#or is that because the writers have backed themselves into an imaginary corner where they cant get him out of this on fire spiral

[specialtysacrifice]

Sometimes the character analysis and meta is amazing and fluid and makes connections and examples for why these characters have become who've they've become

And sometimes I'm worried I'm just placating myself as these characters become "flanderized" or caricatures of themselves...

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Not by the Moon | 08

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, eating disorder (personal experience, don’t be a bloody twat), heavy(?) angst, Werewolf!Jaebeom trying to be a normal boyfriend

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Author’s Note: This chapter is from Y/N’s POV.

I am seeing a trend starting to develop where every chapter turns into a behemoth that makes me not want to edit it at all. Nevertheless, I pulled through on this one despite being in the middle of a 32-hour work week and being absolutely exhausted.

Summer holidays, you said? I only see extra shifts and little me-time nor writing time and inspiration. That said, though, be prepared for some heavy worldbuilding because the plot thickens.

Also, and this has been edited in the previous chapter, a new special someone makes his debut in this chapter. Is this also a hint about whose story is next?

Who knows?

I don’t know.

Previous Chapter / Next chapter

Masterlist

“Jaebeom? Jay!” I nudge the big man’s shoulder to signal for him to step aside so I can turn the stove off before the burned pancake catches fire. “That’s the third one in a row.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly. “I- I have a... I can’t focus.”

“Is it because of this morning?” If so, then that makes two of us. However, I tried to forget as best I could by working with timed productivity sprints instead of writing the article on Bruges in one go. It worked fairly well until lunch time came around.

That’s when I, too, couldn’t escape the claw mark.

The image of it flashes before my eyes once more, joining my thoughts with his if his blank look is anything to go by.

How did it get there? What did you do?

“Yeah. Morning. I... I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, this should be a nice evening. A cozy night in. You deserve my attention, for me to,” his breath tapers as he finishes the sentence, ���be here.”

The quiver in his lips makes the roof of my mouth dry up and my mind empty save for gut-stirring concern, unable to think of a proper response. Nevertheless, I look for words to say what seems best. Like I did this morning when I went to get his medication. “How about I take it from here and bake the pancakes? You already made the batter and I can’t let you do all the work.”

“I like cooking for you.”

“I know you do, but it’s fine. Really,” I gesture at the couch by the living room window, which provides a glimpse of the small balcony, “sit down. I’ll call you once dinner’s ready.”

“Y/N,” he reaches out for my hand yet only dares to hold my fingertips, “I’m sorry I can’t be more.”

The crack in his voice breaks my heart. But its the vulnerability written across his normally stoic face which tears me apart at the seams. Whatever he means, it’s nothing to do with this morning. Rather, it’s about him as a person, the wonderful man he is. 

Throat blocked by something I can’t swallow, I scan his attitude for any hint about what he truly means. “What’re you on about?”

Let’s just forget about it for a little while and be a normal couple. I promise I won’t run away despite what happened.

Unfortunately, Jaebeom dismisses the question to make a point I wish he didn’t. “We both know what’s ahead. But, sometimes it’s as if you’re avoiding the inevitable.”

I let out a deep sigh, caught red-handed. “I’m not, because I know or, rather, can guess where this is going. I just don’t know how to respond at times. And I don’t want you to feel bad so I try to keep the mood high as best I can. To, well, keep us both happy.”

“Is your avoidance of food also part of that?” he asks, carefully formulating the question while keeping a close eye on any change in my demeanour.

“Yes.”

“I hate it when you don’t eat.”

“I know, but if you knew the reasons behind it, you’d understand why it’s difficult for me. Although, I want you to know that I’m trying to keep my promise to you and eat when you tell me to.” I cup his cheek, lovingly swiping my thumb to and fro over the tanned skin. “It’s really hard to escape your determination. You’re very insistent on things.”

“Too much?” Eyes dim and glistening with withheld tears, he nuzzles my palm.

“Sometimes.” I kiss the tip of his nose and smile, a sign of happiness that’s only half a lie. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Now, let me be a proper girlfriend and cook for you.”

Regardless of the wonderful sight of Jaebeom wearing an apron and being absorbed in his element in the kitchen, it’s equally as wonderful to have something to eat tonight. Secretly, I would rather have made a healthier and less calorie-rich dish, but we both need a bit of a reprieve from last night. Thus, for the sake of us both, I’ve decided to let go of my rules for a little while.

To enjoy something sweet.

As wholesome as the sight of the wolf man seated on the couch, knees pulled up with round gold-rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose as he reads the novel he apparently borrowed from my bookshelves. I should write a little note on the title page and give it to him as a present so he’ll have one of my books like I have his.

They’ll be on his shelves for as long as we’re here.

Be there even after he’s gone.

Then they will return to me yet still be his.

He will still be with me.

The pages filled with his love.

It’s everything that will be left of him.

His legacy.

His remains.

The thought leaving me filled with bittersweet affection, I cut the fruit to put on top of the pancakes while gradually using up all the batter. Were it not for the move to the cottage at the end of the month, I could easily be content here if he’d ask me to move in. Wherever we are, evenings like these might become a common occurrence, a splendid reward at the end of a long day at the office.

They could turn any place into our home.

The long road of the lone wolf would finally come to an end.

Because as long as he’s there, I’m home.

“Mind your head.” Despite the warning, Jaebeom nevertheless puts a hand on my head while he opens the cupboard above to grab two plates.

“I was just about to say dinner’s ready.” I let out a breathless laugh, hardly hiding the sobs at the thought of one day having to live without his touch. “Talk about timing.”

For a second, a curious expression treks across his face. It passes by too fast to properly describe it, but it seemed to be triggered by the meaningless remark about his return to the kitchen.

When a dangerously short and sharp breath escapes me, he swallows it with a kiss. Perhaps it’s the sorrow of knowing a storm lies on the horizon that makes me delusional, but a soft whine rises in his throat each time he kisses a stray tear away as he peppers my face in small pecks. 

Satisfied he has taken the sadness more or less away, the corners of his mouth curl into a lop-sided smile as if nothing happened. Notwithstanding, it isn’t hard to figure the blissful ignorance is merely feigned. “Right. Timing.”

Our gazes lock and neither of us says a word until he perks up and motions for me to step back. “Fork and knife.”

Discombobulated by the shared confusion, I indeed set a step backwards so he can open the drawer. In the meanwhile, as Jay sets the dinnerware down, I put the final pancake on the stack and set it down in the middle of the table. 

Chest puffed out, I clap my hands. “Dig in.”

Like yesterday, Jaebeom insists on doing the dishes while I settle down for the night. However, whereas I gladly did before, I now do with an uneasy mind. Arms wrapped around my knees, my thoughts run down a familiar dark path.

I ate too much. Maybe I should go home and do a workout. Then again, I really don’t want to even though I have to.

“Y/N?” The faint though surprising mention of my name breaks the imaginary stones weighing down my shoulders. I snap my head to the side, almost headbutting the wolf man who has appeared at my side. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lips pulled into a wistful smile, I scratch him under the chin in hopes of distracting him to the degree he won’t be able to ask further questions. “I’m tired, that's all.”

Unfortunately, Jaebeom is like a guardian who somehow notices a lot despite his absent-minded demeanour. Henceforth, the topic is all but abandoned. 

Without warning, and as effortless as if he were picking up a book, he lifts me up from the couch to hold me in his arms. Instinctively, I clutch his loose black shirt to have a grip of something in case I fall. It’s an ungrounded fear since his arms are sturdy, but it’s comforting nonetheless to have something to hold on to.

My haphazard action elicits a low chuckle that makes my heart skip a beat, although it almost thumps out of my chest again as he rests his forehead against mine. “Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” I sputter, chest tight and no breath sufficient enough to lift the sensation. “Besides, I- I don’t have any fresh change of clothes or toiletries or a pyjama.”

Did he turn the central heating up?

“Doesn’t matter. Can borrow. You. No, that’s not right. You… you can. You can borrow clothes from me. Also, I think I have a spare toothbrush somewhere around here.”

“Jay,’’ As best I can, I try to keep my tone steady though the words come out too fast and uneven regardless, ‘’I think I should go home.” 

If I don’t and I won’t get in some more exercise, I’ll gain weight and slowly go back to how I was.

And I’ll lose him.

Back to square one.

Loveless.

Despite the effort, I can’t prevent the crack in my voice as I weakly tug at his shirt. ‘’Let me go.’’

“No.’’ The gentle kindness has malformed into rough sternness, translated in a sound similar to a growl. ‘’You need to calm down.”

“I am calm!” I retort, more ferocious and sharper than intended though the equal harshness might help to drive the point home.

For a split second, he snarls and bares his teeth. Simultaneously, a flicker of a second personality passes across his mismatched eyes.

The calm ocean warps into a watery grave with high waves on a stormy night.

The hazelnut cracks to set that which it contains free.

His lashes abruptly flutter shut, as he lets out a pained gasp. Beneath my fingertips, his chest caves as if an imaginary fist has dealt him a blow in the guts.

And in mine as well.

Rippling flesh.

There’s… there’s no… Jay, what is happening to you?

I hold on tighter to the fabric, hyperventilating while trying to refrain from bursting out in tears.

There has to be something I can do! But what? What do I do? How can I make this stop?

How do I get you back?

Withal, shivering lips parted to beg for guidance, are interrupted by a shake of the head hanging low. Slowly, Jaebeom looks up, a light layer of sweat on his skin. Our gazes lock, but whereas the wolf man’s was filled with savage chaos, it’s now returned to the stern tranquility it held before the attack. Nonetheless, an uncomprehending whimper betrays the fact that whatever happened wasn’t experienced consciously.

The rage was beyond him.

Outside him.

Another’s.

Still breathless, he scoffs, the sound gruff and overtly disagreeing. “Let’s watch the moon and stars.”

There is no chance to ask any questions about the swift changes in demeanour since he promptly moves to the hallway and up the stairs towards his bedroom. The bedframe of the two-person bed also functions as a bookshelf which takes up the entire right wall, the shelves stacked with second-hand paperbacks in various conditions. An empty picture frame is placed on his side of the bed, a pair of glasses next to it.

Jaebeom puts me down on the navy wool blanket on the edge of the bed and leans in to steal a kiss, which is easy to do considering I’m too shaken to offer any protest. Nor do I feel the comfort of his lips. “Take your clothes off. I’ll go find you pyjamas.”

A tad reluctant, mind occupied by guilt and terror, I start to undress as he rummages through the wardrobe on the other end of the room.

Left only in my underwear, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Although he’s seen me naked once, I still wrap my arms around myself to hide my body. A shield to protect a fragile ego housed in equally as vulnerable body flesh.

Afraid of what might happen when those ripples grow out of control.

Terrified of who he will become.

Of who he is.

“Don’t.” Jaebeom turns around with a black hoodie and grey sweatpants in his hands, eyebrows drawn together. He closes the drawer, throws the clothes on the bed, kneels, and firmly yet gently grabs my wrists to break the walls I put up. And I let him. “Don’t hide from me.”

Not understanding where the shame originates from, he grows still as he scrutinizes my face for clues. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Instead of giving an answer, I change into the makeshift pyjamas. The hoodie is oversized yet comfortably baggy while the sweatpants hang disconcertingly low on my hips. Fortunately, any skin it reveals is covered up by the top.

Continuing to avoid his gaze without saying a word, I crawl under the sheets. Face turned to the window, I pull up the blanket he drapes over me and bury my nose in it.

A wild forest and cologne with a musty hint of pages.

It’s undeniably him.

I don’t know what else to do or say. So, I let the silence speak for itself.

A language he is fluent in too despite his oftentimes loud demeanour.

The mattress dips under his weight when he lies down and rearranges the sheets to cover us both. An arm wrapped around my waist and legs tangled, Jaebeom pulls me flush against him, his chest warm against my back.

A sob rises in my throat when I feel his lips place a kiss on my crown with a sigh of contentment.

I don’t deserve this.

Us.

Him.

The fear of losing him to whatever is happening inside.

Then again, Life isn’t fair. It deals everyone the same awful hand and leaves it up to the player to make the best of it.

I guess we’re both dealt a crappier hand than others. That, or we play them wrong.

Can we win at all?

“Talk to me.” As loving and happy as the casual intimacy of the embrace is, as forgetful it could make me if only I’d manage to fall asleep, Jaebeom’s oddly sweet cooing keeps me awake.

Staring at the moon.

A woman as fickle as me.

And infinitely more beautiful.

Funny how I, too, am jealous of a celestial body.

In love with the heavens. 

He continues when he notices I won’t be the one to break the silence, his intonation laced by a whiny undertone like a dog wanting something yet being denied what it wants. “You know what I’m dealing with. But...” he digs his fingers deeper into my hips, the grip iron-like without being painful, “I hope this is okay to ask, but what is it with you and food?”

The encouraging squeeze in my side almost has me bursting out in tears again. There has to be a price to pay somewhere in the shadows, the overwhelming sensation of being genuinely loved and protected must turn out to be as two-sided as the silver goddess in the sky. After all, Life is bittersweet.

“It’s only fair I tell you.” Especially after how open he’s been. Besides, there’s no opportunity to avoid the topic since we’d arrive at it sooner or later. And he deserves to know. In fact, I don’t want him to forget my brokenness the moment I tell him about it.

We both want each other to remember our own missing pieces.

So I sigh, turn over and bald my hands into fists to rest against the warm skin of his bare chest. As I speak up, I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I used to be quite a fat kid, to the degree the GP advised my parents to put me on a diet. Queue high school and social pressure which led me to perhaps work out more than is healthy and left me bordering on the edge of anorexia. There are still foods I won’t eat and days I’ll worry about my calorie intake, especially on the days I don’t work out.”

I can’t help the mirthless chuckle which turns into a rueful smile. “It’s the good old cliché. Just another soul broken for the shallow enjoyment and acceptance of others.” 

Lips pulled into a stern line, the wolf man remains silent. Notwithstanding, his eyes speak volumes when I dare to look up at him, the ocean and hazelwood alight with a watery sheen. Perhaps it’s the comfort of his nearness or the familiarity of those one of a kind eyes, but he inspires a confession which I never thought I’d make. “Nevertheless, I’m getting better and it’s partially thanks to you.”

Morgan spamming me with ‘Have you eaten?’ texts and Bam making sure I finish my plate whenever we go out for food either here or abroad help a lot too. Nonetheless, it’s mostly the bookish wolf who makes me want to try.

And be a little better than before.

“What do they feel like, those days?”

“The bad ones?” Jaebeom nods. “They’re ridden with guilt and self-loathing.”

He leans in, leaving only a few centimetres of distance between our faces. His breath is warm on my skin as he bumps his nose against mine. “You’re feeling that way now.”

“I am.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re still you. Beautiful as always. And I’ll love you regardless of how you look. I like your mind, which is as weird as mine. The way you hold my hand, as if you’re afraid I’ll walk away. How you unconsciously squeeze it when you need my protection more. How you feel in my arms, soft and warm as a bunny.” He hooks his finger under my chin and tilts it upward to run his tongue over my lips and nose. “Love you. A lot.”

“I love you too.” I turn my head to nuzzle his palm, my face perfectly fitting into it.

Please, no ripples. Let us have this moment. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Let me have him, just him as he is. At least tonight.

The secure affection of the touch transforms into something else when he glides the back of his hand over my cheek and folds his fingers over my throat. Testing the waters, eyes boring into mine to stop at the slightest sign of discomfort, he slowly closes off my access to air.

It’s funny how the body and mind react to certain situations. Whereas I normally would flinch and run in the direction of safety, there is no urge to run. In fact, the tingling in my chest travels down to rekindle a familiar heat between my thighs while my adrenaline-infused system aches for the wolfish lover. Henceforth, instead of jumping up from the bed, I spread my legs so Jaebeom can comfortably nestle between them.

“Let me prove it. Let me mate you.” The calloused fingertip journeying across the collarbone to the crook of the neck sends a pleasant shiver down the spine. Another electric shock follows at the coarse prickly sensation of his moustache rubbing against my skin as his soft lips kisses and nips at it. “It will only sting a bit, I promise. Please, the mark will look pretty.”

“No biting, Jay.” Reminded of our agreement this morning and the movement beneath his skin when his emotions seem to get the better of him, I pull him against my chest. Before he can protest I scratch his jaw exactly in the way he likes it, thus subduing his great ability to argue. “Not today.”

“It’s not... hm, k- keep go- What do- Bit higher. There. Like, hm, mhm, there. But... what normal-’’ Arms wrapped around my waist again and letting out a content hum, dark lashes flutter shut. For a moment, it seems he’s fallen asleep. However, his drowsy murmurs, while growing incomprehensible, still haven’t finished. “It’s not what couples do.”

“You’re learning,” I giggle, amused by the remark which sounds like a student recalling a piece of knowledge during a test and repeating it for himself.

Without understanding the knowledge completely. “What do they do?”

Staring at the ceiling, I run my fingers through his long dark manes as I try to come up with ideas about what we can do next. “Well, you’ve already given me your clothes. We could try jewelry next, maybe a promise ring. It’s an old-fashioned idea, but people who are promised to each other wear matching rings. 

‘’What mean? Promised?’’

I say nothing of the faulty grammar of his question. After all, speaking becomes harder once exhaustion overtakes the body and mind. I have yet to find a sleeper being able to form comprehensible sentences. ‘’They’re sort of similar to engagement rings, but without the immediate implication of getting married soon.”

“Let’s get en- enga- enge-’’ Jaebeom lets out a groan, frustrated by his lack of speech. Nevertheless, it doesn’t perturb him enough to completely give up on the effort to properly pronounce the word he’s struggling with. “En. Gage. Ment. Engagement rings instead.”

I let out a breathless chuckle, amused both by his determination and the absurd proposal. “It’s definitely too early for that.”

“It’s not!” He barks, shooting up with a pinched expression on his face.   

Scratching him like before, I manage to calm him down enough to make him lie down on my chest again. Nonetheless, his discontent shines through in the gruff scoff he lets out. “It is.”

“What if...” Prompted by the idea in his mind, Jay scrambles upright to face me once more. Lips parted, the feral sharpness in his mismatched eyes is replaced by a twinkle of barely contained excitement. However, the enthusiasm dims with a shake of the head and a low self-deprecating chuckle that ignites my curiosity. At the same time, it also tugs at the strings of my heart. “No, it’s wrong of me to ask.”

“What is?”

What were you about to say? Don’t keep it to yourself. Tell me!

“Never mind.” He lies down again, nuzzling my breasts as he snuggles up into me.

Then, he slips his hand under mine to lift and compare it to his. “Cute paw.”

Fine. Keep your secrets, you big burly bastard.

“Go to sleep.” I push him off of me, earning myself a disappointed noise which resembles a yelp. “On the other side of the bed, please and thank you.”

In the days that follow, the movement like water set astir under his skin continues to haunt my mind. In fact, it does to the extent that even the keys beneath my fingers seem to flow rather than be pushed down, causing me to flinch for the third time in a row. 

For the past hour I’ve been trying to type out the notes on an interview with a chocolatier in Bruges and compose them into a coherent article. An otherwise simple task my mind won’t allow me to complete despite the attempts to remember the good moments we had recently. The video calls right before bed, the cuddle session a few days ago when we gazed at the moon, his enthusiastic texts about and photos of new recipes Jaebeom tried. None of it prevents the likely imagined terrible from destroying our happiness.

I’m going insane. He’s a normal person. Somewhat. I was jet-lagged and therefore not thinking clearly.

That’s why I thought I felt his skin move. I was delusional.

Drunk on him.

A buzz pulls me out of my reverie, the screen of my phone lighting up with a message.

Morgan: Starving! Found a new café thanks to a friend.

Y/N: Let me guess. I have no choice but to come along.

Morgan: There wasn’t a choice to begin with :)

Y/N: Of course not. What am I talking about, eh? See you in five.

Chuckling at the woman’s classic brashness, I shake my head, pack my belongings and head to the elevators.

Outside, regardless of the November chill, it’s pleasant. The sun shines brightly and the wind blows the little bundles of fallen leaves at the roots of the birch trees lining the street into motion, scattering them over the neatly swept pavement.

Winter is around the corner. God, I hate the cold. Hopefully, there won’t be snow any time soon.

I sit down on the bench under one of the birch trees, its branches already bare. 

Autumn is truly ending now. Shame. I haven’t even had a pumpkin spice latte and cinnamon roll yet. Maybe I should ask Jay out and find a nice coffee shop where we can get them. After all, if he’s there, we can share the pastry. He’ll be happy and I won’t have to eat the whole thing. A win-win situation.

Enjoying watching the people pass by, each stranger essentially a book with a unique story that is yet not entirely different from someone else’s. Withal, the world feels colder without him, the missing part embodied in the unoccupied spot next to mine.

A delighted sigh on the right makes me snap my head around, alarmed at the notion someone has appeared out of the blue on the empty seat. 

A woman clad in a white suit and matching fur-lined coat with pale skin and brown hair glowing copper in direct light stares contentedly up at the clouds. She’s in her very early twenties, although the freckles dusting her cheekbones and rosy cheeks might simply make her look younger than she is.

For a moment, taken aback and speechless, I cannot help but blatantly gape at the otherworldly stranger.

Wow, she’s like a goddess.

A stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach as a dark thought intrudes my mind. My throat dried up, I twist my wrists, the muscles stiff beneath my fingers.

Would Jaebeom like her? If he saw her on the street, would he... would he stop and stare? Prefer her over me or even try and give it a shot by introducing himself?

“It’s a bit chillier than I’d like, but at least it’s better than rain or snow.” The woman turns to face me, her features soft. “I hope spring will come again soon, though.”

I don’t get the chance to respond because a familiar voice calls out. Not that I would be able to form a proper reply otherwise. “You’re here already?”

“I happened to be nearby,” the stranger turns away to answer as Morgan comes to a halt in front of us, a puzzled expression on her face.

“I texted you fifteen minutes ago and you said you had to clean up. I thought you’d join us later.”

“The birth and after birth went faster than I thought so here I am.”

“I’m sorry, but what is going on?” More than a little lost, I look from one to the other in hopes of being given an explanation. “I didn’t know we’d head out with the three of us.”

“Right, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Brigid.” The dark-haired woman holds out her pale hand in greeting. “I work at the hospital as an obstetrician.”

“I’m Y/N,’’ I reply, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Lass,” wonder turned to a darker version of itself yet not saying anything, Morgan shifts her attention to me, “you look famished. Come on, let’s go.”

Offering a few muttered words of agreement, I get up and sheepishly tag along with the other women. As we walk out the street and round a corner, following the signs leading to the artist district nearby the university, I’m occasionally tempted to join the conversation. However, as soon as a short silence falls, I don’t chip in, unsure how to contribute to the small talk they seem to deliberately keep up in order to avoid a topic neither is keen to discuss. Thus I walk in urban loneliness, my train of thought displaced on my face as I let the ghosts of Jaebeom’s skin freely haunt my mind.

Right before the descent into the darkness of the rabbit hole, strong long fingers wrap around my wrist and hold it in an iron grip. The slightly painful squeeze interrupts my reverie.

Jaebeom?

I snap my head to the side to find Morgan standing there, leaning in a bit and her voice low. “We’re here.”

I don’t know how I’ve managed to ignore the bustle of students looking for a free spot on one of the terraces and loud conversations accompanied by the rustle of the paper bags hailing from the shops owned by self-employed artists. It’s also miraculous that I haven’t bumped into anyone by accident.

“Oh,” is all I say, looking at the café we’ve stopped in front of.

Wolf’s is spelled out in a modern font on the sign outside and above the door. A big window provides visitors with a view of the plaza. The interior is simple yet cosy, the white furniture warmed up by oak accents and the bare walls decorated with various art pieces, centered around wolves and various flowers. By the looks of it, they were all made by a single artist who likes to experiment with style every now and then. A few plants are dotted around the place as well to add a hint of free nature to the underlying strangely forest-like aesthetic.

A tall broad-shouldered man with short curly chocolate brown hair partially covering up the scar running over his left eye, strong dark eyebrows and a big koala-like nose stands behind the counter. Both of his arms and hands are decorated with various intricately designed tattoos. Whereas Jay is muscled yet lean, the tanned barista looks like a man who knows how to fight yet is a warrior in a society without combat.

As soon as we walk in, his lifts his head and turns to us. Playful lights illuminate the milky white of his left and raven dark of his right eye. A meadow of snow, its glimmer reflecting off of the smooth feathers of a wise bird. “Hi, welcome. Brigid, long time no see.”

Nobody seems to notice it, but his female colleague, a short woman with long flowy caramel brown hair tied into a ponytail who has her back turned to us and is busy extracting a shot, cringes at the merry mention of the woman’s name. Slowly, she steals a glance at us, hazel eyes sharpening when they fall on the woman in white. Nevertheless, she remains silent and quickly returns her attention to preparing someone’s coffee.

Looks like I’m not the only one envying her.

It is wrong to hate a woman for her beauty. Nonetheless, although it’s shameful, part of me refuses to associate with Morgan’s acquaintance out of a toxic mixture of spite and jealousy.

Such is the female nightmare.  

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Brigid muses, nodding appreciatively while inspecting the coffee shop. “You’ve got a nice thing going on here, Rome.”

“Please don’t call me that anymore. It’s Christian now. Chris or Ian for short.’’ Muscled arms crossed, he grimaces and shakes his head while looking down. Notwithstanding, the stern attitude melts into casual friendliness as a bright smile forms on his lips. ‘’But I do, don’t I? However, it’s not just me running the place. I’ve had some help.”

He turns around and motions for his colleague to come over. For a second she doesn’t move, darting glances to each of us like an alarmed cat checking for danger. Notwithstanding, though clearly tense, she warily approaches and halts at the man’s side.

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head when Christian places a hand on her shoulder. “In fact, Gráinne here still helps me out every day. She’s basically the second owner.”

“I- I’m not,” she sputters in a soft Ulster accent, fumbling with her fingers and her cheeks flushed, “I just work here some days.”

“You’re a bit more than a colleague,” her co-worker remarks, shoulders lowered and his tone holding more affection than would be the case when talking to a friend. A warm glow seems to form around him, ignited by the fondness he harbours for her.

Funny, Jaebeom wears that same expression when he’s with me.  

“I’m not.” Gráinne stiffens, each word dripping with venom as she steps away, grabs a serving tray and puts the order she was preparing before being called over on it. “Get back to work.”

Lips parted, Ian watches her as she moves past us as fast and agile like a hunting cat without any further acknowledgement of our presence. I hadn’t noticed before, but beneath her apron, she is dressed in clothes reminiscent of the Victorian era. “I know she can be harsh and isn’t easy to get along with, but I’ve never seen her act like this.”

“Och, let it pass. She has every right to be pissed with you since you put her on the spot like that,” Morgan jokes though nobody goes along with it.

She likes him yet doesn’t see it’s mutual. Should I say something? Then again, this is their business, not mine. Furthermore, why would they believe me, a stranger?

So I remain silent.

And leave this to blossom however it is meant to in Fate’s hands.

The icy glare Gráinne gives Brigid behind her back sends a chill down my spine. Evidently, she is a woman not cross paths with once angered. Withal, as the fair beauty looks over her shoulder, the other woman restores her professional composure. 

“You okay?” Christian asks as he watches her retreat into the kitchen, done serving for now.

“I’m fine,” she says thickly, the next breath hitching in her throat. Her focus shifts to the moon-shaped amethyst pendant around his neck. The ghost of a rueful smile forms on her lips, but it fades as fast as it appeared. “It’s not like I’m having a vision or something. Help them.”

She waves her hand dismissively when he doesn’t move, lips parted to say something yet at a loss for words. Notwithstanding, although I can’t see his expression clearly, it’s evident her feigned nonchalance is hurting him. “Go on.”

He clears his throat and forces himself into a rigid posture, frowning as he shifts his attention back to us. Finger hovering over the tablet functioning as a till, he stares at the display with an empty and distant gaze, which is as dull as the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “What can I get you?”

We place our order and settle down at the table by the window, neither of us offering a word of solace or dedicated to his colleague’s behaviour. 

After a while, Christian comes up to us to serve the food and beverages. As he puts the plates with our sandwiches down, he and Brigid exchange looks like siblings telepathically conversing. Whatever it is they mentally discussed, it only leaves the barista a slight bit less worried though the grave expression plaguing him remains as he returns to the counter.

An expression which must be similar to mine since it prompts Morgan to speak up regardless of having her teeth sunk into sourdough bread, looking equally as somber. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and stir my cappuccino with the vintage silver spoon next to the porcelain cup, smiling at my own silly assumptions of what happened now four days ago. “Everything’s fine.”

“Except it’s not.” The raven-haired woman cocks an eyebrow, far from willing to dismiss my worries. “Now tell me. Or, well, us.”

“It’s something to do with your lover, isn’t it?” Brigid remarks, head tilted to the side as she assesses me while sipping at her Irish Breakfast Tea. Her features soften when she notices she has hit a sensitive snare, evidently meaning no harm.

I pull back in my seat as I take a sip of my coffee, flustered and cursing myself for being an open book. There is no way out of this conversation since the current company is like-minded in their refusal to simply let the topic pass before it has been discussed.

I swallow, put the cup on the dish again and clear my throat. Fumbling with the spoon and eyes cast on the cappuccino’s silky milk foam, I tell them of what I think happened. The story sounds strange to my own ears, like a terrible fairy tale told by a chaotic storyteller who can’t tell it in a manner that makes sense regardless of how he manipulates the plot.

Afraid of their reaction, unable to fathom the slightest bit of sympathy and empathy, I look from one to the other. Fortunately, my silence can be excused by drinking the remainder of the coffee although it’s futile since the thirst has nothing to do with bodily needs.

“Sounds familiar.” The woman in white scrunches her nose in disgust as she glares at Morgan.

“He was different,” Morgan sneers through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.

“In essence, he was similar to her lover.’’ Brigid points at me though she remains focused on my best friend, her voice dripping with venom. ‘’Or should I say, is similar?”

“Since when does it matter what he is?” Thin lips painted plum purple curl into a mirthless smile, onyx locks shaking in discontent. “How hypocritical you’ve become. Forgetful of the past.”

“A past worth forgetting. It’s never too late to change your political opinions, Morgan.”

Great, now I’m the one to open Pandora’s box. I should have kept my mouth shut, changed the topic.

Desperate for help yet knowing he cannot do anything, I look for Christian among the other customers. Expression stern and standing as rigid as a statue, he watches our table from behind the counter. It appears he, too, feels the sense of danger increasing as the conversation carries on. Notwithstanding, as becomes clear from the apologetic shake of the head when our eyes meet, he also knows his hands are tied at the moment.

We are on the same boat, waiting to see how the situation will develop.

Playthings of Chance and Fate.

“We’re not here to talk politics,’’ the woman in question answers, covering her mouth with her hands while chewing on a bite of goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, ‘’but to have lunch like civilized and amiable women. To help our friend.”

“You’re right,” Brigid concludes. Nonchalantly, she pierces a piece of egg in her salmon salad and puts its on the bread provided with it, a bread called St Michael’s Bannock according to the menu. Then, she points her fork at me. “But the best thing you can do is leave him while you still can.”

“L- Leave?” Utterly confused, I look at the woman calmly eating her lunch. “Why would I do that?”

Who is she? What’s more, who is she to tell me to leave Jaebeom after what I told her? He needs help and support, regardless of what may or may not be there beneath his skin.

Unless she is on to something I am not and judging by the current circumstances, I won’t get an answer even if I dare to ask. Henceforth, if only not to snap, I clear my throat and swallow the vile words dancing on the tip of my tongue. 

“Morgan can tell you why. All I can say is that it’s better to avoid men like your lover in the first place.” She coughs and takes a sip of tea to wash down the salad leaf stuck in her throat while the woman with hair as black as night chuckles darkly. Luckily, it is only loud enough for me to hear and Brigid is too busy preventing herself from choking.  

“Sétan-, I- I mean Seán was the one to leave me, not the other way around. And we mutually agreed to part ways in favour of our own well-being.”

“Sure you did. Totally didn’t resort to throwing plates and other pieces of furniture because he rejected you.”

Morgan growls something under her breath, glaring at the woman seated next to me. However, Brigid doesn’t seem to notice the reaction she has provoked or is indifferent to it. “Or washed clothes at the ford where he so ‘happened’ to pass by. Funny how he died soon after.”

Ford? There are quite a few in Ireland, so where and most importantly, when was this? Then again, what are these two on about? Washing clothes in a ford, people dying, politics, lovers to leave. They’re like arguing voices from ancient times.

Moreover, there is the question of Seán’s life. Is he alive or dead? One moment she speaks of him as if he’s still here, but then why would Brigid remark he’s dead?

“You shut your whoremouth, traitor!” With a loud bang, Morgan slams her fists on the table. She stands up with an expression that makes me cower in fear despite not being the target of her wrath.

Behind the counter, Christian slowly comes into motion, carefully moving with the likely intent to inconspicuously circle our table and jump in if necessary. He flinches as Gráinne places a hand on his arm, holding him hard enough for her knuckles to turn white when he tries to escape from her grip in order to prevent the worst from happening. Notwithstanding, whatever the plan was, it goes to waste since he decides to listen to what his colleague tells him. Sighing deeply, he stands down although he continues to observe us.

Gráinne follows his gaze, which seems to be directed at the brown-haired woman in white, her personal target of envy. Her wolfishly fierce expression falters, growing as bleak as the ash of a great bonfire.

This time he doesn’t see how she comes apart at the seams.

Brigid calmly finishes her tea, daps her mouth on the napkin and stands up too. “Get over your crush. There’s no future for you with him. As for you, Y/N,” eyes oddly alight with motherly affection, she turns her attention to me, “and as a piece of advice from a friend, end this relationship while you still can. There’s only heartbreak ahead.”

“Thank you, but,” a wistful smile forms on my lips regardless of the urge to give into the savage nagging inside, “I can’t leave him because I made a promise to stay.”

“I see. Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong and the flowers will bloom in spring.”

And with those final cryptic words, she leaves the café after waving at the tattooed barista.

Or so Brigid intends, but her way is cut off by his colleague. 

While clumsily taking off her apron she storms outside, clenching it hard and shivering as if she’s on the brink of tears.

“Gráinne? Gráinne!” Christian runs after his colleague, pale and eyes wide with worry as he comes to a halt in the doorway. “Where are you going? Gráinne!”

Brigid places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a consoling squeeze. After giving him an encouraging slap on the back she sets off, leaving the man standing there like a defeated soldier.

“Poor lass,” Morgan whispers as she watches the female barista pass the window. Something in her tone hints at a level of familiarity between the two.

“You know her?” I ask, frowning.

“I don’t think she remembers me.” She glances at Chris, who has retreated behind the counter. He has his head bowed, smooth black locks hiding his face from the customers. Trembling fingers entwined to conceal his distress as best as possible, he resembles a man of religion fervently praying for forgiveness. “And neither does he. I saw him and his close friend, Finn, once in the woods. No, it was his brother, Jor… was it? When he came to the island. Was that… who was that?’’

A mist clouds her ocean blue eyes, lost in thoughts far removed from this world and time. ‘’He was there. As for Gráinne, we met… somewhere. There was smoke, a burning body. It was- It was at… where? Fuck, I can’t recall. I think it was at his fu-’’ she abruptly cuts herself short to correct herself with a strange undertone in her voice, “not long after I... saw them.”

‘’Morgan, are you alright? You’re looking awfully pale.’’ 

Instead of breaking free from the spell that has taken hold of her, the reverie only seems to deepen. Rocking side to side, she clutches her arms to her chest. Her skin, although naturally pale, grows sickly like a walking corpse.

‘’I- I’m supposed to remember. I’m one of the few that do. No, he and I are the only ones left that do. I can’t forget. If I do, everyone will. I can’t… I can’t!’’

‘’Morgan!’’ I stand up from my seat to rush to her side. Rubbing her arms, I try with all my might to bring her back to reality from the depths of deliria. ‘’It’s all right, Morgan, nobody is going to forget. Please listen to me and follow my voice, use it as a guide back to me from wherever it is you are. Please, come back to me.’’

‘’May I?’’ Christian has appeared with a glass of water, which he sets on the table before crouching down at the woman’s side as well.

Gently he grabs one of her hands and holds it, talking in a voice that is surprisingly steady and soothing in spite of what happened mere moments ago. It’s rougher and more gruff, making it hard to distinguish one word from another if you are not well-acquainted with the speaker.

In fact, it belongs to a completely different person. ‘’Morgan, as long as there are people who remember, there is nothing to fear. The past has taught us that what might seem like the end isn’t necessarily truly the end. We are still here. We remember because you do and you remember because we do. You’re safe and sound. Instead, return and help me make her remember.’’

‘’Why, of everyone, did you have to fall for her?’’ Gaze blinded by her mind, Morgan reaches out to tenderly run her fingers through the barista’s hair. ‘’What makes her special?’’ 

‘’She understands.’’ A similar fog veils the misty white and dark eyes, Chris or, rather, the stranger pulled into the same realm of consciousness as my friend. ‘’She broke the chains that bound me and doesn’t allow me to slip into the shadows of what I once was.’’

‘’You’re all the same, aren’t you?’’

‘’It’s rare to find understanding and acceptance in a world naturally turned against you. So, please help me. Help me find her.’’ His voice breaks, the begging words coming out  high-pitched like a whining wolf. ‘’Help me find my reason to stay in this world and not forget nor be forgotten.’’ 

The veil lifts, the spell broken with the whimpered plea. 

Christian falls back, but manages to catch himself before his head hits the tiles. Refusing every helping hand from the customers hurrying over, he scrambles to his feet. Fortunately, he accepts the chair I offer him when his dangerous swaying almost causes him to hit his head against the wall.

‘’Are you okay?’’

‘’Yeah, I’m only dizzy.’’ The hiss he lets out flows over into a sound akin to a growl. ‘’And a splitting headache.’’

Morgan has a better return to reality, completely fine aside from a dazed mind. ‘’What happened?’’

‘’You tell me.’’ I search her face for clues, a sliver of the knowledge she is lying. However, I find none.

She is telling the truth.

‘’I… I don’t know. It’s the first time.’’ She clears her throat, brow furrowed. As if having heard a noise, she snaps her head to the side. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Drink your tea, eat a sandwich and go home early from work.”

She hands the glass of water to Christian. ‘’And you, you drink this and stay seated for at least five more minutes until the dizziness has faded. Are you nauseous?’’

‘’No. Although,’’ he dry heaves, ‘’never mind.’’

‘’Make it ten. You look as pale as a banshee.’’

‘’Speak for yourself.’’

‘’You’d make a pretty one, though,’’ Morgan muses when she returns her attention to me. ‘’Beauty makes suffering leading to death easier.’’

Apparently, her return to reality has left her as mad as a hatter so perhaps it wasn’t as good as I initially thought.

“Why on earth would you say that? Besides, what kind of comparison is that, us and a banshee?”

“One based on truth. Now,” she shoves the remainder of her goat cheese and pomegranate sandwich to me, “eat, rest up and get cracking again. We’ll be in touch and visit the new café I found yesterday later, alright?”

“Hey, not so fast. Where are you headed off to?’’

She can’t be serious. There is no way she is unaffected by what happened. 

“Attagirl,’’ Morgan says as if I promised to heed her words, ignoring what I actually said. ‘’By the way, ignore what Brigid said and stay with your man. It’s plain to see how he makes you feel.”

“It is?”

“You’re glowing and you come alive when you speak of him. It reminds me of how I was with Seán.” She starts as if awakened from a dream, but tries to hide her awkwardness behind a sheepish smile. “Well, then, take care.”

“You too.’’ The two simple words, otherwise casual, are now carefully chosen in order to not to trigger another ‘attack’.

My gut tight and skin prickling thanks to her inhuman behaviour, I watch the raven-haired woman leave. I hold my wrist, my pulse too rapid to be healthy beneath my thumb.

Like I am at death’s door.

The next morning, there’s an article in the newspaper. A man’s been found dead at the edge of the bogs near town. The cause of his demise is unknown, but there are witness accounts who said they heard a high screech late the night before. In the days that follow, their names show up one by one in funerary advertisements.

A week later, none of the witnesses are alive. Moreover, nobody has heard the screeching since, though everyone remembers the description of the sound.

It was like the howl of a banshee.

[fictionfunshop]

Reunited - One Shot

Spencer Reid / Lila Archer

I watched their episode again and they were ROBBED of a happy ending so I gave them one.

18+ Smut.

You would recognise his eyes from anywhere. Captured within the honey flecks, framed with dark circles, was the innocence that made you weak at the knees all those years ago. He had chopped his hair and let his natural curls show through, which made him even more handsome than his younger self.

"Lila?" he grinned. You send him a short wave before you approach where he's sitting in the café; he pushes the heavy book back into his bag and signals to the chair in front of you to sit down.

"Spencer." You give him a small smile as you take your seat.

"What are you doing here? It's not that I'm not glad it's just…Virginia?" You could see he was flustered more than usual which made your heart swoon all over again.

You had tried to keep contact after everything that happened, but life got in the way; a new film to shoot, a case to solve, hour-long phone calls, and daily letters turned into sporadic texts until it just dwindled out.

"I'm filming a TV show here; get this, I play a Doctor." You both let out a giggle, "Are you still with the FBI?"

When you found out filming was in Virginia, you thought what would happen if you bumped into each other; wishful thinking that you could finish what you had both started after all these years. Now he was sitting in front of you; you could almost taste him again.

He nods his head, "Part-time, I lecture at the university too to keep me busy. So a TV show, no more movies?"

"I wanted to be in one place for more than a few weeks. Get a semi-normal life now I'm older." He nods in understanding. Being a movie star was fun, and you were successful, but long shoots and weeks away didn't make you a great girlfriend or wife when you tried that out.

You drop your eyes to his long fingers wrapped around his coffee mug, and you remember how they felt gripping your face and in your hair. You know you're blushing when he lets out a cough and throws you a smirk.

"So, you live here now?" He breaks the tension

"Yup, well, for the next while at least…."

"Your husband or boyfriend, not mind?"

"I don't have either." You interrupt him. "There's no one…" he smiles at your answer.

"And you?"

"You remember how awkward I am," he looks at his watch and finishes up his coffee. "I've to go to class…" you were sure the same flash of disappointment was reflecting in your eyes like his right now.

He stood up, and that's when you noticed he had filled out; chasing bad guys has added muscle to his tall frame.

"Do you want to grab dinner sometime? I'm new here, and I need a tour guide to show me around." he nods his head before you even finished the sentence.

"Yeah, you free tonight?" you could see the hesitation in his answer. Little did he know you were just as desperate to see him again in a more private setting.

"Yeah, that's good for me." He digs deep into his satchel and hands you his card. "Give me a call, and I'll arrange something."

He places his hand and your shoulder, and by instinct, you nuzzle your face there. You only notice now how long his fingers are. He squeezes your shoulder before walking away like all those years before.

All you could think about right now as Spencer Reid. After he left you in the café, his touch burned into your shoulder; it felt like a match was lit inside you. You replayed the night you first kissed him in your head. Would it be different now? Would he initiate? Would he keep his hands in your hair, or would they drift down your back? You clench at the idea of more than kissing him.

You were utterly distracted for the rest of the day, fluffing your lines in the read-through, forgetting meetings and appointments even after being reminded. You thought it would stop your thoughts if you called him and heard his voice, but it didn't. It only amplified them. You now had an internal countdown to when you would see him again.

You smoothed the black dress you finally decided on after changing your mind six times. You had never been this nervous about a date before. Ever. You were a movie star for crying out loud; men always made it obvious that they wanted you but not Spencer. Even on the phone earlier, he seemed timid and reserved, repeating the restaurants address to you and the time of the booking. You wanted to be early, but Virginia traffic made that impossible, and you arrived and the restaurant 10 minutes late. Your heart stopped when you finally saw him again. He was dressed dangerously good in a dark three-piece suit, a small bouquet in his hand; your heart raced when you approached him.

"Sorry, I'm late," you approached him, "I thought LA traffic was bad.." you kiss his cheek.

"These are, em for you. I remember they were your favourite..." he hands them over, your fingers grazing.

"You just googled that," you teased him. "Nice suit, by the way..." now you're up close, you see that it's a dark grey tweed, his blue shirt and tie matching it perfectly.

It took everything in you to not run your hands down his chest to feel the expensive material.

"You look great too; you were always beautiful, though," his brown eyes meeting yours, his irises blown out. Neither of you said anything for a while until the hostess interrupted you both to let you know your table was ready. Even though you were both nervous, the conversation flowed exactly like all those years before. It was surprising how open you both were after all that time and how he could still surprise you.

"A Cowboy?" you look at him in disbelief, sipping on your wine

"Yeah, few horses and cattle. Be surrounded by nature."

"What would you do on your imaginary ranch?" you can feel your cheeks start to hurt with the smile you have pinned there.

"I dunno…look at them? I'll figure something out" he drifts into thought. "What would you do if you weren't acting?"

The first answer you thought of was too corny to be by his side on this dream ranch, so you thought for a moment.

"Maybe a writer? I took a few classes at Juilliard and loved it…."

"I think you'd be great at that, better than me as a cowboy" he smiled at you softly.

The unmistakable tension was back; even in the dim light of the booth, you could see his eyes had turned black. You didn't want to break it; being under his gaze like this felt euphoric, and you were now sure the world would collapse if you didn't kiss him again. You both finished up your meals in comfortable silence, both occasionally stopping to compliment the food or, in Spencer's case, give you little tid-bits of information about Virginia. After you finished your meal, which he insisted on paying for, he offered you a ride home. He opened the door of the car for you, unintentionally trapping you in a corner. You saw your opportunity and pressed your lips against his lightly at first, so light that you didn't think it happened until you felt Spencer grab your jaw and push your lips together harder. The stubble on his chin is scratching your face lightly; your hands found his waist as your tongues sought each other out. You were glad the days of photographers following you were over because you were sure the scene of you two tangled together was obscene. He was the one to break the kiss, a repeat from the first time.

"I need to get you home; we'll get in trouble if we keep going," he smiles before letting you slide in the passenger seat. His hand rested on your bare thigh as he navigated you both back to your apartment, where he quickly pulled into the parking lot, the kiss from earlier giving him confidence.

"Do you want to come up?" he nods his head as he turns off the engine. You both jump out of your seats, his hand finding yours as you guided him to the elevator.

"How many stories are you up?" He asks as you both wait,

"24 – why are you afraid or something?" you turn to look at his face. He was chewing on his lip.

"A little", He chuckles. "I got stuck in one at a case a few years ago. I try and avoid them now."

The door of the elevator bings open, and you both stumble inside. He pins you against the furthest wall as you hike one of your legs up to rest on his hip; he keeps it there with his hand, his body now flush against yours as you both continue what you started in the restaurant car park. You groan as you feel him getting hard through his trousers as your hands finally make their way up to his chest into his curls. He hisses and nips at your bottom lip when you tug lightly on his hair. The elevator doors open, and you both scramble to get out; you dig through your bag for the keys.

"Wow, I didn't even know this view exists!" he announces as the door swings open into your open plan living room and kitchen; there are panels of floor to ceiling windows leading to the balcony outside.

"Is that a hot tub?" he points to the structure in the corner outside.

"Don't worry – I won't push you in with your clothes on again." You tap his nose, and he grabs your hand back, leaving it on his chest as he captures your lips in a kiss again.

As soon as he lets go, his hands steady themselves around your waist, his nails digging into your hips; you slip his jacket off, throwing it in the corner, hoping it reaches your couch. Your fingers get to work on his waistcoat; as he nearly rips your dress, he tugs on the zip at your back that hard. He breaks your kiss to shrug it from his shoulders and to slip off his tie.

"You wear too many clothes,"

"Same could be said for you," he pulls the straps of your dress down, letting it pool at your feet, leaving you in your underwear; you kick the dress to the side and slip your shoes off. He takes the opportunity to rid himself of his shirt and shoes before he gathers you into his arms again, his fingers tracing up and down your back.

"You are so fucking gorgeous," he rasps in your ear, boxing you in to your breakfast bar; one of his hands travels down your side, giving your hip a quick squeeze before he slips his hand into your underwear to find you soaked. "Did I do this?"

You whimper and nod your head as his fingers circle your entrance. You can feel yourself tighten in anticipation for his next move. He gathers your juices and circles your clit, and your knees start to shake; you are confident that if he weren't quick to grab your hip with his other hand, you would be on the floor. You bury your head into his neck, moaning his name and your hands are on his biceps as he circles your clit and dips a single finger inside you, teasing you to perfection, feeling the spring in your stomach tighten. He must notice because he plunges two fingers inside you harshly, causing you to yelp out his name. He continues his assault, his thumb joining in, rubbing your clit as the feeling in your stomach builds up quick.

"'Spencer, I'm…" you plead with him. He kisses you harshly as you crumble around him, stars appearing behind your eyes. You flutter them open as he slips his fingers out from you, a smile on his face.

"You enjoy that?" You nod your head, "You were so tight when you came. I'm surprised you didn't break my fingers," he chuckles. The quiet confidence he has gained over the years is a complete turn on.

You take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. He lightly pushes you on the bed as you shuffle up to your pillows. He finally takes off his trousers, leaving you both in your underwear. You can't help but drink him in; you were correct when you said that he had filled out, his chest and shoulders was broader and a little sun-kissed, and he was still lean. You gulped when you saw how hard he was through his boxers.

"We don't have to do anything." He whispers, climbing on top of you.

You shake your head and smile, he might have physically changed, but he was still a complete gentleman on the inside. He traces his fingers around your hips, his thumbs massaging you a little before he pulls off your underwear, leaving you exposed. You sit up on the bed and kiss across his chest while he works on taking off your final piece of clothing. Once off, he sits back on his heels and looks at you.

"Fuck, I'm lucky" he stares at you, and you could feel yourself drip on the comforter with those words.

"Spencer," you buck your hips, trying to gain any relief.

"Do you have protection?" he asks, slipping down his boxers.

"I've got an IUD, and I'm clean."

He climbs on top of you, and you settle your hands around his shoulders as he lines himself up at your entrance, sliding in easily. Your legs wrap around his waist as he drops down on his elbows, staring into your eyes as he bottoms out.

"Oh God," you bite your lip.

He sets the slow pace as you tangle your fingers into his hair, kissing him harshly. It was so intense between the two of you; it was sensory overload. His skin on yours broke you out in goosebumps, and he's biting your lip as you tighten around him with each thrust made you squint your eyelids shut. He grabs one of your hands from his hair and places it beside you; your fingers are interlocking.

"Look at me, Lila," your eyes snap open. You struggle to breathe as your gaze locks, and you whimper. He dips his head and sponges kisses down the valley of your breasts, and you push your chest into him. He smirks as you tighten your grip on his fingers, chanting his name as he makes his way back up to your neck and attaches his lips there.

"This is better than I ever imagined," He rasps in your ear. "I'm so close,"

"Me too,"

He lets go of your fingers and moves them down to your clit as he picks up the pace. You can feel him hit your cervix with every thrust now, and you are sure that the whole building can hear you both. You grab his face and kiss him hard as you feel yourself tighten around him as you fall off the edge. A few moments later, you can see his face tense and the vein in his forehead pop as he comes inside you. He stays still for a few moments before he kisses you again as he slips out and collapses next to you. He pulls you into his side, kissing your forehead. You trace your fingers on his chest, letting the silence envelope you both for a few minutes.

"That was…" you whisper. He chuckles and nods his head in agreement.

"All those years, that's what we were missing."

[uwuthatshit]

I saw that you would like to get random asks, so I want to take this opportunity to ask about a topic that feels like beyond my personal reach which I would love to hear a personal opinion on from somebody who has a better grasp. (If you don't feel like answering this that's totally okay, I'm just super curious about this topic as a whole and know pretty much nothing about it and I saw you use tags that relate to it, so I thought I'd ask you!)

I'm talking about "kin" like "kinning a character".

I talked to some friends about it to find some definitions for a start but we soon came to a point where we maybe just lack insight from a person who attributes meaning to this phenomenon. What does kinning mean? Is it like "I identify with this character" or does it go beyond feeling understood, seen, represented? If so, in which ways? What do you think could be the reason this attribution to certain characters is a "thing" right now? What do people get out of it, what function could it serve for them? Are there kin communities? What happens if two people who "literally kin" a character meet? What does "literally kinning" mean? Is that a real thing?

I come from a place of 0 opinion or judgement on this topic since I just don't know anything beyond the word and what I personally read into it in passing so far. So if you have time and this would be fun for you to write about, would you like to put together a tiny lesson or direct me to some sources if you know some? I'm super interested from a sociologist's point of view but also as a writer! Imagine inventing a character some people end up kinning! How fascinating! What does it all mean?

I hope you'll have a super good day 😊

Hi Papuru!!! Oh my goodness, you asked a question :))))) Thank you so much for interacting!!! Yay, My Papuru-senpai noticed me  \\\QwQ/// 

Oh LORD, you asked the mother of all questions. Honestly, this one got my mind reeling. 

 “What is Kinning? What does it mean?” 

I remember you asking me this question like, 2 months ago when we first started talking and I 100% remember giving you a half-ass explanation because I was tired and had a shitty day XD I’M SO SORRY I WAS SO TIRED I'M SURE MY EXPLANATION MADE NO SENSE. 

Well, no backing out of it now! I’m more than happy to dig deeper into a topic for a friend! Let’s get started. 

Kinning, in its simplest form, is a ‘relationship’ between a character and a real person in this reality. 

Kinning is an EXTREMELY touchy subject, especially since everyone has their own definition of the characters (what it is in comparison to themselves). How THEY can relate to a character can define how much they “Kin” them. 

Kinning is a term that is also used in the role-playing community, to how much “Alike” you are to a certain character during the duration of your Cosplaying, Acting, and Behaving like a specific Character. 

Now, what do I mean by “Characters?” I mean any fictional character that has ever existed. Now, Kinning is now used more mainstream because it is HUGELY Popular because of Tiktok! And Kinning (As far as I’ve seen and compared myself to) is pretty big in the Anime, DreamSMP, Comic Books, Otome Games, and Manga communities/Fandom. I compare myself to (Or “kin”) Characters that mostly belong from DreamSMP, My Hero Academia, and Diabolik Lovers. 

Kinning is like finding a space where you belong. A lot of people feel out of place, lonely, different, awkward, etc. But don’t get it confused with Stanning, though. 

When a person has a favorite character, you can “Stan” them. This means you would back them up no matter what, they are your FAVORITE character, you want them more than anything in the world. Think BTS Stans. Dream Stans. Bakugo Stans. They are people that rally behind a specific character in this imaginary boxing rink, cheering and patting their favorite character in the imaginary corner where they are sitting. Hyping them up. Crying over them. Think People crying and running after Big Time Rush or 1D, desperate to get a photograph, validation, ect.

Kinning is NOT that. 

Kinning is the feeling of having a personal connection with a character. You see parts of yourself in a character.

THIS INCLUDES BUT IS NOT LIMITED TO:  

Personality, interests, self-esteem issues, hidden secrets, broken relationships, tragic past, similar trauma, same amount of self hatred (or self love), the character also lost a mother and a father, a toe, a hand, tongue, the ability to walk, to care, to be a pacifist. that sort of thing.

My personal belief is that quarantine and the rise in mental illness and isolation made it difficult for people to relate or interact with one another, so then people started finding emotional solace in fictional character. Just an idea?

[whattodowithace]

Drinking With Cupid Part I (Chan)

Title: Drinking With Cupid Part I

Pairing: Chan x Reader

Genre: Angst; Fluff

Word Count: 5,159 Words (all parts)

Writer: Whattodowithkpop [Lio]

A/N: I think I have seen a movie or tv show with a similar concept to this, but if I have, I don't remember for certain. I was also inspired by the song 'Drinking With Cupid' by VOILÀ. This is for the @acewriters writing event.

*****

Half of the world lives in committed bliss, thriving with their significant others, some with children as they live their life in a happy family unit. The other half were not tied down, either living alone or even still living with mom and dad in their basement for the ease and convince. It's hard to find love, even in a world littered with dating apps and websites, it would seem as if finding a partner would be much easier.

Here at Cupid, we don't agree with the apps and websites philosophy. Running numbers is a much more efficient way of finding love with much more ease and much less heartbreak. Sure, there are some adults who prefer to stay single and plan to be that way for a long time, to those we applaud and root for as they follow their dreams. For the millions who long to find love, however, we have your solution. Cupid was founded by its CEO, who went by the name Cupid, back in 2018, and since then has been working on matchmaking software that outshines even the best dating websites and apps. His software is nearly perfect down to the final .%, ensuring an airtight compatibility that has successfully matched thousands of happy couples since its launch in 2019. The future is bright for Cupid, with more and more matches being made the more accurate the percentages are becoming. All you need to do is go by Cupid Incorporated to get your numbers in our system and from their we will do the rest.

~

Chan walks along the floor, surrounded by hundreds of guests that had come to celebrate Cupid's two year anniversary. He was the founder of this algorithm, however he remains anonymous by his own will, knowing some people wouldn't be thrilled about the idea of this type of system for matchmaking. Chan had started this project after he had many failed relationships. Some only lasted a few weeks and ended without much attachment, however, there were some relationships that were lengthy and caused deep scaring on his heart when they ended. That's when he thought of this idea, of matchmaking based on numbered compatibility. He wanted to find the one he would match with, the one that would make him happy without having to go through the tragic relationships that were doomed for failure from the start.

Eventually, he became consumed with this project, abandoning dating altogether and harvesting a desire to perfect this algorithm. He didn't look for love anymore and soon, his desire for true love dwindled and was replaced by the success that Cupid started bringing him. When Cupid became big, he was running compatibility numbers all day, hundreds of numbers running matches and placing people together where more than 94% of matches were successful to lifelong companionship.

Chan, now a young adult well on his way to become one of the biggest entrepreneurs in the world, filled his pleasures elsewhere, his money getting him anything he wanted to which he used to fill up his free time. Here he was, at the anniversary party for his company, a hidden alter ego amongst the crowd, no one having the faintest clue as to how powerful he was. He quite enjoyed it, it was how he got most of his biggest investors was undercover work like this, plus without all the press. However, chatting with these rich powerful people in one room was something that became exhausting in a rather quick manner. He would wander off into a quiet space, taking a large allotted time to recuperate from the tiring chats.

On one of his getaways, he escaped to the hallways of the auditorium his company booked for the party. The spacious hallways carried the echos of his footsteps down the entirety of the hallway, alerting anyone, if there, that he was walking down the corridor. That meant he was also able to hear footsteps if there happened to be a soul walking through the same halls and, coincidently, there was. The sharp, quick sounds were easy to deduct that the person was, most likely, a female wearing a thin high heel and walking at a quick pace back to the party area. Chan felt a rush of excitement at the small mystery he had encountered in the hallway. It wasn't big like a robbery or a murder, but for what was going on in the room behind him, this was an exciting change of pace.

Chan, however, was not ready for this mystery to be reveled to him, the figure making his heart stop for a few seconds, before beating in an irregular pattern. His throat went dry, his palms sweaty and his knees weak, his mind blanking as the woman he had hypothesized rounded the corner. However, he didn't hypothesize her to be stunning in every way, an enchantress of his body approaching him faster than he could prepare.

When she saw him her head tilted in confusion, she didn't expect to see someone else in this quiet hallway. As she approached him, Chan felt as time had stopped when she stood in front of him, her smile radiant as it beamed at him.

"I'm looking for the Cupid anniversary party, I got dropped off at the wrong entrance." Her voice was soothing, something Chan could listen to all day without getting bored.

He hadn't realized how long he had been staring, until she asked the question again with a nervous laugh, the awkward tension building the longer he stayed silent.

"Oh!" He exclaims, a bright blush creeping onto his cheeks and ears as he scratches the back of his head. "It's just down this hallway, the party is behind the yellow doors you can't miss them."

She smiles with a small laugh, nodding in understanding. "Thank you."

Chan watches her begin to walk away, towards the direction he had just came. It takes him a second before he comes to his senses, walking to catch up with her until he walks beside her.

"Would it be okay if I accompanied you to the party? I wouldn't want you to walk by yourself, especially since you already got dropped off at the wrong entrance."

She looks over to him, her smile reaching her eyes and making Chan's heart spin.

"That would be great, thank you."

The two walk back to the party, their conversation engaging and never finding a dull moment. Even during the party, the pair stayed close by, engaging in many more conversations as the evening continued. Chan was smitten and he knew it. All the plans he had for years to come flew out the window as he talked to her more, finding her funny and adorable making him fall for her more as the sun set in the sky. It was the end of the night when they, finally, had a moment alone with most of the guests having left he could hear her with more clarity.

"Are you here to invest in Cupid?" Chan asks, his nerves high as it was a personal question especially in this line of business.

"Oh, I'm not an investor." She smiles as she looks out the giant windows the venue had, the stars beginning to emerge from the darkness of the night sky. "I actually have my numbers in Cupid's system. I wasn't exactly invited personally, I only wanted to hear more about Cupid's algorithm."

As the secret host of the party, Chan normally would've been annoyed by this intrusion, however in this case, he was ecstatic over her sneaking in this way. He was also elated to hear her numbers were in the system, even though he had a policy for himself that he couldn't use the numbers for his own benefit, he was excited to hear she didn't hate the algorithm.

He was thrown off guard when she asked him the same question, his nerves skyrocketing as he hadn't prepared a cover story, most investors just wanted to talk about themselves and money so they never asked for his specifics. In his panicked state, he blurted the first thing that came to his mind.

"I'm Cupid's brother." Chan trails off, watching as her face shows a range of emotions.

"Wait, you know Cupid?" She asks in excitement, making Chan feel a bout of anger for his imaginary brother she asked about with such excitement.

"I do." He says, his response short and annoyed.

"That must be interesting. Especially, with how his brain works to where it was able to create an algorithm such as Cupid."

Chan realized how idiotic it was, feeling jealousy over himself because he panicked and told a lie, however he couldn't help it as he watched her talk about another guy the way she was talking about Cupid.

"Yea, he is really smart." Chan mumbles, watching as she turns to face him.

"I'm sure you hear that a lot, so I would rather talk about you." She smiles, her body turned towards his, giving him her full attention.

Chan smiles, feeling butterflies in his stomach as she looks at him waiting for him to tell his story. Chan felt those butterflies drop, however, when he realized he was Cupid and to tell her about himself would mean he'd have to talk about his imaginary brother.

"It's getting really late." Chan notes as he sees the sun sinking below the horizon. "What if I took you to dinner sometime and we can continue our conversation."

The woman smiles, her bottom lip hiding behind her teeth to try to surppress her smile. "I would really like that, yeah."

The two exchanged numbers before exchanging goodbyes, each leaving their own way after exiting the venue. Chan felt a surge in his heart, a feeling he never felt before in any relationship he has ever been in. It felt like there was a spark between the two of them, sending jolts of excitement through his body. He went home, his first call to one of his good friends, Donghun, as he told him about the girl that had caught his attention. Donghun expressed excitement for his friend, however, felt an uneasiness about the situation, warning Chan to proceed with caution in this relationship. In his state, Chan missed the warning, telling Donghun he needed to go think up a cover story for him to tell her when they went to dinner, making Donghun feel even more uneasy as they said their goodbye's.

On the other side of the city, she arrived home, calling one of her good friends as well to tell him about the man she met. However, her conversation had a little different feeling than Chan's. Her friend, Byeongkwan, was her confidant in her elaborate plan to take down Cupid and his algorithm. Her numbers were in the Cupid database, yes, however she had already been matched. She was matched with a man who's numbered compatibility was high with hers, they dated for three years, hundreds of memories made together and loved poured into each other. It was two months before their wedding, both having gone to their respected parties and planning on sleeping apart that night as they were expecting to be too far gone to both make it home. That night she found him with another woman, in their shared bed. She was heartbroken, having poured two years of her love and life into this man all based on numbers calculated on a computer made her bitter at the world. Thus began her plan for revenge. She didn't have much of a plan, only knowing she wanted to end Cupid for good, not wanting anyone else to continue dating someone because their numbers were compatible, that wasn't how you found love.

Byeongkwan was her friend that helped her through her breakup, one that took a long time to recoup from. He didn't agree 100% with her plan, however, it was what got her off his couch and back to her life, so he didn't want to send her back into her lethargic way just because he disagreed with her motives. So he listened to her that night, her telling him about the man she met that was related to Cupid and how she planned to get some information about him through Chan. However, something had Byeongkwan smirking on the other side of the phone. She talked about 'using' this Chan character, however she had a lot of sweet things to say about him and expressed countless times how much she enjoyed his company. Before they ended their call Byeongkwan asked her if she would go on the date, to which she replied with an immediate 'yes'. Byeongkwan, relieved, bid her a goodnight and congratulated her on finding someone who could help advance her in her tale for revenge.

~

Byeongkwan was surprised to receive a call the next night, his clock showing almost midnight when her caller I.D flashed across the screen. He was even more surprised to hear they had already been on their date and to keep adding to the surprises, she didn't mention Cupid once. The only thing she talked about was Chan and his goofy personality that she found adorably alluring. Byeongkwan couldn't help but feel relief hearing her talk about a man this way again, a man that sounded good for her and one who wouldn't end up breaking her heart. Byeongkwan knew you couldn't base a character purely on second hand accounts from one date, however everyone starts somewhere and this Chan fellow was starting out right in Byeongkwan's book.

Yet again, on the other side of the city, Chan had called Donghun to tell him about the date. Donghun was elated Chan had found someone he really liked, someone that seemed to compliment him well, however one thing still plagued Donghun's mind that he couldn't let go of.

"She doesn't know you're Cupid." Donghun's solemn voice travels into Chan's ear and makes the boy's cheery smile drop.

"I'll tell her eventually." Chan promises his friend, his tone quiet from how it usually was.

"I don't want to see you put it off so long that a small, white lie becomes a regret."

"I know, I know. I promise I'll tell her soon."

~ Next Part

A.C.E MASTERLIST

[archivingspn]

Entertainment Weekly Special Edition: The Ultimate Guide to Supernatural 2017

SAM AND DEAN WINCHESTER KNOW "WEIRD." Their entire life has been weird, ever since the moment a demon claimed their mother's life. In case anyone has forgotten over the course of the show's past 12 seasons, Supernatural tells the story of the Winchester brothers, portrayed by Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, who fell into the family business of hunting creatures after their mother's murder. What began as their father's journey for revenge has evolved into endless monster slayings, near-death experiences and more than a few actual deaths.

By this point the Winchesters have been to Hell and back, killed Death himself, come face-to-face with God and prevented the Apocalypse. But perhaps more impressively, the series has survived three network presidents, five showrunners, a writers' strike and five different time slots. Turns out the only thing harder to kill than the Winchesters is the series itself. "It's one of those shows that has moved a lot, and yet each time it has found that core audience and built on it," Warner Bros. Television president Peter Roth says. "It's been an unsung hero."

If anyone knows about being an unsung hero, it's Sam (Padalecki) and Dean (Ackles), who've dedicated their lives to saving others and asked for nothing in return. Seriously, how many nights have they spent sleeping in their car?And yet that on-the-road lifestyle has paved the way for a number of the show's riskier episodes, which play a crucial role in keeping the audience engaged. In 2015 "Baby" was told entirely from the perspective of their beloved 1967 Impala, and that's not even close to the craziest thing the show's tried.

Aside from the rules the show creates within its canon—yes, they have a historian in the writers' room to keep them honest—not even the sky is the limit when it comes to story ideas. “[Show creator] Eric [Kripke] used to say, 'Smoke 'em if you've got 'em,' which meant: Anything crazy, don't be afraid to run it by us," executive producer Robert Singer says.

That motto led most famously to season 6's "The French Mistake," in which Sam and Dean found themselves in an alternate universe where everyone mistook them for Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, the stars of a show called Supernatural. "Our show's not bound by reality," Ackles, 39, says. "We're rooted in reality, but we're not bound by it. That gives us a fifth wall almost."

But Supernatural's season 12 finale managed to raise the stakes by somehow introducing the boys to something they'd never seen before: a world in which they don't exist and Heaven and Hell are locked in an eternal war. By episode's end, their allies Castiel (Misha Collins) and Crowley (Mark Sheppard) were dead, and their mother, Mary (Samantha Smith), who was resurrected-by God's sister!-in the season 11 finale, found herself trapped in this new reality with the Archangel Lucifer (Mark Pellegrino). If that doesn't seem bad enough, the birth of Lucifer's son is the very thing that opened the rift to this apocalyptic realm. "The world in which Sam and Dean were never born is not a good world," showrunner Andrew Dabb says. "It speaks to the importance of our guys. The world Sam and Dean live in is certainly not perfect, but it's a whole hell of a lot better than the alternative."

Dabb describes the new run of episodes as more melancholy than last year's, with new threats including some long-dead characters. And somehow Scooby-Doo has a role to play. (More on that later.)

"Last season was, in some ways, a very upbeat season for us," says Dabb, who goes on to explain that season 13 will be "darker." In their grief the boys will butt heads when it comes to both Lucifer's son Jack—Dean wants nothing to do with him; Sam thinks he's worth trying to save— and Mary, whom Sam refuses to give up on despite Dean's having lost hope that she's still alive. "The Apocalypse world hangs over our guys a little bit like a sword of Damocles," Dabb says of the season's beginning. "We're definitely going to spend a little time there."

And of course Sam and Dean have this new responsibility thrust upon them before they've had the chance to properly grieve their many losses, including Castiel, who Dabb says will appear, though maybe not the way fans are expecting. "We're not looking to hit the reset button," Dabb says. "We want to give both our guys an opportunity to react to that and ask the question: How would that affect them if their closest friend sacrifices himself for them? There is a certain amount, especially when you look at Dean, of survivor's guilt."

That being said, there will be at least one (animated!) moment of levity, though it's in the season's back half. Episode 16 will be a much-anticipated Scooby-Doo crossover, for which Ackles, Padalecki and Collins have already recorded the audio. "They've often talked about Supernatural crossing over into something." Ackles says. "I love that it's Scooby-Doo."

But even with exciting new ideas on the agenda, there's always the lingering question of how much longer the show can continue. According to CW president Mark Pedowitz, the answer is as long as the guys are happy and the ratings are relatively stable. As for Ackles and Padalecki, they are focusing on the next milestone: hitting 300 episodes (something that would take them 13 episodes into season 14). However, if Sam and Dean have taught the actors anything, it's that Death can be lurking around every corner (and he's usually eating pizza). "If we don't make it to 300, I think Ackles and I will both be truly bummed," Padalecki, 35, says.

Ackles adds, "They're paying us to bring that little bit of magic to what they wrote, and I still feel that magic. The day that I don't feel that magic will be a very sad day, and I hope that day never comes. I'd like to get to 300 before that day comes."

One thing everyone can agree on is that they want to know when the end is nigh. "I think it would be bad for this show to just ride off into the sunset without a finale," Singer says. "I think we've earned that." Ultimately the only thing that's certain about Supernatural's eventual end is the fate of Sam and Dean's Impala, Baby. "He gets Baby," Padalecki says of Ackles. "I get Baby Two." Ackles makes one correction: "No, you'll get Three. Two is a stunt car. It's beat to s---.”

But nobody gets Baby just yet. For now they'll need all the Impalas they can get as they try to solve the problems of not one world but two.

[pg 10-12]

LIFE IN THE FAST LANE

Stars Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki and Misha Collins have rolled with rapid changes and some surprising detours during the series' remarkable run. BY SAMANTHA HIGHFILL

JARED PADALECKI CAN STILL REMEMBER THE exact pitch for Supernatural's first season: “Route 66 meets X-Files, brothers on the back roads of America hunting things that go bump in the night.” That was how he and costar Jensen Ackles were told to promote the show, which, in its first year, was just that-Sam and Dean Winchester chasing urban legends from state to state.

But over time that original pitch added a few sentences. Much like with any good road trip, there have been quite a few turns—and the occasional crossroads along the way. Although the show remains about two brothers on the back roads of America hunting things, those "things'' now include everything from vengeful spirits to imaginary friends and even Lucifer himself. After all, a show doesn't last 13 seasons without adjusting its game plan. For Supernatural that has meant an ever expanding mythology, some shocking deaths, resurrected characters, breaking the fourth wall and so much more.

Yet all the while, one thing has remained true: Sam and Dean Winchester will do whatever it takes to save the world and, even more so, to save each other. And they'll do it while navigating those seemingly endless back roads in their 1967 Impala.

Finding John Winchester (portrayed by Jeffrey Dean Morgan) was the boys' goal in season 1, though that ended up being about as difficult as getting John to stick around once he was finally discovered. The Winchester family reunion was short-lived: Season 1 closed with a car crash and the fates of all three men up in the air. And then there was that demonic deal John made with the same monster they had been hunting.

JENSEN ACKLES Everything up until that point was about finding Dad. We found Dad, we continued to fight as a unit, and then we lost Dad, and now we were two orphans.

JARED PADALECKI And I think that was the first time we ever brought back somebody from the dead, and it was you [to Ackles].

ACKLES I died in the car crash, and he traded his life with Azazel.

PADALECKI I think that was the first time we ever saw a major character die and come back. And that was a total leap of faith. So we told the story of Reapers and the veil and what happens to your soul.

ACKLES That's when we got into afterlife.

PADALECKI That was a big title shift in what Supernatural could do...

ACKLES With the introduction of Hell and making deals with demons—which is funny, because you think about that now, and [creator] Eric [Kripke] must've always known because Mom made the deal with the yellow-eyed demon.

The next shift would come later in season 2, laying the groundwork for the introduction of angels far before Castiel spread his wings in that abandoned barn in season 4.

PADALECKI "Houses of the Holy” was the first time we ever talked about angels on Supernatural. [Jensen] and I both were like, “Whatever your religious beliefs, whatever ours, we're not here to proselytize. We're here to make a serialized television show, but we want it to be universal.” So we actually had a conference call with Eric Kripke, and we were like, "Hey, man, we don't know how we feel about this.”

ACKLES We didn't want to be a mouthpiece for writers' religious views, because it wasn't the show that we had signed up for. Our argument was: “We trust you. You've done good by us so far. However, this is our one concern, and we're just bringing it to the table so that we can discuss it.”

PADALECKI And they heard us out, and I think that's why they waited another year and a half before introducing our second and most famous angel. I think it's the one time we've ever called them together with a complaint. Because I'm not a writer. I don't want to be a writer. I enjoy my job as an actor. But that was legitimately like, “Listen, if you're going here about religion, I don't want to be a part of it.”

MISHA COLLINS And now amazingly, 11 years later, so much of the show has been hung on biblical lore and mythology that is actually drawn from the Bible. One interesting thing for us is that we end up talking along the way to priests and pastors and ministers, or even nuns, who love the show.

(...)

ACKLES It was amazing, but my point being that we're in one of the most religious places on earth, and they're catering to people from a show that deals with religiously inspired story lines.

PADALECKI But not telling the story that the Bible tells.

ACKLES That's the out. That's where we get a pass is that we're not trying to tell the story of the Bible. The writers take inspiration from biblical elements and then elaborate on them. So when we got into that original discussion, Eric came back with: “We're not here to tell the story of Jesus Christ. We're here to take that element and use it as inspiration for the story.” I think that alleviated any concerns that he and I had. And at the same time we really trusted Eric and still do to this day.

Another leap of faith came with season 2's "Hollywood Babylon,” which can be considered the show's first meta episode. It opened the door for everything from season 6's “The French Mistake” to the upcoming season 13 Scooby-Doo crossover.

ACKLES “Babylon” was the first time we took the piss out of ourselves and were poking fun at the industry.

COLLINS That has been a huge [help to know] that you can go to these absurd lengths and break conventions. Reading the script where we are doing a Scooby-Doo episode makes me feel proud. Where else can you do that?

Padalecki What other show does that and has the fandom at large excited that they’re going to do that? Can you imagine if JAG or NCIS did a Scooby-Doo episode? People would be like, “What?” Not only do we break the fourth wall, do we go meta, but those end up being some of our best episodes.

The season 5 finale holds the No. 1 spot on EW's episode ranking, but that hour was important for many reasons, one of which being that it was creator Kripke’s farewell.

COLLINS “Swan Song" was another milestone because that marked the culmination of Eric's original vision for the show. He had a five-season arc in mind that tied up perfectly with a bow, and then he moved on and handed the reins over to Sera [Gamble]. That became, “Okay, guys, now let's figure out how to start a new chapter or a new volume in a series of chapters.”

PADALECKI It's the story that we were all born from, those of us who were introduced in the first five years. So to have the creator step away? I would argue that it was the largest shift.

Gamble served as showrunner for seasons 6 and 7, the latter containing another major show moment: the death of Bobby (Jim Beaver), Sam and Dean's father figure.

PADALECKI Bobby was such a big part. Jeffrey Dean [Morgan] was never as much a part of the show. He was obviously a huge part of the story, but he did [just a few] episodes, and Jim Beaver did 60 or something. And there was something about his death that we knew it was final...or final for Supernatural.

ACKLES Because his character said, “I'm done.” So it wasn't like he got killed accidentally and we found a way to bring Bobby back. He was like, “I'm hanging it up, guys." It was heavy.

PADALECKI That probably was the first big death of someone who'd been there for years...

ACKLES [Interrupting] A fan favorite...

PADALECKI Yeah, and I remember [CW president] Mark Pedowitz saying something to the effect of “As a fan, I hated when Bobby died, but it was great television.” That's how I feel. 

ACKLES Like when Sam Winchester dies for good, it's going to be good television. But when Dean Winchester lives on, it's going to be great television. [Everyone laughs]

The season 12 finale saw the introduction of an apocalyptic alternate world in which Sam and Dean Winchester were never born and Heaven and Hell are locked in an eternal war. And with that world comes the possibility for a number of character returns. But does it feel like a turning point? 

COLLINS Well, I think the rift and the fact that you can go into the apocalypse world and you can all of a sudden revisit every character in a different iteration—there could be a different version of every character—it opens up this incredible panoply.

(...)

PADALECKI And if an alternate universe exists, then how many alternate universes exist? It's hard to say, because I feel like it's impossible to identify a turning point during the turn. In hindsight it will reveal how this story will affect the show, the canon at large and the way we move forward. But I certainly feel like we're opening up doors with the rift and with the son of Lucifer.

(...)

[pg 20-26]

THE CORONER'S VAN JUST PULLED INTO THE driveway. It's the middle of August in 2016, and Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles are filming a scene for Supernatural's 12th season at a farmhouse in the Vancouver countryside, which is standing in for Iowa. Sam and Dean Winchester have ditched their flannels and jeans for sweaters and slacks in order to pose as social workers. They're doing what the two brothers do best: lying about their jobs in order to solve mysteries and kill monsters—in other words, saving people, hunting things.

When Supernatural premiered, Sam and Dean Winchester were born into the family business of hunting creatures, and it's a lifestyle that, over the years, has left them with very few people they love. Turns out, when you spend your days battling shape-shifters, witches and the occasional angel—they're not all nice, you know—nothing is guaranteed, especially not tomorrow.

But no matter how crazy the Winchesters' world gets—or how many worlds they have to face—one thing remains unchanged: At the center of it all are Ackles and Padalecki, whose Dean and Sam are the beating heart of the show (whether theirs are beating or not).

(...)

(...) even pulling up their favorite scenes on their phones to watch at the table. Padalecki can easily name the scripts that made him cry—“Heart,” “Sacrifice" and "Baby" all land on the list. The common thread is a heartfelt moment between the brothers where they get to talk about their crazy life as if, say, having visions of Lucifer is normal. “I feel like those situations where we treat the abstract and the fantastical as just part of life is where the show thrives,” Padalecki says. Ackles adds, “I think the show is truly at its best when it doesn't take itself too seriously, then it does take itself seriously, and it gets scary as s---,”.

But whether Supernatural is making fun of itself, scaring the living daylights out of its fans, or just letting the brothers have a moment on the hood of the Impala, it all works because of our central heroes. “It's about the Winchesters," says Crowley actor Mark Sheppard. “We really do care, and it's a testament to the boys that we still care."

(...)

As the sun sets on the Vancouver countryside, Sam and Dean ditch their slacks for jeans and send the coroner's van on its way. It won't be needed—this show, and the brotherly bond that holds it all together, has a lot of life left in it. Not that death has ever stopped it before.

[pg 32-34]

(...)

DEAN WINCHESTER Jensen Ackles

He was always the good son. Dean embraced the hunter's lifestyle, and he idolized his father despite John's many faults. But with the senior Winchester devoted to tracking down demons, it fell to Dean to help parent Sam, and he went to great lengths to protect his younger sibling-at one point even making a deal with a Crossroads demon (at the cost of his own life) to resurrect Sam from the dead. The two have had their differences, but throughout, Dean's brother was his first priority. "Watching out for you, it's kinda been my job, you know? But more than that, it's kinda who I am." Cynical and initially skeptical of the existence of God, Dean has nonetheless managed to become best buds with the angel Castiel (and on first name terms with both God and God's sister Amara). His self-sacrificing nature means he would do literally anything for those he considers family-and that's a short list: Sam, Mary and Castiel.

[pg 38]

Sympathy for the Devil

EVERY HERO NEEDS A HELL, BUT SUPERNATURAL HAS JUST TWO PROTAGONISTS AND HUNDREDS OF VILLAINS. HERE’S HOW THE SHOWRUNNERS APPROACHED SAM AND DEAN’S MANY FOES, FROM WELL-KNOWN URBAN LEGENDS TO SATAN HIMSELF. By Samantha Highfill

[pg 51]

Stairway to Heaven

SAM AND DEAN MET CASTIEL. AN ANGEL OF THE LORD, IN SEASON 4, AND IT CHANGED THE COURSE OF THE SHOW. BECAUSE ANGELS WEREN’T ALWAYS THE PLAN— AND CASTIEL WAS ONLY THE FIRST. By Samantha Highfill

(on page 57 there’s a small box of print on the corner that says: In what executive producer Robert Singer calls one of the series’ most “iconic images,” Castiel (Misha Collins) is introduced as the show’s first real angel.)

WHILE OTHER CHILDREN WERE LEARNING multiplication tables, Sam and Dean Winchester were hunting monsters. “When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45!” says Sam to Dean in the Supernatural pilot, recalling an episode when he was 9 years old. Clearly creature encounters were par for the course in the Winchester way of life. And when you grow up battling all the evil in the world, it's hard to believe in the good. But in the show's season 4 premiere, Dean would come face-to-face with the one supernatural entity he didn't think existed: angels.

“[Show creator] Eric [Kripke] wasn't in love with the idea of doing angels,” executive producer Robert Singer says of the early days. “But as things went on and we were getting into demons, I would say to him, 'I don't know how we do demons without doing angels.’”

The show tested the waters in season 2's “Houses of the Holy,” when Sam and Dean worked a case that appeared to involve angels then went in a different direction. It wasn't until late in the next season that the seraphim were finally embraced. When Dean was dragged to Hell, they needed to get him out. And if there's a Hell, it stands to reason there has to be a Heaven. "[The season 3 finale] was the gateway into this whole other world of angels and demons," executive producer Andrew Dabb says.

When it came time to spring Dean from Hell, it was Castiel, the show's first angel, who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. But Castiel quickly established that he wasn't a typical cherubic angel. Many of the show's angels were, as Sam and Dean would put it, real dicks. “We have our own brand of angels and the idea that they were these warriors of God,” Singer says. “We introduced Castiel, and we just went from there. Heaven opened up different levels of angels.”

The moment Castiel spread his wings, the show expanded its universe. Castiel came bearing news of something much bigger: the Apocalypse, the ultimate showdown between good and evil-or more specifically between Archangels Michael and Lucifer. “We started with archangels and the idea that Lucifer was an archangel and was cast out of Heaven,” Singer says. “We certainly took some license, but it was all biblically grounded. We just took those things and went a step further to make them work for our story.”

From there the show explored all kinds of angels, from Zachariah and Naomi to Gabriel and Metatron, and, of course, it eventually arrived at God-or Chuck, if you prefer. “We didn't really know that Chuck was God when we first started with him," Singer says of introducing the character in season 4. (He wouldn't be revealed as God until season 11.) “That evolved. We wanted a relatable God, a God with foibles.”

Nine seasons later, what started as one angel in a trench coat has evolved into Lucifer, God, Leviathan and even a sister for God. “We play a little fast and loose with religion, but no one has really complained about it,” Singer says with a laugh. “So we'll just keep going.”

[pg 56-58]

CASTIEL Misha Collins

What can you say about the only member of Team Free Will who wears an overcoat? Cas has become a true member of the Winchester family.

[pg 61]

[aion-rsa]

Malignant and Shock Twists That Ruin Movies

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This article contains Malignant spoilers.

No matter what you think of James Wan’s Malignant, you have to give him this much: it’s pretty original. The filmmaker behind some of the biggest horror movies from this century—Saw, Insidious, and The Conjuring in all under a decade—used that clout to pass on a sure thing like directing The Conjuring 3 and instead created something absolutely batshit crazy. In fact, it is on a hill of that batshit where Malignant will live or die for most viewers.

If you’ve read this far, we hope you’ve seen the movie and it’s not a spoiler to say that Gabriel—the mysterious “imaginary friend” from a forgotten childhood—is actually a parasitic twin. Yes, the monster killing everyone is actually the forgotten sibling of Madison (Annabelle Wallis). He stopped developing early on during their mother’s pregnancy, yet he’s shared literal space in Madison’s head and on her body ever since… and he’s been lying dormant for nearly 30 years until a nasty bump on the head gives him the ability to take over sis’ body and crawl out of her skull!

The concept is pure lunacy, and stranger still James Wan pivots his entire movie around the “reveal” of this image of Gabriel emerging out of the back of Madison’s head. Not until audiences are over an hour in do they realize what kind of schlocky silliness they’ve signed up for. It’s a bold gambit from a filmmaker who has the security of a billion-dollar Aquaman franchise behind him to take big swings like this. It also fails spectacularly on nearly every level.

On paper, the twist of Gabriel’s origin might suggest Wan is attempting to mainstream and revitalize a different type of horror, just as he did with “torture porn” in Saw and modern haunted house movies in Insidious and The Conjuring. In that sense, the image of an underdeveloped “cancer” growing out of a little girl’s back in Malignant is pure body horror. Is this Wan’s attempt at playing in David Cronenberg’s sandbox?

Perhaps. There are definite similarities between Malignant and several Cronenberg horror movies from the late 1970s and early ‘80s, which trafficked all in the shock of physical deformity to get under the skin—and closer to darker thoughts in the mind. Cronenberg’s The Brood (1979) bears particular similarities to Malignant. In that film, a couple’s messy divorce and child custody battle takes on horrific connotations when the wife (Samantha Eggar) seeks experimental psychological treatment from a doctor (Oliver Reed) who convinces her to physically manifest her pain: which involves the shocking ending where she gives birth to a brood of monstrous alien-children who kill her subconscious’ enemies and attempt take her daughter back from her estranged husband.

The revelation of these children is visually more shocking and scarring than any image of twisted, misshapen appendages or opening skulls in Malignant. But then that’s because like all other Cronenberg films, the body horror was merely a means to an end. A metaphor about male-dominated society’s anxiety toward the bonds between mother and children, and even a fear of the reproductive process unto itself, underlies the entire running time of The Brood. It’s the ugliness of this paranoia made visceral.

Yet this comparison shows where Malignant fails. Like the Cronenberg movie, Wan’s film pivots on a shocking twist and an uncomfortable image of physical distortion. Yet that twist and that image are ends unto themselves, divorced from any sort of significant meaning or depth.

The revelation that Madison is attached to a deformed and malicious twin brother who hides, quite literally, inside her head appears to serve no purpose beyond the initial shock of seeing Gabriel crawling out of a little girl’s back like one of the grosser gags in a Troma film. Wan and his co-writers—Ingrid Bisu and Akela Cooper—don’t appear to have anything to say after this other than “boo.” When Gabriel finally reveals himself in the film’s present timeline, it isn’t for anything as loaded as the image of a mother licking her newborn’s afterbirth before the eyes of a disgusted husband; it is just so Gabriel can take over Madison’s body and brutally kill a bunch of other prisoners inside a jail cell. It’s maximum splatter for minimal payoff. As a story, Malignant isn’t really about anything else.

In this way, Malignant falls into the long line of empty calorie “twist endings” that define their movies for all the wrong reasons. These are twists that rather than get under the skin settle for tickling the funny bone.

For better or worse, perhaps the filmmaker most associated with these types of misjudged shocks is M. Night Shyamalan. He’s another undeniable auteur with a taste for the peculiar and daring. He can also lay claim to one of the all-time best narrative twists in a horror movie or any other genre thanks to The Sixth Sense. The realization that Bruce Willis has been a ghost for almost that entire film’s running time, and what it both means for the scenes between him and Haley Joel Osment as well as his character’s own sense of anguished regret, earned Shyamalan a Best Screenplay Oscar nomination.

Which is likely why so many folks still cackle about some of Shyamalan’s attempts to recapture that magic with subsequent twist endings. To be clear, Shyamalan has achieved some great shocks in subsequent movies, from Unbreakable to more recently The Visit and Split. But nothing can forgive the disappointment found in revealing the characters in the 19th century-set The Village have actually been living in the 21st century the whole time—and that their town’s elders have simply been lying to younger generations about monsters in the woods for reasons. Nor can anything silence the giggles that still curl the corner of the mouth when one recalls that “it’s the trees” out to cause humans to commit mass suicide in The Happening.

Twists that exist purely for the purpose of shock are a bit like a camp counselor making up a ghost story as they go along. The results might be amusing (or not), but they rarely make sense.

When the desire to shock becomes the sole reason to tell the story, the “twists” are more often remembered for their absurdity (like figuring out that Matthew McConaughey is a video game character in Serenity) or outright incredulity (such as Robert Pattinson’s coming of age story in Remember Me turning out to be a 9/11 movie the whole time with the final scene occurring on a Tuesday morning in September).

I don’t think the twist in Malignant works. At all. It’s an unsatisfying answer to an otherwise uninspiring mystery, which is unspooled in an obligatory fashion. Since viewers don’t know who most of the murder victims are in the stylish if otherwise uninvolving first half of the picture, Wan’s visual flair amounts to little of interest. The same goes for Wallis’ flat performance.

When coupled with a “reveal” that has nothing meatier to add beyond Madison developing inexplicable super-strength, so as to allow her to punch her fist through other inmates’ bodies, the movie becomes downright laughable. Yet in its way, that laugh will stick out in the memory a lot longer than other failures that are just going through some other movie’s formulaic motions. So maybe Gabriel really will get the last laugh in the end?

Malignant is in theaters and streaming on HBO Max now.

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The post Malignant and Shock Twists That Ruin Movies appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[romewritingshop]

Universal Words Chapter Two: Introductions

Fandom: Narcos

Relationship: Priya Srivastav (Indian OFC) X Javier Peña

Warnings: None

Word Count Total: 3005

Summary: Priya Srivastav is an uneducated housewife who decides to take English classes at the behest of her sister. Coming to the classes, she is drawn in by another class fellow, a mysterious withdrawn writer by the name of Javier Peña. As sessions go on, Javier and Priya learn more about one another and discover a new form of communication.

A/N: This is a fic where multiple characters speak different languages so the words highlighted in bold indicate the character is talking in another language.

Universal Words Masterlist

Tagged: @tiffdawg​ @storiesofthefandomlovers​ @arrowswithwifi​

56 Bleeker Street, NY LANGUAGE CENTRE

Priya glanced at the paper before looking up at the street sign. It pointed in many directions and the words just didn't make sense. The roads in Delhi were much more simple to follow, New York just loved complicating things. She walked down a street, watching the tall buildings loom over her with distaste for uncertainty. She really felt uncomfortable and she should have taken Meena's offer. However, since she was going to be making her own way there she better figure out the route herself, and what better time to start than now. Priya left an hour early so she could reach the class early. There were two kind passersby that directed her in the right direction. 

She did remember one thing from Meena’s instruction:

The building with flags in front.

Sure enough, she noticed a tall structure that had cream walls and a bunch of flags around the entrance of the door. She hoped it was the right one as she walked in through the doors and came face to face with a woman sitting at a desk behind a computer. The woman was typing rapidly to book classes for ESOL students when she spotted an Indian woman out of the corner of her eye. The receptionist pushed her chair back and stood up to welcome the woman.

“Hello, how can I help you today?”

“English class, today?”

“Yes we have different classes for different levels. Which one would you like to enrol in?”

Priya looked down at her paper and handed it to the woman, who read through the paper. She was tall and elegant with perfectly manicured nails. A minute later the woman turned to Priya with a big smile and gave a nod, walking around the desk.

“Lemme take you to your class. Follow me.”

The woman walks away from Priya to an elevator, holding the door open for her to stand in. She pressed a button and a few minutes later, the doors open to the floor as the woman struts out full of confidence. Priya could not get over her stylish high heels and tall stature as Priya walked through a corridor of glass walls before the woman stopped by a door, knocking and then pushing it open to let Priya in. An older man dressed in a navy sweater smiles kindly at Priya.

“Alex. I have another person for your class today.”

“Thanks, Theresa. Hello, come in and take a seat.”

Priya gives a nod and takes the seat and desk closest to the door. The teacher, Alex seemed like a jovial soul as he put down a paper and perched his glasses on his nose. She noticed several people in the class as Alex began. He had a loud voice and the way he spoke was clear to understand, somehow Priya felt like she could understand everything Alex was saying.

“Hello everyone. I’m Alex and I’ll be teaching you English for the next three months. Today we’ll just introduce ourselves and get to know one another. You’ll be working together over the next few months. Let’s start off at the back and make our way around. So what’s your name, where are you from and what does English mean to you? Try to speak in English so I know what I’m working with.”

Everyone turned to the direction of a young black man who sat stoic and steely. He sat up slightly and cleared his throat.

“Me, Bonginkosi Komi. I from Lesotho. I work in shop, sell clothes. Macy’s. And I study in school. I want be a painter. Like Van Gogh. He very good painter. Me want be like him.”

Alex had a kind smile as he gave a nod of appreciation to Bonginkosi. He was a young kid that had big dreams and aspirations and Alex was going to do his best to make sure that Bonginkosi became a painter.

“Sounds really great, Bongkosi -”

“Bonginkosi, sir!”

“Sorry, Bonginkosi. And why do you want to learn English?”

“I learn English to tell people my art. Why it good and why I paint picture.”

“So you want to tell people what painting means to you and how you made the picture.”

“Yes.”

Alex gave a nod and thanked Bonginkosi for his introduction. Moving on to the next few people and Priya was fascinated. There was Helena, who was from Portugal. She’s a nanny for a family and wants to learn English so the baby learns English. It made Priya and Alex smile as the next person introduced themselves as Ali Rehman. He’s from Pakistan and he drives a cab, his reason for learning English was because ‘Pakistani girls marry foreigners, who speak English’. The next person was Ouchi Kasumi, she was Japanese and a hairdresser. Learning English would help her start her own hair salon and Alex called her an ‘entrepreneur’. Priya felt close to all of these people as Alex turned to the next person.

Priya glanced around the person next to her, recognising the familiar moustache and crooked nose. The man from the coffee shop as her eyes drifted over him. He was dressed in a blue button shirt, dark jeans and black leather jacket that made him seem distinguished.

“I’m Javier Peña. I’m from Texas and … I write.”

“A writer?”

“Si. Yes. I learn English to write English, not Español.”

Javier was his name as Priya repeated it to herself, loving the way he said his name. He was compelling as Priya noted he had the same leather bound journal on his table. He probably did writing in that journal and Priya wanted to read his work. The next person introduced himself as Vijaynath Iyer and he was a software engineer. He was learning English so he could better communicate with his colleagues. 

“And finally we come to the lady in the blue saree.”

Finally it came to Priya as Javier turned to face her and he was still. It was the woman that bumped into him in the coffee shop, as he took in her blue dress, and plain face. There was something about her that made Javier just want to watch her for a long time. Priya drew her eyes from Javier and turned to Alex, who was giving her a warm encouraging smile.

“I Priya Srivastav and I no work. I am mom to little boy. I learn English to get job like you Alex.”

“Like me? A teacher?”

“Yes, but I one plus one.”

“Oh, maths teacher! Well hopefully you can teach us something about maths.”

Priya gave a nod and turned towards Javier, who looked down at his journal, paying attention to an imaginary scuff mark on his journal. She had a kid as Javier tried to push out the thoughts of knowing her. She probably had a husband so Javier didn’t want to get his hopes up. Then Javier blinked at the odd barrage of thoughts, why was he thinking of her romantically when he only just met her. She was just a woman in his class. A pretty woman. Alex began with the lesson.

“So now that we all know each other, I’m gonna point at one of you to talk about another person in the class and so on. That way, you’ll remember names and faces well. So I’ll start: You are Vijnath Iyer and you are a software engineer. Vijaynath you choose to introduce someone in the class.”

Alex was engaging everyone to learn the personalities of their classmates as Priya laughed with joy. She couldn’t understand her hesitation towards the class but she was finally glad she did. After several icebreakers, Alex gave them homework to bring their favourite books and then class was finally dismissed. Priya took a note of where her classroom was and the floor it was on before joining the others in the elevator.

They all talked about how good Alex was and how they were excited to be learning English. Javier was in the elevator with them but he didn’t say anything as Priya watched his stone cold face. She sensed something was bugging him and she wanted to approach him but the elevator stopped and Javier stormed away before anyone could call after him. What made him so angry? Even the other people noted there was something off but then brushed it off as they all came out the building. Ali, Ouchi, Bonginkosi and Vijaynath went the opposite way as the four of them had to go to work. Helena and Priya walked in the same direction and the both of them talked.

Helena was a passionate person as she talked about Portugal and her family. Four sisters and two brothers which impressed Priya. Priya talked about her sister, brother-in-law and son but omitted details about Amit. She wasn’t ready to open that wound yet. It wasn’t long when Helena had to break off from their route to another crossing, they greeted farewell and exchanged phone numbers so they could help one another in English. Priya felt her heart was lighter and there was a bounce in her step as she took in where she was. 

It was the road to the coffee shop where Pooja works and Priya just had to visit her. So she stepped into the cosy coffee shop and spotted Pooja wiping down a table. Priya stood a little distance away from her and cleared her throat to get Pooja’s attention. Pooja turned back to see her customer from last week and smiled.

“Hello again. Back to meet someone else or to get another coffee?”

“Meet someone. I came to see you and say thank you.”

Pooja raised an eyebrow as she tucked the dirt cloth into her apron to take in the customer.

“Thank you for what?”

“Your words encouraged me to take an English class. I had my first lesson today and now I can introduce myself to you.” Priya cleared her throat and stood straight with confidence. "Hello. My name is Priya Srivastav."

Pooja smiled and pushed her hand out but Priya was unsure of the gesture.

"You shake hands when you introduce yourself to someone." Priya gave a smile and took Pooja's hand. It felt soft and warm as Pooja grasped Priya's hand firmly.

"Hello Priya. I'm Pooja Shrestha."

~~~~~~

The next day, after getting Radha and Jignesh ready for school, Priya got ready in a yellow saree and made her way to the language centre. She was pretty confident on her route as she took the subway to the city and walked for about ten minutes, near the coffee shop. She lingered near it bouncing from foot to foot. Javier seemed upset, she wasn't sure why but she wanted to make the first gesture of friendship. After debating she decided to go in and get a coffee for Javier.

It’s September time and it was slightly chilly so she was lucky to remember taking a beige trench jacket. Coffee was a good idea because it would keep herself and Javier warm against the cold, and maybe make him a little more happier in class. Pooja wasn’t in but her work friend recognised Priya, a tall man with long dark hair and stunning blue eyes. He must be a model because Priya couldn’t take her eyes off him as the man stood in front of her with a smile. It was a little quieter in the cafe so Priya could take all the time she needed to understand the menu and order.

“Hi, you’re Pooja’s customer, right?” Priya gave a nod as the man gestured at his name tag. “I’m Daniel. Pooja’s friend.”

“Hello. I’m Priya.”

“Pooja told me to get you to try a new drink. Want something new or same as last time?”

Last time she remembered that Pooja offered her a chai latte which was nothing like chai. Hopefully Daniel had a better option but she was also getting a drink for Javier. Hopefully he likes surprises.

“Strong coffee.”

“I know just what to make you.”

“Two coffee.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow, curious at who this second cup was for but it was nothing to do with him. He acquiesced, taking the payment and setting to work to make espressos, with a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg because it was a cold autumn and hot spiced drinks are in season. Plus, Priya seemed like the type of person who’d enjoy a spiced hot drink.

“Two espressos. It’s hot and good for cold weather.”

Priya thanked Daniel for his suggestion, taking the two takeaway cups to her class, feeling a little better. A few minutes later, she entered the building and took the elevator to her class, walking along and entering the class. Alex was there as he smiled at her.

“Hello Priya. Take a seat and we’ll start in a few minutes.”

She looked around to see everyone there, except for Javier and Bonginkosi. Helena was at the back, waving at her to come sit next to her which Priya did, placing the cups on her desk as her eyes wandered over the class door. Anxiously wondering if Javier would come and Helena noticed this anxious concern. She nudged her elbow as if to ask Priya what she was waiting for. Priya shook her head as Bonginkosi came into class and took a seat at the front, meaning the empty chair next to her would be where Javier would sit.

Priya placed the cup on the center of the empty desk and got out a notebook and pen to take notes for today’s first lesson. Alex put down the lesson plan he was going over when Javier came through the door looking slightly flushed as if he was running. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to him as Javier’s eyes drew to Priya, who dressed in a mustard yellow Indian dress. It brought a glow to her brown skin and Javier felt the breath in his lungs sweeten with sugar.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay Javier. Take a seat, we are just about to start.”

The only empty seat was next to her as his heart thundered loudly against his ribs but he needed to suck it up. She was just his classmate as he skirted along the walls of the class and to take the seat next to hers when he noticed a takeaway coffee cup on his table. It was from Starbucks as his eyes discreetly went to Priya’s desk, noting she too had the same coffee cup. Did she buy it for him? He sat down and took out his leather bound journal and pen, his eyes staring down at the cup.

Priya didn’t want to seem obvious but she could tell Javier was perturbed from the coffee cup on his desk and she wondered if it was the right choice. He seemed so upset the previous day and she hoped her gesture of coffee would make him feel good or even welcome to the class. Javier brought his eyes over Priya, who was focused on taking notes and listening to Alex. She was kind and considerate and the way he stormed out of class yesterday was not the right first impression.

Steam was tiptoeing out of the cup and he made the best choice by wrapping his hand around the slightly tepid cup and bringing it to his lips. The rich coffee burst with notes of cinnamon and nutmeg and it took him by surprise as she got him his favourite coffee albeit with a twist of spices. She was smiling at him and Javier couldn’t help but smile back as a silent gesture of appreciation. The both of them were now turning their attention to Alex, who was going through grammar and pronunciation.

After class ended, everyone headed to the elevator to get going to their jobs and or home. Priya and Javi let the other people go in the elevator first before they then went in, standing peacefully as the elevator began its descent. She noticed that Javier was wearing a red shirt which made him look robust and suave. He held his journal in one hand and the coffee cup in the other as they moved their eyes over each other and away.

“Thank you.” Priya was taken aback as she turned her gaze to Javier, internally gasping at his sincere facial expression. He shook the coffee cup and Priya smiled softly as a way to accept his gratitude. “Good coffee. I like. Is espresso?”

“Yes. At cafe, they choose it. I buy one for you. Yesterday you sad so coffee make you happy.”

Javier’s lips quirked upwards at her concern for him. Part of him was trying to remember the fact that she had a kid and that she was married but it was a distant thought that had no importance. In this moment, he saw a simple woman that bought him coffee. Priya liked his bashfulness and his soft direct tone.

“You like espresso?”

The drink was nice and strong, it woke her up and made her focus in class a little more stronger, however it was too bitter for her taste and part of her wanted to tell Javier it was nice so that they had something in common but the truth was, was that she did not like espresso.

“No. Too -” She stuck her tongue out and Javier understood that it was too bitter for her. His heart and cheeks warmed even more at the fact that she got a coffee for his tastes and disregarded her own. He had to offer her a cup, it was the least he could do and it was an opportunity for him to get to know her more.

“Ah. Can I buy coffee? For you?”

“For me? Now?”

“Tomorrow.”

He hoped she would accept his offer as they had now stepped out of the building and stood on the sidewalk, oblivious to people around them strutting by.

“Yes Javier. One coffee tomorrow. No espresso.”

“No espresso.”

CHAPTER THREE: NEW EXPERIENCES

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 82

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: When the Levee Breaks

Summary: Alfie returns to work. He begins to deal with the aftermath of what happened and tries to gain control of an uncontrollable situation.

Warnings/Tags: Language. References to assault and violence. PTSD. Suffering/Physical Pain. Fluff. Grumpy Alfie. Business Alfie. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

The clack and clash of work within the well ran warehouse beneath the quaint Jewish bakery was running at high proficiency with its boss stalking about the place again. His freshly cobbled shoes, which he refused to replace, much to Genevieve’s annoyance, squeak with the hard fresh leather and nails against the hard floor. Despite being polished, they were covered with dirt and dust just like the rest of him, as was necessary for working in a rum house. He enjoyed the work again, as much as one could enjoy ordering around mostly boys he thought would have trouble pissing in a pot by themselves. But it did get him out of the house. More importantly, it got him away from the abstract and currently unsolvable problems that lie there waiting for him as soon as he left the structure that running his business gave him.

He’d adapted well, in his opinion, to the problems that lie in that big ornate bed at home. He didn’t work nights if it could be helped, he was home for dinner every day and took the Shabbat off, giving him extra time to be with Genevieve. He didn’t like coming back home to problems he couldn’t solve with a shout of his orders, but that was the life they were dealing with. He’d at least been able to put up a strong front at work, perhaps a bit more stone-fisted with his men than he had been previous to Genevieve’s abduction. But he felt like he had control at his dingy warehouse with its strong smells he carried home in his clothes every day. He felt like he had a place that fit when he was working, his problems solved by either agile fingers or mind with a raise of his voice or arms to put forth the labor and intellect to solve them. He didn’t have to think about how powerless he was when it came to the throw of a dice that was Genevieve’s health and mind while he worked. And although he did make most of his money on being a betting man, he’d always prefer horses over the indifferent will of the miraculous mess that was the human body.

He told himself he did it because he wanted to take better care of himself in the face of Genevieve’s decline of health, taking breaks outside to escape the fumes and flames inside his alcove of a workspace. The reality was that Aggie and Claire had beaten him into submission on him eating a full lunch and getting some sun every day. Aggie would know by his mood and his lack of stealth when it came to snacking in the kitchen if he failed to follow her suggestions. But of course, Alfie had found another way to use this forced time to his advantage. As was his way.

“There lads, go on wif ya.” He grunts after handing coins to the scrappy youth's he’d been meeting with on his breaks. Little sets of unassuming eyes and ears around the city, needing the money and having the time and invaluable ability to seem invisible to most, he utilized them for his work. They gave him all the things they’d seen and heard that could interest him. For a few sweets and pounds the information they gave was worth its weight in gold. He watches their worn shoes become even more so on his orders as they shuffle across the dirty brick pathways away from the canal and the work buildings.

“Next appointment is soon sir.” Ollie reminds him, taking Alfie's eyes from the long distance stare they were set in thoughtfully as the kids disappeared around the corner.

“Right.” He huffs out, a hand that smelled awful and felt much the same with its grit from both stress and work rubbing across his face as he scratches his beard in thought. “Put down visitin’ the families in the diary soon, yeah? Seems a few of the children have come down wif some fuckin awful fing that’s killed one of 'em already.” He says without the emotion behind it that it would warrant from any normal person.

“Yes, sir.” Ollie notes in his mind as he follows after his employer, back down the corridors to his office. Despite Ollie being taller, he very much felt small and like Alfie was carving the way back for him as his shoulders swayed and bow legs stalked with a stance that unquestionably told anyone who looked his way, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“So what ‘ave I got before I head out?” He asks with no fondness to the statement, selves rolled up his bulky and gingery hair covered forearms. His hands, as always highly bejeweled, Genevieve’s gifts among them, slap together and rub to commence the last parts of his work day, the tattooed crowns being the least of the signals from him that he was, in fact, the boss in this space.

“We have the meetings with the little birds.”

Alfie scoffs and scoots up his worn leather chair to his large wooden desk, covered in patches of dust and paperwork with a posture perfect back for a moment. “Not so little now eh?” He muses. “In stature or count.” He states with pursed lips and high brows full of amusement for his observation.

The project of little birds had started years ago. Now men, just like the lads he’d paid earlier were now, he had groomed these young men into spies for him in various fields. He had them for the Jewish community, various pubs and shops and corners in every class of neighborhood and at least one in each of the so-called gangster's posse’s, minus one for the boy who had been with Horne. He’d murdered him where he stood in his office the day he came back to work. In hindsight, perhaps it was a bit harsh, but it certainly sent the other boys into high gear to not have the same fate as him. Alfie felt much more in charge of his emotions from what had happened now, but as always, his sort of life would keep finding ways to make him question himself.

“I have the report here, sir. One will be in shortly with his to close off the group.”

“Why’s he late wif it?”

“Not late, only delayed from the nature of his subject. He hosts at the high tea shops in the West End.”

“Ah. Right.” Alfie nods, a twitch of whiskers over chapped full lips that sat in a tight line as he read over his tiny golden framed glasses. The reports with their code words and aliases couldn’t be read any more clearly by Alfie. It all spelled trouble. The word was out about him being behind the pillaging of Horne’s buildings. Word had spread of the less powerful Birmingham Gypsy brothers helping these acts to transpire as well. But it was known Genevieve was counted among them, being the head Shelby’s godmother to his children and that.

Sabini was annoyed by their appearance in London, but planned nothing in retort. In his words, it was reported that Horne, the bloody American, had it fucking coming. This was a general consensus it seemed, no one fond of any Americans moving in on business since the blowup years ago with the American-Italians. Not even Sabini had been safe in that fight. Americans were seen as cowboys, wildcards not to be trusted and looked down upon for their boisterous nature and inclination to assume their importance. The general consensus was fuck the Americans. At least Alfie had something in common with these men. One less in their line of work meant more for them, and with prohibition still enforced, that opened up a piece of the market to make some money in Horne’s absence. Alfie jots down notes with a hard brow to look farther into taking on Horne’s business loose ends. Beyond the professional, it seemed the consensus on Alfie and his reaction to Horne was a mixed one. Some thinking it an overreaction, some, like Sabini seeing it as earned and flex of power. Whether they thought him mad or powerful, he didn’t much care, but the signs all pointed to him being feared for it and that was precisely where Alfie wanted to stand with these men.

Onto the other subject of his almost betrothed, Genevieve, the news was not as pleasant but he had expected worse. Whispers of taking over her businesses, seeing her as weak now we’re starting to appear. Inevitable, Alfie knew but it certainly didn’t help smooth the lines in his forehead as much as it deepened them. No plans so far, it was still too soon to tell and he had done a fairly decent job as far as these papers told him of keeping her state a secret.

But the young man in front of him quickly put that ease to bed.

“The talk is that she’s gone soft. That’s she’s lame and traumatized. Forgive me for saying these things sir, they are not from my mouth.”

Alfie nods, a hand waving to dismiss the apology as his chin rests in his other hand to hurry on the boy.

“Her lack of appearance has caused much chat among the ladies as she wasn’t known for canceling or not being seen before. They know the donations are still going through, but she hasn’t been teaching or going to meetings or cooking at the children’s home. The more extreme of the rumors are, and forgive me again sir, are that she’s been sent to bedlam, pregnant with another man’s child, gone completely mad and being locked in her home and that she’s on drugs now. She’ll wander 'round the estate naked and talk to imaginary people. Most think you’ll leave her soon.” He concludes with a heavy gulp, his mouth dry from the man staring him down across the desk.

How was he going to head this off? How do you kill rumors that have a grain of truth? He knew she couldn’t go out in public yet, it’d be a long time still for that. She was currently dazed at best, mumbling to herself as she wandered the house with his cane. Her body was healing, she could walk with only a limp now. But her mind, that was another subject entirely. He didn’t know what was her, what was medication and what was trauma in that soft head of hers. It was too soon for answers and he needed them. Needed to squash out this weakness that was growing among them. But how could he show she was fine when she very much was not.

“That all?” He finally gruffs out.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.” He says with a nod, his w'ords tense and his jaw tight. “Well, she isn’t lame or in an asylum someplace. She’s at home healing. Doctors orders to stay home and keep calm until she’s all better. So snuff out any other stories, eh? She’s fine, I’m fine. We are together, she isn’t pregnant. Paint a peachy fuckin portrait, yeah?”

“Of course sir.” He agrees enthusiastically.

“Good work. Keep it up and there may be more pay in your future.” He promises with only a slight lie in the words.

With a bow and thanks he exists and Alfie put his stained fingertips to his scabbed forehead and sighs. “Posh fuckin cunts. No lives. Only love to titter stories like fuckin' little girls in school to each other. Fuckin' gossips. Fuckin’...’ell.” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “They ain’t so much worried 'bout me, but her. Which is right fuckin' daft of 'em.” He speaks with an exasperated breath and a sweeping display of his hands. “News weren’t half fuckin' bad 'til those fuckers had to go and run their fat fuckin', cock suckin' mouths.” He huffs, brow low as he slumps into his chair.

“Awful that they’re speaking of Miss Durand in such a way. After all she’s done for them and the children.” Ollie responds with a sigh.

“Fuckin' what mate?” Alfie challenges with a sharp twist of his head his way. “Ya fuckin' soft? Ya sweet on her are ya Ollie?” Alfie's voice didn’t hold enough tease for Ollie to not tense up and stutter.

“No! No sir she’s always been a giving woman to those less fortunate and people speaking ill of her with no proof is upsetting. Not surprising at all! But still unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” Alfie drops the knee jerk flare of anger he’d been brewing up. Ollie hadn't done anything wrong. He just wanted to lash out. “The problem is, some of that is just tittle-tattle, right? But what if they did have a way to know fings?” Alfies natural inclination to be suspicious and paranoid was only being fueled by the oddly specific gossip in some instances.

“As in someone at home?” Ollie replies surprised, knowing Alfie had personally interrogated every staff member after Gen was gone. He’s assaulted a few and had found none guilty. The ruling was that someone had snuck in and posed as staff and given her the drink and then slipped out. Not having someone to burn at the stake really hadn’t helped Alfie out at the time. So Ollie was highly curious as to who would be giving information as he knew most of the staff owed Gen a great deal themselves. He knew them as loyal and grateful, but as Alfie liked to remind him from time to time, what the fuck did he know?

———

While Alfie was out gathering his information, Genevieve was at home doing entirely the opposite. The morphine made her mind a mess, but as was the nature of it, she certainly didn’t know it to be so.

Her walks in the garden, one arm held by either Aggie or Claire as they steadied her, seeing her eyes so far away despite being open and focusing on things. She spoke of children often, like they were there. No one knew what she was referring to. Claire and Aggie had their suspicions as to the cause of this hallucination or delusion, which one they were not sure yet, but neither said it aloud. It hurt them too much to speak of and they knew they shouldn’t break Gen's heart by trying to tell her otherwise. Another screaming fit, something like a child would throw wasn’t what they wanted to experience again.

Gen's reality was far different. She was on leisurely strolls in a dreamy garden. Her cheeky and precocious children hiding from her amongst the flowers and hedges. She didn’t see them all the time, or even often, but she did hear them. Calls for mama and papa, little auburn haired cherubs dashing in the corners of her eyes. She didn’t even know their names or faces but something about the thought of them made things not hurt as badly and it was easy to want to stay in the drug-induced stupor where everything was golden and nothing hurt. The reality was too much still, too painful, too much. So she stayed.

The warm, dizzy halo of morphine was only broken when the pain would break through. This was when the glow in her vision would fade and she would be reminded of how she was, in fact, broken. The physical pain acted as a gateway for the mental, for she recalled how she received the injuries and the memories would start to follow. With a wince, her caregivers knew she was coming down, it was time to rest. Her soft and bruised face was set to something besides indifference as her brow would furrow and her jaw would once again tighten with the stress that her current state brought upon her.

In these moments they would see a wounded Genevieve peek through the veil. Her eyes still dilated but the life backlit them in those hours she was lucid. Once she was herself for some brief moments they would ask her about her hallucinations and dreams, as they were both not decreasing in intensity. Any look at the bags under Alfie's eyes from being woken up by her fighting and struggling, mumbling awful reminders through the night next to him would tell the story of how she really felt whether she was willing or able to herself. Awake, the memories didn’t haunt her as heavily as they did in her sleep. With her brain desperately trying to mend itself, it kept trying to heal the parts that were broken and so it brought the memories of her time held hostage forward, inaccessible to her during her waking hours. The only comfort Alfie found in it was telling himself she was just dreaming, not reliving the trauma. But deep down he knew better. He’d been there himself. At this juncture, his body was growing weary and his spirit wasn’t far behind. The process of healing yourself was one thing, watching another attempt it was a whole other beast he had no interest in taming. And yet he found himself sleeping with it in his bed every night. A reminder of his worries and stress and failure that he could find no refuge from.

————

Alfie shoved his feet into the house shoes that greeted him at the door by the hands of maids. Taking his coat, offering him tea, he still wasn’t used to the treatment and he was starting to think he never would be.

“No, no, love.” he gruffs a young maid away with a brush of his hand. “Where’s Agatha? I’d like to know how Genevieve is before I see her.” he sighs, twisting his body and hearing the pops and cracks of age and strain, both accumulating far too rapidly for his liking.

“I’m here, Alfie.” Aggie’s tired feet shuffle around the corner, always wiping her hands on her apron when she appeared. “She’s in her room. Haven’t heard a peep from her in some time now. Which is an improvement. Short time and she’ll take her medicine again. Thought you might some time with her while she was lucid before she took it again.”

“Is she lucid?” he asks with a raised brow.

“She’s been up and around and with the usual exception of the few hours of her medicine and the strange talking, she’s been doing quite well today.” she gives an optimistic nod.

Alfie nods, a large exhalation stretching the muscles of his chest at the good news. He had been fully expecting nothing good after the gossip he’d had to mull over today. Perhaps there could be a light growing at the end of this dark tunnel for them both. “Good.” he responds, thumbing his nose with no other showing of his relief, his face sat hard and preoccupied as it had been since he’d gone back to work.

He saunters his way down the great hall to Genevieve’s wing of the house. As he does so, he sees a maid dart out of the phone room, kept near the entryway into the kitchens and back halls.

“Oi!” he shouts, her posture straightening and eyes growing wide before she turns to him. “What ya fuckin’ up to in there?” he demands with no politeness, a ringed finger pointing towards the room.

“Callin’ me sista sir.” she answers with a nod, not meeting his eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from orders or to avoid his direct glare.

“What ya callin’ on work hours for?” he gruffs out with a rise of his chin.

“She’s only home for a short while between jobs, sir.”

“Where’s she live?”

“London, sir.”

“Where’s about?” he gives her rapid questions to read her honesty.

“Clerkenwell, sir.” she keeps her head down and hands together in front of her.

“Hmph. I ‘on’t know you do I? You’re new, yeah? Did I let you in?”

“No sir, I was brought in from another home a fortnight ago when my previous employer passed away.”

“Who was that?”

“Mrs. Hilda Gold from Kentish Town, sir.”

“Mmph.” a rub of his chin, wheels turning at knowing who her former employer was, knowing she was Jewish, but also acutely aware that she was a huge gossip. “I did not know she had passed.”

“I stayed on to clear out the estate then Agatha took me on.”

“Fine fuckin’ timin’ you showed up, eh?”

She doesn’t respond, not certain how to.

“Well get the fuck on... wait, what’s ya name?”

“Dorothy.” she says mid-turn, freezing at the man’s request.

“Well, then Dottie get back to work. No callin’ until after tea, yeah?” he oders with strong squared shoulders and a curt nod.

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.” she sputters out fast before disappearing into the nearest corridor.

He sticks his neck out as he passes to find her already gone, chewing the inside of his lip as he continues on with his paranoia as he travels towards Gen’s room.

Genevieve sits so eerily still, tense and afraid to make a move as she stares at the door in the dimly lit room. It’d been left that way to allow her to sleep but as it had been since she’d started getting up and moving around, coming to herself a tiny bit more every day, if she was left in the dark alone she could never sleep unless the medicine forced her to.

Alfie braces himself for nothing good, even though the state of her wasn’t poorly today. With a slow opening of the door, one that unintentionally made poor Genevieve's heart nearly beat out of her chest, he finally shows himself, eyes direct to hers as he sees her sitting up in bed.

He observes her eyes fluttering and her posture slump at the sight of him. At first, he couldn’t believe his feelings were a bit hurt by it. Then she reaches out to him with a face that actually showed something besides neutrality, sleepy eyes and barely parted lips that were pleading for him to come closer.

“‘Ello, love.” he greets, moving over to the bed and taking her hands, kissing her knuckles as he sat next to her on the edge. “You’re looking much better this afternoon.” he praises, a hand to her cheek as he watches her eyes close and her lean into his touch. A lump of fondness erupts in his gut, something he admittedly hadn’t felt since he’d gone back to work and had to compartmentalize his feelings to deal with them. He suddenly felt guilty as her hand covered his, such a tender gesture as she kissed his palm.

Unknown to him, she was flooded with a euphoric relief at his appearance. With her emotions still nowhere near stable, she begins to cry.

“Oh, pet, come now. No reason for all that.” he shushes, wiping the tears away. “What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up the pen and pad next to the bed and with shaky hands, she scribbles away.

“Be quiet for a moment and listen.” it reads, Alfie’s brow furrows, starting to question the optimism of Aggie.

“What are you on about?” he replies and Gen puts her fingers to his lips. The look in her eyes tells him she’s serious. He does as instructed and waits, eyes moving about the room, not sure what he should be listening for.

He watches her raise and her head turn to the door and stare. Much like a frightened deer.

“I don’t hear nuffin’, Gen.” he pats her arm to comfort her.

She huffs out her nose and pursed her lips. “When you’re here I don’t hear them.” She writes, her eyes back again to the door.

A pang of guilt sits heavy in his stomach at her words. “Hear who love?” He asks softly.

“Footsteps.” She communicates, her eyes scanning the bed in front of her with a clear confusion behind them.

“There are people out in the hall all day.” He says with no condescension.

She shakes her head and sighs. “Not in my wing.” How could she explain the fear the sound sent through her. They weren’t just any footsteps, they were Horne’s footsteps. She knew it made no sense. She knew he was dead, but it didn’t stop it from sending her right back to that cold and pitch black room where she was kept, waiting for him to come back and fearing what would come with him.

Alfie sees the very real concern in her eyes. He has a theory as to why she’s afraid but he’s hesitant to ask. “Does anything else make them go away?” He questions, raises her chin up to face him.

She considers it a minute. She didn’t feel afraid with Alfie there for obvious reasons, but what else took it away. “Sleep?”

“Well of course love.” He gives her a soft chuckle and kisses her forehead. “But having me here helps, yeah?”

She nods slowly, a fast one still sending her into the spins.

“Then let me help.” He suggests gently, crawling into bed with her and pulling her to his chest. “This help?”

She nods again, still feeling nervous as she rests her head to his chest. She could focus on him now, hear him breathe, feel it as well.

“Does being in the dark bring them on?” He proposes, fingers stroking her hair, his face bent towards her.

She considers it a moment, slow blinking eyes he was happy to see wheels turning behind. She gives a tap to his chest to indicate yes.

“And only when you’re alone?” He reiterates.

Another gentle tap.

He decides to get to the point, as is his nature, no matter how abrasive it might be. “When you were taken from me…” he begins. He feels her tense against him. “We’re you kept alone in the dark?”

He hears a small whimper from her, her hands now in fists.

“S’all right love. It’s over now. It can’t hurt you anymore.” He coos.

She shuts her eyes, burying her face in his chest.

“And could you hear them outside the door?”

She agrees again, a little whimper of a sound as she pushed her face into him.

He braces her, feeling her breathing grow shaky and uneven, seeing it was painfully obvious she was having trouble with dealing with the memories. Still, he persisted. “Is that what you’re hearing now? When I’m not here?”

A sob moves her upper body and she whines, fingers grabbing at his shirt, smelling still of rum from work.

“There, there, love.” he whispers, putting his mouth to her hair. “Your Alfie’s got ya innit he?” he soothes, smoothing her hair and rubbing her back. “Just memories. They can’t hurt you now. It’ll get better with time, pet.” he laments, feeling her cry in his arms. The pain from the extended panic still alive and well in her chest when she thought about her time held captive. He could feel her skin run hot beneath his hands, the only sounds he’d heard from her since she’d been back were mumbled with pain. He stares at the door as she wears herself out. Holding her like a babe in his arms, face set to an unpleasant detachment. She had so much farther to go before she could venture out. The mention of what happened and she’d fall to pieces. Not to mention she couldn’t speak yet. He was starting to wonder if it was more from physical injury or a mental one at this point.

He did feel sympathetic, empathetic even to her current state, but that harsh bit of him that pulled him through his own dark times tells him she needs to do better, to move forward. He feels impatient, knowing what those on the outside were saying. Normally he would tell any of those posh tossers to piss off with their opinions but now Genevieve was the victim of their rumors and he didn’t want her to lose the place she’d gained in society because of this. He wanted to keep things as well maintained as he could for her, and that meant taking on the stress that would normally be carried by her slight shoulders. Luckily for both of them, he was a tough old bastard who could deal with a bit of posh, West End babble easy enough. But he was more worried about what Genevieve would feel, think and more importantly do when she found out what they were saying. He had so many voices to worry about now. His own in his head, the ones in Genevieve's as well, however many there were now. He was used to listening to people talk about him, and he dealt with it in his own way But now he had to worry about what they were saying about someone else, and not just his people, not only slurs and the like, but a woman he loved. He closes his eyes, pushing his cheek against her head as he knows this will end no time soon.

@jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester @lookuptheskyisfalling-blog@brianaisasongbird @cry5t4l-w4rri0r @jess2464 @hardygal69 @thegarrisonpublichouse @a-flock-of-angry-pigeons @pootle @negansdirtygirl22 @musingsby-night @shine-dont-shadow @inkinterrupted @vale0413 @emerald-bijou @elaenom @give-jack-a-lightsaber @ultrablackwidower @tinastarkandco @arrowswithwifi @marvelgirl7 @they-are-not-just-stories   @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes @alitheamateur @gold-trashbag @divadinag 

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Ottessa Moshfegh, PR, Depression, and the Aesthetics of Antipathy

You have probably seen the jacket cover to Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation by now. It is a very striking cover that is part of a well-engineered overall PR campaign. Electric pink font plastered over a dreamy reproduction of Jacques-Louis David’s 1798 painting, Portrait of a Young Woman in White. The Cut, New Yorker, Bookforum, Paris Review, Granta, Pushcart everyone promoted Moshfegh and this title.

Ultimately though, I put up the ridiculous sum of 28 dollars and change for Moshfegh’s book for what it promised inside. It promised to let me feel in literary form the peculiar species of depression the twenty-first century has wrought on young upper-middle-class, college-educated women. It promised to put in narrative detail what I already knew all too well: that myself and almost every all women I know in my generation have each and all suffered loss -- loss of a parent, a friend, a career, of some expectation we once held for ourselves-- and, too, that we all have, in turn, made ourselves suffer for this real or imaginary loss. We have all felt the pull of temptation to retreat from the world in the face of loss -- the desire descend into a deep, awful, alienating, self-protective, just-let-me-sleep depression. My Year of Rest and Relaxation appeared as the adventure that would indulge this desire to retreat and also functioned as proof that, in the face of depression and loss, there remained in all of us a hunger for something more than what the world, the entertainment industry, the pharmaceutical industry has to offer us to placate our hurt. We all want something more than pills, more than doctors, more than serial TV, rom-coms, or sex. We want a real art of depression, an art that details, that elevates, that immortalizes our boring, banal, stupid, narcissistic, and privileged brand of late capitalist depression.

Moshfegh was hailed as the the writer who not only could write this depression well, but mock it, show its perversity, and allow us enjoy our smallness and weakness perversely. The joke is always on us. Her writerly confidence oozes in interviews. She’s thinks she is greatest living writer. She loves to write--she has no regrets about her career. Not an ounce of depression here. Not a tad of anxiety. She knows how to write books that will sell. She gets high off her writing. Its that good. She will win all the prizes and the residencies.

Moshfegh’s arrogance is clearly itself a sickness, a symptom of late late capitalist American decadence -- but it looks good on her. One feels that we need more swagger from women POC in literary culture. It feels like a triumph to talk about the novel with Moshfegh in the #metoo era of Trump.

Unfortunately, My Year of Rest and Relaxation lives up to Moshfegh’s promise: she can and will write a bestseller; it will be cheap, formulaic, and easy to market and sell; it will target you and you will buy it. Here is what she gives us:

The year is pre-9/11 2000. The city pre-9/11 cultural capital of American finance empire: New York. Our protagonist is a rich, white, and orphaned. She is a recent graduate from Columbia (BA Art history). We never learn her name, the whole book is spoken in first person. She lives alone on the Upper East Side in an indulgent one bedroom apartment and is rich enough to have a doorman and buy designer clothes. She doesn’t really care about the clothes, though. Her parents died while she was in college. Her father first to cancer, her mother after to drugs and alcohol. They left her their house and some money. She pays her rent with the money she makes renting their house in the suburbs. The plot revolves around her life and her depression in these twelve months. We are with her in the mundane everyday shuffle back and forth from her couch to the bodega on the corner. Here, she buys her coffees from “the Egyptians” (always two: one to chug in the elevator on the way back to her apartment, the other to microwave later and drink throughout the day), her klondike bars, her skittles, her pints of ice cream. 

There’s very few people in her life. She has one friend from college, Reva, and a boy named Trevor who she used to fuck that she’s still in contact with and occasionally calls. Reva comes over unannounced weekly. She is the only person who calls and checks in. Reva is bulimic, obsessed with her weight, and fucking her boss, Ken. Reva’s mom is dying of cancer on Long Island. 

We go with the narrator to the pharmacy to pick up pills and to the psychiatrist’s office , Dr. Tuttle, once a month, to get her scripts refilled. The book is an account of this small life and a record of our protagonist’s distain for the world, her desire to drug herself out of it, to watch Tom Hanks and Whoopi Goldberg movies and to be left alone. The whole thing reads like Jean Rhys plot, if Jean Rhys’s protagonists did not have to suffer the indignity of working as store clerks for money, being poor or on the down and out in Paris, or selling themselves to men for a drink or a dinner out. 

The central message of My Year of Rest and Relaxation seems to be this: if you are rich enough, privileged enough, pretty enough, bored and depressed and disgusted enough with the world, you can sleep through your life and no one will really care. The world turns on. Your irrelevance is especially true if your parents die or if they never really loved you at all. Without living or loving parents, without bosses who care about you, without mentors, without bright career futures or special talents, without a partner, without investments, without a desire to make or a need to make money, who or what says we have to get out of bed at all in late capitalism? Who or what really enforces anything in our social world? What sets desire in motion? So long as you can pay the rent and the bills, who says you ever need to get off your couch and participate in the world? If you adopt a simple attitude, i.e. that the world is mostly pain and fallen and diseased, you can live out your live in a moral-judgmental slumber, and no one will notice or care. All of your needs, under the right conditions, can and will be taken care of. 

The novel is a meant as a satire but Moshfegh also expends a tremendous amount of energy building empathy for her otherwise pitiable, selfish, drug-addicted, depressed narrator. In giving the narrator special victim status as orphan, in casting her world under the shadow of grief, in depicting her as damaged and mean because her mother was mean and damaged, Moshfegh encourages readers to see the narrator’s actions (her drug use, her cynicism, her callousness, her death-drive) as symptoms and products of the world that produced her as a person. This is a strange moral choice. We learn of the narrator’s parents’ loveless marriage, her brief and somewhat meaningful but ultimately pointless education in art history (she found the real art world to be capitalist, stupid, and vain). We see that she has been abused by men, and basically has never found a meaningful relationship to the world in work, friendship, or love. This woman who has never experienced love, or only experienced it in fucked up, brief, sadistic ways, how could we ever expect her to be whole? 

The service industry emerges to fill the love-void (women services like waxing manicures, colonics, massages, but also the general service industry of the city, its restaurants, bars, taxis, bodegas, department stores, entertainment). These services keep us afloat, they make our narrator feel slightly more alive, get her out of the house, give her contact with other humans. They allow her to interact, transact, to use people and be used. Its an empty, stupid, cycle, of services, but anyone with expendable income who has lived in a city knows it well, knows it can be a comfort.

The most moving moment in MYRR is when the narrator opens up about her father’s death, the memory of his final hours, and the things she said to him in those hours. MYRR is hardly about rest or relaxation. Its far more about death, loss, grief, and the trauma of squandering your life. In the end, what the book shows is that you can’t survive or subsist without the economy of love, compassion, and sympathy. To live well, whether we like it or not, we have to love and be loved. These are the rules of the game. We can, like our protagonist, try to subsist on memories of love squandered, to avoid love and loving in fear of being hurt, we can try to subsist on ghostly love, on the images of love that could have been but never was, on movie love, but that is depression. If we are live in this way, on love reduced, if we recognize this way of being in ourselves, its time to change our lives and find ways to live again. 

We shouldn’t have novels appearing like this. Novels where the service industry appears as the most loving touch in our social world. Where we recognize that as a truth. Or else, we should just understand our society as one of services for sale. And figure out how to get into that business. This is exactly what Moshfegh has done.

[thebookworm-lebouquineur]

46/ Blondes as far as the eye can see

Published on April 11, 2017 by guyfrugger

     In a self-service restaurant all in bricks arranged of aluminium & glass in the design style, bathed in the half-light zebra of directional and filtered lights, they finish their meal where Alain could satisfy his desire to eat red meat in the form of roast beef in spite of everything very fine.

     "Good now, place to the drag! declares he well satiated. "

     As soon as he went out, he inquired about the location of the library which information taken from a native passer-by, is located just in front of their accommodation on the square of the campus.

       In the large, bright hall with large windows that reach all the way down to the floor, blondes as far as the eye can see, even diaphanous ones for the youngest, share the beige, grey or black armchairs around small low tables separated by displays of international newspapers, magazines and journals.

    Some of them read, study or leaf through the pages sitting, slumped or wrapped up with their legs folded in the corners of the sofas.

     No boys in sight, it's strange!" says Fred, surprised to see so many people during the vacation season. "

     At one of the reading tables, two girls, the older one explaining to the younger one a text from a paperback book.

     Alain, smiling playfully at the corners of his lips, joins in the discussion and discovers that the book in question is in French and that they both speak it admirably and practically without an accent:

    "L'Ecume des Jours!" he says after reading the title, turning to Freddy... you know it? he adds.

     - Yes, I've read it!... I read a lot of Boris Vian because in high school a French teacher was "crazy" about him and introduced us to him as the typical contemporary author, and then I continued to read him even though he corresponds more to my parents' generation than to mine.

     Girls who understand French surprisingly well turn to him:

     - Okay, so what does he mean? On the back of the book, it is written that it is "the most poignant of contemporary romance novels" says the tallest one visibly disappointed smile at half-mast?

     - Yes, but it is a plot to criticize modern society and its shortcomings, like the film "Playtime" by Jacques Tati.

    - I haven't seen the movie, but the eel that comes out of the drain through the faucet... teases the older girl, letting out a sly smile.

     Obviously, this sequence could not escape the girls, unlike the boys for the Pianocktail one, Fred thinks with fun.

     - ... and Chloe's illness? she resumes seriously.

     - It's cancer! A very modern disease !

     - Maybe! But in the afterword, he names tuberculosis.

    - Yes, tuberculosis: a disease of proximity, also contagious at the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th century, Fred replies.

     - What does the shrinking of their apartment symbolize as Chloe's illness worsens?

     - I'm not a French teacher, I'm just a reader!" he warns, then continues: "In my humble opinion, it's not the same thing. The dwindling of the housing figures the effect of the overpopulation notably in the cities which effectively shrinks the vital space for each one... Before coming here, I visited the Evoluon in Eindhoven in the Netherlands (Museum of sciences and techniques) which looks like a flying saucer... in short, over there they think and expose solutions to these problems of the increase of the individuals especially at the technological levels with the arrival of the computers. All this is presented in a playful way but the background is a serious challenge for them, maybe even dramatic. As for the disease, it is the symptom.

     - This may also mean, as the afterword notes, that the shrinking of Colin's house corresponds to the shrinking of his psychological universe as the illness of his loved one Chloe increases.

     - Correct! But that doesn't explain the fact that the stairs give way, that the ties need to be nailed down, that the only work Colin can find is to grow gun barrels with the heat of his belly lying on a mound of earth, etc.

    - Indeed, there is this whole absurd world that surrounds us and disrupts the relationships between young people. In a way, it would be a love story in a decadent and even bankrupt society, she synthesizes.

     - Absolutely! Look at the end of the manuscript for the date it was written?

     - 1946 ! Just after World War II! she adds.

  On that note, Fred would like to withdraw from this discussion, which is turning into a riddle and a diversion:

     - Have you read other French authors?

     An avalanche of classical writers from Balzac to Diderot, passing through Voltaire and then jumping from Rimbaud to Molière, bursts into the debate, opening it to Alain who directs them to their weekly schedule and their leisure activities during the summer vacations.

     Fred finds them far too zealous and gets tired of their childishness, which seems to interest Alain to a certain extent. At one point, he stands up and says the very diplomatic :

      " See you again ! ".

     - They're too studious!" reproaches Fred.

     - They're fun!" he dismisses.

     They went back to the center and to the pier where people were gathering, especially young people who came to take the ferry to Denmark and drink - girls and boys alike.

    At the exit of the landing stage, the girls arm in arm are swaying like sailors coming back from far away. The more they sway, the more they cling to the railings, bursting out laughing loudly or they try to walk straight but go slightly sideways while laughing. Others shout at the guys with all restraint and then send them on their way.

     Some of them are cute and some are pretty, with faces tinged with sweetness and severity: they like Fred & Alain. No one accosts them and they end up sleeping on the low wall of the seaside.

     They manage to find two girls who are not drunk and who don't seem to have a taste for the bottle, as the old men from the farthest reaches of his province used to say.

    One is tall, with a boyish haircut like Jean Seberg, named Greta, with well rounded cheekbones and a slightly more pronounced lower jaw. The other, with the mischievous name of Martina, also known as Tina, is short, with long, curly hair, and is always in motion or laughing.

     Of course, Alain takes the more mischievous one, amusing himself with their small size by measuring themselves with an imaginary height gauge, cheating each in turn on the tip of their feet, and Fred the slimmer and more reserved one.

     They exchange photos; they quickly share similar tastes, true or false, already complicit but measured feelings on the part of the girls, promising smiles and even, on the contrary, parodic laughter testing their degree of connivance; despite or because of this, they hold hands or embrace each other by the shoulders to kiss like mature teenagers.

     Thus, they imitate drunkards and alcoholics by staggering across the sidewalk.

     As a result, games from their childhood appear here and there reinforcing the enthusiastic discovery or the feigned repulsion.

     Alain proposes to them to take a glass in a coffee; they refuse offended that he can advance such a thing whereas all their girlfriends drink to more thirst perhaps they refuse obstinately to resemble them. Finally they choose the apartment of the Russian teacher.

   In their room, they flirt for a good part of the afternoon, chatting, giggling, bantering, laughing and chirping.

     This will make the master of the apartment say in the evening when they returned:

      "The girls can't help but 'squeal'!

     - Sorry!

     - No, no! That's just the way it is! That's life!"

[soprano193]

100 Ways to Say... (43/100)

So this isn't even done... I had originally picked a different sentence, but here I am, 4,500 words in, and I am not even halfway done.  The good news is, I am working on the second half, with a different sentence.  I have it all planned out, actually!  I don't know when it will be posted, because I am slowly working on it for camp nanowrimo.  So it isn't done yet.  BUT, I won't post anything else here until the second part is done, so I don't mess with continuity.  Wit all that said and done, enjoy!

Next door neighbors in the suburbs AU.

I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.

Ricky Rogers had been in Katie’s life for as long as she could remember.  From the moment she was born, Ricky was never too far away.  His Mom, Martha, lived next door, and worked all the time, so Katie’s Mom used to watch him for free.  It was like growing up with a slightly older brother.

Her first concrete memory is of him crying.  He had spilled his milk all over his clothes.  Her Mom had a lot, but she didn’t have a key to his house.  It was the one day Martha didn’t pack extra clothes.  So he was wearing her shirt, one with yellow sunflowers on it, crying about wanting his solar system shirt back.  She tried to distract him by pulling him out to the sand pit in her backyard.  “Sandcastle?”  As she spoke she offered him the bucket.  “Build here.”  When he took the bucket, she kneeled down and started to dig the moat.

It took him some time to join her, but soon he was down in the dirt next to her.  “Want help?”

“Yes please.”  She filled his bucket with the excess sand from the moat.  After a few moments of silence, she looked up, grinning at him.  “You’re okay.  Don’t be sad.  Sandcastle.”

He turned the bucket over in response, the sand crumbling at the edges.  “Thanks, Katie.  I’m not sad anymore.”  He poked some holes in the top of their sand mound, like windows, and grinned.  “Who lives here?”

“Hmmmm.”  Katie bit her lip as she thought.  “A Princess and her Knight.”

At her words, he leapt up, his feet kicking sand into their moat.  “Let’s play pretend!  I’m a Knight.”

“I’m the Princess!”  She joined in, standing with him.  She only gave herself a moment to laugh before pointing at a tree behind him.  “Help!  Monster!  Get it, Knight!”

“I’ll save you!”  He shouted as he ran off, pretending to fight whatever imaginary creatures she came up with.  He ran around so much, he didn’t even hear when Katie’s Mom yelled that his shirt was all done.  Instead he spent his day rescuing his closest friend.  A few of the monsters, Katie got herself.  She loved teaching him the best way to defeat a porch monster and a garden ghoul.  The swing monster almost got them both.  Never once did she think that a Princess couldn’t save the day.  Sometimes though, she needed help from her brave Knight.

Saturdays were the days she looked forward to most.  Saturdays were Martha’s day off, which meant the roles were reversed.  Katie’s Mom would go out and do the errands that she couldn’t do while Ricky was at the house.  Katie’s Dad usually worked.  Which meant that Katie got to go spend time at Ricky’s house.

His house was so cool.  There were more musical instruments than Katie thought existed.  Martha always let them play with each one, and she taught them the history behind them as they played.  Also, Martha’s dress up trunk marveled any other one Katie had ever seen in her short life.  But to top everything off, Ricky had a pretty amazing treehouse.

Katie never found out who built the treehouse.  It had been there as long as she could remember.  It was pretty high up in the tree, an old rope ladder the only way to get up.  Once inside, they had a view of the forest that seemed to go on for miles.  The cramped space was filled with books and art supplies that kept them busy for hours.  Martha even let them color on its walls.  They covered the inside of that treehouse with doodles and designs, and random splashes of color, as tall as they could reach.

Over time, they filled in that empty space at the top.  Their hands grew steadier, the drawings more concrete.  Once in a while, a math problem showed up whenever they ran out of scrap paper.  Katie knew one day they would grow to be too tall to stand straight up.  Ricky was already getting to the point where he had to hunch over.  It started to amuse her, once she realized they had spent their whole lives there.

In school they sort of ran in separate circles.  Ricky made friends who were other boys, who enjoyed playing King of the Rock and having races.  Katie spent more time with the girls in her class, making clubs and playing make believe.  It seemed like such a natural progression, she didn’t feel like she was missing anyone.  She still saw him on the bus, when he sat next to her.  On Saturdays she still went to his house, where Martha taught them duets on the piano and they played in his treehouse.  On Sundays he came to her house for the sand pit and make believe, usually with a bouquet of hand-picked flowers in his hand for their table.  He was still her best friend.

It was the summer before freshman year that he asked for help in the treehouse.  “I need to get some of the junk out.”

She regarded him with a wary look.  “Our crafts?”

His blue eyes grew wide as he vehemently shook his head.  “Of course not!  Those will stay forever as far as I am concerned.  But there are toys and books up there that I haven’t looked at in years that need to come down.  It will free up some space.”

It had been getting cramped, now that they both were almost full grown.  Whoever built it had children in mind, and not the young adults that they had become.  “I have some free time.  I could come after dinner?”

He laughed, his eyes softening.  “I think this will be a really long process.  Can you stop by tomorrow?”

“Sure!”  As soon as the word was out of her mouth, she realized she had no clue what the plans were, and she did need to double check with her parents.  “At least, I’m pretty sure.  I’ll call you tonight.”

“Okay.  See you soon!”  He hugged her at the point where their properties met, and she nuzzled her face into his shoulder.  Before long they had parted ways, each going into their respective houses.

She headed over the next day, dressed in her cleaning clothes, a black bandana keeping her hair out of her eyes.  She headed straight for the treehouse, the sound of him whistling drawing her nearer.  She yelled to let him know she was there and not to climb down, and started climbing that old rope ladder up to meet him.

Inside she found him surrounded by piles and piles of books.  “What are you doing?”  She teased as she squeezed in next to him.

“I’m trying to separate them by age range.”  The one he held in his hand was Goodnight Moon, a book she didn’t even realize was still up there.  “We’ve never done this, and Mother doesn’t come up here, so there is lots of clutter.”

Looking around she could see he was right.  A doll sat in the corner that she hadn’t touched since she was ten.  And etch-a-sketch on the windowsill still had his sad attempt at a circle.  The bins filled with matchbox cars and baseball cards were old too.  She couldn’t remember the last time she had looked through those.  She pulled the box of cards closer to her and pulled off the cover.  “Can I have these?  My Dad would like them.”

Ricky shrugged.  “Most of them were yours anyway.  I never liked baseball as much as you.”

She muttered out a thanks before scooching toward the door.  But it was once she got there that she realized the problem.  “Uh, Ricky?  I don’t feel comfortable crawling down one handed.”

He didn’t look up as she spoke.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how am I supposed to climb down this ladder with a box in my hands?”

This piqued his attention, and he put the books down and crawled over to her.  “No, you won’t have to.  See this?”  He pointed to a pulley that was hanging below the door, something she had never noticed before.  “Mother and I used it when we filled it the first time.  She filled a box and lifted it, I unloaded it up here.  We can do the same thing to clean it out.”  He pointed to the one large box that was already in the treehouse.  “We can use this to get everything down once we have it all together.

“And one of us can fill boxes on the ground and send the big empty one back up.”  She finished for him, catching on to his plan.  They shared a smile, the connection between them clear, and they both moved to different ends of the treehouse.  Ricky stayed near the books while Katie started looking at the art supplies.  Anything broken or dried out got thrown in a trash bag.  She sorted the crayons, chalk, and markers into separate boxes.  She got rid of paper product warped by water.  And then she just crawled around collecting trash.

Between both of them, it took three days to clean all the stuff they didn’t want any more out.  Martha took loads every day to the dumpster or to donation centers.  With more room, they found themselves enjoying the treehouse again.  Now that they were older, they enjoyed it in a different way.  Ricky became Rick, and started writing short stories.  He would sit up there with his head in his hands, the notebook on the side of him as he worked through writer’s block.  Katie would read through and offer suggestions.  She started bringing her own books up with her to read while he was stuck, sometimes reading out loud to give him ideas.  Maybe it helped, maybe it didn’t.  He let her do it all the same.

The week before starting freshman year, they watched the stars together through the little window.  They sat against the wall, her head on his shoulder, while he pointed out constellations.  He knew what he was talking about, and his confidence gave her a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach.  So she stopped him by lifting her head from his shoulder to look in his eyes.  “Will you bring girls up here on dates?”  His eyebrows scrunched together as he narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out where her question came from.  “Just because this would be, like, the perfect free date.  And I just got this image of you up here with girls, and I don’t want to crawl up here to visit you just to find you kissing someone else.”

He laughed then, shaking his head.  “What?  No.  That’s insane.”

“But it’s not insane!  You have this space up here that is pretty private, your Mom never comes up here, and it would be the perfect place to bring a girl.”

He chuckled, the tiniest shake of his head calming her down.  “No.  It’s insane because I don’t bring anyone up here.”

Her mind went over their fourteen year friendship, as she racked her brain for a name.  “Anyone?”  She asked as she came up empty handed.

“Well.  I don’t anymore.  I tried once.”  Whatever look she had on her face must have amused him, because he laughed.  “Not a girl!  I promise!”  He leaned back against the wall.  “No, not a girl.  It was Dylan Cummings, in second grade.  He came up and wanted to add some drawings to the wall.  I wasn’t watching, he started to draw over your princess.”  Her eyes drifted to the spot on the wall where her large Princess was, dressed in a blue dress, a spiky yellow crown on her head.  “I stopped him, but I told him it was your picture.  He didn’t care, he thought his was cooler.  So I made him get out.”  As he spoke, she resettled against his shoulder.  “I decided this was our place.  No one else needed to come up here.”

At his words, she smiled against his shoulder.  “I like our place.”  They stayed in relative silence for a bit, listening to the crickets.

It was Rick who broke the silence this time, shifting his weight so he could look down on her.  “Did you get your class list yet?”

“No.”  She lied.  She already knew they didn’t have classes together.  They’d been together every year with the exception of seventh grade.  She didn’t like the idea of taking classes separate.  “I think I’ll get it in the office on the first day.”

“What if we don’t have a class together?”  His voice was softer, broken in a way, and it made her heart clench.

“We’ll have lunch.  And weekends.  I’ll still be next door.”

He resettled, his arms crossing over his chest.  “You’re right.  Nothing will change.

But it did change a little bit.  They barely saw each other.  Their classes had separate lunch periods.  Their interests were different.  Rick joined the school newspaper and creative writing club, while Kate took up track and field and model debate.  They didn’t always take the bus home together, sitting side by side.  Sometimes they skipped hanging out on weekends because they had too much homework.  Of course, they were still friendly when they passed each other in the hallway.  But every time he passed, Kate felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  She found herself looking out her window at his treehouse and wondering if he was up there, working on his latest story.

It surprised her the week before school let out for the summer, when he approached her after his lunch period.  “Hey, Kate, I have to tell you something.”

She hugged her books closer and pulled him to the side of the hallway, so he was out of the way.  “Okay.  Shoot.”

She could see him bite the inside of his cheek, and his eyes drifted down to the floor.  “It’s just…”  He fought to get the words out, his feet shuffling as he raised his eyes to meet hers.  “The first day of summer vacation.  Can we maybe do something?  Just the two of us?”

Taking in his body language and awkward question, Kate’s mouth fell open.  “Richard Rogers, are you asking me on a date?”

His head fell again and she couldn’t see his face.  “Something like that, I guess.”

A million thoughts went through her head.  First and foremost being that he was almost like a brother to her, and that was weird.  But she also kept drifting back to the summer before, sitting up in that treehouse with him, resting on him, the jealousy she felt at even the idea of another girl up there with him.  She didn’t want to ruin what they had.  But she couldn’t see herself with anyone else.  “Let’s do it.”

He looked up at her, nodding, but he didn’t seem as excited as she was.  No, instead he looked nervous, his face paler than she’d ever seen it.  “Okay.  Great.  I’ll meet you at your place.”  His shoulders hunched up as he turned, running to his next class.

She didn’t see him again for that last week of school.  He caught rides with some of his friends from the newspaper, she would get picked up by her mother.  In a way, Kate liked that more.  It built the anticipation.

He showed up at her house at four the day of their date.  He was dressed in a nice button down shirt, a bouquet of hand-picked flowers in his hand.  As Kate opened the door, he thrust his hand forward.  “I picked these for your table.”

Kate could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, and she bit back the giant grin that was threatening to make her look like a fool.  “Thank you.”  She responded, taking them from him and leading him to the kitchen.

Her Mom met them in there.  She was preparing dinner, her case files open on the counters as she tried to multi-task.  As if she had eyes in the back of her head, she whirled around as they entered, a grin on her face that made Kate turn red from embarrassment.  “Hello Ricky, it’s so nice to see you again!  What are the plans for tonight?”

“Well, I was thinking of going to Anne’s for some ice cream, then a concert on the common, and maybe some stargazing.”  At the word ‘stargazing,’ Kate’s heart began to flutter as she remembered that night almost a year before.

Johanna just nodded, leaning against the counter.  “And she’ll be home by ten?”

He nodded once.  “Yes ma’am.”

This caused her mother to laugh, her shoulders dropping as she relaxed.  “Please, Ricky, I’ve known you since you were in diapers.  Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’”

“Don’t call me ‘Ricky’ and I’ll drop the ‘ma’am’.”

Johanna reached for his hand and shook it firmly, her jaw set, but a smile creeping into the corners of her mouth.  “Deal.”  She looked at the clock before flicking a towel in their direction.  “Now go!  It’s getting late.  Have fun!”

Kate locked hands with Rick as they ran out of the house.  “Bye, Mom!”  She called over her shoulder.

Anne’s was the best small town ice cream shop in the state.  All the ice cream was made by hand, and they had all the staple toppings.  The stand was small, with plenty of open field space to sit, along with a few tables and a fenced in area for especially buggy nights.  They got theirs to go, choosing to walk with it to the downtown common.

Rick was uncharacteristically quiet.  It made her uncomfortable.  He had trouble meeting her eyes as she spoke, and the rare smiles he gave her held just the tiniest hint of sadness.

She didn't get the chance to ask him about it.  Her words were cut off by the community band, a sweeping start to their opening number, including the trilling piccolos.  This kind of stuff drew him in.  Martha was a music teacher, and his house was almost never silent.  He always knew every song the bands were playing without the aid of a program.  He also had quite a bit of knowledge about musical theater.  It was just one of those quirks about him that Kate had begun to find interesting.

On their walk back to his place, he talked about the final issue of the school newspaper, and what it was like to earn that coveted, and of the year interview with the Principal.  When he began to talk about his creative writing club though, his face out up, more than it had all night.  “Tell me about the story you're working on now.”  Kate requested, hoping it would loosen him up.

It seemed to work.  It was a high school story with a cheating scandal, where friendships were tested and strengthened.  He grew more excited as he told her about the characters, continuing to look behind him to gauge her reactions as they walked through his backyard. “There’s Henry who is kind of like me.  Creative and kind of a slacker, who would rather draw pictures in class than take notes.”

Kate called out to him as he climbed the ladder ahead of her.  “Do you write stories during class?”

He leaned over the edge and smirked down at her as she climbed up.  “I'm gonna plead the fifth on that, counselor.”

When she reached the top, she found him leaning against some pillows, his eyes trained on the sky through the window.  Crawling over to him, she found the spot next to him set up just right so she could squish right into his side and still have plenty of room.  Kate didn’t know anything about what she was looking at.  She could find Orion, but so could everyone else.  She loved doing this with Rick because he could identify more constellations than anyone she knew.  He told their stories with such detail, no book ever did it the same way.  Even Rick never told the same story the same way.  It never felt like they were doing the same thing again.

Today Rick didn’t talk about the constellations.  Instead, he talked about the character in his book that he based off of her.  “Her name is Alison.  Ali for short.  She looks like you.  I picture her looks on your face when I write her.”  His arm tightened around her.  “She and Henry have been friends since kindergarten.  He tells her everything.  She is his rock throughout this whole scandal.  In fact, because she knows he didn’t cheat, she’s been helping to tutor him all along because she’s smart.  She wants to be the first female Chief Justice just like you.”

Kate laughed, pulling her head off his shoulder.  “So basically, you just put me in a book and changed my name?”

His eyes narrowed.  “Is that okay?”

She grinned.  “I think it’s great.  I’m honored to be a part of something so great.”  She watched him as his eyes drifted from her eyes, down to her mouth, and back up again.  Subconsciously, Kate pulled her lips between her teeth, her stomach filling with butterflies as she looked away from him.  He seemed equally as uncomfortable, and switched the conversation to Cassiopeia.  Which then shifted to the valiant rescue of Andromeda by Perseus.

Hearing him describe this rescue brought her back to the days of make believe in the sand pit.  “You used to rescue me from monsters.”

He chuckled.  “Plenty of times you rescued yourself.  You didn’t need my help.”

“Yeah, but the sentiment was nice.”  

They laughed together, and she saw his eyes again drift down to her mouth.  It made her heart pound in her head, and her hands shake, but before long she was leaning forward, her mouth puckered and her eyes closing as she braced for impact.

He spoke before it happened. “I’m moving.”

It felt like the world had stopped.  As she backed away from him, the butterflies in her stomach turned into emptiness.  “Moving?  To where?”

His shoulders slumped.  “New York City.  Mother got a part on Broadway.”

She moved so she wasn’t touching him, her arms dropping to her sides.  A part on Broadway, that was what would take her best friend from her.  It shouldn’t have been a surprise.  Martha went to auditions all the time.  But for fifteen years she had been the town’s elementary school music teacher, and at some point, Kate stopped believing it could happen.  “When?”  It was all she could make sense of.  Her head was screaming a million different questions.

“Two weeks.”

“So this wasn’t a date.  Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to be a date.”  She tried to hide the disdain in her voice, but it crept through anyway.  “You let me think it was.”

“No!  Well, yes, sort of, but no!  I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”  Under different circumstances, she would have laughed at him.  The boy with the ability to string words together to tell stories she couldn’t even dream of was struggling to find them.  “I wanted to tell you in the hall that day.  But in the moment, I realized that this wasn’t news you dropped on your best friend in the middle of the day when we can’t talk about it.  So I wanted to do it while we were alone.”

“On a date?”

“No!  I didn't mean for this to be a date.”  His words cut through her heart, and he must have seen her face crumple, because he started stammering all over again.  “Wait, no, that's not what I meant!  Can you let me explain?”

She scoffed, moving away from the spot he had set up for her, and sitting right under the window, so she could see him better, and get out easier if she needed to.  “You better explain.  Because I'm lost.”

His hands ran through his hair, and his eyes fixated on the sky above her as he planned out what he was trying to say.  “Kate, I've wanted to ask you on a date since the last time we both sat up here together, stargazing.  I was gathering the courage to.”

She watched as he shrunk, his shoulders sinking and his arms wrapping around his knees.  “Why didn’t you?”  She asked, her voice still accusatory.

“You started talking about me bringing other girls up here, like you and I weren’t even an option.  And I started to doubt you saw me the same way I saw you.  So I chickened out.  Then we saw less of each other at school, and we didn’t get together every weekend like we used to.  I didn’t think it was meant to be anymore.”  He scratched the back of his head, and stretched out his muscles.  “But then Mom got that part, and I realized how hard it was going to be, to live in a new place with you so far away.  And I wanted to spend as much time as possible with you.  When you suggested a date, I just went with it.”

She threw her head back until it thumped against the wall.  “Worst first date ever.  You didn’t even let me kiss you!”  She chuckled, looking at him and shaking her head.  “You’ve ruined me for boys for a bit.”

He laughed back, the corners of his mouth just starting to pull upwards.  “I know.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t lie.  Yeah you did.”  He laughed then, and relief washed over her.  The air cleared, she moved back over to her spot next to him.  His arm wrapped around her, and he pulled her into his chest.

After a moment, he spoke.  “We can still be friends, right?  You can come visit me in the city whenever you want, Mother already agreed.  And you can call me whenever.  I’ll send a letter with my new number.”

This statement broke her a little, but she bit back her tears as she answered.  “You’re my best friend.  Always.  You living in a different city won’t change that.”  Even though it pained her that this would be nothing more, even she knew that long distance relationships never worked.  Especially brand new ones.

“Good.  I’m sorry about our date.”

“You would have had to tell me at some point.”  They stayed there for only a few minutes more, until his watch beeped and told her it was time to go home.

The next day, she helped him move all of his things out of the treehouse, and helped box up his room.  She returned almost every day for those two weeks to help.  They never discussed their almost kiss.  They didn’t talk about their failed date with anyone.  He talked about the school he was going to in the city, she discussed joining the Model UN, and they both managed to avoid talking about their feelings.

The day he moved, he gave her a rough draft of his story, the one with the character based on her in it.  He dedicated it to her, and put it in a binder so she could read it as many times as she wanted.  He hugged her tight until it was time to leave.  As he pulled away, Kate felt the ghost of his lips on the top of her head.  She didn’t let the tears fall until the moving truck was out of sight.

[glittership]

Episode #36 — "How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War" by R.B. Lemberg

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      How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War

by R.B. Lemberg

for Bogi Takács

    At the budget committee meeting this morning, the pen in my hand turns into the remote control of a subsonic detonator. It is familiar—heavy, smooth, the metal warm to the touch. The pain of recognition cruises through my fingers and up my arm, engorges my veins with unbearable sweetness. The detonator is gunmetal gray. My finger twitches, poised on the button.

I shake my head, and it is gone. Only it is still here, the taste of blood in my mouth, and underneath it, unnamed acidic bitterness. Around the conference table, the faces of faculty and staff darken in my vision. I see them—aging hippies polished by their long academic careers into a reluctant kind of respectability; accountants neat in bargain-bin clothes for office professionals; the dean, overdressed but defiant in his suit and dark blue tie with a class pin. They’ve traveled, I am sure, and some had protested on the streets back in the day and thought themselves radicals, but there’s none here who would not recoil in horror if I confessed my visions.

    [Full transcript after the cut]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 36 for April 13, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story for you. Today we have a return of R.B. Lemberg, whose story “Stalemate” was published in episode 7. This is the last story for the Winter 2017 issue, and Spring 2017 is right around the corner! We also have a guest reader, Rose Fox, for this episode.

R.B. Lemberg is a queer, bigender immigrant from Eastern Europe and Israel. R.B.’s work has appeared in Lightspeed’s Queers  Destroy Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Unlikely Story, Uncanny, and other venues. Their Birdverse novelette “Grandmother-nai-Leylit’s Cloth of Winds” has been nominated for the Nebula Award, and longlisted for the Hugo Award and the Tiptree Award. R.B.’s debut poetry collection, Marginalia to Stone Bird, is available from Aqueduct Press (2016). R.B. can be found on Twitter as @RB_Lemberg, on Patreon at http://patreon.com/rblemberg, and on http://roselemberg.net.

Rose Fox is a senior reviews editor at Publishers Weekly and the co-editor (with Daniel José Older) of Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History. They also write Story Hospital, a compassionate, practical weekly advice column about writing, and run occasional workshops for blocked and struggling writers. In their copious free time, they write fanfic and queer romance novels. They live in Brooklyn with two partners, three cats, the world’s most adorable baby, and a great many books.

      How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War

by R.B. Lemberg

  for Bogi Takács

  At the budget committee meeting this morning, the pen in my hand turns into the remote control of a subsonic detonator. It is familiar—heavy, smooth, the metal warm to the touch. The pain of recognition cruises through my fingers and up my arm, engorges my veins with unbearable sweetness. The detonator is gunmetal gray. My finger twitches, poised on the button.

I shake my head, and it is gone. Only it is still here, the taste of blood in my mouth, and underneath it, unnamed acidic bitterness. Around the conference table, the faces of faculty and staff darken in my vision. I see them—aging hippies polished by their long academic careers into a reluctant kind of respectability; accountants neat in bargain-bin clothes for office professionals; the dean, overdressed but defiant in his suit and dark blue tie with a class pin. They’ve traveled, I am sure, and some had protested on the streets back in the day and thought themselves radicals, but there’s none here who would not recoil in horror if I confessed my visions.

I do not twitch. I want to run away from the uncomplicated, slightly puffy expressions of those people who’d never faced the battlefield, never felt the ground shake, never screamed tumbling facedown into the dirt. But I have more self-control than to flee. When it comes my time to report, I am steady. I concentrate on the numbers. The numbers have never betrayed me.

  At five PM sharp I am out of the office. The airy old space is supposed to delight, with its tall cased windows and the afternoon sun streaming through the redwoods, but there’s nothing here I want to see. I walk briskly to the Downtown Berkeley BART station, and catch a train to the city. The train rattles underground, all stale air and musty seats. The people studiously look aside, giving each other the safety of not-noticing, bubbles of imaginary emptiness in the crowd. The mild heat of bodies and the artificially illuminated darkness of the tunnel take the edge off.

When I disembark at Montgomery, the sky is already beginning to darken, the edges of pink and orange drawn in by the night. I could have gotten off at Embarcadero, but every time I decide against it—the walk down Market Street towards the ocean gives me a formality of approach which I crave without understanding why.  My good gray jacket protects against the chill coming up from the water. The people on the street—the executives and the baristas, the shoppers and the bankers—all stare past me with unseeing eyes.

They shipped us here, I remember. Damaged goods, just like other states shipped their mentally ill to Berkeley on Greyhound buses: a one-way ticket to nowhere, to a place that is said to be restful and warm in the shadow of the buildings, under the bridges, camouflaged from this life by smells of pot and piss. I am luckier than most. Numbers come easy to me, and I look grave and presentable in my heavy jackets that are not armor. Their long sleeves hide the self-inflicted scars.

I remember little. Slivers. But I still bind my chest and use the pronoun they, and I wear a tight metal bracelet on my left arm. It makes me feel secure, if not safe. It’s only a ploy, this bracelet I have found, a fool’s game at hope. The band is base metal, but without any markings, lights, or familiar pinpricks of the signal. Nothing flows. No way for Tedtemár to call, if ever Tedtemár could come here.

Northern California is where they ship the damaged ones, yes, even interstellars.

  Nights are hard. I go out to the back yard, barren from my attempts at do-it-yourself landscaping. Only the redwood tree remains, and at the very edge, a stray rose bush that blooms each spring in spite of my efforts. I smoke because I need it, to invoke and hold at bay the only full memory left to me: the battlefield, earth ravished by heaving and metal, the screech and whoosh of detonations overhead. In front of me I see the short, broad figure of my commanding officer. Tedtemár turns around. In dreams their visor is lifted, and I see their face laughing with the sounds of explosions around us. Tedtemár’s arms are weapons, white and broad and spewing fire. I cannot hear anything for the wailing, but in dreams, Tedtemár’s lips form my name as the ground heaves.

  I have broken every wall in my house, put my fist through the thinness of them as if they’re nothing. I could have lived closer to work, but in this El Cerrito neighborhood nobody asks any questions, and the backyard is mine to ravage. I break the walls, then half-heartedly repair them over weekends only to break them again. At work I am composed and civil and do not break anything, though it is a struggle. The beautiful old plaster of the office walls goes gritty gray like barracks, and the overhead lights turn into alarms. Under the table I interlace my fingers into bird’s wings, my unit’s recognition sign, as my eyes focus resolutely on spreadsheets. At home I repair the useless walls and apply popcorn texture, then paint the whole thing bog gray in a shade I mix myself. It is too ugly even for my mood, even though I’ve been told that gray is all the rage with interior designers these days.

I put my fist through the first wall before the paint dries.

  Today, there is music on Embarcadero. People in black and colorful clothing whirl around, some skillfully, some with a good-natured clumsiness. Others are there simply to watch. It’s some kind of a celebration, but I have nothing to celebrate and nothing to hope for, except for the music to shriek like a siren. I buy a plate of deep-fried cheese balls and swallow them, taste buds disbelieving the input, eyes disbelieving the revelry even though I know the names of the emotions expressed here. Joy. Pleasure. Anticipation. At the edge of the piers, men cast small nets for crabs to sell to sushi bars, and in the nearby restaurants diners sip wine and shiver surreptitiously with the chill. I went out to dates with women and men and with genderfluid folks, but they have all avoided me after a single meeting. They are afraid to say it to my face, but I can see. Too gloomy. Too intense. Too quiet. Won’t smile or laugh.

There is a person I notice among the revelers. I see them from the back—stooped, aloof. Like me. I don’t know what makes me single them out of the crowd, the shape of the shoulders perhaps. The stranger does not dance, does not move; just stands there. I begin to approach, then veer abruptly away. No sense in bothering a stranger with—with what exactly? Memories?

I cannot remember anything useful.

I wish they’d done a clean job, taken all my memories away so I could start fresh. I wish they’d taken nothing, left my head to rot. I wish they’d shot me. Wish I’d shoot myself, and have no idea why I don’t, what compels me to continue in the conference rooms and in the overly pleasant office and in my now fashionably gray house. Joy or pleasure are words I cannot visualize. But I do want—something. Something.

Wanting itself at least was not taken from me, and numbers still keep me safe. Lucky bastard.

  I see the stranger again at night, standing in the corner of my backyard where the redwood used to be. The person has no face, just an empty black oval filled with explosives. Their white artificial arms form an alphabet of deafening fire around my head.

The next day I see them in the shape of the trees outside my office window, feel their movement in the bubbling of Strawberry Creek when I take an unusual lunch walk. I want, I want, I want, I want. The wanting is a gray bog beast that swallows me awake into the world devoid of noise. The suffocating safe coziness of my present environment rattles me, the planes and angles of the day too soft for comfort. I press the metal of my bracelet, but it is not enough. I cut my arms with a knife and hide the scars old and new under sleeves. I break the walls again and repaint them with leftover bog gray, which I dilute with an even uglier army green.

Over and over again I take the BART to Embarcadero, but the person I seek is not there, not there when it’s nearly empty and when it’s full of stalls for the arts and crafts fair. The person I seek might never have existed, an interplay of shadows over plastered walls. A co-worker calls to introduce me to someone; I cut her off, sick of myself and my well-wishers, always taunting me in my mind. In an hour I repent and reconsider, and later spend an evening of coffee and music with someone kind who speaks fast and does not seem to mind my gloom. Under the table, my fingers lace into bird’s wings.

I remember next to nothing, but I know this: I do not want to go back to the old war. I just want—want—

  I see the person again at Montgomery, in a long corridor leading from the train to the surface. I recognize the stooped shoulders and run forward, but the cry falls dead on my lips.

It is not Tedtemár. Their face, downturned and worn, betrays no shiver of laughter. They smell unwashed and stale and their arms do not end in metal. The person does not move or react, like the others perhaps-of-ours I’ve seen here over the years, and their lips move, saying nothing. I remember the date from the other day, cheery in the face of my silence. But I know I have nothing to lose. So I cough and I ask.

They say nothing.

I turn away to leave, when out of the corner of my eyes I see their fingers interlock to form the wings of a bird.

  Imprudent and invasive for this world, I lay my hand on their shoulder and lead them back underground. I buy them a BART ticket, watch over them as even the resolutely anonymous riders edge away from the smell. I take them to my home in El Cerrito, where broken walls need repair, and where a chipped cup of tea is made to the soundtrack of sirens heard only in my head. The person holds the cup between clenched fists and sips, eyes closed.  I cannot dissuade them when they stand in the corner to sleep, silent and unmoving like an empty battle suit.

At night I dream of Tedtemár crying. Rockets fall out of their eyes to splash against my hands and burst there into seeds. I do not understand. I wake to the stranger huddled to sleep in a corner. Stray moonrays whiten their arms to metal.

In the morning I beg my guest to take sustenance, or a bath, but they do not react. I leave them there for work, where the light again makes mockery of everything. Around my wrist the fake bracelet comes to life, blinking, blinking, blinking in a code I cannot decipher, calling to me in a voice that could not quite be Tedtemár’s. It is only a trick of the light.

  At home I am again improper. The stranger does not protest or recoil when I peel their dirty clothes away, lead them into the bath. They are listless, moving their limbs along with my motions.  The sudsy water covers everything—that which I could safely look at and that which I shouldn’t have seen. I will not switch the pronouns. When names and memories go, these bits of language, translated inadequately into the local vernacular, remain to us. They are slivers, always jagged slivers of us, where lives we lived used to be.

I remember Tedtemár’s hands, dragging me away. The wail of a falling rocket. Their arms around my torso, pressing me back into myself.

I wash my guest’s back. They have a mark above their left shoulder, as if from a once-embedded device. I do not recognize it as my unit’s custom, or as anything.

I wanted so much—I wanted—but all that wanting will not bring the memories back, will not return my life. I do not want it to return, that life that always stings and smarts and smolders at the edge of my consciousness, not enough to hold on to, more than enough to hurt—but there’s an emptiness in me where people have been once, even the ones I don’t remember. Was this stranger a friend? Their arms feel stiff to my touch. For all their fingers interlaced into wings at Montgomery station, since then I had only seen them hold their hands in fists.

Perhaps I’d only imagined the wings.

I wail on my way to work, silent with mouth pressed closed so nobody will notice. In the office I wail, open-mouthed and silent, against the moving shades of redwoods in the window.

  For once I don’t want takeaway or minute-meals. I brew strong black tea, and cook stewed red lentils over rice in a newly purchased pot. I repair the broken walls and watch Tedtemár-who-is-not-quite-Tedtemár as they lean against the doorway, eyes vacant. I take them to sleep in my bed, then perch on the very edge of it, wary and waiting. At night they cry out once, their voice undulating with the sirens in my mind. Hope awakens in me with that sound, but then my guest falls silent again.

An older neighbor comes by in the morning and chats at my guest, not caring that they do not answer—like the date whose name I have forgotten. I don’t know if I’d recognize Tedtemár if I met them here. My guest could be anyone, from my unit or another, or a veteran of an entirely different war shipped to Northern California by people I can’t know, because they always ship us here, from everywhere, and do not tell us why.

Work’s lost all taste and color, what of it there ever was. Even numbers feel numb and bland under my tongue. I make mistakes in my spreadsheets and am reprimanded.

  At night I perch again in bed beside my guest. I hope for a scream, for anything; fall asleep in the silent darkness, crouched uncomfortably with one leg dangling off to the floor.

I wake up with their fist against my arm. Rigid fingers press and withdraw to the frequency of an old alarm code that hovers on the edge of my remembrance. In darkness I can feel their eyes on me, but am afraid to speak, afraid to move. In less than a minute, when the pressing motion ceases and I no longer feel their gaze, I cannot tell if this has been a dream.

  I have taken two vacation days at work. I need the rest, but dread returning home, dread it in all the different ways from before. I have not broken a wall since I brought my guest home.

Once back, I do not find them in any of their usual spots. I think to look out of the kitchen window at last. I see my stranger, Tedtemár, or the person who could be Tedtemár—someone unknown to me, from a different unit, a different culture, a different war. My commanding officer. They are in the back yard, on their knees. There’s a basket by their side, brought perhaps by the neighbor.

For many long minutes I watch them plant crocuses into the ravaged earth of my yard. They are digging with their fists. Their arms, tight and rigid as always, seem to caress this ground into which we’ve been discarded, cast aside when we became too damaged to be needed in the old war. Explosives streak past my eyelids and sink, swallowed by the clumps of the soil around their fists.

I do not know this person. I do not know myself.

This moment is all I can have.

I open the kitchen door, my fingers unwieldy, and step out to join Tedtemár.

  END

  “How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War” was originally published in Lightspeed’s Queers Destroy Science Fiction issue in June 2015.

This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library.

You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, or by leaving reviews on iTunes.

Thanks for listening, and I’ll be back on April 18th with a GlitterShip original and our Spring 2017 issue!

Episode #36 — “How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War” by R.B. Lemberg was originally published on GlitterShip

[ayorkheir-blog]

WANTED PLOTS

Arranged Marriage AU: George & Muse B are forced to be married both being *royalty or just upper class*. If Muse B is female either they eventually become friends or perhaps she is into girls so they’re both simply each others cover. If male then George’s father has agreed to him marrying a male but selects him. Either they don’t like each other and come to or Muse B is in love with someone else, then they become something.

Prince & Prostitute AU: George meets Muse B on the corner, when Muse B solicites him for sex, being a prostitute. George happens to notice that the male has a bruise on his face and tries to help. While Muse B rejects this George gets him to come home with him by agreeing to pay for sex, asking for a whole night. Upon getting him home George simply lets him sleep there much to Muse B’s annoyance. Muse B tries to avoid George but George constantly seeks him out. Muse B can’t help but fall for George, and George feels the same for Muse B. But Muse B is more distant knowing it’ll never work with his way of life, and the fact that he is below George. They simply become friends who flirt at first with George patching up Muse B from previous customers. But eventually they end up having sex, when George is sure Muse B wants it because of him and not for money or any other reason.

The Prince & the Bodyguard/Handler: After an incident at a club in which George has embarrassed his family George is given a handler/bodyguard to watch over him and make sure he doesn’t get into trouble. George flirts with him continually and while the bodyguard/handler tries to avoid being emotionally involved he can’t seem to get George off his mind.

Last Summer: George spend his summer break before senior year in America where he meets Muse B and falls for him only to leave him just before the summer ends despite Muse B pleading with him to stay. Only a month into the school year Muse turns up intent on getting George back.  When George thinks he’s finally gotten rid of Muse B he sees him at the homecoming dance. After confronting him Muse B is still set on getting the kiss he asked for before leaving. George gives him the kiss and more. Muse B refuses to leave only reassured that George wants him. George however is starting to think that Muse B is more set on proving that he’s right than he is about getting him back.

High School AU: George as a Prince is the most popular boy in school as well as the star player on the football ‘soccer team’. Muse B is the new kid in school and a social outcast. The jocks are constantly playing pranks on him and relentlessly bully him but they decide they want to go to a new level of bullying and convince George into tricking Muse B into thinking he likes him. George agrees but things become difficult when George begins to like the other for real. When the homecoming game comes George asks Muse B to wear his jersey something that the people on the team usually have their girlfriends do before a big game. Muse doesn’t understand and George asks him to just think about it. Muse thinks about it a bit more but finally agrees to wear George’s jersey. They eventually go on a date which leads to a nigh of lust between them. Muse B eventually finds out about the prank from one of George’s friends talking about in while he was near by and he talks to George about it but doesn’t let him explain. 

Parent/Teacher AU: George is married to the woman his father has chosen for him and has a child with her. George loves his child and wants to be in involved and is attending parent teach conferences and meets his son/daughters teacher who his son/daughter quite likes and George really likes him too.

Farm Hand AU: Muse B has been a farm hand for George’s father since the day he turned 18. George has a crush on him but Muse B doesn’t see it since he’s not royalty and doesn’t think George likes him.

Finding My Prince (The Bachelor AU):: George comes out as gay and his father accepts it but eventually he wants George to settle down. He forces George into going on television and being a part of a new series called, ‘Finding my Prince’ much like the Bachelor. Muse B’s father forces him into taking part of the show in order to become apart of the royal family. George immediately becomes attracted Muse B both for his looks as well as the fact that he can be totally honest with him. When it comes to picking who stays and which three go George gives Muse B a rose allowing him to stay. Muse B then wonders why George gave him a rose, having been rude to him and George tells him that he’s going to keep him around because Muse B is the only one he’s remotely interested in and tells Muse B that he thinks he’ll eventually fall for him but Muse B doesn’t think so.

Guardian Angel AU: When George is born Muse B is assigned to be his guardian angel. For the couple years of George’s life he acts as nothing but a voice in his head guiding him in the right direction but as George grow older Muse B notices that he resists listening to the voice inside his head as he struggles with his role of a Prince. He allows George to see him and tells him about being his guardian angel. At first George doesn’t believe him and tells his parents who pass Muse B off as just George’s imaginary friend. George eventually finds comfort in Muse B’s presence and considers him his friend. George goes on his first date in high school and has his first kiss. The strong bond between Muse B as an angel and George as his mortal allow Muse B to be able to tell what’s going on during the date which doesn’t help with Muse b getting over the fact that he can’t have George to himself. When George comes back though he tells Muse B that he isn’t sure he liked the kiss and that it didn’t feel right. The pair practice kissing George actually likes kissing Muse B.

The Novelist and the Muse:  George & Muse B went to college together and dated for awhile but eventually it ended in disaster. Years later Muse B has published a book about a young gay prince and aspiring writer and George is asked to present the award for best novel which Muse B is nominated for.

Kidnapped AU: George is kidnapped by Muse B who is working for a company that wants to know about his father. However being that George and his father aren’t that close he doesn’t have much to tell him. George gets close to Muse B as he is lonely, and Muse B who has been raised by the company his whole life is lacking affection and begins to fall for George.

Prince of Hell AU: Muse B is the prince of hell and demon and is search of a new husband so he can take the throne. He spots George at a bar and is infatuated with him and kidnaps him. George rejects staying in hell but Muse B forces him and is somewhat abusive towards George, never hitting him unless George hits him first though. George is lonely and Muse B loves George the best way he understands how. George eventually comes to love Muse B.

Political Animals AU: George has always grown up in the lime light and met TJ Hammond when he was fourteen. The soon became best friends and then more. However when George’s father caught them together he was quick to make it clear to his son that not only would he not be with TJ but that he’d never see him again. Years later George has finally been allowed back to DC and sees his old best friend and lover and while TJ is no longer the sweet innocent boy he was and George isn’t as optimistic, they come back together even though they know they’re just setting themselves up for heartbreak again. They both think the other is the same person they used to be underneath whatever troubles they have, while think they themselves have changed too much for the other to still like them.

The Hunger Games AU:

A: George is Finnick Odair’s younger brother and after Finnick initially refuses to be sold by the capitol, Snow makes sure that George is chosen for the next hunger games. Finnick agrees to be sold but it’s too late, but he does it keep his brother alive in his games with the help of Muse B who won his games and is also being sold. Muse B initially does it to help his friend Finnick, but eventually he falls for George who knows he awaits the same fate as Finnick and Muse B.

B: Basically the same as Katniss and Peeta’s storyline but possibly from different districts.

Medieval AUs:

A: George is a Prince and has an affair with the knight slated to protect him.

B: TWQ - George is the son of Elizabeth Woodville and Edward IV

C: Tudors - George is Henry VIII’s male heir

[spectrogramblog]

The Id of L.A.

“There’s a feeling I get when I look to the West”…those are the first lyrics of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven. When the band would come into town, they would take over two entire floors of the Hyatt Sunset. It was coined, appropriately enough, the “riot house”. Its hallways and suites adorned by groupies and cocaine, sex and parties. What else is new in a town infamous for excess? Was this heaven? Not exactly a celestial kingdom, but, Los Angeles, the City of Angels, has had its share of both luminaries and would be stars among its population.

A continuous renewal and recycle of street corner prophets, backroom political dealmakers, and rock star poets. The city of Jim Morrison, Charles Bukowski, Biddy Thompson, Kenneth Hahn, and even George Lopez. Shamans, poets, politicians, jokers. Their talent and fortitude have created legends. Heroes to some, nuisances to others, these Angelenos personify the City of Los Angeles. Bicultural before the term even existed. These Angelenos have had their feet in the sand, their heads in the clouds, their faces to the wind, their hands in the “masa”. Their hearts are the center of Los Angeles. That center being Hollywood Boulevard, Barney’s Beanery, Olvera Street, or Tommy’s Hamburgers stand all at once. It is both Olvera Street and Pershing Square, and the new Cathedral and L.A. Live. The heart of Los Angeles beats everywhere, it continues to mystify, and remains one of the great cities of the world.

Los Angeles excites the spirit, delights the palate, and bridges the worlds of imagination, illusion, and reality. This wondrous town both fixates and creates. Angelenos, be they real or fiction, have the unique ability of living in three worlds: the dream, the reality, and the in-between. Since the official founding in 1781, Los Angeles, like many great cities of the world: New York, Mexico City, or Tokyo, has, along with its citizens-Angelenos, forged itself this unique identity…the “sad flower in the sand”.

Identity and Los Angeles. The terms and subject matter complement each other so well. Carey McWilliams wrote of Los Angeles as an ethnic and cultural “archipelago”. A city where identity tends to vary from neighborhood to neighborhood. Contrary to places like Mexico City or New York, which seem be virtually identical in their descriptions: subways and metros, overcrowded and rambunctious; Los Angeles and its enclaves do not have such easy identifiers. East L.A can be identified not just by the Chicano/Mexican immigrant culture of tamaleras, lowriders, and homeboys. What comes to mind are second and third generation Eastsiders that are college grads with real estate careers and ties to city politics. The Westside isn’t only falafel stands, liberals and money. We have Venice, Inglewood and Little Osaka on Sawtelle. Even Hollywood’s Walk of Fame doesn’t just tell the story of stardom and tourism. Walk a mile east in any Angeleno’s shoes. You’ll be either in Little Armenia or the Thai/Filipino district. Just a few steps away from any common city artery, the Sunset Boulevards and the Olympics; the real Los Angeles comes to life. One or two block away from these primary arteries of life, we find the blood and the sand.

Immigrants, foreigners, bankers, actors, writers, students, homemakers. Every single one of them-dreamers. They come to Hollywood for the movies, perhaps at a chance to work in television or the film industry. Some come for schooling; others think they will do the educating. One thing is for sure, all we be taught a lesson.

Many also come from Asia or Latin America to reunite with relatives and family. They reestablish and reinvent themselves: get some work as nannies or busboys, and make just enough money to send home every month. Some may even work two full time jobs to make ends meet. Aspiring to save, forging their nest eggs with sweat equity. Households brimming with tias and sobrinos, abuelos y primos. One day, they will have enough to buy a little plot back in their homeland. But then, reality hits. They ARE home now. This is it.

“Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans” (John Lennon). But when did this all occur? Did the smog in the L.A. Skyline dull their senses? If the afternoon sunlight on a recent December day has anything to do with it, time has now moved ahead. It waits for no one. Everyone’s kitchen overlooks a road now. Not many Angelenos yearn for the wondrous, blissful California days of Helen Hunt Jackson’s character, Senora Moreno. Since the earliest migrations of indigenous settlers, from the Tongva settlers near the L.A River, to the Spanish/Mexican missionaries establishing El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles y Porciuncula, up to the modern day, the modern day Angeleno, if not careful, looks out their kitchen window and can only hope to be cognizant of watching time, school, work, and many dreams come and go. Los Angeles, and its denizens, are not as suspended in time as they are captive to the city’s imagination.

Absorbed into the cries of the Santa Ana winds are the tears of Ruben Salazar, the prolific L.A. Times writer, killed by an LAPD tear gas container. Into the night sky, like the gaseous night’s view from Griffith Observatory go the frustrations of Armenian immigrants. They wait to commemorate their homeland’s tragic genocide on the streets of Hollywood, Burbank, and Glendale. And what of the people dying to get here? Where else in the world to customs and port officials, on various occasions, deal with international human trafficking on such a distinct level? From coyotes to cargo bins, from San Pedro to safe houses in El Monte, people feel the need to get here.

Los Angeles, what is the song you cry out? You are a siren dressed in coastal sage. Your phoenix chaparral burns bright among your anointed ones. The faithful, the faithless, the dreamers and the realists. The Tod Hacketts, Arturo Bandinis, Nathanael Wests, and the John Fantes: whose yearnings have been engulfed by the lachrymal Pacific; you sing the echoes of the millions that have cried their way home, to you. Your song is the Santa Ana wind, the foehn winds- howling through the canyons and passes. The Santa Monica Mountains and the Cahuenga corridor abound with the energy of your music. Echoing your own identity, you sing the song of your citizens’ past, present, and future. Los Angeles, the City of Quartz, is the anthropomorphic manifestation of its citizens. Citizens whose goals, wishes, and dreams attained or unattained, come in the form of a Bunker Hill view, a Santa Monica sunset, a carbon monoxide-stained palm tree, or an unfinished oil painting.

Fante’s Arturo Bandini had his dreams. Whether he envisioned himself a great author, the romancing playboy, or the keen observer, Bandini dreamt of his success and merit. Hopeful, not of the accomplishments, but of achieving them in Los Angeles. The reader doesn’t seem to doubt his talent. But his dreams of success, of merit, seem captive to his routine. A routine intrinsically raveled in the DNA of Los Angeles. A double helix of illusion and failure. “I went to the restaurant where I always went to the restaurant…I walked out of the restaurant, stood before an imaginary pitcher, and swatted a home run over the fence.” In this state, Bandini, the somnambulist, was captive to his imagination. The delirium of a child nestled in the bosom of Our Lady of the Angels. The city cradles and nurses its own. Each Angeleno feeds from the trough, suckles on the teat of the mother.”

The mother feeds her children. Hopes and prayers, the jungle leads to “la Calle de la Eternidad”…with thirty foot arms and hands stretched out to the heavens, reaching for the stars, muralist Johanna Poethig and her collaborators strove for the city to reach its people. The dreams of all its migrants, stretching out to their respective places of origin. The mural, on Broadway, not only reaches out sixty feet above, but stretches to the other “streets of eternity” across the globe, transcending time and space. It evokes the observer’s memory that, to be a citizen of Los Angeles-doesn’t imply having to give up one’s original roots. As any transplant or “native” Angeleno. “Where are you from? Oh, I’m from here, but, originally…”

“She had to leave Los Angeles. She found it hard to say goodbye to her own best friend. She bought a clock on Hollywood Boulevard the day she left. It felt sad.” (X-Los Angeles). These lyrics, taken from the title track of the seminal L.A. punk rock band X’s eponymous album, Los Angeles, tells the story of mid-western girl who just can’t handle her life in Los Angeles anymore. “All her toys wore out in black and her boys had too. She started to hate every nigger and Jew. Every Mexican that gave her a lot of shit. Every homosexual and the idle rich.” Can any other song tie together both the love/hate relationship with this city any better? Written more than thirty years ago, the band was young, nihilistic. Now, well into middle age, they perform the song to newer generations of fans. New and old fans alike, the listener can be a native Angeleno, a punk rock fan in Belgium, or anywhere across the globe. The track, Los Angeles, resonates pungently of urgency and regret. Stay or go. Love it or leave it. Regardless of where one stands, living in Los Angeles, the resident becomes a part of the city. You end up loving it. Even when one has to part ways with it.

Why do so many come here? An often asked question. “Why? Because if he or she can make it here, then I can definitely handle this place. I mean, it’s not New York!” Better to just say “the weather” or the “California Blonde” than to open a can of worms. The new transplant under estimates the ego and heart of this city. Travelers come to envy those that are “fortunate” enough to reside in L.A. Yes the smog and sun can get to you. Everything collides and contracts here. Illusion and disillusion meet where Broadway and Calle de la Eternidad become one.

A commercial airplane lands at LAX, upon arrival, the traveler gets in their car, begins their trek into Los Angeles. Once at their destination, the majority always tend to ask the same question…”Am I here yet? Is this L.A?” Almost as if a double take is necessary to confirm one’s bearings? Where is the Hollywood sign? What about Compton, In-N-Out, or Pinks? Where do the movie stars live? All commonplace questions. Run of the mill superficial questions for, what they believe to be, a superficial town. It is never, “When and where was the city founded?” or “take me to Olvera Street”.

In stark contrast, upon departure, the business traveler or vacationer seems to always be in a hurry to leave the city. Not knowing if what they just experienced was truly a visit to Los Angeles or just a tour of the Universal Studios backlot. One thing is certain of the visitor to Los Angeles, be their visit short term or tenured, everyone wants to come back. The question is if the City’s enchantments are what beckon the visitor of if it is the illusion and fabrication of many a celluloid dream, superseding even the imagination of a child, that call one back to Paradise City.

The Angeleno also never fully appreciates the solitude of the Hollywood Hills or the mountains that roll down to the ocean. It is, simply put, a given. Angelenos nod their heads in boisterous confidence that “it is what it is”.

On the contrary, one of the Hollywood Hills’ most creatively accomplished residents was an Angeleno by transplant. Aldous Huxley-the famed British author of “Brave New World” and “The Doors of Perception”, loved Los Angeles. Admiring such idiosyncrasies as its drive-in donut shaped diners, the winding desert roads near Palm Springs, or simply, Los Angeles’ Mediterranean climate-he came to call the City of Angels his home. Once in Los Angeles, much of his creativity flourished, be it due to his new surroundings, experiments with psychotropic hallucinogens, or reading Hindu texts such as the Veda. The Veda’s primary subject mature and theme are, appropriately enough, the belief that the physical world is but an illusion. Welcome to the identity of Los Angeles.

[vasilinaorlova]

hologram and flamingo, superimposed / the self-contained luxury of esoteric fascism

“imagine a man of his age risking what little life he has left for something so absurd as a country.” (Heller)

while the sentiment “Anne Frank might have lived in Brooklyn now and be an 80-y.o. respectable Brooklyn woman, but she was denied the US visa” is very clear to me, the “Brooklyn” part is what makes me question this sentiment

as if it is only Brooklyn–of all the US–that is a suitable place for Anne Frank and the most terrible part, is that it might very well be so. today’s Brooklyn is, evidently, a very Anne-Frank-friendly place. it is easy to be friendly to Anne Frank today. especially in Brooklyn.

carry your inner Brooklyn in your heart indefatigably                                                                                                               [imaginary Brooklyn]

yet the Syrian refugees, denied entry to the US

having green cards on their hands

is a different story

inasmuch as Brooklyn is a friendly place

the positionality of the hypothetical Arab in the modern world is altogether different from the positionality of the hypothetical Jew in the modern world

not to mention that Syrians come in different ethnic backgrounds and national affiliations

different histories different sensibilities to the cultural figures set in motion in mind of the hypothetical Brooklyner it all is horrendous to be sure one could only wonder if there is a little child writer amongst those people stuck in the USA airports

and if it validates everything in a perverse manner

as if we only can be capable of appreciating carefully trimmed writers

attending to European standards of being humans a child already and inevitably enveloped in the political and literary contexts, the discourses and their perpetuators and perpetrators, performing multiple political and cultural and plainly human violations another curse in haste sent into the useless, irresponsive sky.                        finally I feel like home in the US. well done, mr president “illegal immigration” is not a target of Trump, as became crystal clear by airport detention of green-card holders. green cards=>their status in the US was legal. the target is people(s) of “wrong” races. I hope I will be deported or denied entrance to the US one day. to be sure, it’ll be a drama for me and my family. yet such is the sacred duty of every honest noncitizen as revealed today. history is coined today                             said my imaginary Marx                                                                             looking like philosopher                                                   Daniel Dennett                                                                                      too, in the sheen of his rarefied beard*                                                                                                phallogocentrism, said Derrida (what did he know--almighty phallus precludes these beings from knowing anything( as facebook reached the definitive completion of becoming a police machine--with border patrol checking facebook accounts for undesirable political messages--let’s remember this day there was a lot of speculations and evidence as to how facebook controls and polices citizens. and it'd be naive for the state apparatus--unimaginably naive--not to. were you a state representative, would you refuse to use such an endless source of most intimate information? of course not! yet this

is taking it to a new level

“it’s official”

“it’s a boy” “it’s a beast” what do I do? the answer is of course not to abandon social media and nook into a corner but to use platforms for more open and straightforward political commentary between silence and speaking out time and again one chooses speaking out not because it makes so much of a difference but because thus one earns self-respect loyalty to oneself                even though I often find myself sadly devoid of the pleasure of aligning with American elites, whether they are the establishment or the opposition. particularly in this dreadful time when everyone starts speaking in slogans. the very mechanisms enabling free speech and exchange of ideas, are simultaneously the mechanisms of controlling with lots of fear devices embedded that promulgate self-censure or cautionary gestures such as “friends only” settings. and why? well, it is because if you were to express yourself freely without reservation, you should first resign from all the positions you are currently holding–at least,that is what people believe; and who could tell them that they are wrong? not everyone is capable of becoming either a homeless body or a mini Žižek (some would argue, those two figures are in some sense synonymous, but they are not: the first figure is the figure of the radical renunciation of societal etiquette, and the second is performative of radical renunciation, in which absolute conformance is deftly packaged). Trudeau looked great on the backdrop of mumblers consisting of the Western politicians of all ranges. a new Western masculinity of sorts: kind and soft, still performatively masculine. in this sense, Trudeau is very much like a naked-torsoed Putin, a statue of Putin. the next Canadian Prime Minister would be a loyal Trumpist, because Trudeau has such a beautiful chest and wide shoulders--he should have looked less of a politician in all the maleness of this role. another spectacle to watch would be, a quick drift to the right of the Democratic party. half a year, and you would not tell the tomorrow’s democrat from the yesterday’s republican. “conservatives,” in their turn, would evolve into something which eats werewolves in the full moon. I told my husband six years ago that the revoking of the birthright citizenship would happen on our memory. one could never err predicting the worst.

back to being an unrelenting misandrist, I guess

even the best among men are still men, and thus deserve contempt.

“yes, I am a hatred-spewing feminist,” she said and turned into a dragon vomiting fire.

the main concern is to not wake up, come to the mirror, and see a face of the fascist in there                                                 one day

“There are many who do not know they are fascists but will find it out when the time comes” - Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls (thanks to Liz Lewis for the reminder)

to take a refuge in madness seems to be an appealing option these days

only it, like any other eccentricity, is a luxury for a dispossessed, displaced human being, madness means a series of terrors enacted upon them, and then the quick, violent death--and I, not being such a dispossessed individual, will merely spend several months taking the vertiginous drugs after a short incarceration in a pristine laboratory-like clinic. yes, I am the same self-centered, narcissistic fascist. I am the heartless sadist, a servants to the esoteric ideas of my own superiority. that’s why Trump is crystal clear to me, and, the whim he is, it is merely a historical whim also that I cannot praise and laud the vulgar fascism that he propagates. with the methodicalness and accuracy that befitted fascists (something close to this W.G. Sebald once said, I cannot find the exact quote, said with a cold, lingering surprise--the writer whose oeuvres are one vibrating (vibrant and reverberating) lament and repentance over the crime of the Nazis, the lament never expressed directly and straightforwardly, but gently, in all sorts of circuitous ways, allegorically, if you will, yet that surprise of his pierced me as my own icy surprise: it could hardly contain admiration “Every woman adores a Fascist” (Sylvia Plath)

                                                      no

Everyone adores a fascist                                               yet of course                                                 oh of course                                                   everyone is repulsed by a fascist,                                                       you would want to say, yet                                                         a month ago I did not read objections                                                            to suggestions that Hitler was a                                                                brilliant politicians, and no one                                                                  questioned--among those who                                                                      consider themselves sane--                                                                          or asked on Quora,** if                                                                                Hitler really was that                                                                                       bad                                                                                          surely bad but                                                                                                 not that                                                                                                          bad

that’s because things change quickly. and I am the worst fascist (well, I am a femi-Nazi after all), who is ascribing the name of fascists to anyone who is regretfully male or - - - (the continuation is not important). _______________________________________ *Daniel Dennett’s treatise “Darwin’s Dangerous Idea” I read after I was lucky to meet Dennett in person at the Philosophy department of the Lomonosov Moscow State University where he first gave a lecture and then was greeted at our division (of the History of the Western Philosophy). He was there in all the shine of his white beard.His crisp ideas are generally well-known. In his ardent atheism, Daniel Dennett goes as far as to use a metaphor of humans being robots of sorts, while the true subjects of evolution are genes. Being a consistent evolutionist, the philosopher nevertheless uses the expression “Mother Nature,” which shows, despite the intended irony, how difficult it is to change the language practice (linguistic ideology) even when one tries to repudiate ideas behind said practice. Dennett very well might be a deist after all. I perceived him as a part of that front of atheism which includes Richard Dawkins. Admittedly, new atheists “can’t be sure that god doesn’t exist.” It is evidently as difficult to be a consecutive atheist as it is difficult to be a theist in our times. And why? Because the very nature of “God” (as a term) is a linguistic fallacy. Another reason of why everyone is merely lukewarm, is that humanity inhabits the post-human era. Human is at least two centuries outdated, and there is no one coming to take on their place. **On the February 9th, 2017, the website functioning as opening space for questions and answers, Quora, “collapsed” (made invisible) my answer to the question formulated as follows: “Is the story about Hitler and the piano wire hangings a myth? I'm aware these hanging occurred but I've read that Hitler asked that the hangings be recorded for viewing. This seems to clash with what I've read about Hitler and his tendencies to witness atrocities authorized by him; that Hitler had a very weak stomach for actually wanting to see brutality.” My answer was: “No, Hitler was a nice weak-stomached kitten, everything too harsh that is said of him is but propaganda. I hope I answered this question in the mood of the times and can be a Standartenfürer of tomorrow.” (To clarify, it is a historic fact that Hitler watched the executions conducted through hanging, on video. Plenty of sources there are to support this. But for the shift of the linguistic framing the actual fact is not important. It suffices to say that the repetitive expression of the disbelieving doubt--no matter how irrational such doubt is, after everything that had been conducted under the orders of Hitler--is enough to signal the change in the atmosphere, the change difficult to catch, and these doubts--well-meaning and seeking the historical truth, ostensibly, doubts coming from the good Samaritans--will reoccur time and again, until they will reach their halt, which is also their climax. And the notched wheel will skip a bit: the perception of historical figure will shift undeniably. Intelligent people will ask: but what proofs do you have? Just as my friend, a literary critic and a writer, asked me once: “But what proofs do you, you yourself, have?” when we spoke about Stalin and his atrocities. And I did have plenty. But this is not the beginning of the conversation. This is the end of it. After this type of question, no amount of proofs could possibly doubt the doubt. Cogito ergo sum? No. Cogito ergo non cogito. He did not express doubt--he stood for the new order, in which Stalin was the great leader of the great country. His cogito was non cogito, for non cogito ergo sum in such a world’s (re)ordering.)