like an obedient puppy. Maybe a bit too obedient since she was clearly shooting heart eyes at the professor in a playful manner… And then there was Hubert. Oh, Hubert. He was always a loyal servant to Edelgard. The man is kind, but ever since Byleth started a private and secretive relationship with the noble, he has been awfully overprotective with the young lady.

Byleth suppressed a sigh. She closed her eyes and, after counting to five, reopened them and flashed her signature smile.

“Let’s review some materials from last week. It doesn’t hurt to get a little refresher after the long three-day weekend.”

The three-day weekend that was partially due to her absence to quietly mourn for her father. Byleth had disappeared from existence to visit his grave. Accompanied by the ever-so-noisy Sothis that she can only see, speak, hear, and touch, the two paid their respect. Numbness. Byleth felt numb during those three days. No—she still felt numb right now.

“I’m surprised you can still hold yourself together, mortal,” Sothis muttered. She crossed her arms and looked up to the female. “But don’t hold it all in. The bottle is going to explode one day.”

Sothis was one of the few individuals who saw through Byleth’s brick-like features. The second person is her father.

She lowered her gaze. Soon, the woman got down to her knees and reached out to touch her father’s tombstone. His name will forever be immortalized on the thick slab of rock. Unfortunately, it won’t be immortalized for a reason worth celebrating.

“…leth.”

The ex-mercenary now found herself staring at an empty desk. This shared office with other staffs not prestigious enough to earn their own office (like Byleth), who were crammed into this one area. Her father was one of them, yet he never complained. In reality, he had actually enjoyed it. The daughter would always hear his jolly laughter and gruff voice echo from within. Students unfamiliar with his booming personality were in for a shock every single time they walk past the room. To Byleth, she welcomed it. After all, he is her father and she is his daughter.

Most of his supplies were placed in a rusted chest box. If there were any supplies to begin with, that is. Her father was not one to possess many materialistic items, save it for his clothes, weapons, armors, and whiskey. There wasn’t even a family portrait in his possession! He was always a firm believer that memories were picturistic enough. Seeking nostalgia? Dig even deeper into the memory zone. Forgot about it? It was probably not important enough to remember!

“By…”

Byleth sat on her mattress, her knees held close to her chest. She hugged them and stared at the somewhat decorated wall. Unlike her father, she allowed a bit of flair to settle in her personal space. Student notes were pinned to the wall. Some portraits and doodles hung alongside with them. One of them was a portrait of everyone in the Officer’s Academy. All three houses were together, and all of the staffs stood for the shot. It took the artist more than five hours to get them squeezed into this magnificent art. The process was excruciating but worth it.

It was the only physical piece of evidence she has in memory of her father. Her heart clenched at the thought of his death. Flashbacks replayed over and over in her head at the time of his doom. She nearly scoffed at mental torment. How much longer was this going to go on?

It

was going to

keep

on

going.

“Byleth.”

The older female blinked. Warmth enveloped her entire being in one swoop. Frantic, she rapidly examined her surroundings—until Byleth considered the context of her current situation. Edelgard held her seated mentor in an embrace. The two were safely hiding in the professor’s now-closed office. It was still early evening where students ran amok in the monastery. Musical melodies from talented choir members faintly trickled through the glass windows. A light breeze ruffled nearby leaves of a tree. Birds chirped alongside with the singers as an accompanist. It was a pleasant day.

Well, it was supposed to be for the two. Edelgard fingers began to run through her lover’s hair, nails satisfyingly brushing the scalp. She planted a gentle kiss to Byleth’s head.

“It’s okay to show what you’re feeling, Byleth.”

No—That wasn’t right. It wasn’t Byleth’s nature to show her feelings to the public. The stony expression, the bland reaction to extreme situations… those were compliments. She’s been told that she lacks emotion since she was a little girl! Even the Black Eagles think she is cold-hearted and cruel in the face of battle! Many of the students and paid troops think of her as an anomaly. Byleth thinks it’s natural.

But when it came to grief this strong, Byleth felt her heartstrings tug. For once, she wanted to let someone know about how she felt. It’s not an easy feat, though. The other half of her rational personality scream that she keeps it to herself. There was no use in burdening others of her sorrows and mourns. The death of her mother was a shining example of this. Besides, even if she did try to open up, she couldn’t. This nature of hers was just too ingrained into her system.

Edelgard continued to smooth through Byleth’s hair. In response, Byleth buried her face into the noble’s abdomen. The aromatic scent blossomed in the teacher’s sensory nerves. She gradually wrapped her arms around the student. Byleth deeply inhaled. A shaky exhale. At that instant, the floodgates from her lacrimal glands came loose as she felt her respiration shudder. The mentor slowly shook her head against Edelgard.

“Why did he have to die?”

She bit her lower lip hard. Eyelids stiff, throat scratchy, a choking cry erupted from her lips.

“I should’ve died in his place!”

Edelgard simply ran her fingers through the green locks, her eyes focused on her girlfriend. Soft “shh”s emitted from her lips as she planted another tender kiss on the head. Small whispers of “you’re going to be okay” and “I’m here for you, Byleth” sprinkled during the breakdown. It caused great agony to the empire’s upcoming lord to feel powerless for her teacher. However, unlike Byleth, who beat herself up, Edelgard’s emotional and mental health was far more resilient. Could it be because she was able to properly grieve when the time came? To release her anger unto others in an appropriate manner? Perhaps. For Byleth, she had always held everything inside.

“Oh, I miss him so much!”

She curled her fingers inward and dug her nails into Edelgard’s clothes. A slight wince from the student went unnoticed as she continued to wail uncontrollably. It was so unlike Byleth. If anyone else were to witness this, they would have assumed a trickster replaced Byleth with another person!

This is no good. Byleth is breaking free from her nature. She shouldn’t be venting, let alone blast her emotions to another person… even if that person is her significant other. Yet it was too late for Byleth. She became oversensitive from being honest with her feelings. The fear. The sadness. The grief. Out of all the people that saw through her façade, for Edelgard, she was the third person in her life to have seen through her stony expression.

[kindledspiritsbooks]

My Month in Books: December 2019

The Queen of Nothing - Holly Black

Power is much easier to acquire than it is to hold onto. Jude learned this lesson when she released her control over the wicked king, Cardan, in exchange for immeasurable power. Now as the exiled mortal Queen of Faerie, Jude is powerless and left reeling from Cardan’s betrayal. She bides her time determined to reclaim everything he took from her. Opportunity arrives in the form of her deceptive twin sister, Taryn, whose mortal life is in peril. Jude must risk venturing back into the treacherous Faerie Court, and confront her lingering feelings for Cardan, if she wishes to save her sister. But Elfhame is not as she left it. War is brewing. As Jude slips deep within enemy lines she becomes ensnared in the conflict’s bloody politics. And, when a dormant yet powerful curse is unleashed, panic spreads throughout the land, forcing her to choose between her ambition and her humanity…

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

Moving forward and backward in time, Jacqueline Woodson's taut and powerful new novel uncovers the role that history and community have played in the experiences, decisions, and relationships of these families, and in the life of the new child. As the book opens in 2001, it is the evening of sixteen-year-old Melody's coming of age ceremony in her grandparents' Brooklyn brownstone. Watched lovingly by her relatives and friends, making her entrance to the music of Prince, she wears a special custom-made dress. But the event is not without poignancy. Sixteen years earlier, that very dress was measured and sewn for a different wearer: Melody's mother, for her own ceremony-- a celebration that ultimately never took place. Unfurling the history of Melody's parents and grandparents to show how they all arrived at this moment, Woodson considers not just their ambitions and successes but also the costs, the tolls they've paid for striving to overcome expectations and escape the pull of history. As it explores sexual desire and identity, ambition, gentrification, education, class and status, and the life-altering facts of parenthood, Red at the Bone most strikingly looks at the ways in which young people must so often make long-lasting decisions about their lives--even before they have begun to figure out who they are and what they want to be.

Katherine by Anya Seton

This classic romance novel tells the true story of the love affair that changed history—that of Katherine Swynford and John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, the ancestors of most of the British royal family. Set in the vibrant 14th century of Chaucer and the Black Death, the story features knights fighting in battle, serfs struggling in poverty, and the magnificent Plantagenets—Edward III, the Black Prince, and Richard II—who ruled despotically over a court rotten with intrigue. Within this era of danger and romance, John of Gaunt, the king’s son, falls passionately in love with the already married Katherine. Their well-documented affair and love persist through decades of war, adultery, murder, loneliness, and redemption. This epic novel of conflict, cruelty, and untamable love has become a classic since its first publication in 1954.

Dark Places by Gillian Flynn

Libby Day was seven when her mother and two sisters were murdered in “The Satan Sacrifice" of Kinnakee, Kansas. She survived—and famously testified that her fifteen-year-old brother, Ben, was the killer. Twenty-five years later, the Kill Club—a secret secret society obsessed with notorious crimes—locates Libby and pumps her for details. They hope to discover proof that may free Ben. Libby hopes to turn a profit off her tragic history: She’ll reconnect with the players from that night and report her findings to the club—for a fee. As Libby’s search takes her from shabby Missouri strip clubs to abandoned Oklahoma tourist towns, the unimaginable truth emerges, and Libby finds herself right back where she started—on the run from a killer.

House of Salt and Sorrow by Erin A. Craig

Annaleigh lives a sheltered life at Highmoor, a manor by the sea, with her sisters, their father, and stepmother. Once they were twelve, but loneliness fills the grand halls now that four of the girls' lives have been cut short. Each death was more tragic than the last—the plague, a plummeting fall, a drowning, a slippery plunge—and there are whispers throughout the surrounding villages that the family is cursed by the gods. Disturbed by a series of ghostly visions, Annaleigh becomes increasingly suspicious that the deaths were no accidents. Her sisters have been sneaking out every night to attend glittering balls, dancing until dawn in silk gowns and shimmering slippers, and Annaleigh isn't sure whether to try to stop them or to join their forbidden trysts. Because who—or what—are they really dancing with? When Annaleigh's involvement with a mysterious stranger who has secrets of his own intensifies, it's a race to unravel the darkness that has fallen over her family—before it claims her next.

Ask Again, Yes by Mary Beth Keane

A profoundly moving novel about two neighboring families in a suburban town, the bond between their children, a tragedy that reverberates over four decades, the daily intimacies of marriage, and the power of forgiveness. Francis Gleeson and Brian Stanhope, two rookie cops in the NYPD, live next door to each other outside the city. What happens behind closed doors in both houses—the loneliness of Francis’s wife, Lena, and the instability of Brian’s wife, Anne—sets the stage for the explosive events to come. Ask Again, Yes is a deeply affecting exploration of the lifelong friendship and love that blossoms between Francis and Lena’s daughter, Kate, and Brian and Anne’s son, Peter. Luminous, heartbreaking, and redemptive, Ask Again, Yes reveals the way childhood memories change when viewed from the distance of adulthood—villains lose their menace and those who appeared innocent seem less so. Kate and Peter’s love story, while tested by echoes from the past, is marked by tenderness, generosity, and grace.

Well Met by Jen DeLuca

All's faire in love and war for two sworn enemies who indulge in a harmless flirtation in a laugh-out-loud rom-com from debut author, Jen DeLuca. Emily knew there would be strings attached when she relocated to the small town of Willow Creek, Maryland, for the summer to help her sister recover from an accident, but who could anticipate getting roped into volunteering for the local Renaissance Faire alongside her teenaged niece? Or that the irritating and inscrutable schoolteacher in charge of the volunteers would be so annoying that she finds it impossible to stop thinking about him? The faire is Simon's family legacy and from the start he makes clear he doesn't have time for Emily's lighthearted approach to life, her oddball Shakespeare conspiracy theories, or her endless suggestions for new acts to shake things up. Yet on the faire grounds he becomes a different person, flirting freely with Emily when she's in her revealing wench's costume. But is this attraction real, or just part of the characters they're portraying? This summer was only ever supposed to be a pit stop on the way to somewhere else for Emily, but soon she can't seem to shake the fantasy of establishing something more with Simon, or a permanent home of her own in Willow Creek.

Oh My God, What a Complete Aisling by Emer McLysaght and Sarah Breen

Aisling is twenty-eight and she’s a complete ... Aisling. She lives at home in Ballygobbard (or Ballygobackwards, as some gas tickets call it) with her parents and commutes to her good job at PensionsPlus in Dublin.

Aisling goes out every Saturday night with her best friend Majella, who is a bit of a hames (she’s lost two phones already this year – Aisling has never lost a phone).

Aisling spends two nights a week at her boyfriend John’s. He’s from down home and was kiss number seventeen at her twenty-first.

But Aisling wants more. She wants the ring on her finger. She wants the hen with the willy straws. She wants out of her parents’ house, although she’d miss Mammy turning on the electric blanket like clockwork and Daddy taking her car 'out for a spin' and bringing it back full of petrol.

When a week in Tenerife with John doesn’t end with the expected engagement, Aisling calls a halt to things and soon she has surprised herself and everyone else by agreeing to move into a three-bed in Portobello with stylish Sadhbh from HR and her friend, the mysterious Elaine.

Newly single and relocated to the big city, life is about to change utterly for this wonderful, strong, surprising and funny girl, who just happens to be a complete Aisling.

Emer McLysaght and Sarah Breen, the creators of the much-loved Aisling character and the popular Facebook page 'Oh My God, What a Complete Aisling', bring Aisling to life in their novel about the quintessential country girl in the big smoke.

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

Far beneath the surface of the earth, upon the shores of the Starless Sea, there is a labyrinthine collection of tunnels and rooms filled with stories. The entryways that lead to this sanctuary are often hidden, sometimes on forest floors, sometimes in private homes, sometimes in plain sight. But those who seek will find. Their doors have been waiting for them. Zachary Ezra Rawlins is searching for his door, though he does not know it. He follows a silent siren song, an inexplicable knowledge that he is meant for another place. When he discovers a mysterious book in the stacks of his campus library he begins to read, entranced by tales of lovelorn prisoners, lost cities, and nameless acolytes. Suddenly a turn of the page brings Zachary to a story from his own childhood impossibly written in this book that is older than he is. A bee, a key, and a sword emblazoned on the book lead Zachary to two people who will change the course of his life: Mirabel, a fierce, pink-haired painter, and Dorian, a handsome, barefoot man with shifting alliances. These strangers guide Zachary through masquerade party dances and whispered back room stories to the headquarters of a secret society where doorknobs hang from ribbons, and finally through a door conjured from paint to the place he has always yearned for. Amid twisting tunnels filled with books, gilded ballrooms, and wine-dark shores Zachary falls into an intoxicating world soaked in romance and mystery. But a battle is raging over the fate of this place and though there are those who would willingly sacrifice everything to protect it, there are just as many intent on its destruction. As Zachary, Mirabel, and Dorian venture deeper into the space and its histories and myths, searching for answers and each other, a timeless love story unspools, casting a spell of pirates, painters, lovers, liars, and ships that sail upon a Starless Sea. 

The Swallows by Lisa Lutz

What do you love? What do you hate? What do you want? It starts with this simple writing prompt from Alex Witt, Stonebridge Academy's new creative writing teacher. When the students' answers raise disturbing questions of their own, Ms. Witt knows there's more going on the school than the faculty wants to see. She soon learns about The Ten--the students at the top of the school's social hierarchy--as well as their connection to something called The Darkroom. Ms. Witt can't remain a passive observer. She finds the few girls who've started to question the school's "boys will be boys" attitude and incites a resistance that quickly becomes a movement. But just as it gains momentum, she also attracts the attention of an unknown enemy who knows a little too much about her--including what brought her to Stonebridge in the first place. Meanwhile, Gemma, a defiant senior, has been plotting her attack for years, waiting for the right moment. Shy loner Norman hates his role in the Darkroom, but can't find the courage to fight back until he makes an unlikely alliance. And then there's Finn Ford, an English teacher with a shady reputation who keeps one eye on his literary ambitions and one on Ms. Witt. As the school's secrets begin to trickle out, a boys-versus-girls skirmish turns into an all-out war, with deeply personal--and potentially fatal--consequences for everyone involved. Lisa Lutz's blistering, timely tale shows us what can happen when silence wins out over decency for too long--and why the scariest threat of all might be the idea that sooner or later, girls will be girls.

[anthonianrhapsody-blog]

Alpha and Omega

by Alain Abella and Sky Alminiana

Curtains up

All lights turned off; dark set-up

Narrator [voiceover]: In the beginning, there was only darkness, and darkness only prevailed; a deep black void into nothingness, where nothing ever sailed. Life [voiceover]: Let there be light! Narrator [voiceover]: Shouted an almighty voice; then the silence roared, roared as the loudest noise. A small tinge of white was suddenly in sight, a sign of light, Life. 

Life walks in from left side of stage; spotlight on her

Life looks around the dark surroundings; spotlight follows her Life: Hollow is the world, engulfed in darkness. This world desires beauty, and I shall deliver. It's time to shed the light. 

Positions herself in the middle of the stage

Creates ball of fire while saying the following:

Life: Untamed is this majestic star. The rays of light shimmering are endless. This eternal flame has the burning purpose to give light unconditionally to the ends of the universe – Sun.

Burst ball of fire into the sky; set-up sun

Life enjoys the wonders of the day

Night comes; dark surroundings

Life looks around looking confused

Life: Then it was night. Darkness prevailed once again, like life never has been. So I create the moon and the stars in the sky, to be the night light — be the one to guide you by.

With paint and paintbrush, paints moon and stars

Set-up with light Life: The horizon that has no limits to the naked eye. The sky shall serve as the glorious reminder that this world is beautiful. Exquisite in nature and tenacious to the open.

Gestures to the open sky Life: Mirroring the majestic sky is the grandeur wide open. It is where life will flow by — the sea is where it'll  happen. The waves crashing, the water is flowing; the sky that meets the sea is calling.

Gestures to create the sea

Sea is created Life: To complement the blue, I add another hue. Green patches on the brown land, where creations will take a  stand. Life is slowly forming, life indeed is growing.

Moves around and gestures to land

Life: To make the land rise and grow, I created the plants. These produce and perennial are to give color to the green grass and leaves. This greenery is to give way for more life to be weaved.

Plants and holds flowers Life: Such a wonderful world, however with no inhabitants. Summoned are the graceful animals! Roam the land and grow from the plants! Swim the sea and explore the depths of the oceans! Fly the sky and be where no one else has been! Be the life of this world.

Molds soil into animal figures

Animals come to life

Many animals are already present and acts out as the following:

Narrator [voiceover]: Amongst the superpowers of the animal kingdom, lies the innocent, the weak that seeks freedom. From a delicate and gentle flock it came, following the light of its creator, the lamb is the creation's name.

Life creates lamb; looks at it with pure joy and satisfaction

Spotlight to Life and lamb Life: Ahh Lamb, my favorite creation. I have overseen your growth. Since your first step, I was with you, my dear. During the beginning of your journey, I was there. The process of how you intake grass is simply satisfying to observe. You are so gullible; your slumber is so subtle. Mushy is your skin that is soft to caress with ease. The way you walk around making that sweet sound is music to my ears. Lovely are you Lamb. Your presence is only smooth and never dull. Now you have aged, past your prime, I was with you through it all the time. 

Lamb walks from left to right stage

Light – to –dark set –up

Lamb is gradually growing weaker and slower as it reaches the right side

Looks at lamb in full awe as it becomes weak Life: Now, my creation, what is this that you are nearing? You were once this beautiful, magnificent creature, gentle but full of glee; now it seems like your body is deteriorating, breaking, fading, slowly. My creation, what  have I done wrong? I gave you all the good, and sang to you all the pretty songs. My creation, who are you heading to? Come back to me — come back to where you came from. I gave you life, I provided you the light. How come you are still choosing the dark, where nothing is ever in sight? The stranger in front of you is unknown. You don't take his hand; can't you hear his fearsome tone? With a cry, the only words I can mutter are, my creation, why are you leaving Life?

Death emerges from right side of the stage

Spotlight on Death; dark surroundings Death: It is now your time, come.

Gestures lamb to come to him

Life: Wh-who are you? (very confused)

Death: I am Death. I am the Omega. I am the end of it all. Now, I come and summon the soul of this creature, and to the afterlife I shall have it delivered.

Life starts to cry

Life: But how could this be? A creature created out of love couldn’t just leave so suddenly. Why did it have to be so soon? You! You plotted my beloved’s doom!

Lamb gasps to take in its final breaths

Life: NO! NO! This couldn’t be! I love all my creations equally; don’t take my love away from me! Haven’t you ever felt love before?! What kind of being are you? How can someone be as merciless and heartless as you?

Lamb dies

Death carries lamb’s soul; body lies on the floor; spotlight

Life hugs lifeless body of lamb

Life: NOOOO!!!!

Everything becomes dark

Sudden spotlight on Death

Death: Love? How could you say that I haven’t felt love?

Angry at each other

Life starts standing up and slowly comes up close to Death pointing at him while saying the following:

Life: Someone like you is not capable of love! Someone like you can not, and should not be loved!

Death is enraged

Death: Maybe you’re right; perhaps not, for beings like you believe that I am not worthy of it! I can go and be poetic and all about love but Life, this is reality! You can’t just utter the most flowery of words, and hope for it to last forever! Life, I am here! I am Death, and it is my purpose to bring your creations’ souls to the afterlife. I am Death, and death flows within me. You know what, Life? I envy you. Creations look up to you as if you were the best thing that ever happened to them. But me? They despise me. They despise even the slightest idea of me. They see me as the bad guy here. You know why? Because Life, you are a very beautiful lie; and I am the painful truth. And that’s reality.

Anger starts to subside to give way for understanding

Life: But why? Why do you have to take away all the things that I love?

Death: Because Life, it is their fate. I don’t kill your creations; I only guide them towards the afterlife. You just need to trust in me and understand. You are the start, and I am the end. Together, (holds hands of Life) we need to work hand in hand. The marvels of death are as just as marvelous as yours.

Set-up becomes dark; all lights turned off

Characters get off the stage

Narrator [voiceover]: Lifetimes and deaths have passed; a strong bond has been built. A connection of Life and Death, and everything in between. Working hand in hand, through understanding and perspective, friendship has been found and keen, maybe something else is there to be seen.

Lights turn on

Life and Death walking hand-in-hand towards middle of the stage

Life: Oh how foolish of me to say that you can not be loved, yet here I am, loving you, giving you the love you should have. I’m sorry for ever doubting you, my dear; I’m sorry you once became my fear. Oh the paradox of you and me, yet our love story is still a beautiful, wonderful, mystery.

Death: Now ask me again if I ever felt love before, I would tell you this: in your hands, I have never felt as alive as this before. And trust me when I say I love you, trust me I do. But, you know this can not be. Life and Death can only have so much with perfect harmony – not love, not relationships. Us pursuing our love for each other would only cause destruction to the world we know today. And I know both of us aren’t selfish enough to sacrifice the millions of lives founded on love just to push through ours. In this world, we get to know the places where we belong – the places where we need to be, to ensure harmony; and as much as I want for that place to be wherever you’d be, sadly, Life, my love, this beautiful, wonderful, mystery, would now become our beautiful, wonderful, tragedy. Goodbye, my love.

Characters get off the stage

Turn off all lights; dark set

  Narrator [voiceover]: And just as quickly as the day they met, the boundaries of the Alpha and Omega have been set. Being together would cause each other’s destruction; they love each other that much that they won’t let their world come to a halt. But leaving each other didn’t mean they can’t leave anything behind. Life and Death created an image that soon became the archetype of their love for each other; a fragment of themselves, a parting memory of what they should have – could have been. A creation most precious than any; a creation that is the start and the end of many. [gets onto stage and reveals identity] My parents – my creators could never be together, so they built me out of their love, the Alpha, and the Omega flows within me, and I would always be the epitome and greatest manifestation of Life and Death’s love for each other – Man.

Man stands in the middle

Spotlight on Man

Curtains down

--- end ---

[northamptoncouplestherapy]

In every waking millisecond, we sit on the cusp of delight and apprehension

In our daily lives, we often do not know when a moment morphs from creation to cessation. Beginnings command our attention, proclaiming themselves with confetti and sparks: babies are born, we fall in love and build houses. While dancing in our kitchen, we throw caution to the wind, getting drunk on dreams and hope. Equally apparent are finalities, though they declare themselves more somberly: loved ones die, relationships end, and our children inevitably grow up.

In between memorable instances is the stuff of life — moments that make memories, which in turn compost into time and pave the way for the new. It’s in the realm of folding laundry, checking texts, and sitting in traffic that we dwell — not knowing in time, what each interaction and minuscule detail will stand out as, or if it will stand out at all.

I remember one autumn, walking in a meadow with my aging father. He was struggling with worsening heart failure, and his grey eyes and softened coloring seemed to coalesce into the landscape that surrounded us. This man, whose back I rode in tidal pools — who took me bushwhacking, owling and fishing for trout — could no longer cross a stream without taking my hand. In that moment, unbeknownst to me, slept the seeds of an ending, and I now realize that this was to be the last time we’d walk on wild ground together.

Often, only in hindsight do we comprehend that we have crossed such thresholds: moments when endings occur, and we are nescient. Though if we are lucky, we can still recall the last kiss or time we perched our child (now too heavy) on our hip. But, more likely, we will not remember these junctures. How could we? Nescience, defined as the absence of knowing, is more accurately associated with innocence, and less so with ignorance.

That we don’t recognize most endings when they happen is simultaneously tragic, merciful, and perhaps most poignant, profoundly human.

Is there a realm in between? Where the unconscious and the conscious intermingle — affording us daily opportunities to wake to our child’s musings, our mundane chores, and the silenced stirrings of our heart?

Social scientist and bestselling author Brené Brown speaks to foreboding joy (FBJ): windows of beauty and awe so painfully tender and lovely that in the space of a millisecond, we unconsciously flash to terror and shut them down. It seems our minds are prone to transposing the ghosts of catastrophe onto our sleeping children, most intimate loves, and occasions of good fortune.

FBJ, an instinctual recoiling from delight, is one of the most insidious defenses against vulnerability and is inherently embedded in being mortal. When (or if) we have a history of trauma, we may live for years unknowingly haunted by it, and, if left unchecked, it has the potential to shut down love and connection, two of the bedrocks of a wholehearted life.

Recently, while writing the article: John Gottman and Brene Brown on Running Headlong Into Heartbreak, a thought occurred to me that was so heartrending and breathtaking, it warranted an essay of its own:

Foreboding joy is Negative Sentiment Override to life.

Negative Sentiment Override (NSO), a term coined by John Gottman, speaks to the tendency toward viewing our partner and the history of our relationship through a darkened lens. It is a symptom as much as a state. Characterized by a loss of hope, our memories, once imbued with fondness, get recast in our mind’s eye and become concealed by gloom.

NSO is, in essence, a cumulative byproduct of missed opportunities for connection: sliding door moments, where we turn away (and against) junctures that necessitated our care and presence — we neglect to ask about the biopsy, forget to say we’ll be late, or dismiss the melancholy expression on our partner’s face — again and again.

What if every moment in life is a sliding door moment, and in turn, gifts us with opportunities to love or wither?

A child in utero will move towards its mother’s voice as surely as any day lily seeks out the sun. An infant’s heartbeat will synchronize to the rhythm of its primary caregiver by ticking in solidarity to the universal cadence of life: the crickets chirping, raindrops pattering and the rocking of the tide. We come into this world, turning toward — to love and to be loved. It is our birthright.

But what happens if, from the very beginning, life slaps us down and turns us away, meeting us with desynchronization or silence? If instead of a soft caress or a friendly smile, we encounter neglect, abuse, rejection, or ridicule by those we are wired to trust? What happens if we experience such assaults globally, as a result of factors beyond our control, such as our race, ethnicity, class, gender, or sexual orientation? The implications are staggering.

With each loss, we experience a growing intolerance to risk, and in turn, a subconscious aversion to joy. According to Brown, trauma’s greatest casualty is vulnerability. When we’re no longer able to discern what is safe, good, and life-giving, our compass is uncalibrated. So (understandably), we lose trust in life, dress-rehearse tragedy, and recoil or come out swinging.

Turning away from love is the hallmark of anguish. Our psyches and souls start to hurt when a growing sense of urgency complicates the ageless crucibles of mortality and transience. Have we reached a pinnacle where the cumulative legacy of humanity: intergenerational trauma, patriarchy, racism, genocide and negligent stewarding of our planet is compelling even the sanest among us to dive-bomb into the abyss by swallowing fistfuls of blue pills and disowning our vulnerability in turn?

In every waking millisecond, we sit on the cusp of delight and apprehension, informed by an infinite number of variables. What FBJ and NSO share in common, is a turning away from the potential of love, life and vulnerability — sometimes knowingly and sometimes not. In the belly of the whale lies loss and our relationship to it.

Over the summer, a momma fox and her two gangly adolescents took out every backyard chicken within five miles of our rural home. My daughter and I were standing at the door of a white transport van, in a Cumberland Farms parking lot, when the universe delivered a jumping bean of a rescue puppy into our arms and promptly scooped up seven chickens in exchange. We came home to silence and feathers.

A week later we brought home four new pullets, including a sweet black Australorp that honked instead of clucked. My daughter named her Midnight. We locked them safely away in the run. Several days later, while feeding the hens, I turned to the buzzing of flies and saw the starless shape of Midnight slumped lifeless on the stoop. Despite our diligence, we had lost another bird unexplainably, and I struggled with how to tell my child.

We cannot escape certain realities in life. The fox lives in the hen. What are we to do?

The Imperative to Delight

If joy is a portal to terror, it is simultaneously a gateway to delight — each shimmering moment invites us to embrace the paradox of our mortality. We awaken to myriad experiences: what is bitter may become sweet, what is sorrowful may become luminous. Delight, at its best, is the embodiment of gratitude, and I would argue that we are obliged to revel while together we weep — that in acknowledging we are ephemeral, there lies the potential for a sorely needed tenderness amongst humanity.

As poet Ross Gay so beautifully ponders in his essay: Joy Is Such a Human Madness, “What if we joined our sorrows — what if that is joy?” Such communing requires a willingness, courage, and most importantly, vulnerability. But, we can (and must) turn towards sorrow as surely as we turn towards delight — they are sisters and to embody both is grace at its finest.

Gay also takes it a step further, discerning between pleasure and delight. With pleasure being readily accessible and playing to our senses. Sitting with my ten-year-old over breakfast, sharing steamy black vanilla tea and a platter of smokey bacon and maple-cream frosted toast is a pleasure. It’s the first day of fifth grade. Looking at her face, her eyes the same river blue-green they were as a baby; the angle of her nose, familiar — yet not. Time bends, and I swell with tears and laughter — delight.

Sitting at the threshold of joy is both terrifying and magnificent. Angst is an understandable outgrowth. But when we reside here chronically and unknowingly, it is likely due to a multitude of injuries incurred over time. Trauma has crawled into our beds and slipped a worm inside our ear; it burrows deeply into our hearts and whispers that we are not lovable — the reclaiming of delight, and our worthiness of it, is therefore not a luxury but an imperative.

The Capacity for Awe

We must find a portkey — that magical touch-down object Harry Potter reaches for when circumstances necessitate that he transport himself from here to there — a portal to awe that is readily accessible and simultaneously grand: the first two verses of Cohen’s Hallelujah, a glint of light, a lush peony. Each of these can be gateways to joy because awe is non-discriminate.

By nurturing our capacity for wonderment, we nurture fondness and admiration for life. It’s a powerful antidote to negativism and hopelessness, flies smack in the face of nihilism, and is a courageous stance in response to hurt and fear. Furthermore, since awe does not require a shared theology, it is transcendent and is a balm that treats all wounds in a world where there are many.

As a couples therapist, I’ve witnessed my share of marriages ending. Having sat with partners whose love is metamorphosing or dying, I’ve observed the terror on people’s faces, heard the shouting and seen the tears that come from the inevitability of change. I’ve been struck by the palpable beauty and tenderness that can arise in the seemingly darkest of moments — a wife reaching for her husband’s hand while simultaneously weeping and saying goodbye.

Finding beauty and risking vulnerability through joy, is a monumental feat when in NSO to life. What awe is fantastically good at is taking that which rattles us, and instead calms, dazzles or assures us, thus morphing the full catastrophe of living into shimmering stardust. Even amidst suffering, life affords us ample opportunities to pause and take in the beauty, and when we can let our perspectives soften, things like our time-worn hands or the death of a relationship offer up potential in cultivating a gentleness.

I spent years eluding heartache, and in turn, the totality of joy. Despite my proclivity for sad memoirs and murder ballads, I did my best to keep loss at bay and maximize pleasure. On numerous occasions, I grasped when I should have let go, and with the steadfastness of Icarus, I burst into flames, then ash, then water. Loss has given me the gift of perspective and age (ironically) time. Grief is merciful that way.

When I was a child, my father kept honeybees. He’d lull them to sleep with smoke while we plundered their hives. In the space of an hour, I’d taste sweet nectar, get stung by a bee, and doze in the afternoon shade. It was all there: delight, pain, oblivion.

I don’t know much, only that the same force that created that honeycomb ravaged my father’s heart — that there is salvation to be found in mystery, tiny things, and being wrong, that foreboding joy and negative sentiment override are universal wounds of humanity which we must minister to tenderly and with care — and that in time, if we do not turn towards love, we turn towards nothing.

To learn more, click here.

[freifraufischer]

Note:  I wrote this more than a decade ago but given how little is out there about the historical context of Mexico City earthquakes I thought it might be useful to post it now.  It was intended to show the complex relationship between seismology, historical settlement and societal corruption.  My aunt was a doctor on the staff of the president of Mexico at the time and she and all her colleagues were secluded in the presidential compound by the army for days after the quake unable to help the people who actually needed them.  She lost her apartment building and friends killed in the collapse of the Residency of the General Hospital.

Tepeyollotl’s Revenge:  Echoes of the 1985 Mexico City Earthquakes

“Oh, my Mexico, my wounded Mexico, my Mexico that contents itself with so little!  Is it possible that we can still believe in the efficacy of government when, at the crucial movement, it was the people who did everything?” –A Mexico City resident.   

“Let us not forget the days following the earthquake of September 19, 1985, when, weighed down by the tragedy, the people of Mexico City yet showed themselves ready to organize and run their own lives in the face of the complete failure of the government to find an effective response.” –Francisco Pérez Arce, Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia.  

           On Saturday September 28, 1985, I was a seven-year-old girl playing with my toys on the floor of the New York City apartment of a friend of my mother.  Everyone was keeping up a good face and trying to hide their concern, until the phone rang to tell us that my aunt, a doctor living in Mexico City was alive. It had taken more than a week to get word out of the country, not by telephone, but by short wave radio as most information was trickling out of Mexico.  Nine days before an earthquake had hit the city of eighteen million people and knocked out all telephone communication for the entire country.  It wasn’t for a few days after that news footage began to appear on American television as specialized satellite trucks landed in the country of toppled buildings and disaster on a scale that was hardly imaginable.  As it turned out the destruction was far worse, and the suffering far deeper than toppled buildings could convey, but in the wake of death comes life and rebirth, not just for a city, but also for the entire country.  The earthquake changed the way the people saw their history, and their government, and lead to massive changes across Mexican civil society.

           In 1325 the Aztecs choose a magnificent setting within the Valley of Mexico for their new capital of Tenochtitlan, high on a plateau on an ancient lake basin with a ring of volcanic mountains around it. It was perfect for the building of the great pyramids of Central America, but that choice would have profound consequences for their descendants.  During the Aztec period there were some fifty settlements in the Valley of Mexico, each ranging from between 15,000-30,000 people.  By the time of the battle between Hernaán Cortés’ forces and the Aztec’s, Tenochtitlan was as large as any European city. The city would continue to serve its new Spanish masters during the colonial period, and in fact it was that very battle site that would later serve as the center of postcolonial power in Mexico, as well as the area of greatest destruction during the 1985 earthquakes.  

           For close to seventy years the country had been governed by a single authoritarian political party, the  Partido Revolucionario Institucional (Insitutional Revolutionary Party), known as the PRI..  Poverty in the countryside and perceived opportunity in the city, along with an internal growth rate had resulted in the quintupling of the city’s population in that time, spreading well beyond the boundaries of the Federal District, and into the surrounding State of Mexico.  The earthquake was only one of a serious of shocks to Mexican society beginning with the 1968 student movement and the massacre of protesters by government forces at Tlatelolco—the site of much of the worst residential damage seventeen years later—just before the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympic Games up to the collapse of world petroleum prices which brought about a collapse in the peso and the declaration of a debt crisis in 1982 which resulted in a deepening financial crisis by the time the tremors hit.

           Mexico is a highly active seismic zone, experiencing five times as many major earthquakes as California, with more than 340 recorded earthquakes in the area of the capital since pre-Columbian times.  A 7.5 magnitude earthquake had struck the city in 1957 resulting relatively minor damage. This gave false reassurance not only to officials in Mexico City who had been concerned about the vulnerability of the capital, but also to similarly at risk cities such as San Francisco who were at the time debating residential building in what became the Marina District.  But in 1957 there were only about five million people living in the city, and few of the buildings that would cause the greatest loss of life in their collapse had been built.  In 1985 there were eighteen million people living in the Federal District.

           At 7:19 a.m. on Thursday, September 19, 1985 an 8.1 magnitude earthquake struck in the subduction zone of either the Cocos or Rivera Oceanic plates beneath the North American plate.  The Rivera is a relatively small plate subducts below the state of Jalisco at a rate of 2.5 cm/yr.  The Cocos subducts between 5-8 cm/yr.    The boundary of the Rivera and Cocos plates is uncertain, but is probably near Manzanillo (19.1 ° N, 104.3 ° W). It was not one earthquake, but two separate events separated by some 30 seconds and about a hundred miles in space long the fault system.  The foci were 6 and 20 km underground in the Michoacan gab.

It was learned from a 1964 8.4 magnitude earthquake in Alaska that extremely large seismic events are often the result of this kind of momentary hang up of the slip along a fault, before it is released at another point.  The surface of the earth behaves like the surface of a pond during an earthquake. During a standard singular event waves travel out from the focus of the earthquake like ripples on the pond after a rock is dropped in.  In the case of these compound events, it would be like dropping two rocks simultaneously into the pond and watching their waves interact and amplify as they spread across the water.  In addition to gaining powerful from each other, the combined waves from these events travel at a greater distance through rock.

           The earthquake was also unusually long, with duration of almost three minutes.  Mexico city is built partially on alluvial lake deposits that average 100-150 feet thick, but in some areas extend as far as 7500 feet, the long period of shaking excited soil deep soil deposits and resulted in an amplification of the ground movement.  The clay layer which forms the majority of the lake bed has up to 400% water content, and when subject to shaking liquefies, contributing yet another cause to the amplification of the waves in this area up to 50 times that which occurred in the surrounding hill zone.  Two days later a second quake, registering 7.5 in magnitude also rocked the area.

           At the time Mexico city was highly centralized, with key government buildings (including the presidential palace and the main administrative offices of the Federal District, educational institutions, medical centers, principle hotels) all located within the lake bed zone.  Five major hospitals were destroyed with another twenty-two damaged including the residency of the General Hospital, killing a large number of young doctors.  Other major government buildings collapsed including the offices of the Attorney General, the Ministry of Labor, the Ministry of Communications, the Ministry of Commerce, the Ministry of the Navy, and the Ministry of the Interior.  The city saw the bending of railroad tracks, and the breaking of underground pipes causing widespread disruption transportation in the 150 square mile city and cutting off water to more than six million people.  With the telephone center on Victoria Street destroyed, the entire country of Mexico remained cut off from the world.  Journalist Elena asks incredulously in her ethnography of the quake, “How is it possible that 55,000 branches that connect the south with the north of the country and the whole country with the world were all concentrated in one single old building on Victoria Street?” 

Government estimates place the death toll somewhere between 5,000 and 10,000 people, but there is ample reason to suspect those figures.  More than a week after the earthquake, Fernando Pérez Correa, subsecretary of government was insisting on national television that only 2,000 people had died. ��Given the reported loss of more than a hundred schools, and the beginning of the Mexican school day at 7:00 am, and some 6,000 people were known to have died in the collapse of the largest 265 buildings, it seems more reasonable to accept the number of people missing after the quake, 28,000, as a more reasonable estimate of the loss of life.  

This discrepancy over the death toll leads to a troubling factor in a lot of the technical and engineering descriptions of quake which do not classify it as a “great disaster” because while there was an undeniably large amount of property damage, a death toll would usually need to fall into the tens of thousands before it would reach that classification. As will be seen, it was in the interest of the Mexican government to downplay the extent of the disaster. Monetary losses were impossible to estimate, but it is believed to be the third most expensive earthquake of the 20th century, only exceeded by the San Francisco in 1906 and Tokyo in 1923, and neither of those cities were already three years into an economic crisis at the time.

           When trying to digest the level of destruction that occurred in September 1985, it is worth examining the terms we use when describing such destruction.  A hazard is a natural occurrence that generally comes in two categories, slow acting and fast acting.  Slow acting hazards include droughts, disease, and epidemics, all of which are common in the history of Latin America.  Fast acting hazards are generally singular events such as earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, floods, and tsunamis.  Hazard refers to the agent, disaster to the process in which the agent interacts with physical, social, and economic factors.  A disaster occurs when a population is vulnerable to a hazard, and is in no way natural.  Dorethea Hilhorst describes challenges the popular perception of the villainy of natural forces, “Instead of regarding disasters as purely physical occurrences, requiring largely technological solutions, as was widespread until the 1970s, such events are better viewed primarily as the result of human actions—as the ‘actualization’ of social vulnerability.”

           “Vulnerability is usually understood as the physical risk in the presence of given hazards, which has in the past led to mistaken concepts, such as ‘a natural disaster.’”  Often these are poor people who have no other choice as to where they can live, or no ability to move out of the path of danger, but not all poor people are vulnerable to disaster and not all people vulnerable to disaster are poor.  

In the early colonial period the Indian populations lived historically on the outskirts of Mexico City (at times forbidden by law to live in the city center), and thus were saved from the vulnerability of the soil conditions within the city center, but the damage they did sustain was longer lasting because the areas they lived in were not considered urgent when priorities were made for reconstruction.  As seen in the case of the Indians, the circumstances that create vulnerability are often historical in nature and can be centuries in the making, “Vulnerability is not just concerned with the present or the future but is equally, and intimately, a product of the past.”  

           There is a tendency when studying disasters either to focus on the “hapless victim” or on the equipment used to help them rather than on the societal forces that have caused the situation in the first place (Hilhorst 64).  Only when disaster research is linked to a specific social and cultural context can it really show the disaster process and be a guide to preventing disaster in the future.

           The 1985 Mexico City earthquakes presented often-confusing data to earthquake engineers from more developed countries like the United States and Japan.  Most of the buildings collapsed were relatively new reinforced concrete structures building between 1950 and 1970, between seven and fifteen stories tall. The rigidity of these structures made them particularly vulnerable while older, typically masonry bearing structures did well.  While some buildings were crushed when larger ones collapsed onto them, others sustained major damage to the upper floors when adjoining buildings swayed so much as to send the tops of the buildings pounding into each other.  One engineering survey of these buildings concluded “…that there was not a clear, direct cause that could explain all the upper-floor collapses observed, and the lack of seismic design, pounding, overloading, and a sudden change of stiffness from one floor to another.”  What the engineering models, carefully calibrated with blue prints of the buildings and experiments, were probably unable to test was the extent that these buildings, and the people inside them, were the victims of corruption rampant in Mexican civil society.  The engineers found a puzzle because the buildings described in blueprints did not behave as those built in reality.  Criminal negligence cannot be tested in a laboratory.  

           In one famous case, that of the Nuevo León Building of Tlatelolco residential housing district, the residents of the building had been organizing for well over ten years to get city officials to realize the building was unsafe.  One resident describes it, “The fear began with the noise that the elevator cables made. The shafts were lopsided way beyond what is permissible.  We residents organized—there were wonderful people who struggled and who are no more—and insisted to the authorities that the building was unsafe.”   Three years before the quake the building was temporarily evacuated so that the foundations could be re-enforced, only to have the contract given to the nephew of the housing authority president whose firm did not have the technological means to carry out the job.  Less than a year before the earthquake the president of the housing authority presented building blueprints to the residents and insisted not only was their building safe, but that it was the safest building in the entire city .  It was one of the first to fall down.  In the Tlatelolco-Nonoalco complex alone, where Nuevo León was located, 43 out of 102 buildings were completely destroyed .

           Much of this level of corruption was the result of the party apparatus, though certainly the history of top heavy, complex and corrupt governments in Mexico did not begin with the PRI.    H.R. Harvey, reaching back into Aztec times, describes, “…complex political institutions—highly stratified conquest states, with imperial motives—have long been characteristic of Central Mexico.”   To say that the PRI was a one party state is simplistic.  The party was divided between multiple factions that vied for power among in bitter struggles that might send high officials and their grupos (immediate supporters) into political exile.  Factions were often based within a particular ministry or handful of ministries, and would deliberately undermine the work being done by other ministries to the extent that no particular faction could hold onto the presidency very long, or do very much while in power.  “Fear of losing power is also the most plausible motive for the extraordinary intense conflict that, all sources agree, beset the cabinet.  A grupo has two motives to attack rivals—ambition to advance its’ members careers and fear that rivals will end its members’ careers—but fear is the more powerful.” 

           The city administration could not be separated from the national government, as the city administration was the national government.  The Federal District was an administrative unit made up of most of the Mexico City metropolitan area, and at the time it was ruled directly by the national government. The mayor, or regente, was one of the president’s most important cabinet appointees and attempted to oversee the complex interactions between the national government and the city’s social framework.  As such, the regente and his administration were often subject to the same political infighting that marked the rest of the national government.

           In the preceding years before the earthquake, the PRI faced a decline in support within Mexico City, as many people joined independent urban citizens movements that only multiplied after the earthquake. These movements demanded better transportation, and city services, but overall better housing.  Forty years of rent control had discouraged private landlords from maintaining properties that did not turn a profit, while in places such as Tlatelolco, the buildings were suspected (rightly) of being substandard.  

           President Miguel de la Madrid, a Harvard trained economist, had come to power a few years before and was working closely with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) in order to service Mexico’s massive foreign debt.  The spiral of inflation and economic crash had so occupied his time that when faced with the calamity in Mexico City his first priorities seem to have stayed the national debt and trying to avoid a loss of tourism revenues.

           The governments priorities, in part to satisfy the requirements of international lenders, was to focus on large manufacturing infrastructure such as transportation, electricity and telephones in order to get the economic wheels of the city—and the country as the city was the engine of the country—moving again.  This was done at the expense of the attending to the primary needs for food and shelter in the most damaged areas.  This was compounded when de la Madrid initially announced that Mexico did not need and would not accept any foreign aid to help in the recovery from the earthquake.  He was so divorced from the reality of the average Mexican, and certainly the average resident of the city, when he publicly stated on September 24, five days after the first quake, that the major difficulty of the earthquake would be that it would “complicate the management of Mexico’s foreign debt.” 

           The perception that President de la Madrid was also not helped by the fact that in his initial tours of the damaged areas, the president visited building sites and looked at physical damage, but did not visit any hospitals or meet with any homeless citizens.  The president’s tin ear for public relations continued with the visit from First Lady Nancy Reagan.  She personally handed over a check from the American government for $1 million to aide in the recovery process and the president endorsed the check and handed it back to her asking that it be applied to the national debt.  This was emblematic of a decision made by the authorities to use much of the earthquake reconstruction aid they eventually agreed to accept to repay foreign debt. This was seen by many people as an effort to help the countries financial elite with money intended to benefit the country’s poor.

           There seems to have been a desire by the government to downplay the consequences of the quake, one government spokesmen stating the day after the first quake that “the earthquake was not as important as has been said…”  This denial of the gravity of the situation resulted in deliberate deceit about the death toll that makes determining the true figure impossible.  One example of such deceit has to do with the number of buildings that collapsed.  Officially the government insisted that between 300-400 buildings collapsed out of the 1.5 million in the Federal District.  The reality was that 400 buildings with five or more stories fell, and twice that number had to be demolished.

           Nancy Reagan’s visit gives another example of the obsession with image over the welfare of the people.  In preparation for her visit to a Red Cross hospital, the floors, walls, and windows were scrubbed with soap and water, the hair of the patients were combed, and stuffed animals were placed in all their beds. The one girl they could locate who spoke any English, who had had one of her legs amputated to extricate her from a building, was taken away from her family and put in a separate room so that Mrs. Reagan could chat with her.  When the girl protested she was told  “Afterward, we’ll put you back in your bed again.”  

         The government was organized to maintain control of the state and its institutions.  Elena Poniatowska describes, “For the government the well-being of the people is a secondary matter”.  This is best seen in the exercise of National Defense Plan III-E (DN-III), intended to use the army in support of the civilian population in natural disaster. Sources disagree, but apparently there was some concern by those close to President de la Madrid and other civilians around him that if too much control over the crucial urban center was given to the army that the power might never be given back. As a result, Secretary for National Defense Juan Arévalo Gardoqui ordered the army to “limit yourselves to cordoning off the disaster areas” and prevent looting.  Tragically that is what they did.  

           Soldiers were sent in to parts of the city, some did not even know what street they were on, with automatic weapons and they forcibly stopped civilians from digging through the rubble of buildings were there were cries of survivors to be heard.  

           At one of the collapsed hospitals, Hospital Juárez:

           At that hour the army came, and all of us civilians were kicked out; we were told that they had trained people.  We couldn’t go on with the job.  Friday they pushed us further away, they cordoned off the entire disaster area, and they didn’t let us do a blessed thing, but they didn’t’ do a blessed thing either.  They milled around.  […]  On the other side of the hospital fence, relatives stood night and day, asking, asking.  They wanted help.  It was already Sunday when the French and the Israeli teams arrived and started to work. When we saw that they were already leaving, we stopped the French with the help of a kid that knew some French. They answered that they were withdrawing because the soldiers had kicked them out.

More than 50,000 men had been deployed to the disaster zones: members of the army with automatic weapons prevented any looting and to make sure people understood that the administration is in control of the Republic.   Many citizens reported being forced to pay bribes to the police in order to get the bodies of their loved ones or to return to their homes. 

           Corruption has long been a fact of everyday life in the urban centers of Mexico, and the earthquake exposed a number of disturbing examples.  In the basements of many collapsed police stations and ministry buildings the bodies of people with evidence of torture were discovered, but the most high profile was symptomatic of the marriage between the police and business interests in the center of the city.  It was discovered that there were many clandestine garment factories across the downtown areas when the buildings collapsed under the weight of heavy sewing machines and industrial sized rolls of textiles in old and dilapidated buildings.  Citizen outrage was ignited when the local government authorities sent out police to protect the owner of one such factory as he salvaged the sewing machines while dozens of injured women were left in the rubble.

           The PRI became concerned about the power and influence of the neighborhood organizations that were coordinating rescue operations.  A week after the first quake the government officially declared that only they could assist in rescue and clean up.  For days and sometimes weeks or longer, hundreds of thousands of people had no homes, no work, no transportation, no food, no water, no telephones, no hospitals, and no reliable authorities.  People marched in protest demanding a repudiation of the foreign debt, better transportation and housing, and above all that the government address the housing crisis—that had existed in Mexico City well before the earthquake—a large number of people were still living in tents more than eighteen months after the quake, with the last temporary shelters disappearing fifteen years after the original quake.

           The de la Madrid administration did eventually address the housing crisis and with the help of the World Bank, an estimated 100,000 families found new housing under the Renovación Habitacional Popular (Popular Housing Renovation program) by 1988.  The ban on public action could not hold and just as the government feared, the neighborhood associations became the core of the opposition to the PRI in the 1990s.  The housing rights movement transformed into a force for democratic reform of the city government.  Mexico City became a focus not only for opposition to the PRI, but also of schism from within.

            Certainly the earthquake was only one of many crisis’ that undermined and eventually destroyed the PRI.  The 1994 indigenous rebellion in Chiapas and the assassinations of Luis Donaldo Colosio and Francisco Ruiz Massieu come easily to mind, but the manifest incompetence of the government at a time of great crisis emboldened the citizens and contributed to the end of the one party state.  Just as colonial earthquake records can demonstrate the social state of the Indians living around the capital, the modern record demonstrates the social tremors that followed in the wake of the seismic ones.

[pokemongo-aus]

Pokemon GO - Mafia AU.

This is one of our favorite Aus ヾ(･д･ヾ) 

( 1 / 2 )

Imagine an Au where Candela and Spark are, each one, leaders of the world’s largest, most powerful and most influential mafias. Of course, there are other mafias and important organizations, but they lead the most influential in the business, and the most capable ones to handle and dominate the drug market towards ridiculous levels. They just don’t have competition.

Spark is Yakuza’s leader, even if his appearance isn’t Asiatic at all, as his mother is a foreigner woman, and all his face features, eyes and hair color belong to a different heritage. His appearance in the world he grew up was a problem, and more than once he was marked as a "gaijin", and as expected, this has become his most hated word to the point that nobody that dares to pronounce it on his presence has lived to tell the tale. Inevitably, over the years, He inherited the empire of his father, and proved to be an impassible leader, and earned the respect of all his subordinates for his way of carrying "business". Indeed, his entire body is tattooed, with a magnificent gold and black bird decorating his back as the central figure, a storm bird, a god of lighting and thunders. In what regards to other mafias, Spark and everything he considers “his” is untouchable, completely on red zone, you would have to be literally insane or seeking suicide to mess with him. He infamous for killing his enemies and betrayers with his bare own fists. Curiously, he doesn’t use firearms (although, his subordinates do), he prefers to fight hand-to-hand. Rumors have it there’s something wrong with his mind.

His Consigliere is Willow. His bodyguard, Go.

Candela is a fascinating woman, with a divine appearance and an enviable stunning body. She is never unnoticed, and inspires both respect and fascination on anyone that sees her. The hearts of both men and women fall to her feet when she talks. She’s able to express herself with such clarity, confidence and determination, that almost anybody would suppose the tragedy of her past: She’s the only survivor of an attempt against her family, all murdered by the hands of a treacherous family thirsting for more power; Candela saw her parents, brothers and sisters die, but being an astute child, she was able to escape away from the bodies and the fire that embraced her home, taking with her a terrible burn as a memento... one that would accompany her until the end of her days, a perpetual memory that you cannot trust anyone, a sign of survival, an extensive scar that she uses to intimidate and enchant at the same time. Her leadership and lines of work extend all across Latin-America, a part of Europe, and all Spanish-speaking countries. In what respects to other Mafias, she's both loved and feared. Candela has the fame of exterminate complete famiglias if they disgust her in some manner.

Her Consigliere is Carl. Her Bodyguard, Amelie.

The power play in this AU is summed up in a single person: Blanche. Blanche's mind is an absolute prodigy of nature (reason why scholarships in the best schools and universities always knocked at their door) a doctor and chemist with a very high IQ, a person who graduated from second university degree at 18 years old. Her research led her, since a very young age, to begin in practices not precisely legal. Is well-known that present day science haven’t gotten as much advances as in past decades due the handful quantity of laws protective civil rights, so Blanche is a plenty frustrated genius, who finds an escape towards freedom for their researches after attracting the attention of mafia boss, interested in the creation of new types of drugs. This person accedes to finance all of Blanche’s researches, as well as give them all the equipment and “supplies” that they would need, in exchange: Blanche produces and develops strong drugs through their investigations about the nervous system. That way, and without seeking it, Blanche becomes the target of greater interest in the underground world. Drugs made by them are high quality and with a great performance, stimulating parts in the nervous system that other drugs are completely unable to reach, getting potent effects, extremely addictive, and easy to transport, drugs that are able to pass unseen under the most stringent safety standards at airports, customs and borders.

They are able to fabricate “perfect” substances for the market, and also custom made products, from the most “simple” in what respects to production, to the most complex and concentrated, drugs that with a single dose are able to buy the World’s highest elite. Blanche is the goose that lays golden eggs.

And that’s their curse.

From this point forward, Blanche gets kidnapped often by mafias all across the world. Their life becomes a repetitive circle consisting in: Work in hidden lab, well equipped, and having a bedroom relatively close to it, always surrounded by armed men, extremely guarded with zero privacy. Then one day (or night); the sound of explosions or the consecutive firing of high-caliber guns happens. Lab door is taken down and quickly their space is completely invaded, someone grabs their arm, their face is covered, and is violently transported to another place (even another country… or to a complete different continent). When the blindfold or the bag on their head is taken off, the mafia boss of this occasion is standing in front of them, who -as always- gives the very same discourse the others give, treating them as a hostage who must work for their life, although they knows completely well that they are not a hostage to anyone, they are a valuable possession. Nobody in their five senses would shot a bullet to Blanche’s head. As literally everything, in their head, worth millions ~

●  B O N U S  ●

- In this AU, Candela and Spark are enemies, but have a romantic affair as well; some kinds of amusing and enchanting love/hate relationship.

- Although Blanche produces drugs and psychotropic substances, they had never tried one and won't do it ever.

- Blanche does not take notes of any kind. All their formulas are stored in their memory.

- Spark has some (too many) fetishes, those including Shibari.

[angrycollectordaze-me-blog]

A rose for Emily

下面为大家整理一篇优秀的essay代写范文- A rose for Emily，供大家参考学习，这篇论文讨论了小说《献给爱米丽的一朵玫瑰花》。小说《献给爱米丽的一朵玫瑰花》是威廉·福克纳短篇小说的代表作，作者以独特的创作手法展现了南方社会的生存状况。主人公爱米丽在美国内战瓦解了南方奴隶制之后，依然试图维持她没落贵族的身份，最终断绝与外界的一切来往，固步自封，独自一人孤独终老。身心的创伤使她变得怪癖、乖张、倔强和疯狂。她的人生谜团在去世后终于被揭开：她杀害了背叛自己的爱人，并且与对方的尸体厮守终生。这一强烈哥特式风格的恐怖故事让人震惊之余也发人深省，究竟是什么样的迫害导致了爱米丽如此惨烈的人生悲剧。

A rose for Emily is William Faulkner's representative short story. This essay tries to interpret Emily's tragedy from the perspective of patriarchal society. Emily's persecution mainly stems from several aspects of patriarchal system, such as the restraint of patriarchy, the interference of family relatives, and the restraint of social etiquette and law. The harm of patriarchal tradition to Emily is clearly reflected in her dual identity of victim and guardian of patriarchal tradition. Emily suffered from the patriarchal tradition and spared no effort to maintain it. As the guardian of the patriarchal tradition and the defender of the dignity of the declining aristocracy, Emily, arrogant, cruel and eccentric, refused to accept the change of the southern society, and finally chose to be completely isolated from the society, leading a self-closed life for a long time, becoming the symbol of the southern patriarchal tradition. In addition, the persecution of patriarchal ideology is especially reflected through Emily's distorted character. Emily's life tragedy is by no means an isolated phenomenon, from which Faulkner profoundly reveals the terrible evil hidden in the patriarchal tradition of the south.

William Faulkner is best known for his "yuknapata-based novels". Centered on the small town of Jefferson, these novels show the great changes in the history of the south since the American civil war, and reflect the changes in the minds and lives of the people of the south over the past two centuries. His works are unique in style, thick and powerful, is the magnificent treasure of American literature. "A rose for Emily" is his representative work of short stories. After the end of slavery in the south during the American civil war, the protagonist Emily still tried to maintain her status as a fallen aristocrat. Finally, she broke off all contacts with the outside world, stuck in her ways and died alone. Physical and mental trauma made her eccentric, perverse, stubborn and crazy. The mystery of her life is finally solved after her death: she killed the lover who betrayed her and stayed with him for the rest of her life. This strong gothic horror story is as shocking as it is thought-provoking as to what kind of persecution led to Emily's tragic life. This essay tries to interpret Emily's tragedy from the perspective of patriarchal society.

Faulkner's southern American society is characterized by patriarchal system. The so-called patriarchal clan law is also called "clan legislation". The patriarchal clan system is an important institutional form that has existed for a long time in human history and has a profound impact on human society. On the one hand, immigrants from England and other places settled in the southern United States, bringing with them the tradition of patriarchal system. On the other hand, the plantation economic model in the southern United States also provided abundant soil for the survival of patriarchal system.

Emily suffered persecution mainly from the following aspects of the patriarchal system:

First, because of the patriarchal system of Emily's bondage. Emily's father is a typical feudal patriarchal style, which can be reflected in a picture in the novel. "Miss Emily, slender and dressed in white, stood behind her, with her father's straddled profile in front of her, with his back to Emily, holding a riding-whip, and the two of them wedged in a backward-opening front door." The image has a clear moral meaning. The father holding a horsewhip in front of Emily is not loving, but cruel. The horsewhip symbolizes domination, control and tyranny. This was confirmed by the fact that her father had "driven away all Emily's young men" with a horsewhip, so that Emily, who was in her late twenties, was still unmarried and living a lonely life.

Second, interference from family relatives. After Emily's father's death freed her from the shackles of paternalism, Emily seized almost her only chance to fall in love with "Yankee" Homer. The disparity in class and status caused a stir in the small town of Jefferson. The greelsons would not tolerate Emily of their family falling in love with a Yankee, and the uncouth, cursing, pipe smoking Homer was so different from Emily's "aristocratic" image and aristocratic home status. The degrading relationship eventually led to interference from Emily's family relatives.

Thirdly, due to the restraint of social etiquette and law. The town of Jefferson still retains the characteristics of a patriarchal "community" society in the south. The emphasis on etiquette and the warmth and mutual assistance among members of society are well reflected in the novel. The politeness with which people spoke, the "sartoris" care for Emily's life, and the popular participation in weddings and funerals all reflected the tender side of patriarchal society. Ritual is an important link to coordinate interpersonal relations, but rigid secular ritual is often a shackle to shackle thoughts and suppress human nature. The patriarchal society in the south was greatly influenced by the Puritan thought, and the Puritan thought in the south of America especially became the shackles of human nature. "The Puritan south saw women as monsters who had to suppress their sexual needs... Women are deified as pure and pure holy women with strong romantic color, and their ultimate goal is to become a standard "southern lady". Emily, slender and dressed in white and standing behind her father, really looked like a southern lady; After her father's death, Emily, with her short hair and girl-like appearance, was not unlike the angel in the church's stained-glass window, but beneath the facade of "southern lady" and "angel" lay her repressed humanity and wasted youth.

As Emily and Homer drive around town, people take it for granted that Emily has fallen. So the townspeople began to criticize Emily, hoping to influence her. This influence from public discussion to the intervention of the priest and then to the invitation of Emily's two Cousins to dissuade, all kinds of criticism and interference is an important feature of the law society. Emily was surrounded by increasing and ubiquitous pressure, which became an important factor leading to Emily's isolation from the outside world and her self-isolation.

Emily's life tragedy is closely related to the southern patriarchal tradition of the United States. To some extent, Emily is obviously the victim of the southern patriarchal system. The persecution of Emily by patriarchal tradition can be reflected in the following two aspects.

The harm of patriarchal tradition to Emily is clearly reflected in her dual identity of victim and guardian of patriarchal tradition. Emily suffered from the patriarchal tradition and spared no effort to maintain it. As the guardian of the patriarchal tradition, Emily always defends her noble dignity. Even in her relationship with Homer, "even when we were convinced that she had fallen," she kept her head high, maintaining the dignity of the last greelsons; Later, when the townspeople eliminated the "strange smell" in her yard late at night, they saw "her upright body motionless like an idol" in the house, and her "confrontation" with the town tax collectors showed that she never forgot to maintain the dignity of the aristocracy.

Emily's tragic life was aggravated by her adherence to the aristocratic status and dignity in the patriarchal system. Emily's "inappropriate adherence" made her abandon the outside world and become an outcast of The Times. Her reserve, stubbornness, arrogance, and eccentricities finally led her into a complete isolation, leading a lonely life for years. Emily always refused to change the world. Emily, who had stopped teaching painting, lived a closed life for a long time, blind to the changes in the outside world and refusing to change. She refused to pay taxes to a new generation of town officials, her house was "obdurate and pretentious, the ugliest of ugly" in modern architecture, and she refused to have a mail box at her door. Emily was eventually completely abandoned by The Times and was only occasionally seen in a window at the bottom of the building, "like the sculpted torso of an idol in a shrine". She became a mere symbol of southern tradition in the minds of the town's residents.

The patriarchal persecution of Emily is especially manifested through her distorted character. In Faulkner's writing, Emily seems to show very little of any female character, and her character is clearly distorted. Among them, the autocratic style of paternalism is an important factor that leads to the distortion of Emily's character. "Surrendering to the patriarchy and growing up in the shadow of her father's 'overprotection'", the closed sexual life formed over a long period of time had an important impact on the development of Emily's grotesque and distorted character. Although extremely unhappy with her father's destruction of her happiness, Emily was so dependent on him that after his death, Emily would not admit the fact and tried to "hang on to the man who had taken everything away from her". Emily's feelings for her father are mixed with resentment and a strong attachment, as she is left to fend for the grierson family.

Emily's twisted character is shown vividly in her insistence on aristocratic status and dignity. Because of the love affair with Homer and the town residents have "fierce conflict", she completely ignored the people's criticism of the rebellious and arrogant; Strong and imperious in buying poison in defiance of the law; Her arrogance, ruthlessness, eccentricity, and isolation seemed to be a continuation of her father's dictatorial character as she engaged in "confrontation" with all forces. Her reserve and obstinacy were even revealed by the change in her appearance, and Emily grew fat and gray, and turned pepper and salt again, and "retained that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man," until her death. At this time Emily and the young angelic image formed a huge contrast, it seems to be a faint display of her twisted character and soul as well as stubborn, tragic life.

Until the end of the novel, Emily's secret is revealed, she killed the betrayed lover in order to keep the love. There is no doubt that Emily's killing of Homer was itself a cruel act of self-destruction, in which she "lost her struggle and was accompanied by the cold body of Homer for the rest of her life".

Emily is one of the most impressive female characters in Faulkner's novels. The adherence to the dignity of the aristocracy and the nobility and tenacity of her character reflect the excellent tradition of the southern patriarchal society. It is based on this that Emily's destruction reveals the secret evil of the traditional patriarchal system. It is because Emily is still longing for love and unremitting struggle in the extremely difficult circumstances, Faulkner specially offered her a "rose", showing her full sympathy and admiration.

After the civil war, great changes took place in the American south. The industrial civilization of the north is constantly invading, and the production and life style representing the industrial civilization such as highway, garage, cotton gin and mailbox are constantly impacting the society of the south. Emily is in this background to know Homer, this is almost her only chance to return to the normal woman, but unfortunately, the casual Homer made Emily's difficult love more desperate. Homer's betrayal is of course an important cause of the tragedy, but Emily's adherence to the noble dignity in the patriarchal tradition is a deeper reason, because she cannot accept the damage to her own noble dignity.

Both Emily and the townspeople were part of the southern tradition. Emily had to stick to her dignity and superiority as a noble. This unbecoming attachment made her stubborn, conservative and solitary, and she finally came to live a lonely life. Although the changes in the town have been rapid and the new generation of residents seem to have become open-minded and pragmatic, their attachment to the old traditions of the south remains subliminal. Both the intervention of the townspeople in Emily's "depravity" and the attention and commemoration of Emily as a symbol of aristocracy after her death reveal people's attachment to the southern patriarchal tradition.

Emily's death means the death of the last aristocrat in the town of Jefferson, and the collapse of the traditional "monument". Emily's adherence to the aristocratic tradition reflected in the "transitional era" is more extreme and the ending is more tragic. Like Emily, the townspeople's nostalgia for southern traditions reflects the lingering legacy of traditional patriarchal systems that led to Emily's tragedy. Faulkner had said that he was afraid of Emily. Emily's horror was the horror of patriarchal. There is no shortage of such tragic characters in the old southern tradition. As the novel shows, "Emily's two Cousins are more like the greelsons than she is." of course, they can only be more proud, cold and eccentric. Emily was far from alone in being twisted and repressed. There were people like her great aunt, old Mrs Wyatt, who were driven mad. Emily wasn't crazy, but what was the difference between her life and a madman's?

Faulkner's attitude toward southern patriarchal system is complicated. He is known to have a deep love for the soft side of the old southern tradition. Faulkner once called the noble qualities embodied in the southern patriarchal society "the glory of the past". "In the modern industrial society like a wasteland, only these 'former glories' can make people truly' immortal and immortal '". The nostalgia and yearning for these' former glories' reflect Faulkner's reserved attitude towards the patriarchal society in the south. Nevertheless, from the perspective of this short story, Faulkner still has a clear understanding and a profound exposure to the evils of southern patriarchal system.

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