#when I took a writing workshop class in college we were allowed to write about anything and I was the only one writing scifi fantasy

[bhramarii]

been feeling disillusioned with my writing a bit if anyone wants to cheer me up leave a nice review of INFERNO on goodreads maybe?

[onsomekindofstartrek]

I’ve slept on this and I think one part of it is, when you don’t have an actual positive rubric for what constitutes good writing, all you have is negatives.

Don’t use flowing long sentences. Don’t use too many adverbs. Don’t use similes. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Don’t run. Don’t walk.

For some background: I took four creative writing classes in college, two short fiction (100 and 200 level) and two poetry (100 level for the first one, then 200–through-400 level open crosslist for the second one). So I’m not presenting myself as an expert or even someone with a minor in the subject. (They counted towards my minor in English lit, for some reason, but I took them as electives initially.)

I had two instructors for one of the short fiction classes, one for the other, and the same tenured professor both times for poetry.

And the difference, to my mind, is that the poetry professor at least had positive, well-formed opinions of her own!

All three short fiction instructors, one adjunct and two graduate instructors, were exactly the same and rigidly conformist in their approach to fiction. A lot of depressing literary minimalist fiction on the syllabi (Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson was the only thing I enjoyed, it was on both syllabi), a lot of really stupid and overstated pearl-clutching about genre fiction that was framed as “we’re saving you from being unpublishable” even though there’s literally a larger market for genre fiction and it was clearly about respectability… and never, aside from some line level mechanical writing advice that was genuinely useful, never a positive statement of “do this if you want to achieve this artistic purpose, do that if you want to have this effect,” or anything like that. The most depressing classes I ever took, to the extent that I was glad when a temporary crown fell out of one of my molars and I had to excuse myself ten minutes into a class period to call my dentist.

Department policy was that only so-called literary fiction would receive a grade, but this quickly went out the window because no one submitted literary fiction, and if you are an adjunct, you are definitely not allowed to fail 90% of a class without consequences.

Now, in the poetry class, like, sure, we were taught according to a certain contemporary school of poetry. The professor described herself as being from the diaspora of the New York School, whatever that is. And to be honest I struggled to keep her happy with my poetry because at my core, I’m stuck in the early and mid 20th century as far as poetry goes. I’d rather read Nemerov or Crane than most contemporary poets. But at least there were goals we could strive towards, and she was more than willing to help us try and achieve goals that we would come to her with.

The only time I remember her telling somebody that there was material they weren’t allowed to submit for criticism was after a young student passed out an extremely graphic poem with a description of fisting, she took him aside and I’m given to understand, from his very pissy account that he gave later, she told him it had clearly made members of the class uncomfortable and allowed him to submit a new poem for the next day of workshops with no penalty. To be clear I don’t think homophobia was involved, she praised a lot of other poems with queer themes even to the point of moderate sexual content, it was just… extremely graphic and extremely sexual, to the point where I can understand making an executive decision as the professor that it was inappropriate for group discussion.

Other than that, we had a lot of creative freedom in that class… very often she would prescribe or prompt some aspect of the poem assignment, such as structure or a type of implied situation, but almost never its absolute subject matter. She would give commentary on our creative choices, sometimes to the point of telling us privately in writing that something just hadn’t worked, but never in a million years would she say “you must not do X or Y, that’s a creative choice that’s never allowed in modern poetry.” Whereas I felt like that was the kind of criticism the instructors constantly gave verbally, in front of peers in the fiction workshops.

It didn’t matter in the end; we knew they were powerless against the onslaught of genre fiction the class as a body would throw at them. But it’s still a style of teaching that not only doesn’t help you achieve your creative goals, but can also make you not want to make art. I think that blows.

I think the difference is that literary minimalism or whatever the style of the day in literary fiction is, is kinda poorly defined, right? It’s always struck me as one of the vaguest styles of writing, because whenever I see people try to define it, they’re always trying to do so by describing what it’s not. So you can only teach what not to do in that style.

I also don’t see why there can only be one style of literary fiction writing, or why if there has to be only one, why it has to be that one. I have never in my life wanted to write like Raymond Carver, I’m sorry.

This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.

e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.

I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.

This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.

And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.

[snarkythewoecrow]

Okay I’m so obsessed with all your writing especially looking for normal! Idk if you’re interested in writing any more ~drug~ related stories but I think it would be really interesting to see Peter starting to abuse Adderall in order to study or finish college applications or something! Like if Peter was super jittery and on edge and Tony discovering the pills and just like all the angst pleaseeeeee

This was such an awesome prompt and came at the perfect time. I wrote this kinda fast and it might have errors, but I hope you like it. 

Trigger Warning for Addiction and Drug Abuse

Read on AO3

“Be right out,” Peter called over his shoulder towards the door of his room. Quicky, he shook out another pill from the bottle and popped it into his mouth, swallowing it down with a grimace. He stuffed the bottle back into his bag, shoving his hoodie on top and zipping the backpack closed.

Using Adderall had started simply enough. It wasn’t like Peter didn’t know where to get them. In a STEM school, a lot of kids used them to study, and it wasn’t like these were real drugs, not like heroin or speed. Okay, maybe they shared some molecular similarities to drugs like meth, but they were still different, and these were prescribed, just not to him. They were totally safe, though.  

That was what he told himself anyway.

Peter charged out the door to his room, slinging his backpack onto his shoulders and nearly tripping over his own feet. He was running late. Happy would be there any minute to pick him up to go upstate for the weekend. Tony had given him his room at the compound, and they planned to spend the next few days working on some projects and going over college choices, though Tony had already made his favorite known. He wanted Peter to attend MIT, just like he had. Peter hadn’t written the option off, but he wanted to stay closer to home if he could.

May peeked out of the kitchen and rolled her eyes as Peter patted at his hair, trying to tame it.

“You should really eat something before you go,” May said, wiping her hands on a towel and throwing it over her shoulder. “It’s a long ride.”

Peter’s brows went up, and he blinked. “Oh, yeah, maybe. I can just grab a granola bar or something.”

She shook her head and went back into the kitchen, appearing again a moment later with a brown paper bag. She held it out to him, and Peter smiled, walking over to her.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s just a tuna sandwich and a few Powerbars. I’m not going to responsible for you passing out. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how jittery you’ve been lately.”

Peter took the bag, looking inside. He grabbed a Powerbar and tore into it with his teeth. Truth be told, his appetite wasn’t that great since he’d started using Adderall, but he didn’t want to worry May. Taking a bite, he spoke around his mouthful. “Thanks, May.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Holding the Powerbar between his teeth, he dug out his phone. It was a message from Happy saying he was out front. He typed a quick reply, saying he would be right there, then stuffed his phone back into his pocket, took the Powerbar out of his mouth, and said goodbye to May.

The ride to the compound was quiet, and Peter used the time to work on his Physics homework. He had a lot to catch up on after a Spider-Man related injury took him out of school for three days last week. He’d finally been able to get most of his work caught up with the help of the pills. They allowed him to get into the zone and focus in a way he couldn’t otherwise.

It was like time was irrelevant when he was using them. He didn’t feel it pass. Everything around him blurred out, and he could give the project he was working on his full attention. It felt good, even if it made him a little shaky and his heartbeat a bit too fast, but that was only because Peter needed to use more than the average person. He could burn through twenty milligrams in an hour or two, so he had to keep popping them on the days he wanted to get things done.

But that had created even more of a problem, not that he would admit it.

When the drug wore off, he’d crash hard, feeling depressed and tired and like his body was moving through cold molasses. Another pill always made the feeling go away, but he didn’t have an endless supply, and they cost a lot of money.

He didn’t like to think about it, but he’d used some of the money Tony had given for his college fund to buy them. It wasn’t like it made a dent in the account. The saving account had an obscene amount of money in it. Peter had always thought that what he didn’t use for college, he would donate to charity. Using it for drugs made Peter feel a little sick, but he reasoned that buying the Adderall did go towards his future. They ensured he could study and get good grades.

He finished the last of his homework as the car pulled through the gate at the compound. The Adderall Peter had taken at home before he left had already worn off, but that was fine because he’d gotten a bottle of sixty just the other day, so he had plenty.

Peter didn’t stop at this room. Instead, he went straight to the workshop, backpack over his shoulder.

The door to the workshop opened with a whoosh, and Peter winced at the loud music. When he stepped into the room, Friday lowered the volume, and Tony straightened from the workbench he was stooped over, bracing his back with a hand and stretching. He turned to Peter and smiled.

“Hey, kid.” Tony wiped his hands off on his jeans. “Got an engine from one of my babies taken apart, doing a rebuild. I could use your hands if you want to help.”

Peter’s gaze flitted over the tools and parts. His knowledge of engines was all academic, nothing hands-on, but he was willing to learn. “Sure, I just need to, um—” He motioned to the bathroom.

Tony waved toward the shelf. “Grab one of the welding helmets on your way back. You’ll need it.”

Peter nodded, jogging toward the bathroom, but Tony’s voice made him stop.

“You know you can leave your bag here, right? Just saying, might be easier, but what do I know?”

Peter’s mouth twitched, and his grip tightened on the strap over his shoulder. He’d wanted to take another Adderall before they started working, but he couldn’t do that with Tony watching. Forcing a smile, he said, “Right, yeah, what was I thinking?”

He tossed his bag into one of the chairs and walked off to the bathroom.

When he got out, he grabbed a helmet like Tony had asked and went to stand beside him.

“Ever weld before?” Tony asked, his own helmet flipped up.

“No?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

Peter blinked. “I tried it in shop class last year, but it didn’t go well. I may have started a fire.”

Tony’s eyebrows lifted, and Peter rushed to explain.

“A small fire, barely counted as a fire, really, and I may have dropped some molten metal on my shoe, but it was fine.”

“Put your helmet on.” Tony nodded at it. “I’ll explain what I’m doing, and then you can try, and we’ll try to avoid any fires or close calls with death.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure, kid.”

Peter watched Tony, trying to listen and focus, but the heavy feeling he didn’t like was seeping into his bones. He was starting to crash, and it made it so hard to focus. After watching for a little while, Tony gave him the tools and guided him on how to start. He didn’t start any fires, but he didn’t do that good of a job. Where Tony had welded what looked like a neat row of stacked dimes, Peter had burned through the metal and left globs all over.

He was just about to try again when the welder turned off. Peter set the tools down and flipped up his mask to look at Tony, who had taken his off.

Running a hand through his hair, Tony shook his head and then leaned his hip against the workbench. ”Is everything all right? Are you getting enough sleep? Enough to eat, all the good things like that?”

Peter took his helmet off and set it on the workbench. He wiped his brow, frowning a little. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”

“It just doesn’t seem like you’re fully switched on today. You don’t seem too excited to be here right now.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “No, no. I’m really happy to be here. I loved learning about welding and stuff, but yeah, you’re right. I guess I’m having an off day. It’s nothing big, though. I guess I didn’t sleep that well.”

Tony nodded a few times, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Yeah, well, how about we call it quits and grab some food. We can try again tomorrow after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

Peter was really feeling the crash by the time they finished dinner, so he retired to his room, skipping their traditional Friday night movie. Tony seemed disappointed, but Peter felt too awful to stay awake any longer. He’d only had two Adderall that day instead of the four he usually took. It seemed the lack of his usual dose was leaving him feeling crappier than usual.

Thankfully, he was able to sleep, and when he woke up the next morning, the first thing he did was take two pills. He didn’t usually do that unless he had to study because it made him jittery, but he was afraid of feeling crappy again. He craved the rush and the way they sharpened his thoughts, adding clarity to his thinking. He wanted to make up for his off day yesterday and show Tony how well he could do.

After showering and getting dressed, he went to the kitchen to find Tony. He was dressed and making breakfast. Peter didn’t feel hungry at all, though, not in the slightest. Whenever he took two pills at once, he almost had an aversion to food.

The smell of the eggs cooking made Peter’s nose wrinkle.

“Morning, Pete,” Tony said, lifting the pan and scrapping some scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Friday said you were up. I made eggs, and not to brag, but I even added cheese without burning them.”

Peter tried to smile even though the last thing he wanted to do was eat. He took a seat at the breakfast bar, and Tony set a plate down in front of him. He tried to hide his grimace, but Tony must have noticed the look when he turned to pass Peter a fork.

“Why do you look like you’d rather gnaw off an arm than eat my masterful creation?��� He stepped around the counter and pressed the back of his hand to Peter’s cheek, then his forehead as Peter tried to worm away. “You don’t feel warm.”

Peter’s knee began to bounce as the pills started to really hit his system. He grabbed his fork and stabbed some of the eggs. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Having another off day? Did you sleep okay?”

Peter sucked in a breath, clenching his jaw shut for a second before speaking. His temper was always touchy after he’d taken a double dose. “I’m really fine. I’m not sick or anything. I slept good. Really, everything’s good, Mr. Stark.”

Tony crossed his arms, eyes raking over Peter before he nodded and went to eat his eggs.

After breakfast, Peter followed Tony to the workshop, but today he had planned better. In his pocket were four more pills, enough to keep himself going until bed plus some.

Tony had Peter weld again, and this time he did much better, though his hands were a little shaky. If Tony noticed, he didn’t say anything. When the high started to wear off, Peter excused himself to the bathroom and took two more pills. He normally didn’t take so many in a day, but he really didn’t want to crash around Tony again.

The only problem was that it made Peter jittery and on edge, his temper shorter than usual. The slightest things grated on his nerves, like how Tony kept rocking his coffee cup back and forth on the workbench. It was the only sound Peter seemed to be able to hear, and it was driving him over the edge. The rush he’d gotten from the pills today wasn’t a good one. He shouldn’t have taken so many, and now he was paying the price.

His heart rate was too fast, and Tony wouldn’t stop rocking his cup back and forth, the clock kept ticking on the wall, and before he knew it, the pencil he was holding snapped, making everything in the room come to a halt.

Tony looked over at him, eyes dropping to the broken pencil in his hand. He lifted his gaze to Peter’s eyes, brows raised in question.

“Pete?”

Peter swallowed, setting the broken pencil on the table. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s—”

“Fine,” Tony finished for him. “Yeah, you keep saying that.” The man frowned as he looked at Peter’s hands, which were gripping his thighs so tight the tips of his fingers were white. “Let’s try this again, and this time, why don’t we try the truth.”

Peter bit his lip, rubbing his hands on his jeans, his knees bouncing. He nodded a few times quickly. “Okay.”

Tony studied him for a few seconds, then scratched at his goatee. “You know, if I didn’t know you like I did, I’d say you’d were on something right now.”

Peter tensed. ‘I’m not—I didn’t take anything.”

“Kid, relax. You’re going to vibrate off the stool. I know you wouldn’t.”

Peter immediately felt guilty. He hated lying, and here he was, doing it straight to Tony’s face. He tried to settle himself down, but he was on edge. “It’s nothing, really, Mr. Stark.”

“So you’ve said.” Tony shook his head, looking at the wall behind Peter before fixing his gaze on him. “You didn’t sneak a Red Bull again, did you?”

“Uh, no,” he said too quickly, then corrected with a lie. “I mean, yes. I did. I had two. I know I’m not supposed to, but I didn’t want to be tired.”

The lie tasted like ash on his tongue.

Tony sighed. “Well, let’s finish up what we’re doing, and then we can grab some lunch. Hopefully, that freaky metabolism of yours will burn through it soon.”

After lunch, Peter started to crash hard. His body felt heavy and tired, and everything ached. His thought felt caught in a thick soup. They were supposed to go back to the workshop, and Peter didn’t want to be tired again, so before he left the kitchen, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the pills. His hand hesitated over the pills as he decided how many to take. He was so caught up in his thought that he didn’t hear Tony approach until he cleared his throat, making Peter jump and nearly drop the pills.

Tony’s sharp gaze was cutting through him, his expression unreadable, and Peter knew he was caught, but he still tried to hide his handful of pills behind him.

“Mr. Stark,” he croaked, shaking a little. “I was just coming down to meet you.”

Tony’s mouth twitched downward, and then his eyes fell to Peter’s hand. “Whatcha got there, Pete?”

Peter’s hand tightened around the pills, and he swallowed. “Um, these?” He lifted his hand without opening it. “These are just, um, vitamins. Yeah, they’re, uh, vitamins to help me focus.”

Tony’s shoulders fell, and he seemed to deflate. Closing his eyes for a second, he took a breath and then looked at Peter again. “God, help me. You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not—”

“Ah.” Tony put up his hand. “The adult is talking.”

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled, looking down. His palms were starting to sweat, and he imagined the pills were getting gross clenched in his hand. “I’ll be quiet.”

“What are they, Peter? And don’t lie because you know I will figure it out.”

Peter looked down at his feet and mumbled the answer.

“I didn’t quite catch that. Try again,” Tony said, tone softer than Peter deserved.

“It’s—they’re Adderall.” And Peter chanced a look at Tony, whose expression was tight. Peter couldn’t hold his gaze, so he looked away. The pills in his hand felt heavier than they should. He regretted everything. He wished he could go back in time and punch himself for being so stupid and buying them in the first place.

Tony sighed, then said, “Are they yours? Are they prescribed to you?”

Peter shook his head.

“Yeah, this is—fuck, Peter.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears pricked at his eyes, and he sniffled. “It just happened. They helped with studying, and then—I don’t know. I just—I just lost control. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You mean you didn’t intend to get caught.”

Peter’s head snapped up, his head shaking. “No, I mean, yeah, getting caught sucks, but I really didn’t mean to get—to get … addicted.” The last word was a whisper, but Tony heard him because his eyes softened, and he rubbed his jaw.

“I wanted you to be better than me.” Tony breathed. “I went down this road, maybe not with Adderall, but with other drugs. Addiction is an asshole that will never leave you alone once you’ve met. This is going to be a part of you for the rest of your life, kid. I just wanted better for you.”  

“I really am sorry.”

“I know.” Tony nodded.  “We’re gonna start with you handing over whatever you got there and anything else you brought, then you’re going to sit and watch TV while I figure out the next step. I don’t want this to ruin your life, Peter.”

“Do we have to tell May? She’ll kill me.”

Tony gave him a look, eyebrows raised and head tilted to the side. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Tony held out a hand, wiggling his fingers, and sighing, Peter unclenched his fist and placed the pills in Tony’s hand. It felt terrible and relieving to hand them over. He wouldn’t be able to relieve the crash or get that rush again, but he also didn’t need to worry anymore. He’d gotten in over his head, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Tony stuffed the pills into his pocket and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. It might not feel like it right now, but we’ll figure this out. Let’s get the rest of these pills taken care of. Then we can talk some more.”

Peter nodded and led Tony to his room. He dug the bottle out of his bag and passed them to Tony.

Examining the bottle, Tony said, “This why you wanted to bring the backpack into the bathroom?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Tony hummed. “Do I want to know how you afforded them?”

Tears welled in Peter’s eyes. He knew he had to tell Tony, but he didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face when he said the words. Taking a breath, he said to the floor, “College savings. They didn’t even ask why. They just let me take the money out.”

Tony sighed, putting the bottle in his pocket. “Yeah, I can honestly say I never thought to put restrictions on your account.”

Tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks. He swiped at them with his sleeve. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Then Tony was there, pulling him to his chest, and Peter buried his face against his neck.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You made a mistake. It happens to the best of us. I can solidly say to some more than others. Like how I spent most of the nineties making shitty decisions.”

That just made him cry harder for some reason. Everything felt like too much. Sobs wracked his frame, and everything he had held in, all the lies and half-truths, they poured out as tears. Tony pressed his lips to Peter’s hair and murmured nonsense about how it would be all be okay, but how could it be. He screwed up so badly.

When Peter’s tears tapered off, Tony gave him a squeeze and then pulled back to look at him. “Okay, let’s get you settled.” He swiped a tear from Peter’s cheek with his thumb. “I need to do a little research and make a few calls, but you’re gonna be all right, kiddo. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thank you.”

Peter felt anxious about what the future held. He wasn’t ready to confront May, and he didn’t know if he could survive without feeling that buzz of energy again, but he felt reassured. As long as he had Tony to guide him, all he needed to do was follow. Even if he didn’t know the path, Tony did, so he knew he would make it back from this okay.

[monotonous-minutia]

what was your theater experience growing up like? I know you have mentioned it before, but I’d love to hear more!

answering this depends on if you want the long version or the short version. But because I feel like telling it, we're gonna go with the long version.

(also I should preface this by saying I was home schooled and so I did not have any access to theatrical things through school.)

It starts on what seems like an unrelated note.

When I was a little kid (like really little, like 5 or so) my parents would always play lullaby CDs for us (my three brothers and I) when we went to bed. I've had issues with sleep for as long as I can remember, so I continued to listen to music every night until I was maybe 12 or 13 to try and get to sleep.

When I was around 10 I think, my mom's parents sent us a CD for Christmas or someone's birthday that was a lullaby CD, but it was all classical music. I loved it so it became my every night CD. The problem was, I got so into the music, it wouldn't actually put me to sleep. I wanted to stay up and listen to the music and read the sleeve of the CD case to see what all the songs were and who wrote them, and to feel the stories that the music was telling me. It was more than just a series of moms singing essentially “go to sleep” over and over. The music in this CD was interspersed with bits of dialogue that went along with the feeling of the music, and that just fascinated me; how someone could be telling a story with music that didn’t have any words.

So I started getting classical music CDs from the library to listen to during the day, so I could get into it when I wasn’t trying to fall asleep. I was primarily obsessed with Mozart, Vivaldi, and Handel, though I had a lot of other favorites too. There was also this really cool series of CDs that took the music of various composers and used them as a soundtrack for stories about the actual composers (the Classical Kids series) and I just ate them all up. I couldn't get enough.

People started to figure out classical music was just becoming My Thing, so I got a bunch of CDs for my various birthdays/Christmas and from the library. And one day my mom grabbed a CD of Die Zauberflote.

I got obsessed with it and once finished it, I kept listening to it over and over again. Then I wanted to see if there was a video recording of a performance that we could watch, because I loved the story and wanted to see how it would be acted out. The one copy our entire library system had was the Drottingholm Court Theater (1989) one, which to this day remains my favorite.

So now I was on the opera train, and I wanted to hear more. We listened to Nozze (though our mom wouldn't let us watch a video of this one; she said it was inappropriate. Also she hated the idea of a woman dressing up as a boy, so anything Cherubino-related was out); we listened to Barbiere, Carmen, and La boheme (these three we were allowed to watch videos of). After that my brothers got bored, but I didn't. I'd found my new obsession.

I continued to listen to operas on my own (and did occasionally manage to get a video or two in the house to watch). Then, because I am A Nerd, I started reading about them--summaries of ones I couldn't find; researching source material; reading about various performers and opera houses...pretty much anything I could get my hands on. All of this continued up until I went to college, which then took up the majority of my life (although I was able to take advantage of the university’s extensive library which had, among other things, DVDs of the ROH Zauberflote with Diana Damrau and Simon Keenlyside and the Met Hansel and Gretel with Frederica von Stade).

Now there's another aspect of this that contributes. I wrote a lot when I was a kid. Like a LOT. If I wasn't doing school or playing outside or listening to music, I was writing stories. Pretty much all of my old stories are dead now for reasons I won't get into. But one thing that stuck around was the desire to write plays. First I wanted to write an opera; the past few years obsessing over them made me want to write my own. But I couldn’t (and still can’t) read music, or write music, or even play an instrument. In my research, though, I'd found a lot of operas were based on plays, so I figured I could write one, and maybe later on down the line I’d find someone who could put it to music.

The only problem was I'd never seen a play. Not even a recording of one. it’s hard to write a play if you’ve never seen one and don’t understand how theater works.

I tried to remedy this by just reading a lot of plays. Our library had an entire section dedicated to drama, about three shelves big. I spent a lot of time there. I tried to figure out what made a good play, but you know, you just can't get the same experience without seeing one.

Then, when I was around 15 I think, I got my first "babysitting" gig, which was just me watching my little brother play video games with a kid a little younger than him. While I watched them play, I talked to the kid's mom (who was there so it really wasn't a gig), and I found out she was an actress that worked and volunteered at some local theaters.

I'd found my way in.

When I encountered her again, I asked if she knew of any ways I could get involved in the theater scene in town (there were a surprising amount of theaters nearby). There were two in particular that needed volunteers, so she connected me to some people. I got to know the staff at the theaters, help out in the box office, do some backstage stuff, usher, and occasionally help the actors with their lines and blocking. But the best part was I got to see a ton of shows for free by virtue of being a volunteer. During the next two summers, I was seeing a show almost every week, sometimes multiple times a week. It was glorious.

I also got to be involved in some of their youth shows; I actually got a few acting parts despite the fact that I'm a pretty bad actor and horrible at memorizing lines. More fun than that, I got to help out as a sort of assistant director for some children's theater workshops put on by local actors. Every Saturday for a summer, I went to one of the theaters to help guide a group of kids (it changed every week) in theater activities and act out a Roald Dahl story that they then performed for their parents. I absolutely loved doing this; I loved working alongside professional performers; I loved being able to participate in theater on a level I was comfortable with; I loved that I could get out of my freaking house; and I loved working with the kids. (Incidentally this is also what got me interested in working with kids, which has been my profession for the past six years.) So that, plus the volunteering, was the biggest part of my theater experience growing up.

Side note, it was through the magic of theater (and one enormous crush on a fellow volunteer) that made me realize I was gay. Of course, because the managers of one of the theaters ALSO happened to be gay (and married), my parents figured I'd been Converted(tm), and that's where the positivity about theater in my house ended. But once I got to college, I had fewer restraints, so I was free to get involved in theater (though I quickly realized a theater major was not for me). I did a bit of acting (never in mainstage shows), but mostly I participated in playwright groups and events. This is where I began writing plays in earnest and actually became good at it. It helped me get over the whole not-being-able-to-act thing. Plus I got to see a lot of shows because they were either a) free or b) severely discounted for students.

I almost got to go to a Big City to participate in a regional college theater festival by virtue of participating in a classmate’s theater project, but for reasons I also don’t need to go into, I was literally the only one who ended up not being able to go.

Aside from that though (an the ill-fated class I mentioned to you a while back), most of my theater experiences have been really positive, and I’m really grateful for that because it helped me get through some tough times at home. Plus there’s nothing like the joy of being involved in live performance. Once COVID winds down and I’m done with school, I want to see if I can get involved in some of the local theater groups in my city. I do still have a connection with one theater group from my old hometown (the one that did the readings of my plays), but the pandemic really put a nix on that. They’re still doing some virtual stuff though.

So anyway that’s probably way more information than you wanted but yeah. That’s my story.

[humansofhds]

The Rev. Judith Hoehler, BD ’58

“I had not intended to go on into a ministry. I really had intended to take a year out and go back into foreign service, but after I had been there for about six months studying, I knew that this was the place where I wanted to be. I felt my calling was in theology and ministry.”

Judy Hoehler is one the first seven women to enroll and receive a BD degree, which would later become the MDiv degree. She is also among the first denominational counselors at HDS, representing Unitarian Universalism.

A Time of Rejuvenation

Judy’s path to HDS began in South America. 

She explains, “I had been a Spanish major in college and had received a fellowship to do graduate work in Latin American studies at the University of Chile in Santiago. The more that I studied down there, the more I realized that the questions I was asking about how I wanted to spend the rest of my life were theological questions. And so, I decided to take a year off, since I was slated to go into foreign service, and go to divinity school, where I could address some of these issues.” 

In the spring of 1955, a friend encouraged Judy to apply to Harvard Divinity School. It was opening its doors to women for the first time that fall, and what was more, Paul Tillich was coming to HDS.

“It was going through a rejuvenation,” Judy explains, “and I thought it would be a very exciting place to study. I lived in Massachusetts, and my brother had gone to Harvard, and so, when I got home, I went and applied and was accepted as one of the seven first women.”

We Were Pathbreakers

When she arrived, Harvard had no dormitory space for women. Dean Douglas Horton and Mrs. Mildred McAfee Horton presented a solution. The Harvard Press building was undergoing renovations to become Jewett House, a home on Francis Avenue for the Dean, so the School had rented another house on Francis Avenue from the ambassador to India, Professor Galbraith, for the new dean and his wife.

Judy recalls, “It was a large house, and the Hortons very graciously opened two of the rooms to two of the woman students, and that was for Letty and for me.”

Shortly into the school year, Mrs. Horton held a tea for the seven women students at her home. Mrs. Horton was the former president of Wellesley and the founder the WAVES, the women's navy during the second world war, at President Franklin Roosevelt’s request.

“She had a tea for us because she thought we would benefit from hearing her experiences in breaking into an all-male bastion. It was a wonderful afternoon. All seven of us saw ourselves as breaking new ground.”

One example Judy recalls is the first day of classes, which was also the first day that morning prayers in Memorial Church’s Appleton Chapel were open to women.

“Up until that time, Radcliffe College students had been able to come to morning prayers, but they would have to sit in the main sanctuary of Memorial Hall and listen to the prayers through the choir screen. So Letty and I got up early. We were determined to be the first women to attend morning prayers, and we were the first women that day to get there. We later learned that George Buttrick, who was the university preacher that had come the spring before, had insisted that his wife be allowed to come to morning prayers, so in fact, she was the first woman. But Letty and I certainly saw ourselves as pathbreakers.”

Accepted Inside, Rejected Outside

When classes began, unlike Letty who had been a Bible major at Wellesley, everything was new to Judy.

“Every course opened up my mind to whole worlds that I had not been aware were there. I really was blessed with some superb lecturers, such as Tillich. Another plus that should not go unmentioned was the fact there were so many denominations, and eventually, world religions represented there. That was something that really did enrich education at Harvard.”

Judy and Letty fell in with a group of graduate students very early.

“They were all strongly in favor of women's education at the Divinity School. The faculty seemed very supportive. They seemed to not make a distinction, faculty such as Conrad Wright, George Williams, James Luther Adams, Paul Tillich, Richard Niebuhr, and Krister Stendhal. I felt very little prejudice at that time. If there was any, I was not aware of it. But Letty was. She spoke about it to me. Even after, I only noticed it in little subtle ways. For example, if we were in some discussion around a table and I said something, then later what I had said was brought up, it would be attributed to one of the male students. Other than that, I did not feel it.”

Both Letty and Judy did denominational work and met with much more prejudice in seeking ordination than either had at the School.

“In the 1950s there was a perception that the proper role for women in the church was in religious education or pastoral work rather than engaging in intellectual scholarship, theology, or official ordination.”

Even so, Judy applied for ordination in the American Unitarian Association, a very liberal denomination that had ordained quite a few women at the turn of the century. By the time Judy applied though, that had changed. There were only one or two women ordained, older women whom Judy knew.

“In my interview, I was told that I had a fine record, and I would do a good job, but unfortunately, since it was a congregationally run denomination, the congregations probably were not yet ready for women in leadership positions.”

Afterward, Judy compared interview notes with her classmate William Jones, who applied at the same time.

“It was interesting because we were both told the same thing, only his reason being that he was African American, and mine being a woman. William went on to become a professor of theology, and, of course, I went on to become a pastor, although it took a little while. It was not courage so much as a real desire to do ministry that allowed me to move forward. It was a passion to show churches that women could be pastors.”

Women Can Do the Work

There were two phases in the admission of women to Harvard Divinity School. The first was granting women access to the institution. The second was reckoning with the implications of women entering the conversation in terms of texts, doctrines, practices, and church history.

Judy explains, “The second stage happened after we left because the women's movement was just getting underway when we were students there. Our primary focus was on proving that women could do the work and women could, in fact, become pastors and theologians. I think we did succeed because Letty and I were the only two students to graduate with honors out of the 25 to 30 graduating students three years later in ‘58.”

Judy and Letty were also the only two of the first seven women to complete the three-year BD/MDiv program.

“It was an exciting time, particularly the textual criticism that was emerging called feminist works,” Judy recalls.

By the mid-1980s people like Clarissa Atkinson, Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Phyllis Trible, and Letty Russell were all producing work looking at scripture, religious history, and theology from a female perspective.

“They were simply mining history from a different point of view. By the time I returned to Harvard in 1985 as an instructor in preaching and denominational counselor for Unitarian Universalism, more than half of the students were women. That was quite a remarkable change.

“I think the School should look back on the involvement of women, beginning in 1955, with pride, certainly. But with humble pride. It was a good thing that they opened admission to women, but seven women, or nine if you count two who were part time, in our entering class of over 120 was not a very big thing. HDS was not the first of the professional schools to do this at Harvard. However, once HDS decided to do it, they did it well.”

A 60-Year Co-Ministry

Attending HDS changed Judy’s life in many ways.

“I had not intended to go on into a ministry. I really had intended to take a year out and go back into foreign service, but after I had been there for about six months studying, I knew that this was the place where I wanted to be. I felt my calling was in theology and ministry.”

One moment that helped shape Judy’s future life and ministry was when she met Harry Hoehler, a Unitarian looking to enter the ministry. Harry and Judy eventually married, and Judy became a Unitarian bent on ministry as well.

“I was pregnant when I graduated, or very soon after. We had three children relatively close together, and so, I decided to put off ordination until the children were a little bit older. But I was doing a lot of work. In the early ‘60s, the women's movement was beginning to blossom, and I was doing a lot of lecturing in churches. Around ’65, I was on the first denominational committee that went around to Unitarian churches looking for new ministers and give them a training session. It was required before they could get names from the department of the ministry. It was about a day-long workshop on being open to calling women as pastors because by then, we were getting a number of very talented women into the Unitarian ministry as well as ministry in general.”

Judy identifies her “solid grounding in intellectual, academic theological and Biblical work” as one of the most important things she took away from HDS.

“It made writing sermons more central to my ministry because I began to see that the role of the pastor really is to interpret the scriptures for the contemporary scene, how one's faith was to be acted in the present time. That's certainly what governed all the lectures I did on women, women in society, and women in the church.”

She recalls, “As students, Letty and I used to complain, as did other classmates, about the fact that we really got your training by doing student work in little churches around the state. Although there were pastoral theology classes and so forth and the School was supposed to train you for the ministry, we felt there was not much training for it.

“I have to say, though, that through my years in the ministry, what has stood in good stead for me has been the very rigorous grounding that the faculty required of us in our courses in theology, church history, New Testament, Old Testament. That is something that stays with you. It whets your appetite so you continue studying, and working, and joining groups like the Boston Ministers Association, where you read papers to one another.

“I think that's really my greatest gratitude to the Divinity School. And the fact that the Divinity School was so open to the many branches of Christendom and ultimately of world religions. It led Harry and me to both be involved in interdenominational, interreligious work, through our whole ministry. It’s been 60 years that Harry and I have been in co-ministry, and it has been a very rich life, I must say.”

Edited by Natalie Campbell; original interview by Rich Higgins / Photos: Harvard Divinity Bulletin and Andover-Harvard Theological Library

[entamewitchlulu]

this is popping off a bit so here's some other things from my college writing degree that pissed me off

when I interviewed at the college and talked to the then-head of the writing department, I told him I had been writing since I was 9 years old and he wrinkled his nose at me and said something condescending about how "when people get started in this degree course we usually have to unteach you a lot of what you've learned". I do not know why I chose to go to that college after that.

there was a creative writing degree available but there were no classes on genre, and we weren't allowed to write anything bordering on genre in class at all. we were only allowed to write realistic fiction because "we don't have time to teach you the rules of genre, and all genre is formulaic".

which like. 1) sure there are formulas involved in genre, and a lot of mainstream publishing will follow certain general arcs, it's nowhere near as rigid as my teachers insisted it was. Like, as an example, the only real "rule" for the romance genre is that it should have a happy ending. anything else is like, whatever you want. This sort of thing would take about five minutes to show you a worksheet about story arcs.

2) why would setting a story in the future or another world "ruin" my ability to learn how to write "properly." It's not like we're learning fucking welding or something where if we don't learn the basics we take someone's eye out. Fiddling with genre tropes isn't physically dangerous. What is the worst that could happen, genuinely. What were they all so afraid of.

3) can you imagine being in an intro to art course and being told "you are ONLY allowed to use acrylics because we don't have time to teach you about watercolors. Mixed media is also not allowed and we won't do any pencil drawing.

Again, like. All they had were basic creative writing classes. They said they were teaching us the basics but then they didn't even give us the option to branch out.

In my attempt to write something I actually gave a shit about in this class I ended up making my main piece a story about a nonbinary kid dealing with the death of zir aunt who was the only one who had understood zir and respected zir identity. My teacher proceeded to tell me the story would have more weight if I misgendered my character until the end of the story so that ze would "earn" zir pronouns.

I cried on the college green for like twenty minutes after that workshop

No I did not know I was nonbinary at that point yet. wonder if that had something to do with it. anyway.

anyway. college writing fucking sucked and almost took away all of my love of writing in general as I struggled to squeeze out some lame ass story that fit the requirements but didn't mean anything to me personally.

On the topic of genre again like. My teachers all wanted us to make stories that "meant something" but in the course of trying to force meaning, especially in ways that I didn't enjoy, sapped all the joy out of writing. Since then I've read dozens of really fucking incredible spec fic short stories that used the trappings of genre to tell some really jaw dropping stories, and I think we should have learned about those alongside the other dry short stories we were forced to write and study. But for whatever reason, there's this deep-seated disgust of genre and genre-adjacent fiction in academic settings.

I truly think the fact that we're such a language-based species, we get all tight assed and weird about writing more than we do about other art forms.

And yea of course it's a skill that can be honed, but it's also an art, and more intro to creative writing classes should be devoted to playing around, experimenting, and making weird shit the way a basic intro art class would be. We need an injection of whimsy.

anyway. That's my two cents.

once i was in a creative writing class in college, and in a bit of humor i wrote the line:

"Um," I said, eloquently.

And my teacher was so adamant that I had to remove it because "um is not an eloquent word, so it makes no sense" and i was like my brother in christ it's called Irony

[rora-s]

The Derivative Chapter 12: Tests

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 11

I let off a breath closing one text book I’d finished and moving to the next. “You know there’s a difference between learning and memorizing right?” Amita pointed out with a scoff glancing at me over top her laptop screen. 

“I am aware. One is knowing the other is understanding but for me they can understandably get intermingled” I explained as I began to go through the next book. 

Amita nodded “you’re really stressing about this test you have to do for school huh?” 

“Well it is kinda a big deal. The whole prospect of my graduating early is riding on it. That and me getting accepted into college” I explained. 

“Oh really what are you looking to study?” Amita inquired. 

“Mathematics like my uncle probably, maybe something a bit more hands on to” I explained. 

“You know combinatorics is a great field” she offered. 

I scoffed “if you don’t say so yourself” 

We both giggled “seriously though you should look at applying for CalSci. You could stay local. They have a history of accepting young brilliant minds and programs especially made for those who have spotty school records.” 

“You know Larry was saying something similar before” I voiced “maybe I will think about it.” 

“Plus I’ve been considering staying at CalSci longer to get my second PhD in physics so you’d have another friendly face on campus other than Charlie and Larry” 

“Seriously?” I thought about hanging around CalSci with the brainiac trio. “That sounds really cool”

“I think it’d be cool too and we could take you on a tour of the campus sometime even, you know, show you around” Amita offered. 

I smiled “yeah that’d be great” 

Just then my friend's phone went off and she answered it “hello? … yeah sure I’ll be right there.” she hung up and started packing her things. “Charlie needs my help for a case with Don.” she informed. 

“I can come-” 

“He said specifically not to bring you even if you asked. Sorry” Amita told me sympathetically. 

“Ugh eighteen can not come soon enough” I groaned. 

“There, there” Amita murmured teasingly, patting me on the shoulder as she headed out of the house. 

______________________________

“You know when you offered to take me on a campus tour I thought I’d see more than the computer lab” I voiced as the trio finished retesting their flight route math for a third time in the CalSci computer lab. 

“I’m sorry but this is very important for the case Don’s working on” Charlie breathed out then thought for a minute “by the way I would appreciate you not telling him I allowed you to help with this math” 

“Don’t worry Uncle C, unlike some people I can keep a secret” I muttered. The man shot me a look but let the subject go as we all mulled over what we might have missed. 

“I don’t get it,” Uncle Charlie declared finally from his seat on the table behind where Amita was working. “The aircraft should have originated from an airfield that the FBI checked out” 

“Maybe they didn’t use an airfield” I suggested from where I sat next to the computer. “Like a highway or something” 

“Well then there would have been witnesses” Amita pointed out to the contrary. 

“You know, here’s where I get reductive on your ass,” Larry spoke up standing “cause you keep saying aircraft but so far no one’s been able to identify whatever it was that people saw.” 

“What are you saying, Larry?” Amita questioned. 

“I’m saying instead of building a flight path, let’s try focusing on the object itself,” Larry suggested. 

“You know what?” Charlie spoke up, hopping off his table “he’s right.” 

“Wait, you're agree that it could be a UFO?” I inquired of my uncle. 

“No, but focusing on the craft might yield better results.” The man explained coming over “We could get a visual of the object by building in all the radar sources at the same time, yes, civilian and military.” 

“So overlap the radar sources?” Amita clarified as she began to type into the computer. 

“That’s right” Charlie confirmed “by layering the images we could build a three dimensional cross section of it” 

Amita typed on the computer for a moment and we all leaned in to see “there” she finally declared “now it’s working off of all seven radar sources.” 

“And it’s building an image of the object,” Larry added. 

We watched as slowly an image began to appear. What we saw looked surprisingly Sci-fi. “Charlie? Is that what I think it is?” Amita inquired. 

“Larry I’m sorry I doubted you” I muttered. 

“Now, le-let’s be very, very careful” Charlie stammered “we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions or make any assumptions. There could be any number of reasons why that looks like-” 

“A vehicle from another part of the universe” Larry finished Charlie’s statement. 

___________

3rd POV.

“Hey Charlie” Don greeted his brother knocking on the door to the office space the professor was using in the library. 

“Hey” the young brother replied, writing on a piece of paper. 

“What’s up?”  

“Just grading tests for my Nonlinear Dynamics class.” Charlie informed. 

“Glad to see you’re taking my advice and having some fun” Don commented. 

“Well, you don’t look like you’ve been having too much fun” the younger brother pointed out, eyeing his brother as Don sat down. 

Don sighed “aw man this Gosnell case. Not to mention Abby has to take that test today in school to see if she can get out early.” 

“I’m sure she’ll pass” Charlie reassured “and you know Amita’s already talked her into applying for CalSci” 

“Yeah I’m just stressed on her behalf I guess” the older brother explained “and anyway with this case I just had to tell a guy that his dad died” Don let off another breath slouching in his seat. 

Charlie put down his pencil and turned to give his brother more of his attention “I spent all that time trying to figure out where the plane went. Turns out the pilot didn’t even know, because the rudder was busted.” 

“See, that’s the thing” Don explained “I got to find out where he was headed, ‘cause I think that’s why he was killed. You got any ideas? Anything at all?” 

Charlie sighed packing up his papers and standing “maybe. Could I, uh could I get some data off the flight recorder?” 

“Yeah, I mean, I can see if, uh, Erica can drop some by.” Don offered. “Maybe Amita can help you out” A small smile came to Charlie’s face at the suggestion and Don couldn’t help the knowing grin that came to his face. “Dad said she’s sticking around.” 

“Did he?” Charlie asked, turning to his brother. 

“Well, you happy about that?” Don inquired. 

“Um, are you asking me as her thesis advisor or..?” Charlie ended with a slight chuckle. 

Don scoffed at the blush forming on his younger brother’s features “you tell me” 

“Yeah, I’m happy,” Charlie admitted. 

They were quiet for a moment then another thought occured to Don “hey, what’s the deal I thought you were playing golf today.” 

“Oh no.” Charlie quickly replied “you know, I’m really no use on the golf course.” 

Don sat up as his brother took the seat across from him again “Charlie you know why he likes playing with you, don’t you?” 

“I have no idea” Charlie voiced “because I-I’ve got to be the worst golfer in the history of the game” 

Don shook his head surprised that his genius of a little brother could be so clueless sometimes “No. it’s the one time he gets to teach you something. You understand?” he explained “I mean I’m learning for myself that it’s not easy raising a genius. That’s his one time” Don wasn’t sure Charlie got what he was saying but just then his phone went off “oh excuse me” he stood up to take the call. “Eppes” 

“Don” David’s voice answered “the forensic report from Gosnell’s workshop just came in. We found David Croft’s fingerprints all over the shop.” 

“But I thought you said he hadn’t seen him in years” Don questioned confused. 

“And so he said” David replied 

“All right, look, uh, take a team, pick him up” Don instructed, rubbing his forehead and the bridge of his nose with his hand “I’ll meet you at the office, okay?” 

“You got it,” David agreed before hanging up. 

Don pocketed his phone again “alright kid I got to go. See you later” he called to Charlie who nodded his farewell before Don was out the door. 

_________

“I pass the dang test and as a reward I get to come out here and watch you all golf in this heat” Abby complained “that’s so not fair” 

“Ah come on kid a little exercise never hurt anybody” Don objected “maybe you could try it out for yourself” 

“No thank you” the teenager replied edgily heading toward the bench with her backpack full of reading material. 

“Where’s Chuck?” Don asked, realizing his younger brother was not in sight. 

“I don’t know last I looked, he was right behind us.” Alan replied looking around. “Oh there he is” he voiced when they spotted the younger man coming up to the bench at another angle. 

“Hey dad,” Charlie called, dragging his clubs up the incline. “Your clubs weigh a ton” 

“Are you kidding, I've used those clubs for ten years” Alan replied looking in his own golf bag as Abby made herself comfortable on the bench. “There’s nothing wrong with them” 

“Dad, they’re older than he is,” Don pointed out, going over to look in Charlie’s bag. “I don’t even think they make wood clubs anymore.”

“Yeah I know” Alan said “but each one of ‘em’s got a great sweet spot.” 

“Put ‘em in a museum,” Don commented. 

“Eh, when Charlie gets better, I’ll buy him a set of his own” Alan offered. 

“Well isn’t that encouraging” Abby muttered already part way through the novel on her lap. 

“Come on, Charlie, maybe this is the day you’ll par a hole.” Alan suggested. 

“I’d just like to get the ball in the hole. That’s all” Charlie stated as Don came over to sit next to his daughter on the bench. 

“So you passed the test” Don spoke to his kid as Alan talked to his. “What’s next?” 

“I wait and hope CalSci accepts me,” Abby declared looking up from her book. “But who knows if that’s going to happen.” 

“Well aren’t you pessimistic” Don muttered. 

“Well Donald I had to get it from somewhere” Abby replied with a smirk. 

“Yeah your mother” Don stated with a slight grin. 

“Funny she said the same thing about you” Abby advised and the pair shared a laugh as Charlie came over to join them. 

“Alright Alan show us how it’s done” Don called to his father and the three watched as the eldest among them swung the golf club. 

Chapter 13 ->

[suicidalcatz]

DOG DAYS ARE OVER : CHAP 16

Pairing : Jake Kiszka x reader

Genre : College AU

Previous parts : Prologue ; chap 1 ; chap 2 ; chap 3 ; chap 4 ; chap 5 ; chap 6 ; chap 7 ; chap 8 ; chap 9 ; chap 10 ; chap 11 ; chap 12 ; chap 13 ; chap 14 ; chap 15

Masterlist : here

AN : Hi! Sorry I’m a bit late! Is this... the last chapter ? Oh my God. There will be an epilogue, too ! So in this chapter, there’s a misunderstanding and- I can’t tell eheh. Please feel free to tell me what you think about it because I sure had trouble writing this one. Thank you all for the love and support !

Chapter 16 : I do

Sooner than we thought, a consequent amount of work fell on all of us, preventing us from seeing each other. And like that, days went by... and then weeks. January had been a harsh month for everybody. A few teachers were late on their program so we had to learn more, write faster. Meanwhile others just enjoyed watching us suffer and kept giving more homework, letting us witness with horror how it piled up in a corner of our room like an insatiable monster that kept growing and growing. Those were the dark times. It became impossible for us to even have lunch together. Tensions began to rise. Josh was irritable because his singing teacher was a jerk to him. Mandy kept skipping more and more classes, running everywhere in town to find clothes. Jake, completely depressed, looked like a character from Corpse Bride, and not a pretty one. As for me, I was a mix of all of them. Living with Mandy has for the first time proven to have its downsides, as her stress was rubbing off on me, while my annoyance to some of my failed assignments got to her nerves too. The boys were no exception, and we had a perfect example of it during a lecture, when Josh snapped at the teacher after she made a snark comment about his last grade. All heads turned to him, even ours, and with a mix of shame and anger, he took his bag and slammed the door behind himself without a word. In retrospect, it had been so fucking cool, although a bit rude considering he didn't have to talk to her like that even with her sly remark... But the way he just told her off, took his belongings and proudly yet bitterly exited the amphitheater was one of the highlights of this year, goddamn the boy had balls.

One of the things that really helped me get through this horrible period was Greta Van Fleet's album on shuffle on my earphones accompanying me during my days in the workshop. And then one day around 2pm we all received a text from Josh.

« If we don't go drinking tonight I swear I will explode, I'm already having nervous breakdowns every week, I need to get out of this school, let's meet at 8 »

Well, the message couldn't be clearer than that, could it ? And my phone vibrated multiple times when the others replied, showing some « Thank God » and « Please let's » on the screen before I discreetly put it back inside my pocket. It had been the first time we went to the bar as a group, with Sam and Danny. And somehow, because we spent a pleasant night together without coming home too late or too drunk, we simultaneously thought it'd be a good idea to reiterate the experience. At least once a week, sometimes every day, we met at the café, occasionally bringing work with us and helping each other. It was close to our school thus convenient, but still far enough to allow us to take a breath of fresh air and think of something else for a while. Most of the time, it was deserted, the only few patrons that came to drink their coffee being regulars, and we enjoyed the calm, even if we were noisy ourselves. Sometimes, Mandy was too busy to come, sometimes it was Sam, so it happened that Danny and I were the only ones being here, or just the twins, but it didn't really matter, there was always one of us here and the others could always come to meet. Josh's idea had help us clear our minds and we were all thankful for that. What I wasn't thankful for, on the other hand, was the way his loud mouth spoke freely about things that didn't concern him at all, least of all Sam and Danny. Of course, he talked about the Jake situation. At first I was outraged and even slapped him on the arm, to which he just shrugged, explaining his brother was always late anyway, so we could talk about it. As if that was the issue here ! But as time went by, I calmed down. Sam and Danny already knew, having noticed but not wanting to adress the elephant in the room. Now that the subject had been thrown on the table though, it was different, and if at first Sam's awful comments about how we were both taking our sweet time pissed me off, now we discussed it quietly, confessing my thoughts and feelings in exchange for some advices.

Today was one of those days. The gang was reunited, sitting across a small round table after a tiring day, clinking glasses and chatting loudly, everybody cutting each other off during spicy topics that constantly created heated arguments. Mandy and Sam's bickering never failed to amuse us, with me falling back againt the couch laughing, Josh having climbed on a chair to yell over them in a dramatic manner, and Danny commenting their arguments with a sportscaster voice while they just pointed angrily at each other. It happened once or twice (make it thrice or fourth) now that the bartender had to come to our table to make us cool down, threatening to kick us out if we didn't, because he couldn't even hear the damn radio. Today, like any other day, the only one missing was Jake, fashionably late as always.

- You guys never agree on anything, that's frankly amazing, I said while wipping a tear from the corner of my eye.

Two murderous glare were instantly directed at me, dead serious, like their constant quarelling wasn't something you could take lightly. Of course, they never was any sort of resentment between them, it was more like a game that was entirely theirs. Mandy knew Sam liked to tease her to no end, and the boy never took the words she threw his way to heart. They were never hurtful anyway, they would always make sure of that.

- You know what they say..., announced Josh while taking a sip of his beer, love always starts with hatred.

- Nobody says that..., muttered a perplexed Danny.

However his confusion got rapidly interupted by Sam and Mandy's shouting, barking at Josh telling him how wrong he was about them while the curly boy smiled through his glass.

- I'd rather die, said my roommie.

- That should be my line, replied Sam.

Josh and I exchanged a mischevious and knowing glance that unfortunately didn't go unnoticed by his little brother. The long haired boy made a show of putting both elbows on the table before a devilish smile spread on his lips. Uh-oh.

- Speaking of which, how's Jakey ?

Admiring the way my cheeks grew red at the mention of the object of my affection, he patiently waited for my stuttering to stop while Mandy took side with him, adopting the same posture. Sitting between them, Danny comically raised his eyebrows, knowing damn well they'll torture me to no end, like they took the habit to do when Jake wasn't around. Of course Josh ignored my pleading eyes, enjoying where the conversation was going.

- You should know, you're his brother.

My reply was weak and didn't hide how bashful the subject made me, more reasons for him to pursue it.

- Come on, Mandy told me about the kiss of the century, there's no way nothing happened after that !

- For someone who claims Sam's a pain in the ass you guys are awfully close !, I exclaimed while watching her with an expression of fake betrayal.

- Hey, don't try to change the topic.

A long and loud sigh made its way out of my throat and my eyes were suddenly too absorbed by the bubbles of my soda spiralling to the surface to meet their expectant gazes. God why was it such a big thing to them ? Their fascination for my love life was starting to upset me, especially since it was a lost cause. There was really no reason to dwell upon it. Would they ever drop it ?

- Nothing happened between Jake and I. What do you want me to tell you ? It was just a kiss between friends, it doesn't mean anything.

At that, I felt my chest constrict. It didn't mean anything... for Jake, that is. For me, however... All of them suddenly went awfully quiet, in a very uncharacteristic manner. My head raised in surprise at their abrupt silence, only to be greeted by Jake's gaze on me, standing in front of our table. He must've been waiting for his chance to say hello all the while stepping on a conversation he wasn't meant to hear. My face must've lost all of its colors, and a glance around me confirmed what I feared ; judging by their awkward behaviours, Jake had heard. The boy cleared his throat, showing a toothy smile to the lot of us.

- Hi guys, whatcha talking about ?

During the few seconds he stayed with his back facing us to get a chair, we were all exchanging shocked and confused glances, mouthing hurried words to each other. Was he pretending he didn't  hear anything I said ? Did he genuinely not hear our conversation ? However much I pondered about it, and tried relentlessly to think of all the possibilities that could've happened just now, I was at a loss, it was no use. The only thing to do was to go along and play his game, pretending he hadn't just walked on us gossiping about him. It was so awkward. Danny and Josh were the first to bring a new and funny topic, throwing jokes his way, studying his reaction. They immediately put him at ease, inviting Sam and Mandy to the masquerade, effectively hiding their uneasiness for his and my sake. It wasn't working on me, though. I sank into the couch, feeling incredibly shameful. And the few times I tried to react to the conversation at hands, I saw Jake avoid my eyes. Fuck.

I would lie if I said what happened at the bar wasn't playing on loop on my mind. It had been impossible for me to read Jake's brown eyes when he interrupted us, but there was absolutely no doubt that the boy heard us. Maybe it was for the best. I was the one pretending we were just friends anyway, so it wouldn't change anything... except now that he was single a part of me couldn't help but hope I had a chance with him... until now. Because if I was sure of one thing at the moment, it's that Jake was certain I only saw him as a friend. Why was I so unlucky anyway ? Did I offend God in a previous life ?! Man, it was harsh... Just when I had a feeling things could evolve between us, everything got in the way. Work, misunderstandings, my stupidity... On the bright side, I was so thankful I didn't say anything shameful. Because I could've told an awful lot of those. And for nothing in the world I wanted him to walk in when I was making a speech about the soft gleaming of his scar under the sun, or the roundness of his ass. I would forever thank my ability to always find a way to relativise, even during a crisis like this one.

Another person with the same quality was Josh, on top of being a really observant boy, and a good friend. So it was no surprise to me when he nudged my arm during a lecture and leaned into my ear to ask if he could come over after school.

- You know you're always welcome, I whispered back.

Josh smiled a me, and the exchange between us should've ended right here, but I saw his eyes gaze at something behind me, his smile changing into a smirk. He must've caught me notice it because he turned to his notebook again, playing innocent. My head jerked into Jake's direction, studying his stiff figure and furrowed brows. What the hell were they playing at ?

During the few days that followed that incident at the bar, I didn't get any answers to that question. The twins kept exchanging glances whenever I was near one or the other, and the more days passed the more moody Jake looked. I had tried to text him several times during the week, making small talk, asking what he was up to, and sharing silly anecdotes, only to be faced with cold answers. It was like talking to a wall. Something was upsetting him, but I had no way to know if it was school related, because of Josh's behaviour, or if I was the cause of it.

It was friday night when Danny slammed open the café door, causing the bartender to scowl, before completely ignoring him to look for us through the small crowd, hurriedly coming to our table. The drummer threw himself on the couch next to Mandy, looking out of breath but over-excited. And while his happy yet sweaty face made me question him, it only took a simple look for his bandmates to know what was going on. Sam was the first to exclaim and jump on his feet, almost toppling the table with his thighs, making the glasses clink dangerously.

- Are you serious?!

Still out of breath, Danny nodded, interrupting his heavy panting to gulp down the beer Jake was offering him. Josh and him were the next to understand.

- Really ?!

- Okay what is going on, should we be excited to ?, asked Mandy who was sheltering her drink in case anyone else wanted to try and knock over their table.

The drummer raised a finger our direction, indicating he needed some more time to recover from his sprint, removing his scarf in the process. His face was beet red, and although he looked like he was the most athletic of the group, I got slightly concerned he was about to die. He must've ran a long distance real fast, and judging by our friends' hysteria and high-fives, the news were good.

- Greta Van Fleet is playing tomorrow night at O'Malley's.

He let it all out in one go but the words were cristal clear, and now it was Mandy and I's turn to cheer and applaud loudly, congratulating the boys and clinking our glasses together, already chatting about the event before a threatening « Shut up ! » came from another table.

- It's so great you guys ! But are you ready ? Tomorrow night is a bit...

Josh shrugged away my concerns, placing an arm around my shoulder, speaking with his hands.

- Not at all, doll, we're more than ready. In fact we wanted to play there for a while, but the place's always packed.

- Someone cancelled their show at the last minute, so Danny got to negociate, interrupted Jake to sum things up.

Despite the general enthusiasm around the table, I didn't miss the look Jake gave to Josh's hand resting on my shoulder. The boys all nodded, Sam ruffling Danny's hair while congratulating him for his hard work and perseverance. Everyone agreed to buy him drinks to thank him, ignoring his shy protests and rosy cheeks at all the praise. Without even being a member of their band, Mandy and I shared their excitement, already asking what the setlist would be and bargaining with Josh when he insisted that it was a secret. The O'Malley was an Irish pub, like you could guess by their name, located by the docks. Which only meant one thing : it was crazy popular among students. Not only from our campus, but another art school rivaling ours. To be honest the teachers were the ones competing, as us students from both universities often met and hung out together. A lot of them came to our festivals and events, thus becoming friends with us. We let them come to our parties, and they never forgot to invite us over for theirs. Greta Van Fleet playing at the O'Malley on a Saturday night would no doubt be a huge step forward for the boys' band. I could sense the doors of success were already waiting for them to push them open.

The boys rehearsed all day long Saturday, waking up before dawn and arriving early to set everything up and properly meet the owner of the bar. Pictures were sent to our groupchat, Sam explaining that the staff had thanked them for their availability, relieved that they quickly found another band to replace the one who couldn't attend. Mandy and I chose to come early too, arriving one hour before the show and already having trouble finding a seat through the sea of students occupying every inch of space available. Whereas it was because they were taking shelter from the cold, or because their feet ached from standing in the cold didn't matter to the boys, who were delighted to welcome with open arms the newcomers and introduce them to their music. It helped that the word had spread super fast on campus too, with Jake's post on the school's Facebook page. Nursing my beer next to Mandy at the far end of the bar, I recognized the girls from the other time, the night we had our Christmas party, chatting to their girl friends, standing in front of the stage. When the boys got in to set up their instruments, I saw them salute the band, shaking hands and exchanging friendly words with Josh while Jake didn't bother giving them more than a glance and a nod before turning back to his guitar, causing me to snort behind my glass. Mandy was quick to notice that.

- Well aren't you a sneaky little one.

- I don't know what you're talking about.

Paying for her cocktail and putting her change back in her purse, she adopted my posture, back resting against the bar, drink in hand, eyes to the stage. Wearing a black and gold fringe jacket, Jake was focusing on his guitar, tuning it with great care, pick stuck between his lips, the ring I offered him gleaming under the spotlights. Onstage, he looked out of this world, unattainable.

- You know they stand no chance, said Mandy.

It caught me off-guard. But did they ? I looked their way, observing their pretty faces, skin glowing with light makeup, batting their eyelashes, bracelets clinking against one another, long fingers playing with silk strands of hair. A part of me knew Mandy was right and that they couldn't replace me. But then again, incertitude argued that it was my ego talking, and that my confidence was misplaced. With Jake giving me the cold shoulder, I wasn't able to look at the situation with a fair point of view, and Mandy's opinion was made unrelevant by the simple fact that she was my friend. And one thing I knew for sure was that friends were biased, because they loved you. I chose to change the topic.

- What about you and Sam ?

- I don't know what you're talking about, she mimicked.

To make sure my stern look was effective, I turned to her completely, resting an elbow on the bar, while she comically took a long sip of her cocktail, avoiding my eyes, making me smile before I turned to face the stage once more. All barstools and chairs were taken, much to our inconvenience, and shifting from one foot to the other was the only thing I found to release some of the soreness.

- I saw you holding hands under the table.

She gasped audibly before giving me a death stare that just fueled my laughter. There was no way I didn't notice their act, and I was quite certain the others did too, but chose to ignore it. Which by the way was unfair since the lot of them commented my love life like it was a soap opera. However Mandy didn't have the time to give me a proper answer, cut off by Josh's words into the mic, greeting the crowd and announcing the show was about to start.

If anything, their second time playing was even better than the first one. The boys were on fire. Each member had their time to shine in the form of a solo, Josh being his charming self in the meantime, playing with the crowd and blowing kisses our way. They played some covers, encouraging everybody to sing along, but also songs we never heard before, that weren't on the album. One of them in particular allowing Jake to show off the extent of his guitar skills. He blew me away. Expression serious, toned skin glistening with sweat under the blue lights, while Josh's tambourine and melancholic cries accompanied the torturous sounds of his guitar. There was something special about this one, that made my chest constrict due to several emotions contradicting themselves at the same time, causing a turmoil within me. Intrigued by their music or just in need of a drink, several people came into the bar that night, packing the place with new faces, all of them staying for the amazing show the boys were providing for us. By the time they finished, I had long forgotten about my aching feet, instead welcoming the boys in a tight hug, complimenting and congratulating them. Mandy and I already had their beers ready, before anyone else could cut the ground from under our feet. Not that there was anything wrong with people buying them drinks, it was always a very nice thing to do, we just wanted to be the first ones to do it, at least for tonight. They were our friends, so it only seemed fair.

- Here.

Handing Jake his beer, I took a good look at his content face, smile plastered on his lips and moist strands of brown hair sticking to his forehead. He looked gorgeous, at peace and proud of himself and his band. Some people offered them drinks, like we thought they'd do, students came talking to them, to make small chat or to congratulate them. The boys took their time before packing up, talking and laughing with us, their enthusiasm contagious. When closing, the bartender even invited us all to stay inside and have a chat, drinks on the house. It felt incredibly nice to be able to stay here while everybody else had to leave, even the few girls still talking with Jake. Now I'm not gonna lie I might have directed a smile or two their way when the bartender closed the door behind them...

Going back to the dorms was... not an easy task to say the least. We had to call a cab, but as we couldn't all fit in it, we split teams, the most important thing being their music instruments. But even before that... Danny's drumkit was heavy as hell, the boys were tipsy enough to be clumsy and numerous times their instruments threatened to slip and drop on the hard conrete. And even if he was the only one who didn't need to carry anything at all, Josh was completely wasted, singing loud gibberish nonsense, waking up the dogs and barking back at them, removing his shoes and throwing them to trees... Man he was so out of control when drunk even the 5 of us couldn't properly babysit him. It made me realize it was the first time I was sober when he wasn't. And I didn't dare imagine how we must've wreaked havoc the night we brought back the couch to our dorm. Of all of us, Jake once more proved that he was the most serious and reasonable. It wasn't much of a surprise, actually. From what I knew, in situations that required seriousness, the brunette had always been this composed, level-headed boy. I loved that about him, his ability to remain remarkably quiet, then go crazy all of a sudden, before returning to his peaceful self. Josh's shoes in hand, a smile tugged at the corners of my lips when I saw Jake giving his brother a piggy back ride, moved by the fond scene in front of my eyes.

When the cab finally reached our school, Danny and Sam were waiting for us sitting on cases, explaining Josh had forgotten to hand them the key to their door. Since he was the one who didn't need to transport anything, it was only fair he at least took care of the keys in case they'd got lost in a guitar case or whatnot. I couldn't help but think we looked like a bunch of burglars, when everybody started muttering at the same time and hushing each other in the dark of the night. Mandy yawned, waiting to kiss them goodnight to go to sleep, and Jake sighed, defeated.

- Okay Josh, give me the keys.

Once again carrying his twin on his back, the long haired boy nudged his sleepy cheek with his shoulder to wake him up, not minding the drool on his jacket. Mandy couldn't contain a cute noise when Josh turned his head to get more comfortable in his brother's back, making Jake snort in the process.

- Just drop him, suggested Sam right before Danny elbowed him.

He really could've, to wake him up, but it seemed like Jake didn't have the heart to shake him out of his peaceful drowse. More abruptly, he shook his shoulder, causing Josh to whine.

- What, he groaned.

- We're in front of the dorms, give me the keys.

There was a silence during which Josh sighed, taking his time to process what his brother was asking, unfazed by Sam's complaints. The boy rubbed his eyes, sliding an arm in Jake's back to comfortably put his head against it. I could tell he was beginning to feel heavy, because Jake's hold on him slipped more and more frequently and he had to give him a small but strong push to get him back into place.

- What keys, he finally said.

Mandy and I exchanged a glance, one of those that said « Shit's about to go down », and Danny's face lit up with concern. You could see he already had the worst case scenario figured in his mind and was imagining them sleeping in the school's park.

- What do you mean you-

- Sam, Jake warned him. Josh, remember, we told you to take the keys to our rooms so we don't put them by mistake in one of the cases.

- No you didn't.

He was now perfectly awake, shaken by the confusing accusations, and got off of Jake's back, stumbling a bit, probably because his legs must felt numb after being carried around for a long period of time. Sam got up too, not amused by the situation. He was cold, he was tired, and he still had a lot of shit to lift on the stairs and if possible he wanted to be done with it before dawn.

- Yes we did !, the bassist said with his arms raised in the air.

- Yeah, we did, Danny assured him when Josh's gaze found his face for some sort of confirmation.

Silence again. Somehow, Mandy and I didn't dare to watch them. It remembered me of those situations when parents are having a fight and then turn to you... and start finding every excuse they can to yell at you even though you've done nothing. Well... Let's say we tried to summon our inner chameleons while they all started to get pissed at Josh. It was kind of awkward and we couldn't find a good time to leave. Besides, we couldn't let them sleep under the stars.

- Why don't you sleep at ours for tonight ? You'll return to the O'Malley tomorrow and ask them about the keys.

It was the most Mandy thing I ever said since we met the guys, but it was the only solution right now. It took us another hour to climb the stairs with all those heavy and big instruments cases, probably waking up half of the dorm in the process, but it felt so good to be home. The room was warm, and the bed was calling me. The first thing Josh did was to dive head first onto the couch without even taking the time to remove his coat, and fell asleep almost immediately, pulling the blanket on him (more like letting it fall on his body). Sitting around the kitchen table, we all had a hot cup of tea/coffee to warm us up and get some of the alcohol out of our system. Danny was the first one to word his concern about the bedding.

- It's really nice you girls allow us to sleep here for the night, he shyly said, but...

His big hands were entirely covering his mug, enjoying its warmth, thumb caressing the edge of it, thinking of a good way to phrase it. An embarrassed look was adorning his features, which I couldn't help but find endearing.

- There's no room for six... is it ?

- You're right, Jake said. Maybe I should stay awake ?

I didn't know if it was a rhetorical question or if he was being serious but there was no way anybody stayed awake while the others were asleep. First of all, it was creepy. But above all, it wasn't fair. Thinking hard, I let a hand run through my hair, ruffling the locks in its passage.

- Oh, Mandy I think there's an airmat under your bed ! There, two down, four more to go. Let's see...

- We just have to share beds, suddenly said Sam.

All heads turned to him, and the boy put his cup on the table, shrugging.

- What ? It's the easy solution. There are two big beds in the room, don't tell me nobody thought about it. What do you think, Jake ?

His cough was so loud he spilled his drink everywhere on his hands, color leaving then regaining his face alternaly. Standing up to lay his empty cup in the sink, Sam patted his back, wicked smile on his face.

- Then it's settled. Let's go, Mandy.

Oh you sneaky son of a...

I should've seen this coming. I should've known better. Of course Sam would do something like that, it was so him, I couldn't believe I let my guard down like that. And his little act with Mandy, pretending they didn't like each other and then snuggling in bed, ah, I hated my friends. The sadistic bastard even got Danny to play along in his three years plan to make my life miserable.

It was uncomfortably silent for a room filled with six young adults, our breathing being the only noise audible. With the halfway closed curtains, the dim light was dark enough for us to distinguish forms and silhouettes painted in different shades of blue and grey. Sometimes, the sound of a cover brushing against the mattress will get me out of my thoughts, other times it will be Josh's sleep talking or Danny's serene snoring. Sam had lied. The bed wasn't big at all. It was cramped, at best, and I couldn't calm down at all. Jake's warmth was suffocating, my thumping heart wouldn't slow down, and I was over conscious of every little thing he was doing. My throat instinctively tried to swallow the lump residing there when I felt the covers ruffling on my skin, Jake's hot breath now brushing my neck.

- Can't sleep ?

His husky voice whispering in my ear caused an uncontrollable shiver to run down my spine. Each of his breathes awoke goosebumps on my skin, covering their path like grass would grow after the rain. It always amazed me, the power he had over me, without even realizing it. Just two words murmured in the crook of my neck and my body was almost trembling already. As my voice was caught in my throat, my body reacted on its own and I shook my head slightly, enough for him to notice. Jake sighed. I could hear him rustling and moving behind me, careful not to touch me and not knowing what to do with his long arms.

- Did you mean it ?, he said after a while.

Furrowing my brows in confusion wasn't going to work, so I turned to face him, both lying on our side to look at each other in the dark. I could only see the shadows of his face, but by now my eyes were accustomed enough to distinguish his expressions more clearly. Jake swallowed hard, gaze focusing on anything but my eyes, looking... confused and rather saddened, discouraged.

- What you said at the bar.

At the bar... My brain had trouble seeing where he was going, but my body must've sensed it on instinct because my heart started pounding madly, as if wanting to warn me of what was coming. Suddenly brave enough to face me, Jake's eyes stared into mine, intense yet unsure.

- Do you only see me as a friend... ?

Unable to run away, I had to face him, and answer him. My voice was still caught in my throat, and my palms were getting sweaty. Jake was dead serious. So much that I thought for a second I was dreaming. His eyes weren't leaving mine, I had to answer. But what was the good thing to say ? What would I do if I told him the truth and he only saw me as a friend ? From my perspective he led me into thinking there might be more but... My feelings for him were blurring everything. And if I lied... and he wanted to be more than friends... Then I'd lose him.

- Jake...

- Because I really want to kiss you right now.

His hand hovered above my head, fingers carefully rustling my hair, pushing some strands behind my ear and brushing my cheek. His eyes, half-lidded and gaze burning, were following every inch his digits traced on my skin. Carefully, Jake's thumb came caressing my lower lip, slowly, painfully so, admiring how soft it felt against his finger, parting it slightly from its twin. A ragged breath escaped from them, and his eyes found mine again, dying to get permission. Shyly, my shaky hand gripped his shirt, pulling it close. It was the only thing he needed to lose all control, and he swiftly straddled my hips, framing my head with his arms, before ghosting his lips over mine. My mind was foggy, and my brain couldn't understand anything anymore, all I knew was that I had waited for this for so long, I didn't want to waste any more time now. Arms snaking around Jake's neck, I closed the distance separating us, the soft and awaited contact causing us to sigh in unison. It felt so good, both inside and out. His plump lips captured mine with a mixture of longing and hunger, while my heart was about to burst from happinness. With confidence, I embraced him more, pulling him closer to me, biting his lip and admiring the way it made him gasp, feeling his shaky fingers hesitating to touch me, like he was under some kind of delirium tremens and I was the fantasy haunting his nights. It only made me want him more. Never once did he try to touch me in a way that I wasn't ready for yet, keeping it chaste, and I'll forever be thankful for that. It seemed like we both had silently agreed to take our time, but I couldn't concentrate on that right now. Not when Jake's tongue was licking my lips, taking my lower one between his teeth to playfully chew on it, making me pant, fingers lost in his long brown hair. There was a sense of urgence to this kiss, of need even, like he had been waiting for it for so long he couldn't refrain himself anymore. The mere thought of it made me hot. Eventually, we cooled down, and Jake stayed on top of me, leaning on his arms, covering my face with soft kisses, the sound of them resonating in the room. We looked at each other for a while, and I couldn't stop a bubbly giggle, making him chuckle too.

- Fuck... I had thought about this moment for so long, his raspy voice murmured.

- Me too.

- I always thought you liked Josh better.

So that was what it was about, all those past days... Josh upsetting Jake on purpose because he was jealous. What a brat, I couldn’t believe them, so silly.

- Dummy. I think I like you.

My voice was almost inaudible, barely a whisper. It made me blush, but now it was out, and it felt so good to get rid of this weight. Jake nuzzled my neck, taking in my scent, tickling me.

- You think ?

I could tell he was as embarrassed as me, and probably not as confident as he looked, because his cheeks were burning hot, and he wouldn't face me. Against my chest, the accelerated beating of his heart was so loud it seemed like it was communicating with mine.

- No, I said. I'm sure.

Slouching against me in a relieved manner, the boy let out a sigh that burned my skin, before shifting to comfortably rest his chin on my chest, facing me with a smile on his face.

- Good. Because I do too.

Even in the dark, I could see the way his cheeks were a darker shade of gray than the rest of his features. Jake liked me. A huge wave of joy went through my body, overcoming me with both delight and relief. There was no words I could put on this sensation. Suddenly, it was like every other problem in the world had faded away, and I finally understood Edith Piaf's La Vie En Rose. Being in his arms, lying against one another, skin against skin, everything finally made sense.

- Come here, I whispered.

We kissed again, playful and teasing, barely containing our excited giggles.

- Shut up !!

Sam's pillow came flying our way, quickly followed by Josh, Mandy, and Danny's.

- Fucking date already !

- So annoying, people are trying to sleep !

More cushions came crashing down on our bed, making us laugh for real this time, as Jake took them in his hands to fight back. Soon, shouting, laughter and feathers filled the room, as the sun was beginning to appear in the clear sky of February. And as we were all screaming and throwing pillows at each other, I couldn't help but smile, and exchange warm glances with Jake.

Yeah, with him by my side, everything's going to be just fine.

[purplesurveys]

945

A Survey For College/Uni Grads Survey by emptyspaces

What year did you graduate? 2020. It’s only been a little over a month, too.

What degree do you have? Journalism, but I might as well have had a minor in history because of the amount of history electives I took as well haha.

What classes did you take your first year? The first semester of my first year was purely for general courses, so I took basic courses on English, biology, math, philosophy, and Philippine history. By the second semester I took more basic courses on public speaking, physics, and social science, but by then I was already allowed to take two journalism majors.

Second year? My general courses included a basic course on art history, chemistry, English, Filipino, Asian history; my majors were on communication and media, news reporting, media law, media theory, journalism ethics, and an introductory course on broadcast communication.

Third year? The only general courses I had by this point were an intro to political science and a class on Philippine government and politics. I mostly took majors this year though, which wiped me the crap out: my majors were on media and society, feature writing, public relations, international relations, fact-checking, broadcast management, Southeast Asian history, and introductory courses on macroeconomics, film, psychology, and communication research.

Fourth year? I took up journalism design and layout, contemporary Philippine history, Philippine social history, pornography in media just because lol, an introductory course on anthropology, and I also got started on my thesis as well. My second and final semester got cancelled entirely because of the pandemic, but I would have finished units on business reporting, online journalism, community press, and the history of women in the Philippines.

Did it take you longer than four years to graduate? No. That would have disappointed my parents big time and considering how much effort they’ve put to send me to good schools, the least I could do was to graduate on time. Even if I wanted to shift out of my course, it would’ve led to a delay and I didn’t want that for them and I personally didn’t want that for myself either.

Did you start at 18, or did you have a gap year(s) after high school? Again, I didn’t want to take gap years for my parents’ sake. I immediately went to college right after graduating high school, like what the majority of students here do.

Was it a small or large college/university? Very large. The competition is even bigger – 100,000++ high school seniors take the entrance exam every year but they only take in around 10,000 passers. Still, 10,000 new students every school year is so many, and it’s always a bitch to get class slots because of our population.

Public or private? Public. 

Is there anything the school is well-known for? All sorts of things. It’s one of the top schools in the country, so we hog the spotlight in the national news pretty much everyday. I think the biggest things we’re known for though is our reputation for research and our activism history. It also makes us a popular target of pro-government trolls.

What were some of your favorite classes? I loved taking up art studies and all of my political science and history electives, and as for my journalism electives I really only enjoyed public relations and that one class where we ran an online magazine for a whole semester.

What were some classes you hated? Fucking economics. And fact-checking. And the fact that I took both in the same period...got my lowest average for that semester because of those classes, too. I feel like I would have done better if my economics class didn’t have a population of 200 and if I had a more experienced professor fact-checking but shit happens, I guess. I also felt like my porn class was a waste because the readings were so pretentious. And of course, philosophy.

Did you have any super-long classes? Like 3 hours or longer? All majors in my college are 3 hours long. So classes like PR, journalism ethics, feature writing, business reporting, media law, communication theory, etc. all definitely took a big chunk of my weekdays.

Did you ever change your major? No. I had multiple conversations with myself to decide if I should, but aside from not wanting to get delayed I also accepted the fact that as much as I had grown to not like journalism as a practice, the technical skills taught in it were still going to be super useful in the industry I want to get into, which is communications and PR.

Did you do any internships? If so, where? I did. I interned at a PR agency last year but it was part of my requirements to complete my course, so it felt forced to an extent. I’m currently interning at another PR agency, but this time I’m out of school and it’s a personal choice of mine.

Did you ever take any online classes? If so, which ones? I only had one or two online class sessions at the beginning of the lockdown, but my school ultimately cancelled the semester altogether in consideration of disadvantaged students who may not have laptops of their own or wi-fi at home. In the end they just gave a grade of ‘P’ to everyone, which meant Pass.

Were textbooks expensive? I didn’t need to buy entire textbooks because my professors usually just took excerpts or chapters from certain relevant books and let us photocopy the pages, which costs a lot cheaper than having to buy books.

What other supplies besides books did you have to buy for your classes? Other than course readings I didn’t need to spend much. Journalism isn’t a material-heavy course like how film or broadcast communication is.

Were you in any clubs or student organizations? Yes. I was in a journalism org, our graduation committee, and was part of a student publication at one point. I also tried to join AIESEC but my schedule was so hectic at the time that I had to drop it.

Did you ever volunteer anywhere? I was a lecturer and facilitator for the journalism workshops that my org regularly held (and will probably continue to volunteer even as a grad, since I know they appreciate alumni lecturers lol), and one time I also volunteered to be an usher for Batch 2019′s graduation.

Were you on any sports teams? Nope. I liked playing table tennis, but I was never trained properly enough to make it to varsity. 

Where was your favorite place to eat on campus? It depended on how much of a hurry I was in and how much I was willing to spend. The cheapest option was the network of kiosks scattered around campus which sold the same instant noodles and street food. If I wanted to reward myself but was on a tight budget, I went to Area 2 which is a residential street in campus that was also dotted with small food booths ran by the homeowners; if I had some money to spend and the time to stay in a sit-in restaurant I used to go to Chocolate Kiss.

Did you work while you were in college? I did not. I was lucky to be in a privileged position where my parents were able to provide for me and where I never had to worry about finances.

If so, where? How many hours per week?

How many times did you move throughout college? I didn’t. We lived in the same house the whole time I was in college.

Did you live on campus, in an apartment, or somewhere else? I lived at home and I just drove to and from school everyday, since the campus was near-ish enough for me not to avail of a dorm or condo.

Did you live with roommates? Alone? With a significant other? I lived with my family, but tbh it was mostly my mom and brother at home since my sister stays at a dorm and my dad works abroad.

If off-campus, how much was your rent? Never had to pay any.

How often did you go back to visit your parents? I went home to my mom every night lol, unless I had a sleepover at someone else’s place.

Did your parents help you out with living costs? Sure did. Nothing changed with my living arrangements and I still lived under their roof.

Did your parents (or someone else) pay for your tuition? They paid for the first two semesters; then by my sophomore year the government passed an act implementing free tuition for all state universities so since then they never had to pay a cent for my education.

Was it an expensive school? Not at all, which is why the competition to get in is so fierce. To illustrate, four years in my school is just equivalent to one semester in my sister’s college. Last time I checked one unit is ₱1500 or roughly $30.

If you paid for it, do you still have student loans you're paying off? I don’t have student loans. Idk if that’s a thing here, actually. I don’t think it is.

How many people did you date throughout college? One.

What was your longest relationship while in college? The whole four years. I was in the same relationship when I started and ended.

Were you in a sorority/fraternity? Fuck no.

Were you into partying? Just occasionally. I wasn’t a wild partier but I did go to a few college parties every now and then, and I certainly went to nearby bars nearly every Friday.

Where did you and your friends usually hang out? Along Katip, since there were enough places there to hang out in. Occasionally we’d go to Maginhawa, but I prefer it a lot less because the parking there sucks balls.

What did you and your friends do for fun? Drink, eat, play games.

Do you still keep in touch with any college friends? Very much. I support those who remain in the org, and I occasionally catch up with those who had already graduated.

Did any of them graduate with the same degree as you? Most of them did. It’s how I met them.

What did you do after you graduated? I rested for a bit but an existential crisis quickly came over and now I’m in a bit of a mental slump, but at least I’ve scored this internship to keep me occupied.

How was the pay at your first job out of college? The company I’m currently interning for objectively pays well, but they acquired me as an intern because they aren’t offering full-time positions for now. That said, I get an allowance rather than a salary so it isn’t much at all, but I’m still happy to be in the company because it’s supposed to be one of the top agencies in the country.

What classes prepared you the most for your career? PR, feature writing, public speaking, news reporting, online journalism...and tbh org work. 

- Five favorite memories from your college days -

1: UP vs DLSU basketball game from September last year HAAAAAA

2: Attending my organization’s orientation and encountering them for the first time, not knowing I was going to bloom so much there and gain my closest friends

3: High Def 2018 and 2019

4: Drinking at VSpot with Angela, Hans, Gabie, and whoever else from their Ateneo gang that also got invited

5: TK with orgmates

[chaewonrk]

STAR BRIGHT CASTING AUDITIONS ‘20 : INTERVIEW !

      word count: 1,587. cw: parental death.

what was it that chaewon kept on saying to yuzu? just fucking do it. she’d be a hypocrite if she didn’t at least go along to this interview thing. chaewon didn’t really allow herself to believe in fate or anything, knowing that she’d only be disappointed if she did, but the stars were aligning pretty well for her. she’d kick herself for not going. or, maybe jie would kick her. she was more than happy to have her roommate with her -- chaewon needed the confidence boost that jie’s aura provided.

it would be very typical of her, however, not to go in the end. she nearly didn’t. standing outside the park hyatt hotel, chaewon took three deep breaths. go in. one, two, three -- and she stepped through the front door, following her roommate through. wow, luxurious. she used to stay in places like this all the time when she traveled with her parents as a kid. it was somehow both familiar and intimidating at the same time.

now that she was in, chaewon had to fill in the form. she was in it for the long haul now, or at least for a couple of hours. it was just an interview at this point, she really only needed to worry if she somehow got a callback. supplying the information they asked of her was easy. it was the same old shit she’d attempted to use for bragging points all her life. a decade of ballet training and drama school -- a decade of effort that went down the drain one drizzly afternoon. her choir days at ewha, a fun year where she made friends that she could’ve gone onto college with but didn’t. 6tunes, soundbox, her youtube channel. only one of those projects was something she was still pursuing. chaewon couldn’t help cringing. what a heap of wasted potential. supplying the information was easy, but looking at it, listed out in front of her, was dead hard.

the family section was harder again. eventually, chaewon decided to only list her grandparents. they didn’t know she was attending today, but she guessed they’d be disappointed to hear it. she could always worm her way back into their good graces by expressing her intent to finally go to college.

once she was done, it was a matter of waiting for her name to be called. chaewon tied her hair back in a low ponytail, and asked jie to check for flyaways.

chaewon entered the interview room with a smile, feeling like she stood out well in her red t-shirt against the white background. she gave the staff member a warm look as she took her place. as nervous as chaewon felt before, she found that the professional studio atmosphere soothed her. the sound and camera tests went off without a hitch, and before she knew it, the interviewer gave her the nod to introduce herself.

“hello!” she bowed her head for the camera, then lifted her chin to face the lens with a self assured smile. as per usual, chaewon felt better able to be herself in front of the camera. sometimes, especially recently, when she was playing her guitar, she got a bit too far into her own head, but this was a more comfortable situation. she supposed it could be that playing music close to her heart was a little too vulnerable for chaewon to fully feel confident in herself when she did it. “my name is park chaewon! i’m twenty-one. i’m currently working as a make up artist. i’m living here in seoul, but i was raised in london, england.”

“okay. chaewon, tell me, why did you come here today? why do you want to be an idol?”

chaewon clasped her hands together in front of her as she said, “performing is my first love. i trained in ballet and theatre in london for ten years before moving to seoul, but since then, unfortunately, it’s had to take a backseat in my list of priorities. i’ve worked hard on it on the side over the years, but ... is it okay to say? it sounds a little selfish, but i’m ready now and i really want to prove that i can do it.”

the truth sounded so pretty when she phrased it the right way.

“a ballerina? so it’s safe to assume that dance is your best skill. tell me about your weaknesses.” chaewon appreciated the cool but still seemingly interested vibe that the interviewer gave off as she asked her questions.

“yes! yes, dance is the skill i’m most confident in. besides my experience in ballet, i’ve also got experience in other styles. i attend hip hop and freestyle classes here in seoul, and briefly taught a class of my own too.” chaewon beamed proudly, hoping that her smile somewhat managed to reach her eyes. “my weakest skill ... i don’t rap, but then again, i’ve never tried.” simple as. truthfully, there were a lot of things she was definitely, sincerely bad at, like cooking and budgeting and keeping track of her drinks, but none of them were really relevant to her potential skill set as an idol.

“is there a reason you didn’t choose to pursue ballet in seoul?”

a surprisingly cutting question -- one chaewon hadn’t rehearsed for. though, she supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised. taken aback for a moment, all she could do was nod as she gathered her thoughts. with damp eyes, chaewon resigned herself to telling an abridged version of the truth.

“yes, actually. my parents passed away when i was fifteen. that was the reason i moved to seoul, so that my grandparents could take care of me. for the first year or so, doing things that reminded me of my life with them back in london was too painful, so i avoided them until i was ready. since then, i’ve been ... slowly dipping my toes back in.”

“i see.” the interviewer paused, searching chaewon’s face for any sign that they should stop the process. chaewon merely blinked back her tears and continued speaking.

“that’s what i meant by i’m ready now. it’s been many years now, and i’m finally confident enough to try and pursue my dreams. i want to prove it to myself, but,” she nodded to herself, eyes gleaming determinedly for a moment. any hints of tears were wholly gone now, replaced by chaewon’s regular confidence. “i also want to try to do it for my parents. they believed in me.”

at least, she liked to believe that they did. they probably didn’t. after all, she’d been such a brat. but, it was a nice thought. chaewon figured that regardless what she ended up doing with her life, she’d probably end up imagining some proud parental response for herself.

“you’ve had to overcome a big obstacle early on,” the interviewer started to steer the interview away from the melancholy. “that takes tenacity. are you willing to improve yourself in the areas you lack?”

“of course. i received vocal lessons as part of my drama training, and nowadays, i’m really interested in improving my singing. i play my guitar and sing with it, and upload covers and things to my youtube channel. i’m always looking to see where i can improve and change. it’s the key to growth.” yeah, like when she let jinsoul bleach her hair. change was good. “i attended singing and vocal care workshops in the samsung speakup event a couple of weeks ago too. i sang in the choir in high school, and i sang back up in a band i was apart of, but i don’t have a massive amount of confidence in my group singing skills.”

“lovely. now, chaewon, what influences you? musically, as a performer, as a person, and so forth.”

what did she write on the form again?

“oh.” she tapped her chin thoughtfully. she didn’t want to come across as too much of a fangirl or too shallow or too up herself or too ... anything. “for idol groups, i’m a big fan of luxe and and*roma. i really like taylor swift too. i originally picked up guitar because i thought she made it look cool. i guess you could say i’m influenced by powerful women! it’s really important to me that i don’t have to sacrifice my femininity to be taken seriously. the class i taught was called high in heels -- i think that sums up my influences pretty well.”

“okay. we’re onto the final question now, chaewon. if you weren’t trying to be an idol, what would you be doing right now?”

shopping? sleeping? gossiping? “still working hard. if i wasn’t trying to be an idol, i’d still want to do my best as a make up artist, and as a hobbyist. no matter what, i still love to perform. it would just be ideal if i could do it as a job.” she punctuated her sentence with a content smile and nod.

“thank you, chaewon. we’ll be in contact.”

or we won’t. yeah, chaewon knew the drill. thanking the staff, she quickly made her exit. as soon as the door shut behind her, the adrenaline that was brewing within her shot through the crown of her skull and she half walked, half jogged her way back to the hotel lobby, en route for another period of waiting for jie to have her turn in the audition room. she didn’t know how she was going to be able to sit still.

[maswartz]

IN THE PROGRESSIVE COLLEGE TOWN where I live, one sees a lot of “Bernie” bumper stickers on a lot of Subarus. Probably these are remnants of 2016, when the Independent from Vermont masqueraded as a Democrat, dividing the party and hobbling Hillary Clinton’s campaign just enough to fuck up the final tally. Although I held with HRC then as now, I don’t begrudge anyone who supported Bernie Sanders in the primaries four years ago, when we first became acquainted with the ugly font and awful shade of blue on his campaign merch. But to support him today, after Trump, after Mueller, is akin to insisting, on Christmas 2019, that despite ample evidence to the contrary, Michael Jackson is innocent, because you really dig Off the Wall.

“Don’t they know?” I scream when I see these Bernie stickers. “Don’t they realize who he really is?” Apparently not. But then, to them, and to most on what Sean Hannity might call the “radical left,” Bernie is not a person as much as an ideal: A sort of liberal Santa Claus who will come down our collective chimney to deliver free healthcare and free college, and, with the aid of his ineffable North Pole magic, break up the banks, slay the patriarchy, eliminate racism, end income inequality, and tax corporations into insolvency—all while raising the minimum wage for his workshop elves. How he plans to actually accomplish any of this he only hints at—Bernie rarely deigns to answer process questions and usually gets grouchy when pressed for details—but it all sounds so wonderful we want to believe, just as we every year insist that yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Unfortunately, the flesh-and-blood Bernie Sanders, if elected, would not have the requisite power to fulfill his lofty promises—any more than the tipsy Macy’s Santa will leave the mall on a sleigh driven by flying reindeer. Bernie is a real person, and he is deeply, perhaps fatally, flawed. He would be a horrible candidate in the general election—like, McGovern-in-’72-level bad—and, more urgently, his nomination would ensure that, whoever won, the White House remained in Russian hands.

The Bernie extolled by the bros is a myth, just like the Trump that MAGA adores—just like Neverland, and just like Santa Claus. We need to face some cold, hard truths, before Sanders scolds and finger-wags his way to a second term for Donald Trump. We cannot permit this egomaniacal fraud to spoil yet another election.

Bernie is a socialist—but of the Union of Soviet Socialists variety.

Hey, there’s a reason Santa Claus wears red!

Bernie is a self-styled “socialist” who has bought, hook line and sinker, the Stalinist propaganda about Marxism and the glories of the Soviet Union. This was understandable if you were Dalton Trumbo in 1947. After all, the governing philosophy of communism is “let’s share everything so there is no want,” which is kind of appealing, especially next to the “fuck you, pay me” mantra of unvarnished Trump-variety capitalism. Seven-plus decades later, alas, the naïveté borders on delusional.

From the Young Peoples Socialist League to his membership in the Liberty Union Party, which sought to nationalize (and not just “break up”) the banks, to his time at the Kibbutz Sha’ar Ha’amakim, which extolled Stalin—who slaughtered more people than Hitler—as “Sun of the Nations,” to his hanging a Soviet flag in his Burlington mayoral office, Soviet boosterism is the thruline of Bernie's career.

Bernie took his wife to the Soviet Union for their honeymoon, as one does. For years, he extolled the virtues of the USSR. Rather than grok that it’s all KGB-fed propaganda and lies, he’s been a staunch Bolshevik apologist for his entire adult life.

I mean, the guy has a dacha, ffs.

Look, our healthcare system is flawed. I’d love some sort of universal coverage like they have in every other developed country. But the best person to promote the de facto nationalization of the healthcare system is not a Soviet apologist who once wanted to nationalize the banks, too.

Bernie is unpopular with Black voters.

To be fair, Sanders (likely) really does want equality and all those nice things he talks about. Good for him. The problem is that his vision of “socialist” utopia is absolutist and focuses too much on the (white, male) working class that he, like his beloved Marx, idolizes and idealizes.

Despite some high-profile Black supporters, Bernie remains unpopular with Black voters, particularly Black women. This, and not “the rigged DNC,” is why HRC kicked his ass in the primaries. Could it be that Black voters have made Bernie as a BS artist? Those are his initials, after all.

The failure of the United States to properly examine and make amends for slavery contributes mightily to the country’s enduring racism, on which MAGA feeds. Not to even discuss reparations is madness. Unsurprisingly, Bernie does not understand this:

Marcus H. Johnson@marcushjohnson

Bernie Sanders thinks reparations is "just writing a check" instead of a redress for state sanctioned terrorism, violence, and being shut out of the economic, political, and legal systems for 250+ years. How is reparations "just writing a check," and free college not?

Aaron Rupar@atrupar

Bernie Sanders on reparations on The View: "I think that right now our job is to address the crises facing the American people in our communities, and I think there are better ways to do that than just writing out a check." https://t.co/FXso34iSbs

March 1st 2019

470 Retweets1,065 Likes

To win the resounding victory necessary to defeat Trump and the Russian hackers threatening to sabotage yet another election, overwhelming African-American voter turnout is essential. Black voters are more likely to turn out in big numbers for Joe Biden—especially if he runs with Kamala Harris, as we K-Hivers hope—than yet another elderly New Yorker who makes pie-in-the-sky promises he can’t possibly keep.

Bernie is lazy.

Sanders spent the early part of his career flitting between low-paying odd jobs:

He bounced around for a few years, working stints in New York as an aide at a psychiatric hospital and teaching preschoolers for Head Start, and in Vermont researching property taxation for the Vermont Department of Taxes and registering people for food stamps for a nonprofit called the Bread and Law Task Force.

Then as now, he was more given to talking the talk than walking the walk. In 1970, the 30-year-old Liberty Union Party socialist was kicked out of a Vermont commune for not doing his share of the work. His days there were instead spent in “endless political discussion.”

Sanders’ idle chatter did not endear him with some of the commune’s residents, who did the backbreaking labor of running the place. [Kate] Daloz writes [in her history of the commune] that one resident, Craig, “resented feeling like he had to pull others out of Bernie’s orbit if any work was going to get accomplished that day.” Sanders was eventually asked to leave. 

Eventually, Bernie found a career that would allow him to talk a big game but accomplish precious little: politics. For the decades he’s been in Congress, his record is pretty scant. Seven bills in 28 years, including two that name post offices, is nothing to write home about (unless you’re writing home to one of those post offices)—although Sanders has been a quiet champion of gun rights for most of his Congressional career, as well as a dependable “nay” vote on Russian sanctions, so I guess there’s that.

But hey, I’m sure a guy who has avoided labor as assiduously as possible for 78 years will magically turn into a workaholic as an octogenarian. That heart attack no doubt jump-started his engines. Speaking of which…

Bernie is old, and he just had a heart attack.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t actually a heart attack. Maybe it was just a life-threatening cardiac issue that required emergency surgery. We don’t know, because Sanders has not yet released his medical report. But he has promised to do so, just as he promised to release his taxes and then waited a million years to make good. Will he bring the receipts before next week, as he said he would?

The Speaker's Basilisk⚖️@PelosiLegatus

Why hasn’t @BernieSanders released his medical records yet? He just has a heart attack three months ago, which he lied about. What is he hiding from the American people? Why is the press so afraid to dig into his dishonesty?

December 23rd 2019

173 Retweets444 Likes

Even if his medical report checks out, I mean…there’s ageism, and then there are actuarial tables. A President Sanders would turn eighty in 2021, his first year in office. That would make him the oldest first-term president by a significant margin. He can’t live forever; in that way, he’s not like Santa Claus.

Bernie is a misogynist.

That Bernie Sanders is some sort of radical feminist, a paradigm for how men should be in the post-Third-Wave world, is almost as ridiculous as his stubborn refusal to comb his hair.

Before he launched his political career, he was a deadbeat dad. Remember, Bernie was a graduate of the prestigious University of Chicago, in an era when college degrees were relatively rare. Instead of putting food on the table, he was running quixotic political campaigns as the standard-bearer of a barely functional party. As Spandan Chakrabarti writes:

In 1971, Vermont was debating a tenant’s rights bill. One of the testimonials to Vermont’s State Senate Judiciary Committee came from one Susan Mott of Burlington, who said the legislation did not go far enough in prohibiting discrimination against single mothers and recipients of welfare benefits. Mott had one child and was on welfare. That one child…was Levi Sanders, Bernie Sanders’ son. Which begs the question, why did Bernie Sanders’ (former?) girlfriend and his son have to be on welfare? Where was the University of Chicago graduate’s considerable marketable skills? What was 5-year-old Levi’s father doing that he couldn't afford to support his own child? It turns out he was too busy coming in third with single digit votes.

To be fair, Bernie did bring home a little bit of bacon writing stuff like this:

A man goes home and masturbates [to] his typical fantasy. A woman on her knees, a woman tied up, a woman abused.

A woman enjoys intercourse with her man—as she fantasizes [about] being raped by 3 men simultaneously.

Even if those lines were intended as a provocative rhetorical flourish to be shot down later in the essay, I mean…what feminist ally would write something like that?

And then there’s the more recent sexual harassment issues that seem to be pervasive in his campaign offices. He missed one of the Russian sanction votes because he was busy dealing with it:

The only one to miss the vote was Sen. Bernie Sanders, I-Vt. He was meeting with women who had accused his 2016 presidential campaign of sexual misconduct, his spokesman, Josh Miller-Lewis, told CNBC.

As if to confirm his misogynist bona fides, Sanders this month endorsed the candidacy of Young Turks founder Cenk Uygur, no feminist ally—before the bad optics forced him to reverse course:

“As I said yesterday, Cenk has been a longtime fighter against the corrupt forces in our politics and he’s inspired people all across the country,” the Vermont senator said. “However, our movement is bigger than any one person. I hear my grassroots supporters who were frustrated and understand their concerns. Cenk today said he is rejecting all endorsements for his campaign, and I retract my endorsement.”

That Cenk is running for the California seat vacated by rising star Katie Hill, a victim of criminal revenge porn who was shamed into stepping down, makes the gaffe even worse.

Bernie is not a Democrat.

Of all the idiotic narratives spewed by the “Bernie bros” about 2016, the most asinine was that the process had to be rigged because the DNC clearly preferred Hillary Clinton to Bernie Sanders. Um…why would it not? Just as a New York Yankees fan club would want its leader to be a ride-or-die Yankee fan rather than a waffler who rooted for either the Bronx Bombers or the Red Sox depending on which was doing better that year, so the Democratic National Committee wants an actual Democrat to be its nominee. Duh.

And this was not any nominee. HRC was practically funding the operation herself, to help with the down-ballot races Bernie could give a shit about. Anyone can scold the country about big banks and wage inequality, but to actually, you know, govern requires working well with other people, a skill that seems to have eluded Sanders for the last 30 years.

Alas, the incorrigible Senator has learned nothing from 2016. He’s still playing the hackneyed “rabble-rousing outsider” card:

The Hill@thehill

Sen. @BernieSanders: "We are going to take on the Democratic establishment."

December 22nd 2019

426 Retweets1,930 Likes

The election of 2020 is, or should be, a referendum on Trump. It’s not about taking on the Democrats. That sort of internecine divisiveness is exactly what Putin wants. Which makes perfect sense when we consider that…

Bernie is (at a minimum) a Useful Idiot for Putin.

The bots go on the offensive whenever I tweet that Bernie is a Useful Idiot for Russia. But he is Useful, in that he operates as a divisive force in the Democratic Party, which aids Putin. And he’s certainly an Idiot, in that he doesn't realize the damage he’s done. But does he really not know?

The Mueller Report makes it clear that Russian IC was helping the Sanders campaign. Either Bernie didn’t realize this, and is an idiot, or he did realize it and played along, and is a traitor. Either way, the guy who hired former Paul Manafort chum Tad Devine to run his campaign cannot be trusted with standing up to Putin and the powerful forces of transnational organized crime, no matter how passionate his anti-Wall Street screeds.

(Sidenote: Tad Devine is now peddling his Kremlin-y wares for Andrew Yang, which perhaps explains Yang’s recent remark that he is open to granting Donald Trump a pardon. This, needless to say, is disqualifying).

Put it this way: Are we sure that a Nominee Sanders—an almost-eighty-year-old who just had a heart attack—would not pick the Russophile cult member Tulsi Gabbard as his running mate? The “anti-anti-Trump Left,” as Jonathan Chait calls it, is alive and well, sharing, “in addition to enthusiasm for Bernie Sanders, [a] deep skepticism of the Democratic Party’s mobilization against the president.” So: traitors, basically. Would not Sanders, if given the chance, throw meat to this rabid fan base, if only to generate more adulation? Do we really trust the judgment of the guy who can’t ensure that his own campaign headquarters is not a hostile work environment?

Bernie still, years after the fact, cannot understand that he contributed to HRC’s defeat—just as he can’t see that his ideas about the Soviet Union and communism have been debunked. He doesn’t have it in him to realize, much less admit, he was wrong. And why should he? As long as well-meaning people—especially young people; especially young women; especially pretty young women—keep “feeling the Bern,” he will continue to happily soak up the attention, like the insufferable narcissist he is. Why Millennials support the guy instead of OK-Boomering him to oblivion is a head-scratcher. Maybe it’s because he was born two months before Pearl Harbor and is therefore older than the Boomers?

Bernie Sanders is the Trump of the Left. Repeat: Bernie Sanders is the Trump of the Left. He’s an egomaniac who believes his own hype, like Trump. And like Trump, Bernie is selling snake oil; we just happen to like his brand of snake oil. He’s a bad mall Santa, promising everyone a pony, when all he can deliver is a lump of coal. And make no mistake: far from assuring a worker’s paradise, his nomination would bring about the end of the republic.

It’s not a “revolution.” It’s a con job. And it’s got the full support of the Russians.

[babbushka]

how did you get into film writing (or is it playwriting????) and do you have an advice on others trying to dive into it?? :) ty in advance!!!

Oh I love this question!! 

I’m going to put the answer under a cut because it’s going to get very long :) 

So to answer the first part of your question, I’ve been writing for over 10 years now! I started writing horrible fanfic and original stories when I was 13. I didn’t post it or anything, I just wrote it on notebooks and kept it for myself when I wasn’t satisfied with how my favorite books or movies were going (there was a ton of super cringy twilight and harry potter fanfic lol). 

In school I was always a very strong writer in terms of essays, and in English/Lit classes I was always very conscious about the rules of literature and grammar. I won a couple short story prizes in random competitions, I helped and tutored other kids with their papers all the way into college, and now I’m on a couple master of fine arts thesis committees doing that very same thing. So I’ve always been someone who enjoys writing and being able to express stories visually just came so naturally. 

I have always been very much into film and theater, and I started officially writing scripts when I was around 15/16 or so, because I had a small camcorder that I would use to make awful awful awful short films. I think the very first official script I ever wrote was for a class project, where we had to make a short film parodying a pre-existing movie. 

When I went to university for film, I found my absolute love for writing original material in my script classes. I took a script-analysis class where we broke down the parts of a screenplay to its most fundamental pieces, and then really picked apart how those elements all work together both technically, and in terms of creative content. I also took a script theory and practices class with academy award nominated professors who really helped me develop my personal eye and hone my style -- but!! The most impactful thing that I really got out of those classes was workshopping other people’s scripts. That was so valuable to me because it became very clear when a script wasn’t working and when it was. It’s hard sometimes to see flaws in your own writing, but it’s very easy to see them in others. Like you know how you can just tell when things aren’t going well? I got that vibe a lot, and worked towards applying the criticisms I would give to others on my own work, and I improved a ton. 

While I was in film school I wrote a so many scripts that like it was getting out of control, lol. My friends and I filmed a bunch of them just for fun and to improve our skills, but we never really showed them to anyone lol. 

By the time I went to my master’s degree, I was already very familiar with the screenwriting world, I had met and networked with people who gave me valuable feedback and helped me develop my writing style into what it is today, and so I began to take elective classes that would allow me to write a script just to keep up the work. I wrote a full length feature script (which I’m hoping to schedule a meeting with a very big director soon!!!) for a shot design class, and I wrote two feature length scripts for my screenplay adaptation class (which I’m also hoping to pitch to a couple industry people soon), and I wrote scripts for my animation collaborative class, and my storyboarding classes and of course my master’s thesis. Just trying to find as many opportunities to write a script as possible, and then turn that script into something. 

So that’s how I got into it! From very early on I knew I wanted to tell stories, but it wasn’t until I was in high school that I genuinely thought I could work towards telling stories professionally through my absolute favorite medium, film :) 

Now! To answer your second question, my biggest advice is to write as much as you can and expect it to be awful in the beginning. Write cliches. Write stories you think have been done a thousand times. Write the same characters over and over again. Write as many different genres as you can. Write awful bad cheesy sappy predictable garbage. Because the best way to learn is to practice and the only way to find out what your voice is, what your style is, what the stories you want to share are, is to write. Embrace the writers block. Push through it. Write out of sequence, write scenes and try to build something around them. Don’t think your first draft is your best draft -- there is always room for improvement. 

And network!! Find people who are in the industry and ask for their honest feedback and don’t be upset when you hear something isn’t good. Ask them why it isn’t good, and then decide if you want to apply those corrections. If you’re going to school, try to incorporate screenwriting into as many of your classes as possible. If you’re going to higher education, find a program that will let you take electives or classes in screenwriting, and talk to your professors. Get to know them! If you put in the hard work and are friendly and kind and you genuinely show that you are a good writer they will want to help you, I promise. 

I won’t lie to you, I am not fully in the industry yet. I haven’t sold any scripts yet, I haven’t even pitched any yet, because up until now I haven’t been ready. And you might not be ready yet for a long time either. And when you are, it is going to be a very hard road of trying to pitch your scripts and send them out to production companies or fund them yourself. 

But if it’s something you’re truly passionate about, and if you know the right people and work hard enough and are a good writer, you’ll get there eventually, I promise

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

A Girl’s Best Friend (Peter Parker x OC) - Part 17

Synopsis: Diamonds are man’s best friend- or dogs are girls’ best friends, wait… how does the saying go again?

Warnings: Family issues; Peter has a crush and it’s complicated; mention of assault; good dogs; College AU; aged up! characters; TONY STARK IS ALIVE AND WE ALL LIVE IN A HAPPY PLACE CALLED DENIAL

A/N: Is anyone still there? I swear things are going to happen soon, your pain is nearing the end now hehe (I love writing slow burns)

Word count: 2.7k

Part 16 <<< >>> Part 18

MASTERLIST

               From the outside, a sense of normalcy seemed to have returned in their lives. Peter waited for Emmeline outside the door to her class; Emmeline walked with Peter and Tessa in-between her classes on Fridays; they sometimes ate together before she returned home at the end of the day.

               The outcome of their conversation was certainly not one Peter had known to expect. He had been prepared to wave goodbye to the friendship he had built with Emmeline – and tried very hard not to think about what it would have become if he hadn’t fucked up. Then again, nothing could ever have happened between them as long as she didn’t know the truth about him.

               The first Saturday, when she walked out of the elevator and made a beeline for him in the Stark Tower lab, Peter broke into a grin that wouldn’t waver the entire day.

“Hey you!” she greeted him, returning the beaming smile and joined him behind the desk.

“Hey yourself,” Peter answered, almost twisting his neck when he followed her with his gaze.

               She set down her bag and hung her coat on the back of a chair before coming to stand next to him.

“What are you working on?” she wondered, leaning in to have a closer look. “Is this a miniature motorbike?” Her eyebrows shot so high up that Peter lost sight of them.

“Oh, it’s nothing, it’s just-“ he caught himself right before the lie came out, and just when Emmeline gave him a skeptical side glance. “I mean, yeah. It’s for Hope. It’s got all kinds of equipment and features that normal bikes don’t have, of course. And it’s fast – like real fast.”

“Hope?” Emmeline asked.

               She didn’t point out Peter’s deep blush that he always seemed to sport whenever he said anything related to his work with the Avengers. Unlearning to lie about his double life would take a while, they were both aware of that fact.

“The Wasp,” he explained. He took the motorbike in his hand to have something else to focus his attention on, and try to get his own face in check. It shouldn’t be possible to blush this much. “It’s not its normal size, obviously. Just checking a few things before she tries it out.”

               Emmeline made a hand gesture, silently asking if she could hold it and Peter handed it over very carefully, letting her lift it to eyelevel and examine it from up close. She didn’t say anything, only hummed appreciatively a few times.

“When will I meet the Avengers?” she asked as she put it back on Peter’s desk.

               Peter’s jaw dropped and he stayed open-mouthed and at loss for words a few seconds, until he saw the expression on Emmeline’s face and the glimmer of playfulness behind her eyes.

“You already met two of them. The best ones,” he told her, now standing up.

               He would finish working on Hope’s motorbike later; when Emmeline dropped by, they worked together on his Spider suit. It was the first time they would work on it knowing it was his…

“Oh! Of course, silly me!” she laughed, slapping her palm against her forehead. “Turns out, you’re the most famous of us two! Who’d have thought, ugh?”

               Peter rolled his eyes and turned around, walking backwards as they made their way towards the back of the room.

“I also photograph way better than you,” he teased her before quickly dodging her arm when she attempted to smack his head. “What’s that in your hand?” he asked when he spotted the paper bag and the familiar logo.

“Oh nothing…” Emmeline trailed off, lifting the bag and peeking inside. “Only your favorite muffin from your favorite place,” she announced, holding the bag behind her back and out of reach when Peter tried to snatch it from her hand. She placed a palm flat against his chest to keep him at a distance.

               Not that it could stop Peter, but her mere touch sent him in a state of complete submission and he froze immediately when her hand was over his heart. He dropped his hand.

“No, you didn’t. I stopped there on my way here, they were all out. I say you’re bluffing!”

“Oh, not for me, baby, they aren’t,” she bragged, wiggling her eyebrows and walking past him, bag still out of his reach. “And since you’re so mean to me, I might eat it myself. If you want one, try going there in your Spider suit!”

“Isn’t that abuse of power?” he wondered, though seriously considering her suggestion. Nah, if Tony found out, he would confiscate the suit, and then wouldn’t he look smart scouting the streets of Queens in his old, DYI suit?

“You kids having a good time?” Mr. Stark’s voice suddenly asked, coming out of nowhere. Emmeline and Peter looked around but saw no one. “Cameras, guys. They are everywhere. Microphones too. Just casually letting you know, in case you decide to get naughty because you think I can’t see you.”

“Ah!” Emmeline exclaimed dramatically, raising both hands in the air. “Here goes my plan for the day!”

“Keep it in your pants, this is a workplace, we only do work-related stuff and nothing fun whatsoever,” Stark said, unable to sound even remotely stern. Then he switched on some music, blasting AC/DC in the lab. “Now get to work, I don’t pay you to slack off!”

               He seemed to tune off and only the background music remained, but Peter frowned and shot Emmeline a confused look.

“Pay? He doesn’t pay us?” He said it like a question, wondering if he was being paid this whole time and didn’t realize. “For my fake internship?”

“I don’t know about you, but I got a legit internship. So yeah, I’m getting paid now.” She shrugged and Peter picked up the clue.

“What? Since when? Why haven’t you told me?” he questioned, feeling a little offended that she kept that from him all this time.

               She winced.

“It’s pretty recent…” she trailed off, biting on her lip. “Tony came to my place shortly after New Year’s Eve,” she started and Peter immediately knew what was what.

               Tony Stark, ever the match-maker, decided to take matters in his own hands and help Peter out after he confessed that Emmeline found out about his secret identity. Or maybe he was simply desperate to get Peter to stop mopping around in his lab.

“I thought he came to plead your cause so I told him to go fuck himself at first,” she then told him. Those words pulled the brakes on Peter’s train of thoughts.

               He stared blankly at her for a second or two or more.

“You said what to who now?” he asked dumbly, blinking slowly while she rolled her eyes at him.

“It’s true,” Tony’s voice came again. It seemed it came out of the same speakers through which F.R.I.D.A.Y spoke. “I have the recording, if you want to hear it. And see? She calls me Tony!”

“It’s very rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations!” Peter snapped before remembering who he was talking to. “Can we have a little privacy, Mr. Stark?”

               Only a faint chuckle answered his request, then it was only Back to Black again. He could only hope he wasn’t listening anymore. For being such a busy person, Tony sure had a lot of time on his hands if he spent it spying on him whenever his crush was around.

               Peter was pulled out of his internal musings by Emmeline’s laughter.

“You’re too cute, you know that?” she simply asked, not expecting an answer but chucking him the muffin. “Anyway, long story short: he didn’t come to beg me to forgive you on your behalf, but he offered me an internship.”

“A real one? A legit, normal internship?” Peter felt the need to ask for clarification.

“No, I’m actually a superhero too now. Code name’s Captain Sarcasm,” Emmeline replied with a smirk.

               She crossed her arms over her chest while Peter glared at her through narrowed eyes, not appreciating the jokes she made at his expense.

“Don’t you make that face at me, Peter Parker!” She held out a finger and poked him in the chest. “I bought you the best and also last pecan and white chocolate chip muffin in all of New York City, it’s a debt you’ll never be able to pay off, so you better be nice to me.”

“I saved your life! Twice!” he pointed out.

               He didn’t really think about what he was doing when he grabbed her finger – he just wanted to make her stop poking him accusingly in the chest. But then he was holding her hand against his own chest, and she still didn’t move it, and he was ready to melt on the floor right then and there. Where was Tony when he needed him?

“Who’s counting?” she simply said with a smile.

               Without letting go of his hand, she walked the last few steps to their workshop, dragging him along.

 *

                 Emmeline hadn’t left town to avoid Peter; she didn’t hole herself up in her room and left all other rooms of her penthouse in the dark to throw him off. No, Emmeline hadn’t done that.

               What she had done, though, was blackmail her own parents into getting her out of her big, empty penthouse and allow her to gain some kind of autonomy. After the events of December, she had something to hold against them, something that would sink her father’s political career faster than the Titanic: they had left her behind.

               The mayor and his lady wife had fled the scene of the shooting, ignoring all their supposedly natural parental instincts that would have made them stay until they knew their daughter was safe. The city was still recovering from the event, it would be the perfect timing for Emmeline to go live on TV, telling everyone what terrible parents they were.

               They had spent her entire life forcing riches onto her as if it made up for everything else that lacked in her life. She chose to take this as a fair retribution. She told them to sell the penthouse, that she never wanted to set foot there again, and instead to buy her a reasonably sized place of her own choosing, in a quiet and not so in-your-face neighborhood, a place normal people with a decent income could also afford, and not only the wealthy 1 %.

               The new place was in her name, entirely paid for. All she asked of her parents now was to cover her expenses until she had a steady job of her own. In exchange, she would keep her scandalous family secrets to herself, continue to play pretend when they needed to appear as a united family, but not have any other ties to them. She was legal after all, the only thing still tying her down was her lack of money.

               She did have a pretty hefty amount of money in her trust fund, but she wouldn’t have access to it for another few years, and she was petty enough to ask her parents to pay for everything a while longer – they liked to buy her affection so much, she figured buying her silence would be the same.

               The new place was radically different, in all aspects. Peter liked it a lot, and he had told her so many times. She didn’t keep anything from her old apartment, expect one object.

“I can’t believe you kept this, of all things,” Peter mused, throwing the glasswork in the air and catching it behind his back.

               He did this now. He showed off. Emmeline noticed a few subtle changes in his behavior since she found out he was Spider-Man. He didn’t hold back anymore now that he didn’t have to pretend to be an average young man, he allowed himself more liberty around her. She liked that.

“It has a certain sentimental value, you see,” she had told him, taking it from him and setting back on its stand. “Couldn’t leave it behind.”

               Peter chuckled and continued to explore the place. It was a typical open space apartment in one of those old buildings that get restored every ten years. This one had a particular charm, and the lighting was great. She had done marvelously well with the decorating.

               The wooden floor that creaked in some places was her favorite thing, she told him. The walls were a warm dark red color on the side where her bed proudly stood, and the rest of the apartment was painted a dusty orange. Only warm, rich colors, with wooden furniture, lots of small lamps to creates a cozy atmosphere.

               He hadn’t truly measured how impersonal her previous place was, how unlike her. It was obvious now that she hadn’t had a word to say in the decoration of the penthouse, while everything here had been her choice. Every book on her shelves, every plant hanging from the ceiling, and every cushion lined with fringes.

“You’re unusually quiet,” she commented when Peter still hadn’t spoken a word after ten minutes of looking around. “Do you hate it?”

               Peter spun around, hand in his front pockets, a little smile dancing on his lips.

“It’s great. I love it.”

“But?” she pressed him.

“But there’s no balcony.” He pouted, but Emmeline’s frown turned into a smirk. “What? Is there?”

               She lived on the first floor, she couldn’t have one.

“Come with me,” she said, gesturing him to follow her.

               They walked past the bed and the kitchen area and to a narrow backdoor that he had assumed led to an inner courtyard, or a private parking space. But it wasn’t that.

“Wha-“ Peter couldn’t believe his eyes. “You have your own garden in New York City?” he asked, fighting the urge to touch the grass to make sure it was real. It was small, but real.

“Even better than a balcony, ugh?” Her smirk grew even wider. “Thought it was a nice touch, and Bella loves it.”

“I can imagine,” Peter replied distractedly, picturing Tessa playing here.

               He stopped himself right there. He couldn’t let himself wander on such slippery slopes right now. Why would his mind even go there? Emmeline had only just let him back into her life, two weeks ago he thought he had ruined everything between them. He couldn’t think about how much Tessa would enjoy having a bit of open space instead of living in a small student dorm.

               He especially shouldn’t linger too much on the homey feel of her place, of how hard it hit him that he would love to live in a place like this. He simply couldn’t think about her the way he did.

               There was much to rebuild before he could even think about making a move again. Whatever small step he had taken when he asked her out was in the past now. Since then, he had taken a hundred steps backwards, and now he had to fix what he broke before thinking about picking up where they left things off.

               Trust, among other things.

               He had to unlearn his automatic response to inquisitive questions, become used to tell her the truth when he had to disappear at random times of the day, something for a few hours, sometimes for days. He hadn’t realized how many white lies he told within a single day before he started telling the truth.

“It’s…”

               He couldn’t find his words anymore, suddenly too overcome with emotion to speak. It was a daunting task to try and mend the broken limbs of their fragile relationship, and the weight of his own lies and mistakes felt heavy on his chest. It would take time, patience, effort, resilience.

               However, when he turned around to meet her expectant smile, waiting for him to finish his sentence, it didn’t seem that impossible, and more than anything: he realized it would be worth it. She was worth it; and if he had been head over heels for her before, he realized he had another thing coming, because now that she was freer than ever, she would truly begin to shine and blossom in a way she couldn’t until now.

“It’s perfect.”

.

.

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Reblog to save a writer

Taglist: @of-virtuoso @justanothergenzkid @the-freefeather​ @complete-trash-101​

[subtextures]

Narcissus Talks to Echo

The Interview apologies to The Paris Review

Context:  Why poetry?

Subtext: (Laughs) What else is there? No, really I don’t know.  It is what has come to me.  I have tried to write fiction and I don’t seem to have the attention span for a sustained narrative.  Not that poetry doesn’t require precise attention, because it does.  But it requires a different type of attention: attention to the moment.  Fiction requires attention to the end, the resolution.  Everything is focused on how the story will end.  Poetry’s focus is in the word by word movement; the unfolding of the moment, which is what makes it so hard to read and write well. It requires one to attend to everything, all the possibilities in a very intense focus, knowing all the while that one is missing most of what is happening: kind of like life.  That kind of attention is hard to maintain in fiction: maybe a Proust, or Melville, could pull it off.  I think one almost has to be ADHD to follow the leaps and psychic shifts when writing poetry.  You know:  Look! A chicken!

C:  But you also write essays.

S: Yes, but essays are as Virginia Wolfe said, “the mind tracking itself.” Much like poetry. I find myself leaping along after my thoughts in both poetry and the essay.  Neither, initially requires plotting out what I am going to say.  I can rely more on the moment to moment flow of my thinking.  In both forms discovering what I have to say as I write and focus on the play of words and ideas is part of what makes writing exciting to me.  Not to sound Romantic, but it is as if I am possessed by something greater than me that is leading me toward some revelation.  Eratos, I guess.

C: You just said you don’t have to plot out what you are going to say, yet in several of your long series you have fairly complex writing structures.  I am thinking here of  “My Book of Changes,” “115 Missing Days,” “Primogenitive Folly,” and in your most recent, “Sonnet.”

S: True, but in all of those poems, I used a number system to either create a limitation, either small or large, to help me, or maybe better to say, force me to either write very tightly in the case of  “Book of Changes,” and “Sonnet” or to expand on my thinking as in “115 Missing Days.”  I did not have a direction, or even some kind of idea in regards to what I was going to say, I simply wrote.  Again it is more of a chasing after an idea, or image that is just out of reach constantly.  Kind of like Robert Browning’s pursuit of love, in “Life in Love:” where the speaker is always, like a hunter, in pursuit of his love, but never quite capturing his prey.  Browning is more interested in the pursuit than the capture, it seems to me, and I see that now as analogous to how I write when I first sit down to write a poem. As I said earlier, I am much more interested in where the poem will take me as I am writing it, rather than having a set idea of what I want to say and then figuring out how to say it.

C:  So, if you don’t know what you are going to write about, how do you start?S: I start with a phrase, a word sometimes, or an image, then go from there.  I don’t mean to sound so willy-nilly.  I write all the time.  Or I, at least, get out my notebook and stare at the page.  Sometimes I will re-read snatches of writing which led nowhere at the time they were written and find something there to salvage or something to prod me on in another direction.  Somedays, I just write badly, but other days I can re-read the bad writing I abandoned weeks or months before and find something, some fragment of an idea, which leads me into a larger world. Last year I even found several partial poems in notebooks I abandonded at least ten years ago.  I have learned over time that anything can start a poem; so I have tried to enable that by making a conscience effort to pay attention to everything: the short arc of a bird from one branch to another, trash caught in a whirl of wind, the beauty in the everyday occurrence.  Of course, for the most part that is a failure, but I do try.

C:  Do you write everyday? Do you have a routine?

S:  I try to write everyday, but I rarely ever do.  Even when I was writing “My Book of Changes,” I didn’t write everyday, although that was the intention when I started it, to cast the I Ching then write a six line poem using the hexagram I cast as a palimpsest through which to read my life in that day, and to do that every day for a year.  But that fell apart quickly because of work and having three children under the age of 5 in the house.  However, it made sense to try to write one everyday but to let chance operate allowing for some days where I just didn’t have time to write.  I wound up with 250 poems over the course of the year, and that led to the next series of poems, “115 Missing Days.”  But I am not really answering your question, am I?  There goes that chicken again; one thought distracts me from my original intention.            No I don’t have a routine. No I don’t write everyday. There, that is the short answer.  I used to worry about not writing, the actual putting pen to paper kind of writing, but over time, I guess as I’ve gotten older I don’t worry so much about that anymore.  I think that as I go through my day, trying to pay attention to stuff, I am writing.  I am filtering out the ephemera, collecting images and thoughts, which I will later use.  Not necessarily consciously, but I find when I finally find time to write that often these thoughts and ideas flow back into my thinking sometimes from a few days before, other times from years in the past, in a non-temporal flood of memories.              I do carry a notebook with me at all times. I have done that for more than twenty years.  I like unlined sketchbooks.  I write in the book whenever I can catch a few minutes, or if I have an idea all of a sudden. Once on the way home from dropping my oldest off at college, I wrote an entire sonnet as I made the eight hour drive.  I stopped finally at a truck stop and wrote it down. So I guess my routine is to write whenever I can, but not on a schedule. Does that still qualify as a routine, if it is not in a routine manner?

C: Yes, I think that would qualify.  Let’s talk about your “training,” as it were, how important do you think poetry classes are, or MFA programs?

S: I don’t really have anything to say about MFA programs, since I have not been in one.  The two people I know who went through a MFA program, one at Iowa and the other at the New School in New York, seemed to get a lot out of the programs.  How much they learned to write in the programs, I am unsure.  At least one of them was a fine writer before he went through his MFA program.  I think like any school, a person gets as much as she puts into the program. I found the poetry workshops I took as an undergraduate and in graduate school allowed me a unique environment to write and talk about poetry with a very diverse group of people with different aesthetic visions.  It is rare, at least for me, to have that kind of environment after school.  I have written and thought about poetry on my own since I finished at Bread Loaf almost twenty years ago. I was lucky from the very beginning to have several people who took the time to read and talk about my work with a kind attentive eye.  It helped me learn to write on my own.

C:  Talk about these people.

S: Well, in high school when I first started thinking of myself as a poet, I had the good fortune to come into contact with two teachers, one a writer, the other a visual artist, Cliff Berkman and Ann Lockstedt, who took my poems seriously, or at least pretended to well enough to make me believe they took me seriously.  Berkman gave me books of poetry to read, probably the best thing any young poet can do; read voraciously, as Dylan Thomas said, “until my eyes fell out.”  Lockstedt introduced me to Art with a big A.  Something that was out of the realm of the milieu of small town south Texas, she took a bus load of kids to see the Cezanne exhibit in Houston, as well as several buses to Dallas and Ft. Worth to see the Kimball and several other art museums.  That kind of trip with today’s lack of funding for the arts in the public school system would be unheard of now.As an undergraduate at the University of Texas, I was lucky to be in several workshops run by Albert Goldbarth.  In the late 70’s and early 80’s, he taught there before moving to Kansas.  Again he talked to us as if we were poets, not as dumb-ass students, which we were.  He was sarcastic and cutting, but he also found something good to say about everybody’s poems.  What Katherine Bomer calls the hidden gems in students writing.  It takes a very patient mind to do this well, and Goldbarth made us want to write better, or at least made me want to write better.As a graduate student in English literature at the Bread Loaf School of English, I had one poetry workshop with Carol Oles, but just being at Bread Loaf was a writing workshop. The conversations about literature and writing with the professors and students that I had over the course of the four summers I was in Vermont were life altering, as far as my thinking about poetry was concerned.  Lunch conversations with David Huddle, Robert Pack, Ken Macrorie and others over everything from the weather to literature, to politics is indescribable in its influence on my literary life.

C: What about your own teaching, how does that affect your poetry?

S: I would say in an indirect manner.  When talking to my students about the “great” works of English literature I have come to see it in deeper more meaningful ways, not just because I have to explain the poem in ways the students can understand, but also because of the ways of knowing a poem the students bring to the work.  Also as I try to teach my students how to write, I garner insights into my own writing processes.  Teaching has deepened the initial training I had through the university, and taken my understanding of poetry further, I believe, than if I had gone off to sell insurance.  But that is because I am able to think about poetry on an ongoing basis, and have discussions with fellow teachers about writing and poetry.  

C: How important is having a community of writers?

S: Very important.  Writing is such a solitary activity. So much of the time is spent in your own head, wrestling with your own demons, caught up in self-evisceration that just being able to talk to others who have some common understanding of what it means to write becomes a balm to the doubt and insecurity that comes with being a writer. Even if all you talk about most of the is how the local sports team is doing, or how crappy your job is.  You also have the love of words and writing, which brought you together in the first place.  

C: Do you think about your readers when you write?

S: Yes, in the very real sense that I am one of my readers.  That makes me think of a line from Tom Raworth when he said he started to write because he liked reading what wrote. But as for making it easy for my readers, not really.  I write what I write.  I like it when someone says they have read and liked what I wrote.  I often wish they would be more specific about what they liked, but any kind of  positive response is welcome.  I think any writer who tells you she doesn’t care what people think of her writing is lying to you. As human beings we all want to belong, and writer’s want people to read what they write.  I think that is why so many writers seek out workshops, so they can have someone read their work.  The danger becomes that you change your vision to better conform to others’ view of the world.  That is also the horror of writing that no one can see the way you do, and you wind up screaming into the wind.  I haven’t sent out anything for more than 20 years, but I post on my blog in hopes that someone will read my poems, and maybe even respond.  

(March 2012)

[savvywriting]

Childhood and Houses

My Childhood told by the houses I lived in (Written 8/24/18)

In my nineteen years of life I have lived in six houses. Random and highly specific circumstances have caused my family to move to different houses, all within the same zip code. I’ve often referenced that each house tells a different story of my life, given the small-time span of formative years I’ve spent in them. The first house, the house I was born and breed in, seems like a fairytale. I was too young to see any holes in my life or my parents’. My parents wanted me to explore anything and everything. I was allowed to play with my food at our dinner table so I could express creativity. My mom worked night shifts as a nurse on the weekends, so I was with my dad while she slept during the day. We’d watch classic Disney movies and the bounty hunter show The Dog so my dad could show me what would happen if I go down the wrong road in life. My childhood wasn’t sheltered, but it was idyllic because in that house I knew I was loved so much.

The second house was across the street from our first one, we bought it and rented the first house out to our neighbor. It had a layout perfect for a kid. I had an almost closet-like-door I could go through to get to my parents’ room if I got scared during the night. The whole house and our giant, Atlanta-tree-covered, backyard was my playground. Man, did I play. My parents wanted me to be able to make a toy out of anything and my dad and I would go to our basement workshop and make castles. That sums up my entertainment as a child; watching shark week and building castles with my dad, playing dress up and walking in the creek with my mom, and carving tiny cities out of Styrofoam packaging. When I think of my happy place, I think of our little green house on North Parkwood Road.

The third house we moved into was because of a sharp and harsh change I didn’t see coming. My parents got divorced. It’s a modern-day staple in so many kids’ lives now, but that doesn’t make it easier. Looking back, I’m grateful they did. While having a nuclear family is ideal, it was better for us as a family. I have friends whose parents won’t be in the same room as each other, but my parents are close friends. My dad even stayed with my mom, stepdad, and I after he got knee surgery since he couldn’t go up the stairs to his apartment. But during that time, it was marked by challenges. I don’t like thinking of my time in the small, cramped house on Ridgeland Avenue. My mom, who I lived with, had very little money from the divorce and our second house didn’t sell for nearly enough as we hoped. After all, it was 2008. At nine years old, I felt helpless. My mom was sad, my dad was in a bad mood, and we were barely getting by. It was so contrasting to the amazing reality I had before. But, like all hard things, it passed.

My mom got remarried, and with my now-stepdad’s combined income we moved into an incredible townhouse in the center of the city. I was thirteen so I had the freedom to walk down town and hangout with my friends and to school. It was around this time that my feminism kicked in. I started to notice the world around me and the impacts the smallest characteristics have on my life. I was becoming curious. When I was fourteen my mom told me that I wasn’t allowed to walk with less than two female friends after dark. Even though we lived in the safest neighborhood in Atlanta, being a girl, especially a young one, came with grave risks. Race and class had never been something I’d seen. I grew up in an extremely liberal, diverse, immigrant and refugee populated, tight-knit community. I went to an I.B. school starting in kindergarten and my parents took me to political events for equality starting at three months old. I never met people who were racist or sexist. I knew they existed, but I never saw them. But at fifteen, the cracks began to show. I learned that my family in Mississippi, whom I spent many of my summers with running through country valleys and jumping into the lake on a hot southern-summer day, had view-points that I couldn’t separate them from. That was the hardest part for me, I loved my family so much, I knew they weren’t bad people. However, to this day it’s still hard to ignore what they say, in the limited time I’m grateful to spend with them, and have a good conscience. 

The summer before my sixteenth birthday we moved for a number of reasons. I switched to a private school so we moved to not pay the high taxes of our county’s great public school system. I was about to start driving and getting in and out of our complex on one of the busiest streets in Atlanta was not going to happen. So, we went to what we called “an in-between house” for about a year and a half. This house marked a story where I had to grow up. I learned about credit scores and college applications, housing properties and ramifications of bad behavior in the real world, from my older stepbrothers. I also got treatment for something that I had been struggling with for years, anorexia. My parents didn’t know about it for the longest of time but they helped me help myself. I had to learn to take care of myself and be away from home for treatment. I had a family member who had was an alcoholic so I had to learn to swallow my pride and do what’s best for everyone else. 

When we moved, we moved. For the first time, I felt privileged. We bought a very nice house in a very poor neighborhood because it was cheaper. There isn’t much to write about this story, it’s still pretty new. What I do know is the underlined feeling of guilt I have that my neighbors struggle to put food on the table and we live in a fully furnished three-story house.

My childhood helped me realize that chapters end, but your story never comes to a close. So, thank you to North Parkwood Road, Ridgeland Avenue, Clairemont Road, Royal Bluff Street, and Crescentwood Lane for your lessons. I’ll be a 30030 child forever.

[percywinchester27]

Unconventional Roommates (Part-2)

Word count: 2.3K

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Warnings: None

Series Summary: Now that his brother is at Stanford, for the first time in his life, Dean does something for himself. He takes a step towards chasing his own dreams and moves away from Lawrence to start college, which is both thrilling and scary at the same time. Only catch, in this unknown town, he is stuck with the MOST infuriating female on the planet- the roommate from hell!

A/N: I really hope you guys like this part <3

Beta read by the amazing @deanssweetheart23. Thank you for putting up with me, love <3 

Dean woke up late. Of frigging course.

He had set an alarm for 7, but somehow today had to be the lucky day when it didn't go off. Dean took the quickest shower of his life, threw on the first clothes his hands landed on in the unsorted pile of boxes, grabbed a bag and made his way out of the apartment, not paying a second glance to the door opposite to his.

In the hindsight, it was probably all her fault. Even thinking about her made Dean clench his teeth, and what bothered him more was that he didn't know why he was so bothered. For crying out loud, he didn't even know her name.

As he put his car on the road, another thought occured to him, but Dean didn't want to accept that girl could have been even a little helpful to him after all. But the truth was, if it hadn't been for her, he'd have spent the whole night worrying about today, and the University. However, the legendary conversation with her had driven everything out of his mind, and he'd spent what little time he had been awake, rerunning the whole thing in his head and regretting over the comebacks he could have used instead.

But that also meant he had had a better sleep. Childishly, Dean was satisfied again that he could, at least, blame her for oversleeping. Then, he was annoyed about how stupid the whole deal was.

His first thought as he parked his baby was how daunting and intimidating the campus was. It was probably bigger than the part of Lawrence he'd grown up in, but that also meant it was going to be hard to navigate his way around. Late as he was, he quickly got out of the car and hurried to the student's council office, asking his way around. The kid working the front desk was about Sam's age. He gave Dean a once over, then asked him to wait in the seating area.

Dean, however, couldn't sit still. He could see that his feet tapping continuously on the linoleum was annoying the counter guy, but that made him more nervous if anything. Everything about the place, the laughing youngsters, the fat books, the counter guy with his nerd glasses was making Dean feel out of place. This wasn't him. What if he didn't belong? What if this was all a big stupid mistake?

"Dean Winchester?"

Dean looked up to see a guy with deep blue eyes and black hair smiling down on him.

"That's me." Dean stood up.

"My name is Castiel Novak," he said, offering his hand. "You can call me Cas, and I'm your student counselor."

Dean shook his hand, feeling little better. The guy was, at least, his age if not a little older.

"C'mon. This way," Cas led him.

They walked along the main building as Cas checked up on the papers he was carrying. "So, this says you're from Lawrence, Kansas and you're enrolled in Mechanical Engineering with a major in Automobiles Design."

"Yep!"

"That's cool, man." Cas commended. "And directly into the second year?"

"Yeah," Dean said, not knowing what else to say.

"This says," Cas read on. "That you were a teaching assistant in the Mech. Department at the community college there for three years? Without a degree?"

Dean shrugged. "It wasn't official."

Truth was, it was more money. On the off chance that Sam hadn't scored that scholarship, there had to be some extra money, right? So, Dean had worked part time at the Automobile Lab in the community college for that. It was no big deal. He knew quite a lot about how cars worked from working at Rufus'. Cas' admiration was making him a little uncomfortable though.

"So, that's what got you directly into the second year, I see," Cas concluded. "This is good stuff."

Dean nodded again, choosing to stay quiet.

"Alright," Cas pointed to a building on the left. "That is the auditorium. Beyond that the library. What we just passed was the visitor's centre. I'm sure you figured that out for yourself." Cas smiled genially and Dean immediately took a liking to him.

"Are you an engineering student, too?" Dean asked. Life would be easier knowing that there was at least one person you knew.

Cas, however, laughed. "Hardly. I'm a journalism major. I'm the assistant editor at the college newspaper, too." Then something seemed to hit him. "Tell you what? You should totally join the newspaper. Anyway, you have to take an additional activity that isn't part of your course work for the extra credits. We could use someone new."

"Oh, hell no!" Dean put his hands up. The idea that he was any good with words was downright laughable. "I can't write to save my life."

"But that's the thing," Cas pursued. "You don't have to write. How good are you with a camera?"

"Not bad," Dean said cautiously. Sam had bought him a good camera as a gift for his birthday this year. He'd fumbled around with it, mostly happy with his pictures. But what did he know of critical photography?

"You should drop some of them at the newspaper office. Maybe it's something you'll find useful," he hinted. "As it is I'm guessing you have a lot to catch up with since you're a week late and joining in the advance class."

The rest of the campus tour was pretty interesting. Cas was meticulous about showing him every building. Giving him the inside scoop on the faculty and the general gossip about students. Dean was relieved to know that students his age weren't actually uncommon. That in fact, most of his class might be older than he was. Cas also told him that Mech. department had a couple of great kids he could definitely hang out with.

"Just think over the photography thing," Cas reminded him as he dropped Dean off in front of the Automobile Workshop. "Go find Professor Barnes in there. She's good. And if you need anything at all, you have my number. Just give me call. We all hang out in the quadrangle after classes, drop by if you want."

"I'll remember that," Dean nodded gratefully.

Professor Pamela Barnes was younger than Dean had expected, also way more attractive, but one look at her and it was clear that she was a no nonsense woman. She ran Dean through his schedule, going through his transcripts and work experience, but unlike Cas, her face showed no change in expression. There was no saying what she thought about him.

All she said was that she expected Dean to know his subjects because he had already been through them.

All in all, when Dean stepped out of the building and finally fell into his car, he decided that the day hadn't been a failure. Even though he still wasn't sure how well he'd fit in, he was sure that he, at least, wanted to try. Stepping into that workshop had made all the difference for him. One look around and he was home. He knew that stuff, and unlike Lawrence, here, he was allowed to make mistakes, because he was learning. Just like everyone else and that feeling was… thrilling.

Smiling to himself, he put the car in reverse, only to halt as his phone rang.

He smiled once more at the name flashing on the screen before pressing the answer button.

"Hey there, Sammy."

"Hey there, college boy!"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Stop rolling your eyes," Sam said. "I know you are."

Dean laughed. It was so good to hear his brother's voice.

"How's it going?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged, then remembered that Sam couldn't see it. "It’s good. Intimidating, but it looks interesting so far."

"You're a freaking genius, Dean," Sam urged. "One day you're going to see that, too. Maybe this place will help with that."

"We'll see."

Sam hesitated. "There's something else I wanted to ask you about."

"Shoot." Why did he sound so nervous? Was he okay?

"Well…" Sam tarried. "It's actually a girl."

"I'll be damned," Dean grinned. "You got yourself a girlfriend!"

"Hardly," Sam huffed.

"What's her name?"

"Jessica," Sam said, then added. "She's beautiful."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Of course she is. You even talk to her yet?"

Silence.

"Figured," Dean muttered. "Go, talk to her, you dumbass! Paralyzing yourself into a zombie isn't very attractive."

"Shut up!"

"You know it's true. Just go talk to her. Ask her out on a date or something."

"Alright." Dean could hear Sam's smile on the other end. "Take care of yourself."

"You too." The call ended and Dean pocketed the phone with a smile on his face.

By the time Dean reached the apartment, and opened the door, all his thoughts were dedicated to unpacking those boxes and finally settling in with some hint of permanency, but all those thoughts went out the moment he entered the living room. His roommate was passed out on the sofa. The TV was running a WWE match in the background while the girl was lying on her stomach, one hand under her head, the falling down to the floor over the edge of the sofa. A brown beanie covered her head today but the knitted sweater from yesterday was back. She had the most peaceful expression on her face. Innocent and child-like. A smile that was somehow enticing.

Then the wrestler on the TV slammed another wrestler onto the floor with a loud bang and she sat up straight, eyes wide, scanning one side then other quickly till they found him and then narrowed quickly.

"Why were you staring at me sleeping, you creep?"

"I just got in!" Dean defended.

"That's exactly what a creep would say!"

He could actually feel his blood starting to boil. "Lady, I don't know who the fuck pisses in your cheerios every morning, but it ain't me, so stop making me into something that I'm not. Jesus!"

She looked down under the pretense of adjusting her beanie and muttered from the corner of her mouth, so quietly that he barely heard it. "That's what a creep would say."

"Okay, enough of this crap," he said, walking close to her so he was almost in her face. "What's your problem with me?" Asking her upfront would, at least, get him some answers, because the prospect of facing the roommate from hell throughout the whole weekend was honestly disturbing.

"Problem? Problem?" She asked, standing up to face him. Despite being smaller than him in size and height, she demanded attention just by her stature. "It's you, Romeo! Didn't your mother teach you that invading women's personal space is creepy?"

Dean went stoned faced. There was nothing more to say to her.

He turned around and walked back to his room, shutting the door behind him. But in the split second, just before he turned, he saw the anger from her eyes slip, replaced by surprise. She'd expected him to come up with a sassier retort, but the complete lack of response had caught her off guard.

Dean couldn't care less. She hadn't exactly hit where it hurt, because he knew he wasn't being creepy, and that she was being weird and unreasonable. But there was some truth to her last sentence. His mother hadn't been around to teach him much about life.

Sam did it sometimes. Unknowingly, he'd say something that gave away how little attachment he felt towards their mom, and Dean would snap at him. She had been a good woman and she'd loved Sam. Of course, he barely even remembered her, being only six months old when she'd passed away, but Dean did. And then he wondered which of the two situations was better, remembering some of it, or not remembering anything at all.

But this girl wasn't Sam, she didn't know what had happened, so Dean couldn't even snap at her. Sure he was mad at her for being so difficult, but he couldn't logically hold her to what she'd said. She simply didn't know better.

Lying in the half-made bed with boxes all around, Dean stared at the ceiling for a long time as Metallica blasted through the earphones. He missed home. He missed his life from two years ago when Sam was around, when he'd known what to expect out of his life the next day. But Sam was in Stanford now living his life, and as hard as the change was for him, this was his life now.

The chords of  Nothing else matters flowed through him and Dean closed his eyes

I never opened myself this way Life is ours, we live it our way All these words I don't just say And nothing else matters…

The light was shining too brightly through the window, and his first thought was remembering why there were no curtains. Groggily, he opened his eyes, staring out of the window to the beautiful view of the sea. This is good, he reassured himself.

He reached for his watch that was lying on the floor and squinted at it. 10:35.

"Damn it!" Dean cursed, sitting up in the bed. Then he remembered that it was a Saturday, he didn't have any classes today.

Running a hand over his face, Dean made his way to the bathroom. As his hand reached out to close the door, his fingers touched a paper. Curious, he looked around to see a single piece of parchment taped to the door. Written on it in a pointy handwriting was a single word.

"SORRY."

Astonished, Dean looked at the red door on the opposite side, it was locked. She wasn't home.

He smiled to himself, thinking maybe, just maybe life here wouldn't be that bad.

****************************

A/N 2: Please do consider reblogging my work and leaving feedback. Reblogging helps spread it, and also helps against the “best posts first” option tumblr has. The more the notes, the less chance of it getting buried beneath others posts. And the comments are what keep me going. I love you guys and I’ll be in forever grateful <3

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