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peperoprincess · 7 years

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This wasn’t the story @ultipoter asked for, and I will most certainly get back to finishing the other one shortly, but I started writing this one this evening and managed to finish it in one sitting, so I thought I’d go ahead and post it!!

Please proceed to the story (2040 words) about bad cooking and an exploded family house under the cut :^)

The week had passed in relative quiet. Just like the week before, and the week before that, Ekram had spent a good majority of his time working in his study. Oksana didn’t really understand what “working” entailed most of the time, but whatever it was, it kept him busy for most of the hours in the day. Oftentimes, he’d finish in time for them to eat a late supper together, and as of late, she’d been trying new recipes every evening. She wasn’t the best cook in the world, and the first night she’d set a plate of something new in front of Ekram, she’d watched him take the first bite and he had visibly tried to school his face into a neutral expression. Thinking that he was just being picky, she’d shovelled a heaping spoonful of food into her own mouth only to immediately spit it back out into her napkin. That night, they’d ordered Chinese food and watched a movie instead. But as the days had progressed, she’d gotten both increasingly better at making different dishes, and increasingly creative with the dishes she chose. She tried a variety of plates from different countries. Some worked, while others had been tossed into the “do not make again” pile. All in all, it was nice. She got to spend time with Ekram in the evenings, and it gave her something to look forward to.

It was a Friday afternoon, and Oksana was preparing some ingredients for that night’s meal. Her short hair – she’d lopped the long locks off again recently, preferring the light airiness although Ekram always protested when she did so, sad to see the length go – had been pinned up on top of her head in a mess of red waves with glittery gold clips. The ornate vines and flowers that decorated them were inlaid with small, rounded cobalt blue stones that matched her eyes. Ekram shuffled into the kitchen a little earlier than usual, and took a seat at the table, watching her work. He still refused – to Oksana’s great dismay – to let her trim his hair, and the result was a style that matched her own; too long that it often fell into his eyes but short enough that it could only just barely be drawn and pinned away from his face without an interesting amount of time and effort. In this case, he would usually just pull as much of the unruly mop back as he could, into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. Oksana had grown tired of listening to his complaints when the hair wouldn’t obey him, and often chided him when he refused, time after time, to let her give him a trim. Oksana had come to think that he enjoyed his hair long, just as he enjoyed hers long too, but had taken up a hobby in complaining and just liked to make a nuisance of himself. But of course, even if he was a nuisance, he was her nuisance and she still regarded him just as fondly.

She had her hands under the tap, rinsing some vegetables when her phone rang on the table next to Ekram. He picked it up and looked at the screen.

“It’s Nikolai,” he said.

“Go ahead and answer it, see if there’s anything important.” Ekram slid his finger over the screen, accepting the call, and held the phone to his ear. Although Oksana didn’t hear anything on the other end of the conversation from her spot at the sink, she felt Ekram step up beside her and put the phone to her ear, holding it there for her to speak while she finished with her hands in the sink, placing his own hand on her other shoulder.

“Niko, what is it?” With her brother, like the rest of her family, she spoke Russian. His voice was strained on the other end of the line, the only indication that there was anything amiss at all. He wasn’t usually the type to show any emotion under duress, usually the one to be the calmest in the face of hard situations.

“You should come home, there’s been… an incident.”

Oksana’s brows knit together with worry, and she let the vegetables drop back into the sink basin before wiping her hands on her jeans and taking the phone from Ekram. “What’s wrong?”

When Oksana and Ekram arrived at her parents’ home, there was still a considerable amount of damage to the house itself. An entire section looked splintered, like someone had either blown it up, or driven a car through out. Quite honestly, it would have been a sight to make Oksana laugh had it not been a serious situation, which involved her parents, her own family. She stood, her face set in an expression of shock as she looked at the mess that had been made. Ekram slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her a fraction closer, offering silent support. This was a house that he, too, had been most familiar with. Although he hadn’t grown up in this house, as Oksana and Nikolai had, he’d spent a considerable amount of time there throughout his life, from the age of fifteen. The Belikovs’ father, Fyodor, had taken Ekram in in order to train his – at the time – young son, at the tender age of five years old. They hadn’t done any sort of intensive training, but little Nikolai had been a very attentive boy when it came to learning about weapons, and had been both a good listener, and when the time came, as good with weapons as anyone twice his age. Naturally his younger sister, Oksana who was at the time only four, had tagged along and wanted to do the same things as her brother. Ekram, fifteen years old, had tried his best to discourage her, but the more he tried, the more stubborn she became. Over the years, she had instead turned her attentions to Ekram, which had made him uncomfortable at first, with both the age difference of eleven years and later, as she grew older, the way she seemed to always try to catch his attention or shock him with her words. That being said, Oksana was just as much a master of weaponry as her older brother, and all that messing about never seemed to take away from her focus or cause her to make mistakes. She was serious when she needed to be, and Ekram had appreciated that. Eventually, the two had grown closer, and close enough that finally, he didn’t feel so uncomfortable at her advances, but rather simply wondered why exactly Oksana, who could charm just about anyone by batting her eyelashes, would still be so stubborn in pursuing him. He’d hadn’t, of course, ever asked her to clarify this.

The house was, indeed, in disarray to say the least. When Nikolai came to stand beside the two of them, Oksana and Ekram, his sister took his hand in hers and squeezed once before letting go. He informed them both that a few days before, there had been an issue with a job gone wrong. Fyodor was a weapons dealer, and usually dealt with some unsavoury sorts. This sort of thing didn’t happen very often, not very often at all she remembered her father saying. She’d never experienced any issues while living under this roof, and she’d been there for eighteen years before venturing out on her own (with her brother close by, of course). But this seemed like more than a “small incident,” as Fyodor was trying to explain. Oksana’s grandmother, Irina, had been injured at the time, which sent sharp spikes of worry through Oksana. Nikolai explained that she was fine, only a few minor scrapes, and that she would be fine in a matter of days. The old woman, nearly a couple centuries old, didn’t look a day over forty save for her shock of wintry blonde, almost white hair. It was a little strange to have such a young-looking grandmother, but Oksana still thought of her as being such, and worried about her just the same. Eventually Akilina, their mother, wandered over. A tiny, birdlike woman, she swept Oksana and Ekram up into a hug despite the fact that she was more than a full foot shorter than he was, and nearly a foot shorter than her daughter. She fluttered about them in greeting, pulling them down to plant kisses on their faces – even despite the fact that Ekram was a grown man. Akilina had always shown a fondness for him, and had considered her just as much a son as her own boy.

To Oksana’s dismay, some of her possessions had been destroyed during the mishap. She approached the mess, leaving her brother and mother with Ekram as she entered the house and sifted through the rubble in her room. Overall, nothing of terrible importance had been lost, although she was plenty distraught that her wardrobe had been remodelled in the blast and that some of the weapons wall she’d assembled over the years had met a most gruesome and untimely demise. Eventually, after she’d spent some time cleaning up the remains of her poor weapon-children, Ekram found his way back to her. She was sitting on the floor when he found her, dust streaking her face. She looked up at him with a smile, only briefly, before dragging a bag of trash and rubble to the corner of the room. Ekram glanced around, taking stock of the place. It reminded him fondly of his room at home, at the touches of Oksana that littered the place now that she spent more and more time there. She was generally mindful of where she left her belongings when it came to Ekram’s room, but now and then he’d find her clothing tossed over the back of a chair, a weapon tossed haphazardly in a corner. Here, the same had clearly been true, but to a far greater extent. He smirked a little, turning his head to glance at her desk, which had remained fairly untouched. He reached over and straightened a few of the knives that seemed as if they might fall off the desktop, when a particular, smaller blade caught his attention. He glanced once more at Oksana, who was still occupied with the remaining mess, and back again to the dagger, picking it up and palming it. The dagger was old, worn on the hilt from years of being handled. It was similar to his own favourite set of daggers, the sleek, dark ones inlaid with patterns of gold, opalescent and glittering when hit with just the right light. This one, too, was sleek, covered in designs of vines and thorns, small sharp blossoms interspersed throughout. The blade itself was polished to a shine, not a single speck of dirt, and it too was ornate and beautiful. Although it was ten years old, along the length of it were still engraved the words let your aim be true. He’d given her the dagger as a gift for her birthday when she was younger, after she’d mastered the throwing knives. She’d been delighted to keep the dagger close to her, though sometimes perhaps a little too close. He’d been afraid that the poor girl would slice herself open with the thing, and she often made him nervous that he’d given a minor a sharp weapon. Putting it back onto the desk, Ekram let out a little laugh, pushing away from the door frame where he stood and making his way over to Oksana now sitting in the middle of the floor. She was covered in a layer of dust now, and let out a small sneeze. When she’d finished rubbing her face, only succeeding in streaking her cheeks with even more dust, Ekram crouched and pressed a kiss to her hair, and wiped his fingers over the marks left on her cheeks, a smile in his eyes as he cleaned the mess from her face. Some things had changed over the years, but sometimes she still reminded him of the eager child who followed him around and clung to him, intent on learning just like her big brother.

#oksana belikova #ekram dhamale #pepero talks OCs #my writing #ultipoter

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cherry-nephilim · 3 years

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In Celebration of Día De Los Muertos

One writer reflects on the holiday, its rich history, and the many customs, symbols, and emotions behind it.

Growing up between Tijuana B.C. and San Diego, CA, Día de los Muertos meant one thing to my family and me: pan de muerto. I knew the season was here when the round sweet bread, shimmering in a dusted coat of sugar crystals with a cross atop its plump surface, began to emerge at local panaderías.

The art of making bread. Image via Carlos Tischler/Shutterstock.

For us, the holiday didn’t go much further than its symbolic sweet bread. I’d learn about the celebration at school in Tijuana, where festivities would be on display through colorful cut-out paper banners (a craft known in Mexico as papel picado), altars with sugar skulls, and yellow-and-orange cempasúchil flowers that are believed to be bright enough to guide souls back to their loved ones on November 2nd.

The many celebratory accents of Día de los Muertos. Images via Belikova Oksana, ARTvektor, and AGCuesta.

But, my family didn’t have an altar, flowers, or even pictures of our ancestors, for that matter—save for two pencil portraits of my dad’s grandparents.

For the most part, we were far from and out of touch with our extended family in central Mexico. We didn’t know enough about our ancestors, or even our recently deceased, to really mourn them.

La Catrina’s elegant visage symbolizes the celebration of life rather than the fear of death. Image via Suriel Ramzal.

Of course, because nothing and no one in this life is promised, I now have a handful of close family members to grieve.

But, it wasn’t until I started learning about my great-great paternal grandparents, Herminia and Cleto, as part of my recent journey to reconnect with my Mexican heritage, that I found myself yearning to more actively remember and honor my dearly departed.

The International Día de los Muertos at the Museum of Mexico City. The parade consist of thousands of participants including musicians, acrobatic dancers, and floats. Images via Aidee Martinez/Eyepix Group/Shutterstock.

My great-great grandmother, Herminia, was a poet. One of her poems is about a sickly chayote that was revived through her care: “que por mis cuidados/ hermoso ha brotado/ el pobre chayote/ vuelto a renacer.” (English translation: that from my care/ beautifully it has budded/ the poor chayote/ is now reborn.)

Herminia, who was of Russian descent, was said to be as tough as she was maternal, and could supposedly make a mean mole (sauce). She provided for her family while her husband, Cleto, was away during the Mexican Revolution (he was a Zapatista).

Día de los Muertos alter by candlelight. Image via AGCuesta.

My great-aunt, Rosalinda (my official source for paternal family history), told me Herminia gave birth to one of their children while out looking for food alone, huddled between a doorway. The child didn’t make it. Times were very different back then, my great-aunt reminds me while sharing parts of their story.

A participant in Catrina Fest 2016 in costume. Image via Carlos Tischler/Shutterstock.

As for Cleto—born on the same date I was, only 104 years earlier—he survived a bullet wound to the head in the revolution. Back home, he had a Great Dane who’d alert him when the pan dulce was ready at their local panadería. Afterwards, he and his dog would split a big, fresh-baked concha for breakfast.

Herminia and Cleto had six children together. They both died on a Thursday, exactly a week apart.

Día de los Muertos sugar skulls with cempasúchil flowers. Image via Fer Gregory.

Día de los Muertos offers a space, almost a season, in time where I can reconnect with my culture while meditating on the lives of my loved ones, even the ones I never got to meet.

Because, in the same breath, commemorating your dead isn’t just remembering them, it’s also an act of remembering yourself.

Ancient Roots

The holiday originated more than 3,000 years ago and, like many cultural traditions in Mexico, it emerged from Mesoamerican practices.

Mesoamerican people believed in an afterlife that began as a series of journeys to reach a final resting place, and that series of journeys could take several years to complete. The manner in which people died would determine which heaven, of which there were thirteen, they would call home.

Día de los Muertos street decorations. Image via Carlos Ivan Palacios.

Because the dead’s journey would be so arduous, the living would bury them with food, like chocolate and maíz, supplies, and sometimes, their canine companions who were sacrificed to aid them along the way. (Dogs were believed to be spiritual guides for humans within ethereal realms.)

An alter of the dead in Mexico. Image via Benjamin Lopez G.

The funeral ceremony would take place over the course of two months—one month for children to observe, the other for adults. Loved ones would sometimes revisit and replenish offerings for years, depending on how long they believed it would take for their family member to reach their resting place.

Post Colonization

Spanish Catholics celebrated their dead on All Saints Day, November 1st. They’d visit the cemetery, pray, and eat roasted chestnuts and pastries, like almond cakes and marzipan rolls called hueso de santo or “saint’s bones.”

When the Spanish colonized Mexico in the early 16th century, some Indigenous traditions would survive by existing within the imposed Spanish rule, thus forging new traditions. Months of rituals were shortened to two days—for instance, November 1st, Day of the Innocent (children), and November 2nd, Day of the Dead.

November 1st represents Day of the Innocent (children), while November 2nd is the Day of the Dead. Images via Carlos Tischler/Shutterstock, Juan Karita/AP/Shutterstock, and Natalia Esch.

Still, the holiday wouldn’t become part of Mexico’s national identity until after the start of the Mexican Revolution in 1910, when printmaker and lithographer José Guadalupe Posada created images of women with skull faces doused in white make-up donning French garb.

The skulls were satirical and political commentary on high-society Mexicans who strived to look more European by whitening their skin with makeup and embracing Euro-centrism.

The many incarnations of La Catrina. Images via Lexie Harrison-Cripps/SOPA Images/Shutterstock, Lexie Harrison-Cripps/SOPA Images/Shutterstock, and Lexie Harrison-Cripps/SOPA Images/Shutterstock.

One of Posada’s most famous works was a 1910 print titled La Calavera Catrina, where the image of a skeletal figure in a European-styled hat was first seen. Soon after, “La Catrina” would embody the face of the Día de los Muertos holiday, and thus become a national icon.

A Tapestry of Customs

Today, tradition usually involves families decorating at-home altars with candlelight, flowers, photos of their dearly departed, and their loved one’s favorite foods. Observers read letters and poetry, and tell stories and jokes about the dead they’re honoring.

If the departed enjoyed a specific beer or tequila, you can bet there will be plenty of that in the mix, too.

Often times, the celebration incorporates the departed loved one’s favorite foods and drinks. Image via Peter Acker.

Families also tend to clean their loved one’s graveyards in preparation for the festivities to come. They take food like tamales, tequila, sugar skulls, water, chiles, and pan de muerto, and bring cempasúchil flowers as offerings.

Legend says the scent from the food and light from the flowers (which represent the sun) is thought to be powerful enough to help guide the souls back home.

Food, flowers, and remembrances are interspersed to help the souls on their journey. Images via Kobby Dagan, Kobby Dagan, Kobby Dagan, and DAVIDSANTOS739.

Of course, customs vary from region to region.

Some festivities, like in Mexico City, include parades with live musical performances and people celebrating in full La Catrina dress and makeup, giving the returning souls a warm and festive welcome.

Día de los Muertos parades. Images via Diego Grandi and Ilan Derech.

In Costa Chica, where a large population of Afro-Mexican people reside, they honor their dead by dancing “the dance of the devils” while wearing “devil masks,” a tradition steeped in African roots. In Campeche, people partake in a ritual bone-washing.

Cleansing the skull and bones of a relative is a 500 year old ritual in preparation for Day of the Dead. Image via Luis Lopez/AP/Shutterstock.

As much as Día de los Muertos is a stronghold in Mexican culture, it’s not only celebrated in Mexico.

People in Belize prepare altars and Mayan dishes. Peruvians have a feast honoring the deceased with their favorite foods. Haitian people celebrate Fête Gede (festival of the dead) with singing, dancing, and drinking.

In the United States, where the population is almost 19% Latino, people celebrate Day of the Dead from New York to Arizona.

Día de los Muertos has its origin in Mexico, yet it’s widely celebrated around the world. Images via Ronen Tivony/SOPA Images/Shutterstock, Ronen Tivony/SOPA Images/Shutterstock, Ronen Tivony/SOPA Images/Shutterstock, and ETIENNE LAURENT/EPA-EFE/Shutterstock.

And, of course, there are the people and families like mine, who celebrate quietly and simply with just pan de muerto and a hot drink, like coffee or champurrado (a hot, chocolate-flavored maiz beverage).

A Personal Awakening

In my life, this holiday has been a bite, a flavor, a fleeting feeling. It’s taken me a while to understand just how healing it is to commemorate people I’ve loved and lost—even if I didn’t know them when they were alive. Learning about my ancestors has been crucial to learning about myself.

Image via Aquarius Studio.

These days, I look forward to holding Día de los Muertos with a little more care. I plan on building my first altar, setting it with cempasúchil, leaving offerings tailored to my departed—a chayote for Herminia, a concha for Cleto—and encouraging my partner to do the same.

But, between the stories, offerings, and photographs, there will always be the bites of a delicious pan muerto (mine will be vegan), where I’ll practice my most intimate and familiar part of this tradition, and quietly remember my dead in the thick of the crumb.

The history of a culture is time-honored in remembrance and celebration. Let’s take a look at a few more:

What the Fight for LGBTQ+ Rights Looks Like Around the World

From Sappho to Lil Nas X: Influential LGBTQ+ Icons Throughout History

How to Capture the Essence of Street Food in Photography

Voice of the Artist: How One Brazilian Photographer Approaches Inclusivity

How We Show It: Black Hair

Cover image via Belikova Oksana.

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peperoprincess · 6 years

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My babby girl Oksana, and @ultipoter’s Ekram ;u; my beautiful kids, I love them a lot.

#Oksana belikova #ekram dhamale #pepero draws #other OCs

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simblrverse · 12 years

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"A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you."

#ahksana #rachel reed #oksana belikova #sims #sims3 #ts3

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peperoprincess · 12 years

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YOU SENT ME EKRAM THINGS SO HAVE SOME OKSANA THINGS BACK AT YOU. 1, 18, 25 and 34

D’ohoho yes perfect thank u

1. What does their bedroom look like?

I could tell you what her HOUSE looks like in detail, but I’d never given much thought to her actual room. Let us see~

Oksana’s room would more than likely reflect both sides of her. The part that is a girl (and lust demon hehe) and the part that trained for fourteen years with Ekram and her brother. She’d be a little messy, I’d say. Daggers and weapons on the window sills and on her desk. A full closet spilling everywhere. A desk and some personal belongings littered about~

18. Favorite Beverage.

I would think something fruity. Pomegranate or grapefruit flavored~

25. How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Oksa is more of a live in the moment type of gal. She doesn’t worry about the future unless worrying about the future is a result of something happening right now, say for example a family matter (as is currently true with Nikolai). But if she were to guess, she’d say something along the lines of “I’m happy the way things are now, and if I could choose any future, I would want it to be exactly the same.”

34. Thoughts on privacy?

Oksana is a TMI kind of gal, too. Although even she has her limits, anything else is fair game. She’d gladly go into detail about any given shenanigan (her being a lust demon, you can probably guess what I mean d’ohoho) on any given night. She says things sometimes with the purpose of making someone uncomfortable *cough*Ekram*cough* but she doesn’t like to pry, or have anyone else pry, on things like family issues or relationship problems. That sort of thing. Everything else is definitely fair game.

#Ultipoter #Reply #Oksana Belikova

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peperoprincess · 12 years

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"Such a Thoughtful Birthday Gift."

A little written piece for Tenny's birthday, because I couldn't get a drawing done and I couldn't very well leave him without a present on his birthday.

A little rusty on my writing, but I had fun with this one c:

Ten (C) Charles Finklefarm Oksana is mine.

She always liked to visit him while he worked in the shop. Maybe it was how into his work that he got, the look of complete concentration on his face as he handled the machines.

Or maybe it was just how great he looked in his coveralls, done up to the waist, his white wife beater exposing the lean muscles that worked in his arms, and then those under the fabric of his clothing, too. She would always watch in silence, as he continued his work without pause, although she was most certain that he always knew she was there in the doorway.

Maybe he just liked to be watched.

Oksana did this now, watched him. Watched the familiar, expert hands wielding the tools; It was quite captivating, like a fluid dance. Practiced motions, never making a mistake.

After a moment, without stopping his work, he smiled. Oksana mirrored his smile, leaning against the door frame, a bottle of wine dangling loosely in her fingers by the neck, two glasses held by the stems in the other. He continued in silence, perhaps prolonging the wait just for badness, to make her impatient – she was an awfully impatient girl – but then Ten finally wiped his hands on a rag, and even that movement looked fluid; he rose from the sleek black bike and tossed the rag aside. The fabric of his white shirt rucked up a little on one side, enough for the green of the Scorpion’s tail to be visible on his hip bone, which Oksana knew would curve up along his stomach, ribs. She gave him a coy smile and entered the room.

“Oksana, a pleasant surprise.” His eyes took her in, almost contemplatively, from the kohl outlining her cobalt eyes, her hair pulled haphazardly into a less-than-neat braid to one side, to the mossy green dress she wore with its low looping fabric showing a generous amount of her back, and then to her high heeled boots. He did seem satisfied.

“Hardly, Malchik. You knew I was watching you, from the very moment I arrived.” The familiar Russian word for little boy hung playfully, almost taunting, as she stopped in front of him and held up the bottle. He laughed, a pleasing sound, and she continued. “But I did bring a present. It was very well thought out, and I spent so much time finding just the right one.” She tilted her head to the side, a smile playing across her lips that said she’d spent very little time, in actuality, picking out the “gift”. But he put on a look of surprise, and had she not known any better, she’d have believed it.

“How thoughtful, my favorite.”

He hadn’t even looked at the label.

“But you’re clearly busy here; maybe I should come back later?” Oksana lowered the bottle again, as he went to take it from her, leaving him grasping at the empty air. He wrapped an arm around her waist, to keep her grounded in place, rubbing little circles into the skin exposed there with his thumb.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’m not doing anything important.”

She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his, staining them with the bright crimson lipstick she wore, and as she did, he took the bottle from her with his free hand. He stepped to her side, hand slipping down to the small of her back, below the loose, looping fabric of her dress, as he guided her forward smoothly, toward the back office. She made no protest.

“In fact, you couldn’t have picked a better time.”

#Oksana #Oksana Belikova #Ten #Tenny #Maverick Intenso

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