#jones' register is often warm and polite

[viric-dreams]

I'm still figuring out the speech patterns for the rest of the gang, but I do have somewhat of a read on the oldest two:

Ockham's vocabulary is marginally bigger in writing than spoken speech, because heshethey has more time to think when putting together a letter. Ockham did not have to write at all in English before landing in London, and when faced with the strange and myriad ways that Londoners open and close their letters Ockham's given up on trying to parse the connotation behind all of the greetings and just decided to just translate directly. Londoners also tend to be a bit finicky about names, so in hishertheir experience, a professional title or just "friend" is usually inoffensive enough. Don't even get himherthem started on orthography.

In speech, Ockham's more likely to fall back on a Flemish word if heshethey doesn't know the English one. Hopefully the idea gets across regardless. Ockham's spoken sentences also tend to be shorter. Often, spoken conversations are easier because hishertheir face and body language can do a lot of the heavy lifting (not that Ockham's especially outwardly expressive). It always seems to surprise people how comparatively expansive hishertheir nautical vocabulary is (which Ockham does not understand--of course it would be, Ockham spent years working on an English-speaking ship). There are also several instances where Ockham will know that an expression or idiom doesn't actually translate into English but will still insist on using it anyway, either because it sound better, or because Ockham's simply going to will it into English himherthemself through attrition.

If a character speaks either French, German, or Dutch Ockham will instantly and gladly switch. Of those three, Ockham's German is somewhat imperfect, but still better than hishertheir English.

-

Roberts' writing is formal and impersonal, but to the point. Most of the time he's writing reports, or following up on work-related matters. There's no one he would address by first name. The Commodore's invited him to do so on multiple occasions (as he's done to several of his fellow peers in the early days... but since becoming the Commodore, none of them will call him by his first name, even if he suggests it). The Commodore's the only person who calls him by his first name to his face, a holdover from even before the Fall (anyone else doing that feels uncomfortably intimate). He always signs his letters off with full title.

Roberts has a tendency to frame sentences as commands, intentionally or not. His tendency to speak loudly also adds to that effect. The more out of his comfort zone he is or closer to the end of his tether, the quieter he gets. When the word "please" starts to slip into his speech, it's a sign to tread carefully. Push too far, and it turns to anger. This is one of the rare times you'll hear profanity out of his mouth. It's not utilised particularly creatively, but the rarity of seeing him truly livid and the accompanying raised voice and body language gets the message across regardless.

Nite shares most of these speech/writing quirks, however, he's much quicker to try to turn to first names and familiarity, often more quickly than others are comfortable with. He'd like for people close to him to call him Nicholas, or any sort of nickname or pet name. His register remains polite, but often more friendly and less impersonal.

[hwsforeignrelations]

@usukweek Day 1: Roadtrip

Summary: Stressed campaign manager Alfred F. Jones and lawyer Arthur Kirkland coincide in a diner booth outside Washington DC.

AO3 Link // Words: 1,177

Nestled in a corner booth at Potomac Mills’ Silver Diner, campaign manager Alfred F. Jones sipped from an iconicly mediocre coffee at 10:30pm on a Friday evening.

The glossy jukebox near the register belted Elvis Presley hits on repeat and Jones idly tapped his thigh to the beat, breath fogging up the window in front of him with puffs of breath.

Jones exhaled a sigh, the gust of air escaping straight from his soul.

He ached with something deeper than he ever wanted to feel, especially near the end of campaign season when his work demanded a surplus of vigor.

Today had not been a good day. Ben and Jerry (yup, that Ben and Jerry) kept him busy all afternoon with bizarre advertisement concepts (one of which involved customized wrapped cars with their candidate’s face plastered on the hood.)

Epic, of course, but Jones knew no one would agree and had had the sad job of talking two elderly, enthused men out of an idea he knew to be brilliant.

Just as Jones finished his last sip of coffee and was sorting through his wallet to pay, the shadow of someone loomed over his table to block out the orange diner lights. “Jones, was it?” The accent was that London-posh from the BBC. It sounded vaguely familiar. “It was,” Alfred smiled and looked up. “Hot-shot attorney Arthur Kirkland, yea?”

They shook hands and Arthur took a seat across from him. A slice of warm, a la mode cherry pie slid onto the table with two spoons. “Thought I saw your sad face in the window. I wanted to offer my condolences on the state of American politics.” Kirkland's expression was flat as he spoke, and although Jones often struggled to detect British-style sarcasm, he was 87% sure Kirkland was being sardonic. Alfred was offered a cheap, stainless-steel spoon and the blue-eyed American was all-too-happy to indulge his opposing candidate's lawyer.

“It ain’t all that bad,” Jones offered, hum-ing in appreciation at the sweet tartness of cherry filling hitting his tongue. “No different from the usual, anyways.”

Kirkland raised his, ah-hem, influential eyebrows but didn’t respond, taking another bite into his mouth. The sass was so unexpected and Alfred snorted, unable to contain himself.

Jones’ laughter bounced off the booth walls and Arthur jumped. The campaign manager continued through broken chuckles, “Heh- Don’t act all British-hoity-toity on me, Arthur Kirkland. I stay on top of our friends across the pond and it ain’t all sunshine and roses.”

Kirkland took his time collecting a bite of pie and scooping ice cream on top before popping it into his mouth. “No sunshine at all, I’m sad to report. Fortunately, roses adore that delightful flash-shower humidity. I can’t say the same for myself, however excellent London theatre may be.”

“Well, I hope you’re getting out of DC. I hear DMV weather ain’t all that dissimilar.”

“No, I’m afraid you’re correct. Excuse me,” Arthur ushered a waitress towards their table. Alfred watched as the American woman’s eyes sparkled as her English customer ordered a tea. Although the diner sat only a few miles outside a major metropolitan city, not many international travelers bothered to leave, much less sit down for a Lipton tea in Woodbridge, Virginia. 

“It’ll be out in just a moment, sweetheart.”

Alfred Jones watched in amusement as Kirkland blushed in response to the pet name, waiting with unusual patience for his booth companion to continue.

Typically, the campaign manager would expect himself to contribute more. But Jones felt odd tonight. He felt tired in a way a good night’s rest wouldn’t solve, and empty in a way no pie or cigarette could fill. His inbox had emails he hadn’t responded to and messages from that morning sitting in his notifications. He sipped his coffee and wondered at the weight in his chest.

Jones might say this feeling sounded something like depression- but Alfred F. Jones wasn’t capable of anything less than mild discontent. 

He just… felt odd.

Arthur Kirkland took notice of Alfred’s lack of energy from the pensive expression and wilted shoulders and adopted a more delicate tone. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your quiet evening,” he looked away, out the window. “I won’t be offended if- I can move in case this isn’t a good time.”

Jones jumped in surprise and laughed, shaking himself of melancholy and pushing more energy into his voice, “Gosh no, that’s my bad. Just been a long week, it’s awesome meeting a friend out so far this late.”

Kirkland visibly relaxed and took his steaming cup of tea with a gentle thanks. “Terrific.”

“Say,” Alfred started, with renewed purpose to keep Kirkland engaged. “You ever been out to Shenandoah?” Arthur shook his head, curious. 

“Well, if you’re into the hiking scene there’s some gorgeous trails.”

“Have you been?”

“Sure have! I like some modest trails ‘round there, and I hiked the Appalachian Trail (stretches twenty two hundred miles from Georgia to Maine) with my brother a few summers ago. Like a hundred of those are through Shenandoah.”

“Cor!” blinked he Englsihman in surprise. His pale complexion made the oncoming blush very obvious. Kirkland confessed, “I do enjoy hiking, especially when I’m in Scotland. Though I imagine our interpretation of ‘modest’ intensity would differ.”

“Meh,” Jones shrugged, smiling. Their conversation gave the American an idea to cure his mood. They stared out the window in comfortable silence, watching cars pass by on their way home from work. Despite being late into the evening, light pollution kept the sky illuminating gently.

Lost in thought, Jones dragged his spoon across the plate and looked down in surprise to hear nothing but metal against porcelain. The plate was clean, and now it was Jones' turn to blush. He hadn’t been paying attention and likely finished the last bite. 

Looking across at his companion, Kirkland didn’t seem to notice or mind, more concerned with the empty state of his tea mug. 

“Hey, Kirkland,” the lawyer looked up. 

Jones recognized the Englishman’s tense posture and the hesitant gleam in his green eyes behind the professionally impartial suspense. Jones sensed a likewise dread for their company to end. If he was honest with himself, he hoped his observation was accurate.

Jones knew from experience that foreign travel with clients could feel isolating when the day’s business ended. Not always, but perhaps Kirkland could be amiable to his unorthodox suggestion.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend? I hear the weather’s gonna clear up till Sunday night.”

“Err, no. Can’t say that I do. I’ve been too preoccupied providing counsel this week to have made any. Do you?”

“No,” Jones smiled, “but I might have a solution to both our weekends. Tomorrow morning, wanna go on a road trip?”

The lawyer blinked and set down his empty cup, turning away to rummage in his slacks. 

Alfred taped the table impatiently, waiting for a response while Kirkland took his time extracting a twenty from his wallet. “How very American,” Kirkland smirked, looking at Jones, “What time do we leave?”

Notes:

DMV = local name for DC, Maryland and Virginia\ After spending the past year studying in DC, I took this prompt to emulate the toxic work culture, and which I think Alfred is particularly susceptible to. Compared to California (comparatively young, with a tech scene in San Francisco that depends on tech bros refusing to wear anything other than a sweatshirt to their multi-billion corporate jobs), DC’s political scene is a different language. My main intro to the world of networking was made by a close campaign manager. I was both impressed and horrified by his workload. As it turns out, DC just operates that way. Alfred would definitely thrive and tolerate it, especially because most reward arrives as human approval.   American west coast and east coast professionalism are different breeds (What do you MEAN the rockefellers just had a wedding where I stand, mr tour guide????)  Anyways, I spent time between classes hiking and sketching nature in DC’s Rock Creek Park, Virginia’s Shenandoah, and West Virginia's Harpers Ferry. Al fr fr vibes w the nature

[namjoonfluff]

The Florist

pairing: Jungkook x Reader

summary: you own a flower shop in London and get to meet lots of interesting customers but none as interesting as Jungkook. 

genre: this is pretty fluffy at the moment - tempted to make it a series if people like it and we might get smut or angst!

word count: 1,900 notes: i haven’t edit yet so if things don’t make sense, feel free to come for me in my asks

When you opened up Buds & Blooms last spring, it was partly because of your love of flowers but also your love of people too. You see, you were surrounded by the same beautiful blossoms every day. However, the individuals who entered the shop were exactly that - individuals. Each one completely unique from the others; with different lives, different problems and different reasons for buying flowers. 

You had Mrs Norris who popped in every Monday to check out the latest bouquets. Her visits were never about purchasing a bunch but indeed, she was lonely. You would often see her leaving her terraced house, waving goodbye to her dog and shuffling across the street to the shop. Your eyes followed her every move; head bowed to the ground as she manoeuvred the cobbled street. The bell would ring to signal her entrance and you acted as if you hadn’t been expecting her arrival for five minutes now. “Hello, dear,” She would whisper softly across the rows and rows of roses and camellias. 

You glanced up from your ribbons and smiled. She didn’t like to start a conversation straight away. Instead, Mrs Norris took a very slow lap around the store before settling upon a bouquet of sunflowers. Her fingers ran across the sunshine petals as she fell into a deep thought. 

“Patrick used to buy me these,” Mrs Norris said to herself, looking sadly at the bright bouquet which sat waiting for her. You would never tell her this but you placed them there purposely. Before Mrs Norris’ husband passed away, he paid you to create her a bouquet every week. Even beyond the grave, he was finding a way to keep their love strong. It was enough to make you believe in soulmates! 

Soon after, Mr James rushed into the store like usual. No matter what day of the week, it was always just before lunchtime when he threw the door open in a hurry. As his face flushed pink and chest heaved, he briskly walked to find the biggest bouquet he could possibly find. Lucky for him, you always had one prepared for his visits. “What is it this time?” You grinned from behind the counter.

“Forgot-” He said breathlessly. “Forgot the pickles and now I’m getting a bollocking!” 

You couldn’t help but giggle at the panic on his face. Anytime Mr James and his wife had a slight disagreement, he would rush out to buy her flowers. It was because of him that the flower shop stayed afloat! He must have purchased about fifty bouquets since his wife got pregnant. He was seriously the best husband though. 

Plenty more customers popped their heads into the store throughout the day. There was Miss Dean - a teacher from the local school who always needed a fresh arrangement for her classroom. You were also visited by Danny Jones, your next door, shop neighbour. He was always dropping by to offer you some of his luxury coffee. It was disgusting though; the bitter type of coffee that just sat in the back of your throat the whole day! With his cup of hell, he also brought an uncomfortable attempt at flirting. “So, do you ever leave this place?” Danny said, leaning up against the counter. Your eyes twitched as you watched him squash the head of a pink rose from one of your wedding displays. It was a shame you had to be polite in front of customers because you could have slapped him so hard in that moment. 

“Well, you know what it’s like running a small business,” You shrugged. “I just wanna keep this place afloat!” He sipped his sludge while raking his eyes up and down your body. It would maybe make sense if you were wearing some kind of body-con, booby dress with heels. Yet, here you were in your favourite pair of mom-jeans and a baggy jumper. “That’s why I have my father involved,” Danny smirks from beyond the cup. “He pays the bills, I just make sure nothing goes wrong!” 

You subtly roll your eyes from behind the vase you were plucking flowers from. How could someone get through life like this? You wondered. But you didn’t really have to think for long. He was lucky enough to have his daddy’s investment. Need more beans imported from Dubai? Get Father on the phone! Someone broke the coffee machine again? Well, looks like Daddy’s going to need the call. You were jealous really! After all, you had saved up the money to buy the shop, scrimped and scraped so you could afford the latest till. You had even dipped into your life savings to buy a new sign for the shop. That’s how much you cared about this place! It frustrated you to see someone have it so easy. 

“Anyway, do you fancy getting a drink with me?” Danny asked. 

“Not if it’s any of that coffee,” You whispered.

“Huh?” He looked up from the flower he had de-petalled just a second ago. You were this close from kicking him out the store! 

“I’m okay,” You said shyly. How are you supposed to reject someone nicely? Someone who always gets their own way? 

“Are you sure?” Danny’s annoying voice peaked again. “Do you really want to be single and selling flowers all your life?” Actually, yes. That sounded like an absolute dream plan right now! No annoying men trying to make you drink their horrible coffee. Maybe you could have a dog like Mrs Norris. Yes, a dog sounded like a great idea - plus, they are much quieter than men anyway! 

“Honestly,” He huffed, bringing you out of the daydream where you’re walking your adorable dachshund around Hyde Park. Fucking idiot! How dare he interrupt you as you and Herbert settle on a park bench for a picnic. “You women confuse me beyond belief,” “You talk about marriage and babies but when a decent guy comes along, you reject him!” 

Afraid he was going to start lecturing you on the benefits of marrying into his family, you made sure to place a pot down on the counter - loudly! That should wake him from his own daydream which probably involved an image of you being his trophy wife, feeding him his exuberant coffee beans. “Sorry, Danny,” You said, looking up at the clock. “I’m closing now!” 

“No worries! Want me to do the tills for you?” He pointed at your cash register. “You want to make sure you’ve counted all your takings correctly!” 

How could someone be so unbearable to be around! 

“No,” You said firmly - or as firm as you could make it sound. “I’m okay!”

Despite his resistance, Danny finally left the shop five minutes before closing, leaving behind his stupid cardboard cup. In frustration, you lobbed it at the wall, hitting the space just below the chalkboard which advertises your prices. That was going to leave a mark but you would deal with it tomorrow. The only thing you need right now is to stick your head in a bunch of peonies! Thankfully, you were the owner of a flower shop and so a bouquet of peonies wasn't far away. 

Sticking your head into the fresh flowers, you inhale their sweet, earthy scent. They act as a reset button, helping you to remember exactly why you love this job. It was your philosophy that flowers could fix anything. Whether it was a petty argument or full-on heartbreak, buying someone flowers was like putting a metaphorical bandaid on their heart. It wouldn’t fix them, of course! However, it helped the healing process feel a little easier. It was just nice to know someone cared enough to send you flowers. It takes the sting out of any sour experiences. It helps to forget just a little! And as a florist, you were so happy to be a part of making people’s lives better. Even if the shop didn’t make you any money, you would still get up every day at five o’clock and create bouquets and arrangements. This was your biggest passion after all! 

“Hello?” A voice enters your ear from across the quiet shop. Shit!

You quickly whip your head around to see a man standing in your door, half smirking and half wondering ‘what the fuck is this girl doing motorboating some flowers!’ Well, at least, you think that must be what’s going through his head. How often do you walk into a shop to see someone with their face buried in flowers. “Sorry, I was just-” You start to explain but you wonder how you’re supposed to explain this to a stranger. Apologies, I just stuck my head in some flowers because this annoying guy keeps hitting on me. It’s not exactly normal person behaviour - the type a complete stranger would understand. “It’s okay,” The man spoke in a soft and calming voice. “I am looking for flowers.” “Well, you have come to the right place,” You gestured to all the flowers around you, which you had yet to stick your face in. “I promise I don’t do that with all the flowers!”

The stranger just laughed and began walking around the shop, admiring all of the flowers you had available at the moment. Completely embarrassed by what just happened, you rushed to the backroom to compose yourself. Oh god, what is my life! Did I really just embarrass myself like in front of some random guy? What must he be thinking right now! Maybe he’s already run out of the store and called the police. Amidst your thoughts, you hear a voice call out saying: “Excuse me!” With the heat from your cheeks slowly dissipating and breath starting to still, you walked back to the front of the shop with confidence. You see the man standing by the bucket of Ranunculus stems, staring down at them intently. 

“How can I help?” You smiled, catching the man’s vibrant smile back at you. Now that you’re in touching distance of the stranger, you realise quite how handsome he was. His warm skin was actually glowing - like he was sweating but it was a beautiful kind of sheen that wasn’t gross at all. As if you had made a complete fool of yourself in front of someone as beautiful as him. What an idiot!

“Can you tell me about these?” He said softly and you nodded. 

“These flowers are called…” As you explained the history of the flower and its meaning, his deep-brown eyes watched you intently. It was almost hard to keep eye contact with him because every time you looked in his direction, his eyes were staring right at you; full of wonder and intrigue. No one had ever looked at you like that. He even smiled and laughed at your little jokes, which definitely no one ever did! Nobody cared about flowers as much as you do to even understand your jokes. “So, these are perfect in bouquet, wreaths and things like table settings,” You finished with a smile as always. However, it didn’t feel forced like it did with other customers.

“Could I get them in a bouquet to collect tomorrow, please?” The man said quietly. “A mixture of colours, please?”

You nodded. “Of course, can I take a name for my book?” 

“It’s Jungkook!” The man smiled as he told you his name. To be honest, you didn’t need to know his name. How could you forget his handsome face after all! You just wanted to know more about him; it was an interesting name - one you definitely would never forget.

[ill-will-editions]

QUARANTINE LETTER #1

This is the first in what we hope will be an ongoing epistolary exchange between comrades living through conditions of quarantine. Responses and other reflections on the present moment can be sent to: illwill@riseup.net

***

Destitution, interrupted

1. The theorists have agreed: the current interruption is the outcome of well-established logics of capital, crisis governance, and alienation. Giorgio Agamben writes, “humans have become so accustomed to living under conditions of perennial crisis and emergency that they do not seem to realize that their life has been reduced to a purely biological condition stripped not only of all social and political dimensions, but likewise of its human and affective dimensions.” An article in Lundimatin on March 19 insisted that “the economy is the devastation”, but whereas this was “a theory before last month…now it is a fact.” Another article from the same issue reminded us that “the catastrophe is always already here”—from the floods and fires of California, to the atmospheric asphyxiation of non-human life, to the warming oceans and melting icecaps—and, if there is a difference today, it is only that “we are now obliged to open our eyes.” Finally, as if to carry this logic to its outer limits, a recent letter from Jacques Camatte proposed that “what we are now witnessing is the outcome of [a] vast phenomenon that has developed over thousands of years, stretched between the two great moments during which the threat of extinction asserted itself.” [1] The Coronavirus, it would seem, is nothing other than the protracted outcome of civilization itself.  

While it is certainly right to insist that conditions of the present are an extension of the conditions of the past, this chorus of continuity misses something essential. Our world is certainly decomposing, but the song is not exactly the same.

Two years ago, a friend stated that, “the constitutive heterogeneity of the real is given to us under the mask of unity, homogeneous unity. To superficial perception, the mask is the real itself. To allow the mask to falter, is therefore to risk vertigo.” [2] In January, this mask still resembled the form it had assumed in recent years: a tumultuous but for the most part intelligible field of global political polarizations. The world, and our place within it, still felt within reach.

By March, the ruling institutions had been forced into a roundly reactive posture. It is by no means clear that the Coronavirus can be compared to a typical economic crisis or natural disaster, nor has the response been limited to an ordinary state of exception. After all, at least for a moment, rulers and ruled alike were pushed on to the back foot, their certainties shaken, as the virus usurped the position of global antagonist. Institutions on which the reproduction of this world depends have been perfunctorily suspended: employment, imprisonment for misdemeanors, evictions; even the DOW Jones seems up for grabs.

The dislocation of the social fabric has been far deeper than anything we have known. The veneer of normalcy fell away at a shocking speed. Actions that were once the very substance of normalcy now feel like experiments. And if we are honest, the ethical and political lines are not exactly what they used to be.

2. Three months ago, what concerned us and much of the world was the tally of forty-seven countries: the newspapers announced “a new global wave of revolt.” From France to Hong Kong, riots, occupations and blockades erupted with a ferocity and longevity unknown in living memory.

Successful revolts do not only undermine existing powers— they also allow their participants a capacity to participate more fully in the world. If we have come to think of revolt as a destituent force, this is not only because revolt splinters and fragments the social fabric into asymmetrical camps, but also because it returns us to earth, placing us in contact with reality. Destitution is rightly thought of either as a double movement or as a single process with two sides. On the one hand, it refers to the emptying-out of the fictions of government (its claim to universality, impartiality, legality, consensus); on the other hand, a restoration of the positivity and fullness of experience. The two processes are linked like the alternating sides of a Möbius strip: wherever those usually consigned to existing as spectators upon the world (the excluded, the powerless) instead suddenly become party to their situation, active participants in an ethical polarization, the ruling class is invariably drawn into the polarization and cannot avoid exhibiting its partisan character. The police become one more gang among gangs.

Needless to say, our situation today is different. We are living through a halfway destitution, a destitution interrupted. Every party has returned to earth-- yet without entering a world. The advent of COVID-19 has drained standard narratives and roles of their force. The logics holding this world together have been revealed as the arbitrary and mechanical operations that they are. Yet because it was neither “we” nor “they” who pulled the e-brake, but a perfectly inhuman virus, the standstill of historical time lacks the festival that usually accompanies it— the collective intelligence and confidence that comes with being the agent plunging normal time into disorder. In the absence of an agent, the truth of this moment remains stubbornly negative: our lives materially prostrate to supply chains as far flung as they are brittle, our world a conduit of reciprocally perilous immunity and disease.

3. Under ‘normal’ circumstances, participants in political events are never solely agents, but always also patients at the same time—we affect and are affected, we are changed by what we do and what is done to us, whether by police or one another. To have an active hand in our own deposition, to become anyone by participating in a common power with no name, is the mark of those movements and moments of eruption we’ve felt close to over recent years.

By contrast, our one-sided passivity in the face of this global event generates a vertiginous sense of being outpaced by the change around us. To be patients but not agents has meant that the dislocation of social life has occurred at a speed that makes it all but impossible to metabolize.

In their 1956 text, “A User’s Guide to Détournement,” Debord and Wolman observe that the subversive power of a détournement is “directly related to the conscious or semiconscious recollection of the original contexts of the elements.” This dependency of subversion on the memory of the subverted is not limited to the case of art but is, they argue, merely “a particular case of a general law” applicable to all action upon the world.

If the radical interruption of normal life we are undergoing has been so disorienting, this is because it is unfolding like a botched détournement, one whose force or potential is neutralized by its very radicality. We are swept into the new with such disarming speed that we cannot recall what preceded it. The tissue of normal life has been punctured, yet the cancellation was so rapid that we have been unable to register the distance traveled between the “original contents” of normal life and the world we now inhabit: a violence too sudden, too terrible even to be liberating, numbs us to the subversive effects it nevertheless carries out. The upending of the world becomes a strangely pacified process, reduced to a disorienting and disempowering experience: an inhuman velocity, less an event than a jump-cut, an excision of memory, a vertical severing of time itself.

In the long run, the vertigo will settle into more acute polarization. When it does, our inability to recalibrate will play to the benefit of the ruling powers. It insulates them against the subversive shock of what the virus has compelled them to do—less by the so-called “Corona socialism” than by the radical demobilization of the labor force that has accompanied it. Meanwhile, we float in an empty time; unable to seize upon and decide it, we wait for the suspension of history to reach its conclusion.

However, as Furio Jesi understood well, suspended time often requires a “cruel sacrifice” before it can conclude itself. [3] If our only experience of this event is as a “blip” of confusion and panic amidst an unbroken chain of administered life, when the time finally comes for an imperial reboot, the reversion to normalcy (or worse) will find no argument or exteriority to oppose it. That we remain dazed and out of step with the world gives our enemies free reign to reintroduce historical time on terms amenable uniquely to them, as the recent murders of activists during the quarantine lockdown in Columbia have already begun to attest. [4]   

For now— at least for a moment—we are all here on earth, in the desert solitude of collective uncertainty:

To have been on earth just once —that’s irrevocable. / And so we keep on going and try to realize it, try to hold it in our simple hands, in our overcrowded eyes, and in our speechless heart. (Rilke)

However paradoxical, perhaps our task over the coming weeks is to slow down the pace of change, to impose a rhythm allowing us to participate once again in the subversion and reinvention of the world on our own terms.

-August and Kora

Chicago, March 24, 2020

*******************

[1] Giorgio Agamben, “Clarification,” published on the column Una voce, on Quodlibet.it website; (Anonymous), “Coronavirus: Apocalypse and Redemption,” Lundimatin #234, March 19, 2020;  Anonymous), “What the Virus Said,” Lundimatin #234, March 19, 2020;  Jacques Camatte, “Letter from Camatte to a Friend in the North,” 3.20.2020. English translations available here: ill-will-editions.tumblr.com

[2] Moses Debruska, “Preface,” in Josep Raffanel i Ora, Fragmenter le monde (Paris: Divergences, 2018), 19. Our translation.

[3]   “Every true change in the experience of time is a ritual that demands…a determinate cruel sacrifice.” Furio Jesi, Spartakus. The Symbology of Revolt, Trans. Alberto Toscano (Seagull, 2014), 61-63. 

[4]  “Colombian death squads exploiting coronavirus lockdown to kill activists,” The Guardian, 3.23.2020. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/mar/23/colombian-groups-exploiting-coronavirus-lockdown-to-kill-activists

[wherearemyglassesbro]

Sometime in the 30s-40s I think..? (inspired by @ask-mr-biscuit !!!!) (this will not be accurate at all it’s far too late at night for me to actually care about editing or anything so this is as good as its gonna get lmaoooo)

Tap tap “You called me in, sir?” Arthur stood somewhat awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of whether or not if he should step inside. Thankfully he was waved in before he could think about it too much. He’s been in plenty of government offices before, this one was new. People cycle in and out so often around here that Arthur can hardly keep track of who is who or who works in what building. They all have the same hardwood floors and red rugs, it’s rather hard to tell the difference at times.

“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Kirkland, it’s a shame I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you one-on-one like this before. Please, sit, we have an important matter to discuss”

Arthur did as he was told...Ugh...he always did what he was told. He crossed his legs, finding himself feeling almost nervous. He wasn’t due for a scolding...His family wasn’t in danger or pulling public stunts...His children were fine as far as he knew. What? Why was he here? At five o’clock on a Thursday? Important matters are handled earlier in the day, right? And not on a Thursday, Thursdays are the most boring day of the week- Shit- What did he say?

Arthur shook himself from his thoughts “I’m sorry sir, can you repeat that?”

“Mh, I said we should get this over with quickly. If I’m being honest I have no clue why I’m the one handling this in the first place but, this is an issue of your public image”

“My...My public image? As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t done anything worth noting lately”

“No, you’ve behaved very well lately-“ he had to suppress a scowl at that comment. ‘Well behaved’? What was he? A Pomeranian? “-The higher-ups are not a fan of your frequent trips across the channel” Now was the time to scowl

“I don’t understand. How do my travels impact my image? Or what I reflect back here? I am beyond respectful while visiting other countries, I rarely ever make a scene of any kind-!”

“Arthur, let me put this in simple terms for you. You have been spending far too much time in Paris as of late. And when you aren’t there, that pompous frog hops his way over here to plop himself down in London. Having a good relationship with the French is fine, it’s tolerable, but having you cuddle up with Bonnefoy like that is almost ridiculous”

Arthur could barely comprehend what this man was saying to him. This stupid buffoon! Who did he think he was? He and Francis have been around longer than this man’s entire bloodline! Who is he to talk to him like this? “I don’t think my travels or my friends are any of your business-“

“We would like for you to associate less with Bonnefoy and spend more time with more valuable nations such as Jones or Williams. And Braginsky too, we need to better our relationship with the Russians they could be useful allies in the future even though they’re-“ before he could even think, his hand slammed down on the dusty desk he sat in front of, a stack of folders wobbling dangerously

“Excuse me? This- My relationships are not political in any way! I choose to spend time with my friends and family! I don’t want to play Russian roulette with that fool just because it will make you happy! How would you like it if-!”

“That’s quite enough” with a heavy sigh, the man slid a folder across his desk “I honestly don’t have time to sit here and argue with you, Arthur. There. Inside of that is everything the higher-ups want from you. It is purposely emphasized that you will not be permitted to go frolicking around France like a loon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick my daughter up from her ballet lessons”

Arthur snatched the folder and, quite rudely he’ll admit, stomped out of the office. He flipped through the pages upon pages of instruction as he made his way through the halls and out to the parking lot. He found himself laughing angrily as he read ‘travels will be monitored’ ‘must have permission to leave the UK’ ‘overseas trips will be approved only if a chaperone is attending as well’ ‘Arthur I. Kirkland will not go to France’ ‘Arthur I. Kirkland will keep minimal contact with Francis J.C. Bonnefoy until further notice’. He couldn’t tell if it was funny or not. Funny or tragic. He’s worked so hard to repair his relationship with Francis, not that they’re glued to eachother’s hips or anything of the sort...Things have been tense for a little over a decade. Personal fights and political junk, all of it manages to get in the way constantly.

As he drives home, he finds himself thinking of rose perfume sprayed on pillow cases...Expensive shoes clicking on the kitchen floor...Wine corks popping...Warm hands holding his own...The glow of candle light...A loving kiss before bed...He’s never felt such a truly deep connection with someone before...And just as he’s finally allowing himself to feel, to explore these feelings, his bosses ground him like a disobedient teenager. He laughs to himself again, a little louder, a little more pitiful, a little more hopeless. Arthur dreads calling Francis to tell him that he’s no longer welcome in London, that he better not have already bought ferry tickets, that he better drive himself back to Paris in the morning. Arthur doesn’t register that he’s crying until he’s finally within the walls of his own house. He sinks down into his favorite chair, letting out a pathetic groan, wiping his face on his sleeves. As he was taught long ago, he allows himself five minutes to cry, to be angry, but when that time is over he will simply move on. He’ll do as he’s told no matter now much it hurts. That’s just what he has to do, it’s his duty as a nation. His duty to his people and government...He just has to put on a happy face and wait.

(may be part of something bigger in the future...???? don't get your hopes up ;) ;) ;) y’all know ill procrastinate ;) ;) ;) )

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Ajax: Birth of the Triple A Chimera

 Warning: cute fluffy creature death. I tried not to make it graphic. :/

             The fall splintered your body. It ruined your mind.

           Like Lucifer grasping at the heavens, wondering, But you said you loved me, your hand extended towards her, clinging to a snapping string, to your love, admiration, and respect. To the world how it once was. To a world how it should be.

           But she let you crumble into oblivion. That angel of Justice. Your Michael. The slick-fingered Azrael. She condemned you to be lost forever.

           Banishing herself into the bosom of a merciless moon queen, she left you there, on the cliff’s bottom, a scattered mosaic with nothing but Achilles’ curse keeping your meat suit together. Your eyes stare out like the exit of a well. Blank.

           Dead? No. I trembled to think you dead.

           Your injury is hidden behind a sheet of skin, but I can see your mind break. She betrayed your trust and betrayed your love. Your eyes gaze to the heavens as I cradle you, and you think you are lost.

           I won’t let you fall apart. If God doesn’t want us in his court, we shall build our court up to him and make him love us.

 --Jack, The day Thalia kicked Luke off a cliff

            “Can you babysit Ajax this Friday?”

         Pax wasn’t supposed to be eavesdropping on Axel and Alabaster and probably wasn’t supposed to hear that question. He was supposed to be moving boxes from the front of the new laboratory’s atrium to the center of the laboratory. This is where he hoped he would be turned into a variety of rodents (or mustelids, as Alabaster had corrected him: otters, minks, weasels—and that one time Axel was turned into a wolverine—were all part of the mustelid family).

         Technically, Pax was still doing his job. He just slowed down when entering the central hub of the laboratory, where Alabaster and Axel were talking.

The two had dragged in a massive crate of magical artifacts from different colonies of Greece. Really, Axel had carried his side while Alabaster was cursing and swearing over a hand that had been smashed in the doorway. Axel pulled the box open with a crow bar. Alabaster withdrew a lion mask that he said had mislabeled from Numidia, grumbling that he’d need to fix the labels once they were ready to put things on shelves.

         Between grumbles and devious chin strokes—which Pax thought made Alabaster look quite esteemed—Alabaster nodded. “I can watch him. Same time as your normal matches?”

         Axel’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He set the crow bar atop a stack of unsorted wooden boxes with a thunk. He undid his hairtie, shook the mane of braids and locks out, and went to retying his hair. Recently, Axel had quarter-shaved one side when he found a wad of gum in his bed. Pax knew it was Mercedes. Would anyone else believe him? No. Pax got blamed.

         “Thirty minutes earlier. Jack and Luke want to add in a pre-show. Apparently, they’re going to be recorded and sent to Antaeus. Luke… thinks he’ll like them.” Axel puffed up his cheeks and popped them. The motion made the shadows under his eyes look like a pit of Cocoa Puffs.

         “Ajax mentioned that you haven’t been sleeping well,” Alabaster said. Although he held the mask up, like he was examining it with the aloof expertise of someone that Indian Jones would rob, his gaze narrowed at the older boy.

         Pax hoped Axel would listen to Alabaster.

         Instead, Axel glared at the door entrance, where Pax hovered with another box. Pax thought he’d been inconspicuous. He’d been wrong before though, like the time he tried sneaking into the girl’s bathroom with Matt. Their wigs and fake boobs had taken Pax a full ten minutes to assure they weren’t lopsided.

         “You little snitch,” Axel snapped.

         Pax gave him an innocent grin. “That’s literally my job.”

         Alabaster sighed. “Get out.”

         “You told me to carry in boxes,” Pax complained, setting his atop another with a huff. This box was, in fact, full of various bird feathers and did not warrant a huff, but he relied on Alabaster and Axel not to check the label.

         “Yes. To carry boxes in. Not to eavesdrop. Take a camou blanket and go find Sphinx.” Alabaster pointed to the door.

         Sphinx was Lou Ellen’s Mist cat, one that (Pax was disappointed to discover) could not sprout wings or a tiny human head. Alabaster often pretended Sphinx had escaped to give Lou Ellen and Pax busywork. Pax loved it. They could pretend they were hunting through the savannah. Shoddily-made safari hats included.

         Today, Alabaster gave him a meaningful look. After Axel’s last match, Alabaster had agreed to talk to Axel about the nightmares. If nothing else than to get Pax to shut up for thirty minutes. Pax agreed to fifteen and they had themselves a deal.

         Pax knew the real solution was to end Axel’s arena fights. Killing legionnaires for sport in front of a live audience? Good for super villains. Not good for secretly-squishy older brothers.

         Axel always had nightmares, but he could hardly get through a few hours of sleep without waking up screaming. The nights that he carved a new scar into his cheeks—one for each person he killed—were the worst. “They deserve to be remembered,” he had explained. His morbid collection of trinkets from the dead had grown too large for their room (and too much like a “ZOMBIE VENGENCE HERE” sign for the inevitable apcocolype). Scarification was Axel’s new method.

         Apparently, Luke wasn’t about letting Axel stop his fights; Jack said the ratings were too good.

         As such, Pax hoped Alabaster could magic the nightmares away. That seemed like a healthy way to repress trauma, right?

         “Ajax,” Alabaster said in his Don’t Make Me Remove Your Mouth voice.

         Pax scrambled to a box with some of his, Jack’s, and Axel’s band equipment. Prometheus—likely in attempt to gain Alabaster’s eternal hatred—had suggested the boys do band practice in the laboratory while it was being set up. The lab was out in the middle of nowhere and non-disruptive for anyone but Alabaster (a hermit who loved silence). Luke thought this was a grand idea.

         Pax’s fingertips found the cold, stretchy fabric of the camou blanket. They hadn’t figured out what to use it for, but Jack was sure some inspiration would hit while they were practicing.

         In the meantime, Pax tossed the blanket over his shoulders and slunk out the door.

         There were only a few rooms in the building. Boxes littered the front atrium and back entrance. His fingers twitched to think of all the magical ingredients mishmashed in the cylinders resting on walls and various, mysterious jugs. Supposedly, Alabaster had labeled everything. Unfortunately, Matthias was in charge of dropping off their stuff from the Princess Andromeda and had taken the courtesy to do artistic renderings over each label. To put it kindly, Matt was a genius of ideas, but would starve as an artist.

Alabaster’s new laboratory was a pioneer project—the first land-based operation center, functioning almost independent of the soon-to-be self-built Mount Othrys. Pax had ignored most of the politics involved in asking Kronos for the separate space (an area Alabaster, Lou Ellen, and Lamia didn’t need to worry about blowing up the Princess Andromeda while experimenting with magic of mass destruction). All Pax cared about was why they weren’t wearing pioneer hats if this was a pioneer project. He had even offered to reenact dying from cholera a la Oregon Trail, though no one paid him much mind.

         This was super top secret. No one knew where it was. Not even Axel and Pax knew where they were going until that morning. Pax wondered what Matt knew about it and how Alabaster had managed to commandeer Axel and Pax during would-be band time. From what Pax had heard, Jack was conspiring to visit as a surprise (which meant he, and by extension, Flynn knew the location). If anyone could puppy-dog-eye information out of people, it was Jack. Pax aspired for such unassuming, devious cuteness.

         Pax crept over a Styrofoam box he could only assume contained dry ice and perishable ingredients where Matt had sloppily etched a Yeti. Or those spiky bits could be a crown of thorns for a stick-figure Jesus. Pax would have to talk to Matthias about blasphemy later.

         At the front, there were pillars on either side of the entrance, and a low wall between the two of them, forcing anyone advancing to pick one side or the other to enter. Alabaster explained this was in honor of Hecate and there were—in fact—three different paths to take. This led Pax and Axel to energetically vault over the low wall. It warmed Pax’s heart. Alabaster pretended he didn’t care about them, but, for whom else would he personally design an obstacle course?

         A tail flicked on the other side of the wall.

         Pax crawled up against it.

         The front had a concrete patio with no walkway, just long grass, scattered trees, and rolling hills. Soon, the children of Hecate would make runes around the place to ward off attention. They had already put some in place to make it so no one could stumble upon it unless they knew to look for the laboratory. Pax called it paranoid. Alabaster called it preparedness.

         The stone wall felt cold against Pax’s back as he flattened himself, keeping the blanket wrapped around him. This gave him a good view through the doorway—in case he could spot Axel or Alabaster for more eavesdropping—and a narrow view outside.

         There, curling around the end of the low wall, was Sphinx. Her black hair bristled. Pax assumed she had see him and was lazily coming his way for pets.

         However, her head wasn’t turned towards him. Her ears were alert, gaze surveying the tall grass.

         Pax opened his mouth to chirp at her.

         Something thudded into Sphinx’s neck, pinning her to the building. It happened so fast, Pax didn’t register that Sphinx was dead.

         He was accustomed to seeing violence against humans in his favorite gore movies, his father’s “entertainment nights,” and the few cage fights he’d seen Axel do. He was used to it against mythological creatures.

Seeing the thing protrude from her scruffy fur made Pax cover a scream.

         An arrow. It had been an arrow.

         “Bryce, what the fuck!?” someone hissed, only a few yards away. “It was a cat! You could have given away our position.”

         Pax froze, keeping his hands clamped over his mouth. Had he made a clapping sound when he covered his lips?

         “A witch’s familiar, Centurion. It might have alerted the leader of Hecate to our presence. It wasn’t a real cat.”

Not a real cat. Pax thought about the times Sphinx had chased him around the ship’s laboratory when he was various rodents, the times she’d snuck into the Pax brother’s room to curl up on Axel’s chest as a space heater, the way Lou Ellen giggled with glee to see her “baby girl” lose all her grace and elegance to the superiority of a laser pointer.

Her Mist body crumbled and collapsed, leaving the arrow pinned into the wall.

         Tear burned the rims of his eyes. The urge to sob reminded Pax that he hadn’t been breathing. He couldn’t tell if the world was spinning from a lack of air or from panic. A warning slithered in the back of his head, if you breathe, they’ll know you’re here.

         The camue blanket had fallen to his shoulders when he grabbed his mouth. Hands trembling, he clutched the edges.

This voice drifted from the other side of the low wall.

         They’re surrounding the building. Pax swallowed. Centurion. Romans.

         “You’re fucked up, Bryce,” a third mumbled. “We weren’t supposed to move until Cahoon cut the power.”

         If they cut the power, all the phone lines would go down. Unlike other demigods, Kronos’ men didn’t fear drawing monsters with technology; they welcomed new recruits. But, Iris wasn’t exactly cool with delivering messages for the opposing side. If they lost the power lines, they might not be able to get word out.

         Pax’s breath went from nonexistent to ragged.

         Alabaster had wanted privacy and quiet to set up his lab. Matthias was only supposed to do one drop off that morning. They didn’t know when Jack would show up.

         They were alone.

         “I can’t wait to mount a lion’s head on my wall,” the second guy, Bryce, muttered. His voice had a bouncy energy to it. Pax had heard of pre-battle jitters. These sounded too light.

         A Lion’s Head. Pax choked on a whine. They’re talking about Axel.

         “The lion’s head is mine,” a feminine voice stated softly.

         “Alright, Ari. Sheesh, we get it. You’re mad that that cannibal ate Julian after he killed him.”

         A tiny, detached part of Pax wanted to squeal a protest. Julian? Praetor Julian? The first person Axel had killed. He hadn’t eaten him—Axel fought to get Julian a proper funeral so he would remain uneaten.

         Everything felt like it was tunneling to the arrow on the wall. How much time had he wasted cowering here? His brain fumbled. This was it. This was his job. He was the recon guy. That’s what Mercedes had been—

         What would Mercedes do?

         Pax fumbled to his belt, to the mirror she had specially made for him. It was reflective, but the surface was dulled to minimize glare. He forced himself to take two regularish breaths, to not picture Axel’s head on a wall.

         “Damn it, Bryce. How did you get put on this mission? Just remember we’re not supposed to kill the younger kid with the two colored eyes. You heard command. He’s their spymaster’s assistant and a whole wealth of information.”

         They know a lot. They know too much.

         With as little noise as he could manage, Pax shifted the camue blanket up his arm, so he could hold the mirror with a covered hand. He leaned against the edge of the wall, tilting the mirror to see into the fields.

         Memo to self: request magical one-way camue blanket that he could see-through but others can’t.

         “He needs to be able to talk. Doesn’t mean he needs to be able to walk.”

         “I reiterate: you’re fucked up, Bryce.”

         “Quiet,” the feminine voice, the centurion, growled.

         There they were: not people, but ominous divots in the grass. They might have been wearing camue blankets too, though Pax doubted it. These weren’t professionals. Pax could tell from the loud chatter. He wondered if they’d been gathered in a hurry and hadn’t been able to vet out people like the cat-killer, Bryce.

         About thirty feet away, beyond the long grass, two people stood by the power line in construction workers outfits. From what Pax could see, something glinted under the bright orange reflectors: armor. The perfect, quick cover. Alabaster even said they’d been struggling with power and relying on backup generators. Would the Romans know to cut the backup generators?

         One thing was certain: there was no referee to yell at the Romans for bringing too many players onto the field. If Pax had to guess, the back door and windows would be covered too. He shivered to remember Mercedes’ fingers glide across his shoulder. Pax Two, I will give you a piece of candy if you can tell me how many doors and windows we passed in this building.

         He wished she were here, barking orders about the obvious things he had missed. But, then she’d be in danger too.

         If Pax made it out of this alive, he vowed to write a Hey Mr. ADHD song that promoted concentration and calm. There was a back exit, a front exit, and several windows in every room except the very center of the building, where Axel and Alabaster were unaware of their plight. Pax puffed up his cheeks, barely catching himself before he popped them. He didn’t know if there were any secret exits. That would be prime information.

         As he crept back through the atrium, he tilted his mirror out the window. Maybe thirty feet away, he caught sight of movement: snipers. The Romans had scouted the building. They would be watching every exit, and likely had attack forces at each entrance.

         Panic later. Move now.

         The Romans were far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear missteps past the atrium, but Pax focused on the memory of Mercedes’ bells strung at his neck, shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips, knees, and feet. If one of the imaginary bells rang, the Romans might know. They might come in here, skewer Axel, shoot Alabaster in the head with an arrow, and drag Pax off, kicking and screaming.

         By the time he reached the central lab, sweat trickled off his face, threatening to make a plopping sound onto the floor. Axel and Alabaster’s voices echoed amongst the boxes. Although they spoke at a normal level, each word made Pax’s ears ring like a cannon.

         He couldn’t decipher what they said. The boxes, tubes, and wayward lab and band equipment blurred as he stepped up to Axel, his feet knowing where to go while his mind was numb with fear.

         His hand was on his brother’s arm. Axel and Alabaster froze, mid-talk, staring at Pax in worry. There must have been something wrong with his face.

         “There is a Roman hitsquad outside. I counted five in the front. There are likely five in the back and there are snipers at every window. They want to kill Axel and take me alive for interrogation. Unsure on their intentions with Witch Boy.”

         Once the words were out, it became real. It wasn’t his turn to keep it together. It was Axel’s, the planner.

         Which was good, because Pax felt himself tremble with panic.

  Thank you for reading! Stay tuned next week to see how well three teenage idiots panic over being surrounded. I hope you guys are staying safe and healthy!

[searchingwardrobes]

I’ve Just Seen a Face

Happy Birthday, @xemmaloveskillianx ! It was a pleasure to get to know you a little bit during the big bang, and your story Beastly was one of my faves. I hope you have a lovely day. Here’s a fluffy meet-cute as a gift. Kind of like a fanfic cupcake, or more aptly in this case, a fanfic birthday bear claw.

Based on the song by the Beatles as well as a prompt on AuthorZoo.com’s post “How to Craft a Killer Meet Cute.”

Rating: G

Trigger: none unless you count the high sugar content, literal and of the fluffy variety

Words: almost 3,000

Also on Ao3 and part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @winterbaby89 @kday426 @teamhook@bethacaciakay @thislassishooked @tiganasummertree @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @let-it-raines @distant-rose @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @shireness-says@optomisticgirl 

I’ve just seen a face. I can’t forget the time or place where we just met. She’s just the girl for me, and I want all the world to see we’ve met.

It was Killian’s job every Friday to get the donuts. It wasn’t because he was so low on the business ladder; the name of the company was Jones Brothers Shipping, after all. It wasn’t because he was the little brother of said Jones brothers, either. It’s just that he liked donuts, he liked the way Tink and Ariel smiled when he brought them in, he liked the way his brother stopped stressing for once to have coffee and a chat, and so. . . yeah, he bought the donuts.

He also, unlike his brother, pays attention to details. It’s why they make such a great team (in addition to being siblings which means they can fight viciously and still be okay at the end of the day): Liam is the big picture guy and Killian is the details guy. Therefore, he knows that Ariel likes jelly donuts, Tink likes strawberry frosted (with sprinkles), and his brother likes bear claws. Will, Robin, and Eric like cake donuts for some bizarre reason, and Killian just likes classic glazed, thank you very much.

On this particular Friday, it’s raining and there’s a bad accident on I-93, and it took Killian at least ten minutes of crawling around in the back seat to find his umbrella, so he’s wet and cross and running late when he dashes into the bakery. Tink says he’s part owner and therefore, can’t be late, but he and Liam are former navy and well, schedules and all of that.

Normally, he would chat with Bridget who’s always working the register (Ariel would say flirt), and give a polite hello to those around him, but his day is already going poorly, so he’s laser focused on his order and nothing else.

“You got here just in time,” Bridget comments as she rings him up, “there was only one bear claw left.”

Later, he’ll say its fate, but in that moment he barely notices the comment. He simply snatches up the box of donuts and bravely makes his way back out into the heavy downpour, struggling to keep a hold of the box of donuts while simultaneously opening his umbrella. Not an easy task for anyone, but even more so for him, missing his left hand. Another result of those former navy days.

So he isn’t exactly in the best mood initially when he meets her, rude and sharp “Hey! Hey, you!” coming angrily from her lips. He groans at her words and is ready with a sharp retort before he even turns around.

But see, he turned around. He turned around, and he saw her, and that pretty much stopped his ability to speak. She either has no umbrella or has had an even worse morning than he has because she's standing there getting soaked in the pouring rain. Most women would have rivulets of mascara running down their faces, but she doesn’t, and he wonders if her clear lack of eye makeup is indicative of how her morning has gone or her personality. He also wonders if her skin is always so fair, her lips that pink, or if she’s chilled from the rain.

But mostly he thinks how incredibly, unfairly beautiful she is. No one has the right to be that gorgeous standing in the pouring rain, but she is. Her golden hair is flattened to her head, yet it does nothing to detract from its brightness. The rain drops glisten on her eyelashes, making her jade eyes sparkle like gems. He could stare at that face all day, but his eyes can’t help tracing the rivulets of water running over her collarbone and noting the figure she cuts in the white blouse now plastered to her skin from the rain. Over it she’s wearing a red leather jacket, not the most practical thing to wear in the rain, but it makes her look like some sort of heroine from a comic book, especially the way her hands are perched on her hips. The intense, feisty look on her face completes the picture, and he can’t help the half grin that tilts his lips.

“Aye, love?”

She rolls her eyes, something that he’s never considered arousing until now.

“I’m not hitting on you, idiot. I want your bear claw.”

Feisty indeed. He takes a few steps closer, admiring the way she doesn’t back down.

“Well, see, I bought it fair and square, so I believe we are at an impasse.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and scowls at him. “What are you, auditioning for the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie?”

He laughs. She shoots the proverbial daggers from her eyes.

“And get out of my personal space,” she snaps.

“I was attempting to share my umbrella.”

“I’m already wet.”

“I can see that.” He arches a brow. It may earn him a punch to the gut, but he can’t stop himself.

She rolls her eyes again. It’s better than a blow from her fist. “The bear claw?”

“It’s my brother’s favorite.”

“I’ll pay you for it.”

“I still won’t have a bear claw for Liam.”

“Not my problem.”

“Then why is your lack of a bear claw mine?”

She sighs in irritation as she pushes wet strands of hair from her face. “Look, I’ve had a shitty morning, and the only thing that could make it better is a damn bear claw. Okay?”

Something in her eyes shifts, and he frowns. It’s as if a tiny window has opened and then quickly shut again. She doesn’t open up often or easily; he can see that clearly.

“Okay, you can have the bear claw, but the payment I ask isn’t money,” he tells her, all flirtation and cockiness gone from his voice.

She blinks, and her mouth opens in clear offense. “I don’t pillage and plunder with guys I just met, if that’s what you’re asking, pirate.”

He chuckles again as he hands her the umbrella to hold while he opens the box of donuts. He balances the box on his prosthetic while extending the bear claw with his good hand.

“Your name,” he tells her, “that’s all I want.”

She cocks her head at him suspiciously. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

She eyes him, then the bear claw peace offering, then him again. Whatever test she puts him through, he passes.

“Emma Swan,” she says, taking the bear claw.

“Killian Jones.” He winks at her as he takes a step back.

“Your umbrella!” She exclaims as he gets farther away, his own hair now plastered to his forehead.

“You need it more than I do, love.”

And if his address and phone number are on the handle, well, she can do with it what she wills.

Had it been another day, I might have looked the other way, and I’d have never been aware, but as it is I’ll dream of her tonight.

“Killian? Killian!”

“Hmm?”

Liam frowns. “First you give me a plain donut instead of my usual bear claw, and now you’re ignoring me. What’s with you?”

“He met someone,” Ariel says as she comes in to put a folder in the filing cabinet. They really need a bigger office.

Liam arches a brow at him over the rim of his coffee mug, and Ariel leans smugly against the filing cabinet. Killian scowls at her, but she just winks at him.

“It was nothing,” he mutters.

“He gave her your bear claw and his umbrella.”

Liam chuckles. “The umbrella that just happens to have your number on it.”

“How do you know what my umbrella looks like?’

“Because Elsa bought it for you last Christmas.”

Ariel laughs merrily. “Oh Kil, that’s adorable.” She pats him on the shoulder in a way that he frankly feels is condescending as she leaves the room.

“So I take it she was pretty.”

Pretty? The word is insufficient, brother, she was bloody gorgeous. But he says nothing aloud, just scratches behind his ear.

“Blonde hair, green eyes, and in Killian’s own words feisty.”

“Can you shut up now?” he snaps as he turns to where Ariel is still standing in the doorway. She isn’t affected in the least by his irritation, giggling as she heads back to her desk.

“Wow, little brother, she must have been some blonde.”

“Can we get back to the budget,” Killian grumbles, staring intently at the paper work in his hands.

 Falling, yes I am falling, and she keeps calling me back again.

He hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind. He tried to tell himself that she has his number; that if he were a true gentleman, he would let her take the next step. But when Friday rolls around, he can’t help himself. He purposefully arrives late to the bakery at the same time she was there last week. He doesn’t even know if it’s part of her routine, but he has to try.

When he walks into the bakery and sees her sitting at one of the small tables, he thinks he wasn’t crazy after all. When he approaches and sees two bear claws and the nervous smile on her face, he’s sure of it.

“I, um, owed you a bear claw, so . . . “ she says, biting on her lower lip as she slides one of the plates closer to him, “and the umbrella . . . “ she trails off as she gestures to where it’s leaning against her chair.

Many flirtatious barbs and innuendos fly through his head, but her obvious discomfort as she tugs on the ends of her hair cause him to discard each one. Instead, he keeps it simple.

“I appreciate that. May I join you, Swan?”

Her shoulders relax under the warmth of his smile. “That’s the idea. And you remembered my name.”

He winks as he sits. “I did pay for it.”

Her cheeks warm. “True, Killian.”

Now it’s his turn to blush. “And you remembered mine. Let me guess, it’s because it was on the umbrella.”

“No.”

She accompanies the word with a tiny smile and a sparkle in her eyes, and Killian Jones learns in that moment that Emma Swan says a lot with few words.

They linger over their bear claws and through two cups of coffee. In that time, Killian also learns that Emma reveals herself slowly and hesitantly. She does tell him why she was so desperate for a bear claw last Friday. She’s a bail bondsperson, and she had been up all night staking out a perp who never showed. It had left her irritated, tired, and pissed that she hadn’t been home with her son. The last piece of information is delivered with a sidelong glance, as if she’s waiting for him to find an excuse to make a quick exit. Her eyebrows lift to her hairline with surprise and pleasure when he asks about the lad instead. She’s still guarded in sharing about him, something he completely understands and respects.

It’s a text from Liam that brings their time together to an end. (Where the hell are you, little brother? Everyone’s waiting for their donuts!) He really doesn’t care about his pissed off brother or the fact that everyone’s going to have to settle for plain glazed this week. Emma was there, she was happy to see him, and she actually had a conversation with him. He’ll gladly be late and face the wrath of the entire office very damn Friday for that.

He knows that’s all he can hope for – running into her again next week. He sees how high her walls are, knows it will take patience and a gentle touch to scale them, so he tells her breakfast was lovely and walks out with his box of donuts. He’s surprised when he hears her breathless voice behind him, calling for him to wait.

“Your umbrella,” she tells him.

He hadn’t left without it on purpose, but he’s glad he did when he sees her flushed cheeks and bright eyes as she holds it out to him.

“Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

Their fingers brush as she hands it to him, and the spark between their skin emboldens him. He sets the box of donuts and the umbrella on the hood of his car and turns to her with a flirtatious arch of his brow.

“Don’t you think gratitude is in order?” he asks flirtatiously as he taps his lips.

The slow grin that spreads across her face says more than any words could. “Yeah, that’s what the thank you was for.”

“That’s all I get? For keeping you dry all day?” He ducks his head and gives her a heated look from beneath his lashes. He’s laying it on thick, but the light in her eyes eggs him on.

“Please,” she says with that arousing roll of her eyes, “you couldn’t handle it.”

He leans into her personal space. “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.” He pops the “t” as he gazes at her lips.

He really thought that all he would get from her was more heated banter. He hadn’t expected Emma Swan to grab him by the collar of his leather jacket and kiss the living hell out of him, but that’s exactly what she does. She kisses him roughly, her tongue assaulting his in the most glorious way. He kisses her back with equal fervor, and she pulls back for a heartbeat only to dive back in for more. When they finally part, breathless and unsteady on their feet, he’s thoroughly wrecked.

“That was . . . “ he has no words actually for what that was. The best kiss of his life, perhaps, but it sounds a little too intense to say that out loud.

“I don’t do relationships,” she tells him, her lips still a breath away, her hands still clutching his jacket.

He blinks, feeling a sort of emotional whiplash.

“Because of my son,” she continues. “It’s why I didn’t call even though I had your number. It’s why I almost left three times before you showed up today. It’s why I can’t -”

He silences her with a gentle hand to her cheek. “I understand, Emma.” He smiles gently as he thumbs her still wet lips. “Whatever we become, it’s up to you just as much as it is me.”

She relaxes immediately, taking his hand from her cheek and clasping it against her chest. “I don’t just want a kiss in a parking lot, though.”

He laughs softly. There she goes, saying a lot with few words again.

“Then how about this,” he says, lifting her hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, “I’ll be here at the same time next Friday, and if you wish, you can join me for a bear claw again.”

She blinks, her smile soft. “I think I can do that.”

Friday bear claws turn into Friday dinners, which turn into Saturday morning pancakes in his kitchen, which turn into Sunday afternoons sailing with her and her boy Henry, which turn into exchanging rings and a white picket fence. Until the day comes that he’s meeting another new face, this one with the most beautiful blue eyes he’s ever seen.

“Nice to meet you, Hope Jones,” he whispers.

 I’ve just seen a face. I can’t forget the time or place where we just met. She’s just the girl for me, and I want all the world to see we’ve met.

[theconservativebrief]

First, take a candle.

Then, pour some salt into your hand.

Then, keeping the grains in your palm, take a pen to write out a thank you to Christine Blasey Ford, the woman whose allegations of sexual assault against Supreme Court nominee — and now justice — Brett Kavanaugh, stunned a nation.

Or, if you prefer, simply say, “I believe you.”

It’s just one of the many quasi-religious rituals circulating the internet — particularly pagan and #resistance circles — in the wake of Kavanaugh’s confirmation. These rituals help self-identified witches process trauma, anger, and grief.

The Gratitude Spell was authored by Instagram user @celestight (who did not respond to request for comment) for the pagan political organization WitchtheVote, which mobilizes voters to support candidates that defend progressive and feminist causes. In this open-ended spell, participants might choose to make a sigil — a sacred sign — on the paper, or vary their tribute to Ford in accordance with their own personal experiences and history. They might, if they so choose, send their note to Ford directly.

No matter what, the message is the same. We’re in this together. I believe you.

Modern Wicca and other New Age traditions in the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s were tied to second-wave feminism. Witchcraft and ritual have become more prominently associated with progressive political causes in recent years with the rise of the contemporary #magicresistance. Last year, for example, a 13,000-strong Facebook group formed to cast regular binding spells on Donald Trump.

But in the aftermath of the bitter fight over Kavanaugh’s confirmation, during which the judge firmly denied sexual misconduct against Ford or other women who came forward with similar allegations, rituals have become more than just an emotionally rewarding part of political energy-raising. They’ve also become a form of self-care.

It makes sense that rituals — and magic — would provide an effective and therapeutic outlet for survivors of sexual violence. After all, we live in a world where 994 out of every 1,000 rapists escape criminal justice, according to the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN). We live in a world where — as theologian L. Gregory Jones pointed out last month — we have almost no socially cohesive rituals or structures by which abuse survivors can experience justice, or abusers can be rehabilitated.

These rituals of witchcraft, for some, fill a gap in the societal order by providing a structure and a vocabulary for issues that American culture more broadly has not yet satisfactorily addressed.

In the absence of effective, socially enforced structures by which abusers can face justice for their actions, rituals and ritual behavior take on a vital spiritual, psychological, and social role for survivors. They foster community and solidarity. They enable the processing of trauma. And for the 20 percent of Americans who identify as “spiritual but not religious,” rituals can provide a framework for finding meaning in trauma or pain.

Describing their meditation and ritualistic process, yoga teacher Laura Kelleher told Vox, “as a nonbinary genderfluid person I’m focusing on integrating my own feminine and masculine aspects and moreover the abusive and abused parts of my psyche.”

Rituals devoted to exploring these two elements, Kelleher said, double as a form of self-understanding: “What causes aggressive parts of me to force or manipulate unwilling parts of me to do things? What causes me to deny myself rest and connection? Where and how can I allow freer flow of both active and receptive energies to promote balance?”

The historical nature of witchcraft has made it a particularly fruitful field for ritual. As the organizers of an upcoming “Hex Kavanaugh” event at Catland, a pagan bookstore and supply shop in Brooklyn, put it on their event page, “We are embracing witchcraft’s true roots as the magik of the poor, the downtrodden and disenfranchised and it’s [sic] history as often the only weapon, the only means of exacting justice available to those of us who have been wronged by men just like him.”

View this post on Instagram

A Gratitude Spell for Dr. Christine Blasey Ford Tools: A candle and lighter/matches Salt Paper and pen/pencil Sit or stand wherever you’re comfortable. Ground yourself and light the candle. Pour some salt into one hand and hold it gently while you write a thank you to Dr. Ford, something like “Thank you Dr. Christine Blasey Ford for your courage and sacrifice” or even just a simple “I believe you, I support you”. You can make it a sigil if you want. Now sprinkle your salt over your note, and picture the salt glowing softly, blanketing the paper. Place your hands just above your salted note, not quite touching it. Close your eyes and picture all your gratitude and loving support pouring from your hands in the form of warm light. Feel its tinglies flowing from your palms and dancing around the note, making the salt sparkle like prisms. Picture the salt absorbing all of the abuse and threats that Dr. Ford and her family have suffered through this ordeal. Brush the salt off the note, sweeping all that gross energy away with it. When you feel you’ve poured all the support you can into the note and cleared all the salt off, picture Dr. Ford seeing it in front of her, reading it, and putting it in her pocket. Stay in this space with her for a few moments or longer. If you’d like to send your note to Dr. Ford, you can send it to: Christine Blasey Ford c/o Rep. Anna Enshoo 698 Emerson St. Palo Alto, CA 94301 If not, you can roll it up and carry it around like a talisman, bury it in one of your houseplants, or add it to a sacred space. The end of the spell is to take action. Read up on ballot questions, register your friends to vote, donate to organizations for sexual assault survivors if you can. Let survivors know you believe them. Don’t stop. : @sogayjen

A post shared by #witchthevote (@witchthevote) on Sep 28, 2018 at 8:40am PDT

Witchcraft’s historical association with subversive female power has only made it a more vital ritualistic tool for those working to regain a feeling of control in a political environment that many women see as seeking to deny their agency.

As Kristen J. Sollee, author of the book Witches, Sluts, and Feminists, told Vox, “Witchcraft is particularly powerful for women and folks on [the] feminine spectrum right now because we need tools steeped in community, empathy, and nature to both heal ourselves and fight the abuses of capitalist, white supremacist heteropatriarchy head on. Witchcraft is about conjuring strength and agency from within and not bowing down to arbitrary authority, so it’s a reminder that your oppressors, your trauma, and your government don’t have to define you — or break you. Ironically, the very practices that may have once spelled death for women centuries ago can now be life-saving.”

Different pagan organizations are taking different approaches to their rituals. The WitchtheVote spell focuses on solidarity and support among survivors.

Catland’s “Hex Kavanaugh” event focuses on retribution and redress — participants are invited to hex their own abusers alongside Kavanaugh — followed by a second ritual focused on healing for survivors. That ritual, which the organizers term the “Rite of the Scorned Ones,” “seeks to validate, affirm, uphold and support those of us who have been wronged and who refuse to be silent any longer.”

The Magic Resistance — the Facebook group behind the Trump hexing — also focused their ritual efforts on Kavanaugh. In a “Bind Kavanaugh” spell performed before the Senate voted to confirm Kavanaugh on Saturday practitioners lit a white candle, symbolizing justice and purity, and placed the Justice tarot card adjacent to it on an altar, before wrapping a black thread around a paper doll, symbolizing Kavanaugh, to bind him. Practitioners were encouraged to chant the names of Kavanaugh’s known accusers, binding him “in the name of” all those they believed he had wronged.

According to the group’s founder, magic practitioner Michael M. Hughes, author of Katelan Foisy prepares rituals to call upon the Native American figure of the Deer Woman. Katelan Foisy

Of course, for some practitioners, a vital question remains: Why keep doing magic if it doesn’t necessarily work?

Hughes, whose “Bind Kavanaugh” ritual did not stop Kavanaugh’s confirmation, said that rituals can work in different ways. Simply by galvanizing a despairing group of people to action, he said, a ritual can prove efficacious.

“I mean, we tried everything,” he said, referring to his attempts to stop Kavanaugh’s confirmation. “Sit-ins at [Sen. Susan] Collins’s office. … Constantly calling senators. Emailing. Signing petitions. When you’ve exhausted all your tools, and you see the awful people winning, it can lead to despair. … So we need to do things to counter that despair and hopelessness. Ritual is powerful in that respect. Putting aside questions of its efficacy, it absolutely works in transforming consciousness and empowering those who do it.”

Original Source -> We “refuse to be silent any longer”: magic as self-care after Kavanaugh

via The Conservative Brief