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girls-scenarios · 4 years ago

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Always By Your Side

Idol: Mirae (Formerly Cherry Bullet)

Prompt: Scenario where Mirae is disappointed with leaving Cherry bullet and is comforted by her s/o who reassures her that she'll be fine and comfort her.

Writer: Admin Kiwi

A/N: I really miss Mirae :( she was so sweet and so excited for debut and I just know that she didn’t choose to leave but FNC made her. I hope that the group she’s set to re-debut in does well, though, and I hope you all enjoy this little scenario!

♡ Tip Jar♡

It had been months since the news broke, and since you held a crying Mirae in your arms, trying to comfort her even though you knew that nothing you did could really help her. You couldn’t go to FNC and demand they apologize or let her back on the team. All you could do was hug her and tell her everything would work out fine, even though you knew that she was going through something you could never truly understand.

It had been months, but you knew that she was still hurting. Even though she was working towards her dream again and moving on with her life, you could tell that she still wasn’t over what had happened with Cherry Bullet. You knew from the way she sometimes cried when she spent the night, late when she didn’t think you were awake to hear her, and from the way her smile didn’t always reach her eyes. Before, when she messed up or training got too hard, she would stay positive, laughing it off and saying it was all worth it if she could debut. But now she just seemed tired and dejected. Watching her go through all of this hurt you, but you were helpless. What could you do, other than stay by her side? You weren’t sure what she needed from you and you were afraid that, if you said anything, she might get upset. You didn’t want to overstep your boundaries and hurt her.

But one night, when you once again woke up to the sound of her crying softly under the blanket, hiccups and sharp breaths shaking her small frame, your heart broke and you decided that you couldn’t pretend to be asleep anymore. Instead, you rolled over and reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Mirae? Are you alright?”

She jumped before slowly pulling the blanket down to reveal that her face was red and wet from crying. For a moment, she bit her bottom lip and wiped at her face without saying anything, as if she was deciding whether or not to tell you what she was feeling. Then she let out a small sob and closed her eyes, leaning into your touch.

“No. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry you, but I can’t stop crying.” Her voice was small and you shuffled closer to take her into your arms, holding her tight.

“What’s wrong?” You already knew the answer but you asked anyway.

“I just.... I feel so awful, about everything. I trained and trained so that I could debut and I worked so hard in Cherry Bullet, but then....” She couldn’t even bring herself to say it as she shook her head. “I can’t help but wonder what I did wrong. What did I do for this to happen to me? Am I not supposed to be an idol? If I re-debut, will this happen to me again? Sometimes I just feel like there isn’t a point to this anymore.”

You swallowed as you searched for the right words to say, running a gentle, soothing hand through her now-short hair. “I’m so sorry that you’ve had to go through all of this,” you said carefully. “I know more than anyone how hard you’ve worked and it breaks my heart to see you hurting. Mirae, if anyone deserves to be an idol, it’s you. None of what happened was your fault. It wasn’t your fault that your company decided to screw you over. You worked hard and did everything you could.”

“I just don’t know if I’m supposed to be an idol.... Maybe that was a sign that my dream is too crazy.”

“I don’t think so. You have so many fans who love you and who loved watching you on stage. I saw you train and debut and you’re meant to be on stage, and I’m not just saying that. Your energy and your smile and your talent is what made everyone fall for you. They’re all excited to see you debut again, you know.” You kissed her forehead gently, relieved that she seemed to be calming down. “You’re incredibly strong and brave for trying again, and I’m so, so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around you and turning so that her face was buried in your shoulder. She was quiet for a moment, taking deep breaths as she calmed down. “What if I debut just to have to leave again?”

“Then I will personally fight your management,” you said, totally serious, and she giggled.

“Will you?”

“Totally. I won’t let you get hurt again. I’ll be right there in the front row to cheer you on with all your other fans when you debut. I’ll go out and advertise your group by my self if I need to.”

She sniffled and you could feel her smile against your shoulder. “What are you going to do to advertise me? A cover dance?”

“I could. Or I’ll blast your song and walk around with a sign on my back telling everyone to support the one and only Mirae.”

She giggled again, no longer crying. “That’s so embarrassing. Please don’t do that.”

“As your number one fan, I’m willing to do anything for you.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. I’ll empty out my wallet.”

“You sound crazy,” she said, but there was a playfulness in her voice that you recognized from before everything happened, and you almost felt like crying from relief that it was back.

“Just crazy in love with you, that’s all.”

“Sure you are.” She laughed softly, then a moment later hugged you even tighter. “Thank you. For calming me down, and for supporting me through everything. I don’t know what I would have done without your support.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just doing what I should as your partner.”

“Still. I’m happy you’re here.” Her voice was sleepy now as she closed her eyes, shifting so that you were laying on your back and she was resting with her head on your shoulder and her arm across your chest. There was a soft smile on her lips now, and you smiled as well as you ran your fingers through her hair. There would be more tough times ahead, you knew. But you also knew that you would be there to support her no matter what, and you had faith that she would make it. Things wouldn’t be tough forever.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#femifics #cherry bullet #mirae #cherry bullet scenarios #mirae scenarios #girl group scenarios #kpop scenario #girl groups #kpop girl groups

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sweetlifetownsville · 6 years ago

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Doing A Little With A Lot: Move Over Jesus, Your Loaves And Fishes Stunt Ain't In It Against The Townsville Bulletin.

The good old Astonisher showed its going to be more of the same in 2019, sleight of hand, selective reporting and all manner of insulting idiocy same old, same including a spectacular miss this weekend not a word about one of Townsville most long standing favourite eateries bites the dust Michels On Palmer Street is no more. Bancroft boo-boo Channel 7 embraces fake news: so lacking in a sense of the ridiculous, theyre about to disappear up their own ummm kazoo. And the President turns on the pester-power: Trump throws the biggest and longest tanty in living memory ruining the holiday season for thousands of his own people. But first For those many people who have been inquiring about Mark Donnellys funeral in Cairns, it will be at 2pm Wednesday Jan 9th, at St Francis Church, Mayer Street, Cairns. Vale, mate Moving On Its climate change on Bentleys mind. Our toonist is originally a Croweater from Adelaide, and he was amazed to see the jam packed crowds on Adelaide beaches in a TV report about the ghastly weather theyre having over there. The Pie also recalls that during his time in the City of Churches, beach-going was an occasional thing and attracted only sparse crowds to the sandy shores. But Bentley believes climate change is rapidly altering time honoured Aussie pastimes, and soon, getting an all-over tan will be a thing of the past.

Speaking of Things Of The Past

This now sadly includes the much loved Michels restaurant in Palmer Street, which served its last mean on December 22nd. This is how the unexpected news was broken on FB.

It will be sorely missed by many, including The Pie, who just hung out for the lunch-time beef and burgundy pie. Ironic that the one time our local paper had the opportunity to use the word iconic almost correctly, it has completely missed this information which would be of far more interest than the iconic Sizzlers leaving town. (More on that shortly). Well That Didnt Take Long Did It? The Townsville Bulletin set the tone for the year on the very first day of 2019, Tuesday January 1, with a rib-tickling own goal with this front page.

Wow, all those people turning up for a pic, where did they all come from? Well, at least half of them from nowhere. Heres how this little piece of patronizing chicanery went down. First, a couple of weeks ago, this appeared on the Astonishers FB page.

Boy, be on the front page! And didnt that get them flocking in for their 15 minutes of fame not. Just 41 people made themselves available, including the Cowboys mascot and as many of the Bulletins staff who could be spared to avoid the embarrassment of attracting almost bugger interest.

Then the front page appeared, a cheesy tedious old trope of people spelling out the year. Many people more than 41, it would seem. But hang on, lets have a closer look.

Whats all this? This is what all this is.

fair to say that all those excited people were beside themselves behind themselves, and then in front of themselves. Now a while back, the flagship of News Corpse tabloids, Sydneys Daily Telegraph got a clip arround its corporate ears for photo-shopping pics of politicians in unflattering historical situations. As if we needed to be told that Kevin Rudd was a nazi! Pretending to be chastised, management decreed that in future, just so no one was misled, all photoshopped images in all News publications would carry the legend digitally altered.Someone at the Astonisher overlooked this, clearly wishing the few readers it has left would believe it was so widely popular that it had attracted a throng of NY well-wishers. but it seems someone suddenly realised that some arsesole like The Magpie maybe would tumble to the lie, so thinking they could squirm out of it, they really blew their foot off by belatedly posting this on their FB page. The Pie has asked before, and now asks again are they all bloody drunk down there? BTW, the relevant FB page is said to have attracted 4500 views which at a guess that would be comprised of 4458 editorial and advertising staff and their family and friends frantically revisiting the FB as often as they could. At least that was the drill when The Pie was taking Ruperts shilling. But Wait, Theres More The firsts for the year kept coming thick and fast. This story had people wondering if the paper had a cut-price Tardis operating

and that resulted in the first correction of the year.

Although it is quite possible that Messagebank Walker, send out last years media release, and true to form, the reporter just wrote it up with a thought of what it was actually saying. f they would know the difference. Another media release that went into the paper untouched and of course unquestioned could have been headlined Mission Impossible.

Hahahahaah gasp snurffle dont you just love the combination of casual impertinence and immeasurable benchmark of making Townsville Australias first mentally healthy city. This is pure Labor crackpottery at its best, and a great excuse to wring out a few more public dollars for pointless jobs for the boys and girls. Mentally healthy City steering committee? National leader in this field? Pray tell, just how is this going to be measured oh, wait, I know soon it will be announced that we have achieved the title of Australias mentally healthiest city, but we cant be told why or any details because of both privacy and Commercial in Confidence reasons. What an out and out rort. The Townsville City Council has no business stumping up a single cent for this totally obscure nonsense. And youve just gotta love that this call for a mentally healthy city is coming from one of the greatest rates-gouging, anxiety-creating, booze-binge inducing ineptocracies of posturing inadequates one couldnt create as fiction.

And all publicised in a paper that has long abrogated its traditional responsibilities in the interests bargain-basement kiddy journalism and a quick advertising quid (and hows that working for you, eh?) Yet Another Jarring Juxtaposition And it would appear that either no one checks advertising content against news content to avoid this sort of blundering idiocy.

But never mind, iditor Jenna Cairney knows how to thunder away about the really important issues affecting us during the week, it was oh, dear it was people who oh, The Pie cannot bear to utter the words, read it for yourself.

Now normally, itd be kind to let this slide, but its hard to ignore when the iditorial completely contradicts its own ramblings by actually quoting one of the few believable people who work for the paper, fisherman Eddie Riddle, who said sometimes, believe it nor not, people just catch no crabs. Crab pot theft happens less than people would have you believe.Clearly those people who would have you believe that it is rife include the iditor and the beat-up reporter of the original story. Then There Is This From comments during the week. The Magpie From the alleged files: THE TOWNSVILLE BULLETIN ALLEGEDLY ACCUSES THE POLICE OF PLANTING EVIDENCE.

So they allegedly found a shotgun, unequivocally meaning there is some doubt in terms of English, the paper means the cops could be lying and they didnt find a shotgun or else, leaving open the possibility that they planted it there and didnt find it. FFS they either did or did not find a shotgun, and if it comes down to who to believe the Bulletin or the police its no contest. The coppers should complain. And anyway, saying they found the weapon is not legally dangerous and so attract an allegedly , since no names or details of the arrested man are published. During the coming year, The Pie will be running an alleged file from the Astonisher, along with an iconic file the paper has already made a sterling start on that one. This from comments on Friday. The Magpie January 4, 2019 at 11:24 am(Edit) Had a bit of an amused warble and added this to The Pies iconic list.

Iconic is something that is immediately recognisable, usually unique, and with which one readily associates with a name, place or occupation. The Eiffel Tower is iconic, as is the Statue of Liberty, Big Ben, the Kabba in Mecca, the Golden gate Bridge, and closer to home, the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Now alas with this local departure, down south, all the front bar chat and dinner party braying will be along the lines of Townsville? Wasnt that the Sizzler place until a while back? Oh, the shame. Keeping an eye on legendary, too. A Bigger Laugh From The Big Bash Crickets bumbling sandpaper cheat Cameron Bancroft returned to the crease this week in the Big Bash league, and the commentators were so busy tip-toeing around that elephant in the room, they managed to miss a wonderful howler made by their producer.

The commentators, all ex-sporting boofs, so not much could be expected of them, unquestioningly rabbited on about Bancrofts personal attainments, especially that last one. Returned to Tame Impala as their kazoo player? They didn;t dare question the truth of the matter, but they did have a rare old yukity-yuk about it. The producer had unwittingly copied and pasted this bit of nonsense lifted from a story that was doing the rounds, and had originated guess where? The Betoota Advocate, Australias funniest satirical paper. And for the record, Bancroft has never been in the band Tame Impaler, which has never featured a kazoo player anyway. The Pie is wondering, given Bancrofts infamous South African venture, if Bunnings might not offer sponsorship. And Now Off To The Week In Trumpistan and its wall-eyed child President.

. Thats it forn this week, and the silly season is coming to a close (not that you could tell at any time from our august organ of Flinders Street West), and some very interesting snippets have been dropping into the Nest for future examination. Wer will start on them next wee, but comments are running around the clock, so have your say. And any support by way of donation for the efforts over the coming year will as always be greatly appreciated. He how to donate button is below. http://www.townsvillemagpie.com.au/doing-a-little-with-a-lot-move-over-jesus-your-loaves-and-fishes-stunt-aint-in-it-against-the-townsville-bulletin/

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claraduffy · 8 years ago

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Lynda

Over the summer, Lynda watched a Spanish film with her mother called Palmeras en la Nieve, or Palm Trees in the Snow. In the movie, the characters were on an island, watching sea turtles come out of the ocean to lay their eggs. When someone asked the main character how the turtles knew to come back to that specific shore, he said “They will always know this place. This is where they were born. It’s in their blood.” At this, Lynda sat up straighter, a chill running down her spine. Is that why I feel so connected to the valley? she thought, because it’s where I came into the Earth? Kemps Ridley Sea Turtles also find their home in the valley on the shore of South Padre Island.

The Rio Grande Valley spreads across 5,000 square miles at the southern tip of Texas. Lynda calls it a space caught in between two countries. Known as “the Valley” to its residents, the region doesn’t feel quite like the U.S. to Texans, or like Mexico to its many immigrants. The Valley possesses a culture and pace of life so distinct from the rest of the country, newcomers sometimes experience culture shock upon arrival. Spanish and English mingle and marry to become Spanglish, and the social customs are more Mexican in their warmth than abruptly American. Families are close knit and several generations often live together in the same house. The Mexican food is greasy and authentic and the cities feel small, though they often have 60 to 70,000 people.

The first time Lynda visited the Valley, she had just graduated from high school. This trip was her graduation present: a week at the beach with her parents, and a chance to see the place where she was born, Weslaco. Lynda didn’t know anyone who had been there; she hadn’t seen pictures. It was the type of place that in such silence grew slowly in her mind, and by graduation it had become so mystical that even the drive through the monotonous King Ranch felt charming. Gone were the Hill Country limestone and clear, swift rivers she had known in Kerrville. The landscape became scruffier with mesquite, salt cedar and cactus, as if it was some great, burly man trying very hard to grow a beard. Her parents, Mirta and Ramón, and Lynda drove down I-35 then I-37, finally to 77 which runs through Harlingen, Texas, to the Mexican border town of Matamoros. Out of the car window, she watched how the landscape slowly became flatter and wider. It feels like something unfolding, she thought.

She was born there, but nine-month-olds cannot remember the suffocating humidity, jarring compared to the coolness of the Texas Hill Country where she grew up. Throughout the week, the South Padre Island sun saturated her skin and her parents showed her the roots of her life. The chance to explore a place abounding in Mexican culture had Lynda grinning and taking pictures, instead of feigning embarrassment at the antics of her parents. It was while driving home that she realized the what had been the first major crossroads of her life: to grow up in the valley or to grow up in Kerrville.

As the story goes, the spunky and decisive matriarch of the Gonzalez family, Tia Lily, decided they needed a place further north in Texas to settle. The Gulf War put economic strain on the valley, and Lynda’s father, Ramón, wasn’t finding good construction work in Weslaco anymore. Initially hoping for a job at the Veterans Hospital in Kerrville, Tia Lily found a job working as a waitress at a local Mexican restaurant. She called her brother immediately, and Ramón rolled into Kerrville in an aged and rusty truck, holding a gas container atop the car with one hand and driving with the other. He took a job at the restaurant his sister was waitressing, and has worked there since the drive north in 1991. His wife and small daughter, Lynda, joined him a few months later.

The truth is, Kerrville is very white. And Lynda’s family was Mexican, through and through. As an immigrant, her mother especially missed Mexico and held tight to her culture. Even though her parents had always worked for low wages, their incomes had stretched further in Weslaco. In the valley, a much lower average income affords a tightly knit community of struggling families. In Kerrville, Lynda’s family was an island. She always felt that Kerrville was her home, but not quite like she belonged there or was wanted there. The conservative culture in rural Texas meant Southern hospitality didn’t always extend to Mexican immigrants.

She wore overalls every single day of 7th grade. It was a comfort blanket for me, she remembers, I always felt awkward at school because I didn’t look like anybody, and I was already freakishly tall for a 12 year old. Her dad teases her from time to time, randomly bringing up the year of the overalls. “Mija that was so cute. Why don’t you wear them now?” he asks.

When she moved to Austin to attend the University of Texas, Lynda found the world as she had never known it before. She spent her first semester being a good student, but by second semester, she wanted to be something else. She joined the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC) and Ballet Folklórico. For the first time, she grew upset at how much of her mother’s culture had been repressed in Kerrville, and how little she knew of the politics or artistic accomplishments of Latinos.

As a senior at UT, she wondered what would make her happy after graduation. A Teach For America representative reached out to her in an effort to recruit “high performing Latino students” into becoming teachers, and invited her on a recruiting trip. She took a risk and climbed into a van headed to San Juan, Texas, thinking of the last time she had been to the valley after her high school graduation. Stepping out of the van, Lynda hit a wall of humidity and smiled. She later walked into a high school, and every single student in eye shot was Latino; her jaw dropped. Lynda hadn’t known schools like that could exist. The exclusion she’d felt at Tivy High School in Kerrville would never have happened here.

She was walking to class several months later when she received the acceptance email from TFA. Immediately, an overwhelming sense of bewilderment and relief washed over her as she thought, Here is this thing I’m doing with my life now. I’m moving to the valley.

That May, Lynda graduated from UT among a great crowd under flashy fireworks. This remains one of her proudest moments. She will later warn me never to graduate in December—there are no fireworks.

“Mami, where in the valley should I apply to be a teacher?” she asked her mother from the couch that summer, studying a map of the Valley. Mirta was making mole in the kitchen.

“Your Dad and I always really liked Harlingen,” said Mirta.

Lynda’s eyes widened.

“Do you think that’s where I would have gone to high school?” she asked her mother.

“Yeah, probably,” said her mom. “I think we would have moved there. Your dad always got a lot of construction work in Harlingen.”

Lynda sank back into the couch, wondering about this place called Harlingen.

June was sneaking up on May when it was time to begin interviewing for a teaching job. Lynda was sporting a heavy cast on her arm due to a serious car accident shortly after her UT graduation, so Mirta drove her to Brownsville for her Texas certification test and subsequent interviews in towns all over the Valley. It was at a baseball game at UT Pan American in Edinburg—a community activity with the rest of the TFA corps—when she was surprised by an email from Clarkson, her former English and newspaper teacher, UIL Journalism coach, and her greatest influence in high school. The email advertised a high school journalism job in Harlingen. It felt too magical to her that Clarkson would lead her to her first teaching job, but she wasted no time in texting her TFA recruiter.

“We don’t have anyone at Harlingen High School,” he replied, “but if you get hired by them in the next 48 hours, I’ll stop making appointments for you elsewhere.”

At the job fair the next morning, she practically ran to the Harlingen High School table, and handed her resume to the recruiter, Joe Montemayor.

“Hi! I’m interested in the journalism job,” she began, “I’m certified by the state because I just got my degree in it. I’m with TFA—” Montemayor cut her off.

“Wait, you want the journalism job? You have the paper from the state?” He turned to the woman sitting next to him and squealed, “We found her!” He insisted that Lynda was the answer to their prayers. He even called the principal in front of her. “Stay there,” he said, “Don’t talk to anyone else. “I found her!!” he blurted into the phone, leaving numerous voicemails when the principal didn’t pick up. Lynda’s shoes were glued to the floor.

That night, Lynda wrote in her journal, I get to be a Clarkson for someone else. If I’m lucky and I do this right, I get to be like Clarkson to someone else. I know how this story ends, because Lynda was my Clarkson.

On the first day of school that August, Lynda wore a red dress with a collar and a wide black belt. She stood tall and strong and welcomed her first period yearbook class. One student was five minutes late, rushing in as Lynda was telling the class where she was from, where she went to school…

“Sorry!” the late girl called out, “I had to drop my brother off at middle school!” Her impish smile did little to counteract her rude interruption. Lynda had expected this; she’d trained for this. “You can just sit there,” she told the freckle-faced girl, trying to remember where she was in her introduction.

It’s very hard to know to understand some things at 16. It’s difficult to see beyond your own nose, to stop looking in the mirror. Luckily, there are people like Lynda who choose to be teachers, and step into the worlds of bumbling 16 year olds, who are continually running into walls with their egos and wearing their ignorance like horse blinders. Lynda showed up to that classroom, 9104, and she engaged with students. She listened first, spoke second, and consistently told them there was more to it all than the tip of their noses, the reflection in the mirror, the notifications on their phones. Her room became a haven at lunchtime and during her conference period. She was hardly ever without a shadow.

Years later, she would tell me, “Teaching my first year was so hard. It was a continual process of questioning whether or not I was doing a good job. But at the end of the year, I realized I really loved my students. And I kind of really liked living in Harlingen.”

As Clarkson had done for her, Lynda guided me through the publication of a Literary and Art Magazine, weekly newsletters, meetings, and later a poetry slam (pictured right). She was patient with me when I threw my assignments at her in the form of paper airplanes, when I lost enthusiasm, when I was inconsistent. She guided our creative writing class through “Novel November,” a 50,000-word writing project that challenged me the way nothing had before. She expected big things of us. But the best part of having Lynda as a teacher was also getting her as a friend. There is no one else I talk about quite as much, when I explain anything about my interests, my career path, my major, my plans. She has touched all of it, simply by giving that late, freckly girl in her first period another chance.

In Spanish, the word “querencia” is the noun version of the verb querer, which means “to want.” The closest words in English are fondness and longing. I am bold, but hopefully accurate, in saying that Lynda has a querencia for the palm trees, taco trucks, and high school students in the valley. Years after I walked in late to her first period class, she said to me, “When I am driving down 77, it is like gears shifting and clicking into place, and they finally lock into that place where they are supposed to be resting. And I feel very whole there. It’s mine, and I feel lucky because I don’t know if everyone gets to find that in their lifetime.”

Lynda is a Kemp’s Ridley sea turtle winding up back on South Texas shores. She is a clear voice of goodness, a raspa con chile y limón in the afternoon with a classroom key stub dangling from a necklace around her neck. She is Lynda, full of truth and grace and loyalty and questions and ideas. And I’m just thankful she followed her querencia to my hometown.

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sweetlifetownsville · 6 years ago

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Doing A Little With A Lot: Move Over Jesus, Your Loaves And Fishes Stunt Ain't In It Against The Townsville Bulletin.

Speaking of Things Of The Past

This now sadly includes the much loved Michels restaurant in Palmer Street, which served its last mean on December 22nd. This is how the unexpected news was broken on FB.

Then the front page appeared, a cheesy tedious old trope of people spelling out the year. Many people more than 41, it would seem. But hang on, lets have a closer look.

Whats all this? This is what all this is.

and that resulted in the first correction of the year.

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