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jodilin65 · 35 years

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TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1989 I just finished watching a scary movie and I’m now just about ready to drop off. I’m pretty zonked.

This afternoon I saw my allergy doctor and he gave me two inhalers for my asthma and one for my nose.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1989 I am still wide awake and feeling pretty lousy. Earlier I got the urge to make my face up so I did. I took off my lipstick and blush but I still have my eyes all made up.

Linda never called. I wonder if she’s sick or something came up. I also wonder why I haven’t heard from Tammy in two days. I know it’s either shit from her mother, or she’s out with Will. Also, I haven’t spoken with Andy in two days. The only one I speak to every day is Jessie. We love to talk on the phone.

Well, I had a long talk with Nervous’s mother about him calling me and hanging up or just not saying anything and his spying. She says to take him to court if I have to. I now have absolutely no desire to see or talk to this sicko. It’s just gotten way out of hand to the point of no return and you just never know what a sicko like him is gonna do or what’s on his mind. Some friendship it’s been, huh?

I’m supposed to go to CC tomorrow for my intake, but they may be closed cuz we’re supposed to get a huge snowstorm.

This Saturday I’m supposed to return to Steiger’s, but I’ve got to think about it. Do I really want to?

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1989 Well, right now I’m a little depressed and lonely but I’m finally starting to get used to it and accept being alone. It’s always better than settling for second best.

I’m cooking some chicken rice right now, hoping Linda the cab driver calls.

I went out earlier to the Holyoke mall with Jessie. There, I bought both Tiffany and Debbie Gibson’s cassette singles.

Surprisingly enough, but then again I guess it’s no real surprise, I haven’t heard from Tammy all day yesterday or today. She’s no doubt out with Will, says Jessie.

Ma called saying she bought me this beautiful dress and it’s a size 6! What is she, crazy? She doesn’t realize how much weight I’ve lost. She hasn’t seen me in a while. She says it’s a loose-knit dress with no zippers or buttons. She’s gonna mail it to me.

There’s this guy, Bruce Y, who I ran into downtown. I’ve run into him a few times. He’s going to Holyoke Community College for the two-year music program for an associate degree in music, which I’m also thinking of doing. He’s nice and he’s not ugly either, but he’s so dull and wimpy, and of course, he turns me on in no way shape or form. Even Jessie spoke to him using my 3-way calling and she agreed.

Bruce says he thinks I’m very attractive and sensitive and seems so amazingly respectful, saying I shouldn’t be with a guy if I’m not happy and would rather be with a woman. He says don’t do anything I don’t want to do that doesn’t feel right.

I was hoping Linda would call cuz I really do like her even though she’s no beauty, and I could really use a chat with her. She really understands being gay too. I wish she’d give me her phone number.

I called Pamela at my dating service and told her our mailboxes are broken and she said she’d give me a call before she mails out anything. I’m still so skeptical about it all, though. I still fear that my type of woman isn’t meant to be.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1989 I finally got my guitar back, thank God. I got it on Andy’s birthday and rode with him in his new car. I bought Linda’s Mad Love music book and also a guinea pig, but I returned the pig. I just don’t want the hassles of changing the cage or buying bails of sawdust or the pellets anymore. Instead, I had Nervous, who’s acting really sick and always stinks and has this horrible body odor, bring Sasha back. I realize my allergies will be killing me but I love this cat to death and missed her terribly. I can’t live with no animals at all.

I saw Dr. Moshiri today at Osborne. He said I seemed much better and that all I’ve gone through has really had an impact on me but that I have amazing strength. He also agreed with me that one never forgets the past, though everyone keeps telling me to forget it. I wish I could!

I have taken half of a Deseril pill for 4 nights now and he says for me to continue that for a week or two and then take a whole one and at that point to stop the Navane.

Tammy called early this morning saying she was fed up with her mother and was leaving and we discussed her coming here but I haven’t heard from her since and she was supposed to call me early this afternoon. Tammy’s not the right person for me, though. She’s got too many problems and a lousy temper.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1989 Sure enough, my case was dismissed. The pig never showed up. I asked my lawyer why, and he said cuz he’d make a complete fool out of himself. The law is that you have to prove one guilty even if they admit they’re guilty. When I told my lawyer I was arrested he was shocked and he agreed that just cuz they’re cops and they wear that badge they think they can do anything. Whether I pleaded guilty or not, he still can’t prove it was me.

I spoke with both Jessie and Stuart today, but not yet with Tammy. She’ll probably call me later. She probably tried to get me last night but I took my phone off the hook so I could go to bed early. Andy probably tried to get me last night, too. It’s Monday, so Ma’s gonna be calling tonight.

When Nervous calls later tonight I’m gonna ask him if he’ll rent a car and bring me back the aquarium I gave him, so I can have him take me to Brightwood in Longmeadow so I can get a pig. I miss having one. The only bitch is buying them food all the time and changing their cage, but it’s worth it. I need the company of a pet.

Today I feel pretty good for a change. Since I turned the heat lower I feel much better and less feverish. I’m gonna write and really practice my piano. My guitar is in the shop cuz it needed new strings and I’m pissed at Phil. He’ll never bring it back today and it’s been ready since Saturday. I’m dying to play.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1989 Guess who I’ve been in contact with every day now on the phone? Jessica S! I went to middle school with her. She’s got a 9-month-old baby boy now named Wyatt Justin and he’s cute. Her adoptive father is Big Bird of Sesame Street. I called Jessie’s mom in Longmeadow and she told me Jessie lived in Feeding Hills so I got her number through information. And sure enough, the guy she was with took off when she got pregnant and does drugs and just wants sex. She understands me really well, though, and accepts me for the way I am and we’ve had a lot of nice talks. I even spent the night in her place and she told me it didn’t even seem like 10 years had gone by since we last saw each other and we are very close friends. She mentioned getting a place together, but I don’t know. I would definitely live with her, though, cuz I’ve known her so long and we get along so well and she’s no thief or druggie.

Later…

Tomorrow I’ve got to go to court. Lucky me. Nervous is going to wake me up. He was over here for the first time in a month and he also has a broken wrist. That’s what he gets for walking around at 2:00 in the morning buying a pack of cigarettes. He says a bunch of guys knocked him down.

I forgot to mention that last weekend I was at Tammy’s house. It was a very nice house. She still says she likes me and wants to have a relationship with me, but I still hardly ever see her. I spoke to both her and Jessie today.

I want to move so bad it isn’t funny. I’m so sick of this place, but who knows when I ever will? I also want a car at times, too.

Believe it or not, I found Jenine M’s number (she’s an entertainment agent) in an old pad of phone numbers and I called her and she did say she had tried to reach me after I changed my number and she said she’d call me either Mon. or Tues. I’m afraid to get my hopes up too high but I’m trying not to think negatively either. My voice is ok, of course, but what really brings it down is my stuffy nose and wheezing. I have finally made an appointment with my allergy doctor. I also think I may have somewhat of the flu now too, which is going around. I usually get it once a year at this time.

I’m so psyched about my piano playing. I’m getting better and better every day. I’ve learned Dr. Beat and Falling in Love and have learned much more of her other songs (Gloria’s) and also, I’m gonna work on some of Linda’s. I’ve learned some of the song Just One Look. I’d say it’s my timing that’s the hardest thing to conquer what with both the left and right hands together. Tomorrow I’m going to work on the song You Made a Fool of Me which I already have a basic idea of now.

All the songs Andy taught me are like a piece of cake now. I love to play Talk to Me most of all.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1989 I just got finished spraying a spider with Raid but I should’ve just killed it with my broom cuz now it stinks in here. Oh well.

Tammy called me today at around 11:30, asking if I’d go with her to her doctor’s appointment and if I’d meet her at 2:00 outside the front of the Civic Center. Well, I stood her up cuz of the way she’s done it to me and for not returning my hairpiece. Also, I was very tired. She called me at 6:00 wanting to know why I wasn’t there. I told her I was sick and tired. She said she waited till 3:30. She told me she was going for her second pregnancy test and that they don’t know if she’s pregnant or not.

Philip took me to Store 24 at about noontime and I got just a few things cuz of the way I’ve been feeling. He’s supposed to call me this morning around 11:00.

I spoke to Nervous and this morning. I told him Philip was coming to take me to the airport and that I’d be gone to Florida for the rest of the month. I’m so sick of him and even talking on the phone to him cuz he really is a sick person. I usually only talk for two seconds then play my game of the crossed call that comes in and he listens and says all kinds of sick, nasty and hateful stuff. I used to find it funny, but now it’s gotten old.

Earlier this evening I was really depressed and I cried the last two nights in a row cuz I haven’t in so long. It takes a lot for me to cry and I usually keep it bottled up inside till it really catches up to me, but I know I must try really hard not to take the Navane unless I absolutely have to. You know, if I get so anxious that I can’t breathe. Crying, though, really did make me feel a lot better much quicker. What I need most of all is a woman. Yeah, sure.

On Showtime last weekend Gloria had a concert special taped in Miami. It was the last concert of her tour. It was great and she looked beautiful. She was also on the music awards too, where she won an award. She looked sexy as all hell and Andy taped it for me so I could see it again. As for Gloria’s concert, it will be on several more times this month and since I don’t have a VCR I’m just gonna tape it on my box.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1989 I spoke to Tony on Monday and was about to tell him how I can’t be his girlfriend and the reasons why when he told me he’s not looking for that and that he was glad we got that out in the open. His basic reason for not wanting me is cuz I don’t have a job, and when I told him that I do have a job, he said, “You just got that job.”

He’s another one who can’t accept me for the way I am and it verifies my belief that I’ll never have anyone decent cuz I haven’t worked in so long. All I’ll get is a desperate mental case. Ma says when the right person comes along, I’ll know it, and I asked her if she thought I was only good enough for the jerks and not the decent people and she said no, that I could get someone decent. I told her it’s not going to be a man. She said that’s good. It’s like she’s happy about my being gay cuz she knows how men are and doesn’t want me getting pregnant.

Andy said that Tony’s excuse about my not working is really stupid and that most guys don’t want their girlfriends to work, cuz then they’re meeting other guys. They want them to stay home and cook and clean, but that’s basically only the assholes.

I’m sending my dating service a check for $80, so in 2 or 3 weeks I should be meeting someone. I’m so skeptical. I doubt any of these women will turn me on like Gloria, whether they’re decent or not.

I definitely cannot sit around all month waiting for work so maybe I’ll go apply at McDonald’s which sucks, but it pays a little more than $5 an hour and has better hours. I really think the first thing I need is that dream girl before I try to make it in music or a better job. Someone who believes in me. I can’t do everything alone. I need some support.

I haven’t heard from Tammy for two days. Guess I’m gonna have to get my hairpiece myself.

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quazartranslates · 3 years

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Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH30

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

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Chapter 30: Star Death Reality Show (XIII)

"This place between the back of the head and the neck is very dangerous, it's easy for you to cause a brain hernia and kill the person. I’m telling you, the correct way is to hold her carotid artery—the place on the side of the neck, and she’ll pass in a few seconds, safe and harmless," Dr. Lu, who had committed several occupational malpractices, prattled on.

Qi Leren tried to breathe: "She’s not dead, I controlled my strength."

Dr. Lu raised his head: "When did you learn this? How did you suddenly change your style and go straight to James Bond?"

Qi Leren looked helpless: "It was all forced out."

"Qianbei is very fierce, almost too much! So handsome!" Du Yue, the fanboy, wore the awestruck expression of a hopeless fan and looked at Qi Leren with stars in his eyes. "Can qianbei teach me? I also want to learn!"

"Well, let’s wait... let’s wait until the show is over," Qi Leren said. "Hurry up and find out if there’s anything important in this basement. Hurry up, Mark may come back soon."

The three men were busy again, especially Dr. Lu, who, like a hamster whose hidden melon seeds had been lost after the sawdust was changed, searched anxiously. He plunked his ass on the ground and looked into the gap under the bookcase, and pulled Du Yue to help when he was met with heavy objects that couldn’t be moved.

Qi Leren looked around the basement. It wasn’t like a private laboratory, but rather a utility room, with cabinets and bookcases everywhere and some metal barrels and strewn about tools in the corner. Qi Leren even saw homemade explosives… This former owner was good at playing around.

Since there were explosives, it wasn’t strange that there had been an explosion here, and the scope of the explosion wasn’t small, which had left the basement a mess, with huge blocks of stones around the collapsed passageway. Although it could be seen that someone had cleaned this passage that led to an unknown location, they still can't do anything about the heavy stones.

Had anyone entered this passage? Had He Yi entered the passage, or were He Yi and Mark both in it?

Considering that the audience voted to prove that Mark had knocked out Xue Jiahui, it seemed that Mark probably hadn’t entered it. With such a thought, the situation at that time was that Mark had tried to go against He Yi. He Yi discovered the passage in the attic, entered the basement, and discovered the explosives. He wanted to kill Mark with these, and accidentally discovered that there was a secret passage here, which he used to escape?

"Oh, come and look at this! Is this the legendary ID card?" With a loud shout, Dr. Lu held up a plastic card to show it to the others.

When Qi Leren took the card, he still couldn't understand the words on it, but the metal identification strip embedded in it made it distinct. The plastic casing was also tied with a rope, which seemed to be hung around his neck to prevent it from being lost.

"You can give it a try. Come on, let's go back to Jing Siyu’s house" Qi Leren was also excited.

The three people left Annie knocked out, quickly left the building, and headed for the temporarily unoccupied house of Jing Siyu.

In the basement of Jing Siyu's house, with a "di-" sound, the heavy metal door opened upwards, revealing the dark metal passage inside. The emergency lights along the bottom of the passage’s walls were on, and the miserable green light source made this corridor look like a ghostly hell.

Sure enough, there was electricity inside. But intelligent life on this planet had gone extinct, yet there was still a power supply in this underground place? It was incredible.

Qi Leren stuffed the ID card into his pocket: "Turn off the cameras."

He was worried that there would be some accidents that would make him have to use his skill cards. Although doing so would arouse the suspicion of the audience, it was better than direct exposure.

"I'll go in first and see. Wait here. I'll call you when I get to the other end," Qi Leren said cautiously.

"Be careful, if you’re injured, come back quickly. I’ll curse you to death if you don’t!" Dr. Lu said.

"Qianbei, you can do it! You’re the best!" Du Yue clenched his fists.

Qi Leren felt a little tired. Why were all his little friends so funny? Couldn’t he get better ones?

In the deep and otherworldly green light, Qi Leren took the first step. His footsteps were as light as a prowling cat, and he didn't make a sound. This disturbing color touched his nerves and made him feel that he was in constant danger.

One step, two steps... Qi Leren moved forward, and the uncertainty of stepping on a censor haunted Qi Leren at every moment, making him more alert. He believed in his intuition. He knew he could even accurately sense the threat of flying knives when he was blindfolded, as Chen Baiqi had already confirmed.

And this passage was not safe.

Just when he was thinking about it, his hunch came true!

[Rain-Day Laundry: At present, the remaining sensing times are 2/3.]

Dididididididi— The shrill alarm sounded! Even if the ID card had been used to open the door, Qi Leren, an illegal intruder, was still caught! The metal door behind him slammed shut, cutting off his escape route! Dr. Lu and Du Yue shouted at the door in alarm, and at the end of the metal corridor, dazzling laser beams were generated!

Qi Leren's pupils suddenly contracted. The knee-high red laser beam quickly rushed toward him from the end of the corridor! Qi Leren couldn’t think about it, he could only jump! The timing and height were just right, avoiding this laser beam perfectly. But this was not the end. More laser beams were coming from the end of the corridor!

Calm down, calm down, calm down... I can't fucking calm down! Qi Leren was extremely nervous. He made a save with the Save/Load Data, but he knew that S/L wasn’t a good solution for this situation! After he saved, he would be cut into pieces of meat by the laser beam. After his resurrection, he would still be standing in place, waiting for the next laser beam to cut him again!

Shit, it was a dead end! This C-rank task was poisonous!

Qi Leren, whose brain had gone blank, recalled watching the movie "Resident Evil" with his father when he was a child. The laser corridor that cut a group of special forces into meat had left a deep shadow on his childhood. He remembered that there was an escape hatch above the laser corridor in the movie.

Qi Leren suddenly looked up, and under the green lights, he saw a neat metal ceiling without any cracks.

All those movies are so deceptive... Qi Leren scolded mentally as the four laser beams scattered in front of him approached within five meters, and the alerts from his "Rain-Day Laundry" skill sounded one after another, directly entering the cooldown period. Qi Leren, who was under high tension, broke out again. He got up and ran towards the laser beam—Jump! Over the first laser beam! Roll forward on the spot! Second beam!

The height of the last two laser beams were very tricky, and there was no way to dodge! They were too low to lie flat, and it was too late to jump. Qi Leren, who had already rolled on the ground, couldn't avoid the oncoming pitfalls. Even at this critical juncture, he used the strength of his arms to prop up his body and did a backflip, with his waist folded into a perfect arc.

The two high and low red beams reflected their dazzling deadly light on the metal wall, and the scorching temperature seemed to cut his arm and lower back, leaving burn marks on his skin. But when Qi Leren landed, he discovered that the laser beams were gone, and he had escaped them!

In these five or six seconds, Qi Leren had made a 180 between life and death. If Chen Baiqi was here, she would be shocked. Qi Leren’s blank mind suddenly flashed such a sentence.

The exit was seven or eight meters ahead, and the door there was open. It seemed that the personnel who had set up this trap didn't think anyone could pass through it alive. But before Qi Leren could breathe a sigh of relief, the laser beam at the end of the corridor lit up again. At first, it was the first one, then the second one and the third one... They were woven over the same position, forming a laser net comparable to a fishing net! It was finer than the laser wall placed by the producers outside this village!

No wonder this laser corridor didn't need to have a closed door! Qi Leren couldn't help but admit defeat and decided to run away—Nonsense, his save point was behind him. If he didn't retreat, he would be barbecued by the laser net once in his present position, then resurrected at the save point behind him, and then be chopped up again!

This round was a disaster. He hoped the laser net would disappear after one use. S/L could only restore his body to the position and state where it was saved, but the material world around him wouldn’t be turned back to the state where it had been. Otherwise, it would be too fatalistic... But it was meaningless to complain about this at this time.

Qi Leren sighed, closed his eyes, and forced himself not to think about the pain of dying. The countdown for the save was eleven seconds, ten seconds, nine seconds...

The scorching temperature kissed him on the cheek, and before he could taste the pain carefully, he was resurrected at the save point, and the laser net that destroyed any living creatures in the corridor disappeared.

This time, Qi Leren started to rush forward without hesitation. Hurry up. He didn't know whether there would be a second group of laser nets at the end of the corridor. If there was one, he had to hurry before the laser nets formed, otherwise he would be trapped and would die here, and would die completely after the S/L skill’s three resurrections were consumed!

As he ran to the end of the corridor, less than two meters away from the exit, the first ray of the second laser net appeared, just at the height of his neck. The next moment, the second one, at the position of his knees, and then the next moment...

It was too late. Engaged in a 100-meter sprint, Qi Leren couldn't adjust his body posture and could only run into the laser beams—his head was separated.

The file was read for the second time.

This time, Qi Leren's reaction is faster than the last time. He must run faster than the last time, otherwise, when the beams at the end of the corridor appeared, he would definitely hit them head-on and make a clean break!

Faster, faster... Qi Leren's feet ran like they didn't touch the ground. Under this extreme test of life and death, he ran faster than he had in any training! Because this wasn’t training, it was a test of life and death.

Here we are, we'll be ready soon...

The red laser beams lit up amidst the continuous shrill alarm sound, and the running Qi Leren closed his eyes in despair. The moment before his death was short, but it was long. The laser cut his body, but his brain was still running. He tried his best to think about how to break this stand-off. Every ten seconds, a laser net would appear at the end of the laser corridor and move forward. This laser net didn’t appear only once, otherwise, he could easily use the S/L Data to escape.

Unless he could "break the shell", as Chen Baiqi had said, and break the limits of his body and enter another state, he was destined to draw the line on the end of his life here.

He could only see the glimmer of hope if he tried his best and gave it a go.

He didn't want to die here, no matter what. He still had too many words to say to Ning Zhou, to tell him of the love he had never dared to express and to let the words hidden in his heart overflow. Even if he died, he couldn't close his eyes peacefully.

He couldn’t let Ning Zhou be sad.

The file was read for the third time and final time.

Qi Leren cleared his brain and drove away all his distractions. His body forgot its exhaustion and weakness in the moment that he finished reading the file. His eyes looked directly at the gate leading to heaven ahead, and he rushed there like lightning.

He didn't think about whether it could be done or the consequences of failure. There was a firm belief that made his soul burn at this moment. Willpower poured energy beyond his limits into his limbs. He was as fast as a meteor. In this dark tunnel, the wind sprinted and rushed to the exit!

The first laser beam lit up, and in the next second, more laser lines would be woven into an impassable net at this position, and anyone who tried to cross this barrier would be cut into pieces. The second laser line lit up, but Qi Leren had already rushed to it, jumped up in this extreme sprint, and jumped between the two laser beams. The world was as silent as when he jumped from the boat and his head became submerged beneath the water.

In the moment when he fell heavily to the ground, the alarm came to an abrupt end. Qi Leren didn't realize that he had passed through the corridor. He pushed up from the ground, rolling and crawling, and looked behind him in a panic. The newly formed laser grid sensed that there was no intruder in the corridor and was automatically dissipated and he, who had already pulled off his seat belt, had escaped this nearly inescapable danger.

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#Welcome to the Nightmare Game #欢迎来到噩梦游戏 #danmei

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hopeshoodie · 4 years

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Part 7 of my Pros and Cons of dating the different islanders (yes I’m finally coming back to this :P)

Gary

Cons

He doesn’t have a whole lot of thoughts about things that he’s not actively excited or annoyed by, and he doesn’t really feign interest. If MC buys a new top, or is invested in a new show, or anything that Gary doesn’t really care about, he’ll really disinterestedly say “that’s cool babe,” and make her feel like it’s unimportant. He’s not patronizing/embarrassing her on purpose, he just doesn’t have a lot of tact. You would have to really talk to him and work with him to get him out of this habit, because he doesn’t see how it’s hurtful or care that much to change.

He gets really defensive. If you call him out on his behavior or point out how he’s really stubborn, he’ll argue with you without really considering if his behavior is bad. Arguments with Gary suck because it gets to a point where he’s not hearing you and will just say “whatever” and refuse to engage. The best way to change Gary’s behavior is some pavlovian shit- you need to offer positive reinforcement without him really noticing. When he communicates really well, shower him with affection. When he picks up after himself, tell him how much you appreciate it.

He’s very willing to walk away from things that challenge him instead of trying to grow as a person. We saw that with him and Lottie- whenever she or MC offered valid criticism of his behavior he would just walk away. That applies to most areas of his life- if he tries a new hobby and isn’t good at it immediately he’ll drop it. He doesn’t really like trying new things or going to new places, and if something challenges his worldview he’s more likely to ignore it than engage.

I’ve said this already but he buys MC heart shaped jewelry and pandora charm bracelets...

Gary’s a lad. While he doesn’t intend to hurt anyone’s feelings, he never really engaged with social justice issues and he hasn’t done the work needed to be anti-racist. He’ll laugh along to sexist, racist, homophobic, and ableist jokes without really thinking about the implication. He’s loath to call anyone out. If MC points out ‘hey that thing you/your friend said is hurtful,” he’ll get defensive and say “why are you ruining a good time? It was just a joke” If MC sits down and explains to him how the things he says are actively hurting her, he’ll internalize that and not do it. But he’s really hesitant to say the same to other people- he doesn’t want to ‘ruin the mood’ and get made fun of for being ‘PC’.

Gary’s super dense. He doesn’t really pick up hints very well, so MC needs to explicitly tell him “I need you to compliment this dress” or “we haven’t gone on a proper date in awhile and I’m feeling undesired, can we go out for dinner tomorrow?” I firmly believe that the reason Gary tolerated all of Lottie’s passive aggressiveness was because he didn’t pick up on it, so MC needs to be direct.

He doesn’t appreciate all the effort it takes to get all dolled up, even though he loves it when MC goes all out. I know he SAYS he doesn’t like high maintenance women, but in canon when given the choice between Hannah (seemingly low maintenance) and Marisol (very outgoing and done up), he chooses the higher-maintenance option. Every woman he dated on the show was a glam kind of girl- MC, Lottie, Marisol. So while he loves when MC has a full face and outfit done, he complains about how long it takes her and how she always sneaks away for touch ups during the night. He’s one of those dudes who is like “wow you’re so pretty without makeup” but you’re literally wearing foundation, contour, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, blush- he thinks the difference between makeup and not wearing any makeup is red lipstick. This is super annoying because MC puts a lot of effort into her look only for him to downplay that effort but still enjoy the results.

Building off of the above, Gary severely underestimates how much effort it takes to do “domestic work” like cooking, cleaning, and administrating for the household (I imagine pre-MC he forgets to do the basics like renew licenses, register to vote, schedule appointments, etc). So if MC points out how she spent the whole day cleaning, he’ll be like “that seems a bit much? You just cleaned the kitchen?” and doesn’t really get it until MC breaks down “I swept and washed the floor, I disinfected the dishwasher, I ran cleaners through the sink link, I cleaned out and organized the fridge, I dusted and sanitized the chandelier, I organized the spice drawer, I wiped out the cabinets…” He’s not really motivated to learn how to clean or do laundry or cook.

He doesn’t communicate. This is canon- he doesn’t tell Lottie where his head is at in the game, he strings Lottie and Hannah along, and he doesn’t reassure MC when other girls are clearly cracking on with him. So most of the problems in a relationship with Gary come from MC not knowing what he wants and him never initiating emotionally vulnerable conversations.

He’s not going to do well if MC needs to travel a lot for work, and he’s not going to move to live with her. Even after his nan dies, I don’t see him leaving Chatham. So if moving to a new place is important to you, this is a dealbreaker.

Pros

If something goes really wrong, he’ll never do the same thing twice. This applies to physical mistakes as well as emotional- if he forgets to wear eye protection and gets sawdust in his eyes, he’ll be religious about wearing glasses from them on. If he forgets a birthday or anniversary and makes MC cry, he will be SO diligent from then on about remembering dates. On that thought, he HATES seeing MC cry. He will move heavens and earth to stop whatever’s upsetting her or fix it.

Hugs and cuddling from Gary? So comforting. He just has that vibe, like he’s a really good cuddler. Not to mention that he’s really good at the nasty in canon, so it would stand to reason………

All of that internalized masculinity has an upside- he wants to take care of his family. He’s on top of all the ‘masculine’ caretaking stuff like buying a home, maintaining the landscaping, fixing the tires on the vehicles, shoveling, fixing stuff up around the house, managing the cable/internet/tech. Which is nice because I hate doing those things, but also I’m absolutely teaching him how to do laundry and pick up after himself.

Gary is SO calm in emergency situations. I have this headcanon for Rahim too, but the more panicked those around them get, the calmer they are. Especially in situations where they’ve prepared/considered before like tornadoes or floods. They’re not the kind of guys who take the lead normally, but in these super dire situations they find it in them to take over and calm everyone else down. I can see him having a lowkey stockpile of food, an emergency first aid kit, and a go-bag.

I know people don’t like this headcanon, but too bad. Gary is catholic. That’s the law. Sorry I don’t make the rules. That’s not so much of a pro for me, an atheist nihilist lesbian, but I can recognize a religious man has a certain amount of charm. He has a close knit community, is super consistent about attending services, and has a certain level of taking morals really seriously. He definitely donates a fair bit to charity and is always the one saying “love thy neighbor” when people are being shitty.

Gary’s spontaneous, but in a controlled way. He very much likes his routine and respects MC’s need for consistency. But periodically he’ll just be like “we have nothing planned for today- want to go rent a paddleboat?” or he’ll pick up flowers “just because”. If MC and he are going on a vacation, he much prefers to only plan 1 or 2 things to do a day and then once they’re in the place see interesting things and suggest ‘let’s do that’. He’ll do really thoughtful stuff like text MC if she has anything planned for dinner then randomly bring her favorite restaurant food home. Thursday nights are date nights!! Doing formal ‘dress up nice and go to a proper dinner date without the kids and movie’ is really important to him.

Gary’s a really good dad. Like yeah he has a lot to learn about not telling his son to ‘stop crying’ and not telling his daughter ‘no boys until you’re married’, but he genuinely wants the best for them. He’s really supportive of their hobbies/sports/interests, and will happily pay for summer camp/field trips/conventions. He might not ‘get it’ all the time, but he’ll smile and nod.

He gets a lot of delight out of really little things. If his kid draws something for him, he’ll pin it to the fridge and smile at it every time he sees it without fail. If MC says she likes a certain shirt on him, he’ll triple the amount of times he wears it. He keeps the bird feeders outside their dining room window full, because he can happily sit with a cup of coffee and watch the birds for hours. It truly is the little things.

He’s really good at remembering MC’s favorite things, or even things she mentioned liking once. This is to the point where it’s a bit confusing. MC will compliment Gary’s nan on her christmas poinsettias one year, then two years later Gary buys a ton of poinsettias and is like “I thought you loved poinsettias” and not be able to remember why he thought that. So MC has to be careful with fake compliments, because Gary cannot tell the difference. But that’s still, like, super endearing and nice of him.

There’s a few LIs that I feel like could get bored in a long-term relationship. I can see Lucas, Felix, and Rahim feeling like they’re ‘falling out of love’ when the intensity of a new relationship fades and they struggle to settle into domesticity. Gary is NOT one of them. He’s one of those “I fall in love with you more every single day” kind of guys. As MC gains weight/ages, he’ll insist “you age like a fine wine” and “I like you more with meat on your bones”. He’ll insist to their kids that “your mom is the most beautiful woman on earth”. Gary was built for long-term relationships.

#pros and cons #headcanons

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boxoftheskyking · 4 years

Text

Pick Up Every Piece - Part One

Ok things to know: -this does not take place in China. It does not take place in the US. It is the year 2000 in a fictional country that I control (this project is a challenge called Let’s Do Exposition). Just go with it. -It’s all talking. That’s what I do, you know this. -Warnings for stuff, I dunno I haven’t written it all yet. When it’s shiny it’ll go on AO3 but for now here’s what I got so far. -There is a lot of alcohol in this fic -Like all fic writers I live on positive reinforcement and this shit is a lot of work. -The title may change, yes it is from NMH

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There are bodies in the creek bed. Enough bodies to stop the flow of the water. Thirty at least, a dam of them. An old woman and a child. Clothes and hair sodden, darkened and wet. Clouds of darkness hovering in the air around them, seeping into dead flesh. An old woman and a child and others. Others in that middle age, the age that passes comment. Is it wrong that these two bodies stand out to him? After all, if he were among the bodies, if he was lying in this creek bed, thirty, skinny, and unremarkable, he would hardly notice himself. He’d blend into the pile, only serving to make the word a plural. Body becomes Bodies. Alters the language. Murder becomes Massacre. There are thirty bodies and hundreds, thousands of flies. Crawling on the back of the little boy’s hand. A smell like—not burning, not quite. Death. Not rot, fresh death. The sand under his feet is nearly dry. The creek bed is dry.

Wei Ying blinks. The creek burbles on alongside him, one duck lazily riding the current under a fallen branch and along to somewhere more interesting. It’s October, and beautiful, and there’s the smallest twilight bite in the air pricking at his nostrils on every inhale. He blows out a long breath and finds himself scratching at his arms, the backs of his hands, where the old scars are. They’re ugly, blotchy and dark like land masses on a faded old map, and they still itch sometimes. He rubs at them hard with the heel of his palm—it’s a weird half-feeling, the layers of dead tissue. It’s not dead, Wen Qing would correct him. It’s not necrotic, it’s just scarring.

He steps around the gnarled roots that reach up from the banks, trying to get to the road but not ever making it. There’s a few muddy stuffed bears tucked among them, plastic wrap snagged on the bark from cheap drugstore bunches of flowers that have rotted away. A couple of carefully hand-painted wooden signs nailed to the trunks, trying to convince the place that people still remember.

He shakes himself and turns away from the woods, hopping the fence onto the road that leads to the bar. He’s late, but Li Chen is always late in the mornings so he deserves to work an extra fifteen minutes. It’s not like there’s a manager to yell at him.

The bar is across the street from an old gas station, one that got firebombed during the war and then left. That’s the thing about Yiling. Everywhere else, even up in Gusu, the cities have gotten rid of as much evidence as possible. Well, they’ve gotten rid of most and turned the rest into memorials to the victorious dead, nice and shiny and flying the Sunshot flag. Nobody really cares about appearances around Yiling—maybe the city council does, but they don’t have anywhere near the budget to run cleanup. Too much actual infrastructure got hit during the worst of the fighting, and they’ll be years behind the rest of the country for the next decade or so. Memorials here are all handmade, and none of them last long.

There’s a flag, though, spray painted on what’s left of the concrete wall of the gas station. A golden hand covering most of a red sun, partly covered by black—one finger for each of the four leading clans and a thumb for everyone else. Typical. He’s not sure who’d have painted a Sunshot here. No one local, he’d put money on it. He supposes they know about spray paint in Lanling—governments must adapt.

It’s probably intentional, anyway, the lack of cleanup. The lack of progress. Nightless City can be repurposed by the Jin government, but the site of the Massacre should stay ugly and busted for a few more years. So no one forgets what it looks like to lose.

Wei Ying likes it in Yiling. “It’s my kind of town,” he always tells Jiang Cheng, who usually throws something at his head. “You want to be a bartender in a town like this. In a town like this, people need a bartender. It’s nice to be needed, you know.”

It’s a shitty bar by any other place’s standards, but for Yiling it’s cozy. The owner, who everyone just calls Granny, still orders sawdust for the floors like it’s 1860 or something, to soak up spills and puke and, occasionally, blood.

Jiang Cheng always says it’s only a matter of time before they have murder in the bar. “Manslaughter, at least,” he’ll say. “It’s just got that look.” Wei Ying says everyone in Yiling’s too tired. Mostly he and Wen Ning just roll drunks out onto the sidewalk and into a cab if someone can afford it.

Jiang Cheng himself comes in around eight. It’s as much of a rush as they ever get, so he has to wait for a few old men to get their cheap lager and gin before sliding up to the bar on his usual stool. Wen Ning gives him a cheerful salute as he comes in, and Jiang Cheng nods awkwardly back at him.

“You’re back early,” Wei Ying says, drawing him a pint of something bitter. Jiang Cheng still lives in Yunmeng, in the old family home, but he has a sublet in Yiling now that he’s working for the intelligence department. Jin Zixuan calls it “cutting his teeth” monitoring old Wen strongholds. Jiang Cheng calls it “shoveling shit.”

It turns out cleaning up a civil war is a pain in the ass, even five years later.

“We should do lunch with Wen Qing on Saturday. She’ll want to see you.”

Jiang Cheng pulls out his annoying little planner, full of his cramped handwriting and meetings with this informant and that police sergeant. “Have to be brunch, I’ve got a twelve-thirty on Saturday.”

Wei Ying snorts at him. “Brunch, in Yiling. Good luck.”

“Hangover breakfast, then.”

“That we can do.”

Jiang Cheng takes a long pull of his beer and Wei Ying can see the relief run down him from the crown of his head down over his shoulders like something hot and slippery. Oil maybe, or homemade noodles. He groans and drops his head down behind his glass.

“Hey, Wei Ying!” An arthritic hand waves at him from the other end of the bar.

“Gotcha, Riseung,” he calls and starts fishing for the kahlua and cream. It’s always at the back of the cooler; no one else ever orders it. “You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave,” he tosses back at Jiang Cheng.

“Not if you keep giving me beer.”

“Hey, Wei Ying, I saw that story last week. Hell of a thing.” Li Riseung has a little cream mustache, but Wei Ying’s not going to mention it.

“The gas thing?” Wei Ying grins at him. “Yeah, I’m telling you, it’s all connected. You watch the prices when Lanling tries to pass another referendum. It’s all supposed to soften you up. You got something for me today?”

“Still writing your conspiracy theories?” Jiang Cheng calls to him. “Some guys just don’t know when to quit.”

(Someone else comes up, he pulls a pint of stout.)

Riseung bristles. “Wei Ying is the only real journalist left in this country. You’ll see.”

Wei Ying props his chin on his folded hands and waits. Riseung takes another long sip. “Yu Xiuying’s got her popcorn maker up and running. She’s starting to sell what she can, make enough to get the theater back in order.”

“Really? That would be something. I’m sick of taking the train every time I want to see a movie.”

“You should report on that, get her some customers.”

Wei Ying drums his fingers on his chin. “Maybe we can work out an ad situation. I need more ads, you know. Papers ain’t cheap.”

Riseung finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the bar. He half-reaches for his pocket. “So, do I owe you, or . . .”

Wei Ying stifles a sigh. Technically it’s nothing he can use. He’s not about to publish an expose on popcorn. Still, he waves a hand. “Your money’s no good here. Go on, keep up the good work.”

The man grins up at him, flashing a row of silver fillings, and heads over to bother someone else.

(Another customer—rum and Coke.)

“You’re just letting people drink for free, huh?” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying wanders back over to him, taking a sip of his own drink (coffee, plus whiskey, just enough to get through the shift).

“Reporting is all about cultivating sources, Jiang Cheng, even you should know that. Li Riseung is a source.”

“A source,” Jiang Cheng mutters. “He’s a drunk.”

“So’s everyone. This whole country’s full of drunks. Drunks make the world go around.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “This city is fucking depressing.”

“Oh, and all of Lanling’s sober, is it? Yunmeng? Everybody’s living like Lans? You’d be much more pleasant with a few more of these in you.” Wei Ying grabs his pint glass and dumps the end of it out, refilling in the same smooth movement. It’s just out of spite. He shouldn’t be wasting a good few ounces of genuinely nice beer. But he can’t help it; Jiang Cheng brings it out in him. He spins and shimmies a bit to the bad pop song coming from the busted speaker above him and grabs a bin of limes to chop.

“When are you going to come home?”

Wei Ying doesn’t slip and cut himself, but it’s close.

“I live in Yiling, Jiang Cheng.”

“Yeah, for now.”

Wei Ying sighs. “I like it here, okay? You think they’d let me back in Yunmeng, after everything?”

“I’ve got influence now. They wouldn’t say anything.”

(Two lagers, shot of tequila.)

He hasn’t lived in Yunmeng in years. Almost a decade now. He was in Yunmeng at the start of everything, when Wen Ruohan was forced out of office and half the military went with him. He visits now, but there’s still that sense of before when he’s there, like the majority of his life hasn’t happened yet. But Jiang Cheng is never going to get that, he’s a linear person.

“Not saying anything isn’t the same as allowing. I’m not going to make you fight all day just so I can work at some bougie wine bar somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t have to work at a bar. You could—”

“What? Write? You think anyone anywhere is going to hire me at a paper again? Despite all the rumors, you’re not that dumb.”

“Fuck off. You could work with me.”

“Intelligence. Really? How do you think that would work out? ‘Yes, Jin Zixuan, whatever you say, Jin Zixuan—’”

“Fuck off.”

Wei Ying shakes his head and scrapes a pile of lime wedges back in the bin. “I like where I am. I’ve got the paper—”

“It’s not a paper.”

Wei Ying doesn’t slam the knife down, but it’s a close thing. “Jiang Cheng—”

“You’re such a fucking martyr. What, you lose your dream job so you go to the ass crack of the world and set yourself up as king of nowhere?”

“I’m not king of anything, I’m just writing.”

(Three glasses of white wine.)

“Yiling Laozu.” Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue. “I know you can’t use your real name, but that’s embarrassing. Laozu. You and your sources.”

Wei Ying takes a breath and unclenches his jaw. “If Wen Qing were here you wouldn’t be calling us embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassing. She’s not embarrassing.”

“It’s our paper.”

“Wen Qing has dignity. You have none.”

Wei Ying gathers up his knife and cutting board to run them back to the dish pit. “Ah, Jiang Cheng, you love me. I know you do.”

It’s always a good way to end a conversation, their own private code. If you keep pushing here you’re going to break something. A warning. You love me. I know you do. Jiang Cheng doesn't ever deny it, but he never agrees either. He doesn't need to. Wei Ying has proof. The scars on the back of his hands, curling around his wrists and up his arms—burn scars, chemical burns—are proof. Jiang Cheng doesn't like to look at his hands. That's proof too.

When he comes back out, Jiang Cheng isn’t alone. The general noise of the bar has fallen to a murmur, and the rowdy game of dominoes is paused in the corner.

Xue Yang is sprawled over two stools, dressed in shiny black leather and grinning a few inches away from Jiang Cheng’s face.

“How’s it going, Captain Jiang?”

Jiang Cheng leans away. “I don’t see you. You are not here.”

“Course not. Good boy.”

Jiang Cheng’s hand tightens around his glass, and Wei Ying picks up the pace slightly.

“Leave him alone, Xue Yang,” he says, carefully mild.

The grin turns on him, and Xue Yang waves, his weird little black prosthesis sticking out like a lighting-struck tree. “You telling me what to do, Wei Ying?”

“I would never. Here, have a drink. If you want.” He pours him a double from his own secret bottle, the one Granny gave him on a good night in the summer. It’s painfully ironic—Xue Yang would be the only person in Yiling who could afford it if he ever actually paid for it.

Wei Ying nods to him and slides the glass across the bar, along with the usual brown envelope. Jiang Cheng sighs and spins around on his stool, looking away.

“Feels light,” Xue Yang says, like always.

“It’s not,” Wei Ying says, also like always.

Xue Yang grins around the little white stick hanging out of his mouth, and Wei Ying grins back. “Eight percent extra on anything you’re short next time.”

“It’s not short. And it’s five percent, don’t try to fuck with me.” Wei Ying smiles wider and does not blink.

“Maybe it’s changed.”

“Granny would tell me, and she wouldn’t hear it from you.”

“Maybe it’s changing today.” Xue Yang leans across the bar, not quite getting in his face, but close enough. Wei Ying meets Wen Ning’s eye over his shoulder. Wen Ning takes a few steps away from the door, but Wei Ying shakes his head just a fraction and he goes still.

“You don’t have the authority.” Wei Ying lets his grin go a little unnatural at the corners, a little bit of a snarl. “And it’s not short, so it doesn’t matter.”

Xue Yang laughs and tucks the envelope into his jacket, then takes a long swig. Wei Ying breathes, finally, quiet and careful.

“Xue Yang,” he says as he starts to wipe down the bar again. “You know you wound me.”

Xue Yang wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Oh do I?”

“You know it hurts me, deep down in the soul parts of my body, to see you drink top shelf scotch with a fucking sucker in your mouth.”

Xue Yang sticks out his tongue so Wei Ying can see the little yellow nub of it. “It’s pineapple.”

“Great. Thank you. I’m going to go drink bleach now.”

Jiang Cheng half turns to glare at him. “That’s not fucking funny.”

Xue Yang chugs the rest of the scotch and tosses the empty glass at Wei Ying. He hates that it makes him flinch before he catches it. “Tell Granny I say hi.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey, where’s the little one? Haven’t seen her in a minute.”

Wei Ying stiffens. “You’ll stay away from her if you cherish the rest of those fingers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Xue Yang gives him a mocking salute and saunters back out towards the door. He’s nearly out when he knocks into an empty chair, sending it to the floor with a crack like a gunshot. No one hits the deck completely, but the held-breath silence turns into a gasp as all eyes snap to the sound, shoulders up and hands braced on tabletops, thighs tensed and ready to run.

Even Xue Yang is frozen at the door for a second. He laughs, though his jaw is tight. “Just a chair, ladies and gentlemen. Clean this shit up, Wen Ning.” And he’s gone.

Wei Ying deflates, adding some of the good scotch to his own cup. Jiang Cheng makes a face.

“How’s that coffee?”

“Shut up.”

“You should let me talk to Zixuan.”

“You talk to him every day.”

“You know what I mean. How long have you been paying—”

Wei Ying sighs and flicks his rag at his brother. “Thing one: I don’t pay, Granny pays. Thing two: Xue Yang is just a low level street thug with connections, he’s as in charge of the operation as I am in charge of Yiling. Thing three: it all kicks up to the Jins at the end of the day, so what are they gonna do about it?”

“Zixuan isn’t—”

“Yeah, I know your best pal is the paragon of morality.”

(Scotch and soda, root beer, gin and tonic, and three pints.)

“He’s our brother-in-law.”

“And your brother-in-arms, I know, I’d never dare disparage the mighty—”

“He’s a nicer brother than you are.”

Wei Ying mimes a faint. “I’m going to call Shijie, tell her you’re being mean to me.”

Jiang Cheng goes quiet, looks down at his beer. Wei Ying reaches out for it, an offering.

“Another?”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. “I shouldn’t.” A chunk of his hair comes loose from its tie, feathers across his forehead.

“When are you gonna cut that hair, huh?” Wei Ying flicks it back over his ear. Jiang Cheng swipes at his hand lazily.

“I like it like this.”

“You and Zixuan are twins now, huh? You cultivators. Does Lan Zhan still keep his long, do you think?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him in a long time. Stop it, leave it, I have it how I want it.”

Wei Ying laughs at him. “Looks good. Dignified. Hey, did you ever ask for Zidian back?”

Jiang Cheng’s face does something complicated, a little bitter. “Not gonna happen. No spiritual weapons are gonna be authorized any time soon.”

“Yeah, but it’s yours.”

“It’s not mine. It’s the government’s.”

“But it responds to you. What good does it do locked away in—”

“Leave it, Wei Ying. I know you’ve got opinions about cultivation, but I’m fucking tired and it’s not going to change anything.”

“Well, when you’re in charge. Then you’ll show ‘em.”

That does make Jiang Cheng laugh, which is satisfying.

(Two gin and tonics.)

“Hey, you’re not allowed—” Wen Ning calls from the door, followed by the tap-tap of a metal cane. Wei Ying sighs and reaches for the grenadine.

“Wei Ying, you son of a bitch.” The voice is high, reedy, and cackling. “How the hell are ya?”

“A-Qing,” Wei Ying calls mildly. “You can’t be here.”

“Where is here?” she yells, as always. “How am I supposed to know that? Can’t you tell I’m blind?”

“Get out of my bar.”

“Discrimination!” She makes her way across the room, purposely bumping into every occupied table on her way over, just to slosh beer onto the floor.

“You’re fourteen.” He has her cherry soda on the bar by the time she hops up on the stool next to Jiang Cheng, ignoring him entirely.

“And how do you know that, creepy old man?”

“You made me get you a cake for your birthday, you goblin.”

“Who’s this guy?” She takes a long slurping suck from her straw.

“My didi.”

“You—!” Jiang Cheng hates it, which is the only reason Wei Ying says it.

“Ooh, the famous Jiang Cheng. I bet he looks real grumpy.”

“Yep.”

Jiang Cheng flips him off. He grins and goes back to wiping down the drain.

“He just flipped you off, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.” She finishes her drink and slams the glass down. “Double vodka please.”

“Nope.”

“I drink vodka all the time.”

“Don’t care. I’m not getting fired over your sorry ass. Go drink at home.”

“I’m not allowed vodka at the home.”

“And you’re not allowed here either.” He drops the rag back into the sanitizer and leans his elbows on the bar. “Now, are you here with something interesting or just to pester me?”

Jiang Cheng looks like he’s about to interject, but Wei Ying waves him off.

“I can multitask,” A-Qing says before pushing her glass back across the bar. “More sugar first.”

“Diabetes on the rocks, yes madam.”

She takes a long slurping pull, and he folds his arms, waiting.

“Got a new TV at the home. Real big one.”

“A-Qing, I’m waiting.”

Jiang Cheng squints at her. “How do you know how big the TV is?”

“I just know, okay. Anyway. One of the older kids got it. Bought it himself.”

“Yeah, right,” Wei Ying says. He needs to challenge her if she’s going to give him the whole story. If he seems too interested she’ll draw it out just to fuck with him.

“He did. Wen Changming.”

“A Wen?” Jiang Cheng asks.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Lots of Wens in the children’s home. I wonder why.”

Jiang Cheng makes a sour face at him.

“He’s got cash to burn, suddenly. Pockets full.”

“Gee, I wonder how you found that out.”

A-Qing grins at him. “He’s not gonna miss it. He’s in the club now.”

“The club?”

“You know, the club. What do you call it? Do crimes, get money.”

“Mob? Syndicate? Criminal organization?” Jiang Cheng offers.

“So they’re recruiting at the home, that’s what you’re telling me? Is it Xue Yang?”

A-Qing blows bubbles in her soda. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Must be desperate.”

“You do the same thing.”

“I do not.”

She holds out a hand. He sighs and passes over a couple of bills.

“You staying there tonight?” he asks, all casual.

“Maybe. The girls are annoying. Should be nice outside.”

“Starting to get cold.”

“Not really. Only if you’re a pussy.”

“You call me if you need to crash. Here.” He drops a couple of coins in front of her. “I’ll be home after midnight.”

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, pocketing the change. She gives a little salute and hops off her stool. “So long, Wen Ning!” she shouts, walking right at him and making him hop out of the way.

She’s not really blind, of course. Wei Ying’s never brought it up—he knows, but he’s not sure she knows that he knows. One of the nights she crashed at his apartment, months ago, he caught her reading through one of his binders of old clippings—‘91, back before the start of the war, when he was still in Gusu. It kind of kills him, because he wants to ask her what she thought of them. What she remembers from back then, if there’s anything. But they don’t talk about anything serious, not if they can help it.

“Please tell me you don’t have a teenage girl staying at your place,” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying gives him a great sigh and grabs his rag again.

“Only when she's got no other place to go. Oh, I have a futon now! You’d see it if you ever came over.”

“Wow, great, you're thirty years old and you have a secondhand futon. Mother would be so proud.”

“I didn't say it was secondhand.”

“Wei Ying, trust me, you do not need to.”

(Four pints.)

Wei Ying makes a face at him. “So mean.”

“It’s weird that she stays with you.”

Wei Wuxian sighs again. “Jiang Cheng.”

“It is. It’s weird.”

“If it’s a bad night at the home then she sleeps outside. I don’t like her sleeping outside, so she stays with me. When she’s not being ornery.”

“She’s a teenage girl.”

“She’s a baby.”

“Not your baby. Why would she sleep outside anyway? Yiling sucks.”

“The home sucks. Look, it’s an orphan thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jiang Cheng pouts. “Hey, I’m an orphan.”

“No you’re not, you’re a grown up.”

(Whiskey, neat.)

“You’re a grownup. My parents are dead; I’m an orphan.”

“Then everyone’s a fucking orphan in this country. The word’s lost all meaning. From now on, if your parents were alive when you were ten, you’re not an orphan. Find a new word, leave ours alone.”

“You’re such a jackass.”

“Jackass! Yes, that’s a good word.”

Jiang Cheng sighs and gets off his stool. He tosses cash down on the bar, though Wei Ying tries to wave him off.

“Oh, you’re going to want to get a flag up in here,” he says, off-hand as he turns to go.

Wei Ying freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Coming down from on high, it’s going to be a new ordinance. To keep the liquor license.”

“The fuck does a flag have to do with our liquor license?”

Jiang Cheng holds up his hands. “I’m just the messenger.”

“I’m not letting the Sunshot flag through these doors.”

Jiang Cheng turns back to him, serious. “Look, I know you have your own . . . feelings—”

“Feelings?” he almost spits, spreading his hands out on the bar.

Jiang Cheng winces and does not look at them. “You have your reasons, I’m not arguing that. But Yiling’s a part of the Republic and people need to get used to it. You don’t have to like it, but your district rep is going to announce the policy in the next week, and I don’t want to see you— Don’t go out of your way to make life difficult, all right? It’s hard enough already.”

Wei Ying says nothing, just leans back and watches the rag twist and untwist between his hands.

“See you Saturday,” Jiang Cheng offers, hesitates, then leaves.

Wei Ying will close up. They close early, still, kick everyone out before midnight. Old habits. He’ll go home and work on his column, the one corner of the paper Wen Qing leaves for whatever he wants. (Literally, the column is called “Whatever.”) Maybe A-Qing will find a pay phone and call him, if she hasn’t spent or hidden the change, or maybe she’ll just show up and lean on the buzzer until he lets her in. He’ll sleep better, if she’s there. He was never meant to live alone.

And he’ll wake up tomorrow, and try to do it all again.

Part Two

#the untamed #cql #assorted writings #pick up every piece

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casual-eumetazoa · 4 years

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thanks for the prompt @confused-android ! oof, took me longer to write this than i thought (or actually it took me like an hour but i postponed it till my exams were almost over). first - the word “enthralled”? i vibe with it. second - this kinda turned into a vaguely brotzly piece with some autism acceptance on the side, hope that’s okay. third… hope you like this! so here goes

———————

The Case of the Stolen Flower Basket (as dubbed, unofficially, by Dirk) started out on a more relaxed note than most of their cases: in a flowershop, with a stolen basket. A basket, mind you, that was stolen in broad daylight from a closed room, under mysterious circumstances.

It also started with Dirk ending up in a flowershop, accidentally, while he was trying to find an ice-cream place. And it wasn’t even a case then, as much as Dirk’s brief but intense obsession with closed room mysteries, but I digress.

Point is, a basket was missing, a basket thief was at large, and the holistic crew of the holistic detective agency found themselves in a huge abandoned storing space, following up on a “lead”. Todd, Dirk and Farah walked the damp bleak corridors, opening any block that seemed suspicious. Most of them did, and most contained a truly bizarre collection of items.

One was filled up entirely with broken IKEA furniture. One was stuffed to the brim with an assortment of left shoes. And, perhaps most unsettling, one consisted of nothing but headless dolls of various shapes and sizes, along with some disfigured plush animals.

-What the hell was this place? – Todd wondered, prying open yet another door.

Behind it was an empty space, containing exactly one chair with exactly one empty jar perched on the edge of its seat.

-The warehouse of a profoundly odd collector. – Dirk proclaimed. – He… had an excess of money, and wanted to collect things, but the normal things people collect like stamps or candy wrappers were too boring for him, so he did this instead.

-Found anything important? – Farah’s voice echoed against the crumbling walls.

-Yes! – Dirk yelled back.

-No. – Todd corrected, then turned back to Dirk. – An eccentric collector then huh? – Evidently, he had decided to entertain Dirk’s guess. – What about this one then?

He pointed at the nearest door and immediately proceeded to kick it down. It was meant to be a slight push, but instead the door caved in completely, slipping off its hinges and crashing against the floor with a deafening metal rumble.

-Sorry! – Todd bit his lip.

He saw Dirk wince and then almost shrivel up at the sound, arms pulled suddenly towards his chest, as if trying to protect himself from the noise.

Noises. Dirk did not do well with them. And Todd knew that all too well.

-Sorry. – He repeated. – I didn’t mean to do… that.

-It’s fine. – Dirk mumbled, trying his best to shake off the feeling and get back into investigative mood. – What’s in it then?

They stepped over the dilapidated door and into the tight storage space. Inside it were a few pieces of old furniture, half a dozen sealed boxes, at least a whole heap of sawdust, and…

-Todd! – Dirk really did try to tone down the enthusiasm, but alas. – Look!

First, Todd noticed Dirk’s flapping arms, and the smile on his face, and felt his own lips stretch into a grin. Only then he turned to check what was in there, and realized that the wall of the storage space was lined up with various musical instruments. Guitars, mostly; electric, acoustic, even toy ones…

-It’s your thing! – Dirk beamed.

-Yeah. – Todd agreed. – It’s my thing.

He approached the wall and picked up one of the guitars.

-It’s expensive. – He declared, and checked the instrument for any signs of wear and tear. – And new. Damn. – He went slowly through the collection. – Well, these aren’t the very top of the chain, but they’re fancier than I used to have.

He took one of the electric guitars – a slick, bright red beauty – and held it gently in his hands. He hadn’t played guitar since he bashed his last one against the wall of the Ridgley building… that happened less than a year prior, and yet it seemed a lifetime away.

-Can we take some? – Dirk asked, then, not waiting for a reply, picked out one of the guitars at random. – They’re no-ones so it doesn’t count as stealing.

-I guess I could take one or two. – Todd agreed. – They’re as good as thrown out at this point. No use for them collecting dust in here.

-Where the hell are you two? – Farah’s voice chimed through the corridor.

-Over here! – Dirk shouted back.

-Ugh. – Todd muttered. – I have to pick now. Wait. Actually… - He looked at the guitar he had in his hands, then the one Dirk was still holding, and smiled with the corner of his mouth. – Those two are good. Let’s go.

-Guys. – Farah nearly avoided a collision with the broken door as she entered the storage space. – You should see this. Now. – She paused. – I think I found a skeleton.

The guitars were then stashed in the corner, and waited patiently for their new owner to crawl on all fours into a basement, poke some human bones with a stick, and emerge – dusty, exhausted, and deeply confused.

The evening was slow and peaceful. While Farah was busy making phone calls and trying to arrange for someone to examine, discretely and unofficially, a mysterious unidentified skeleton, Todd and Dirk stayed in Todd’s apartment. Or, rather, at the apartment that used to be Todd’s. He didn’t remember the last time he had a dinner there, and besides, Dirk spent more nights than not in the guest bedroom, so it was really their apartment.

-Do you have any ideas about how the basket connects to the skeleton yet? – Todd asked, placing two cups of tea on the table.

He didn’t have to ask Dirk what he wanted; he knew his (rather narrow) range of food and drink preferences by heart.

-Not a clue. – Dirk admitted, and raised his gaze to the ceiling, staring attentively at some smudge. – I think we should go to Claire’s house.

-Why the owner’s house? – Todd asked.

-Feels relevant. – Dirk shrugged, eyes still focused on the smudge. – Oh. – He turned in his seat suddenly. – The guitars! Can you play for me?

Todd sighed. He anticipated this happening.

-Well, - he said, - I can’t play the electric one cause you need equipment for it and we didn’t steal any, and I haven’t played an acoustic guitar in like two years, but…

-I don’t care if it’s not your best or some equally stupid excuse. – Dirk interrupted him. – You know I’ll be impressed no matter what.

Todd laughed shortly, and nodded. It was true – Dirk was impressed and excited by seemingly everything, from the fluffy blanket assortment at Walmart (he had to touch every. single. one.) to the Sacred Wisdom shared with him by Todd that the number on the package of pasta tells you how long it will take to cook it. Dirk was also somehow oblivious to his own talents, insisting that connecting eleven entirely unrelated pieces of information into a complete narrative was “simple” and “obvious”.

-Fine. – Todd caved in, and got up to fetch the acoustic guitar. – But I probably won’t know the cords of the songs you like.

Considering that Dirk mostly listened to obscure European rock music, 80s pop, and Disney soundtracks, it was hardly surprising.

-Not tuned at all, probably. – Todd, the guitar now in hands, returned to his seat and gave the strings a test stroke. – Yep. – He nodded. – Gimme a few minutes.

He tuned the guitar as best as he could, and tapped his fingers on the table, trying to decide what to play. Dirk had watched him with curiosity and was now sipping his tea, waiting for the music to start. Todd paused, took a deep breath in, and began to play the first song that he was sure he remembered – “Behind Blue Eyes”.

The music flowed; Todd focused on the movement of his fingers, on the vibration of the string, and the metal at his fingertips. He sang the words softly, almost as an afterthought. He had forgotten how good it felt to make music happen. The song was in the air, brought to life by the motion of his hands, and the night was young, and he was lost in the moment. He skipped the electric guitar solo and went straight to the final reprise of the chorus.

Then the music stopped, and silence fell on his shoulders. He kept quiet, not saying anything, waiting for Dirk to react. That is when Todd realized that Dirk wasn’t talking – and Dirk was always talking. He talked over movies, and news on the TV, and shop assistants and, on one memorable occasion, over a talking parrot. It’s not that he was rude - it’s just that his head was so full of words, constantly, that they had to be let out.

But Dirk wasn’t talking now. Now he simply sat in his place, eyes transfixed on Todd’s hands, blinking.

-Are you okay? – Todd asked.

There was a pause.

-Mmm? – Dirk blinked faster and looked up, meeting Todd’s gaze, startled slightly, as if waking up from a pleasant dream. – Yes. Yes of course I’m okay.

-You kinda zoned out a little bit.

-I did?

-Yeah.

-You play really good music. – Dirk smiled softly.

-Thanks. – Todd smiled back.

-It’s nice to not be… attacked by sound for a change. – Dirk added. – Can you… keep, playing, please?

-Sure. – Todd replied. -I mean, I don’t remember that many songs, and…

He remembered enough songs for a whole mini-at-home concert.

It doesn’t end there.

Together, they spend many an evening consumed by music, music brought to life by Todd, for Dirk, specifically for Dirk, and for him only. Todd plays everything – every song he has ever loved, acoustic versions of Mexican Funeral pieces, approximate renditions of whatever is on the radio these days…

Dirk makes requests. Todd googles guitar tabs and practices while Dirk is still asleep, in the ungodly early hours of the morning, sitting on the windowsill of the apartment block while people leave for first shifts at work. He has performed in front of huge crowds, and music journalists, and many girls (and guys…) he was trying to impress – but nothing has ever felt as personal, crucial, tender, as playing for Dirk.

The skeleton is identified, and the stolen basket is discovered. The convoluted twists and turns of the story, which involves a near-extinct flower, a 77-year-old Russian spy and an actual African prince, come to their natural close. The excitement and danger are over, if only for a brief respite, and peace is restored. A new case will arrive soon enough… but until then, they have their tiny apartment, and Todd has his guitars, and music lingers in the air, and Dirk is enthralled with the music, still and speechless in his seat.

They look at each other, and they understand each other precisely, and, for once in his life, Dirk has no words, and needs no words, and wants nothing else but to listen. God knows, his life is never safe or simple, but now Todd is here, and the world is really not that bad, and he is happy.

The Earth continues to spin. New bizarre, perplexing and astonishing things will happen. Songs will be played, and words will be said in time. Maybe, in part at least, because someone ran, and never looked back, and left behind all their belongings, even their very expensive guitars…

Sometimes – most of the times – the Universe wants them to help it. But, on this occasion, it is gracious enough to help them in return.

#dghda #dirk gently's holistic detective agency #dirk gently #brotzly #autistic!dirk #actuallyautistic #dghda fanfic #paradox nerd post

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dreammthief · 4 years

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dig a little deeper

tagged by @gcralts and @quaffled thank u both ily 💕

1. do you prefer writing with a black pen or a blue pen? black

2. would you prefer to live in the country or in the city? oh 100% city

3. if you could learn a new skill, what would it be? I always wanted to learn how to tumble/gymnastics so that would be cool but my eighty-year-old knees could never

4. do you drink your tea/coffee with sugar? tea never, coffee always

5. what was your favorite book as a child? I always loved series so i primarily went from magic treehouse to percy jackson and harry potter

6. do you prefer baths or showers? showers regularly, but baths for relaxing with wine and a book

7. if you could be a mythical creature, which one would you be? sksksksk if not a dragon, then definitely a faerie

8. paper or electronic books? paper or not at all

9. what is your favorite item of clothing? my two, very oversized crewneck sweaters they’re ariana grande merch shut up I know

10. do you like your name? would you like to change it? i like it enough not to change it, but sometimes I wonder if I would have preferred my “almost name”, victoria

11. who is a mentor to you? my mom??? I mean I literally cannot make a decision without calling her so

12. would you like to be famous? if so, what for? it’s my dream to publish a book one day and of course i’d want it to do well, so, yes, i’d like to be famous for that (copying this verbatim from wik because we’re the same person but what else is new)

13. are you a restless sleeper? oh god no I don’t move at all but it does take me fuckn forever to actually fall asleep

14. do you consider yourself to be a romantic person? i am... so soft, yes

15. which element best represents you? fireeee

16. who do you want to be closer to? this is probably not what this question is asking for but i wish my good friends on here lived closer to me (or at least on the same continent) so i could see them irl (im copying again its too good also ily)

17. do you miss someone at the moment? literally everyone back home that I moved away from, especially my mom :(

18. tell us about an early childhood memory. i don’t know how I remember this but my mom has assured me its real, but when I was eighteen months old (I swore in the memory I was like seven hahahha nope) I thought I saw my nana so I waved at her and got my arm caught in the train door of the london underground and had to be rushed to the ER and my parents missed our flight back to the states ooooops also my nana was 1000% not there at all

19. what is the strangest thing you have eaten? probably some various form of bug on a dare from my brothers whenever we went camping

20. what are you most thankful for? my friends, family, and my resilience? like I keep finding myself leaning back into depression and constantly fight to stay out of that dark place

21. do you like spicy food? yessssss

22. have you ever met someone famous? uhhhh no? no one comes to mind

23. do you keep a diary or journal? no but I really, really should

24. do you prefer to use pen or pencil? pen, unless its math math then pencil

25. what is your star sign? libra

26. do you like your cereal crunchy or soggy? if my jaw doesn’t ache after eating it I don’t want it

27. what would you want your legacy to be? i want to save lives and leave people better, more hopeful, and happier than when I found them

28. do you like reading? what was the last book you read? god yes, and red white and royal blue which wrecked me

29. how do you show someone you love them? i like to spend time with them and I like to know them, as well as let them know me

30. do you like ice in your drinks? its nice but not a necessity

31. what are you afraid of? losing a loved one, forever being alone alone, and not being good enough

32. what is your favorite scent? sawdust, sandalwood, pine, and literally anything “manly”

33. do you address older people by their name or surname? mostly first name I think?? I can’t think of an instance where I wasn’t familiar enough with them not to use it

34. if money was not a factor, how would you live your life? bitch I would travel the earth until I died

35. do you prefer swimming in pools or the ocean? por que no los dos??

36. what would you do if you found $50 in the ground? i mean if I didn’t see anyone drop it or anything, then I would probably keep it and pay it forward somewhere

37. have you ever seen a shooting star? did you make a wish? yes and no

38. what is one thing you would want to teach your children? *nieces/nephews, and to be independent, clever and funny lol

39. if you had to have a tattoo, what would it be and where would you get it? I have several, but the next one I want is inspired by a drawing called self love by frederic forest and on the back of my elbow if that makes sense

40. what can you hear now? a storm, rain pelting on the window

41. where do you feel the safest? surrounded by my friends and family, doesn’t matter where

42. what is one thing you want to overcome/conquer? being more open about my past trauma

43. if you could travel back to any era, what would it be? god, it would be horrible as far as how far we’ve come in so many aspects of life, but I’ve always been interested to know how it would be to live in the 15th/16th century

44. what is your most used emoji? 😂 + 😭 + 🥺

45. describe yourself using one word. resilient

46. what do you regret the most? trusting certain people

47. last movie you saw? the half of It

48. last tv show you watched? sex education

49. invent a word and its meaning veration - (noun) extreme happiness for fictional characters or ships that causes a real, physical response; ex: kate’s veration over pynch deepened when she realized they were canon.

tagging: some new mutuals @ughdraco @chlamets @fleurdlacour @avilareyna @henriettia @eorwyn @ivashkov + anyone else who wants to (also feel free to ignore this)

#love u guys again #wik tag #libby tag #mutuals #abt

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phoenixfeatherquill · 4 years

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Endgame (2/10)

Chapter 1

It was like something out of a movie. Mai Valentine stood in their doorway. As usual, she was dressed to the nines—tall knee high boots, leather jacket, a corset. It was drizzling outside but her long blonde hair remained voluminous. Her cheeks were wet, but whether it was tears or rain, Serenity couldn’t say.

Joey seemed to be at a loss for words. Serenity couldn’t blame him. Since Joey and Mai had separated, he hadn’t heard from her at all—no letters, no phone calls, nothing. And she knew Joey worried for her and quietly Googled for any kind of mention of her in the dueling world.

But here Mai was, back in Domino City…staring at her brother with a kind of yearning and sadness that broke Serenity’s heart.

“Come out of the rain,” Serenity requested. She pushed past her brother and took Mai’s arm, gently leading her inside the apartment. She grabbed her brother’s arm too and led them both to the breakfast table.

“Here,” She poured Mai a cup of coffee. “Oh, Mai, you’re soaked through. Give me your jacket. I’m going to bring you a blanket.”

Watching his younger sister fuss over Mai seemed to shake Joey out of his stupor, but only slightly. He poured himself a cup of coffee as well and turned off the stove. Mai watched him and cleared her throat a few times. She couldn’t seem to say anything to him though and eventually she resorted to staring at her coffee.

Serenity returned from her bedroom and wrapped a thick quilt around Mai’s bare shoulders. She glanced up at her.

“Thank you, Serenity,” Her voice was low. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You as well,” Serenity smiled. Joey realized with a jolt that his sister had her jacket.

“Um—where—where are you going?” His voice became strangely high-pitched.

“Just going to go out for a little bit,” Serenity said pleasantly. “I’ll be back soon. Mai, Joey made a fantastic breakfast. Have some pancakes. Drink more coffee, it will warm you up.”

Before Joey could protest, she quickly exited their apartment.

It wasn’t raining very hard. Mai must have been standing outside their door for quite a while to be as drenched as she was. Serenity shivered a little and belted her pink jacket tightly. Now that she was out of the apartment, she wasn’t really sure where to head to next. The grocery shopping was finished and she didn’t have classes on the weekends.

She texted Tea to see if she wanted to go shopping or get brunch. Tea replied quickly and told her regretfully that she was tied up helping Yugi all day. His grandfather was expanding their little shop and they would be moving boxes for hours.

Serenity thought about offering to help but ultimately decided against it. She considered her other options and ruefully wished Duke and Tristan didn’t have designs on her—it would’ve been nice just to hang out with some friends.

It was with utter aimlessness that she ended up at Kaibaland.

She blamed happenstance and the article she read in the paper. She did not particularly want to run into Seto Kaiba after she humiliated him over a game of chess. Joey would’ve wanted to gloat, Serenity just wanted to forget the event. Chess, as much as she loved it, brought back painful memories…

Still, it was unlikely Kaiba would be physically at Kaibaland. From what she understood, he ran things remotely from the KaibaCorp Tower. That was where his office was.

She could at least get out of the rain.

There was the demonstration that she’d read about, specifically catered to novice duelists and children. According to the signs, it was a “League Day”—promoted to those that wanted to learn Duel Monsters.

Serenity considered. She had always wanted to learn Duel Monsters…really learn. On her own terms, not with the fate of the world or someone’s soul or whatever else. Just as a fun game.

She went to the entry registration computer and put in her name.

XXXX

“Seto? Are you okay?”

Kaiba didn’t answer his little brother. He was examining one of the older hologram arena models, measuring the dimensions. It was probably time to upgrade these bulky arenas—nowadays, everyone had a duel disk system which made these arenas obsolete.

Mokuba, who’d followed his older brother to Kaibaland, sighed impatiently. “Seto, c’mon. You’ve barely talked to me since yesterday. Are you still upset about what happened?”

Kaiba glanced at him. “What’s to be upset about?”

Mokuba fidgeted. “The last time you lost a game to someone you disappeared off the face of the earth and I got kidnapped by Pegasus. So sue me if I’m a little anxious about how you’re taking this.”

Kaiba exhaled slowly. “I’m not going anywhere, Mokuba. What do you think about getting rid of these arenas?”

Mokuba did not look convinced but he sighed in resignation. “I like the old arenas, Seto. Not everyone can afford duel disk systems. Keeping these here as an affordable option allows more people to have access to our technology, even on a limited basis.”

Kaiba considered this point. He typed something on a mobile tablet and stood up from the arena. The two of them walked wordlessly out of the little arena down the halls of Kaibaland.

“Seto, seriously. Can we talk about what happened?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Kaiba ignored the astonished younger duelists who stopped and pointed at him. “We should at least upgrade the arenas. They’re so outdated, they’re an eyesore.”

“Okay, whatever,” Mokuba rolled his eyes as they passed through the lobby. “Distract yourself with work. That always works out well for…”

Mokuba stopped short. Seto realized his younger brother had paused in step and impatiently turned around to see what on earth he was looking at.

There were always duels going on in the atrium—some with duel disks, others seated at tables with KaibaCorp tutors reviewing and offering tips and hints. Towards the far end of the atrium, there was a kid playing at one of those tables with an older girl. He crowed in victory and Kaiba rolled his eyes at the kid…until he realized the losing opponent was Serenity Wheeler.

What was she doing here?!”

Mokuba glanced nervously at Kaiba. Kaiba stared at her for a long moment and his younger brother realized the expression on his face—Seto was offended.

Ignoring the gasps from the other duelists, he marched over across the room towards the small table.

“You lost! Ha ha! I beat a grown-up!” The kid was shouting triumphantly. Kaiba expected Serenity to be upset but instead she looked amused.

“Great job! Guess I have a lot to learn…” The two of them paused and the kid squeaked. Serenity blinked at Kaiba as he towered over them.

There was a moment of silence and Serenity opened her mouth to speak. But before she could, Kaiba spat out:

“I thought you didn’t play Duel Monsters.”

Serenity’s mouth twitched and she cleared her throat. “I don’t. That’s why I signed up for a novice demonstration…to learn.”

She smiled at her opponent, who was openly gaping at Kaiba, his mouth wide open. “And why Yuki here beat me soundly.”

Her pleasure at losing confused all parties around her. Mokuba cleared his throat and picked up her deck curiously. “Is this yours?”

“No, I rented it from one of your stalls.”

Kaiba openly snorted as he looked over his brother’s shoulder. The deck was the most basic of strategies, with no personality to any of her cards. A true duelist selected cards that matched their personality and strategy. In fact, Kaiba never really liked the stalls in Kaibaland that allowed duelists to rent or purchase pre-made decks, but Mokuba insisted this helped the younger demographic, who had no idea how to build a proper deck.

“Not very good,” Mokuba admitted to her and Serenity laughed. “You should build your own—I’m sure Yugi or Joey would help you.”

Kaiba rolled his eyes and Serenity chuckled.

“Yugi and Tea are completely revamping and restoring his grandpa’s shop—they’ve been covered in sawdust for the past month. I hate to interrupt them for something like this, just because I’m curious about learning. I was actually planning on asking Joey to teach me, but…well, he’s a little busy this morning.”

“You wanted Wheeler to teach you?” Kaiba said in utter disgust.

Serenity frowned at him. “Joey is an excellent duelist. And a very good teacher.”

Kaiba snorted audibly. She stood up angrily and Mokuba cautiously stepped in between the two, in case the other Wheeler lost her temper.

“Just because you refuse to acknowledge it, doesn’t make it any less true,” Serenity spat. “He’s ranked in the top ten of every competition in the last five years—but what gets me is you know this. You saw how good he was in your own tournament! You just refuse to admit it, because you’re as stubborn as he is!”

Kaiba glared at her. The stare was devastating; a more nervous person would have quailed before it, but Serenity stood her ground. Mokuba blinked anxiously between them.

Finally, Kaiba spoke. And he said something that surprised Serenity.

“Come with me.”

Before waiting for her answer, he turned around rapidly and strode forward. Serenity crossed her arms defiantly—did he really expect her to follow him after he insulted her brother that way?

But Mokuba seemed as surprised as she was. He looked at her and gestured for her to follow him. She thought it might be satisfying to refuse and tramp out of Kaibaland, but…the truth was, she wanted to satisfy her curiosity more. With a sigh, she nodded at Mokuba and followed Kaiba.

XXXX

“Um…Seto, where are we going?”

It was Mokuba who asked the tentative question. Kaiba had not looked at either of them in the eye and Serenity was to the point of wondering if his directive had been a slip of the tongue and she was just stalking him around the building. At least Mokuba was equally bewildered.

After two or three elevator rides, they arrived in Kaiba’s office--the Kaibaland office. Did he want a chess rematch? Serenity would have to turn him down on that front; chess brought back painful memories and she only played herself or for very special occasions. Irritating Kaiba was not one of them.

But he did not demand she take out her chessboard. Instead, he went to his desk, took a seat, and started rummaging through his drawers.

Serenity looked at Mokuba for explanation, but he just shrugged at her.

Kaiba’s head snapped up. “Where’s your deck?”

She blinked and slowly offered him the rented deck.

“Not that one,” He fairly snarled. “The other one. You used one in the virtual world, didn’t you?”

Ugh, she’d almost effectively blocked that misadventure out. Tristan had gotten turned into a robot monkey, she’d revealed to some of the best duelists in the world that she chose her personal deck based on which cards were cute, and they’d all nearly gotten stuck in the virtual world for good.

She knew her deck was poorly made, which was why she’d chosen to rent a deck for that day. Why did Kaiba want it?

“Did you leave it at home?” Kaiba accused in a tone that suggested she might have committed murder while she was at it.

“No,” Serenity scowled. She dug through her messenger bag and pulled out her deck. She handed it to Kaiba.

He flipped through it so rapidly she was shocked that he could even see what was in her deck, let alone assess it. He tossed a few of her cards on his desk—St. Joan the Forgiving Maiden, Goddess with the Third Eye—and continued to rummage through his deck, mixing more cards with hers.

“Seto?” Mokuba was staring at his brother in utter astonishment.

Kaiba ignored him. He was in deep concentration. At one point, he even left his desk, crossed the room to a large safe, unlocked it, and pulled out a few more cards.

Serenity’s mind swam. Was he…he couldn’t be building her a deck, could he?

She looked at the desk. Archlord Marie, Archlord Krystia…Archlord Lucifer?! She hadn’t even heard of these monsters…but they were beautiful, that was for certain.

After about twenty minutes of Mokuba and Serenity staring at Kaiba while he flicked through cards, discarded most of her deck and replaced it with other cards, he finally finished. He shuffled them rapidly together and looked sharply at Serenity.

“Here.”

Serenity looked at Mokuba for confirmation. He shrugged. Slowly, she reached out and took the deck from Kaiba.

“You’re not going to learn how to use this deck from Wheeler,” Kaiba informed her coldly.

She didn’t know the game well enough to ascertain whether that was true or not. She looked at the deck in her hand and tried to figure out something to say. Kaiba was looking at his phone, at what appeared to be a calendar.

“Next Friday,” He said finally.

“Excuse me?” Serenity blinked.

“Next Friday. 6:30PM. Bring the deck. You can go now.”

After a long moment, Serenity looked at Mokuba, who gave her another helpless shrug. It was clear that as close as the brothers were, the younger Kaiba had no idea what on earth was going on. Bewildered, she allowed Mokuba to lead her to the elevators to take her to the lobby.

XXXX

When Mokuba safely escorted Serenity to the lobby, he immediately turned on his heel and returned to his brother’s office. Seto was standing at the tall windows, staring out with a somewhat blank expression.

“What the hell was that?!” Mokuba demanded.

Seto looked at him and didn’t answer.

“You’re giving her Duel Monsters lessons? Seriously? Why?!”

The elder Kaiba didn’t reply. It was possible he didn’t know the answer.

#Yu Gi Oh!#Silentshipping #Serenity x Kaiba

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imaginepirates · 5 years

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Flirt

For @mrswilliamturner, who wanted a drabble about Will trying to flirt with you. He goes to Jack for advice... and we can all imagine how that turns out.

@tesserphantom @bonjour-frens @ilikebritsandbands

~2650 words

~~~~~~~

The week had been a rough one, and you were looking forward to the weekend. It would give you a well-deserved break from things. To start it out, you decided to eat a little, relax, and watch a favorite movie of yours. You didn't bother actually making anything for dinner, you just popped something in the microwave.

You settled down on the couch, pulling a blanket over yourself to keep warm. Cozy, you turned on your television, having already put the movie in. You let yourself eat and mindlessly watch the movie. You pretty much knew it by heart.

You must have been tired; you fell asleep in the middle of watching it. When you woke up, you were disoriented. There were muffled sounds around you, but you couldn't quite tell where you were. It occurred to you that while you should be on your couch, you were not.

You panicked. Your body protested, but you pushed yourself up into a sitting position. You most definitely weren't at home. You looked about, and noticed that you were laying on someone's bed. There was a tiny window that let a sliver of light into the barren room. You couldn't make out much but the cramped, unpainted walls.

It also crossed your mind that you were not in the same clothes you'd been wearing earlier. You were in some sort of brown dress with what looked to be an apron in the front.

There was the sound of metal hitting metal nearby. Dust floated through the room, and you stared blankly at it while listening to the loud noise. What to think of it, you didn't know. You concentrated on keeping calm.

There was no mirror, and only one doorway. You wanted to see for yourself how you looked; what had changed about you? Were just your clothes different?

It felt like some sort of dream, except that dreams weren't so vivid. You could feel the heat of the sun through the window, smell sawdust, and see everything in perfect clarity. Not to mention, the muffled noise reminded you that you should be checking things out.

A voice inside your head told you it was dangerous to step outside the room. What if you'd been kidnapped? It was unlikely, but possible. The other people, wherever they were, might not be nice or willing to help you.

Cautiously, you got up and opened the door. Outside was a narrow hall ending in some stairs. Everything was quite cramped, and your head nearly touched the ceiling.

The stairs creaked when you stepped on them. Whoever was downstairs couldn't hear you; the noise they were making was too loud. You didn't know what to expect, and it scared you.

You reached the bottom few steps. Peaking out, you watched a man hitting a hammer against what you assumed to be an anvil. He had his back to you and showed no signs of turning around. You didn't suppose you could sneak out of the establishment without his noticing, so you stayed where you were, watching.

You observed in silence until he turned, wiping sweat from his brow. He saw you then, but didn't immediately approach you. First, he took off his gear. He pushed back the hair falling into his eyes with a hand.

You recognized him at one. How could you not? It's Will Turner!

"Where am I?" You asked timidly. You weren't sure you wanted to know the answer.

"The Blacksmith Shop on King Street. I found you earlier last night. You were knocked out cold, so I brought you here. Sorry, I didn't know where else to take you." He scratched at the back of his neck.

"Thank you." You looked around, taking in all of the shop that you could. It really did look like something out of a history book. Golden rays filtered through gaps in the wood.

"Is there somewhere I could take you?" He asked. "A home?"

You hesitated before answering. You couldn't just tell him you were from an entirely different world. "I… can't seem to remember. I think I must've hit my head," you lied. "Can I stay here until I can remember where I'm supposed to be?"

"Of- of course," he stuttered. "I'll make room for you."

"I don't want to be of any trouble."

"You aren't, I promise."

"Thank you."

The door opened, and an old, fat man entered. You remembered him as the owner of the establishment, not that he did any work. He collapsed in a chair just feet from the entrance, reeking of alcohol.

Will gave him a disgusted look. "I never told you my name. It's William, but please, just call me Will."

You nodded. "Y/N."

~~~

Will had been instantly smitten. From the moment he laid your sleeping form on his bed, you were the object of his fascination. There was something about how the warm light haloed your face, and how you'd stared at him with wide eyes.

He wanted you to like him. Badly. He wasn't the best at starting conversations, nor did he possess skill in the way of charisma, but he knew a man who did.

Against his better judgment, Will decided to ask Jack for advice. He'd done this in the many hours you'd spent asleep. The pirate was currently hiding out in a seemingly abandoned little shack that had once belonged to a friend of his. He claimed she was a witch. Upon reflection, he claimed a lot of things.

Will knew better than to ask the pirate for advice. Unfortunately, it was the only place he could get it.

"William! What a surprise." Jack was sitting on a stool, restlessly tapping his toe when Will arrived. "What can I do for you?"

"Jack! Are you drunk or sober? I can't tell. I need some advice." Asking for advice was easy enough; asking for the specific piece of advice he needed would be the tricky part.

"It doesn't matter, mate. I'll always advise you the same."

"Right." Will didn't believe it for two seconds. "You know about women," he said sheepishly.

Jack twirled his mustache. "Women, eh?" He sauntered towards Will, who was beginning to regret his decision. "Just what is it you want to know about women?"

"Well- I- um…" Will spluttered. "How to get them to like me?"

"So you have found a girl in want of wooing."

"I'm not sure she is. That's why I came here."

Jack held up both hands, poking Will's chest with a couple of fingers. "You're in the right place."

Am I? Will waited. No doubt Jack would have a dramatic performance to give on how he should flirt. The word alone made him feel lost. He hadn't flirted with anyone before. Needless to say, he wished he had some practice.

"First lesson: they need a reason to think about you. To keep coming back. Tease them with something impressive, and make sure they know there's more. Much more. Remember to have a few go-to lines. Always helps.

"Second: never reveal everything right away. Leave some things up to their imagination. What they come up with will be better than what actually happened, trust me.

"Third: body language. You're bad at it." Jack circled him, poking at his arms and chest. "Don't stand like you're nervous. Women can smell fear. Stay loose.

"On the topic of appearances, don't worry too much about yours. A little roughness, a hint of disheveledness; girls love that.

"Make it about them, not you, because it's not." Jack quit his pacing, standing in front of Will once more. "Voila, you've got yourself a girl, mate."

That's a lot of rules, Will thought. "Thank you, Jack."

"Of course. Advice on women is what good old Jackie's for."

Will was half way out the door when he turned back around. "Jack?"

"Mmm?"

"Have you ever actually successfully flirted with a woman?"

Jack's face twitched. "Of course."

~~~

William Turner. The character you'd had a crush on since the second grade. What were you supposed to do? He shouldn't even exist.

You were exploring Port Royal. Will still had smithing to do, and you figured you should get acquainted with the area. Everything was different from home, but just how you imagined it would be. Carriages ambled past, ships sat in the harbor, and people wore outfits that could only be described as frivolous.

You stood at a bakery, peeking through the window. You didn't have any money with which to pay them, of course, so you couldn't buy anything. Besides, hadn't you just eaten dinner?

The day passed while you had your adventure. It was nice to be away from home, but you were beginning to worry. What if you couldn't get back?

You shook the thought from your head. What you were experiencing couldn't be real. You were in a dream of some sort, albeit a very realistic one. And a very good one.

You wandered toward a bar in search of food. Really, you should just go back to the smithy, but you didn't want to ask Will for money. Perhaps a barmaid would take pity.

You wandered into what you hoped would be a suitable place. Slipping through the door, you weren't sure you were ready for what you saw. Drinks sloshed over the sides of cups. The noise was impressive; there was singing, drunken chair dancing, and loud conversation. There was a general air of drunken happiness, and the place reeked of alcohol. Not good alcohol, at that.

You wandered up to the bar, trying to avoid flying food. There were few open places to sit, and where there were, they were spaces crammed between two hulking men.

Before you could order, there was a tap on your shoulder. Will leaned against the bar beside you.

"How did you find me?" You asked. And why?

"I asked around." Will's body language looked different than before. "You aren't expecting anyone, are you?"

"I've hardly had time to meet anyone. I've only been here a day."

"You're free, then?"

You almost told him it was obvious; you didn't exactly have anywhere to be. Then you asked, "Are you… trying to flirt with me?"

Will blushed a deep crimson. "No?"

Well, this is unexpected. And cute, you decided, looking at his flushed face. "Is there somewhere else we should be?"

"There's a nicer pub around the corner. Would you like to go?"

You glanced around the room you were in. "That sounds lovely."

He led you out of the bar and into another building. It was considerably cleaner, and it didn't smell. Not to mention, it looked to serve edible food.

You stole a table in a corner. Seating was a bit tight, but you didn't mind.

"Tell me about yourself," he said.

You didn't know what to say. Everything interesting about you took place in a world he'd never experienced. You settled on mentioning a few hobbies that he could relate to, like reading.

He followed along. "That sounds lovely."

"Thank you, but it's nothing interesting." Really, you thought it isn't.

"That's not true."

"Oh? Well, tell me something about yourself."

~~~

Tell me something about yourself. The dreaded sentence. Will's mind worked frantically to come up with something. What had Jack said? Something impressive.

"Well, I'm a blacksmith." Always good to start out slow, don't want to come off too strong. "I've worked here most of my life. I was rescued from a shipwreck when I was young."

There was a smile behind your eyes that made him nervous.

"I've dueled with a pirate." He said it like it was no big deal, even though he knew it was. Or he hoped. Everyone was afraid of pirates, right?

You raised your eyebrows.

"He broke into the shop one day. I didn't even know he was there." Oh god, how do I make this interesting? "He must've been a foot taller than me!" It's okay to exaggerate details. Jack does it all the time.

A smile played on your face. That's good, right? Smiling is good.

"When I found him, I refused to let him leave. Who knows what he might have done. Instead, I picked up a sword. Just as a precaution, you understand. I didn't think I'd really be fighting him."

Will continued. He didn't know exactly what he was doing, and hoped this hadn't been a bad idea.

"We ended up balancing in the rafters. It's true, I swear!"

"Did you win?"

Oh dear, I'm really bad at this, aren't I?

~~~

For the most part, his account was accurate, but there were parts where he twisted the truth. It was adorable, how hard he was trying.

Really, you wanted to know about Elizabeth. Had she not been a part of things? How had it all played out? Nothing like it should have, you imagined. It made you curious, but you couldn't very well ask.

"Sounds exciting," you mused.

"Um- yes, very." Food was set between you. "So, is there anything you'd like to do after this? You must have an idea; you've been exploring all day. Surely something interests you. Besides, I'm sure you've done this before."

"What are you implying?" Does he think I've been on dates?

"Men where you come from must fancy you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You're gorgeous."

You didn't know if he was just flirting. You really hoped he wasn't.

There was a blush on his face you could hardly see. "You don't look too bad yourself," you replied. It made you cringe; what a cheesy thing to say. Judging by how Will was flirting, however, you figured it didn't matter.

There was a lull in conversation as you ate. You found that you were more tired than you had originally thought. You were looking forward to some rest. Traveling between worlds sure took it out of you.

You finished dinner and walked back to the forge. You were happy for Will's company; not only was he nice, but his flirting attempts were hilarious. You would've hated to be alone in this new world.

The streets were still full of people, even at the late hour. You and Will walked close, your hands and shoulders often brushing. Crossing a street, you felt one of his fingers curl around yours. For a moment, only your pinkies held onto each other. With a bit of nervousness on your part, you grabbed his entire hand.

For the rest of the walk, you held hands. His were warm, and they had callouses from hard work at the forge.

A fire was still lit in the forge. The warm glow showed through the crack underneath the door. Will pushed it open, holding it for you. The master of the forge was still asleep in his chair.

That made you think. Where would you sleep? It wasn't likely that there was an extra bed.

"Will, where will I sleep?" You asked.

"I hadn't thought about that," he admitted. "You can always take my room. I've slept in a chair before."

"I don't want you to be uncomfortable." You shifted, embarrassed. "We could always sleep together."

You watched as shock settled over Will's face.

"Look," you said, "I know you've been trying to flirt with me all night. I don't- I don't need you to. I like you. You don't need to impress me."

"O-oh." His face reddened. "Sorry, I've never wanted to impress a girl before, I was -"

You cut him off, placing cool fingers over his lips. Slowly, you leaned into him, looking for any signs of hesitation on his part. Finding none, you took your fingers from his lips, pressing a chaste kiss there instead.

"Oh." His eyes were wide, and a goofy grin split his face. "That was nice."

You could feel yourself smiling as well. "Good. Do you- um- get the message?"

"I hope so."

You giggled. "How about those bedding arrangements?"

#pirates of the caribbean #potc #william turner #drabble #x reader #writing #fanfic #request #will turner #requests #will x reader #will turner x reader

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absollnk · 5 years

Text

Censored and Slightly Refined version of “Three makes a fucking Burrito” I’m using for school (to clarify this is 2k words of agent 24 fluff)

Censor count (excluding minor swears): 8

Three's apartment was divided into four main sections: Bedroom, Bathroom, Living Room, and Kitchen. All of them had their own set of odors, but the Kitchen had the most by far. While the others wouldn't have more than a couple, the Kitchen's got butter, burnt microwave pizza, garbage, burnt cheese, vanilla air freshener, burnt tortilla, T h e S i n k… That's all Three can remember off the top of her head. It's an omnipresent reminder of the fact that she isn't physically capable of actual cooking, or baking, or anything else of the sort. And that's a problem, because she wanted to surprise Eight with a nice, homemade dinner at least once before one of them kicked the bucket. And why not today, she thought. It would only be harder as she got older.

Homemade. That's it. The thing that Three can't do. Her skillset is limited to cereal, kool-aid, and stuff with instructions on the package. Anything else never happened, and that's a problem because yada yada Eight, yada yada surprise.

Damnit, now Three's procrastinating.

Three snapped back to reality and was staring right at her tiny electric stove. It had only two panels for pots or whatever they're called, and only one of them has she ever used. It had a huge black burn mark that's been building up over time that Three hides with a pan whenever the landlord visits. It was probably mostly cheese and ramen juice.

Who was Three kidding. There was no way she could cook anything even remotely fancy for Eight. Not without help from the Bastard™.

Three sat herself on the counter, pulled her phone out of her pocket, and almost called Four before messaging her instead. It would be harder for her to ask questions.

Three: Hey

Four: This is already suspicious

Three: I need your help with something

Four: I'm honored, what do you want grumpy

Three: Im going to ignore that

Three: I need help with cooking something

Four: Hmm

Four: Is it for Eight?

Hmph.

Three: No

Four: I know you aren't cooking for yourself, you sad little swamp monster

Four: And there's no way you're doing it for anyone else

Hmph.

Three: Well played

Three: Help me or I remove a corner of your head with a brick

Four: Fine

Four: I'm only helping because I know you love me :)

Three: I love you like a sister

Three: >10% of the time

Four: :}

Three: Help me

Four: First of all, what do you even want to make for her?

Oh, that's another thing. Three doesn't know what Eight likes. All she had for most of her life was basically nutritious sawdust, so nearly everything up on the surface is fantastic to her. It's hard to tell what she likes more than other things.

Three: No clue, she likes everything

Four: Well, then what does she like more than average?

Four: Gee whiz, Three. Use your head!!! Do you have any more brain cells than your name implies?

Three: Listen

Three: If I knew, I would've told you, twat. It's hard to tell what she likes extra

Three: Wait just had an idea

Three: I should make her something she's never had before

Four: That might be difficult

Four: Didn't Eight gain like ten pounds right after she escaped because Off the Hook took her to so many food joints?

Three: Yeah but

Three: Im like 84% sure she's never had a burrito

Four: Gourmét

Three: Shut the hell up

Three: You know just as well as I do that her first burrito better be a damn good one

Four: True

Four: So a burrito it is?

Three: Yeah

Four: Ok that's not that hard

Four: What do you think she would like in a burrito?

Three: Probably just bean and cheese or something

Three: Maybe a little bit of hot sauce

Four: Do you have those things?

Three: Damnit

Three: Hold on I'm gonna go get those real quick

Four: Are you serious

Three: Yeah give me like ten minutes

Four: Good luck

Three checked the time as she dashed to the door. 6:03 P.M. She had exactly twenty-seven minutes to have a perfect bean n' cheese ready before Eight finished clothes shopping with Off the Hook.

Three was fully aware of how illegal it was to super jump anywhere in Inkopolis that wasn't currently being used for recreation (turfing/ranked/league). She was also fully aware of how unenforced that law was. Every other day or so, you would get to see some random idiot land on the rooftop of some random building because they're in a rush. It was Three's turn to be that idiot. Again.

Three ran up her apartment complex's stairwell until she reached the door to the roof. It was covered in mechanical nonsense that she didn't recognize but found familiar after being seen so many times. Three was very confident in her super jump accuracy. Working for the NSS is the reason, no doubt. All those launchpads every other minute… Ever since Three chewed up and spat out and on Octavio, she hadn't missed a single jump. Except for the time she was in a panic and almost got flattened to the road.

Three aligned herself with the closest grocery store, shifted into a squid, and took off. She soared through the air and landed right on the roof of a MakoMart. Not the one modified for turfing.

She dropped off the side and jog-ran around to the front entrance. The automatic doors slid open and Three dashed inside.

It wasn't too busy, being Thursday. It looked to be mostly filled with Jellies and older Inklings. Three was very familiar with the store. She's bought food almost exclusively from here since moving into her apartment 3 years back. She still had almost no idea where anything was because she only buys six or seven things over and over again.

She snatched a basket and walked along the outsides of the aisles, scanning the signs for the things she needed. She knew cheese was at the back with the other refrigerated stuff, she'd get that last.

Three saw "tortillas" on a sign along with other bread and bread-like items above an aisle near the center of the store. Unlike most MakoMarts, this one carried almost exclusively food and a few other essentials. It didn't have to be so disgustingly large like the rest of its locations.

It occurred to Three that she had no knowledge on the difference between the two types of tortillas. She knew that one was good and that the other should be reserved only for the residents of Extra-Hell, but she didn't know which was which. She had no choice. Time was running slim already, it's 6:06. Only 24 minutes left. It's time to call.

Four picked up on the first ring. "Sup?"

"I don't remember which tortillas don't taste like garbage."

"Just get the name brand ones."

Three dropped a pack into her basket and instantly had second thoughts. It was like one of those scenes in cheesy horror movies when Protagonist picks up the object that just happens to be cursed.

"Are you sure? I think they hate me."

"Were they more expensive?"

"Yes."

"Then you're good. Now go get some canned microwaveable beans. You don't have the time or equipment to make anything better." Four hung up.

After Three found all that she needed, she speed-walked back to the front of the store. The place's only downside was the lack of self checkout; talking to a cashier was necessary.

On the contrary, the amount of open lanes was usually more than the amount of customers, so that was a plus.

Three found an empty lane and threw the ingredients onto the conveyor. She started fumbling with her watch before anything even reached the dude about to scan her stuff.

He seemed to notice Three's hurried state and tried to work quickly to match it. Because Three only bought three things (tortillas, bag of shredded cheese, mild hot sauce), the cashier had her total in under 15 seconds.

"927 g, please." Three held out her wrist and he scanned her watch, taking the needed money. "See you again on Friday," he dismissed her. Three gave a thumbs-up and dashed out the automatic doors.

Three ran back around into the alley and super jumped back to the roof of her apartment building from there. She took the stairwell back to her floor and ran to her apartment and kicked the door open. She left it unlocked because:

A. she would only be gone for a short time, and

B. no one would want her stuff anyway.

Three dumped the food onto the counter and called Four. She answered on the fifth ring.

"Hot sauce," she said immediately.

"I'm back," Three replied.

"What.. the hell? You were only gone for, like, 6 minutes."

"Yeah, and Eight gets back in 22."

"Okay, you need to slow down," said Four. "Making a burrito takes less than five minutes and you know her moms are always late. In fact, I'd recommend just waiting for a bit so Eight doesn't have to eat cold burrito."

"I.. fine, you're right. What should I do in the meantime? Should I turn on the stove early? What pan should I- nevermind I only have one. I should rewash it to make sure it's clean..."

"Girl, chill out," said Four. "You have so much time right now. Your pan is clean. Put the cheese in the fridge and wait like twenty minutes before you start doing anything. Then call me back."

Three took a deep breath. "Ok. Talk to you then."

"Now you're getting it. Bye." Four hung up.

Three spent the next twenty minutes mentally preparing for 6:28 p.m. and the events that would follow. It was like preparing for a hard boss fight, except losing wouldn't just mean wasting a few hours. It would mean disappointing her. Gorl. Eight.

And that can't happen.

Finally, Three watched as the timer on her phone hit zero. It was time. She called Four yet again and she answered on the first ring.

"I was expecting you," Four said.

"It's been twenty minutes," Three replied.

"You're an absolute child," Four said. "Turn on the burner."

So that's what it's called. Burner.

"How high?" Three asked.

"It literally doesn't matter. Just remove the tortilla once it gets nice tan spots on both sides."

After a hectic five minutes of preparing a burrito, four more of starting over, and Four's patience being worn thin, Three had something she was satisfied with. She had to admit to herself, it looked good. She wrapped it in tinfoil to preserve the heat.

No more than 24 seconds later did Three hear a knock on the door. "I'm hanging up," Three told Four matter-of-factly.

"Oh, come on!" She complained. "I worked hard to get you here. I'm going to see.. hear the payoff."

"Fine, but shut up."

There was another knock. "Hello? It's Eight."

“And us,” Marina shouted.

"Be there in a sec!" Three turned to her phone. "I said shut up."

"I didn't say anything!"

Three opened the door and Eight was there, flanked by Pearl and Marina. "Hi," Three said.

"Why are you smiling so unnaturally wide?" asked Marina.

"No," responded Three.

"That doesn't even make sense," said Pearl. "What's burning?"

"No I'm not," said Three. Eight snickered.

"You know, you're lucky," said Marina. "Any other time I would do a full-scale search of your apartment, but we have to announce a Splatfest tomorrow."

"She'd also interrogate you detective-style," said Pearl.

"Ah" was all Three could generate as a response. It's not like what they said deserved a better one.

"We'll be fine," Eight told them.

"Well, alright then. See you soon," concluded Marina.

"Be safe," added Pearl as the two ran off.

"Three?" Eight called after a few seconds. "You there?"

"Yeah, sorry," Three said. "Those two know how to get into my head."

"Everyone does," Eight pointed out.

"Soooooo, I, uh, made you a burrito."

"Ooohh! Is that what's on fire?"

"No! That's just what my stove smells like. Here." Three lead Eight to the section of her counter that functioned as a table.

"Tada," said Three with minimal enthusiasm.

"Uh, eating metal doesn't really.. work. I've tried."

"Oh, l need to take off the foil… now tada."

"Ooooooohhhh!" Eight oohed. "That's what that is! I've seen them in commercials and stuff but I didn't know what they were called. They looked good."

Eight took a moment to figure out how to hold the burrito and took a bite as Three watched in anticipation. It felt like one of those cooking shows but completely not at all at the same time.

"It's good!" Eight said after swallowing her bite.

"That's all?" asked Three, slightly disappointed.

"Well, it's warm and it tastes good and it's a little spicy, which I really like, but the crust is kinda weird."

"Crust? The tortilla?" Three asked. And then it clicked. She took another from the bag to make sure. She took a bite out of the tortilla and gagged.

"Haha, got ‘em," said Four through Three's phone.

Three threw the phone into the dishwasher, slammed it shut, and started it.

#absols write #agent 24 #oc ivy #oc maya #my eight

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guitarrod · 4 years

Text

Mixing Up The Medicine

The fanfare is over as soon as you get back home. You traveled to the end of the world and you´re still home. By 1957, the world had shrunk in proportion to our ever bigger screens. You thought people would be less tolerant. You thought it would be harder to fool them. You play at being different people, you expect others to be real. Nothing is more claustrophobic than running away from home, going to the farthest stretches of the earth and be asked for your autograph. To your deep chagrin, it is even more deliberate in Japan. Back in Illinois, your fragile waif of a mother dreamed looking flakily at the sky while your father went binge-drinking and whore-fucking. Or at least, that´s how it would be shown, in a blockbuster. Starring as other people and averaging out suffering. The role in life you played was that of a little boy acting for a living. Always the consummate professional.

Mimicking people for laughs. Laughs as a wedge to break up the internal fighting between your parents. Laughter as a pause for intermission. A break. Laughter as a hail-mary attempt for wishful thinking.

The problem still stands that movies and real life are separate. Not even as a kid you were at the slightest fooled about at its tomfoolery as you tried to bridge the two. Make one fantasize about the other. Not for fun, less for entertainment. It was survival. A talent honed and developed due to the otherwise neglect of your parents. It was before the world saw you enlarged in the big-screen. It was before life became larger-than-life. And, people, correspondingly, ever so smaller. If you could act your life out everything could be kept under control. Things would be kept to a simmer and you would only explode on cue. If only when you were a kid it were possible for someone else to play-act yourself and another two actors to stand in for you parents. Life could be a play. But in Japan, in 1957, you expected people to have a little more taste. At least on the other end of the world. You expected the world to be enormous enough and bigger than your own head. It is an American sickness to imagine the rest of the world as exotic.

You knew who could play your mother. She´d be someone of a different time and place. Your mother looking out her kitchen window at a vast, level field of stunted prairie, cows mewing in the distance, horses lame, the dribble of spit on a dog´s snout. Equal mouthfuls of boredom for fodder. The slow, repetitious, endless, emptiness while gazing out the kitchen window at the span of your life stuck with telephone poles marking the years you have lost, the adjacent field dotted by distant cows chewing and grazing and stunted paralyzed while remaining in her mind forever like her dying sunlight. In the flash of a camera it would stay still forever. Your husband and your sun around somewhere, your son would sometimes have to pick you up and carry you back home. She was wrong about her son, though. She was as wrong as people were back in the time when stars were just holes in the sky.

Before Capote´s model 1957 magazine profile, The Duke in His Own Domain,exposed Marlon Brando, Brando had stated to the press his desire and intentions for Sayonara, the new movie he was headlining. At a press conference that Brando conducted upon his Tokyo arrival, Truman Capote states in his article on Brando that “he informed some sixty reporters that he had signed on to do this role because ´it strikes very precisely at prejudices that serve to limit our progress toward a peaceful world. Underneath the romance, it attacks prejudices that exist on the part of the Japanese as well as on our part,´” and also he was doing the film because it would give him the “invaluable opportunity” of working with Joshua Logan, who could teach him what to do and what not to do.”

Capote fought hard for his trend-setting 1957 interview with Brando. He had in mind a further twist to the typical magazine profile. This piece would be a warm-up for what he called - apparently without irony – A “non-fiction novel”. It entailed, in essence, that he would set his reporting in the wider confines of story-telling. He would free up the magazine profile, flesh it out and spread it in a setting which originally was only allowed for drama. His magazine piece would have the breadth of fiction-writing. It would consider development of character, a setting and a plot stone-set in reality. But, It wasn´t really inventing a new genre. It was more of a matter of redefining definitions. He was loosening up unnecessary ties. He would combine prose writing with journalism. Smudging the division which separates both genres. Keeping his balance with one foot on romance writing and another on journalism. He could make use of narrative tools to create drama in a non-fiction situation which the added convenience of already providing him with characters and plot. A non-fiction novel, a real-life story. He made the best of both worlds, standing in the middle. The objective journalistic eye for detail would be subsumed by a first-person narrative that, while maintaining a safe distance from its subject, would substitute detachment for a cruel surgical account further molded and shaped for fiction-reader consumption. The finishing touches and improvements all sprinkled over for effect. The argument was that this effect would add, rather than reduce the realism of what was reported. We see everything through a focused eye and ear, not the unmanned, neutral camera of journalism. Capote, instead, cuts thinly, piece by piece with hidden appetite something with more stuff than just gossip. He would make a book out of the premier Hollywood star.

During the whole event, we only see Capote in his description and observations of other people, and of Japan. We can only see Capote indirectly, suggested by his tone, his off-handedness, his asides, his opinions, his snickering. So much for objectivity… Capote´s journalism is that of a scientist who develops a taste for the monster he is cutting apart. A psychopath sporting a white lab coat.

Both men had enough talent that manipulating others is simply second nature. They do not just possess the tricks of the trade. They are artists not tricksters. They are brilliant . And the very nature of their art implies distortion and deception. One is a Hollywood actor, the other is a writer trying not to be a hack. They wear the same mask, the same costume. It is a waiting game. The most disillusioned, the most hopeless is always victorious. It is a token of the ones who least believe in others and in themselves.

Obscure, shaded, unsheltered men. Tender, vital men. Marlon Brando and Truman Capote. Tender men with their tender skin bruised. With injustice. With a mother having to be picked up in Chicago´s skidrow drunk out of her mind, or a little queer boy whose life has taught him how to sock somebody straight in the mouth. After being continuously slapped in the face while holding your arms out for a hug. A punch to the stomach for expecting that hug. It is while he bleeds that a man comes of age. The shedding of blood is O.K. It comes by way of an education.

Hell was home. Paradise was the farthest from home you were able to go. In every street-smart criminal with an attitude and a sharp knife is a kid who once bit the dust.

Capote knew Brando. He was an outcast, by default, out of necessity almost by birth. Living in the outskirts of wherever he was, attempting not only to find his way, but to find a highway right to the heart of the matter. Oh, he knew Marlon Brando too well. A stranger in his family. A stranger to his world has only two options. He could lose, or he could concoct a win. An orphan being raised by people other than his parents, is nothing but a boy being raised by parents who were meant to have different kids. An orphan who despises the fact that he is an orphan will be expected to try to show the whole world that we are all orphans, and that our parents are just blood. You are a child who lives with people who, no matter how they act, not matter how much people say they are your parents, semblance and likeness in every way, you know you are living in a house of unstable landlords and strangers. We are all orphans, in a way. We can be all orphans. You are the head of the orphanage, paid for by your suffering, paid for by your disillusionment. You are the key bearer. And by your credentials you will make a better mother and father than your own. You will be a better mom and dad to yourself. There is more in being a parent than neon nights, early morning road houses, sawdust and confetti strewn on the floor. Nude girls wanting to be actresses, lazy strip shows, boozing and lipstick. A wailing demon-child, or a cold calculating one, is the result. The whole world is your home and everyone in it is your extended family. People are all the same.

In this non-fiction fiction, instead of focusing on Brando, Capote is really focusing and writing about himself. Or, better said, he is creating his own persona, much like a fiction writer would create a character. And he will use all the tools available to a writer to make his characters as real as possible. His success in making Marlon Brando and his own persona believable can be compared to Brando´s brilliance in playing a role. The allure of a “non-fiction novel” is in the reader´s uncertainty about which part is fiction and which is real. After all, it allows for both. Furthermore, much like some first-person narratives in fiction or in the setting of a play, we are not exactly privy to his thoughts but, rather, to his language, his manner, the qualifications he makes about the objects and people populating his world. Opinions and observations he shares with the reader, but not with Brando or any of the other characters. Capote expects to win us over as equals, equal snobs - we could only hope to be as such - and, with equal discrimination and discernment to know that Hollywood is nothing but cheap entertainment. Like great media manipulators, Marlon Brando and Truman Capote know that the truth is in the making. And in this arena, it is the writer who has the last word.

The true-to-life Brando we are given is a naked man. One that is not, at least in the very beginning, aware that he is under such astute observation. Capote describes his mannerisms. We recognize them in the roles that Brando plays: “Resuming his ( Brando´s) position on the floor, he lolled his head against a pillow, drooped his eyelids, then shut them. It was as though he'd dozed off into a disturbing dream; his eyelids twitched, and when he spoke, his voice—an unemotional voice, in a way cultivated and genteel, yet surprisingly adolescent, a voice with a probing, asking, boyish quality—seemed to come from sleepy distances…” The fact that we have seen Brando act in this fashion does not, in any way, whatsoever, diminish the writer´s artistry or make his job any easier. It is the struggle to find the exact words to fit into an internationally known and broadcasted acting performance, which ups the ante. It is much like having a known actor play a known person. It is able to encapsulate Brando by defining his art minutely. He does it so deftly that he does not only score points on Brando but establishes his art- writing – as superior to what our famous Holllywood boy can do on the screen. He gives us Brando as frosting, as the topping of all his other successes build up in his journalistic masterpiece.

He strikes further “The voice went on, as though speaking to hear itself, an effect Brando's speech often has, for, like many persons who are intensely self-absorbed, he is something of a monologuist”. Apparently Capote must have said something to Brando about his tendency to act perennially, pointing him out, throwing away his whole show. Capote is no cub reporter. He is no teen groupie. Capote is not a fan. We gather this not from anything said by Capote explicitly but by Brando´s reactions. Once again we see Capote through Brando. Or rather, we see Capote through Capote´s Brando´s impressions of Capote as written by Capote. It is at this junction, at this hour of the night that we are led to sense that Brando notices that he let his guard down too long. We are not shown how Capote talks and acts towards Brando because an interview is not an exchange between friends. Interviews are competitive fighting. No holds-barred. Brando side-steps. Lightens up the mood as is his wont. Backing up defensively he jokes in self-deprecation "People around me never say anything," he says. "They just seem to want to hear what I have to say. That's why I do all the talking…" Capote must have sneered too early.

One should never bullshit a bullshitter, the saying goes. But that is if you are not prepared to win. To be king you must dethrone the other. To win the belt you got to beat the champ. And with genius iconic figures like Marlon Brando and Truman Capote, you can´t lose by points we have to be shunned off the ring.

During Capote´s strikes we cannot help but admire Brando´s cajoling. The same imaginative, wit he uses when answering other reporter´s questions on acting. Anyone can act, some are better cheaters. And in the end, he is just another brick in Holllywood´s estate in the need to typecast personality, diminishing life into plot, and controlling behavior. He has the experience to know that fighting the system won´t take you very far. The way to not play the game is by making fun of it. Right at the outset of his career he was telling reporters he was only acting because he lacked the moral courage to refuse the money and look for real work. There was really nothing to acting. People did it all the time. People did it in their sleep. Hollywood would just dream for you. When you´re caught smoking marijuana by a cop, you put on a performance. All we need to be actors is the opportunity provided. Some cry in funerals of forgotten friends. Some say they are having a fine morning before jumping off a cliff. As in any activity some have had the need to perfect it a bit more. And looking for truth in an actor is like searching for love in a whorehouse. We all act, because we are all liars. You got to admire his stance.

It only makes people wonder aloud how he is able to perform so well. And he dismisses the whole thing. Besides making critics like Capote feel like idiots. Instead of pleading your case you seem to agree with your critics, hitting them back on their heads with their critiques, treating raves with dismissive contempt. You not only block another sucker punch, you laugh them off the ring. But Capote can slither his way back in. And he´ll give up a round or two for the benefit of the snickering hypocrisy he thrives so much in while playing the pale buffoon.

On the other hand, what we have in Brando is the fullest embodiment of a technique, of the Method, as taught by Stanislavsky, on film. A method which believes in burrowing deep within yourself to look for answers to the problems involved with the impersonation of someone else´s feelings and actions. Understanding yourself as a treasure trove and having the charity to sacrifice it to exposure. Your thoughts and feelings will back you up or prop you up like pegs on a wall to the point where you resurface as someone else. In short, it is through self-knowledge that you learn about acting like somebody else. Some actors instead of subsuming their personality will make a career of doing the exact opposite. Marlon Brando sometimes believes in acting, sometimes he doesn´t. When he didn´t there would be a sort of symbiosis between what people thought of as the actor as a person with the role the actor played. Generally, the actor is not confused. Audiences and women will hope there is no difference. Men will find it easier guiding themselves on well-received performances than finding out for themselves how to be men.

To frustrate even more the situation, what is copied is a question of style, not of substance. One cannot relive the role played in a specific movie since one´s life differs from the script. Who Marlon Brando really is might have or might not have been caught on tape, imagined, or been contrived by the viewing public who is spending a considerable time mimicking his mannerisms he was paid a healthy sum to play. In other words, Brando is the only man left laughing. Or snickering, because you can´t really laugh uproariously at such a situation when only you and your acting buddies know that kind of con is being set.

People started slouching in supermarkets, on dates, eating their meals. Marlon Brando became a performance, an institution. He could be a gun, or a badge. The orphan, Brando. People stopped pronouncing words and preferred mumbling. It was taken for realism.

*****

By this time, you thought Japan was far enough from home. But it was too late. You were never given the chance to escape. After a world war, and two atom bombs and a need for cash, Japan not only was not so different anymore, even when it was still Japan it didn´t look too different. Hollywood had twisted it into mirroring what fawning eyes expected to see. The only ones who knew Japan now were very old people.

Besides thinking up exotic places, it is another American sickness to stereotype so hard that even what they see as diversity is well-defined in advance. They expect diversities where there are none and overlook the real ones by expecting them to be in the places they assign for them. It is a veritable strangled blow to kingdom come by Hollywood´s big screens.

Truman said that “Proportionately, the number of premises purveying strong liquor is higher than in New York, and the diversity of these saloons—which range from cozy bamboo closets accommodating four customers to many-storied, neon-hued temples of fun featuring, in accordance with the Japanese aptitude for imitation, cha-cha bands and rock ’n’ rollers and hillbilly quartets and chanteuses existentialistes and Oriental vocalists who sing Cole Porter songs with American Negro accents—is extraordinary.”, yet the Japanese probably don´t see eye to eye with him, because, despite pecuniary concerns, they might not be in on the joke. They are not acquainted with the value system that deems this a little ridiculous because nobody told them about it. Now, that is exotic.

Despite the good fun around the set, Sayonara was doomed because the producers and the director Joshua Logan could not employ Japan´s famed Kabuki Theatre, the No players and the Bunraku puppeteers, the Holllywood men were wishing for to provide a touch of antiquity and class. But the same change that Capote noticed in Brando meeting him after 12 years - the lost vulnerability in his gaze, the rebel flash now tamed, the thirst and hunger of a man finally arriving at the opportunity to rise above himself and the whole world - vanquished. A man who made his way in the stage, as the whole world saw his soul screaming. As Pauline Kael said about his performance in Streetcar, she was embarrassed for him. She thought she was watching a young man having a breakdown right on stage. And then she noticed that the young man was acting. Walked right off and went into the night.

He revealed your feelings scarred in his own face. The spotlights and the headlines of Marlon Brando were for us all. At our best, we felt what he showed us, every day, on that stage, playing Streetcar . We needed a stage, a screen to show us what we were. The fact that we have in us blood that rushes through our bodies and keeps us alive.

Sayonara had big plans. At the onset of filming, spirits were high. It seemed that Hollywood was setting its spell, or its trap - depending if you´re standing East, or West - to prop up their staging of Michener´s lovelorn romance between an American and a Japanese woman crushed as soon as it blossomed, by bigger outside forces way beyond their control. Politics. Two atom bombs. The fact that the Japanese are brown.

But, as it were, in spite of the cultural differences, the understanding and love between two people will always supersede the webs and traps and complexities of our world which inevitably interfere to thicken the plot, like fate would intercede in Greek plays. Prejudice and racism is never personal. It is group-thinking. Politics are cold. And the teaser was having the Bunraku puppeters and the ancient art of the Kabuki theater as the bread and sausage for another Hollywood hotdog.

Japan at first said yes, but then reneged. Some Japanese applauded the decision claiming that they needed to protect their heritage, others denounced the decision as a step backwards, a forlorn cherishing of the past, a hindrance to a cosmopolitan future. A milllenia-old culture standing in front of a cosmopolitan shiny future. Japan held its own and said no. Negotiations would heat up as people thought to themselves of prices and tickets being sold. In the meantime, Marlon Brando, the star, started losing interest. And he started making fun of himself again. Maybe when he said it was a movie that would truly underscore cultural differences and racism on both sides, he was kidding his ass off. In fact, he now said “ with a snort ‘Oh, ‘Sayonara,’ I love it! This wondrous hearts-and-flowers nonsense that was supposed to be a serious picture about Japan. So what difference does it make? I’m just doing it for the money anyway. Money to put in the kick for my own company.’” If he was a bleeding heart the conman in him would provide bandages and band-aid. Get back in the ring !

For a con man to be any good, he has to leave you guessing all the time if he is speaking the truth or not. To be totally convinced shortchanges the fun. Our con man just needs others to tend to believe in his con, or, in other words, to tend to believe in him. And the more convinced he is of his own act, the more real it would appear. A con can never be too obvious. But it cannot be so invisible in order for the people who have been conned not to know it. There is no con if nobody gets disillusioned. His biggest prize is your cherry.

“ I give up” says Brando after the initial hassle with governments and producers “. I’m going to walk through the part, and that’s that. Sometimes I think nobody knows the difference anyway. For the first few days on the set, I tried to act. But then I made an experiment. In this scene, I tried to do everything wrong I could think of. Grimaced and rolled my eyes, put in all kind of gestures and expressions that had no relation to the part I’m supposed to be playing. What did Logan say? He just said, ‘It’s wonderful. Print it!’”

Capote will not hesitate in presenting Brando in all his charm and glory. He states what Joshua Logan said “Marlon's the most exciting person I've met since Garbo. A genius.” He cites Elias Kazan´s praise “Marlon is just the best actor in the world.” Despite making sure to distance himself, “Since the most fervent of movie-star fans are the people who themselves work in the film industry, Brando was a subject of immense interest within the ranks of the "Sayonara", he does not underplay Brando´s hold in the imagination of the public or his magnificent creativity as an actor. He definitely wants to make sure that Brando is the world´s best actor in order to knock him down and tries very hard in making sure, we the public, won´t confuse him with what Brando calls “ the people with pencils”. Downplaying Marlon Brando would not only minimize his certain incontrovertible victory that we anticipate, but would also be completely inconsistent with the opinions of anyone who has seen Brando act. Apparently making a point of deflecting any high opinion Brando might make of him - the hiding reptile prone for the kill - Capote´s inquiries to Brando are purposefully obvious and Brando is lulled into handing out his pat answers. In other words, Capote makes him act, and relishes in the fact that Brando does not see that Capote knows the difference, letting him “talk and talk…” “What’s so hot about New York?” when asked about a return to the stage “There aren’t any parts for me.” In another hushed aside, Capote smirks “Stack them, and the playscripts offered him in any given season by hopeful Broadway managements might very well rise to a height exceeding the actor’s own.” The implication is obvious. Brando´s ego surpasses any attempt to limit him to a role. We snicker with Capote, we are his accomplices.

Capote´s masterful and lasting journalistic piece begins almost haphazardly, as he shows up a half-hour late to the interview he was actually barred from conducting by the movie´s director. The fact that he showed up late is something he would like for us to know. We are taken through his act as he hides his scalpel-sword under his coat, cutting and sorting out inch by inch every expressive tissue of the “guileful salamander” turning him around, letting him crawl over his hand and under his sleeve. We sense the danger. But we have no idea about its size. We are led on. We take the risk.

“ Most Japanes girls giggle” is how Capote starts his article.

It is indirect and it is in keeping with his purported lack of interest with his subject´s world while being atrociously snobbish, belittling those who he simply doesn´t understand and seemingly finding no point in trying. A snob away from home loses his bearings. Capote the man, the persona, is left so unbalanced he needs to ridicule Japanese girls as silly uncontrollable gigglers who suffer, off and on, of a “ quaint hysteria”. He is not in Kansas anymore. It is very hard to be witty when you don´t speak the language.

The snob Capote has his whole act turned over, but he won´t spill a drop of his martini while he knows that there are still people listening. The reader is his crutch. The reader is his fellow traveler. We are with him on his trip away to Japan. Yet Capote is more than a persona, he is a writer. A good writer. No good writer can really be a snob.

Like those Russian dolls in which bigger identical dolls cover smaller ones, Capote the writer is much bigger than Capote, the persona, to the point where the persona or the man cannot stain or diminish the writer in any way. They are two different beings, born out of different natures, and breadth. Capote the pompous snob is a cover, less of a cover, not even garment he can cover himself with, less than a nightie. Capote the writer towers over the snob. As a writer he has to be able to disagree or even betray his pettiness. Because a writer cannot have the same hang-ups as a man. It is impossible for a real writer to be a racist. It is impossible for a real writer to think of race as he sees color.

The writer does not care about snobbery, Hollywood or even Marlon Brando. All he cares about is his craft. He cares about turning a magazine profile into something bigger that will stand the test of age. His descriptions are masterly in their precision and conciseness. He is a conjurer waving his wand at the objects he chooses, making gems out of these objects that, when enchanted by their new description, make the old words seem mute. A lesser writer needs to make a display of italics to make a spell of magic.

“The Miyako,” he writes “where about half of the ‘Sayonara’ company was staying, is the most prominent of the so-called Western-style hotels in Kyoto; the majority of its rooms are furnished with sturdy, if commonplace and cumbersome, European chairs and tables, beds and couches.” But, for the convenience of Japanese guests who prefer their own mode of décor while desiring the prestige of staying at the Miyako, or of those foreign travelers who yearn after authentic atmosphere yet are disinclined to endure the unheated rigors of a real Japanese inn, the Miyako maintains some suites decorated in the traditional manner, and it was in one of these that Brando had chosen to settle himself.” The slicing of irony made ever so thin. Yet the mockery is never an end to itself. Every analogy is many-layered, packed loosely. Every metaphor reveals more and more with a simple change of the lens. Capote continues“ Without the overlying and underlying clutter of Brando's personal belongings, the rooms would have been textbook illustrations of the Japanese penchant for an ostentatious barrenness. (…. ) In these rooms, the divergent concepts of Japanese and Western decoration—the one seeking to impress by a lack of display, an absence of possession-exhibiting, the other intent on precisely the reverse—could both be observed, for Brando seemed unwilling to make use of the apartment's storage space, concealed behind sliding paper doors.” Truman Capote is circling around, nearing one of his major themes. The forced bridging and conciliation of two very different cultures, Japanese and American, is not the only implication made out of the mess of a faux-japanese hotel room occupied by an American, there is the further mess inside Brando´s head. And the confusion of suits and ties and jackets strewn around is just another portrayal of the clutter of a man trying to sort out his head in a world that seems to fit in the nutshell created by the movies he and others have starred in. You have traveled all the way to Japan. Maybe the Japanese could oblige and be sincerely exotic.

It seems hysterical that to get away, Brando had to settle in Tahiti at a time and a place where he was one of the first white many people there saw. A place where his acting and mannerisms played to an unshakable audience. As another 50´s hero said over and over with the gravity that such foresight can bring in a man that is trying desperately to cling to a reality that is being lost, someone not quite a man yet, an adolescent, but much more ancient, much older than the men who weren´t even able to witness their own betrayal and selling-out - men of all trades and pretenses – the very doctors who, in their medical judgment, preferred to look for labels to stick in their pill-boxes an adolescent who couldn’t´, because he simply didn´t want to, couldn´t forget the world he glimpsed when was born in it, the world he knew existed, the world that made sense before he had to think about these things, the world he quite clearly saw as a child, being sold without a sound, without a sparing look, sold out, to every single bidder, in its every forgery, in the plays and in the movies, in the cries and fake laughter, in the faces people make and the words they all say, making absolute sense but missing completely the heart of the matter and the aim of a soul. Fellow men who acted criminally augmenting his own disillusionment. Grown men who fake. Phonies. There is no point, there is no credit in living and prospering in such a world. A Marlon Brando or two would spring in a field of rye, but not any longer. A highway has been paved in all directions and both Marlon and Truman helped set the concrete out of fear of being seen naked in the face of impeding laughter. Lest we forget, neither man lost their lives to the funny farm. They were both very successful. But I will wager anything that Marlon Brando is afraid of being fooled by that huge heart of his.

When he says he´ll “ walk through the part.” And when he says “ Sayonara – that wondrous hearts-and-flowers nonsense.”…

There wouldn´t be so many errors and mistakes made if the world lacked the technology for the totality and assault and control inherent in mass media. And it is the nature of mass media to simplify and copy while stressing appearances. Nothing could be better for Hollywood and worse for the rest of us. Selling art like soap will only increase your stink. From America to Japan and everywhere in between, you might have known someone as charismatic and intelligent as Marlon Brando. You might even have known two. But it would never have crossed your mind to think he was larger-than-life. We were even lucky enough he took things seriously enough to try to be true in his own role-playing. He played us with originality.

Now the problem is not only that the charm and charisma and intelligence have been downgraded and sold as merchandise, but that, exactly because of this very fact, it is impossible for you to meet another Marlon Brando. Too expensive. Talent is scarce, work is heavy. The CEOS of the entertainment industry have scoured their country for more fodder, Styrofoam puppets to substitute the people who first showed up with talent, after they ascertained, to their credit, that most people will not cry and holler at the incipience of this tragic state of affairs, but only in due time. When someone finally breaks down and has another fit, out of boredom, we will see if the talent is really all gone? And, anyway, who will stand up for us? Lulled and disconnected enough in a place where art is appraised as pretty good if it is pretty real. That shouldn´t be a problem. It should be a given.

Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

By 1957, this would sound absolutely absurd but these men became very well- paid actors. By the 80´s we were getting very screwed. The signs weren´t so hard to make out, even if they seemed normal. But how could we fool ourselves thinking that Industry-based, assembly line, conveyor belt, mass entertainment ,commercial onslaught would not bite us in the ass. We may wish to consider, for instance the case of Steven Spielberg, and his comic-book, fast-food, cheap imaginings. Our kids cheering for an extra-terrestrial on a bike, pitching a toy, speak and spelling his way home and getting the fuck out. We liked our Speak-and-Spells.

Instead of climbing trees and running and swimming, kids had their fun ready-made and supplied to them. It saved them effort. And their parents knew they weren´t up to any mischief.

What we have is well-behavior posing as non-conformism. The whole world´s admiration will not fill every hole in your body. It won´t fill the holes in your music, in your smile, in your screams, in your head as a leather-jacket motorcycle boy, a hole in pin stripe suit, you are a hole winning Oscars sipping your champagne full of holes. A hole screaming its lungs out for everyone to stop for a while, step out of line.

Copies sell just as well. And the screen focuses attention. And it is flat enough to acquiesce the horror.

Copies and posers don´t just stand for the real thing. They substitute it. They stamp it out. Any telling of people and reality is too messy and incongruous to fit in a story. Model performances are a forging of reality. Just like the limits and boundaries of a magazine profile which chooses which details will be summed up. Instead, it only abbreviates. Too much detail is excised and, to put it even more bluntly, it is not a question of downsizing , it is a question of wrongfully portraying reality. But you get your performance. Life spills over, sticks out. Life swears and charges. Life never fits, if you make it real.

Our times have killed personality. Walk down the street and you can almost guess which people are pretending to be what roles in their heads. People live as if there were an invisible movie reel incessantly turned on while we fill in the blanks in our scripted lives by daydreaming parts of scenes and parts of people. We don´t even have to conjure up an actor or think clearly about some favorite scene in a movie, we automatically follow the rules and codes of the general narrative that glues us in. It seems impossible to stop this. And if one of us stopped pretending no one would notice, anyway. Because of our love for a buck we have submitted our best feelings to a mass industry construction which keeps breaking new records of output and surplus cash. In consequence, it has reduced human personality to style, it has diminished style to soap and it has sprayed soap into a stinking detergent. In Japan, Marlon Brando only goes out with glasses and a surgical mask. This in a country which bred people who committed kamikaze attacts to preserve their culture. It wasn´t enough. Hollywood scared them witless. Brando is a star in Japan and he doesn´t know why and if you grill a Japanese groupie she may not know why either. While he is fucking them all into their “quaint hysteria”.

Capote said that Brando said “"Spencer Tracy is the kind of actor I like to watch. The way he holds back, holds back—then darts in to make his point,” . And to that we can safely infer that we are getting another clue about Truman Capote´s writing as he likes to talk about himself by way of answers to stupid questions. Much has been said about Capote´s pacing and rhythm in this article. We are slowly pulled in, slightly interested, almost as if we were starting to play with an outmoded toy. But much like Brando we don´t quite put off Capote. There is a thread of interest that leads us on, until we are slowly entangled, quite aware of the knots being set but still we keep off putting off Capote. You drink a little sake, you listen to yourself talk, and he is close to you like your closest enemies, close like a brother, but you are far away from home and it is good enough to have someone you can talk to, while listening to yourself talking, someone who will listen to you and who knows your language. Someone who lingers.

Towards the end, it is hard to know if you are talking to yourself or to someone else. Just like it is hard to separate fact from fiction, the truth from your imagination.

And the writing is masterful.

“I retired to the sun porch, (…)Below the windows, the hotel garden, with its ultra-simple and soigné arrangements of rock and tree, floated in the mists that crawl off Kyoto's waterways—for it is a watery city, crisscrossed with shallow rivers and cascading canals, dotted with pools as still as coiled snakes and mirthful little waterfalls that sound like Japanese girls giggling. Once the imperial capital and now the country's cultural museum, such an aesthetic treasure house that American bombers let it go unmolested during the war, Kyoto is surrounded by water, too; beyond the city's containing hills, thin roads run like causeways across the reflecting silver of flooded rice fields. That evening, despite the gliding mists, the blue encircling hills were discernible against the night, for the upper air had purity; a sky was there, stars were in it, and a scrap of moon. Some portions of the town could be seen. Nearest was a neighborhood of curving roofs. The dark façades of aristocratic houses fashioned from silky wood yet austere, northern, as secret-looking as any stone Siena palace. How brilliant they made the street lamps appear, and the doorway lanterns casting keen kimono colors—pink and orange, lemon and red. Farther away was a modern flatness—wide avenues and neon, a skyscraper of raw concrete that seemed less enduring, more perishable, than the papery dwellings stooping around it. Brando completed his call. Approaching the sun porch, he looked at me looking at the view. He said, "Have you been to Nara? Pretty interesting."

“I had, and yes, it was.” “Ancient, old-time Nara,’’

“An hour's drive from Kyoto—a postcard town set in a show-place park. Here is the apotheosis of the Japanese genius for hypnotizing nature into unnatural behavior. The great shrine-infested park is a green salon where sheep graze, and herds of tame deer wander under trim pine trees and, like Venetian pigeons, gladly pose with honeymooning couples; where children yank the beards of unretaliating goats; where old men wearing black capes with mink collars squat on the shores of lotus-quilted lakes and, by clapping their hands, summon swarms of fish, speckled and scarlet carp, fat, thick as trout, who allow their snouts to be tickled, then gobble the crumbs that the old men sprinkle. That this serpentless Eden should strongly appeal to Brando was a bit surprising. With his liberal taste for the off-trail and not-overly-trammelled, one might have thought he would be unresponsive to so ruly, subjugated a landscape. Then, as though apropos of Nara, he said, ‘Well, I'd like to be married. I want to have children.’ It was not, perhaps, the non sequitur it seemed; the gentle safety of Nara just could, by the association of ideas, suggest marriage, a family.

Marlon Brando died famous as one of Hollywood´s biggest lovers. He had slept with more than a thousand women. At the time of this article he had married Anna Kashfi who people at the time either had her conflated to be a Darjeeling-born Buddhist of the purest parentage or simply the daughter of an English couple born in India called O´Callaghan.

When finally asked about James Dean, who tried to copy Brando on and off the screen, even going on to play the bongos, Brando said he hardly knew him. He was no friend of Dean. Once he met him in a party. Dean was striking it big. When he saw Brando step in he started showing off, acting just like him. Brando waited, embarrassed for him. Then he took him aside and told him that he should look for a psychiatrist, he had a few numbers he could call right away. “Listen to me, kid. Can´t you tell you´re sick?”

My mother. I took care of her. Wanted to. She could have stayed in my apartment. She could have stayed in New York.

Before Brando became an actor, he was kicked out of school, expelled from the army, he needed food stamps, he was an elevator boy, he even thought of being a priest. As Capote quotes from hearsay “ He (Brando) needs to find something in life, something in himself, that is permanently true, and he needs to lay down his life for it. For such an intense personality, nothing less than that will do.”

"Marlon," Capote quotes his friend Elia Kazan, "is one of the gentlest people I've ever known. Possibly the gentlest." Kazan's remark had meaning when one observed Brando in the company of children. As far as he was concerned, Japan's youngest generation of lovely, lively, cherry-cheeked kids with bowlegs and bristling bangs—was always welcome to lark around the Sayonara sets. He was good with the children, at ease, playful, appreciative; he seemed, indeed, their emotional contemporary, a co-conspirator. Moreover, the condoling expression, the slight look of dispensing charitable compassion, peculiar to his contemplation of some adults was absent from his eyes when he looked at a child.

People who knew him before he became Marlon Brando knew him as Bud. Some said that when living in New York and studying at the New School his apartment would always be filled with people. People who seemed to have strayed inside. Nobody seemed to know each other. There would be someone asleep, some girl dancing by herself , someone moving chess pieces on a board, but, from time to time, there was the drums, sound of drums everywhere. Bud banging away. He had fun, in intervals. He brooded by himself, and then he was wild, seemingly by himself, as well.

My mother. I tried so hard for her. My mother just broke like a piece of porcelain.

It is so very ordinary. The child of an alcoholic couple, Bud was raised in Libertyville, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago. As a child he was eager, extroverted and fun-loving, always looking to compete playfully with whoever would hold their breath longest, for instance, or who could eat more hot dogs? His parents were unstable. Both drank too much. They fought. Still just a boy, Bud would run away from home several times, always coming back. His father, as far as Bud thought, never really saw anything in him. He was always distant. Maybe the boy was just a burden, a millstone. Bud was defiant, protecting his mother. Maybe the boy reminded the father too much of himself. Later on, as a teenager, Bud lived, ostensibly, the life of the All-American boy in the All-American high school , but the flip side as well, the muck-stained tragedy of taking mom to Alcoholic Anonymous, witnessing the dire reality of people striving and failing, drunks right outside the AA with worms crawling out of their bare legs, bums giving up on pleading for just a break. It was the flip side of Harry Truman´s America, the squeaky clean America of preppies in polo shirts, even the motorcycle gangs he impersonated in The Wild One were too clean. Brando knew he was lying. As a teenager the extremes of his feelings for his parents were almost dialectical. His mother was a dreaming, lost, poetic, princess unsuited for the life of stink and mud his father sprang from, who in turn forced Bud to dig ditches and shovel manure. Like another Hollywood leading man, Richard Burton, Bud grew out of manure.

“ Listen, already. It´s a disease. Can´t you tell how sick you are…?”

Being insecure, feeling like the shovelfuls he sold for extra pay, even after first moving to New York, Marlon picked the kind of friends he thought he deserved. Nobody could ever match his intelligence, his brightness, his talents. They were low-lives who maybe would return his kindness. He seemed to be hiding, not from anyone, more from himself. He was covering himself up, slinking his way through the anonymous New York streets. It was too ordinary. Maybe it is because it is the stuff of real life, real people. Or maybe we just saw it in a movie.

His grandma said that Bud always seemed to pick on the cross-eyed girls for dates. The Hollywood heartthrob. When did he stop being Bud? Has he ever? Who is Marlon Brando? After he turned famous, he wanted, at least, to make one great movie about the disenfranchised, the dispossessed, the people who were swept away.

Capote twirls his scalpel. Snickers at the guileful salamander who can pretend to be anyone. Who has exchanged the dirt for Hollywood beds and linen. He looks at his dirty little worm, stone-faced. Almost losing his cover as a scientist, an unattached observer. They were too alike. The lies were too much, filling his head. He quotes another person from hearsay:

“If you’ve noticed, Marlon can’t, won’t, talk to two people, simultaneously. He’ll never take part in a group conversation. It always has to be a cozy tête-à-tête—one person at a time. Which is necessary, I suppose if you use the same kind of charm on everyone. But even when you know that’s what he’s doing, it doesn’t matter. Because when your turn comes, he makes you feel you’re the only person in the room. In the world. Makes you feel that you’re under his protection and that your troubles and moods concern him deeply. You have to believe it; more than anyone I’ve known, he radiates sincerity. Afterward, you may ask yourself, ‘Is it an act?’ If so, what’s the point? What have you got to give him? Nothing except—and this is the point—affection.”

He had to have everything over–the-top for feeling so low. It is the same act, his friends would say. For compensation. Maybe Marlon Brando was really acting for himself.

“He listened to me. He knew he was sick. I gave him the name of an analyst, and he went. And at least his work improved(… ) this glorifying of James Dean is all wrong. That's why I believe the (Marlon´s) documentary about him could be important. To show he wasn't a hero; show what he really was—just a lost boy trying to find himself.”

“Listen, don´t you know how sick you really are …?

It is too cruel. Because worse than the man who beats someone to a pulp is the man holding the camera. Harder than the actual pain, is its reflection on the screen, the actor making faces, and meaning nothing. The worst thing about bloody movies is that it is fake blood. The screams are all out of synch, and so is the hurting.

Capote is ruthless, as if he blamed Brando. For Hollywood, for his fans, for pop culture, for something huge. Because the harshness, the manner in which he chose to end his piece is much like the scenes of a horror movie a child doesn´t want to see. But he makes you see. Your eyes are wide open. And then the child´s fear simmers down when he sees the credits. You see who did the lighting, the director, the names of the producers , the actors, everybody involved in the crew, and you learn that it was all make-believe. You felt so much for nothing. Little by little, it carries on to real life. People learn about themselves watching actors interact on the screen instead of naturally interacting among themselves.

Worse than a drunk mother and drunk father is a movie about them. It is so empty, so fleshed-out. There is something blasphemous in reenacting something deeply felt. There is a lot of lying going on, when the aim is for us all to have the same specific feeling. And this is when you feel Capote´s rage. When you feel his hatred and anger that he can hardly control. The scientist letting all his grisly beasts out of the cage to devour each other in the lab. The man in a white coat punching and jabbing and slashing away at the dead body in the autopsy room. You want your child to be immune from all that you have seen, you want it to be different than when you were a kid, and you tell him fairy-tales at night when he can´t sleep, you tell him fairy-tales at night knowing against all hope that he will grow up and stop believing in your stories. You hope he sleeps right through the sufferings and pain in life which could turn him, perhaps, into a successful actor or leave him raging and mad kicking a wounded body, breaking bottles at night. And then, maybe when it is too late, you come to find that the worse that could happen is rather than going through the pain and troubles, your boy keeps believing in your dreams. Even if they are just imaginative fairy-tales. The real danger is losing yourself in a dream.

“She broke clean. Like a piece of porcelain. So I stopped caring.”

“You mad, crazy, fool…”

Capote is shameless. He was a monster. He was a HeHHHhwriter trying to make it. This is how he finishes his opponent off : “Brando has not forgotten Bud. When he speaks of the boy he was, the boy seems to inhabit him, as if time had done little to separate the man from the hurt, desiring child. “My father was indifferent to me,” he said. “Nothing I could do interested him, or pleased him. I’ve accepted that now. We’re friends now. We get along.” Over the past ten years, the elder Brando has supervised his son’s financial affairs; in addition to Pennebaker Productions, of which Mr. Brando, Sr., is an employee, they have been associated in a number of ventures, including a Nebraska grain-and-cattle ranch, in which a large percentage of the younger Brando’s earnings was invested. “But my mother was everything to me. A whole world. I tried so hard. I used to come home from school . . .” He hesitated, as though waiting for me to picture him:” And this is where the shock comes, when we feel the cut. Capote describes Marlon´s suffering as if he was giving scene directions, turning it obscene, as if he were illegitimating a man´s inner core of suffering. As if he was making another man´s life into a great big lie. “Bud, books under his arm, scuffling his way along an afternoon street. ‘There wouldn’t be anybody home. Nothing in the icebox.’ More lantern slides: empty rooms, a kitchen. ‘Then the telephone would ring. Somebody calling from some bar. And they’d say, ‘We’ve got a lady down here. You better come get her.’ Suddenly, Brando was silent. In silence the picture faded, or, rather, became fixed: Bud at the telephone. At last, the image moved again, leaped forward in time. Bud is eighteen, and: ‘I thought if she loved me enough, trusted me enough, I thought, then we can be together, in New York; we’ll live together and I’ll take care of her. Once, later on, that really happened. She left my father and came to live with me. In New York, when I was in a play. I tried so hard. But my love wasn’t enough. She couldn’t care enough. She went back. And one day’—the flatness of his voice grew flatter, yet the emotional pitch ascended until one could discern like a sound within a sound, a wounded bewilderment—I didn’t care any more. She was there. In a room. Holding on to me. And I let her fall. Because I couldn’t take it any more—watch her breaking apart, in front of me, like a piece of porcelain. I stepped right over her. I walked right out. I was indifferent. Since then, I’ve been indifferent.’”

Brando could be acting. Maybe he is the real winner. For what it´s worth, if this was an act, I guess one could say he is the world´s best actor.

We can choose to see the curtain falling, or the screen fading to black. Or maybe we can read the article as Capote meant it. One or the other was left bowing for applause. The trick is to figure out which one. For their sake. After this article was printed in the Nov. 9, 1957 edition of the New Yorker, it quickly turned into a model for magazine writing. An early proponent of New Journalism. Every student learned the ins and outs of it. A model of technique, a model of characterization. It is, in fact, a forgery. Just like a movie. Capote´s The Duke In His Domain is too careful and it is too deliberate. Locked within its limits and confines. It is much too neat. And life is rough. Life is rasp. Life is amplifier feedback. People stand out. People are spiky. Capote forges reality. Why not give it one more twist, choose a different ending, inconclusive, one that preceded the last few paragraphs. One that is messy. One that pounds right through the drum skin. One that thrills and loves. One that is alive.

“ You know, it took me a long time before I was aware that that´s what I was – a big success.” said Brando “ I was so absorbed in myself, my own problems, I never looked around, took account. I used to walk in New York, miles and miles, walk in the streets late at night, and never see anything. I was never sure about acting, whether that was what I really wanted to do; I´m still not. Then, when I was in ‘Streetcar’ and it had been running a couple of months one night- dimly, dimly – I began to hear this ROAR!”

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justkending · 6 years

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Knock, Knock. Part 20.

Chapter Summary: It’s time to meet the parents.

Pairing: (single) Jensen x Reader

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 2211

A/N: Yes, this one is kinda short, but it will get more interesting next chapter! I just need you to get a feel for the family dynamic. Enjoy!

Part 20:

“You guys are going to be staying in Y/N’s old room.” Your mom said, opening your door and gesturing inside.

“Mom, there’s only one bed.” You said, looking in your old room.

“And?” she said crossing her arms in the doorway.

“And…” you said raising an eyebrow and turning your eyes toward Jensen without moving your head.

“So.”

“You know what? I’ll take the futon in the office.” You turned to Jensen, “You can have my room-“

“I sold the futon.” Your mom said cutting you off.

“What? Why?” you turned back to her.

“It was tacky, and was taking up space.” She shrugged.

“Mom!”

“Don’t ‘mom’ me missy. This is the only bed we have available. Your sisters twin bed is too small for two people, so you can’t sleep with her, and Charlie and them are staying over tonight in his old room because their heater isn’t working. You guys can share a bed, it’s not that big of a deal.” she said turning to walk away before you could fight her on it. “I’m going to get some coffee started.” Once she was down the hall and in the living room she shouted again. “Don’t forget to go get your dad in the shop once your unpacked!”

You let out a loud and long sigh in response. You turned back to your room looking around. It hadn’t changed a bit. You had your built in vanity on the same wall of your bed. It was the first one you made with your dad. Then a table that you had built as well on the wall along side your door, that held your old record player, and some records you left behind. There were posters of world maps, and bands like: The Beatles, Eagles and Rolling stones hug up. Your bed was neatly made, and still had an old quilt that your grandma made when you were younger on top of your comforter.

As you were reminiscing over all your old things, Jensen saw the worry in your eyes.

“Hey, I can sleep on the floor or couch if you want. It’s not that big of a deal.” He said looking down at you.

“What?” you said snapping out of your thoughts. “What? Oh, no. No. I’ll sleep on the couch. I wouldn’t hear the end of it from my mom is she saw you on the couch.”

“It’s fine really-“

“Jay.” You cut him off. “Don’t argue with me, cause we both know who’s going to win the fight.” You smirked. “Besides the couch is pretty comfortable.”

He was kinda hoping that you would just give in and sleep in the bed with him, but he also still didn’t know if you and Cole had actually broken up. He had a theory that you guys had, but you hadn’t told him what went down the other night.

“Ok, as much as I want to fight you on it, I guess I’ll take the bed.” He said going in and putting his bag on the bed.

“Good.” You said with a victory smile, and went to put your bags on the ground at the end of the bed. You sat down on the corner of the bed, and Jensen followed. “I have not been in this room for years it feels like.”

“Really? When’s the last time you came up here?”

“Probably since last Christmas.” You said thinking back.

“Really?”

“Yeah. They tend to come visit me in Austin. They like the city, and love to travel down there so I don’t fight them on it.” You were looking at the table that held your records and jumped up noticing something. “Oh. My. God.” You ran over picking up a yellow vinyl cover with a bow and a note on it.

“What is that?” he said getting up and following you to look over your shoulder.

“It’s the Flash Gordon Album.” You said running a hand down it. You pulled the note off of the cover.

Monkey,

I thought I would get you one early Christmas present so we could listen to it sooner rather than later.

Love,

-Dad

“Awe. Thanks dad.” You said softly.

“Flash Gordon, huh?” Jensen said snapping you out of it.

“Hmm Mmm. It’s kinda an inside joke with my dad. The movie is awful, but we love it anyway. Plus, the whole album is by Queen.” You smiled. “Speaking of my dad we should go check on him.”

Jensen nodded, and you both got situated before heading out to the shop.

He followed close behind as you opened the door, and saw your dad sawing away at something with the giant power saw that was extremely loud.

“Dad!” you yelled knowing he probably wouldn’t hear you. “Dad!”

Still nothing.

Your big chocolate lab came running over, and you crouched to rub her head.

“Belle! Oh my goodness! Look at you girl!” you said giving her a big hug around the neck. “Well, you’ve gotten older haven’t you? Still as gorgeous as ever though.” You said tapping her nose before standing. You looked at Jensen who was grinning at you. “That’s Belle. She’s a sweetheart and also thinks she owns this shop.” You smiled.

He crouched and started rubbing on her which caused her to roll on her back so that he could pet her belly better.

“I’m taking it that she likes me?” he asked smiling up at you.

“Actually yeah! She’s never that relaxed with people she first meets. She’s usually on guard all the time.” You said kinda shocked.

“Monkey? Is that you?” your father asked as he turned off the saw.

“Hey Dad.” You smiled, walking over to him.

“Well come here sweetheart, and give your old man a hug.” He said taking off his headphones and opening his arms.

You rushed over and gave him a long and strong embrace even though he was covered in sawdust.

“I miss you honey!” he said in your ear as he rested his cheek on your head.

“Miss you too dad.” You pulled away with a big grin. “What are you working on now?”

“Oh, the usual. Neighbor down the road wanted some corn hole boards for a Christmas gift, and I’m just now getting ‘em started.” He said back looking at his creation. “Hey, your mom said you were bringing home a boyfriend. Is that right?”

“Um actually-“

Before you could finish your dad looked over you and saw Jensen standing up from where he had been petting Belle.

“Oh. My. God.” He said pushing past you.

“Dad, hey!” you said stumbling out of the way.

“Jensen Ackles.” He said walking up and putting his hands out in shock. “Jensen Ackles is in my shop.” He said going star struck. He turned to you for a split second. “Dean Winchester is in my shop.” he turned back to Jensen.

“Dad, please try to act normal.” You mumbled walking over to him.

“Hello Mr. Y/L/N. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He said shaking you father’s hand.

“Well, the pleasure is all mine son!” you dad said shaking his hand back.

“Dad-“ you tried cutting in.

“Y/N didn’t tell me she was bringing you!”

“Well, mom was supposed to tell you, but she failed to mention-“

“I’m a big fan of your show Jensen. Lots of good music, stories, mysteries, and OH the car!” he said getting more excited with each thing.

Jensen laughed at the excitement your father was eliciting.

“I’m glad you like it sir. It’s made a big impact on my life, and I wouldn’t change it for a second.” He said looking to you. He wasn’t just talking about the show.

“Oh, I’m sure!” he said finally letting go of Jensen’s hand. “So you’re the one dating my daughter.” He said switching to dad-mode. “I got to say, if anyone is going to be with her, I’m glad it’s Dean Winchester.”

“Dad!” you shouted swatting his arm.

“What?” he said confused at the hit.

“We aren’t dating. Jensen and I just live together.” You said crossing your arms and standing by Jensen’s side.

“Living together? Don’t you think you missed a step?” he said

“Dad we talked about this-“

“If I may,” Jensen said looking at you before looking back at your dad. “Your daughter needed a place to stay when her apartment complex went under, and I just happened to have some spare rooms in my house. I asked her if she wanted to borrow one when Jared and Gen introduced us. We’ve become really great friends since.” he said smiling down at you, and throwing an arm over your shoulder. You returned the smile.

“Oh, I see.” Your dad said nodding his head and taking off his work gloves. “So nothing… romantic-“

“Dad!”

“Sorry, just checking! Your mom said boyfriend so…”

“Cole couldn’t come.” You said in a sadder tone. You quickly recovered. “I had an extra ticket, and Jensen was going to be by himself for Christmas so I invited him instead.”

Jensen looked down at you wanting to know the answer behind why Cole couldn’t come. You still had a talk that you needed to finish with him, and he was hoping to hear it soon.

“Well, I’m not complaining!” he said patting Jensen’s shoulder. “While you guys are out here; want to help me cut this last board? It’s too big for one person.”

“Sure.” You said going to the work bench to grab gloves and safety glasses.

“I would love to help sir.” Jensen said following by your dad’s side.

“Please. Call me Wayne.” Your father said patting his shoulder again.

“Wayne.” Jensen repeated. “Got it.”

“Are you guys going to help me or what?” you said shoving the other set of glasses and gloves toward Jensen.

“Sorry, boss.” Jensen said with a sassy smirk.

“She is pretty bossy, isn’t she?” your dad whispered.

“I heard that!” you shouted going to grab a side of the board. “Dad you better hurry too. Mom was the one who sent us out here.”

“Oh shoot. Then we don’t have time to mess around.” Your dad said picking up the pace.

You and Jensen laughed as you helped your dad finish the job.

“Ok, I need someone to explain the nickname Monkey for me?” Jensen said as he walked into the house behind you.

“Oh, that’s-“ you started, but were cut off by your dad.

“She use to use people as human jungle gyms. Was always climbing on everything she could. Me included.” He said going to grab a cup of coffee. “Hey, honey. Did you get that paper done?” he said giving your mom a kiss on the cheek as he sat by her at the kitchen table.

She nodded before continued the story of your nickname.

“Y/N here, was our wild child.” Your mom said giving you a pointed look.

“Still is.” You dad mumbled taking a sip.

“She use to run outside for hours on end just climbing on trees, rocks, in the creeks, you name it. She would invite the neighborhood friends over in the morning, and we wouldn’t see them till supper cause they were running around and constantly finding new places to explore.” She laughed.

You hopped up on the counter taking a seat, and grabbed your coffee as Jensen came and stood by you and looked toward your parents at the table.

“She’s always been an adventurous one. Constantly trying to find new places to discover.” Your dad said winking at you.

“Very true.” You said smiling as you drank your coffee.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” Jensen said looking at you with a loving look, and leaning on the counter by you, slightly brushing his shoulder on your arm.

You blushed just at his stare, and looked away quickly not wanting it to show.

“So dad!” you yelled. “Why don’t you tell Jensen what you’re building? How you got started on it and all?”

“Oh yeah!” your dad exclaimed.

You knew that if you got him started on that kick it could go on for a while. You just wanted to direct the conversation away from you.

“While you two talk about that, I’m going to go wash the airplane musk, and saw dust off me.” You said hopping down from the counter.

“Yeah, you got some in your hair.” Jensen said ruffling your head as you walked by.

“Hey!” you laughed as you pushed his hand away. “Now, I don’t feel as bad leaving you here with these two.” You motioned to your parents.

“We aren’t that bad!” your mom defended.

“Sure.” You said just loud enough for them to hear you. Your mom swatted your back as you ran past her. “I’ll be back in 20 minutes’ top.” You turned to Jensen just as you were going through the doorway. “Thank you can handle it?” you said with a smirk.

“Get out of here stinker!” he waved you off. “Besides you smell awful.” He teased.

“I do not! You were on the same plane as me, who’s to say it’s not you you’re smelling?” you shouted as you walked away.

You just heard them laughing at you as you walked into the bathroom and started getting undressed for the shower.

Part 21

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lacylu42 · 6 years

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11/11/11 Tag Game

Thanks @feathersandfortunes for the tag! I’m just getting into the writeblr community, but I’ll try to tag a few people at the bottom. 1. What’s a type of media that you think influenced your writing? Could be anything, from Marvel movies to Magical girl anime or a band or a podcast - anything!

I did an exercise a while back that suggested listing your top 10 favorite stories — any media, books, movies, etc. — and then look at what they all have in common. And it’s fascinating! Some of my favorite stories of all time, including Harry Potter, X-Files, Hitchhiker’s Guide, Doctor Who, among others, include normal people doing and experiencing extraordinary things, going into extraordinary worlds.

I know that being in fandom and writing fan fiction has also strongly influenced my writing. I didn’t know it when I was a kid, but my first forays into writing were all thinly veiled attempts to write like my favorite authors in exploration of finding my own voice.

2. What does your OC do on a road trip or long commute? Playlists, podcasts, daydreaming, games, idk, up to you!

Oh lord! I feel like Julia has done cross-country road trips before, so she would be all about stocking up on snacks, picking out the podcasts, and plotting out which ridiculous roadside attractions to stop at.

I think David would haaaaate a road trip to start with, like he would hate the very idea of it. He likes to be efficient, and I think he doesn’t like being stuck in small, confined spaces. He’s a walker, too. But I think he would enjoy the novelty of a road trip with Julia if he was forced into it. She would show him the weird pleasures of it.

3. How do you pick names for your characters? Meanings, sounds, anything!

This book in particular was a weird experience because it has a relatively large cast, and I was naming people on the fly while trying to bang out a couple thousand words a day.

But I enjoyed trying to match the names of the Supernatural creatures with their country of origin (ie: Daoine the Irish banshee) but also playing against type for certain characters (ie: Greg the ogre).

4. What’s a trope you hate from a genre you love?

Oh man! I love epic hero’s journey stories, but I’m kind of over the “chosen one” who has special powers to save the world. I’m much more interested in ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations.

5. Pick a trope you love from a genre you hate, what is it?

I’m not a big fan of straight romance or rom com, but I do looooove me some romance/rom com tropes like THERE’S ONLY ONE BED! (my fave), or friends to lovers, or any excuse to put my characters in fancy dress so they can oogle each other. :>

6. If you’re a fiction writer, what’s something you wish you could write that would be nonfiction (an important historical event, a celebrity’s memoir, idk)? If you’re nonfiction, what’s a fictional world you would live in?

I actually write both; I write fiction for fun and non-fiction in my business. But for this question, I’d love to write a really deeply researched non-fiction book about habits or lifestyle or something.

OR maybe a cookbook...

7. Do you like supernatural/magical/mythical creatures? What’s your favorite?

Love. My current WIP is all about supernatural creatures in the normal, modern world. I don’t think I have an all-time favorite, but from this book I love Greg the erudite ogre and Vincenzo, the vegan vampire.

8. What’s a quote you would love to see on a movie poster or in a trailer for your wip?

Wow, this is hard... This probably wouldn’t fit on a poster, but I like this quote from the scene in which my two main characters meet for the first time: “I said, I’m not crazy,” Julia repeated. “Obviously I wasn’t shot. There’s no bullet wound. So he must have missed. But I swear to you, I saw the gun. I heard it go off. There was…” she faltered. “I felt all this pain…”

“Yeah, you would,” the man said, pocketing his notebook and taking a few steps toward her bed. He was wearing a long overcoat and a rumpled brown suit.

“Then, you believe me?” She pushed herself up into a sitting position.

“Wee-eelll, yes and no. I believe that you believe you were shot. But that’s not what happened.”

Julia shook her head. “I saw the gun…”

“You saw a glamour. An illusion. You saw what the spell caster wanted you to see.”

Julia blinked at him. “I’m sorry. I thought you said ‘spell caster.’”

“You got hit by a curse, and apparently it’s given you what humans would call the sight. You can see the supernatural world. My world.” He scrubbed the back of his head with his hand, looking thoughtful. “Though, whether or not the curse was actually meant for you is up for debate. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to give you the sight? Anyone in your family make any deals with demons that you’re aware of? Have you ever been bitten by an imp?”

Julia stared at him for a long time. “I think maybe you need the psych consult.”

He grinned crookedly at her. “Probably. But not about this.”

9. Where do you start when creating a character? Backstory, appearance, personality, etc?

I usually start a story with a scene or an idea — and the characters just start talking or acting. A lot of times the character just shows up and starts talking at me, and that’s where everything starts. I might have an idea of what they look like, but sometimes not. So I guess it starts with personality and how they act in a particular situation and grows from there.

10. What’s a scent that makes your OC feel at home?

David’s father was a carpenter, and that was his first trade, so I think the smell of sawdust and cut wood would take him back.

Julia I think is starting to associate the smell of coffee with David, so maybe coffee... ;)

11. Are there any scenes you’re secretly hoping get fanart in your wip or published work?

Oh my gosh! I would love to see people produce fanart of this book! I really want to see people’s interpretation of Greg the ogre in his police uniform! Haha. But I’d also like to see this scene, with David and Julia sitting in the grass taking in everything going on in the park: “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Julia quipped as the alley turned a blind corner, but the words died on her lips.

It was a park, but not one she’d ever seen before. Hemmed in on all sides by skyscrapers, it wasn’t very big, but it was bursting with life. The sunlight seemed brighter here, even though by all rights the park should have been deep in shadow from the tall buildings all around.

The walls surrounding the park were painted with large and wonderful murals. In one, the seeds of a giant dandelion seemed to be perpetually floating off into the distance, twirling and flying in an imaginary breeze. As they walked past, one of the seeds morphed into a tiny pig that started squealing and chasing them.

David caught Julia’s curious frown and laughed. “The graffiti artists sometimes enchant the graffiti to insult cops.”

Julia stared at him. “The painting knows you’re a cop?”

“Well, the spell does, anyway.”

[...]

Beings and creatures of all shapes and sizes were walking, sitting, talking, strolling through the park. An extremely tall, willowy woman with long brown hair filled with leaves was dancing slowly around the base of a tree. Little pixies, no more than 10 inches high, were buzzing around, laughing, playing, and shouting profanities at one another. A group of men and women who looked more or less human were sitting in a circle in the sun, chanting, as a strange symbol burned in the air in the middle. She felt like her eyes couldn’t quite take it all in.

“This is…” she whispered.

“Yeah,” David replied with a smile. He led her over to an unoccupied patch of grass where he took off his overcoat and spread it on the ground for them to sit on. “I wanted you to see that it’s not all snarling demons and manipulative witches. There’s a lot of wonder in the supernatural world, too. A lot of good.”

Thank you again for tagging me!

The rules are 11 questions answered, 11 questions given, and 11 people tagged! As I said, I’m new to the #writeblr community, but I’ll tag @copperbadge, @brynwrites, @theticklishpear, @lvslie, and @licieoic if you want to play!

1. Have you had to “kill any darlings” from your current WIP, ie: quotes, characters, scenes, etc. that you LOVE but don’t fit and have to be cut? Please share.

2. What is your favorite genre to write in and why? Is it different from the genres you like to consume?

3. Do you consciously study existing works by other authors to improve your own writing? If so, what types of things do you look at?

4. Have you noticed any patterns in your own writing, ie: you always have a certain type of character, like to explore a certain type of story, etc.?

5. Do you do most of your world building before you write, while writing the first draft, or during revisions?

6. If when your WIP hits the bestseller list, where would you like to go or what would you like to do on a book tour? Is there somebody you’d like to be interviewed by?

7. How do you approach setting the scene in your work? Are you into lush descriptions or giving the bare minimum and allowing the reader to fill in the blanks?

8. Do you follow a set structure (ie: hero’s journey, 3-act structure) when plotting out your works, or fly by the seat of your pants?

9. What does your revision process look like?

10. Please share a bit of dialogue from your WIP that shows us something important about the character’s personality.

11. Please share any jokes or funny bits from your WIP of which you are ridiculously proud. ;)

#about me #tag game #writeblr #writing tag game #novel development #behind the scenes #the curse of the mad dragon

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brolikeidkman · 6 years

Text

An ex friend of mine tried to reach out to me and this will be a post about why I will not speak to her (TRIGGER WARNING:SELF HARM, REFERENCES TO RAPE CULTURE, GENERAL INSURGENT HOMOPHOBIA)

So she reached out to me and I have severe reasons why I completely cut her out of my life. The stories will be numbered. the first one is the longest the rest are pretty short.

#1. The Birthday party.

First, she was always giving off a bad vibe. Not just being a generally grumpy person because I can( and have) dealt with that kind of thing before. She had a ton of drama that came with her because, to be honest, she is a damaged person (None of which was her fault or was a problem for the most part).

The problems that came with her problems was that she created them. Her mental issues caused her to act out in a desperate plea for attention. Now, im a very caring person and I can say that with pride because I have worked hard to be one and I don’t say it lightly. Despite how caring I am I can no longer bring myself to help her because of the way she treated the people around her and me.

First, im going to tell you about my thirteenth birthday party. This is kind of in the middle of all the stuff she did but ill try and keeps all the other events in order so you can see the build up.

So the birthday party was big for me as it was a sleepover and the first birthday party I was having with friends since the first grade. Now as I said, this was a sleepover, so I told all six of my friends that my house didn't have enough room for no one to sleep on the floor and if need be I would sleep in my bed or two people could sleep in my bed and we all discussed how the sleeping arrangements and we figured out where and how everyone would be sleeping. She had volunteered to sleep on the floor. When she got to my house she showed up with no sleep clothes, no blanket, and no pillows. So a bad start. Now I wasn’t going to get upset about it because it wasn't a big deal, but the problems didn't stop there. One of my friends I invited has a very severe allergy to milk so we ordered her her own pizza without cheese. So why did this have anything to do with ex-friend? Because she would not stop commenting on how much of a burden it was. She said we should have just ordered it half cheese and half no cheese(despite the fact that this could have hospitalized my friend) or how she should have brought her own food. (who the fuck does that.)

Then came the presents.

Two of my friends didn't get me a gift because I made it very clear if you don't know what to get me or don't think you can you don't have to get me a gift (the actual wording was “company preferred than presents”). She, however, thought present should be mandatory. My dairy allergic friend got me a stuffed animal that I still have to this day, my ex-friend that has an allergy to sawdust (which comes in later) got me a ten dollar target gift card. My artist friend gave me a drawing (which I think I still have somewhere). Now, my friend that has an allergy to sawdust (which comes in later), She got me this HUGE multicolored crayon. WHICH I LOVED! I had a really close friend in my childhood who used to make them and it was such a fond memory. this friend actually felt really bad about the gift because she thought I wouldn't like it. As I was about to tell her about just why it was so awesome the ex-friend interrupted and said that she could have given me the receipt. Which she had. The ex-friend made comments to the two that didn't bring presents that hey should have. One of them was a friend of mine for five years before (it would have been longer but I had only known her since the moment I moved in you know.) Not only had this friend already gotten me a present she was also waiting for my actual birthday to give me another present (my birthday is in the summer so it was easier to have a birthday party a month early so I could keep contact for plans inside school) so I was pretty mad but I didn't say anything to the ex-friend because I knew she would start a fight. My old friend is very understanding about this when I tell her this.

The cake went well and there wasn't a problem because we had gotten my dairy allergic friend sherbert ( think this what its called its basically shaved ice sold like ice cream).

Then we had downtime. We played Guitar hero, played Jenga and some suggested we go outside before my art friend had to leave because she couldn't spend the night. Which was good except for two of them. The first was you-know-who and the other was my friend who is allergic to sawdust. She asked if we had done any work on our house and I said no, but that our neighbors had recently sawed down a tree.

I pointed out where it was to her and it isn't close to my house it's on the opposite side of their yard so she said it was okay and I told her to let me know if something was wrong. Now my ex-friend. Not to step on any toes here but I don't believe Ouija boards work. That being said, if someone else believes that they do work im not going to tell them otherwise. She believed they worked but she's an idiot. She told me she couldn't go outside because demons will kill her because she left a bord without saying goodbye and she was alone.(aren't those basic rules?) So we said she didn't have to go outside (which honestly was rude but we needed a break from her at this point). And then she went outside. And pretending she was possessed by demons. Which you know isn't that bad but then she had fits of crying and screaming. And then she did something that is the main reason I bringing this story up. She went to my neighbors' yard and grabbed a handful of the sawdust. AND STARTED CHASING MY FRIEND WITH IT. My friends' sawdust allergy as far from mild she would break out in hives and she had asthma. She also can’t run well because one of her legs is significantly shorter than the other. My ex-friend knew all of these things. So I tackled her. Which went better than I thought it would because she blamed it on the demons so I sent her inside to wash her hands and told my mom to make sure she did and to let me know when she did so we could go back in. My artist friends mom picked her up and then we watched a few movies, played some Minecraft and more guitar hero. Ex-friends mom picked her up at four am.

#2. You cant be that because I said so ... (warning: insurgent homophobia)

This was the year gay marriage was passed. When my friend told me about it it was a slap in the face because I hadn't known being gay was even an option. I welcomed it with warm arms and I got to know a lot of my friends closer through it and I learned a ton from them and learned a lot about my parents' views (which aren't good). Now my ex-friend (let's just call her X) decided that she wanted to explore her sexuality more and identified, in this order, as: Lesbian, genderfluid, bisexual, lesbian, trans, gay, genderfluid, no longer trans, lesbian, pansexual, bisexual.

All of this was fine with me, and though I thought it was odd she kept jumping labels so much and so rapidly I was still there for her because I knew sexuality is a hard thing to pin down.

During this time, however, she did many things I will never tolerate:

X told one of my friends he could not be gay because she wanted to have sexual relations with him.

Said that a questioning genderfluid couldn't be genderfluid because he didn’t feel it the same way she does. (He figured out he just really loves drag and now identifies with his birth gender wholely as well as being bisexual)

X Said that a girl was ugly because she refused to send naked photos

Stated genderfluid people don't exist (only after she decided she wasn't)

Called the cops on my friends' mom saying she was a heroin addict.

X Told a teacher she would call the cops and tell them he asked for photos if he didn't put in the grade for an assignment she didn't do (I hated that teacher but this was days after X asked the girl for photos so I talked to the guidance counselor who got the cops involved and the teacher let them look into his messages and emails and they couldn't find a trace of interaction with her besides asking her to turn in a big assignment. I found out what happened a year later after the guidance counselor retired when she thanked me for stopping a potential problem and for never causing one. I thanked her for not involving me as a witness for the police.)

X said multiple times that she willingly had sex with an older male (which worried us to all hell and we told the new guidance counselor this many times. He was later fired without a public reason)

Then X decided that she would be the one to pick which sexuality suited me best.

I don't think there is anything wrong with helping someone find an identity that suits them but not when it's unwanted and isn't helping them work it out themselves by picking the actual label themselves. She was just labeling me as she thought I should be.

She decided that I am asexual. This was very offensive to me NOT because I think badly of ANY sexuality but because:

A: I am not asexual

B: I did not ask her for advice she just came up to me and said it.

C: Said she knew an asexual when she saw one.

D: Continued to tell people I was.

I now identify as Polyamorous Aromantic.

I also was told by a friend that X was telling people that I had sex with X and that she “helped me figure out I am asexual because I didn't like it”, I could never confirm this was spread by her, but Its highly possible as she had said something similar to me about another girl. (I am to this day a virgin btw)

She told multiple people they had been faking their sexualities to go with a new trend.

#3: The Biggest reason. (WARNING: Non-graphic self-harm main topic)

After all that happened in #2 I had stopped being friends with X but this is why I completely cut her out of my life before she got expelled.

During this time I had severe depression and my family couldn't afford to get me help. I had one friend that I was really close to and he had severe mental issues including depression, bipolar disorder and he also was being physically abused by his grandfather and was mentally abused by his mom which he hid from his dad who he only saw every other weekend.

Unfortunately, he was also a cutter. He has scars now on his arms and legs and he confessed to me that he had tried to kill himself on a few occasions. He was my closest friend and he is much better nowadays. This is the questioning genderfluid friend I talked about in #2 that X said was wrong.

Honestly, I could have gotten over every other reason that I will not talk to her except this one.

Heres what happened.

She drew cut marks on her arms and legs and said: “Hey look I’m (Cutter Friend)!”

There is a big difference between kids being mean and people who you think are your friends calling you out.

After that happened most of my friends stopped talking to her completely and if she sat at our table we would leave.

She decided she should start to actually cut herself and blame us and say we told her to do so.

Then one day she tripped me in the hall. (To be honest, I don't know why she tripped me to this day) She started doing things like this all the time she told the counselor I was cutting myself and smoking cigarettes (which led to my stuff getting searched and her getting detention when they asked me why she would say that I had them).

When she relised she couldnt target me without getting in trouble she decided to start targeting my friend.

By this time he was doing so much better. His grandfaather had died, he told his dad about his mom, and he had mostly stopped cutting unless something triggered it.

Triggered like when someone asked about it. Or when someone called him a slur.

So X decided to go up to him, grab his wrists, push up his sleeves, rake her acrilic nails down his scars and ask “What are the best brand of razors to use? Mine never cut deep enough. Should we swallow some?”

He tried to kill himself when he got home. He had to be rescued by his dad and emts after he overdosed and tried to drown himself in his bathtub. He he kept his clothes on so his dad didn’t have to see him dead and naked. He was in the hospital for a week. That was when I started cutting.

Its my worst memory.

She eventually was expelled after she threatened multiple teachers.

When we got to Highschool she got expelled after two months for drug use, dealing, bringing alcholol into the building and eventually threatening a shooting.

She now is saying shes coming back to my school and I refuse to respond.

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