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humans4vampires · 4 years ago

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1977 Homecoming

@teamlesbianbella Happy Holidays, my dear! Not-So-Secret-Anymore Santa here, delivering your gift! I do hope it’s everything you were wishing for! I loved writing this for you and I hope it makes you all toasty-warm with Rosalie goodness. Honestly, I would do so much more writing for this... Let me know what you think :)

Can’t wait to do another @twilight-secret-gift-exchange.

1977 Homecoming

If my heart could be pounding, it would be. If my body could lift my feet with any more anxious haste, it would. The cold wind broke against my skin, the snowflakes only lingering in the fibers of my clothes. It was well below freezing; I was sure this blizzard would be record breaking. I hadn’t seen this much snow in New York State since I was a child. As we ran, I tried to remember the Christmases I’d spent with my human family. The faces of my mother, father, and brothers were fading from my memory. The pain I always felt when I thought of them flooded through me. It wasn’t a raging agony anymore; it was rather dull and nagging. My life, after all, was not entirely riddled with sadness. Though my human family would never be replaced in my heart, my new family loved me and I, them. New? Well, in the context of eternity, it was in the realm of ‘new.’

We had stopped once on this journey from British Columbia to New York as we crossed paths with a friend in Saskatchewan. It wasn’t my first introduction to Garrett, but Jasper was freshly engrossed with Garrett’s patriotism. And Garrett was more than eager to swap war stories. This was also Garrett’s first time meeting Alice, so our initial stumbling upended to an extended stall. I was bored within the first hour. Battle had never interested me and though I loved my Alice, the curio displays of her gifts to each old friend we encountered had become monotonous. It was no better than enduring the years of Carlisle and Esme fawning over Edward when we were still a small family. While they all talked animatedly around the fireplace of a vacant cabin, I read the paper I had grabbed as we walked through the town. The date was January 23rd, 1977.

Christmas of ’76 had been mostly uneventful. We had spent the holiday with our ‘cousins,’ Tanya, Kate, Irina, and Carmen and Eleazar. Though, of course, we had to leave sooner than I would have liked because of Tanya’s constant advances toward Edward. I laughed to myself then, at the thought of anyone finding Edward to be a good romantic match. How funny, I thought, that Carlisle had once hoped that I would be that perfect pairing for Edward.

Of course Edward was beautiful; we all were. But he was handsome, still. I was sure he had been in his human life, too. He was also a gentleman, refined, and certainly someone who would have made a quality match for me when I was just a human girl. But Edward was much more than those simple things, too. Edward was witty and kind. He was talented and well-educated out of interest, not because he felt obligated to fill his time. There was also a part of him that understood me, and I didn’t chalk it up to the mind-reading. No, Edward valued mortality and the virtues of humanity in the same manner I did, I was sure.

Carlisle couldn’t have known me well enough in my human life to truly know that Edward and I would have so much in common, but it did seem to pan out perfectly. By all accounts, Edward was exactly my counterpart; of all my family and all those we came across in this new life, Edward and I were still the most alike. But if likeness equaled a perfect match, then Edward and I had broken the mold.

We were still running, through the tall red oaks and ash trees coated in ice and snow. I had let myself fall a bit behind, letting my thoughts wander. But I was back in the present now, and searching for my imperfect match. She was ahead of me, bounding through the snow with a childlike enthusiasm, moving like a tornado through the forest. Her long, chaotic brown curls were thick with ice. Her long, imposing body charged through the blizzard, her muscles dancing beneath her pearlescent skin. She was unaware of me, totally enthralled by the thrill of the wind, the blistering cold, and the sleet of ice. No one enjoyed being what we were more than my Eleanor.

I juxtaposed the day I carried her home to Carlisle in my arms, battered and broken, to watching her leap through the snow as she did now, a titan, a fearless woman, and smiled proudly. God, how I feared that she would resent me for how I had damned her. Until I had found her lying helplessly on the forest floor, I had never truly known Carlisle. How I had hated his selfishness, his cowardice in facing death, until I was the selfish one begging for the life of a stranger.

Eleanor thought I had saved her, but truthfully, she saved me. She saw me as an angel when I was nothing more than a monster. The guilt of my selfishness waned with time as I saw how much joy this new life brought her. Eleanor embraced everything with barefaced ardor. She was rough and intense and unrefined. She was easily distracted and entertained by each passing moment. She was unfocused and happy. Eleanor had a burning fervor to make the most of every amusement. She found no guilty pleasures, for every pleasure was unburdened; she was completely free.

I had never found myself attracted to women, though I was sure there would be no other woman, or man, on earth that could capture me the way she had. I had thought myself to be a romantic, but I had never truly known love, it seemed. Eleanor consumed me, slowly and surprisingly. A few years had passed before I had realized the devotion I felt for her was something more. I was relieved when I discovered she felt the same for me. How, in my damnation, was I allowed a miracle?

She suddenly turned toward me and stopped, blocking my path with her body. We collided swiftly and she wrapped her arms around me as she pulled me down into a thick snowbank. Eleanor’s laugh echoed through the trees and drowned in the howling wind.

“What are you doing?” I said into her hair.

“You’re going so slow,” she said. “We might as well take a break.”

“A break,” I huffed. “We’re almost there.”

I was locked in her iron grip, trapped in the snow pile against her as she chuckled. I moved to see her face and her expression became more serious. Eleanor brought a hand up to my forehead, brushing the hair there back behind my ear with her fingertips.

“What are you thinking about?” She was staring intently into my eyes, the question burning there.

I shrugged, “My love for you.”

She smiled sweetly, closing the distance between our lips as she cupped my face in her strong hands. Oh, her hands. They began to wander my body as we kissed more deeply. My hands were locked in her hair as she turned us over, pinning my back in the snow. The feeling of her body pressed against mine sent me into a frenzy. She was removing my clothes before I could catch myself falling into the fray.

“No,” I whined, pulling my lips from hers.

She kissed more fervently down my neck. I fought her hands to secure my shirt.

“Eleanor, we’re almost there,” I said. “Please.”

She groaned, lifting herself off me quickly. She stood in the snow a few feet away as I redressed myself.

“You’re awfully keyed up about this whole farm thing,” Eleanor crossed her arms as she argued. “I don’t see you as a farm girl.”

“I’m not,” I said proudly. “But this is different. You’ll see.”

She was unconvinced, but held a hand out for me to lead the way. I started ahead and she started clapping.

“God, I love to watch you walk away!” she said loudly.

I took off in a sprint and she followed.

I wanted to go home. When I was new and young and our family had to leave Rochester, Carlisle, Esme, Edward and I moved to a little stone house on the outskirts of the small town of Maine, New York. The house had been standing for at least a hundred years at that time, and while we stayed there, Esme spent her time restoring it. By the time we left to go further south for Carlisle, Edward and I to study medicine, the house had become a home. We left a family. For that reason and so many others, the house in Maine was my home. And I’d never shared it with my Eleanor.

I began to slow again as we approached. I wanted to walk at a human pace; enjoy every perfect detail. The house was atop a gentle hill situated in a large clearing. It was surrounded by towering white spruces and red oaks all blanketed with heavy frost. The long house was entirely stone, aside from a few additions from Esme where the Tudor style matched perfectly, as if they had always belonged. The paned windows were thick with ice like everything else, the snow piled high above the few small front steps to the door. Eleanor and I trudged forward, the snow above my waist. As we got closer to the door, I reached for her hand.

“Welcome home,” she said coolly.

I smiled and moved to open the door. Snow ran into the small foyer, dumping onto the stone floor as we quickly hopped in. I kept her hand in mine as I walked her through the rooms, telling the stories that came to mind. When we were back in the front room, she moved to the fireplace to start to build a fire. The others weren’t far behind. They would be joining us soon. When the beech wood was crackling with the roar of the flames, I joined Eleanor at the hearth. The snow and ice began to melt, thawing us both.

“A bath?” Eleanor suggested.

I nodded and hummed, “Mhmm.”

We were both drenched from the blizzard; our clothes had no hope of drying against our frigid skin. Though I couldn’t be uncomfortable, a warm bath sounded nice. Eleanor was gone then and I could hear the sound of the water running far down the long hallway.

My bedroom had the best view; Esme had insisted on it. Eleanor was standing at the far end of the room, bent over the large claw foot tub that sat in front of a set of wide French doors. She had the doors wide open, filling the room with the horizon, the afternoon light, and the faintest sprinkling of snowflakes. They danced through the air like pixies in the wind.

Eleanor turned to me after she had stopped the faucet.

I removed my clothes slowly, revealing myself to her. She did the same for me, removing her clothes as we admired one another. We didn’t speak. My golden hair was dripping, creating pools around my feet. She extended a hand to me and I crossed the room toward her with inhuman speed. I closed the distance between us, stone to stone as we collided. As we kissed, I felt a rush of peace. A gentle hum trilled my body.

We made it to the tub eventually where we sat, legs tangled together, facing each other as we looked out the doors and watched the snowfall. The neighbor that took care of the property kept horses at the stables here. We watched them as they tunneled through the snow that crested their chests, their brown coats casting a stark contrast to the heavy blanket of white.

“I love you,” Eleanor said softly.

I turned to her. “I love you.”

We stayed there until the water had lost its warmth. Eleanor and I dressed and met the others in the living room when they arrived. Once everyone had changed out of their wet clothes, we picked up our regular activities. Eleanor and Jasper left on a hunting trip to the Adirondacks. Edward went to tune the long-forgotten grand piano, then spent the evening composing something new. Esme and Alice made plans to visit the New York City for a shopping trip, chatting by the fireplace. Carlisle and I sat in matching armchairs, discussing my schooling and the new medical techniques Edward and I had been learning. We would be returning to school in a week when the new semester began again. We spoke for hours about medicine. Alice would chime in every now and then to explain what the future of medicine would look like in the next few decades; there were going to be incredible advancements. Edward would pick the images from Alice’s mind and explain the procedures and technology to us. Carlisle and Esme were beaming with pride as Alice and Edward dazzled them with their synchronized talents.

I wasn’t ‘gifted’ the way my siblings were, but I was never one to feel second-best. Though, at times, I wondered if I should. Was vanity clouding my judgment?

I was sure Edward had heard me. He made a polite excuse to leave the house. The others went to join him, leaving me at the fireplace to wait for Eleanor to return. I wasn’t interested in going out in the blizzard again. And I was grateful to Edward for giving me a reprieve – but I heard footfall coming back toward the house.

Carlisle was back quickly, dusting the snow from his hair in the doorway. I sighed and he smiled apologetically. I turned back to the fire.

“You didn’t have to come back to comfort me.”

His voice was soft. “I didn’t,” he agreed. “But I need to apologize.”

He was next to me at the hearth then, a hand on my knee.

I turned to face him. “It’s not fair for him to tell you every fleeting thought that passes through my head.”

“You know he wouldn’t betray your privacy, Rosalie.”

“I’m not jealous,” I said.

“You’re so much more than beautiful, Rose,” Carlisle spoke gently. “I’m so very proud of you, daughter. Of your strength and grace. Of your resilience.”

I nodded.

“Come now,” Carlisle continued. “Don’t allow another fleeting thought.”

We chuckled lightly.

“Can I convince you to join us?” He stood, holding a hand out to me.

I would never refuse him. I took his hand, and we ran through the snow following the trail of our family.

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genvieve-of-the-wood · 4 years ago

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How Some Americans Solve Math Problems With Guns

Does counting get easier for you if you fire off rounds and count bullets?

Or is this often the only way you are taken seriously,

by intimidating people with “your right.”

You oppose anyone who is against your right

to carry one of the world’s most efficient killing machines,

in deadly situations like buying laundry detergent or getting your oil changed

or a christening, or maybe throwing a tantrum when democracy is working-

But

you use the efficient killing machine to take away by means of implied use of

force, the rights of others to carry out the rights others died for,

killed by efficient killing machines held by fascists in a massive power grab, not that long ago,

overseas.

I’m so confused.

If fractions, percentages, and word problems anger you,

do you solve the problems by shooting or intimidating them?

What next, are you going to flash guns to historians and math teachers,

you’ve already threatened scientists and doctors because the science

has saved your life. How dare they!

I mean..the gall to study epidemiology/immunology and tell people how we can survive. The nerve.

How are your lives not full of holes, unlike your strange arguments

and dishonorable actions for a fair election?

Why do you get to threaten the very process that just might have re-elected

your “business man” emperor?

Why are you acting like bullets will restore the country to a peaceful order,

which is by the way, to your chagrin, always changing, struggling

to move forward and the sad part is-

you cannot stop change, not when it happens to a collective conscience.

Not without pushing you well back to a place where you are not a patriot,

but a terrorist.

If one wishes to impose their vision of a country under “law and order”

by a gun,

by kidnapping,

by running people over,

by detaining without cause,

by stopping a democratic process,

then stop calling yourself defenders of liberty,

and put on

brown shirts

and spit on the graves

of every man, woman, person

who would have loved to have come home from the wars and not worried

about your sad Alpha soldier cosplay/fascist flirting you use as an excuse for your own

(some stolen valor in your ranks, btw,those claiming service in militias and when looked up none is found, or couldn’t pass cop training/ psych evals )

shortcomings as a human being.

Why do you need a gun to protest counting votes of Americans who might have

soldiers in their families injured, killed, or worse; actual soldiers who you love

to thank for their service-

but then you play at GI Joe to scare or intimidate other Americans for doing

their civic duty?

Soldiers who were put in harm’s way by careless and thoughtless statements from your orange-tinged unhinged so-called “swamp drainer?”

And you, those whom have actually served and partake of this dishonor,

this mockery, you of all people should know how great the loss when guns are

used to take away hard fought for rights. Even if you support your leader, why did you serve? To intimidate...and that’s all?

If might is right, gun toting math haters, well, I guess you agree you are incapable of pursuing liberty

without taking it away from others. But you know,

you have the guns, the gear, the oversized pick up trucks, the flapping flags, the intel from YouTube (Shrug), right?

You now inspire terror, chaos, and mob rule.

You only reassure those who think boots and bullets used on “others” is reassuring, because they have never had it used on them based on their race, religion or even disability.

Or worst of all, you are members of a cult that is math, science, honest history and democracy phobic. You are creating a mythos around a true narcissist reality television star.

“I voted for the economy! I don’t like him, but we will lose money or my taxes will increase.” Ok, you have made your values

crystal clear. Counting matters to you, but just for you and your bank accounts. You don’t want to point a gun, but you’ll point a finger at boot straps and avoid the uncomfortable conversations about the widening class division and mind your own business when the authoritarianism begins.

All politicians/world leaders/local leaders are imperfect and shouldn’t be put on a pedestal. All should be held accountable. But if you are willing to stop democracy with weapons, threats, intimidation- you should really just stay home on Veteran’s Day. And I dunno, refamiliarize yourself with what you claim to hold so sacred. Talk to those who serve or have served. Most will follow orders, do their sworn duty- but want nothing to do with your methods of “protecting freedom,” because they have no interest in dividing the country further, the country they have families and businesses in. And also maybe do a math fundamentals refresher course. 290 is > 214, for example. Or 279 is still >214.

Math is hard sometimes. But suffering under an authoritarian mindset is harder.

#spilled ink #writerscreed #spilled thoughts #Veteran’s Day #authoritarianism #genvieve-of-the-wood

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whatscallion · 6 years ago

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Summary: The aftermath of Thor celebrating another day lived with his fellow Avengers and realizing just how pitiful they are. First person and Taika-Influenced. 970ish words.

Pairing: None LOL this is all Thor

A/N: This is my second submission for @blackberrywidow‘s follower celebration! CONGRATS AGAIN, BABY HEN BITCH!!!! You deserve all the followers c:

Time: 1:30am on a Friday

Place: Smith’s Bar

I am, without a doubt, disappointed.

In a realm boasting the universe’s mightiest heroes ( of which I doubt because I have fought many a mighty hero and they could squish these tiny ones ), I am alone. I am a traveler far from my own realm with nary a familiar creature in sight. Familiarity is there, of course, for animals often are descendents from those much larger, pointier, and angrier beings I’ve tussled with.

Those I have surrounded myself with are considered infants - small, soft, loud, and almost always unhappy unless there is food or love involved. And even then, the optimism runs thin.

Stark, who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, has bettered himself as a mortal through countless ways, yet I can see the recklessness in his martyr mentality. It is admirable, though I know my father would roll his one ( 1 ) eye at the idea. Such brilliance in a short man - I cannot fathom what goes through his mind, zipping around like these agitating scooters in the city. Or whatever they’re called. He didn’t have anything to drink, yet he’s curled up sleeping under the table. I wonder if this is the first time he’s actually gotten proper sleep in a fortnight. I’ll ask him later as he’s complaining over the lack of strength in the coffee brewed. Such stuff is truly disgusting. I don’t understand how Midgardians can drink it willingly.

Rogers, a man from an era existing only in the history books children tote around, sleeps much like my father did - arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back and mouth open to let out an uproarious snore. He’s seated across from me, this symbol of freedom and democracy, and I can only think of his audacity at chiding me for my own attire. Surely he could’ve dimmed his own patriotic colors, even if it is against the wishes of the masses. Romanoff had spoken once of a suit made of the midnight sky - I should ask him about that when he wakes. It took only three glasses from my own reserve to see his decorum falter into that of childish giggling and slurring. He deserved the respite.

Speaking of Natasha, she had stayed awake a lot longer than I would’ve guessed - becoming the last one to succumb to the nectar of the gods. Though her stature is shorter and more lithe than that of Stark’s, a war brews beneath her skin in a way only I can relate to. While I remain this brute, she is pure elegance in lethality. I grow envious at times, catching glimpses of her work, be it physical or otherwise. It was no wonder she’d outwitted my clever brother, and unlike anyone else who has accomplished such a feat, she has remains humble. Somber. Stoic. Absolutely terrifying, and I’ve no doubt she could kill me in my sleep. Me. A demi-god. Dead by a mortal’s hand. I pray to Valhalla she needn’t ever do that.

Banner. Oh, Banner. I don’t really know where he is at the moment, but I hope he’s doing well and is at least not very angry. And doing something with his PhDs ( whatever those are ).

Where even was the archer?

Such thoughts plagued me as I looked towards the bottom of my glass, obviously scowling at the way my hand felt all too big. These people were so small - it was a trait I couldn’t get over. But what they lacked in height, they made up for in ingenuity. Companionship. I am reminded over and over how these Midgardians are far more heroic and selfless than I could ever be.

It’s a thought that hinders me as the rest of the mead is finished, the glass quietly set back upon the tabletop. Though the beverage was something of a social lubricant, it now stifled my muscles, making me want to succumb to the very slumber my patchwork brethren were fully enjoying.

But they deserved such rest, whereas I had yet to achieve such a reward. There was still so much for me to do, and all those things resided outside the doors of this homely ( albeit shady, as the young Peter Parker would’ve said ). It was just a matter of grunting my way through a stretch and trudging onward.

“Hey, buddy-” Ah, the tender. The stout purveyor had been such a good sport throughout the evening’s discourse and uproarious hilarity. Truly, he was not being compensated well enough for his patience in serving those who protected this realm.

“Yes, good sir?” Something spoke to me - telling me to stay at the table despite this small, unnecessary feeling to simply flee, leaving behind my compatriots.

“You gonna pay fer all this mess?” Mess? He must be confused, surely-

Oh.

I finally looked beyond that of my family to find that the Midgardian term “rowdy” was somewhat of an understatement. Why weren’t things here built with the same sturdiness as Asgardian effects? I don’t quite recall that many broken chairs, the cracked glasses, nor the oddly lopsided billiards table. Had that really been our doing?

“Oh, uh . . .” Words began to fail me, so some kind of entity overtook me, forcing movements through my limbs without my knowing. All I knew was that I needed to get out that door as soon as possible and without any obligation to the situation.

“You can’t just finger-gun your way out of this!” It was the last thing I heard before that heavy door slammed shut, sealing away any anxiety that had been induced by the monetary debt I ( but really, my friends ) owed the tender.

A sigh heaved through me, and relief flooded in.

“That was far too close. I wonder what Volstaag would’ve done . . .”

#thor #bbwidow's500wc #thor odinson #black widow #captain america #ironman #hawkeye #hulk #mine #babyhenbitch #kaitsfam

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lost-gokiburi · 7 years ago

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The Kind Wordsmith

Often, I am asked about my hands now made of cold and blackest of iron. Recalling memories of the unremembered war, a time that our people as a nation do everything to forget. Often, I look to those who ask with a solemn look and I speak of an accident to spare them the embarrassment. Never straying too far from the truth, it was truly an accident. So much violence due to a misconstruing of words spoken by nobles now imprisoned for their plots. A legacy which none wish to recall, yet that legacy is mine to have with every morn that I rise from sleep.

For it stole my hands, what precious fingers I used to pen words of beauty. Now only a memory meant for me to have and yet I welcome the loss of my limbs with open arms. Though forlorn my thoughts were at the beginning I now know that I am... better for it. Those horrifying moments hiding among my fellows in the trenches.

Holding onto what memories of verdant fields I once ran through as a child. Holding onto so much in that muddy and barren wasteland. It was so beautiful, the tall grass with wildflowers stretching beyond what any could see without a pair of good binoculars. What a sight it was, but never to be seen again, lost due to such folly spoken by our betters.

Alas, I am getting carried away. You asked about my arms, no? I lost them during the last moments of the Unremembered War, our greatest shame. One of the Young Princes had been shot down, their airship crashing deep in enemy territory. Feeling the wave of patriotism that I once felt beating in my heart, I jumped at the chance to rescue such a man. To preserve the future of a country that I now distance myself from so very slowly. It was on those plains that I lost my arms, my hands which had felt so much so long ago. Hands that had written so many cherished words by many of my friends.

That was where I got my nickname, wordsmith. I was always writing whenever I had the chance. Filling field notebooks whenever chance allowed. I have so many filled books for you to look at should we ever have the chance. But... that is in the past. I still write, but I know nothing will come of my words since my feelings and thoughts are so... elusive to my typewriter and even my pen and paper. It's kind of amusing.

Like these feelings, thoughts and dreams are meant only for me. Yet... yet I wish to share them all with everyone around me. Which is why I speak to you now, kind traveler.

Ah.. We're getting so far off track here! I can hardly keep my mouth shut whenever someone new comes to visit me. It can get so lonely here, so distant from everyone else but at least I have all the world to myself! Yes, it's a fine place to be as the garden beyond this room is where I often sit and ponder upon what words to weave for my guests! What speeches that I could pretend to say when no one is looking! Sometimes, it's so exciting to just drown in these fantastical thoughts about other worlds and places so impossible to reach!

But yes, before I get any more distracted by what I'm telling you, kind visitor, I lost my right arm in the initial attack, when we found the Novus-Class Sky-Battleship, it was a smoldering ruin and I had broken through one of the main firing lines. It was an exciting time, my heart was pounding and I could barely hear anything as I had slung my rifle over my shoulder. You see, I had a heavy rifle, you know one of the scoped ones! A sniper no less! It was a vary rare piece of weaponry to have to be sure. I fought the entire war with that rifle, they gave it to me right out of training!

I was so young back then, my face so bright and excited to see battle and fight for our country. Well anyways, I was plunging into the enemy ranks, approaching the blazing wreckage when I saw one of the Vampiric Countesses fighting for her very life! Naturally, I moved to aid her!

What's with that look? Oh... Well, yes Vampires are quite frightening with the taking of blood, but they fought for their own reasons too. Didn't mean I had to just let her fall on the battlefield. We were all in this together. A team. Well, maybe not the Countess, but we were on the same side. Who wouldn't help their allies?! Well, anyways, I got to the Countess and we beat back quite a few soldiers. That was when I felt a stinging pain in my arm. I had been shot in the shoulder.

It was rather painful, hah! I screamed so loud when it first happened. But I continued on! I had to. With the Countess at my back, we dove into the burning wreck. It wasn't all that great, with me bleeding and all. Eventually, we attempted to take the bullet from my arm, but there was too much trauma. We... ended up cutting my arm off at the shoulder, burning the wound closed. It was... painful.

I cried even, I mean, I'm not as tolerant of pain as the other soldiers! I was a pretty big baby about it at the time, but I guess it's understandable. It was... one of two arms. Well, anyway, we found the young prince fighting for his life. One of the enemy nobles had cornered him and the Countess had been distracted by other enemies. So I moved as fast as I could.

I am told I was brave, the Young Prince visits me often, though now he brings his friends from time to time, asking me to tell them the tale of how I saved his life. He puts a bigger shine on my part. Heh...

Anyways! The noble was going to cut his head off, and me being how I was, I grabbed onto the blade. I lost my hand, but for my insolence as the noble put it... he cut my other arm off. I blacked out and when I woke, I was in a field tent where the Prince and this Countess stood at my side. They told me I would need to take it easy for a long time. Naturally, I couldn't feel either of my arms, recalling the battle.

I panicked. W-well, as anyone in that situation would! Seeing my hands, arms and shoulders made of metal! It was wild now that I look back at it. Only war heroes got these kinds of prosthesis but they wouldn't acknowledge my role... at least the ruling family would not. As it would have been an embarrassment to the royal family.

What's with that downcast look?! I-It's not like it bothered me all that much! I was very understanding, but it did hurt a little.

W-well, I mean, it was completely understandable considering the situation as to hear about a commoner saving one of the Princes by shoulder checking him and breaking his arm in the process is kind of bad. Hah! I could understand, but these hands, these arms you see now... I think they're a blessing.

Why you ask?

Because! It brought you to my doorstep, kind traveler. These hands, though cold and metal have written so much more and I haven't even scratched the surface of what I wish to write! There are so many stories to write, so many to read from brilliant minds! I love them all! Whether the writing is good or bad, heh. I don't mind a badly written story once in a while, because it's a view into another person's mind! To see their fantasies and dreams! Isn't that wonderful, Traveler?

But... most importantly, these arms let me live another day. Whether they honor our efforts in a war no one wants to remember or not. I don't care.

I've been blessed with the greatest gift of all... the chance to meet you. To write about you. To listen to your tale spoken from your mouth. After all, how many people will you ever tell a story to? A select few and there's quite a lot of people in this world!

So thank you, for coming to this place. This empty house with a writer who has longed to listen to your tale and the tale of any who walk through the door.

Now, now. Don't get all shy now! Sit with me, whether boring or not I shall tell you! I will write it anyways for you and everyone to know... After all, I am what my friends had called me when they were alive.

A wordsmith. A writer, so sit well and I shall listen to all you have to say.

But... lets start at the beginning...

#Personal Writings #First person perspective #OC:Wordsmith

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manus-iugavit-blog · 7 years ago

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The Wordsmith

For it stole my hands, what precious fingers I used to pen words of beauty. Now only a memory meant for me to have and yet I welcome the loss of my limbs with open arms. Though forlorn my thoughts were at the beginning I now know that I am… better for it. Those horrifying moments hiding among my fellows in the trenches.

That was where I got my nickname, wordsmith. I was always writing whenever I had the chance. Filling field notebooks whenever chance allowed. I have so many filled books for you to look at should we ever have the chance. But… that is in the past. I still write, but I know nothing will come of my words since my feelings and thoughts are so… elusive to my typewriter and even my pen and paper. It’s kind of amusing.

Like these feelings, thoughts and dreams are meant only for me. Yet… yet I wish to share them all with everyone around me. Which is why I speak to you now, kind traveler.

Ah.. We’re getting so far off track here! I can hardly keep my mouth shut whenever someone new comes to visit me. It can get so lonely here, so distant from everyone else but at least I have all the world to myself! Yes, it’s a fine place to be as the garden beyond this room is where I often sit and ponder upon what words to weave for my guests! What speeches that I could pretend to say when no one is looking! Sometimes, it’s so exciting to just drown in these fantastical thoughts about other worlds and places so impossible to reach!

But yes, before I get any more distracted by what I’m telling you, kind visitor, I lost my right arm in the initial attack, when we found the Novus-Class Sky-Battleship, it was a smoldering ruin and I had broken through one of the main firing lines. It was an exciting time, my heart was pounding and I could barely hear anything as I had slung my rifle over my shoulder. You see, I had a heavy rifle, you know one of the scoped ones! A sniper no less! It was a vary rare piece of weaponry to have to be sure. I fought the entire war with that rifle, they gave it to me right out of training!

What’s with that look? Oh… Well, yes Vampires are quite frightening with the taking of blood, but they fought for their own reasons too. Didn’t mean I had to just let her fall on the battlefield. We were all in this together. A team. Well, maybe not the Countess, but we were on the same side. Who wouldn’t help their allies?! Well, anyways, I got to the Countess and we beat back quite a few soldiers. That was when I felt a stinging pain in my arm. I had been shot in the shoulder.

It was rather painful, hah! I screamed so loud when it first happened. But I continued on! I had to. With the Countess at my back, we dove into the burning wreck. It wasn’t all that great, with me bleeding and all. Eventually, we attempted to take the bullet from my arm, but there was too much trauma. We… ended up cutting my arm off at the shoulder, burning the wound closed. It was… painful.

I cried even, I mean, I’m not as tolerant of pain as the other soldiers! I was a pretty big baby about it at the time, but I guess it’s understandable. It was… one of two arms. Well, anyway, we found the young prince fighting for his life. One of the enemy nobles had cornered him and the Countess had been distracted by other enemies. So I moved as fast as I could.

Anyways! The noble was going to cut his head off, and me being how I was, I grabbed onto the blade. I lost my hand, but for my insolence as the noble put it… he cut my other arm off. I blacked out and when I woke, I was in a field tent where the Prince and this Countess stood at my side. They told me I would need to take it easy for a long time. Naturally, I couldn’t feel either of my arms, recalling the battle.

I panicked. W-well, as anyone in that situation would! Seeing my hands, arms and shoulders made of metal! It was wild now that I look back at it. Only war heroes got these kinds of prosthesis but they wouldn’t acknowledge my role… at least the ruling family would not. As it would have been an embarrassment to the royal family.

What’s with that downcast look?! I-It’s not like it bothered me all that much! I was very understanding, but it did hurt a little.

Why you ask?

Because! It brought you to my doorstep, kind traveler. These hands, though cold and metal have written so much more and I haven’t even scratched the surface of what I wish to write! There are so many stories to write, so many to read from brilliant minds! I love them all! Whether the writing is good or bad, heh. I don’t mind a badly written story once in a while, because it’s a view into another person’s mind! To see their fantasies and dreams! Isn’t that wonderful, Traveler?

But… most importantly, these arms let me live another day. Whether they honor our efforts in a war no one wants to remember or not. I don’t care.

I’ve been blessed with the greatest gift of all… the chance to meet you. To write about you. To listen to your tale spoken from your mouth. After all, how many people will you ever tell a story to? A select few and there’s quite a lot of people in this world!

So thank you, for coming to this place. This empty house with a writer who has longed to listen to your tale and the tale of any who walk through the door.

Now, now. Don’t get all shy now! Sit with me, whether boring or not I shall tell you! I will write it anyways for you and everyone to know… After all, I am what my friends had called me when they were alive.

A wordsmith. A writer, so sit well and I shall listen to all you have to say.

But… lets start at the beginning…

#Personal Writings #first person perspective #IC

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bxtgrl · 8 years ago

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they put a noose around my neck and dared me to speak

the defining moments of the landsmeet. | ao3

//part of raindrops on the tongue, blood under the nails. some dialogue taken from game.

(First, I hesitate)

The night air is cool on her face, the sun having just set. The stars are shining and she can see the lights of Denerim in the distance. They’ll reach it by tomorrow and she tries to force down the lump that comes to her throat at the thought. In an effort to ease herself, she glances behind her to where she can see the flicker of their camp flame between some trees. The anxiety doesn’t release her, though, if anything its grip is tightened further and she lets out a shaky breath before she can stop herself.

She can feel Leliana’s gaze snap to her from where she sits next to her on the grassy hill. In an effort to avoid the other girl’s worry, she turns her focus back to the flower crown in her hands, putting in the final touches before adding it to the small pile between her and Leliana. Oriana had been the one to first teach her the craft, a way of wanting to bond, no doubt, with her new sister-in-law. It had worked, not taking long for Namera to consider the woman a sister in every way that counted. Now, she’s been teaching it to Leliana, a surprisingly quick learner. She likes to think Oriana would approve, that she would’ve quite liked Leliana and her quirky nature.

“You are troubled” Leliana speaks softly and Namera gives a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She wants to deny it, insist that they focus on something else of greater importance as she usually does. Her worries have been weighing on her, though, adding to the burdens she already carries. Besides, Leliana is one of those she has grown closest to within the group, the girl more a sister than a friend at this point. And if anyone would understand, or at least attempt to, it would be her.

“Eamon is determined to make Alistair king” she speaks hesitantly, not sure how to voice everything she’s feeling and everything she’s thinking.

Leliana’s brow furrows. “You disagree?”

She shakes her head, quickly, adamantly. “No, I think he could be a great king.” She can’t help the fondness that slips into her voice. “When he puts his mind to something, when he knows he’s doing right, that’s when he’s at his best. It’s just-” She pauses, bites her lip. It’s an entirely selfish thought. There’s so much more at stake than her own feelings. Things that are so much more important to this world than her relationship, but- “Where does that leave me?” She’d only just begun to find her place, plant her feet somewhere she could live with. The outcome of this Landsmeet threatens whatever shaky foundation she’d managed to lay down.

Leliana looks at her, head tilting and face soft. “I believe it will leave you wherever you want.”

She gives a soft, humorless laugh. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“And why not? You have gotten us this far, no? I doubt Ferelden politics will be your undoing.” Leliana gives her a sly look. “Besides, have you forgotten you promised to travel the world with me? You and Alistair can write. He takes too much of your time already, leaving barely any for me.”

Namera’s smile is more genuine this time, along with her quiet laugh. A comfortable silence falls upon them then. Eventually, she sighs, adjusting the crown of flowers on her head. “We should probably get back to camp. We’ve a long day ahead.” She hesitates, though, not quite wanting to leave this quiet, peaceful moment on the hill. “But first…” She fidgets with her hands, though she knows the request won’t be turned down. She’s made it multiple times, after all. “Can you tell me the story of Avelina again? Please?”

“Of course!” Leliana smiles, adjusts her own flower crown, and begins.

(Then I open my mouth)

She’s frozen, has been since she heard the footfalls and turned to see who was approaching. Her hands are shaking and she’s nauseous. She’s going to be sick, she’s sure of it. She’s going to vomit out everything she is and everything she wants and everything she’ll ever be right onto the floor. She’ll lay it right there, at Howe’s feet, and then she’ll decapitate the bastard, right here and right now.

“Loghain, this is… an honor. That the regent would find time to greet me personally…” Eamon is polite as always and Namera wonders if he knows that she’s on fire, being torn inside and out. Alistair must, because she barely notices him send her a concerned look. She can’t do anything to reassure him, though, because the man who slaughtered her family is standing right in front of her, mere feet away, within striking distance of her sword. She could eviscerate him right here and now, but she can’t because she shouldn’t. She knows politics well, so she certainly knows that murdering Loghain’s right hand man would not benefit them, or their cause, or Ferelden. It would only benefit her and that is simply not worth it.

Loghain and Eamon bicker, in the way politicians do with thinly veiled despise. She needs to speak, she knows. She keeps her eyes rooted to Loghain, hasn’t looked to Howe since he entered the room.

“If Anora rules, let her speak for herself.” Her voice comes out with more shake than she would like and she swallows, trying to clear her throat of the emotions constricting it.

Loghain’s attention snaps to her and she’s not surprised to find he doesn’t remember her from Ostagar—or perhaps, he pretends not to. They hadn’t interacted, she’d observed from the background. Still, under his sharp gaze, she finds her back straightening defiantly. “And who is this, Eamon? A new stray you picked up on the road? And here I thought it was only royal bastards you played the nursemaid to.”

She tilts her chin up, gaze defiant as she barely even hears Alistair’s grumble from behind her. For a moment, she’s unsure how to address herself. Before, she had always been Namera Cousland of Highever, daughter to the teyrn. That is not her identity any longer, though, and she hasn’t quite had the time to figure out a new one, but perhaps she had simply missed what’d been right in front of her. “I am Namera, of the Grey Wardens.”

Loghain leaves soon after, Eamon speaking as soon as the man and his party are gone. Eamon is barely finished with his sentence, though, when Namera speaks: “Howe killed my family. I can’t let him get away with it.”

And she won’t. She’ll kill him the very next day and she’ll stand straight with his blood splattered on her shield and drying on her amor. That weight is lifted while it’s replaced by another: who will she be, without that sole purpose of killing Howe?

(And let out a scream)

“Why not simply marry Alistair? The best of both worlds.” The words are out before she can stop them and if she can reach and catch them from the air to take them back, she would. They’d been quick, blunt, a defense mechanism against all the sense that Anora is making. Maker, her parents had commented a few times on the Queen, how charming she was, how intelligent. She’d always respected her vicariously, through the assessments of her parents, but being in the same room with her and holding a conversation with such a vital disagreement between them is making her head throb with all the doubts being slammed into it.

She watches in quiet horror as Anora rolls the idea around, seeing the sense of it, because it does make sense. Anora has eyes, though, and has obviously noticed that she and Alistair are closer than most. Namera quickly and defensively tells her it is not her business and that it does not matter and that it is mere politics and she doesn’t know if she can come back from this.

(Tell my love to run)

When Alistair finally joins her in their room that night, she is sitting on the bed, fiddling with a loose string of the quilt. He’s going on about Anora and his lack of trust for the Queen and she doesn’t know how to bring it up, but she has to, because things cannot be unsaid and sense cannot be unmade. “What would you say about marrying her?”

There’s a pause, a shift in the room that she can feel in her bones. He gawks at her, no doubt unable to believe he’d heard her right, before he shakes his head and speaks with clear shock. “Marry her? As in marriage? As in be her husband? You’ve spoken to her about this? You did, didn’t you?” He’s pacing now, running a hand through his hair and giving it a tug, as if he could pull the idea from his mind. She watches, silent, wishing she could sink into the bed and disappear. This is important, though, and she can’t ignore that. “You… why would you do that? What about us?”

She lets out a shaky breath, steels herself, and looks him in the eye. “I know. But this is important.” More important than them, which, while she knows to be a truth, somehow feels like the biggest lie she’s ever told.

He deflates and she persuades him the same way she had persuaded herself: it’s their best chance for peace. This is all of Ferelden they’re talking about. It’s bigger than them, literally and figuratively. She doesn’t want her own selfishness to get in the way of what’s best for the country, her country. Her parents, having survived a war, had instilled a patriotism in her, a willingness to sacrifice herself for the greater good of Ferelden and its people.

Silence engulfs them, neither sure what to say. Eventually, Alistair speaks, voice small and gaze elsewhere. “Do you trust her?”

She knows his opinion on this, that he does not trust Anora one bit. She thinks back to her earlier conversation with the woman and- “I want to.” But she can’t. It might be because of the calculated nature of Anora’s words. It might be so petty as to be because of her father. But she knows it’s just because she can’t. She hasn’t trusted anyone the same since her family fell at the hands of Howe. The only people she feels to be truly reliable are those she has been traveling with, that makeshift family of hers that has bled and fought alongside her. She has only a limited amount of trust left, she feels, and she does not want to put it in the hands of a woman she only just met with enough ambition to fill a country.

They stop talking. She doesn’t promise him anything for the future, no guarantee as to what would happen to their relationship should he marry Anora, and he doesn’t ask her for one. Instead, she takes his hand and draws him to the bed. They wrap themselves around each other and, if there’s one thing she now wants above all else, it’s to never let go.

But the morning comes and she has to.

(And he does)

They’re outside the doors to the chamber, the Landsmeet waiting just beyond them. She’s coiled tightly, fingers twitching with the pressure she feels. She knows, no matter what the outcome, that nothing will be the same and there will be no going back from this. Her future’s hanging by a thread, swinging, and she doesn’t know what direction it will fall.

She stops right at the doors and turns to Alistair. He’s in Cailan’s golden armor and hers is freshly shined. They’re both looking respectable as ever and, behind the nervous shifting of his steps and the way his eyes glance about the room as if looking for a possible escape, she can see a king in him. Looking back, it’s been there since they met, and has only grown since. In his hands, she knows the country will be alright. He’ll stumble, she’s sure, but in the end he’ll do his best and learn and do what is right and that’s all she could ever ask for from a ruler.

She grabs a hold of his armor and brings him down, crashing her lips to his, because it’s nothing but the unknown lying behind those doors, but she knows this. She knows him and while she’s increasingly unsure of if she knows herself, she knows she loves him, no matter what, until the end. He kisses her back, greedily, and she can feel her own desperation reciprocated in his mouth. No matter the outcome of today, she thinks, knowing he loves her will be enough to give her the strength she needs.

(Oh he does)

“Will you face me yourself, or have you a champion?” It should be Alistair’s fight, she knows. Loghain is responsible for Alistair’s greatest loss: the Wardens and Duncan. But there’s something about Loghain’s voice, the glint to his shrewd gaze, that reminds her of the men in her father’s guard who had always eyed her dubiously when she’d held her sword, doubted her when she’d asked for a spar, suggested she put her attention toward the kitchen and cleaning and the art of hosting as if she could not master all that and the art of battle.

“I’ll fight this duel myself.”

(With me by his side)

A decision has to be made. Loghain’s lying dead in a pool of blood, but all eyes are on her and her breath is bated, as if just as anxious for her decision as everyone else is. She knows what she has to do, what words she has to say. She doesn’t want to. Maker, she’d rather throw herself at the Archdemon right now than make this decision. Her chest aches and she worries she might not be able to speak, but she has to. She has to, she has to, she has to. It’s for the best, how many times must she tell herself this? Ferelden comes before her. She needs to let go of the man she loves, but she’s lost so many, so many, and this is the one thing she wants to keep above all else.

She’s young, seventeen, and surrounded by color and laughter. She’s hidden herself in the corner, watching the dancing. Her parents throw wondrous parties, always the talk of the nobility for weeks later. She’s always enjoyed them for the most part. She knows how to be gracious and polite and to make others smile. She can charm any noble that presents themselves to her and not compromise herself in the process. Well-

“I think I’ve lost track of every young suitor you’ve danced with.” She turns at the voice of her brother, Fergus approaching her with a fond smile and that teasing twinkle in his eyes. She grimaces at him, despite the relief that she feels at his presence, and returns her gaze to the dancefloor. Fergus positions himself beside her, glancing toward the dancers as well before returning his focus to her. “You could always tell them ‘no.’”

She scoffs, hides the unladylike sound behind her hand. “And ruin mother’s party, months in the planning, by starting a feud? You know as well as I do that some of them are no better than Orlesians with their politics.”

Fergus sighs, eyes kind, and she knows he’s about to present her with some of his brotherly wisdom. “You know, there’s nothing wrong with thinking of yourself on occasion.”

She eyes him dubiously. “That’s called ‘being selfish,’ Fergus.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not always.” His eyes scan the room, land on Oriana, animatedly chatting up a noble. “One of these days, sister, you’re going to have to make a decision to put yourself first. It’s only healthy.”

“And the consequences of such a decision?”

He gives a hum, gaze steady on his wife. “Just might be worth it.”

She’s less sure now than ever. What a terrible, terrible moment to want to be selfish. But what even are her options? She cannot trust Anora alone, despite her clear capabilities. She can’t choose for Alistair to rule alone either. She doesn’t want him to carry that burden all by himself. She’s familiar with the weight of the world and she doesn’t wish it upon him. It makes complete sense for them to rule together, as she’d said, best of both worlds, but-

She’s younger, a small child, interrupting a story her mother is telling of a young maiden falling in love with a prince. “Mother, if I marry a prince, would I be a princess?”

Her mother smiles fondly. “Yes, my dear.”

“And when the prince is king, I would be a queen?”

Her mother is becoming amused. “That’s right.”

Namera pauses, thinks the fantasy over with a seriousness only children are capable of. “Would I be a good queen?”

Her mother’s face softens, eyes becoming thoughtful. She slides off her chair to sit opposite Namera on the floor. She runs a hand through the child’s golden locks, before tapping her chin to make sure their gazes connect. “Oh, my darling, with a heart like yours, you would be the best queen Thedas ever knew.”

Her heart isn’t the same it had been when she was six. It’s scarred, chipped away at, but the center is still whole and warm and there, she likes to think. She likes to think, as well, that her new place in life is with the Grey Wardens, but, maybe, just maybe, there’s another place for her and Maker help her, she can see it, she really can.

She tilts her chin up, releases a quick prayer, and speaks clearly: “Alistair will be king, and I’ll rule beside him.”

#alistair theirin #female cousland #alistair romance #alistair x female warden #alistair x warden #female warden #dragon age #dragon age: origins #da #fanfiction #my ocs #rpg ocs #da ocs #namera cousland

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ohthesefeelingz · 8 years ago

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I have tried so many times, but I can’t explain what it means to me, to be Portuguese. I can barely explain it to my fellow Portuguese, so imagine when I try to do it to foreigners.

It is hard, after all, to make people see what they cannot feel.

I am not a nationalist, and I don’t consider myself a patriot, but there’s something inherently charming, something undeniably particular, about the atmosphere of the Portugal that saw me grow up into a woman - full and part-time, between the hours of the days I decided to give it, in-between my long absences and my bittersweet presences.

The things you are born into impregnate the crevices of your soul and the scars of your heart in a way that nothing else can quite achieve.

Portugal is unique, like all countries are unique in their own ways. What is specific to Portugal is how we are small (in size and population), how we are old (some 1000-something years, with our borders at almost 900), and how we are isolated in a corner of Europe with only one neighbour - a neighbour that fought more within itself than it did with us. This, together with the birth of our own language (which is somewhere between 500 or 800 years-old, depends who you ask), has given us time to develop an identity that reaches the northest point of the North and the southest point of the South, touching the archipelagos, regardless of our regional differences.

We, as a people (a povo), have branded ourselves as mild-mannered. We are loud and self-deprecating, afraid of being too happy or too proud because the other shoe is always about to drop and god forbid we don’t have the damned “I told you so” on the tip of our tongues - just in case, you know? we really don’t want to expect too much so disappointment hurts a little less. We are submissive to the whims of countries more powerful than ours, almost comical in our bows and variations of “yes, master”. Due to this, we absorb other cultures into our own, and the largest cities of Portugal are Portuguese, but they are also worldly. From the ridiculous amount of McDonald’s to the Chinese markets to the impressive numbers of Portuguese youth that speak perfect English and very good Spanish.

Ours is a culture that is strong, yet flexible; that is proud, yet hypocritical.

Some 500 hundred years later, we still celebrate the Discoveries as the best time in our history, forgetting the destructive impact colonialism has had - even our own, mild-mannered one. We brag about how we were the first country to abolish slavery, conveniently concealing that we were the country that started the international slave trade and for a whole century we had its monopoly.

We are a country that claims not to be racist, when the everyday of our minorities is filled with micro-aggressions (the easy Brazilian women that come to marry into European Union, the Africans that are lazy, the pitiful Eastern Europeans and the frowned-upon Chinese).

We are a country unable to take good care of our own. The Portuguese people abroad are almost as many as the ones that live in Portugal. We praise and celebrate the minds of our people, but they are all out there, being scientists abroad. We appreciate the efforts of our emigrants and mock the accents of their children and the big houses they build to return for their retirement.

We complain about politics and fail to see the gaps in our morals, that essentially scream most of us would behave the exact same way if given a position of power. We reelect politicians that flee to Brazil or go to jail over corruption scandals. When the rest of Europe was shouting at the overbearing power and demands of Germany during the crisis, Portugal calmly walked the streets in protest and stunted its economy by saving too much money and spending too little of it.

We - I kid you not - elected our fascist dictator as the greatest Portuguese of all time when the options are so many and so powerful and so relevant. We really did That.

This country’s elite sneers at the benchmarks of the people - the three Fs as coined by said dictator. Fátima, Fado, Futebol. They sneer at the faith that gives people strength, at the music that expresses people’s souls, at the sport that brings people joy.

They can sneer all they want, but those three elements are inseparable to the Portuguese identity, whether we like it or not.

My favourite Portuguese idiosyncrasy is how we are supposed to be traditional and conservative, and yet the marks of progress have slowly made their way into our lives - more often than not, so subtly that the conservative voices didn’t even bother fussing about it, or never even heard about it at all.

This little rectangle in the corner of Europe now has an impressive number of progressive laws: same-sex marriage and same-sex adoption/co-adoption; decriminalisation of personal drug use; access to safe, legal abortions, with the opportunity for the process to be followed up with therapy; laws that allow trans people to legally change their names without a trial and that allow trans kids to legally use their preferred name at schools, not to mention the transition being covered by our universal healthcare. It is also considered one of the best countries in the world to be a woman - even if all of us, Portuguese women, still feel unsafe walking alone at night.

Being Portuguese is being some of this, but being aware of all of it. Being Portuguese is having a weird nostalgic relationship with the ocean and being the happiest when it’s hot enough to go to the beach. Being Portuguese is how most of our plans involve food and how food is so much of our pride and our love. Being Portuguese is loving to be outside, but cancelling all plans if it’s raining. Being Portuguese is how we are so connected to our language that we sort of are lousy painters and architects, but our literature and music is so rich and emotional.

Being Portuguese is an oddly communal experience as we all band together to share the same joys and the same pains. I have no doubts that all countries feel ecstatic to win football competitions and singing contests, but there’s unadulterated joy in the way Portuguese people go about it - like all of that serves as a reminder that we are not alone, that we belong to something, we are a part of it. Our happiness expands our chests and opens our lungs and comes out in bursts of tears and chants of glory.

Being Portuguese is talking about us, talking about a “we”, not a distant “they” reality.

Being Portuguese is something that I carry with a longing sense of home.

I wish I could express what it means to be Portuguese without sounding like a pretentious ass, but I can’t. All I know is that, together with all the multitudes that form my identity (my ever-changing, flawed, passionate identity), being Portuguese is something that shaped who I am and how I feel and how I think and believe.

Portugal is mine, and it’s the thing I can share with the purest love I can give.

(e sim, estou a ouvir Amar Pelos Dois)

#Portugal #maria musings

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juanrepublic · 8 years ago

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Myosotidium

“What are your hobbies?”, she asked me.

“I write”, I told her with my signature smirk, “I watch movies and TV series, I play the piano, guitar, ukulele, and drums. But I write most of the time”

“I would be happy to read some of your works one of these days.” She smiled as we bump two bottles of ale, while I Wrote My Out from the Hamilton Mixtape plays on the background.

______

Yes, I write. Or I used to. It has been years now since I last wrote a decent entry in my blog. Most of the entries in my blog were copy pasted from Facebook, usually long statuses and my two cents on the movies that I have seen. I may have some articles written and saved on MS Word but most of them are unfinished and I can’t seem to find my mojo to finish them.

I even doubt that my students and colleagues know that I write and I used to be active in my blog, Juan Republic, with more than 35,000 followers.

Perhaps my work as a teacher has taken its toll in my old, er, writer-self.

Earlier this morning, out of boredom, I grabbed my copy of Gerry Alanguilan’s critically-acclaimed graphic novel Elmer. Even though I have repeatedly read and finished that seminal comic book, I still browse and admire its way of telling a story. Perhaps to get an inspiration from chickens.

Yes, chickens. Rational chickens.

And then it came to me. On one part of the story, Elmer Gallo wrote in his diary that one should write because it is important not to forget. That message inspired his son, Jake Gallo, to write a book about the story of his father and the story of how chickens fought for their rights and equality.

It is important not to forget. Back when I was still in School, I used to keep a journal. I wrote there my reflections, dreams, and even those one-paragraph ideas that would eventually be the basis of my full-length article, short story, and other things that are worth writing and publishing (for our school publication, at least).

I had ideas, great ideas. Or to borrow Jake Gallo’s lines, “great ideas that would make great movies.” But they eventually lost just because I forgot it. Because I did not write it. Because I just let them slip past my consciousness.

Sayang naman.

I don’t want to make a promise to myself, or to my blog, or to you, whoever you are who stumbled upon this note, that I would start writing more regularly. I believe that is a slow process of recovery, of getting used to it, of making it a habit.

But for now, write. Write even the smallest things. Write even the craziest one-liners. Write on any medium - on a piece of paper, at the back of the receipt, or at the calendar hanging on your wall.

Write as if no one will read your work. Write for yourself. Write for the universe. Screw your readers. You don’t owe them anything yet.

Write.

Because it is important not to forget.

_________

I look forward to the last days of March (not just because of the sought-after summer vacation, but it is a factor) because it gives me another excuse to oil my rusted gear, wear my writer’s hat, and write about what I learned from the past academic year.

Yes, a deadline and a necessary requirement is enough motivation for me to write – just like the old days of my blog when I hurriedly write a political and social opinion on a hot, current issue before everybody else does.

Enough with the excuses. Here are some of the things I learned from the past year:

1. This is a confession. I admit that when I was at school, when I was the age of my students, I used to despise some of my teachers – especially those who do not teach well. And now that I am a teacher for almost five years, I see my old self with some of my students. And I find it amusing, entertaining, and inspiring. I think that is the secret on understanding our students – by putting ourselves in their shoes. Empathy, if you may call it. Or metaphysical and psycho-emotional transcendence.

I love students who challenge their teachers, who are not afraid to speak up and ask questions. And I am thankful that this school year, I already found some and they are also the reasons why I won’t leave this institution after this school year. I love challenges. And I love to speak with intelligent and brave students.

2. Fight for what you think is right, not for yourself, but for the future generation and the younger ones who look up to you. Even before I became a teacher, I consider myself as a Political Animal. Or a Political Junkie. My conversation with close friends (outside the school, unfortunately) usually ranges from pop culture to politics. But mostly politics. When Ferdinand Marcos was secretly and hurriedly buried at the Libingan ng Mga Bayani, I, together with thousands who know their history, made a statement on social media and made our presence felt.

I even related my examination in Religion about the sacrament of confession and forgiveness in the issue of Martial Law and the Marcos Burial. That’s what I call inclusive learning. Education is being dynamic, being social, being involved.

I may not be a Social Studies teacher (though how I wish I was, given my passion for History and Political Science) but I think it is my responsibility as a teacher – regardless of the subject that I teach – to teach my students proper history, justice, and patriotism based on facts and not idolatry of a particular leader.

And I will continue to do it as long as I teach and inspire the younger generation.

3. Rest, if you must, but don’t quit. Being a teacher is exhausting – from teaching for 8 straight hours inside the classroom plus paperworks and other stuff. We are even called the modern-day martyrs. And sometimes, the thought of leaving this profession for good or just being a Patama teacher who doesn’t even go inside the classroom and teach crossed my mind.

But then I thought of my students, I thought of the young ones who are looking up to me as their teacher and their inspiration. So I decided to carry on. I think the secret of this craft is to use our time wisely (which, I am glad my 8-year stint in the Seminary has taught me), to balance work and other stuff, and to look at the students as an inspiration on everything that we do. At the end of the day, all things will zero in to our students. I vowed to teach them, to be an inspiration, to share my knowledge, talents and skills, to be of service. And that is one hell of a big responsibility.

Who am I to give up and leave the future of the Patria Adorada hanging in mid-air?

4. Pursue your passion. When the Priests asked me to undergo the regency program, I told myself that I will continue to do the thing that I always like – to write, to talk, and to inspire young people. This profession, or shall I say, this vocation is not financially rewarding. I may not get rich by teaching but this dictum has been my mantra for some time now: Choose the job that you want and you don’t have to work for the rest of your life. If I work just for the money, I have long abandoned this institution (sa liit ba naman ng suweldo ko dito). But life is all about happiness, and as long as I am happy with what I am doing, I will still stay on the same ship.

5. The Philosopher Heraclitus once said, “You could not step twice into the same rivers; for other waters are ever flowing on to you.”. Change is inevitable. It is constant. And we must learn to adapt to it.

Life is a constant flux. We welcomed this school year with a new Principal who brought radical change to this Institution. He proposed a 360-degree turn on the usual ways and means of this school. I admit, I was the first who opposed his Gender Section act but then, as I have repeatedly say in the past months, I see the wisdom and improvement in the performance of our students.

If that is what change is all about, if all of them will be to save and uplift this once-respected but slowly-dying Institution, count me in. I am more than willing to give everything.

6. Thank God for everything. This school year has been a blessing for me in all aspects. And I thank the Lord for giving me an opportunity to stay on the institution and to continue to be of service to the young generation.

________________

These are just some of the stories, some of the things that happened this past year that are worth telling. Why write anyway?

Someday, all of these would be replaced with new memories, with new challenges, with new stories that are equally worth telling. We write things to preserve memories. We write things for the future.

But sometimes, just like this, we write just to express ourselves.

And because I do not want to forget.

#personal #LDLB Diaries #reflection #philosophy

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lightscameramagicrp · 6 years ago

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Welcome to Behind The Magic, The Artist Formerly Known as I Am Groot. We really loved your app for Astrid Todd with the FC of Caity Lotz and we can’t wait to see what you do with her! Please look at our checklist and send in your account within 24 hours. We’re excited to see more of you here at Behind The Magic!

CHARACTER INFORMATION

Name: Astrid Todd

Name of desired character

Faceclaim: Caity Lotz

Please note: We do not accept FC’s who are under the age of 18.

Age: 30

Please list their age.

Birthday:

Please list your character’s birthday.

Species: Air Nymph

TV Show & Occupation: Agent/Manger for All Shows

Biography:

TW Rape TW Death TW Murder TW Violence

Once upon a time, Astrid Hayley Todd used to lie in bed hoping. She’d hope for the perfect family; hope that the faceless woman and girl in her head would comeback one day. She’d hope that if she pictured her mom and sister for long enough, then maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to work out their faces. She’d awake from dreams of her dad packing up the car and plopping her into the backseat as she watched her mom and her older sister fade farther and farther off into the distance, tears filling her wide blue eyes, as she wished that someday things would be different. But, while her sister, Jayden, was shielded away from the gang life growing up by their mother, Astrid wasn’t as lucky.

Astrid and her dad, Frank, found a home with her dad’s gang, the Reapers. And things were okay for a little bit. Her dad might have slipped back into old habits as he moved farther and farther up the ranks. Breaking the law a little bit more every day until he was the one in charge. But, they had money. They had food. She might have been a little girl living out of a trailer being looked after by a group of grown men covered in tattoos, but her dad did his best to shield her as much as he could. The members would refer to the bags of cocaine lying around as sugar, lead her outside or to a different room when a fight broke out, and someone would always stick around with her when the rest of the crew headed out on the bikes for the night. They’d plop her down in front of the TV and teach her about the different sports teams or let her pick out a horse for them to bet on. It might have been an unconventional life to grow up in, but for her and her dad, it was home and pretty much the only life she’d ever known.

But, the happy go lucky tale of Snow White and the more than 7 gang members, didn’t last for long. Her father was locked away on gang related charges. He had entrusted her to some of his closest confidants whom swore they’d look after her like one of their own until he got out. He tilted her tear strained face up to meet his gaze, ruffled the top of her head lightly, and said, “Don’t worry, kiddo. I’ll be out before you know it. I promise.” She was going to be protected. Safe until he could get out. Until he could come back for her. But, little did he know, the people he had trusted his little kid with were the ones he should have been worried about the most.

His name was Charlie. He had been her dad’s best friend. His was his second in command. Him and Frank had grown up together. He had bailed her dad out more times than he could count. And after Frank was arrested, he had promised to follow in Frank’s footsteps, looking after the gang until Frank could return. A promise that he quickly broke, falling deeper and deeper into the drug business and having the Reapers commit more and more crimes out in the open. But, what Astrid remembered most about Charlie was how his smell- the overpowering stench of alcohol and drugs that clung to his skin and carried after him in wafts wherever he went- always, without fail, managed to send chills down her spine.

Whenever Astrid was around, it was as if Charlie became fixated on her. Never once taking his eyes off of her. So, that night, when Charlie came barging through the front door of the trailer, Astrid hide in her room. She tried her best to drone out his loud deep cheers as he patted Pete, the one on shift to watch her for the night, on the back as the game Pete was watching came to and end, going on and on about some new drug, V, he had acquired that they could sell on the black market. Astrid leaned up against the back of her door, holding her knees tightly against her chest as she tried to focus on the music coming out of her walkman and not the boisterous man on the other side of the thinly made walls. But, as the noise from the living room only grew louder, her stomach began to growl, begging her to sneak into the kitchen and heat up one of those microwavable meals. She held out for as long as she could, but after another hour, she finally gave in, quietly tiptoeing over to the door and taking a peak out into the living room.

“Nuh-uh. No way. I’m not taking that. We don’t even know what it does!” Pete exclaimed, gesturing the the vile in Charlie’s hand just as Astrid took a small step out. The second Astrid’s bare little foot stepped out onto the carpet, Charlie’s head snapped to the side. A wicked grin tugging across his lips as he told Pete they had a way of finding out.

Astrid couldn’t tell you what it was about that creepy smile that made every muscle in her body scream for her to run, but letting out a yelp, she darted back into her room, shoving the door closed behind her and tucking the desk chair under the handle in a futile attempt to keep him out. Climbing onto her bed, she pushed herself up on her tiptoes and unlatched the window. Giving it everything she had to hoist herself up. But, Astrid only made it half way out when Charlie grabbed her by her foot and dragged her back down again. She squirmed under his grasp, screaming at any chance she had, before clamping her mouth shut to stop him from making her drink whatever that red liquid in the tube was. But, then he pinched the brim of her noise. Waiting until she was literally gasping for air, before pouring half the vile into her mouth. “Hold still, Kiddo,” He warned her. His hand slamming down on top of her mouth to make sure she’d keep it down as he downed the other half. The blood coursed through her body, burning through her veins as she began to shake underneath his grasp. Tears flooded down her face as he unbuckled his jeans. She blacked out after that, but not before she saw his eyes. Those noticeably silver eyes.

That was the first time of many. Everyone else knew. But, no one ever tried to stop it. So, the little blonde girl, now nymph, grew up and bite her time until she could. She trained and fought everyday. Physically and mentally. Walking around the trailer park, practically numb to the world around her. She started high school. Put up with names and jabs and feeling like her body wasn’t her own for year after year. Until one day, she was finally ready to earn a gang tattoo of her own.

There were always three ways to become an official Reaper. You could A) steal something and bring it back to the leader, B) let the entire gang beat you up, or C) Kill someone. And Astrid found herself opting for option C, for the next time, Charlie came at her, she cut off his hand. And then the rest of him. She kept on slicing and slicing until her shaky hands couldn’t hold the blade any longer.

Everyone else watched. But, no one was able to stop her. The ones who were still loyal to her dad held the people who weren’t back. And she turned intangible before the few that managed to reach her could even attempt to pull her off of him. And when it was finally over? When her white locks and nearly translucent skin was stained red, she turned around, handing the blade over to Pete, before heading back inside to go lie down.

Pete took over the gang after that and, for the most part, everyone left Astrid alone until there was news that her sister would be joining them. Their dad had never wanted Astrid visiting him from behind bars. He didn’t want to make things harder for his little Robin, then it already was. But, he had called Jae to come and see him. He was going to give her sister money to get through college and she’d be able to have a support system. Jayden and Astrid were going to get to be with family.

All Astrid had ever wanted was to get to see her mom and sister again. For it to be the four of them- Frank, Allison, Astrid, and Jayden- together at last. But, Astrid was far from the bright wide eyed little girl she was before. So, when Jae finally arrived, Astrid kept her distance at first. Faking happy around the other until she slowly started to open up and smile for real. The two had lost so much, between their dad being locked up and their mom passing away. But, they had each other and, the more Astrid was around Jae, the more her goofball side she had thought she had lost for good started to creep back out. She even followed after Jae to New York, going to NYU for film.

She was still selling drugs and getting things resolved through violence and petty theft. But, things finally looking up for Astrid. That was until their dad got out of prison. While Frank was everything Jae could have imagined and more, Astrid couldn’t help, but harbor some resentment against the man who was supposed to be there for her. He was supposed to protect her. And instead she had to protect herself. She tried to open up to him. She tried to crack jokes like she did with Jae, but everytime he called her “kiddo” she’d flinch away. And then tragedy struck. Their father got sick and while they did okay for themselves, they couldn’t afford his medication. They had already lost so much time as is, and now? Just as she got her father back again, she was going to loose him. She couldn’t handle that. So, when Jae thought of different cons and got deeper in gang dealings to earn some extra cash, Astrid was right there with her.

Astrid had just started seeing this guy, Damien Kent, and he was a good man. Too good for her. When they had started out dating, he had been playing for the Patriots , but an injury led to his retirement. They hadn’t been going out for too long, but he made her feel more fleshed out than she ever had before. The pair had been out on a date the night things went wrong once more for her.

She always went on drug runs for her family. It was just another errand like picking up the groceries. She would be five minutes tops. She just had to run in and get the money from a guy who wouldn’t pay up. Damien knew enough about her side business. It was kinda hard to hide when the gang insignia was permanently etched into her skin. But, what was supposed to be five minutes ended up taking a lot longer than that. The man she was trying to collect from, started to run, and when she blocked the way to stop him, he pulled out a gun and fired a bullet. A short-lived smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she turned intangible once more. The bullet moving straight through her as if she was nothing more than air. But, when she turned around, there he was. The retired football star with a bullet in his chest. She turned him into a nymph to save his life. But, the fact that he had even been there in the first place would forever be one of her biggest regrets.

After the incident, she quite selling drugs or doing the Reapers dirty work. She knew it was a risk for their dad’s health. But, she just couldn’t keep up with it anymore. She remained in the gang, giving out tattoos and teaching others how to spar. But, as Jae took over the reapers, Astrid stopped being a full member. Throwing herself into a straight-laced career instead and becoming Damien’s manager/agent as he transitioned over into acting. She wasn’t completely happy with how life turned out, but as she moved to Vancouver for her job and to be closer to her sister, Astrid hoped this might be the chance she needed to take back her life again.

#acceptedbtm

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