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foomoosworld · 6 months ago

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The Raven and The Firefly

CHAPTER 6

"SOUNDS LIKE EVERYDAY."

MINORS DNI

Pairing Joel Miller X Reader. No use of Your Name

Summary: Joel is transporting you across states during the outbreak in order to use you as a bartering chip for a cure for the infected called "Bacta" that a man named Poe, the father of the woman you are transporting, has. Joel thinks you struggle with mental health issues as you speak, randomly , about your space travels with your father, Poe. It makes him hesitant to hand you over to your father as he becomes more and more attached to you. Even though you are a pain in he ass consistently.

Crossover: Peli Motto, Poe Dameron

Let me know if you would like to be tagged in future posts for this in the comment section.

You woke up and were surprised that Joel’s arms still hung loosely around you as he gently slept.

The bright light through the dusty, fractured window made you squint as you groggily sat up and shielded your eyes with your forearm, listening to the birds chirp their awakening. A soft tug pulled you back down to the bed and you found yourself laughing as Joel pulled you back into him, still half asleep and grumbling incoherently. He took a deep breath of your neck and centered himself for a moment before he rasped, “We’re not moving yet.”

You wanted to turn around and kiss him. To hold him. To stay in this bed for days with him, but you knew this may just be what your father had warned you about… your “heat”. This may not be real, just a hormonal chemical reaction.

You push up from Joel and turn to him, seeing his dismay as you step away and slowly gather your clothes and put them on.

“We could… you know….” He starts with a quirk of his eyebrow as he squints from the sunlight through the window, “...stay here for a few days. We’re safe here.” Joel arches his eyebrows at you. You turn completely away to avoid his charisma as you dress and pack.

“No. We have to keep on track.”

There’s too long of a pause and it makes you turn back just in time to see Joel attempt to hide his hurt.

“You’re right.” He gruffs as he gets up and puts on his underwear. Your eyes can’t help but trace every inch of him as he does so. Too quickly, he’s standing next to you, clothes on, rifle slung over his shoulder and his usual hard exterior taking the driver's seat. You sigh and look up at him, not sure what to say. Thinking, maybe you should discuss what happened.

“You gonna open that door or should I?” He nods curtly beyond you at the door and snarks.

Oh. Shitty Joel is back. Well, that didn’t take long.

You side step with a small head shake of your disbelief of how fast he got over that and let him walk past.

The two of you make your way down the stairwell and push out a rusted door out back of the hotel to be blinded by daylight. Joel is shading his eyes with his hand as he surveys the horizon of forgotten fast food chains and crumbling on-ramps of the highway.

“We’ve got a long way to go today.” He says as if to no one in particular as he scans.

“Sounds like everyday.” You say emotionlessly.

Joel looks down at you, feels a pang of fleeting empathy and takes your hand, squeezes it, then lets it go as he gruffs, “We can do this.” and begins climbing down the giant shards of concrete from the collapsed hotel steps into the long grass of the field that used to be a golf course. You sigh, throw your hands up, exasperated and follow him.

Hours passed of walking in the hot sun. The forest scenery seemed to repeat like a cartoon background. You stopped.

“I need a break.” You announced.

Joel looks back, somewhat surprised but nods and scans around for a good place to rest. He chooses a log a few feet away and after huffing down on it, offers you a swig of his canteen with a nod of his head and arch of his eyebrows. You nod and take a swig, panting, passing it back then leaning back and stretching.

“I feel like shit.” You cringe into the sunlight. Joel quirks his head at you curiously but doesn’t respond. “Do you ever feel like shit for no reason?” you ask.

Joel grabs a stick and traces it around in the ground beneath him.

“Yeah…” He grunts, “It’s called ‘getting old’”

“Yeah…” You trail off and sit next to him. You take the stick from Joel and draw a happy face in the dirt. “Maybe…”

There’s a snap in the bushes and Joel grabs his rifle in a flash, aiming it at where he heard the sound. You both freeze for a long moment but the sound doesn’t repeat.

“Could it have been a deer?” You whisper hopefully to him, hoping you can get some food.

Joel hesitates then shakes his head at you,

“No. Deer don’t hide like that. It’s a person.”

He shoots off a shot into the forest towards the sound.

“I know you’re there!” Joel calls out, “Don’t make me shoot you.”

There’s a hesitation then a voice calls back,

“Hey there! I’m not a threat!” A woman in tattered rags, covered in dirt with frizzy hair and a missing front tooth slowly raised up from the brush and walked out.

“That’s exactly what a threat would say.” Joel rasps as he aimed his gun directly between her eyes..

“I have ammunition for the same gun you have. I’m gonna toss it at you and you can take it. Would a threat give you bullets to shoot me?” She says as she tosses a box of ammo to Joel. It bounces and slides towards Joel. He hesitantly takes it, tosses it to you to take a look. You open it and shrug.

“It’s bullets.” You confirm with a shrug. Joel lowers his rifle.

“What are you doing out here?” Joel asks the woman..

“Just trying to survive, same as you.” She states jovially as she happily walks forward with her hands open, “I’m Peli.” She confidently juts her hand out to shake Joel’s. He hesitates but when you nudge him shoots you a cold look then takes her hand and shakes it. She looks to you and offers her hand but you feel like there is a sudden shift in her gaze that looks a little too happy to meet you. You suspiciously take her hand and say through your side-eye,

“Amy.” with an air of caution.

“Amy” Peli rolls her name around in her mouth, calculating it. “That a South American name?”

You look at her oddly and instantly question how she may know part of your heritage from a very American name..

“No.” you say suspectfully.

“Ah… well there's so many worlds out there it’s hard to keep track of the vernacular.” Peli chirped, “Where are you two headed?”

Joel is stone faced and offers no response however, you chirp up,

“To find my father!” Joel hisses a tisking noise at you to stay silent and you immediately shrink back and look at him not knowing your infraction.

“Aaaah, looking for your Papa, huh?” Peli puts her hands on her hips and gazes with a stretched back around the forest, “Know which way he may be?”

Joel outstretches a hand and pushes me behind him.

“Where you goin’?” He asks suspiciously.

“Well, really, anywhere you are. I’ve been out here for months by myself and really, I don’t have a destination. Just looking for company, to be honest… But I’m useful! I’m a mechanic. Can fix anything. And I speak a lot of languages. Great with directions and maps.”

Joel stares at her.

“Not a talker is he?” Peli smiled at you and motioned to Joel with her thumb. You stare silently and curiously at her as well. “I have food. Ration packs. Maybe we can gain some trust over a nutritious meal?”

Joel and I lock eyes. We were low on food and game was hard to come by in this area.

“You just earned your bed in this camp tonight, Peli.” Joel said as he lowered his rifle and slid off his pack. Peli smiles brightly, showing her missing front tooth, “Get fire wood.” Joel grunts to me. I roll my eyes and mumble under my breath,

“Sure… we’ve been walking all day, you’re tired, I’m tired, but let me just wander alone in the forest to get firewood. Makes sense…”

“I fucking heard that!” Joel yells at you as you merely flip him off and head into the brush to find wood as he sits across from Peli.

“What kind of name is Peli?” Joel snarks.

“Short for pelican. It’s a nic name.” Peli happily responds.

“Hm.” Joel takes out his sleeping bag and unrolls it then takes out mind and unrolls it for me, “Don’t be thinkin that I’m going to sleep tonight. You gave us resources, which I’m grateful for, but I don’t trust you. She just… will take issue if I don’t sleep. Then she may not sleep. So we’re gonna pretend we’re all friends here. Got it?”

Peli raised her hands submissive and bowed her head, “As far as I’m concerned we are friends.”

Joel busies himself with the sleeping bags and packs to avoid talking to Peli before she breaks the silence,

“So she’s looking for her Dad?”

Joel freezes, unsure if he wants to answer. He decides that since you already told her there is no harm in confirming.

“Yes. We’re looking for her Dad.”

“I’ve met a lot of people in my travels. Maybe I know him?” Peli chirped.

“I doubt it.”

Peli inspects Joel for a long moment, searching his face that he tries to hide from her inspection.

“You’re looking for it too, aren’t you?” She leans forward and whispers. Joel merely flicks his eyes up to her and pauses, “The cure they have. I’ve seen it. I’ve used it. It’s real.” Peli confirms solusolumnley Joel is still frozen in his motions as he turns his head and looks at her. “It’s a bandage patch that goes over the wound. Cures it instantly.” Peli pulls up her pant leg to show a bite wound, obviously from the infected, that has healed over. Joel turns slowly and looks at her leg as she becomes serious, cautious and lowers her voice. “They call it Bacta. It fixes almost any wound.”

“Here’s your stupid sticks.” You say dumping an armful of timber at Joel’s feet. “Can we eat now?”

…………..

You, Joel and Peli sit around the fire eating some of Peli’s “ration packs” that were heated under the fire.

“These don’t taste like anything. It’s like eating texture.” You complain. Peli laughs.

“Yeah, they’re not gourmet, but they keep you alive.” She admits.

“I’ll be right back.” Joel quietly mumbles to you.

“Where you going?” Peli questions loudly.

“He’s peeing.” You tell her. “He’s weird about it and doesn’t want people to know he’s not a robot and actually has bodily functions.” You smirk as Joel walks towards the forest edge but not before prominently holding a middle finger up to you.

“Soooo…” Peli scuffles over to sit next to you. “You and Joel, huh?” She smirks.

“What do you mean?” You pretend to play dumb.

“Come on! I can smell the hormones dripping off you both from a mile away.”

“We’re just trying to find my father.” You reassure her.

“Right… Poe.” Peli mumbles.

Your eyes turn wide and you shift suddenly to Peli.

“How do you know my father’s name?!?” You frantically ask.

Peli suddenly realizes her faux pas and tries to back pedal,

“Uh, just guessed… Poe could be a common name, I mean IS a common name…” You give her a look of disbelief and Peli sighs, “Fine. Poe asked me to come here and checkmyou and Joel out. Sess out the situation.”

“You know where my father is?” You hunched excitedly forward at Peli.

“I do. But this may not go as smoothly as we once thought it would if you and Joel are… you know… bonded.”

“Wh-what do you mean bonded?”

“Bed time.” Joel commanded as he stomped back into the camp. He pulled your sleepingbag open on the other side of him and pointed for you to get into it.

“I-I was just talking with Peli. Can I have a few more minutes?” You asked frantically. Joel picked up on your tone and instantly didn’t like it. He glared at Peli then back to you.

“No. Bed. Now.”

You shot Peli a look that apologized, “I’m sorry” and scuffled into your sleeping bag. Joel then sat on top of his sleeping bag and stared at Peli angrily.

“I don’t have a sleeping bag.” Peli shrugged and looked longingly at your blankets.

“Then I guess you’re used to sleeping on the goddamn ground.” Joel huffed as he undid the safety on his gun and sat up against the tree behind his sleeping bag, “Sweet dreams.” He mocked.

Hours passed. Joel shook himself awake in a frenzie, unaware that he had fallen asleep at some point in the night. He frantically looked around for you and was put at ease when he saw you breathing easily in your sleeping bag next to him. He then motioned his gaze around for Peli, who was nowhere to be seen. She had left a giant stack of her “ration packs” but that was all that was left of her.

“Hey…” Joel nudged you to try to wake you but you merely mumbled and rolled further away. He caught a whiff of your scent and it engaged a primal feeling in him, again. He laid next to you, outside of the sleeping bag and nuzzled into your hair burying his face in the back of your neck, “Hey, you… time to get up.” He felt you stir and stretch all your muscles out as long as they could with a long moan. You shifted and squirmed under the sleeping bag as you woke your body up but it seemed irresistible to him. His large arm wrapped around your waist over the sleeping bag and he pulled you back into him. You could feel his breath on the side of your neck.

“Mine” he huffed quietly, to himself, as he pulled you into his body.

You moaned and slowly woke from his embrace.

“Where’s Peli?” You asked, bleary eyed.

“Took off in the middle of the night, seems. Just you and me now.”

“Mmmm… WAIT-” You jolted upright. “She left?!?”

Joel raises his hands to quell you.

“She disappeared at some point in the night. Why do you care?”

“She said she knew my father!” You cry, heartbroken.

“Okay, okay ,baby girl. Look - “ He points to her tracks in the mud, “We can track her. And she’s going in the direction we wanted to go anyways.”

Tears are streaming down your face but you don’t even notice. Joel crowds you and wipes them from your cheeks.

“Don’t worry, baby girl. We’re going.”

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #poe dameron #peli motto #smut #fluff #the last of us smut #the last of us flufflong burn

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copperbadge · 2 years ago

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The images don’t actually indicate this but my morning escalated so quickly.

I got up this morning and threw together a second batch of gluten-free mini bagels for little T, my coworker’s kid, who (if these work for him) will get to have bagels for the first time ever. I kind of enjoy how the bagel dough holds the form of my fingers after I’ve pushed it into the bowl. While that rose I was going to clean...

NaClYoHo for the day was supposed to be about crafting supplies. I had my craft supplies scattered over what I thought was four locations:

craft organizer boxes under the craft/sewing desk

a bin of stuff I am currently working on in the baker’s rack

a drawer in my hall cabinet

an end-table that has drawers that aren’t normally accessible because of the way it’s situated, which I thought was long-term craft storage

Turns out that I had, at some point, taken the craft stuff out of the inaccessible end table and filled it instead with stuff I thought I wouldn’t want access to very often -- mainly some ball caps and some less useful kitchen stuff (a tea set my gran owned, serving trays, etc). But I had a moth issue over the summer (resolved now) and I didn’t realize the moths had gotten into those drawers, so EVERYTHING needed washing. Gross.

Still, I cleaned all the stuff in the drawers or packed it in a plastic bag for washing later. While the dishwasher ran, I got to work on my craft stuff, mainly the fabric. You can see the organized “fabric drawer” in the photo above. There’s some unusual fabric (lace, t-shirts) that I’ll need to go through but I want to store elsewhere; this also doesn’t include fabric for specific projects, which I sorted into separate bins, or cross-stitch stuff, which went into its own pile.

But by the time I was done going through every container and sorting JUST the fabric and organizing it all, I was mentally unready to address the real nonsense that is all the smaller craft stuff -- beads and findings and art markers and such. A lot of my craft stuff won’t need much organization (the glue-and-paint box, the origami box, etc) but sorting through all the smaller stuff is going to take more time and energy than I want to expend today, so the craftageddon will have to continue into next week.

I felt like I really should push on, but I stopped to review how much I’d done and I really did spend significant time working this morning. I listened to “A Historically Bad Year To Retire” and “The Taylor Swift Ticketmaster Debacle” from The Journal, Friday’s episode of City Cast Chicago about property taxes and legal weed, “What’s Up Doc” from Radiolab which was a delightful and extremely touching tribute to Mel Blanc, and an episode of True Crime Obsessed (Finding Andrea Part 4) which did inspire me to go buy tickets to Patrick Hinds’ book tour reading in Chicago next year. That didn’t seem like a lot because they’re mainly short episodes, but all told it was an hour and forty minutes of work, so I feel accomplished timewise if not taskwise.

Dearborn, whose motto is “no legs, no problems” kept an eye on me to make sure the fabric didn’t maul me when I tried to fold it. Polk often makes herself scarce when I clean, and especially if I’m throwing boxes around....

[ID: Three images; the first, top left, shows a bowl with the lid lifted and a stiff-looking gluten-free bagel dough inside. Visibly imprinted into the dough are several finger marks. Second image, top right, shows my now-organized fabric drawer, with a bunch of fat quarters in a cardboard box set into the drawer, and larger pieces of fabric visible outside the box. Final image is Dearborn the tortie, sitting on the back of the sofa, all four legs tucked under her, chillin’ while she watches me work.]

#food #naclyoho #cleaning #dearborn and polk

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mrs-johansson · 1 year ago

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Chapter 5: Avengers: Age of Ultron - Two Ghosts

Part 3:

Whenever my dad throws a party, I’m glad that I moved out. Back in the day, I was forced to help him organize these things and how much I like just attending them. Getting dressed up and ready was something I always enjoyed and who knows, maybe I’ll meet someone tonight. Single and definitely not ready to mingle or see my ex-girlfriend flirt with my other teammate. Great.

“Is this the Stark genes that you all like to dress up as if you’re going to an award show?” Steve’s comment rang through the halls of the tower. I smiled at his voice and turned around. “It’s kind of the family motto,” I shrugged and he chuckled. “But I have to say, you clean up nicely for an old man.” “Couldn’t even lie about your family.”

Going up to the main floor, Steve and I talked about everything really. Even though he’s clearly not from the same generation as I am, we actually have really great talks.

Entering the party area, it was already packed. People who I’d never seen before were everywhere. “Do you see anyone you know?” I asked the man next to me. “Is this a rhetorical question?” “I guess it is.”

We were quick to attack the bar since it looked to be a long night ahead of us.

“A beer and a gin and tonic please,” I said to the bartender and he got to work right away. “I imagine these kinds of events were a big part of growing up in Tony’s household,” Steve started and I laughed. “Is it obvious?” “Do you actually enjoy these? I mean it is a lot,” as the beer was placed in front of him, Rogers took a sip the next second. “Uhm… Mostly yes. If I don’t have the feeling to be here, I just don’t come. My Dad finds joy in these things and I’m just glad he has fun,” I said before sipping my drink.

The music blaring through the speakers with the multiple already drunk guests was something I thought was very entertaining. Alcohol being something my body can easily ignore was sometimes a bummer but mostly a blessing. At this point, I really don’t miss being a sloppy drunk.

Steve had decided to look around, but I insisted on staying by the bar, observing the crowd.

“How is it that you’re smart, beautiful, funny, and rich? Are you even real? How are you single?” The girl who’s been sitting next to me for a while now asked. Her fingers quickly found my exposed arm, running them up and down the skin. “She’s mentally unstable.” “Exactly.” I smiled at the girl and with a look behind my shoulder she left. “Who needs an enemy when you have friends like Sam Wilson?” I turned around, meeting with the Falcon. “You’re welcome,” he sat beside me.

“I’m glad you’re here, dude,” I spoke and he nodded with a smile. “Thank you for the invite. I’ve never thought a Stark party would be something I need in my life,” he looked around. “It must be a very new territory for you,” I suggested and he nodded. “Yeah, especially now. Looking for Bucky has taken up my time fully.” I feel bad for Sam. Steve is way too focused on this and I don’t know why he dragged Sam into this. “How’s that going?” I cleared my throat. “We found nothing so far. I don’t know how Steve has faith still,” he said like he didn’t actually understand him. “He is very determined to find him. He found the only person who he has a connection with. I wouldn’t stop either.”

***

“Banner and Romanoff, huh?” Steve walked down the stairs from behind and then took a seat next to me. “I still can’t believe it.. what does she find attractive about him? They’ve been flirting all night,” I sipped my drink which was way too much for a simple night like this. I was not drunk though. “I don't think it's that. Actually, I don’t know what it is,” Steve frowned. Yeah, he had some of Thor’s Asgardian drink too, so he was also in a good state. “At least they could’ve been more subtle,” I mumbled. “Bruce isn’t very subtle and he’s talking with Natasha, we both know that’s not an easy job,” he bumped his beefy shoulder to mine. “I dated her long enough to be subtle around her. He has nothing against me,” now I started to get a little angry. But I was jealous all night. “You guys are not together anymore, you need to let her do what she wants.” “Oh wow, okay Mr. I’m always right. I told you how she reacted when I told her about James, why should I be any different? You are what you eat, so I’m just gonna act like a bitch for a while.”

Walking up to the bar, I really felt like my head’s gonna explode out of anger. She flirts with Bruce all night, right in front of my face and she thinks I’m just gonna sit and watch. I thought she knew better.

As I came into view from the crowd of people, both of them noticed me. Bruce was quick to take the smile off of his face and cleared his throat while crossing his arms in front of his chest. Natasha took a good look at me, and I saw her eyes run down my body. Pathetic.

Putting up the biggest fake smile, I leaned on the counter and looked inside the bar. “What’s the specialty for tonight? I heard this place became very popular for some people, so I thought I would try it myself,” I glanced toward Banner who had a red drink in front of him. “Ooh, Banner what’s that? Did Nat make it?” I asked and I saw the shift in his demeanor. Anxiousness and panic sat on his shoulder. It’s so hard to not read minds in these kinds of situations. If she plays nasty why would I be any different? “Uhm yeah,” he mumbled. “Thought so, well I have whatever that is,” I turned back towards Natasha and she was looking at the two of us closely. “Didn’t you have enough already?” She spat out, her hands resting on the edge of the inside counter.

“I think I know my limits,” I lowered my voice. “I do too,” she looked me up and down. Oh wow, talk about mean girls... “I’ll do it myself if you won’t,” I shrugged and stepped to walk behind the bar but her hands quickly moved towards the bottle. “I got it.” I smiled ‘sweetly’ and stuck to my place.

I waited a couple of minutes, looking around the room, seeing who was around us, who might hear our conversation. Natasha was making my drink and Bruce was sitting on the edge of his seat, ready to slip away. But not today.

“So you guys are a thing now, huh?” I smirked at Bruce who could barely hold eye contact. “We were just talking,” he stumbled over his words. Gosh, how I missed this feeling, making people stutter and red.

Nodding my head, I reached for my glass behind the counter, taking it from Natasha’s hands before she could give it over. “Yeah, been there, done that. Wish I could say I was expecting more… you always had eyes for her,” I shrugged and sipped the drink. It was decent, way too sweet for my liking, I don’t doubt she made it even more sweeter than theirs.

“That’s not true, I would nev-“ “Oh come on, I have eyes, Bruce. But who cares, she’s single, all yours,” I smiled at him then drank the whole glass of alcohol and stepped up to him, not respecting his personal space at all.

“I know it feels nice to hear those nice words fall from that pretty little mouth of hers, but it will stop once she realizes that you want something serious. Save yourself and don’t put the halter round your neck.” I patted his shoulder and turned to look at Natasha who had a furious look plastered on her face.

“Oh Natalia…” I chuckled and with a sigh I leaned onto the counter, our faces getting closer as she did not move an inch. “I thought you would at least step back and not do this pity act, but this... wow. Talk about lowering your standards, am I right?” I smirked right into her face and when I saw she was ready to speak up, I leaned back and stood straight. “Anyways, I hope you two enjoy the rest of the party, despite the kids juice you’ve been drinking all night. I guess I’ll see you around,” I gave them the smile that would drive Natasha even more angry and walked back to my previous seat, Steve patiently waiting.

“That was painful to watch and I didn’t hear a word,” he said, leaning back on his forearms, the blue shirt tightening on his muscles. “Get up,” I said and he raised a brow at me. “Get up, Rogers. We need to get you laid,” I stated and he stood up, smoothing out his button up. “Who do you have in mind?” He looked through the crowd. I grabbed the drink out of his hand and downed it before putting it on a shelf. “Myself.”

***

Sitting around the coffee table with Thor’s hammer resting on it, we were all pretty tipsy by then. “But, it's a trick!” Clint insisted, since they’ve been messing about how Thor is able lift the hammer.

“Oh, no. It's much more than that.” Thor spoke. “Uh, "Whosoever be he worthy shall haveth the power!" Whatever man! It's a trick,” Clint tried to imitate the blonde and a round of chuckle was voicing the room. “Well please, be my guest,” Thor pointed at Mjolnir and with a big smile Clint stood up. “Clint, you've had a tough week, we won't hold it against you if you can't get it up,” I said and he chuckled but kept his way to the hammer. “You know I've seen this before, right?” He asked and grabbed onto the handle and tried his best. Clearly he couldn’t move it an inch and he just laughed.

My dad tried next but after he failed even with the Iron Man glove, he asked for Rhodey’s help, but still nothing. Next up, Banner. The way I almost choked on holding back my laugh. It was hilarious how he screamed and everyone got silent.

“You should try it Steve,” I murmured to him and he gave me a questioning look. “Go on,” I patted his knee and with a shrug he stood up. “Let's go, Steve, no pressure,” said my Dad.

He stood over the hammer rolling his sleeves up more. I swear to god I saw the hammer move and I quickly looked at Thor to see his face drop. Okay I’m not hallucinating. With much force Steve tried to lift it but he gave up. “Nothing.” Thor tried to laugh it off as Rogers sat back down. “It moved right?” Steve whispered to me and I nodded.

“Widow?” Bruce spoke up and everyone looked at Natasha. Who the fuck calls her Widow? “Oh, no no. That's not a question I need answered,” she said and leaned back, taking a sip of her beer.

“Y/n?” Steve looked at me and I got silent for a moment. “She can’t,” Thor quickly stepped in. “You're scared I would do it, huh?” I smirked at my brother. “Yes. So please give me some time to prepare.”

“All deference to the man who wouldn't be king, but it's rigged,” Dad spoke. “You bet your ass,” Clint barged in. “Steve, he said a bad language word,” Maria spoke and I just had to laugh. “Did you tell everyone about that?” Steve turned to Dad but he was quick to dodge the question.

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yunhsuanhuang · 1 year ago

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You Look So Good In Blue | Y.H. Huang

Inspired by Child Ballad 16.

When a teenage fling mutates into something vast and terrifying, two seventeen year olds at a certain mid-tier college in Singapore make a desperate plan to control their future, earn their parents' love (or at least respect), and get the hell out of this school for good.

i. the daughter

It's whispered in the kitchen, it's whispered in the hall

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

The king's daughter goes with child, among ladies all

And she'll never go down to the broom anymore.

It's whispered by the ladies one unto the other,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

“The king's daughter goes with child unto her own brother–

And they'll never go down to the broom anymore.”

Sheath and Knife, Maddy Prior

/r/sgacads

is st cecilia rly a pregnancy school?? [o levels]

/u/anxiousorange

hiii sorry for the 29583th school admissions post today lol but i just got my o level results back and they’re pretty ok ^_^ so i was thinking of going to st cecilia junior college since it’s near my house but the more i hear about it the more i want to reconsider… like apparently the people are very party type which is not really my thing?? and ofc everyones heard about how its got the highest pregnancy rate in sg o_0

is this true? or just say say one

comments (8)

/u/academicweapon

As a SCian it’s not true LOL none of us get bitches

/u/theatrekidaf

skill issue

/u/sharpsdisposal

we’re too busy failing physics :/

/u/zombiegrave

q: how many scians does it take to change a lightbulb?

a: none. they like it better darker

/u/aw_bass34

Q: What’s the only test SC girls can pass?

A: Pregnancy test :P

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

Damn old rumour, probably from 1990s, 2000s around there. But it’s not really unfounded. Especially with what happened in 2008.

/u/anxiousorange

what happened? im scared lol

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

You haven’t heard meh? It was a big deal back then, I'm shocked they've covered it up that well. Let me try and remember.

You never told me what really happened over those few blistering months in 2008, but I guess I wasn’t alone in that. Even when the newspapers shoved a mic in your face, even when you were being grilled by the lawyers, even when you were standing on that trap door, waiting for the drop– what really happened was a secret you’d bring to the grave.

So it’s all inference and extrapolation and linear correlation– sue me. How else am I going to make sense of that moment? How else do I come to terms with why you did what you did? Could I have known? Could I have stopped it? Was I even, when it came down to it, your friend– or was I just somebody who let you copy his lecture notes?

I don’t know. What I do know is this:

It was some mid-week mid-afternoon, indistinguishable from any other. The bell had just rung, and the whitewashed corridors were packed with sweaty kids rushing to PE, squeezing past those dragging their feet from class to class. We were part of the latter group, squinting against the September sun as we ambled across the quadrangle to home class. Above us, the school motto loomed in oversized light-blue letters: Remember you are in the presence of God.

I was mentally calculating how long the Malay stall queue would be when you said, casual as always, “Eh, pass me your market failure notes later, can? I’m yellow-slipping after GP.”

I raised an eyebrow. You weren’t a stranger to leaving school early, but you’d been doing it more and more often lately, and at this point I hadn’t seen you stay for Shooting in ages. As your club captain, I was supposed to be concerned. As a friend– well, I was intrigued. Of course I’d heard the rumours, passed from homeroom to homeroom, Friendster account to Friendster account. Who in St Cecilia’s hadn’t? “Is this related to whatever you and Camilla Wong have going on?”

“Cam’s not my girlfriend,” you said, after a brief, completely unsuspicious pause.

I snorted. “She doesn’t let anyone in this school call her that but you, dumbass. ”

You ducked your head down to hide a smile, your dress-code fringe falling into your eyes. It was a strangely endearing habit. “Fine lah. We’re– seeing each other.” Then you continued, hurriedly, “But don’t let anyone else know, OK?”

“Fine, I'll write you off CCA for today. But don’t make it a habit, ar? Hold pen, not hold hand.” Despite myself, I grinned. Sure, the two of you made an unlikely couple. Wong was an ex-Convent girl and student councillor, all relentless energy and long hair tied so high it was prone to hit people when she spun, while the only time I’d ever seen you really alive was behind the barrel of an air pistol. Back then, I thought it was cute. Opposites attract– wasn’t that the backbone of any drama worth its salt?

I wouldn’t realise, until later, that despite how different the two of you appeared, at the core of it you were the same– pale and skinny and drowning in your school uniform, searching for exits the moment you stepped into a room. Always, always halfway out the door: of your school, of your body, of the life you knew.

But back then it was just a September afternoon, and we were only seventeen. You smiled back at me, all cheer, like you saw something I didn’t, like you saw something I never would.

In the end, though, this isn’t my story. This is yours. So let’s tell it your way.

The newly minted 1T26 trickled slowly from assembly into the classroom, chopeing the best desks and nervously rotating between the same few ice-breakers: orientation, secondary schools, O-Level points. As you entered, you cast a glance over the sea of blue pinafores and green pants. Still reeling from the sheer increase in the female population, you took a desk at the back, between the ancient, peeling noticeboard and the window looking out on the covered tennis courts. You were tall enough to see over all the heads, anyway.

Soon, your home tutor arrived, a round-faced lady toting an oversized Cath Kidston duffle bag, and wrote her name on the board in neat block letters: Mdm Alvares. The class stood to greet her, chairs scraping hurriedly against the linoleum. She beamed back, her smile all teeth, and was busy setting up the visualiser when the door slammed open.

The class spun in their seats. “Sorry,” the intruder sheepishly said, leaning against the doorframe. Some of her hair had fallen half-out of her high ponytail, her pinafore already wrinkled at the hem. A dusting of freckles covered her pink cheeks.

Mdm Alvares squinted at the girl, then the laminated name list. “And you are?”

“Camilla Wong.”

Mdm Alvares looked out over the class, scanning the rows, and her eyes landed on an empty seat in the corner whose sole occupant was your beat-up Jansport. Realising where this was going, you sighed, putting your bag on the floor.

Camilla smiled, made her way in–

and put her bag down at another empty seat, half a class away.

–

There was nothing in this world you hated more than 4PM Maths lectures. That day the aircon was actually working, which you would normally have been grateful for, except for the fact that that sharp, recycled wind was blasting directly at the very back rows of LT5, right onto your face.

You were trying so hard to 1) figure out plane vectors and 2) stop yourself from getting hypothermia that you wouldn't be able to recall, later, the exact moment that Camilla fell asleep on your shoulder.

When you realised this, you froze. Oh, you thought, and didn't know what else to think. On one hand, it would’ve been so easy to wake her. Just a poke from your pen, and she would’ve jolted up almost instantly. On the other hand, though, her long eyebrows brushed against her freckled cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in these small, slight motions, and–

Before, you had only ever seen her as a baby-blue blur in the corners of your sight, always in motion even in the earliest of classes. But Camilla, asleep, tucked in the crevice between your shoulder and neck–it felt fragile, thrumming, tense. Like something made of glass, nestled gently in your hand, that it would only have taken a squeeze to splinter.

The next twenty-two minutes were the longest twenty-two minutes of your entire life so far. Even so, when the bell rang and Camilla pulled herself upright, you found yourself missing it already.

–

After that, it was like a switch had been flipped in your brain. It was only then that you began to really Notice Camilla, capital N, italics. You noticed her with her head bowed in mass, noticed her shoving fishball noodles into her mouth at lunch, noticed her arguing with your classmates over technicalities in GP. But you noticed her the most in Monday zeriod house meetings, when the artificial grass glimmered with dew and the syrupy dawn light made the whole world seem like a Hollywood coming-of-age movie. You watched her toss her braids over her shoulder, wipe the pearls of sweat off her flushed face. Her red, red shirt rode up as she stretched, revealing a sliver of pale flesh above the waistband of her shorts–

It took until then for her to notice you Noticing. Her eyes flickered over to you, she winked, and blew a kiss.

You felt as if you’d walked out onto the PIE and been hit by a truck. It was a wonder every single smoke alarm in the school didn’t go off right that moment–a cacophony of ringing like firecrackers all strung up, exploding pop-pop-pop from the foyer to the science block to the hostel. It swallowed every other sound, every other thought. Then she turned away, a grin still lingering on the corners of her lips.

–

During one of your lunch breaks, Camilla pulled you out of class. She had to ask you something about your PW survey, she said. As far as you were aware, you weren't in the same PW group. You knew this. She knew this. The entirety of 1T26 knew this, too, so you headed down to one of the wooden picnic tables underneath Block D, the one tucked beneath the staircase next to St Pat’s room. Both of you hovered awkwardly around the bench for a moment, doing the calculations in your head–how close to sit? What to say? You shifted from foot to foot.

All of a sudden, Camilla slammed her hand down on the table. You jumped. “Walao eh. I legit can’t do this anymore. Is this a Thing? Are we having a Thing?”

You swallowed, eyes darting.

“Make up your mind, sia.” She rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath. “St. Francis boys, I swear.”

“No, wait, yes–” The words spilled, embarrassingly and pitifully, out of your mouth. You feared you were not beating the all-boys’ school stereotypes that day. “I mean, I did, but, um–” Just stop, your brain chanted. What're you saying? You're only making it worse. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

“So that’s a yes,” Camilla said, and surged forward to shut you up herself.

–

The next thing you knew, you were stumbling into the stairwell together, the door banging noisily shut behind you. “Why–” Camilla started, and you said, “Nobody ever uses Staircase 6. Now come on.” You pushed her up against the curved concrete wall, not caring that the low ceiling scraped against your head. There was that wild, exhilarated look on her face again, like she still couldn’t believe that she was actually doing this. Beautiful, even in the dull grey light. Her nails dug crescents into your skin.

The air was all heat, sweat, too much cherry blossom perfume. You worked at your tie–quicker than you’d ever been able to in all your years of schooling–as she undid the buttons on her uniform shirt, revealing the freckles that dusted her pale shoulders like so many stars. As you unbuckled her bra in one quick motion, she gasped, then giggled. “Damn, Yeoh. You’re good at this. Is there anyone you haven’t told me about?”

In between kisses, you came up for air. You could've made a joke about not having many opportunities to practise in St Francis, but the real truth was that your desperation shocked even yourself– this wasn’t the careful boy that your pastors, parents, teachers, knew. Your heart threatened to burst from your chest like the bullet from a gun. For the first time in sixteen years, it felt– really felt– like you were fully alive.

“Just you, Cam.” You dipped back down. “Only you.”

ii. the yew tree

He's ta'en his sister down to his father's deer park

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

With his yew-tree bow and arrow slung fast across his back

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

You made close acquaintances with every dark corner of the school. When June came, you merely shifted your meeting points closer to home– behind heartland malls in Tampines or in the nooks and crannies of Cam’s sprawling landed estate along Cluny Road. Neither of you were sure, yet, if you were doing it Right– things like bubble tea dates, strolls in Botanics, or mugging in NLB (god, you should have been mugging, mid-years were in a week and neither of you had cracked a book). But if it wasn’t capital R Right, why did it feel like it was? You thought you had developed a case of myopia–Cam in focus, everything else blurred.

All that to say: the holidays were closer to ending than beginning when you and Cam found yourselves in an overgrown grassy patch tucked somewhere in between a storm drain and the wrought-iron back gate of some minister’s landed property. It had sounded a lot more romantic in theory, but the cloudless sky was the same powder-blue as your school uniforms, and the sun beat down like it had a personal vendetta against you. There was nothing much for shade except for a single banana tree, which you lay crumpled under, sweat-sheened and reddened. The last of the endorphins were beginning to wear off.

Cam’s ringtone cut through the air, a chiptune rendition of some Green Day song. She sighed, then propped herself up on one elbow as she picked up her phone. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back like smooth dark water. You fought the urge to run your hands through it.

“Ba!” she chirped. The cheer didn’t show on her face. “Ba, of course I'm still at the library. I’m with Lucia. Yes, Ba, I’m sure. Don’t call her, can?” She flinched as though she’d been slapped– a familiar, instinctual tic. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll study hard, I promise. Byebye.”

She hung up and sighed, leaning backwards. “I think I’ll need to go soon.”

“Soon,” you promised. You were lying flat on the warm grass, arms crossed over your chest like you were about to be lowered into the grave.

“Soon,” Cam repeated. “Fuck, I hate that we have to sneak around like this, sia. I keep thinking that he’s going to jump out at me from any corner, that any random passerby can tell I’m not where I’m supposed to be. It’s like this whole island has eyes, and maybe it does.” As she lay back down beside you on the grass, her oversized t-shirt–Camp Veritas Counsellor 2007–drooped down to reveal the blades of her shoulder, the ones you’d kissed just moments ago. Her voice lowered. “You know ah, the moment we get our A-Levels back, I’m getting out of this city. Australia, London, LA, anywhere. There’s nothing here for me.”

“No leh.” She can’t say that, you thought, pettily, awfully. She had a mansion and a scholarship and a real iPhone. She had the freedom to just leave. To go somewhere without worrying about the money. You had– what? Parents on the edge of divorce and a bankrupt family business? So much for inheritance. So much for a glorious kingdom. Then you had banished the thought from your head. “You have me.”

“I guess I do.” There was a pause. Then she asked, quick and soft and desperate: “Hey, if I asked you to do something, you’d do it, right?”

You reached over, squeezing Cam’s hand tight in yours. The leaves of the banana tree shivered. “I’d do anything for you,” you told her, and it was true. It was really true.

–

Your grades wobbled, then declined, then plummeted, and you found, to your surprise, that you couldn’t care less. You’d made a lot of bad decisions in your life. Try as you might, you couldn’t count Cam among them.

This, then, might have been why you were lying on your bedroom floor, squinting at your Nokia at four AM on a Monday morning. An empty can rolled lazily from your hand, on an epic journey across the glossy faux-marble floor. The house, for once, was still. Even your parents’ screams had petered off about an hour ago. The silver light from the HDB corridor fell through your windows in slits, providing just enough light for you to see the tiny phone screen. With the phone’s small buttons and your clumsy fingers, it took a long time for you to dial the number, but none at all for her to pick up.

“Cam,” you whispered, “Want to see you.”

“Jesus, Yeoh, it’s a school night.” Her voice was gorgeous like this, low and blurred. She only ever used this voice with you: when her raw-bitten lips were pressed against your chest, your ear, your– You shifted. It didn’t help.

“Cam, Cam, Camilla.” Her name rolled off your tongue like a litany, sharp and needy. “Can talk a while or not?”

“Are you drunk again?” she teased you. On the other end, her sheets rustled as she sat up. Although you hadn’t ever been in her house before, you could reconstruct it well enough from the blurry webcam pictures she’d sent you: piles of assessment books, porcelain cross, ceiling fan. And she– beautiful, beautiful, feet kicked up against her headboard, black hair spilling over the flowery sheets, the smile evident in her voice. “Help lah. How–”

“Miss you,” you murmured, by way of an answer.

“I miss you too.”

“Want to meet you. Want to talk to you.” Then, because you were three cans of beer deep and loved making (aforementioned) bad decisions, you charged on: “You and I, we never talk.”

“I know we haven’t met in a while. It’s not my fault I was sick–” Her voice wavered a little, then bounced back to its chirpy cadence. “But we talk all the time, though. We literally talked in class yesterday. I’m talking to you now.” Cam laughed. Her laugh still sounded to you like the first day of the month– every church across the island breaking into bellsong, light and birdlike in the hot blue air. It was cliché, you knew. You didn’t care. Perhaps you were in too deep to care.

“No,” you insisted, but you didn’t really know what you were saying, or why you were saying it at all. “We don’t.”

“We don’t,” she said, then fell silent.

The funny thing about the two of you was this: Over the past few months, you had seen each other stripped bare, worn to the bone with want, more times than you could count. But the both of you knew, all right, that there were things that you couldn’t– that you didn’t say. Things that were secret even to yourselves. The scars on your forearm, the bruises on hers, the way she looked at you when she thought your mind was elsewhere. Those three words, weightier than any false promise you’d whispered against each other’s skin.

“Staircase. Tomorrow. I need to tell you something.”

–

That night, you dreamt of flying.

You weren’t a bird, weren’t yourself– just bodiless, incorporeal, sweeping through the hallways of the college like a ghost. You phased through the auditorium doors to see the loose ceiling tile, the one that had been hanging over your heads like a guillotine all term, topple to the ground in one fantastic crash, sending students fleeing out the doors and into the foyer. You fled with them, but the ceiling fan in the foyer was spinning just a bit too hard, just a bit too fast, and the students screeched to a halt just in time to catch it falling, an angel with clipped wings. It broke in two over the staircase railing, knocking down the tables and the notice boards, pulling down the ceiling with it. Then the chapel was the next to go, the shattering stained glass catching the light in a thousand colours. As you raced up the corridors, the destruction raced up, up, up, alongside you, past the staff room and canteen to the lecture halls, the classroom blocks, the PAC, every single building in the college folding in on itself like so much wet paper. Block J detached itself cleanly from its precarious perch, tipping head-over-heels into the field. You couldn't hear a thing, but you could imagine what it sounded like: the earth itself breaking, rapture the other way around.

Then you crossed the lower quadrangle, where two little blobs of baby blue lay pressed against each other’s bodies. Even without descending, you already knew who they were. It was strange to watch yourself like a movie. When you were younger, you'd thought that this was how God saw the world, top-down, like a player peering at a chessboard. When you’d failed an exam for the first time, you'd cowered under a table-cloth to escape His wrath. You’d stopped believing in a lot of things as you grew up, but you could never kick that instinct to flee, that inescapable, intrinsic fear that the presence of God really was everywhere: under a table, in a school, in every splitting cell.

The boy on the ground turned his face towards the girl, tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. She smiled infuriatingly, endearingly, back at him.

The school came down on them.

–

Most of the morning was taken up by this awful college event that you’d totally forgotten was happening, all cheering and sweat and thirty-eight degree heat. It was only when the day was coming to a close, then, that Cam and you could sneak away past the computer labs and guitar room into Staircase 6. As you entered, Cam pulled out something from the pocket of her sweater–an admin key–and latched the door behind her with a deliberate click. You blinked. “How’d you get that?”

Cam didn’t say anything, just tucked the key in the pocket of her oversized school hoodie. There was something strange and tense about her, stranger and tenser than she had been all term. She walked up to Level 4, where the sky through the grilled window cut long slices of light onto the concrete floor, and sat down on the top step. You sat down next to her.

She breathed, imperceptibly, in and out, looking straight ahead. The question rushed out in a gasp.

“You told me you’d do anything for me, right? I need you to kill.”

iii. the arrow

And when he has heard her give a loud cry,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

A silver arrow from his bow he suddenly let fly.

And she’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

WONG CHIEN PING

The New Paper, 1998

WONG: To me, family– family always comes first. My kids always come first. You know ah, I’ve got five children. Four boys, one girl.

INTERVIEWER: Wow.

WONG: [Laughter.] Can be a handful at times, lah, but what can you do? As I was saying, right, when I look at my kids, I’m thinking about everything they could be. Lawyers, doctors, maybe even MPs like me. [Laughter.] And I think about how Singapore’ll change in ten years, fifty years, a hundred years. My youngest, Camilla, she’s going to graduate from university in the 2010’s. In a new century. What’s Singapore going to look like then?

INTERVIEWER: Mhm.

WONG: I want to make Singapore a place where my kids can grow up safely. Where they can have a future.

For a moment, all you could do was laugh. Then you stopped, of course, but the echo lingered. “Cam?”

Without meeting your eyes, she lifted up her sweater. The first thing you’d thought was that she’d forgotten to bring her house shirt– she was still in uniform. Then you realised that her shirt was unbuttoned at the bottom, and her skirt was unlatched, and there was a solid, unmistakable, swell to her stomach.

The world tilted on its axis. There was no way this was happening. This was a really terrible prank. She’d stolen a prosthetic from Drama. It had to be something, something other than this, something other than a child– You made an inelegant noise, some spluttered form of protest. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Cam agreed, unhappily.

You instinctively reached out to touch her bump, like you’d seen in the soapy Mediacorp dramas Ma always watched. You didn’t feel anything. Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of parental instinct singing to you; love, love, love all through the water and the flesh and the blood?

“Didn’t you listen in Bio? You can’t feel the heartbeat yet. Not for a while, but not for long, either,” she said. “Not until I can’t hide it anymore.”

“Oh.” You didn't know what else to say. You pulled her into your arms, and she pressed herself against you, body against body. Like stragglers hiding from the cold, except it was thirty-five degrees outside, the air the same dull dead warmth that school air always was. She turned her face away, but you could still see her eyes go glossy, hear her take those shallow breaths. "I'm so sorry."

You couldn't begin to imagine what she was feeling, how much she'd lost in that instant when she knew she was carrying a life that wasn't hers: the scholarship, the law school, the clear American sky she'd never see. The future rushed out before you, a landscape vast and desolate, and you found yourself unable to picture it except for your mother's face, crumpling in on itself, her world imploded in a single moment. Thinking: all you had to do was study hard. We gave everything for you, pinned every hope on you, and this is what we get? Saying: stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

You don’t know how you say what you say next, but you do. “So. You want to- to kill it?” It, it, it. Still an it.

Cam laughs wetly. “Almost there. Kill–” the pronoun trips off her tongue– “me.”

ST CECILIA’S JUNIOR COLLEGE

CAMERA 235

12:28:03

YEOH shoots to his feet. WONG does too.

YEOH: You can’t just say that–

WONG: Just shut up for a moment and let me explain, can?

YEOH shuts up.

WONG [with a wince]: Sorry. But you know my father lah. You know how he is. He’ll have my head.

YEOH: What’s the worst he can do ah? Pack you off to some boarding school overseas?

WONG takes a sharp breath.

WONG: It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that he’s worked his whole life for this position. If he ever finds out what we’ve done, his career jialat liao, just like that. Every single day for the rest of my life he’ll look at me and only see a disappointment of a daughter, a stain on the family name. I snuck around and I lied to his face and I bribed my friends for alibis but at least for seventeen years he didn’t know better. He called me his princess, his golden girl, and he meant it. Now all of that’s gone. Or will be gone, I guess. I don’t know how I’d live without that.

YEOH: He doesn’t need to know. You understand that, right? There are ways to get rid of it, I mean, there has to be some way–

WONG: That’s the fucking problem!

WONG turns away, stifling a sob.

WONG: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you–

YEOH [instinctively]: And before you were born I consecrated you.

WONG: This is our child, Yeoh. This is a human life.

YEOH: Better any other life than yours.

A long pause.

WONG [overlapping]: You can’t mean that.

YEOH [overlapping]: I can. I do.

YEOH ascends one step. YEOH stares at WONG as if he’s daring her to say something, until WONG begins to cry. YEOH freezes for a split-second. He reaches for WONG, whispers something inaudible in her ear. WONG reaches up and kisses him in response. After a while, WONG extricates herself with an expression that seems almost like a smile. She walks over to the railing and leans against it. YEOH follows her.

WONG: I’ve always told myself I want to be a good person, but maybe the real truth is that I didn’t want my dad to figure out otherwise. Maybe all of that hiding was for nothing. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found out who I really was, deep down: rotten. Impure. That woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess.

WONG: And, sure, I can sneak away to a clinic, God knows we can afford it, I can do whatever it is girls do in movies with the clothes hanger or the back alley. But if my life after this is all an act– what’s the point, if I already know where I’m going when I go? I’m tired of keeping secrets, trying so hard to keep this part of my life from him– when one day I’ll slip again, I know it, and the whole house of cards is going to come crashing down. If I die now, all my sins are going to die with me. He’d be happy, and I’d be loved, and you–

WONG [almost envious]: You’d never understand.

YEOH tilts his head downwards, fringe falling over his eyes. He starts to say something, then stops.

YEOH: I do understand.

Like so many other people you knew, you never meant to go to St Cecilia’s. Everyone said you could make Temasek, maybe Victoria. Tampines at the very least. And you'd believed it, too, until you didn't anymore, until the college you were going to became the least of your worries.

When did you stop believing you’d ever have a future? It wasn’t a single moment so much as it was a series of them: stepping over the yellow line when waiting for the train, trying to find footholds in the railing of every overhead bridge, your eyes always flicking to every exit you could take. The words you said under your breath in prayers weren’t Our Father who art in heaven but a litany only you knew: I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to keep going. I can leave any time I want. For as long as you remembered, you’d already been halfway gone.

It was a comforting hypothetical, until it wasn’t, and suddenly you found yourself on the bathroom floor at three in the morning, a week before prelims. The cool white light bounced off the tiles, the mirror-cabinet above the sink hung ajar like it was beckoning you, and you were so, so exhausted. Why were you trying so hard? What were you even studying for? No matter what college you went to, the future would always be blurry and grey. Test after test after test, then onto– what, exactly? You’d never been able to imagine yourself past sixteen. You’d never be able to imagine yourself more than half-alive.

You’d tell the psychiatrist later that you didn’t remember the rest of the night, but that wasn’t true. You remembered the pills. You remembered the blinding, fluorescent pain– and through the pain, your father’s face, your mother’s voice. 911 on the cordless telephone. The ambulance. Changi Hospital. When you’d finally woken, there was a split-second where all you could see was white, and all that came to you was a rush of relief– until the white coalesced into white walls and white sheets and a ceiling spotted with air-conditioning vents, and you could almost laugh at yourself for expecting anything different. If you’d succeeded, anyway, it wouldn’t have been white.

So you failed both at dying and at Chemistry. That was fine. You took the two points off for affiliation. You took the 5AM bus. You took the desk at the corner of 1T26. That was fine too. You swore you didn't care about any of it, and you didn’t, you didn’t. Then Cam happened, and suddenly you did.

But you couldn’t shake the memory of that night in the hospital, your parents whispering next to your bed when they thought you were asleep. For once in their life, they weren’t at each other's throats. What’s wrong with him? your father demanded in Chinese, betrayal running like cracks through his voice. I don’t understand why he would do this to me. In response, your mother only sighed. Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

The story came uneasily to you, like writing an exam for a subject that you hadn’t touched in months. Once you were done, Cam turned to you. If it was anyone else, they would’ve said something benign, something untrue, like, I’m sorry or I’m glad you didn’t die. Instead, because this was the Cam you’d always known, she asked, “How much did it hurt?”

You thought about the answer for a long while. Then you said, “If you do it right, only for a moment.”

She laughed, then, throwing her head back with the force of it. For a brief, blasphemous second, you’d never seen anyone so beautiful: fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army all set in battle array. It was the kind of beauty wars were fought over, the kind any man would get on his knees for– to be knighted, to adore. And she’d chosen you (you of all people!) The fact made you dizzy with its weight.

“So.” Her voice brought you back to reality. It was casual as anything, like she was discussing essay outlines or Physics solutions instead of– whatever this was. “I was thinking about the stairs, right? If you pushed me, hard enough, it’d look like an accident…”

Below you, the concrete staircase looped in on itself, down, down, down. Tall, yes, but only three stories, not enough to kill. Not if you wanted to be sure. When you told her as much, she frowned, swearing in Chinese under her breath. The two of you bounced around a few more ideas, but none of them seemed to stick. You fell silent, tapping out meaningless rhythms on the rails, as you considered what you’d been dancing around since she’d asked you to kill. A competition-grade air pistol, a shot at just the right angle– it’d be, well, if not easy, at least simple. Less up to the fates.

There was only one problem with that plan– it’d no longer be an accident. There’d be police, lawyers, fuck, maybe even journalists. Your juniors would whisper about it for camps and camps to come. You couldn’t feign innocence with a shotgun, couldn’t frame the act of pulling the trigger as anything but what it was.

So, fine, they’d hate you. They’d shred all your certificates, put your photos face-down, pretend they’d never had a son. So what? Boy hung from his bedroom fan, boy hung from the prison beam. Whatever formula you used, the result was still the same: you’d be gone, and they’d be free. Besides, there wasn’t any way St. Cecilia's reputation could possibly be worse than it already was.

“I think–” you started, suddenly, “I might have a solution.”

iv. the grave

And he has dug a grave both long and deep,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

He has buried his sister with their babe all at her feet.

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

INTERVIEWER: You didn’t notice the keys were gone meh? I thought you were the captain.

THOMAS: The captain doesn’t carry the keys, sir. Um, he was the armourer, sir, he’s always had them. Since the beginning of the year.

INTERVIEWER: So you weren’t aware that Yeoh and Wong entered the armoury at 12.39 PM and retrieved a [pages ruffling] .25-calibre Baikal air pistol.

THOMAS: Of course the alarm went off, lah. To notify the teacher-in-charge. But he told Miss Judith he forgot his water bottle inside, and she was in a hurry anyway–

INTERVIEWER: She believed him?

THOMAS: Miss Judith’s always had a soft spot for him, sir. And we all trusted him. That’s why we made him the armourer. Of course he was quiet, um, but in a calm, reliable sort of way. Out of all of us we thought he’d be the last person to do what he did. [laughter] I trusted him– oh god–

INTERVIEWER: Calm down, boy.

THOMAS: Sorry, sorry.

INTERVIEWER: Can continue or not?

THOMAS: Okay. Can. Go on.

Laughing the loud and triumphant laugh of the already dead, you and Cam crashed back into the staircase landing like you’d done so many times before. How many giggling, short-lived couples had this place borne witness to? The seniors who’d winked and nudged you in its direction must’ve learnt it from their seniors, who’d learnt it from their seniors in turn– back and back it went, a story in two-year cycles, mutating each time it was told. A haunting, a myth, a folk song.

Cam, leaning back against the wall, ran her hands along the sleek pistol. She looked, still, beautiful: even after the run, after the tears, despite the baby. If you hadn’t seen her before, you couldn’t have guessed that she was the kind of girl who would ever cry. “It’s like I’m a spy.”

“I mean, we kind of are, right? People are going to start getting suspicious soon. We should do this quickly.” You shot a furtive glance through the window in the door. The corridor, as always, was dark– the lightbulb had been busted for a long, long time.

“Soon. Won’t take long, right? Just–” She aimed the gun at her temple, mimed pulling the trigger with a grin. Miss Judith had trained you well– your first instinct was one of sheer panic, of tripping over your own feet in your haste to rip it from her hands– but you didn’t do any of that.

Instead you only swallowed, shifted. “Just like that I don’t think is strong enough. It’s not real ah. Can’t do that much damage. Um, can I–”

Downstairs, someone shouted. Cam shoved the gun in her hoodie pocket. You stopped breathing. Something clunky was being dragged across the floor, chatter following in its wake. But no one had opened the door yet, so when the clamour finally died down, Cam removed the gun from her hoodie and passed it to you.

In your hands, the pistol was cool, familiar, deadly in a way it had never been before. It reminded you that despite any pretences to precision or skill or patience, this sport was, at its roots, a killing sport– drawing blood and blood and blood again.

You’d only been a shooter for a few months. You'd always been a chess club kid in secondary school, and in St Cecilia, you’d even applied for Strat Games before you walked into the interview, saw an old classmate, and walked right back out. At least shooting was a singular sport. No emotions involved, no one to fool, no one to ask you what happened.

About a week or two past orientation, you’d hit bullseye for the first time. You didn’t notice, at first, still reeling from the ricochet, until Greg shouted and the club gathered round and you saw that tiny wound on that tiny target, fifty whole metres away. In another few weeks, it’d become routine, but you never forgot that first time: the breath held, the trigger pulled, the bullet sailing through the air. The gun like an extension of yourself.

She must’ve sensed something had shifted, because she hurried out, “If you don’t want to do this, just say, OK? If you really want, we can– I don’t know, figure something out.”

You’d do anything for me, right?

Okay, so maybe you were helping her because you knew what it was like to be so tired that you wanted nothing more than to be gone. You knew what it was like to fail– your mother’s eyes avoiding yours, the flat stinking with shame, cut fruits slid under your door like an apology– and you knew, you knew, out of all the people in the world she didn’t deserve it.

But maybe you were helping her because you’d never known anyone who could go to their grave with a smile quite like her, brilliant and foolish and brave. It was your hand brushing hers under the desk and her laughing with her head thrown back and the two of you sharing earphones on the bus. It was the fact that in life or death, you’d never wanted anyone but her.

So, fine. The moment you’d opened your eyes in a hospital bed, you couldn’t find it in you to care about Heaven or Hell or anything in-between, couldn’t care about a God who’d turned his back to you as you were bleeding out. But even the staunchest of atheists could admit that it was nice to believe that you’d been brought back for a reason; that more than any grade you’d ever gotten or any target you’d ever hit, the greatest achievement of your time in college– okay, your entire short and sorry life– was this: to love her, to kill her, to be loved, impossibly, in return.

You kissed her like it was an answer. Maybe it was. You’d never know.

–

Just like you’d predicted, it wasn’t easy, but it was at least simple:

The muzzle dimpling her button-down shirt. Her heart beneath the gun, frantic and wild. Her smile– smug, inscrutable, like she was getting away with some great and treacherous heist, like she’d stolen something you’d never notice missing until it was too late. Coloured-in Converse perched on the edge of the top step.

A moment to aim. Less to fire.

A crack. A body arching backwards, falling, falling, falling. A body against concrete. A body with its neck all wrong– no, that wasn’t right. Two bodies. One body. But what was the difference, really?

Somewhere, someone was singing.

–

I got tired of waiting

Wonderin' if you were ever comin' around

There was a boy at the edge of the canteen, that isolated corner where the cafe used to be before it went bankrupt and left neon-yellow wreckage in its wake. I could just barely make him out through the other kids who’d swarmed like moths around the speakers we’d looted from the grandstand, a do-it-yourself rave all our own. We were seventeen and free from Promos and knew every word to every song on the radio and there was nothing in this world to worry about, nothing at all.

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town

My voice faltered as I tried to peer over the heads, earning myself a poke in the ribs from Joshua from 28. The boy was tall, in uniform–on the one day we were allowed to wear house shirts? He’d be sweltering hot. He stared off at something I couldn’t see, collapsing on a bench– and the moment I saw the fringe, I knew who you were.

“Xavier!”

I painfully extracted myself from the knot of students, making my way over to you. You didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t seem to care. There was something red on your face, probably some failed attempt at Go SC! It seemed like the sports leaders had gotten to you. Funny. I’d never thought you were the type.

You turned to me.

“Xavier?”

I broke into a run.

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Your hands were shaking, your eyes wet. There was red on your shirt, red on the corner of your lips. Shit, there was so much of it. “Are you hurt?” My brain was going at thirty miles a second. “What happened? Did you– are you–”

“I’m fine. I just–” You broke off. Slowly and carefully, like you were explaining something to a very small child, you forced out two more words: “--lost something.”

I cast desperate glances around the canteen. There was something wrong here, something I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, like standing on the edge of a cliff with a sea below you. “It’s OK, bro,” I muttered out, stupidly, awkwardly, “You’ll get it back, whatever it is. Um. You need me check with the GO? Call teacher?”

Through the thin walls, a scream rang out. The singing died a quick, violent death, but the music, still, played on.

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

“No,” you said. “No need.”

It's a love story, baby, just say yes.

After everything– after the police, after the trial, after the drop– Wong’s father swept in and gave half of St Cecilia’s a dizzyingly long contract that boiled down to Don’t tell a soul this happened or I’ll kill you myself. Of course I’d signed it. What else could I have done?

In the years to come, I’d want to tell you about so many things: The times we’d instinctively turn in our seats to ask you about homework or classes or anything at all. The two empty desks we’d dodged for the rest of the year, even after we switched classrooms, even after they struck out your names from the class list— as if long before that October afternoon, you were already gone. The shiny, upgraded surveillance system, a threat, an eulogy, as much acknowledgement as they’d ever give you.

Now, though, I want to tell you about the staircase.

When I stepped back into St Cecilia’s for the first time in ten years, so much of it remained the same. The same old coat of paint, the same wobbly tables, the same starched blue uniform. The only thing that’s changed is the kids– how young they seem now, how they call me Mr Thomas when I’m listening and ‘cher when they think I’m not. In the spaces between classes, when the halls are full of chatter, I’ll overhear snippets of their conversation: I’m yellowslipping for Taylor tickets or Walao, my stats really CMI, like this how can pass or Wah, are you going to take her to Staircase 6? That last one’ll be invariably followed by a wink, a nudge, and loud, boisterous laughter, the kind that only teenage boys can summon up. I can’t blame them much for it. Weren’t we once seventeen too?

The staircase isn’t particularly hard to avoid. For the kids, it’s more of a novelty than anything– a quick selfie at the door during Orientation, then it’s out of their minds for the rest of the year, too far from the classrooms to be of any use. Soon enough, though, exam season rolled around, and I was on my first night study shift of the year. I didn’t have to do much– just make sure nobody escaped the well-lit confines of the library, which was just as crowded and chilly as I’d remembered it. But the campus seemed different after dusk, every flickering light a blinking eye, and I felt myself being led down the concrete corridors, past the office and the hall and the lockers, past the bulb they’d never fixed, and I unlocked the door.

It looked, obviously, like any other staircase in the school. The floor was grey, the walls white. I went up to the top floor and to the railing, the security camera swivelling as I walked. Over the railing, the stairs went down, down, down. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find any part of it that suggested your presence. No pale figure, no blur of light. I felt, suddenly, foolish– what answer was I seeking? Even if you’d lingered, even if you’d somehow escaped where I’d most feared you were, this was the last place you’d want to stay.

Maybe I would never really understand why you did what you did. But I’d known you, even still, and so I could say this with certainty– if there was any justice in this world, you weren’t here. You were somewhere edgy kids couldn’t gawk and giggle at you, somewhere the camera couldn’t find you. Somewhere only you knew.

An engine growled beyond the gates. Sweet and heavy in the air, the scent of flowers lingered.

I closed my eyes.

And when he has come to his father’s own hall,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

There was music and dancing, there were minstrels and all.

And he’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

O the ladies, they asked him, “What makes you in such pain?”

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

“I’ve lost a sheath and knife I will never find again

And I’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

“All the ships of your father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can bring as good a sheath and knife unto thee.”

But they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

“All the ships of my father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can never ever bring such a sheath and knife to me

For we’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

#child ballads #singlit #songs from saint cecilia's #writing

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purity-in-heart · 2 years ago

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A Simple Addressing to the Cardiophile Community

I think we should start following a new motto: If you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us.

Whether it's a fellow member going through tough times from mental health and family issues to an abusive relationship or somebody posting another's content on another site without their permission, especially a p0rno site, even when they so painfully obviously asked for such a thing to not happen, there's practically a small army of people from around the world willing to help out, whether it's a therapeutic talk, pointing somebody in the right direction for help, donations to help with food bills (it's a little heartbreaking sometimes when somebody decides to sell their body for such things) or to report stolen content. Not that any of us would ever be immune to our own wrong doings or should start harassing people, but that should go without saying. Maybe with this sort of way in place, moral can be preserved and users won't feel disheartened into deciding to pack up and leave.

I'm always willing to help, that's for sure. Mess with the bull, you get the horns. If you cry, I'll lend you my shoulder. If you need help or advice, I'll point or shoot (figuratively speaking, of course). I love you guys and I love it here. This is my family, just as my real family is.

#cardiophilia #cardophile #cardiophile community

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smoothoperador · 1 year ago

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hi Clara 😊 would you tell us about your grandmother? (If you want to ofc)

oh! it's nice of you to inquire☺️

she was this willowy, mischievous woman born on a finca in andalucía right before the spanish civil war, and she always spoke of those days with a great deal of adoration. her family was stern and devout as most southerners were back then, but she always found a way to evade her grandmother whenever it was time to pray the rosary and hang out with the bulls in the fields, or dress up the house cats in her dolls' clothes (she put those poor cats through so much, but they were so patient, bless them). her mother didn't really love her, so she was mostly left to her own devices and i think that shaped her fiercely independent and avant-gardist spirit i've always adored—as well as explained her aloofness with her own daughters, and a certain level of generational trauma carried down decades. when the war broke out, they fled to a cousin's estate in southern france, where they remained trapped until 1945, but by the time ww2 was over they'd lost most of their money and franco had seized the finca, so they had to move to a small apartment in madrid. this is where I met her.

of course my memory of her is somewhat tarnished by her latter years—she had dementia and at the very end it seemed like the name Clara didn't ring any bells, which I tried not to break down at—but she will always remain one of the most exceptional people I've ever known. she was a little callous but loved me fiercely, in ways I never mistook as anything other than love as a little kid. we shared a room at christmas time (me, her, and the family dog. only I survive to this day) and in the evening, before we fell asleep, she'd tell me with much seriousness how her obsession with ancient egypt made her convinced she had been a pharaoh in a past life. she was an avid bookworm and practically taught me how to read; when she saw I inherited her passion, she started gifting me a new agatha christie book every time we met (they were her favorite). she was incredibly pretty, with that glamorous elegance pertaining to old hollywood stars; i carry 50s pictures of her in my phone and show them to anybody who asks, and when they say, "you guys look identical", i take it as the highest compliment ever, not because i think she was gorgeous, but because carrying the face of someone i love so much is a way to keep her close to me—close as can be. she had a sailor's mouth, which my mom really didn't like, but "ajo y agua" packed a singular punch when it was said by her. my brother and I would ask her, "me haces un sándwich, ¿porfa?" and she'd go, "y una mierda." but ten minutes later she was back with a sandwich for each on a platter. my mom and her bickered a lot, later on even full-on fought, and afterwards they'd both cry, and I would sit there with my heart ripped in two, not understanding why everybody couldn't just... get along. I'm pretty sure that at first, she played up her mental fogginess to fuck with the adults, and make the kids laugh—she was incredibly funny but her laugh was more wheeze than cackle, and we called it "su risa de Patán". one time, when I asked her what the happiest day of her life had been (expecting perhaps her wedding, or my mom's birth), she said, with manifest enthusiasm, "barack obama's election. because I thought I would die before i could see a black man become president of the united states."

i have many more anecdotes about her to share, but i'll leave it at this thing she'd tell me that really stuck with me: her motto, which has become somewhat of a mantra to myself; "la fe es saltar al vacío y esperar que unas manos te cojan".

#sandra 💗#thank you so much for asking - i didn't think i would write this much but it was truly liberating #i'm sorry if this was too sad - i tried to highlight her dazzling character and all the admiration i have for her #she strongly believed in heaven and life after death and she wasn't afraid to die #(in her last years shed jokingly say 'se habrán olvidado de mi allí arriba?')#so i really hope she is happy wherever she is <3 #long post

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braveparanoiac · 1 year ago

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🤸‍♀️ - How active is your muse? Do they exercise regularly? Do they do things like yoga? What else do they do to keep fit and active? Are they flexible? Can they do parkour? i KNOW he’s active but maybe i want to hear about ford parkour

Ford is a believer of 'at least 60 minutes a day.' Something he was taught in school and lives by it like it's some sort of life motto, and WILL try to get Stan in on it much to his annoyance. I do think he finds it ironic as well that Stan doesn't work out exactly? Usually it's brawn and brains... not to say Stan doesn't have brawn. Ford will likely mention at some point at the funny little change in them both.

Personally I'm a fan of dexterity over strength in media, so I do have a bias when I say Ford's more nimble and flexible compared to his brother, though I do think there's canon influence in there too. Old age has worn down those traits, but it's still something he tries to train. ...And yes he can do parkour. That's just outright canon I'm sure. What they don't show is if Ford can or can not do a flip though, and I think he can! ...Nowadays he might hurt himself trying to. In fact I would not be surprised if he tried once to show off to Mabel and ended up hurting his back.

To train these sort of things I imagine he has done yoga. It's physically, mentally, and spiritually bettering, helps stretch and trains things like balance - and you bet he rambles about those benefits.

And while he does know how to throw a punch, it's not a strong punch compared to someone like Stan. I don't think he trained overall strength, so he likely hasn't lifted weights or anything, at least not too much. He can lift two small children okay, and that's the extend of his strength. Though, as someone who does not regularly exercise and yet still picks up her seven year old brother, Ford at least has SOME power to him. I think that works out for Ford, though - when I think of agile characters, I think of those scenes with my favorite characters sort of outsmarting their opponent by exhausting them, and then packing one final blow when the other can't fight back.

Something else to note is that I think he used to practice his aim a lot. Gun ranges, archery, etc. It has significantly worsen because of Bill possessing him and ruining his eye, though. Speaking of which, I do also believe the possession sessions (and maybe even the events of Weirdmageddon? Still debating it personally) could potentially have given Ford "training" in pain tolerance as well, even though it was unintentional.

#the answer is still unknown(asks)#tw long post #tw abuse #ask to tag #tw injury

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lorelodge · 3 months ago

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if you need my help, i'm here. — wee john for roach ( @musecraft )

EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED was one of Roach's many life motto's. Think someone may fuck you over? Anticipate them to do it twice as hard. The mentality had served him well, Roach would argue he had stayed alive up to this point because of it. Yet, what was to be unexpectedly expected was never good, kind, or anything that his new roommates had shown themselves to be. The small comment threw him as off-keel as the pizza dough he had just thrown in the air- skillfully caught by him in its wayward trajectory before it hit the floor.

"Right back at yah." He flashed a grin so wide he must have looked fresh out of Cheshire. It was hard to imagine he had nearly robbed Frenchie blind and harder still to think they had still invited him to stay after. At first he'd thought them nuts, then chumps, but now he figured maybe there were at least two decent people out there. And how lucky he was to have found them.

"Hand me a fresh smoke. Pack's on the table." Their kitchen barely fit them both- he had to press himself against the counter just so John could pass. But, it was still the best damn space he had used in a while. "Been a long time since I've made this from scratch," he said, filled with the simple joy of a working stovetop and oven. "You a topping's man?"

#roach / interactions.#roach / threads.#musecraft: john feeney.#musecraft

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writer59january13 · 6 months ago

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Impoverished courtesy scam artists Harvey Specter

Entrapment videre licet fiendish gnarly hustling scheme erector - sent me to the poor house, where alms not forthcoming to ease financial affliction, where yours truly money matters still stymies ways and means to relocate to a two bedroom apartment courtesy low income housing. Eleven months ago to date, I fell prey to the wiles of a scam artist, who initially managed to hack way into the Macbook Pro rendering same computer I use now such that impossible mission to allow, enable, and provide any process to be completed. A gofundme page once again set up courtesy yours truly, which honest to goodness attempt to bolster substantial forsaken funds (essentially thieving joint nest egg of mine and the missus) deftly hawked pack of lies blindsiding me to surrender hook, line and sinker practically snagged and bled out these lovely bones mine every red cent squirreled away as a quite paltry monetary security net. The spectre and haunting existence of Harvey Specter (the alias cyber spatial highway robber) still riddles the psyche of this joker, who continues to chide himself, particularly when realizing combined lost assets lock, stock, and barrel meant that though poor as a Unitarian church mouse, I can not provide succor (in the form of American currency) which penury disallows us to dole out for our second born and youngest daughter, (who at age twenty five shares an accommodation in Bend, Oregon - with another twenty something gal a bajillion miles

from dear her ole papa and mama - located in southeastern Pennsylvania) paternal nor maternal capital to ease her own woebegone challenged situation. Said unnamed progeny, and her oldest sister (by about twenty six months difference) feel shortchanged by parents, whose bereft checking and savings accounts, plus truckload of mental health issues contributed to a dysfunctional heartache living poisoned ten year decade of misery. I admit unintentional grief heaped upon the souls of deux innocent lives which two offspring begat courtesy a virile birth father and fecund mother, whose joint home economic pennilessness (even prior to letting the pang of procreation run to sow wild oats) set at least one figurative strike against us when embarking to journey (as a super tramping foreigner) upon the family way. Utopia for wretched wordsmith would constitute enough disposable income to relocate within a place like Lake Wobegon "Where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all the children are above average." Its city motto is "Sumus Quod Sumus" ("We are what we are").

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fcathcrtouch · 9 months ago

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˗ˏˋ closed VALENTINE'S DAY starter ; 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚 @gildcdglory ´ˎ˗ location: the midas touch (kai's gallery/studio)

her brush swept across the last cloud in the pale sky and she took a step back, chewing at its wooden end. she really shouldn't be doing that, -- there was paint everywhere -- but she hadn't been this fixated on painting in a while. it was the only time she would allow the state of her backroom private studio to be the way it was now: the canvases strewn about the floors, a sushi take-out box left forgotten on the wayside, and several pallets with various mixed colours laid all around her. the only semblance of serenity was the soft jazz playing over the speakers. but it was her valentine's day treat -- to herself. a full, uninterrupted evening of painting to her heart's content.

she eyed the contrast, where the soft red-purple hues of dawn and the deep ocean blue intersected and tilted her head. something was missing... but it would have to wait until the paints dried. and by the time on the clock ( 11:38 pm ), she should really pack it in. she glanced down at the smudges of blues, reds and yellows on her hands and figured the colour would have ended up on her face and in her hair somehow. she was debating whether or not to use the shower she had set up in the studio just for this purpose or wash up at home, when a thud echoed from the main room of the gallery. her hands grabbed the closest thing she could reach, her pallet knife, and immediately rounded the corner. the pitch-black shadows of the dark foyer concealed her well enough and she moved around the familiar space with silent ease. but mentally she was scoffing at whoever was trying to break in. the gallery had been closed for hours at this point and the lights were off save the faint glow of her studio in the back. no one should be coming here, especially at this time of night. so if this was their sorry excuse for a robbery attempt, she hoped for their sake they knew who they were robbing. no honour among thieves is a motto she agrees with, but no one robs her. she finally made it to the large windowed front-- and several people suddenly ran by; one laughing and pushing another straight into her windows -- thud -- before they continued to run off. she let out a tensed breath and laughed. maybe it was time to go home. she didn't even bother collecting her things and fished the keys out of her pocket and let herself out of the gallery. but as soon as she stepped out onto the street she nearly ran into someone. ❛ oh-- i'm terribly sorry,❜ her usually perceptive senses must have been still frazzled from moments before, and it suddenly hit her how she must've looked. the hand she had reached out was still covered in paint, but then she noticed it. the crimson shade was visible even under moonlight. it wasn't only the deep red colour that got her but the amount of it. before she could even ask if the other was ok, the words just slipped out, ❛ whose blood is that ? ❜

#gildcdglory; juliana #wow she got real dramatic there for a sec #and for what lkasdf #and im sorry this got wayyy long

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trenttrendspotter · 1 year ago

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Expo East Trend Report: 5 More Trends in Natural Products (Part 2)

From bone broth to mushrooms and more, Discover more of the standouts at the 2023 Natural Products Expo East.

November 1, 2023

Nancy Trent

In Part 1 of this series, get the scoop on the final Expo East, and some of the innovation highlights. And there's even more to love in Part 2!

Here’s a look at more of the new and evolving trends we saw at Expo East.

Focus on Gut Health

Fermentation is a metabolic process that converts sugar into acids, gases or alcohol using microorganisms lime bacteria, yeast, or fungi. This traditional method of food preservation and preparation offers various health benefits when incorporated into the diet.

East Coast Kombucha is an artisanal-brewer of organic, probiotic-packed kombucha, otherwise known as fermented tea. They are committed to brewing, bottling, and distributing kegs and cans of the best-tasting kombucha available using only the finest ingredients, locally sourced whenever possible. This brand makes kombucha more accessible for those who don't want a harsh bite, meaning they form a balance between flavor and fizz. The taste is bold, yet still light and refreshing. It’s all in their motto: "Taste our difference.” The product is brewed and then added to a different vat with natural ingredients to make a healthier option with less sugar and more vitamins and antioxidants. Kombucha has a plethora of health benefits including its ability to help detoxify the body, promote gut health (which boosts the immune system), aid in digestion and cell regeneration, and increase mental clarity and energy among drinkers. It helps the body to rebalance and function optimally due to the natural probiotics that occur in the fermentation process. A portion of this company's sales are donated to local charities as well. Their mission is to make a positive impact on the community, their employees, and the environment.

WildBrine and wildCREAMERY make delicious fermented and plant-based foods. They ferment naturally, using only sea salt to kick off the birth of lactobacilli—a healthy bacteria that supports digestion, immune health, and overall well-being. Fermentation means it is predigested for you. The probiotic action of the microorganisms breaks the vegetables down. Suddenly, the calcium, potassium, vitamins K, B, and C, and all the other nutritional elements already present in the veggies, become more bioavailable by absorbing into your system and revitalizing you right away. This company also gives back to their community by teaming up with The Ceres Community Project, a nonprofit organization in Northern California that helps people get back to their roots through clean eating. Their goal is to create better health for people, communities, and the environment through love, healing food and empowering the next generation.

Also to support gut health: Bone broth has gained attention for its potential benefits. It is a nutrient-dense liquid made by simmering animal bones, connective tissues and vegetables over an extended period of time. The simmering process helps release essential nutrients, including collagen, amino acids, and minerals, which can be beneficial for the gut during digestion, for microbiome support, reduced inflammation, improved hydration, and immune function and more. Studies show that bone broth may aid in digestion and gut health, joint mobility and recovery, immune function, anti-inflammatory responses, weight management, and even increase collagen, reducing appearance of wrinkles and cellulite. Brite Start makes broth convenient, delicious, and nutritious. It is made with ethically sourced ingredients, no antibiotics, hormones, or artificial preservatives, is gluten free, and collagen- and gelatin-enriched.

Probiotics are microorganisms that can provide numerous health benefits and are known for their positive impact on gut health. They work to promote the growth of beneficial bacteria in the gastrointestinal tract and maintain a balanced and healthy gut microbiome. Culture Pop is fizzy, delicious, and not-too-sweet soda crafted with unique and delicious combinations of honest ingredients with live probiotics to aid a healthy gut. It’s a tasty twist on familiar flavors from lemon lime to wild berries to strawberry and more. These sodas contain organic fruit juice, real herbs and spices, live probiotics, are 100% vegan, certified non-GMO, certified kosher and have zero stevia.

Dairy substitutes

Dairy substitutes have seen significant innovation and expansion in recent years. Many companies are continuously developing new ingredients and formulations to create dairy-free and plant-based options that are more appealing in terms of taste, texture, and nutritional profile.

Elari comes from the Yoruba language of West Africa, where the tigernut is grown. It refers to the inner self or “inner seed,” a nod to the tigernut and to the founders who emigrated to the States from Nigeria. Elari is on a mission to inspire mindfulness around healthy living for ourselves, our families, and the planet. The tigernut improves soil quality and replenishes diversity in local systems. Both drought and flood-proof, it is extremely climate-resistant, flourishing where other crops, such as almond, can fall short. Elari partners with farms in Northern Nigeria that follow organic agricultural practices to create a sustainable footprint on local soil and groundwater. They help farmers learn and incorporate natural habitats into their processes, promoting the agricultural self-sufficiency of local communities and improving economies. Together, they honor their heritage while working toward a better tomorrow.

Cultured Foods contain LactoSpore, a spore-forming strain of Bacillus coagulans – an extremely stable and safe probiotic that survives harsh manufacturing, high heat processing, and the journey through the digestive system. The viable spore can germinate once it is safely inside the intestine. One of their products is vEGGS, 100% plant-based egg substitutes for baking, cooking, and egg dishes made from all-natural ingredients. vEGGs is a convenient, non-refrigerated, easy on the budget must-have for vegans, non-vegans, or those with allergies. The vEGGS packaging is plant-based and biodegradable. Plus, the doypacks are made from recyclable plastic. The production of vEGGS requires less water and energy, and thus releases less greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. Their mission is to produce convenient and sustainable alternatives to foods everyone loves.

AcreMade is built on 40 years of plant-based food expertise and they've developed an egg made from yellow field peas, a nutritious and planet-friendly pulse that fills hungry bellies while fueling a regenerative food system at the same time. Their peas are sourced from domestic growers and not shipped overseas, they do not contain GMOs and their contract growers are banned from using desiccants. They have improved the egg game and unlocked a world of plant-based potential.

Mushroom-based alternatives

Mushroom-based alternative foods have versatility, umami-rich flavor, and essential nutrients, minerals, and fiber. There are a wide range of options that can be incorporated into various culinary dishes.

ShroomEats is a healthy meat alternative burger, made with only six ingredients. It does not include cholesterol, it’s naturally low in fat, yet complete with protein, nutritious, and shamelessly delicious. Meat consumption is the leading cause of heart disease, but many vegan alternatives are highly processed with questionable ingredients – trying to be something they are not. There is a struggle finding healthy food that is delicious, satisfying, sustainable, and cruelty free. That’s why shiitake mushrooms are one of the best resources, having been used for thousands of years for both food and medicine. Continued research is constantly finding amazing qualities on this superfood and the benefits of incorporating them into daily meals. These mushrooms have an umami flavor and hearty texture, and have impressive macro and micronutrients loaded with vitamins, minerals, and amino acids.

Meati is working towards a future where everyone eats well without compromise. Founded in 2017, Meati Foods is working to unlock a more delicious, nutritious, equitable, and sustainable food system for everyone. Their product line features cutlets and steaks made from mushroom root, a whole-food protein cultivated with a modernized version of ancient and natural processes that have helped preserve Earth's ecosystems for millennia. Their food is 95% mushroom root, also known as mycelium. Their ranch is a clean environment, animal-free, and does not require pesticides, growth hormones or antibiotics. You get a serving of complete protein, fiber, iron, vitamin B, and zinc in every bite.

Better-for-you twists on staples

Functional foods with high protein and high fiber provide a significant amount of nutrients that enrich our well-being. Hopefully, we have more functional food options for breakfast, dinner or even a midnight snack so that we are fulfilled anytime we have a craving.

Flourish is reimagining breakfast with high protein, high fiber pancakes, with zero added sugar. They genuinely believe every pancake lover deserves healthy, high-quality food. They’ve carefully considered personal needs and dietary restrictions to craft a diverse range of flavors, including whey-based, plant-based, and more! You can even browse their recipes online to find your next favorite healthy meal inspiration, curated by their in-house recipe team.

Utopihen Farms and SpringCreek Quail Farms both feature quail eggs. When fresh from the farm, quail eggs are among the healthiest foods on the planet. They are naturally rich in healthy fats and loads of nutrients, and they don’t contain antibiotics or hormones. They contain one-third more vitamin B12 than chicken eggs and are an excellent source of protein. Foodies and health-conscious eaters across the world agree that quail eggs are good for you.

True Made Foods is a veteran-owned, healthy condiments company. They are on a mission to create a world where people can enjoy their favorite foods without the fallout. They believe we should not have to sacrifice our health to enjoy backyard cookouts and trips to the ballpark. They are revolutionizing America’s iconic condiments – ketchup, mustard, BBQ sauce, and other hot sauces. No more high fructose corn syrup and unwanted sugar, only real fruits and vegetables, making these condiments keto, gluten-free, vegan, and certified paleo. The result is a naturally delicious flavor without compromise.

Plant Fusion is evolving plant protein with the introduction of compostable packaging and formulas to benefit women’s hormones. What started as a desire to create a better class of nutritional supplements and mushroom + protein powder, has become a common ground where vegans, flexitarians, meat eaters, ketogenic dieters and the rest of the food universe can come together and rally around this fusion of better nutrition and taste that they like to call complete nourishment. The founders are two health foodies who were frustrated with the inability to find protein shakes that were not full of allergens, empty fillers, or overly processed ingredients like whey protein. So, they went on a search for authentic, 100% plant-based, nutrient-dense, allergen-free products that delight the senses.

Using coffee as a vehicle to spread social responsibility is an effective way to support ethical, sustainable, and social practices. Coffee has a significant global presence. It connects millions of farmers, producers, and consumers. Change starts with education and actively supporting initiatives that improve the livelihoods of all those around us. Explorer is cold brew concentrate created by adventure-seeker and risk-taker, Cason Crane, the first openly LGBT and fifth youngest person to climb Mt. Everest and the Seven Summits. It was on his adventures that he discovered the magic of coffee and is now driven to introduce some of the world’s best cold brew coffees to you. There’s a lot that is important to this brand, and sustainability is a top priority. They believe their approach to coffee is one of the most environmentally and socially sustainable, and they are always looking to improve their practices. They also offset all their shipping emissions to ensure less CO2 goes into the atmosphere. Their super concentrated brew results in higher yield per bean – reducing the overall consumption and maximizing their environmental efficiency. They only use organic and fair-trade coffee because that is what’s best for people and the environment. A percentage of every sale is donated as well to charity: water – the world’s leading clean water organization, bringing clean water to those who need it most.

Prioritizing baby health

The baby formula shortage was just last year, so it’s reassuring to know that there are more options being created for baby health. Goat’s milk is an alternative to cow’s milk for infants, especially when there are concerns about cow’s milk allergens or lactose intolerance.

Kabrita is the first and only FDA-approved goat milk formula in the U.S. They deliver nourishment and comfort to children and their parents through their naturally easy to digest goat milk formula and goat milk foods. They empower families with a new choice in formula feeding--one that marries the idea of all-natural with the rigor and safety of science. Since goat milk proteins form a gentler curd in the tummy and are broken down faster than cow milk protein, goat milk formula may be an alternative for children with troubles associated with cow milk consumption. Research has also shown that goat milk contains six times the amount of prebiotic oligosaccharides than cow milk. Kabrita USA is 100% women run and led by moms. Their mission is to empower parents to nourish their child with confidence. They strive to add value to their community through a commitment to education, transparency & supportive communication.

Read part 1, and stay tuned for more trends from the Expo East show floor in part 3!

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serialfirstdater · 2 years ago

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2023 #1: The Melbourne Optometrist

My original plan after going out with X-Ray was to stay off the apps until I moved out of Canada, or at least take a one year sabbatical. Yes, a part of me was mentally ready to just ditch the apps for a good year..

However, Matthew Hussey released a video at the beginning of the year and one of the points he made was that there was no such thing as perfect timing.

And goddammit the man was right.

After three months from September to December, I had a good break off of the apps and have moved on from X-Ray ten times over. So I reactivated my CMB account and for the first time in years, made a Bumble account again. I thought that if I need to be choosy about my matches, I might as well approach the ones I wanted.

When the Melbourne Optometrist liked me on CMB, I was intrigued. Intrigued that he studied in Melbourne (cause that was supposed to be my second home), intrigued that he was an optometrist that looked more like a tattoo artist at first glance, and I found him attractive. Granted he was bald, but he owned it in his profile, writing that one of his greatest fears was his hair growing back. The man was had a sense of humour!

We originally matched closer to the beginning of January but didn't meet until almost a month later. He's a hustler where not only is he an optometrist, but is now a personal trainer (cause he felt like it), has his own podcast, and planning to start his own e-commerce business in Canada. Doing all this while working on two different timezones. His motto is work work balance. Busy might be an understatement for this man.

The wait to have the first date was long but things kept getting pushed back due to our schedules conflicting because I was busy too. He was consistent with replying to everything in detail, which I liked. Even if it was once a day. Which was fine, I didn’t know him and this allowed me to not get attached.

Since I never met him, the wait wasn't so bad but truthfully, I was kinda excited to meet him. And I honestly am rarely excited about anyone before meeting.

The conversation we had online was easy and just made sense. It wasn't awkward and it was easy to transition from one topic to the next. The conversations were long and detailed. The type of conversations that only you’d get with very few people in your lifetime via the apps. I say this as someone who has been on and off the apps since I was 18. I had a lot of conversations, give or take a solid seven years where I was active when I was not in a relationship/situationship or taking a break from the dating apps.

Most of the time I feel that I have to force the conversation along when I talk to new people on the apps. As in, you just have to make up the next question to keep it going. Frequent online daters know what I am talking about.

But I never felt like the conversation was ever dragging with the Optometrist. As we continued to chat, my anticipation silently grew as we approached our first date.

For most men, I would not care if they cancelled on me completely before meeting. Primarily because my schedule is so packed, that they would literally be giving me back time.

First Date

The Optometrist originally asked for a ramen date but then we had to reschedule because he somehow forgot it was Chinese New Year the weekend we were supposed to meet up. He asked me how I could forget but I told him of course I didn’t, I was just not Chinese LOL. Plus my parents stopped celebrating ages ago, so it wasn’t something I have done in a long time. Though I personally would love to celebrate it again.

When the Optometrist rescheduled, he told me we could go to some overpriced Vietnamese restaurant. Which I promptly told him no because I thought the cost of pho was ridiculously expensive when it wasn’t even a fancy fusion place. So he settled on ramen once more.

I met him on a Tuesday after work, the last day of January. Yes, I REMEMBERED when we went out.

I wouldn't say the moment I locked eyes with him, my breath was taken away or anything. But I knew within the exchange of the first few words that I have already gravitated towards him. More in a, “I enjoy conversing with you” type of way, not the “I'm going to jump your bones right now” reaction.

As we got to know each other, I started to realize how considerate and attentive he was. The first thing that stood out to me on the date was that he kept checking to see if my non see-through cup was full or not. Whenever there was not enough water, he would call the waiter over to fill it up. I noticed it by the second time he did it because I was so focus on talking.

During our date, I asked him about his dating experiences. He told me something he learned about himself was that he used to take women out on high-octane dates. But then later realized that he would not be sure if he liked the women for them or for the fact that the date was so much fun. He told me he was now trying to get to know the person instead of making dates immediately impactful and fun all the time. I liked that he was self-aware.

When dinner wrapped up, he asked if I was full. Anyone who knows me would know my love language is essentially food. You just need to keep me full and I am a happy girl. I told him it was fine and I was content.

“I was thinking that we can go to Spin now,” he told me when we were about to leave the ramen restaurant. For anyone who doesn’t know, Spin is a ping pong place with plenty of finger foods.

“Ah, I really would love to but it’s a Tuesday night and it is getting late,” I told him, bummed out. “I would totally if this is a Friday or the weekend.”

“That’s okay,” he said. It didn’t bother him at all.

We walked in the winter night to the bus stop. I told him I lived in suburbs and he asked if I needed a ride.

“No pressure of course,” he said, reassuring that I didn’t have to take the ride if I didn’t want to. There was no insistence.

I originally agreed until I realized that he parked his car on the other side of the subway line. I thought that was going to be too much of a hassle for him. He reassured me once again that it was fine if I didn’t take it.

“I’ve been hearing there’s a lot of crime happening on the public transit lately,” he said. “It would be a good idea to have someone with you.”

That did it for me. I accepted and we took the transit together back to the station where he parked his car. While we were sitting side by side on the subway, there was this homeless man that kept walking back and forth. He paced back so often that even though he likely was not gonna jump anyone, there was a possibility he could.

Although the Optometrist didn’t say anything, I felt that he would likely have jumped in and protected me. And I need to comment that when he sat beside me, I really felt his presence. Aka, the man was big *insert eyes emoji here*.

When we got out of the subway and walked to his car, he asked me again if I wanted to get something to eat. “Like Maccas if you want.”

“What?”

“Maccas. You know Maccas? Don’t tell me you don’t know Maccas!”

“Oh yeah, McDonald’s. Maccas. I didn’t hear you for the first time!”

Again, he asked if I wanted more food which just the act itself was more than enough.

He drove me back home and I was anticipating, but also was unsure if there was going to be a kiss. When he parked in front of my house, I decided to go for the hug just in case. But he immediately kissed me. Which I was surprised but also wasn’t. It was a nice kiss, that was just long enough but not a quick or went into some sort of passionate makeout. More like, confirming that there is actual interest.

So, this was my first date of 2023 and I thought it was the best way to start of 2023.

Second Date

Our second date happened almost two weeks after. I told him the night before that I went to an arcade with friends for a dance party and he was like, “I was actually planning to take you to an arcade...”

Honestly hearing that made me pretty happy. I told him I was still down but I was pretty open to wherever he wanted to take me. The first thing that came to my mind was mini golf would be a great alternative.

The next day, he picked me up and actually drove not too far from my house. We pulled up to a glow-in-the-dark mini golf place! To be honest I had no idea it was even in my hood but I was excited that he finally took me on one of those dates I always wanted to experience.

The course was fun and at one point near the end, there was a bit of a backlog. We had to wait for about 2-3 groups of people to finish before we could go next. We were waiting in a dark corner, and I was just saying something when all the sudden he leaned down and kissed me. *insert slowmo kdrama moment here*

I definitely savour that moment. No guy has ever done that to me. None. At least not the ones that I liked, but if I didn’t like them, then I probably be shook that they did it because I would be repulsed and would remember then.

We proceeded like nothing happened and continued to play mini golf. At the end of the game, we went to get our things from the locker. I have learned in my days of watching Matthew Hussey to always ask the guy to hold onto my things now, as a small “favour” where they can be able to show their chivalry. So I had the Optometrist hold onto my bag and earmuffs as I put on my winter coat.

Once I got my coat from him, he proceeded to plop my earmuffs over my ears. *cue second slowmo kdrama moment*

To be honest, I did not shut up about this moment with my friends. Some of my girlfriends were confused at why I was telling them this but, it was a cute romantic moment for me, okay!

He was surprised when I confessed that I never had a mini golf date, or just an arcade date in general. He told me that it was hard to believe, which I guess could make sense if you didn’t know my atrocious dating life (hence the existence of this very blog).

We debated on where to go for dinner afterwards and agreed to head to Richmond Hill because there weren’t a lot of good Asian restaurants in my area. We tried a Taiwanese hotpot place and I thought the food there was solid. During this date, I held onto his arm when we walked around. You know, acting like a couple and all.

The second date ended well and he dropped me home when we finished our dinner.

Third Date

For our third date, we went to a noodle restaurant near Yonge and Finch During that time, we chatted and continued on with our getting-to-know-yous and banter.. We proceeded to go a cafe as a follow up for dessert.

For the first I would say, 30-40 minutes, was all normal. We had ordered ice cream on a waffle and was sharing it at the cafe.

“So when am I meeting you next? In a month and a half?” I asked, as I went to take another waffle bite. The Optometrist originally told me on our first date that he was planning on heading back to Melbourne for a month to sort out his life and work.

“Actually...I’m going to be gone for a whole year,” the Optometrist confessed.

I took a pause, my mind reeling and I could sense my defense mechanism kicking inside of my brain. Literally my brain went, “Emergency, lock down, lock emotions down. Get over him, NOW.”

I asked him why and he said that he found out the world largest optometry conference is being held in Melbourne this September. It made more sense for him to just stay there for the year and sort out his entire life before moving back to Toronto permanently.

“So, where does that leave us??” I asked.

“What do you mean?” He proceeded to point out we have only been on three dates and were certainly not in love with each other. He said that in his past experience, it was best to have a clean break whenever he went off for long periods of times, and then reconnect whenever he was back. Otherwise the conversation would die off after a couple of months.

Essentially with his work, he would go on contract for months to a full year at a time when he was working in Australia. This meant he didn’t work for a permanent clinic in Melbourne, but rather he contracted out his services to other optometrists and clinics whenever they needed an optometrist across the country. For example, if an optometrist in Adelaide went away for sabbatical, he would contract out and become a substitute optometrist.

However, with this type of work, it meant a lot the women he went out with rarely worked out. He told me his longest “situationship” was 7 months. And apparently at 37 years old, he never had a relationship in his life. Cause trust issues. Yes, of course I picked someone up I like who happened to have trust issues. I clearly can’t have the men I want in my dating life.

I told him, fine, if that when he came back and he was still interested in reconnecting, he could reach out to me and see where I was at and we could proceed from there.

It was disappointing but the good thing about our situation was that I only really heard from him once a day and our three dates happened over a span of two months, which made it easier for me to get over him. I took maybe about a week, since I was quite invested in him at the time.

I messaged him on the day that he flew back to Australia. To be honest, I was annoyed that he left me hanging in a convo we were having. He could have at least closed the loop and said that he had landed or whatever and it was nice getting to know me. Instead we were talking about movies and then I just never heard back from him. So by then, I was really over him.

Will there be a continuation of the Melbourne Optometrist? Who knows, but I assume that chapter is officially closed. Otherwise if there’s anything, come back to the blog in a year’s time LOL.

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stabbedinthenameofscience · 2 years ago

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This link has a paywall. Text below:

February 15, 2023, 6 AM ET

This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. Sign up for it here.

On the banks of the Red Cedar, a modest tributary that winds through the heart of one of America’s magnificent college campuses, there’s a school that’s known to all. Its specialty is winning: Michigan State University boasts numerous programs that rank among the world’s best, including supply-chain management, agricultural engineering, and graduate education. Oh, and those Spartans play good ball, on the gridiron and the hardwood and beyond, racking up Big Ten titles and churning out professionals, all-stars, Hall of Famers. It’s the home of overachievers and underdogs, an ideal place for someone with a point to prove. The official mantra, “Spartans Will,” is more than a deft motto; it’s a defiant mentality that makes the school exceptional.

Despite its imposing scale—50,000 undergrads fanned out across 5,200 acres of campus—Michigan State is an intimate place, a public school that feels like a private club, an institution that nurtures notions of shared values. Anyone, anywhere, who ventures into the world wearing a Spartan logo on their hat or jacket is prone to be saluted with “Go Green,” and as reflexively as breathing, they respond, “Go White.” This is the ritual by which perfect strangers become extended family. This is the culture that welcomes pimple-faced teenagers to campus—that immaculate, bucolic campus—and then welcomes their children and grandchildren.

But the Michigan State campus was different yesterday. The chime of Beaumont Tower’s grand clock echoed across empty quads, empty benches, empty buildings. A place that should be buzzing on a Tuesday morning midway through spring semester was all but abandoned. Only the flapping of yellow police tape in the February breeze broke the awful stillness.

Twelve hours earlier, a coward had menaced the people of Michigan State. Spraying bullets into the Berkey Hall research building and the nearby Student Union, this coward—a criminal with previous gun charges; a known troublemaker who reportedly took target practice in his urban backyard; a manifest threat who, this being America, still managed to legally possess a firearm—murdered three Spartan students and sent another five to the hospital with life-threatening injuries. The crime scene I encountered was surreal. Here, in the center of campus, spectators not old enough to buy a six-pack watched from behind police lines as a man in protective wear scrubbed the blood of their fellow students off the sidewalk.

I was shocked, though I had no right to be. In the 15 years since I graduated from Michigan State, there have been scores of deadly mass shootings in academic settings. No place has been off limits: Gunmen have terrorized small elementary schools and big universities alike, leaving parents and students and educators with an unresolvable sense of helplessness. Did I think it would happen to my school? Of course not.

“You’re at Michigan State. There’s a trust here. You think it’s safe. I mean, look around,” Connor Villeneuve, a junior majoring in human biology, as he swept his hand across the landscape, told me.

Villeneuve had left the library at 7 o’clock Monday night. Walking face-first into a blistering wintry wind, his apartment still some distance away, he had nearly stopped into the Student Union to grab a coffee and warm up. Instead, he hustled home, only to learn of the horror unfolding at the location he’d just brushed past.

“That’s always going to be in the back of my mind,” Villeneuve said. “I think MSU will come back from this. This is a strong school, and we’ll come back stronger than ever. But that trust—” he paused. “I don’t know if that comes back.”

My heart ached for him. Raised an hour away, much closer to that other university, the one in Ann Arbor, I never entertained the idea of living in East Lansing. And then I visited the campus. Most products of the youthful imagination are eventually rejected, cruelly and unceremoniously, by the realities of maturation. But every dream that came to my child’s mind when conceiving of college—the stately buildings and the sprawling green spaces, the roaring football stadium and the whispering river, the camaraderie and the conviviality and the bottomless school spirit—was a reality at Michigan State. Suddenly, all I wanted was to become a Spartan.

As I walked the campus yesterday, nearly 20 years later, every sight evoked a memory. There was the library where I pulled all-nighters studying for finals. There was the field where I spent spring afternoons lounging on a beach towel, smoking cigarettes, listening to Led Zeppelin, reading about war and religion. There was the dorm where I met my first real girlfriend; the patio where I declared my love for her; the bar where we hugged, cried, and broke up. Each of these memories is a treasure. Every experience I had at Michigan State—even the immature mistakes and the horrible hangovers—is something for which I’m deeply grateful.

Today’s Spartans might never know that luxury. Standing outside Berkey Hall, gazing upward at square grids of glass, I found myself thinking about the hundreds of young people who had come and gone from this place one day earlier. I studied the windows facing East Circle Drive—one decorated with athletic-department decals, another with stick-on ornaments that shimmered in the sunlight—and wondered what they must have represented to the people who had been trapped on the other side. I thought about the five kids fighting to stay alive at the hospital. I thought about their friends who survived but who will carry scars for the rest of their lives. Mostly, I thought about the three people—cherished children, dear friends, beloved Spartans—who had been slain: Arielle Anderson. Brian Fraser. Alexandria Verner.

College is something more than classes and keggers, caps and gowns. It is a process of ripening, of discovering the outer world but also one’s inner self. It is a collection of experiences and memories that shape a foundation for life. It is a gift. That gift was snatched away from Arielle Anderson, Brian Fraser, and Alexandria Verner on Monday.

Walking the campus a day later, I had to question what that gift would mean to the survivors. Would it be a gift at all? Everyone I spoke with counted themselves as fortunate. But the more time I spent with these students—as they wept in a prayer circle, as they hugged their parents in a pickup line, as they laid flowers in front of the place where their classmates had just been slaughtered—the more it became apparent that something special had been spoiled for them. These Spartans would forever associate Michigan State with fear as much as fun, death as much as a new phase of life.

“This place is changed now,” said Madi LaJoice, a sophomore music major who lives in the Campbell dormitory. She spends most weeknights at the Student Union; it’s right across the street from Campbell. But Monday was a rare exception. When she received the email alert from campus authorities with a set of prioritized instructions—“Run, Hide, Fight”—LaJoice and her friends turned off the lights in her dorm room. They barricaded the door by stacking trash cans on top of furniture. And then they sat on the floor in silence for the next five hours.

LaJoice described the scene while leaning against her red sedan, wiping tears from her eyes. She was in the Campbell parking lot, preparing to drive home to the Detroit suburbs after classes had been canceled. Nearby, kids were stuffing duffel bags and laundry baskets into their parents’ vehicles. LaJoice wasn’t sure when she would be ready to return to campus.

“Everyone is always telling you, ‘College is the best time of your life. You better make it count,’” she said. “I love Michigan State. I’ve made the best friends here. It’s my home. It’s my favorite place. And I don’t want to let this guy ruin that for me; I don’t want to give him that power.”

She collected herself. “But it’s never going to be the same, you know? We can try to move on, show how strong we are, and all that. But it’s never going to be the same.”

As we spoke, a young woman ran up and hugged LaJoice. It was her close friend Penny Devine. After a long embrace, they began swapping stories. Devine was in the Student Union on Monday night. She heard three gunshots but felt frozen by the sudden chaos. Finally, seeing the stampede toward the exits, she bolted from her study table, shuffling to keep her slippers from falling off, and merged with the panicked masses streaming down the dark streets outside. Devine called her dad, who told her to stay with people. But she was surrounded by strangers. Two young women, overhearing the call and sensing her desperation, grabbed Devine and brought her to their friend’s apartment.

“That’s Michigan State,” LaJoice said. “For such a big school, it’s such a small community.”

Devine vowed to fight for that community. She hadn’t survived this ordeal to wallow. If February 13, 2023, was going to define Michigan State, she said, it would be because of the response to the tragedy, not the tragedy itself. LaJoice was visibly inspired listening to her friend. Her disposition changed. She and Devine began drawing up a list of tasks that awaited them. Like every other student I met yesterday, they reminded me that they were resilient, that they were Spartans.

The losses of Monday night, they swore to me, would not prevent a victory for MSU.

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