#not including franklin sleeping in the bed unfortunately

[here-a-lee-there-a-lee]

their entire dynamic

[vitaliskravtsov]

For Spotify wrapped - #88 and nurseydex or patater! :)

okay ngl this is a bit of a toughie bc this one is instrumental but i did my best!!!!!!!

88) the thrombey estate - knives out soundtrack

patater!!

Alexei is kind of absolutely bone-tired from the drive and he’s even more tired from camp, and more than anything, he wants to just pass out on his sofa. 

Unfortunately, it’s like 3pm and any passing out will just mean that he’ll wake up at about 2am, starving and unable to go back to sleep, so he has to tough it out.

That’s what he uses to explain why he’s seeing another person in his house, his brand-new house (okay, it’s an apartment), and doesn’t question it. 

The realtor had told him the house had history in the community, whatever that meant, but the plumbing was good and there was no water damage, so he’d taken it without interrogating that statement too deeply.

Now, though, he’s staring down a five-foot-seven blonde kid who looks like he’s straight out of an eighties sports mag.

“Mmh,” he grunts, and throws his stuff at the floor. 

The boy stares at him.

“That’ll dent,” he says, vowels lilting just a little. Weird accent.

“Mmh,” Alexei says again.

“Eat,” the boy says, and then stalks off.

Eventually, Alexei does get up and get a protein shake going. He pours it over a bowl of pasta, immediately regrets the decision, and eats the whole thing anyway.

He’s not as concerned as he should be, but by the time he goes to bed, the boy is gone, so it’s probably fine.

Over the next couple of weeks, he keeps appearing in Alexei’s house, staring at Alexei’s Russian books or petting Alexei’s sticks or leaving little notes about the decor (or the dishes, or the cooking situation, which is maybe a little more abysmal than it should be after two and a half years on his own).

He’s pretty, in an ethereal, incomprehensible, untouchable way.

He’s kind of horribly, awfully, exactly, Alexei’s type.

As the season progresses, he starts leaving hockey-related notes, but also commentary on Alexei’s music selection and on Alexei’s nutrition -- notably different from the cooking-based notes in that these have to do with macronutrients and vitamins and some things Alexei’s not entirely sure how to pronounce, at least in English -- and Alexei discovers that the boy likes Ziggy Stardust and Metallica and Aretha Franklin and Queen, and he stars putting that on more when he knows they’re both around the house.

The hockey notes are good, too, if focused on kind of old-school stuff, but Alexei doesn’t mind; he’s always down to try new stuff in his play, and he does start producing more, so. It’s a win in his book.

He learns, eventually, that the boy is called Kent and that he’s from the hellhole of a city that Alexei cannot begin to imagine why anyone would choose to live in if they weren’t here for hockey.

He starts watching movies with Alexei, too, and in that, their tastes are more similar. Kent is kind of game for anything, including Disney movies, and Alexei’s desire for Russian subtitles or dubs at the end of a long day is very on board with that.

It’s -- it’s nice, to cohabitate with someone who never generates any dishes (or if he does, meticulously puts them away totally clean) and never makes a mess, and who seems to instinctively understand when Alexei needs to be alone.

It’s really fucking nice.

Alexei blames that on the wire-crossing that happens one night when he gets home from a game and sees Kent on the couch, sprawled out all warm and inviting, and his brain, the little part of his brain that still misses the piece of shit who dumped him when he realised Alexei would never be a millionaire, says kiss your boyfriend, and Alexei does, no hesitation.

Or, well, he tries to, because his lips go straight through Kent’s forehead and he lands face first in the arm of the couch, confused and hurt, lips and nose smarting.

When he lifts his head, Kent is gone.

[phlistopher]

Sleep Writing

I wrote a humor column in college for the Hofstra Chronicle under the pseudonym Silence Doless, a nod to Benjamin Franklin I didn't come up with.

I was very proud of this work at the time. It's all very Hofstra specific, and the mid 2000s. Against my better judgement, I've decided to republish the series here.

This is the fourth column, originally published October 16th, 2007. Commentary at the end.

Sleep. Everybody needs it, but these days, who has the time? I certainly don’t, what with class, homework, a social life, and writing this column every week. I routinely find myself tired and sleepy from too many nights spent away from my pillow, the effects of which almost always crop up at the least opportune moments. Take for example, right now. While writing these very words I dozed off twice, bringing my writing speed up to a blistering three words a minute. See? I’m so tired I can’t even make a decent joke out of that.

You all know how it goes. You spring out of bed early Monday morning, brush your teeth, comb your hair, throw on a mask and cape, dash out the door and into class just in time to wrestle your philosophy professor because you disagree with his interpretation of Hobbes.

Then you wake up.

Groggily you check the time, firmly decide, “No way.” and promptly fall back asleep. Several hours later you wake up again and move blearily throughout the rest of the day. You promise yourself an early night, but somehow something incredibly interesting is always going on. Whether that interesting thing is IMDBing that entire cast of Family Matters or sitting in a lounge and counting how many people use the word “like” in a sentence, is not the point. The point is that now it’s 2am and you have to wake up early the next morning.

This process repeats until Thursday, when you realize you’ve been far too busy not sleeping to do any of your homework. Terrified, you throw your tired bones at your work. Only you’re still extremely tired and your homework starts getting jumbled together with all the other things you haven’t been doing. Next thing you know you’re quoting Steve Urkle for a paper on the French and Indian War (Did I do that?), citing that the brain functions on a network of bad valley girl grammar for psyche, and vehemently stating that the only sensibly counter argument to Hobbes is a headlock. Ultimately, this does not garner good grades, even among professors who like Family Matters and or Calvin.

Still tired and newly despondent about red marks accompanied by strange looks and warnings about the dangers of LSD, you hit the weekend ready to let loose and enjoy yourself. Obviously you get no sleep. By Sunday you shake off a hang over and to scramble to write your humor column, but halfway through you realize you don’t write the humor column. Now you don’t even get the satisfaction of publication.

Crumpling up your column, you vow to get even with that snot faced, dirty trick pulling Silence Doless if it’s the last thing you do. Unfortunately, Silence Doless does not appear on Facebook, nor is sdoles1@pride.hofstra.edu a valid email address, yet you swear to track him down regardless, even if it means resorting to the use of the extremely realistic drawing included in this column. But am I really to blame? The easy answer is yes, but the complex, subtle answer is no, which is my personal favorite.

That answer has a lot to do with being an overworked American, resorting priorities away from blind capitalism, and living better, more productive, and ultimately happier lives based around generous amounts of sleep for all.

I would explain all of that, but I’m way too tired.

The content isn’t too cringy on this one, so that’s good. There’s some structure and callbacks, so that’s nice. I never watched Family Matters, so I must have been latching on to that as a cultural reference everyone else would know. Is it funny? I certainly can’t say, which probably points to “no”.

[jungle-angel]

Out in the Middle: Part 6 (Rhett x Reader)

Summary: Rodeo season comes to Bozeman and for both the Duttons and the Abbotts, it’s more than just an event.....it’s a way of life.

Notes: This might have to be a two parter since I’ve got alot to go through, especially in the way of characters, but as always my good people, enjoy

Dutton Land

7:02 am

October, 2022

The sheets rustled as two small figures crawled their way up the foot of the bed, nestling themselves in between you and Rhett who were completely dead to the world, the sun barely up as the daylight hours had begun to dwindle. 

Rhett rolled over, slinging one arm around the two little boys, both of them wriggling and laughing as their father’s grip on them pinned them to the bed. “You two lil monsters better not disturb your mother,” he mumbled.

Frankie and Harvey continued to roll and wriggle under the weight of their father’s arm before Rhett finally let them go, the two of them crawling all over Rhett. “Dada gonna ride the bulls?” Frankie asked him. 

“Yes Frankie,” Rhett yawned. “Daddy’s gonna ride the bulls.” 

You rolled over to face your husband, your fingertips brushing his stubble lined jaw. “You’d better get up before the rest of the ghouls beat you to it,” you laughed. 

Rhett carefully lifted Franklin and Harvey down to the floor before leaning over to kiss you. “Still too early darlin,” he groaned. “The older ones’ll sleep till noon if we let’em. I don’t think they’re gonna wanna miss today.” 

“Alright, we’ll let’em sleep,” you told him. 

Rhett threw aside the covers with Franklin and Harvey following him out of the room, their tiny little feet flapping on the hard wooden floors. Down the stairs he went, the whole house filled with a comfortable heat from the fireplace where the flames crackled away. John, Royal and Cecelia were already awake, the smell of black coffee hanging heavy in the living room and in the kitchen. 

“Ah the thing is awake,” Royal remarked as Rhett and the twins made their way down the stairs. “What time did you go to bed?” 

“Early enough,” Rhett chuckled as he helped himself to the coffee. “These two little ghouls though, decided to ring the morning bell.” 

“(Y/n) still asleep?” John asked. 

“She will be,” Rhett answered. “Rodeo’s not till later in the day but we’ve got a shitload of work to do.” 

“That we do,” Cecelia said as her grandsons began to crawl up into the sofa next to her. “Gotta get horses and bulls all loaded up, everybody’s gotta check in. Hate to say it, but it’s probably gonna be a shithouse mess.” 

“Yeah and monkeys flingin’ shit in every direction,” John laughed. 

“Ya’ll are one to talk, John Dutton,” Cecelia pointed out. “Lest we forget when you and Royal were at the community college out here, you two were in a competition where you both fell and both broke your butts. Evelyn and I had to nurse the two of ya’ll for a week straight.” 

Rhett snorted a little upon hearing the story, but quickly stopped himself lest he receive a smack on the side of the head from his mother. 

It wasn’t long before others in the house had begun to awaken, kids and adults included. Amy and Tate both stumbled into the hallways, wrapped in the warm blankets from their beds and their hair sticking up at both ends. Evie and Joey Wheeler opened the doors to their rooms, the muffled sounds of AC/DC’s “Snowballed” echoing down the halls from Joey’s room. 

“Joey!” Rip called as he opened the door to his and Beth’s room. 

“Yeah dad?” 

“What’d I tell you about the radio in the mornings?” 

“Turn that shit off or you’ll wake your brother,” Joey answered, imitating his father. 

Rip groaned and rolled his eyes as three year old Cody darted out of the room. “Is it rodeo day already?” Beth groaned, rubbing her eyes. 

“Unfortunately baby,” Rip groaned. 

“Dear God I need a drink,” Beth sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Baby it’s seven in the mornin.” 

“Then make me an Irish coffee, I’m gonna need it,” Beth told him.

“Yes dear,” Rip chuckled. 

“Extra Bailey’s and a pinch of Evan Williams,” Beth called, her voice trailing as she headed for the shower in their bathroom.

Rip laughed a little, heading downstairs with Evie and the boys. “Mornin headcases,” he greeted. 

“The hell did you two do last night?” Rhett asked, noting Rip’s slightly disheveled appearance. 

“Well it all started when Beth decided she was gonna put on a little show,” Rip answered. 

A few groans came from the grown ups while Amy and Tate pretended to stick their fingers down their throats, feigning a gagging noise. 

“Hey, watch your mouth mister, that’s still my daughter,” John warned him.

The rest of the house rose with the noise, Monica and Kayce included while Wes, Nora and their little brood all rose from their beds and joined everybody else. You were the last to join Rhett, leaning against him sleepily before you kissed him and the deep flavor of coffee lingering in his breath. 

“You hungry?” you asked him. 

“Sorta,” he mumbled. “The kids will be hankerin for something. Maybe pack’em a box before we go too.” 

“Those little bento things?” 

Rhett nodded. Those things had been a lifesaver, keeping the kids full at school and on the road whenever you two and the kids traveled with the rodeo circuit. “You want me to do it?” you asked him. 

“Nah, you girls have done enough,” Rhett answered. “I’ll take care of it.”

You kissed his cheek, grateful that you, Beth, Monica and Nora had such amazing husbands. 

As soon as the kids were up, it was full speed ahead for everybody to get ready for the evening. The older kids were all roped in to help with whatever they could while the younger ones still had the immense privilege of being able to run around and play. 

Thomas and Mo both arrived with their wives and grandkids in tow to help with whatever was needed, whether it was with loading the animals into the trailers, prepping the saddles for the horses or a number of other chores that needed doing. Even Felix and Monica’s brothers had all come to help, though his help was unfortunately limited. 

“Alright girlies, c’mon,” Monica said as she led Hannah, Evie and the other girls into the stables. “You girls can help me.” 

Hannah, Amy, Evie, Theresa and Rosey all followed her into the stables where Teeter and Avery were chipping away at their work. Sunlight poured in through the barred windows of the stables, the horses just as eager as the kids to get going.

“I love and fuckin hate rodeo season at the same time,” Teeter grunted as she lifted a bale of hay into the trough. 

“Girl, you and me both,” Avery chuckled. “Just promise me one thing though?” 

“What?” 

“Don’t get kicked off a horse,” Avery said. “I’m pretty sure the last thing Colby wants to see is you walking into the church cross-eyed.” 

“Ya’ll kiddin?” Teeter laughed. “Ma Meemaw got kicked on the back o’the head by a mule’n went all cross-eyed. Pepaw took one look at’er on their weddin’ day and went, HOLY SHIT! Ma bride’s all cross-eyed!” 

Avery laughed, a piggish snort drawing in through her nostrils. Monica had no idea what the hell she had just walked in on, but it was still funny all the same. 

“Alright ladies,” Monica said. “You ready?” 

“Not really,” Teeter answered with a smirk. 

Monica rolled her eyes and took a small lighter out of her shirt pocket. “Well,” she said. “We’re gonna do this either way.” 

From her bag, Monica drew a rounded shell and a bundle of dried white leaves, the hints of green barely noticeable until she lit the end and the heavy, smokey trails soon beginning to fill the stables. 

“Whatcha doin Auntie?” Hannah asked. 

“Blessing the horses for the rodeo,” Monica answered. “So that way your Daddy and your uncles will have a good ride.” 

The girls all watched, their little eyes still fixed on Monica as they followed her through the stables. The horses were as calm as ever, even Teeter’s horse who was just as nuts as she was, calmed by the smell of the burning sage and the air growing lighter. 

“You girls wanna help put the paint on some of the horses later?” she asked. 

“YEAH!!!!!!” 

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

The clap of hooves along the dirt covered ground and the whistles and shouts of the men filled the paddock as they herded the bulls up into the corral, the moos and snorts of the ornery males and clunking of hooves on the metal ramps marrying together with the other noises. 

Rhett breathed in and let it out, nervous at the thought of the encroaching event. Of course, he had a feeling that he would do well, but bull riding was as unpredictable as tornado season......and just as dangerous. 

You rode up to him a minute later, whipping out your phone to take a picture of the bulls being herded into the trailers. “You ok baby?” you asked him, noticing the nervous look on his face. 

“Hmm?” Rhett hummed. “Oh yeah, yeah I’m good.” 

You knew that tone and you knew it well. “Rhett Abbott, don’t you give me that,” you said, pretending to be stern with him. “C’mon, what’s wrong?” 

Rhett sighed, knowing their was no getting it past you. “Just a little nervous is all,” he said. 

You scratched the back of his neck, tugging at the stray ends that were beginning to curl, his hand reaching up to hold yours. “You’ll do fine,” you assured him. “You always have and you always will.” 

Rhett took your hand and brought it to his lips, a smile forming against the back of it. “Thank you baby,” he murmured. “Thank you.” 

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/30-10/31 (IT AIN’T OVER YET!): DISCONNECTED (1984) + PERSONAL SHOPPER

One night on a double date at a local night club, sweet, shy Alicia (Frances Raines) tries to tell the foursome about a strange experience she has had that day: She let an old man into her apartment to use her telephone, but he mysteriously vanished before she could let him back out. Her friends are not interested. Her boyfriend Mark (director Gorman Bechard), a smug radio DJ, dismisses her story as some sort of misunderstanding, and her vivacious twin Barbara Ann (Raines) cuts her off entirely by flirting openly with Mark, insinuating that she was with him that afternoon. This is the last straw in what appears to be an ongoing problem for Alicia. Outside in Mark's car, she refuses to accept his denial of sleeping with Barbara Ann, beginning an agonizing breakup process that drags out for days. Even at her job, Alicia can't seem to establish any personal boundaries; an awkward young stranger called Franklin (Mark Walker) visits during her shift at the video store, and reveals that he doesn't even own a tape player--he just found out who she was and where she worked from other club patrons the previous evening. Alicia rebuffs his unseemly advances at first, but with the insulting drama still festering between Mark and her manipulative sister, loneliness sets in. She could use some company to help insulate her anyway, since their town is plagued by a killer of young women...and stranger still, Alicia's telephone has taken on a mind of its own, broadcasting otherworldly sounds into her apartment, slowly driving her mad. She has a difficult decision to make about who or what she can trust, but it may be that there is no correct choice.

Gorman Bechard's atmospheric 1984 oddity DISCONNECTED follows in the footsteps of CARNIVAL OF LOST SOULS, joining a subset of subdued psychological thrillers about women alone. In Herk Harvey's 1962 classic, Candace Hilligoss plays Mary Henry, a withdrawn young woman who moves far from home after a traumatic accident. Where she hoped to find peace, she is stalked by a spectral male figure, and receives no help from the locals, who are all suspicious or covetous of her. The boundary between the living and the dead begins to dissolve, mirroring her increasingly ambivalent relationships with other human beings. Mary is torn between her longing for solitude and her fear of impending doom, having to choose between an intrusive suitor, and being left alone with her cadaverous stalker. Mary's unforgettable journey through her desolate surroundings, her isolation interrupted only by enemies both open and hidden, describes an experience that many female viewers have found familiar. Social life portends various threats--judgmental elders who pick at your morals and appearance, jealous females, emotionally and physically violent males--while solitude offers obliterating blankness, like a desert whose expansive monotony renders meaningless the defining lines of past, future, and self. In modern times, this distinctly female experience is complicated by the evolution of personal communication media. The telephone in particular--which has been historically and rather demeaningly associated with girls--is both a channel through which to reach out and touch someone, and an opening through which unwanted attention can insinuate itself into our lives. Two years ago, I saw DISCONNECTED--a loopy microbudget slasher movie from Waterbury, Connecticut--and one of my first thoughts was that it was somehow just like PERSONAL SHOPPER, Olivier Assayas' heady cyberpunk-flavored thriller from 2016, in which a servant to the stars receives threatening text messages from someone who may or may not be among the living. I've been trying to put the two together in writing ever since.

In PERSONAL SHOPPER, Kristen Stewart plays introverted American Maureen, the virtual slave of supermodel Kyra (Nora von Waldstatten). Maureen is a stranger in a strange land, travelling relentlessly around Europe to procure garments and jewels for her boss in Paris, and on her personal time, conducting a psychic survey of her late brother Lewis's mansion. Twin mediums Maureen and Lewis promised one another that whoever died first would send the other a sign from across the divide; Maureen has been waiting since his untimely heart attack for him to hold up his end of the bargain. So far she has only witnessed some scattered poltergeitic activity, along with the manifestation of a ferocious, unknown female specter, but the clock is ticking, as the manse is mid-sale to Lewis’ friends. Furthermore, it is her employment with the tyrannical Kyra that allows her to stay in Paris and wait for a sign from Lewis, so Maureen’s freedom also is dependent on the resolution of this situation. When she meets Kyra's arrogant lover Ingo (Lars Eidinger), he inappropriately insists that he can get her a better job elsewhere, but she explains that she can't change her life until she has closure with her brother. Shortly after this unpleasant encounter, Maureen begins to receive intrusive texts from an unknown caller. Due to her unusual relationship to the dead, she can't be sure if her new stalker is a part of her world, or not.

PERSONAL SHOPPER has very much the flavor of William Gibson’s speculative fiction novel Pattern Recognition, in "cool hunter” Cayce Pollard has the extra-sensory ability to detect what new designs will become popular next. Cayce’s special power manifests as a crippling allergy, and so she tries to remain in timeless, fashion-neutral clothes and settings whenever possible. Psychic Maureen feels a similar kind of existential ambivalence toward the super luxe materials she excels at curating for her client.

Maureen spends much of her screen time alone. Most of her personal contacts are with salespeople; she virtually never sees Kyra in person, and her boyfriend Gary (Ty Olwin) lives in Oman, which may as well be another world. Her chief relationship is to her dead brother, who is literally in another world, and who responds with frustrating ambiguity to her pleas for a clear message, even as his mansion rumbles with unexplainable activity. This void of connection seems somehow related to Maureen's tenuous sense of personal identity. With no close connections, she cannot accurately detect her own contours. Maureen is totally sublimated into Kyra's life, simply an extremity that grasps for whatever Kyra needs. At the same time, she is subject to Lewis's will, unable to make any moves--even to protect herself--until her late brother deigns to give her peace. Maureen's identity is entirely determined by other people, including the mystery caller who lures her into a confessional conversation with him. Although this third figure is the most predatory of them all, he is also the one who teases out the threads of Maureen's fraying individuality. When she admits to trying on Kyra's clothing, just because she's not allowed to, he entices her to stay in Kyra's bed while she's away, further feeling out her own limits. This is the only way Maureen can establish a self that is independent of the context of others: by violating the taboos established by those others. The rule-breaking method of finding oneself is an integral part of the human condition, as explained by media theorist Marshall McLuhan in a discussion of the self in the age of social media:

"Yes, all forms of violence are quests for identity. When you live out on the frontier, you have no identity. You are a nobody. Therefore, you get very tough. You have to prove that you are somebody. So you become very violent. Identity is always accompanied by violence. This seems paradoxical to you? Ordinary people find the need for violence as they lose their identities. It is only the threat to people’s identity that makes them violent. Terrorists, hijackers - these are people minus identity. They are determined to make it somehow, to get coverage, to get noticed."     

By breaking Kyra's rules just on principle, Maureen moves toward self-actualization. Unfortunately, this comes at a cost, as the mystery caller who encourages this process wants to possess her just as much as Kyra and Lewis already do.

Maureen's phone has become a ouija board-like portal to another plane, through which alien forces can cross over and affect our fate. In DISCONNECTED, Alicia suffers from a similar problem. Alicia's social isolation, and the increasingly meaningless division between life and death for her, is underlined by the fact that she lives on the edge of a cemetery. Her phone is her connection to the world--to the ambiguous Franklin, to her sister who she can neither accept nor reject, to Mark who she can't quite leave behind. She can't get rid of this device, even when it starts to ring almost constantly, with a horrifying, vaguely vocal-sounding barrage of electronic noise on the other end. As in PERSONAL SHOPPER, Alicia is largely seen alone, pacing in her apartment, wandering teary-eyed in the depopulated streets of Waterbury, and eyeing her phone with nervous anticipation. She finds herself living out an appalling version of the classic Twilight Zone episode "Night Call," in which Elva, an old widow longing for her late husband, is harassed by increasingly disturbing phone calls from beyond the grave. Like Elva and Maureen, Alicia also suffers from the conflation of companionship and otherworldly threat: Just as she doesn't understand the source of the distorted calls, she also doesn't know that Franklin--her potential savior from this dark chapter of her life--is a serial murderer, planning to have her for his next victim. When Barbara Ann makes a move on him, perpetuating the cycle of sororal abuse that started with Mark, Franklin kills her instead, removing one of Alicia’s few contacts with the rest of humanity.

BTW, even though Alicia eventually takes a liking to Franklin (center), her experience at the video store--here, trapped between an aggressive suitor and a similarly aggressive porn consumer--forms the most realistic portrait of retail hell for girls that I have ever seen in my life. When Franklin first arrives, announcing that a) the movies there aren’t good enough for his refined tastes, b) he doesn’t even own a video player, and c) he’s only there because he’s stalked Alicia from her local watering hole, his intensely condescending attitude and presupposing come-ons gave me a hardcore PTSD reaction from the many years I spent behind the counter of a comic book store. Yuck.

While Alicia doesn't understand what is happening until it's almost too late, Maureen's situation escalates horrifically when her latest jewelry delivery brings her face to face with Kyra's mutilated corpse. As she reels from this gruesome sight, she also detects a malevolent presence vibrating deeper in the apartment that sends her fleeing in terror. When she goes to the police, her mystery caller suddenly becomes more sinister, demanding to know whether she has told the cops about him. In short order, the caller tries to blackmail her into meeting him in a hotel room, but this climactic union is circumvented by the police: It was Ingo guiding Maureen's journey of self-discovery, and Ingo who killed Kyra. The revelation is enormously painful, not because Ingo is so important, but because he managed to victimize Maureen using her most uniquely personal characteristic: her relationship to the supernatural. She believed that something personally significant was happening to her, according to her special understanding of the world, but she was merely being preyed upon by a violent narcissist. Her profound belief in her own paranormal sensitivity--the one thing she is sure of, that distinguishes her from others--is what made her vulnerable to the insistent texts begin with: She wondered if it was Lewis texting her. Ingo exploits Maureen's convictions about herself to perpetrate a deadly fraud, leaving her violated and humiliated. Even though we witness the presence of an unseen entity (Lewis? Kyra?) moving through the hotel, perhaps influencing Ingo's capture, Maureen is left to suffer for being gullible and vulnerable, to mourn her own privacy.

Of course, Maureen's journey is not over yet, and Alicia receives a similar shock with a full half an hour to go in DISCONNECTED. She is rescued by her own screams on her last date with Franklin, as the sounds of their skirmish draw the police to his apartment where they summarily execute Alicia's would-be killer. Now she is left with almost no worldly connections at all--save for the malign presence that keeps calling her phone, blasting her with waves of mind-melting noise. To make matters worse, there seems to be a new victim in the rash of murders previously tied to the late Franklin. Alicia plunges into a spiral of nihilistic despair, in which her closest relationship is with her conniving ex--mediated by the phone, and by his radio show where he dedicates songs to her--second only to the mystery caller who dials her number several times an hour. Craving a human connection, Alicia eventually relents and lets Mark take her out again, and things seem to be on the upswing...until Alicia returns home to find that something worse than electronic fuzz has entered her home, to put an end to her misery. We don't share her final vision, but we do see the mysterious old man (William Roberts) from the beginning of the movie, the fellow she let in to use her telephone, strolling into the cemetery--presumably, from whence he came.

Like Alicia in the aftermath of Franklin’s death, Maureen also has to find a new way to survive after an episode of shocking violence. For Maureen, the only way through is out. As she prepares to leave Lewis' mansion, she encounters his widow's new beau, Erwin (Anders Danielsen Lie). This encounter crystalizes the movie's themes regarding time. Early in PERSONAL SHOPPER, Maureen is turned on to the visionary paintings of Hilma af Klint, a 19th century painter who claimed that she made her art at the behest of ghosts. She mandated that her work only be revealed to the public after her death, creating a communication channel between the deep past and the distant future. Maureen argues with her doctor about the future; he insists that her brother's heart attack was purely anomalous, but Maureen sees no reason why the same thing couldn't happen to her. She sees no future for herself, and is chained to the past by the ghost of her brother, who withholds the spiritual message that would allow her to move on. Lewis thought a lot about the future, Maureen remarks cynically to her doctor, despite the fact that he was ultimately deprived of one. Later, Lewis' widow Lara (Sigrid Bouaziz) explains that she feels the future is in flux and unknowable--a desirable quality, in her book--and so she is moving on to be with Erwin. So, when Maureen encounters Erwin on her final night in Paris, they have a pointed conversation about the shackles of the past and the fossilizing force of guilt on one's life. Lewis's ghost cruelly teases Maureen at the end of the scene, demanding attention but refusing to reveal himself. With nothing to show for her devotion to her brother, she flees Europe.

In both DISCONNECTED and PERSONAL SHOPPER, the archetype of the twins is used to describe opposing states of being, and the threat of having one’s life usurped by another version of oneself. Alicia's sister Barbara Ann is lively, sensuous, and self-serving: everything that Alicia is unable to be, and the consumer of everything Alicia wants for herself. With her unrealistic desires for honesty and compassion, Alicia is the more death-oriented twin: cut off from social life, deprived of pleasure by more ambitious people, and vulnerable to parasitic attacks from both sides of the mortal veil. Alicia even dreams of Barbara Ann murdering her, and literally taking her place in bed with Mark. Maureen's twin Lewis is described by his survivors as passionate and living on the strength of his own convictions; Although Maureen still lives, she is inert, somehow chained to him, slavishly waiting for him to grant her release, though he is content to torment and manipulate her. The protagonists of both films are subjugated to these duplicates who refuse to stay on their side.

Maureen flees to Oman to reunite with her boyfriend Gary--heretofore only a pixelated image in a video chat who begs her to give up her commitment to the kingdom of death, insisting that only the material world exists and is waiting to embrace her. Of course, when Maureen arrives in Gary's placid and spartan world at what may as well be the end of the universe, her problems have followed her. We will never see Gary in the flesh; he has left a written note of welcome for Maureen, which she reads just as she detects a supernatural presence in his dwelling. Hoping against hope that Lewis is finally reaching out to her, she asks out loud: “Is it you? Are you at peace? Are you not at peace? ...Or is it just me?” And, hauntingly, she hears a ghostly knock in the affirmative for every question.

The ambiguity of this ending has troubled some viewers, although multiple interpretations present themselves which are not mutually exclusive. In the most literal sense, Maureen can be seen as a terminally frustrated Carrie White-like figure who causes material disturbances with the power of her own inner turmoil. The paranormal phenomena she perceives are, indeed, “just her”. On a more metaphorical level, we can see that Maureen is haunted by her own grief, over her brother, and also over her failure to forge a life of her own. In her mind, her brother was a superior life force to which she remains subservient; she identified herself entirely as a receiver for his message, and without his active participation in her life, she loses all sense of purpose. She scrutinizes ghostly disturbances and the spiritual conduit of the telephone to inform her place in the world. Without an internal, independent reason for being, people like herself, and like Alicia, are forever haunted.

[f4liveblogarchives]

Fantastic Four Vol 1 #228

Thurs Apr 30 2020 [07:47 PM] Wack'd: Johnny never struck me as a "literal jump for joy" kind of guy but he might just want to piss off Ben

[07:48 PM] Bocaj: I tried to do that jump and click heels thing but I don't wear shoes that click so I don't know why I bothered [07:49 PM] Wack'd: Hey so remember that girl at the racetrack Johnny turned down because he was nostalgic for Crystal? Well he's cool now and they're goin out

[07:49 PM] Bocaj: I can see how she won him over. "I've got a jacuzzi at my place" "You **DO**--?" [07:50 PM] Wack'd: Anyway Lorrie is coming over to meet the family so Johnny must be serious about her [07:51 PM] Wack'd: Unfortunately for him Reed just made a last-minute doctor's appointment for Franklin to use his neurologist friend's machine to peek at his mind [07:51 PM] Bocaj: Uh [07:51 PM] Bocaj: Sure [07:52 PM] Umbramatic: wha [07:52 PM] maxwellelvis: I smell wacky sitc-oh [07:52 PM] Wack'd: Sue is like "springing this on Franklin might make him freak out" and Reed, is...a good parent? [07:52 PM] maxwellelvis: Alert the Times [07:52 PM] Wack'd: He's like "hey, why don't we just be straight with Franklin and ask him if this is something he's okay with" [07:53 PM] Bocaj: Hello, The Times? This is your cousin, Marty. Do you know that headline you were looking for? Well listen to THIS [07:53 PM] Wack'd: And Franklin's like "yeah okay that sounds like a good idea, I also want to make sure I know how not to hurt people" [07:53 PM] Wack'd: A smart kid [07:54 PM] Umbramatic: this is going suspiciously well [07:55 PM] Wack'd: Hey, Ben. Buddy. Stop it

[07:55 PM] Bocaj: aw ben c'mon [07:56 PM] Wack'd: Thankfully he quickly regains his composure [07:56 PM] maxwellelvis: Before he drools so much he could be mistaken for Niagara Falls [07:57 PM] Wack'd: Anyway Reed's like "hey why doesn't everyone come with us to get Franklin's head checked out" for. Some reason [07:58 PM] Wack'd: Lorrie's a gearhead so she's into the idea of hanging around and riding in the Fantasticar [07:58 PM] Wack'd: BEN C'MON

[08:01 PM] Wack'd: Anyway, turns out the guy running Franklin's tests is one of Reed and Ben's old college professors. He is not a fan of Ben's attitude [08:03 PM] Wack'd: So Franklin's tests begin! They start with card guessing. Franklin's not great at it [08:04 PM] Bocaj: Do neurologists usually test ESP [08:04 PM] Wack'd: The professor points out that if Franklin's powers come at moments of stress it's likely that he's simply not got them turned on right now, chemically speaking [08:05 PM] Wack'd: Reed's like "we're not traumatizing my kid for science" and the professor's like "well no, obviously not, but we might be able to do something else to create that chemical reaction in his brain as needed" [08:05 PM] maxwellelvis: "You're not drugging my kid for science" [08:05 PM] Wack'd: Oh no, nothing so mundane [08:06 PM] maxwellelvis: You have me on tenterhooks. [08:06 PM] Umbramatic: oh no [08:07 PM] Wack'd: So what the scientist actually says is "we might be able to help Franklin achieve a state of such zen that he can manipulate his own brain chemicals." But the pictures tell...a different story

[08:07 PM] Bocaj: Garnet shoves the doctor aside. "Here comes a thought" [08:08 PM] Umbramatic: eeep [08:08 PM] maxwellelvis: "In such a state, one could walk on hot coals, sleep on a bed of spikes, and get a shot from the doctor without being scared or even needing a lollipop!" [08:08 PM] Wack'd: He's having his blood pressure taken actually [08:09 PM] maxwellelvis: Mine's funnier [08:09 PM] Wack'd: Anyway a quick google reveals that biofeedback is a real thing insofar as it's something that didn't originate in this comic [08:10 PM] Wack'd: It's apparently really good for stopping urinary incontinence in people with vaginas, and okay in dealing with some mental disorders, but doesn't work for much else [08:11 PM] Bocaj: Neurologist: "So we can't prove for sure it doesn't work for superpowers HUH??" [08:11 PM] Wack'd: Forty years have passed and most scientific studies on it are comparatively recent [08:12 PM] Phantom: and none on superpowers :P? [08:12 PM] Wack'd: So at a guess this was basically a health trend for the sort of folks who these days think LaCroix is a health treatment [08:12 PM] Phantom: probably [08:13 PM] Wack'd: The LaCroix comparison might be way too generous, we're in Sawbones territory now

[08:14 PM] Bocaj: Eesh [08:14 PM] Wack'd: Anyway Mr. "With Enough Mindfulness You Can Cure Cancer" decides to try hypnosis therapy on Franklin [08:14 PM] maxwellelvis: "You're not a real doctor, are you?" [08:15 PM] Wack'd: This man's classes were part of Reed's doctorate program [08:16 PM] Wack'd: Johnny and Lorrie meanwhile decide to go on a date and do the Superman thing

[08:17 PM] Wack'd: Freddie Mercury: You've made a powerful enemy this day, Human Torch

[08:19 PM] Wack'd: Franco Mercury challenges Johnny to a game of chicken in his portion of the Fantasticar [08:19 PM] Wack'd: Interspersed with Franklin finally getting in the machine [08:20 PM] Wack'd: I feel like there's supposed to be some kinda causal link but I have no idea what on Earth it might be

[08:20 PM] Wack'd:

[08:20 PM] Bocaj: Franklin was Johnny all along? [08:21 PM] Wack'd: So Franklin's brain vomited some "psychic ectoplasm" [08:21 PM] Bocaj: Wow this guy is dipping into every bit of paranormal bric a brac [08:21 PM] Bocaj: Are we sure his degree is real [08:22 PM] maxwellelvis: Are we sure Reed wasn't also classmates with Ray or Egon? [08:22 PM] Umbramatic: his degree is in "quackology" [08:22 PM] Wack'd: The true identity of the narrator of The Amazing World of Ghosts [08:22 PM] Bocaj: Do Reed Mi Egon [08:23 PM] Wack'd: ...what

[08:24 PM] Wack'd: Franklin...vomited his brain into this guy? And...and now Franklin's Franco? [08:26 PM] Umbramatic: Franklin Meurcury [08:26 PM] Wack'd: Boy, science is really taking some kinda beating this issue

[08:27 PM] Bocaj: Uhhhhhhhhhh [08:27 PM] Bocaj: Franklin is too powerful for his angsts to be doing this [08:27 PM] Umbramatic: science: "i love the young people" [08:28 PM] Bocaj: I EAT KIDS [08:28 PM] Wack'd: Yay Sue! Also not sure how I feel about this new invisibility effect

[08:29 PM] maxwellelvis: Feels more like showing off. [08:29 PM] maxwellelvis: Or at least, the sort of effect that really should have waited until digital inking was more viable. [08:29 PM] Bocaj: The invisibility is not very not visible [08:30 PM] maxwellelvis: "Due to a compatibility issue with Windows 95 graphics cards, the Invisible Woman is now extra-visible. To keep things fair, please close your eyes when fighting her." [08:31 PM] Wack'd: "It's not that I don't trust you, Abe. It's that all your theories are dangerous quackery and also you nearly got my son killed"

[08:33 PM] maxwellelvis: (That's not some weird non-sequitor, I'm paraphrasing the manual for Doom's Windows 95 port there; with some Windows-compatible graphics cards, there was a weird bug that made invisible enemies like Spectres less than invisible. The manual joked that you should make things more fair by closing your eyes if you encounters this bug.) [08:34 PM] Wack'd: Letters letters letters! [08:34 PM] Wack'd: ...i think i hate letters now

[08:36 PM] InbarFink: Letter pages are just glorified youtube comments [08:36 PM] Bocaj: Eesh [08:37 PM] Bocaj: Around this same time ish there were letters in the avengers comics complaining wasp is too weak and ineffectual and the response said they’d work on it [08:37 PM] Bocaj: So it’s not universal among fans at this time at least [08:38 PM] Wack'd: I'm just like [08:38 PM] Wack'd: The one time I can remember you print letters from ladies [08:39 PM] Wack'd: This is what you go with? [08:40 PM] Bocaj: Yeah it sucks [08:40 PM] InbarFink: would it be conspiratorial to sugget they got a LOT of letters about it and most of them were from dudes and they just picked the two with lady names on them [08:40 PM] Bocaj: No it wouldn’t [08:41 PM] Wack'd: I mean if that is true [08:41 PM] Wack'd: Good on them for not printing male misogynists? [08:41 PM] Wack'd: But just because a point of view comes from a woman doesn't make it worth your time [08:42 PM] Wack'd: Letters like "Murder your female lead" and "I prefer when she was hysterical submissive crying and helpless" are ones you can safely ignore no matter who they come from [08:42 PM] Bocaj: Yeah [08:43 PM] Bocaj: I wish unlimited was more consistent on whether they include the letters page [08:43 PM] Bocaj: It’s interesting to me [08:43 PM] Wack'd: Same [08:43 PM] maxwellelvis: "I'm not saying I WANT her to be killed, but I don't like her saving the day and that she should get beat up more" [08:43 PM] Wack'd: Hart literally says she wants Sandman to murder her! [08:44 PM] Bocaj: Wait until Ultimate hart, ya weirdo [08:44 PM] Wack'd: Alright let's move on. The current direction, whatever it ends up being, is only going to end up mattering for another three issues anyway [08:45 PM] Bocaj: Can’t wait for you to experience Byrne so I can also vicariously

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Arc IV: Megamart of Darkness (6)

Chapter 6: Franklin vs. Penn: Ultimate Grudge Match

“I’m sorry,” He said, all polite-and-founding-father like, “but the museum is now closed. Those who do not leave WILL BE EXTERMINATED. As I always say, early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and NOT DEAD! Thank you so much for visiting the Franklin Institute, and please come back tomorrow, when I WON’T KILL YOU!”

           Unfortunately for Silverstein, I’d been in situations like this a thousand times before. See, when you get in trouble, be it trying to flood the house, drawing pictures on the walls, or just plain old putting fireworks in your breakfast cereal, you learn real quick to always have a buddy (or little brother) on standby. Why? Because-

“It was them, Mr. Franklin!” I cried, pointing my index finger. “They started it!”

Then I ran. Always run before they can think long enough to punish you!

There was a loud Pop as Ben Franklin cracked his knuckles.

“A fool and his money are soon parted, as is a certain Quaker and his life if he does not leave now. I once said visitors and fish stink after three days, but you were rotten on arrival, pacifist!”

Penn stamped his foot so hard it cracked the floor, accepting the challenge. “I may not believe in fighting, but soon you shall see why they call us the Quakers, you impoverished d!ck!”

“Uhh… guys? I’m still here.” Said Silverstein, just in time for Penn to kick him into a marble pillar.

“The child is mine to reprimand, you fool!”

“’Tis not!”

“’Tis too!”

“’Tis not!”

           As much as I wanted to hear a riveting philosophical debate between two of PA’s most famous citizens, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to getting crushed by giants, either. Instead I ran. I ran so far away. Now, keep in mind I hadn’t been to the museum since I was five, which made searching out the train an absolute pain. Having two giant men bumbling behind me didn’t exactly help.

All I could think was runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun.

           It should have been easy: all I needed to do was find that stupid train, bring it to life with gold dust, and vamoose! If only I could remember which room the darn thing was in! Instead, I ran through rooms filled with electricity, weather, and ‘shudder’ physics. Sometime along the way, I realized this is where parents put all the boring sciences nobody cared about, locking them away from the rest of the world. This wasn’t a museum, this was a prison. A prison of learning.

           Then there were Ben Franklin and William Penn hot on my tail, reducing rooms to rubble as they went. I had no idea what would happen when all that science got released into the world, but I didn’t want to find out. At least they seemed more interested in each other than me. Until Ben Franklin stuffed Penn’s body up a working Tesla coil, that is. Penn might have recovered, had he been made of something other than bronze. Instead, the room exploded in a burst of electricity, Franklin and I leaping out in the nick of time like a pair of action heroes.

           Of course, without Penn to distract him, I had to contend with Big Ben himself (and Silverstein, whenever the heck he got back in the fight). So now on top of finding Baldwin (seriously, how hard can finding a 400,000 pound choo-choo train possibly be?!) I had the world’s angriest founding father on my tail, spitting maxims at me. Maxims that were also really bad puns about my demise (that I may or may not still sometimes hear in my sleep).

“I once said three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. So far, one down, one to go!”

I slammed my knuckles to my head.

Come on, Watt! Think, thiiinnnnkkkkkk!

I pumped my ten year old legs hard enough to pop my knees off, the air pushing back against me like concrete. There was a flash; the world spun. Then everything was still. Absolutely still.

                                                          .   .   .

           When I opened my eyes, I back at the Franklin Institute. Srta. Now, it was day and there were tons of guests. And in that great thong of guests was none other than five year old me being dragged along his parents. 

Fist, I was right confused about what the hey was going on, when it struck me that just last year I managed to run faster than the speed of light, going back through time. But back then, I’d sprained my ankle so I shouldn’t have been able to go that fast again. This had to be an illusion! Unless...

Unless, being a soul now, my ghost ankle wasn’t sprained, which, combined with my dinosaur feet, had let me run fast enough to break he sound barrier again and go back to the day my parents first took me to this hell of learning! Should I have been worried I wasn’t more shocked? Maybe, but all my mind could think of was how I distinctly remembered seeing a giant train as the last stop on my visit. It took my nerve wracked mind five seconds to churn out a plan. And so began the first (but sadly, not last) time I would find myself stalking somebody.

           Funny about stalking. In the movies they make it look like some daring spy espionage thing while some awesome music plays in the background. Fact is, you spend most of it just sitting around searching for that perfect mix of part of the crowd, but not so much you’ve lost your target, the whole time internally screaming Darn it, kid! Put down the plastic stegosaurus and get a move on to the trains already! (I also felt tempted to tell him throwing Steggy into incoming traffic on the way home was a terrible idea even by 5-year-old standards, but that’s the sort of thing that causes time paradoxes, so I kept my mouth shut.) Seriously, it’s no wonder I didn’t remember squat about the place! And somehow, despite having his face in front of a dinosaur the whole time, little Watt spent hours in front of every exhibit (except the giant human heart, that one sent little me screaming for the exit until Mom convinced him there were no ghosts in there). If it weren’t for Dad grumbling how ‘we should’ve just gone to the dinosaurs like we usually do’ while Mom countered with ‘we need to expand our son’s horizons’, I might have died of boredom for the third time that summer.

           One planetarium show later (which I sat outside for, seeing I didn’t have a ticket) they finally got a move on to the trains, which actually got little me to stop staring at his plastic dinosaur for five seconds. Heck, I found myself gaping at the darn thing (which of course was in an out of the way area most people wouldn’t even notice if it wasn’t on the map.)

           So I knew where the Baldwin was, now I could get going returning to my own time! As if on cue, a loudspeaker screamed

“ATTENTION GUESTS! IN FIVE MINUTES THERE WILL BE A DEMONSTRATION OF OUR TESLA COIL IN THE WONDERS OF ELECTRICITY EXHIBIT!”

           Mom, determined to get little me to see there was more to life than dinosaurs (Mom, I love you, but you’re wrong) immediately started dragging the family over. Naturally, I followed suit, knowing full well how this story ended.

Turned out, there was one other thing that could get little me to take his eyes off his plastic dinosaur for more than five seconds (that wasn’t a giant, fleshy organ in the middle of a museum hall). And that was seeing their future self running into the Tesla coil right as the demonstration began.

Have you ever been barbequed? Roasted so dark your skin feels like lava, then you can’t feel anything at all? Well, jumping into that coil was like that, and more. Only thing I could feel was my brains being spun around like clothes in a washer. All the while, I thought of that stupid giant heart. Whose heart did it even belong to, anyway, and who thought it was a good idea to put it in the middle of a museum hall where all a manner of kids could crawl through it to their heart’s content?

Whose heart was it?

But I already knew the answer, just like I know the history of dinosaurs. With that knowledge, I came up with the perfect plan.

And everything was still, absolutely still.

                                                         .   .   .

           When I got back up, it was nighttime in 2006, angry Ben Franklin and all. Quick on my feet, I ran to where the little kids go to learn how disgusting they are on the inside. Franklin followed close behind, each footstep a five on the Richter scale. If I wanted to pull my plan off, I couldn’t miss a beat. Running was a bit trickier, though: somehow, I’d sprained my ghost ankle from running so fast. Not that I really had time to wonder how that worked. 

Anyway!

           Most kids like theme parks. I was never one of them. You know why? Because of those creepy animal mascots! Just like clowns, there’s something inhuman about them! But at the end of the day, a thousand of those costumed freaks seemed less scary than Big Ben Franklin’s ticker. And this is coming from a guy who literally lived in the Underworld for a few weeks!

           Did you know it glows at night?! It freaking glows at night like some bloody Chinese lantern. While pulsing! It was enough to make me lose my lunch (or Cheetos, in this case) to the point where I wondered if being crushed to death in the marble hands of our first president might not be such a bad thing after all. (He was our first president, right?) But at the end of it all, I flinched. First I was fleeing from death, the next moment I was lodged somewhere in Big Ben’s left ventricle.

“Coward! Come out and face me!” He cried, punching a hole mere inches from my face.

I may or may have not screamed as blood splattered my face. For the next few minutes, it was a fight for survival. Franklin ripped open the heart, trying to grab me, and I didn’t know what would kill me first: Fists, or the guy’s cringy maxims.

“He who would sacrifice his freedom for security deserves neither!”

Punch.

“My energy and persistence will conquer all things-that includes your flimsy little bones!”

Slam!

I would have parried with quips of my own, but really, it’s kinda hard to come up with puns for ‘ventricle’. But in the end, I decided who lived a-or-ta died, so that’s neat.

Sure enough, the more Franklin punched, the more blood spread over his marble face, the slower the heat beat and the weaker he got, over and over and over…

“Nothing is… certain in life… but death and…”

Just like that, Ben Franklin collapsed on the floor. Now it was my turn for a witty one liner.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you an investment in knowledge pays the best interest? Fun fact about the heart: when it stops beating, you stop living.”

And with that, I went to my way toward the Baldwin, but not before Franklin gave me one last ominous warning.

“He who lives upon hope…”

I didn’t hear the rest because by then, he’d drowned in his own blood.

           So I ran to the best of my memory, diving down that staircase where they keep the pendulum thingy into the space travel exhibit (or as I like to call it: ‘You think it’s gonna be fun, but it’s not’.) And who do I see leaning against a replica lunar module but Smell Silverstein himself, looking mighty proud of himself

“Good evening, Watterson.” He said, all sinister-like. “You probably think you’ve been doing real good, busting up two of Pennsylvania’s most famous figures like that. Too bad, mother*cker! Because I’m Shel mother*ckin’ Silverstein, and now, you will be crushed by the wrath of Apollo, the Living Lunar Module!”

With as much charisma as he could muster, he took some dust from his pocket and splashed it on the space thing.

Nothing happened.

Shel looked at his hands, now a bright orange. “What the Stephen Hellenberg?! This isn’t gold dust, this is CHEESE PUFF DUST!”

           You know that gold dust Silverstein tried to snatch from me earlier? Too bad he didn’t have good night vision (the kind you get from constantly checking for monsters under your bed) otherwise he’d have noticed I’d pulled the ol’ switcheroo on him. 

And I made certain he wouldn’t have time to correct his mistake. 

You ever rammed a guy twice your size before? The key is to catch them by surprise, because even if you’re an eighty pound wimp like yours truly, if the other guy isn’t expecting it, they’ll topple like a domino, bang their head on the leg of a lunar module, and that will be that.

           Of course, I didn’t exactly have time to celebrate my victory. With what little energy I had left, I tottered over to the train exhibit. For a moment I’d expected the worst, but there it was, black, long, and big as a house: the Baldwin 60000, the greatest locomotive ever designed by man. Right where I’d left it. Climbing into the cockpit, I opened the firebox, pouring every last ounce of Penn’s gold dust inside. The whole thing shimmered as streams of gold circled the train, like some kind of magic spell.

“What the f*ck?!”

A deep booming voice erupted from right out of nowhere.

“Where am I? What is this place?! How the hell am I talking?!”

“Hey, relax-“

“And now there’s a voice in my head!”

“Actually, my name’s Watt, and I’m gonna bust you out of here.”

“Well I’m not interested! If you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to being the greatest steam engine in America!”

I slapped my head, finally realizing my Mom put up with this crap every time she put me to bed at night.

“C’mon, Baldwin, I nearly got sent to the Underworld, MULTIPLE TIMES I might add, trying to rescue you!”

“Then if you want a train so badly, go to Rocket over there! He’d probably help you out!”

Rocket was a dinky little rust bucket who probably couldn’t outrun a fourth grader, much less crush a Wegmart Greeter. In fact, I’m still not sure if that thing even qualified as a train.

Fortunately, my Mom put up with this crap every time she put me to bed, so let’s just say I knew a little about getting people to do what you want.

“Fine then,” I said, putting up my hands and making an exasperated sigh. “Guess you won’t have the chance to be famous, then.”

“How?!” The desperation in his voice was palpable.

“Oh, I just wanted you of run over a Wegmart Greeter and help some geese get their nesting grounds back. It would get you in the papers. But I could just go over to Rocket, since you insisted…”

A whistle erupted. “NO! NO! You definitely want me! Ever since I’ve somehow gained a consciousness, all I’ve had the inescapable urge to do something stupid that’ll land me in the papers! I’m a very useful engine, I SWEAR! Please don’t leave meee!”

I crossed my arms and rolled my eyes “Okay, but promise you’ll do everything I say, alright.”

“Yes, yes! Anything for fame!”

Just at that moment, William Penn barged in, creating a giant Quaker shaped hole in the wall. His hair was a bit frazzled, but other than that he looked just as dandy as when I first saw him.

“Halt, Wastrel! In the name of Penn-“

“CHARGE!” I screamed.

With an ear shattering whistle Baldwin rammed forward, shattering Penn’s bronze butt into a million pieces. But we didn’t stop there. No, we kept going through the museum, out the other end, and…

“We’re going to crash into traffic!”

“Don’t worry, kid! You just have to belieeeeevvvveeeee!”

“How is that supposed to-“

“Do you want to ram through a traffic jam or not?!”

So I did. I hugged the firebox, believing we might somehow get away with all this. Gradually, the ground stopped screeching beneath us. When I finally found the courage to look down, we were a hundred feet in the air. I wondered what passersbys would think when they looked up to see a seven hundred thousand pound train making a silhouette as it passed over the moon.

“What the heck is happening?!”

“Magic, kid! The Magic of BELEIVING, MOTHERFORKER!” He tooted his whistle triumphantly “Just don’t stop, or we all fall to our deaths. I’ll even sing a song to help you remember!”

“No that’s-“

“Don’t stop! Beleivviiiinnnngg!”

I screamed all the way back to the pond.

                                                          .   .   .

Just like I promised, Baldwin did get in the papers. Specifically, an article in the National Esquirerer titled

“Lascivious Locomotive Finishes Founding Father! Makes Daring Escape into the Heavens!”

Right beneath an article about one of the most pressing issues of our time:

‘Hannah Montana: the American Beethoven?’

[rivet-ing-titanic]

May 25th, 1912 - American Inquiry Day 18

Day 18: The last day. You would think that it being the last day and being off of work, I could get this one done on time. But life gets in the way. SO, here we are, to cover the final day of witness testimony, submitted affidavits, letters and “process-verbal” entered into record. Are you tired of these posts? Did you read or like them or find them interesting? Well if you are tired of them, it is just this and a Final Report summary post left to go. Jury is out on whether I will be back next year to do the British inquiry, day by day. (Maybe I should just do it now so each day will be on the correct day, protect me from my own laziness, personal issues and procrastination.) Enough about me, let’s dive in.

Today, testimony was taken on board the RMS Olympic, in the New York Harbor.

Witnesses:

Herbert James Haddock, Captain, RMS Olympic;

E.J. Moore, Wireless Operator, RMS Olympic;

Frederick Barrett, Leading Fireman, RMS Titanic;

Submitted: (All submissions are linked)

Proces-Verbal – E.J. Moore, Wireless Operator, RMS Olympic; 

Affidavit – James McGough, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Affidavit – Catherine Crosby, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Affidavit – Imanita Shelley, Second Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Affidavit – Eleanor Widener, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Correspondence – Letter from Stanley Lord, Captain, SS Californian;

Correspondence – C.C. Adams, Vice President, Postal Telegraph-Cable Company;

Correspondence – H.C. Wolfe, New York World; 

Correspondence – P.A.S. Franklin, Vice President, IMM; 

Correspondence – B. Brooks, GM, Western Union Telegraph Co.; 

Statement – Mrs. Lucian P. Smith, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Notable Quotes/Lines of Questioning or Summarized Testimony:

Smith starts by questioning Captain Haddock, about where they were, when and how he heard of the Titanic situation, and what his actions were. He is also questioned about any notifications of ice sightings they received, of which the first they heard was from the Asian on Saturday morning.

“Fear absolutely no hope searching Titanic's position. Left Leyland S. S. Californian searching around. All boats accounted for. About 675 souls saved, crew and passengers, latter nearly all women and children. Titanic foundered about 2.20 a. m., 5.47. GMT in 41.16 north. 50.14 west; not certain of having got through. Please forward to White Star - also to Cunard. Liverpool and New York - that I am returning to New York. Consider this most advisable for many considerations.” – Rostron (read from the record by Haddock)

Haddock then reads for the record, the exchange of messages between himself and Captain Rostron of Carpathia. They discuss location, ice, particulars of letting the appropriate channels know what has happened, Ismay and that they believe it best that survivors do not see Olympic, that no transfer take place.

Haddock continues to read from Moore’s report, detailing how the names of passengers were passed on by a “half-asleep” Cottam, who asked to be excused for his sending. Moore wrote in his report, “during the transmission of names it was evident the operator on Carpathia was tired out”. Cottam had testified earlier in the inquiry that once he heard Titanic’s distress call on the night of the 14th, he got about a handful hours of sleep over the next few days until they reached New York. He was working the wireless non-stop, with and without assistance from an immobile, frost bitten Bride.

Moore relates to Smith that he received seven or eight messages to the effect of a request for compensation for the story of Titanic. Moore makes note of these in his report, however did not reply to any requests from papers such as the New York Herald, the Sun and the World. He also indicates that he was never told not to give out any information, however he and the captain held information back in a desire that it be more accurate.

In addition to answering Smith’s questions, Moore submitted his wireless report (listed above as process-verbal) that both he and Haddock referred to during their testimony.

The correspondence from Stanley Lord that was submitted into record is a letter to Smith in which Captain Lord corrected a statement he made while testifying, which ultimately is inconsequential in my opinion, and probably more of a formality correction than anything.

As you all know, I love a passenger story or affidavit. So instead of pulling a whole bunch of quotes, as I am so wont to do, I now have just linked all submissions above, for you to peruse at your leisure. Is it being lazy? Maybe a bit, but I wanted to end this day, with a sprinkling of quotes, (of which I hope to have not included any similar before) a few thoughts in regards to any submissions or quotes, and my conclusions prior to the final report.

McGough asked a dining-room steward whether there was any danger, shortly after he left his stateroom. At that time the steward told him “not in the least” and suggested he return to bed. Fortunately for McGough, he did not. This seems a theme throughout this inquiry, where immediately after or even some time after, Titanic crew members, such as stewards, were not totally sure of what was going on or, if they were aware, the severity of it. Personally, I believe part of this to be due to the inability to inform due to technology limitations of the time, solved by walkie-talkies and earpieces today. Additionally, if a steward were on watch, and had not heard anything yet, he or she would have no reason to say anything other than everything is fine. I would also consider the desire to not cause panic had some impact as well. Clearly, it would have been helpful if some sort of light or alarm or notification had been in place, for passengers and crew alike, but word of mouth, on an incredibly large ship, with over 900 crew members, some of whom are sleeping, would be time consuming. Time, unfortunately the Titanic and the souls on board did not have. This does not even take into account the time that would have been necessary to figure out the extent of the damage. So while I personally feel, there should have been some better systems in place, criticism of stewards who only passed on what they knew at the time, or what a higher up told them, should be discouraged. (As you might know, I am currently learning more about crew hierarchy and things of this nature in my new book)

“It was reported on the Carpathia by passengers, whose names I do not recollect, that the lookout who was on duty at the time the Titanic struck the iceberg had said: ‘I know they will blame me for it, because I was on duty, but it was not my fault; I had warned the officers three or four times before striking the iceberg that we were in the vicinity of icebergs, but the officer on the bridge paid no attention to my signals.’ I can not give the name of any passenger who made that statement, but it was common talk on the Carpathia that that is what the lookout said.” – Crosby (hearsay)

Imanita Shelley has an interesting story about her accommodations and slight mishap of rooms that happened upon the start of her journey. See above for a link to her affidavit. I would be interested to see the rooms which were referred to. It does not seem in her affidavit that she makes any mention of actual room numbers. This is also the first, I have read, mention of issues with the heat onboard Titanic.

“Afterwards, on board the Carpathia, a first-cabin passenger a Mme. Baxter, of Montreal, Canada, told Mrs. Shelley that she had sent her son to the captain at the time of the collision to find out what to do. That her son had found the captain in a card game, and he had laughingly assured him that there was no danger and to advise his mother to go back to bed.”- Shelley (a very strong accusation that if true is concerning, however others have testified that this was not the case)

 “I borrowed money from a gentleman and took this Marconigram myself and asked the operator to send it for me… it was not received… This is the only complaint I have to make against the Carpathia… He also said it was not necessary to pay him, because the White Star Line was responsible. I insisted, however, because I thought that probably the money might have some weight with them, as the whole thing seemed to have been a monied accident.” – Mrs. Smith

“On the night of Sunday, the 14th of April, 1912, my husband and I gave a dinner at which Capt. Smith was present. Capt. Smith drank absolutely no wine or intoxicating liquor of any kind whatever at the dinner.” - Widener

 Conclusions prior to the Final Report: 

You could really get into the weeds with the last 18 days of testimony, what people/boats had drinking water, saw her go down and thought she broke in half vs. went down in one piece, who was afraid of suction, who heard explosions, I could go on. Part of me wants to do this, I think it would be quite interesting, especially diving into the distant light/boat testimonies. However, I do not have the time for that these days, and you probably don’t either (if you do please share what you find). What I will say, on my last day-by-day summary post is this: If you are a Titanic crazed person like I am, and love the history, the nuances of what went wrong, what went right, specific passenger experiences directly from their hand or mouth, do yourself a favor, and dive into this. The Titanic Inquiry Project is the most complete, well organized, and informative Titanic site I may have ever had the pleasure of using. They link out to passenger and crew and witness bios, they have the particulars on every ship mentioned, and it continues to add more and more. I am not done with this site now that I am done with this inquiry, I still have the British, and if you remember my post about liability, they now have those hearings. I cannot sing the praises of this enough. So if you have a rainy day, and an inquisitive mind, check out titanicinquiry.org . You will not be disappointed. And, if you like, you can use my American Inquiry posts, all under one link on my page, to help navigate, or pick and choose what you want to read.

SEE American Inquiry Day 17 post HERE.

[conceptstage]

A Marriage of Convenience {Chapter Fourteen}

Beau woke up to find Yasha’s face staring down at her. She grinned. “Am I in heaven?”

“Oh, that’s cute,” said a voice that caused her to frown. “You think you’re getting into heaven.”

She groaned. “Fuck you, Molly. Where am I?” She looked around and found that they hadn’t moved It was well passed noon now if she was looking at the sun correctly. She groaned as she moved her sit up, her muscles screaming at her and head still pounding. “Did I pass out?” Yasha was beside her, ready to catch her if she couldn’t hold herself up.

“Yes, about an hour ago. Jester wanted to wait until you woke up to figure out what you wanted to do.”

Beau looked around to find Jester and found her and Nott a few yards away discussing their preferred sandwiches. She didn’t even seem to realize that Beau had woken up. “Do about what?”

“About you,” Caleb said, speaking up behind her. “Beau… you’re out of the boundary.”

“Oh shit…” In all the chaos it hadn’t occurred to her.

She back to look at Caleb to find him pointedly avoiding her eyes.

“Beau?” Jester looked over and realized that she was sitting up. “Are you feeling better? Mr. Clay and I ran out of spells, we could couldn’t heal everything. Are you still hurt?”

“I’m fine Jes. Thanks. Caleb,” she turned back to him and he looked up at her. “Will you take someone to the gate and relight the candles?”

His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak but Jester spoke first. “What? Beau… You’re free.”

“I know. And now I know that there are people I can trust with my freedom. This spell was made to keep me isolated but it didn’t work. Now I have at least two people who would take the risk of blowing the candles out for me for the first time in my life. It’s not a prison when I have the key. I can’t leave yet but when I’m ready I’m leaving on my own terms. Let’s go back. For now.”

Caleb was woken the following morning but a knock on the door and a cheery voice calling his name. “Mr. Widogast!”

He groaned and shuffled out of bed, still sore and tired from the hectic day before. He paused to throw the blanket over Nott’s sleeping body. He opened the door and saw the last person that he expected. He cleared his throat and reached up to shake out his hair. “Madam Lionett! This is a… surprise. What can I do for you this morning?”

Georgina gave him a look over and visibly suppressed a frown. “Good morning, Mr. Widogast. I have the flower arrangers coming in after breakfast this morning and I wanted to make sure you knew where to go. Did Beauregard tell you?”

“Ah, no. Are we all looking at flower arrangements for the wedding?” Not ideal, but if Beau was there it wouldn’t be so bad.

“No, of course not, Darling. Beau’s working with her father today, getting more into the business like you encouraged her. It’s just us and the flowers today. Come down to breakfast if you would.”

“Will Sir Lionett be joining us?”

“Unfortunately no. That breakfast a few days ago when he joined us was an anomaly. No, he spends weeks at a time in that office. He’s got a cot in there and he has his meals delivered,” she paused and sighed. “Don’t get me started. Join us when you’re ready.”

He watched her until she was gone and then shuffled over to Beau’s room in his house slippers. He knocked furiously on the door. “Beau,” he hissed. “Beau, what the fuck did you get me into?”

The door opened and Mollymauk smirked at him from the threshold, leaning against the door frame. “Mr. Caleb. You look adorably sleep ruffled. Are those cats on your pants?”

“Yes. I like cats. I have a cat. Where is Beau?”

Molly looked over his shoulder. “Hiding from you.”

“I’m not hiding!” called a voice from inside.

Caleb perched on his tiptoes to look over Molly’s shoulder. “Beauregard! Why am I hanging out with your mother all day? Why did she say I encouraged you to work with your father? Beauregard!”

“Ah,” Molly interjected. “That was my fault perhaps. She sacrificed you for me and Yasha, so that we could get jobs here.”

Beau slipped under Molly’s arm. “You think I’m happy about this? My dad got me an office. An office! I’m supposed to put on nice clothes and go sit at a desk all day.”

“I feel no sympathy for you. You got yourself into that.”

“Well, I needed to get close to the business so I can send info to you know who for you know what.”

“Who? What?”

Beau rolled her eyes. “The entleman-Gay for aughter’s-Day inery-Way.”

Caleb sighed and pushed his frizzy morning curls out of his face. “We need like, a code word. If I send a maid or someone up to your office with a code word I need you to come save me. You can do the same if- I don’t know, if your legs atrophy or whatever it is that you’re worried about desks for.”

“Hey, don’t patronize me. Just go change or whatever. If my mother sees you out of your room wearing PJs she will kick you out of this house so fast your head will spin.” He started to walk away but she called out to him. “Hey, what safeword do you want to use?”

One of the servants happened to be walking by and gave them a weird look but Caleb just gave her an awkward smile and waited for her to pass by. “Something we can work into a sentence so it’s not obvious.”

“So, I assume that ‘Save me from your demon-spawn mother’ is not it?”

“No, I think not.”

“Coat,” Molly suggested. “If you need saving send a servant with the message that you want Beau to bring you your coat.”

Caleb waved. “That will work. I’ll see you all later, I suppose? There’s no way I’m getting through this entire day without using the code word.” He started to walk away and Beau turned to Molly with a raised eyebrow.

“Coat?”

“What’s wrong with it? You need something you won’t scream during sex accidentally.”

“Ew.” She pushed him out of the doorway and back into her room, shutting the door and then walking back towards her bed where she had several outfits laid out.

“Oh, don’t act like you aren’t intrigued by the idea.”

“With you? Fuck no.”

“Not with me, egh,” he visibly shivered in disgust. “I can tell by looking at you that whatever team you’re playing on won’t include me.”

“Just tell me which outfit looks less stupid.”

“They all look equally stupid. Look at what I wear, why did you come to me for this? The best I can do for you is to tell you to wear whatever the fuck you want and act like you have every right to be there.”

“Even for a meeting with important people?” She asked. She bit her lip and looked over the stuffy gray dresses her mother had bought for her.

“Especially for a meeting with important people.”

Beau looked down at what she’s wearing now, a simple blue tank top with loose, baggy pants and no shoes. She smirks and starts for the door. “Let’s go tear this motherfucker down.”

“Atta girl.”

She marched through the halls with Molly sauntering along behind her. She usually only went to the South Wing when she was in trouble, so the simple act of marching up the stairs made her heart start beating faster. She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes and pushed herself forward. There was a man in a gray suit standing outside her father’s office. He looked up when she got near and frowned at her, looking her up and down.

“Beauregard? I’m Franklin Kastoc, I’m your father’s personal assistant.”

Beau stopped in front of him and crossed her arms over her chest. “This is Mollymauk. He’s my personal assistant.”

Franklin cleared his throat and nodded. “I was asked to show you to your new office space. There is a closet there, if you’d like to hang up your garments after you change.”

“I’m not changing. These are my clothes.”

He blinked and laughed in shock. “You can’t wear that.”

She grinned and moved passed him. “You gonna stop me? Show me my office.”

Franklin scrambled to catch up, pointing to a door two rooms down from her father’s office. “It-It’s right there. But you can’t go into the meeting wearing-”

Mollymauk grinned and put a hand on his shoulder. “She’s got it from here, gorgeous. Bye bye.”

Beau paused outside the door as Franklin walked away and raised an eyebrow. “Do you just flirt with everyone?” she asked, jiggling the door of her office when it got stuck.

Molly leaned against the wall and grinned. “I only flirt with beautiful people. So yes, I flirt with everyone.”

She sneered. “God, that was cheesy. I thought you had a crush on Caleb.”

He didn’t reveal anything on his face. “What makes you say that?”

“The look on your face when you saw him outside my door in his goddamn cat PJs. I don’t know much about romance, but I know an ‘oh shit’ look when I see it.” The door gave way and she cheered. “Woo! Alright, we’re in business.” Beau opened the door and frowned at room. “Well, this place sucks,” she said, looking over the bare walls and the wooden desk across from her.

“It’s only temporary,” Molly assured her, frowning as he ran a finger over one of the empty bookshelf shelves. His finger came away covered in dust and he sneered. “Ick. No you’re right, this sucks.”

Beau threw open the window behind the desk and took a deep breath of the fresh air. “This is for Caleb and Jester,” she said. “And it’s only temporary.” She turned to Molly. “Personal Assistant! What’s on my schedule for today?”

He cleared his throat and pulled out a notepad from a pocket of his coat with a flourish. “You have a meeting with your father and the board of the company in an hour. You’re going on a tour of the winery after lunch. Wait, how are you doing that if you can’t leave, I thought there was a boundary whats-it.”

“The main winery is inside the boundary, on the other side of the lot as the springs.”

Molly nodded and continued. “Well, after lunch you’re doing that. Then at eight you, Caleb, Nott, and I are gonna get soused to high heaven.”

“Can’t we do that part right now?”

He pulled a silver flask out of another pocket and tossed it to her. “I’m getting good at this assistant thing.”

Beau caught it out of the air and sighed as she flicked it open. “You certainly are.” She took a swig. She tossed it back to him and he took a drink as well, just as there was a knock on the door. “Come in already,” she called, leaning back against the desk.

The door opened and Franklin was standing on the other side with his arms full of papers. “These are from your father. He wants you to be familiar with these in time for the meeting.”

Beau grimaced but took the papers from him. It would take her days to actually read all of these. “Great. Thanks, now leave.” Franklin left as Beau sat the papers down on her desk and took a deep breath. “Well,” she mumbled, taking a seat in the stiff wooden chair. “I better get started.”

“You’re actually gonna do what your father wants you to do? Beauregard, I’m disappointed.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m looking for info I can give to… we really need to come up with a code name for him, I can’t be running around here just saying his name out loud.”

“I’ll work on it. Am I just supposed to stand around and wait for you to give me orders?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of something like that. Go… do whatever you want. Just be back in time for the meeting.”

“I’m sure I can find something to keep myself busy.” And he left the room with a grin.

Beau read through papers for the next hour and then stood up and stepped out of the office with several papers held carelessly in her fist, locking door behind her. “Molly!” she called, looking up and down the hall. “Molly? Hey, Fucker!”

A door across the hallway swung open and Molly stepped out into the hall with his coat draped off his arm. His shirt was lopsided and the top three buttons were undone. He was flushed and grinning, running his fingers through his hair to fix it. “Time for the meeting?”

Beau raised an eyebrow and tried to subtly lean over to see into the room. She couldn’t see who else was in there. “Were you with someone?”

“Oh absolutely. Shall we?” He waved his hand ahead of them and put his other hand on the small of her back to try and push her forward. She looked over her shoulder just in time to see Franklin’s head peek out from the open threshold before the door slammed shut.

“Franklin? Really?” she asked, smirking.

“Yes, Franklin. He was… surprisingly open minded.”

“Fix your shit, if you look happy in any way my father will fire you.”

Molly chuckled and started fixing his shirt, then pulled his coat over his shoulders. “You worried about little ol’ me?”

“I went through a lot to get you here. If you get fired on your first day, I screwed Caleb over for no reason. Not that I need a reason to screw with Caleb, but no one deserves to spend time with my mother, not even him.”

“Oh, just admit it, you like me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just take note of anything you find interesting,” she said. “Even if you think it doesn’t mean anything, if it catches your attention write it down,” she said and then pushed open the door to the boardroom.

The room was longer than it was wide with a giant ass window at the end that looked out on the vineyard in the distance. The vineyard wasn’t on the estate so she had never been but she always liked looking at it. The room was mostly full of men in robes already, only her father was missing. Every eye turned to her and she grinned waving her fingers at them teasingly as she made her way over to an empty seat next to the one that was obviously reserved for her father. The other men were all standing beside their chairs, waiting for the boss to arrive, but she threw herself into her chair and leaned her elbows on the table. Molly followed along behind her and took a seat in a chair against the wall behind her. One of the other assistants looked at him out of the corner of her eye and he winked. She frowned and looked away snootily.

The men started speaking quietly in the room once more, trying to keep them from hearing. They failed and Beau was able to pick up most of the conversations but they were mostly about her clothes so she really didn’t care. It was a few minutes before her father entered the room. He looked different in a boardroom than he did in the residence. The times that she had seen him in the dining room or the library or in the yard he had looked stoic, even a little angry at times. In his well pressed blue robes with his salt & pepper hair slicked back… he looked almost dangerous. His eyes instantly snapped to her and it took every ounce of rebellion in her blood not to look away when their eyes met. He didn’t speak and just walked around her side of the table. He paused behind her and reached up to squeeze her shoulder.

“We’ll speak later,” he said quietly.

She looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes once more. “I know.”

He let her go and continued to his chair, shifting his robes and then taking a seat in his chair. The others moved to sit as well after he was seated. He cleared his throat and spread out several sheets of paper in front of him. “Let’s begin.”

She looked back at Molly and he had a confused and concerned look on his face. ‘What?’ she mouthed. He opened his mouth but then quickly closed it and looked away, flicking his eyes over to her father and frowning.

[agentmarymargaretskitz]

Goodnight Moon

Another installment in the Roommates verse that @incendiaglacies and I also have in addition to Legends of SHIELD. It’s been a while and inspiration for a fic hit me smack in the face. Fair warning, there’s fluff ahead!

AO3

“Ugh, Dad!”

Gideon and Rip turned towards Lily’s door. The latter was over at the apartment to help Gideon make something for a potluck the museum was having so she wouldn’t be regulated to bringing silverware once again. Setting down the spatula, Gideon moved towards Lily’s room.

“Lily?” she called out. “Is everything alright?”

The door opened, revealing Lily with a long-suffering look on her face. “Remember when we were moving in and Mom and Dad came to help out?”

Gideon nodded. “Yes, and I’m glad they did. If they and Donna hadn’t, we would have been unpacking for much longer.”

“Dad brought along a box of stuff from when I was a kid, and I told him I didn’t need it,” Lily explained as Caitlin sidled up beside Rip to join the conversation. “I was cleaning some stuff up that I never got around to unpacking and I found the box still there.”

“Maybe he forgot to take it?” Caitlin suggested.

“Possibly, but I doubt it. I don’t even know what’s in it. All I have to go off is the label.”

“How about we take a look then?” Gideon suggested, walking into the room. “Rip, can we take a break?”

“The cupcakes are in the oven, so yes,” Rip nodded. “We’ll have to let them cool before we can put the icing on them, otherwise they’ll melt. Am I allowed to join the viewing of Lily’s childhood?”

“Yes, you can come snoop,” Lily told him, sticking her head out the door. “Hey, Felicity? Want to come see potentially embarrassing pictures of me as a kid?”

“Hang on, I’m coming!”

              Felicity ran into the room just as Lily opened the flaps of the box and began to examine the contents. There were a fair amount of pictures of her throughout the years, including a Halloween costume of a seven year old Lily dressed as an atom that Felicity couldn’t stop giggling over. Some of her childhood artwork was also in there, leaving Rip to ask Lily how her child self always drew the mouth outside of the face. Caitlin whistled as she flipped through a copy of Lily’s fifth grade science project paper. Gideon smiled as she uncovered the photos of Lily with her and Ronnie, remembering how she never used to smile for photos until she knew for certain the Steins weren’t sending her back.

“Hey, look at this,” Felicity interrupted, passing Lily a photo of a Rosalind Franklin Halloween costume that all the girls had approved of, so she could pull out a book. “Goodnight Moon.”

Lily smiled. “That was one of my favorite books to hear at bedtime. I never got tired of listening to Mom and Dad read it.”

“I loved it too,” Felicity nodded.

“Same here,” Caitlin agreed.

“I did too,” Gideon blushed a little. “I asked the older kids to read it to me when I was little. When I got older, I’d read it to the younger ones who didn’t get fostered yet.”

“That was sweet of you,” Rip told her. “I used to read this to Jonas when he was a baby. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

Gideon took the book from Felicity. “Maybe we can give this a reread?”

“Only if you’re the one who reads it,” Caitlin grinned.

She was given a bump against the shoulder from Gideon. “Well, if you insist.”

Rip and the rest of the roommates gathered around her as she started to read, all of them relieving the memories they had from the book.

Gideon had just put on her pajamas and was about to crawl into bed when she heard footsteps outside her door. When she looked around, she caught sight of blonde hair disappearing around the frame.

“I see you,” Gideon called out, not feeling like playing games. Yet again, she’d been passed up by some potential parents and was now without a roommate again. “Come on out.”

Slowly, a little blonde girl crept into her room. She wore a sleep shirt so big it was more like a nightgown.

“Ava? What are you doing here?”

“Can you read me a story?”

“I thought the little kids already got a story read to them.”

“Yeah, but it was a fairy tale,” Ava huffed. “I don’t like those. Besides, you read really good.”

“I read very well,” Gideon corrected.

She looked over at her nightstand and pulled out the bag with the few books she had in it. Finally, she picked up the well-worn copy of Goodnight Moon.

“Well then, come on,” Gideon sat on the bed, patting the space beside her. “Sit with me.”

Ava scampered over and crawled up onto the bed with her, snuggling up close to Gideon as she opened the book.

“Goodnight Moon,” Gideon read. “In the great green room, there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of the cow jumping over the moon...”

“And there were three little bears sitting on chairs,” Donna read to Felicity. “And two little kittens. Do you see them?”

              Felicity nodded, curling closer to her mom. Her father was away on a trip, so it was the two of them for the whole week. Last night, she had stayed up as long as she could for her mom to come home so they could read Goodnight Moon together. Unfortunately, Donna had arrived home from her job long after Felicity feel asleep. To make up for it, they were now reading the book in the morning just after breakfast.

“More, Mommy,” she pleaded.

Donna smiled as she brushed her hair back from her face. “And a pair of mittens. And a little toy house. And a young mouse.”

“Ewwwwwww. Mice are yucky.”

“They are,” Donna nodded. “But this is a nice mouse, so we like him.”

“Okay. Can you keep reading now?”

“And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush,” Caitlin’s father pointed to each object on the page.

“It look like oatmeal,” Caitlin giggled as she pointed at the picture.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Her dad laughed before continuing. “And a quiet old lady who was whispering ‘hush’.”

“Shhhhhhh.”

“Uh-huh, that’s right. Goodnight room.”

“Goodnight room!” Caitlin repeated, glad that Daddy had agreed to read her the book since Mommy had been too busy working.

“Goodnight moon.”

“Goodnight moon!” she said, not knowing that her time with her father was going to run out sooner than she wanted, and that when it did, she would read the book one last time and remember the good times.

“Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.”

“Goodnigh’ cow,” Caitlin yawned, laying against her dad’s chest. Her eyes felt heavier now.

He looked down at her. “Maybe we should call it a night.”

“No, Daddy,” she shook her head. “Finish the story.”

“Okay then.”

Lily was sandwiched between her parents, studying the book intently as she listened to the words.

“Goodnight light,” Martin said, running his finger beneath the words when he read them for Lily’s sake.

The little girl started to lean over towards him to get a closer look. Clarissa looked over at her husband with a smile. Lily already seemed to be her father’s daughter in so many ways. Her curiosity about reading and her stubbornness to read the same book almost every night were small ways that showed that.

“And the red balloon,” Clarissa continued as Lily nudged her.

Martin went next again. “Goodnight bears.”

Lily’s eyes started to droop, but then snapped open again. She loved the story too much and she wouldn’t fall asleep until it was over.

“Goodnight chairs,” she heard her mother say.

“Goodnight kittens,” Lily said quietly, recognizing the word ‘goodnight’ and remembering the pattern of the last few sentences.

Her parents perked up and praised her for saying the next words before continuing with the book.

              Rip adjusted his hold on Jonas as he turned the page in the book. It had been his turn to go and check on his son when he and Miranda had woken up to his screams. He had been a little hungry and Rip was thankful Miranda already had prepped some bottles to be heated up ahead of time for this situation. As Jonas was finishing eating, Rip had pulled a book off the shelf and had begun to read it.

As they got closer to the end, Jonas yawned, his tiny fist swinging out against Rip’s chest.

“And goodnight mittens,” Rip said softly. “Goodnight clocks.”

Jonas’s eyelids blinked slowly. He looked so calm compared to how he’d been wailing earlier in the night.

“And goodnight socks,” the father wiggled his son’s bare foot a little bit, but it didn’t bother Jonas. “Goodnight little house. And goodnight mouse.”

Rip glanced down to see Jonas was asleep now. He smiled and brushed a finger against the soft downy hair starting to grow on his scalp.

“Goodnight, Jonas,” he whispered and then finished the story, even if his son couldn’t even hear it.

Gideon held back a yawn and blinked her eyes. She was ready to fall asleep herself.

“And goodnight socks,” she murmured, bringing a hand up to rub her eyes. “Goodnight little house.”

“And goodnight mouse,” Rip chimed in as he entered the room, a smile on his face even though Gideon knew he was as tired as she was.

“Hey,” Gideon smiled back at him as he walked over and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Everything okay with Jonas’s homework?”

“He’s got it now,” Rip told her. “But don’t let me interrupt story time.”

“We won’t,” Gideon looked back down at the book. “Goodnight comb, and goodnight brush.”

“Goodnight nobody,” Rip read over her shoulder. “Goodnight mush. And goodnight to the old lady whispering hush.”

“Goodnight stars.”

“Goodnight air.”

“Goodnight noises everywhere,” they finished together.

              Gideon looked down at where her baby daughter was nestled beside her. She was fast asleep in the green jumper that she loved so much. Standing up, Gideon passed the baby to her husband, who murmured how much he loved both of them as he placed their daughter in the crib. Gideon picked up the copy of Goodnight Moon that Lily and Ray had given them at the baby shower and set it on top of the nightstand.

“I think she’s going to end up loving this book as much as we do,” Gideon said softly as they crept out of the room.

“Well, you do read it to her almost every night,” Rip reminded her. “It wouldn’t surprise me if that ends up happening.”

[jad110]

Jane Doe

I would like to introduce you to a new superhero, Jane Doe. She grew up like any other girl in New York City.  Jane is a street and book smart young girl who is kind to all. Well except the part when she was a part of an underground experiment. She does not know her real name and they gave her the name Jane Doe at the hospital when they finally saved her from her captor. Let’s back up a little bit. Jane was born in Manhattan, New York, the city of dreams, by her parents Lynn and Michael Newport on July 11, 1999. Although her parents were not very interested in keeping the baby so she was put up for adoption. Unfortunately, she was never adopted into a home with a family to love her. Instead, she bounced from foster home to foster home for years until she turned 18. Some were great people but some were the worst people she has met. There were the ones that fostered just for the money with minimal care for the children like Shelia Gallagher. Then there were the ones with pristine homes with many valuables and a lot of money. The gay couple who took her in when she was 10 was so nice but they thought she was stealing their possessions and kicked her out. She has been placed in 10 different homes her whole life. She never knew her real family or her history. She never felt that she belonged anywhere. This was very hard for her growing up not having any stability or anyone that she felt that she could trust. 

Jane had been living with a foster family for a while but life changed in a blink of an eye. She was placed in a home when she was 15. The man in charge of the home’s name was Dr. Franklin Murphy. He was a very irresponsible and terrible person. He would take in many children of teenage age and perform experiments on them. Unfortunately due to overcrowding in the foster care system, his treatment of children went unnoticed in many cases. When Jane was 15 she was taken out of her old home with Old Lady Beatrice because she passes away in her sleep one night. She was a great foster parent well more like a grandparent to Jane. She would make her delicious food and love her unconditionally. She was then placed with The Doctor...and Jane’s world was flipped upside down. The Doctor has a devious ideology. He was once a very knowledgeable brain surgeon who operated and performed miracles on people every day. But soon he took the job too far. He started to perform unorthodox surgeries. Performing surgeries without authorization or compliance. He was fired from his work but that did not stop him from completing his experiments. He purchased an old foreclosed hospital to do this. He would prowl the streets looking for people to perform his surgeries on and kidnap them. His surgeries included injecting a person’s brain with a concoction he made in his lab that was supposed to make a person extremely intelligent and have hyperactive senses. 

Many of his experiments turned south very fast. Injecting into a person’s brain with a foreign liquid is never going to work when trying to change the makeup of a person. He had many failed experiments and the people fatally die from them. But The Doctor made advances in his testing and found the problem with the experiments. He was choosing just anyone he could find. He needed someone that already had those features that could be enhanced. When Jane was randomly placed in The Doctor’s home he knew that she was the right person to experiment on. She fit the criteria that he had been looking for for the last 3 years. She just was delivered to him in a government-issued Toyota Camry. At first, he was a great host. He had enough money to make dinner every night and a hot shower. This was enough for Jane. she figured she would stay there until she was forced out or old enough to live on her own I mean she only had 2 more years in the system. After the first year, his demeanor changed from the loving caretaker to an evil scientist. There were 3 other children under The Doctor’s care during this time and Jane was trying to protect them when she found out what he was. She walked in on The Doctor injecting Molly her foster sister in the brain. She was so freaked out and did not know what to do. She jumped him and threw the needle to the ground. They tried to run but The Doctor caught up to them fast. He captured Jane and held her against her will. She was tied down to an operating table. He said to her, “I guess it is your time to shine. Tenth time the charm.” She freaked out and was squirmed all over the place. This was no use when The Doctor started sedation. He begins his procedure and cuts open her scalp. He then begins to inject her and empties the syringe into her brain. He does this and weirdly throws his head back with an evil laugh… evil scientist… get it. Okay moving on, he treats he post-operation. She was unconscious for three days after the operation. She woke up on the third night alone in a hospital bed. She thought that the police had rescued her from The Doctor. Unfortunately, this was not the case, she realized that she was still under the roof of The Doctor still. She was so disoriented but realized this would be the only time that she would be able to escape and getaway. She ripped the IV out of her arm and ran out of the room searching for an exit. She remembered the other children under his care and ran toward them and finally got free.

  She walked out of the door with the two other children and began yelling for help. Finally, she makes it to a local hospital… a real hospital. She is frantic and has two younger children with her. They can not get any answers to what happened to them because she becomes unconscious after the first question… “What’s your name?” She was unconscious for six weeks before she woke up. And when she does she can not remember anything and all the children that were with The Doctor were already gone and in different foster homes. No memories of her past or even her name. In the hospital, they called her Jane Doe which a name that is given to an unknown person in care. She was 18 years old now and out of the system. After getting out of the hospital Jane just did not feel right and did not have anywhere to go. She found her feet and got a waitress and rents a small apartment in the lower end of NYC. She began to feel some differences in her body and how she feels. Suddenly her mind seems to always be working, she can hear people coming from miles away and can run faster than a cheetah. She was so scared and confused she did not tell anyone. One day Jane is walking to her job and she sees a man stealing a car. She runs up to him and punches him and he flies ten feet. She is so horrified by herself and what has happened she runs over to the police station and reports what happened. They arrest her and she is questioned by two men in suits. They ask her a bunch of questions about herself and her abilities. She was reluctant to tell them because she did not want to end up in the lab being tested like a rat. They assure her that life can be normal for her but they need to know for the safety of herself and others. She tells them. They urge her to join them. The SOA (Superheroes Of America). She decides that this may be where she belongs finally and having a real family. She went from having nothing to actually having people who care about her. Jane meets a girl named Dawn Love and a boy named Lincoln Forest who had become like siblings to her. She also under the care of a well-known superhero Captain America. At the SOA they are taught to control their abilities and how to use them for good. She learns a lot about herself and is finally happy. She works together with the SOA to help with a crime in the city. She is able to help people with her abilities. Soon she is called Blaze Jane. She is the hero of the city that they did not know they wanted or needed. She is smart and compassionate of all at 21 years old. She advocates for the underdog. All her life she was an underdog and decided it was time for the underdog to live the life they want. She began working with children in the foster care system. She volunteers her time and efforts to these children helping them have a better life. She hopes that foster homes are not bad places for the children. She is successful in helping the people of the city and saving the lives of those in need. Blaze Jane and goals are to lower the need for superheroes in the city but always being ready when one is needed. 

In terms of other superheroes, I think that Jane is like Deadpool because he also underwent a medical procedure that changed him and gave him his powers. He also is looking out for the underdog. In terms of her personality, I think that Jane is similar to Captain America. He is always wanting to do the right thing with the law and the thought of other people’s feelings in mind. Captain America mentored Jane and taught her everything she knows about being a superhero. She looks up to him as a father figure. After not having anyone to be the person to look up to she finally found a person. Blaze Jane is still alive today and is thriving in her new environment. She has made a name for herself in the community and wants people to believe in kindness and safety. She has gotten tested by the doctors and specialists at SOA. They have been trying to find out what happened to her and more about her past. She wants to understand why the experiment worked on her and how it was able to change her life forever. When the SOA was able to track down The Doctor he would not tell them anything about the experiment. He wanted to see Jane. He wanted to see his prodigy. Jane talks to him and begs him for answers. He tells her that he injected her with a cell enhancement drug. He actually said that he never thought that his experiments would succeed until Jane… he then also says that after her he injected five more of his foster children. And two were in a vegetative state but three of them also developed abilities just like Jane. He still had the three children with abilities in his care so they were taken in by the SOA. The Doctor was taken and put into the custody of the SOA and was never released. Jane also was able to dive into the history of her parents. She learned that her parents Lynn and Michael Newport were people she did not want to know anyway. They were people that did not care for the world as Jane did. Her father was an alcoholic and an addict and her mother was a foreign immigrant who moved back to Italy. Jane actually went out to Italy to find her mother but when she found her Lynn denied being her mother at all. These people hurt Jane when they gave her up as a child and were a disappointment when she found out about them. For many years Jane did not have anyone no family and no love. She finally had a family in the SOA and people that care about her. Her goal in life and in being a superhero is to make the world a better place. Even though her powers are physical she also has developed intelligence and a higher understanding of others.

[weshallc]

Nonnatun Christmas Card Exchange FF 2

Since you were so kind about my first Nonnatun Christmas Card Story. I will share another.I have met some lovely people through the Exchange including Denise, who I wrote this for. Thanks to @eatapinkwafer for tirelessly correcting my punctuation and the Spanish lessons.

NOVEMBER 1962

Phyllis Crane sat on the edge of her bed. She removed her new plum court shoes. She had bought them especially for this most special of days. Today had been one of the most memorable of Phyllis’s rich and varied life. Phyllis had never been a bride, she had never even been a bridesmaid, until today.

Phyllis looked around the room she had shared for 2 years with the bride she had tended all day.The room looked bereft, empty without her-could she actually use the term, yes she could,Barbara had given her permission- without her best friend.

Phyllis changed her pinching court shoes for a much more comfortable pair of lace up granny shoes and went to join the fun of the fair. Nurse Crane intended to just watch her fellow guests enjoy the pretty Poplar carousel. Valerie Dyer however, had other ideas. After quite a struggle she persuaded the more mature nurse to mount one of the ornate horses. A few rotations later Phyllis thought she had placated her friend, but it wasn’t so, Valerie dragged Phyllis into a more dignified position, seated in a sleigh as the fairground ride began to turn once more. 

Fred was doing his best Billy Bigelow impression helping people on and off the ride. Valerie had finally had enough and Fred assisted her dismount from the carousel. Phyllis rebuffed Fred’s offer of a hand, but when she tried to negotiate the 2 large steps to the ground, realized she was quite dizzy and stumbled into the path of a young woman dressed in blue.

“Sorry!” cried Phyllis, “I am dreadfully sorry.”

“It’s alright Phyllis, I think we are all a bit giddy today.”

The familiar Welsh lilt comforted Nurse Crane, at least she hadn’t careered into a stranger. Delia Busby held onto her assailants hands very lightly, letting Phyllis regain her balance. Gratefully Phyllis looked into the young woman’s face, it was then she noticed that there were tears in those big blue eyes. Unfortunately this had become an all too familiar sight in the last few months. However, this was not the forlorn face that had given Phyllis such cause for concern of late. This Delia Busby was wearing a smile that would melt the newly falling snow.

“Are you two,alright?” The Voice was sharp but concerned. “ Those contraptions always make one feel awfully disoriented, I find.”

“I am fine Patsy and I believe so is Delia.” Phyllis and Delia dropped hands after the most gentle of squeezes. “ May I say Nurse Mount, that you are a most welcome late arrival to this wedding.”

“I hadn’t the faintest idea it was today, I am not suitably attired for the occasion, but I hope I will be forgiven?”

Phyllis studied the tall, striking figure in blue jeans, plimsolls and what to Phyllis looked like a man’s raincoat.“ You’ll do Patsy, you’ll do.”

Once the carousel had completed its last orbit and Horlicks and wedding cake had been gratefully received, Phyllis Crane was ready to turn in. On entering her room she became aware It was a lot less empty, than when she last left it. A blue suitcase stood against Barbara’s old bed. She wondered how she had not realized earlier, Valerie now occupied Patsy’s old bed and Barbara no longer had need for hers.

Phyllis removed the red carnation from her wedding suit and placed it on her Spanish dictionary, she would press it properly tomorrow. Once in bed, Phyllis weary from the excitement of the day was soon asleep. Though not for long, she was woken abruptly by a loud crash and a curse then an apology. Nurse Mount unfamiliar with negotiating her new room in the dark had fallen over her suitcase.

“ Nurse Mount, I will make an exception on this occasion, due to the nature of the day. Nurse Gilbert and myself had an understanding allowing of course for on call duties, lights out was set for 10 ‘o’clock.”

In the days that followed Patsy kept strictly to the deadline. It wasn’t Patsy’s compliance around going to bed that worried Phyllis, it was her habit of not staying there all night that concerned the older roommate.The redhead had swiftly mastered the room layout in the dark and the position of the creaky floorboard.She knew just how to leave the door just on the latch, so it opened quietly. For all her stealth, Patsy had been unsuccessful in concealing her night time excursions from her light sleeping roommate. Nurse Crane had worked to many years on call to be a sound sleeper. Phyllis couldn’t shake off a sense of foreboding each evening. She fretted that Trixie or Valerie would discover Patsy’s night time manoeuvres. Or even more catastrophically Sister Julienne or Sister Winifred or more likely a restless Sister Monica Joan almost as prone to night time wandering as Patsy.

Sister Julienne sat at her desk at the start of her mornings work. The knock on her door signalled an unscheduled visit from Nurse Crane. The nurse took a seat and took a deep breath and began her plea.

“Sister Julienne, as you will be well aware,I am not one to ask for favours or seek privileges. However I do feel it necessary to alert you to a circumstance that I can no longer completely tolerate.” 

Sister Julienne sat calmly in front of the midwife and begged her to continue.

“ I am fully aware that Nurse Franklin is acting Sister, after yourself she is the longest serving nurse at Nonnatus House. You will also be aware that I have been qualified longer than her or any of the other nurses employed here.” 

Sister Julienne stiffened slightly in her chair.

“I do not seek reward for my length of service to my chosen profession, I never have. I do though feel the time has now come, that there should be some sort of acknowledgement to my seniority both professionally and personally.” 

Sister Julienne intrigued by her colleagues comments enquired, “ In what form would you like this acknowledgement to take?”

“ I would be most appreciative if you could see fit to allocate me, my own room.”

This had not been what the nurse-in-charge had been expecting. Phyllis was fully aware that the only single room designated for the secular midwives was occupied by Nurse Busby. The Sister had felt it appropriate to allocate the young student her own room when she came to live at Nonnatus not fully recovered from her horrific accident. 

Phyllis protested that Nurse Busby was now fully recovered from her injury and that her position as a trainee midwife, no longer entitled her to the privilege of a single room.Sister Julienne was somewhat surprised at the ferocity of Nurse Crane’s arguments. Although she sympathized with the midwives position, she really could not justify asking another resident to vacate their room, just because another wanted it. 

Phyllis knew once she left the office that day, the matter would be closed forever. She had one final strategy.

“ Sister, we are not so very far apart in years. Could I be so bold as to enquire, how you would reconcile yourself with the idea of sharing a room with Sister Winifred?”

Delia Busby linked her girlfriend’s arm as they walked down the Nonnatus staircase. Patsy immediately untangled herself from her affectionate companion.

“ Oh Pat’s don’t be like that.” The rejected nurse admonished. “Trixie links me all the time, when we are out. So does Val, people think it’s more peculiar that you always push me away.”

Patsy couldn’t bear to see the hurt in her lovers beautiful eyes, she had disappointed her so much lately. Patsy grabbed Delia’s wrist and wrapped it around her forearm. A triumphant smile lit up the Welsh girls face and then disappeared almost instantly, when on hearing the office door open and shut, Patsy dropped Delia’s arm like a freshly autoclaved forcep.Nurse Crane stood by the office door, she acknowledged the pair and made for the front door. 

“ Deals, I think I must be very much mistaken, but did Phyllis just wink at you?” “ I dunno Pats, maybe something in her eye.”

The office door reopened and Sister Julienne beckoned the 2 girls Inside. The Sister-in-Charge got straight to the point.

“ It has been brought to my attention that in some quarters there seems to be a concern, regarding some of the current sleeping arrangements at Nonnatus House.”  

Delia felt Patsy stiffen, she felt herself colour slightly. The sister continued.

“Nurse Busby you were allocated a private room on your arrival here due to your need for recuperation.” Delia nodded as Sister Julienne continued.

“Due to your position here that was an unusual decision, but at the time a correct one. A senior member of staff, has now requested a single room. I would like to stress that her request does not in anyway reflect on her relationship with yourself,Nurse Mount. It is a preference based entirely on her belief that her seniority demands a certain acknowledgement.” 

Sister Julienne looked at the girls in front of her, they reminded her of two alabaster figures she was familiar with on a mantelpiece in a well visited flat in Poplar. Pale and perfectly still.

“ So Nurse Busby, the decision is yours, I will not hold any influence over you on this matter.” Delia nodded, but not quite sure at what.

“Do you need more time Nurse Busby?”

“I am not sure I follow you at the moment, Sister?”

“What I am asking you Nurse Busby is would you mind accommodating Nurse Crane by vacating your single room and moving in with Nurse Mount here?” 

She then turned to Patsy, “And would you Nurse Mount,be agreeable to sharing a room with Nurse Busby?”

As Patsy followed Phyllis’s strict instructions regarding the positioning of her personal effects in her new room, owing to her swift departure to a mother in labour. She considered the changes she had encountered at Nonnatus House since her return. The rule of Sister Ursula had ended and Sister Julienne had been reinstated back in her rightful place, so Patsy thought. Trixie had returned from South Africa and seemed happier than Patsy had ever see her with her admiring Dentist in tow. Barbara was now Mrs Hereward and the infertile Shelagh Turner was nursing a beautiful baby boy. The barmaid from the pub at the docks was now a midwife and sleeping in her old bed. Most miraculous of all, she and Delia, finally had a place of their own.

When Phyllis Crane sat on the edge of her new bed that night. She noticed that Patsy had followed her unpacking orders to the letter, as she had expected. She noticed the vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill and she noticed an edition of Garcia Lorca’s, Romancero Gitano on her nightstand. Phyllis Crane was not a lover of Spanish poetry, but she would treasure this particular volume for the rest of her days. Including the inscription,’To Our Very Good Friend’ in Spanish of course. Querida Amiga.

[nutriyumaddict]

Hey look, it’s a 2k fic from Yachter Otter’s POV! :D

Why? Why not!

Sorry. Not sorry.

Five Times Yachter Otter Was Part of the Knope-Wyatt Family (and One Time He Wasn’t Yet)

February 2026

It’s dark.

Well, it’s been dark for awhile but even though he can’t see anymore, Yachter Otter can tell he’s somewhere else. And then he’s gently being lifted up and set down on a flat surface.

“Hi? Hello? Oh, there you are. Hi. Ben Wyatt. Um, I don’t know if you remember me but–”

“Oh! I do! You’re the one that used to buy all the stuffed animals. It’s been awhile.”

“Yeah,” he hears Ben answer with a laugh. Although sometimes he’s called babe or congressman or dad at home. Sometimes daddy, but it’s been a year or two since Yachter Otter has heard that version of the man’s name regularly.

“That’s me. So, I was wondering if–”

“Yes, I could definitely make you three bears dressed up as past presidents. Which ones?”

“No that’s okay…well, huh. Actually, that sounds kind of cute. Maybe Roosevelt, Kennedy, and…No, no. Never mind. That’s not why I’m here. I was wondering if–”

“Oh! What happened to this little guy?”

He’s being picked up and examined. Poked and prodded, but not roughly.

“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. Can you fix him? He’s kind of important to my wife. And well, to the kids. You know, I’m kind of fond of him too, I guess.”

Yachter Otter would roll his eyes if he could. But, he guesses he’s slightly fond of this one too.

“His monocle is gone.”

“Ah, yes, a camping trip a couple of years ago. Wes took him on our hike and when we got back to the tents, no monocle. We looked, but we couldn’t find it anywhere. Leslie told the kids it was okay, that he’d get a contact lens.”

“Hmmm. And it says…butt on the top of his captain’s hat? Why does it say butt on the top of his hat?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, it wasn’t me. That was um…see, we have triplets. And there was a period, back when they were learning to spell, that pretty much every surface of our house had the word butt scribbled on it. Unfortunately, this one is in permanent marker. And then, we all kind of thought it was funny, especially Stephen, who was probably the one who wrote it. But, yeah, he should probably get a new hat.”

“I can put a new one on him,” the woman says. “What happened to his arm? And his eyes?”

It’s a good thing Yachter Otter can’t feel pain, because his right flipper has been nearly severed for a few days now. And his eyes fell out awhile before that.

It’s funny, he remembers a time, way back when he first started living with them, when he wished he didn’t have eyes, but he’s found now that he misses seeing his family (plus thankfully, he hasn’t had a front row seat for noisy times in quite awhile).

Although, he’s pretty sure those times still happen with great frequency.

He hears Ben sigh, “The dog. In fact, I just found this little guy in the hallway last night. I think Bark Obama, that’s our dog, has been using him as a chew toy. It’s been a hectic couple of weeks, we just moved back to Indiana full-time from DC.”

“I can fix him. Sew him back together. Get him a new hat and monocle. Oh, and a new medallion for his neck.”

“You remember that? The necklace?”

Yachter Otter hears a laugh. “It’s not like I’ve made that many playboy otters lost at sea in my career.”

“Fair point. Okay. That would be perfect. Thank you. Any chance you could have him done by Valentine’s Day at the end of the week? I kind of wanted to give him to my wife again this year, you know, all fixed up and like new. I gave Yachter Otter to her on Valentine’s Day, um, fourteen years ago, back when we were dating. Now we have three kids and she’s running for Governor.”

“And you’re regifting a stuffed animal as your Valentine’s Day present? To the possible future Governor of Indiana? The mother of your children?”

“No. I’m not regifting-regifting, I gave it to her already…oh. I see what you’re saying. I should probably do flowers or something else too, right?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Hmmm. Well, anyway, thanks for your help.” Yachter Otter gets a soft pat on the head. “See you soon, buddy.”

April 2020

His new location is in the bigger bedroom with all the small ones again–their names are Wesley, Sonia, and Stephen. He likes them all of course, but Wesley is his favorite. That’s whose bed he sleeps in and who cuddles him at night.

Li'l Sebastian is usually snuggled up with Stephen, and the girl, she has about twenty stuffed animals, including a very condescending ostrich named BoBo. Sonia also plays with a hard rectangle she calls Dr. Buttons.

He’s just sitting there one afternoon when Wesley comes into the room, crying. He plops down on his bed and hugs Yachter Otter, sobbing into his furry otter belly.

Yachter Otter wishes he could hug the little boy back.

“Wes? Hey, Wesley?”

He watches as Ben walks in and sits down on the bed next to his son. “What’s wrong?”

The small one sits up and sniffles. “Daddy.”

Soon Yachter Otter is set down on the bed and Ben is hugging Wesley. “It’s okay. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I drew a picture and no one knows what it is.”

Ben looks confused. “Where? On the wall?”

“No, daddy, I know the rules. At school. Everyone always knows what Stephen draws. He’s better at drawing. I’m no good.”

They’re sitting close together now, Wes practically on his father’s lap. “You’re very good, even if your pictures aren’t as obvious as your brother’s. That doesn’t mean his are better, you just see things differently.”

“Because of my glasses?”

Ben smiles and wipes Wes’s tears away with his fingers. “Well, mostly because you’re a different person than Stephen, and you see the world differently. And you draw differently. And that’s okay, it’s how it should be.”

Wes sniffles again and uncrumples a balled up piece of paper. The one he’d tossed on the bed when he first came in. “Do you know what that is?”

Yachter Otter is glad that he’s not being asked this question because Yachter Otter has no clue what that is…a traffic cone? A wedge of cheese?

Ben studies the work of art carefully. “Um, well…I think that’s a carrot?”

Wesley’s face lights up. and he starts to smile “Yeah! And what’s that?” He points to a multicolored blob beneath the carrot.

“Oh, well…I’m sorry, honey. I’m not quite sure, but if you tell me what it is, I’m sure I’ll see it.”

“It’s Benjamin Franklin flying a carrot instead of a kite. And that’s Yachter Otter taking notes for the newspaper and talking with Uncle Andy.”

Ben smiles and peers closer. “Wow. Okay. There’s a lot going on there. Hey, is Andy playing a broccoli guitar?”

Wes nods excitedly.

“This is very creative and colorful. Why don’t we put this up in the kitchen so mommy can see it tonight? I’m sure she’ll love it as much as I do.”

November 2014

Everyone’s been gone for a couple of days.

Leslie had been getting larger and larger and thankfully, the noises (and sights) had gotten a little less frequent over the last few weeks. Although, the other night, Ben did that thing with his mouth that Yachter Otter has never quite been able to understand.

That had certainly made Leslie very noisy.

But now, they’re back home, with three small and crying bundles. and she’s moving a little slower than usual and Ben is doting on her and bringing her things–food, juice, adjusting her pillows, and handing the babies to her to nurse against her chest.

There are other people here too fussing over the whole scene.

Yachter Otter thinks he knows what’s going on here. They finally had a litter of pups.

A couple of days later, he gets moved to another bedroom, this one is light green and has three cribs, a rocking chair, and dancing animal paintings on the wall. He knows what this is too–it’s the den where the new pups are being kept.

He’s up high on a shelf next to Li'l Sebastian, above a table where the new ones are cleaned up. It’s kind of a smelly location, and he and the mini-horse spend a lot of time complaining to each other about the odors.

But still, he thinks he likes these new additions to the family.

October 2012

It’s quieter lately.

Ben is not around anymore, although he thinks it’s not a permanent thing  because he and Leslie still talk to each other on their laptops every night. But, he’s no longer sleeping next to her in the bed all the time–just occasionally when he visits on weekends.

Today Ann is over. Ann is a beautiful, lyrical sunbeam, at least that’s what Leslie calls her.

“I’m just not sure…” Leslie trails off, running her hands along Yachter Otter’s belly, where he sits in her lap. “He seems so happy, out there in DC being all smart and political. Of course, he’d want to go to Florida and work on another campaign. He did travel all the time before, he probably misses that lifestyle.”

“But you just found that great house. Maybe you could–”

Leslie shakes her head. “No. I think he wants to take this new job. And that’s great. I mean, I don’t like it at all and it’s awful but I totally and fully support Ben  and his dreams. Maybe after this campaign is over? But, for now, it doesn’t make sense to rent the house when it’s just me. I’ll just go over and look at it one more time. To say goodbye.”

“Do you want company?”

She shakes her head. “That’s okay, go see Jerry at the hospital. I can go by the rental myself. Besides, I’ll find a better house for us later. One with a trampoline room. Because I don’t think Martha knows what she’s talking about there–I’m sure some houses have trampoline rooms.”

March 2012

What are they doing?

He’s heard these noises before, but Leslie, that’s the blonde one’s name, usually turns him around so he’s facing the wall before they happen. But right now, he can see everything.

Apparently, hair color is not the only way to tell these two apart when they’re naked.

Is he…hurting her? No. No, Yachter Otter thinks, she seems to like it, whatever he’s doing.

“Oh no! Yachter Otter! I forgot to turn him so he couldn’t watch us.”

The one with the very prominent penis laughs (he’d be a big hit at yacht parties, Yachter Otter thinks). “Babe. He’s a stuffed animal.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Besides, if he’s going to live here, he might as well get used to this.”

He watches as they smile and laugh and roll around some more on the bed until the woman is on top, bouncing and moaning, and at least they look happy?

Of course, Yachter Otter wishes he could close his eyes and give them some privacy to mate–he finally figured out that’s what they were doing–but unfortunately, his eyes are permanently open. That was convenient for navigating the waters but now, in his new noisy home, it might be a small problem.

February 2012

He’s used to yacht parties and super models. Dry martinis and caviar. And then one day when he was out at sea, just thinking and planning his next adventure,  he got lost in the high waves. Thankfully, he still has his monocle, even though that was mostly for show. He can see perfectly fine without it.

Then he was in a car…a Saturn? Which, being a playboy otter, seemed far beneath him somehow.

His next location is an office, behind a desk as he watches someone lead another someone closer, but the taller one has his paws over the shorter one’s eyes, so they’re walking slowly and laughing.

Apparently, the one had a dream about him–a playboy otter lost at sea. But how did he get here?

And why are they smashing their faces together now?

[prevazilazenje]

PERSONAL STORIES:

My Father’s Demonic Possession

[date unknown, est. early 1990’s]

_

Dear Rev. [name withheld],

_

I trust after the several conversations and/or communiques you have had with my mother, [name withheld], that you will recognize my name and will be familiar at least somewhat with my situation. I am writing to you for several reasons: first, to give you the background of me and my husband; second to give you as much detail on my situation as possible; and third to ask, no to PLEAD for the the prayers of you and your church members in the upcoming weeks, because I feel I am to have a battle with the forces of Satan such as I never imagined I would see. I feel somewhat strange in asking help from strangers, yet I am forced to turn this way because no one else I know has had any knowledge or experience in the area of demonology.

_

To begin with, the relationship of my husband and I began on the wrong foot. When we began going together, he was married. He assured me that the marriage had ended long before he ever knew me. As a Christian, I felt guilty about the relationship, but after a while gave into my desires, and while he was still married he and I began living together, and eventually had a baby. Even though I know this was wrong, I know it had been forgiven under the blood of Christ. Also, when we began going together I prayed in ernest about the relationship, because I figured since I was inexperienced in such matters, I was only infatuated with him, rather than in love, even though we had a tremendous amount in common. The answer I received was “Go in peace, child. I have sent him.” I asked him all the right questions as to whether or not he had been born again, and every indication was that he had been. There were however, a few drawbacks. He had a reputation as a womanizer (or rather as someone who was “free with his charms”), and he also had a history of mental illness, another area in which I was a complete novice. Also, he was the survivor of a major heart attack. His doctor told him that most victims of heart attacks as serious as his do not live longer than about five years. Two had already passed. So I rationalized that perhaps God wanted us together so that I could be a help to him and make whatever days he had left as happy and fulfilling as possible. I further found out that his mental illness had been diagnosed some twenty or so years earlier as psychosis by one doctor and as paranoid schizophrenia by another. I have, until this most recent set of circumstances, felt the latter was the case. I would also tend to classify him as a sociopath, but every once in a while, bits of conscience “leak out.” When I first met him he was a warm, kind, loving, caring, generous, fun, though reserved individual. Since then his emotional state has gone steadily and rapidly downhill, as has mine because I have developed such a close emotional bond with him. Whenever he gets depressed, I get depressed. Whenever he gets angry, I get angry and so on. He has considered suicide on several occasions as have I, something I never did before meeting him. Recently, though, I feel that all of these things can be directly attributable to demonic possession.

_

During our time together, he has on many occasions cursed and blasphemed God, used profanity that would make a sailor blush, and because of his actions, I have unfortunately allowed my faith to erode to the point where it is almost nonexistent. I, too, have found myself cursing, doubting, questioning, and swearing. It is shameful behavior, but I seem unable to turn the tide. As for his personal background, my husband had his funeral directors and embalmers license. He had served two tours of duty in Vietnam with military intelligence. He was a fireman as a very young man, and for the last 22 years of his life before I knew him, he was a police officer. He was always someone that people respected, someone who people gave a great deal of authority to. He was someone who always rose quickly to a level of command. As a policeman, he attained the level and rank of assistant chief, and his cases included all the gory, grisly, oddball cases that no one else wanted to handle, i.e. suicides, murders, occult cases, etc.

_

About two and a half months ago, I had a nightmare that my family and I were staying in a dormitory setting for who knows what reason. Anyway, in the middle of the night I had gone to check on the children and when I returned, I heard a voice coming from our room that I didn’t recognize. I thought that my husband was talking with someone. When I saw no one in the room, I approached the bunk and called my husband’s name. He turned over and glared at me with an unholy look and growled something at me. I shouted something to the effect of “Satan, leave us alone! Get out of here!” I related the story to my husband, who shrugged it off as just another weird dream.

_

Within the week, however, we had gone to bed after one of the many fights that have ruined our marriage. After about five or ten minutes in bed, I said to him, “Can I ask you some questions?” No response. I assumed he was already asleep. About five minutes later, a very low, angry voice said, “What do you want?” I didn’t answer because I was angry at myself. “Well, what do you want, woman? You summoned me up now what do you want?” I said, “Are you trying to scare me? Are you trying to prey on my nightmares?”

“What’s a nightmare?”

“You know, a frightening dream.”

“There’s no such thing as a nightmare.”

“In that case, we have nothing to discuss.”

“Then I’ll go back to where I came from.”

After about five minutes, my husband got up, went to the bathroom, got a drink, etc. All very normal behavior for him. I asked him about the conversation and he said that I had been dreaming again, and that he had no recollection of any such conversation. I dismissed it as either him talking in his sleep, or him playing some kind of “mind game” with me, one of which I wanted no part.

_

More recently, though, things have taken a more serious and frightening turn. About 6-8 weeks later, we had been in bed for again, 5-10 minutes, when he said, “Do you want to talk?”

“Why, is something on your mind?”

“I don’t have a mind.”

I dismissed it as one of his wisecrack answers, so I said, “Well, that fact aside, what would you like to talk about?”

“I must leave this man. He’s become a very dull person.”

Please note that on this evening, we were not angry with each other. The request by him was out of character, and the fact that he was referring to himself in the third person caught my attention immediately. Since the last conversation, I had read a small booklet on demon possession, but neither of us gave much credence to the fact that it could actually apply to him. However, on this occasion I took the matter very seriously. I began talking to it as if there were indeed another person in the room and we were talking about my husband. The spirit asked me to locate and burn a book called “The Spirits Book.” I said I didn’t know of any such book, but that I would ask him about it.

“He has it somewhere. It’s a book with a red cover and is smaller than the others. It’s put out by the Rosacrucians.”

“Ben Franklin was a Rosacrucian, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, I believe he was. There are a few others that will work if you can’t find The Spirits Book. One is Oahspe, one is called Man of Sorrows.”

Both of these I recognized, but there were several others that I didn’t recognize.

“What will happen if I burn the book?”

“I will be able to rise with the smoke and leave his body.”

“What happens if he dies before I burn the book?”

“I will be caught between worlds.”

“Are my children or I in any danger?”

“No, I have no interest in you. You are of no use to me.”

“How did you happen to be in my husband’s body?”

“I entered on the death of [name withheld].”

“You mean Father [name withheld]?”

“I guess you could call him that.”

[name withheld] was an old German priest who taught at the boys school where my husband went. According to my husband, this priest was very knowledgeable about the occult and had an extensive collection of grimoires and occult books. He also said that when he (my husband) was in the eighth grade, [name withheld] conjured the devil right before his eyes because he had said that he didn’t believe in the devil. He thought it was just a scare tactic used by nuns and priests to get kids to mind. Again, about five minutes after he finished talking, my husband awoke and denied any recollection of the conversation. He felt that I had either dreamed the whole thing or made it up. That’s when I called you.

[christymtidwell]

I don’t often read biographies. I only have 12 books on my Goodreads shelf labelled “biography” that I’ve actually read, and a couple of those might be stretching the definition a bit (e.g., Kate Bolick’s Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own, which includes biographical sketches as part of a more autobiographical project). Looking over the short list of biographies I’ve actually completed, it appears I’m primarily drawn to biographies of women, including the following: Rachel Carson, Judith Merril, George Eliot, James Tiptree, Jr. (aka Alice Sheldon), Rosa Luxemburg, Octavia E. Butler, and Shirley Jackson. The list also includes Rachel Ignotofsky’s Women in Science: 50 Fearless Pioneers Who Changed the World, which is a collection of short, illustrated biographical sketches of female scientists throughout history. There are only three books on the list that are about men (and here I want to mention Philippe Girard’s Toussaint Louverture: A Revolutionary Life, which I listened to on a long car ride and would highly recommend).

I’m not sure what it is that has me reading mostly biographies of women. It’s not a conscious choice to focus on women. Some of this focus certainly grows out of my scholarly interests; my dissertation was about feminist science fiction and feminist science, after all. Rachel Carson, Judith Merril, James Tiptree, Jr., and Octavia E. Butler are all relevant to that work. But my dissertation didn’t focus on any of these women and didn’t require biographical research anyway.

Certainly there’s also an element of admiration in my choices. All of these are biographies of women whose work I value: Rachel Carson’s scientific work as well as her writing about science; James Tiptree, Jr.’s brilliant and disturbing fiction, much of it reflecting on gender and sex; Judith Merril’s writing and editorial work and the way she helped shape science fiction as a genre; Octavia Butler’s revelations of power in her fiction (I especially love Dawn); Rosa Luxemburg’s fight for freedom and justice. And so on.

Another unfortunate pattern, however, seems to be that the biographies I have enjoyed most (is enjoyed the right word? perhaps not) are those of women who have led somewhat painful, constrained lives: Rachel Carson, James Tiptree, Jr., Octavia Butler, Shirley Jackson.

This pattern seems especially to be highlighted by Ruth Franklin’s recent biography of Shirley Jackson (Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life, 2016), which I just finished reading. Franklin emphasizes Jackson’s always strained relationship with her mother, her feeling of never fitting in anyplace, the hurtful ways her husband (scholar Stanley Hyman) treated her, frequently lukewarm responses to her fiction with a couple of significant exceptions, the tension she felt between her life as wife and mother and her life as writer, her late-in-life agoraphobia and serious anxiety, and her early death. Despite some real success as a writer and what seem like largely positive relationships with her children, Jackson’s life is marked by pain, anxiety, and a sense of her lack of freedom.

Reading her fiction with this in mind is illuminating. For instance, her work frequently circles around the supernatural. She typically stops short of relying on the supernatural as an explanation, but it is always a possibility, and it was something she studied for years.

Witchcraft, whether she practiced it or simply studied it, was important to Jackson for what it symbolized: female strength and potency. The witchcraft chronicles she treasured–written by male historians, often men of the church, who sought to demonstrate that witches presented a serious threat to Christian morality–are stories of powerful women: women who defy social norms, women who get what they desire, women who can channel the power of the devil himself. (261)

Shirley Jackson didn’t identify herself as a feminist, but she certainly fits into a feminist tradition. And Franklin points out how her observations about her own life, as well as her fiction, presage Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique. Like many women of the time, Jackson felt she had little to no control over her own life, little to no say in what was possible. Witchcraft, even as a thought experiment, allowed a window out of that world of control.

Later, Franklin’s discussion of The Haunting of Hill House includes a significant, telling detail about Jackson’s sense of the book and, potentially, about her sense of herself. At one point, Franklin observes that, in her notes, Jackson referred to a particular line as the “key line” of the novel. This line comes after Eleanor has been clutching Theodora’s hand in fear as she hears a child crying for help in the next room. When the lights go on, however, Theodora is not in bed with her but in the bed across the room: “Good God,” Eleanor says, “whose hand was I holding?” This line always gives me chills but I hadn’t considered it as central to the book in the way Jackson apparently did.

Franklin’s interpretation builds upon Jackson’s biography:

The people we hold by the hand are our intimates–parents, children, spouses. To discover oneself clinging to an unidentifiable hand and to ask “Whose hand was I holding?” is to recognize that we can never truly know those with whom we believe ourselves most familiar. One can sleep beside another person for twenty years, as Shirley had with Stanley [Hyman] by this point, and still feel that person to be at times a stranger–and not the “beautiful stranger” of her early story. The hand on the other side of the bed may well seem to belong to a demon. (414)

This is an intriguing reading that I will have to consider when I re-read the novel. Whether I find it convincing as a reading of this line or not, however, it is a compelling take on Shirley’s mindset and the feelings about her marriage she struggled with for many years.

Franklin’s biography – as in these two examples – provides potentially useful ways of reading Shirley Jackson’s work through her biography. The next instance raises questions about the limits of such readings, however.

Late in her life, when she became (temporarily) unable to leave her house, she found herself also unable to write. Franklin writes, tying Jackson’s anxiety to her relationship with Stanley, “It was an issue of control, she thought. How could she wrest control of her life, her mind, back from Stanley? And if she could, would her writing change?” (477). Jackson wrote in her diary at this time, “insecure, uncontrolled, i wrote of neuroses and fear and i think all my books laid end to end would be one long documentation of anxiety.” Her books do all seem to wrestle with anxiety and fear, and this is the source of much of their power. Would she write such books if she were a happier woman? If the world made room for her to be who she needed to be? Likely not. But what other books might she have written instead? Her books gather force from her anxiety and fear, but to leave it there is to discount her talent and skill as a writer. I suspect that a less unhappy version of Shirley Jackson could still have been a brilliant writer, but she might have spoken to different concerns. Or perhaps she would still have reflected these fears, for they are not unique to her or to her situation as a woman in an unhappy marriage in the mid-20th century.

Some of Jackson’s commentary on her own writing from earlier in her life indicates the broader reach of her ideas:

In a publicity memo written for Farrar, Straus around the time The Road Through the Wall appeared–only a month before “The Lottery” was written, if the March date on the draft is accurate–Jackson mentioned her enduring fondness for eighteenth-century English novels because of their “preservation of and insistence on a pattern superimposed precariously on the chaos of human development.” She continued: “I think it is the combination of these two that forms the background of everything I write–the sense which I feel, of a human and not very rational order struggling inadequately to keep in check forces of great destruction, which may be the devil and may be intellectual enlightenment.” In all her writing, the recurrent theme was “an insistence on the uncontrolled, unobserved wickedness of human behavior.” (224)

I take this as a reminder that although her personal demons may have shaped her writing, these feelings and themes are not unique to her or to people with similar problems. In fact, this quote seems to sum up horror fiction in a nutshell: rationality attempts (and fails) to control that which is beyond rational, humanity attempts (and fails) to control itself or its “wickedness.”

Shirley Jackson & Biography I don't often read biographies. I only have 12 books on my Goodreads shelf labelled "biography" that I've actually read, and a couple of those might be stretching the definition a bit (e.g., …

[oselatra]

Young adults ‘aging out’ of Arkansas foster care system struggle to adapt

Because it’s uncommon for older teenagers in foster care to be adopted, many are emancipated at age 18 or 21 without ever finding a permanent home. In the last state fiscal year, 235 young people “aged out” of the Arkansas system. Too old to be a ward of the state but unprepared to be cast out on their own, they entered adult life highly disadvantaged.

Kendra Owens doesn’t remember a lot about the five months she spent in foster care before her 18th birthday. Her therapist says that it’s her brain trying to protect her, hiding away horrible memories that might trigger her depression or her post-traumatic stress disorder.

What she does recall is broken. Scattered. Big events and some especially difficult times, but not day-to-day life. Mostly, she just remembers how she felt.

"All I wanted was a hug," Owens, now 26, said. "It’s so screwed; the entire system is just so screwed up."

Foster care is difficult for children of all ages, but adolescents experience a unique set of issues. Older children are more likely to be placed in group homes and are more frequently moved from one placement to another. They’re often separated from their younger siblings, for whom they may feel responsible, and they are sometimes overprescribed psychiatric medications that impair their brain functions.

Because it’s uncommon for older teenagers to be adopted, many are emancipated at age 18 or 21 without ever finding a permanent home. In the last state fiscal year, 235 young people "aged out" of the Arkansas foster care system. Too old to be a ward of the state but unprepared to be cast out on their own, they entered adult life highly disadvantaged.

Nationally, over 20 percent of teens who age out of foster care experience homelessness, according to a 2015 report by the National Council for Adoption. A 2011 study by researchers at the University of Chicago found only 46 percent were employed at age 26 and just 3 percent had earned a four-year college degree. They are more likely than their peers to struggle with substance abuse and engage in criminal behavior, including selling drugs, prostitution and gang membership, according to a 2017 study in "Children and Youth Services Review."

Foster and adoptive parents may be daunted by the prospect of caring for teenagers, many of whom are perceived to have serious emotional or mental issues. Between July and September 2018, only 12 percent of finalized adoptions in Arkansas were of children between the ages of 14 and 17, even though this age group makes up 32 percent of foster children available for adoption, according to a quarterly performance report published by the Division of Children and Family Services in January. (DCFS, the state’s child welfare agency, is an arm of the Arkansas Department of Human Services.)

It never even crossed Owens’ mind that she might be adopted, she said. Like most foster youths, she was sure that parents only want to adopt babies.

"Sadly, the older you get, the less people are interested," said Amy Keener, an administrator at Maggie House, a group home in Charleston (Franklin County). "And that’s really too bad, because these teenagers, they need to see what a functioning family is like, because they’re getting ready to move on and become an adult."

When she was 17, Owens, her 15-year-old brother and 11-year-old sister were taken into foster care. That day is clear in Owens’ mind. She and her sister were put in one car, and their brother was put in another. Owens’ sister was sobbing. Owens and her sister were never reunited with their brother.

That day was the first time Kendra and her siblings were removed from their home, but DCFS had been part of their lives for years. School officials would frequently call DCFS to report suspected abuse in the household; Owens couldn’t always hide the black eyes. Once, Owens’ friend called in because she saw the bruises.

"I got beat for that," Owens recalled.

Each time her mom was reported, DCFS staff would come to the home to investigate and sometimes give Owens’ mom guidelines to be a better parent. Despite these interventions, the abuse never stopped. When DCFS finally removed Owens and her siblings from their mother’s home, foster care was supposed to be an improvement.

It’s "just not what it’s supposed to be," Owens said. "They’re supposed to be there to help you and take you from [a negative environment], but I remember thinking I would rather have been back in my mom’s custody, which was the last place I needed to be." According to her therapist, a combination of the trauma she endured while living with her mother and her unfortunate experiences in foster care resulted in PTSD and contributed to her bipolar disorder. Owens and her sister first lived in a children’s emergency shelter for 45 days. They were then transferred to a foster home in Mansfield (Scott/Sebastian counties). The foster parents had at least five other children living with them already, and Owens said she and her sister were often ignored.

After that, the sisters were moved to a girls group home. During an excursion at the park, Owens said, she had to jump into a fistfight to protect her sister from older girls from the home who were beating her up. Some nights, she couldn’t sleep because the other girls would taunt her; when she complained to the group home staff, she was told to go back to bed.

Group homes and emergency shelters vary widely in terms of quality, but advocates say they are generally poor environments for children. The emotional and social damage children may suffer there can plague them into their adult years. Acknowledging this, DCFS has made a concerted effort in recent years to move young foster children out of such settings.

At the end of September 2018, nearly 500 Arkansas foster children were in group homes or emergency shelters. Of those, just 57 were under age 12. The rest were teenagers, according to the recent DCFS quarterly report. While this policy benefits younger foster children, it has left teenagers to languish in facilities that often fail to support them. (Overall, only 11 percent of Arkansas foster children were placed in group homes or emergency shelters as of Sept. 30, 2018; over 75 percent were placed in foster families or with relatives.)

Christin Harper, the assistant director of infrastructure and specialized programs at DCFS, said the agency has begun to prioritize moving older children out as well

"We’ve tried to be very honest about the fact that we honestly don’t need a whole lot of foster homes for babies and toddlers, which is often what people want," she said. "We’ve requested very much that [foster family recruiters] really focus on recruitment of homes that are willing to take [children older than 10]."

As Owens moved through the foster system, she became depressed and was put on medication including Trazodone, a sedative, and Seroquel, an anti-psychotic. Most of her time was spent sitting and staring "like a zombie," she said.

Haley Carson, the advocate supervisor and older youth specialist at Court Appointed Special Advocates of Northwest Arkansas, said foster children of all ages are frequently overmedicated. (CASA is an organization that recruits and trains independent advocates for children in foster care.) Carson said she has encountered foster children taking more than 10 psychiatric prescriptions at once.

Foster children are often prescribed medications to manage behavioral and mental health issues by multiple providers in rapid succession. Each child’s caseworker is tasked with approving new medications, but because DCFS caseworkers may have dozens of cases, the decision can often be made with little thought, said Carson, who used to be a DCFS caseworker.

"We weren’t educated on which medications were appropriate for which condition," Carson said. "You’d get a phone call from [the child’s doctor] asking, ‘Can you approve this medication?’ You get 20 of those a week, you don’t have time to put that much thought into it, so you approve it because a doctor says it’s the right thing to do. Caseworkers just don’t have the ability to really educate themselves about what these medications are [and] why they’re being asked to give them to these children."

DCFS has done several internal reviews to remedy overmedication in foster children, Harper said. A group of qualified DCFS staff is now charged with overseeing individual cases to ensure that children are prescribed medication properly.

In those five months in foster care, as a drowsy, drugged and depressed Owens struggled to get through each day, she met only one person that she felt cared about her: a teacher at the emergency shelter named Miss Danica. The teacher left little notes and stickers around Owens’ door and always encouraged her. Owens described her as  "amazing."

Owens said she was ignored when she told DCFS staff about her bad experience in the foster home or the girls’ group home. Owens said her caseworker tired of the complaints and eventually threatened her: If Owens "didn’t straighten up and listen," she’d be sent to a correctional home.

* * *

The state’s foster care population ballooned to record numbers in recent years, peaking at 5,196 in February 2017. Since then, it has trended downward. As of Dec. 31, 2018, there were 4,332 Arkansas children in care. That is still on par with summer 2015, when Cecile Blucker, then the director of DCFS, characterized the foster care situation as "a crisis" in an interview with the Arkansas Times.

DCFS officials are quick to point out improvements. More foster children are living in family environments rather than group homes, and the number of children waiting to be adopted has decreased by hundreds.

Arkansas has invested significant new resources in the foster care system. Over the past two years, the DCFS budget has increased by about $23 million, funding 187 new staff positions and allowing the agency to provide raises for underpaid staff. Governor Hutchinson has proposed another $1.25 million increase for fiscal year 2020. The average caseload for caseworkers has decreased from 29 to 21 in the past year, Harper said.

"We’re really excited," Harper said. "We’ve really been working a lot over this past year on prevention efforts and to offer more services and supports for those in-home cases that we have." DCFS caseworkers work with foster children, but they also support and educate families who are at risk of losing their children to the state.

But the positive changes do not hide the fact that DCFS is still stretched to capacity, and the system’s strain shows most clearly in the lives of its teenage wards.

"Lucy Wilson," 20, also entered the foster system when she was 17. (She agreed to speak under a pseudonym due to privacy concerns.)

"Sometimes it feels like nobody’s on your side, nobody has your back," Wilson said. "The first day I was taken, nobody took me aside, nobody cared … The placements I’ve been to, I’ve maybe found five good people overall, people who want to help you and better you."

Wilson was taken into foster care with three younger siblings because their biological parents were abusive. She lived in one foster home and two group homes and was eventually separated from all her siblings in care. DCFS has made substantial improvements in keeping siblings together. In 2012, just 65 percent of foster children were placed with one of their siblings, and only 46 percent were placed with all of their siblings, according to a DCFS performance report from 2013. As of Sept. 30, 2018, over 80 percent of foster children were placed with one of their siblings, while 68 percent were placed with all of their siblings. Yet hundreds of children are still separated from their siblings in care. Caseworkers are often unable to find foster parents who have the space or willingness to accept sibling groups, so children may be placed wherever there are available beds. There is often little effort made to reunite siblings once they are separated, according to the DCFS 2017 Progress and Services Report. Wilson and her younger brother initially lived with a foster family with two sons adopted from foster care. The boys had behavioral issues and would often fight. The environment was hard for Wilson to handle because of the abuse she’d suffered in the past. Wilson said she was sexually assaulted by one of the adopted boys in her foster home. She told her foster mom, but she refused to do anything about it. When Wilson told her attorney from DCFS, the foster mom kicked Wilson and her brother out in 15 minutes, saying only, “Pack your shit and get out.” The DCFS Policy & Procedure Manual states that an investigation must be opened following any allegations of abuse against a foster child. Wilson recalls being interviewed about the assault once by someone who was not her caseworker, but she said they never followed up with her after the initial questioning. She was sent to a Helena-West Helena group home next, without her brother. The home was technically for teens with behavioral problems; Wilson didn’t have any, but DCFS had nowhere else to put her. When she transferred schools, she lost all the honors credits she had worked so hard to attain. On average, children in Arkansas foster care are moved about six times for every three years in care, according to the recent DCFS quarterly performance report. Teenagers are often moved even more frequently. Carson said she works with one foster youth who has moved 20 times in the past year. When teens move so much, they often find it difficult to progress academically because course requirements and availability vary from school to school. Additionally, education records do not always follow students when they move, Carson said. At the Helena-West Helena group home, Wilson had more trouble than just lost school credit. She had to abide by strict rules. There were limits on how much food she ate, she said, and she wasn’t allowed to participate in after-school programs. Evenings featured only dinner, chores and then hanging out alone in her room, which had alarms on the doors and windows. Wilson’s last foster placement was at Maggie House, a family-style group home in which children of similar ages are grouped together into family units. Each family unit is headed up by a married couple who serve as the group’s foster parents and live at the facility, providing an atmosphere that more closely resembles that of a typical family. Wilson’s experience at Maggie House was a vast improvement over her previous group home, she said. She was even able to graduate early from high school. Once Owens and Wilson turned 18, they had a choice. They could leave foster care and begin their adult lives or they could enter “extended foster care” until they were 21. That would allow them to receive money for room and board, car insurance and higher education or vocational training. Young adults in extended foster care can live with a foster family or in an independent living facility. Owens knew she couldn’t stay, even though it meant leaving her younger sister. “She told me later on, a few years ago, that when … I left, she couldn’t protect herself,” Owens said. Both of her younger siblings “blame me for leaving them,” she said. But Owens was concerned her mental health issues would worsen if she stayed. “I wanted out,” she said. Owens’ perspective isn’t unique. By the time they turn 18, many foster youths are frustrated and done with the system and everyone in it, Harper said. She acknowledged that bad experiences in the system and caseworkers who may fail to tell foster youths their options deter youths from staying. "We have a lot of turnover among caseworkers, and some don’t even know what information to share," Harper said. "Some [foster youth] who are hard to handle are not necessarily encouraged to stay; this is definitely not DCFS policy, but it does happen." Teens who enter extended care are still required to be "in compliance," meaning they must follow DCFS rules, Carson said. They must be working, furthering their education or going through a treatment program. Wilson chose to go to extended foster care. She had no family or other support, so staying in the state’s custody made the most sense to her. She lives at GetReal24, an independent living facility in Fort Smith designed for young adults like her. The program provides sponsor families and mentors; while she’s had a few awkward experiences with sponsor families, GetReal24 has been a positive and supportive environment overall, she said. Besides, she spends hardly any time at home – between attending college full time and working 40 hours a week as a babysitter and Waitr delivery driver, she’s lucky to squeeze in any time with her siblings and her dog. Wilson studies organizational leadership at UA - Fort Smith and is about two years from graduation. Wilson spends a lot of time worrying about her siblings. Her youngest sister is in a foster home in Van Buren. Her other sister is at a mental health care facility in Fort Smith, and Wilson gets to visit her once a week. Her brother was in a home in southern Arkansas — the four-hour drive meant she almost never got to see him — but he turned 18 and moved into GetReal24 last year, so now they can celebrate holidays and even make Walmart runs together. It took Owens a long time to get back on track. When she left foster care, she moved to Saving Grace, a residential living facility in Rogers for disadvantaged young women. She lived there off and on for about four years, occasionally moving back to her hometown of Ozark before realizing it just wasn’t healthy for her to be so close to her mom. She was working at a hotel in early 2018, but ended up moving back to Saving Grace. After years of trying to get her life together and heal, Owens may have finally hit her stride. She works at McDonald’s, and the company is paying for her to attend Northwest Arkansas Community College. She wants to be a paralegal. Her greatest achievement, in her eyes, is that she has $550 tucked away in a savings account, far more than she’s ever been able to save before. Owens speaks to her mother and sister occasionally, but rarely hears from her brother. Her relationship with her family is still strained at best; her mom got a Facebook account recently, and she often comments on Owens’ posts, asking, "Is this about me?" She feels lucky; compared to her siblings, who were in foster care for years longer than her, she got off easy, she said. Both women would like to be foster parents one day. Owens says she wants to make sure other kids don’t go through what she did. Wilson is saving up every bit of money she can so that she can foster her own siblings when she turns 21 in July. For now, they are both trying to be the best versions of themselves and overcome the trauma they experienced before and during their time in foster care. "I need to be stable, in my own house, and I guess more healed than I am," Owens said. "I can’t care for people that are as broken as I am. That’s just going to be a cause for disaster, because most of the time I am a walking disaster."

This reporting is courtesy of the Arkansas Nonprofit News Network, an independent, nonpartisan news project dedicated to producing journalism that matters to Arkansans. Find out more at arknews.org. Young adults ‘aging out’ of Arkansas foster care system struggle to adapt