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badly-drawn-piplup · 8 years ago

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An Overabundance of Katherines Chapter Sixteen

I shook my head. Whatever came over Mat, other me, and I (which I guess would be me?) passed. I was free as a bird who just happened to be named Kat. Kat the bird...that had a nice ring to it. I would have to think about using that name the next chance I get.

″WHY DOES THIS HOSPITAL HAVE A CONCERT FLOOR?″ Mat screamed. He must have figured it was the only thing he could do. He was brave. Braver than I. My heart went chika-chika-boom-boom with every step I took forward. I knew that there were zombies close behind us. Perhaps even close in front of us. I looked around for good measure. No zombies on either side. We might have been fine!

″That is a good question,″ other me jotted down verbally, looking at the floor in want of a pencil and paper. ″You would think a hospital's funds would be better allocated toward medical treatment and not a stage for loud music to be played.″

″Yeah, well that would require logic on our part, something that Katherines clearly lack,″ Mat pointed out. I was about to slap Mat for such a comment when Mat added ″well, I guess I am half-illogical, being half-Katherine and all.″

I smiled. Mat was finally realizing his self-worth.

″So, what's the plan, o great Kat?″ Asked the other me, who was beginning to realize my self-worth after only noticing her own beforehand.

I stole her glasses and lab coat for a bit and explained.

″I watched the end of Grease the other night.″ After the air was clear, I placed her glasses back on her face and gave her a passionate kiss for no discernible reason.

So that just happened. I kissed myself. Well, I didn't kiss anything. I was kissed by myself. I would have been more uncomfortable, but I was a little overjoyed once I pieced together what Kat's plan was.

″Why do I have to be Sandra Dee?″ Mat complained, being ever so stubborn. It's not like he had any right to complain. We were getting dressed behind the stage and zombies could show up and peep on us at any moment.

″Because it's a well known fact that I'm a greaser, and thus, must be John Travolta,″ I casually explained even though I shouldn't have bothered because who goes out of their way to explain something so painfully obvious?

″I concur,″ concurred other me. It was only two words, but it meant exactly what it was meant to mean.

″I don't know what concur means, but I'm glad you agree with me,″ I reassured myself until I could hear the other me sigh with such force that the only conclusion to be made was that it was a sigh of approval. All was going according to plan.

ALL WAS NOT GOING ACCORDING TO PLAN. STOP LISTENING TO SUCH A FOOL. IF YOU THINK WE WERE SAFE YOU ARE SORELY MISTAKEN. KAT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A SMIDGE OF A PLAN. DO YOU KNOW WHAT A SMIDGE IS? DO YOU? DO YOU?

I cleared my throat as I prepared for the role of Sandra Dee. Inhale, exhale. I was nowhere near a good singer, but I knew I could get one thing out.

″HOW IN THE FUDGE IS SINGING A SONG GOING TO STOP A ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE?″ I screamed at the top of my lungs, and if I was lucky, at the top of the neighboring girls and zombies' lungs as well.

The Kat from an alternate universe paced around with her index finger on her index chin. She jotted some things down on Kat's notebook, the Kat I was more familiar with, for better or for worse. Then she looked up and spoke, still pacing.

″You see, a song from Grease was what triggered the zombie response in Katherines. So it would only make sense that a song from Grease would undo the zombification and return everyone to normal.″

My mouth was agape. My costume was agape. My hair was agape. The grapes on a neighboring table were also, in fact, agape.

″That makes...no sense.″

″Maybe not to you, but to a Katherinologist, it's the most logical conclusion.″

″Since when are there Katerinologists?″ What world am I living in? Why do I bother questioning things?

″Never mind that. We need to set up the speakers so the zombies can hear us.″

I didn't help the two Kats set up the speakers. I wanted to, but my mind started drifting to me. It felt like a part of me was missing. Particularly, me from an alternate universe. And by part, I mean, several parts that have been devoured by zombies all named Katherine. It just wasn't right. But when life gives you Katherines...

While Mat over there was likely busy emoting, which I totally don't judge him for, but it's really unfair that we're doing all the work while he just stands there, myself and I were busy setting up speakers for the show.

″You think this will work, Kat?″ Me asked me.

″Yeah, I think it will,″ I replied to myself.

″But why this song in particular? I know a song is what turned the Katherines into zombies in the first place, but wouldn't a different song be more fitting?″ I was asked by me.

″Trust me on this one. I would say why, but then the zombies might hear us and devise a counterplan. We can't have that.″

″But the zombies will hear us when the song starts, right?″

″Duh. If we perform and no one's around to see or hear it, did it really happen?″

Damn, I'm so deep sometimes.

Everything was all ready to go except for one thing: there were no zombies to watch us perform. It should have struck me as odd sooner that we had been safe up to that point, but it never quite clicked: the zombies didn't think to look for us on the 20th floor because they were all on the 18th floor and there was no 19th floor. There never was a 19th floor. Why wasn't there a 19th floor?

Sorry.

I digress. The me from this world, who was calling herself ″Kat the Bird″ for no discernible reason, realized the mistake as well, and rectified it.

She grabbed a large tapestry, one that could potentially lead to many parallel universes, but couldn't really.

She grabbed a marker. But not just any marker. One that didn't bleed through the other side of the tapestry and was very soft to the touch when you pressed it down on the paper. She had me write with the marker even though she was the one who grabbed it and not me. She, being the Kat with the plan, told me what to write.

Me, not she, but I am she, too, placed the banner on the ceiling. It read:

ALL YOU CAN EAT BRAINS

on the

20TH FLOOR

Ingenious. Truly ingenious. Within seconds, droves of zombies flooded the venue. There were murmurs amongst the zombies. I could hear things like ″I heard there would be brains,″ and ″all you can eat, too.″

Kat, the one that you all know and love (that's not me), stepped up to the stage from behind the curtains and coughed into the mic, likely to check to see if it was turned on. It was. The zombies were frothing at the teeth just from the sound of a cough.

″I GOT CHILLS, THEY'RE MULTIPLYING,″ Kat screeched as if someone had stepped on her right foot and then stepped on her left for good measure. It was like dropping a box of nails in the middle of a board meeting.

I was standing on the rafters, my work being done. I couldn't quite leave this world just yet, though. Not when I had to make sure this concert went off without a hitch.

″AND I'M LOSING CONTRO-OI-L,″ Kat tried spitting out, having trouble with her enunciation. Singing wasn't exactly my strong suit, but luckily for us all, the zombies were tone deaf.

″'CAUSE THE POWER YOU'RE SUPPLYIN',″ she continued, though clearly running out of breath. I tried messing with the fuse box so that the sound could be amplified further, but accidentally caused a spark which knocked me off the ladder and I ended up falling on the singing Kat, which cushioned my fall about 25%.

″IT'S ELECTRIFYING!″ She screamed and collapsed to the floor. Luckily for us both, Mat stepped up, doing the best Sandra Dee ever.

″YOU BETTER SHAPE UP!″ He instructed us both and we scrambled to our feet.

″'CAUSE I NEED A MAN!″ He commanded and pointed to the audience. Amongst all the zombies was a zombified Mat from my own universe. My universe's Mat was in pretty bad shape but upon hearing that line of lyric made an instant recovery, limbs and all, and jumped onto the stage, becoming the Mat I and the rest of my town knows and loves.

″AND MY HEART IS SET ON YOU!″ Mat as Sandra Dee took Mat as...Mat by the hand and the two started dancing. ″YOU BETTER SHAPE UP! YOU BETTER UNDERSTAND!″ Mat continued, outshining Kat in the singing department. We all shaped up and started dancing. The zombies in the audience started dancing. We were all dancing. It was a good time.

But then, standing in plain sight was a scientist bruised and covered in blood, who threw a discus and knocked the lights out.

″TO MY HEART I MUST BE TRUE!″ The scientist cackled. We didn't even have to see who it was. We all knew: Dr. Frenchie.

We scrambled around the stage, trying to avoid this discus that seemed to have a mind of its own. I noticed something. It wasn't a discus. It was a wheel. Also, it made a moaning sound. That's when I noticed: it was powered by zombie Katherines. It was a Katherine wheel.

Dr. Frenchie jumped onto the stage and held the Katherine wheel with a firm and astute grip.

″NOTHIN' LEFT, NOTHIN' LEFT FOR ME TO DO!″ Dr. Frenchie declared and before we knew it, the surviving scientists showed up, ready to kill us along with the army of zombies who were previously dancing. Also we had to deal with the Katherine wheel, lest we forget.

″YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I WANT!″ The Flashbulb members chanted, ganging up on us.

″OO-OO-OOO,″ chimed in the zombies. I rolled my eyes. We really didn't need their input.

Still, we weren't about to give up the fight, so Mat, Mat, Kat, and I (also Kat), snapped our fingers.

″HONEY, THE ONE THAT I WANT!″ We stepped forward with poise in our eyes.

″OO-OO-OOO,″ the zombies added, this time getting more in the groove and adding ″you are the one that I want″ every so often for added effect.

I looked over to myself, to which I looked at me. We gave each other a determined smile and knew that we had to keep this song up. For the sake of Katherinekind.

#an overabundance of katherines #overabundance of katherines #katherine #katherines #too many katherines #grease #zombies #john travolta #olivia newton john #musical #writing #epwrites #stories #yes this is not an april fools joke #this is the real chapter sixteen #of the real overabundance of katherines #by jahn gren #fishinboatproceeds

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the-weeping-fox · 5 years ago

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you save yourself.

I'll save myself this time around.

i had a feeling id hear from you on my birthday.

i thought id get a call or text though. so not winning big on that bet.

it still shakes me pretty bad.

i wonder if you knew how obsessed I was with you.

i know you have an idea, but i don't think you'll ever really know.

nothing scary. just... an overabundance of love and affection. you were my air. i wanted to breathe you in.

thought I smelled you for a second the other day when I was cleaning out my room.

its hard. I miss my best friend. I miss the love of my life.

heard your sister got engaged. bout time.

i wonder... if things never went sideways with us.. would we be married now? im sure we would've come around.

but i think thats a silly thought.. i think we were always sideways. even in the beginning. fighting and begging you to date me. christ.

hard memories and harder feelings.

lots of things have been happening to me and for me. things I wish you could share in. places I see your shadow.

waiting to schedule therapy till after my move. been processing alone. its hard. even with people who care. im trying to let go of the anger.

im really angry you hurt me. no matter how you slice it, you put me through some really awful things.

I would tell you that I had a theory that as someone got older, they would learn how to feel another Feeling simultaneously. Like, if you were 30, you could potentially feel 30 Feelings at once. Maybe some overlapping, maybe some individual.

I say this, because I feel like this is how my feelings towards you are built. I have this structure of Love and Friendship that we originally built, through fun sex and taking care of each other. But then these other really horrible feelings of Betrayal and Angry due to.. everything that happened.

I just... i was your sweet boy and you lied and hurt me. Ill never understand. I feel like a kicked Kitten. I try and put logic to it, but it just hurts me more.. trying to make sense of it. trying to put your shoes on and see it from your eyes... hurts. i don't know if ill ever understand how you could it and live with yourself.

i had some part in all of it too. i don't want to spend my life as a victim. i put so much love and faith into you. and the one thing I needed... you couldn't do.

i remember you telling me.. that sometimes I needed to just sit down and say, "you'll be okay. I love you. we'll figure it out and be okay." and that's what I needed. i was so lost in my own sadness and anger that I couldn't tell you I needed it.. but that was it. i needed to see your heart again.

anyways. i don't really want to harp on old shit. i do it 24/7 in my own head as it is.

you deleted your tumblr. never ceases to make my heart ache. but you reached out on my birthday. its.. a strange and potentially painful move. you know your number isn't blocked. so there's still a distance you want to keep. I've come to my own conclusion that it was a Bait. I responded on my old Tumblr... but after spending days pouring over the hint of a response.. i realized how gross that was and is.

I hard-loved you. I loved you with a ferocity I have never shared for anyone else. you were my one and only. I wanted to drink you in. I've had a painful time quitting you. I watched our videos... a lot. I wish i had made 1,000 more. I think i gave up trusting you somewhere along the road.

but... dangling that message.. that "but..." was... awful. I dont know if it was an open invitation to contact you or.. what. but it was.. it sucked. I would have rather had a phonecall or text or something. i don't know. I guess tumblr was the only place we could actually communicate, so maybe this was the best avenue.

I miss you. A lot. All this time and silence gives a lot of perspective. I miss your voice. i miss your smell. I miss your body. I miss your snores.

But another point of perspective is that you gave up our life. You sold that house. You got a new place that you wouldn't reveal the address to. You got new friends. You were walking away from me and us for a long time.

I get why. You spent a lot of time as the quiet girlfriend, waiting for me to tell you what I needed. but read that last sentence aloud. I was hurt. I was damaged. I wasn't going to ever be able to tell you what I needed. I needed your heart to call out to me, and it was the one thing you wouldn't do.

I hope Mittens is doing well. I cry when I think about her not being in my life. I hope I get to see her again before.. well. before anything happens to anyone.

Anyways. after I left my response to your Tumblr message... i... stopped checking it. You might have even responded. I won't know though. I probably won't know until our anniversary. I'll be there, by the way. Ill be in the spot where we figured it all out the first time. Probably get lunch and spend the day in that parking lot. I know you're not the emotional type like that, haha. Id be shocked. floored probably. might even hear me actually gasp.

...

I wouldve been a really good quarantine boyfriend. I really wonder what you think of me. what you honestly think. I mean.. it has to mean something that you left a message for me. Maybe you can't get our memories out of your head either. Im sorry if you thought I might have been trying to use you for sex or something near the end there. I wonder if that's how I came off. It wasn't how I meant to. Sex was just.. a really straight forward expression of our love and.. always felt safe and good with you. Ive had a lot of trouble trying to make that connection with anyone else. They aren't you and... i need to figure that out.

Things with Kat never came to fruition. she didnt really liked that i was too fucked up over you, haha. that would probably make your evil little heart jump. You beat Katherine in my mind. Maybe that can put how I feel about you in perspective.

I also wonder about letting you know about this blog? Maybe. Maybe as an anniversary present. But I cant imagine you want anything to do with me anymore. I really tried to salt the Earth when you left. I could feel how addicted I was to you. I had to for my own good. I wasn't strong enough to quit you.

shit. i still don't think I am. I dont even know if ill be able to move on. I dont want to. I miss you. I want to try and use my angry to curve that feeling, but love is stronger than hate. it always wins out.

so I guess I'll just keep pretending that you had my kid in some alternate universe and cry to my new friends about how some blonde girl shattered my heart.

I hope... youre okay. I think i mean that. its hard in here.

#breakup #secret blog #pennyveronica #Spotify

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thestraggletag · 6 years ago

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Human Nature, Part One

AN: Happy Birthday to me! Here’s a fic I wrote to commemorate the day. Part two needs editing but will be along shortly. Enjoy!

Also can someone please write a better summary? This is an honest request. It can be my birthday present.

Rating: R

Summary: Warm Bodies AU. After the zombie apocalypse is averted it’s up to Belle French to rehabilitate a mostly-dead Mr Gold, against advice of the experts and the wishes of the entire town. As she struggles to fan the spark of humanity back into Mr Gold she fails to notice something else kindling between them.

It took months to get back to Storybrooke after the beginning of what was known as "the treatment" by which most of who'd been affected by the zombie-like virus slowly regained their humanity. It was slow-going, the process done with an overabundance of caution that nobody begrudged, taking into account what the years before had been like. The outbreak had lasted a little under five years, but it had seemed like months, and so much had changed in that time that life before seemed like a distant memory. The idea of just picking up where everyone left off was an impossible fantasy.

When Brisbane had been hit Belle, who'd been visiting relatives at the time, had been lucky enough to get evacuated to Hamilton Island, where the only undead she'd been close to where relatives of locals, who could not bear to put them down and so kept them locked away in the basement of the local pet shelter. Once word of the treatment reached them most of them had been successfully rehabilitated, and soon after that she'd made her way back to the mainland, to be of help where she could and find out news about her family and friends.

She'd first heard news of Storybrooke from Ruby, when internet access was restored. The town had taken a hit, like most, but efforts were underway to rehabilitate as many people as possible. She cried with her friend when she called her to tell her Granny had called her by her name. Speech was a big step in the treatment, and it was then that they both knew that Mrs Lucas was going to make it.

She had to wait a long time for flights to be restored, and by then things were mostly under control. She'd heard from Ruby and others that Storybrooke was a sort of success story unlike any other, with all services restored, schools open and a rehabilitation rate that defied expectations, and a lot of it was attributed to the iron will of Madam Mayor and the security efforts of the Town Sheriff. Quite the formidable power couple, according to Ruby. She thought their love story surrounding their shared son was very cute, as far as apocalyptic tales went.

And though she had thought at first that Ruby's boundless optimism in the face of Granny's recovery was prompting her to paint a rather misleading picture of how things were back home when she finally made it back to town she had to admit it looked as good as she'd described. There were some signs of destruction, some roadblocks that were still only half-cleared and half the buildings seemed to be in the process of repair but there was an air of orderly normality that she hadn't seen in other places. Ruby had been there to pick her up from the bus stop, squealing and hugging her for the longest time before commenting on her silver-streaked hair, telling her she loved it.

"You can totally get hair dye, the pharmacy is up and running again- no idea how Mayor Mills did it but it's almost completely restocked, she must have made some interesting calls to well-connected people- but I kinda dig the look. Goes with your more angular features."

It was a nice spin on things, as if her thinner body and grey hair were audacious fashion choices and not the product of hunger and stress. The upbeat attitude was decidedly contagious, specially once she saw that her beloved library was mostly undamaged. Boarded up still, and a little worse for wear on the outside, but the inside was just as she had left it. She commented on it to Granny as the woman forced a second helping of pie on her. For someone who had undergone the treatment she didn't really look it, with the exception of a slight stiffness to her movements.

"I'm glad the town council moved so quickly to board it up."

"They had nothing to do with it. It was Gold and his crew, mainly that huge mammoth of a man that worked for him, Dove. Did it by themselves, with the help of Marco."

Though Granny's tone was as gruff and as acid as it always was when she talked of the pawnbroker Belle felt a pleasant warmth bloom in her. She'd always had a soft spot for the Scotsman, something she knew was a bit of an unpopular opinion in Storybrooke. He had always had a smile and a polite comment or two for her whenever she saw her, was a staunch ally of the library in town council meetings and was keen on chatting about a book when he returned it, which he always did in person. Once or twice they’d sat together when Granny’s was too full and his was the only table with spare seats. People had warned her after the first time they’d shared a cup of tea in public that she was better off staying as far away from possible from him, but she had refused to comply, specially when she caught the bias in a lot of the stories, like the one Ashley Boyd spun, about Mr Gold cruelly charging interest for the rent of a meager little flat after having been “a little bit late” on the rent. She was never specific about how late till Belle asked, and she reluctantly admitted it was over two months, even past the grace period contemplated on the rental agreement.

“Still, who threatens to evict a young couple with a newborn baby and nowhere to go?”

Ashley was also always careful not to mention her father-in-law, well-off and with more than enough room in his house to host his only son and his wife for a lengthy period of time. Belle could see how her tale of woe lost a little of the dramatic edge with the addition of those pesky details. So she had carried on being friendly with the pawnbroker, even if it made people look at her funny and sometimes whisper behind her back. Just one of the many things that made her strange in the little town, along with her accent and habit of reading in the strangest of moments and places. She hadn’t cared.

“That was so kind of him. I must go over to his house and thank him.”

She hadn’t seen the Scotsman around since her return, but she’d assumed he was busy either with repairs to his home or perhaps the shop, or even trying to restore order to his many properties. He was a fastidious landlord and considering his nature she imagined he’d be one of those people eager to set the world to rights, to restore order.

“You haven’t told her?”

Granny looked at Ruby reproachfully, though she tried to shrug it off. The old woman sighed, not-quite managing to roll her eyes.

“He was amongst the people infected during a breach a couple of years ago. We’ve been told he’s in treatment, but not responding well. It doesn’t quite work on everyone, as you know.”

It felt impossible, at first. Mr Gold was such a vital part of Storybrooke that it made no sense for the town to be still standing without him. He was also so strong, despite his short stature and his reliance on a cane to walk, that it made no sense to think that even the outbreak could’ve gotten to him. He was the sort of man she would expect to survive the apocalypse, if not thrive in it.

It wasn’t until a couple of days later, when she overheard Katherine Knight talk about “visiting Freddie” that she gave more thought about Mr Gold’s situation. Frederick Knight, Katherine’s husband, was amongst the people still being treated and it had not occurred to her that visits to those infected were not only possible, but desirable. It was human contact, after all, the key to guide those afflicted back to their humanity. Contact and communication with loved ones, with people near and dear, was even better, capable of speeding up the process. And she was sure that, though not close, Mr Gold had considered her a friend. She certainly knew him enough to be of help, and she couldn’t imagine people would much object to her taking him off their hands for a couple of hours a day.

It was with a sinking heart that she learned that, though the treatment of the infected was officially managed by the local hospital, the actual efforts were overseen by Mother Superior and her gaggle of nuns, all of which had survived the apocalyptic events. They had done so mostly because the good Mother had ordered the convent’s doors to be bolted at the first sign of trouble. The sisters had spent the entire apocalypse safe behind the tall walls of the convent, living off the produce from the gardens and closing their ears to the pleas for help from outside.

It was no wonder Mother Superior had decided to offer the services of her little lambs when hands were needed to treat the infected once it was discovered this could be done. It was a way to change the narrative, to erase whatever ill-feelings there remained in town regarding the nuns. It was also a way to position herself in a place of power and relevance, one she relished with little subtlety, it seemed to her. She was practically goading when she turned Belle away, telling her Mr Gold was unfit to receive visits of any kind, and that she could give her no further information.

The rumours she heard were not encouraging. People whispered about Mr Gold lashing out against anybody that dared approach him, about him savagely attacking orderlies and snapping out of restraints with a brute force surprising even in an infected. Too violent to be cured, people said, a beast on the outside as he’d always been on the inside. So thin and haggard, in such a state of rot, that he was practically a boney. The town seemed quite content to do nothing about it, so she decided in the end to take the matter to the mayor. Regina Mills was the closest thing Mr Gold had to family. They’d known each other since she was a baby- there were some unsavoury stories about the pawnbroker and Regina’s mother, but nothing anyone could corroborate- and though they usually bickered they seemed to have a certain respect and fondness for each other, at least from what she’d been able to see.

To her credit Regina did seem to share her concerns regarding Mr Gold- Hell, even Sheriff Swan, not his biggest fan, seemed sympathetic- but didn’t think much could be done about it.

“I wish I could tell you Mother Superior or the orderlies at the hospital were exaggerating, Miss French, but I’ve been to see Mr Gold. Even restrained he was quite violent, and my presence seemed to agitate him more than help him. I believe everything that could be done for him is being done. He’s simply… not responding as he should. I am told it happens.”

She seemed to be honestly contrite, which gave her the opening she needed to convince her to demand the hospital let her visit. It took a while, and some back and forth, but she was finally given permission, though begrudgingly, by Dr Whale and Mother Superior. She was full of cautious optimism that morning, joining Mary Margaret Nolan in the hospital entrance lobby to wait for visiting hours to start, listening intently as the schoolteacher told her that she was hopeful her husband would be released soon, given his progress.

Her enthusiasm waned somewhat when Mary Margaret was ushered along a brightly-lit corridor and she in turn was escorted to a key-coded door that led to the basement, and taken down a flight of stairs into a dark hall, where a clearly-recovering orderly was mopping the floors. She was told to go to the “cell at the end”, a phrase that did away with the rest of her cheerfulness. The air down there was damp and stale, and mold grew on certain areas along the walls and in corners. The floor was solid concrete, with an abundance of thin, spidery cracks, and there were heavy metal doors to her left, with small covered windows slots further down that remained shut, but likely was meant for trays.

She found him when she peered into the third door, though it was difficult to see him at first because the cell was unlit but for the light that shone from a small barred window high above and he was in a shadowy corner, standing still. It was only when her eyes adjusted to the darkness that she began to make out his silhouette, and later more and more details. In many ways it was easy to recognise him: custom suit, slightly-uneven gait, favouring one leg clearly over the other, and shaggy hair a tad too long to be respectable. At the same time, however, the man in the cell looked like a complete stranger: rail-thin, with his trousers torn and his suit jacket in tatters. He wasn’t even wearing a tie, something she’d never seen Mr Gold without. The eyes, however, were the most striking difference: clouded over, almost milky-white, dull and unfocused.

“Oh, Mr Gold…”

The living corpse seemed to shudder, head tilting back to sniff the air. She braced herself for anything, any sudden movement or anything that could remotely be construed as violent, but nothing happened. There was definitely something different, though, an awareness that hadn’t been there before. He could certainly smell her, she knew that, and had likely heard her loud and clear- infected tended to have their sense of smell and hearing heightened, even while their organs and muscles deteriorated. So he knew she was there, but did not attack her, did not seem interesting in doing her harm. The way it seemed there wasn’t anything inherently aggressive or incurable about him, he simply had been left alone to rot.

If no one was gonna do anything about it she would.

She decided the best way to establish any sort of relationship was through something she knew Mr Gold enjoyed. She set aside several afternoons a week to sit down on the hard concrete floor next to Mr Gold’s door and read him, choosing books from his favourite authors and genres. She started with Borges, which he had often checked out, and Irvine Welsh, along with some Cortázar and Verne. She would sneak in, unsure whether Mother Superior wouldn’t try to stop her if she knew what she was trying to do, and spend hours reading and drinking tea. Sometimes Ruby would sneak her something to eat- she had decided early on that she needed at least one person who knew where she was going and what she was doing just in case, specially when it became clear no one went to the basement except her. No nuns, no doctors, no one. People were literally waiting for Mr Gold to turn to dust, too squeamish to outright put a bullet in his brain and be done with it but in no real rush to see him recover either.

Spite became a motivator during those afternoons were things didn’t seem to be progressing and it looked like she was wasting her time. Mr Gold would like that, she thought privately. She felt an odd sort of camaraderie when she thought about sticking it to the nuns, about the expression on Mother Superior’s face if she succeeded. She told him about that, and about the progress being made around town. At some point she started calling him by his first name- Ramsay, a confession he made when she’d playfully teased him about having “R. Gold” as the name on his library card- thinking it might spark something.

She would feed him too, whatever large chunks of raw meat she could get from Granny, who she suspected was well aware of what she was doing but said nothing. She was fully cured, herself, with minimal sequels, but her experience seemed to have made her empathetic to Mr Gold’s plight. She had retained some of the incredible sense of hearing she’d enjoyed while undead. It wasn’t unheard of for people to keep a trait or two from their sickness, though it was rare. In some cases the infection had cause certain irreparable changes to their physiognomy, specially in those further gone.

Fortunately for Belle Mr Gold enjoyed the raw meat, though she never saw him eat it. She’d leave it before heading back to the library and it’d be gone in the morning, tray licked clean but Mr Gold back in his corner. It was a relief, somewhat, to see him lose some of his boney appearance, though he was still rail-thin, little more than skin and bones.

Her first big break happened during an ordinary afternoon, while she sat and read to him something by Horacio Quiroga. Mr Gold rather liked the dark short stories, and though some people might have thought them inappropriate reading material for a recovering zombie Belle disagreed, thinking that anything that might elicit a response from Mr Gold, any response at all, was worth trying.

It was while she was nearing the end of The Feather Pillow that she heard a shuffling and later a thump right on the other side of the door. Tentatively she knocked on the metal door, barely containing a happy laugh when something on the other side knocked back, slow but surely. It was the first time that Mr Gold acknowledged her at all and thought it was a small thing it felt like something monumental. It put a smile on her face so bright Ruby teased her about it for weeks, and prompted her to take a leap of faith one afternoon and open the latch that kept the small window on the door covered. There was no glass to further separate them so she was able to tentatively slip her hand through the opening.

“Come here, Ramsay. Come on, you know me. It’s okay.”

Mr Gold did perk up somewhat, and later dragged himself across the room. She forced herself not to flinch as he leaned forward, his nose almost brushing her skin as he breathed in deeply, hesitantly at first but pressing closer when something about the scent seemed to catch his attention or spark something in him. He never made a move to bite so for the longest time Belle just stood there, on her tippy-toes to be able to pass most of her arm through the opening, fighting the urge to pull back. Her fear gave way to cautionary optimism and later awe at the way Mr Gold practically rubbed his entire face against her hand, as if the notion of skin to skin contact was some sort of miracle. He breathed her deeply now, big lungfuls of her scent, nose pressed tightly against her palm or the underside of her wrist, his expression almost desperate. He made a sort of whining noise when she was forced to pull her arm back, and followed her hand until he physically couldn’t anymore.

She cried later that night, back in the safety of her library, away from prying eyes, part out of sheer relief and part out of anger and sadness at the thought that Mr Gold had been left to rot not because he was beyond help, but rather because it was so convenient. So many people had been given second chances once the rebuilding had started, people who had committed questionable or even downright despicable acts during the apocalypse. Ruby had warned her at the beginning about some, like Keith Nott and Greg Aston, who had taken to the chaos of the past years like ducks to water, had grown unruly and dangerous. She had heard only half-stories, mostly from Ruby, mostly things no one could prove or cared to now that the human race had another chance and the population was in dire need of able-bodied men to rebuild and reproduce. If Storybrooke was ready to embrace lowlifes like those they would have to get used to having Mr Gold back, and she’d call out anyone who dared fight her on that on their hypocrisy.

From then on it became routine to let him smell her. Mr Gold seemed to look forward to it, being sure to stay close to the door and letting out a growly sort of purr when she reached out to him. He was also eager to let himself be stroked and his hair petted, which took a bit of getting used to but to her made sense. Mr Gold had always avoided contact as a rule. Though he sometimes tended to invade people’s personal space as a tactic to put them ill at ease, he usually skirted human touch. She’d had occasion to make a study of it, back before the apocalypse, down to how Mr Gold almost always wore gloves on rent day and avoided passing anything hand to hand. She had noticed that once he got familiar with her he let his guard down a bit and sometimes allowed casual touches, fingers brushing over a book exchanging hands, things of that nature. But he’d always shied away from further contact.

Belle had long ago come to the conclusion that he must have been very touch-starved, given how little actual skin to skin contact he seemed to experience day to day. She had seen him flex his fingers often, his hands and entire body full of nervous energy, of a sort of yearning for what he denied himself. Now, stripped of all human pretenses, without the need to protect himself from others, he was seeking out that which he needed like he hadn’t allowed himself before. She told him over and over that it was alright, that he was allowed to want and seek affection, that she would never use it against him or otherwise harm him with the knowledge. She hoped it would stick on the back of his mind, so he wouldn’t be embarrassed when he was himself again, or wary of her.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so… powerful. So heady, to have someone like Mr Gold, who always seemed larger-than-life, lean on her so trustingly, so eagerly. To have a creature capable of immense feats of strength, of untold violence, purr under her touch like a kitten. She’d always wanted to do it, to reach out and give some sort of comfort to Mr Gold, a little bit of the affection he was sorely missing. It was precisely why she told herself to be cautious and not rush into things, given her impulsive nature. If she botched things now, if she lost her progress or got into a situation she couldn’t handle, Mr Gold might never recover. She was sure any excuse would be enough for people to demand he be “put out of his misery”. She couldn’t afford mistakes or miscalculations.

So she took things slow, and kept things close to the chest. Best no one knew of her progress until she could get Mr Gold talking a little, enough to prove without a shadow of a doubt that he was on the mend, and that killing him would be killing a human being and not some well-dressed boney. So she went about her day as normal as possible, helping set the town to rights, cleaning the library, helping Dove with the community garden that grew on some land belonging to Mr Gold and that was still a vital source of a lot of produce the town consumed, though the normal flow of goods and services was slowly being re established across the estate. Dove was an attentive gardener and the work was strangely soothing. She set her afternoons aside for Mr Gold, though, reluctant to miss a day and cause a potential regression. And it helped her too, helped her deal with what she’d lived through, the peace and companionship she found in the basement of the hospital, with Mr Gold. In the hope that sparked in her every time she caught a glimpse of his eyes and they looked less cloudy and more focused, more alive.

She was so focused on those things, so eager to escape to her afternoon trysts, that she forgot to pay proper attention to her surroundings. It was night when she left the hospital, later than she’d realised, but nothing seemed amiss at first. Even after she heard something she didn’t immediately panic. The Rabbit Hole was close to the hospital, and people were still getting celebratory drunk in honour of the ending of the apocalypse. Sheriff Swan was good about keeping things controlled, all things considered.

It wasn’t until they were almost upon her that she noticed them, staggering around shouting at her, some slurred lewd proposition that made her walk faster, but nothing else. When she chanced a glance back she felt the first true jolt of fear, recognising easily the tall, lanky man as Gregory Aston, which made the other man following her his buddy Keith. Greg had made some advances before the apocalypse, which she hadn’t returned, much to his displeasure. But back then they had both lived in a society with strict rules that limited whatever he might have wanted to do when he was rejected. Now he strutted around Storybrooke getting into fights and using his brute strength to get whatever he wanted, having grown used to the more violent times of the apocalypse, when his fighting ability had given him a position of prominence. Keith, on the other hand, had thrived in the smuggling business, specially of drugs, and was still active. Emma was a competent sheriff but the problems of a town like Storybrooke in the post-apocalypse were many, and the resources of the sheriff’s office were limited.

Being the stupid sort of drug dealer one would’ve expected from Keith he often tested his merchandise and shared it with close pals, which included Greg. Belle could see it the closer they got to her, the tell-tale signs of a person under the influence of more than just alcohol.

“Hey, Belle, wait up, we wanna talk to you!”

She began to seriously consider her options. The library was too far away, and it was too late for Granny’s to be open. The station was close by, but the sheriff was doing rounds so no one would be there. It seemed safer to go back to the hospital, where there was bound to be at least a couple of nurses on their night shift.

“Hey, you frigid bitch, I know you can hear us!”

Running probably was ill-advised, but at some point Belle couldn’t fight her instincts anymore. The relief she felt when she burst through the doors of the hospital was short-lived. The reception area was deserted, and access to the rest of the hospital seemed to be blocked, a precaution typical of the days of the apocalypse that people seemed to still be keeping. Frantically she went to the one door she knew the combination to, but when she tried to close it behind her it was wrenched from her grasp, either by Greg or Keith, she didn’t bother to look. Someone grabbed her arm when she raced down the stairs, but years of surviving in a high-stress environment had given her sharp reflexes that helped her pull herself free.

“There’s nowhere to run, sweetheart. We promise we’ll be nice, we just want to be nice to you, Belle.”

She didn’t know when she made the decision. It was in a split second, more instinctual than anything else. Mr Gold’s cell was bolted from the outside but not locked, she’d noticed that from the beginning. She’d been tempted to open the door so many times, but she’d restrained herself. But now adrenaline was rushing through her and the survival instinct that had kept her alive through hell on Earth moved her to make a quick decision, to seek out safety. Without pausing to second-guess herself she unbolted the door, pushing her way inside and closing it behind her.

“Got ourselves a room, how nice.”

“Hope there’s a bed inside!”

It was dark inside the cell. The only light came from the corridor and was too faint to reach inside. Belle knew she was not alone in the room but she could not hear or see Mr Gold. The infected got very good at being quiet and staying out of sight, like the best of predators, which wasn’t an altogether-reassuring thought. Greg and Keith stumbled inside the room, uncoordinated and sluggish from drink and whatever else they’d consumed, and Belle stepped back, seeking who she knew was there.

“Now, Belle, this doesn’t need to be bad. Ugly. We can… can treat you right. Make it good. We’re nice guys.”

Greg had always said that. Belle was sure that, against all odds, he believed it. Even as he clamped a hand around her arm, with enough force to make her wrist hurt, to make her cry out in pain and fight to wrench herself free. Even as Keith laughed next to him, clumsily pawing at his belt. There was a second of all-consuming fear, the kind that paralysed the muscles and made it difficult to breathe. Then there was a growl and she felt rather than saw an arm wrap around her waist and pull her backwards. Another arm went across her chest, securing her against something solid behind her.

“Holy fuck, what the-?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The sheer terror in both men’s eyes was almost amusing, if it weren’t for the fact that Belle felt the same. Mr Gold’s face was next to hers, snarling, teeth bared in a clear warning. She wanted to say something, so that he’d recognise her as a friend, let himself be soothed, perhaps, but nothing came out. Greg and Keith scrambled backwards, fighting to be the first ones out the door, bolting it behind them for good measure before running away, the sound of their footsteps eventually fading into nothing. They weren’t going to look for help, she knew it. Too messy for them, too dangerous. They’d left her alone, perhaps even hoping Mr Gold would take care of her so she wouldn’t go telling tales and for a moment her anger overcame her fear, so thoroughly that she didn’t notice Gold’s head move, his nose coming to press against her neck. He took a deep, audible breath and Belle froze again, part of her bracing herself for a bite. But none came, Mr Gold seemingly content to scent her. Slowly Belle felt fear drain out of her, allowing her to somewhat compose herself.

“It’s just me, Ramsay, Belle. You know me, don’t you?”

He made a purring sound, the one she’d grown so used to, and loosened his hold on her, not a drop of aggression on him. Belle tentatively petted his hair, excited now to be able to look at him so closely, to notice the very slight tint of pink on his cheeks and the slight warmth of his skin, signs of his recovering humanity. He, likewise, seemed curious about her, hands hovering near her, as if asking for permission to touch, to explore. And though he didn’t dare grab her again he had no problems pressing his nose close to whatever part of her he could reach. He spent long minutes scenting her hair, fingers ghosting over it, as if delighted by the feel of it. Fascinated and intrigued she let him proceed, allowing him to sniff at her forehead, down her neck and over her torso. It was strangely endearing, or at least until he pressed firmly against the juncture of her thighs, taking a deep breath in an attempt to scent her through her underwear and cotton shorts.

“No!”

She pushed against his shoulders and he scrambled away, clearly feeling chastised by her tone and actions. He looked confused, as if unaware of whatever he’d done wrong, and whatever offence she might have felt a moment ago went up in smoke. Slowly, so as to not spook him, she sat down in the cot next to him and turned his face so they’d make eye-contact.

“Hey, Ramsey, I’m sorry. You didn’t know. It’s okay, Ramsey, I’m not mad.”

Something sparked in his eyes, and he tilted his head to the side, brow furrowing.

“R-r-r-r…” With a jolt, Belle realised he was trying to speak. It was more of a growl than anything else, but there seemed to be a purpose to it, a desire to shape it into something. “R-r-rum.”

He splayed a hand against his chest and repeated the word. Belle understood at once what he was trying to say.

“Yes, yes, that’s right. You’re Ramsay, that’s your name. Ramsay.”

She said it slowly, over and over again, delighting in the way he focused on her lips as they shaped out the word. He couldn’t quite repeat it, not entirely at least, but he recognised it without a doubt as his name, the first concrete proof that he could not only understand speech but that he had also recovered a sense of self, and at least partial access to his memories. He also seemed to realise it was a momentous occasion, his lips curling up into a shadow of a smile, looking more like Mr Gold than ever.

Knowing that certainly Ruby or Dove would report her missing tomorrow and that this would be an obvious place to check out, seeing as to how Emma and Regina suspected of her near-constant visits, she settled down to wait, lying down on the cot so her face was close to Mr Gold- Rum, now, in her mind- who was still on the floor, looking at her. She talked to him as one of her hands combed through his tangled hair, told him about Dove and how he was taking care of everything for him, about how the Library was ready for re-opening and how things were slowly returning to normal. There was an understanding in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if one more of many veiled had been lifted and he could see the world more clear now than before.

She didn’t recall falling asleep, but she must have at some point. When she awoke there was no panic, even when she registered the grey walls of the cell and the thin, hospital-issue mattress beneath her. Rum was next to her, sitting on the floor leaning against the cot and watching her from beneath a curtain of shaggy hair. It was, she was sure, longer than it had been weeks ago, another sign of his blossoming humanity to add to her list.

“Good morning, Rum.”

She pulled herself to a sitting position, looking around her. Now that there was slight coming into the room from the small window in a corner she could see the room properly, and winced at the signs of decay and disrepair. Surely it couldn’t be conductive to his recovery for him to be locked up in a place like that. She would need to try and convince Regina to do something about it, if she could somehow get the woman to the cell so she could see with her own eyes that Rum was on the mend, and certainly not a danger to anyone.

It was while she contemplated how to go about it all that she heard faint sounds, and later the murmur of voices. Someone shouted her name, desperately- Ruby, it sounded like- followed by others. Rum tensed up beside her, scrambling to stand between her and the door. She was about to try and calm him down when she was startled by the cell door being violently yanked open, Sheriff Swan stepping into the room with her revolver up and aimed squarely at the Scotsman’s head. Behind her Belle could see Ruby, David Nolan- who acted sometimes as Deputy Sheriff, and the major herself.

“No, wait!”

Thankfully for her Rum was a short man, so getting in front of him guaranteed Emma would be unable to shoot him in the head. It didn’t make her drop her stance, though, specially when she saw Rum grab her from behind and snarl.

“Belle, what the fuck? Get out of the way!”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s okay. I’m okay. He’s not gonna hurt me. He’s not aggressive.”

She knew how ridiculous she sounded like, with Rum behind her, teeth bared and hands digging into her skin to the point where she had to admit hurt a little, but it was important that they understood.

“He… he’s on the mend. He just thinks you’re threatening me. Just… just stand down. He’ll relax.”

She wasn’t sure he would, but it was worth a try. Emma, to her credit, didn’t dismiss her words, and obviously noticed Rum was making no move to bite or otherwise attack her. She lowered her firearm and relaxed her posture, and little by little Belle felt Rum do the same behind her, though he kept one of his hands curled protectively on her shoulder, as if ready to yank her back at the first sign of trouble. She took advantage of the tentative peace to recount the events of last night, trying to be as detailed as possible. Though she got some sceptic looks she could see that at least Emma and Regina were considering part of what she was saying, particularly regarding Keith and Greg. When it came to Rum, however, the general consensus seemed to be that Belle was likely being a bit too optimistic, and there weren’t enough grounds to challenge the authority of Mother Superior regarding Mr Gold’s situation.

“No, you’re not listening to me. He’s on the mend. He knows who he is, he has memories. Look at him. At the colour of his skin, at his eyes. He’s better. He knows who I am, I’m sure.”

She stared at Emma, hard, as if daring the blonde to contradict her, to pat her on the head and tell her she was mistaken, confused, seeing things that weren’t there. To her surprise she felt Rum’s hand on her shoulder tighten.

“B-B-B-Be-Belle.”

It was more of a croak than anything, but there was no mistaking what he’d just said. Everyone froze in place and things were deadly quiet for a second or two. Belle could have sworn that when she chanced a glance at Rum there was something of the familiar Mr Gold smirk about him, the satisfied, smug look he often got after striking a deal or getting the better of people. Finally, after what felt like forever, Regina spoke.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Mother Superior’s face when I tell her this.”

Rum’s progress seemed to accelerate after that, though his vocabulary remained reduced. But his understanding of speech and his communication skills evolved immensely, and there was a constant awareness now of what was going on around him and a spark of intelligence that hadn’t been there before.. The major, likewise, was determined to make her own progress and before the week was out she managed to arrange a review of Mr Gold’s case with Dr Whale and Dr Hopper, against the express wishes of Mother Superior. Both reports were as positive as Belle could’ve hoped for, with Dr Hopper encouraging Mr Gold be moved to his own house for the remainder of his recovery, which was usually the next step once patients had developed enough understanding of the world around them.

Belle and Dove worked tirelessly to put Mr Gold’s house to rights, or as close to it as possible. Dove had boarded it up after Mr Gold had been infected, so it was quite the job to open it up again and clean it, but the inside was mostly well-preserved. All around Storybrooke news of the imminent release of the pawnbroker spread around fast, and the reception was more than a little chilly. No one dare take it up personally with Belle- apparently the first idiot to even insinuate something like that had had a pickaxe nearly flung at them by Leroy- but people definitely gave her hostile looks and were otherwise very vocal about how much better things would’ve been if Mr Gold had simply… faded away. It was disgusting and she was grateful that those closest to her seemed to be on the same page.

It was nighttime when Rum was officially discharged. He’d been already moved to a regular hospital room a day before in preparation and to administer any final tests and such. Afterwards they left him sitting in the hallway, which was where she found him. He visibly perked when he saw her, lips curling into that adorable half-smile that she remembered from years ago. He lurched forward towards her, which made her notice his limp was more pronounced than before. Infected people gained strength and agility due to the changes in their bodies, which could also strengthen injured bones and muscle. The more Rum’s body returned to its natural state the more his old injury reasserted itself. It was a strange sort of positive sign.

Thankfully the streets were deserted, like she’d hoped when she’d suggested Rum be released at night. They walked slowly, him leaning slightly against her for balance, looking around with unabashed hunger. He breathed in deeply, scenting the air, silently reveling in his freedom. Certain buildings and sights seemed to catch his attention, his eyes lingering on the diner, the library and specially on his pawnshop. When they finally got to the edge of town and he spotted his house he visibly moved faster, tugging her along and paying little attention to his dragging right leg as he all but sprinted towards it. His movements were still very wooden and stiff but the progress was astounding.

The house was dimly lit, electricity still being strictly rationed, but Rum seemed to want to explore everything at once, at least until something seemed to occur to him and he darted awkwardly up the stairs. When she followed him she found him in his ensuite bathroom, shower already on. He was struggling to take his tattered clothes off, which was no easy feat given his current lack of dexterity. Belle helped him take his jacket off, trying not to smile at his slightly abashed look. What was left of his shirt was partly stuck to his undershirt and skin by grime and blood. It took ten minutes and a pair of scissors to peel the fabric off him safely. His torso was littered in half-healing bite marks and scratches and when she gently touched a couple of them he sighed, pressing his forehead against hers.

“I’m-m-m okay.” She didn’t realise until he tried to console her that she was crying. “Ev-v-v-very-thing is o-k-k-ay.”

His brogue was so thick it was difficult to understand him, and his voice was still raspy and harsh form disuse but the gentleness with which he sought to reassure her made his words soft as butter. She helped him out of the rest of his clothing, leaving his boxers on when it became clear he was not keen on the idea of having her remove them. She rummaged his walk-in closet for a pair of pants, fresh underwear and a t-shirt and left him to shower in peace. Afterwards- thankfully, dressing up had been easier for him than stripping down- she sat him down in front of a mirror and trimmed his hair at his request, pleased at the results. Showered and properly groomed Rum was looking more like himself than ever.

When she brought up the idea that she might stay the night- Dove had prepared a room for her just in case- he looked painfully relieved and agreed vigorously, not letting her out of his sight until she slipped into her own room, leaving the door ajar behind her. He shuffled into the room that she’d pointed out was his and laid on the bed, feeling a strange burning in his eyes, and a heaviness that he didn’t recognise at first. Minutes later he was asleep.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #Thestraggletag fanfiction #Human Nature

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kantuck · 6 years ago

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ADhD, something to think about.

A friend sent me this: (I’m copy/pasting, mistakes are the authors.)

“Kan, saw this on FB, thinking of you.”

I was asked a while ago by a friend to share my thoughts on ADHD, and what I believe about this unique neuro-diversity that we all seem to have. It has taken me some time to put it into words, but here is the basic gist of it and I hope it can help someone to understand the “why” behind what we all experience.

ADHD is not a curse, It is not broken, it is NOT a malfunction of the brain or a “Mis-wiring”. It is not from your mother smoking cigarettes when you were in utero, and it is NOT from too much television as a child. ADHD is a Nuero-diversity. It is a different wiring of the brain as it relates to the body and to information collection AND most importantly it has a purpose! Before I get to that piece though, let me share with you what I KNOW about ADHD.

ADHD is a label that we have assigned to individuals that present with a specific set of symptoms associated with a diagnosable neuro-diversity. These symptoms can include things like distractibility, forgetfulness, inattention, hyper-focused attention, emotional storms, irritability, feelings of worthlessness, active or overactive imagination, tardiness or skewed senses of time, imposter syndrome, out of control thoughts, and severely low self-esteem.

Recently, research studies have identified three (3) aspects of ADHD that are experienced by almost everyone with this neuro-diversity and not experienced by almost none without it.

Interest-based nervous system: Not just interest-based attention, but your entire nervous system functions differently based on your level of interest. When you find something truly interesting it will actually energize you. Sleep is irrelevant, Food is a fleeting thought. You are sustained by interest. Have you ever found yourself up way past time to go to bed, forgot that you had to go to the bathroom, or didn’t eat, just because you were so interested in something? Yeah, me too.

Emotional Hyper-Arousal: Imagine this like you have a volume knob for “Emotions” and yours is turned up 5 notches higher than the neuro-typical people around you. Your highs are higher, your lows are lower. Merely funny is hilarious and mildly sad is sorrowful. Everything is extreme. Not worth humor is funny and not worth heartache is indeed sad. Every emotion felt is more-than.

Rejection-sensitive-dysphoria: Basically, we are hypersensitive to rejection, from anyone. It doesn’t really matter if we consciously care about the individual or group that is enacting the rejection. We are just hyper-sensitive to being rejected by anyone for any reason. Even if we don’t want to be part of the club, we are sensitive to the club not wanting us as a member kind of thing.

Now if we combine these symptoms and aspects we begin to see some pretty obvious and reoccurring traits that cause problems in daily life.

Imposter syndrome: Minimizing our accomplishments and maximizing our failures or faults. If we succeed, then it was easy or luck, but if we fail it is because we are flawed or broken and we are totally responsible.

Hyper-focus: I can be focused on something that I am interested in, but cannot manage to pay attention to a board meeting. I am all about the next book coming out, but forget my anniversary.

Emotional storm: I have a thousand thoughts running through my head and each one has an emotion that I have to feel as it passes and therefore I feel a thousand emotions in the span of a few seconds and cannot differentiate between them.

There are many many more that I don’t think that I need to list. You can see the patterns I am sure.

What if…..?

What if ADHD was natural?

What if ADHD was not ADHD, but something else?

What if ADHD was NOT a Deficit or a Disorder, but an adaptation?

Scientific research now suggests that what we know as ADHD is actually an evolutionary adaptation to a Hunter/Gather lifestyle.

In a natural environment, where there are predators and prey, where the rustling of leaves, or the flash of game in the periphery, or the trickling of water heard, could mean the difference between life or death, it is actually an extreme benefit to have an overabundance of involuntary attention. It is a bonus to be hyper-aware (distractable).

This is why so many that have ADHD wired brains find solace in natural environments. There is so much to “Pull” our attention, but so little to “Pay” attention to. We find ourselves recharged by walks in the forest or sitting near a babbling brook. This is our natural born element and so it invigorates us.

So why so few of us then? Well, let's look at that. Darwin’s theories of evolution state that: If there is a mutation in an individual that is part of a species that makes that individual more likely to survive, then that mutation will be passed along to its offspring and therefore make the offspring more likely to survive than it’s counterparts of the same species and thus, the mutation will eventually, though the process of natural selection, be distributed to the entire species and will no longer be a mutation, just part of the species. For example: if a bird has a mutation that increases its beak size and that increases its survivability, then eventually the entire species will have larger beaks. So, let's look back at 20,000 years into our human history. Everyone that existed on the planet were hunter/gathers. It is very likely that at that time, the majority of individuals were also what we call today, ADHD. Then one day, someone decided that it would be a good idea to plant & farm & build walls & raise livestock & stay in one place.

Now we have these sedentary people that are NOT hunting or gathering in dangerous environments. They are protected by walls and removed from danger.

However, we still have all these ADHDers that cannot stand being still, so they are still hunting and gathering and putting themselves in danger.

Who is more survivable now?

Fast forward 20,000 years…..97% of all humans are sedentary and only 3% are ADHDers.

ADHD is not new, it is not made up by Pharma, it has always been here, just never called the same thing. The first mention of an individual that appeared to display ADHD symptoms that I found was from the writing of Hippocrates, also known as the father of modern medicine, he stated: The patient has quickened responses to sensory experience, but also less tenaciousness because the soul moves on quickly to the next impression.

Back then, “soul” was the word for mind and “impression’ was the word for thought. So what he was saying is ...The patient has heightened responses to external stimulation but has less follow-through because the mind moves on quickly to the next thought.

If that is not ADHD I don’t know what is.

This is not a bad thing though. All we need to do is look throughout history to see ADHDers in action. We can take the symptomatology that we know now and apply it to historical figures and we see that the most innovative and influential individuals in history were probably ADHDers.

Socrates Leonardo Da Vinci Mozart Benjamin Franklin The Wright Brothers Salvadore Dali Walt Disney Nikola Tesla Thomas Edison Albert Einstien John F. Kennedy And if those names don’t do anything for you then how about these names of self-professed ADHDers:

Justin Bieber Simone Biles David Blaine Terry Bradshaw Richard Branson Andre Brown Jim Carrey James Carville Jim Caviezel Wendy Davis Katherine Ellison Josh Freeman Ryan Gosling Viglil Green Ed Hallowell, M.D. Woody Harrelson Mariette Hartley Cameron Herold Paris Hilton Christopher Knight Solange Knowles Adam Kreek Jenny Lawson Greg LeMond Adam Levine Howie Mandel Audra McDonald Alan Meckler Rep. Kendrick Meek Matt Morgan David Neeleman Paul Orfalea Ty Pennington Michael Phelps Pete Rose Michele Rodriguez Louis Smith Leigh Steinberg Payne Stewart Shane Victorino Bubba Watson Henry Winkler Brookley Wofford

ADHD is not the “fault” it’s the exception. We have always been here and we have always been the ones that are changing the world.

There is statistically a higher percentage of ADHD in America than in Europe. Researchers believe that this is because our founding fathers and the immigrants that are our heritage had the out-of-the-box impulsiveness to pack up and go across an entire ocean to make a better life!

ADHD is not a curse, it is not a disorder, society has the disorder because as much as it touts individuality, it is only acknowledged once an individual complies with the obligation of normalcy. You cannot be creative unless you can get to work on time. You cannot be innovative unless all your bills are paid. Blah Blah Blah….

Being born with ADHD is like being born with a beautiful pair of raven black angel wings. Imagine for a moment how that would be. You would be shunned as a freak. Called an abomination. You would try to hide your birthright if only to “Fit in” or be “normal”, and always throughout all of the insults and put-downs, through all of the pain and sorrow, all you would have to do is spread those beautiful black wings and soar….

We are not the problem. We are the solution. We are the R&D while everyone else trudges on the assembly line. We are the inventors and the visionaries, while the neuro-typical are content with the status quo. We take the risks and run the chance….sometimes to our detriment, but also sometimes to glory.

Doubt yourself all you want. Tell us all that “your” ADHD is a disorder or a disability, but make no mistake…..You are amazing.

#ADhD

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biolyfeketogummiesbuynow · 3 years ago

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anotherdayinchuckletown · 4 years ago

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Happy Halloween, Mr. Wonka!

(A/N: Hello, and Happy Halloween!! Now, Halloween is my favorite holiday, so y’all know I had to whip up a little something for my favorite muse who definitely hates this day with a passion! Full disclosure, this was drafted, written, and edited all in the span of about two hours, so I’m a tad self-conscious… But hey, I was on time! I wanted to give y’all something festive, even if it’s my saddest Wonka piece so far.

Thank you so much for reading, and have an amazing (and safe) Halloween!

-Katherine <3)

_________________

Heavy machinery whirs quietly all around. Some gadgets emit soft clouds of vapor, which float listlessly toward the high ceilings of the Inventing Room like restless spirits. Phosphorescent light filters through the haze, making long shadows dance in the corners of the room. Since the sun has already gone down and factory operation hours are over, the Oompa-Loompas are absent, meaning that there is no music, no dancing—only the droning hum of technology.

An eerie combination, indeed, thinks Wonka sourly. Such a nuisance.

Charlie is preparing to leave for his annual trick-or-treating expedition, and when he asked earlier if Wonka would join him, Wonka had excused himself. I just need to tie up a few loose ends in the Inventing Room, he had claimed, pointedly ignoring his teenage ward’s crestfallen expression. You go and enjoy yourself, Charlie. A boy your age shouldn’t be stuck working on Halloween, of all nights!

The Halloween season is always a busy one for the factory. That much should be obvious, given the long-standing tradition of trick-or-treating. A tradition which allows even kids who normally have nothing to indulge in an overabundance of candy for one glorious night. A tradition which Wonka himself took part in as a child, in his family’s own unique way…

His gloved hands twitch, and he remembers what he is supposed to be doing. Well, pretending to be doing, really. He reaches for the spoon to his right, and stirs the mixture before him with more force than necessary.

The tradition of trick-or-treating expressly demands candy production be at an all-time high for the year. He has already met his surplus production goal, and the sales numbers reflect that this is a wise investment. Things are truly going swimmingly. All things considered, he thinks he should be in a great mood. He should be kicking back and relaxing, instead of throwing together this…whatever this is, just so that he has something to keep his hands and mind occupied with anything but Halloween.

“Milk powder…where is the milk powder?” he mutters to himself as he scans his table of various ingredients.

“Here it is, Mr. Wonka.”

Not expecting any sort of response, Wonka lets out an embarrassingly shrill scream. Brandishing his cane and spinning on his heel toward the source of the voice, he comes face to face with…Eliza Weber, his assistant.

Free hand clutching at his heart, which is now racing faster than a hummingbird’s, Wonka desperately attempts to get his breathing under control. He lowers the cane warily, leveling the young woman and the container of milk powder she offers him with a scowl. Finally, he stretches out his arm and snatches it from her.

The whole time, she has the audacity, the absolute gall, to look completely unaffected by his outburst. “I apologize if I startled you. I did knock.”

Eliza is not only Wonka’s assistant, but she is also Charlie’s teacher. She has only been a part of factory life for a few months, but has already proven herself to be his finest employee. Some of it can be attributed to her height advantage over the Oompa-Loompas, although she is exceedingly petite herself. She is wildly intelligent, adept in mechanical design, and regimented as all get out. In addition, her loyalty and perseverance are unmatched, to the point where it’s a bit unsettling.

“Were you planning to use your cane as a weapon just then?”

Her ability to get on his nerves at times is also unmatched.

He takes in her costume, consisting of a hooped skirt with an apron, tightly-buttoned corset, and short lace gloves. Her hair is pinned into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. “And what are you supposed to be, Nanny McPhee?” he retorts.

“Mary Poppins,” she corrects him, the insult either sailing right over her head or not bothering her in the slightest. “Charlie invited me to go trick-or-treating with him. I’ve never been, so I agreed.”

Wonka sets the powdered milk down hard enough that some of it puffs up and over the sides of the bowl, coating his gloves in the white substance. “Well, isn’t that just peachy!” The smile that accompanies his statement is too pinched, even by his standards.

“Incidentally, that’s why I’m here,” she continues. “He requested I tell you that we’re leaving shortly, and it’s your last chance to join us.”

He lets out a long sigh, summoning up all the patience he can. “Goodness, I certainly would love to, I’m just so gosh darn busy!” He gestures to the mess on the table behind him. “You know how it is this time of year. You two go on without me, have fun!”

Eliza scrutinizes him. “You seem tense. Do you not want to go because you don’t have a costume?”

Wonka simply squints at her, confused.

“I have a contingency plan, meaning I can throw something together for you in a matter of minutes. Your facial structure bears a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp’s Edward Scissorhands.”

“It does not!” He pouts, not appreciating her sneaking up on him and making wildly inaccurate comments about his facial structure. If he bears a resemblance to any Johnny Depp character, it’s Sweeney Todd, for goodness sake!

She looks at him like he’s taken the wind out of her sails, a small victory. “Very well. I will let Charlie know that you’re busy.”

She starts to leave, and Wonka visibly relaxes, turning away. Except she lingers at the door, and he can feel those eyes on him. Those big, glassy eyes that seem to pierce through him, all-knowing, like a particularly astute goldfish.

“Permission to speak freely?” she asks suddenly.

“Denied!” he responds right on the heels of her question. He is treated to a few moments of feeling the irritation radiate off of her before curiosity gets the better of him. “…What is it?” he asks weakly.

“According to my data,” she explains, “sales are much higher than normal, but it’s nothing to warrant the rate at which you’ve been working the last few days.”

Of course, the woman who handles his accounting would call him out on his lie.

“Therefore, I can only assume this has to do with some sort of personal aversion.”

Wonka feels his skin prickle. Facing her once more, he asks, “What is your point?” The question comes out even colder than he meant it to.

Eliza at least has the decency to shuffle nervously, breaking eye contact in favor of watching the vapor circling up toward the ceiling. “My point is…at the risk of breaching the parameters of my job description…I am a very good listener as well.”

Leave it to Eliza to choose the worst possible time to display some emotional intelligence for a change. The chocolatier stares at her long and hard, choosing his words carefully. “Eliza…why have you never been trick-or-treating before?”

She looks justifiably taken aback. Tilting her head, she says, “My foster parents never allowed it. They believed Halloween was…Satanic.” Wonka nearly blinks and misses the subtle roll of her eyes at the notion.

Wonka thinks that there’s something to be said for her never knowing what she’s missing out on as a kid. Never having that false hope that this year, things will be different. Still, he latches on to his opportunity.

“Well, they’re not here to stop you now, are they?” He grins at her in a way that he hopes is reassuring and not as melancholic as it feels, even though his face is starting to hurt from smiling so much. “Yet, here you are, worrying about me instead, silly! You just take Charlie and get out there, okay?”

Looking anything but convinced, Eliza blinks slowly. “…Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Wonka.”

Satisfied that she will actually leave this time, he turns his back to her again. He does not answer her, nor does he let his expression drop until he finally hears the sound of heels clicking farther and farther down the hall.

Wonka has had his day in the sun. Or, would it be his night in the moon? At any rate, he no longer has need to go trick-or-treating. No need to celebrate the ridiculous holiday at all, for that matter.

He’s all right with that. Sincerely, he is.

Now, to get rid of that mixture he had been working on. He won’t bother tasting it—he can already smell how it is disgustingly, revoltingly, irreparably bitter.

#sideblog merge stuff #queue

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ellasenviroblog · 4 years ago

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#2-Maintaining Our Ecosystems: Essential to Sustainability

We like to think of our world as ours, with much our of thought processes revolving around the ways the Earth can serve us, or how anything in our environment impacts us. But in reality, we share the Earth with trillions of living things whose lives and activities exist completely outside of the human realm of understanding. Our planet is composed of trillions of ecosystems, each self-sustaining and coexisting within their individual spheres of reality. While each tiny organism on the planet may be unaware that humans even exist, we unfortunately have the capacity to impact everything around us. This week’s reading discusses the importance of maintaining and preserving ecosystems, as well as understanding the effects we can have on each level of every type of ecosystem.

Each ecosystem has several basic components, as shown in the diagram from the textbook below: producers, primary and secondary consumers, and decomposers, in addition to all the systems of chemical and physical factors present in each unique ecosystem. Ecosystems are sustained by solar energy and nutrient cycling, just like everything else on Earth. Each of these subsections of the environment operates collectively, and each member of the ecosystem is essential to the survival of the others (except the cases of invasive species). By eating plant-based materials, primary consumers maintain the growth, mineral, and pollen distribution within an ecosystem. By hunting prey animals, secondary consumers maintain the primary consumer population as well as the producer population secondarily. Decomposers are fundamental to the nutrient cycles of the ecosystem and so on and so forth. Every piece is essential.

Unfortunately, human interference makes a lot of normal ecosystem processes very difficult. Through our contributions to climate change and devastations to many environments, we have made it increasingly difficult for these cyclical processes to continue. As I established earlier, if one member of the ecosystem is removed, the entire system could collapse. A common example of this problem is the gray wolf, which serves as the ecological niche of an apex predator, meaning this animal has no natural predators and helps to cull and maintain the prey population of its ecosystem. However, due to human-caused deforestation, hunting, and other factors such as disease, the wolf population has decreased and the rest of the ecosystem has been thrown out of balance. The lack of predators leads to an overabundance of prey, which devastates the ecosystem’s producers, potentially leaving a region barren.

When human activity leads to an upset in the ecosystem, a whole portion of the environment will be affected with potentially devastating consequences. Intentional destruction of habitats and environments is a horrific injustice, but will also ultimately be detrimental to us as well. In fact, it has already begun. We are clear-cutting the Amazon rainforest, the largest and most biodiverse ecosystem on the planet and utterly destroying thousands of species of plants and animals. This action also reduces the amount of oxygen-producing trees by a significant number, directly contributing to the greenhouse effect. Everything we put out into the world will come back to us in some form or another, and it seems that the mass destruction and atrocities we have committed are quickly coming back to bite us. In order to sustain life on Earth, we must make a concerted effort to preserve and protect all species and their ecosystems.

Questions:

What steps can we take to prevent further damage to essential ecosystems?

How can we emphasize the importance of biodiversity in all sustainability efforts?

Word Count: 583

Gallagher, Katherine. "Two of the Most Endangered Wolf Species Live on Opposite Sides of the World." Treehugger. https://www.treehugger.com/are-wolves-endangered-5101178.

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badly-drawn-piplup · 7 years ago

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WIP stuff

List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on. This can be writing, art, vids, gifsets, whatever.

was tagged by @a-sundeen (thanks!)

Happiness Overload: Something I originally did just for fun while finishing up the second draft of a story called Paper Crowns (for which I still need to do a third draft) and then just kept adding to it and now I’m not sure if there’s any end in sight. It’s about teleportation, cloning, evil corporations, conspiracies, demonic possession, and stoner aliens...except it might not really be about any of those things. The plot and tone changes constantly and sometimes it seems grimdark but other times it seems very fluffy and full of silly moments. Not easy to get into, it’s very confusing, switches perspectives constantly, all in first person, and the plot is constantly changing, but very fun to write.

An Overabundance of Katherines: Another story involving clones, conspiracies, and time travel and set in the same universe as Happiness Overload (sorta) in the far future. Except far less dark, takes itself even less seriously, and has an end in sight. Actually, it’s almost done. I just...don’t work on it much. The plot involves a far future where everyone is a clone of each other and is named Katherine. Also Grease is the only surviving piece of media. The title is a play on a John Green title.

Paper Crowns: More finished than the other two but still feel worth mentioning. A fantasy-drama coming of age story. Bit of middle school life and adjusting to a new environment as well as some pretty violent fantasy action. Without giving too much away, it’s kind of a mix between Bridge to Terabithia and Battle Royale. Or Bridge to Terabithia and Fate/Stay Night. I’ve already done two drafts of it so the story’s more or less done, but it’s incomplete in the sense that a third draft would make it even better (and who knows if the third draft will even be the last draft). Also a play on a John Green title.

Looking For Nebraska: A collaboration done between an online friend and I. Only one draft has been done and possibly will be done. Despite being “complete” I’m going to go ahead and say it’s still a WIP because I’d like to change the ending/last chapter. It was a bit of an improv experiment where I’d do a chapter and then my friend would do the next chapter. Though for a couple chapters I’d do half a chapter and my friend would do the other half and vise versa. It’s a more realistic (compared to the other stuff I’ve done) comedy-drama road trip story about some mid 20s friends who decide to travel to Nebraska for spring break. Also a play on a John Green title. Noticing a pattern? (no there is no story based on the title of “Fault in Our Stars” or “Turtles All the Way Down” (yet...))

Various Short Stories/Poems/Writings: I’ve got a project title “Pictures Squared. While it may take years and years and years to compile them all, the idea is that it will be a thousand pieces of writing each exactly a thousand words long. Some of them are just random words thrown together, some are stories, some are poems, and some are even angsty autobiographical stuff like journal entries. Heck, there’s even some odd fanfiction thrown in because why not? I don’t plan on sharing everything I’ve made for it, but I’ve already posted a few of the ones I feel are worth sharing both here and my writing blog and there’s lots more to come in the future!

...I don’t usually tag people and I don’t usually do these tagged things but it was a nice reminder that I have some things I’m working on and things I need to do/should do. I don’t know if this is really comprehensive (I think there’s a couple things I’ve left off because I’ve either put on hold or want to rewrite completely), but it’s a good indicator of what I’ve got going on. I’ll go ahead and tag...

@sprityo, @bunnysharks, @pippinacious, @mouseatingawalnut, @theladyofthesnow and... @genocider-exe

#writing #art #work in progress #wip #tagged thing #long post

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lost-in-the-in-between · 8 years ago

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So, I’ve never written Sprace before, but @do-you-ever-really-crash asked me to write based on this.

Spot Conlon wasn’t much of a romantic － that was a well-known fact. He didn’t care for Valentine’s Day, or romantic movies, or even flowers; those things were just so fake and weird. Romance was weird. Like you just opened yourself up to someone and showed them everything － the good, the bad, and the absolutely horrifying? Who the fuck did that?

Well, Kath and Sarah did, but that was because they were an actual healthy couple. Spot didn’t really understand that concept, but if Katherine and Sarah were happy, who was he to judge?

So, when March rolled around and the halls began buzzing about prom, Spot learned to tune it out. It wasn’t that hard － he’d learned to completely ignore everything Jack said years ago. He just had to do that on a larger scale now. Spot still ate lunch with his friends; he still hung out at the Jacobs’ house with them every day after school.

He still walked to school with Race every morning and walked back to the Jacobs’ with him every afternoon. Over the years, Spot had learned to ignore the flutter in his stomach when the taller boy laughed at one of his sarcastic comments because he didn’t feel things. Emotions were for saps like Jack Kelly.

On this particular day, though, Race was out sick, leaving Spot to make the trek to the Jacobs’ by himself. It wasn’t a long or difficult walk, but it certainly seemed to take longer without the loudmouth who usually joined him. Frowning, Spot tried to block out the fact that he actually missed Race. He missed Racetrack, the boy who had once swallowed a fucking quarter in order to win a bet, the boy who used to eat glue in kindergarten because he liked the taste. The boy who had forced Spot to wear his jacket during the winter months because he knew Spot’s foster dad never bothered to check and see if he had one.

Okay, so maybe Spot missed Race a little. Or he was just chilly because damn, why the hell was it still cold in March?

His old, barely-considered-a-smartphone smartphone vibrated in his pocket, snapping his back to reality. Fishing it out of his jeans, Spot checked the caller. Dick.

Yes, all of Spot’s contacts were insults － what, was he supposed to be nice to his friends? David had said that it was a miracle that Spot kept all of them straight, but really, Spot had a whole thought process going with this. Different people had different insulting terms of endearment attached to them in his brain; Jack was Asshole, Davey was Smartass, and Race was Dick. The only people lacking negative nicknames were Kath (who threatened to kick his ass if he called her something rude), Sarah (who definitely would murder him if he tried it) and Crutchie (okay, look, Spot’s heartless but even he could never be rude to the only adorably perfect one of their group).

Unlocking the screen, Spot answered the call.

“What?”

“Aww, Spotty. Always the charmer.”

Spot rolled his eyes at the comment, determinedly not paying attention to the heat creeping up his neck.

“Okay, talk or I’m hangin’ up.”

He could hear Race sigh, but he knew the other boy would be grinning. This was just how they communicated － through teasing insults and ridiculous threats. Race never had a problem with Spot’s gruffer side, and Spot could handle Race’s constant teasing.

“Look, I’m startin’ to feel better so I thought I might go pick up a tie for prom. What color are ya wearin’ again?”

Wait, what? What the fuck was Racetrack talking about? Spot was confused for a number of reasons; namely, why would Race assume Spot was even going to prom? Also, did he think they were going together? Why else would he want to know what color Spot was going to wear?

“...what?”

Race sighed again, dramatically enough for Spot to have to move the phone a little ways away from his ear.

“I asked what ya were wearin’ for prom? You know, the big dance in a month? The one where we’re all supposed to look nice, get drunk, and go back to the Jacobs’ to chill? Ringin’ any bells?”

“I know what prom is, dick,” Spot snapped, scowling at the overabundance of sarcasm in Race’s voice. His response didn’t answer Spot’s question, and he wasn’t the type of guy who liked waiting for answers.

“Why are you asking me what color my tie’s going to be?”

“Because we have to match!” insisted Race. Spot could see him now, lying on his bed, glaring up in exasperation at the ceiling due to Spot’s confusion. Shaking his head, Spot frowned.

“Why do we have to match? Are we supposed to be going together or something, because I definitely don’t remember you askin’－”

“Shit,” Race swore. There was silence for a moment; Spot began to wonder if he should have just hung up on Race back when he threatened to. What if Race hadn’t even been wanting match because they were going together going together? What if he like, wanted to go as friends or some shit? Maybe Spot had just freaked him out.

“I forgot to ask you, didn’t I?”

Spot felt his face heat up, which was stupid and definitely did not happen if any of the guys asked. He did not blush. That was not a thing Spot Conlon was capable of.

“Yeah. Yeah, ya did.”

“Shit, okay. This was supposed to be classy and shit, but here it goes: Spot Conlon, will you go to prom with me?”

He couldn’t help it － he laughed. Spot wasn’t sure why it happened, but one second he was completely fine, the next he’s doubled over, laughing hysterically. Clutching his sides, tears in his eyes, Spot laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Damn, you could have just said no－”

“No! No! I－fuck. Yes, I’ll fucking go to prom with you.”

His fit has subsided now; his face reverted from a violent shade of tomato back to his normal skin tone. Spot breathed deeply, trying to calm himself back down to normal. The group would have a field day with this － both the fact that he and Race were going to prom together and Spot’s reaction to being asked. He could already see the memes that would circulate their group chat. Fucking great.

“Spot, you’re literally the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Smiling, Spot realized that no, he wasn’t much of a romantic, and that was okay. He didn’t always know how to deal with romantic gestures, but as long as it was Race delivering them, Spot wouldn’t complain.

#sprace #sprace fic #newsies #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #race higgins #for vivi #newsies fic #a lot of swearing #its fluffy tho #modern au #mentions of foster parents #briefly tho #spot is kind of rude #race is an idiot #they're happy anyway #ash writes

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volk-morya · 8 years ago

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Increasing factory and auto emissions disrupt natural cycle in East China Sea

Irvine, Calif., Jan. 31, 2017 – China’s rapid ascent to global economic superpower is taking a toll on some of its ancient ways. For millennia, people have patterned their lives and diets around the vast fisheries of the East China Sea, but now those waters are increasingly threatened by human-caused, harmful algal blooms that choke off vital fish populations, according to a new study led by researchers at the University of California, Irvine.

“There has been massive growth in emissions from China’s factories and cars over the past few decades, and what comes out of the smokestacks and tailpipes tends to be richer in nitrogen than phosphorus,” said Katherine Mackey, assistant professor of Earth system science at UCI and lead author of the study, published recently in Frontiers in Marine Science.

Mackey and colleagues at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, China’s Fudan University and Nanjing University, and UC Santa Cruz studied the deposition of particles in the ocean downwind of China’s enormous industrial and population centers. They found that the winds carried an overabundance of nutrients offshore, where they fell into water to be taken up by marine organisms. That, together with runoff from rivers flowing into the sea, is causing changes to the region’s ecology. Certain aquatic plants and plankton thrive on the extra nutrients, for instance, crowding out others and wreaking havoc among ocean-dwelling species’ normal ratios.

“When you start having changes in the food web, you can see differences in the fish catch,” Mackey said. “Harmful algal blooms and nuisance species that are cropping up can produce toxins or just aren’t the type of food fish prefer to eat, so people have been noticing changes in the ecosystem in recent years.”