#suicide tw its not a major part of the story but its commented on

[vladajwrites]

Razor’s Edge

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four

Summary; Reader moves to Woodsboro for her senior year of high school. This story take place in the setting of the Scream 4 movie. This story is dedicated to all of the girls living through the current Rory Culkin revival. I love and see you. <3

Also available to be read on AO3 here

It's imperative for me to mention MAJOR trigger warnings for this story; blood, violence, sexual content, alcohol usage, and mentions of abusive situations and suicide. I will add and edit tw's as needed.

WC; 5,043

Notes;

Part 3 should be available soon. Thank you for any and all support! It truly means the world to me. Check post comments after reading chapter for additional statements.

As you had anticipated, Irina was truly overjoyed to learn how your first day of school had gone. She asked so many questions; the conversation went well into the night after she had returned home from work. 

“Could you see yourself becoming friends with any of the other students?” Irina asked from the kitchen table as you cleared remnants of dinner from the counter. 

You set a plate down in the sink and contemplated her question. Thinking back on the people you met over the course of the day, a few names came to mind. Kirby seemed kind. You had exchanged numbers after film club had ended. Her other friend, Jill, seemed a fine enough person as well, though a bit more reserved. 

You thought back to any of the other conversations you had throughout the day. Robbie’s awkward invitation played over, albeit a brave gesture, it didn’t seem like likely grounds for a friendship. Your thoughts then shifted to Robbie’s counterpart. 

Charlie seemed to keep much more to himself. It felt special to have someone, practically a stranger, come to your defense in any sort of situation. Charlie could be a friend, possibly. A half smile slipped up your lips. What did you know, though? Maybe it wasn’t really a possibility at all.

“I don’t know, maybe. I think it’s too soon to tell.” You spoke over your shoulder, holding your hand under the kitchen faucet, waiting for the water to warm. 

“Hmm,” Irina began, you peered over at her. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, concealing a knowing smile. “Well, I have hope for you. Don’t count anybody out just yet.” 

You nodded, loading glasses and silverware into the dishwasher. 

If it were meant to happen, you figured it would. The only real matter of importance to you at the moment was pushing through your classes, giving yourself an opportunity to move you forward in life. It wouldn’t be long until college applications and standardized testing would be consume most of your free time and thoughts. 

The next few weeks passed by as most did when beginning a new school year. The teachers, thankfully, kept most assignments and quizzes simple to build back the tolerance towards regular class work that had been lost over the summer break. 

As you had also expected, the introductions and sudden interest other students had towards you started to fizzle out as they fell back into their usual routines. Although Kirby had become a welcomed energy in your space. She went out of her way to speak to you in classes you shared. She had even recently began to invite you to join her and her small circle to leave campus during your lunch period. It felt nice to be included, even if you had yet to be around them outside of school hours. 

Charlie had continued to walk with you to film club most days. The two of you shared very little actual conversations. Most moments were filled with a comfortable silence. 

You really began to pick up on things in the club. You’d write yourself small lists of the movies mentioned during that hour and return home to watch as many as possible while you worked on your homework. It was nice to have things to fill your time, distractions to push any memories away from before your return to Woodsboro.

The air had started to chill and change as September crept its way to the present day. It was a cloudy Friday, nearly two full weeks had passed since that first day of school. You were walking your usual route towards room 120A, Charlie in step beside you. Just before you were able to make it through the classroom doors, you heard your name called from the opposite end of the hallway.

You looked up to find Scotty Anderson gawking his way towards you. ‘Shit,’ you rolled your eyes. You had done a pretty good job of avoiding him and his group since the sports equipment bag debacle. You glanced over at Charlie. His frame was unusually rigid, no discernable emotion in his expression. 

You sucked in your cheeks, debating on just turning into the classroom. It was better to just get this over with than put it off; you decided. 

You took a few steps forwards, meeting Scotty in the middle of the hallway. You held both hands in front of you, tapping your foot as you thought of what he could have to say to you.

“Hey, I know we haven’t had the opportunity to speak.” Scotty began, moving the same bag of equipment up onto his shoulder. “I just wanted to apologize for running into you the other day. Definitely not cool.” It was clear in his tone he didn’t actually mean a word of what he had just said. 

You nodded, biting the tip of your tongue. You never expected an apology, and after as much time had passed, you really didn’t care to have one. You were more confused about why he had apologized now, after days had passed. 

“It’s fine man, don’t worry about it.” You replied, turning on your heel to head back towards the classroom. Scotty’s hand gripped its way around your upper arm, spinning you back towards him. You were visibly taken aback by the sudden motion and intrusion into your personal space. 

“Look, let me make it up to you. Give me your number, I’ll take you out sometime, show you around Woodsboro.” He practically demanded, a sly cocky grin plastered across his face. He was just plainly handsome, the athletic and popular type you imagined some girls would go for. You might’ve given him a chance too, if things hadn’t started out the way they had. He was still somehow able to make his chances even worse though as he continued to talk. You weren’t the least bit interested. 

You glanced over your shoulder. Charlie was still standing in the doorway, his eyes flashed quickly between you and Scotty. A disgusted frown clung to his lips as he watched the situation unfolding before him. 

You looked back up at Scotty, shaking your arm out of his grasp. “No thank you,” you replied, barely above a whisper. 

His eyes widened in disbelief, as if he’d never heard those words before. “What?” His mouth hung agape. 

“I said no. I’m just not interested.” You replied, this time more sternly. 

Scotty scoffed, surely attempting to conceal his bruised ego. He stomped his way down the hallway like a toddler. “Ugly bitch.” You could hear him mutter as he grew further away. 

You slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to conceal your shocked laughter. You turned back around. Charlie was gone from his spot. A stupid smile plastered on your face as you entered film club. If Anderson truly felt that way, he would’ve never made an attempt to come onto you in the first place. You found your seat next to Kirby and looked up at Charlie, believing he’d be laughing with you too over the situation, only he didn’t seem amused at all. He wouldn’t even look up to meet your eyes. 

His cold shouldered treatment continued into the next week as well. You figured things would just be as they were before as the last bell rang that following Monday. Before you had the chance to grab your things, Charlie had brushed past you, disappearing into the crowd of students in the hall. 

You weren’t sure why it hurt your feelings so much. He didn’t owe you anything. You were perfectly capable of making it to the club without him. But still, you couldn’t help but feel anxious as the next few days unfolded in the same way. He’d barely look at you, let alone speak to you. You were trying to wrap your head around why he was acting this way. You had done anything wrong to your knowledge, but then again, maybe you had. You couldn’t bring yourself to push the matter, though. You had no idea what to say to him. 

That following Friday, during your second to last period, your biology teacher announced the outline for the first heavily graded project of the semester. It was a group project. He’d assign the groups and specific topics each trio would be required to present. The classroom mumbled and huffed at the announcement. 

You listened carefully as the teacher made his way down the list of students he held in his hands. You glanced around the room as the group of prospective partners grew smaller. You hoped you would be paired with people you at least vaguely knew.

The teacher then called your name. Your head snapped to meet his finger dragging across the list he held in his right hand. You waited intently for the next names to be called. 

“You’ll be in a group with Mercer and Walker. Your topic is genetic pedigree.” You sunk down in your seat. Eyes flashing towards Robbie, who gave you a smile and thumbs up. You couldn’t bring yourself to look towards Charlie, who sat beside him. 

You dropped your head into your hands, letting your hair cover your face. You knew you’d have to muster the courage to say something to Charlie. The project was important, and you didn’t want any made-up qualms to affect the way you all worked together. 

As class concluded, Robbie stopped you in the Hallway. You watched Charlie walk past without looking behind him or waiting for his friend. You followed his frame carefully until losing him as he turned down the hall. 

“Hey, if it’s alright, could I grab your number?” Robbie asked. You’d nearly forgotten he was standing there. “For the project, of course. We’ll have to work on it outside of school, and just if you- or I, have any questions..” You watched as his cheeks turned a soft shade of red. 

You tried your best to give him a reassuring smile and nodded. “Of course Robbie, yeah, that makes sense.” 

“Awesome!” He sighed in relief, handing you his cellphone to type in your contact information. “See you in film club?”

You nodded again, watching Robbie turn on his heels and vanish into the crowd of students headed towards their next class. 

Your last class of the day felt like torment, the minutes passed by so incredibly slowly. It seemed as though the second hand on the clock was frozen in place as you waited and listened for each tick it made. 

You could feel eyes stuck to you as you sat, unfurling the hem of your sweater. You glanced behind you. Charlie met your eyes, he was mimicking your own movements, heel tapping on the floor below him. 

He looked absolutely miserable, pained even. He looked down at the ground as your eyes lingered for just a moment longer. You suddenly felt incredibly guilty. Maybe there was something going on with him completely outside of school, outside of you, and you had been so entirely selfish to believe his change in demeanor was a direct result of anything you had done. 

You sat at your desk now braiding, unbraiding, and rebraiding the same three strands of hair near the front of your face. How could you have not attempted to reach out to him sooner? You felt like an absolutely sorry excuse for an acquaintance, let alone a friend. 

You had your belongings packed and together before the final bell rang, you’d make sure to catch him this time. As soon as the clock rang to dismiss the class, you were up from your seat, headed to the doorway to catch him in the hall. 

He was quick to step past you, head fixated on the crowd in front of him. You worked faster, grabbing the strap of his backpack and pulling him through the doorway of an empty adjoining classroom. 

He looked shocked as he spun to face you, his mouth held agape, before snapping his lips into a tight line.

“What is wrong with you?” You asked, surprised even by your own hasty actions. As soon as the words left your lips, you regretted them. What’s wrong with you? Really? There wasn’t a better way for you to ask what was going on? You silently scolded yourself. 

“What?” He asked, taking an immediately defensive tone, understandably so. 

“I mean, what is going on with you? Is everything okay? You’ve gone through quite the effort to act like I don’t exist this past week.” You replied, amending your original question. 

He looked you over, scoffing. You brought your hands up over your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious. 

“Look, if it’s attention you’re looking to get from somebody, don’t bother me about it.” He spoke just above a whisper, as if he could barely get his own words out. 

His words made your eyes prick up. You felt your body heat flush as your jaw grew increasingly tense. What was wrong with him? His glare faltered for a moment, his hands dropping to his sides.

“I just mean…” He paused before continuing, “you’ve got Anderson. I don’t understand why you’d want me around.” 

Your eyes widened in shock, realizing he hadn’t stuck around till the end of the conversation you had with Scotty the week prior. This was really the reason he had become so cold towards you? It was ridiculous. He was so-

You couldn’t hold back the astonished laughter, the absolute nerve. Charlie’s expression morphed into confusion. He seemed almost hurt to have you laughing in his face. Good. 

“You really thought I wanted anything to do with that asshole? I didn’t even give him my number.” You exclaimed, throwing your hands back towards your thighs. 

Charlie’s face bore the full front of sudden guilt. Your hurt turned to anger. He could’ve asked, but he just assumed. Even then, what issue could he possibly take with you speaking to or seeing another man? 

You took a step forward, closing the distance between the two of you. Charlie took a deep breath, eyes glancing between you and the pointer finger you now dug into his chest. 

“I thought you were a friend, you fucking prick.” You whispered just beside his ear. You could feel his heartbeat wildly pound against your finger, could nearly hear it from the proximity you shared. Or maybe that was your own heart you were hearing. You couldn’t have been sure. 

Before giving him a chance to respond, you stormed your way out of the room. Making a beeline to your car. 

Fuck. Fuck that stupid fucking film club. And fuck Charlie Walker. 

You sped home, slamming the front door behind you. You rushed up the stairs, hearing your aunt call your name from the living room. You stopped in your tracks, shouting down to her, “I’m fine, I promise. Just need a moment alone.” 

You waited for a second to hear her response. You were surprised she was home from work so early. After a few moments, Irina responded, “Okay.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but knew better than to pry. 

You shut your bedroom door, falling flat onto your bed. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. You didn’t need him around. 

An hour passed by, and then another before you heard your phone ringer buzz twice.

You scrambled for your phone, which was still in your bag on the ground beside your bed where you had thrown it earlier. 

Two text messages from an unknown number flashed on the screen.

“Hey, didn’t see you in film club. Everything good?” Your heart skipped in your chest. Could it be-? Your question was answered by the second message. “Robbie btw.”

You sighed, rolling onto your back, holding the phone above your face. You thought for a moment before responding. “Wasn’t feeling well, all good, though.” You added Robbie’s name to his contact info before setting the phone down beside you. 

Another minute passed before your phone buzzed again. “Cool. Would you be down to meet up later to start on our project?” Robbie’s message read.

You thought about it for a moment. The idea didn’t seem particularly great, but it would be nice to just get it all over with. You responded with a simple, “Sure.”

Almost instantly, a new message was sent. You opened it to find another phone number beside Robbies. In a new group chat Robbie asked, “Where and what time do you guys wanna meet up?” The other number had to be Charlies. You rolled your eyes, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard as you thought up a response. You knew Irina would be more than happy to host, and it’d save you a trip from going elsewhere in town.

“My place, 7pm?” You replied. 

“We’ll be there.” Robbie responded. 

You sent your address to the pair and locked your phone, shoving it in your back pocket. 

You figured it was time to face your aunt, let her know people would be coming by the house later. You called out to her, hearing her reply from her bedroom. You stopped in her doorway, watching her pack clothing into a small black suitcase.

“Where are you going?” You asked, walking up beside her. 

She looked up from her work. “I have a few meetings in Sacramento this weekend. I fly out tomorrow morning. I should be back by Monday though.” You nodded your head in response. She was always so busy, always had places to be. 

“I’m sorry for slamming the door earlier.” You said quietly, picking up a t-shirt on the bed and folding it over for her. 

Your aunt looked over at you, waiting to see if you’d continue. 

“I’m okay. I just-” You paused, trying to find the right words. The entire thing wasn’t really worth getting into or being upset about, as you thought about it.

Irina’s eyebrow raised. “Boy troubles?” She said half-jokingly.

You smiled then, handing her the folded shirt. Yes, to put it plainly, just boy troubles.

“You know what I think about men,” Irina began.

“Better off without them.” You answered in unison, laughing with one another. 

You stopped in the doorway, hand wrapped around the frame as you left Irina’s bedroom. “Oh, by the way, I’m having a few people over in a couple of hours to work on a project for school. If that’s okay, of course.” 

Irina peered over her shoulder, a wide grin on her face. “Of course. Let me know if you kids need anything.” 

It was hard to keep your nerves in check as the next few hours passed by. It would be fine, you reminded yourself over and over again. It wasn’t going to just be you and Charlie. Robbie would serve as a much needed buffer. 

You heard your phone buzz on your nightstand; you picked it up quickly, reading the message aloud. “Pulling up now.” You quickly made your way down the stairs, kicking a pair of your shoes further down the entryway.

You swung the front door open without recalling whether you had heard a knock yet. You were met by Robbie and Charlie on the front porch. Charlie’s head was towards the ground, his hands in his pocket. Robbie looked around himself, mouth agape. 

“You were totally right dude,” Robbie said, elbowing his friend in the side. “This was her house.” 

“What?” You asked from the doorway, not sure you had heard him right. Robbie looked flustered, as if he were surprised to see you standing there. 

“Oh. I meant Charlie recognized you on the first day.” Robbie tried to clear the confusion by simply adding to it. You looked between the pair. Robbie immediately cowered in response to Charlie’s shocked glare. 

You waited for Robbie to continue. You couldn’t possibly understand what he meant by that. To your knowledge, you had never met either of them before that first day of school. 

“Charlie’d make me ride circles down your street for hours. He said you had to be the same girl we saw when we were kids. We totally thought you just died one day after you stopped appearing in the window every summer.” Robbie said laughing, pointing at the sun bay window. 

You were frozen in place; the air seemed to be sucked out around you as you thought hard back on those memories. Certain things suddenly started to click and piece themselves together in your mind. You glanced over at Charlie. He was looking at you almost pathetically, knowing there was nothing he could have done to stop Robbie from spilling any of that information. 

Robbie began a string of ‘I’s and Um’s’ as he noticed your expression. You willed yourself to pull it together for a moment; lesson the deafening, horrible ringing in your ears.

“Oh, I think I remember you two, actually.” You stated. You had always had a distinct memory that fell in line with Robbie’s sentiment. You weren’t sure you’d have ever been able to place them both in that memory without Robbie’s over-share. You’d let yourself process this information at a later time. You watched as both boys relaxed a bit more into themselves, awkward glances still passed between the three of you.

“Would you guys like to come in?” You stepped aside, motioning towards the entryway. 

“Please.” Robbie replied and stepped past you. 

Charlie nodded, following behind him. You caught and held his gaze for a moment as he slipped in so close beside you. 

“We can just hang out in the living room, if that’s cool.” You said, motioning towards the living room couch. The two men followed suit. You took a seat on the sofa, Robbie sat on the opposite end, while Charlie took a seat on the floor by the coffee table in front of you. 

It was quiet for a moment as everyone pulled out their laptops, notebooks, and pens. You weren’t sure who would be the first one to break the silence. To be completely honest, you didn’t mind it. You were terrified that Robbie would somehow dig himself another hole, and you had absolutely nothing to say to Charlie. You hoped you’d be able to just get the majority of the project finished tonight so that the remaining meetings would be minimal. 

Just then, you heard your aunt’s light footsteps coming from down the stairs. You sighed a heavy sigh of relief as she entered the living room. She wore a bright smile on her face as the boys rose to their feet to greet her. 

“Robbie Mercer.” He held out a hand to her. “Good to meet you, Robbie.” She replied in her usual sing-song voice.

Her smile faltered for a moment as she turned to shake Charlie’s hand as well. “Charlie Walker, thanks for allowing us over.” Charlie said, giving her a courteous smile. 

You looked between your aunt and Charlie, watching the corner of her lips twitch into a small frown before she replied. She looked almost off kilter. You took careful notice of your aunt’s unusual etiquette. “Anytime, Charlie.” She replied, placing her left hand over their conjoined right hands. 

The gesture didn’t seem to phase Charlie much. 

“If there’s anything I can get for you all, please don’t be afraid to ask.” Irina spoke before heading back up the stairs. The three of you responded in a short chorus of ‘thank you’s.’ 

The next few hours went by as well as you could have hoped for them to go. Once you were all busy at work, the awkwardness slowly dispelled itself. It was nearly midnight, and you were all beginning to experience the early stages of screen fatigue from your work. You all mutually decided to try to wrap everything up tomorrow. 

As you led the two out, Robbie spoke over his shoulder. “I honestly think it’ll only take another day to finish this. Maybe one more after that for revision.” You and Charlie both nodded. “But, honestly, if I have looked at another fucking punnet square after this project, I think I’ll kill myself.” 

You laughed as you turned the door handle. 

The boys filed onto the porch. Robbie was quick to make his way towards his car that was parked halfway in the driveway and halfway onto the street. He stopped after realizing Charlie was still standing on the porch. You glanced between the pair.

“You coming man?” Robbie asked, fishing for his keys in his back pocket.

You watched Charlie, waiting for his response. 

“Nah, I feel like walking.” He responded. 

Robbie cocked an eyebrow, looking at his friend. He seemed slightly surprised, but didn’t bother trying to convince him to come along. 

“Alright, I’ll see you two tomorrow.” Robbie said, as he opened his driver’s side door. You watched him pull all the way down the street before turning around to face the closed front door. Your hand had just started turning the handle when you heard Charlie speak up.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” You turned your face, dropping the handle. 

You really had almost no interest in anything he had to say at all, at this point. 

“Make it quick.” You replied, stepping in front of him. Your words clearly hurt him, and he did little to hide his grimace. 

“Look, I’m sorry.” He started softly, eyes flickering between your own. You sucked in your bottom lip, leaning on your hip as you crossed your arms in front of you. You scanned his face in search of sincerity. 

“It’s fine, Charlie. It’s done with.” You replied.

He took a step closer to you. You fought the urge to take another back, to keep just a bit more distance from him. You held your ground.

“No, I’m being serious. It was horrible for me to just assume…” his voice trailed off for a moment. He glanced behind you at the window bay to your left. He met your eyes again. “And the whole attention thing. I never really felt that way. Regretted it as soon as I said it.” His hand flexed at his side as he shook his head. 

“Okay.” You replied breathlessly. It was all you wanted him to say. You both stood there for a moment. The sound of crickets filled the air. There always seemed to be something filling in the lapse of conversation you had with Charlie, in a way you had never noticed with anyone else before. 

You were the one to speak up. “I can give you a ride home if you’d like.” 

A small smile crept up his lips as he followed your gesture towards your car parked in the driveway. 

“It’s alright. Thank you for the offer. I just live on the next street over.” He motioned towards the road. 

“It’s really not any trouble…” you began. You weren’t sure why you felt such a need to insist. 

He reached up then. His thumb ran across the small braid in your hair that had been forgotten about and left to slowly unravel since last period. You left out a breath of surprise at the sudden contact. He was so incredibly close. That pounding in your heart returned rapidly as your hands dropped to your side. 

Your eyes darted wildly across the features of his face. His eyes were stuck on those strands of hair between his fingers. 

There were no more crickets, no rushing blood, just silence. 

He had pulled away before you could process the proximity. He was headed down the front porch steps in a matter of seconds. “Goodnight, I’ll see you here tomorrow.” He called, turning over his shoulder to say goodbye. 

You refused to let yourself watch him make his way down the street. Your feet carried you mindlessly up the stairs until collapsing you onto your bed. You stared up at the ceiling, reaching for the disheveled braid. Your fingers traced themselves along the same spot he had. You had just about pulled the braid apart when your aunt called your name from the doorway. 

You shot up in bed to face her, pulling you from your thoughts. 

“Didn’t mean to surprise you,” Irina began. Her face was splotchy and red in ways that it never was. “I just wanted to tell you goodbye, in case I didn’t get the chance to before I left in the morning.”

You nodded in response. You rose onto your feet, walking over to give her a hug. You pulled away as she began to speak up again. “He looks so much like him.” Irina seemed to say more to herself than you. 

“Hmm?” You urged her to explain what she meant. 

“The Walker boy. He looks so much like his father had at that age.” She began trailing off, looking at the wall behind you before meeting your eyes again.

“You knew his father?” You asked. This shouldn’t have been surprising information to you, Irina seemed to know everybody who had spent any amount of considerable time in Woodsboro. 

Irina nodded. 

“Just be kind to him, if you can be.” She said so softly, you barely caught her last words. This took you aback. You were sure your confusion was apparent on your face. “It’s only been a few years since he passed. I’m sure it’s been difficult for Charlie.”

Her amending statement made your heart sink low into your chest. A resounding buzz quickly filled the space between your ears. 

“I am.” You replied. You thought you were, at least. 

Irina nodded, seemingly satisfied with your response. She turned to make her way to her own bedroom at the end of the hall. Just before she disappeared through the door, you called out to her.

“How? How did he die?” You asked. You immediately felt bad for even asking. It wasn’t necessarily anything you needed to know. 

You could tell, even from where you stood, that your aunt’s eyes began to well with tears. “Suicide,” she whispered without looking back at you. It only took a single moment before Irina stepped into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. 

You weren’t sure how long you stood stuck in the hallway. It was a horribly long night. 

[mourninglamby]

honestly its relieving to see somebody else be critical of the finale because i feel like im being guilt tripped by the entire fandom to enjoy it. I could write an entire essay in here but i'm sure whatever i'd have to say you already thought yourself but god damn if i don't periodically get annoyed about the ending. because holy shit. wtf was that.

yeah like I’m sorry but I can’t think of a single reason why that ending would make narrative sense and also be satisfying. It was bleak, hopeless, and triggering (to the point where I think even puffy commented on the fact that the TW should have been more explicitly placed). And the worst part is YEP, we’re not even allowed to be upset because the majority of these dick riding boot sucking idiots can’t handle valid criticism of the writers’ piss poor handling of highly sensitive topics/ horrible writing decisions. every single day I wonder why they decided to tell a story about abuse, suicide, ptsd, and mental illness if they weren’t going to treat these issues with the nuance and respect they deserve the entire way through. Like Why the fuck did they do that. I cannot fathom any other excuse at this point other than they used these distressful themes for shock value to draw in views. And it worked and I hate myself for that. Worst experience with a piece of fiction I’ve ever had.

[quirklessidiot]

idk who wants to be tagged for the original draft for minazuki bcos everyone suddenly got interested (two people had sent in asks and there were comments fhdhfnf so i might as well release it since its just laying here in the drafts) its technically a two part story now instead of a series. Its finished as well since this was written before minazuki itself.

Small sneak peak below!

tw are applied to the whole story: murder, gore, concubine/mistress (normalized), major character death, suicidal thoughts, classism, one sided love, very dark themes, very manipulative characters

you can send in an ask or a mesage if u wanna be tagged xx i guess this is more or less a super indulgent one

[hello-that-happened]

How She-Ra, Wrong Hordak, and I Deconverted in Six Steps

Alright y'all, it's time for my fourth essay exploring how She-Ra and the Princess of Power (SPOP) used Christian themes and parallels to provide a humanist message.

My first post named 9 major messages of SPOP that contradict Christian fundamentalism.

My second gave the historical context of how our generation and Noelle's are growing up to overthrow Christian fundamentalism after it became such a powerful enemy in the U.S.

My third discussed the parallel between Horde Prime’s rage at Hordak’s self-naming and the Christian idea that everyone is an instrument of God’s will.

Now I want to discuss how Adora's and Wrong Hordak's journeys defections from the Horde parallel my story, and potentially others', of leaving Christianity. Adora and Wrong Hordak experience many of the same stages in his journey out of the Horde as many ex-Christians experience leaving Christianity.

My own experience leaving Christianity was a journey into atheism, so I will interpret Adora's and Wrong Hordak's stories through that lens. Plenty of people who left toxic/conservative Christianity behind still believe in God, in heaven, and/or in the value of Christian communities. I do not want to minimize or dismiss their experiences, and I welcome progressive Christians as allies in the fight for LGBT+ rights and social justice generally. But when I watched Adora and Wrong Hordak leave their belief in The Horde behind, I saw myself leaving Christianity behind. I want to tell my story through/alongside theirs. I hope some of you can relate, but it is okay if you cannot, regardless of your religious beliefs or lack thereof.

Deconversion in Fast-Forward

Adora, Wrong Hordak, and I escaped from the organizations that raised us and its worldview in six somewhat-distinct stages:

Multiple major characters' arcs in She-Ra begin with rethinking their loyalty to The Horde. Wrong Hordak and Adora both lose their faith in The Horde after a lifetime of indoctrination into its ideals and goals. Their journey away from The Horde mirrors many young Americans' away from Christianity, with at least one notable exception: time. Deconversion takes multiple years for most ex-Christians, but only takes a few days for Adora and Wrong Hordak. Their de-conversion basically represents a speed run of most ex-Christians'.

Full Breakdown of Each Stage

(tw: mention of depression and suicidal ideation)

Adora takes delight in pretending to beat up an imaginary princess in the show's first scene, and later calls princesses "violent instigators who don't even know how to control their powers." She believes in the ideals of The Horde, and feels excited to rise through the ranks to become Force Captain. Obedience to Horde authorities comes fairly naturally to her, and she even chides Catra for being "disrespectful."

Wrong Hordak consistently repeats his loyalty to Horde Prime throughout his first episode and beyond. Even while being attacked by his fellow clones, Wrong Hordak affirms that "We serve Horde Prime's will." Unprompted in the next episode he happily announces, "I believe in Horde Prime!"

I felt proud, as a kid in Sunday School, that I could answer more questions about the Bible than any of the other kids. My church's youth group was the most enjoyable part of my middle school years especially because I got to hang out with the guy I only recently realized I'd had a huge gay crush on. I started viewing "feeling happy" and "feeling the presence of God" as identical. I wrote in my 2011 "Faith Statement" for my church's Confirmation that "I fell in love with God," and that "I thank God that I was born into a good Christian family and was raised to honor God."

Adora is kidnapped by the Horde's enemies and taken away from her home, separated from all of the voices reassuring her that The Horde is a good organization with a just mission. Shadow Weaver is not around to give her orders or map out her future anymore, leaving her alone with her enemies and her thoughts.

Wrong Hordak's connection to the hive-mind he knew for all of his life is severed. "I am…alone?" he asks in shock, then breaks down and cries, "I am alone!" For someone who grew up living in the same mind as his entire communal "family," suddenly losing that connection to everyone he knew would be traumatizingly shocking. The best equivalent I can think of in human experience is being suddenly ripped away from your family and community and then never seeing them again.

I kept conflating happiness with my faith in God for years, even after my crush moving away drove me into suicidal ideation for a couple weeks in 2011. My mental health recovered for a year before settling into a long-term depression in 2012. Because I conflated happiness with the presence of God, my depression felt like something had taken away the presence of God.

Adora defends the organization that raised her by quoting her highest authority: "Hordak says we're doing what's best for Etheria. We're trying to make things better. More orderly." Glimmer argues against Adora's worldview by showing her (1) that princesses are just people instead of dangerous violent monsters, and (2) what The Horde has done: first the ruins of a village destroyed by The Horde, and then that the village of Thaymor which she was told to attack was peaceful, innocent, and happy.

Wrong Hordak grabs Entrapta by the hair for the crime of "trespassing," and enjoys saying, "Prime shall hear of this, and his punishment shall be merciless." But once Bow’s arrow disconnects him from the Horde’s hivemind, he is simultaneously stranded away from the people who constantly reinforced his belief in Horde Prime’s goodness and stuck with a group of people opposing Prime. For a long time, Wrong Hordak simply pretends that the Best Friend Squad™ serve Horde Prime just like everyone else he ever knew. Every line of his dialogue in “Taking Control” is a quick, snappy motto he took from Horde propaganda, like “I believe…in Horde Prime” and “True nourishment comes from the favor of Horde Prime.” [see footnote 1]

I was well aware, growing up in a progressive suburb, that plenty of my high school friends were nonreligious. After my depression sunk in, I found myself arguing about religion with a brilliant but very smug British friend who consistently refuted my arguments in ways I could not dispute. Searching for arguments to support my pre-existing beliefs, I started reading Christian apologetics, but found nothing my friends could not easily refute. [see footnote 2]

Adora sees the ruins of the site of a Horde attack while with Glimmer and Bow, and at first rejects what Glimmer tells her about what she sees to preserve her worldview: "This doesn't make any sense. The Horde would never do something like this…You don't know them like I do." But when she sees The Horde attack Thaymor, the belief system painstakingly constructed by The Horde and drilled into her over 15 (or so) years comes crashing down. At first she can rationalize away her experiences to preserve her beliefs, but when the evidence of her own senses becomes overwhelming she cannot resolve the cognitive dissonance between her belief in The Horde's goodness and her direct experience of The Horde attacking the innocent town of Thaymor. Her worldview cannot explain what she experienced.

Wrong Hordak keeps his belief in Horde Prime's all-powerful nature for a long time after joining the Best Friend Squad. However, when until the Best Friend Squad catches him in a contradiction. He tells them what he was told: that Krytis does not exist. As soon as they start questioning the contradiction he was fed, he becomes extremely uncomfortable. He maintains his denial of Krytis' existence even after they land on the planet, until he can no longer deny the evidence that Horde Prime is not all-powerful.

I grew up, like many of you, on the Internet. My depression began during the heyday of the online atheist movement—and by “heyday,” I mean “seemingly inescapable presence,” especially on YouTube where I hung out. I kept running into comments asking questions that I could not answer: Why does Christianity seem to promote belief based on internal feelings instead of observable evidence? Why would an all-loving god send anyone to hell forever? Why did I believe claims from Christian doctrine and doubt claims from every other religion? Why has Christianity seemed to cling to the past instead of embracing a progressive future? The questions overwhelmed me. I found myself terrified of my own growing doubts. Eventually, my belief was based entirely on two emotions: nostalgia for past happy experiences I associated with Christianity, and a fear of losing the vague hope those experiences gave me.

The first time that Bow and Glimmer met Adora, they immediately labeled her “Horde soldier!,” and the label stuck through the first three episodes. Adora has always identified herself primarily as a soldier serving The Horde, echoing the messages she has heard for her whole life: “Shadow Weaver said it didn't matter who I was before, that—that I was nothing before Hordak took me in.” The language of “I was nothing” reflects cult dynamics where a group tries to retain someone permanently by making them think of themself as nothing more than their worshipful loyalty to the group. Similarly, it is a common Christian belief that “without Jesus we are nothing.”

After realizing that Horde Prime fes him lies, Wrong Hordak collapsed into a sobbing mess. “Who am I if not an exalted brother of Prime?,” he bawled, still thinking that the only legitimate kind of identity is one based on fully devoted worship of an all-powerful authority. Per Entrapta, “It seem[ed] that Wrong Hordak has begun to question the meaning of life.” She later described Wrong Hordak’s breakdown as an “existential crisis,” which happens “when individuals question whether their lives have meaning, purpose, or value, and are negatively impacted by the contemplation.” Without an all-powerful father figure to value him, Wrong Hordak thought, who would?

I identified myself fundamentally as a Christian for my entire childhood and teen years. I found joy, purpose, and a sense of self in my religion. Leaving my religion behind felt like burning the bridge to who I was behind me. When I de-converted from Christianity, I felt like I was standing at the brink of a void. I thought that without finding goodness in God, I might find no goodness at all. [see footnote 3]

When Wrong Hordak finishes (digitally, but also emotionally) processing the Krytis data logs of Horde Prime leaving in defeat, he explicitly renounces his old loyalties and declares his opposition to the organization and beliefs that he used to believe in with all his heart: "Brothers! Horde Prime lied to us. He is a false ruler. We must rise up against him, and free the universe from his unjust reign!"

After Adora betrays the Horde at the Battle of Thaymor, she pledges her loyalty to Bright Moon in her battle against the Horde: "I’ve seen for myself the atrocities the Horde has committed against the people of Etheria, and I’m ready to fight to stop them. If you give me the chance, I know I can help the Rebellion turn the tide of the war."

I didn't have an explicit declaration statement like Wrong Hordak or Adora. However, on 5/5/15 I arranged a meeting with my very friendly and understanding youth pastor as a last-ditch effort to save my faith. I hoped that he would crush my worrying doubts. Instead, actually encouraged me to become agnostic and to look into non-Christian beliefs on the subject of religion. Rather than feeling terrified of what I might find and wishing that someone could indoctrinate me into my old belief system, I started on a path to discover the truth wherever it might lead me.

Footnotes for Context

Christian fundamentalists’ similarly simplistic snappy phrases have been labeled by ex-Christians as “thought-terminating clichés… brief, highly reductive, definitive-sounding phrases” where “Simple labels are attached to something you like or dislike, and they are the start and finish of all thought on the subject.” Such black-and-white “totalistic” thinking is common in Christian fundamentalism, especially how it labels complex political topics as somehow being merely a cover for “spiritual warfare” between the totally good/Godly side and the totally evil/demonic side.

Specifically, I started reading an “Intelligent Design” propaganda apologetics book by Lee Strobel called The Case For A Creator. A self-proclaimed former atheist, Strobel wrote his The Case For series using my same research strategy: Only do research using sources that already agree with you. Whereas Strobel exclusively talked to other Christian apologists, though, I at least tried talking to atheists. Anyway, I walked into school one day with a confident smile and a copy of Strobel’s book and sat down with some friends. One of them, another brilliant atheist but with a far subtler and humbler personality, noticed it and his face immediately sunk into the expression of someone exhausted by the topic as he braced himself for my bullshit. When I confidently asserted a creationist talking point trying to dismiss the findings of some old experiment, he not only knew the experiment but immediately dismantled my talking point. I had no reply. What struck me most was not just his swift rebuttal, but his weary tone: My arguments were not only bad, but so bad that he was genuinely tired of them.

Around the same time, I became obsessed with the character of Kefka from Final Fantasy 6. To me, Kefka represented what I feared most about leaving Christianity behind — that I would lose any sense of meaning, purpose, or morality in my life. ("Life… Dreams… Hope…Where do they come from? And where are they headed? Such meaningless things!") Edgy, I know, but in my mind that kind of absurdism seemed to be an inevitable result of abandoning my religious beliefs. Fortunately, I came to understand that there is plenty of meaning, purpose, beauty, and goodness outside of the particular religion that I happened to be born into.

[sunnywritesstuff34]

Illusions

(Yayyyy. Another one. It’s been a while, sorry. just wanna preface this by saying that like... I usually don’t really give a shit about Obito, but I figured this was a natural progression of the story and I kinda wanted to try and dive into Obito’s psyche a little so. here we go. tell me what you think. @ghostjellyfishheart here’s the next chapter lol. pls mind the tw’s)

TW and CW for: MAJOR UNREALITY, seriously stay safe, Obito is kinda spiraling a lot, grieving, struggling with morality, drinking, alcohol, less then stellar coping mechanisms of all kinds, don’t do this kids, child death, ghost child, dead kid, you don’t like... see her die but Rin is very much not alive, references to suicide, implied suicide, the uchiha massacre is its own warning, murder, its bad. its just. its just bad. did I mention unreality? a lot of that, death of a family member, obito is having a hard time with feelings, probably dis@ssociation, pretentious symbolism, scratch that, definitely dis@ssociation

Obito Uchiha is upset. 

And that is, frankly, ridiculous. Obito does not get upset. What does upset even mean? Is he sad? Mourning, perhaps? Or is he just worried? Either way, its borderline impossible. He shouldn’t be feeling anything. Obito doesn’t feel anything. Sure, he plays at it, when he’s Tobi. He feigns and pretends, he’s good at that. That is what he is, that is all he is. To Itachi, he is Madara. To Konan and Nagito, he is Obito. To everyone else, he is Tobi. Obito has taken on mask after mask after mask on in his life, both figuratively and literally. Sometimes he doesn't know where Obito ends and another begins. Obito does not feel anything, not for anyone that isn't Rin. Never for anyone that isn't Rin, and he left her behind a long time ago. And yet this boy, this child, has him reeling somehow. Has him… well, like before, the only word he can use is upset. He is rattled. And it has been so long, so long since he’s felt anything at all, that he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to fix it. He kept seeing Sasuke in his head, kept remembering memories from years ago when he thought about the kid being gone forever. He remembered the first few years Itachi brought Sasuke to the compound, he remembered spontaneously discovering his obsession with tomatoes by accident with Kisame (who would not stop laughing. He had just never seen anybody. Put an entire tomato in their mouth. And Sasuke did it like it was the most natural thing in the world! Kisame wouldn't shut up about it for at least a week). He remembered helping the boy train with his newly forged chokuto, he remembered the grim determination towards his family and how much it reminded Obito of himself, he remembered all of it. And none of that should have mattered, because it wasn't real. None of it was real, the next world would be. The next world with Rin and Kakashi and Minato-sensei still alive, a world without… without Sasuke. Or any of the other Akatsuki. And that was what he wanted. He was sure that was what he wanted. Only in his room could he show the weakness tightly coiled in his stomach. But there was a knock on his door and it made him straighten up, instantly putting the mask that he just took off back on his face. He walked to the door and opened it, only to find the older Uchiha brother staring back at him. Obito blinked. 

“Itachi-san. What are you… what are you doing here? I- uh… come in.” Obito and Itachi sat down at the small table in Obito’s room and stared at each other awkwardly. “So… how can I help you?” Obito tried to ask, unsure of whether to say it like Tobi or just let his guard down and talk like himself (whoever that was). Itachi cleared his throat. 

“You are the only person in this godforsaken place that has sake that's worth a damn,” Itachi explained calmly. He looked away. “It has… been a long week.” Obito could tell the truth in that statement just from his cousin’s voice. Itachi sounded exhausted, and the perpetual mask of indifference had begun to slip when his little brother went missing. The two of them looked at each other and came to an understanding. For the next few minutes, there was no talking. Obito grabbed some glasses and poured his strongest sake out for the both of them, and they drank in silence. They only actually picked up a conversation once they were both drunk enough for the awkwardness to melt away. 

“He’s likely not dead,” Obito commented bluntly. Itachi only sighed. 

“If he is, I have no idea what I'd do,” Itachi grumbled casually, like it was an ordinary thing to say. “Certainly wouldn't stick around here. Probably follow in Shisui’s footsteps.” Obito only nodded, knowing better than to pry on that particular bit of insight into Itachi’s life. They were silent for a few more minutes before Obito spoke again. 

“The massacre,” Obito started. “I was long gone by the time it happened. What… are you and Sasuke really the only survivors as the rumors say?” Itachi nodded, throwing back another glass. Obito thought about that bitterly, about his grandmother who wouldn't have been spared. Itachi sighed. 

“Right. I've never really talked about this with anyone, and Sasuke and I don't speak about it much. You know how sharingan awakening works, yes?” Obito nodded, mind involuntarily flashing to his own experience. 

“Well I made some genuine friends on my genin team. It was the first time I ever had any friends.” Obito closed his eyes and took another sip. Friends, sharingan awakening. Being crushed under a boulder with your crying teammates looming over you. Thinking, no, don't cry, it doesn't hurt. It really doesn't hurt. I can't feel anything, please don't cry. Watching a particular white haired individual (a traitor, that traitor) desperately try to save you. Losing a part of yourself, a part of yourself you didn't even know you had, and giving it to someone else. Forever living with that, knowing that your other eye is somewhere, because you can still feel it, but not knowing much else. The aching absence that grows from that. He opened his eyes again. “I watched them die, right in front of my eyes. That awakened my Sharingan, and when I went home, my father congratulated me. He congratulated me. It was a nightmare and he was proud. I don't know, that always stuck with me. But anyway,” Itachi paused to drink more sake as the room spun. “Sasuke’s eyes woke during the massacre. I didn't get there in time. He watched our parents die, managed to hide in the closet and keep quiet the whole time so they didn't find him. I got there in time to stop them from killing him, and realized his sharingan had awakened because of everything. I wasn't able to save anyone, but I was able to save him, and that's all that matters.”

“I understand,” Obito replied evenly. “I know what it's like to be too late.”

Itachi’s eyes slid over to him. “Yeah well… whatever. The Uchiha had been planning a coup for a while. Danzo, he gave me a choice. Either kill everyone myself and have Sasuke be spared to live happily in the village. Or, to let them kill everyone, Sasuke included. I didn't… I refused either option and tried to get there but I was too late. They killed everyone in one night, a bunch of Anbu who were deployed for the massacre. Like I said, Sasuke managed to hide. I knew that Danzo would be after us, so I grabbed Sasuke and we got the hell out of dodge. He didn't speak for months afterwards. Not a single word, other than screaming during his nightmares. It was probably a little selfish, but I… I missed him. There was no more ‘Itachi, look at the score I got at the academy!’ or ‘Itachi look, look I learned a new move!’ There was just… nothing. He was so vacant. If he's dead- if he’s dead after everything we’ve been through, I don't- I have no idea what I'll do. We have to find him, and we have to kill the people who took him away from us. We have to.” I know, he wanted to shout. I know, I feel the same way, but I don't know why! Itachi left not long after that, stumbled back to his room, and Obito fell asleep in his armchair. That night he had a dream, a dream of Rin. it had been years since he dreamed of her, usually they were memories and bits and pieces, but this was different. He opened his eyes in his dream to a dark plane filled with ink, darkness stretching in every direction. It was a frequent setting he found himself in, usually the dream would be about him sinking into the oily substance until he couldn't breath. But this time it was low enough to wade in, his feet touching the ground, whatever that was. In the middle of the expanse, there was a bone white skeleton of some creature he didn't recognize, and Rin. He staggered towards her, and she hugged him without a word. In dreams like this he was always covered in blood, the Obito from years past. But now he was just him, and he was maskless.

“Just what have you gotten yourself into now, Obito?” she asked, and it sounded just like her. It wasn't her, he was fairly sure of that, he was dreaming for god’s sake, but it sounded like her. It seemed like her, and that was enough. “It's okay to be worried about the kid,” she said, running fingers through his hair while he tried to calm his breathing. 

“It's not real,” he managed hoarsely. “None of it. Nothing in this world is real, I shouldn't feel anything. So why… Why do I…”

“Does it matter if it's real?” she asked. “It feels real. Maybe it is, Obito.”

“Obito is dead,” he whispered. “At least the one you knew- Obito doesn't exist anymore.” Rin only shook her head, looking past him at nothing at all and smiling sadly.

“I don't believe you,” she said evenly. “You're still Obito. No matter how many names you take or how many masks you wear, I know who you are. And I think you do too.”

“It's not real,” he tried again, weakly. 

“If it's not real, then why do you help Konan with the dishes? If it's not real, then why do you want to save Itachi’s brother so badly? Why do you make plans for Nagato’s dream in the supposed next world when you don't have to? Why do you stick around Deidara to make sure he doesn't get killed? Why do you help Sasori with his puppets? Why, Obito?”

“I can't be Obito,” he muttered quietly. “He’s dead. He died with you.”

“He is right here. He is sitting here with me. You're still you. You'll always be you.”

“B-But…. But Madara-”

“Madara is dead,” she said with finality, shaking her head. “Madara is a dead man now. You are the only thing that can bring him back, and you have a choice.”

“I've never had a choice.”

“You do now. Madara isn't here.”

“This is all just an illusion.” She smiled sadly. 

“I'm an illusion, Obito. Your world is not.”

His dream didn't fade out from there. One second he was sitting in a dark dreamscape with his dead friend, and the next he was in the Akatsuki lair, laying in an armchair, sitting up and gasping for breath. His back hurt and his neck was aching from the weird position he dozed off in, and Obito could already feel the nausea of an inevitable hangover coming on. Still, he sat up properly, stretching his neck and running a hand through his short hair. Itachi was probably passed out in his room or throwing up already, and Obito had a hunch that he’d be feeling the same way pretty soon. He looked down at the floor and forced his eyes to focus. He didn't have time for a drunken hallucination within a drunken hallucination. But when he turned his head, he felt himself recoil and raise his hands to his face. The orange plastic from the ground winked back at him. Obito had taken his mask off. And now it was cracked. 

[horde-princess]

what are the tws for utena?

you want ALL of them dljfd ok ill put them below the cut

--

incest, r*pe, pedophilia / sex with minors -- none of which is rly graphic or anything its just implied, however it is crucial to the story. theres a suicide attempt with a major character, emotional abuse, physical abuse (mild, e.g. slapping), characters who are occasionally homophobic/transphobic, the whole show is about struggling with internalized homophobia, its also worth mentioning there is some colorism in the show with Anthy being a dark skinned asian who’s abused and sort of.. passed to different “owners”...? that was hard to watch for me but i dont know enough about japanese culture/history to comment on it. 

okay if you can get past all of that sljdflkdlj the tone is actually pretty light-hearted for the most part believe it or not?? i mean i did cry for like 2 hours after the finale but

[la-galaxie-langblr]

I've never done this type of post before but it's sort of still within the studyblr theme and I have some Thoughts™ so I may as well.

I can't do a read more on mobile and this will be a long post so be warned.

One of Us is Lying by Karen M. McManus Review (contains spoilers)

(excuse the bad cropping I tried)

The Breakfast Club meets Pretty Little Liars, One of Us Is Lying is the story of what happens when five strangers walk into detention and only four walk out alive. Everyone is a suspect, and everyone has something to hide.

Pay close attention and you might solve this.

On Monday afternoon, five students at Bayview High walk into detention.

Bronwyn, the brain, is Yale-bound and never breaks a rule.

Addy, the beauty, is the picture-perfect homecoming princess.

Nate, the criminal, is already on probation for dealing.

Cooper, the athlete, is the all-star baseball pitcher.

And Simon, the outcast, is the creator of Bayview High's notorious gossip app.

Only, Simon never makes it out of that classroom. Before the end of detention, Simon's dead. And according to investigators, his death wasn't an accident. On Monday, he died. But on Tuesday, he'd planned to post juicy reveals about all four of his high-profile classmates, which makes all four of them suspects in his murder. Or are they the perfect patsies for a killer who's still on the loose?

Everyone has secrets, right? What really matters is how far you would go to protect them.

Description from Goodreads.com

TW - mentions and themes of depression, suicide, mental illness, homophobia, being outed

What I liked

I generally liked the four main characters, they have personalities and flaws and they're likeable for the most part

Addy's character arc was probably my favourite, her realisation that Jake was a controlling boyfriend, cutting off her hair and expressing herself, becoming more independent from her mother and learning to improve her relationship with her sister, in general I liked the character she became by the end

Speaking of sisters, I liked the dynamic between Maeve and Bronwyn. Bronwyn doesn't baby her despite her medical history and they get on well, as well as the odd normal sibling arguments

Despite being sceptical at first, I thought Nate and Bronwyn's romance was quite cute by the end of the novel

There was decent suspense surrounding the mystery

As much as I found flaws in Cooper's story (see below) I liked how he could have been the horrible jock, but he was actually a decent person. A nice difference from the typical jock character

Nonny is my favourite adult. We love wise old ladies

What I disliked

I called quite a lot of the major plot points. Not to brag or anything, but it shows it's slightly predictable at times. I predicted that Bronwyn and Nate would get together pretty early in the book, I predicted that Janae would be involved, I predicted that it would be a suicide. I predicted those last two about 2/3 of the way through the book so it wasn't obvious from the start but yeah

The characters are very one dimensional and stereotypical at the start, and if it weren't for sheer will power I would have given up fairly quickly. Bronwyn is a geek who does all the extracurriculars, Nate is a bad boy with a criminal record, Cooper is great at sports and Addy is very shallow. Literally what they're said to be on the title in the first few chapters

The good girl/bad boy romance between Bronwyn and Nate was predictable. I've read enough Wattpad books to know the formula and spot the signs - childhood friends, pretend to have nothing to do with each other but actually have feelings for each other secretly, good girl finds out that bad boy has bad home life, bad boy finds out good girl isn't as much of a rule stickler as first appears, love. Ta da. A couple

I was disappointed with Cooper's arc and story. I thought near the start when it was shown that all of them have secrets "If one of the characters' secrets is that one of them is gay, that could be cool to explore the themes of homophobia in high schools. It would be even cooler if it was Cooper, as toxic masculinity within sports is a problem" I was proud of myself for kind of calling that one but I was disappointed with how it was handled

I feel like we could have seen more of Cooper and his father repairing their relationship after Cooper is forced to come out due to circumstances. Like the father is disappointed, then a couple chapters later he's kind of talking to him again only after Cooper starts receiving baseball offers again. There's no awkward conversation, no trying to understand from the father, it just happens and then it seems to be over and is never touched on again. There could have been a lot more done with this plot point and I feel he was robbed of the character development that the other three got, especially Addy. I was so happy with her arc and disappointed with Cooper's

There was no follow up with the police basically outing Cooper and getting away with it?? Like there's talk of people being angry at what the police did but the police never faced consequences nor was there any discussion within the novel about why outing someone is bad. I know it's not the main plot of the novel and I'm not expecting a Simon-Martin-carpark masterpiece exchange like in Simon vs The Homosapiens Agenda but there could have been something??

Sidenote - I want to do more book reviews, especially on queer books, and Simon will be the first.

There was the cafeteria scene and the mention of those boys being nasty at a baseball game but Cooper faces relatively little opposition after coming out. Yes, I want queer characters to be happy. Yes, I know this is not the main plot of the book. I'm just saying Cooper was robbed of a good character arc and if there had been more between him and his father I would have less complaints

I get why he cheated on Keeley, compulsory heteronormativity is a real and difficult problem, but Cooper faces no consequences for cheating on Keeley. She's not my favourite character for reasons I don't know how to explain but she deserved better

The explanation of how and why for the ending is confusing to read, we know almost nothing before Janae reveals everything. It's a lot of info to take in at once and so it makes everything very confusing

OK here we go, my big problem with the book - its handling of mental health, particularly depression, self harm and suicide. Final TW before things get serious.

The final twist of revealing that Simon's death wasn't murder, it was suicide - I get he was depressed, I get his reasons, but I've also seen other people complain about this - Suicide is a delicate and serious topic that needs to be handled with sensitivity and shouldn't be a plot twist for shock factor. No hate to the author, but it needs to be said, I don't like how this was handled at all

I have similar comments to write for Leah's character

Final rating - 2/5 (⭐⭐⚫⚫⚫)

The characters are what saves this from a lower rating. I was disappointed in general - with Cooper's arc, the handling of sensitive topics and the ending. I'd heard such good things about this book and I'm disappointed.

If you liked this book, tell me why! Yes I was very critical, but I want to hear different opinions so my view of the book becomes more rounded. I want to do more of these so I hope you enjoyed :)

[mobydickmusical]

Every book chapter a song is named after: Loomings (Ch 1)

Since most of the (most recent) tracklist is named after chapters of the book, I’m going to attempt to work through the whole of the show this way, talking a bit about my thoughts on each chapter’s translation into a song. Based on the tracklist chronology rather than the book chronology. Skipping the songs we’ve already heard, for obvious reasons.

Also fairly obvious, but even though I’m using the chapters to imagine the songs, I naturally can’t be sure how closely they’ll follow the text of that specific chapter (see, The Pacific, which actually follows completely different chapters). 

TW for brief mention of suicidal ideation 

Loomings is very different from Extracts, in that I can pretty easily envision it fitting into a show of Dave’s, and imagine what it might be like as a song.

This chapter is our first direct introduction to what to expect from the body of this book, and it has four-ish main sections: 

1. Ishmael introduces himself as the narrator recounting this story, and explains his general path in it (going to sea because it’s what he does when he’s exceedingly depressed) 

2. He dwells on mankind’s inevitable attraction to water, and that this is due to how it represents the unknowable to us 

3. He details his reasoning for why he always goes to sea as a simple sailor, as opposed to a passenger or a crew member of higher rank

4. He describes his “choice” to go on a whaling voyage in particular as actually designated by fate. He does, however, then explain his personal attraction to going on the voyage, that could make it appear like free will to him. 

So, there is a lot being set up in this chapter. I can very much feel this becoming my main issue to accept (i.e. get my head out of my ass) with reconciling the adaptation with the book overall - there is so Much in Moby Dick and there is only so Much you can fit into a musical. Even a 4+ hour one. But yeah, that’s seen on a smaller scale with Loomings, in how it sets up a lot of background information about Ishmael and how he thinks, as well as starting some thought process about a number of important themes for the book (fate vs free will, capitalist and power dynamics, the limits of mankind’s knowledge… all that important shit). Where the song draws its focus from will just depend on what Dave chooses to emphasise the most. 

I'll go through the chapter, and mention where I connected things to either comments Dave's already made about the musical, or to his writing in general.

Coming into reading Moby Dick because I knew Dave was writing his musical, and reading the opening paragraph of Loomings where Ishmael introduces himself by launching headfirst into the details his depression, I naturally went straight to “so this is an introductory solo for a character played by Dave”. It’s not only something that leapt out at me straight off the bat, but one of the more ludicrously famous sections of Moby Dick, so I have to imagine it’s likely to make an appearance. 

The further thing I wanted to point out while I’m on this section, is that despite how famous this little piece of Moby Dick which clearly describes Ishmael’s depression and suicidal ideation is, the majority of Moby Dick adaptions have little to no other reference to his depression. Or they just have none at all if they’re really eschewing the narration. I’m not saying that it’s a deal-breaker for an adaption or anything of that kind, but mental illness definitely has a presence and impact in Moby Dick (I’ll just, leave it at that for now) that doesn’t especially get a lot of attention. On the other hand, it’s something that I, personally, will notice and think about. Anyone who’s familiar with Dave, however, knows that his shows almost consistently revolve around mentally ill characters (and what’s probably the most famous solo he’s written is about depression/suicidal ideation), and portray them in ways mentally ill fans relate to and appreciate. If an adaptor was to make a specific effort to earnestly portray Ishmael’s depression, and how that relates to his role in this story, it’d be Dave. (I could potentially even argue that The Pacific and Cetology already suggest ways in which he’s doing this but. Mm.)

But, anyway. I said Loomings is a good fit for that song that can be found in almost any Dave Malloy musical, where everything is just starting out, and someone (who is often played by Dave) sits down to pour out all their frantic thoughts and unstable feelings and draw you into their story - so, how I imagine the song is strongly based off the pre-existing examples of that type of song. Namely, I drift to Pierre and The Astronomer. 

Both songs have aspects I like for an imaginary Loomings. They’re both ruminative, emotive introductions to a character and their brain’s inner workings. They’re both at least somewhat depressed and ranty. I like Pierre for its emotional tumult, its inquisitiveness and desire for something more, its explicit descriptions of the effects of his depression on his behaviour, its moment of curiosity about mankind, and its drama. I feel like Pierre barging his way into his introductory solo, the first time we ever hear him sing about himself, with “It’s dawned to me suddenly, and for no obvious reason, that I can’t go on living as I am...” is not worlds away from how Ishmael can come across. I also like how it’s piano-driven (because I unimaginatively imagine Ishmael as a pianist in the show), unlike The Astronomer, but on the other hand, I prefer the less dense instrumentation of The Astronomer (maybe not quite that sparse though. Intermediate). I also like The Astronomer for its slow-paced style ranting, its dreaminess, its dwelling on Big Ideas, and the way it is more an explanation of who this character is through exploring his beliefs. Which is relevant as Loomings goes on. 

Both songs, particularly Pierre, channel more anger and resignation than is really relevant to Loomings, however. A part of this is that they’re both dwelling inside the emotions of an unhappy/unsatisfying present, describing that to us as who they are, now. Ishmael is outside of his present self because he’s a narrator. Throughout Loomings he is... recounting his past, but also describing the future of and influences on his past self, moreso than his past self’s present or who he was at that particular time. And, from that more distant position, opening these influences up to us, and the rest of the world. Uh. How relevant or sensible this is to point out I don’t know, but it seems like a very different emotional experience to convey. 

The second section of Loomings, where Ishmael discusses water, moves the furthest from talking directly about himself and his story, I suppose, but is a big bit of theme/motif/setting foundation, and is also just very beautiful writing. I love it a lot, and I’d love to hear some of it put to music... A few little quotes from it because I like them:

What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries.

///

They come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues,—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

///

There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water

///

Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

///

But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him.

I also like the abundance of rhetorical questions in this section, and how that invites the reader in as if you were in a conversation. Those could fit well into a theatre song, where you have Ishmael sort asking himself, sort of asking the audience (also a bit Pierre, tbh). This, combined with how much switching up of sentence length there is in this section, give it this lovely gentle-paced, meandering, breathing rhythm that makes me think of it being sung. There’s probably a better, more technical way of describing that, but I don’t know that smartness, so essentially - I can almost hear it simply because of the way it’s already written. 

The conclusion of this section is where Ishmael draws together his claim that the reason we all find water so magnetic is because to us it represents the things that’re unfathomable and unreachable in life:

Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

It’d definitely be a way to get us onboard this ship, swept up in this journey, while we’re inside a theatre: “Come along with me, into this huge, intrinsic thing, come, and try to obsessively chase down whatever inscrutable thing is still maddening you in the craziness of the world today!” Mmm. 

A little thing I find interesting, however, is how this little piece, and how it’d be presented in the context of the show, relates to some pre-existing lyrics from Cetology: “And the ocean is too deep for me to fathom/ And life is just to big for me to bear/ But who am I to compare my despair to the shaking of the sea?” These lyrics have no root in the chapter Cetology itself, and I can only assume they’re actually rooted in this section here. The weirdness of that is how Ishmael makes the comparison he lays out in Loomings, but then immediately questions his right to make it. He paints his own personal experiences as insignificant in the scheme of it all, even if he does harbour those feelings about the ocean which are due to feelings about the unknown. Which is intriguing and opens up a lot of shit. There’s a lot going on in Cetology which can explain why he says that in the context of That Song, but it makes me wonder if this claim will appear in Loomings and then reappear later with the catch on the end, or if it’s sole appearance is in Cetology. It shall be seen. And I’ll probably discuss those Cetology lyrics more when I’ve... actually heard Loomings! Or, oh, you know, the full show for legit context. 

The next thing Ishmael does in this chapter is discuss why he makes the choice to go as just a "simple sailor" every time he goes to sea, in doing so telling us a bit more about himself and his opinions. I won’t expand on these hugely, but I do think it’s a fair enough point to say that Ishmael makes statements in this section which could act as starting points for themes that Dave has specified he’s discussing through this show - namely capitalism, democracy and race/systems of power, in this situation. 

One of Ishmael’s reasons is money. He doesn’t have the money to pay to go to sea as a passenger, he needs/wants to be paid for it as a sailor. The actual pay for which, by the way, is really, really not that much considering how dangerous a job he’s signing on for. But we have to survive somehow, we suppose...? And, his opinion on the money-making in general?

The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. 

Another of his reasons is that he prefers not to go to sea in any higher rank because he doesn’t care for the honour attached to these positions, and doesn’t want the level of responsibility involved. He goes on to explain that while it can be unpleasant to be ordered around by one’s superiors, he accepts it, and there’s no sense in striving for superiority when he is in essence no lesser than them, since, he states, everyone is inevitably under the command of someone else. 

With very intentionally provocative wording in the context of a book published in America in 1851.

Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. 

He finally says that it’s the ordinary sailors rather than their superiors who get the first, freshest breath of that revitalising ocean air. He then leans deeper into the thought: 

He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it.

Having laid out his justification for this choice, Ishmael moves onto why a whaling voyage specifically. He essentially accounts it to the mysteries of fate - though his desire to experience new, remote things could trick him into exaggerating the role of his free will. 

There’s a part towards the end of the chapter that I specifically wanted to point out, where Ishmael actually uses a piece of theatre as a metaphor for his voyage. It’s not as famous/iconic as some other parts from this chapter but it’s very entertaining in the context of an actual musical, and I’d love if it were referenced:

“And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

"Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States "Whaling Voyage by one Ishmael

"BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN." Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces—though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgement.”

This little piece fits well with the metatheatricality Dave has said he’s interested in exploring in the show. In terms of this concept, he’s mentioned both Ishmael vs Meville antics, but also broadening the idea of character vs writer with the added layer of him as the composer playing Ishmael. This quote specifically refers to theatre, and referencing one’s own role in a performance, which obviously becomes increasingly funny when you’re a narrator in and composer of a musical based on the book. Pondering over your “shabby part”, and why it was given to you, while you’re existing in theatre you composed yourself… strikes me as in line with Dave’s humour. In the song Cetology, Ishmael already actually laments that “this could be an amazing song...”, in doing so pretty heavily suggesting that he’s self-aware of being in a musical he wrote. So I don’t think Dave using this quote for metatheatre’s sake would be that surprising. 

I also like this quote because of the quite bizarre, almost eerie throwaway piece of modern foretelling we’re given in the layout of performances in the “bill”. It’s interesting enough for a modern adaption to point out as it is, but especially since Dave is highlighting connections between the book and modern America, it feels like something he might reference. 

[pagesofkenna]

Hemophobia

Trans male Juno Steel, irregular menstruation, hangovers, unhealthy binding practices, suicidal thoughts (I put out a call for irregular menstruation cycle experiences to help me research for this fic, and I wanna give a shout out to everyone who responded because it was a lot more than I expected, and it really helped!)

[Also on Ao3]

Juno hated blood even on his best days; waking up drenched in his own was nothing short of a nightmare. He could feel it before he saw it – a visceral tear of muscle against muscle deep in the pit of his stomach – and the smell made it obvious these weren't just hunger pangs. It didn’t help that he was hungover, too.

The blood was a recurring nightmare, Juno’s worst. There was no rhyme or rhythm to it, no way to guess when his body would betray him absolutely, and no way to stop it altogether without expensive medication or surgery. All he could do was try not to pass out again from the pain, or the sight of the red spread on his sheets.

He couldn’t remember the last time this had happened – months ago, at least, which felt like years ago. He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do about it. Out of instinct he crawled off the mattress – his insides protested painfully – and towards the bathroom door. The blood was still spreading down his trousers, the same ones he’d worn to the office the last three days. They’d have to be burned.

In the bathroom Juno fought the urge to vomit. The pain meds he stored under the sink were probably expired, but he dry-swallowed to pills anyways and pulled himself into the shower. His head pounded, from the alcohol last night, and how fucking bright the lights were, and all that blood everywhere, and the smell.

He started the shower before bothering to undress, and sat there – he couldn’t stand yet, not in this state – letting the water wash over him. It was almost freezing but somehow the sensation helped. Below him the water marbled with red streaks, and Juno stared up at the jet of new water to avoid looking.

The blood would start coming faster now, Juno thought weakly. The shift from horizontal to vertical, and gravity. Better to get this ordeal over with – worse to live through. He might as well sit under this shower spray for the full week, or however long it ends up taking this time, for all the good he is to the planet. Maybe the pain will finally do its job and he can just die here. Who’d even notice the difference?

Except that Rita’s definitely gonna call if she doesn’t hear from him in an hour. And his com’s in the other room.

With shaking hands Juno stripped off his shirt, then braced against the wall so he could work on the trousers. His boxers were even worse off, the stain spread so far he had to shut his eyes and take a few breaths before he could even touch them. The clothes all fell in a wet heap by the drain. After a moments hesitation he unzipped the binder as well, and flung it over the curtain rod.

He stayed in the shower for at least twenty minutes – or thirty, he couldn’t tell how much time was passing – before shutting off the water. The headache had dulled and his hands shook significantly less, but his gut still twisted in on itself, and he sat on the toilet to rest. There were a few spare boxers under the sink with the pain meds, along with the menstrual pads that felt like wearing a diaper. He almost vomited again just getting them on.

He called Rita from the floor by his bed.

“Hello?” She sounded understandably confused. He never called this early.

“Hey, Rita, it’s Juno,” he said. His voice came out more hoarse than usual. Even if Rita hadn’t been the one to drag him away from his fifth bottle last night, she’d hear the hangover in his voice. “Listen. I’m not gonna make it to the office today.”

“See, boss, I told you to go straight home after that fight last night but did you listen to me? No. You just had to go all—”

“It’s not that,” he interrupted quickly, “it’s….”

His voice trailed off. Rita knew what was wrong but he didn’t like telling her. Didn’t like saying it. He tried for a moment to think of a reasonable excuse, and failed.

“There’s blood,” is finally all he said. “Lots of blood.”

“There’s-? Oooh.” Juno could hear her wincing through the com line, and he sighed. “Do you need me to come over? I can get some of that tea stuff I saw in this commercial that’s supposed to help—”

“No,” Juno interrupted again. He was half-naked on his bedroom floor, fighting off the abdominal pain and nausea as it was. The last thing he needed was infomercial tea. “No, I don’t need you to come over. Just take the day off—”

Now it was Rita’s turn to interrupt. “No way, Mistah Steel,” she said. He could hear scuffling over the line, like she was grabbing her things, then the sound of a door opening. “You just sit right there and I’ll be over in less than ten minutes, OK? Don’t move. Do you still have that heating pad I gave you?”

Juno didn’t remember any heating pad. “Sure,” he said.

She showed up in twenty minutes, according to the time on his com. Not that Juno was keeping track. He hadn’t moved except to fish a shirt out from underneath the bed to cover himself up somewhat. He tried to stand up when the apartment door opened but his insides wrenched and his head swam, so he settled for sitting up against the edge of the mattress. The blood smell was so prevalent he almost didn’t notice it anymore.

Rita came in with what must have been shopping bags by the sound of it, and left them in what passed as his kitchen before making her way to his room. She stopped in his doorway, and said, “Mistah Steel, that’s a lot of blood.”

“Yeah I know,” Juno grumbled. Talking hurt but what else was new.

“Are you… feelin’ OK?” she asked.

Juno sighed. “No Rita, I’m dying.”

“You shouldn’t joke about that, Mistah Steel,” she said quickly. He heard her moving to the opposite side of the bed, and the mattress started to shift. “For all I know you could be dying – I’ve heard stories, you know? Real live stories, people in so much pain they pass out, then you choke on your own saliva or something.” She pulled one of the loose sheets out from under his shoulder.

“What are you dong?” he asked.

“We gotta get these sheets washed, right?” The bedding slipped off the edge of the mattress, the elastic edge loosening beneath his back. “You let it sit too long and it can stain real bad, Mistah Steel, and it gets too – where’s the plastic?”

“Plastic?”

“Aw, look what you’ve done!” Rita practically wailed. “I told you, you’re s’posed to wrap the mattress in plastic to protect it! Now it’s all gone and ruined, it looks so awful—”

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like,” Juno said. “That’s what the sheets are for.”

Rita sniffed, and it wasn’t too hard to believe she’d actually started tearing up. “Mistah Steel, you’re joking, right?” she said.

“Rita I’m gonna vomit,” he responded.

“Oh don’t you dare, Mistah Steel. I’ve got enough to clean up here without you making a mess on purpose. Move.” She tugged the last of the bloodied sheets off of the bed – Juno leaned forward to get out of her way – and rolled them into a bundle on the floor. “I’m gonna soak this in cold water until I can get them down to the laundry room, OK?”

Juno grunted in response. He close his eyes and willed the cramping sensation in his abdomen to subside, tried to force his body to actually behave for once. The water in the shower started up again, and Juno wondered how hard it would be to force himself to pass out on the floor. Passing out sounded like a great idea.

“Mistah Steel,” Rita called from the bathroom, her voice slow and laced with concern. Juno opened his eyes, and saw her looking at him through the doorway. She held up the binder. “You didn’t fall asleep in this last night again, did you? I told you a million times—”

“Rita, I’m really not in the mood.” He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the bare mattress.

Surprisingly, she stopped talking.

After a few minutes Juno lay down on the floor again, too exhausted to keep sitting up and curious if stretching his stomach would soothe the pain. Absently, he thought he should probably cover up his bare legs – Rita was no delicate spirit but it seemed rude – and finally settled on dropping a flat, worn-down pillow over his thighs. The painkillers weren’t doing anything.

Sleep eluded him but time still passed. The shower shut off and Rita left for the kitchen, and after several minutes she came back, holding one of his old mugs. “You’re gonna have to sit up to drink this,” she said.

“Is it scotch?” he asked.

“Very funny, Mistah Steel.” She held out a hand to help him into a sitting position, and frowned when he quickly pulled his hand away. “Maybe you should move to the couch,” she said. “It’s softer than the floor and you could sleep until you’re bed’s ready.”

“And get blood all over my cushions too?” Juno asked. “No thank you.” He took the mug and it smelled awful – all warm and sweet and slightly fruity. He’d have to dump it when he got up to use the toilet.

“Suit yourself,” Rita said, and she turned back towards the bathroom. Juno rested the mug on the pillow in his lap and listened as she stomped the excess water out of the sheets in his shower. She reappeared moments later, and caught him staring. “You better be drinking that tea, Mistah Steel,” she said with a glare. “I didn’t come all this way to have you ignore my sound health advice.”

“Shit, Rita, you don’t have to baby me,” Juno said. He tried to give her a weathering look, but he was probably grimacing too much from the pain. Rita just frowned.

“Mistah Steel,” she said, “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

She wouldn’t leave, so he took a sip to appease her. It tasted just as awful as he expected it to, but the heat spread into his stomach, and a tiny knot of muscles started to relax. He scowled as if that had made it worse.

“That’s more like it,” Rita said. She took her self-satisfied look with her to the kitchen, and came back moments later with a large trash bag that Juno realized would double as a laundry sack. He watched and she trailed it into the bathroom, then came out with all the bloody evidence bundled inside, the bulging sack slung over her shoulder like a dead body. He didn’t even realize he was sipping the tea again until he saw her grin.

“I’ll be right back,” Rita said to him, “so don’t you dare lock the door behind me because I can already hack the locks open anyways. You’ve done it before and it never works.” Juno thought warily that he didn’t even have to energy to stand.

She turned to leave the room and just before she was out of sight Juno said, “Rita.”

He didn’t think she’d even hear, but she stopped and turned to look at him. “Yeah, Mistah Steel?”

His head felt light and his insides were shredding themselves apart, and all he wanted to do right then was crawl into that space underneath his mattress and die. His grip on the mug tightened. “Thanks,” he said.

His eyes were shut tight, so he could only hear the smile in her voice when she said, “You’re welcome.”

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 26: Brought Back (Transcript) - 25th January 2016

tw: racism, colonialism, live burial, slavery

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

No one wants to die. If the human design was scheduled for a revision, that’s one of the features that would get an overhaul. Our mortality has been an obsession since the dawn of humanity itself – humans long for ways to avoid death, or at least make it bearable. Some cultures have practically moved heaven and earth doing so. Thousands of years ago, the Egyptians built enormous stone structures in order to house their dead and ensure them a place in the afterlife. They perfected the art of embalming so that even after death, their bodies might be ready for a new existence in a new place. Death is a reality for all of us, whether we like it or not. Young or old, rich or poor, healthy or sick, life is one long journey down a road, and we walk until its over. Some think they see the light at the end of it all while others hope for darkness, and that’s where the mystery of it all comes in: no one knows what’s on the other side. We just know that the proverbial walk ends at some point, and maybe that’s why we spend so much time guessing at it, building story and myth and belief around this thing we can’t put our finger on. What would be easier, some say, is if we just didn’t die, if we somehow went on forever. It’s impossible, but we dream of it anyway. No one returns from the grave… do they? Most sane, well-adjusted people would say no, but stories exist that say otherwise, and these stories aren’t new. They’ve been around for thousands of years and span multiple cultures, and like their subject matter these stories simply refuse to die. One reason for that, as hard as it is to believe, is because some of those stories appear to be true. Depending on where you look, and who you ask, there are whispers of those who beat the odds. Sometimes the journey doesn’t end after all. Sometimes, the dead really do walk. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

The quintessential zombie movie, the one that all the commentators say was responsible for putting zombies on the map nearly 50 years ago, was George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. The creatures that Romero brought to the big screen managed to influence generations of film makers, giving us the iconic zombie that we see today in television shows like The Walking Dead. The trouble is, Romero never used the word “zombie” to describe the creatures from his landmark film. Instead, they were “ghouls”, a creature borrowed from Arabian folklore. According to the mythology, ghouls are demons who eat the dead and, because of that, are traditionally found in graveyards. But Romero’s ghouls were not the first undead creatures to hunger for the flesh and blood of the living. Some think that honour falls to the Odyssey, the epic Greek poem written by Homer nearly 3000 years ago. In the story, there’s a scene where Odysseus needs to get some information from a long-dead prophet named Tiresias. To give the spirit strength to speak, Odysseus feeds him blood. In a lot of ways, the creatures we think of today as zombies are similar to the European tales of the revenant. They’ve gone by many names – the ancient Irish called them Neamh-Mhairbh, meaning “the undead”; in Germany they are the Wiedergänger, “the ones who walk again”; and in Nordic mythology, they’re called the draugr. The name “revenant” itself is Latin and means “the returned”. The basic idea is pretty easy to guess from that – revenants were those who were once dead, but returned to haunt and terrorize their neighbours and family. It might sound like fantasy to our modern sensibilities, but some people really did think that this could happen.

Historians in the Middle Ages wrote about revenant activity as if it were fact. One man, William of Newburgh, wrote in 1190 that, and I quote, “It would not be easy to believe that the corpses of the dead should sally from their graves, and should wander about to the terror or destruction of the living, did not frequent examples, occurring in our own times, suffice to establish this fact, to the truth of which there is abundant testimony. Were I to write down all the instances of this kind which I have ascertained to have befallen in our times, the undertaking would be beyond measure, laborious, and troublesome”. Newburgh goes on to wonder why the ancient writers never mentioned events like these, but doesn’t seem to take that as proof that revenants are pure fantasy. They mentioned all sorts of boring things, mundane and unimportant, so why not the unnatural and unusual? He was, of course, wrong – the ancient Greeks did have certain beliefs surrounding the dead and their ability to return to haunt the living, but to them it was much more complicated, and each revenant came back with its own unique purpose. You see, the Greco-Roman culture believed that there was a gap between the date of someone’s actual death and their intended date of death. Remember, this was a culture that believed in the Moirai – the Fates – who had a plan for everyone. So, for example, a farmer might be destined to die in his 80s from natural causes, but he might instead die in an accident at the market or in his field. People who died early, according to the legends, were doomed to wander the land of the living as spirits until the day of their intended death arrived. Still with me? Good. So, what the Greeks believed was that it was possible to control those wandering spirits – all you needed to do was make a curse tablet, something written on clay or tin or even parchment, and then bury it in the person’s grave. Like a key in the ignition of a car, this tablet would empower someone to control the wandering dead. Now, it might sound like the world’s creepiest Martha Stewart how-to project, but to the Greeks magic like this was a powerful part of their belief system. The dead weren’t really gone, and because of that they could serve a purpose. Unfortunately, that’s not an attitude that was unique to the Greeks, and in the right culture, at the right time, under the right pressure, that idea can be devastating.

In Haiti, the vast majority of the people there are genetically connected to West Africa to some degree, up to 95% according to some studies. It’s a remnant of a darker time, when slavery was legal, and millions of Africans were pulled from their homes and transported across the Atlantic to work the sugar plantations that filled the Spanish coffers. We tend to imagine African slaves being shipped to the new world with no possessions beside the clothing on their backs, but they came with their beliefs, with their customs and traditions, and with centuries of folklore and superstition. They might not have carried luggage filled with precious heirlooms, but they held the most important pieces of their identity in their minds and hearts. No one can take that away. There are a few ideas that need to be understood about this transplanted culture. First, they believed that the soul and the body were connected, but also that death could be a moment of separation between the two. Not always, but it could be – I’ll explain more about that in a moment. Second, they lived with a hatred and fear of slavery. Slavery, of course, took away their freedom, it took away their power. They no longer had control over their lives, their dreams, or even their own bodies. Whether they liked it or not, they were doomed to endure horribly difficult labour for the rest of their lives; only death would break the chains and set them free. Third, that freedom wasn’t guaranteed. While most Africans dreamed of returning to their homeland in the afterlife, there were some who wanted to get there quicker. Suicide was common in colonial Haiti, but it was also frowned upon. In fact, it was believed that those who ended their own life wouldn’t be taken back to Africa at all. Instead, they would be punished. The penalty, it was said, was eternal imprisonment inside their own body, without control or power over themselves. It was, in a sense, just like their own life. To the slaves of Haiti, hell was just more slavery, but a slavery that went on forever. These bodies and trapped souls had a name in their culture: the zombie. It was first recorded in 1872, when a linguistic scholar recorded a zombie as, and I quote, “a phantom or ghost, not infrequently heard in the southern states in nurseries and among the servants”. The name, it turns out, has African roots as well. In the Congo they use the word nzambi, which means the spirit of a dead person. It’s related to two other words that both mean “god” and “fetish” – fetish in the sense of manufacturing a thing, a creature that has been made. The walking dead, at least according to Haitian lore, are real.

What did these zombie look like? Well, thanks to Zora Neale Hurston, we have a first-hand account. Hurston was an African American author, known for her novel Their Eyes Were Watching God, and regarded as one of the pillars of the Harlem Renaissance. And it was while researching folklore during a trip to Haiti in 1936 that she encountered one. In her book Tell my Horse, Hurston recounts what happened. “I had the rare opportunity to see and touch an authentic case”, she wrote. “I listened to the broken noises in its throat.... If I had not experienced all of this in the strong sunlight of a hospital yard, I might have come away from Haiti interested but doubtful. But I saw this case of Felicia Felix-Mentor which was vouched for by the highest authority. So I know that there are Zombies in Haiti. People have been called back from the dead. The sight was dreadful. That blank face with the dead eyes. The eyelids were white all around the eyes as if it had been burned with acid. There was nothing you could say to her or get from her except by looking at her, and the sight of this wreckage was too much to endure for long”. Wreckage. I can’t think of another word with as much beauty and horror as that, in the context. Something was happening in Haiti, and the result was wreckage, lives broken and torn apart by something – but what? The assumption might be that these people had all attempted suicide, but suicide is common in many cultures, not just in Haiti. When you dig deeper, though, it’s possible to uncover the truth, and in this case, the truth is much darker than we like to believe. Zombies, it turns out, can be created.

On the night of April 30th, 1962, a man walked into Albert Schweitzer Hospital in Haiti. He was sick and complained of body aches, a fever and, most recently, coughing fits that brought blood up from his lungs. Naturally, the medical staff were concerned, and they admitted him for tests and treatment. This man, Clairvius Narcisse, was seen by a number of medical doctors but his condition quickly deteriorated. One of his sisters, Angelina, was there at his bedside, and according to her his lips turned blue and he complained to her about a tingling sensation all over his body. But despite the hospital’s best efforts, Narcisse died the next day. Two doctors, one American and one American-trained, each confirmed his death. The man’s sister, Angelina, signed the death certificate after confirming the man’s identity. Because she couldn’t read or write, she did so by pressing her thumbprint onto the paper, and then his family began the painful process of burying their loved one and trying to move on. Death, as always, is a part of life; never a pleasant one, but a part nonetheless. Over 18 years later, in 1981, Angelina Narcisse was walking through the market in her village, something she did nearly every day. She knew the faces of each vendor, she knew the scents and the sounds that filled the space there, but when she looked down the dirt road toward the small crowd of people something frightened her, and she screamed. There, walking toward her, was her brother Clairvius. He was, of course, older now, but it was him. She would have recognised him anywhere, and when he finally approached her and named himself with a childhood nickname, any doubt she might have had melted away. What followed was a whirlwind of revelations as Clairvius told his sister what had happened to him, and it all started, he said, in the hospital room. According to him, his last moments in the bed there were dark, but fully aware. He could no longer see anyone, and he couldn’t move, but he remembered hearing the doctor pronounce him dead. He remembered the sound of his sister weeping. He even remembered the rough, cotton sheet being pulled up and over his face. But awareness continued on to his funeral, where he claimed to hear the procession. He even pointed to a scar on his face – he claimed that it was the result of one of the coffin nails cutting him. Later, the family brought in a psychiatrist, who performed a series of tests on Clairvius to see is he was a fraud, but the man passed with flying colours, answering questions that no one but Clairvius himself could have known. In an addition, over 200 friends and family members vouched for the man’s identity. This, all of them confirmed, was Clairvius Narcisse.

So, what happened to him? According to Clairvius himself, he was poisoned by his brother over a property dispute. How? He wasn’t sure, but shortly after his burial, a group of men dug up his coffin and pulled him free. That’s a thought worth locking away deep in the back of your brain, by the way: trapped inside a coffin beneath the earth, blind and paralysed, cold and scared. It’s a wonder the man didn’t go insane. The men who dug him up were led by a priest called a Bokor. The men chained Clairvius and then guided him away to a sugar plantation, where he was forced to work alongside others in a similar state of helplessness. Daily doses of a mysterious drug kept them all unable to resist or leave. According to his story, he managed to escape two years later, but fearing what his brother might do to him if he were to show up alive, he avoided returning home. It was only the news of his brother’s death many years later that coaxed him out of hiding. The story of Clairvius Narcisse has perplexed scientists and historians for decades. In the 1980s, Harvard sent an ethno-botanist named Wade Davis to investigate the mysterious drug, and the result of his trip was a book called The Serpent and the Rainbow, which would go on to be a New York Times bestseller as well as a Hollywood movie, but few agree on the conclusions. Samples of the drug that Wade collected have all been disproven, no illegal sugar plantations staffed by zombie slaves has ever been discovered, and the doctors have been accused of misreading the symptoms and prematurely declaring the man dead – there are so many doubts. To the people closest to him, though, the facts are solid. Clairvius Narcisse died, his family watched his burial in the cemetery, he was mourned and missed, and 18 years later he came back into their lives. The walking dead: medical mishap or the result of Haitian black magic? We may never know for sure.

Stories of the walking dead are everywhere these days. It’s as if we’ve traded in our obsession with extending our life and resigned to the fact that normal death, the kind where we die and stay dead, might be better. We fear death because it means the loss of control, the loss of purpose and freedom. Death, in the eyes of many people, robs us of our identity and replaces it with finality. It’s understandable, then, how slavery can be viewed through that same lens. It removes a person’s ability to make decisions for themselves – it turns them, in a sense, into nothing more than a machine for the benefit of another person. But what if there really are individuals out there, the Bokor and evil priests, who have discovered a way to manufacture their own walking dead, who have perfected the art of enslaving a man or women deeper than any slave owner might have managed before, to rob them of their very soul and bind them to an afterlife of tireless, ceaseless labour? In February of 1976, Francine Illeus was admitted to her local hospital in Haiti. She said she felt weak and light-headed. Her digestive system was failing, and her stomach ached. The doctors there treated her and then released her. Several days later, she passed away and was buried in the local graveyard. She had only been 30 years old. Three years later, Francine’s mother received a call from a friend a few miles away. She needed her to come to the local marketplace there, and said it was urgent. Francine’s mother didn’t know what the trouble was, but she made the journey as quickly as she could. Once there, she was told that a woman had been found in the market. She was emaciated, catatonic, and refused to move from where she was squatting in the corner, head down, hands laced over her face. The woman, it turned out, was Francine Illeus. Her mother brought her home and tried to help her, but Francine seemed to be gone. She was there in body, but there was very little spirit left. Subsequent doctors and psychiatrists have spent time with Francine, but with very little progress to show for it. On a whim, Francine’s mother had the coffin exhumed. She had to see for herself if this woman, little more than a walking corpse, truly was her daughter. Yes, the woman had the same scar on her forehead that her daughter had, yes, they looked alike, yes, others recognised her as Francine, but she needed to know for sure. When the men pulled the coffin out of the earth, it was heavy, too heavy, they murmured, to be empty. More doubtful by the minute, Francine’s mother asked them to open it, and when the last nail had been pulled free from the wood, the lid was lifted and cast aside. The coffin wasn’t empty after all – it was full of rocks.

[Closing statements]

[legendofgrump]

awkwardarin replied to your post “awkwardarin replied to your post “4, 7, 10 you bet your ass I’m...”

*chanting* DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT

You ask, I deliver. Here we gooooo~ (Also I’m going to shame you all I want SO)

As per request, I’ll answer all the asks (that I haven’t already) from the fanfic questions post, but it’s under a read more so I don’t literally kill everyone’s dashes. I’m so sorry in advance

1. What was the first fandom you got involved in? I mean, before I even knew what “fandom” meant, I was writing Twilight fanfiction, so I guess that counts. The first one I actively participated in was the Grump one haha

2. What is your latest fandom? Ouran High School Host Club, but again, if you want active participation, then I guess uhhh Night in the Woods?

3. What is the best fandom you’ve ever been involved in? Definitely the Grump fandom!! I’ve met all the best people and 99% of my friends through this blog right here!

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5. Which fandoms have your written fanfiction for? Uhh Twilight, Big Time Rush, Total Drama, Game Grumps, technically AntiPoppy but it’s not even close to done and not published

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9. What are the best things about your current fandom? I mean, for this fandom, like I said, it’s got all my friends in it. Everyone’s super supportive and there’s tons of opportunities to get involved and create stuff and support other creators! It’s probably one of the nicest communities I’ve been a part of.

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11. Who is your current OTP? Currently I’m still heavily thinking about Hikaru and Haruhi from Ouran Host Club so that I guess haha

12. Who is your current OT3? The all time babes are Rubbercommanderbang. Also Raven, Cyborg, and Beast Boy is a ship that @cantolopejeevas made me think about and I love

13. Any NoTPs? Refer to this massive post

14. Go on, who are your BroTPs? Hikaru and Kaoru from Ouran, The entirety of the Teen Titans, the monks in Xiaolin Showdown, etc

15. Is there an obscure ship which you love? A n t i P o p p y

16. Are their any popular ships in your fandom which you dislike? I’m more or less indifferent toward Egobang if we’re gonna be real here. I just don’t feel like there’s anything I can add to it at this point.

17. Who was your first OTP and are they still your favourite? I mean, before I knew what that meant, probably RaiKim from Xiaolin Showdown. And they’re still great, but now I’m a little gayer.

18. What ship have you written the most about? Ironically? Probably Egobang. I wasn’t so cynical about it when I first started haha

19. Is there a ship which you wished you could get behind, but you just don’t feel them? Refer to number 16

20. Any ships which you surprised yourself by liking? Hmm probably like Septibang? Or CommanderSeptiBang?? Those were two ships I just kinda stumbled upon and was like? Okay I guess we’re doing this now??

Also Mae and Selmers from Night in the Woods. Surprisingly wholesome.

21. What was the first fanfic you ever wrote? I think I mentioned this before, but it was self-insert Twilight fanfic. Honestly I wish I was just as shameless as I was in middle school. Writing Mary Sue self-insert fic where you ship yourself with a main character is fun and satisfying as hell.

22. Is there anything you regret writing? Aforementioned Twilight fanfiction. Though part of me doesn’t because it was my origin story and also, like I said, shameless and for fun.

23. Name a fic you’ve written that you’re especially fond of & explain why you like it. Ahh probably either “You Monster,” which is like my best stuff that I’ve put up so far??? or the massive Big Time Rush fanfic I talk so much about just for the sheer size of it :P

24. What fic do you desperately need to rewrite or edit? You Monster!!!! I’m gonna write a redux soon I promise.

25. What’s your most popular fanfic? ???? According to Archive, it’s You Monster! How nice~

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28. If someone were to draw a piece of fanart for your story, which story would it be and what would the picture be of? Literally anything??? I love all fanart of anything I make??? But I guess You Monster haha

29. Do you have a beta reader? Why/Why not? Hahaha no I don’t write enough to warrant having one. And also I literally almost never edit anything I write rip

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32. Do you listen to music when you write or does music inspire you? If so, which band or genre of music does it for you? Depends!! Sometimes music really confuses my brain and makes me unable to think of words, especially if it’s really word-heavy music (which is most of what I listen to). If I’m really struggling, it usually helps to do it in silence so I can focus. But otherwise, I used to make little playlists of instrumental music to listen to, or play premade playlists of like study music or something.

33. Do you write oneshots, multi-chapter fics or huuuuuge epics? I really like writing huuuuge epics/multi-chapters but I’m really bad at finishing things ;--; so most of what gets published are requested one-shots/ficlets (one of which was requested the other day and I’M STILL T R Y I N G I SWEAR)

34. What’s the word count on your longest fic? Oh buddy. It’s over 100K.

35. Do you write drabbles? If so, what do you normally write them about? Uh I guess? But I’m not particularly stuck to the “required word count” for the different vocab. I usually only write really short things when people request stuff haha. But it’s kinda fun~

36. What’s your favourite genre to write? Probably just straight angst. Angst that develops character, specifically, but angst nonetheless.

37. First person or third person - what do you write in and why? Third person. I used to write in first person and for some reason it always seems less?? effective/neat to me? Plus I write very colloquially and I find it easier to do when I can write in third person.

38. Do you use established canon characters or do you create OCs? Usually canon characters, but if it’s something like Total Drama that depends on constantly changing casts of characters, I’ve definitely made some of my own characters.

39. What is you greatest strength as a writer? Uhhh???? Uhhhh????? Does not compute????

40. What do you struggle the most with in your writing? Effectively capturing characters, at least that fit my own standards. And then also the anxiety that comes along with thinking its good enough to waste people’s time with. :’)

41. List and link to 5 fanfics you are currently reading: I’m not...currently reading any...but I will link to five of my favs.

1. Before and After (Shaddic) --Total Drama (also tw for a lot of HEAVY mental illness/abuse/violence) 2. Wu Xing Shield (DragonNutt) -- Xiaolin Showdown (tw: death) 3. If Lost, Return to Phil (thatsmistertoyou) - Dan and Phil (I don’t remember, I just remember it being really fucking sad) 4. Two Roads Meet (pianodan) - Dan and Phil (tw: suicide) 5. The Vibe and The Vibe 2: 2Fuck2Vibrator (by our very own @cantolopejeevas) (tw: gratuitous smut ;) )

42. List and link to 5 fanfiction authors who are amazing: 1. @cantolopejeevas​ / @grumpygamersandvibrantcolors for obvious reasons. they’re just!!! so good!!! at all the types of writing. (hey go commission them) The Ultimate Senpai 2. @i-am-avacado oh boy they angst well! current holder of the angst crown (for nooooow~) honestly writing senpai 3. @devilgate-drive provides the Good Quality Rubbercommanderbang Content and also just generally talented 4. @sweetiefiend writes the cute shit!!! like damn!!!! 5. @autumn-feels so??? talented for her age??? and so deep wtf

43. Is there anyone in your fandom who really inspires you? I mean, all of my friends for one. And my lovely darling @cantolopejeevas who continues to push me forward and compliments my work all the time. But yeah, all my friends make me wanna get better because they’re all so good and I wanna do that tooooo!!

44.  What ship do you feel needs more attention? AntiPoppy. Please.

45. What is your all time favourite fanfic? Fuckin’!!!! Wu Xing Shield, listed above!!! It’s the first fanfic I cried reading!!! And it’s so beautifully written!!! If you like Xiaolin Showdown, I recommend it. Plus, it also took stuff from Xiaolin Chronicles and made it bearable. Bless.

46. If someone was to read one of your fanfics, which fic would you recommend to them and why? Ahhh You Monster. It’s probably my best one. Even though it needs heavy editing haha.

47. Archive Of Our Own, Fanfiction.net or Tumblr - where do you prefer to post and why? I mean....Fanfiction.net is where it all began, but I never posted anything on it. I think AO3 is the best for posting fics and keeping track of them. But more people usually see it if I post it on my tumblr. So a mixture of those two?

48. Do you leave reviews when you read fanfiction? Why/Why not? For the longest time I didn’t because I had major anxiety!!! I was too nervous to leave a comment, no matter what. Plus, I didn’t really make accounts on either ffn or ao3 so I couldn’t have if I wanted to. But now I like leaving tags and stuff on people’s works on tumblr and (if I read more fic) I would leave comments, just because I want people to know they’re doing good work!!

49. Do you care if people comment/reblog your writing? Why/why not? Yeah, I mean, of course! I love seeing comments on all my work, art, writing, or otherwise! It’s just nice to know that someone liked something I made, especially if it’s something I’m self-conscious about like I am with writing. And reblogs help spread it around so it can get more attention, so that’s always helpful!

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I HOPE EVERYONE IS HAPPY ESPECIALLY YOU @awkwardarin