#please open a dictionary and look up the definition of 'irony'

[genericpuff]

Thoughts on the most recent Rachel Smythe interview (from the podcast Lore OlymPOD)?

I didn't know they had done an interview with her so I checked it out, made it through most of it. Not really anything outstanding to say, they ask all the same questions that many other interviewers have asked before and she answers with just as much vagueness, contradiction, and complete lack of self awareness as usual.

Though I will say that I laughed when she said she doesn't engage with comments because she "doesn't like being mean". When upon actual digging you'll find she has a history of being the "mean girl" often for no reason, to the extent that she's very obviously used LO to "get back" at her haters and has even engaged with even her genuine fans in really shitty, oblivious ways. Cough. Cough. Cough.

I had to turn it off around the point she said that she didn't want Hera to be too mean and "more likeable" (she isn't likeable at all, but okay lol) because she's always "so mean" in other adaptions, with the exception of Disney's Hercules because that movie is, according to her, "very Christian". Sure thing, Rachel, you really dunked on those pesky Christian adaptions.

[a-dandelion-dreamer]

Word Wanderings Post #1 – The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater

This is the beginning of a reread. I’ve loved this author for years and The Raven Cycle is a particular favourite of mine. Please note that if you haven’t read this book, this post will definitely contain spoilers!

The Raven Boys is the first book in a quartet and juggles a multitude of characters, including our four main characters (Gansey, Ronan, Adam and Blue) and our plus one (Noah). While it does have some external conflict, it is mainly driven by the characters and their relationships with one another. This book is complex and dense with detail, with a structure that is a little unusual. Most books or series have a driving hook that catches readers right at the beginning and is the selling tagline. For example, in the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan, it’s Percy finding out he’s secretly a demigod, which directly turns into monsters attacking him and his mom disappearing. In the Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, it’s the existence of a game that forces children to fight to the death and then subsequently Katniss volunteering to take her sister’s place at the Reaping. In Six of Crows, it’s a crew of six misfits embarking upon an impossible heist.

Ostensibly, the hook of this book is that Blue is destined to kill her true love with a kiss. That’s what it says on the back of the book, and it’s certainly an overarching threat present for the rest of the series. Tied in as well is Gansey’s search for Glendower, a sleeping king Gansey believes is buried somewhere on a ley line. This is another whole-series thread. The real heart of the story, however, is the boys and Blue and their friendship and their interactions with the other messy pieces of their lives and their search to find meaning and happiness. This type of storytelling is not for everyone, especially those who might enjoy more action-driven tales, but it’s the kind of storytelling I love.

(And in writing and other personal creative projects, I think it’s important to let what you love drive you forwards).

Here are three points I took away from reading this book:

 Point #1: Keeping readers interested by embedding small mysteries

The trick is to make your readers want to know what happens next. This is something I have trouble with and therefore I’m particularly interested in seeing how other books handle it.

Each chapter in this book is written from a different character’s perspective. I’ll include the first and last lines (which I think are brilliantly done) in the form: (first line/last line). Following that, I’ll describe some mysteries that the chapter raises.

Prologue: Blue (“Blue Sargent had forgotten how many times she’d been told that she would kill her true love.”/”’You’re Maura’s daughter,’ Neeve said, and before Blue could answer, she added, “this is the year you’ll fall in love.’”) – pg. 1-4

We’re introduced to the idea that Blue will kill her true love if she kisses him

Which immediately raises the question: who is he? And how does she get from being determined not to fall in love to killing someone with a kiss?

We learn about Blue’s psychic family, which I think is super interesting

Blue’s half-aunt Neeve comes to town and really hits us with that: “This is the year you’ll fall in love.” Pay attention, that line says.

Chapter 1: Blue (“It was freezing in the churchyard, even before the dead arrived.”/“’There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve, Blue. Either you’re his true love,’ Neeve said, ‘or you killed him.’”) – pg.  5-16

Blue and Neeve watch for the future dead

Blue, the only non-psychic in her family, sees a spirit for the first time

The guy she’s destined to kill or fall in love with (or both)

His name is Gansey, and now we’re wondering who he is

Chapter 2: Gansey (“’It’s me,’ said Gansey.”/”’That seems obvious,’ he answered. ‘We find out who you were talking to.’”) – pg. 17-28

Brilliant cut to Gansey

This guy is very real and because of the previous scene, we want to know who he is

We learn about his quest, which adds another layer of mystery

Gansey also heard Blue, on his recorder, so now he’s wondering about her

We ask ourselves: how will these two meet?

Also, introduces Gansey’s friends Adam and Ronan

Ronan has a tumultuous relationship with his brother Declan

THEY HAVE A NUMBER FOR A PSYCHIC (guess who belongs to a psychic family)

Chapter 3: Blue (“Mornings at 300 Fox Way were fearful, jumbled things.”/”’Blue,’ Maura said finally. ‘I don’t have to tell you not to kiss anyone, right?’”) – pgs. 29-37

Introduces Blue’s house

Introduces Blue’s relationship with her mother Maura

Neeve scries and learns that something is strange about Henrietta

Again, we wonder how Blue and Gansey will meet. And also, is it possible to save Gansey from his fate?

Chapter 4: Adam (“Adam Parrish had been Gansey’s friend for eighteen months, and he knew that certain things came along with that friendship.”/”’Excelsior’, said Gansey, and shut the door behind them.”) – pg. 38-51

Introduces Monmouth Manufacturing

Delves further into Gansey’s quest (will Gansey find what he’s looking for?)

Adam is suspicious that someone is spying on their search

Develops tension between Ronan and Declan

Chapter 5: Whelk (“Barrington Whelk was feeling less than sprightly as he slouched down the hall of Whitman House, the Aglionby admin building.”/”It was possible that Czerny’s death wasn’t for nothing after all.”) – pg. 52-56

Adam was suspicious in the previous chapter and now here’s Whelk, being suspicious

What is this guy’s deal?

Whelk hears Gansey is researching ley lines and suddenly gets very interested

Who is Czerny and how did he die?

Chapter 6: Blue (“Blue wouldn’t really describe herself as a waitress.”/”Neeve had to be wrong. She’d never fall in love with one of them.”) – pg. 57-64

Blue goes to work at Nino’s, the same place Gansey and his crew are going

Blue’s mother calls: Gansey has scheduled a reading

THEY MEET! This is great. They meet and they both dislike each other. They immediately conflict and neither realizes the other is the person they’re looking for.

The dramatic irony is fantastic

Adam is interested in Blue and Blue is a little bit interested in him

How does Blue end up liking Gansey, who she currently hates?

Truly, a mystery

WHAT WILL HAPPEN WHEN THE TWO MEET AGAIN AT THE PSYCHIC READING???

I could do this for the whole book, but you get the picture. There’s always something the reader is left wondering, even if it’s something small, or a future interaction they’re looking forwards to.

A note: this is particularly effective when it’s tied to personal agency. You want to see what your characters will do, and this means more if you have dynamic characters who make choices.

 Point #2: Atmosphere and memorable locations

Another big strength of this book is the personality that it imbues its settings with. Take three examples: 300 Fox Way, Monmouth Manufacturing and Cabeswater.

 300 Fox Way – the chaotic, full-to-the-brim house where Blue lives with her mom and her aunt and her mom’s two best friends Persephone and Calla and a multitude of other psychic women, all showcased through background details. I love this house and its aesthetic.

              Quote: “Mornings at 300 Fox Way were fearful, jumbled things. Elbows in sides and lines for the bathroom and people snapping over tea bags placed into cups that already had tea bags in them. There was school for Blue and work for some of the more productive (or less intuitive) aunts. Toast got burned, cereal went soggy the refrigerator door hung open and expectant for minutes at a time. Keys jingled as car pools were hastily decided.” – pg 29

 Monmouth Manufacturing – the abandoned factory that Gansey, Ronan and Noah have made their home. They live on the upper floor and the description of the space really doubles as a character portrait for Gansey. Use settings to reveal and further describe your characters!

              Quote: “The high ceiling soared above them, exposed iron beams holding up the roof. Gansey’s invented apartment was a dreamer’s laboratory. The entire second floor, thousands of square feet, spread out before them. Two of the walls were made up of old windows—dozens of tiny, warped panes, except for a few clear ones Gansey had replaced—and the other two walls were covered with maps: the mountains of Virginia, of Wales, of Europe. Marker lines arced across each of them. Across the floor, a telescope peered at the Western sky; at its feet lay piles of arcane electronics meant to measure magnetic activity.

              And everywhere, everywhere, there were books. Not the tidy stacks of an intellectual attempting to impress, but the slumping piles of a scholar obsessed. Some of the books weren’t in English. Some of the books were dictionaries for the languages that some of the other books were in. Some of the books were actually Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions.” – pg 41

 Cabeswater — a magical, sentient forest. I love this forest so much. I love the overall portrayal of magic in this series and this forest is my favourite example of that. The trees speak Latin, time is fluid and sometimes the very air manifests your thoughts, so keep a watch on them.

              Quote: “The stream trickled sluggishly out of the woods from between two diamond-barked dogwoods. With Gansey in the lead, they all followed the water into the trees. Immediately, the temperature dropped several degrees. Blue hadn’t realized how much insect noise there was in the field until it was replaced by occasional birdsong under the trees. This was a beautiful, old wood, all massive oak and ash trees finding footing among great slabs of cracked stone. Ferns sprang from rocks and verdant moss grew up the sides of the tree trunks. The air itself was scented with green and growing and water. The light was golden through the leaves. Everything was alive, alive.” – pg 219

 What can I take away from this? Using small, specific details to make a setting unique and memorable can add atmosphere to your novel, showcase characters and make a reader fall in love with a particular place.

 Point #3: Evolving arcs

This story contains a lot of interwoven plot threads. This can be hard to balance (I know from personal experience) but I think this novel pulls it off. It’s very, very good at doing many things at once. The important thing to think about is a beginning, middle and end for different story arcs that you introduce. Here’s one example (of many) from this book.

 Example 1: Noah

Oh Noah. Noah is a brilliant example of an arc in this book and also one of my favourite demonstrations of the fact that sometimes you can hide things right in the open.

First mention (pg. 26). Noah goes out for pizza with the crew, but there is no mention of him going to school or otherwise having a life. This theme will continue: while Gansey, Adam, Ronan and Blue have conflict and fleshed-out internal worlds, Noah is a static character. The first time I read this book, I was like Gansey. I didn’t notice how much Noah was missing until it was explicitly called out.

First line of dialogue: “I’ve been dead for seven years,” Noah said. “That’s as warm as they get.” (pg. 47) (IT’S RIGHT THERE, but yet I didn’t pick up on it. Clever, clever.)

Noah’s room is also described as ‘meticulous’. As in, practically unused.

“Noah, we won’t make you eat,” says Gansey. “Need some more alone time?” says Ronan. More little hints.

The character descriptions are honestly so good, worth a study all in themselves.

Noah doesn’t come to the psychic’s reading or the helicopter trip, which the other boys do

Somehow, he has a canny knack for knowing things and sharing secrets.

“Don’t throw it away.” (pg. 165) (to Gansey)

Gansey calls for Noah but he’s not there (pg. 233)

“Blue permitted Noah to pet the crazy tufts of her hair” (pg. 238). Not particularly arc related but SUPER CUTE.

The gang visits Cabeswater again and finds Noah’s old abandoned car, a red Mustang (not that they realize it yet). In the trunk is a dowsing rod, a sign someone else is looking for ley lines. Noah throws up (from the trauma of his murder).

Blue and Gansey visit the old church and find a body. “The face on the driver’s license was Noah’s.” (pg. 274)

THE BIG SCENE IN WHICH NOAH IS REVEALED AS A GHOST (what a brilliant scene)

“Adam,” he demanded, “what is Noah’s last name?”

“Tell me,” Gansey said, “which classes you share with Noah.”

“When does he eat? Have you ever seen him eat?”

“Does he pay rent? When did he move in? Have you ever questioned it?”

These are all questions Gansey asks his friends, but are also questions we must ask ourselves. We have been fooled in the same way as they have.

“I told you,” Noah said. “I told everyone.” (pg. 278)

“The question is: Who killed you?” (pg. 279)

Noah acts like a real ghost (disappears, reappears, knocks objects off desks)

“Maybe moving it off the ley line had stolen his energy.” (pg. 298) (in regards to Noah’s body)

Noah appears, using Blue’s energy. “I want you to know,” Noah said, “I was…more…when I was alive.” (pg. 305)

“You were the sacrifice, weren’t you Noah? Someone killed you for this.” (pg. 307). It turns out Noah, the friend they didn’t realize was dead, was killed in a ritual similar to the one that is attempted at the end of the novel by their Latin teacher, and is the reason Gansey is alive.

Remember: “Someone else on the ley line is dying when they should not, and so you will live when you should not.” (pg. 271).

It’s all very circular and interwoven and very good plotting.

Noah said, “But you already know.” (pg. 309)  (In regards to who killed him) JUMPCUTS to a scene with Whelk

“I’m going to fix Noah. Somehow.” (pg. 335) (says Gansey)

She allowed him to pet her hair with his icy fingers. “Not so spiky as usual,” he said sadly. (pg. 353)

“Don’t throw it away,” Noah whispered. (pg. 371) To Adam, this time.

Noah warns Gansey that Adam is gone (he is now 100% a spooky ghost boy)

THE MURDERED/REMEMBERED SCENE (breaks my heart). They’re all in Cabeswater again for the climax of the novel and Noah, who doesn’t exist in bodily form, traces words into the dust on his old car

Noah’s funeral: “Please say something to them.” / “Mrs. Czerny, he’s sorry for drinking your birthday schnapps.” (pg. 406-407) (ouch, my heart)

They dig up his bones and rebury them on the ley line

“Can we go home? This place is so creepy.” … ”Noah!” Gansey cried gladly. Blue hurled his arms around his neck. He looked alarmed, and then pleased, and then he pet the tufts of her hair. (pg 408)

 Broadly, the arc looks like this (look how actions lead to consequences which lead to further actions):

The boys have a friend named Noah, who is sometimes there and sometimes not

LOTS OF FORESHADOWING

They find Noah’s dead body

They confront Noah and find out he’s a ghost

The police move his bones so he starts acting like a real ghost

They figure out he was used in an attempted ritual and also that their Latin teacher killed him

The dig up his bones and rebury them on the ley line

Noah comes back

Given what happens later in this series, it’s very important to me that we remember Noah.

 In conclusion

What this book does well:

Keeping readers interested by embedding small mysteries

Atmosphere and memorable locations

Evolving arcs

These are just a few things I noticed on my read-through of The Raven Boys. Stay tuned for further Word Wanderings posts and feel free to give suggestions for books you’d like me to analyze!

Personal Challenge: Pick a book you’re currently reading or an old favorite and try to figure out what keeps you reading, whether it’s little mysteries, character dilemmas or rising tension.

[lighterandpaper]

Why Have You Missed Cult Meetings?

Photo by @miteneva

A man in white robes stands at an apartment door. A heavy, pendulous necklace hangs near his belly. The apartment is not the sort you invite friends over to and definitely not where this guy normally hangs out.

“Can we please just talk for a moment?” he says

“Look, ever since I found out you guys are a cult...” 

“Just because we’re a cult doesn’t mean we don’t care about you, Carolyn! I was just coming to see if you’re OK, and to see if--” 

“I’ll come back to your cult?” 

“Well, of course! But I genuinely care.” 

“I don’t know, Josiah. I was just getting used to calling you ‘reverend’ and it was a little creepy, and then I saw you were on the cult watch and I asked and you said yes, you were. And then I’m looking around, and we’re doing chants, and drinking oil, and trying to convert people. It just makes me uncomfortable now.” 

“Well, I understand,” he says jovially, almost like Santa Claus. “But you don’t have to do any of that stuff... right away.” 

“OK, that’s how you get me, though. I don’t want to get sucked in again.” 

“It’s family! We suck you in, but it’s loving! Can I please just talk to you face to face?” 

After a moment, the door creaks open. “Look at you here, Carolyn, in your studio. Aren’t you lonely, don’t you want community?” 

“See! This is why I didn’t want to talk to you. Don’t make me feel bad!” she slaps at his arm. “I’m going to do racquetball or something.” 

“Racquetball! Please! Do you think they’re going to have chanting at racquetball and soul bonding? No! You don’t find that kind of depth of connection outside a cult! And I know the word has a negative connotation because of Jim Jones and everything, but that’s not what we are! We are just coming together and bonding souls! Yes, there is some blood and some oil, and fire. Oh, you haven’t seen the fire yet. Don’t worry, it’s fun!”

Carolyn is playing with something with her toe. 

“In our modern society, we’re so alienated from one another. It’s important to have a cult to go and connect with people.” 

“It was the happiest I’ve been in a long time. It’s just, I’m always falling for things and I feel like an idiot. Like, when I saw you were on a cult watch, I felt like an idiot.” 

“You assume that cult is a bad word!” 

“It literally is, in the dictionary!” 

“Well, we’re taking it back. It’s like our N-word!” 

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, giggling. 

“It’s just a spiritual gathering, you know? Just people coming together and connecting to something bigger than themselves, that’s it!” 

“Reverend!” she says. “You have to believe that God is a goat and that he Baa’s our desires out of us as long as we drink a lot of oil. Saying it to you now, it sounds ridiculous. When we’re chanting in the halls of the old chapel--which, by the way...” 

He puts up his hands in surrender. “We’re aware of the irony.” 

“Yeah. It sounds normal in there somehow! But look, a goat god?” 

“It doesn’t sound weird to me.” 

“That’s because you’re leader of the cult!” 

“Well, OK, I can’t change how you feel...” he pretends to go to leave. “Steve has been asking about you, you know.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Steve has been wondering where you’ve been.” 

“Reverend...” 

“I’m not lying! Just saying, you know... ‘Where is she?’ ‘Is she coming back?’ He’s not married, you know.” 

“Reverend!” 

He takes the first step down the stairs. 

“Ok, I’ll come back to one meeting. And I’ll drink some oil. And I’ll make one blood pledge. But that is it!” 

“Ok, see you on Thursday!”

[sanerontheinside]

made-up fic title meme: "Armored Heart[s]," please?

I remember @peskylilcritter came up with Armored Hearts, right? A Republic-era show for Obi-Wan to fangirl over? *giggles*pssssst @deadcatwithaflamethrower lookie here another Otherwhen AUalso I drop OCs like I spawn AUs, which is to say, a lotalso also on a night like tonight when norcumi and @pumpkin-lith are apparently engaged in an angst-off, I must, I must, I must bring the … less… angsty things………. I’m bad at this.

Okay here we go: 

Silver Greene is not a stage name. 

She was born with a name that belongs on the stage and she’s known, since the beginning, that that is where she will go. She watches people, watches the minutest reactions, commits them to memory and dissects them in her mind. She can read the softest shifts and mimic the motions like second nature. In the language of touches and fleeting expressions and passing glances and soulful looks, she has the dictionary committed to memory, and nothing can challenge her knowledge of it. She can creep into someone’s mind, reading those shifts. She can choose what to telegraph, what to project, to recreate their likeness in herself. 

She’s going to the Core Worlds, to Alderaan. 

She’s going to be an actress. 

It’s exciting, this, exciting that she has a gift the Empire values. It’s more than acting, it’s a way to give back to those she loves most. Whatever money she makes, it will go back to her family, her friends, to the people who raised her. It’ll pay for medical supplies, for food. If she can trade on her appearance and skill for their sake, she’ll do it in a heartbeat. 

Alderaan is a beautiful world. It is dignity and elegance and grace, and while the grey of Imperial oppression still bleeds out colour at the edges, Silver finds herself drawing a deep breath of air clear as the crystal mountain lakes, pure as the snow on its white mountains. Lothal is home, but Alderaan greets her with open arms, uncaring of who she is and where she’s from. It’s a welcome like the Empire would never give: those who determined her worthy of a scholarship and a Core World education had judged her appearance and her precisely mirrored mannerisms. 

Alderaan accepts her as she comes. Alderaan teaches her to be anyone and everyone. 

Alderaan also teaches her to play the politician. It’s an interesting school, this: with so many students from less privileged Empire worlds, they are given classes on politics, as well. Alderaan’s Academy of the Arts is perhaps unique in that they are very clear on the importance of where their students are from. You have a voice in the Empire now, we are teaching you to speak for your own people. It’s never expressly stated, but the role of diplomacy and etiquette is a subject of deep and frequent study. 

Acting gives her freedom, as it always has. It gives her the poise to walk into a room and claim, without words, that she belongs - and people always believe her. We are teaching you to be safe, the Academy does not say. 

But then, Leia Organa is also a subject of frequent study, rising fast in her own political career. There is nothing safe about her. 

What she doesn’t quite expect, though, is that outside the Academy, there is far less of this freedom. Oh, it should have been obvious, but the Academy schooling was built primarily on old plays, and some old Republic-era films that no one mentions, because according to one decree or another, most of them had been ‘destroyed’. In the archives, in the belly of the Academy’s library, there is a treasure trove of old film. This doesn’t prepare her for the limited set of roles the Empire has to offer. The opportunities are… monotone. Drab. Grey. Like the Empire itself. The movies all tell the same stories. 

She’s not doing this for its interest value, of course. She’s doing this for her family, for her people. The situation on Lothal is growing desperate, and Silver fights for them tooth and nail every chance she gets to speak. By now, her face is well-known, and her pleas have a chance of sparking outrage. Senator Organa speaks for Lothal, adding weight to her pleas before the Imperial Senate. 

It doesn’t help, not really. When Tarkin burns all their fields, Silver watches the triumphant holostream with a hand over her mouth and a breaking heart, but there are no tears in her eyes. The sense of drab inevitability is pervasive, it’s starting to settle in her bones. She still sends them what she can, funds relief efforts, raises money for the supplies they need. It’s not enough. 

But she suspends her projects all the same, first chance she gets. Silver’s name is well-known, well-liked, by now. She has some freedom by now to come and go as she sees fit, though she exercises it rarely. 

It’s another relief effort for Lothal, with the help of Princess Leia of Alderaan. Silver barely recognises her home from the scorched remains, almost chokes on the air that used to be cleaner, once. Leia Organa looks at her with sympathy and a steely determination that Silver has always respected. 

At every turn, they’re met with some Imp who seems to think they are outside protocol and procedure. It takes all of Silver’s training not to laugh behind Leia’s back while the Princess boldly passes through all their red tape with the single-mindedness of a gunship or a battering ram, but there are times when Silver’s fame and cajolery stand them in greater stead. In the end, Silver lands with her feet on the ground, vaccinating the children and immunocompromised who come to the relief tents while Leia angrily throws out those who come out of order, or to interfere. 

Leia Organa is a force of nature. 

But she’s also a rising power in the Senate, and eventually she is needed elsewhere. Silver embraces her before she leaves, feeling the hum of some greater power in her arms, thinking that this woman could bring the Empire to its knees with her words and her fire, and hoping that one day she’ll live to see it. 

The next few months are a bit of a haze. 

There’s the work. There’s so much to be done, it’s exhausting and almost mechanical. Then there’s the headache and the occasional numbness in her jaw. She doesn’t give it much thought at first - it’s something she’ll take care of back in Imperial medical facilities. She has a tooth that needs repair anyway. No sense in bothering overworked medics with already limited supplies and too many patients. She doesn’t want to take from those who need that care and those supplies far more than she does. 

Her mother would have told her she was being stupid. Her mother would have been right. 

One of the medics corners her in the hall and raises all hell before Silver gets any real idea of what’s going on. Then again, that’s more or less her fault, too, because she can’t quite pierce through the fog around her for long enough to understand what they’re saying, and why they sound so worried. 

They can’t do much for her here, not at this point. They take her to the Imperial base, where the officers in charge - the very same officers whom she’d talked into letting her and Princess Organa pass through with their supplies - claim not to know her. Petty revenge, she thinks, and wants to laugh, because what else is there to do when she’s practically delirious. But by now it hurts too much to do even that. 

For another few days it’s heat and pain and it won’t end. Then, suddenly, it’s gone. 

When she wakes in cool, pale light, in what is definitely a higher class of Imperial medical facility, Silver doesn’t quite know what to think. When Tarkin comes in to give her his best wishes for her health, she does her best to respond with her usual poise and grace, though she is completely bewildered. 

Everyone on Lothal knows what Tarkin is. Tarkin is a monster. Yet his timely appearance saved her life: she is in his medbay, the private medbay on his ship. 

Tarkin is astonishingly polite and gentle, with a twist to his smile that speaks of fondness and a whisper of regret. He regards her with with an air of wry indulgence. We appreciate the work you’ve been doing, says the tilt of his head, the positively doting slant of his eyes and mouth, to civilise the dangerous rebels. But you must understand, none of them are worth your life - this again with the regretful pinch to his lips and brow. 

Oh, and of course, what was she thinking, staying down there so long in such pitiable conditions, she should really be more careful. Why, his men almost thought her one of them! But not to worry, Tarkin has personally seen to the matter of those officers who were so ungracious to her. 

“Do take better care of yourself, my dear,” Tarkin says. He adds, almost wistfully, “We look forward to seeing your new films.” 

When he leaves, Silver wants to laugh at the irony of it. She is, as it turns out, one of Tarkin’s favourite artists. She hates his very guts, and she’d never realised how hotly that burns within her until the moment he gives her that sharp, precise Imperial bow, and struts out of the room. 

She also has a moment’s perverse pleasure at the thought that he’s ‘seen to’ those ‘ungracious’ officers. It almost makes her sick. 

But the faint air of regret about his apologies and flatteries puzzles her - at least until she feels strong enough to get up and make her way to the ‘fresher. The sight that greets her in the mirror spells the end of an acting career. 

The Academy at Alderaan, much like Alderaan’s universities, is a place ripe for finding contacts in the Resistance. They’ve always treated it with caution, but at this precise moment, Silver does not care. 

She was returning from a project on Onderon, voicing one of those old documentaries that even she can smell the lies in. (She says nothing: those transparent lies were written by people of Onderon, and made it past the censors by sheer miracle. Actually, she’s rather appreciative of scripts that skirt the censors this way. Alderaan is much better at them, for the most part.) It’s with this in mind that she happens to (literally) run into an old friend. 

Asha is a writer. She is tall enough to make Wookie cracks about her own height, she wraps her friends in a tight embrace and plies them with spiked tea and spiced cookies. Everything about her is sweet and spicy and rich, and Imperial greys simply warp around to avoid her. The colours of her are deep and rich and they run hot, reds and oranges and golds that might seem brash on anyone else. They weave into her, and into anyone beside her, warming even the deepest chill. 

And Asha’s writing is rich with the most subversive spicy subtext to ever sneak under a censor’s eye. Truth be told, Silver wonders sometimes how Asha’s still alive. But Asha revels in it, revels in the risk, in the brash and open-faced lies she can get away with, with her smile and her Wookie-height. ‘It’s a story that focuses on family values,’ she says sweetly, of a story that - 

Well, it’s not a lie. 

It’s family values, alright. It’s a gleeful, shameless satire. 

Asha’s large eyes go round when she sees Silver’s face. “What happened to you? A minor rebellion on Lothal?” 

“Of the bacterial sort,” Silver half-laughs. The scars are still fresh, pink and hot. They do look a bit like a brush with acid. That seems to be the popular tale that the HoloNet is running with these days. 

Her grief and guilt are still raw. Grief, because she can no longer speak for her people like she used to. The story of how disease ravages Lothal, of how it claimed even her, is certainly powerful; but while there’s some sympathy, the Empire still shrinks at the sight of her ruined face. 

Guilt, because it’s her fault, really. She should have at least realised something was wrong much sooner. She should have gone to the medics and asked for help. 

Asha shakes her head and throws an arm around Silver’s shoulders and takes her home, adds tea to the brandy and brings out her Gran’s old recipe book. By the end of the night, they’ve botched the dinner, made the cookies - that recipe somehow happened to be brandy-proof - and Asha is humming old war songs from her world under her breath. 

“We need to do something,” Silver mutters. 

“We’re doing everything we can, aren’t we?” Asha gives her a sharp look over a bitten cookie. “You haven’t been back to Alderaan in ages. If I know you, it’s because you’ve actually been busy, not floating around fancy parties with the elite.”

“That’s part of the job,” Silver points out, with a grimace that would never have been permitted in the diplomacy and etiquette courses. You might consider not drinking in public at all. 

Asha laughs. Silver’s always loved that laugh, how deep it is and full of life. She loves how everything sweet hides something spicy in Asha, and even the cookies prickle lightly at her tongue. 

“I want to join the resistance,” Silver says. 

Asha coughs herself out of the laugh. “You - Silver that’s - that may not be the best idea.”

She shrugs. “Why not?” 

Asha suddenly looks sober as ever. She sets down the teacup, puts the cookie down on the edge of the saucer. “In case you hadn’t realised, which I somehow think you haven’t, you’re one of the best known actresses to ever step out of the Academy. And you know what it’s like, if you have any record of associating with the Rebels, you’re putting yourself at risk.” 

Silver gives Asha a hard glare at that. “And yourself?” 

Asha sighs, shrugs, and nibbles at the cookie again. “What about myself? I never leave the planet. I just send my scripts.” 

“Well, it doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere, like this,” Silver waves a hand at the ruined half of her face. “Not much use for anything less than perfection in the Empire’s stories, Asha. There are few exceptions.”

“Well, you still have your voice,” Asha points out. 

Not that voice-acting has a particularly large role in the Imperial film industry. It’s only in those documentaries few people ever watch. She’s only ever filmed from the right, now, when she does make her brief appearances. Silver stares at the table for a long moment. 

“Asha, the Rebellion can have my voice. At least they’ll take me with my face. I’d be more use to Lothal here than out there, where they’ll quietly bury me in films no one will ever see, and never listen to another word that leaves my mouth.”

Asha hums, long and low, and vents a gusty sigh. “You have a point.” 

Asha accompanies Silver to the Alliance base on Yavin IV. “Can’t let you go out there alone, can I? They need all the help they can get.” 

“Why, get another of your scripts back lately?” 

Asha has a peerless grimace. “Too highbrow. I need to take some time and reconnect with the people.” 

Silver laughs so hard she cries. 

The Alliance finds work for them almost immediately. Silver somehow finds herself training Intelligence officers, learning slicing techniques alongside Asha, who has the rare talent of spooling out more letters per second than any human Silver has ever met. 

“You know,” Asha says one night, rubbing at her aching hands, “I wouldn’t mind finding a way to reconnect with the people.” 

“Like what, exactly?” Silver asks through a yawn, throwing her feet up on her bunk. 

“The only news reporting we get these days comes directly from the Empire, and they can tell us whatever lies they want. They said you were attacked on Lothal. They blamed an old factory meltdown on Rebel terrorists. The Alliance needs reporting of its own - we can’t even pass information from one cell to another without the fear of it being intercepted. What do you think?” 

Silver blinks, recrosses her ankles. “I suppose you don’t want to send them coded transmissions.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Asha shaking her head. 

“The more they intercept, the more likely they’ll crack the code, even the clever ones Cypher left us.” Asha pauses, squints at the dull light of their room. “What if it’s not obvious - not really news? Hiding in plain sight?”

That squint, Silver knows, is the inkling of an idea. She’s seen that look often enough, and the results have always been nothing short of brilliant. “Well if you’ve got ideas, I’m not asleep yet.” 

Slowly, with the almost audible snapping-together of thoughts, a near-feral grin appears on Asha’s face. “Remember that old show they used to run, Armoured Hearts or something? Republic-era.” 

“Uh, not really,” Silver sits up, resting one shoulder against the wall. “That was ages ago, I don’t think anyone would remember it.” 

“Exactly. The only surviving copies are in the Academy archives. We can rewrite the stories however we want, and no one will be the wiser.”

Silver shrugs. “Why?” 

“Well you have to do some work to adapt them to voice-only broadcast. But apart from that, they were always written to reflect the political situation at the time.” Asha looks up to see her friend shaking her head fondly. “What?”

“Asha, whatever you touch, it turns into satire.” 

“That was sort of the point of the original,” she sniffs, only mildly offended. (Gods know it’s true. She’s burned drafts and drafts before sending a significantly mellowed final edit to the censors.) 

“Oh, all right,” Silver sighs, swinging her feet to the floor and rocking back slightly. “I’ll bite. You want to rewrite an old Republic serial, Armoured Hearts, as an up-to-date news broadcast for the Alliance.” 

Asha nods eagerly. 

Silver turns her good eye to give her a long, dubious, assessing look. “Can we persuade them to send the archived footage here?” 

Asha must have been expecting stark refusal. She collapses backwards on her bunk and laughs heartily. 

The retelling of Armoured Hearts is an astonishing and almost immediate success. Asha scowls as she writes, glancing sideways at the most recent field reports that Command has approved for the general report. 

“If I had known soaps were so popular and lucrative,” Asha growls, “I’d have swallowed my pride and started writing for them years ago.”

Silver, unperturbed, is reading the script that will go live in an hour on the worn old couch across the narrow closet they’ve claimed as their workstation. “You mean journalism.”

“Thankless job.” 

“Not if you write what you believe in.” 

“I write what they give me,” Asha snaps back. 

A black mood, then. Silver huffs. “For the Rebellion,” she mutters, a reminder with a sour taste, given what they’d witnessed earlier that week. The whole mess surrounding Scarif had been prettied up for broadcast, but the better part of the base here on Yavin IV knew some gorier details. Asha had never been prone to outrage, never quick to anger, but Silver watched her as the vote was cast, watched her fume. 

The screen at Asha’s right splutters to life, ticks a few characters in Aurebesh. Never, not in all the time that they’ve been doing this, has Silver seen Asha look so horrified by a few simple words. Her face looks awful in the pale blue glow of the display. 

“Alderaan has been destroyed.” 

Asha’s voice is flat and hollow, so unlike the larger-than-life, glowing, radiant presence that Silver has lived and worked with for these last few years. She slowly rises from the (hard as rocks) couch, rubbing at her lower back, and comes around to stand behind her, reading the report over Asha’s quivering shoulder. 

Her heart twists at the thought of Senator Organa, who had been heading home at the end of the failed vote. And Leia, the fire of Alderaan, the hope of the Alliance, was she there too? 

Another moment ticks by before it occurs to her that, really, for too many years to count, Alderaan was home - both to her and to Asha. 

Silver sighs, lays one light hand on Asha’s shoulder and squeezes. “Finish that script. I’ll go find the brandy.” 

Asha doesn’t move. Silent tears slip down her face as she sits and stares at the keys in front of her, hands folded heavily in her lap. 

“You know,” Silver says, stopping with her hand hovering over the door controls, “it’s a funny thing, Armoured Hearts. That ‘soap’ survived the fall of the Republic, escaped the destruction of the Academy’s archives.” 

Asha turns slowly, the look on her face utterly heartbreaking. Silver automatically swallows the expression of mirrored grief that wants to form, but even so, her words come from a tight throat when she does speak. “Finish that last broadcast. We don’t have to do anything else to do tonight, just grieve and remember, and pray for miracles.” 

Asha blinks, sending more tears streaming down her face, then gives a jerky nod. She wipes the tracks away with shaking hands, and takes a breath, focusing on the keyboard again to complete the report on Scarif. 

[mvssmallow]

Cloudy With A Chance

Part 5: …of Seoul Fog.

Masterlist

Hanbin stares outside the window of his office. Pen tapping rhythmically on the messy notebook in front of him.

‘Daily Grind’ was a (ironically) weekly satirical and lifestyle magazine that he had taken a pay cut to work for. After 2 months of job interviews and being offered unpaid internships, Hanbin had gotten desperate and taken a lower paying position. That was 12 months ago. He’s grateful the chief editor took a shining to him and enjoyed his writing.

He’s also grateful that he allowed Hanbin to move into a shared office with the magazine’s star colummist. He wasn’t really looking to make any friends but Donghyuk had slowly and very surely wormed his way into his life. Their office was only on the 3rd floor but Hanbin still enjoyed staring out the window and being able to see the sky as he worked.

It was late afternoon and the sky was already a peach haze. It reminded him of the bathroom tiles at his parent’s old house but less gaudy. He picks at the wool of his soft beige jumper as he watches a group of pigeons fly from one office building to another. There weren’t many more accidental Summer-Clothes-In-Winter situations these days, partly because he made a conscious effort to check the weather report but mainly because Jiwon had gotten into the habit of sending him weather updates via badly typed texts in the morning before work.

This morning’s text: ‘cold AF! mght rain. wear smthing warm. xj’

He had no idea Jiwon was a morning person and he’s still not entirely sure if that’s down to preference or necessity. He knows that the car garage where Jiwon works opens at 7:30 but he keeps on forgetting to ask him why it’s so early.

Hanbin is definitely not a morning person. He isn’t exactly a night person either. He enjoys the time between the end of work and sleep because it was strictly his time to do as he pleased. If he’s feeling particularly motivated, he also loved twilight and the hours just before the sun rises. It makes him feel optimistic and he needs all the optimism he can get these days.

His thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. It’s another message from Jiwon. ‘heater brke at work. its freezing. visit me when im in hospital for pneumnia. xj’

He snorts and types back: ‘can i have your snapbacks when you die?”

There’s an immediate reply: ‘only the blck ones. shit gotta get back. talk later. xj’

“You have the dopiest smile on your face right now.” He looks up as Donghyuk returns from his caffeine run and hands him a warm take-away cup.

Hanbin puts his phone down and waves a dismissive thanks. ‘I asked for tea, not redundant commentary. Save that for your lame articles.’

Donghyuk laughs as he sits at his own desk. ‘Oh you know my commentary comes free with the hot beverages.’

Hanbin takes a sip. “There’s milk in this.”

“Yup.”

“And vanilla.”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

Donghyuk gives him a cheerful smile. “It’s called a London Fog! I thought you might like it. As the young kids would say, “it suits your aesthetic”.

Donghyuk likes using air-quotes. Hanbin hates them.

“I hate air-quotes. And why can’t you just get me what I want? What’s with the daily surprises?”

Donghyuk rolls his eyes and gives Hanbin a withering look. “Do you like it?”

Hanbin says nothing.

Donghyuk nods, satisfied. “Right. Then stop being so dramatic about some cow and a vanilla bean. It’s good to try new things.”

“Why can’t you just say ‘milk’ like a normal person?” Hanbin regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

“BECAUSE! I’m a writer! We need to exercise our vocabulary and literary devices! It’s like going to the gym but for your mind! I’m basically like an athlete. You’re more like….Garfield.”

“The lazy cartoon cat? You know I’m more of a dog person.” Hanbin chuckles and suddenly remembers that Jiwon is deathly afraid of cats for some reason.  

“Okay you have that creepy smile on your face again. What’s up with you?” Donghyuk eyes him suspiciously as he takes a sip of his coffee. Hanbin knows he’s running scenarios in his head. It’s when Donghyuk’s eyes light up that Hanbin braces himself for the theories. “Ohhh. Are you having a text relationship? Oh wait! Is it someone in our office?!”

Hanbin grimaces at the choice of words. “What? No.”

The problem with Donghyuk is not just his dictionary brain or Mr Congeniality title in the office but the speed and accuracy of his observations. He was, as they liked to say in capital letters, The Perceptive One. Hanbin always thought he was good at reading people but then he met Donghyuk and realised that he wasn’t anywhere near his level. He remembers when Donghyuk had bought him green tea on their first caffeine run because, “You didn’t seem like a coffee person, too much nervous energy.”

It made Hanbin even more anxious but after 6 months together, he’s learnt how to deal with the panic attacks.

Right now, Donghyuk has a small smile on his face. “I bet you do….” he says in a bright sing-song voice. “I know these things Hanbin. I’m almost never wrong so you might as well just tell me.”

Hanbin looks down at his notebook and turns a page over. “There’s nothing to tell. It’s just texts from my mum about my sister.”

Donghyuk wheels his chair over to Hanbin’s desk and stops when they face each other. “You know you’re horrible at lying right? You get all twitchy.”

“I do not.” He scratches his neck but drops his hand down immediately when he realises what he’s doing.

Donghyuk doesn’t miss it and his grin just gets wider by the minute. “So. Are they cute?” He wiggles his eyebrow suggestively as he sits back in his chair and tugs at his multiple earrings.

Hanbin scowls. “We are not having this conversation.” He picks up his pen.

“Oh please. Suddenly you want to get back to work now? Come on Hanbin, it’s getting so boring around here. There hasn’t been any news since we got this office.”

“If I tell you, will you promise to never ask me about it again? Like until we retire.”

Donghyuk leans his elbows on Hanbin’s desk and rests his head on his palms. “Of course.”

“Okay. So it’s a guy. We’re just friends. We’re not dating. I don’t date. The end.”

Donghyuk’s eyes widen comically again as he gapes at Hanbin.

Hanbin starts scribbling lines on his notebook. He’s nervous but knows there’s no reason to be. He’s sure Donghyuk has figured out his preferences by now. If he can figure out his caffeine preference then he’s probably already figured out Hanbin’s human preference too.

“Wow…” Donghyuk says finally, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Do you have a photo?”

Hanbin laughs. “No. I’m definitely not showing you!”

“But why? Please? My life is so empty and sad and lonely. I need to live vicariously through you.”

Hanbin shakes his head. “Okay, everything you just said is a total lie.”

“My mind needs constant stimulation. PLEASE HANBIN!”

Hanbin looks at him in alarm, eyes trying to ignore the inquisitive stares from their colleagues outside. “Oh my god! Okay! Just keep your voice down. Geez. And you call me dramatic.”

He scrolls through the photos of Jiwon on his phone until he finds one without a grimace or weird hand signs. He finally stops at a photo he took back in June’s tattoo shop. Jiwon had just turned to face the camera when Hanbin had captured it, there was no faked bravado or acting cool, it was just Jiwon with a slight look of surprise on his face.

Hanbin hesitates but eventually holds the phone screen out towards Donghyuk.

Donghyuk peers at the phone for a second then his eyes flick back and forth between Hanbin and the photo. “Are you serious?”

Hanbin frowns. “What? What’s wrong with him?”

“Oh where does one even start with Kim Jiwon?” Donghyuk murmurs under his breath.

“Wait. You know him?” Hanbin questions in shock. “How?”

“Well firstly, I know everybody.” Donghyuk states matter-of-factly. Hanbin rolls his eyes, even though he knows it’s not far from the truth. “Secondly, remember when I did a piece on imported american muscle cars coming to Seoul? I went to his garage.”

“And……?” Hanbin prompts.

“And….he’s a cool guy. Just not really someone I thought you’d be interested in.”

Hanbin knows he’s walking right into Donghyuk’s trap but curiosity gets the better of him. “Okay, what does that mean?”

Donghyuk drinks the rest of his coffee slowly. Deliberately.

“DONGHYUK!” Hanbin hisses and looks at him with all the frustration he can muster.

Donghyuk doesn’t smile though. “Promise me that you won’t get mad?”

And that’s when Hanbin knows that his day is going to end badly. “Okay. Promise.”

Donghyuk hesitates. “He seems nice Hanbin. Really. I just heard that he was dating someone here but he still has a girlfriend back in America. I’m sure it’s just a rumour that someone made up about him and you guys probably already know.”

Speechless, Hanbin just stares at him as his heart sinks and his brain short circuits from processing the information. The silence stretches to the point where Donghyuk starts looking increasingly worried.

“Oh god, I thought you knew. I’m not implying anything! Just thought you should know what people are saying since you guys are friends now. Hanbin? Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I’m an idiot and you should honestly just ignore me. It’s probably not even true. You know what gossip is like….” He can hear Donghyuk rambling on but it just sounds like a muffled voice through water.

He tells himself not to dwell on disappointment because part of him always knew this would happen. People like Jiwon just don’t get involved with people as boring as him. But life is nothing but a bag of twisted irony; even when you know something is inevitable, it can still hurt you twice as much when it arrives. Preparing for an oncoming trainwreck doesn’t make the collision any less painful.

He swallows audibly and shakes his head. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to be upset about. We’re just friends. You don’t have to apologise. I’m not mad, I just didn’t know.” He offers Donghyuk a small smile which he knows comes across as blatantly fake.

Donghyuk opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it. Instead, he reaches over to grab their empty cups to throw into the trash. “I’m really sorry Hanbin….I shouldn’t have said anything.” Donghyuk says quietly before wheeling his chair back to his desk.

Hanbin just nods as he opens his laptop, stares at the black screen and waits for it to wake up from sleep.

[killingthebuddha]

I first began my extrication from the Jehovah’s Witnesses some twenty-seven years ago, at eighteen, when I had a practically dissociative flash of insight while delivering a sermon in a Kingdom Hall (“church” for the uninitiated), in Duluth, Georgia, circa 1990. While talking, gesticulating, pontificating, onstage, to a sea of white-haired congregants three and four times my age, I suddenly thought something like: what the heck do I know about life, death, the universe, wisdom, God? The answer was clear. Not much, if anything at all. I was a bookish virgin, in a boxy cream blazer, behind a podium, with a brand new driver’s license, in my Velcro wallet, a microphone at my mouth, staring at the sermon notes I’d written a half hour before, penned in probably fifteen minutes. (I was fast, and I was good. I was really good.) 

The sermon was certainly about remaining separate from Satan’s secular world, surviving Armageddon, Jehovah God’s holy war, and inheriting everlasting life on Earth after Jehovah destroyed all His enemies—the vast majority of humanity, neighbors, colleagues, kids in my class. I know this because, to some extent, virtually every sermon, every meeting, every prayer, every Witness conversation was, on some level, about or informed by that very same subject. Not long after my dissociative sermon, I stopped attending the handful of weekly, required Kingdom Hall meetings. And yet despite that first step, I remained surrounded by Witnesses, family, friends, and co-workers, even as I was becoming increasingly interested in the secular world. Before long, I stumbled onto and became obsessed with the novels of Don DeLillo (I was a reader, a dangerous habit), which subtly challenged the notion of apocalyptic revelation, and I began going religiously to the local Atlanta hardcore shows. Both had debilitating effects on my faith, and broke cracks in the wall. They let in light. Before long, I began playing drums (badly) in a band peopled by mostly drifting Witness. We covered Bad Religion with not one drop of self-awareness or irony. And but a few years later, I got married at too young an age (young marriage is encouraged in the community), to a Witness young woman, and we moved far away to Southern California, where we quickly found ourselves without a rudder. We did not worship. We did not talk about God. Nor did we talk about Armageddon. We did not pray. And, frankly, it was a profound relief. That said, I was filled with questions: about God, and the Bible, but mostly about child indoctrination. One night my (then) wife said we’d been brainwashed. I got angry. I yelled. She then demanded I look up the word in the dictionary. I did, and the definition read like a close description of what had happened to both of us all our lives. I remember next going into our “music room,” and putting on (probably) a Minutemen record, lying on our long black sofa, and staring at the ceiling for a very long time. In retrospect, it seems my wife and I almost certainly went to California in order to leave our communities, to run away. I have known several ex-Witnesses who’ve made similarly extreme geographical moves, physically extracting themselves from their surroundings, as if pulling ailing flowers from unhealthy soil. Sadly, I did not properly say goodbye to many of my friends, or my family. In some cases, I did not say goodbye at all. 

One cost of deliberately cutting ties from your bedrock, from your beginnings, is the blur, fade, and repression of whole blocks of memory. Neuroscientists now say we relentlessly make, remake, and rewrite our memories, including traumatic ones, by actively engaging with them. We remember, shape, reshape, and rewrite our memories every day. In my case, and to my detriment, according to my psychiatrist, anyway, I have most likely protectively ignored the memories of my Witness life. I prefer not to revisit the past, as I find it an intellectually disabling and morally troubling landscape. I am not nostalgic. Often, when visiting family back in Georgia, I am casually asked if I recall a specific, possibly even formative event, person, or place, from childhood. My answer is often no. I do not want to remember, and that strategy has mostly worked in my life. Mostly. If I’m honest, I was a resentful young man for many years. I resented the community who loved me, and raised me, because this same community taught me college was Satanic (a distressing 63% of Witnesses have no more than a high school diploma), that a lexicon of death and destruction was appropriate for young children, that all sex—unless within the bounds of heterosexual marriage—was wrong, that a life of the mind was selfish and unsound, and that one should never question authority, never investigate history, and always surrender one’s will to Jehovah. In truth, I wasted a good portion of my years and energy on that anger, and ran from my past as best I could.

There are flitting memories, however, that I can’t outrun because the dominion of the senses sends us reeling whenever it wants. For instance, when I think of SundayWatchtowerstudies, a forty-five-minute-long article-based Q&A session between a seated congregation and an Elder onstage, I see in my mind’s eye eager hands raising to answer simple questions provided at the bottom of the Watchtowerpages, answers prepped beforehand, often recited at the Hall by children. I hear the tinny clunk of dropped quarters on a hard wooden surface, as I sat guarding the Kingdom Hall Contribution Boxes. Occasionally, the citric air of flower shops strangely sends me back to the humid, piquant bouquet of a Jehovah’s Witness convention center’s cavernous restroom and the orange-floral-scented cakes dotting their urinals. I remember the sea of seekers in the seats, praying together, singing together, applauding together at every mention of Jehovah striking down evildoers, atheists, Muslims, and Jews, all non-Witness Christians, homosexuals, and countless others, for countless reasons, and my body recoils like a child’s about to be struck with a belt.  

The Witness convention has proven an especially anxious source of memories for me. I can still hear the drone of homely hymns, the rote clapping, the amplified and echoing voice of the Elder onstage, and his, to me, rather creepychildlike tone, and the opening and closing prayers for Armageddon, in Jesus’ name, amen. Perhaps most palpable are the memories of so-called apostate protestors, especially in the 1970s and 1980s, men and women of all ages with handmade signs, marching, shouting in unison, and making themselves heard. Their signs displayed announcements like: The Jehovah’s Witnesses are a Dangerous Cult; The Jehovah’s Witnesses Have a Pedophilia Problem; Jehovah’s Witnesses are Anti-Education; The Watchtower Corporation Took Away My Family; The Watchtower Society Has Blood on its Hands. They were passionate, loud, fearlessly critical, respectful, but angry as hell. I have great respect for their mission, now, for their dedication, their suffering. But I was a kid, then. They terrified me. After all, the Organization (the Witness term for the Watchtower body, corporate, social, and religious, in its entirety) repeatedly told us, especially children, the protestors were demonic. They were Satan the Devil’s material foot soldiers, “apostates,” and no force on earth was more evil.   

*

On November 13th, 2018, the network A&E, and Leah Remini, aired a two-hour investigative documentary television special on Jehovah’s Witnesses, which preceded the season three premiere of Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath. I found out about it because another ex-Witness contacted me through Facebook, asking if I’d seen the show. I hadn’t heard of it. I should also say, this ex-Witness asked that I please not reveal details about our conversation, to anyone. I won’t. Leaving the Witnesses can be a delicate, protracted affair. Not everyone can quietly disappear, like I did. Some fear the Organization’s punishing response for dissent: public disfellowshipping (akin to Scientology’s “declaration of a suppressive person”), which demands absolute shunning on behalf of family members and friends; or public reproval, a milder form of open shaming that doesn’t require full official shunning on behalf of the congregation. I was lucky, and was never publicly shunned, although I have been told I was privately shunned by several Witnesses: for listening to “Satanic” music, for “associating with worldly people,” for having short hair that “looked gay,” for spending un-chaperoned time with my fiancé. That said because I simply, abruptly disappeared, either they had no official recourse for public shunning (I was out of jurisdiction, so to speak), or they simply forgot about me. Perhaps it was a mix of both. Some dissenters voluntarily disassociate themselves, in person, by phone. Some do it legally, by attorney-drawn letter. Some refuse to recognize the Organization’s authority and just never return. Others precariously question the Witness system, while remaining embedded within their communities, as outsiders. Some are afraid to leave, and never do. Many do not know how to leave, especially those born to the Witness life, as they are largely unprepared for the outside world. I have known Witnesses who were leaving for years. Some exit because they fear for the mental health of their children. Some leave because they want to go to college, or want their children to go to college, or want their children to engage in extracurricular activities, like school sports (all explicitly forbidden by the Witnesses, certainly the case when I was a member), or perhaps they have awakened to the Organization’s inherent misogyny, anti-Semitism, xenophobia, Islamophobia, homophobia, sex abuse problems, suicide problems, or the apocalyptic death drive central to their theology, taught to children as early as possible. My sister’s departure from the Organization, for example, for the safety and health of her family, involved a five-year plan. All of which begs the questions: Why stay at all? Why join? I can only mostly speculate. I know this much, when I was a Witness, ensconced, protected from the “world,” for many years I did not think of death. It did not exist, not realistically. We called it “sleep.” To quote Harold Bloom and his study of American-born religious movements, The American Religion: “When death becomes the center, then religion begins.” If this is true, then one might imagine the more orthodox, the more separatist, the more punishing a religion becomes, the more unhealthy its relationship to the reality of death. I believe the future Witness, to a great extent, joins, remains, thrives, as an act of deep investment, a commitment to the mythic narrative that death, in the end, will not come for them, or for their children.   

Regardless, for me, after I left, I suffered apocalyptic nightmares for decades, and I have subsequently come to learn, from friends, from therapy, that such dreams are quite common to adults raised in apocalyptic cults. I can’t help but quote Bloom again, here, on the Jehovah’s Witnesses and their “intellectually weak, spiritually empty” literature, which reminds him “why very small children cannot be left alone with wounded and suffering household pets.” To Kate, my wife (my first wife and I divorced), not a Witness, not a fan of Witnesses, and decidedly not religious, all of this stinks of the sinister, the malicious.When she and I finally sat down on our sofa to watch the show, one week after it aired, not five minutes passed before I was completely, emotionally overwhelmed. I began to weep. Kate paused the show. I took a long sip of wine, got up, and paced about the room until I regained my composure. 

It took me some time to realize why. I was not sad. I was not mad. I was weirdly, tearfully ecstatic about seeing adults like me, who, unlike me, now had a powerful voice helping them tell their stories. We let the show play on. The ex-Witnesses being interviewed had been variously disfellowshipped and disenchanted, but all of them openly spoke of the wreckage done to their families by the Jehovah’s Witnesses. There were stories of suicides—in one family’s case, there were two; stories of public and prolonged shunning of daughters and sons, even grandchildren; of the secretive bureaucratic practices, wholly and currently conceived of by eight men, always men, known as The Governing Body; the rampant misogyny; the lethal blood transfusion controversies; spousal abuse problems; the Witnesses’ well-publicized sex abuse problem, and the unabashedly shameful Organizational response of blaming the victim. If there were not two witnesses to the abuse (a rule anachronistically based on an ancient biblical text; the verse before inconveniently demands the execution of sinners by stoning), the Organization’s institutional decision has been, apparently, to remove abusers from one congregation, only to quietly appoint them in another. 

As a young boy of fourteen, after discovering a peeper’s hole in the bathroom wall of a trusted Witness minister’s apartment, a friend and I told the friend’s mother. We were disturbed not only because we knew we’d almost certainly been watched, but also because this minister was known for entertaining the young boys from our Kingdom Hall. The minister always had the latest video games, and provided lots and lots of soda. We’d seen him holding and caring for the youngest boys, four, five, and six years old. So we told my friend’s mother. I can see the kitchen table, the grim light, and her frizzy, red hair. I remember her dropping her chin, and saying: No, no, not again… She then confessed he’d been found guilty of child molestation before, it was public knowledge, and he’d been moved to a different Hall. Mine. This disturbing practice is accompanied by yet more subtly insidious and debilitating behavior. Much like other religious groups, the Witnesses privilege jargon, but in many cases the lifelong use of specialized language approximates institutionalized brainwashing. I have known several ex-Witnesses who continued to use the phrase “The Truth”—the inside term Witnesses use for their religion—when referring to the Witnesses, long after leaving. An ironic phrase, since, in practice, Jehovah’s Witnesses demonstrate little use for facts. There is anti-social conditioning, like the tragic impractical life training that leaves one ill prepared for the secular world, and mostly prepared for apocalypse and a sequestered life of door-to-door preaching. After dating for some time, Kate was palpably unnerved that I had not gone to college, and that I had already been married and separated in my early twenties. Not to mention much of my time before her had been desperately spent on drugs, alcohol, writing terrible short stories, and working mostly incidental, menial jobs. I was a dishwasher at a pizzeria, that summer we met. I didn’t even have a bank account. Why save? We were dying. 

Such characteristics are common, obvious, and actively studied by cult deprogrammers across the globe because, well, the Witnesses are global. Founded in the 1870s by Charles Taze Russell as a publishing arm for his personal eschatological readings of the Bible, The Watchtower Society has now published well over two hundred million Bibles in more than 160 languages, and has become, by far, the largest magazine publisher in the world, a corporation largely funded by donations from its over eight million members in some two-hundred-forty countries. Their actual net worth is protected, but conservatively estimated in the low billions. They are vast. To quote author and activist Lloyd Evans, one of the ex-Witnesses interviewed on Remini’s show: “Take Scientology, add eight million members, and you’ve got Jehovah’s Witnesses.” The Witnesses have successfully, thus far, avoided effective public scrutiny, unlike Scientology, partly due, I think, to their politically neutral and affable public image. Also unlike Scientology, the Witness persona is not especially glamorous. There are no bright lights. They privilege modesty, long skirts, “heck” instead of “hell,” all this despite the fact that, like the Mormons, they routinely grant offices of leadership to strapping young men, which seems in retrospect a rather deliberate strategy for enlisting young women into fantasies of early marriage, as the gay men remain Witness bachelors and quietly enjoy the show. It should be said, here, too, friends of mine, ex-Witnesses included, have reported widely on the “down low” gay aesthetic and subculture of the Organization. Ex-Bethelites (workers in the Watchtower headquarters) infamously talk of clandestine gay sex, straight sex, and adulterous sex in bathrooms, stairwells, and basements. This is predictable. Sex in the Witness world is pathologized, repressed, and buried. According to Pew Research Center, Jehovah’s Witnesses have a decidedly low retention rate when compared to other religious groups in the U.S.; of U.S. adults raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses, some 66% “no longer identify with the group.” I would not be surprised if this had largely to do with their puritanical stance on sex. This has not, however, stopped the Witnesses’ historic growth.

To provide scale, according to some reports the Witnesses are two-hundred-and-fifty times larger than The Church of Scientology, and yet despite the several upsetting similarities, they remain the “nice people knocking on doors,” to paraphrase Remini’s initial impression. And yet, like Scientology, the Witnesses openly encourage fear, disgust, even cruelty for those who leave and dare criticize the Organization. Apostates. As a boy, the word alone, especially when spoken, froze me with terror and awe. No more, of course. Though, it’s likely I’ll pay a price for writing this essay. Which is strange, I admit. Some might wonder why I have not paid that price by now. Frankly, I have been lucky. I keep my mouth mostly shut. My criticisms have been subtle and respectful, even timid. I invented a new religion in my first novel to save myself from explicitly writing about Witnesses. My parents have been patient. As for other family members, I have effectively removed myself from them already. In some cases, they have removed me. Nevertheless, I’m sure some family members and friends will call me apostate, now. They will cut me off. Some already have. And I’m at peace with that, finally. But it has taken years. Among the footage on Remini’s show were photos of those late twentieth century “apostates,” men and woman protesting with signs in front of Kingdom Halls, and Jehovah’s Witness convention centers. I watched them and thought of other protestors I’d seen as a boy, in front of Bethel, Watchtower World Headquarters, once in Brooklyn, now located upstate in Patterson, Wallkill, and Warwick, New York. I paused the show, sipped my wine, took a breath, and said: Those people with the signs, protesting. I used to be scared of them. Kate said: Those people are heroes, every last one.

*

Ironically, the Jehovah’s Witnesses were born from protest, and their theology is inextricably defined by apostasy. Aside from the plain fact that they are fundamentally an American Protestant Christian movement, as a millenarian restorational nontrinitarian group they were born not only as a deliberate protest to Catholicism, but in vigorous protest to traditional Protestantism. God was not triune—and, more, Jesus was not God. Jehovah is God. There is no other. Famously, at least according to Witness lore, at the turn of the twentieth century, the Witnesses fiercely protested, in public, in a highly coordinated fashion, with signs, and loud voices, against religion itself. Signs boldly read: Religion is a Snare and Racket. They were not Catholics. They were not traditional Protestants. They were not even traditional Christians. The Witnesses, at least at the time of my leaving, continue to proudly own this history. This is rare, as the average Witness knows little of their story. Organizational history is rarely talked about at Kingdom Hall meetings, and when it is, in my experience, and the experience of more recent dissenters, it is cherry-picked for exegetical gloss. The image of early Witness protest, however, the Witness apostasy from traditional Christianity (apostasy merely means to set one self apart from a group; the original Greek means “to stand away from”) is owned, employed, cherished in their rhetoric. It is a defining personality trait.       

More interesting to me, though, is the Organization’s penchant for protesting its own legacy and historical practices. Most notable and well known are the dozen or so dates of failed apocalypse intimately tied to the developmental history of the Organization, or directly prophesied by The Watchtowerin print, by Elders from the Kingdom Hall stage. I certainly recall, as a child, the announcements of a world coming to its end in 1980. I recall, as a young man, promises of Christian apocalypse come 2000. Unfortunately, Jehovah’s Witnesses generally do not know much about this long trend, which stretches back to the late 19thcentury. They certainly do not talk about it, as these aborted endings have caused fissures and mass departures in membership. In most cases, the Witnesses smilingly deny the prophecies completely, I have witnessed this, as they offer a biblical explanation, creatively interpreting Proverbs 4:18—“But the path of the righteous is like the bright morning light that grows brighter and brighter until full daylight.” Apparently, the days of failed prophecy were darker times, and we’re in full light, now. I’m told they don’t make predictions anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Organization soon claims they never made prophecies at all, as they willfully, disturbingly, once again, disown their own history, and their present story: that of a fascinating, and unique American invention, unwholesomely marked by secrecy, and thus riddled with the problems secrecy engenders: deception, betrayal, contention, and abuse. 

I should say here I have come to learn in my short forty-five years that ignoring one’s story is a seriously dangerous move. My psychiatrist will back me up. It seems, I ignored the apocalyptic beliefs, biases, and perspectives imprinted on me from infancy, and ignored my resentment for having them. I ignored my anger—until, one day, it boiled over. In early 2016, after an overwhelming breakdown, I was hospitalized, and thus began my struggle with a mental illness that has predictably dovetailed with an examination of my own history. The mind will have its way. I wonder if now is the time for Jehovah’s Witnesses to face their story. I know for a fact Remini’s show had lots of people shaking with concern. I received notes from old friends, colleagues, and neighbors who watched the show. They were shocked. On other hand, I’ve heard loyal Witnesses called it lies, lies, all lies. What more would you expect from apostates? Then again, perhaps daylight is here, finally here. In world no longer conducive to secrecy, it’s hard to imagine otherwise. The Internet knows, shows all. I am confident that social media, the ubiquity of online information, and our access to that information, will eventually light every dark corner of the Witnesses’ considerable Organization. I hope so—for their health, my family’s, and mine. I know this much: Remini’s show awakened something within me, and as a result I feel compelled to publicly, officially separate myself from any organization, like the Jehovah’s Witnesses, that knowingly endangers its most vulnerable members, which I sets me squarely, proudly in a rich, and complicated, historical tradition of protest. 

[jessicagianna300]

Dadaism

Although Dadaism was an art movement that expanded for six years, it had a lasting impact on modern art and on German art for decades to follow. This unconventional and anti-rationalist/anti-artistic movement made a lasting impact on the Third Reich and caused a panic within the higher official and bureaucracy of the Nazi party to the point where they had to make an art exhibition to publically shame the different movements like Dadaism and other Weimar innovations. Dadaism took unconventional ideas and mediums and sued that as their motivation to create art (or anti-art) as many had phrased it. This movement was widespread across the world and played a significance in Germany because of all of the push of classicist art when Hitler rose to power. Dadaism played a significant role in Germany when there was an International Dada Fair in 1920 that displayed all the notions of anti-art while also driving home different political messages and propaganda in their own right. There wasn’t a limit on just art but it also expanded as a mindset and ideology for people to believe in because it was widespread as a theatre and literature movement. The Berlin Dadaists would use different photographs and passages from newspapers in Germany and create photomontages to highlight their personal view and perspective on their a-political art, although most leaned towards a communistic mindset, like Hannah Höch, who did Cut with the Kitchenknife Dada through the Last Weimar Beer-Belly Cultural Epoch of Germany, 1919. By using a photomontage and taking bits and pieces of different German publications, the artists were able to appropriate and manipulate the newspapers and create their own messages and slogans from the ones that the state had wanted. There was something very jarring about using everyday objects to become a parody of the upper-class and bourgeoisie because it was those products of those who created it as a form of making fun and open mockery and made the German people think about their society in a non-appealing aesthetic way. Dadaism was an attempt to make something extremely unaesthetically pleasing for the German people to echo and reflect upon the turmoil in their society. Just like those who have moved to the city and embraced the hustle and bustle of Berlin, the Dada artists also used the imagery of machines to show the impact of industrialization and the modern economy/Germany. 

In 1920, the Dadaists in Berlin had put up a show in Cologne because their pieces were not permitted in other German museums and establishments because of the different problems with nudity since it was seen through a realistic photograph and image. Cologne police officers had shut down the exhibition and the artists, like Max Ernst and others, were charged with obscenity due to nude figures. However, the charges were dropped because there was a piece of a photomontage that had showed the 1504 engraving of Adam and Eve by Albrecht Dürer, and he was and is considered a revered artist in Germany. (https://www.guggenheim.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/guggenheim-pub-max-ernst-retrospective-1975.pdf/) (Trachtman, Paul. "A Brief History of Dada." Smithsonian.com. May 01, 2006. Accessed March 18, 2018. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/dada-115169154/ ) 

In that same year, there was a bigger Dada show in Berlin that featured over one hundred pieces from seven countries in Europe, which highlights this internationalist movement of purposely changing the idea of what art is. (https://www.historychannel.com.au/articles/first-international-dada-fair-opens-in-berlin/) However, there wasn’t a large attraction to it and many people had strayed away from buying tickets which shows how this movement wasn’t well received amongst a general populous. It ended up costing more money to run the show versus the profit they were supposed to make. ("First International Dada Fair Opens in Berlin | History Channel on Foxtel." History Channel. June 09, 2017. Accessed May 01, 2018. https://www.historychannel.com.au/articles/first-international-dada-fair-opens-in-berlin/. Herzfelde, Wieland, and Brigid Doherty. "Introduction to the First International Dada Fair." October 105 (2003): 93-104. doi:10.1162/016228703769684173.)

When looking up Dadaism and looking at what famous institutions had to say about it, MoMa presented it like this: Participants claimed various, often humorous definitions of “Dada”— “Dada is irony,” “Dada is anti-art,” “Dada will kick you in the behind”—though the word itself is a nonsense utterance. As the story goes, the name Dada was either chosen at random by stabbing a knife into a dictionary, or consciously selected for a variety of connotations in different languages—French for “hobbyhorse” or Russian for “yes, yes.” (https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/themes/dada.)

[thequeerme-blog1]

Andro? Femme? Butch?

The one about pigeon-holing in the Queer community.

According to the Cambridge dictionary a label is a piece of paper or other material that gives you info about the object it is attached to.

We all wear invisible labels all the time. What if they were real though? As in letters stamped on our wrists. Instead of being a UK 12, you’d have an A (for Andro), F (Femme), B (Butch), D (Dyke), SL (Sporty Lesbian), G (Geek)… Watch out Charlie Brooker, I see a Queer Mirror here!

Some people might think that a few we have pretty obvious ones, like wearing a wristband I must say; although others have semi-hidden labels on their neck, and some invisible ones at their back. I label, you label, they label. Active voice. I am labelled, you are labelled, they are labelled. Passive. Getting the grammar now, right?

I’m not having a Black Mirror vision or giving a grammar lesson though. I’ve just felt the urge to write about pigeonholing as since I’m single the question I’m asked the most is… WHAT-IS-YOUR-TYPE?, believe me I’ve heard it way more times than ARE-YOU-SPANISH? (which is worrying as I could be Sofia Vergara’s second cousin, sometimes my own close friends don’t get me).

What is surprising is that when I came out in London, as a femme, my lesbian mates would just assume that I was into masculine (or less feminine) types. They, obviously, would change their mind when getting to know my personality. Again, Chet Faker sings talk is cheap… and it is free, I’d add. We talk too much a listen too little!

Tell me how’s your haircut that I’ll tell you who you gotta fancy!

A few weeks ago, however, I had an interesting and yet short chat (blame the DJ!) with someone who defended labels as a way to introduce yourself to the world (hetero-normative world, especially). I am vegan, I am a lesbian, I am a designer, I am a cyclist, I am a dancer, I am a socialite, I am a geek, and so on… Sounds about right. Labels make us feel secure. It’s like the skills you’d highlight in a cover letter when applying for a job. I have sound understanding of Final Cut, I am bilingual, I am enthusiastic. You make people realise who you are and what you want. Hence, what they can expect from you. In my personal-slash-love life, it saves me a lot of time with guys. I don’t like being hit on by lads. Sorry (not sorry) to be blunt but I had to put up with it for years; and no, it’s not arrogance, it was annoyance. You don’t need to be hot, beautiful and young; with two boobs and a pussy you’re likeable/hittable enough (against your will). Nowadays, however, I must say they rarely harass me. I guess it’s not acceptable just yet for lads to be into andro-girls.

Back in late spring, I had a similar debate with a (now) good friend of mine, although applied to the Queer community. It was an epic convo on a night bus, more entertained than watching the US elections. I obviously like questioning everything, starting by myself, plus pushing boundaries to make people/myself think. Today I kinda get her point and must admit she’s one of the few lesbians l’ve known who’s truly labels-free and independent. She really falls for the gay person, aside from her look, role, tag, etc.

The real issue is not to label yourself but to label others and, therefore, patronise, judge and assume their behaviours/interactions. You can call yourself andro, as I definitely do again and again, I’m free to do so if that’s what I identify with. Although it does not imply I follow the andro user guide.

Shouldn’t a queer community be more open-minded and less judgemental? However, we stereotype each other and proclaim what we are/aren’t allowed to do/feel/think. You are ANDRO (stamp!). You are FEMME (stamp!). You two pair together.

Hello Andro. Hello Femme. Welcome to your new homo-normative world! Please help yourselves to some hetero-types available for you in that box. They are ordered by topics. What are your roles in bed is one of the hottest and most consulted. It’ll be quite useful in your relationship from now on. After a read, feel free to practise with this strap-on that you Andro will always use and you Femme never (presumably). It doesn’t matter what your likes are, this is how we function here. It’s time for you to play now. Femme always remember you ought to wait, whereas Andro you do all the manual labours. Enjoy your new life!

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Queer Mirror.

Hence, you can guess who’s the most invisible, forgotten and even ignored character, gay girls with feminine/straight looks. Whilst listening to a few, I came to the conclusion that, after the suffered bisexual woman, the less understood, respected, listened to, is the feminine lesbian. They/we talk about them as if they were the woman (took from the patriarchy), the weak, emotional and sweet one, the princess waiting to be picked from the self by the andro king. Again, not everyone thinks/acts like that, however I’ve heard enough comments and seen sufficient interactions. And thank Whoever that I’m surrounded by those feminine ones who don’t give a shit and are as strong, blunt, diverse, logical, funny, active as I am (or as I am supposed to be!).

Let’s stop judging and pigeon-holing the other queer types. As in the end, we’re just repeating archaic, toxic, damaging, narrow-minded behaviours picked from our straight-fellows. Hence, let us live, love and laugh as free as we are and as queer as we pray.

Don’t do types, do star signs! (sing and repeat)

[irony on]

From now on, will just ask hey, what’s your star sign? Kids, you can try this experiment next time you go out. Although bear in mind you’ll become addicted to the Broadly daily horoscope.

Lately I don’t hang out with femmes, butches, andros, dykes anymore, I’m more into centaurs, sheep, lions, scorpions… It’s way more fun and purely scientific. Don’t believe me?

How come then, that I always have a crush-slash-adventure with Geminis? Or that myself obsessively attracts Taurus?

Why I normally hate-love Cancers and Virgos and I are best buds? Capricorns though… I’ve just known two. One turned me on a lot, the other is my new deep friend. No clue.

Last but not least, isn’t it coincidental that with Scorpios I always have an X-files relationship and that I normally fall in love with Aries?

Do the Zodiac, 12 new labels for you to use! Isn’t it excited? 👌😏

See you next month, dear Sag!

[irony off]