#this post was inspired by me struggling to place a fence post in the right spot for a cat tower

[calyroco]

I have never before experienced controls that feel as annoying to use on a switch game as the controls to build things in MySims Kingdom and hopefully I never do again.

[kivino]

MEANT FOR EACH OTHER || ZOMBIE AU || KÖNIG X READER || PART I

sum. A deep-seated paranoia takes hold of you. Every hour of the day, you feel like you’re being watched. Followed. And you’re not wrong. So observant, so beautiful and perfect, but always dismissed by your group, left behind, not paid even a sliver of attention. How tragic. It’s okay though. König is here to do right by you. F̶̖̓͆̕͝o̷̢͚̲̬̍͠r̶͖̝̾̊̍̾e̸͔͇̣̓̈̊̾v̶̛͚͕́͗͝e̷̤̻͔͎̅̑̽r̴̝̬̩̘͒̒̃ ̴͔͆͋̈͝ȃ̷̢̭̯n̶̡̜̫͚̉̌̊̒ḍ̷̩̲̹͝ ̷̖̔͌͘ả̶̡̬̥͊l̶͕̇̓̄w̴̺̥̋̂͠ä̷̢̢̝́̒͗y̴̳̦̙̕ŝ̶͕̋̀.̵̝̱͒̌̅̆

tags. zombie au (twdg inspired), stalking, obsessive behavior, themes of paranoia, fear, distrust, isolation  

w.c. 2.7k

a.n. i had a post about this fic quite some time ago, but only got to finishing this fic right about now. it’s my bad, folks! still, i hope you enjoy it nonetheless! let me know your thoughts and like and reblog, please!

jjk masterlist || cod masterlist || ao3 link to this fic || ko-fi

You were not okay. Unstable. Dangerous to the group. That’s what you kept hearing every time you would try to speak up about your worries. “Help your fellow man” your ass. Delusional assholes, all of them, you thought, after having to endure this torture that appeared endless. Constant paranoia eating away at you, piece by piece, making you look over your shoulder more than look straight ahead, forcing your sleep to become so light you’d wake up from the slightest shifts of your companions dosing off in the tents beside yours. Or from the wind rattling the rusted metal sheets on the roof of the abandoned storage house you camped out in. You felt exhausted which was no less shitty than being unheard. Or, rather, straight up ignored.  

It’s been weeks…months of it? You weren’t quite sure anymore. You had trouble tracking the days at this point in time, any disruption turning you into a likeness of a jittery rabbit – head on a swivel, ready to dart at the merest visible sign of this…unknown and incomprehensible danger. So naturally, days blended into nights, and nights would smother themselves in-between the days, and there was no end to it. At times, anything felt as a sign of some foreign, unfamiliar and very unwelcome presence. The whole world ending, shriveling away into a primitive, disconnected and scattered realm of endless violence was bad enough, but then there was something else…You weren’t quite sure what started out this deep terror within you. But you just knew, after bumping into someone’s empty, but clearly frequently used hideout in a dingy, and frankly, nasty motel, nothing has been the same.

Stretches of makeshift barbed wire across all the fences and, in places, even the ground, where the passage wasn’t interrupted by wrecked cars forming a barricade in front of the dark building with the windows boarded up shut. As you approached the place, you swore you could hear a low purr of a generator and smell the fuel, heavy in the air, and thick on your tongue. However, the place, though well protected, seemed to be deserted. Not a sign of a human presence from a quick glance. A lawn chair on the second floor of the motel, right behind a study looking railing with the paint rubbed off in the center, however, threw you off a little bit, as well as the doors, either locked, or boarded up shut from the inside. No bodies, no signs of fight or struggle, very little blood, while the place itself was locked up so tight you’d think a herd of was mere hours away from reaching it. Who’d put so much effort into making this motel a fortress, only to then abandon it, since there were no bodies that would suggest an attack from the walkers, or a raid from a fellow man.

Things clearly didn’t line up and you didn’t like that. Your group, however, didn’t bother with technicalities and nuance. Safe place was a safe place, end of story. Having nothing to offer in terms of resources – apart from a couple of already ransacked vending machines, the motel was quickly moved on from after the group spent the night. Since no one managed to get a single door, but the one leading to the laundry room of the dreary place open, the decision was made to sleep in the tents within the barricaded parking lot. “You’re welcome to freeze your ass off outside the fence, if you’d like, love, I couldn’t give two shits” – grumbled Rory, a woman in her thirties, who was clearly not having your cautious behavior. You were more than sure that she probably had to sleep in places much colder and dangerous than this dirty godforsaken motel, so you let it go. That night was the last night of undisturbed and calm sleep you’ve had before the unrest took hold.

You haven’t told anyone (as if that would change anything, your mind adds with palpable bitterness), but you swore there was something at that motel. Always conveniently just out of the corner of your eye, avoiding you so well you were ready to scream in frustration at the lack of substantial evidence for your suspicions. A giant, hulking shadow, faster than your reaction speed. A suspicious, bright glint from stuffy darkness of a boarded-up window. A loose stretch of a chain-link fence with dull grass crushed underneath. But then, why would it be? Unless it pinned the lifeless blades of greenery to the ground while sliding out (or in) below the fence.  

Of course, without outright noticeable evidence it was just that. It. But you were just scared to admit that this shapeless, inexplicable “It" you kept in your thoughts day and night, waking up and going to bed with an insistent tremble in your chest and shaky hands, was someone. That this “It” would suddenly develop a form, a conscience. Then, a goal. You didn’t like that. Not in the slightest. Frankly, who would like the phantoms that reside in their mind to suddenly become real? Nobody. And definitely not fucking you.

Regardless of your limitless turmoil and anxiety, non-stop coiling within your gut, you had to wake up. Stirring awake in your stuffy, hot tent, you don’t waste any time finding a zipper on the cheap rainproof fabric and dragging it down, to let some (relatively) fresh air inside, letting your lungs enjoy it while it lasts. Your group of seven has already been obviously busy; you can hear some chatter and clacking of pots over the fire in the middle of the camp. Didn’t even wake you up? Odd. You’ll take it though. An extra hour of sleep is better than none.

You shuffle towards the opening in your tent, your hand snaking towards the half-empty backpack, laying on its side right in your reach. Empty-minded, you let your fingers pick at a bunch of zippers and clasps, while rubbing your eyes off the scarce leftover sleep. Your hand, much like a lithe spider finally gets inside the backpack to pull a sweatshirt out, until you hear a clear, almost deafening crunch of plastic in the morning quiet.

You can feel the blood in your veins turn to ice.

The hand snakes deeper inside, trying to get a feel of this plastic package that was definitely not there last night, before you went to sleep. Finally, you fish out multiple packs of ramen from your belongings and you sit there for a moment, in silence that only you can comprehend.

None of your group store their food in their personal backpacks. You included. Nobody went on any supply runs this week. And you definitely don’t remember ever having problems with sleepwalking. Your head finds its way into your hands. There “It” is again. You’re on the verge of hysteria. And even if your try to say something, it’s going to be the same song, all over again.

“You’re overthinking simple things.”

“Maybe you put it there before, but just…forgot about it?”

“What does it matter anyway? You’ve got more food to last you, would you stop being hung up over nothing?”

Same things, same voices, same thoughts. You were sick of it. Utterly and completely.

Finally!

You found it!  König could feel a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as you took out the gift he so carefully placed in the bag during the night. Sneaking around the other tents, careful with every step, suffocated with anticipation and worry. Now he had the perfect view of you from the shattered roof window of the storage house, which couldn’t have made the moment any better. Setting up this vantage point was his best decision yet…Apart from deciding to trail behind you, tagging along until your useless group members make the slightest mistake that will cost them their life. And then, König will be able to swoop in, finally help you openly, get you to join him (because why wouldn’t you? Your refusal was not even a possibility in his mind). The mere thought sent shivers of excitement down his body, sweet and languid. He couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of peeking out from behind the window once again, tilting his head ever so slightly, so his dark hood is not too visible over the vivid backdrop of the winter sky – off-grey and dull, much like a dirty slush that was this year’s snow, resting in a thick, melting blanket over the dark earth.

His eyes are zeroed in on you, squinting through the bright light penetrating even the dull clouds hanging over the earth and he could just feel the familiar, loving tremble in his chest when he sees you taking out his little surprise from your bag. It would seem that you’re lost for words – clutching your poor little head in your hands, mulling over who it might be from. Or maybe you’re already drowning in despair, deep in the realization that no one from your group can protect you properly, if someone was able to sneak into the camp in the middle of the night. Yes! Yes… König couldn’t have asked for a better reaction.

This…utter distress you were displaying, fanned the flames within him like no other person ever managed to, even before the world has ended. Frankly, anything you did would set off this insistent, lasting spark deep within his chest, burning König up from inside out, until it felt like he was smoldering if his eyes couldn’t catch a glimpse of you for too long. His insides would churn with an unknown, heavy feeling, it almost felt like he was drowning in a bog, being dragged down in the depths of his mind with little to no resistance. Only catching a glimpse of you helped to stop that feeling. So, keeping away just wasn’t an option. Never was. Never will be. And how could it ever be, if even in his restless dreams he searched for you, while every waking thought revolved around you. How determined he was to see his plan through, how desperate for the closer presence of your light in his life, finally being able to bask in it without your disgusting group getting in the way.

König never thought the accidental encounter at the motel he’s been holed up in would end up in him packing up everything he had to follow your useless group. You. You were the first living soul he’s seen up close since the world started falling apart so rapidly. It awakened something he completely forgot about in the months he hasn’t seen any people. The newfound hope.

Your carefree smile near the bonfire first confused him. How can you be happy and laugh the way you did when nothing around you was in its original state – shattered, broken, locked, rotten, spoiled or otherwise; when he the danger was around the corner, lurking just out of reach, ready to pounce and consume the measly, weak remains of humanity any time. Nothing to smile about for him. Despite his initial, less than generous assumption about your mental abilities and level of intelligence, you proved more cautious and careful than any people from your group. Stupid jackasses, satisfied with the surface-level search. How pathetic.

It would be such a pleasure to finally get rid of them. Give them all that they deserved. Every blow, every bite and every scratch. But not from him, sadly. He has to be even more careful, so you don’t have any basis to even assume König had anything to do with their deaths. He’ll…nudge them in the direction of death, but he will not be the deliverer of justice. As much as he wished he could.

Not you, though. Oh, never you. That day, as König peeked from the darkness of the motel room around him, through tiny slits in the dusty curtains that obscured everything behind the wooden boards he hammered in himself, you seemed like you started figuring something out, looking over the spots of the motel he most often frequented. Almost like you could feel or see his presence there, only hours ago.

Carefully, but nonchalantly walking around vending machines, the good spot overlooking the front gate and the parking lot with König’s chair on the second-floor balcony, his sleeping spot on warm nights, in a bed of a pickup truck, and finally, attempting to open the room where the man would sort through the supplies he had. When he was completely shrouded in darkness of said supply room, it felt like you could see right through it, like you caught sight of him through the dirty glass window. Your narrowed eyes, suspicion-ridden expression, laced with fear at the same time that he glimpsed at before tearing himself away from the handmade peephole in a manner too reluctant and terrified for him.

There and then, leaned on a wall with his breath short and face burning up under the hood that obscured his face, König realized. You shared a connection, deeper than any. You must be. How easily you picked apart each of the places that belonged to him, like you felt with your whole being the dark, smudged stains of his presence left behind, how observant you were, it couldn’t have been a simple lucky guess, he was sure of it. You were meant for each other. Yes, yes, that’s it! The world fell apart, but it was always supposed to happen, you would find each other no matter what. The thought, for the first time in many, so many months filled to the brim with blood, gore, loneliness and hunger filled him with comfort.

That was what drew him in, there was nothing easy or outright understandable about you to König. He didn’t mind, though. You were meant for each other, that was all that mattered. He would bathe the world in blood if it meant you’ll be there to find way into his arms. He’ll protect you, just like the comfort from the smallest glimpse of your charming self protected him from the darkness that caged him in for so long. Only König can protect you. You just didn’t know it yet.

Of course, he realizes that his attempts might be too…forward for you, but it was for the best. He was doing it for you only, for your wellbeing, and no one else’s. Of course, he could be much more discreet, yet instead König chose to be meticulous with how he approached leaving behind signs of his presence. It was charming and so, so endearing, how quickly you picked up on the smallest traces left by him, how your brows would knit together in careful consideration, piecing together every clue given to you by König’s generous hand. Like a conversation between only the two of you. König had to let you know that your savior, your protector is coming. He wasn’t worried about you pointing out things left by him to your group; figures that they would choose to ignore it – it wasn’t meant for them.

König cherished every expression, every tiny reaction you gave to the smallest traces of his presence, keeping them hidden, locked away in his mind, recalling every and each one while lulling himself to a sleep that was sure to bring more dreams of you. The man savored them like there was nothing better than seeing your eyes widen in horror, hand clasping over your mouth to contain a loud scream of terror, as you stumble across a large, neatly stacked pile of festering, unmoving walkers that just a day ago creeped upon the camp, with no one from your group noticing, as expected. Of course, König could easily dispose of the whole pile elsewhere, burn them, bury them, or dismember them until there was nothing but rotten mincemeat left on the ground, but he wanted to send another message, by leaving the bodies for his beloved to find. Just so you’ll know, he’ll do anything to keep you safe. Anything to keep you all to himself.

Or when the shuffling within you tent momentarily stop after he would intentionally snap a twig with his full weight while doing a round through your camp, intent on putting another food item in your bag. Clearly you took notice of someone lurking through the camp, but didn’t dare to check what was the noise you heard. How cute. König needed you to know that you won’t go hungry with him either – he’ll give away the last he has for you to last longer. The world will have a little more light with you in it, rather than with him.

König also knew you could see his shadow from the corner of your eye at times. Those days, he was intentionally being sloppy, allowing himself more and more of the simple, invigorating pleasures of taking in your beauty just a few more seconds before ducking behind the thick trunks, scattered bushes or a corner. His blood would come to a boil almost instantly, the hood that usually allowed for normal breathing would soon become suffocating for him, and his hands would start to tremble until his teeth would find a way to bite into his flesh, flashes of pain searing the incredibly joy the image of you gave him.

It was hard to wait. So hard to not act on his deep-seated, loving urges and finally take you all for himself, like it should be. Like it was meant to be. Every day without you in his arms felt more and more like torture, hours ticking away with him wasting himself out of your embrace he craved so restlessly. Anything seemed to remind him of you, pulling along the slow realization that you were not there to ease his heavy mind out of the instability that threatened to spill over in destructive, bloody violence. It was worse than bad. König needed you. So wholly and desperately he couldn’t exist or function in the way he was used to.

Soon. He’ll set everything in motion very soon. König already started carrying over all his stuff and equipment from the roof to a camp he put together carefully, a safe distance away from this storage house. You’ll need a safe place to stumble into, after all. And, from that safe place, right into his arms.

You won’t have a choice. Because you were meant for each other. You just didn’t know it yet.

check out this masterlist for more cod fics or send me a request/comment! you can also support me on ko-fi

[seeyouafter]

SYA Extended Notes Ch. 5

Excerpt from "See You After" Chapter 5: June 2: Todoroki to Bakugou

There was a little girl there. I think she’s about Eri’s age. Her parents were at work so a nurse was looking after her. They were feeding the koi and asked if I wanted to join them[...] She seems really smart. Kind of reminded me of you, but I think that’s mostly because she said my hair was funny and called me a peppermint.

References in this chapter:

Koi

Image from Unsplash | source for koi facts in this chapter

I don't remember what inspired this bit originally. I think I just wanted to give Shouto a quiet moment that he could write to Katsuki about and while I was writing the draft the little girl and the koi fish just showed up on the page. (I think Shouto awkwardly but lovingly interacting with kids is super cute and we need more of it.)

藤谷病院 (Fujitani Hospital)

Obviously, I'm inventing my own facts about the hospital for the sake of this story but I didn't want to invent a whole new hospital and I like the idea of Shouto being able to spend time with his mom while he's recovering. There are other things that went into the thought process but those are the main reasons.

Legend of Korra reference

I'm not sure how this scene from Legend of Korra popped into my head while I was writing this fic because it's been years since I last watched it but the sentiment of this particular scene really fit what I was going for in Shouto's letters in the beginning of this arc.

Shouto's current struggle with his quirk is somewhat similar to Korra's inability to enter the Avatar State and in both cases they isolate themselves from their friends but eventually reach out to one person who will end up becoming their romantic partner.

This is what it turned into in "See You After"

Please don’t tell the others. I’m pretty sure Aizawa Sensei told them I’m okay but I’m not really in the mood for visitors and I don’t want to hurt their feelings if they find out I’ve only been writing to you and not them.  -Shouto to Katsuki

The reality is, when you're hurting so badly, it's hard to reach out to people even if you know that they care. But sometimes, if you're lucky, there will be one person you feel like you can talk to.

(That doesn't mean the responsibility is all on that one person, of course.)

BNHA Canon references

Writing fanfic for a piece of media while said media is ongoing and is in the middle of an exciting time is a Journey™.

(For context, I'm posting this right after Ch. 404 was released. Further thoughts with spoilers below the cut)

I think I said this before but nothing in the plot of "See You After" has actually changed based on the recent manga chapters.

The only edit to this letter that I made after chapter 404 came out was that one sentence about Katsuki saving All Might. The previous draft had a vague thing about him saving Izuku and continuing to fight because I was trying to hedge my bets since I'm still trying to keep things as close to canon as possible.

I was originally on the fence about giving explicit spoilers but then THAT happened and I couldn't not include it because they definitely would have talked about it.

I also wanted to reference, Shouto's scene in Ch. 390 where he finally makes it to Touya and realizes that the whole family is there.

His words were fitting for his character and yet so heartbreaking because even after everything he did, after the burden that was placed on his shoulders, he still makes a point of saying that he couldn't have done it alone.

Also, it sounds an awful lot like Touya's words back in Ch. 351 when he accused Shouto of depending on everyone else (as if that's a weakness rather than a strength)

[kestrel-of-herran]

2521 ending crimes

hello again! unsurprisingly, the anger hasn’t left my body after almost a month, so i wanted to make another post pointing out all the inconsistencies and failures of the ending when it comes to character and story, for those who need it. if you accept the ending, great! but here’s why i won’t be able to make peace with it, both as someone who fell in love with this show and as a literature and creative writing graduate who’s spent years understanding what makes stories great.

failure to stick to one relationship narrative throughout the story: it’s obvious that this drama was written with the intention of portraying a first love relationship that ultimately doesn’t last, but this is not the love that ends up on screen. instead of a superficial and casual relationship that falls apart under pressure, we witness a relationship that starts when both characters are at their lowest points and survives through a complete communication blackout and a conflict of interest within their careers. in order to portray a relationship that starts as a positive one but turns into a negative one, a writer has to spend more time exploring the relationship while it happens, instead of spending 80% of her drama into getting this relationship to start in the first place. both characters have to be shown to be compatible in some aspects and completely at odds in others, to have an inherent power imbalance or difference in worldview that gets more and more pronounced until it deals a killing blow. instead, we were offered a healthy and supportive relationship that defies ordinary perceptions of love, where both parties are shown to be physically and emotionally incapable of staying away from the other, and where they constantly put effort to meet the other halfway and see the world through their eyes. it’s a relationship that was built on sharing hardships (yijin telling heedo about the bankruptcy, her telling him about her fencing struggles), on mutual respect (yijin admiring heedo for her spirit, her admiring him for his work ethic), and on the ability to create happiness together in spite of the hardships the world puts them through (yijin defending heedo when her gold medal was disputed, her consoling him when he had to report against yurim). it’s extremely disrespectful and out of character to purport that such a relationship that went on for four entire years wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand another external tragedy, especially since people are naturally more mature in their mid-twenties than they are in their late teens, and your ability to understand and communicate with a person grows as you spend more time with them.

robbing the characters of agency to achieve a narrative end: the very need to introduce an external conflict like 9/11 to force the couple to misunderstand each other already demonstrates how artificial such a situation is. the narrative is biased against heedo and yijin’s dating life from the start: instead of showing us an equal balance of good and bad moments, we’re fed a montage of yijin being late to dates, as if heedo herself isn’t extremely busy as a fencer (in ep.10 she says that she was never able to have friendships or experiences outside of fencing because her entire life revolves around it), or yijin is so caught up in a job that he doesn’t have a real passion for besides the need to financially support his family and his natural empathy for people. there’s no inherent need to portray 9/11 or send yijin as a correspondent there than to depress him and stage an unraveling of the relationship that in itself is a threadbare narrative. would someone as emotionally mature as heedo (“it’s okay that he left, i’m sure he did the right thing”, “i’m glad my mom inspires you even though she caused me pain”) not understand the emotional toll this position takes on him and how it brings out his weakest self? would someone as intelligent as yijin voluntarily sign up to continue an internship at a place he calls “hell on earth”? would he completely abandon his personal life to help strangers, given that every major life decision he’s taken in the series was with the future of his family in mind? the characters are rendered chess pieces in a story they’re no longer allowed to drive forward. the only agency heedo is granted is the agency to initiate a break-up, but she’s never granted the agency to process her feelings of hurt and attempt to mend her relationship with yijin when she clearly wants to. yijin is shown to oppose the break-up, but he’s never given the agency to translate his feelings into actions. when before yijin was allowed to confront heedo about avoiding him and heedo was allowed to wait in front of yijin’s house every evening until he showed his true feelings, now they’re rendered voiceless and powerless by a narrative that doesn’t want them to have power, because if they did, they would turn this story on its head.

using yijin as an emotional punching bag without giving him the space to heal: while yijin’s depression is a logical emotional response to what he witnessed, there’s no point in making him go through this traumatizing experience besides presenting a precedent for the break-up. yijin’s melancholy comes out only as a natural reaction to hardships, such as having to scrape by in pohang for months to escape creditors or being told that he can’t date heedo because of conflict of interest. so his depression wasn’t “always going to happen someday anyway”, it’s created by a narrative that relentlessly puts him from one traumatizing situation to the next. instead of using the 9/11 plotline to show him break down and get back up again with the help of colleagues and loved ones, the story keeps grinding him down without giving him the chance to get back up. it renders him passive and powerless, which in itself is a narrative fault, while its claim to realism is undermined by its failure to account for the intervention of family and friends who would never let a loved one suffer without offering them their entire support.

making heedo the villain in her own story: this is the cruelest element of the ending, the way it ignores the willpower and emotional maturity of its own protagonist for the sake of following a pre-determined narrative. the heedo who drives the story forward from the very start, the girl we fell in love with for her ability to find the comedy in a tragedy and offer a hand to her own bully over and over again, would never watch her emotional life fall apart at the seams while doing nothing. it’s true that heedo has a childhood trauma of being abandoned, but part of growing up is learning how to process and heal from our traumas as we gain a better understanding of ourselves and the people around us. if heedo was willing to forgive her mother for years of mistreatment and not hold a grudge against yurim for months of coldness and then lack of communication prior to madrid, why wouldn’t she find it in her heart to understand yijin and meet him halfway? why wouldn’t she see that she was speaking from the weakest place in her heart, and take back the words she doesn’t mean? what makes it so hard for both of them to say, “i won’t be the person who only hurts you, here’s how i’ll make you happy again”? i’ll tell you what: the writer.

missed opportunities to deliver a satisfying and logical resolution to angst: presenting your characters with one last hurdle before perfect happiness is a classic and highly effective story beat known as the “darkest hour”. at the last moment before the resolution, the protagonists lose everything they care about and the audience can’t imagine how they would get it back... until the protagonists prove the audience wrong, cementing their agency and earning their happy ending with a bang. the last episode presents countless opportunities to do this: them meeting at the airport when the suitcases get mixed up, one of them showing up at the others’ house after processing their fight, their friends setting them up on a drunk date that becomes the first step to bring them closer again (the comedy! the drama!)... if the narrative wasn’t biased against heedo and yijin, it would use a last external conflict to help them progress both as individuals and as a couple, to show them getting closer again with a newfound understanding of themselves and their relationship, to help them understand how to never make such mistakes again and build the future they both want with the other. the fact that they learn nothing from this experience and are not shown to have improved their emotional lives because of it renders it a meaningless narrative and a wasted opportunity for god-tier sexual tension, comedy, drama, heart-to-hearts, and falling in love with the other all over again—all things that would inevitably happen if the characters were allowed to grow and act towards the person they very much don’t want to lose.

failure to wrap up plot threads at the end: a guessing game with no revelation, a photo album and a workshop that contradict the apparent narrative, the ridiculous notion that heedo and yijin would never speak again despite having the same friend group and living in the same neighbourhood, heedo’s marriage and pregnancy being completely swept under the rug as if they’re not a major aspect of her life, yijin and heedo being shown as very much still in love but not taking a single step towards each other, as if that longing would not eat them alive until they ran to each other... the narrative has failed to listen to its characters, and so has lost its hold on them. they grow rebellious as abandoned garden roses, growing wild and strong and bigger than the people who planted them.

[dennydraws]

Hello, hi, long time no see!

It's been a while, huh? :D Behold me ramblings return, about Tumblr, about Twitter, about art and life!

I like many others poked my head over at Twitter during the grand exodus but tried to maintain my Tumblr account too. But I soon realized my energy struggles juggling 2 social media places so I stayed primary on Twitter. It did seem more lively but also more...noisy.

The rapid stream of content on the dash would provoke you to post and go - limited interactions but plentiful. It felt like quantity vs quality. Tumblr was way more quiet and whenever I thought to post I felt like i had to be more thoughtful, more precise with my posts while with Twitter I could take a pic of random scribble on my journal and post it with a silly caption. That made Twitter easier to engage. But on the long run I started to notice I'm writing and drawing less, after all what's the point when your writing is so limited or the pic you post will stay for about 5 seconds on the dash then vanish into the void? It was not about likes and retweets it was more about - I felt more rewarded for placing less effort and that started to damage me on the long run.

I didn't want to turn into an artist who just shoots doodles or funny memes at rapid speed. My inspiration began to slowly go, between all that's going on in the world over the last two years and now, and honestly... I kind of feel lost.

I started to lose motivation about a comic project I started when the pandemic hit, it's like I lost faith in my own story. My friends have been so motivating and supportive but my brain keeps going back thinking - but is it worth it? There is no instant gratification like the rapid stream of social media have taught you therefore there is no worth to it. And I hate that idea. Though I do have to admit, our time and energy is really limited, our time especially. There is so much we can do before our own time comes and that thought is a little frightening. But doing nothing and being petrified by the indecision sounds worse.

So I don't know what to do, what will spark me. Do I use this blog to ramble about art materials? Post little art things I do? Do I pour my thoughts like I just did? Maybe all of the above?

I miss how cozy Tumblr felt to me. I remember I would drink my coffee in the morning at work before starting my tasks and just jolt down a good morning post with little random thoughts and ideas for the day. But I also remember feeling a little guilty when I really had nothing to show or say. :D;; but something is better than nothing, right? I don't want to just silently post arts without a word or anything, like a silent content provider, I don't get joy in that. That doesn't make me feel part of a community and that was what made Tumblr cozy and even Twitter.

It's just that to me twitter is like a busy street - easy to slip into the hustle but you can't really filter it. As much as you try, you will hear things that make you angry or want to just slam the door and stay home forever. Tumblr is more like the quiet pretty neighbourhood. Sometimes you go on a stroll to watch pretty houses and trees, you get greeted by a neighbour or two and occasionally there is the neighbour you want to punch in the face cause they sprayed your fence with vulgar words and you have no idea why, but you can block and carry on.

And so I ramble and think over things, but this is what blogs and journals are for and maybe when I finally hit post, some of my unease about returning to Tumblr will go away. It's been a while... is it as cozy as I remember it?

Thank you for stopping by, dear reader! I'm happy to see you and I hope you are happy to see me too ^o^/

[ajbwasntwriting]

Daughter!Reader X Negan, Reader x Daryl: Chapter 7. Home Sweet Home

First | Previous | Next

The quest for relevant gifs continue as we begin this chapter with a cheeky little flashback. Hope you all had a happy end of 2020 and may all your 2021 goals come to fruition.

I’ll only post more chapters if previous chapters get a good reaction so if you enjoy this please heart it, reblog it, and/or reply to it. Interaction inspires.

if you wish to be added to the tag list please dm me. All chapters can be found under the tag AJ’s Negan’s Daughter AU

The school bell rang. All the kids packed up their things and got into a line to walk out the school to their parents. You were told to always take the back of the line, that way when all the other kids walked out the door to meet their parents, you could break off and run down to the teacher’s cafeteria. You’d stand outside the door and fifteen minutes later your father would arrive, usually with another two teachers in tow. Everyday you’d see him round the corner then drop your bag and sprint your little legs down to him. He’d pick you up in his arms and place a big kiss on your cheek.

“How was your day princess? Did you give Janet a hard time?” he’d ask, to which you’d always shake your head no. He’d smile at you before placing you back on the ground, then you’d run back to your bag and your father would bring you back to his classroom where he taught other kids. He’d correct work for a bit while you did your homework, usually at a desk far too big for you but it was still easier then the kitchen table.

After you had finished your homework your father would let you pull out pencils and paper and draw until either he had finished his corrections or it was time to go. It was 1985 and you were strapped into the backseat of your father’s car with ‘Out Of Touch’ on the radio. You were six years old and living the high life in the back of your daddy’s car on the way to your suburban house where your mom was cooking pasta for dinner after a long-shift at 7/11.

You woke up when the light hit your eyes, stirring you from the peaceful childhood dream of speeding down the country rode while The Bangles sang out. You were lying on a hard bed in what looked like a med-bay made out of an office. Realisationed hit you like a truck that this was the Sanctuary and you shot up, immediately regretting it when everything started to hurt.

“Woah Woah, easy.” A man chided as he jumped to your side, grabbing you by the shoulders to stop you from getting out of the bed. You yelled at him to get off you as you swung at him, sending him backwards. In a moment another two were on you, a man and a woman.

“Tie her before she pulls out her IV!” the woman yelled. The first man stood up and began strapping you in using broad leather straps while the other two put their weight on you.

You struggled as best you could, still exhausted and something heavy on your leg. ���Let. me. Out!” you yelled as you pushed against the bonds.

“Get Daryl” one of the women commanded, the second man running out. “Try not to pull that IV out. We can’t patch you up if you do.” she commented, walking around to tend to the man you punched. At this angle you could see the four barred tattoos on her neck. You recognised her, but it seemed she didn’t recognise you. Or at least wasn’t saying anything.

“What are you gonna do to me?” you asked, trying to hide your fear. The man glared at you from where he sat on another hospital bed, his eye turning bruised.

“Nothing.” The woman commented. “Bosses orders” the man scoffed at that, earning a slap to his chest by the woman.

“What? You actually think Daryl is the boss. Negan had him putting dead ones on the fence! He should still be doing that!” the woman punched him in the chest

“Knock it off,” she chided “Unless you wanna get punished”

“He doesn’t do that shit” the man grumbled.

“Do you wanna be the reason he starts doing it?” You couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe it was your nerves at the situation but their banter was completely unexpected. She turned around and looked at your tied down giggling figure. “What’s so funny!?”

“You sound like his mom” you turned your head to look at them as you spoke, a smile on your face.

“She bitches like the old hag too” the man chirped, earning a more playful slap from the woman. This was good, the tension was being lifted if only slightly.

“Sorry for punching you. New surroundings, ya know.” you piped up, hoping to take advantage of the tension drop.

“Yea well, you're not getting out of those belts” the man retorted, nodding towards the binds

“That’s fair” you sigh. Looks like you’ll need a new plan. Maybe some info, but you’d have to give a little to get a little “So are you gonna kill me? Like your friends tried to”

“What you mean?” The man asked

“Couple of people broke into my safe house, said they were saviours and they were gonna kill me to save their friends.” you stared at the ceiling, trying to feign complete helplessness. “Are you with them?”

“No, but-” the woman shushed him again, but that did nothing to deter the man. “We used to be, then a war happened and our boss got locked up and they put an outsider in to look over us”

‘Locked up?’ you thought ‘so he’s not dead.’ you bit your tongue to contain your happiness. “I can’t say I’m sorry” you said after a beat, “So...I’m gonna live?” you looked at them with intentionally wide eyes. The woman looked pissed, but she nodded. You breathed a sigh of relief and closed your eyes. A beat or two later the man returned with Daryl and a grey-hair woman in tow.

“Get those off her!” Daryl ordered.

“It’s okay” you interjected. “I punched your friend there. Kinda earned this”

“Nah” the first man perked up “If I had been jumped then woke up in a strange place I’d have acted out too,” he moved over and started opening the belts, Daryl working on the others. You slowly pulled yourself up, Daryl jumping to your side to help you into a sitting position.

“You alright?” Daryl asked. You looked over now realising your palms were bandaged and your leg was in a splint. You reached up to your aching head and felt a bandage with your fingers.

“I’ve been better” you spoke low, still in a great deal of pain.

“What happened?” the grey haired woman asked. You spun a story of a bunch of people claiming to be saviours who entered your apartment with the plan of ambushing and killing Daryl, how you burned down the apartment and jumped out the window for your escape. The grey haired woman listened to you with growing worry on her face. “Did you kill them all?” she pushed

“I don’t know.” you admitted

“What do you mean you dont know!” she snapped

“Carol-” Daryl started

“No, if there’s people out there claiming to be saviours and hurting people then we’re gonna look bad in front of the other settlements.” Carol snapped back.

“She’s right,” the messenger added. “We’ll have to do something.”

“These were our brothers” the punched man spoke out “We can’t just kill them.”

“They didn’t give us a choice” Daryl snapped. “Y/N barely got out alive and she’s been living out there for months. What if they get someone who can’t hold their own!” he went to storm out but you reached out of the bed and grabbed his arm, yelling out in pain at the strain.

“Don’t” you warned, after Daryl and the woman helped you back into the bed. “If they’re still there then they’re barricaded and have significant advantage.”

“Well what do you purpose we do?” Carol asked. Your breath was getting heavy.

“Anybody got a map of DC? And maybe a pencil”

The original messenger boy got you a map and a pen. You marked out where your apartment had been, as well as some buildings that had fallen apart with age. “They said they were watching me, which means they could be in any of these” you marked around the stable buildings that could make for a hide, which was surprisingly few. “This is my hideout in city centre” you said marking the building

“You never mentioned another safe house.” Daryl spoke up, you smirked

“A girl needs her secrets.” you handed the pen to Daryl “What route did you take to my place?” he lined in his route.

“What if they’re farther?” Carol asked.

“They’re not.” you spoke firmly “They were watching me for long enough they knew when Daryl wouldn’t be around which means they made their place comfortable, and I bet a couple of them got injured in the fire, meaning they’re gonna have to lay low and patch themselves up,” You explained. Your body finally gave way and you fell back on the pillows. The woman jumped to your help, telling the others to go. She made you comfortable in the bed, you drifting off to sleep again not long after.

“How’d you know they’re there?” she asked later that evening when you were awake, eating some acorn mush, “How are you sure?”

You could sense she was worried. “I was in the military before all this” you answered. “Our job was to sneak into enemy territory to help our fellow soldiers or civilians. We used to make maps like that, using where our friends got attacked as a central point to where the enemy could be hiding” she nodded as you explained, though still visibly nervous. “They’ll be fine” you tried to reassure her. “If they’re not nearby, they’ll have to get through hordes of walkers before they’ll be somewhere safe. You’re friends will get them”

She seemed to be reassured, If only a little. “You know I’m meant to be looking after you,” she breathed out, a tear sneaking over her cheek. She wiped it away before it could fall. “I’m Laura, by the way”

“I’m Y/N”

The following morning they all returned, with the exception of Daryl. “You were right” Laura informed you. The ‘saviours’ were held up barely a block away and now they were dead.

“Where’s Daryl?” You asked when Carol visited you.

“He took off for Alexandria” Carol replied. “I’m in charge now.”

“Oh” you spoke, clearly disappointed. Carol ordered Laura to leave, putting you on high alert. She pulled up a chair and looked you in the eyes with a dead stare.

“What is your relationship with Daryl?” she asked bluntly. You cocked an eyebrow at her.

“I’m gonna need you to elaborate so I can give you an answer you’d be happy with, Carol.” you replied helpless from the bed. She knew you couldn’t run, yet she was putting on this show of bravado? She seemed to accept your request though.

“Up until three days ago we didn’t know Daryl had a secret lady hiding in the city. We want to make sure Daryl isn’t keeping secrets that can hurt us.” she spoke a little more relaxed now, but still direct. She reminded you of your mother in a way, whenever she noticed a cookie was missing, or later in life, her vodka had been replaced with water.

“So Rick, Carl, or Tara hadn’t mentioned me either?” those names spurred on some recognition. “Guess not” you sighed, thinking on how to break to this woman you had tried to kill two of her friends. You came to the conclusion that you shouldn’t. “I traded with Carl and Rick for some medical supplies. Few months later Tara, Rick, and Daryl stumbled into my area needing help so I did. Daryl’s been trading with me since.”

“What kind of trade?” she pushed.

“Food,” you answered. “He’s been feeding me, in return I’ve been getting him stuff. Blankets, bandages, jeans, kid’s shit like bottles, and toys-”

“And raincoats with little butterflies on it?” Carol interrupted you. You nodded and whispered a ‘yeah’ under your breath. “I have a niece called Judith. She’s trying to name all the butterflies.” she spoke lovingly of the child and you couldn’t help but smile at the thought of a small girl pointing at water-proof butterflies giving them cute names. She probably gave them different names every time she listed them.

The smile faded as you remembered the world isn’t that simple anymore. “So what now?” you asked.

“You’ll stay here” Carol ordered. “You’ll do your part, whatever way you can.”

You nodded in agreement “I know this might be a big ask considering we just met but,” you began, taking a big breath to try and stave off the tiredness, “Could I help here? In the hospital. I was a combat medic before this so it’s probably the best way I can help.”

And it could be a great way to weed out who knows who you are and threaten them into keeping their mouth shut, or even shutting it for them.

Your request was granted, under the watchful eye of Laura, and so began your new life at The Sanctuary.

~Tag List~

@bodeckersbitch​ @lauren-novak​

[lazyevaluationranch]

I was wondering if you would be willing to share the titles of your resilience-inspiring lesbian farm books? My google search led me to a book titled “Attack of the Lesbian Farmers” which, while certainly inspiring, is not exactly what I was looking for.

Here are two very different books in the Farm Lesbians Write Honestly About What Went Wrong And How They Got Through It genre. Hopefully at least one is to your taste.

It's nearly fifty years old now, and can be hard to find, but Country Women: A Handbook for the New Farmer is deeply important to me. Country Women was a black and white xeroxed magazine written by a collective of woman-run farms in California in the 1960s. (There are some issues scanned at the Lesbian Poetry Archive). Each issue was half articles about feminism and half articles about small-scale farming. In the 1970s, the how-to articles on farming were expanded and organized to make the book, along with some scattered journal entries, lovely hippie-style line drawings and poetry about wood splitting, bees, and gazing at one's beloved while fixing the tractor on a summer day. The contributors have names like Jean and Ruth Mountaingrove, Ellen Chanterelle, and Sam♀ Thomas. 

It's written in an informal and pragmatic style, mostly organic hippie farming, but using pesticides or conventional medications when necessary.

This afternoon the Anderson brothers began teaching me how to graft fruit trees - the careful joining of life with life. Even more than I loved gaining a new skill, I loved learning from two old men who have so very much to teach me. I admire the audacity of eighty-three-year-old men setting grafts that will not bear fruit for years: the total involvement in a process they love. Those trees will stand and live; I doubt whether Jake or Fred even stop to wonder if they'll pick the fruit. I want to live my life with that kind of harmony and purpose. I want to be planting seeds the day I die.

The first lamb was born today. Premature and dead. Olivia, the mother, seems to be all right though. I had a dream a few weeks ago that the lambs were born tiny (like mice) and pink. And that I struggled to save them, but they were too small to feed. The lamb today was small and pink, its fleece plastered against its body, thin and sparse. For a moment it was nightmareishly like my dream... This is my first animal death. The beginning of a long cycle. It seems even harder to have death come before life, than to have an old one die giving birth. Hopes for the future stillborn.

Driving home today, I suddenly realized that this really is going to be a sheep ranch, that I have done, and am doing, and will do it. That I'm making my livelihood from the land. The canyon is fenced now. There are  sheep out there on pastures that were open hillsides two years ago. 

The very act of building this place, the simple actions of tamping dirt, stretching wire, dumping hay in feeders, has profoundly changed my sense of self. I'm doing things I never dreamed I could do, and I'm doing them easily without even considering whether I really can. Last night I was talking with Susan about fencing the front meadow for feeder calves, and I realized that I could say that realistically, no fantasizing, no bragging: I can fence the front meadow as soon as I get done with the hay barn and get a little more money.

Like almost every other farmer in America today, I'm in debt and hoping for a good season. I'm only at the beginning now, and I know there are many struggles to come and overcome and come again: Someday I too, like my neighbours, will be counting carcasses killed by a marauding dog or watching the spring oats be wash away in an "unheard of" late storm. No matter how prepared I am, there us always that vulnerability - to the weather, other animals, disease - that seems to strike when things are finally going smoothly. But inside me there is also this incredible joy: This life is real and good, and it has made me strong and real and good too. 

I gotta stop or I'll type the whole book into this post. One more: 

My father is here this week ... working on the truck whose engine has been alien to me. I am learning now what I could have learned at 7, 11, 15. Beneath my truck, side by side, lie his seven-year-old son and his twenty-five-year-old daughter, both of us learning for the first time how bearings fit together, how to remove pistons. And here beneath this truck the patriarchy stops: he has passed his knowledge to his daughter, and from me  it will pass to sisters, from sister to sister to sister. 

That's this book. The things women weren't supposed to know in the sixties. They found people to teach them; they taught each other; they learned through bitter loss. The book says: we have gone before you and you are not alone. Here is what we have learned, and here is how we have learned it. We have failed, and we have wept, and we have gotten up and gone on, and it was alright. Here is the fire, passed from hand to hand to hand. Here is the light that will never be put out. 

The week after we first got goats, we received a package in the mail from my coolest relative, a veterinarian who was the first woman to graduate with a specialization in large animal medicine at her school. People thought that women just weren't physically capable of handling large animals. (Hint: the bull weights 1100 kilograms. It doesn't much matter if the veterinarian weighs 50 kilograms or 150 kilograms.) I remember staying with her a child, in summer, laying on the stainless steel operating table in the barn; it always felt cool when the heat was unbearable.

The package, of course, contained Country Women. An old well-loved copy, with notes on long-ago calving dates penciled in the margins, and random scraps of paper with sketches of possible gardens and goat sheds as bookmarks.  A light passed from hand to hand, a light that will not go out. It was like receiving a video game quest artifact.

Country Women is rooted in second wave feminism, which is not everyone's cup of tea. For something more modern and story-focussed, consider Hit By A Farm or Sheepish by Catherine Friend. These are collections of short, funny autobiographical essays about farming and relationships. Their tone is honest and wry, self-deprecating. You can see Catherine Friend's blog here and decide if you like her writing style. She wanted to call Hit By A Farm "Sheep Sex and Other Disasters" but her editor didn't think it would sell. 

In Hit By A Farm, Catherine - a professional writer - goes along with her partner Melissa's lifelong desire to ranch sheep, and describes the results from the perspective of the slightly reluctant farmer's wife as they start a farm in Minnesota.  Sheepish is written fifteen years later, when they're thinking about quitting the farm, after all the shiny newness of farming and the relationship has worn off. There are different mistakes then, different sorrows, and new joys. 

From Sheepish: 

We rarely pay attention to middles. Perhaps we ignore them because they're problematic. The middles of our beds often sag. The middles of our bodies sag. The middle of a long story told by your brother-in-law is likely to sag, and so you'll need another beer to stay focused. Everyone needs a reason to keep going when they're in the middle. 

And:

Don't expect a farm to fix your life, for once the romance dims, you must still muck out the barn and stack hay bales and give that sick goat an enema...Although there are tons of stories about starting something new, there just aren't that many about how to keep doing something, about how to slog through the middle when the going gets tough.

The quotes are all from Sheepish; I can't find our copy of Hit By A Farm:

My spinning wheel continues to torture and confound me. I realize I'm not interested enough in the craft to really commit to learning it. After a few more tries, I tuck the wheel into a corner of our living room and turn it into what Melissa likes to call a Dust Accumulation Research Project. Clearly our wool market will continue to be the wildly unlucrative wholesale warehouse.

The patron saint of spinners is, interestingly enough, Saint Catherine. She was a Christian martyr in Alexandria. In 307 AD, she was condemned to be torn apart by the spokes of the wheel.

Well. No wonder.

Spoiler: things get pretty rough, there’s illness and hard winters and financial issues, but they do not, in fact, give up the farm or each other. 

The book says: We made it. You will too.

[silvia7272]

ML Salt Songfic ~ 1 Good For You

I actually forgot about this, but I think I can put it out now considering you’ve all read about/seen my OC Rosina, if you haven’t it’s on my page. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and like the song.

Also, this is an AU of my AU? I guess that’s what I’m calling it yeah. So, it’s not canon and it never was going to be canon, when I heard this song it just inspired me to write this and I could’ve done it without my OC, but I wanted to include her. Well anyway, I hope you like it.

Word Count: 2553

Tags: @queenmj10, @fangirl39, @animegirlweeb, @northernbluetongue, @daminett4life, @raisuke06, @indecisive-mess-named-me, @luleck​, @themamaravenclaw, @emmathedestroyer, (I know you wanted it) if you wish to be tagged all you have to do is say. Sorry, it’s different but this was the reason I started posting in the first place.

***

Akuma Alert! Akuma Alert!

The alarms were blaring in the park, and yet no one could move from their place.

Because the Akuma was right in front of them.

It was Marinette, she had been Akumatized. But it seemed somewhat unusual, she didn’t look any different, but they had seen the purple mist cover her, maybe she was like Chameleon?

So then why did it feel like it had changed?

Adrien couldn’t tell, and he needed to transform into Chat Noir, but he couldn’t just leave his friends to deal with the Akuma alone? Right?

Lila didn’t think that, she tried to make her escape, but a musical note blocked her way. She really was Akumatized!

Her face was contorted with pain as the pink mask covered her face, she was trying to break free!

“C’mon Marinette, you can do it,” He shouted, He tried to reach out, but someone pulled him back.

“Are you crazy, she’s been Akumatized she’ll hurt you, it’s what she’s always done to us. She’s already gotten her other friends hurt because of that transformation!?” Lila spoke, gripping his arm like a lifeline. But it was true, Rosina, Kagami, Chloé and Luka all tried to reach out to her mid-transformation, but they all fell to the ground and no one was brave enough to check on them.

“Shut up!” It was the first time Marinette had spoken since she had been Akumatized, tears were raining down her face, but the blond couldn’t tell if she was talking to the class or Hawkmoth.

“Just shut up, stop lying already, just stop hurting me” She had to be talking about Hawkmoth, she must still be fighting it.

But not everyone thought that.

“Come on Marinette, for once just admit you were wrong already. It’s getting really tiring.” Alya rolled her eyes while reciting how that was the only reason, she got Akumatized in the first place, the piece of paper she was holding had been a music draft of Lila’s that she was going to throw away in the first place.

Everyone knew Marinette didn’t write songs, she only made clothes and baked treats, that the class wasn’t provided with the past few days, and Adrien did think it was strange that she had a music draft, she probably found it and would’ve returned it to its rightful owner.

Why was she so upset about it anyway?

But she stopped, she lifted her head up, her face full of shock.

“You… Really still think I’m lying?” She sounded so disheartened, and Adrien would’ve sent her a ‘don’t rock the boat anymore’ look but she didn’t even spare him a glance.

Weren’t they friends?

“Of course, Lila’s so talented at making song lyrics so she had someone write them down for her. And now you’re holding onto a draft claiming it to be your own, that’s pathetic, even for someone like Chloé never mind you. Just stop being so pathetic and admit it. You’re jealous of Lila and everything she could do for us while you did nothing but whine like a child!” Adrien thought that the last line was a bit overkill, but he wasn’t about to say anything.

But all of that struggling, all of that resistance had completely vanished from Marinette. Why had she given up? Why hadn’t she continued fighting?

“I’ll show you my Melody” It was a whisper that only Adrien was able to pick up. Melody? What did she mean by that?

But he didn’t have time to think of that before everything in his vision turned white. He couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t move… He couldn’t…

***

“Adrien? Yo Adrien, wake up man” He groaned as he opened his eyes.

“Nino? Is everyone alright? Where are we? What happened? Where’s Marinette?” Nino put his hands up startled.

“Whoa easy there one at a time dude. Anyway, yeah, we’re fine, we don’t know it looks like a white void, Marinette happened and we don’t know”

He couldn’t believe it. When he took in the view, it was devoid of life, it was devoid of colour.

It was just white all around him, he didn’t understand it. It reminded him of Pixelator.

“Oh Adrien I’m so scared, what are we going to do?” He couldn’t shake her arm off so had to relent, everyone around him tried to console the girl.

“Stick together, there should be an exit around here, but I’ll post it on the Ladyblog, that way Ladybug and Chat Noir will come.” He sighed, knowing that his Lady would be all alone for this one.

“Hey, my phones not working!” The others then tried to get their phones. No result.

“Oh no we’re trapped in here and no one is going to save us! What do we do!?” Everyone was panicking, but what could he do, if Chat Noir were to show up now, they would all get suspicious.

Nathaniel wasn’t doing great either. But he stepped back and heard a crunch.

“Huh?” He looked down and found a note.

“What’s that?” Max noticed the discovery and went over to Nath to see what it was.

“It says [The Song Of Truth Is Your Only Escape In This Labyrinth] What does that mean?”

“And why is it on a music sheet?” A simple question they all couldn’t process.

♫I’ll never know why I ever wanted to restore my friendship with you!?♫ The voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. But he knew who it was.

“Marinette stop this please, we can get through this together” He shouted, he had to get her to stop being so angry.

♫Silence. I am Marilody, Marinette is no more. And you will all be punished for your lies and harassment towards your students! My friends!♫ It was there that she revealed herself.

If it wasn’t for her hair and dress, she would’ve been camouflaged with the background. But she didn’t look like a regular Akuma, no.

Her skin was pure white, along with the white flowing dress she wore. It was embroidered with musical notes, similar doodles he had seen previously on her sketchbook. It was shoulderless with the same pattern, and her hair was the same colour but in a small ponytail to the side. Her eyes were hidden by a giant accessory in the shape of a musical note resembling a hat.

If Ladybug didn’t already occupy his heart, Adrien might be thinking Marinette was more than a friend.

“Marinette please, you’re stronger than this! Don’t let Hawkmoth-”

♫Hawkmoth isn’t controlling me! The one who made me become Marilody is myself. And I will show you the truth of what I can and have done for you selfish people, my Melody will be performed before you and you will see the truth!♫

They heard the sound of a guitar being played. And notes in the air with a red dot flowing through it.

“What’s going on?” Rose and Juleka huddled together along with Ivan, Mylène, Nino and Alya scared. He was scared. He had the power to protect them but couldn’t use it. You could sense the irony looming over the boy’s head.

♫So you found a place where the grass is greener And you jumped the fence to the other side♫

The class was treated to a front-row seat of a scene that had just happened mere moments ago. When they were at the park.

Just what was Marinette’s power?

♫Is it good? Are they giving you a world I could never provide?♫

The scene cut to Lila being crowded around by everyone while Marinette was alone.

But she was still smiling. Even if it seemed fake.

♫Well I hope you’re proud of your big decision Yeah, I hope it’s all that you want and more♫

They saw the past of when Marinette was always handing out free pastries to them, wearing that happy and bright smile on her face, they had forgotten what it had looked like.

Because it was never directed towards them anymore.

They had forgotten.

Everything she had done for them.

♫Now you’re free, from the agonizing life you were living before~♫

Then it changed to everyone leaving her for Lila, she was telling a tale of her time in Achu, Rose couldn’t stop gushing about Prince Ali. He thought the lies wouldn’t hurt anyone.

♫And you say what you need to say So that you get to walk away It would kill you to have to stay trapped when you’ve got something new♫

They couldn’t move.

♫Well I’m sorry you had it rough And I’m sorry I’m not enough♫

Everything single thing Marinette had done for them had flashed in front of them.

♫Thank God ‘they rescued’ you♫

But then Lila appeared, and everything she said was almost out of a fairy-tale, it was amazing, they wanted to hear more. They needed to hear more of her adventures.

♫So you got what you always wanted? So you got your dream come true? Good for you Good for you, you, you!♫

They were addictive. They couldn’t get enough.

♫Got a taste of a life so perfect So you did what you had to do Good for you Good for you!♫

Marinette had vanished from view but the scenes were still playing. The blond needed to find a way to free himself. He needed to get Plagg to cause a mini-explosion, to cause a distraction maybe. Anything! But he couldn’t get to him in time. Because he saw someone who he hadn’t seen since at the park.

“Rosina?” They all turned their heads to their new red-haired friend. But Adrien was able to notice, the Cat Miraculous had certain side effects he was giddy to have but that’s not the point. Instead of a black pupil, it was a musical note.

“She’s under Marinette’s control” They all gasped, horrified at what had happened to their friend. They believed her being near Marinette was bad, never mind this!

♪Does it cross your mind to be slightly sorry?♪ 

She really was under her spell! Adrien desperately wanted to shake her awake and free her, but now his arms couldn’t move.

♬Do you even care that you might be wrong?♬ 

Kagami!? Oh god, his two friends were under Marinette’s friends. He watched as they circled each and every one of his friends.

♬Was it fun?♬ 

They flinched.

♪Well, I hope you had a blast while you dragged me along~♪ 

They started to walk away when there was a whine from Lila, they were still able to turn their heads and saw Chloé, she kept prodding Lila as she cried, he wasn’t able to tell if they were even fake tears anymore.

♩And you say what you need to say! And you play who you need to play! And if somebody’s in your way! Crush them and leave them behind!♩

Even if they wanted to help Lila they couldn’t. Their legs wouldn’t let them. It was like they were in quicksand, only they weren’t sinking into the ground, they were sinking into their sorrow and sadness they were feeling. If Marinette wasn’t already Akumatized Hawkmoth would be having a field day.

♮Well I guess if I’m not of use Go ahead, you can cut me loose♮

And then they saw it.

A scene that shocked them.

♮Go ahead now, I won’t mind♮

If her power was to sing the truth.

And all of the scenes had been of the truth.

They felt sick to their stomach.

Then the scene of Lila cornering Marinette in the bathroom must’ve been true as well.

If Lila had been so kind to everyone why were the words [Soon you won’t have any friends left at all. Trust me. You will lose your friends and wind up all alone] written underneath, they couldn’t think anymore, just look.

♫I’ll shut my mouth and I’ll let you go Is that good for you? Would that be good for you, you, you?♫

Some couldn’t believe, they kept screaming how it had to be wrong, how it might just be Marinette’s doing. But the more it came on, the more they started to believe.

♭I’ll just sit back while you run the show Is that good for you? Would that be good for you, you, you?♭

Just like how they should’ve believed Marinette, and they had only just realised their mistake.

♯All I need is some time to think♯ Max. He never needed time to think, he was the smartest one in the class.

♭(I’ll shut my mouth and I’ll let you go)♭

♯But the boat is about to sink♯ Rose. Wasn’t she meant to be the kindest one out of everyone? Why didn’t she give Marinette a chance?

♭(Is that good for you?)♭

♯Can’t erase what I wrote in ink♯ Alix. She had written some things on her desk once… Twice… She had lost count.

♭(Would that be good for you, you, you?)♭

♯Tell me how could I change the story?♯ Lila. She had been caught, and she needed to spin her story. Fast!

♯All the words that I can’t take back♯ Alya. All those mean comments claiming Marinette was a bully. She was the bully. Weren’t they friends? Besties? She didn’t deserve to be called anything like that.

♭(I’ll just sit back while you run the show)♭

♯Like a train coming off the track♯ Kim. He wanted this pain to end, he should’ve trusted her, she had been the one to console everyone before an Akuma had gotten to them. And they treat her like this?

♭(Is that good for you?)♭

♯‘Cause the rails and my bones all crack♯ Nino. They had been childhood friends! How could he think she was lying!?

♭(For You!)♭

♯I’ve got to find a way to♯

♯Stop it, stop it! Just let me out!♯ Adrien. If only she had told him Lila had threatened her, if only he had done more, taking more of the brunt, if only- no he had to stop, he had to accept it was all his fault. He could’ve stopped it, but he was afraid he’d never get to see his friends again. He had to accept that he had hurt Marinette so much she had been Akumatized. He had to accept that- maybe he couldn’t save her, after all, you could never really trust someone who had betrayed you… Right?

♭So you got what you always wanted So you got your dream come true Good for you Good for you, you, you♭

They were sorry.

But images of Marinette gone from their life terrified them.

♭Got a taste of a life so perfect Now you say that you’re someone new Good for you Good for you Good for you Good! For! You!♭

But what would it matter? She probably would never want to speak to them ever again.

♭So you got what you always wanted!♭

What had they done?

They had seen the truth.

All of it.

But they didn’t have time to dwell on that, because as they continued to watch the scenes in front of them, they couldn’t help but feel slightly tired. Only a bit… Maybe if they had a small nap it would… Help.

♫The truth will come out… There will be no more lies for anyone… Anymore♫

***

End. I changed a word for Lila because I thought it would fit better. They, in the song, are Lila and a bit of Adrien. Originally, I wasn’t going to make a two-parter, however, if anyone has an idea I could use, and then a song as well, I will consider continuing this to become a two-shot. Or even if someone wants to continue this? Feel free to do so, just tag me, please.

Well, I hope you enjoyed it and I hope you have a nice day.

Edit 1: This is how Marilody looks like, I thought she’d look a bit more fashionable since you know, Marinette. and since she has more control hawkmoth didn't design her.

[astudyinfreewill]

Something Wicked This Way Comes: or, the Rising Dark in Ronan’s Arc

as some of you may know because i never shut up about witch!adam i’ve been convinced for a while now that adam would go darkside in the dreamer trilogy. what i did not predict however, was that ronan is probably headed down a dark path himself. i thought the basic premise of the trilogy would have ronan in danger from both the nightwash and the zed hunters (which obviously still applies; he is very much in danger from those things), and adam striking some sort of dark bargain in an attempt to protect him. but after reading cdth, i think things might be about to take a more sinister turn.

so here are some thoughts i’ve been poring over, under a cut for length. what can you expect? well, there’s rambling! there’s bullet points! there are lyrics-inspired section headings! (we have fun around here.)

let’s start with the obvious, shall we?

1. “The Sandman, He Comes”

so...bryde.

we don’t know much about bryde - who or what he is, how he’s able to infiltrate ronan’s dreams, whether he can do it to other dreamers too, why he didn’t want to reveal himself, what’s his agenda - but what we do know is that ronan trusted him very, very fast. suspiciously fast, in fact. fast enough that adam remarks on it in chapter 39: “earlier today you had a gun on me. i’m just asking you give him the same shake as me”.

to clarify: in the previous chapter, ronan was shaken enough to hold a gun to adam, the love of his life, and not lower it even when he feels reasonably sure it’s him; yet it never occurs to him in the book to question bryde or his motives. when adam says he wants scry to try and get more info on him, ronan seems almost annoyed by adam’s wariness (ronan narrowed his eyes. “don’t gimme that look, ronan”) to which adam replies, understandably, that it’s only fair ronan holds a complete stranger to the same safety standards as his own boyfriend, at least.

but why shouldn’t ronan trust bryde (apart from the fact that he has no information about him whatsoever)? well, bryde’s behaviour is pretty damn shady, and extremely reminiscent of the ways that a cult leader might try to recruit people to his cause. @deerlovelylily​ discussed it very eloquently in this post, but just to recap:

bryde is able to access ronan’s dreams at will, including interacting with objects from them: he had the hoverboard at the end, and he knew exactly what was on the stomach of the murder crabs. (@streghe​ had a very clever suggestion that there’s a nonzero chance bryde actually caused the crabs to manifest in the dorm, since ronan barely saw them in the dream; why would bryde do that? well, to make sure ronan was cut off from adam, his real life support system and, coincidentally, a psychic who doesn’t trust bryde)

there is considerable evidence that he can access ronan’s memories/other parts of his subconscious as well, since he knows a lot more about his waking life than he should, constantly referencing people and events from it (as well as obviously knowing where ronan is/what he’s up to, which is very stalkerish in itself)

bryde uses this knowledge to manipulate and influence ronan through the words of people in ronan’s life. in ch. 58 he asks ronan “are you going to be quiet?”, which we know from trk is what niall used to say to the brothers before telling them a story. in ch. 43, he talks about the “emotional costs” of saving someone’s life, mirroring almost exactly the words of warning adam had told ronan in ch. 33 (“there’s such thing as an emotional cost”). adam was warning ronan about trusting bryde too easily, and we know ronan values adam’s opinion; by repeating adam’s words to him bryde is pulling a see, i can’t possibly have shady motives, because i am acknowledging the same risk adam warned you about.

that’s far from the only manipulative thing bryde does. his behaviour constantly alternates between praising ronan, guilting him, taunting him, and ordering him about.

in ch. 43 he tells ronan he’s “the most expensive thing he’s ever saved”, reinforcing the idea that A) ronan is special, B) bryde cares about him, and C) it cost him a lot to save ronan so ronan should feel grateful/guilty/indebted to him. he does this knowing full well that ronan isn’t going to doubt his motives for saving him, because ronan himself - brave boy that he is - has just told him he would save a dreamer without any questions asked.

bryde never shows himself to ronan until the very end, which has the combined effects of keeping him in the dark/at a disadvantage, and making him more intrigued by bryde’s mystery; at the same time, he constantly asks ronan to prove himself and earn the dubious privilege of finally meeting him (“next box”)

bryde promises things that he knows ronan wants: first and foremost, understanding of his dreamer powers; second, a community, by hooking him up with other dreamers (ronan’s been asking what am i, why isn’t there anyone like me, am i the only one? for a long time); last but not least, he heavily hints that he can free dreams from their dreamers, something ronan is desperate to do in order to give matthew his freedom

on more than one occasion, bryde gives ronan direct orders: “scrub [the word ‘real’] from your vocabulary”; “i don’t want you to think this ever again: it was just a dream”. and ronan obeys him, or is at least very affected by it. where he at first questioned whether his dreams of bryde were real, now he questions reality (e.g. holding a gun to his very real boyfriend and asking himself what is real?); in ch. 24 he thinks about the words just a dream and how bryde “had forbidden him from ever saying them again”. since when does ronan follow orders? who is bryde to “forbid” him to do anything?

bryde constantly deploys examples Us VS Them rhetoric, creating a schism between dreamers and humanity, magic and humanity. we know (and bryde probably knows) ronan has always struggled with not feeling human and not knowing what he is; that he deeply wants to be able to fit into the real world. what bryde is effectively saying is no, you’re not human, in fact humans and magic are enemies, and the real world is not for you... unless you can shape it to your will. 

to me, bryde’s spiels sound very... dreamer-supremacist, for lack of a better term. at the moment, dreamers are oppressed by the moderators, so they’re right to rebel; but there’s an emphasis on dreamers being more powerful than anyone else, and what they could do with that power. it kind of reminds me of magneto re: mutants in the marvel universe. and i think that is the direction he’s headed in: separate ronan from his human family and escalate the conflict between humans and dreamers much further than simple self-defense from the moderators.

there’s plenty of reasons to be mistrustful (if not outright skeeved the fuck out), right? so why does ronan trust bryde? well, several reasons.

2. “On The Right Side Of Rock Bottom” 

ronan is at the lowest that he’s been since tdt. it’s better and worse at the same time -- in a way, it’s worse because it’s better. in tdt, ronan was deeply in denial about himself and the things he wanted; now he knows what he wants (a happy life with adam) and can’t go after it, trapped at the barns. in tdt, ronan was suicidal; now he wants to live, and so of course his life is threatened on all sides, internally by the nightwash, externally by the moderators. 

through all of trc, one of ronan’s main goals was to return to the barns, feeling like his key to happiness was in his childhood home. but as it turns out (and as i suspected all along), being stuck alone and isolated on a dream farm surrounded by eerie sleeping things and a handful of incredibly traumatic memories of his dead parents isn’t as fulfilling as ronan imagined. to make things worse, he’s created a security system for the barns that causes him to relive his fears and traumas over and over (ronan for the love of God, why would you dream something like that). his brothers live in DC, which is close, but not that close -- and though he’s mending fences with declan, they still are somewhat at odds. his best friends, gansey and blue, are travelling the country with henry, and we know from the opal story ronan misses them and feels left behind. at the start of cdth he tries to escape by following adam to cambridge -- and that immediately goes pear-shaped, whether by accident or, as said above, by sabotage.

now ronan is truly alone, cut off from visiting adam, living with the guilt of wrecking his dorm and the self-loathing following the fact that adam had to tell people he’s, essentially, an unstable drunk (the place he actually was at in tdt). it feels like the progress has been erased. this is the first time since tdt ronan has hit rock bottom, and cdth tells us he sinks into depression, staying in bed for days, not showering or changing, eating expired food. he thinks of a life trapped at the barns alone doing nothing, and feels understandably suffocated. all the more so because it feels like everyone else is moving on - declan has his own life, gansey/blue/henry have their adventures, and adam... well, adam is growing up, which ronan feels he himself can’t do. this comes up at several points in the book: in ch. 5 ronan doesn’t recognize adam, noting he’s “growing from something beaten down into whoever he was supposed to be”, but finds it ridiculous that adam doesn’t recognize him because he’s still the same: “adam was changing; ronan couldn’t.” later, in ch.23, he notes that he often dreams of adam as older/more adult, while ronan himself is stuck in arrested development.

essentially: ronan is stuck. so of course, any lead that comes up - whether that’s mór ó corra, the new fenian, hennessy, or bryde, is going to make him reckless and ready to risk everything, because anything is better than being buried alive at the barns.

3. “Guilty, On the Run, And I Know What I Have Done”

remember how i said ronan hits rock bottom at the start of the book? well, it’s time to grab a shovel and keep digging, because then there’s the matthew thing. 

so... we learn very early on in the book (in case we didn’t already know from trc) that ronan feels deeply torn about his dreaming. he loves to create, but feels guilty about creating life, because that feels like an act of hubris against God to him. and he feels especially guilty about creating matthew, because that means A) that matthew’s safety and life depend on ronan’s, and B) that matthew essentially has no free will, something that’s very important to catholic morals.

the moment matthew figures out he’s a dream-thing, and calls ronan out on lying to him, ronan is dropped into a fiery pit of shame, guilt, and self-loathing (and we already know that all of ronan’s emotions which are not happiness manifest as anger). he remains despondent even in dreams, and essentially, refuses to deal with matthew’s hurt and disappointment. which on one hand is justified, because he has ~Dramatic Dreamer Developments~ happening; but on the other hand, he’s essentially avoiding responsibility towards his brother, lashing out at declan in needlessly mean ways when declan tries to get him to be there for matthew (“dad’s working, sweetie”... really?). it’s a kind of pettiness that ronan hasn’t displayed in a while, and it speaks to me of his own restlessness and self-loathing more than anything.

we already know ronan feels alone, frustrated, isolated, scared, trapped -- now he also feels guilty on top of it all, and it just redoubles his determination to free matthew (something bryde has hinted he can do, knowing the power it would have on ronan). this is ronan at his worst, and we see it not just in how dismissive he is of declan, but in how he treats hennessy in chapter 67. he wants hennessy to dream up the lace, so he can show her how to stop dreaming of it (which in itself is dangerous, since lindenmere can manifest dreams, and in fact it ends up almost killing hennessy). but he gets absolutely furious when hennessy can’t dream properly -- because she’s, you know, kind of stuck on the slightly traumatic memory of witnessing her mom killing herself in front of her. it’s something you’d expect ronan to have sympathy for, seeing as he’s witnessed both of his parents’ violent deaths. instead, he’s impatient, snappy, insisting hennessy isn’t trying hard enough -- and downright cruel, shooting hennessy’s clone before her eyes, then trying to force her to shoot herself (especially relevant when you remember the church scene in bllb, and how shaken ronan was at having to kill a copy of himself).

this new ronan, it seems, has reached rock bottom and then some, and he’s got no time for empathy anymore. we see this in the metaphor of lindenmere, a darker, scarier, more dangerous version of cabeswater (i.e. trc ronan), because “dangerous things can protect themselves”. we see this once again at the end, when he assumes his sundogs have torn someone apart limb from limb and he feels absolutely no regret, only rage. yes, matthew was in danger... but kavinsky also tried to kill matthew in tdt, and ronan still didn’t feel like he could kill kavinsky in cold blood. this is a new, darker ronan, brought to this point by desperation. he reminds me a lot of anakin in the prequel star wars movies (i know, i know...) and how he let his fear lead him to the dark side by trusting a powerful, shady mentor that he should never have trusted. how does it go? “fear leads to anger, anger leads to hatred, hatred leads to suffering.” and suffering leads to - or maybe is the dark side.

4.“Holding Out For A Hero”

still, you might say, why is ronan falling for bryde’s manipulation so easily? can he not see through it? how can he trust someone he doesn’t know, someone who refuses to be upfront with him? someone his psychic boyfriend with an uncanny character judging skills is understandably wary of?

in short... ronan needs a hero. 

or well, he needs a father, and those things are the same to him. ronan idolised niall, and he’s missed him terribly ever since niall diad. he missed him badly enough that he wanted to die for a very long time. now he’s coming to terms with the fact niall isn’t coming back, and not just that, but it turns out that niall might not be everything ronan thought he was (ronan hasn’t fully realised it yet, but he’ll get there; he’s starting to put the pieces together, from what declan and other people tell him of niall).

but if he accepts that niall’s gone, and worse, that niall wasn’t the infallible hero ronan thought he was... who has he got left to guide him? niall wasn’t just his father, either, but he was the only dreamer ronan knew for the longest time (the only other one was kavinsky, who sexually assaulted him and tried to kill his brother, so... not a great example) and yet he didn’t give ronan any guidance. and ronan needs dreamer guidance right now, with the nightwash threatening to kill him at every step.

enter bryde, promising all that and more. bryde’s not only a dreamer, he comes across like the alpha dreamer, ancient and powerful and all-knowing. he promises ronan tantalising answers, and even more importantly than that, he promises him community -- other people like him, so he won’t feel alone, so he won’t feel like a freak or an abomination; it has not yet occurred to ronan that (as maggie said in her video explaining the art/creation metaphor of the series) not all dreamers are equal: they don’t share the same skills or motives. 

ronan is desperate for what bryde is promising, for that kind of guidance in his life. all throughout the book, there is a lot of talk of heroes: ronan was raised on stories of the irish heroes of old, who accomplished amazing feats even though they were held back by geasa (magical weaknesses like his nightwash). ronan constantly thinks of these folk stories, while excluding himself from it (“ronan was no hero, but he knew fucking right from fucking wrong”). and how does he describe bryde when he finally sees him in ch. 79? yep, you guessed it: 

“he looked like a man who didn’t have to posture, who knew his strength. he looked like a man who didn’t lose his temper very easily. he looked, ronan thought, like a hero.”

ronan -- who is always posturing, who doesn’t know his own strength, who loses his temper very easily, who doesn’t think he’s a hero -- sees bryde as everything he’s not. and he’s willing to show him the same faith and devotion he once showed niall, because he needs a hero, a father, a teacher.

but i don’t think bryde is going to be the hero. i think ronan is going to be. there’s some early foreshadowing of this with ronan being depicted as “a gallant irish hero of old” while he kills the crabs (more posturing, really) but actually, we’ve known this all the way since trk, with niall asking declan to make sure that “ronan was the name of the hero, not the spear”; dreamers are weapons, but they don’t have to be. being a hero, ultimately, is about knowing fucking right from fucking wrong. and i believe ronan does.

but before he gets to be the hero, he’ll have to be the spear. and right now? he’s a spear in bryde’s hand. 

we know a dreamer is supposedly going to bring about the apocalypse through fire; we know ronan and fire have always been associated; we know bryde hates the modern world and would like to reboot it; we know bryde has selected ronan as his chosen one, for whatever reason.

when you connect the dots, they spell a whole lot of trouble.

[crimeronan]

ik youre not a therapist and i dont want like therapy or anything but im 17 and ive known i was bipolar for 3 years now and i dont know how im supposed to live the rest of my life like this. im so fucking tired. how do you stay alive

you sent this a couple days ago & i’m posting at a weird time so i’m not sure if you’ll see it but.  

i’ve been looking at this message trying to decide how to respond

because i don’t know your situation, your symptoms, how you’re feeling, whether you’ve had positive or negative experiences with medication, psychiatrists, therapists, hospitals, all that related shit

the bipolar life advice i give to people is vastly different depending on the individual. it’s not a one size fits all thing.  and there’s never even a guarantee that my advice will be the right choice

so since i don’t know about your situation or experiences or what you want, i’m not gonna tell you what to do.  i’m gonna focus on the “how do you stay alive” question and try to pen down some personal feelings. and if they help then great, and if they don’t then... this is the most honest i can be

(you can always ask another question to get a better answer. my inbox is a coin slot and i am a vending machine of varied-degrees-of-helpfulness replies offered at varied-inconvenient-too-long-intervals)

-

how do i stay alive

it’s a 2-parter, actually.  i pondered how to condense my thoughts/feelings, and it came down to these two things

1. love 2. spite

-

1. love

the spite is easier to write about than the love.  love is hard to reach when i feel like shit.

spite is where i go when i want to die.  love is where i go when i want to want to live.

maybe i don’t want to be alive.  but maybe i wish i did.  spite doesn’t help me much there.  spite keeps me afloat, but it doesn’t make the floating pleasurable.  there’s more to life than outlasting everything that ever hurt me.  i need a reason to continue when there’s no enemy to fight

so. love

i almost wrote about the spite alone because that’s rawer, realer, more visceral.  that’s the shit that CONNECTS when everything feels hopeless.  but it would be a lie of omission.  spite is only one of the major food groups, you’ll waste away from malnutrition if you eat it for every meal. or at least, i will.

“so you’ve got a bunch of people you love,” you say, “and you stick around for them.  cry on them.  support each other.  like each other.  fine.”  you’ve heard this story before

nah.

i mean - yes.  i have people i love.  i live with two partners, i’ve got a third girlfriend, i’ve got a long-distance platonic life partner.  i have a support net, i have a family i’ve forged, i have confidence that i’m not alone.  i have, in a bare-bones checklist sort of way, fulfilled my physiological human need for connection

but i could live without every single one of them.  i’m not dependent upon any of them for my survival.  i’m not dependent upon them for love, given or received.  (this isn’t a callous cruelty, it won’t hurt them if/when they read this.  i’ve told them all this, they know.  they’re glad of it.)

so.  what the fuck does “love” mean, then?

the short explanation is that it’s my love of life, of things in the world.  it’s all the little connections i’ve made.  every time i love something, a hook tethers to the universe.  hook enough tethers, and i no longer feel the need to float away.  no dissolution of self today, sir

the rest of this section is some of the things i love. partially it’s to show how i connect to little things and ascribe magic to the mundane.  partially it’s because i like thinking about things i love, i like typing them out, and i like that i could keep going for thousands and thousands of words.

i am laying in bed at 7:30 AM with the lights off and the shades drawn.  blue  light comes through the slats because it’s the better time of year, the one where i finally get vitamin D, the one where the birds chirp at 4AM, the one where the sky isn’t impenetrably black til 10PM.

there’s a weighted blanket tucked around my legs.  my partner rafi bought it for us to share because it’s soothing and heavy and comforting and helps with my physical pain.  right now it’s soft on my skin and if i get too emotional as i write, i can pull it over me like a cloak until i’m settled.

the apartment’s walls are blank because we’ve spent eight months intending to put art up and keep forgetting.  but there’s a newly-unearthed dining area in the kitchen because i finally shifted around the unpacked boxes that were dominating the space.  it’s new and it surprises me every time i walk out there.  it’s open and inviting and bright and it’s a sign that we’re making this place home.

we’ll put a cheap IKEA table by the window and we’ll probably never eat family dinners there - why would we sit in hard chairs and make stiff conversation when we could all cuddle on the couch - but my partner dev will create a place to do their art and the surface will be constantly littered with drying watercolor experiments.

we’ll hang our art one of these days, too, when our collective adhd offers a miraculous combo of remembering + having time + having motivation + having inspiration.  rafi has the most art because they’ve been collecting it for years.  i have to start smaller.  i’m not used to keeping physical objects.  dev has a few pieces thrifted or bought at local artist events or painted themselves

so we’ll put art up in the living room, my single “you are magic” flower print alongside a naked monster lady that dev fell in love with when we browsed art at a yuletide event months ago, alongside rafi’s monster girls and comic characters and book characters and literature art and quotes and abstract pieces and whatever else they have hiding in boxes.

my head protests that naked monster ladies do not belong in the living room, although the picture isn’t overtly sexual.  but then i remember that they do, actually, because it’s our space and we can do whatever we want with it as long as the lease isn’t broken.  there isn’t anyone in the local social circles who’d be perturbed by the decor, as far as i know.  i don’t have to hide anything from my parents because i live 3600 miles from them, and even though i miss my mom, the distance is good for me

there are two exquisite chairs on the porch.  they fold and recline from thrones to nearly-horizontal beds.  there are pillows and cupholders and trays and specific spaces for both a book and a phone.  i can sit there while the morning sun rises and read or play word games or browse tumblr, cup of coffee beside me, trees shielding my eyes from stabby sunbeams

there are remnants of the last tenant’s garden in one corner of the yard.  we’ve done fuckall for yardwork but plants struggle through anyway.  some seem to have sprouted by accident.  mushroom clusters populate the edges of the fence.  the apartment squirrel (there are probably several, but i like to think it’s a single energetic creature) runs back and forth along the fence & i always lose my train of thought & then laugh my ASS off at the “SQUIRREL! XD” adhd moment.  birds kick up leaf litter and play on the ground looking for insects to eat, they wiggle their tail feathers and flap their wings and sometimes they disappear and then return with friends

a little more than eleven months ago, i packed all of dev’s and my shit into a uhaul and drove and drove and drove to get to this city i’d never been in before to live with a partner i’d never cohabitated with.  we were homeless for more than a month, we weathered some financial disasters, we met some great people and some shitty ones

on the drive i fell in love with the sky.  i didn’t know how big it can get - actually, that’s a lie.  i’d FORGOTTEN how big it can get.  i’ve loved the sky thirty miles out to sea, no land in sight in any direction, just blue water and blue space above.  i’ve loved the vastness and the yawning beneath me and the knowledge that everything is BIGGER than i can fathom.  the depth of the sea doesn’t frighten me, it’s home. i don’t want to die, but if i had to, the ocean makes a soothing grave

in north dakota i discovered that i’ve been partially blind my whole life, which is a different tale that showed me i’ll never stop learning myself.  in montana we struggled up thousands of feet of mountains with the car huffing and puffing at the trailer’s weight, and when we finally coasted downward, it felt like sudden freefall.  we ended up in the pitch darkness of night on sheer winding interstates with midnight construction projects forcing detours.  the mountains felt hungry, they had teeth.  mountain cliffs are much scarier to me than the ocean depths

i bought a red bull and poured a little out the driver’s side door as an offering to hermes, because i’m not particularly religious but i’ll take help where i can get it.  slammed that back in a few gulps and shook to bright-eyed alertness and ended up behind a slow-driving red pickup truck that guided us over about a hundred miles of mountain terrain

i thought, that’s just some construction worker driving between sites.  the roads are empty at this time of night, but it’s an interstate.  of course we’d end up behind someone.  this isn’t divine intervention.  this isn’t the benevolence of a god

i thought, but it can be a little magic.  if i want it to be.  

and it was.  it stays with me.

god help me but i’ve been writing this stream of consciousness for more than 30 minutes and i’ve said nothing.  i haven’t talked about the city, the parks, the people, the conversations, the books, the tv shows, the movies, the communities, the library, the animals, writing, reading, singing, acting, swimming, analyzing, creating, supporting, building.  and i can keep going.  i can come up with hundreds and hundreds of things i love and i can write paragraphs about all of them

so i’ll stop here.  you get the picture.  love is the life i’ve made for myself, the surroundings i’ve built, the quiet moments i can capture, the inspiration i pin, the magic i commit to memory.

i had to work so damn hard for every single bit of this.

i’ll be fucking damned if i let it go because my brain tried to trick me into thinking death is better.

-

2. spite

there are people who want me to die.

i don’t mean that i have a giant entourage of personalized enemies who curse my name and plan my individual demise.  although there have been plenty of people who have not liked me much.  probably some of them would enjoy my death.  i don’t give a shit about that

there are people who want me dead because i am a dot on a grid they dislike.  a faceless anonymous enemy who meets too many bad criteria with numbers and percentages and shrinking majorities and shifting public opinion

because i’m gay.  because i’m bipolar.  because i’m autistic.  because i’m a dropout.  because i grew up poor.  because my spine curves and my shoulders ache.  because i squandered my potential, because i didn’t have enough potential, because i didn’t love god enough, because i love the wrong gods, because i don’t worship, because i worship wrong, because i didn’t seek a husband, because i never wanted one, because i talk too much, because i can’t be controlled, because i chose to leave the fold when i realized it was suffocating me, because i’m ugly, because i’m gorgeous, because my body belongs to me

pick your poison.

this bothered me growing up, a lot. i knew i did not deserve to die. but if enough people tell you that you should, a little part of you will wonder if they’re right.  that little part might become bigger the closer they get and the louder they shout and the longer they wear you down

we know the rough shape of this story, i don’t need to tell it.  mine was messy and not triumphant and i survived more by chance than premeditation.

i’m older now.  by and large i’m still young as shit - i’m 24 - but GOD i am LEAGUES away from 15, 16, 17. i know who i am. i know what i want. i know how to get it. and when i don’t know that, i find out. i tell the truth.  i ask for what i want.  i use my time how i want.  i do what i want.

there are days that i can’t access the “love” side of the equation.  no finding poetry in birdsong or sugared coffee for me, thank you, i feel like shit and the world is awful and everything is too big and fast and cruel and everything wants me to die and it wants everything i love to die, too.  everyone i love.  it’s all garbage. the good doesn’t touch me

trauma is difficult to describe.  the difficulty is compounded by the fact that my trauma is influenced by my various neurodivergences, bipolar included.  i never know if i’m feeling what other people do.  i don’t know if i’m voicing unpalatable feelings others are afraid to express - or if i’m just othering myself, admitting i’m not as human as everyone else.

there is something malevolent and monstrous inside me.  i don’t touch it all the time.  but i don’t pretend it isn’t there.  it sits in my chest and molders or radiates or oozes.  it presses at my throat.  it curdles in my stomach.  it hurts what it touches, whether that’s me or someone i love or someone i hate.  it sets things aflame with no regard for the precious or the fragile.  it tears down walls and razes shelters and begs for apocalyptic rain.

i can give this thing names, clinical descriptors.  i know what it is on a diagnostic chart, in a ponderous article, in an academic debate, in a fiction novel, in a war movie, in a memoir.  there are a thousand ways to describe this thing.  the descriptors aren’t important.  what is important is this - i have learned that most people do not walk side-by-side with a tornado-hurricane-hellfire-weaponized-open-nuclear-reactor.  this is not a “normal” expression of human emotion, this is not me trying to ascribe power to “bad bipolar feelings.”  this thing lives in me and i know why it’s there and it is not designed to be held/silenced/muzzled/controlled by my body.

it does not help to pretend this thing does not exist.  it does not help to try to reason it away or ignore it or tell it to stop.  it wants what it wants, it does what it does.  possibly if i was better at therapy or stubbornness then i wouldn’t resign myself to that

but it is fucking EXHAUSTING to try to fight something that’s part of me.  to try to reshape it, rename it, pare it down, make it consumable for the masses.  it’s a war i have never won and it’s a war that i will lose if i keep fighting it.  i cannot fight with myself.  i cannot beat my monster into submission.  if we’re gonna battle like that, head to head, me trying to cut it down, me trying to be the hero, it rearing back like a fire-breathing dragon,

then it’s stronger.  it’s always stronger.

so i surrender.

but that’s not where i stop.

can’t fight it.  can’t kill it.  can’t muzzle it.  can’t reshape it, can’t disarm it, can’t contain it.  

alright.  

so what now.

if the surrender was a full giving-up, this is where i’d passively accept that i’m doomed to hurt and destroy everything precious to me.  can’t fix it.  will lose everything, will never experience or deserve happiness, will make the world worse simply by existing.

that sure does sound like impending-doom rhetoric.  hop skip and a jump from some dire-ass conclusions.  

so fuck that, i say. 

here’s a better question.

if it has to get out, then what happens if i control where it goes?

here’s the thing.

the monster doesn’t care what it kills or destroys or hurts.  

“have a conscience, care about things, remember love, stop yourself, don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this.” 

 losing battle.  lost war.

 it’s not the monster’s fault.  the monster doesn’t have complex motivations or hates or fears.  it exists to protect me through scorched earth.  a remnant of a chemical imbalance, maladaptive coping mechanism, bipolar crazy, traumatized injury.  it doesn’t know that its job is obsolete.

i can’t change the monster.

but my mind is a separate thing.  my mind knows what matters, what my priorities are, what i find precious, what i want to protect.  my mind remembers all the things the monster doesn’t.  

my mind has learned things the monster can’t.

when i fight it head-on, the malevolence is stronger than me.  but as i am, walking with it, sitting in my bed writing this while examining the void and the consciousness, describing it, quantifying it,

that’s when i’m stronger.

and with my mind as the stronger force, i can decide where the monster goes.  what it touches.  what it destroys.  what it burns.  where the ashes land.

i do not want to be a destructive person.  i want to be someone who builds, repairs, changes.  i want to make the world better for kids like me.  i want to stop pouring more gasoline onto a fire that’s been burning since long before i was born.  i want to believe - i do believe - that positive change is better than negative.  i do my best to plant good things and enact that positive change instead of becoming a beacon of wrath.

but there are a lot of kids surrounded by people who want them to die, and not all of them have a protective monster.

so it’s good.

when i’m depressed, my mind loses its battles.  my cognizance slips.  i forget why i care.  i forget what i want.  i forget how happiness feels, how to find pleasure in quiet moments.  

i don’t get depressed as often as i used to since my meds are adjusted correctly now.  but it still happens.  it will keep happening for the rest of my life.

my mind weakens and curls up and stops fighting, and the monster is always there.

it’s a very powerful thing when it wants to be.

it wants to survive.

the thing is, it knows there are people that want me/us/whatever dead.  it’s been fighting them forever.  die like they want?  my mind says, sure, what does it matter.

the monster says, nah.  our work isn’t done.  and fuck them, anyway.

so we get up.

-

so that’s how i stay alive.

i typed this for 90 minutes and after editing i’d spent two hours on this post.  i don’t know if anyone will read it all.  i don’t know if it’ll mean anything.  i don’t know if these thoughts even make sense, much less if i’ve conveyed the feelings i have.

i love being alive.  and when i don’t, i love being a monster.  it’s good.  all of it is good.  i’ve reconciled my uglier pieces.  it’s not one or the other, love or spite.  it’s symbiosis.  i need both, i love both.

no guarantees that this is helpful, but based purely on my own life experience, these are my tips for survival:

you’ll have to find your own roots.  i can’t give them to you.  

but it’s possible to dig them in and spread them far enough that one uprooted peg doesn’t shift your whole equilibrium.  

and when you’re tired, rest, and let yourself be tired, and find the reason why you’re staying in the world. 

 i’m positive there’s at least one.

figure out why you’re losing your battles and then change the game.

if you can’t win one setup, don’t try to beat the system.  adjust your strategy.

you’ll be surprised by what you can love when you stop fighting the disparate pieces of you, and instead figure out how to use them.

[swanqueeneverafter]

The Once & Future Queen Pt.1

Enchanted Forest. Past. King Leopold's Palace. (Regina sits alone weeping, looking down at the ring Daniel gave to her.) Regina: (Softly:) "Daniel." Henry Sr: "There you are. I've been looking all over for you. How are you enjoying your new home?" Regina: "You mean my new prison." Henry Sr: (Sighs:) "Oh, Regina. (Sits beside her:) It doesn't have to be." Regina: "I lost everything, Daddy. My love, my future. (Places the ring on her finger:) My happiness is buried with Daniel." Henry Sr: "You still have a future, Regina. You're Queen, that's every girl's dream." Regina: "No, it was mother's. My dream was to love, Daddy. True Love! And now it's gone." Henry Sr: "The King is a good man. Kind. Fair. You can learn to love him and his daughter Snow White." Regina: "No, I can't. I will never love again. And no one will ever love me.”

Storybrooke. Present. (Regina is seated on a park bench lost in her thoughts. Henry sits beside her not saying anything, just simply being there for his mother.)

(Seeing Alice approach from a distance, Henry gets up to meet her.) Henry: "Hey." Alice: "Hey. How's she doing?" Henry: "Inconsolable, as you can imagine." Alice: "Poor thing." Henry: "Yeah." Alice: "Look, I know this is going to sound insensitive and selfish, but do you have any idea how much longer she expects Zelena to look after Maria? I mean I get it, Zelena offered and loves looking after her, but with Maleficent gone and Robin pretty much in charge of the bar, she really needs her Mum's help. I’m there as much as I can be but, I love my job at the library and I'd hate to have to give it up." Henry: (Nods:) "I got it, don't worry, I'll talk to her. I should've stepped up sooner. Maria's my sister after all. I'll take care of it." Alice: "Thanks, Henry. (Looks over to Regina:) Give her my love, won't you?" Henry: "Yeah." (Henry heads back to his mom as Alice walks away feeling somewhat guilty.) The Dragon's Lair. (While Zelena rocks Maria in her arms, Robin works on her new drinks menu.) Robin: “There, finished. Do you want to try something from the new ‘Wanderlust Menu’? It's inspired by all the best drinks I had on my travels.” Robin Hood: (Leans over to look:) “Impressive list.” Zelena: (Also looking:) “Oh, is that an Indian drink I see?” Robin: “It is, and it's made with real rose petals. It'll blow your mind. Such a beautiful country. They have these sprightly trees called Arunchal Hopea. They went extinct nearly 20 years ago. People thought they'd make good fence posts.” Robin Hood: “That's terrible. But that's what people do. They destroy things. Having lived most of my adult life outdoors, I can honestly say there's no greater pest than humanity.” Robin: (Snorts:) “That’s odd coming from a legendary champion of the people.” Robin Hood: “Wrong Robin Hood, my dear. I believe you’re thinking of your father.” Robin: “Hm.” Zelena: “Speaking of fatherhood, don’t you think I look wonderful with a babe in my arms? Kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?” Robin Hood: “Uh... not really.” Zelena: “Oh come on, don’t you wonder what our child would look like?” Robin: “Um, hello?!” Zelena: “Oh, yeah. Sorry, darling.” (Robin shakes her head then goes to hang up the new menu.)

Swan-Mills House. (Ella opens the front door and finds Drizella and Anastasia standing there.) Ella: “Anastasia. Drizella. What are you doing here?” Drizella: “I'll tell you what I'm not doing. (Points to a box at her feet:) Carrying that any further.” Anastasia: “We found some old stuff of Cecelia’s that we don’t remember. We though maybe some of it belonged to you.” Drizella: “If you want it, you can take it.” Ella: (Steps aside to allow them entry:) “Come on in. It's nice to see you two.” Drizella: “We would’ve been here earlier, but I just carried a box full of stuff to your doorstep.” Anastasia: “Oh, calm down. I offered to magic us here.” Drizella: “Yeah, right and give you a chance to show off to Ella? Make sure she chooses you as her favourite sister?” (They walk towards the kitchen.) Anastasia: “Hey, I found the box to begin with. Didn't even get a thank you.” Ella: “All right you two, no one’s playing favourites. So, why are you really here? To talk about Mom?” Drizella: “Hey, we’re your family. You remember, that thing you were so desperate to find? Do you even care why we’re here?” Anastasia: “We came to see how you’re holding up. You know, it's been a week now since Emma disappeared.” Ella: (Dryly:) “Really? I hadn’t realised.” Drizella: “Woah, okay, tap your brakes, Ella. We get that you’re still processing.” Anastasia: “You gained two sisters and lost a mother-in-law on the same day. It’s a lot to wrap your head around.” Drizella: “Especially since you accused your other mother-in-law of murder.” Ella: (Smiles, despite herself:) “Yeah, well, everybody has problems.” Drizella: “Exactly, so quit wallowing in self-pity and take a look through this box we brought you. (Knocks the lid of the box off:) There could be something in here to cheer you up. (Pulls out a ragged looking doll:) Like this thing, for example.” Ella: (Stares at the doll:) “It...It’s Beatrice. (Reaching out for it:) I never thought I'd see her again. I can’t believe she kept this.” Drizella: “I figured she was second hand. I just had no idea she belonged to you.” Ella: (Pulls Drizella into a hug:) “Thank you, so so much.” Anastasia: “Our childhood seems like so long ago. Almost like another world.” Ella: “Mm. Exactly like another world in my case.” Drizella: “So, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” Ella: (Wipes her eyes:) “Sorry, what would you like?” Drizella: “Well if we’re going to talk about the past, we’d better make it something strong, right?” Anastasia: “Drizzy, it’s eleven in the morning.” Drizella: “Right, which means it has to be five o’clock somewhere.” Enchanted Forest. Past. (Tiger Lily and Mulan discuss their options while Emma walks ahead of them.) Tiger Lily: "We could contact the Fairies, there's a good chance Blue and the others might have some ideas." Mulan: "I thought the time-travel spell had never been done before Zelena? Surely if the Fairies knew anything about it they'd spend most of their days going back in time to fix things." Tiger Lily: "That's true, but they could still help us." Emma: (Stops walking:) "We're not asking the Fairies for help. (Turns to face them:) Not only did they ruin Rumplestiltskin's life the moment he was born, but they stood by and did nothing while Regina's life crumbled around her." Tiger Lily: "But you-" Emma: "No! You above all know how the Fairies work. It's because of your actions that we ended up being stuck here in the past! If you hadn't taken Morgause away to be raised by the High Priestesses-" Tiger Lily: "Then Uther would've killed her." Emma: "And so this is better?!" Mulan: "Emma..." Emma: "We're trapped here in the past not knowing where or when we even are! And I've already been through this crap before!" Tiger Lily: (Calmly:) "I know. Which is why I'm not worried." Emma: "Of course you're not! You don't have a family waiting for you back home! You don't have a wife you love more than the air you breathe or a daughter you promised never to spend a day of her life away from!"

Mulan: "Hey! (Steps between Tiger Lily and Emma:) Back off, Emma. You're not the only one with someone they love back home, all right? Screaming at each other isn't going to achieve anything other than attract unwanted attention. So why don't we all take a moment to calm down, then think of a way to get us home." Tiger Lily: (Sees a carriage approaching:) "Quickly, hide yourselves." (The three women hurry from the roadside to duck behind some trees. As the carriage passes, a familiar face stares out from the window.) Mulan: "Who was that?" Tiger Lily: "King Leopold." Mulan: “Leopold?” Emma: (Amazed:) "My Grandfather." Tiger Lily: "Well, at least that gives us some idea of 'when' we are." Mulan: (Stares back to see the spires of the palace behind them:) "The Dark Palace. Do you think Regina's in there?" (Emma stares hopefully back at the palace, momentarily excited by the thought of seeing some version of her wife.) Emma: (Shakes her head, determined:) "Well if she is we're not going anywhere near her. I won't jeopardise our chances of returning home to our timeline by seeing Regina here in the past." Tiger Lily: (Smiles supportively:) "Good thinking. Since you've been in this situation before, we'll follow your lead." Mulan: "Agreed. So where should we go?" Emma: (Takes a moment to think:) "We head into town. We need to put as much distance between us and the palace as possible. Then we can find a place to eat and come up with a plan. I'm starving and can't think on an empty stomach." (With that, they continue down the long dirt road, Leopold's carriage fading into the distance ahead of them.) Plains of Denaria. Present. (A cloaked figure struggles to pull a horse cart along a dusty road. Four nights approach on horseback.) Sir Leon: “Halt! (The cloaked woman stops:) Stay where you are. (The woman sets down the cart handles as the knights dismount, Sir Elyan among them:) Where are you headed?” Woman: “The Seas of Meredor.”

Sir Leon: “What’s in the cart? (The woman says nothing. Sir Leon motions for the other knights to search it and the woman finally turns around:) Lady Morgana.” (Morgana uses her magic to throw each of the knights to the ground. She looks around, pulls off her hood and pulls down a blanket in the cart.) Morgana: “Are you alright?” Morgause: “Yes, thank you, Sister. But we must hurry. Night is nearly upon us. (Morgause turns her face towards Morgana, revealing a hideous deformity to the right side of her face:) And we still have far to go.”

Camelot. Council Chambers. (Sir Leon and Sir Elyan ride into the square and report to Guinevere and the Council.) Sir Leon: “The reports are true, Your Majesty. We caught up with Morgana on the Plains of Denaria.” Guinevere: “Was she alone?” Sir Elyan: (Shakes head:) “There was someone else.” Guinevere: “Morgause.” Sir Elyan: “We couldn’t be sure.” (A man speaks from the shadows.) Agravaine: “Where was Morgana heading?” Sir Leon: “To the Seas of Meredor.” Lancelot: “Isle of the Blessed.” (Agravaine steps into the light.) Agravaine: “I’ll send out patrols at first light.” Guinevere: “Thank you, Agravaine.” Sir Leon: (To Agravaine:) “Sire, you should know her powers have grown. Sir Bertrand and Sir Montague are both dead.” Guinevere: “Keep me informed of any developments.” (The councilmen all bow and exit. Agravaine and Lancelot remain.) Agravaine: “We knew she couldn’t stay hidden forever. Mustn’t live in fear, Guinevere. Camelot is strong. If Morgana were to act, we’d be ready for her.” Guinevere: “You’re right, of course. I’m grateful for your counsel as always, Agravaine.” Agravaine: “I made a promise to Morgana’s mother that I’d always be there for her, but this path she’s on now... The only way to save her is to purge Morgana of this darkness that has overtaken her soul.” (Guinevere nods and exits alongside Lancelot.) Seas of Meredor. (Morgana helps Morgause limp out of the cart in the foggy wood.) Morgause: “The Isle of the Blessed. (Morgana helps Morgause to the dock. A ferryman waits for them by a longboat. He holds out his hand. Morgause places a coin in it:) You know where we wish to go.” (The sisters huddle in the boat, the ferryman at the helm, as it glides across the sea.)

The Enchanted Forest. Past. (Tinker Bell and Regina walk down an alleyway. They stop outside of a tavern.) Tinker Bell: “Inside here, lies the beginning of your happiness. All the pain in your past will be just that. The past.” (Tinker Bell walks to a window.) Regina: “I just need a moment.” Tinker Bell: “You’re nervous. I get it. But look! (With his back turned to them a man is sitting inside:) That must be him. (Regina steps in to take a look at him herself. The man raises his right arm so that a waitress can refill his cup. A lion tattoo can be seen on his right arm:) The guy with the lion tattoo.” Regina: (Doubtfully:) “That’s him?” Tinker Bell: “The Pixie dust lead us to this tavern and it never lies. Come on, who else could it be? This is your chance at love and happiness. A fresh start. No baggage. You can let go of all the anger that weighs you down. Now, get him.” Regina: (Takes a deep breath:) “Okay. Okay, I can do this. I can be happy.” Tinker Bell: “I know you can. Go.” (Tinker Bell leaves. Walking back down the alleyway, she stops at the sound of her name.) Tiger Lily: “Hey, Tink.” (Tiger Lily steps into the light.) Tinker Bell: “Tiger Lily? What are you doing here?” Tiger Lily: (Smiling:) “It’s a long story. Come, we mustn’t be seen here.” (Tiger Lily leads Tinker Bell down a side street and out of sight.) Meanwhile... (Regina hesitates a moment longer outside the tavern, then opens the door. The man with the lion tattoo rejoices with a group of other men, sharing a drink with them. Regina watches the scene for a moment, then with overwhelming fear, she closes the door and flees. Regina rushes around a corner and bumps into someone, knocking them over.) Regina: “Oh! I’m so sorry, are you all right?” Emma: (Staring up at her, eyes wide, panicked:) “I... (Gulps:) I’m fine.”

[jmflowers]

3, 15, 17 for the fanfic ask 😊

3. Do you prefer canonverse or AUs?

I think for reading, I always lean more towards canonverse. I like those fill-in scene fics and being some place in a story that is ultimately really familiar. Canon fics are the ones I most often go back to and read again.

As for writing, I find myself much more drawn to AUs. I was always very, very driven by character development when in school and required to write my own creations, but I never really felt like I got good at world-building or plot lines. I started writing fanfiction specifically because it gave me established characters and, as such, forced me to get better at the other stuff.

15. Post the last line you wrote without context.

A lighthouse, guiding Charity home to safe harbour.

17. Describe a fic that is still in the ‘ideas’ stage.

I wish this one was more than just an idea because I love the concept so much and it was so cathartic to write the first two parts, but I’ve been stuck on it for months and I’m not sure where to go with it next.

It’s called Hell & Back, inspired by the song of the same name by Maren Morris. I wanted to write something in second person that had an actual plot, as opposed to the usual character analysis style I typically do in second person POV. So far, I have written two interactions: the first and second times Vanessa meets Charity.

I don’t know how to talk about this one without giving it all away… I’m just gonna post part one here and we’ll see what happens...

               You meet Charity on a Thursday, when the sun has finally given way to the storm clouds that have been creeping closer all morning. The rain pelts down in cold, hard slaps as you bend over a sheep that looks about as miserable as you’re starting to feel, examining its hooves for what you’re certain might be the start of foot rot in the herd. Moira won’t be pleased, not in the slightest.

               “Shouldn’t you be ducking for cover?” someone calls over the sound of the rain, their voice slicing through the rising crescendo to reach your ears.

               You twist, startled, looking up quickly to find the source. It’s a woman, stood about four yards away, watching you with her arms crossed atop the fence. There’s a fog that seems to hover around her, rising slowly like the steam above a hot cup of tea. It’s something you should look at closer, you’ll realize later, but in the moment, it flits away from conscious thought in the passing breeze.

               You shiver, the rain well and truly soaked into your coveralls now, bits of hair plastered to your forehead in such a way that you’re sure isn’t flattering. Not like in those movies Tracy keeps making you watch. 

               “Shouldn’t you?” you retort, already turning your attention back to the sheep struggling in your hands. Fickle creatures, them; smart enough to recognize each other but not to see that you’re only there to help. You pull it harder onto its hindquarters, rendering it unable to escape and earning a pathetic bleat in response.

               “Really rather be torturing sheep than cuddled up warm and dry?” It’s the woman again, her voice suddenly closer than it’d been before. You look up just in time to see her leaning over the side of the pen you’re in, pulling a face at the animal in your arms. Your eyes flick to the gate she’d been stood beside before, the chain still wrapped securely around the fence post just as you’d left it.

               “I’m not torturing it,” you murmur, eyes dragging back to her face. Did you miss the sound of her hopping the fence? Are you so tuned out that you wouldn’t be aware of someone approaching like that?

               She laughs, the green of her eyes almost sparkling as she tips her chin up into the air. “Don’t know that he’d agree with that statement, babe.” She’s near enough now that you can count the freckles trailing down her neck, guiding your eyes to the dip at the top of her jacket.

               “She,” you say without thinking, always just a breath from correcting. Like your mother, that; a habit you’d always hated when you were on the receiving end.

               But she doesn’t scrunch up her nose like Tracy does when you do the same to her, voicing annoyance louder than her words ever could. No, Charity just tilts her head and hums out one of those noises that sounds like a question, as though she’d rather you explain further than shut right up.

               “This is a ewe, not a ram,” you offer, trying to pull back that prim and proper tone that seems to appear whenever you’re clarifying something. It’s like a flashback to being sat in the front row at school, pretending you didn’t hear the girls snickering behind you. “Male sheep have horns, females don’t.” Even Rhona’s teased you for it, mimicking after she’d overheard you giving directions to a client.

               “Huh,” Charity says, dropping her gaze to the animal once more, “Guess that’s why everyone always assumes the devil’s a man.”

               It’s a funny thing to say, odd enough that you freeze for a moment before you manage to come up with a response. Later, you’ll understand why she did, when you know her well enough to grasp the twists and turns of her mind. But not right now. No, the first time you meet her, you just think she’s a strange one.

               “Male and female goats both have horns,” you sputter when the quiet between you has stretched on for too long. You want to kick yourself the second her eyes flick back to you, her gaze so clearly telling that it is you – not her – whom she thinks is odd.

               “Is that right?” she asks with a smirk, “Always did like them better.”

               You, too, though you don’t say. Not normal conversation, is it, to tell a stranger that you’ve always preferred that gentle knowingness hidden behind a goat’s eye? Be a vet, Vanessa, if you must, your mother had said, But, don’t be one of those people who only speaks of animals.

               The prim and proper comes from her, you know, all the things you’d been poked and teased for stemming from the ideal daughter she’d tried to craft you into. Not like your father, who laughs when he shouldn’t and smiles when it’s impolite and says the sorts of things you’d never dare to. You wonder, often, how they ever got together long enough to have you.

               “So, what are you doing then?” she asks, lurching her body further over the pen until you can feel her breath beside your head. It’s hot, much hotter than you’re prepared for when the cold is so busy burrowing into your bones. She keeps her eyes trained on your hands, trying to get a good look at the hoof you’re clutching – not a pretty one, either, not the sort you’d ever show anyone other than Paddy or Rhona. You tuck it a little lower, trying to hide the swelling beneath some wool.

               “They’re sick,” you mutter, your brain spiralling backwards to the game plan you’d been formulating before she’d interrupted. You’ll need one, before you head up to the house to tell Moira what’s going on. It’s likely the field, you think, all this low-lying ground and the abundance of rain in the past few weeks has surely not helped the situation.

               “With what?” Charity presses. Her breath feels like fire where it meets your neck, scalding the gooseflesh beneath your ponytail as she speaks.

              You lean away, lowering your arm enough that the sheep squirms hard in your grasp, knocking you off balance. You fall back against the fence, hands grappling behind yourself to grab onto something sturdy. The sheep takes its opportunity, tipping to the side before scrambling to its feet and taking off towards the others. They bleat at the new arrival, corralling themselves into a bunch beneath the only tree at the far edge of the pen.

              You huff, frustrated instantly and unsure where to lay the blame. You can feel your brow furrowing when you turn to meet her eye, catching the twinkle and the smirk that you assume are present at your expense. “Foot rot,” you mutter, pushing away from the fence angrily. Won’t be easy to catch that one again, now that it’s had a taste, especially not when the field’s gone slick with mud.

               “Sounds gross,” she says, dropping down off the fence to follow as you stalk across the pen to your bag. The rain has sent splatters of mud up the side of it, a match to the boots on your feet. “You a farmer, then?” she asks.

               The laugh comes before you can decide whether you mean to or not, a breath bursting across your lips at the notion of you in Moira’s shoes, depending on animals for your livelihood in a different sort of way than you already do. No, you’ve never quite managed to imagine a clean picture of yourself with a farm, always something just slightly off that made you shy away.

               “’Fraid not,” you chuckle, “I’m a vet.”

               She nods knowingly, stepping back out of the way when you open the gate to the outer laneway where she stands. “They’ll be okay, then?” she murmurs, eyes shifting over your shoulder to the herd.

               You shrug, because it’s not a guarantee of course – none of these things ever are – but you’ve caught it early enough that you don’t anticipate too much damage. Some zinc sulfate baths to start, a round of vaccinations if it comes to it, and the sheep will be good as new in no time. “They’ll be fine,” you answer, “Though I might not be, when I tell Moira she’ll have to spend the next few weeks coaxing them into a few feet of solution to stave off the infection.”

               Charity laughs, the sound lighting something low in your belly. The rain feels distant when you’re stood so close to her, the wet of your coveralls barely a blip in your mind though you’ll be desperate for a hot shower the second she’s gone.

               “Well, best be careful, then,” she suggests, the remnants of her smile softening the edges of her words, “Wouldn’t want to miss seeing you again.”

               She turns away before you can formulate an answer, strolling down the laneway toward the open fields at the back of the property. You have half a mind to call after her, to invite her inside for a cuppa and a towel, but she’s over the hill before you can find the courage to shout.

               It’s not until much later, when you’re laid in bed replaying the day in your mind that you realize she hadn’t much seemed like she’d needed a towel. She hadn’t much seemed like the rain had touched her at all.

[davidmann95]

All-Star Superman Annotations: Smash Mouth

In the late 1990s, Grant Morrison legendarily met ‘Superman’ in a self-described shamanic encounter outside the San Diego convention center at 2 in the morning and questioned him. His answers and general demeanor inspired his take on the character in his 1998 Superman 2000/Superman NOW pitch alongside Mark Waid, Mark Millar, and Tom Peyer, and later his seminal All-Star Superman alongside Frank Quitely, Jamie Grant, Phil Balsman, and Travis Lanham.

The year after that initial pitch - whether out of the transcendent synchronicities Morrison has written on underlying the seeming arbitrary mundanity of day-to-day life, or significant behind-closed-doors dealings - Smash Mouth released its equally seminal All-Star.

The superheroic associations are immediately evident. But Mystery Men (very fun movie) and Steve Harwell lifting a bus are but the tip of the iceberg. Or perhaps more appropriately the edge of a cliff, for when you peer within, the connections here go deep.

Somebody once told me the world is gonna roll me I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb In the shape of an "L" on her forehead

The opening of the song is obviously an evocation of the underlying rivalry between longtime nemeses’ Superman and Lex Luthor, with the latter mocking his erstwhile opponent on his idealistic shortsightedness in Lex’s mind, as well as that by poisoning him via solar radiation overdose he has at last triumphed. Of course, as the narrative remains on Superman’s side, Luthor’s worldview is exposed as self-aggrandizing solipsism, rendering him looking kind of dumb. That the figure of the song is referred to as ‘she’ is curious; perhaps this is in fact Nasthalsia ‘Nasty’ Luthor. Or it may refer to a sort of conceptual malleability of identity referring to Luthor’s eventual transformation via rehabilitation and time-travel into Leo Quintum, a decidedly more flamboyant and effeminate figure than the decidedly machismo-poisoned Luthor.

Well the years start coming and they don't stop coming Fed to the rules and I hit the ground running Didn't make sense not to live for fun Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb So much to do, so much to see So what's wrong with taking the back streets? You'll never know if you don't go You'll never shine if you don't glow

‘Hit the ground running’ is an apt choice of words when the title of the first chapter is Faster...; the progression of time and defiance of rules, going down the backstreets, can be read as his reaching beyond the typical rules and structures that have fenced him in over decades of continuity and tradition in the face of his pending mortality, such as revealing his identity to Lois (his realization of his mistreatment of her and their relationship as his intellect increases corresponds neatly to his brain getting smart but his head getting dumb), freeing Kandor, and entrusting humanity and Quintum/Luthor specifically with his genetic legacy.

Hey now, you're an all-star, get your game on, go play Hey now, you're a rock star, get the show on, get paid And all that glitters is gold Only shooting stars break the mold

Morrison referenced in his All-Star Superman exit interview with Newsarama his initial frustration with the All-Star brand going on his definitive Superman text, seeing it as an intrusive corporate logo (not knowing that it would ultimately come to be associated predominantly with that one story) when he wanted his story to be seen simply as ‘Superman’. Choosing to work with what he had, his story finds Superman becoming a literal golden glittering all-star shooting across the sky, pure information, an untouchable incorporeal living myth sprung from a man as akin to the ‘rock star’ image formed around ordinary people (such as Morrison himself in his younger days with his band The Mixers). The subject of payment will be returned to at the conclusion.

It's a cool place and they say it gets colder You're bundled up now, wait till you get older But the meteor men beg to differ Judging by the hole in the satellite picture The ice we skate is getting pretty thin The water's getting warm so you might as well swim My world's on fire, how about yours? That's the way I like it and I never get bored

This verse at first appears to be in reference to the coming of the freezing All-Night of the Bizarro Underverse, and Superman’s return as a ‘meteor man’ crashing into a travelling circus. However, while this is a neat narrative transition it is in fact in reference to metaphorical coldness and figurative meteor men, in the form of Bar-El and Lilo, and Superman’s reckoning with his Kryptonian heritage (though the opening lines also evoke the emotional coldness and grappling with mortality that define #5-6: it is this central 6-issue chunk that make up the night side of the archetypal journey into the underworld and rebirth that Morrison has commented formed the mythical structure of the series). The ‘hole in the satellite picture’ is interesting; it could be seen as a roundabout reference to the Kryptonian couple’s conquest of human culture as seen in Metropolis both architecturally and in Jimmy’s adoption of Kryptonian overpants and belt, culminating in the literal hole in the moon (symbolic of dreams, as all culture is the product of) patched up with human cultural artifacts such as the Golden Gate Bridge. More pertinently however, it evokes General Zod’s command of the airwaves in 2013′s Man of Steel, where he not only inhabits a colonialist view of planet Earth evocative of Bar-El and Lilo, but mentions that Superman “could have built a New Krypton in this squalor”, a direct line lift from the issue. Either the time-bending syncronicities go further than initially realized, Morrison played an extremely long game while consulting on the film, or Zack Snyder is not only in fact in possession of the deep understanding of Superman and his source material that his apologists claim, but himself figured this all out a very long time ago and adjusted his work accordingly. In any case, the Kryptonian astronauts’ belief in the “uncontested superiority and grandeur of Kryptonian culture” is impotent in the face of their own failing bodies and ultimate realization that Superman is right; their time has passed, the ice getting thin, and Superman’s kindness and willingness to engage human culture on its own terms - to swim - must carry the day. Per Morrison, “In mythic terms, if Superman is the story of a young king, found and raised by common people, then Krypton is the far distant kingdom he lost. It’s the secret bloodline, the aristocratic heritage that makes him special, and a hero. At the same time, Krypton is something that must be left behind for Superman to become who he is - i.e. one of us. Krypton gives him his scientific clarity of mind, Earth makes his heart blaze.” (Bolding my own)

(Chorus repeats)

Somebody once asked could I spare some change for gas? I need to get myself away from this place I said yep what a concept I could use a little fuel myself And we could all use a little change

The final non-repeating section of the song represents a final struggle between Luthor’s materialistic outlook, only able to see ‘change’ and ‘fuel’ in crass physical, monetary terms, while the enlightened Superman - transformed by his own process of personal growth and forthcoming elevation to solar deity - is capable of discerning a deeper meaning. That this is framed as an exchange, and more specifically an education, hints at Lex’s lesson at the hands of his senses in the worthwhile of the immaterial, divine unity of humanity that will prompt his transformation into Quintum, tying the story in a neat loop. Incidentally, the prospect of ‘change’ as monetary value while not a prominent factor in All-Star Superman will go on to have significant roles in both his major subsequent Superman works, Action Comics and Multiversity (the latter of which by his own admission evokes All-Star in its Thunderworld Adventures chapter, going on to reckon with the capitalistic give-and-take of commercial storytelling aiming for the type of enlightenment Morrison seeks to provide in its concluding issue), advancing the connections of the song to All-Star’s post-release impact as well as its text.

(Chorus repeats, concluding the song)

A final note: but the Meteor Men beg to differ is not only the most Jack Kirby-ass line that dude never wrote, but always reminds me of the 1993 Robert Townsend picture The Meteor Man, which I apparently viewed as a child and which I have always misremembered as having a direct connection to the 1978 Superman. I could swear I recall a bit of a picture being shown of a man with a meteor that’s the same picture of the man who found Kryptonite in the Donner film, the latter of which of course was a tremendous influence on All-Star Superman.

[newstfionline]

Thursday, February 25, 2021

COVID-19 cases falling (nearly) everywhere (Foreign Policy) New COVID-19 cases and deaths have dropped worldwide for the sixth consecutive week, according to figures compiled by the World Health Organization. The WHO recorded 2.4 million new cases last week, a drop of 11 percent compared to the previous week. The 66,000 deaths last week represented a 20 percent decline. Five out of the six WHO regions now show a consistent downward trend in new cases, although the trendline in the Eastern Mediterranean region remains flat due to continued case increases in Iran and Iraq.

Not to be sniffed at: Agony of post-COVID-19 loss of smell (AP) The doctor slid a miniature camera into the patient’s right nostril, making her whole nose glow red with its bright miniature light. “Tickles a bit, eh?” he asked as he rummaged around her nasal passages, the discomfort causing tears to well in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. The patient, Gabriella Forgione, wasn’t complaining. The 25-year-old pharmacy worker was happy to be prodded and poked at the hospital in Nice, in southern France, to advance her increasingly pressing quest to recover her sense of smell. Along with her sense of taste, it suddenly vanished when she fell ill with COVID-19 in November, and neither has returned. Being deprived of the pleasures of food and the scents of things that she loves are proving tough on her body and mind. Shorn of odors both good and bad, Forgione is losing weight and self-confidence. “Sometimes I ask myself, ‘Do I stink?’” she confessed. “Normally, I wear perfume and like for things to smell nice. Not being able to smell bothers me greatly.” A year into the coronavirus pandemic, doctors and researchers are still striving to better understand and treat the accompanying epidemic of COVID-19-related anosmia—loss of smell—draining much of the joy of life from an increasing number of sensorially frustrated longer-term sufferers like Forgione.

Biden to order sweeping review of U.S. supply chain weak spots (Washington Post) President Biden on Wednesday will formally order a 100-day government review of potential vulnerabilities in U.S. supply chains for critical items, including computer chips, medical gear, electric-vehicle batteries and specialized minerals. The directive comes as U.S. automakers are grappling with a severe shortage of semiconductors, essential ingredients in the high-tech entertainment and navigation systems that fill modern passenger vehicles. Biden’s executive order, which he is scheduled to sign this afternoon, also is aimed at avoiding a repeat of the shortages of personal protective gear such as masks and gloves experienced last year during the early months of the coronavirus pandemic. The president’s order, which had been anticipated, represents the partial fulfillment of a campaign pledge. But mandating a government study will be the easy part. Extensively modifying U.S. supply lines and reducing the country’s dependence upon foreign suppliers—after decades of globalization—could prove difficult and costly.

U.S. seeks to return to U.N. human rights body (Reuters) The United States will seek election to the U.N. Human Rights Council later this year, U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken said on Wednesday, marking the Biden administration’s latest international re-engagement. Blinken, addressing the council by recorded video, said that President Joseph Biden’s administration would work to eliminate what he called the Geneva forum’s “disproportionate focus” on U.S. ally Israel. The council, set up in 2006, has a stand-alone item on the Palestinian territories on its agenda every session, the only issue with such treatment, which both Democratic and Republican administrations have opposed.

Freedom of speech the real issue in Spain (Washington Post) Thousands of protesters have taken to the streets in some of Spain’s largest cities every night for a week, often clashing with police. In Barcelona on Saturday, authorities said they detained 38 people and recorded injuries among 13. The anger of the young protesters is centered on the arrest of a man who until recently was an obscure figure: Pablo Rivadulla, a rapper better known by his stage name, Pablo Hasél. But the demonstrations are about far more than one man’s arrest, speaking to growing concern inside and out of Spain about the effect of the country’s anti-terrorism laws and lèse-majesté statutes circumscribing the freedom of expression.

Covid inspires 1,200 new German words (The Guardian) From coronamüde (tired of Covid-19) to Coronafrisur (corona hairstyle), a German project is documenting the huge number of new words coined in the last year as the language races to keep up with lives radically changed by the pandemic. The list, compiled by the Leibniz Institute for the German Language, an organisation that documents German language in the past and present, already comprises more than 1,200 new German words—many more than the 200 seen in an average year. It includes feelings many can relate to, such as overzoomed (stressed by too many video calls), Coronaangst (when you have anxiety about the virus) and Impfneid (envy of those who have been vaccinated). Other new words reveal the often strange reality of life under restrictions: Kuschelkontakt (cuddle contact) for the specific person you meet for cuddles and Abstandsbier (distance beer) for when you drink with friends at a safe distance. The words also capture specific moments during the pandemic. For example, Balkonsänger (balcony singer) is someone who sings to people from their balcony, which was popular during the spring lockdown. Hamsteritis, referring to the urge to stockpile food, was also commonly used at the start of the crisis.

China uses patriotism test to sweep aside last outlet for Hong Kong democracy (Washington Post) Serving as a district councilor in Hong Kong means addressing everyday concerns such as pest control, traffic issues and helping elderly residents pay bills. One of the few perks of the modest office is having a say, alongside tycoons and Beijing loyalists, in choosing Hong Kong’s leader. On Tuesday, Hong Kong’s government announced that anyone running for these local positions will need to be a “patriot”—meaning they must swear loyalty not to their constituents but to Beijing and the Communist Party—as China moves to quash the territory’s last avenue of democracy. The changes, which are expected to be introduced to the legislature—where there is no viable opposition—next month and become law soon thereafter, will trigger the expulsion of several young pro-democracy councilors, even if they read the oath as instructed. Disqualified candidates will be barred from running in any elections for five years. With Tuesday’s announcement, the councils, the only fully democratic body in Hong Kong, fall in line with China’s broader reshaping of a city once known for its boisterous political culture as democratically chosen representatives are replaced with Beijing loyalists.

The Mekong River (Nikkei Asia) There are 60 million people who live along the lower Mekong River, and they were in for a rough surprise in early January when China drastically cut the discharge from the Jinghong Dam in Yunnan Province. The ���tests”—which were slated to end January 24—entailed cutting the flow of the river from 1,900 cubic meters per second to just 1,000 cubic meters per second, but the final day of tests came and went and the volume is still down. That this occurred in the middle of the dry season was particularly rough for Thailand, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam, countries that depend on the river. China has begun to draw international ire over their management of the river, which it has built 11 large dams on.

A Digital Firewall in Myanmar (NYT) The Myanmar soldiers descended before dawn on Feb. 1, bearing rifles and wire cutters. At gunpoint, they ordered technicians at telecom operators to switch off the internet. For good measure, the soldiers snipped wires without knowing what they were severing, according to an eyewitness and a person briefed on the events. The data center raids in Yangon and other cities in Myanmar were part of a coordinated strike in which the military seized power, locked up the country’s elected leaders and took most of its internet users offline. Since the coup, the military has repeatedly shut off the internet and cut access to major social media sites, isolating a country that had only in the past few years linked to the outside world. The military regime has also floated legislation that could criminalize the mildest opinions expressed online. So far, the Tatmadaw, as the Myanmar military is known, has depended on cruder forms of control to restrict the flow of information. But the army seems serious about setting up a digital fence to more aggressively filter what people see and do online. Such a comprehensive firewall may also exact a heavy price: The internet outages since the coup have paralyzed a struggling economy. Longer disruptions will damage local business interests and foreign investor confidence as well as the military’s own vast business interests.

Iraq’s struggling Christians hope for boost from pope visit (AP) Nasser Banyameen speaks about his hometown of Qaraqosh in the historical heartland of Iraqi Christianity with nostalgia. Before Islamic State group fighters swept through the Nineveh Plains in northern Iraq. Before the militants shattered his sense of peace. Before panicked relatives and neighbors fled, some never to return. Iraq’s Christian communities in the area were dealt a severe blow when they were scattered by the IS onslaught in 2014, further shrinking the country’s already dwindling Christian population. Many hope their struggle to endure will get a boost from a historic visit by Pope Francis planned in March. Among the places on his itinerary is Qaraqosh, where this week Vatican and Iraqi flags fluttered from light poles, some adorned with the pope’s image. Francis’ visit, his first foreign trip since the coronavirus pandemic and the first ever by a pope to Iraq, is a sign that “You’re not alone,” said Monsignor Segundo Tejado Muñoz, the undersecretary of the Vatican’s development office. “There’s someone who is thinking of you, who is with you. And these signs are so important. So important.”

Syria’s economic woes (NYT) In a private meeting with pro-government journalists, President Bashar al-Assad was asked about Syria’s economic meltdown: the currency collapse that has gutted salaries, the skyrocketing prices for basic goods and the chronic shortages of fuel and bread. “I know,” he said, according to two people with knowledge of the discussion. “I know.” But he offered no concrete steps to stem the crisis beyond floating this idea: Television channels should cancel cooking shows so as not to taunt Syrians with images of unattainable food. As the 10-year anniversary of Syria’s civil war looms, Mr. al-Assad’s most immediate threats are not the rebel factions and foreign powers that still control large swaths of the country. Instead, it is the crushing economic crisis that has hobbled the reconstruction of destroyed cities, impoverished the population and left a growing number of Syrians struggling to get enough food. Food prices have more than doubled in the last year. The World Food Program warned this month that 60 percent of Syrians, or 12.4 million people, were at risk of going hungry, the highest number ever recorded.

The Deadliest Middle East Construction Project Since The Pyramids (The Guardian) On December 2, 2010, FIFA announced that Qatar would host the 2022 World Cup —- a first for a Middle East nation. Over the next ten years, thousands of migrant laborers from India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka came to Qatar to work on the elaborate preparations for the world’s biggest football tournament. Sadly, during that period at least 6,500 of those workers died, according to an analysis by the Guardian. The findings were compiled from government sources, and mean that an average of 12 migrant workers from the five South Asian nations have died each week since the announcement was made. The total death toll is significantly higher because the figures don’t include deaths from other countries like the Philippines and Kenya that send large numbers of workers to Qatar. Also not included are deaths occurring in the final months of 2020. More deaths have undoubtedly occurred since preparations for the 2022 tournament continue.

The value of housework (Foreign Policy) In a landmark ruling, a Beijing divorce court has ordered a man to pay his wife for five years of unpaid housework during their marriage. The award does not amount to much, roughly $1,100 dollars per year, but marks a new era in Chinese divorce law after the government introduced a new civil code. Under the new code, an aggrieved spouse is entitled to seek compensation if they shouldered more domestic responsibilities—with no prenuptial agreement necessary. The case follows a similar one in Argentina in 2019, when a divorce court ordered a husband to pay his wife of 27 years $179,000 in recognition of her unpaid domestic work. According to Organisation for Economic Co-Operation and Development (OECD) figures, Chinese women spend roughly four hours per day on unpaid work—with their U.S. counterparts clocking in nearly the same amount. American men are closer to closing the gap than Chinese men, however. American men spending about 2.5 hours per day on unpaid labor, while Chinese men spend just 1.6 hours.

[bookandcranny]

Stone Heart Gambit

Part 1 - Chapter 1

Soso likes her town, but she’s starting to think she’s never going to find a single interesting thing about it. There’s a supermarket, a park, a few family-owned shops and eateries that haven’t yet succumbed to the pressure put on them by the encroaching chain franchises. Pretty standard small-town fair, not unlike the one she grew up in.

Therein lies the problem. She’d been so excited to leave home for the first time all those semesters ago that she hadn’t considered that change doesn’t always equal improvement, and putting a hundred miles of distance between her and her old problems didn’t guarantee her a perfect new life. She doesn’t particularly miss living with her parents, rather she finds herself feeling homesick for a place she doesn’t think she’s found yet. There’s a restlessness in her-- her mom claims she gets it from her dad, and vice versa. It’s plagued her in small ways all her life, in the way she finds new friendships but struggles to make them last, in the way she throws herself into new passions only to grow bored of them within weeks, in the way college had seemed so thrilling and full of promise when she was a bright-eyed freshman and now here she is, on indefinite academic leave, struggling to remember what it was she saw in the place that was worth a lifetime of student loans.

She only has so long to figure it out too. She wants to finish her degree, she does, but art requires inspiration and there’s only so much to photograph in a town whose main export is cow shit and stale gossip. If she changes her major again at this point her advisor is for real going to mount her head on a pike outside the bursar’s office, so she has to at least try.

It doesn’t help that she’s pretty much limited to the immediate vicinity surrounding her housing co-op until she either manages to get herself a car or the bus drivers union wins their latest standoff with city hall. Cars cost money though, which means getting a real fulltime job, which she expects will spell the end for any lingering chance of her going back to school anyway. The snake devours its tail, and Soso commutes by bike.

Soso’s handy; she’s confident she can fix anything given enough time, the right tools, and a couple reliable video tutorials. That, among other odd jobs, is her main preoccupation right now. It’s something, but she can’t picture herself changing tires and cleaning out gutters for elderly neighbors to support her Chinese takeout dependency forever. At the rate she’s going, her best customers are going to start dying off before she graduates.

On that morbid note, Soso decides she needs to get out of the house. She slings her bag over her back just in case she manages to run into something photo-worthy and grabs her bike. It’s a brisk autumn afternoon and the fresh air is just what she needs.

On the way out she runs into one of her housemates, Carmen the highly caffeinated, returning from campus looking frazzled. Soso isn’t particularly close with any of her housemates, frequently as they tend to come and go, but that doesn’t stop her from offering her sympathies.

“Any luck with the research?”

Carmen groans. “My paper is doomed. Remind me why I thought ‘modern impact of classical mythology’ was a good choice for my level 300 history course?”

“Uh, beats me.” In reality she thinks it sounds like a fun subject, but it doesn’t feel her place to say so given that while Carmen’s been slaving away at the school library, she’s spent the better of her day half-watching questionable documentaries on alien conspiracies.

“Ensfield is full of weird old superstitions and legends,” she goes on frustratedly. “The old bridge makes it on one of those ‘top 10 spooky locations’ lists like once a month. Complain about a cough to the wrong person and suddenly you get people telling you you’re hexed and you need to walk in a circle counter-clockwise under the new moon to get rid of it.”

She’s pretty sure that’s not a thing, but nods anyway, waiting for the point she hopes is coming.

“You’d think the library in a town like this would have better sources on mythology. But no, all I get is a shrug and the same three books everyone else in the class is using. If I want to bump up my GPA, I need something you can’t just find on Wikipedia.”

Another one of their housemates crawls out from the shrubbery by the porch. “Maybe you should try that other library.”

“Jesus!” Carmen jumps. “What are you doing down there?”

Phoebe brushes dirt off her knees. “I saw a black cat go into the gap.” She points at a thin crack in the woodwork. “Halloween is coming. Any cats, especially black ones, you see wandering around need to be brought to the shelter pronto. People do terrible things to them if they see them wandering around this time of year.”

Soso squints. “Looks too small to fit a cat.”

“I saw what I saw. Anyway, there’s supposed to be an old town library way past the woods, thataway.” She points. “Guy who works there is really weird I heard but almost no one goes there anymore so you’d have first pick.”

Carmen looks thoughtful. “I think I’ve heard of it. I kind of thought it was just something people made up.”

“Nah, it’s real. My brother’s fraternity brings freshman there to haze them. They tell them to go up and throw eggs at the place and then ditch ‘em in the woods.”

Soso blinks. “Why?”

She shrugs. “It’s just a thing they do. It sucks and it’s totally immature but no one ever accused those guys of being creative.”

“Whatever,” Carmen says. “I’m done with books for today. I’m gonna go inside and enjoy some nice brain-rotting TV.”

“Good call, honestly. If you get caught hanging around that place too much they’ll probably start egging us next.”

Carmen heads inside and Phoebe goes back to making little coaxing noises at the gap in the porch. Soso frowns to herself. Sometimes she feels like people in this town purposely go out of their way to ruin anything that could be the slightest bit different. It’s probably just a normal library that happened to be in a weird spot, run by a typical cranky old librarian. Even if it is nothing it probably has more to offer than spending the rest of her day throwing french-fries to birds and squirrels in the Burger Beast parking lot.

“Hey Phoebe,” she says. “Where did you say that library was?”

 --

 The trip is longer than she had anticipated. Her legs are strong but the sun’s getting low enough that she worries she’ll be riding home in the dark. A generous part of it she blames on Phoebe’s vague directions, scribbled into a patchwork paper map of hear-say more than anything else. Despite this she continues. She’s snapped a few pictures of the foliage in its brilliant reds and golds, so if all else is a bust at least she won’t have completely wasted her time. Worst case scenario, she returns home with a little extra muscle on her calves from all the pedaling.

Well, the real worst case scenario is probably more along the lines of her getting caught by an axe murderer and left to rot in the spooky woods, another ghost for the local repertoire. Even then, at least she won’t have to worry about the next family phone call if she’s dead.

Grim musings aside, she loops back and manages to find the correct path, a trampled dirt road half-hidden under the leaf litter, and at last make her way to the fabled “other library”. It’s one of those old brick buildings, surrounded by a low fence that struggles to hold its own against the climbing vines and insects nibbling at its posts. It’s early enough in the season that their collective buzz-chirp-hum still fills the air, though otherwise it is almost eerily quiet. It’s strangely peaceful, Soso thinks as she wades through wild patches of tall grass, as if she were returning to somewhere familiar.

The place is clearly abandoned, she decides, sunlight refracting off the firmly shuttered windows. It’s a cool discovery to be sure, but she ought to have known a mysterious library in the woods with an equally mysterious shut-in tending it was too much to expect from a town like Ensfield. That doesn’t stop her from exploring though. She likes it here, and she especially likes the gorgeous, ancient-looking gargoyle that sits in front of the steps leading up to the entrance, like one of those stone lions that stand guard outside of libraries of greater fame than this one.

The thing is magnificent, as well as truly hideous, its face twisted in a snarl so visceral and strikingly lifelike that it sends a genuine chill down her spine. The attention to detail, to carving out each individual wrinkle of flesh, is astounding. The stance the stone creature is frozen in comes off much more threatening than the regal intensity she might have expected, and it seems to her a counterintuitive choice of décor, but one the artist in her wholeheartedly approves of.

Propping her bike up against the stairs she crouches in the shadow of the gargoyle to get a better look. Organic shapes like vines encircle the beast, so lifelike that feels compelled to touch, as if they might fall away under her fingertips. Just as she reaches out however, the front doors of the library swing open and a stout, middle-aged man rushes out.

“Don’t- who- don’t touch that! It’s- it’s not-“ he stammers. “It’s an antique. Very breakable.”

The man is well-dressed, but his head of yellow hair is mussed to one side, like he’s just woken from a nap, enforced by the wrinkles he anxiously tries to smooth out of his vest. His eyes are a shocking shade of spring green.

“Sorry?” Soso offers, still recovering from the fright. She pulls her hand back guiltily and he seems to relax. How fragile could something made of stone be, she wonders, that he would work himself up into such a state over it. “Uh, is this the library?”

The man finishes straightening himself out before he responds. “That’s what you’re here for? Books?”

“What else?” she asks. His eyes remain narrow with scrutiny, so she adds, “Books on mythology. It’s for a school project. I heard… I am in the right place, right?”

There’s a copper plaque by the door that reads “North Ensfield Public Library”, but at this point she’d be as willing to accept that she wandered into a random person’s front yard, for how he looks at her. After another awkward pause, the man turns back towards the entrance and gestures for her to follow.

“Sorry about that. I don’t see many regular patrons anymore, not for a while now. Pardon the mess.” He speaks quickly, not leaving any room for interruption.

There isn’t much mess to pardon, not really. In fact, the shelves look well organized, if a bit dusty, and the space isn’t as cramped or cluttered as she had expected from the outside. A certain saying about books and covers comes to mind, but she doesn’t think her host would appreciate the joke. It’s no wonder he doesn’t see many people if he acts this way with everyone. Soso bumps into a table and nearly upsets what seems to be a pyramid assembled from various glasses, topped with an upside-down teapot.

“Do you live here?” she asks before she can curtail her curiosity.

“I’m a librarian,” he answers. “This is a library.”

“Right, but that doesn’t…” she fumbles.

“Do Canadians not live in Canada? Do Norwegians not live in Norway?”

“Vegetarians don’t live in vegetables,” she counters.

He considers that. “Well-played.”

Soso laughs despite herself and, to her surprise, things seem to go more smoothly after that. She continues speaking with the librarian and learns that his name is Surehouser, though if there’s a first name attached to that one, she doesn’t catch it. He’s certainly as eccentric as the rumors had led her to believe, but he seems harmless, and quite frankly more than a little lonesome. She doesn’t know how a person could be anything else, living like this.

He’s not friendly or unfriendly; his words have a measured quality to them, as if he’s afraid of saying too much. Soso gets the impression, as the sole carer for this seemingly ancient place, his occupation is more out of a sense of obligation than a passion for literature. He looks the part of the academic for sure, down to the silver that threads through his hair and the half-moon reading glasses folded in the front of his shirt, but his eyes track her as she browses like he doesn’t know what to do with someone who actually wants to check out a book.

“Do you have an idea of what you’re looking for?” he asks after she’s been at it for a while.

She doesn’t want to admit that not only is she not sure, since it’s not really her class she needs it for, but that whatever organizational system is in place here is totally incomprehensible to her. “Anything you have should be good.”

Which is how she ends up checking out way more than she meant to, sending up a tiny prayer that her comparatively tiny backpack can rise to the occasion. Surehouser gives her a look like he knows what’s going through her head as he leads her to the front desk. There’s no computer in sight, just a leatherbound book of names and dates and a thick rubber stamp.

“On my way out, would you mind if I took some pictures of that statue you have out front? For my project.” She adds that last part as an afterthought, then regrets it right away. She’s a notoriously terrible liar and the more she enforces the threads of this pointless story she’s weaving, the more awkward she feels.

He frowns and says, more to himself than to her, “I always thought that old thing was a bit gaudy myself. I’d have gotten rid of it ages ago if I could.”

Something about the way he says it strikes her as strange. Not knowing how to respond, she simply says, “I don’t know, I think it’s cool.”

He laughs. Or, she thinks that’s what it is. The sound is gentle but rusty at the edges. “I suppose you would. Feel free to do whatever you want, only do not touch it, and be careful.”

She walks down the stone steps, her haul unexpectedly light on her back, and pauses to look at the gargoyle once more. The light isn’t any good right now, but she’ll be back.

“See you later,” she tells it.

Sure enough, the next day she’s back. She hadn’t actually planned to be such a regular, but she’d been unable to keep the place from her mind, and it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. Carmen had looked about to cry when Soso showed her the books she’d picked out. The ones she didn’t need for her paper, Soso decided to flip through herself and had found herself more invested than she’d counted on. The book on obscure pagan deities she’d selected, though dense and confusing in places, was particularly interesting. Before she knew it, she was finished, and thus had the perfect excuse to go back.

“This guy kinda looks like you, don’t you think?” She holds the page open so that the gargoyle could “see” it. Despite arriving at noon on a Wednesday, the library seems to be truly closed today and no amount of knocking had managed to change its mind. Since she’d already come all this way, she figured she might as well find some other way to entertain herself before heading home.

“The horns are all wrong, but the general look is there. He could be, like, your second cousin,” she tells the statue.

The statue doesn’t respond, obviously, but Soso likes talking to it regardless. She adjusts her position so she can keep reading while keeping the book within its line of sight. When it’s time to leave, she turns to it and says,

“Keep an eye on that guy who runs the place for me. He’s weird, and should really keep more regular hours, but he’s nice, and I think being alone out here is making him a little…” She makes a spiraling motion with her finger. “Guess I’m not one to talk though. I’m chatting with a hunk of rock.”

She doesn’t stop though. Maybe it’s the boredom, maybe it’s something just fundamentally Soso, but whatever the reason, she keeps coming back. Partially for the library, yes, and for the company of the strange librarian that dwells within, but primarily to have a quiet place to vent her frustrations and speak her mind, where often the only one around to judge is one who’s incapable of talking back.

Surehouser is an acquired taste, and they don’t have much in common, but he never turns Soso away on the days when her visits magically coincide with the hours of operation. He always seems to have snacks on hand and is content to let the young woman ramble on about whatever latest subject has caught her interest, which as much as she could ask of anyone really. He still speaks frustratingly little of himself, but she believes she’ll get it out of him eventually.

She’s moved from taking pictures around the library to breaking out her old sketchbook, sitting on the steps and muttering to the empty air as she tries to map the contours of the stone body before her. She’s always been visually minded, for whatever good it does her.

“My mom keeps calling and asking if I want to come home for the holidays,” she complains, holding her knees to her chest. “And I know that’s months away but if I say yes that means having to see my family in person while they interrogate me about my future. I’m not even sure I have a future.”

She paces around for a minute to work out some pins and needles and brushes back her hair where it’s been falling in her face. Feeling playful, she imagines she can feel the gargoyle’s gaze watching her.

“Oh this? Yeah, I did get a haircut, thank you for noticing. Just a couple inches off the bottom but I think it’s nice.”

She tosses her head. Nestled among her dark hair, a tip of pointed ear pokes out and she worries idly at the cartilage like she used to do when she was younger.

“You noticed that too, huh. I was born with this itty bity point to my ears. They used to stick out when I was a kid. I was kinda self-conscious about it, actually. I dreaded whenever we had a course in school about fairytales because the kids in my class would call me an elf. I started making my mom do my hair so that they were hidden and just, never grew out of the habit I guess.”

The gargoyle is without comment. She smiles.

“I knew you’d understand, dude. Us freaks have to stick together.”

The following week is a flurry of last-minute Halloween preparations. Soso herself hadn’t been planning to dress up, not having anywhere to be other than planted firmly on the couch in front of a horror B-movie marathon, but the other girls insist they decorate, as there’d been whispers in their neighborhood of pranks planned on those deemed not festive enough. According to Carmen, who had become the resident expert on local tradition since she aced her last history test, the custom of shunning those who didn’t partake was almost as firmly rooted as the decorating itself. It stemmed from a belief from ye olden days that the festivities helped to fend off ghosts and goblins and the meddling of the fae on the day when the border between their worlds was the thinnest.

“Wait, do ghosts come from the same place as fae, or do they just, like, carpool here?”

She snorts. ���It depends who you ask, but a lot of people around here believe that anything that’s magical or ‘otherworldly’ in origin is technically ‘fae’. Ensfield has a whole history of convoluted fae-based superstitions. Did you know some people still leave out bowls of fresh milk for house spirits?”

“House spirits?”

“Like, brownies.”

Soso nods. “I love having milk with brownies.”

Phoebe pipes up from the kitchen. “I had a girlfriend in high school who left out offerings when she was doing her SATs.”

“Did it help?” Carmen asks. “I’ll try anything.”

Soso is no skeptic, but she’s more inclined to believe that leaving food out overnight will attract more mice than faerie blessings. The sentiment is nice, but it’s hard for her to take comfort in fairytales without remembering her childhood teasing. How much worse could it have been if it had been more than just a joke, if her ears and her daydreaming demeanor were enough to get her labeled as an outsider for life, rather than just for the span of third grade.

“Are you doing anything special for Halloween, Soso?” Carmen asks.

“You mean like leaving out bowls of milk?”

She laughs. “No, like going to a party. You can come with me to Katy’s if you want. It’ll be lowkey.”

Carmen has been making more of an effort to get to know her since she got her those books for her paper, but while Soso appreciates the thought, being a plus-one at a stranger’s party where everyone knows each other from the classes she’s still not attending doesn’t sound like her idea of a good time.

“No thanks. Someone’s gotta stay and hand out candy to the trick or treaters, right?”

“Good point. Did you pick up candy?”

“Not yet, but I’ll do it.”

“Just don’t put it off until the night of.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

That is exactly what happened. October 31st finds Soso standing in line with a back of candy under each arm. Their neighborhood isn’t exactly kid-heavy, but better safe than TP’d she figures. She’s nearing the register when a pair of college-age boys stumble in, looking conspicuously red around the whites of their eyes. She sighs inwardly as they wander around, talking just a bit too loud for comfort, and does her best to ignore them even as they get in line behind her. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she notices that there is nothing in their baskets except a two-liter bottle of off-brand soda, a box of marshmallow snackcakes, and about four cartons of eggs, each.

It almost doesn’t click for her until she remembers what Phoebe said about the frat bros and their hazing. That paired with it being a night notorious for pranks by idiot teens is enough to get her nervous. After making her purchase she lingers outside the store for a moment and watches as the boys climb into a car and drive away in the direction of the woods.

It might still be a coincidence, they might be heading to some other destination that just so happens to be in that direction as well, but the image of some stupid stoners invading her sanctuary makes her hackles raise all the same. She starts pedaling after them, following just far enough behind so as not to be spotted in the swiftly fading light.

[ajbwasntwriting]

Daughter!Reader x Negan, Reader x Daryl: Chapter 2. Great Escape

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The previous chapter did rather well since I haven’t posted anything in years so here’s chapter 2. Shout out to my friend @theturtlesgohnnnng​ for reading all these chapters.

I’ll only post more chapters if previous chapters get a good reaction so if you enjoy this please heart it, reblog it, and/or reply to it. Interaction inspires.

The sunlight stirred you, activating your hangover with it. Luckily you only had the headache to deal with. Daily drinking will give you that benefit.

Waking up you were dressed in your F/C shirt and some jeans, with one combat boot still on your foot. They were worse for wear but they carried you everywhere since the end began. You put your other boot back on, grabbed the bottle from last night, and wondered out of your room, stretching as you walked. You walked into the wives’ quarters where they all sat drinking, talking, and doing whatever it took to fill the day. Your father’s newest plaything Sherry was at the bar, talking with Amber. You placed the bottle on the counter next to her

“You need more Vodka.” You turned to exit

“We wouldn’t if you fucked off” she muttered under your breath. You stopped walking, commanding the attention of all the wives. You twirled on your heels,

“What was that Sherry?”. Her face went bright red with embarrassment and she struggled to come up with a good excuse.

“She told you to fuck off” Frankie chirped up from the couch. Sherry began to shiver. She was new and didn’t know how to handle you just yet. She looked around the room in fear but no other wife was responding

“Is this true, Sherry?”

“I-...I just” she continued to stumble until you interrupted her.

“Don’t worry about it Sherry” you said sweetly before leaving, more interested in the thumping of your head than Sherry’s feelings. You made your way to the top floor kitchen which was always stocked for the convenience of yourself and the wives and took a bottle of water. ‘Fuck off, huh?...not a bad idea.’ you went to prepare yourself a proper breakfast for the first time in forever.

You stood just at the edging of the forest, bow and arrow in hand, picking off a couple of walkers as they approached.

“Great shot, Y/N,” Fat Joey said behind you as the new guy Josh clapped. Between babysitting you and kissing your old man’s ass you wonder how they had time to come out here and watch your back.

“Hardly, it took me three shots.” You huffed as you scouted deeper. The archery wasn’t for practical purposes. You liked it when you were in the scouts and your old man figured you’d be sentimental enough to want to have a bow and arrow now. It gave you an excuse to leave...with a couple of babysitters.

“I’m done. Let’s go”. You announced heading back to the compound with your carers in tow. Once back inside the two went to follow you up to the top floor. “I can go by myself” you shot at them.

Josh began to argue “That’s against Nea-”

“Negan isn’t fucking here!” you barked back, causing Fat Joey to jump. You strolled ahead, the others not following you.

“What’s she so worked up about?” you heard them before ascending the stairs. You were usually kinder but today you had a mission and going out to shoot some arrows was just an excuse to descend from your floor without suspicion. You stopped off at a supply closet on the way up to your floor and grabbed a back-pack. It was small but it would serve your purpose.

That evening you showered for an hour, not knowing when you would get such a luxury again. You dressed in fresh pants that would be perfect for the DC spring and a button-up shirt. In your bag, you placed three bottles of water, some dried food, 30 rounds of bullets for your gun, some painkillers, a pair of wire cutters, some rope, and a knife sharpener. You had in your belt a handgun you had stolen from the supply and the engraved knife. Finally, your bow and quiver. Your plan was near perfect, it just needed to be activated. The last piece you left was a note tucked under your pillow. ‘Don’t try to find me’.

When the sky began to turn a warm orange you began running to the back stairwell and placing yourself under behind some steps. Concealed in the shadows you waited. There would be guards outside. Some might recognize you but you’d been hidden away from the world for so long it was more likely they’d think you were a code orange so you waited.

The change of the shift descended the steps, sauntering out the back door without a care in the world. You moved behind them, not earning a bit of attention as the people chatted amongst themselves. Once outside the guards went left and you went right, keeping an ear on their pace and trying to match it so they didn’t turn. You ducked behind a broken wall and was greeted with the final limit to your freedom. The damn walker fence. You pulled out the wire clippers and started working at the fence. Your heart began to beat rapidly ‘If I don’t get out while the guard is changing I’m screwed’.

To make matters worse a couple of the walkers now thought you were a snack, banging on the fence and growling in your direction. With quick hands, you peeled back an edge of the fence and crawled through. You dived out of the walkers grab, now clear of the fence and lying underneath a concrete mound which another walker was chained too, luckily on the other side so it had to lean over the concrete to reach you. Your breathing hastened and you began to crawl, narrowly missing walker after walker. Luckily their chains and spikes kept most of them upright.

You were nearly clear when you heard it. The exit door had creaked open, meaning the guard had officially changed. You had made it to a relatively safe spot but the walkers were wanting you and the guard was now paying attention.

“What’s that?” you heard one of them call. This was it you thought. She’s gonna come over here and shoot you dead. You could hear her heavy boots moving around. She’d see you soon. By some miracle, one of the mounted walkers had torn their attention from you and was now snapping at her. You held your breath as you looked for the pole it was mounted on, finding it within arms reach. You pushed your legs under you then grabbed the pole, trying urgently to loosen it. Your heart sat in your throat as she got closer till eventually, the pole slipped from its position and out of the hungry walker, who you guessed lunged at the woman. Under the cover of her screams, you jumped up and ran, sprinting for the forest edge. Your feet felt light despite the unlevel ground the air in your lungs fueled your adrenaline. And you ran.

As the sky turned light again when you began to hunt. ‘I need a walker’ you thought. You wandered into a small town. There were a few bumbling around you examining each from a distance. ‘Too old...too short…’.

You struck a few down with your new knife, noticing how their blood gave the engraved letters a rather romantic red hue. Through the slaughter, you saw her, the perfect walker. She was about your height and not too old. She even had your hair color! Now all you had to do was...catch her. You whistled at her. There were two more behind her but if your plan went perfect then they wouldn’t be a worry. You walked back to the forest, beckoning her onwards. She growled and grabbed you while two others bumbled behind her. You pulled your bow from your shoulder, aiming for one behind her and letting loose. The arrow struck it in the stomach but for once you didn’t mind. You took a few more steps back and loaded another arrow and let it fly at the other walker, hitting him square in the head. That was bad. You began to panic thinking you might kill your doppelganger. You walked them into the words, soon it would be life or death. You pulled an arrow and aimed for the final spare walker, putting him down too.

You pulled a final arrow into the bow, pulling the string taut as the doppelganger approached. She lunged at you and you kicked her, sending her back flying into a tree. Finally raising the arrow and shooting her shoulder, pinning her there. You pulled the rope from your bag and thickened it into a gag, tying it to her mouth and around the tree so she couldn’t bite you or move. She still could reach you but you’d have to deal with that. With your knife in hand, you began cutting her clothes off, the smell making you want to throw up. You then stripped yourself of your outfit and began to dress the walker, breaking one of her arms to get the shirt on her. ‘Thank god no one is around to see me in my undies’. The next touch was leaving your stuff there. The quiver and bow were dropped and your bag was thrown open. You left everything except the gun, the rounds, and a lone arrow. Finally, you carved off her face, walked around the tree, and cut her free. She moved slowly down the arrow to freedom and you sprinted, dropping the knife as you run.

After all this effort he better believe you were dead.