#'You seem to believe I am far more fascinated with pegging than I actually am.'

[bumblingbabooshka]

Are T’Pel and T’Pela ok with Tuvok smooching all these other people on voyager?? Is he hurting his two beautiful wives???? I simply MUST know, for my own mental peace

His two beautiful wives are taking inspiration.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Dye and Diversity.”

Hope you guys enjoy the story today 

Yeb stared.

She tilted her head this way and then that, and then continued to stare on the other side.

A soft sigh, “My eyes are up here.”

Yeb looked up to where the human was staring at her ascance his head slightly tilted.

“What?”

“Sorry dumb joke.”

He pulled to a stop, and the strange wheeled chair below him pulled to a halt.

She stared some more, “That is so strange! It looks so fun!”

Her interjection seemed to surprise him, and he glanced down  at the chair, “Um, I suppose I’ve never thought about it. It’s kinda fun sometimes. I don’t use it much.”

Yeb waddled behind the chair and clambered up on two little pegs she saw jutting  out from behind, “Why not?”

“Well usually I can walk, and it is generally frowned upon to use a wheelchair if you don’t need one.” 

Yeb felt a rush of wind as he pushed the chair forward, and they began to roll slowly down the ramp, “Well why not?”

He laughed and shook his head, his earlier sour demeanor lost behind grim amusement. A few of the others came to join them as they rolled downward and off the platform. Yeb lifted her eyes  wide-eyed in shock as she stared at her strange and unusual surroundings, and the massive interior docking bay of the space station…. To think! An entire city built in space! Looking around she could see ships of many sizes and designs, and other unfathomable and strange creatures hurrying this way and that.

A thought came to her, “Why aren’t you using the arm sticks?”

“Arm sticks…. Oh the crutches?”

“Yeah.”

“My arms are sore from using them, and plus the wheelchair seems safer on the station. I'll Be less likely to trip and get hurt.”

“Oh ok!.”

It still surprised her to no end that the human had even managed to survive without a leg. At first she thought he might have been born with that deformity. On her planet, while it was possible to survive with an issue like that it was not very common at all. She could think of only one Tricar she had seen live to adulthood in such a condition. There were always complications, plus, while Tricar were semi-social they tended to live only in mating groups and abandon their pups at a very young age. 

If you couldn’t survive to adulthood in the cold metal mazes  of her planet than that was a personal problem.

She climbed up higher onto the back of the human’s wheeled chair to get a better look. She wobbled dangerously in her excitement, her hands and feet not exactly built for climbing with her stubby fingers and large flat feet.

With wide eyed excitement she looked all around them marveling at the diversity of lifeforms. There were so many of them!

She pointed to one, eyes wide, “What alien is that!”

The human turned his head to look then frowned “What do you mean?”

“That one right there!”

He frowned and looked again then laughed, “Oh well Yeb, that is a very tall human.”

“Oh, she frowned.” It sure didn’t look like any of the other humans she had seen, sure it was the same general shape, but it just looked so different that she couldn’t have been sure. But she supposed now she could see the resemblance. Like a stretched human.

“How about that one!”

The human continued to smile, “That is a human with a lot of fat, Yeb.”

“Oh….  what is that?”

“Er, like blubber but not really.”

That translated better and her ears flipped back over her head in mild understanding, “Oh, I get it, so those humans must be from cold climates, and that’s why they have insulation?”

“Not exactly.”

Her head turned and she pointed to another group, “Are all of those humans too!”

“Yes all of those are humans.”

“So pretty!” She exclaimed, they came in such interesting and new color combinations, ice white to stone ebony. Granted they all looked human, but the diversity in them was so astonishing that it was hard to believe they could all be the same species. As a biologist herself she might have assumed that maybe they were under the same classification, like fish, and how fish all sort of looked the same but that didn’t mean they were in the same biological category.

“Are they all the same subspecies?” she wondered.

“Yes.”

“Really? But they all look so different!” on her planet while they did tend to be diverse in height, their fur was generally always the same color, a grey white.

“There used to be other subspecies of humans a long time ago, but then they slowly started to die out. At the end it was only the Homo Sapiens and the Homo Neanderthalensis. Both of them coexisted for a while and even interbred but then the Neanderthal died out leaving only the Homo Sapiens with some Neanderthal DNA in certain cases,so we are all that's left, and our diverse lifestyles have given us different adaptational traits despite being the same species.”

She stared at him enthralled by this strange revelation about humans.

“For instance, in the middling areas towards the equator, things are a lot warmer and the light of the star hits the Earth directly, so humans kept their original dark skin color as protection against UV rays which can cause DNA mutations leading to cancer. A lot of times humans towards the equator tend to be taller and leaner which helps them to not overheat.”

“Your planet has a climate that diverse?”

“Yes, we can be as cold as your planet, or more than twice as hot.”

She stared wide eyed and shuddered at the thought.

“In fact, where I grew up we had seasonal changes in temperature. In the summer it was about thirty degrees hotter than the comfortable level I keep on the ship, and in the winter it could plunge to temperatures well around your home world.”

“How does anything survive in a climate so varied?”

“With air conditioning and heaters.” he said smiling, “Anyway, humans slowly began to move north, and as they did the rays of the sun couldn’t cut so easily through the atmosphere, as they were angled. That meant less UV light actually making it to earth. Problem is, humans need the sun to create certain vitamins used in the body. Darker skin helped to block the sun's rays when they become too much, but when there is less sun it isn’t so easy, and so humans developed lighter skin tones that were more vulnerable to sun damage but more easily allowed for the creation of those vitamins. In addition humans in higher climates tend to be shorter and stockier to conserve heat.”

“So…. you can tell where a human comes from?”

“You can tell where their ancestors come from.”

“So your family is from a cold climate?”

He smiled, bright white teeth showing the light above, “Yep, my ancestry stretches back to Russia, Norway, and other assorted parts of north eastern europe, but my family has lived far away from those places or the past few thousand years.” He smiled, “And yes, I can trace my lineage that far back. We’ve had pretty good record keeping for the past few thousand years considering we have internet databases stretching back about that far, and massive archives.”

“Wow/” She muttered quietly, “And I don’t even know who my mother was.”

The human raised an eyebrow at her, but by that time she had already transitioned to looking and pointing at something or someone else. She loved looking at the humans, they were so diverse and strange, and there was always something new to see. Sometimes it was their clothes sometimes it was their skin, sometimes it was their hair,

Sunny, the big blue Drev, placed a hand on the human’s shoulder in a quick gesture, “I am going to go look for the parts, I’ll get back to you in a minute ok?”

“Cool, bring me a working leg when you do.”

“She snorted but nodded and walked off,while he and the others continued onward.”

Yeb lifted her head in wide eyed wonder watching as they passed down a dark hallway from the docking bay, and then out, into an absolutely massive room. It was so large they might as well have been outside, a huge curving room in the shape of a doughnut that went around for miles and miles in either direction. Much of the ceiling above the mwas covered in some sort of see through glass structure giving her a view of space outside,and the rest of the expansive station highlighted by thousands of stars and hundreds more blinking lights.

Voices echoed and warbled all around them as hundreds and thousands of people filtered through the station like slow moving ice water. The room was so large that they had even built structures on the inside, which rose up many stories into the air glittering with colorful neon lights. She saw hundreds of aliens slipping in and out of these buildings and passing overhead on catwalks high in the air, talking, chatting and walking together.

It was all so alien and she was so excited.

She almost fell off the back of the chair as her unfit feet and hands slipped off a climbing surface. A hand steadied her from behind, “Don’t get too excited.”

She was pleased to find after that that the humans were very interested in bringing her around and showing her all of the new things. WIth her ability to eat a wide variety of food, she even got to try and taste some of their more strange concoctions, both excited and repulsed by some of them.

They walked past another shop whose brightly glowing lights attracted her like a moth to a flame and she backpedaled. Sounds pulsed and throbbed around inside her head and brightly colored pictures decorated the walls. On the inside, she watched in wide eyed fascination as one human sat patiently arm exposed, as another inked a pattern onto their skin with a whirring machine. The colors they used fluoresed under the strange blue light above.

A hand on her shoulder, “that is probably a human tradition you don’t want to experience.”

“What?”

“Tattoos, injecting ink directly into your dermal layer through use of tiny needles.”

She cringed a bit, “Why?”

“Because you can get cool pictures.”

There was a hum from beside her as one of the other humans walked up, “Maybe not the tattoo, but…” She trailed off and pointed to the other side of the room where humans were sitting in chairs leaning back as other humans painted strange chemicals on their fur. One of them stood up, and when she did, her hair was long and blue.

Yeb stared, “You change your fur color!”

“Yeah all the time.”

Adam rolled up behind them, “I don’t know if that's a good idea, we don’t know what kind of chemicals….”

“Well there is only one way to find out.”

They turned to look at her, “Want to dye some of your fur a cool color?”

She was so excited all she could manage was a squeak. The thought was so strange and exciting. There was only one fur color on her planet, to think that she could just go and change it!

Why hadn’t her people thought of this!

“YES!”

Her enthusiasm seemed to surprise them, but with smiles they were very encouraging and walked in with her as one of the humans came to greet them, “What can we do for you.”

Maverick patted Yeb on the shoulder, “Our alien friend here would like to go a different color.”

The human looked down and started with a frown, “Er…. what…. What are you. You don’t look like any Tesraki I’ve ever seen.”

“That's because she’s not. A new species, just coming into the galactic community. Anyway what do you say?”

The human paused then shrugged, “Long as you sign a waiver saying that we aren't responsible for any allergic reactions or damage to the hair of an unknown species, then sure.”

They glanced at Yeb, and she waved it off, “Let's do it!”

It was probably a horrible idea to have a team of humans not exactly known for their good life choices cheering on a naive Tricar as she chose bright neon green which was supposed to be at its brightest on the top of her hair and fade down slowly to the furn on her back.

The humans were excited all around, and she drew a small crowd as they began the process.

She probably should have been more concerned not sure what the chemicals would do to her, but nothing ventured nothing gained: that was a human expression she had learned just a few minutes ago, and she really liked it.

Warm water ran through her fur, and then a strange sticky paste was applied to it. Shehad to sit around and wait for a little bit as the color set, and then sit around some more as they washed the residual color out. When they were finally finished, she was turned to face the mirror, and her eyes went wide again.

Her grey white fur, against the bright neon green!. She turned back and forth watching the light glitter over the bright color.

“Wow.”

“Wow.”

“Wat have we done.”

“I love it!” She exclaimed, leaping out of her seat to look at herself more readily in the mirror.

She watched as Adam leaned over in his seat and passed his arm over some sort of device.

Se assumed he was paying for it and was quite pleased walking out of the shop with her new fur enjoying the eyes on her as she passed.

It wasn’t long before some of their other companions returned. Sunny turning to look at Adam with a frown, “What did you do.”

He raised his hands, “Oh come on, its harmless, na look at how happy she is. Come on.”

Sunny rolled her eyes..

“Spirits give me strength.”

Yeb capered around the group, rubbing her paws through her newly colored fur. It didn’t feel any different, but she sure FELT different.

She was sure she was going to really enjoy all these strange human things.

Then again.

She had really only experienced the good things.

It would remain to be seen if she was going to be able to handle the darker side of humanity. 

[idmakeitbehave]

This I Know {Spencer x Reader}

Chapter Four

masterlist

series table of contents

summary: a little backstory, a little panic- all in a day’s work

word count: 1.6k

July 2004

“Remind me why the hell we decided to do this in the middle of the summer? I swear it has got to be the hottest day of the year,” you grunted, sweat dripping down your back as you weaved through the hurdles.

“Crime waits for no one,” Mia huffed as she ran alongside you. “Besides, we need to beat Gomez and his squad. Show those boys who’s boss.” 

“I already beat him in hand to hand, what more could he want?”

“I think he needs a little more ass-kicking, take him down a peg,” she said.

A whistle sounded across the yard. “Ladies! Less chit-chat, more laps.”

You exchanged a look with Mia before dashing off to the track, her not far behind you. 

You were halfway through your tactical training at the Academy, and while it was the most difficult thing you had ever done, you had never been more motivated. After finishing your second degree, this one in Behavioral Psychology, you had been trying to plan your next move when you had seen them. There was a killer on the loose a town away from you, one with a penchant for young college students and ritualistic staging. You had been following the murders via the news, simultaneously worried for your own safety and fascinated by the case. A press conference caught your eye where you learned that the BAU was in town- the Behavioral Analysis Unit. You had heard of them of course, who in your field hadn’t? But it wasn’t until you attended a seminar a few months later by the man you had seen on the news, Jason Gideon, that you knew. This was what you were meant to do. You made it your life’s mission to get on that unit, whatever it took. 

Mia was one of the first classmates you met at the Academy, and the two of you had become friends almost instantly. You were paired up for one of the first drills, and you had both reveled in the fact of being the only all-female team to make it through. Your shared drive- that and your love for baking, musicals, and all things ghost related- had bonded you from that moment on. You couldn’t imagine life without her. 

You made it back to the dorm with Mia after a grueling day of defensive drills and scenarios, both drained. Flopping onto the floor beside you, she let out an exhale. “What. the. hell.”

You smirked at the way she had her arm dramatically across her forehead, her legs sticking up on the side of her bed. The feeling was completely mutual.

She propped herself up on her elbow, wiping her hair out of her face. “Aren’t you exhausted?”

“Obviously, Mee.” 

“You don’t look exhausted. You look… psychotic,” she said.

You let out a laugh, rolling your eyes. “If you’re trying to profile me, I think you might be way off.” 

“Hey now,” Mia snickered, kicking you lightly in the shin. “You’re the one who wants to be a profiler. I just want to be on the good old goon squad, busting down doors and shit. I don’t need to know anything about that psychosis crap. But either way you look psychotic.”

You looked down at your sweaty outfit, covered with grass, mud, and other various stains from the day. There was a tear in your pants from when you had tackled the mock-unsub and single-handedly taken him down during a drill, much to Gomez’s dismay. You could feel your hair matted with mud from the takedown, and you saw yourself through Mia’s eyes. The bright smile on your face definitely didn’t match just how beat up and worn out you looked, but you couldn’t seem to keep it off your face. 

“I’m just happy, Mee. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.” 

“You’re gonna do great things, buttercup.” Mia lifted a fist out to you, dramatically sighing with the effort. 

You bumped it with yours, that same grin still on your face. “We both are.”

—————

Present Day

You pressed yourself into the corner of your room, arms wrapped tightly around your legs. You could feel a panic attack coming on- your breath was coming out ragged and your vision was blurring. The events of the past few days had finally caught up to you. The compartmentalization that you so often used when things went wrong was failing you. This was just too much, more wild than you had ever had to deal with before.

What was real? Did you even know anymore? More to the point- would you ever know? The possibility that you might never remember threatened to suffocate you.

Spencer came back into the room, taking one look at you and dropping to the floor beside you. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

You started to shake, your chest heaving as you sobbed. “I can’t breathe, Spence. I-I can’t breathe. It hurts.” Hot tears ran down your face and you felt a warm hand on your cheek. 

Spencer whispered your name at first before repeating it more forcefully, turning your face towards him. “Look at me.” 

You were looking right at Spencer, but it was hard to make out his features, your vision still swimming. “It hurts,” you whispered, still gasping for air.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Spencer murmured. “You’re safe, you’re here in our apartment. You’re with me.” He meant well, of course he did, and you were sure that he had used the same words to ground you before, but given the current circumstances, it did little to help you. 

“I-I don’t know you,” you cried, the thought just serving to panic you more. “I don’t know anything.” 

A look of anguish flashed through his eyes, but he concealed it quickly- too quickly for it to be anything but forced, practiced even. “Can you breathe with me? Take a deep breath.” He counted to five, breathing in deeply and motioning for you to do the same. 

You took a shaky breath, your hand gripping the one that Spencer held on your face. You were squeezing it so hard that you were sure he must be in pain, but he made no move to remove his hand from your grasp. He repeated the breaths in and out, and you mirrored him as you tried to control your breathing. 

Spencer wiped the tears from your face as you hiccuped, choking back a sob. “What do you need?”

“I need space,” you gasped, “I need Mee.” 

Spencer nodded, handing you your phone from the bedside table. “Take another breath, angel. Call her. I’ll be right outside.” 

You grabbed your phone from him and nodded your thanks, your breaths slowly becoming steady. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading towards the bedroom door. You smiled weakly as he closed the door before dialing a number you had known by heart for the last six years.

“Oh buttercup, I’m so glad to hear from you.” The familiar voice on the other end was so immediately comforting, you heaved a sigh of relief, your arms finally relaxing around your legs.

“Mee,” you cried. “Mee, thank god.” 

“Spencer told me what happened, I was so worried about you. I’m sorry I haven’t called, I wanted to give you your space until you were ready. How are you doing?” 

“You know Spencer?” 

You hadn’t even considered the possibility, these two worlds colliding. They felt like entirely different universes. This somehow made it seem more real. If Mia knew Spencer, it was real. You desperately wanted it to be real. You needed it to be.

Mia let out a sad laugh. “Of course. You haven’t stopped talking about that boy since the day you met him. I had to meet him to give my approval, obviously.”

“Oh Mee, it’s so good to hear your voice. I can’t believe this is happening. What the hell is happening?!” You paused, considering the distance of the past two years. “We’re still friends, right? We still talk? I will never forgive myself if we’re not still friends.”

She scoffed. “Hey now, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. I’m still in the LA field office though, so we don’t see each other very often. But we talk on the phone at least every week. And we visit when we can- I met Spencer one of my first trips out there, right after you started dating.” 

“God. I wish- I wish I remembered anything.”

What had it been like- two of your favorite people meeting? You liked to imagine that it was wonderful, that Mia and Spencer had gotten along straight away. What if you never knew?

“I know, it’s gotta be a lot. I can’t even begin to imagine. But hey- Spencer said you were being your usual badass self when it happened. Not that that surprises me in the least.”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words, but we all know you’re a badass. Always have been.”

It only took a few minutes of talking with Mia for you to be able to calm down completely. The two of you talked for the better part of an hour, laughing over tales of the Academy and your time together. Mia told you a little bit about what had been happening the last two years, but you were grateful that she kept bringing it back to a time you remembered- a time you knew. The comfort of talking to someone you knew, someone you actually, truly knew, was like no other. You could have cried from the sheer relief of it. 

There was a pause before you spoke again. “Mee? Am I happy? Here, with Spencer? In this life?”

The laugh on the other end was joyous. “Of course, buttercup. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happier- even that time you kicked Gomez’s ass.” 

 “There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”-Jane Austen

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Taglist: @rexorangecouny​ @illuxions-x​ @cal-ifornication​ :)

[intheseautumnhands]

More Sorting Hat Chats

All right, I have had Daughter stuck in my head all day, and I want to talk about Abigail Hobbs.

(I basically always want to talk about Abigail Hobbs, she is my favorite television character and would make a good running for my singular favorite character ever if I could ever pick one.  If you are considering if this is an invitation, please take it as one. But, I digress.)

As I can tell, there’s been discussion of Will and Hannibal’s sortings, and nobody else in the show. I’d love to dig in and do the whole rest of the show, but I don’t feel like I’ve rewatched recently enough to do everybody. I can always talk about Abigail, though!

As I continue to be exceedingly wordy as I do these things (whoops. I tried...), under a cut it goes again.

Let’s start on the Primary. We know pretty clearly that a lot of what Abigail has done has been focused on survival above all. We know for a fact that her darkest actions were: we see her kill Boyle in self-defense, and when she’s discussing helping her father, she says outright, “I knew it was them or me.” That... doesn’t actually help narrow it down, of course, because none of the houses have a claim on survival, and you could come at that feeling from any start point. But what it points to for me is that whatever her Primary is, it’s Burnt, and probably pretty badly. She hasn’t had the ability to come at decisions from a standpoint of what’s right, or what’s good for anyone else, or hell, even what’s good for her -- it’s all about what will get me through this alive.

When she does talk about what she’s done, it all feels very instinctive: “I’m a monster.” “Some places are stained now. Some people too. I know I am.” Even this: “I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn’t feel ugly when I killed Nick Boyle. I felt good. That’s why it was so easy to lie about it.” There doesn’t seem to be any weighing or rationalizing behind it, and every time she does try to come off as doing things from a rational place, it feels extremely put on -- that first scene after she wakes up, when she talks to Alana, for example, and Alana immediately sees through her.

So, not a Bird. She could be a Lion, instinctively knowing that what she’s done for her own safety is wrong and trying to fight that feelings -- it would fit with her judgements of herself, and with how she talks to Will about killing, trying to find someone else to rationalize it for her. But: I’m going to argue that’s she’s an extremely Burned Badger Primary.

First: why Badger, not Snake, when she’s shut herself down until she’s the only person she’s looking out for and that’s basically the original definition of a Petrified Snake? Because Abigail isn’t shutting herself off from connections in general. As soon as Hannibal reaches out, Abigail doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t try to back away from that connection; she leans into it, tells him about her nightmares and trusts him when he asks her. She pushes Will away -- until she’s reassured that he’ll accept enough of what she’s done that she doesn’t have to, and then she’s so quick to accept him and talk to him about it that she almost reveals her other secret in the very next conversation we see them have. She even opens up a little to Freddie, despite the fact that she has to know that’s a bad idea.

That conversation is also one of the reasons I’m going to call Badger, not Lion -- specifically, her view on Nick Boyle sounds so hard like either depersonalizing him to make herself feel better, or trying and failing to depersonalize him to make herself feel better. “I blame Nick Boyle for Nick Boyle’s death. He killed Marissa, he got what was coming to him.” We the audience already know this isn’t true to some extent -- we’ve seen Boyle crop up in Abigail’s dream, among the girls she clearly still feels guilty about, but it doesn’t feel like something she’s saying entirely for Freddie’s benefit either. It’s so emphatic, and it’s not a lie that will necessarily make her look better -- it makes so much more sense if it’s what she wants to believe.

And then Freddie blows it up, reframes it all and makes the guilt flood back in. And it could be either Lion or Badger -- he’s no longer such a bad guy, so having killed him is no longer something she can even try to frame as okay. But, even if Boyle wasn’t a killer, it was still self-defense. Reframing who he was doesn’t necessarily reframe what happened, and the fact that it still changes her feelings on it so thoroughly is part of what makes me go to Badger instead.

She doesn’t react to Hannibal the way I imagine a Lion with all that guilt would, either. Even after she knows for certain that he’s a killer, in the 3x09 flashbacks -- even when she’s outright saying that she’s not sure it’s smart to trust or accept him, she’s not really that guarded with him. If she’s a Lion, her talk with Freddie about Boyle and her guilt for the part she played under duress in her father’s killings speaks to some pretty intense gut feelings about killing and people who have done it. I see absolutely none of that in how she talks to Hannibal immediately after he confesses to killing more people than her father.

(There is some debate about how accurate the 3x09 flashbacks are, I believe, whether they’re closer to Will’s hallucinations of Abigail than actual memories; I do think some of the details may be embellished or changed by Hannibal’s memories, but I’m going to assume they’re more accurate than not to make this easier on myself.)

There’s also what she says in the therapy flashback, and yes, it’s clearly led and influence by Hannibal, but it still appears to be her words and her emotions:

He was as good to me as he knew how to be. Hunting with him was the best time I ever had.

And there’s the simple fact that this is the tact Hannibal takes with her, over and over, which I think can be read into. Hannibal is perceptive, very good at reading and manipulating people, and over and over again, when he wants a way to connect to or manipulate Abigail, he puts himself in a position where she can mentally link him with her father and her family. The tea and the dinner in 1x04, the dinner with Freddie and comforting Abigail in the kitchen in 1x09, “You accepted your father. Would it be so difficult to accept me?” -- it’s the tact he takes with Will too, to encourage his desire to bond with Abigail, pushing him to think of the three of them as family. It makes sense if it’s because he can feel both of them looking for that connection, and knows it’ll serve his desires and plans best if they find it with him and each other.

(I don’t want to go into this too long because I’ve already talked a lot, but there’s also something so fascinating about the idea of Abigail, whose trauma is about fathers and family and girls like her, whose downfall is in who she gives her trust to, being a Badger. And that’s not, y’know, a reason to sort her that way -- but it does add a really interesting layer to her if she is one.)

Okay. Let’s see if I can do the Secondary in under a thousand words this time.

Abigail is trying so hard to perform Snake, or maybe a really fast Bird. She’s trying to manipulate, to show everything what they need to see to want to protect or help her, to have a plan, to be one step ahead of everybody else.

And she’s really, really bad at it. Because Abigail has a loud, screaming Lion Secondary that hates every second of what she’s doing. All the decisions that give her any sense of control, all the decisions that seem to come from what she wants to do instead of what she thinks is best -- going back home to confront what happened, unburying Boyle, going back with Will again in 1x12, even, to some extent, agreeing to work with Freddie -- are impulsive, and involve facing the issues instead of trying to bury them. And the biggest one of all, the thing she does to feel like she has control, unburying Boyle -- it’s the worst possible thing she could do, to try and keep herself safe, but not having to wait for it to happen, to be able to confront it head-on, is the part that matters to her.

She’s just really bad at lying in general, too. Every time she’s around somebody she likes or who knows the smallest part of her secret, she says something that hints about what else is going on. Again, the first time we see her talk to Will alone after she’s stopped trying to push him away, she almost gives it all away: “I wish I had killed him. For killing my mom. For killing all those girls, for making me...” Then there’s what she says to Jack while standing over Nick Boyle’s body, her speech about how she survived -- she’s trying to dismiss suspicion, but she can’t help some honesty leaking out even though it does nothing to help her sound innocent. Alana pegs her as trying to manipulate people and trying to be too practical in their very first conversation, that one that seems so far removed from what she’s like in private, with people she does trust to any extent.

It’s also notable that even with all her manipulation and masks being so see-through to everyone around her, she still ends up with some of that reaction she’s looking for anyway, and not just in Will’s crusade to protect her -- Alana says she can’t help but care about her as well. (You could easily argue Freddie seems to have some extent of genuine feeling towards her as well, sympathy if nothing else, though that’s more debatable. Hannibal is entirely debatable as to whether he has genuine feelings for her or not, but if you view their relationship that way, there’s that as well.) Lion Secondary’s accidental inspiration maybe, twisted and warped by that manipulative performance and the situation altogether?

In conclusion: Badly Burnt Badger Primary / Lion Secondary (probably at least somewhat burnt, or at least repressed) with inexpert Snake and Bird Performances layered on top.

[popsicletheduck]

secrets written in our blood

A Sanders Sides Fantasy AU

chapter three: to catch the unsaid In which a prince, a bard, and a healer live, lie, and leave.

pairings: none chapter warnings: implied/referenced character death, blood mention words: 3092 check reblogs for link to AO3

When Patton woke up, he was cold. Not like what was around him was cold, but that he was cold inside himself. Like there was snowmelt settled around where his stomach and heart and lungs were. It wasn't an entirely pleasant sensation, but it was better than the constant aching burn and warring chill from before. Curling into himself, he groped blindly for some source of warmth. A moment later, he felt rough wool brush against his hand and the weight of a blanket spread on top of him. "Lie still," a stern voice said. "Your body requires rest after the trauma it underwent." Patton complied, mostly, but he did crack an eye and crane his neck to try and see where he was and who was speaking. The room was dark, with just a faint line of sunlight peeking through a set of heavy wooden shutters. The dark expanse of a sod roof stretched overhead, stone walls around. A few rough pieces of furniture were arranged around the single room: a long table, two chairs, a single cupboard, and the thin bed Patton was lying on. A long rack of drying herbs hung from the ceiling, the air suffused with their medicinal smell. A spare set of dark clothes on a peg near the bed, a few pots and dishes stacked on the mantle, barrels of provisions and neat stacks of wood in the corner. There was only one other person in the room, an older man sitting in one of the chairs near the embers in the fireplace. He was handsome in a severe sort of way, all sharp angles and corners. His hair had one likely been dark but was now speckled salt and pepper and carefully brushed back, save for a single strand that curled near one temple. A small pair of glasses was perched on his nose and a book sat open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. His rather intense gaze was fixed on Patton. "I told you to lie still," he said.

"I am, I just needed to see." He’d been pretty sure he hadn’t been dead, but it hadn’t hurt to check. If this was the afterlife, it wasn’t anything like what the tapestries and stained glass showed, so probably not, Patton thought with a scrunch of his nose. "You are in my home,” the man said, as if he could read Patton’s thoughts. “Your companion brought you here after your unfortunate run in with bandits." Patton let his head fall back against the pillow. "Is he okay?" "My assistant saw to him, I am certain he is fine." A strange little laugh escaped him. "You know, I didn't even get his name. He saved my life, and I don't even know his name." The healer shifted in his chair. "Any necessary gratitude can wait. You need more rest." "I can't even thank you?" With an abrupt snap he closed the book and stood, turning away to tuck it away deep inside one of the cupboards. "I simply did my duty as a- as a healer. No thanks are required." "I didn't know magic was part of the bag of tricks of ordinary healers these days." Patton saw the man stiffen, his shoulders tensing and the line of his back straightening ramrod straight. He didn’t turn around as he spoke, the words flat and lacking any sort of emotion. "Magic is illegal.” “I know, but-” “Do I appear to be of the criminal sort?” “Well not really, but-” “Then I would advise you to refrain from such accusations. Your wound appeared far more severe than it was. Please do not insult my skill by insisting on a supernatural explanation.” Patton let his head fall back against the pillow. “I didn’t get your name either,” he said softly. A long moment passed, heavy with a tension that Patton was far too familiar with. Uncertainty weighed like empty pockets and empty fists. “Logan,” the healer said finally. “And you are?” “Patton.” “You need to sleep, Patton.” “I know.” Already his eyes were beginning to grow heavy. Like magic. When he slept, it was deep and dreamless. But when he woke again, this time to an empty room, something lingered around the edges of his consciousness. An itch in the back of his brain, an awareness he didn’t have words for, a shadow where there hadn’t been any light before. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but was strange, and as Patton fiddled with the edge of the blanket, he wondered about laws and magic and empty buildings with barricaded windows.

Logan missed writing. Parchment was far too expensive all the way out here, and his homemade ink was poor quality. No longer did he have the luxury of writing to sort the thoughts in his head or recording any passing fancy. But he could not entirely leave his past behind, even if he was now forced to hide from it. So by the light of a single candle, he carefully opened to a half filled page in one of the three precious books he still owned: a gelaerath lachnun, roughly translated as a guide of healing. It had been luck he had been carrying it with him that day, the accumulated knowledge of several lifetimes, but as Logan recorded in precise shorthand his recent procedure and effects, he once again could find only the most bittersweet gratitude that the book remained in his possession. It was no longer meant to be his. “Who are you writing to?” Patton asked. Logan glanced up sharply. He’d believed his unexpected guest to still be sleeping since his home had been quiet, and Logan was quickly learning that the bard was only quiet when he was sleeping or eating. Indeed, his speech was slurred in the way that suggested he’d just woken, eyes blinking blearily. “Myself. Or,” he added, a touch bitter, “possibly no one.” “Why do you write to no one?” Logan set his quill aside, making sure the ink wouldn’t drip onto the table. The question had been an honest one, if a bit sleep touched, and honest questions deserved careful answers. “The preservation of knowledge for future generations is vital, even if no one reads it,” he said. “The act of recording is the important thing, connecting us to a chain that stretches back to the earliest humans exchanging information by oral tradition.” Patton was quiet after that, probably fallen back asleep, and Logan picked up his quill again. Patient appears to have suffered no ill effects, but continual monitoring will- “Have you always been this lonely?” This time Logan didn’t stop writing. “I am not lonely. My work requires solitude for a clear mind. Interruptions are a detriment. It is… better this way.” “Wouldn’t it be even more better if you could actually talk to people instead of writing to no one?” The memory of watching Jeul in the laboratory, deep in examination of a cadaver, the spark of investigation clinging to their fingers and fascination in their eye. “No. It’s better this way.” The best lies always contained a piece of the truth.

It was three days before Roman was allowed back on his feet again, under watch by a surprisingly stubborn Florrie and her equally watchful aunt, Imayn. Not that he was unoccupied during that time. Imayn was caretaker to all eight of her late sister’s children, and there was always something around the house that needed mending or fixing or scrubbing, and every hand was needed. But after a particularly disastrous attempt at sewing, Imayn had simply looked at him and shook her head. After that, Roman was put in charge of keeping an eye on the three youngest: Emelyne, who was five, Col, who was three, and Tom, who was two. Sitting in the sun in front of their small house, Roman taught them games he’d once played with his brother and told them stories his mother had once told him and smiled even when he felt like crying. The fourth morning, Roman woke in the dark hours before dawn, nightmares clinging to his skin like saltwater. But for the first time in fourteen years, it hadn’t been his brother’s dead face staring up at him with reproach. It’d been Patton’s. He’d asked, of course, when Florrie had tried to pull him away, tried to protest. But the girl had just set her shoulders and answered bluntly, “He’s gonna die. But my ma died two years back and he, Master Logan, don’t want me to see it again. So I’m looking after you and you’ll not complain.” And his heart had ached at losses new and old and he’d let himself be led away. Roman told himself he’d already known the outcome. He told himself he’d done everything he possibly could’ve. But in the predawn chill, the burn of his failure scalded. He couldn’t save anyone. And he was supposed to be king? Sick of the constant pricking of tears behind his eyes, Roman shoved himself up from the pallet in the corner. For a moment he thought his leg would give out again, but he steadied himself against the wall and the weakness passed. The hour was earlier enough that even his minders were still asleep, and he was tired of waiting. He’d say his goodbyes and he’d put this town behind him and he’d be the best godsdamn king Cerenth had ever seen, Merina fucking bless him. Stormheart nickered at him as he saddled her, stopping occasionally to lean against her to take the weight off his bad leg. “Shush,” he whispered, “Imayn will have my head if she knows I’m up. But we can’t stay here forever, can we?” The horse didn’t answer him, of course. But she didn’t make any more noise as he led her around the back of the village, cutting through gardens and struggling up the side of the hill when necessary. Roman didn’t exactly feel like announcing his departure. But there was one place he had to stop first.

In the gathering dawn, the symbol for a healer, one of the deity Gati’s ravens, painted in white on Logan's door seemed to nearly glow against the dark. Roman didn’t hesitate, knocking as loudly as he dared. He knew he would be waking the healer, but he didn’t care. He had to know what had happened to the body. A moment where he stood alone in the silence of the world, the only breathing thing in the stillness. And then the sound of movement from inside, footsteps on packed earth, and the door opened. Roman felt all the air leave his body at once. “Oh, hi!” Patton whisper shouted. “I’m so glad you came by, I didn’t get a chance to thank you before and I was worried you might’ve left town already.” Roman replied dumbstruck, “You’re alive.” He smiled, as genuine as when he had been bleeding out in the middle of the road. “I sure am! Thanks to you, and to Logan.” As if on cue the healer stepped up behind Patton, straightening his glasses. His prim mannerisms reminded Roman of stuffy, overly pompous nobles from his childhood, made even more ridiculous by his uncombed hair and nightshirt tucked into a pair of breeches. “May I enquire as to the nature of this visit? It is still quite early.” “Why didn’t you tell me Patton was alive?” He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, the flaring of a temper that had on more than one occasion led to a brawl in the inn yard. His heart clenched and his hands along with it. The bard’s eyes flicked quickly between him and Logan. “Why don’t we all step inside,” he suggested, “to have this conversation?” Logan nodded sharply. “A good idea. Close the door behind you.” Roman complied, even as every fiber of his being rebelled against being told what to do by some village nobody. But the pleading look Patton shot him had him biting the inside of his cheek and not quite slamming the door. Logan gestured for the two of them to take the room’s two chairs. Patton plopped into one, while Roman stubbornly remained standing, though his injury throbbed. Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, loosely steepling his fingers in front of him. “My apologies for not informing you on Patton’s condition,” he said, infuriatingly cool and composed, “I had deduced that the two of you had merely happened upon each other on the road and as such you had little to no concern for his well being.” “He nearly died in my arms! I would’ve at least like to know that he wasn’t dead!” Roman was trying to keep himself from shouting, but it was only halfway successful. He wanted to hit something, to shatter Logan’s stupid little glasses right off his face. A soft touch against his arm, like cool rainwater fizzling against hot embers. Patton looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve found you. That was an awful way to repay what you did for me.” “I don’t blame you,” Roman said, at the same time Logan remarked, “It would’ve been inadvisable for you to leave bed.” An unreadable glance passed between them, an acknowledgement neither wanted to acknowledge. Roman turned back to Patton instead, asking,“You really are okay?” The little bard put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Fit as a fiddle and ready for the road!” he declared. It was Roman’s turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “You nearly died not even four days ago and you’re ready to go back to traveling alone, where you’ll be just as enticing a target for more bandits?” Patton had deflated as he spoke, and now glanced up sheepishly, scuffing a foot against the floor. “Well, since you’re here now, I was sorta hoping I could travel with you?” The feeling that fluttered through Roman’s chest was unfamiliar, a sensation he didn’t have words for, but decidedly not unpleasant. “Of course! That is, if you are good to travel.” Logan exhaled a long sigh through his nose. “More time to rest would be optimal, but if you are determined to set out today, you should take it slow and rest as often as you need. Do not push yourself.” “Thanks, Logan,” Patton smiled. “You know, you should come with us.” The abrupt change startled a “What?” from Roman. Logan appeared similarly puzzled, his brow creasing as he stared at Patton as if he could discern an answer by sight alone if he looked long enough. “I don’t even know where you’re going,” he said slowly. “I have a life here. I can’t just leave.” “You just seemed so lonely, and I thought that maybe…” Patton trailed off, as though a thought was finally occuring to him. Turning to Roman, he asked “Where are we going?” Oh. Oh. Why had he never thought of an answer to that? True, he hadn’t expected to have any companions on this journey, but someone had been bound to ask eventually. He should’ve prepared for this. “I have family in the Greyspines, and I just got word that my uncle died because there’s some monster out there hunting them so I’m going to help.” Not the worst lie he’d ever told. Probably not the best, either. Patton’s eyes were wide with sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry, you were already dealing with all of that and then I dragged you into this.” “No, no,” Roman hurried to reassure him, “I couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?” His eyes flickered to Logan, and suddenly he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. The man’s gaze was distinctly calculating. Logan knew, Roman felt with sick certainty, that he was lying. He waited for an accusation, for a demand for the truth that Roman decidedly couldn’t give. His hand tensed, straying towards where his father’s sword hung at his waist. He watched Logan’s gaze follow the movement, a shift in the healer’s expression that for the life of him he couldn’t read. “I’ll go with you,” Logan said suddenly, breaking one of the longest moments of Roman’s life. “You will?” Patton gasped with delight, hands flying to the sides of his face. “Yes,” Logan replied, absently straightening one of his sleeves. “Florrie is well trained enough in herbcraft to serve the needs of the village, and if the beast in the Greyspines is killing people, there will likely be those injured who need a skilled healer.” Roman wanted nothing more in that moment than to grab the older man by the shoulders, shake him, and demand to know what was going on. He had been so certain Logan had seen through his lie, but if so, why double down on it? They were both near strangers to each other. What did Logan gain in helping him save face? “I do insist, however,” Logan continued, and here it was, some sort of deal, a price for keeping his mouth shut, “since we will be traveling together, that you tell us your name, since you have neglected to do so before.” “Oh. It’s Rey.” Logan nodded, apparently satisfied. Patton smiled at him again. Could it all actually be that simple?

“Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, He will slay you with his tongue, oh lei, oh lai, oh.” Patton’s clear voice rang out in the sunshine as he strolled and strummed his lute, somehow keeping perfect time even if he wasn’t quite watching where he was going. Logan walked just behind, seemingly lost in his thoughts, but every now and then he would reach out to nudge Patton away from a particularly large stone in the path. From atop Stormheart’s back, Roman could see the miles ahead of them, winding off into the horizon. But now the long stretch didn’t hold the menace it once did, the wind battered landscape no longer quite so dreary, and he found himself smiling. In the light of day with friendly faces at his side, it was easy to believe that everything would work out just fine. “There will come a ruler whose brow is laid with thorns, Smeared with blood like holy oil, oh lei, oh lai, oh lore, Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, Smeared with blood like holy oil, oh lei, oh lai, oh lore. Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai, oh.”

[drlauralwalsh]

The Lusty World of Lesbian Widows

I’m really frustrated that COVID has gotten in the way of my grief achievements.  I figured 3 months in, I’d be doing the television talk show circuit, sold my book, and set up a non-profit foundation.  If only this pandemic hadn’t gotten in my way.

In my life before, if I spent too much time alone (like, over 4 hours), I’d start texting my sister-in-law that I was unsupervised and feral.  Uh oh.  I’d start going down rabbit holes and come up with weird stuff like how buff male kangaroos get.  Or questioning if my parents were really married since I couldn’t find a record of their union in the limited online databases. I could have paid for real records but I’m cheap.  I know, sounds crazy.  

But now, I’m alone for long stretches of time.  I’ve managed to channel some of this agitated energy into writing essays that speak to weirdos like me (shout out to my fellow weirdos!).  I spend hours researching (me-searching as we said in grad school) and discovering overachieving methods to dam the waters of my new spouse-less life.

I’m not just your average widow.  Oh no no no.  Of course, I have to be special so allow me to tack on some extra layers - lesbian, stepmom, and young (-ish, right?).  At 45, I have finally found a way to inch back towards the youth and relevance lost as you enter the fourth decade of life.  Today, I’d like to let you into the wonders of lesbianism.

I’m going to assume you’re not submerged in this subculture so I’ll tell you some secrets.  People are fascinated by lesbians.  To be fair, we live pretty mysterious lives.  We leave you hanging on profound questions like who takes out the trash and how do they have sex without a woody woodpecker? Sometimes, other communities get lumped in with us but they are actually quite different.  Of these witches, spinsters, and women who wear comfortable shoes, I only belong to only one of those so far.  I’m working on my stovetop skills and hope to someday conjure a penis.  Not a real one; that would be weird.

Amazon’s book market best represents the variable interests of our fan club members.  Right after my wife died, I launched a search for books on “lesbian widows.”  You’d think the algorithms would have pegged me by now (ha ha).  I was dismayed yet amused by the grand interpretation of what Amazon thought I meant.  The following is an unedited list of the top books recommended for me to purchase under these auspicious terms:

Lesbian Widows: Invisible Grief

by Victoria Whipple (Kindle $25.98, Paperback $46.95, Hardcover $907.71)

I’m impressed that the first one actually included my search terms but dang, it’s expensive to be a lesbian widow.  To be fair, you can rent it for $9.21 a month.  It’s also terribly niche within an already  small niche - invisible lesbian widows?  Published in 2014, you’d think it would be a little more hip.  Maybe it’s because I live in Chicago but even as an introvert, I’m decently visible.  Still, glad it exists and appeals to all eight people who each gave it a 5-star rating.

The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows: Feminine Pursuits

by Olivia Waite (Kindle $3.99, Paperback $6.99)

I must quote the basic plot description for you to get the full impact of this novel: “The last thing the widow wants is to be the victim of a thousand bees. But when a beautiful beekeeper arrives to take care of the pests, Agatha may be in danger of being stung by something far more dangerous…”  The cover depicts said wapish widow sit/leaning against her handsome, pants suit-clad beekeeper.  At the much less expensive price for kindle and paperback, I’m only slightly put off by labeling bees as pests.

Odd women?: Spinsters, lesbians and widows in British women's fiction, 1850s–1930s

by Emma Liggins (Kindle $73.24, Hardcover $95.00)

The period is a little off but at least it includes diverse, international women.  I was looking for a self help book but this seems slightly more academic.  Not sure why there’s a question mark in the title as there’s no question about our oddity.  The description reads, “Women outside heterosexual marriage in this period were seen as abnormal, superfluous, incomplete and threatening, yet were also hailed as ‘women of the future’.”  Aw shucks, I *am* ahead of my time.  Dang that price tag!  No renting option for this one.

The Grass Widow

by Nanci Little (Kindle $0.00, Paperback $14.95)

It’s unclear where we’ll find the lesbian widow in this 2010 novel but the description yields some mild foreshadowing: “As a familiar civilization fades into the distance, she is nineteen, unmarried and pregnant, and has no reason to think that the year 1876 won't be her last...Joss, in her brother's clothes and severely lacking in social graces, has no time to mollycoddle a pampered, pregnant New England lady. It's work or starve, literally. There are no servants, no laborers - just a failing farm, impending winter and the two of them to face it together.”  It sounds like the shameless Joss needs her own dose of mollycoddling (wink, wink) to get through the chilly nights.

Her Widow

by Joan Alden (Paperback $18.00)

More popular with 10 people giving it an almost stellar rating, this tomb’s immodest summary insists it belongs on every bookshelf.  YOU WILL PAY ATTENTION TO US!  That’s how I read it.  Seriously, of all the books this one comes the closest to what I actually wanted.  Waiting for the kindle unlimited edition….(having no man money makes us frugal).

Made For You 3

by K. Shantel (Kindle $4.99)

Apparently, Made For You 1 and 2 were not as popular. Despite the fair price, this tale omits widows opting for the groundbreaking combination of lesbian romance and football.  While tragedy surely threads through this plot, it falls short of crossing the threshold from football to death (it probably does).  Shocker, I defy the sporty lesbian trope and instead prefer to spend time among my vast, treasured collection of power tools.  Just to be clear, I mean the ones for home repair (get your mind out of the gutter!)  If the lady protagonists of this book had been thrown together building a Habitat for Humanity house with their 10 dogs using only their Subaru to transport lumber, I might be more captivated.

The Lady's Guide to Celestial Mechanics, Book 1 of 1: Feminine Pursuits Series

by Olivia Waite (Kindle $3.99, Paperback $6.99)

I’ll give the author the benefit of believing there are more to come in the series. The title of this one intrigues me (I may steal it later) but sadly, it also defaults to worn stereotypes.  This collection of lesbian tropes finds my kin scoring yet another toaster for the conversion of a hapless straight lady.  Lesbians for the win!  Lady Reads-A-Lot gave it 5 stars and commented, “This was poetic and lovely, full of beautiful descriptions that knew exactly how to leave you breathless and then stop just before tipping into tedious.”  I’m guessing she means the sex scenes?  If you’ve ever watched any real lesbian porn, you know that it’s far better for the participants than the viewers.

Erotica: The Forbidden Adventures Of A Grieving Widow (Seduction, Lust, Lesbian Sex, Interracial Sex, Bondage and More)

by Amy King (Kindle $0.00)

This one is hands down, my favorite title and you can’t beat the price.  The author keeps the marketing short to sell you her novel: “All Ava wanted was to erase the memory of her recently departed husband. Little did she know that in trying to do so, she would experience mind-blowing adventures and lust across the globe. Ava would never be the same again as she ravenously eats up whatever adventure blows her way.”  Even though it’s another toaster novel, as a grieving widow ‘ravenously eats up’ does resonate.  I don’t think she means jars of cookie butter.

Of the eight masterpieces on the list, five are romance novels, one is academic, and two are in the ballpark (excuse the sports metaphor).  Scrolling further only yields more erotica including another novel titled, “Football Widows (lesbian)” by Amanda Mann and Deadlier Than the Male Publications.  Now I get it that we make up a small percentage of the population but this is some seriously messed up shit.  

Removing the lesbian and searching only for ‘widow’ yields twenty pages of books. I know what you’re thinking - “C’mon Laura, what’s the big deal?  Just get the standard widow book.”  And believe me, I’ve amassed quite the collection and am waiting for just the right intersection of not too devastated but ready to sob.  Bear with me for a sec - think about how we just want to be seen when we’re at our lowest.  When I first typed those words into the search bar, I just wanted something that used wife instead of husband.  

Every grief has specific salient elements and it’s too super niche to touch on all at the same time.  It would be weird and/or maybe nice to find another lesbian widow stepmom psychologist who lost her cop wife of almost 5 years to a PTSD-induced psychotic break and suicide.  That’s a Subaru full of identities.  If this person did exist, I’d be suspicious we’re the target on Incel trolls, longing to read the words of more seductive, witchy lesbians.  Instead, I plan on taking the high road.  I’ll get my knowledge and support from those who accept me by the category.  Obviously, one out of one lezzies agree there’s a market for lesbian widow self help guides - at the right price.  I may still write that book but if I want to get rich, I’ll definitely have to add more sex scenes.

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: Emma (Chapter 4)

Notes: Thank you as always for your comments and feedback, though I confess I've been a bit taken aback by the vehement reaction to Emma and Walsh's cursed marriage. It seems that people hate Walsh in a much more visceral way than I anticipated.  

I do truly appreciate all of you who are reading this, and especially those who have made supportive and encouraging comments. I’m really putting a lot into this one in terms of style, plot, and detail, and it’s hard not to get discouraged when I pour blood and sweat into something only to have everyone focus on one tiny thing. So to ease your minds, here is our first chapter from Emma’s POV. I think it will go a long way towards assuaging your fears about her circumstances under the curse. If you are considering bailing on this fic because of the Emma/Walsh situation, I would ask you please to read this chapter before you make a final decision.  

As before, there are allusions to cursed relationships, and a potentially distressing scene of aggression within a cursed marriage. 

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M

Tagging: @teamhook @wellhellotragic @rouhn @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615@tiganasummertree @let-it-raines @bonbonpirate @thejollyroger-writer @lfh1962

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please let me know!

Read it on AO3

Emma: 

Emma hesitated outside the door of the old cannery. She wasn’t quite certain of why she was there, or the reason behind the irresistible compulsion she felt to see its disconcertingly attractive new owner again. He had invited her to come by, though of course he’d meant later— the bookstore wasn’t even open yet. But Emma hadn’t been able to wait. Two days had passed since they’d met, since that brief but oddly intense conversation in Granny’s, and she had been unable to get Killian Jones and his son out of her head. Something about them, about him, pulled at her, and it wasn’t just his striking looks, not even the beautiful blue eyes with their expression of profound, compelling sadness. It was something deeper. She felt somehow as though she knew him, and more astoundingly that he knew her, better than anyone, better even than her own husband. Although, she thought with a small start, as though the idea had only just occurred to her, Walsh barely even took the trouble to speak to her these days, much less keep up with what was going on in her life. She’d been meaning to talk to him about that, she remembered suddenly. Yes. She’d been meaning to talk to him about a lot of things, but when the time came to do so she always seemed to forget. Tonight, she promised herself, making a mental note. Tonight they would finally talk. She wouldn’t forget this time.

Gathering her courage, Emma reached for the doorknob with her right hand, the palm of which still tingled from her brief handshake with Killian two days ago, and as she opened the door she remembered how the night before last her sleep had been troubled by disturbing dreams. She could recall only wisps of them, but she was certain he had been in them, he and his eyes, doing things to her that she couldn’t bear to think about in the light of day. Things she couldn’t bear to admit she had loved. 

She really should stay far away from him. And yet here she was, in his shop. 

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, gasping at the sight before her. The room was simply lovely, bright and airy, with sunlight pouring in through the wide windows, dancing across the exposed brick walls and the antique looking dark-wood shelves that stood tall in four distinct sections around the room.  A heavy mahogany desk sat opposite the door, elegantly carved with nautical designs: ships and storms, mermaids and other sea creatures she couldn’t put a name to, all rendered in exquisite detail. Atop it was an antique metal cash register, as elegantly decorated as the desk, sitting alongside, Emma was amused to note, a decidedly modern portable card reader attached to an iPad. Someone had a taste for the ancient but enough sense to appreciate the modern, she thought.

She was so caught up in admiration of her surroundings that she didn’t notice Killian’s arrival until he spoke. 

“Swan?” The sound of his voice seemed to wrap around her, as deep and sonorous as she remembered, almost caressing her name. She turned to see him standing at the foot of the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“Um,” she said, feeling abruptly hot and itchy. How was it possible that he could be even better looking than she remembered? Admittedly she hadn’t really had a good look at Granny’s, though she had definitely noticed his face, but now as he stood by the black wrought-iron staircase that wound in a perfect helix up to a hole in the ceiling, his expression briefly unguarded and searingly intense, she had an opportunity to ogle. 

He wore dark grey trousers in a soft woolen twill and an equally soft looking v-neck sweater in a shade of blue that made his eyes stand out even more. A tuft of dark hair peeked out just above the vee, and the itch in Emma’s palm flared to life again with the desire to touch it, to touch him. Everything about him seemed so eminently touchable. The sweater clung to his lean frame just tightly enough to show how fit he was, and his hair was tousled in a way that looked both deliberate and as though it could have been caused by fingers being run through it in the heat of passion. 

What? Emma shook herself. Where the hell did that come from? Remember you’re married. And it’s not like you know anything about the heat of passion, anyway. At least, that’s what Walsh always told her, what he always gave as an excuse for why he didn’t want to touch her. She was cold, he said. Too hard. Not enough. She forced back those thoughts, promising herself once again that she would sit down with Walsh that evening and discuss the problems in their marriage. She dreaded it, but she had to try. They couldn’t go on much longer like this. 

“Uh,” she tried again to respond to Killian’s question. “You said I should come by.” 

“So I did, though I didn’t expect you quite so soon. I’m afraid we’re not open yet.” 

“Yeah, sorry, it was stupid,” she said, turning away. “I was just passing and I thought— never mind, I’ll go—”

“No!” She looked back at him, startled at the vehemence in his voice. He flushed faintly pink and reached up to rub at a spot behind his right ear. “No, you don’t have to go. Please don’t, in fact. I’d be happy to, um, give you a tour? If you’d like.” 

He looked hesitant but also eager, like he really, really wanted her to stay. She smiled. It felt like a long time since anyone had actually desired her company. 

“Okay,” she said, a bit shyly. “I’d like that.” 

A bright smile broke across his face, warm and soft and with just a hint of something wicked beneath it. For a moment Emma forgot to breathe. God, he’s gorgeous.

“Well, why don’t we start here?” he said, coming to stand beside her and indicating the near corner of the room with his left arm. His sleeve was pushed up slightly and she could see the seam where his prosthetic hand joined his arm. She realised with surprise that she hadn’t noticed the other day that he was missing his left hand. He’s missing his left hand. Why did that fact seem so significant to her? It tickled at the back of her mind, like something she needed to remember but couldn’t quite pull from her subconscious. 

“So we’re still waiting on some inventory, but you can see the general layout of the shop,” he was saying. “Reference material is here at the front, with theory guides just here behind it. The practical manuals we have to be a bit more careful with, so they’re back in this corner, some of them will be locked in a special glass cupboard, available on request only. Then here in this corner we have the historical context.” 

Emma frowned, looking more closely at the titles of the books that already graced the shelves. Rare volumes, he’d said the other day, but these were all—

“These are books of magic!” she cried. 

“Oh, aye, did I not mention? That’s our specialty. Books of and about magic.”

She started to laugh, then trailed off when she noticed he didn’t join her. “But you’re not serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Books of magic.” 

“And about magic, aye.” 

“But— magic isn’t real.” 

“There are quite a number of people who would disagree with that assessment, Sheriff.”

“And you’re one of them?” Her voice was rife with disbelief.

“Aye,” he replied, and the sincerity in his face and tone were unmistakable. “I am.” 

She shook her head. “I would never have pegged you as someone with an interest in the occult. You seem so, I dont know, practical.” 

“Oh, I’m very practical, love, but that doesn’t mean I can’t believe in magic.” 

She wanted to deny his words, really it was so absurd, but she realised with another start of surprise that she was genuinely interested, almost despite herself, curious to the point of fascination. “Will you tell me about them?”

He exhaled deeply, almost as if he had been holding his breath waiting for her reaction, and gave her another dazzling smile. “It would be my pleasure.” 

Nearly two hours later they were sitting on the floor surrounded by books, and Emma’s head was buzzing with stories of witches and wizards, covens and cults, fascinating details concerning the history and practice of magical arts.  She felt like she had learned more in that short time than she had before in the whole of her life. Of course, her earlier education had been… it had been… what? She couldn’t recall. Frowning, she tried to remember where she had gone to school, the names of her teachers, fellow classmates, anything, but it was all a blank. 

“Emma?” She turned to see Killian looking at her inquiringly. “Are you all right, love?”

She should really object to that ‘love’, she knew, but couldn’t bring herself to. She liked it. It made her feel warm inside. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit distracted.” 

He nodded, and reached out to close one of the books. “We’ve been talking for a long time,” he said. “Perhaps we could take a break?”

She watched carefully as he used the prosthetic hand to close the book. The hand moved, she noticed, clearly it had some sort of mechanism operating it, but he seemed to mange it awkwardly, as though not quite used to it. She wondered how long he’d had— “When did you lose your hand?” she blurted, then flushed. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.” 

He looked startled, then smiled. “No, it’s fine. It’s been so long, I don’t mind speaking of it anymore.”

“How long?”

“Oh, years and years.” 

“What happened? Er, if you don’t mind me asking.” 

“Not at all. It was stupid, really. I was young, I got in a fight. Over a woman. Woke up the next day with no hand.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

He shrugged. “Like I said it was years ago.” 

“Mmmmm.” 

“What is it, Swan?” He looked almost expectant, like he knew the gears were turning in her head and was excited to see what they would spit out. She felt again the odd, unfamiliar sensation of being the focus of genuine interest. He truly seemed to care about what she had to say, for no reason other than that she was saying it. 

“It’s just— well, you don’t seem very comfortable with the artificial one. If it’s been so long, I guess I would have thought you’d be more used to it by now.” 

“Ah, well that’s explained easily enough. I lost my hand so long ago that the prosthetics that were available to me at the time were, um, let’s say primitive. This one however is quite new. State of the art, they tell me. It works by interacting with the electrical impulses in my muscle fibres, apparently. So you see, until quite recently I had a much simpler one, and this one, while far better in many ways, is taking a bit of time to adjust to.”

Every word he spoke was the truth, she could detect no dishonesty in his face or manner, yet she sensed it wasn’t the whole story either. He was leaving out important details. And she wondered why. 

As he spoke he adjusted the prosthetic with his right hand, drawing her attention to the thick, engraved silver band he wore on its ring finger. A wedding ring? she wondered. It must be. A man with no left hand would naturally wear his wedding band on his right, wouldn’t he? Especially if until recently he’d worn a simpler prosthesis, one with no fingers. 

She wondered, and not for the first time, about Henry’s mother. Killian’s face when he’d spoken of her in Granny’s had worn for a brief moment such a devastated expression, her loss must still be fresh and painful for him. In a weird way that made her feel better about having sought him out and spent so long talking with him. She was married, he a grieving widower, what harm could there be in a friendship between them? She certainly wouldn’t have to worry about anything coming of the fierce attraction she felt for him. Even if he felt it too, he would never act on it. He was very obviously still in love with his wife, and Emma somehow knew beyond any doubt that he was not a man to betray those he loved. 

“So, um, it’s ah, lunchtime,” he said, scratching behind his ear again. “And it seems we both could use a break. Would you care to join me? For some lunch?”

“Sure, I guess. Where were you going to go?”

“I—, uh, we live upstairs,” he gestured towards the staircase. “The third floor is a loft apartment, I was just going to go up and make a sandwich.” 

Alone with him in his apartment. Emma’s heart thundered. “A sandwich sounds great,” she managed to say. “Can you do grilled cheese?”

His face twisted for a moment into the strangest expression, half blissful happiness, half like he wanted to cry. “I can,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s my son’s favourite.” 

“In that case, I’d love to join you.” 

The grilled cheese was perfect, exactly the way she liked it. She told him as much, and was rewarded with another half-delighted, half-sad expression. “I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch,” he said, almost to himself. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Grilled cheese is— Henry’s mother’s favourite as well,” he said quietly. “Since we lost her we don’t make it as often as we used to.”

Emma didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so she crunched her sandwich in slightly awkward silence as he busied himself at the stove, avoiding looking at him until he slid a cup in front of her. “What’s this?” she asked in surprise. 

“Traditional Jones family accompaniment to grilled cheese,” he replied. 

She picked up the mug and inhaled over it. “Hot chocolate with— is that cinnamon?”

“Aye. It’s a bit odd I’ll grant you, and if I’m honest I prefer it plain, but that’s how Henry likes it.”

“Seriously? You’re telling me your son likes cinnamon on his hot chocolate.” 

“Aye.” He seemed to be watching her carefully. 

“Grilled cheese and hot chocolate with cinnamon is my favourite lunch,” she said. “You’re basically telling me that I have the same tastes as your thirteen year old kid.” 

“Would it help if I confessed to an affinity for it as well?” he asked, his face deadpan but with amusement twinkling in his eyes. 

“It might.” 

“Very well, I confess it, but you mustn’t ever tell Henry. I’d never get him to eat a vegetable again if he thought he could wheedle grilled cheese out of me every night.” 

“It’s a deal.” 

The earlier awkwardness was dispelled, and as Killian sat down to eat his sandwich Emma sipped her chocolate —it too was perfect— making it last as long as possible. There was no way she could justify staying any longer once lunch was over, and she didn’t want to go. She felt comfortable with Killian, and happy, things she couldn’t remember feeling in a long, long time. Later she knew she would need to analyse these feelings, but for now she simply wished to feel them. 

When the last drop was finally drained she set the cup down on the counter, then realised it might be nice if she took it to the sink instead and went to pick it up again, at the same time as Killian reached for it himself. Her hand closed around it first followed a second later by his, his fingers linking with hers in a way that felt so natural that it didn’t even occur to her to question it, simply laughing lightly as they released the cup but not each other’s hands. His thumb caressed her bare ring finger. “You don’t wear a wedding ring,” he said softly. 

She could barely breathe her heart was pounding so hard, the gentle movements of his thumb sending sparks coursing up her arm, reverberating through her whole body. “Um,” she said, trying to think. “No, I — I have one of course, but I don’t wear it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Er.” She tried to remember. There was a reason, surely? “I can’t with— with my job. It gets in the way.” Yes, that must be it. 

“Ah.” Something in his tone suggested he didn’t quite believe her, but before she could reply he had released her hand and turned away, picking up the mug and putting it in the sink. 

“I like yours though,” she said abruptly. Where did that come from? 

“What?” He turned, giving her an odd look. 

“Your wedding ring.” She reached out and took his hand again, this time caressing the silver band upon the third finger with her own thumb. “It is a wedding ring, isn’t it?”

He cleared his throat. “Aye.” 

“Henry’s mother.” It wasn’t a question and so required no answer, but he gave one anyway. “Aye.” The sadness was back in his voice, this time untempered by any joy.

Emma smiled, feeling suddenly swamped by sadness herself. She felt such a connection to this man, unlike anything she’d ever felt before, and she hated to think of him hurting. 

Briefly she allowed herself a rare, uncharacteristic moment of self-indulgence to wonder what it would be like to be loved as devotedly as Killian loved his wife. To be loved even after she was gone. To have such an emotion, from such a man. Swallowing back tears, she looked up at him. “She had good taste. This is exactly the sort of ring I would have chosen.” 

“She’s an extraordinary woman,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes blazing with it. 

Emma nodded, wishing she knew why that remark left such a clutching, squeezing sensation around her heart. 

“Well I should go,” she said, releasing his hand.

He swallowed hard then gave her a small smile, a tight, guarded thing that squeezed her heart again. He looked so sad. She wanted to see the bright, wicked grin from earlier. 

“May I see you out?” he asked politely, his emotions under control again. 

She shook her head, already moving towards the door. “No, it’s fine. But thanks.”

“Any time, love.”

Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again. “Emma.” 

She looked back at him, gripped by the wild, irrational hope that he might ask her to stay. “What about your husband?” he asked. 

“Who?” She frowned in confusion, then remembered. “Oh, Walsh.” Why had she forgotten him? “What about him?” 

“Does he not wear a ring?”

“Of course he does.” Didn’t he? “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that you said ‘would have chosen.’” Killian’s face was calm, but that intensity was back in his eyes. 

“What?”

“Just now, when you looked at my ring you said it’s exactly what you would have chosen. Not what you did choose.” 

There was that confusion again, swirling through her brain and blocking her thoughts. Why couldn’t she think? “I— I must have misspoken.” She rubbed her forehead, which had started to ache. 

He was silent for a long moment before replying. “Of course, I’m sure that’s it. Goodbye, Sheriff.” 

Emma smiled tightly and left. 

When she arrived home that evening, Emma sought out Walsh in his study. He didn’t like her bothering him there but she was confused, her head spinning with questions that needed answers. She’d spent the afternoon in her office with the lights dimmed, nursing her headache and making a list of all the questions she needed to ask him, everything that was odd in their relationship and in her life. It was a long list. Why hadn’t she ever talked to him before? She’d been unhappy for so long…

“What is it, Emma?” Walsh’s voice was cold.

“I just— wanted to talk to you. About some things.” 

He turned and fixed her with the icy, probing stare that never failed to make her tongue-tied and anxious. She wanted to flee, back to the relative safety of the living room, where Walsh rarely went. No! You need answers! Stay strong! 

“Some things,” Walsh repeated. 

“Y-yes.” 

“Well go on,” he waved his hand at her and adopted an expression of exaggerated patience. “We haven’t got all night. What are these ‘things’ that are suddenly so important?”

Emma had spent an hour memorising her list of questions, but now she could only remember one. 

“Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?” she burst out. “Why don’t I?”

“Of— of course I wear one!” Walsh looked genuinely surprised, his composure slipping enough to rejuvenate her resolve. 

“Walsh I am looking at your hand right now and it is bare,” she said. “Neither of us wear rings. I’m certain I have one, I remember it, but where is it? Why did I stop wearing it?” He gaped at her and she seized her opportunity, letting months worth of questions flood out. “And why don’t we do anything together any more? What happened to our friends? I remember— I think I remember that we used to go out, do things as a couple, with other couples. But we have no friends now, and I stay in alone every night. I feel like I never see you these days, you’re hardly ever home, you never want to have sex—” she broke off as a look of revulsion crossed Walsh’s face, crushing her, stopping the words in her throat. Your own husband finds you repulsive, she thought bitterly, and a small voice at the very back of her consciousness piped up with a single word. “Why?” 

What? thought Emma, and the voice elaborated. “Dont you want to know why?”

A memory flashed through her mind, although no, not a memory, it couldn’t be, but it felt like a memory. The blue, blue eyes of Killian Jones, warm with adoration, his deep voice, his hand in her hair. “You’re so beautiful, Emma,” he whispered. “So utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful.” 

“Walsh, what’s going on?” she asked, suddenly angry, furious, incandescent with rage. “There’s something very wrong here, and I think you’re behind it. Tell me what it is. Tell me what you’ve done to me!”

Walsh’s face twisted into a terrifying snarl and he grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him until they were nose-to-nose, drowning her anger in fear. “Why are you asking these questions all of a sudden?” he hissed, “Does it by any chance have something to do with our new neighbourhood bookseller?” 

“Wh— what?” Emma scrambled to lie, to protect Killian. “No! Of course not.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Emma.” Walsh sighed, his face falling back into its usual supercilious, condescending expression. Still holding her arm he turned and picked something up from his desk, a small box in silver filigree, beautiful in a cold and terrible way. “Fortunately it won’t matter. Come morning you’ll be yourself again. Or one of your selves, anyway.” He opened the box with a flick of his thumb and blew a harsh puff of air into it, sending a shower of glittering grey particles flying into Emma’s eyes. She gasped, then collapsed. Walsh held her up with his grip on her arm, then gave her a shove back into the sofa behind her. “That should take care of you for now,” he muttered, looking down at her unconscious form. “It appears that the pirate works faster than I had anticipated. Of course very little that we anticipated about him has turned out to be true. How he even managed to get here in the first place is something I would very much like to know. He is supposed to be stuck in Neverland.” He paused, smirking. “The power of true love, I suppose,” he said, sneering the words. “But he’ll soon be dealt with, him and your son. And now, ‘wife’, off to bed with you.” He waved his hand and Emma disappeared in a puff of green smoke. 

When she awoke the next morning, alone in her bed as always, all her doubts and worries about her marriage along with all recollection of her confrontation with Walsh were gone. 

Her memories of the time she’d spent with Killian Jones, however, were not. 

Notes: I hope this makes you feel a bit better (but still interested enough to want more!). 

[antiquechampagne]

Chapter 6

Payne kept to herself for nearly a week, rarely coming out of her room at hotel. She replaced her hunting rifle and an assault gas mask to replace to keep her safe during the day. It was ugly as sin and offered little in the way of actual armor, but it kept the sun off of her.  She was too ashamed to ask Daisy if she had any blood bags. She told herself she was keeping out of MacCready’s way, but really she just wanted to be alone. Payne wasn’t even sure if Hancock or Fahrenheit had told anyone about her, but she didn’t want to find out through awkward stares.

Boredom drove her from the confines of her rented room and down into the lobby. Walking down the stairs, she heard a snippet of a song drift from an ancient radio. Payne never paid much attention to what was on the air waves, given most seemed to be propaganda sprinkled with the same dozen songs, but the eerie jingle held her in rapt attention. Drawing her like a siren, she sat down close to the radio to listen. She couldn’t believe it, it was a prewar radio play!

The hotel manager, a grizzled white haired woman named Clair, noticed Payne’s fascination with exasperation. “Child, you’ve been here long enough to hear that pre-war drivel, haven’t you?”

Payne nodded to the contrary. “I haven’t heard anything like this in ages.” She couldn’t contain a small smile as she listened to the adventures of the titular character taking on the villain Fat Fahy with the heroine Mistress of Mystery.

“You look like a damn fool sitting there like a kid, just like Kent, I swear!” This was the second time Payne had heard that name.

“Who is Kent?” she forced herself away from the radio. It was harder than she had thought it should be.

“Kent? Kent Connolly runs that blasted station. He is nuttier than an irradiated Brahmin’s balls. If he’s not wasting all his time reliving that prewar super hero crap in a memory pod next door, he’s broadcasting those stupid stories. You gotta feel sorry for him, though. Irma had to put a timer on his pod to make sure the fool eats and sleeps. It’s a shame, he’s such a sweet guy… but addicted to his own past.”

Payne moved back to the couch near the radio, but a different kind of earworm had crept into her brain. The next day she found herself rummaging through her pack. In the bottom of her bag lay a small silver pin, rusted and discolored. You could still make out the silver band blazoned across the black fedora. She had taken off a settler she had found dead months ago. She wasn’t sure why it had captured her eye or why she had held on to the scrap for so long.

She made her way next door to Scollay Square. The marque loomed large like a grotesque maw, the red doors appearing almost mouth like. Like the jaws of hell Payne though. Shaking her head, she pushed past the entrance and emerged on the other side facing an empty ticket counter. Continuing on, the place opened up to what had been a theater. Where seats once sat stood two rows of transparent pods along the sides, some occupied and pulsing with bizarre lights. On the stage sat a crimson chaise lounge with a reclining aging woman decked out in matching feathers and lace.

“Oh, sorry honey, we aren’t taking any new clients at the moment.” She purred.

God, this is more like home than I thought. Payne approached the dais. “I’m not looking for your services. I am looking for Kent.”

“Whatever for?” Payne held up the pin. “Oh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Silver Shroud fan, sweetie.” She pointed to a closed door behind Payne. “He’s in his room, but please don’t vex him too much, hon. He’s been a bit…. sensitive… lately.”

Payne reassured her. “I will try my best to be brief.”

Upon entering Kent’s room, she was inundated with everything Silver Shroud including ancient cracked posters and imposing full size character cutouts. In the far corner sat a hunched figure in a threadbare hat and suit fiddling with a microphone.

A bit startled, Kent greeted Payne kindly. “Oh hi, I don’t know you.” His voice was kind and smooth, well, smooth for a ghoul.

“My name is Payne. You broadcast the Silver Shroud radio show, don’t you?”

Kent’s eyes lit up. “I sure do! I think it gives people a little bit of hope in this world that has gone to pot. Maybe a little escape from all the murder and mayhem, ya know?”

“I can tell you have a lot of passion for those old stories.”

“Oh yeah, they take ya right back… like remembering the first day of school and rushing home to listen to the conclusion of the cliff hanger for The Silver Shroud vs. The Grave Digger to see if the Mistress of Mystery was really dead or not! Oh man, everyone sat inside on a perfect cool summer afternoon just to hear that she had hidden herself in plain sight as the maid the whole time! What a hoot!”

His unbridled enthusiasm was infections and a warm smile spread across Payne’s face. “Well, I wanted to tell you that I am a new fan… and I wanted to show my appreciation.”

She handed the pin to Kent, who gingerly pick it out of her hand. His eye went wide and a wide smile of his own grew.

“Oh, my gosh! Miss! Do you know what this is?” He turn the tiny trinket repeatedly in his hand excitedly. “Where did you find this? How could it even survive this long?” Payne could feel the joy practically radiating off him.

“This…” He held the pin a loft like a lost holy relic. “This is a rare collectable lapel pin created by Galaxy News Radio to commemorate the 300th episode. You had to collect 20 Sugar Bomb cereal box tops and send way for it… but it was random which pin you received back.” Kent went to his dresser and pulled out a box from the drawer, his shoulders still hunched. “There were 25 pins to collect, which include The Unstoppables too because of the Christmas crossover episode! I have 11… now 12 of them! Thank you so much, Miss!” His fingers lovingly glided over each pin as he placed his newest prize into the next empty slot.

“Just call me Payne. I am glad I found one you didn’t already have!” she ribbed him gently. She found his child like enthusiasm endearing, but understood why the hotel manager was concerned about him. His clothes were dirty, his frame thin, even for a ghoul. He shuffled slowly as he walked.

“Would you mind if I visited you again in a few days? I would love to hear more about the Silver Shroud, I really don’t know much about it.”

“You’ve never heard of the Silver Shroud! Oh howdy, you are in for a real treat!”

They thanked each other and made plans for another visit. Payne wandered back to her room and sat down on the edge of the bed. It took a moment of searching her memories to place where her sudden melancholy from her delightful visit. Talking to Kent was like talking to her older brother over old Grognak comic books when they were kids… something they loved to do to pass the time together. She thought of her long dead brother, laid down hugging a pillow and silently cried herself to sleep.

[littlemisssquiggles]

RWBY Musings #8: Ah yes, RWBY Volume 5 Chapter 5. I’ve said it before and I will say it again, this episode just reminded me once more exactly why I’m fully on board with Ruby and Oscar sharing a close relationship.

I’m gonna drop some blunt honesty right now so take it however you see fit (but hopefully not in a negative light). Regardless of whether you dislike RoseGarden for whatever justifiable reason you may have, you cannot deny the fact that the series itself is clearly pushing those two together. This fifth episode of the season brought more evidence that Ruby and Oscar will have a close relationship. 

Will be it purely platonic? Will it be inevitably romantic? Who really knows? But what I can say is that Ruby’s character and overarching presence in Oscar’s life will definitely play a role in his development as a main character and the same can be said vice versa for him with her.

(You know I’m here to talk, so let’s talk. I’ll try to keep it short today. Emphasis on ‘try’)

As much as I love RoseGarden as a ship and would love more than any shipper to see them be endgame, I could admit that I don’t think romance is quite in the cards for these two. 

At least, not yet. I’d like to believe that Ruby and Oscar are both in a very complicated place right now where, with the fate of the world on the line and with them both being key players in the fight to save it; I just don’t see romance being a primary focus.

I mean there’ll be seeds of it sprinkled here and there throughout the show in smaller, more intimate moments (like the dojo scene from Chapter 5) but not at the forefront; unless the series calls for it.

I wouldn’t be surprised if their relationship will be like Katara and Aang’s from Avatar: The Last Airbender. Light and fluffy during the first season to establish a friendship and then introduce the romance aspects in the following volume. I could definitely see Ruby and Oscar being and treating each other as ‘just friends’, even close friends in this first volume. And then bit by bit, introduce the sparks of romance here and there where they both begin to see each other in a different light than before.

Either isn’t quite sure what this new foreign feeling means but what they do know is that it’s certainly more than how it was before. They both will fully understand that they definitely like each other while at the same time also knowing that it’s beyond friendship. They will know that their friendship is a close and strong one: that they’re each special to each other but they wouldn’t quite fully understand the full deeper meaning of that connection until later.

 And then we, as the viewers, will get to watch them figure it out for themselves and see that journey of feelings persist. Like Ruby will know that she likes Oscar a lot however her liking of Oscar is different than how she likes Jaune and Ren.

I love my ships but I’m a sucker for a slow romance especially when it’s done right and even more specifically, when it actually leads somewhere.

Like I said, as the series progresses and Oscar and Ruby’s blossoming friendships progresses, we’ll probably get more and more moments of their obvious fascination in wanting to know more about each other. At first, I figured that most of the interest would’ve come from Oscar (especially after that first moment in Chapter 1). However, what I find surprisingly cool is that Ruby herself also shares the same intrigue in Oscar. I really love how both teens are interested in wanting to know more about the other.

This is what makes it quite sweet to watch them interact in the show. This is the innocence and purity that I expected the RoseGarden ship to be like in the beginning. Heck, it’s why I sometimes refer to them as RosePine instead cause in my eyes, their relationship has only just began. It has only been just a few episodes in and a few weeks of time passed in the show.

RoseGarden has yet to become a garden. The seeds have been planted though. It’s just a matter of waiting patiently to watch them grow and see exactly how their relationship flourishes.

 I know I mostly talk a lot of ship talk in my musings but at the heart of it all, I sincerely want to see these two grow and have a meaningful bond.

I like ships that actually take the time to build the love between two characters so that when it finally comes to fruition, you’ll appreciate it a lot more. I see the potential for that with Ruby and Oscar. I mentioned earlier how the shows seems to be pushing these two together a lot especially in recent episodes.

At first I figured, like many, it’s probably for shipping purposes. But then I sat down and thought about it some more. Now I think that it makes sense. It’s absolutely rational why Oscar and Ruby would naturally gravitate towards each other. They do share a lot more in common than even they realize and I think part of it has to do with the age difference.

 Y’know the two year age gap that some folks make a hullaballoo about.

I can definitely seen Ruby and Oscar leaning on each other the most cause, for the first time, they’re not alone. They both have someone on the team who is around the same age as them and is going through the same thing as them and can actually help them to understand the true meaning of everything---the importance of protecting Remnant and stopping Salem.

I am SO glad that I was right about Ruby being the one to have that conversation with Oscar. I was hoping it was her and I’m glad we got it, especially in this episode too. That part was icing on the cake with this episode for me.

Also terrific acting from Aaron is showcasing Oscar’s frustration. I truly felt it for my avocado godson this episode.

Being the youngest in anything (in your class, group, squad, etc), I’d imagine it would be an uneasy thing because on top of all the dire responsibilities that you have to share with your fellow more experienced peers, there is also the pressures of the expectation that others will have of you especially because of your age. I’d imagine that in the beginning, because she was so young, others have probably misjudged Ruby. As a matter of fact, I remember them addressing that point at least twice in the series between Volumes 1 and 2.

 I think this is why we often see Ruby being the one to mostly check in on Oscar over anyone else. Sure it could be interpreted at being more shipping fuel; however I’d like to think that Ruby is the only one who fully understands what Oscar is going through and genuinely wants to help him through this transition.

 My RoseGarden shippers might not like me for saying this but the way Ruby is with Oscar now is more like a big sister or at least a senpai. She’s definitely looking out for our avocado farm son; the same way how everyone: Qrow, Jaune, Ren, Nora and even her sister and teammates she hasn’t seen in so long used to look out for her.

 She cares about Oscar cause honestly, she gets it. She gets his frustration and I loved how Oscar breaking down finally forced Ruby to snap out of her indifference and be honest with him about her sadness; especially the one regarding the lost of two of her friends. I wish we have gotten an extended scene of this. I need a longer scene or moment with Ruby and Oscar just being honest with each other about their feelings; their various nuisances with the world, their pains, EVERYTHING. Not only cause it’ll be good for them both but...because they’ll get why the other feels that way.

 This makes me appreciate the two year age gap more. I know folks hate it but frankly I like it cause it’s reminiscent of Ruby. The 2 year age gap between Oscar and Ruby is parallel to the 2 year gap between Ruby and every other main huntsmen and huntress in her year. Ruby was once the proclaimed ‘baby of the bunch’ and now that torch has been passed down to Oscar.

Oscar is now the youngest huntsmen in training in the group and unfortunately, his development has to be fast-forwarded too because he’s also acting as a conduit for Ozpin’s soul. So he has his own fair share of pressures and qualms put on him despite being too young to fully understand them.

 I also figured Oscar being inexperienced in fighting might’ve been a thing but as it turns out, he actually has fought before. I found that little titbit about Oscar having fought Grimm before quite cool.

Although, Oscar said he’s only fought the ‘occasional small Grimm’. Correct me if I’m wrong but aren’t the smallest Grimm species we’ve seen so far in Remnant not the Beowolf and Ursa Grimm? They are the most commonly seen Grimm in the show and the ones more likely to show up in areas of the public. So unless there is a smaller Grimm species native to Mistrel (like perhaps a flying monkey Grimm, ey?) then those are two Grimm I can see probably sneaking onto Oscar’s aunt’s farm.

 Either way, if those are the occasional small Grimm Oscar is referring to then how badass is he! Can you imagine small young Oscar protecting his aunt and their home; fending off a single Ursa Grimm that had snuck onto the farm with nothing but a pitchfork by himself, mostly? The fact that Oscar has not only fought Grimm before but has survived it, that just confirms what Ruby said to him in the end. He is indeed a lot braver than one expected him to be; and a lot tougher.

Damn! I have now gained a higher respect for Oscar. I honestly thought that coming from a farmhand way of life pegged him as living the quite simple life, outside the dangers of the Grimm.

 So instinctively I would assume he’d be inexperienced to the stuff natural to the huntsmen such as battling the Grimm. But I was wrong.

 This actually reminds me of a funny scene from Doctor Strange. It’s the one where Morro hands Strange a piece of paper after showing him to his room. Strange looks at him all puzzled, questioning Morro if the paper was some ancient Chinese mantra; to which Morro looks at him and responds with one of most memorable lines from the movie for me.

‘...It’s the WiFi password. We’re not savages!’

This joke is appropriate cause just as how Dr. Strange misjudged the sorcerers, I, too misjudged Oscar. Just cause he was raised on a farm, doesn’t mean he’s not affected by the threats that commonly inhabit Remnant. Just cause Oscar was raised on a farm and has never encountered huntsmen and huntresses, doesn’t mean he’s oblivious about the Grimm. As a matter of fact, the fact that Oscar has faced more Grimm than huntsmen is daunting.

This tells me that there are probably no actual huntsmen where Oscar is from and that’s even more unnerving.

I totally pegged him wrong from the start. They really do say don’t judge a book by its cover cause there are certainly more layers to Oscar than I figured. And apparently he knows more about combat than he gives off and I like this additional note to his character. Nice touch CRWBY!

 Anyways, overall I like the idea of them pushing Ruby and Oscar together cause, it just makes sense guys. No matter what angle the CRWBY decides to take them, it’ll surprisingly work either way in some shape or form.

 If they decide to go the purely platonic, big sister/little brother, kouhai to senpai kind of route, it fits cause Ruby haven gone through the same things Oscar is going through currently would be the best candidate to help him through it all; (especially emotionally) more so than anyone else in series. More than Jaune and even Ozpin because Ruby is basically Oscar at the start of the series. So it would make sense if they form a friendship like this because of that familiarity and understanding. It’s one where they can both benefit from as they can both learn from one another and help each other grow. You heard of Jambuds from Steven Universe, now get ready for RoseBuds.

(I kinda like that name. ROSEBUDS is the platonic friend-SHIP between Ruby and Oscar while RoseGarden is the romance ship. Make it a think fandom)

If they decide to go the still purely platonic but very close best friend route, it fits. If a Ruby and Oscar friendship is allowed to happen then it would only be fitting that it becomes a close one. Oscar could become Ruby’s closest guy friend or even her best friend over all. Sorry Jaune. Sorry Weiss. I know Weiss is who Ruby considers to be her, and I quote, ‘super bestie better than the restie’ according to RWBY Chibi. And I know some fans consider Jaune-y boy to be Ruby’s best guy friend. But...that could be Oscar too someday.  

And if they decide to go the full on romance route, do I need to even explain this one? Cause I think points number one and two also justify why this would work. I will note however that I don’t see it working now cause the relationship is still fairly new to both characters and there’s still some cute awkwardness between them both.

However..if left to cultivate with the right amount of development, I can certainly see this growing into a meaningful love for both characters (but only once they’ve matured to the age where those kinds of feelings would be more appropriate). Somehow I can only see Oscar and Ruby falling in love with each other as they grow older or at least after a longer period time, like at least after a year.

Overall, either way, RoseGarden just...makes sense you guys! It really does and I’m not even just saying this as a shipper. It just MAKES SENSE. Better yet, it makes FUCKING SENSE and it’s almost mind boggling how much sense it makes.

Hate on the ship as much as you want haters. You are entitled to like whatever ship you like and from one shipper to another, I respect that. However you can’t look me in the eyes and tell me that Ruby and Oscar growing close in some way makes no sense at all.

From now on, if anyone asks me why I like RosePine (RoseGarden), I’m just gonna tell them this:

(Not even trying to be arrogant right now. It just DOES!)     

LittleMissSquiggles (2017) 

[oreopata]

You don't need to be with a partner to enjoy Valentine's Day. Since it's a day about love, (well actually it's a day marking the execution of St. Valentine) but I'm starting to think it should be a day to love yourself. ❤️ it's difficult to proclaim this without sounding egotistical. But I think only now am I starting to realise how much I need to do exactly that. You need to love yourself and know yourself before you can even think about loving someone else. That’s what I’m doing now. I made myself a gorgeous, candlelit, three course meal. A way to treat myself. A small scallop and prawn salad for starter. An authentic Spaghetti Bolognese for mains and some homemade chocolate strawberries for dessert. (made with Terry's Dark Chocolate Orange) 🍷🍝🍤🍫🍊🍓.

My refusal to date in school gave me a less than favourable reputation - to the point of mockery and abuse. My inexperienced, teenage mind first I thought I just disliked romantic love and thought it makes you stupid (it wasn't until later that I realised I just wasn't interested in boys my age, but rather, proper men.) That aside, the abuse I suffered in those years left me mentally shattered. In the immediate years after leaving, I couldn't leave the house: fearing that I was so ugly that it would be a horrible thing for me to inflict my appearance on the world. Or I was scared people were out to get me again. I'm still on medication for anxiety. Now however, as I have loved and lost others, I've realised its time I stopped being abusive to myself. Even while I'm still aware of my MANY personal and physical shortcomings.

If some of my old "peers" knew about one great night I had down in London with the family, where I stood outside the pub, gained the attention of many and kisses from a couple gentlemen, they'd never believe me. 👄 I recall meeting one old friend of mine in Asda a couple of years ago. She asked me if I had a boyfriend, I told her I didn't. At which point she laughed and said "Thought not! You'd likely kill your boyfriend." I found that rather distasteful, but I hid it behind a mural chuckle. It showed what people who didn't know me still think of me.

I'm a far more romantic and sexually aware person than people give me credit for. I just think about it more analytically than most. I'm sure this will surprise you. I've been very vocal about my own lack of desire to get married or have children. But don't think that means I'm bitterly against romance. I was more interested in leaning about people, why they fall in love, how they do so. I feel deeply for the couples I write about and create in my stories. Over the years I've over served with my own eyes where others go wrong in their relationships and taught me what I do and do not want. One of those many mistakes is that people refer to their partners as their other halves. That they complete them. Everything will be better once I'm with this person, this person makes my life worth while etc. To me, it seems to be a recipe for disaster. I've learned that you should never out the keys to your happiness in someone else's pocket. You can't find someone else to be your other half. You both need to be complete people. Using your relationship as a means to better your life or dedicate your whole life to is like putting a square peg in a round hole. It won't fix a thing. I've seen so many lasses my age who are already married with children, but I wonder how much they philosophically thought about what it means as apposed to just thinking they want it. Mustering idea in "The one" a soulmate. "I'm going to be with this person forever. Cos then I've won. This person is my prize for putting up with life. If I can't make this last forever, I'm not doing it right. It's supposed to be happier ever after." Don't be afraid of short-term love, some things are meant to end. Or they learn what romance is from their friends in school or their own parents. Who, more often than not, aren't the best examples to learn from and are just as much in the dark about what makes a relationship while experiencing it. Ask yourself "What's in you that deserves to be loved?" Broaden your horizons and make yourself into the interesting person that deserves to be.

Do I wish I had a partner currently? Lord no! I'm enjoying my own company and every day I'm working to build my future, improving my craft and setting-up my own art business. It also helps that I'm not lonely. When I think of loneliness, I remember my Gran's death or when I'm in a group of people who don't understand me. Ive learned to not be scared of the solitude that comes with raising my standards for how people treat me. I've been spending my years now trying to figure out who I really am. While I can't see myself "settling down." I know there will be suitors down the line. 😚😉

Until then, tonight,  I'll be enjoying my meal I’ve spent a damn good amount of time making. While waiting for the Bolognese to simmer (a couple hours) and writing this status. I watched a fascinating documentary on the legend that is Bettie Page. It seems going on her, Dita Von Teese and Kiki de Montparnasse; I am just loving this badass, smart, funny, liberated, Raven-haired beauty icons. Seriously, after the shit Bettie went through, it's amazing she could stand to strong, so beautiful and so good humoured. Quite inspirational. Spend tonight with your partner, your children, your friend, your parents, your pet, indulge in a celebrity or fictional crush or simply just enjoy your own company.

Be your own Valentine before thinking about giving that honour to someone else. Have a good night! ❤️😍🍓👄✨🍷

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

life story part something.

Before I continue, I just wanted to give a quick apology for making an error in my previous life-story post. It was brought to my attention that it was not Britney who brought hip huggers to the scene of the late 90's, but Aaliyah RIP. Also though nobody actually sent me a message regarding this exactly, it may seem like I am picking on Britney Spears, but I really am not. She's fine. Aaliyah pants are fine. I am not an avid modern pop fan so there are a lot of things I really just do not know. I would be far more likely to know about some obscure detail about some early obscure 80's twee group than I would sometimes the most notable musicians of today.

And now. To explain my first trip to Florida.

I had never boarded a plane before. I think flying might be one of my favorite things in the world. I honestly can think of nothing better than being in the clouds looking down on everything. I don't think there has ever been a situation where I got on a plane and didn't come off that plane a better more complete human being. And to this day, if the pay was better, I was a little less of a daydreamer and more of a direct kind of person who liked facts, buttons and numbers more, and my eyesight was anything close to decent I think I would have gone to flight school, I love flying so much. We stopped at the Denver Airport, which was the biggest place I had ever been. When we got to Tampa, we had to board another plane and while that was happening, I looked out at the ocean – which I had never seen before either, and there was a cyclone out there. It was pretty wild, at least for me. I am sure local Floridians look out at the ocean casually on a daily basis and see these kinds of things. It's like when people vacation to Idaho, they often get excited about jagged rocks on the sides of canyons, and to me they are pointing out the most obvious mundane thing in the whole world.

It was also really different for me because there is a lot of culture and different skin tones that you honestly just don't see in rural Idaho. Everyone here is white, with the exception of Native Americans on occasion. There was not only people of every ethnicity, color and nationality, but the default music that played in stores was often times reggae, whereas here it's always country or Nickelback, and maybe just maybe some bad butt rock from the 80's where I come from. It was kind of eye opening for me to realize that not everywhere was Idaho.

My uncle Bob lived down in Florida. He was very rich. His job was to be one of those super attendants to super attendants for a school district in Fort Lauderdale. He had a swimming pool and a fancy motorcycle and a bunch of cars. I made the mistake of swimming one night, and he turned on the light in the pool. Suddenly, cockroaches began jumping into the swimming pool from every direction. The lizards were pretty cool however.

The air made me sick though. It was thick and murky. Idaho has very dry air that I am used to. Florida's air is like warm sticky water all around you that you can't get out of. And I am allergic to mold spores, so that was a problem. My throat swelled up and my eyes watered the whole time. Also, it was here that I learned that I have some serious issues with the ocean. I cannot be in the presence of the ocean, however fascinated I am by it, or I start to feel like I have the stomach flu, and I start to feel like I am going crazy. My father and I visited the beach. It was strange to me, but ocean beaches that are open to the public are covered with people. Idaho beaches are very easy to be alone and secluded on.

I really was enjoying myself, but then I started feeling this crazed feeling. First it felt like I was moving, and then it felt like the ground beneath me was dropping. I started crying for absolutely no reason. My father tried to ask me what was wrong and I snapped at him aggressively in a way I would never ordinarily do. This wasn't one of my typical sensitive fits I get when someone has hurt my feelings either. I really just lost my mind and had no idea what I was doing. He actually had to physically haul me off the beach as I kicked and cried. The ocean makes me crazy. I don't know why. As we drove off, I suddenly realized what had happened and I apologized. It's not that much different now that I am an adult. I was visiting the Pacific last year, and though I was able to control myself, I started getting shaky and nauseated and feeling like there was no reason to be alive, and this wasn't coming from my typical morose self. There has to be some kind of scientific backing for why this happens. I suppose I could just be that much of a landlover that even looking at the ocean makes me ill.

We went to Disney World. It was a great place if you have a million dollars to spend and are somewhat patient, but you don't want to eat there because everything is a trillion dollars and tastes like it is made out of whatever Mickey Mouse's gloves are made out of. Sadly, this is the only place I have ever heard people in real life with English accents – except maybe when I saw Richard Thompson and I am not sure, but when I saw the Arctic Monkeys, I think Alex Turner said something short once during the set.

This was also a strange visit because I hung out with my aunt Marty. I didn't really understand it back then, but she is a total racist. There are several different forms of racism naturally, and I couldn't for sure say that one was better than the last, but if I were to peg her form of racism, I would just flat out say that she was a hardcore Jim Crow racist. She was actually is just this openly vile little woman who constantly spews hatred in every which direction, but for some reason that I can only conclude leads to his own racist instincts, my uncle Bob thought it was cute for some reason for her to go on this way, and my dad would just laugh and laugh as she would go on and on with her extremely atrocious little rants. It kind of gave me a precursor to understanding the 'appeal' of Donald Trump for a lot of people. He was unabashedly hateful and racist, and people liked it because they felt like he was giving them permission to say this crap. She really seemed to randomly like me, so it confused me then, but I honestly don't think me or my siblings would have agreed to stay in a place with her. I could not sit in a room with her. She's really just that bad.

On our way to Miami we got into a car accident and we never made it there. We were in the middle of this six car pile up. I remember two girls with matching tube tops were running around upset speaking in Spanish desperately in confusion. There was this old lady that had to be taken to the hospital. My father turned his head instinctively in fear I suppose that I was not wearing my seat belt – which fortunately I was, and I have never forgotten it since because if I hadn't I would have gone flying. When he turned like this though, he permanently fucked up his neck. The super fancy old vehicle was totaled.

On our way back home a few days later, there was also some very extreme turbulence that scared me to death. We were flying over the Midwest, and the plane became very jerky. I was alerted that this was perfectly normal, and I continued to drink my ginger ale and look out the window. But it started to get more extreme. Pretty soon the entire plane was shaking and free falling. My plate of food flew off the table and women and children were crying upset. I was crying. Somehow, everything was alright, though that much turbulence was not considered to be very common. We flew out of the storm, which I heard was spread out from Indiana to North Dakota.

After Florida, life just kind of went the way it always had. Vacations don't generally fix all that much, from my experience, though I am still very glad I got to leave. I think it's very important to always have a trip planned out in the next six months. It keeps you ever hopeful for the future, and it gives you these little breaks in the monotony of what you know.

One day, I decided to play sick and skip school, presumably to get some hours in on the gameboy, get a few hours extra of sleep, eat some candy, read some chapter book about knights, princesses and dragons all that good stuff. I told my father I felt achy and nauseated. I can't say I feel too badly, but my father has always had a lot of faith that I am always telling the truth. And often times, he has good reason to believe I am, I usually am honest to a fault, am prone to oversharing and I don't just lie every time I am in a bind. I will often times rather just turn myself in. I don't believe people should lie whenever it is convenient. But this isn't to say that I don't lie. Sometimes I lie for sport. Mostly I just like to see what I can get away with. I hand select when I am dishonest, and it has to meet various requirements and the lie itself has to be somewhat satisfying. I don't think it's satisfying to lie often to make people think you are cool or to always get your way, but I have always liked to play hooky. I lied A LOT about being sick growing up, and even though most of the time it was bullshit and everyone knew that, my good old dad always believed in me. I also was always buying snacks at the local grocery store on the charge account and he never looked at the purchases that were made. He always just dutifully paid off the account every so often. To be fair here, he didn't leave any food in the house, and what would you expect a hungry preteen to do if they had a charge account at their disposal?

I was sitting in the corner on this such day, and suddenly my whole body was in the most excruciating pain I have ever felt in my entire life. My lungs stopped functioning. I felt like I was breathing rocks. My head was on fire, my jaws wouldn't move. Pain was shooting down to my toes. My muscles stopped working. I tried to tell my dad what was wrong, but no words would come out. I began convulsing. I could not even scream. I was on the floor in agony. I couldn't even move my arms voluntarily. The joints had tensed up so much. I made some kind of guttural noise of some kind and had tears running down my face, and my father was trying very hard to get me to tell him what was wrong. The pain was absolutely unimaginable, and I have to this day nothing that compares to it. He picked me up off the floor, and hauled me up the stairs. I passed out from the pain, and he put me in my bed. When I woke up two hours later, I was perfectly fine somehow. My muscles worked. I could talk. I have no idea what happened. And I never found out.

My mother moved into a new home. I think she got the lump some of the divorce money at this point, and her and Germaine were starting to have disagreements. So she began renting this brand new little white house a few blocks from where Germaine lived. I had to get rid of Crom – we gave him to James's rich family. This brand new house quickly became totally disgusting and trashed. But it was here where I first got to really enjoy cable television. My dad didn't think that tv was good for kids – he's probably got a point there. It was otherwise a completely disgusting mess though, and I often had to fight and manipulate for the best places to sleep and my rights to the controller. I think after a few years of dealing with adult's bullshit, I was starting to finally figure out how to plan ahead to put myself out of harm's way and to best benefit from my situation, if even in small little ways.

My dad would always take me to my mom's very early in the morning. He had to be at work at five am, and so we had to be on the road by 4 am. He would drop me off, and the first thing I would do when I opened the door was assess just how wasted everyone had gotten while I was at my dad's. You could tell by how the place smelled, what kind of trash was in the garbage, how long the dishes had been out, along with more obvious details like what and who was sprawled over the floor. I would make a headcount of people sprawled out on the floor, and try to establish the most pleasant place for me to rest. I would find the controller. Then I would go through my mother's bedroom while she was drunk and passed out with James in the bed, and go through her pants and coats for loose change. Often times, it would be dumped all over the floor carelessly. I would also go into the bathrooms and do the same thing. If there was anyone else there I would go through their things as well, usually finding their little baggies of drugs and pipes to get to the money. I never would take anything more than a dollar bill, but the money quickly began stacking up.

I eventually had 60 dollars, and to put that into adult perspective, that's like a 1000 dollars in Renee money today. At the end of the year, I went to an arcade and I went to the circus, and completely wasted all of it – but I didn't regret it one bit. The entire experience was perfectly delightful. I took great pleasure in being able to spend carelessly. My father kept such a tight hold of his money – I one time asked him for 25 cents and he told me the family simply couldn't afford it. This coming from someone who made over 40,000 dollars a year. I wore handmedowns, and ate left overs from the worst fast food in town. I was always on the receiving end of duties and responsibilities for my younger siblings, I had no power over my life at all. The money felt even better since I had stolen it the way I had.

Everyone around me was quite unpleasant for that entire time I stayed there. It was just a gross mess, before we finally moved again. Other than watching enormous amounts of television, I remember I would spend all day waiting for the sounds of the ice cream man to come down the road. It was the point of my existence at one point in my life to lazily lay about and anticipate the sound of ice cream man music to go down my street so I could run out there and buy a plastic tasting fudgsicle.        

to be continued.

If per chance you want to know more about this project of mine, i am writing my life story down - i have never actually done this. Here are the previous parts i have written so far.

PART 7 - http://tinyurl.com/ybvo283g

PART 6 - http://tinyurl.com/kbc9dwu

PART 5 - http://tinyurl.com/msnz4am

PART 4 - http://tinyurl.com/k9x8esg

PART 3 - http://tinyurl.com/mwp9atx

PART 2 - http://tinyurl.com/lbt6xq2

PART 1 - http://tinyurl.com/l8xbvg8

[smartoptionsio]

Reality Check for Bitcoin: An Uncomfortable Truth.

Many technocrats believe in the blockchain, Bitcoin, and other cryptocurrencies to solve the problems of the world by machine power. Well, I am not too optimistic, that this will be the case in the scale we anticipate right now and I think as well many of us are blinded by the crypto-frenzy. It is understandable – the elder ones don’t want to be like the “internet non-believers” end of the 90s and think “this time, I won’t be wrong by denying the future”, and want to be the smart guy, that reads the cards of the future right.  Considering all these ICOs that wanted to “disrupt” all parts of human living, it must be a bad joke. I admit, this article has a bad timing – Bitcoin is up again, and it is natural not to want to see the other side of the medal – we want to enjoy the rise, right? But let me be the devil’s advocate today – let’s do it for the tech and not for the money, this single time – as progress only happens if we recognize the shortcomings and fix them. We tend not to see the hand in front of our eyes, and it is time to peep through – with an emphasis on one of Bitcoin’s most significant problems: its hunger for energy. Time for a reality check.

Get Your Feet Back On The Ground

Firstly, this is not a bearish “it was all a dream” – piece. No, I frankly believe that the blockchain has a tremendous power to change things for the better. Though, you want to keep a realistic view, especially with what happened in 2017 – no wonder crypto has had such a hype: young investors, a big herd of people that made money fast – this can generate faith into something like crypto fast. Futuristic ICOs which promise to make the world a better one can be found everywhere – just give that problem to the blockchain, baby – it will solve it. No. It is not as easy as that. It has been proven that most of the ICOs just picked a problem, generated an artificial, theoretically neat sounding blockchain approach to solve it, but let me ask you a question – how many of you have actually ever made actual use of a token you purchased. I believe the numbers could show something <3%. The thing with automation and blockchain governance is a system-immanent problem: we as humans and creators of the technology are imperfect by nature, we barely oversee the whole unity of things and it is the common lordliness of mankind to think we can create a technology, which we can overhand all of our problems to solve them in a better manner. I don’t want to take it too far here, but there are similarities in the belief in a God. It is all about pushing problems forward to a higher instance. Besides all that funky problems many small-scale ICOs wanted to tackle, the megalomania seems to have no boundaries – like for example, the idea to put legal courts on the blockchain and let the blockchain act as judges – I mean,  “Hello? Hello? Anybody home? Huh? Think, McFly!”

The underlaying principle of action, which dictates all activity, is in question: the disruption, which comprises the destruction of the current, shall improve, make things and processes more efficient and better. But what if the old is not that bad? Furthermore, if you want to disrupt something, shouldn’t you know upfront with what kind of thing you want to replace it in its entirety before your go and destroy the former?

It might be the beginner’s gold digger optimism, it might be the young age structure crypto attracts, though past has shown it is rewarding to stay grounded and to tackle one hurdle by the other, going step by step into the future and before we can even think of making the blockchain a court, judging about our problems, we need to solve one big problem first: energy.

Bitcoin – Value Pegged to Power

Let’s stay with the “master-coin” Bitcoin, for now, we don’t know what the future brings, and it is the #1 coin Joe Average thinks of if we here the word blockchain or crypto. Right now, there are more than two million (based on conservative numbers) miners out there, running machines like the Antminer S9 to provide the needed machine power to make Bitcoin possible. The decentralized network makes sure that our transactions are stored on the blockchain – encrypted and unchangeable. This has a cost – and many of us think, that this is the reason why Bitcoin will remain in the future, you have to put something in to get value out, unlike an ICO where you can generate the spread amount of tokens out of thin air. Yeah, unlike the US Dollar or any other currency on the world, Bitcoin is backed by energy. What a chance for countries where power costs next to nothing! Equality! What an opportunity to redistribute wealth! Or?

The thing is the consumed energy also comes with a price again, and while eco-pioneers demand to price in the ecological footprint (sales price is not only the simple production costs but also the environmental costs), this is not the case with Bitcoin. BitcoinEnergyConsumption.com estimates that our Bitcoin transactions, all things considered, consume more power than entire Switzerland, Czech Republic or Colombia and could consume as much power as whole Denmark in 2020.

Considering that a single bitcoin transaction consumes 1,000 kilowatt-hours, while 100k Visa transactions consume only 169 KWh – energy-wise we have a clear loser here, and that has to change for the better, to make crypto work for the masses.

An eco-friendly Bitcoin

To become even close to the currency of the future, a change in how the energy is sourced is urgently needed. The hunger for power is not sustainable – also if you ride an SUV and get your bread rolls delivered by your plane, you cannot deny this fact. But we have all these eco-friendly sources of generating energy today. Why don’t we use photovoltaic, wind energy and the likes as a power source for Bitcoin mining? The problem is, to run a mining farm profitable, you have to run it continuously – without any interruptions. If we don’t talk about the regular households where John Doe built a mining rack in his cellar, but about the big mining pools with massive machine power, this can become an issue quickly. Bitcoin shall be an independent and sovereign currency for the people, an alternative to financial institutions, which have the little man by his balls. It is not only a “fast money machine” but an important mighty tool to equilibrate the world of finance. This is also the opinion of big mining pools like Northern Bitcoin, which are searching for new, more green and sustainable ways for the mining business – they start to switch to Canada, Iceland, Norway and the US – where they can get cheap energy, coming from hydropower. Norway is a good example, where the company uses the Lefdal Mine Data Center, which harnesses the 8° cold fjord water for a recuperator to decrease the costs of the cooling process.  The trucks are rolling in to store their GPU farms there, which is significant progress. Have a look at this fascinating mine:

  China and Mining – Not a love relationship anymore

China was big in mining in the past – cities like Sichuan or Ordos were luring for miners with cheap power prices and huge discounts: 30 percent price reduction has been a substantial reason for many mining companies to use the daily energy volume of 12k households to create 2/3 of all new Bitcoins at the peak. Now, where China realizes its pollution problem, sourced by dirty energy sourcing, they stopped the subvention and wanted a controlled exit from the mining industry – even Bitmain, the largest mining pool, might be in trouble.

Sustainable Bitcoin Mining – The BIG Money?

The problem the miners face, when trying to us sustainable energy sources, is the profitability. Mining pools need to work nonstop – a permanent utilization of the machines is required in order to generate the necessary profits and green energy like from sun or wind power cannot provide an ever ongoing electricity stream. Energy sources like sun or wind power usually create spikes and lows in energy supply, which makes it difficult to use this kind of energy to mine. This is a problem to be solved, and several companies are on it.  Moonlite, Novamining, Hydrominer or the excellent HARVEST project are approaches trying to tackle this issue. There is an immense potential which sustainable energy can bring into their business – not only that we would support the world itself which we actually need to spend our Bitcoins, but also concerning profits – the mining pool that makes Bitcoin green will bank big time. Nature itself offers “free energy” to all of us – imagine you can convert sunbeams into Bitcoins.

Get Ready For The Future, Bitcoin!

Seeing the significant progress that Blockchain has made in the past years, we need to shout to steer the wheels in the right direction. 1,2, REALITY CHECK!  Before we can delegate our lives on the blockchain, the sustainability issues must have been carried out. It is all connected – success comes with scalability and performance – to achieve network consensus, the insane energy consumption has to be scaled down first.

The post Reality Check for Bitcoin: An Uncomfortable Truth. appeared first on Smart Options.

[themaleficperformers-blog]

Chapter XXV: Ronan / Cecilia / Stella / Leopold

Ronan nodded as Lunaria headed away. He and the Seelie had a conversation about the Toronto Vampire Den. It seemed she knew where it was located, but was not so keen on just relaying said information onto him. She wanted to tag along. For what reason, he had no idea. He didn’t like her - or most of her kind, to be quite honest - but they Fey had power unlike any other Downworlder. She could prove useful.

The sight of St James Park sent a feeling of dread through Cecilia. She ran her fingers along the feather fletching of her arrows, silver-tipped and sitting in the quiver she’d attached to her belt. She was a good shot. She’d been a good shot for as long as she could remember... But it wouldn’t matter how good her aim was if they were extremely outnumbered.

When Ronan came into view, though, Cecilia adopted a much more relaxed and confident posture. As if nothing were wrong at all. “Mr Hightower,” she called as she approached, “Just like you to choose such a discreet location for our little rendezvous. Though, I must admit, I never would have pegged you as an exhibitionist.” She added the last part with a wink. Nothing calmed her down more than making inappropriate jokes, especially with the possibility of making someone uncomfortable.

Stella was quite sure she’d managed to keep herself from being seen as she followed behind the red-head. Luckily, she’d managed to find bushes and trees to hide behind when she needed to, for every time the Shadowhunter woman looked back.

When they reached St. James Park, and another figure came into view, she ducked behind a darkened tree, peeking out to see what was going on. Upon staring long enough, she realized it was Hightower. She raised her eyebrows, a bit curious to see what exactly was going on. Were these two an item? Probably not, Ronan probably had a stick too far up his ass to get into romance. Perhaps, they were going after the Vampires? Ronan did make it sound like a big issue, after all.

Ronan looked back to see Cecilia stepping towards him. He had to admit, she looked combat ready. She looked like a proper Shadowhunter - a far cry from what he gathered from her so far. Hopefully that bow would be put to good use…

He rolled his eyes at her comment. “Let’s try and be a little serious about this, hm? We are infiltrating a death trap.”

Cecilia laughed, “I’m sure you’ve at least thought about me naked, darling.” She said, before forcing herself to turn serious.

She glanced around the park. “Do you know where the hideout is?” She asked, “What’s the plan? Because if it’s just ‘burst in and start killing’, I’m gonna have to sit this one out...”

Cecilia reached back and took her bow off, from where she’d hung it, over her shoulder. “Because the last time I did that... Well, it wasn’t all that much fun.” Her grip tightened on her bow, “Is Leopold Rot joining us, or will it just be you and I?”

A small smirk appeared on Stella’s face. So they were going to go after Vampires. Considering what she’d seen a few nights prior, it didn’t seem at all a smart idea. If they were having trouble with just one, how could they handle a whole hideout full?

She snickered and stepped back, moving to turn around and go back to the Institute. Idiots. At least she was going out in “Mundane” territory, they wanted to go mess with Vampires. Stella didn’t even pay attention to her volume as she started to walk away.

“He should be here soon enough… I hope,” is all Ronan replied with.

The snap of a twig sent Ronan’s gaze from Cecilia to the brumble behind her. He’d spent the better part of last night pondering Stella and what to do with her to not recognize her, even in the night. She was here… Of course. He instructed her to not leave the Institute, and here she was.

“You just don’t know when to listen, do you, Mundane?” he called out to her, folding his arms over his chest. He was more annoyed than angry. He couldn’t care less as to what actually happened to the girl, but he would not have another dead body on his hands.

Cecilia followed Ronan’s gaze, and spun around to look at the mundane. Her face flushed red; she knew she heard someone behind her in the Institute. “Think she’s suicidal?” She asked Ronan in a quiet voice. It was the only reason she could think of for an untrained mundane to leave the institute, especially after being told not to.

“Oh, well. It’s nice to meet you, Stella, right?” She asked, holding out her hand. “Cecilia. How are you feeling?”

Stella quickly turned around when she heard Ronan’s voice, and walked back over to Cecilia. “Yes, that’s my name. STELLA. You’d do good to remember that, Hightower.” She glanced over at Ronan before she smiled at the red-haired woman and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Cecilia. Sorry about stalking you. Disregarding that everything in my closet is black and everyone keeps calling me “Mundane,” I’m fine, but do you two really think that going in there is the best idea?”

“Yes, Ms. Burke,” Rot said softly, stepping out from the shadows, He slowly pulled down the hood of his cloak, “We do believe going in there is the best idea. It’s the only idea we have, at the moment.”

Rot looked to both Hightower and Rose, nodding in their directions. He noted quickly how prepared they were - each armed to the teeth with weapons and fresh-marked runes on their skin.

“Leopold Rot,” He said, offering his hand to Burke, “It is so very good to see that you’re doing so well. Still eavesdropping, I see. She just can’t get enough of our world, Hightower!”

“So it seems,” Ronan said, sighing deeply.

Rot didn’t look nearly as prepared as he and Cecilia, but Ronan supposed that being a Warlock had its perks.

Cecilia smiled at the High Warlock. “Leopold Rot. Lovely to see you again.” There was something about the man... Something that Cecilia couldn’t quite put her finger on, that gave her the tiniest sense of uneasiness.

Of course, having a feeling isn’t the same as actually having reason to be suspicious of someone, so she didn’t think there was any reason to be anything other than polite toward him... But still, she figured it wouldn’t be unwise to be careful about what she said around him.

She turned her gaze to Stella, “We’ve been trained from childhood to fight demons, my dear. I know we seemed rather like... complete idiots the other night, but this time we’re prepared... And, correct me, Ronan, if I’m wrong, but isn’t the plan to just try to talk with the leader, first. The weapons are only for if things turn sour.”

Stella hesitated to shake hands with the warlock, but recognized his voice from the night before, and did so. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rot. I’m--Ah, nevermind, you already know who I am…” She ignored his comment about her fascination to focus on Cecilia. “I hope you get rid of my doubts about you. I’m sure you’re all just as kickass as Ronan made you out to be in his little lecture about Shadowhunters he gave me the other day. All I’m saying is, there’s probably a lot more where the one a few days ago came from.”

Rot slowly shook his head, sensing Burke’s immediate hesitation. He knew she recognised his voice from the night before, when she had her ear pressed against her bedroom door. He, did not however, know if she remembered how much magic he had cast on her. Had she questioned her lack of bruising?

“My dear, there’s probably a small army of vampires in this nest. But, Cecilia is right. We are here mostly to talk, get our answers and leave. If no one is dead by sunrise, we have plausible deniability. No one gets killed, unless things go terribly wrong. If things do go wrong, then we kick ass. Right, Hightower?”

Ronan tilted his head back, laughing. He looked back to the group, only then realizing how fucked they really were. Nevertheless, he needed answers, and this was the best place to start asking questions.

“You really think no one will be dead by sunrise?” he asked, licking his lips. “I’m not going to start anything, but I highly doubt this will run… smoothly.”

“Vampires are much less savage than... Other sorts of downworlders. So long as they’re not hungry, and we’re super polite or whatever, we’ll be fine.” Cecilia said, waving her hand in the air. She almost believed it, herself.

“What we should be worried about is what we’re going to do with Stella... It’d be dangerous to just send her back to the Institute alone, wouldn’t it? Especially since she’s already been attacked once before.” She pointed out, looking to Ronan. “And we definitely can’t take her with us, right?”

Stella rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “First, I’d appreciate it if you’d not talk about me like I’m not here. Second, when shit does go down, don’t worry. I was raised in New York. I know how to defend myself. I was attacked by that vampire under extremely different circumstances. Trust me, I can handle myself. I’m not as helpless as you three seem to think.” She looked to the three, raising her eyebrows.  

Rot smiled softly in the darkness, admiring Burke’s determination and confidence. She was torn from her world, thrown into the Shadows without warning, where vampires and demons roamed, yet she was intent on staying a part of it. He glanced at Hightower and Rose, trying to deduce their sentiments - Burke may be helpful, if only to see the reaction of the Night Children when their prey walks in, no longer helpless.

“I agree,” Rot said, “Burke cannot be sent back to the Institute on her own. Even if she was told to go back, I have no doubt that she would sneakily find her way to us once again. She tracked Rose very impressively. Provided she stays close to me, I see no problem in letting her come with us. But,” Rot turned to Burke, with a serious glare, “I understand you are capable of defending yourself, my dear, but, if you are to come, you must stay by my side. These are dangerous times - Hightower and Rose will have their own hands full is things go to shit.”

He looked back at Hightower. Rot knew he would not agree, but, their hands were tied when it came to this Mundane.

It was then that Ronan saw Lunaria at the far side of the park. He considered what Rot had said, and he thought it was foolish. Still… having Stella accompany them might not be a bad thing entirely. From what he knew of the Night Children, they held grudges better than anyone or anything he knew. If word of Stella’s escape had gotten back to the den somehow…

“Bait,” Ronan finally said. “The Vampires want to play. We’ll give them their toy.”

[artdjgblog]

Innerview (Luis Hernandez)

Innerview: Luis Hernandez / Design Student in California

Feb. 2017

Art: Diego Rivera / Pneumatic Drilling / 1931-1932

Note: Email Q&A

01) Mr. Gibson, I’m a fan. I follow your Instagram, I’ve checked out your website, and I love your posters. Mehallo mentioned you during a critique of my work two years ago, I was doing A Ralph Steadman homage at the time. Your band posters were especially inspiring during this period. Your lettering invoked the kinetic flow of Steadman’s and Ed Fella’s ink work. I'm a type nerd and I could look those pieces all day. There is a certain visual rhythm in some of your pieces. It’s as if you adhere to a certain culture of materials, reminiscent of the Russian Suprematism Movement. Your work seems to dwell in reflexivity. It’s very aware of its analog or digital nature. Your digital type is cropped tightly making every pixel visible. By doing this you give even cold digital type an analog warmth.

Luis, Thank you so much. And thank you for following along with my Instagram. I procured a device for that in mid-2015 after my flip phone broke in half. I was apprehensive as I'm not one to quickly upgrade technology. However, I soon found the smartphone to be an incredible creative tool and outlet, as well as a way to document my timeline more fluidly. Alhough I've carried a digital camera on me the last dozen years, the phone has become an even more valuable resource while on my daily path, in giving birth to new art, and in general goofing and exploring. I often share more photos than spoken words in a day. I guess every day can be an exhibition. I'm also utilizing Pinterest for this and/or a filing cabinet system for my body of work. As well as Tumblr. I don't have an actual website, but these platforms work fine for me.

We've never met in the flesh, but Steve Mehallo sought me out over a decade ago per my poster and design work. Multi-state distance plus my hermit sensibilities mixed with modern times makes for a good relationship these days. He's been a gracious supporter of my work over the years, and I can't thank him enough. In 2007 I shipped him a big box of materials for a last minute show. 

As for my DJG Design practice, I awoke in early 2011 with the urge to retire it after ten years. I wrote a long-winded essay about it at the time. The decision was a long gestation and I decided to put the punctuation on that part of my life while I was still feeling good about it. I'm proud of what was accomplished with my little footnote, but I had to move on and I'm better for it. I feel I hit the window at just the right time and then crawled out. In short, I found myself increasingly out of touch and disenfranchised with "design." I was also terrible at business and the stress of project deadlines and other hiccups on top of life stuff (day jobs, marriage, etc.) was starting to make a mess of wiring that was frayed to begin with. I found myself more excited and fueled by a personal path through my art. However, I decided to keep a particular alley open for when certain client projects fell in my lap in unison of voice and vision. 

Overall, I'm in a much more comfortable place and far healthier. Art has never paid the bills, but I feel better balanced following creative impulse and choosing to be picky. Ralph Steadman / Ed Fella / Russian Suprematism Movement: Ah yes, you can see their influence, among many others, in a lot of my poster work, respectively. Many people have been drawn to the typographic work of my former poster work. I love the visual play and rhythm of typography, something that works great in communicating with music. I simply worked fast (as I had to) and experimented often (as I could), with no rules. I guess I still do.

02) What drove your work toward this handmade and reflexive aesthetic? Was it born out of an organic process where you simplified your work or was it driven by a response to the marketplace?  

Born of farmers, hunters and butchers, my formative years are rooted in rural Missouri. So, that certainly made a mold. A big inspiration would have to be my Grandma Gibson who was quite resourceful and made a lot of things by hand. I understand from others that I have a prolific work ethic and nature, though I don't really see it this way. It's kind of tattooed on my bones. When you get to a certain place the plow pulls itself.

Still, as a child of the '80s and '90s, the influential, often slicker strings of pop-culture were not far removed. Like many, I have deep connections with the culture of my era, as well as a couple decades prior. (movies, music, comics, cards, sports, architecture, graffiti, etc.) We can't pick the placement and era we're born into, but I'm pleased with mine. I guess I found a happy medium with the way I made things in my youth, constantly inspired and burying myself in many areas, inside and out. I was on the computer cusp with one foot in the dirt. It's interesting when you start to stack and strip the blocks. I point to anything Jim Henson had his hands in as being the greatest consistent creative inspiration of my life.

All the while something in me felt a harsh scrape with the dichotomy of a rural lifestyle and there being something more for me in the world. I've always felt late-blooming, extremely reserved and an ill-fitting peg most anywhere. It was challenging, but by the late '90s I was ready to venture off and study graphic design, illustration and art at Southwest Missouri State University (now Missouri State) in Springfield, MO. There, I had instructors with Easter European and Russian backgrounds. I soon became enthralled with how I could hands-on pour myself into a creative voice after a couple of frustrating years with the learning curve of a computer screen barrier. I was drawn to Polish poster design, in particular that of Henryk Tomaszewski. As well as great artists and designers that include Push Pin Studios, Saul Bass, Lester Beall, Stefan Sagmeister, 4AD, Ray Johnson, Saul Steinberg, Robert Rauschenberg and Art Chantry. I told excited computer-literate peers I was going the design route that didn't necessarily require computers and technology. They laughed at me. After four years I came to a place in my life where a decision needed to be made. I soon had a calling to Kansas City, MO, live with a band and be their art director while working as a janitor. With my head down, creative opportunities flooded in and the art became more outgoing than I was.

03) As both an artist and printmaker I understand that when you work handmade-you build your pieces. I am thoroughly impressed by how prolific you are. 

I dabble in a few things digitally, and have bridged the gap a bit with some of my Instacanvases. Though, overall everything is hands-on for me. Even during my design years I would make a lot of posters and logos entirely by hand. Then, if need-be, utilize the computer (I have a Mac old enough to drive.) for print production, application and/or any slight manipulation. My Photoshop software is probably as old as some college students. There were some concert poster runs done entirely by hand, including production via photocopy and spray paint. Being I don't sell or part with a lot of my art, I still have it all. (Some process photos over the years.) My archives are a mess.

Considering how long a day is and how much of it is spent scooped and scurried between a day job, other things and sleeping, I think I could always make more art. I also watch a lot of movies. Though, I see that as fuel and research. General day-to-day stuff can be nourishment to the creative process as well. I'm sure elements of obsessive-compulsive and social phobic leanings play a factor to my art piles. I know I feel best and like my true self when I'm in the act of creation. I never have felt lonely. I feel more connected and balanced. I do what I can and I'm generally always doing something. I try to carve out a routine that fits. I think that goes for anyone. I don't personally believe in creative blocks or waiting for inspiration to strike. I also don't fully subscribe to a particular method, mood or style. Though, it all likely falls under my little umbrella.

04) How long do spend on your pieces? Are your personal projects more time consuming than your commissions?

Personal projects are a large portion of my life and I work those in bursts of 1-to-2-to-3 hour blocks. Though, I rarely spend that much time on a single art piece and often create many things in a sitting. There are many times when I'm fully gassed and stuff will bang out rapidly. I've had the lights halfway switched off and a foot out the door when the best moments come. You should never ignore those and be open to creating things on the fly. There are particular personal projects that need more finesse time, these would be things like books. I told myself to finally put together a collection of my poetry with imagery in 2015. Off and on it took the bulk of the year and I actually ended up with five of them. In 2016 I released ten more books of various collections.

I don't really do art commissions and I'm not entirely sure I want to. I guess it would depend on what it is and what manner of traded waves there are with the flags of commerce. Anything not entirely made for me would come by way of a handful of design work for like-minded clients (usually friends) I've allowed myself to make something special with. These have included identities, videos and music packages. Naturally, more factors and responsibilities are at play, so these demand more time, energy, patience and incubation. The longest being an epic vinyl and CD package project that was in fruition for the last four years. It was a fascinating project to witness develop on both sides and we're very pleased with the results currently rolling off the press. Sometimes the old design demons can well up. Though, I come away from my limited project leash as a positive.

05) I imagine your studio is populated by stacks of cut outs from vintage magazines, spray paint chips, and bottles of Higgins ink.

I've always worked out of small back bedrooms and grungy basement quarters. Because of my pack rat and resourceful nature (diagnosed as hoarder to most) I have a making space with little space in which to make. I'm always banging elbows and allow only one of my four cats as she has the best manners. I relate the space to my womb or brain and I think it can be overwhelming and weird to most people. Let's just say I collect a lot of content. I dream of what I could do with a bigger space, but I make it all fit. I've always preferred to work where I live as I like to keep it close to me. If I had to travel to get to what some refer to as an "artist studio," I'd rarely go as I don't like leaving the house. Besides, it's not financially in my favor and it's not like I have my entire day to devote to art as I please. Aside from a few random canvas, etc. pieces, or items more sculptural, I primarily produce on sheets of paper I tape together (11"x 17," or various big art pads I find on sale). Even my works on paper can become three-dimensional. My philosophy over the years has been that I can always add or subtract a piece of paper. I'm a big fan of tape. I keep piles of work materials on my tabletop and/or tucked around my room in various boxes, containers and kitty litter buckets. Often the line is blurred between my collections and keepables, art materials and finished art. (Various studio shots over the years.)

06) Are your projects composed of individual comps that you add to and repurpose for client work or are they all made from scratch?

To add to the commission / client work question prior ... it wasn't that I was constantly at work for four years on that one particular music package. Rather, we (client and I) considered everything I made within the time frame as a potential component. I definitely had core ideas and art in focus for the project (the original cover art is roughly 4x4 feet), but we fleshed it out with some elements pulled from other pieces I had made. Usually I prefer to start from scratch, though it just depends on what it is and how it works out. I know I've adapted personal things well into music videos. I think because those involve more edits and revisions than most projects. I guess if someone gets a spark from something I've made personally to use on their thing elsewhere, I'm definitely open for exploration and hybrid. It can be fun to see where things end up. What I find most fascinating with long-haul work is the evolution that can take place. My engagement, emotion, mood, inclination and taste swings rapidly in a day's time, let alone in the span of a project's bookends.

07) Great art awakens your senses. When I was taking drawing classes at the Dolores Olmedo Art Center in Mexico City there was a large Diego Rivera piece called "Pneumatic Drill.” It’s this tall imposing line drawing done in charcoal. I remember walking up to it and pantomiming Diego’s strokes with my hand. It was an exercise in kinesthetic empathy. Some of your pieces trigger this reflex for me. I want to play with the paper used in your collages or re-arrange your spray paint chips like a tangram. A lot of your pieces invite the viewer to play with the materials that you use. In this way, you’ve engage the viewer's gaze and caused a sensory response beyond the visual.

I can see where Pneumatic Drill would make for a daily moving experience. I really like this idea of "kinesthetic" empathy, and you make my artist methods seem far more intelligent and profound than they are! I've come to realize I'm far more comfortable as a "doer," and/or I figure and follow along. I also require a need to work alone and don't like at all to be watched doing anything. I don't even like people watching me watch something. Anyway, I did a recent (what I call) "Quick Clicks" study via Instagram that was conjured out of nowhere. I took the same handful of found pieces and made 20 different things within a short window. I'd create, click and make anew, keeping it very fast, loose and under an hour. (Set One / Set Two) It would be great to give these same pieces to the next person and see what they come up with, and so on. Would we essentially get the same results? (Perhaps we can have Mehallo assign this in class.) Though, as I probably mentioned before there are particular moves we develop over time that can start to unearth and intersect with how we create. 

For good reason he's mentioned so much in art history, but this somehow reminds me of a fantastic film capturing Picasso drawing (The Mystery of Picasso, 1956). I saw it years ago, but it is lodged in me. I love the magic that appears to happen on screen. I've engaged and identified more and more with Picasso's entire body of work in recent years - - just an endless creative need and feed. You can really tell he's exploring and having a good time creating. The hands-on approach, energy and play is reciprocal. A friend and I use the silly term "whole pizza" a lot when describing lots of content or the notion of "going for it." I'm drawn to artists who give it all, and in multiple areas (artists, musicians, writers, directors, etc.). I also identify so much with folk artists (the likes of Henry Darger, Bill Traylor, Howard Finster). Such art feels like a lived-in engagement of call and response to life and experience, and I can dive in and move around. The same goes for anything (culture, etc.) that any viewer develops an unusual immediate attraction and kinship with. It's like their DNA is already included. It can help represent and better understand how we're all in this together.

08) Was this intentional? Do you find that this playful gaze just comes natural when using the materials that inspire you?

Anyone who does anything has a bit of calculated formula and routine to approach. Even when I try to push forward or not plan a premeditated means of production, manual instincts can easily repeat particular patterns, rhythms and visual cadence. I think everyone has a bag of tricks. I guess that's where anyone's voice and style comes in. I've never been good at math but can understand it in the way I experience the world and respond or regurgitate through my creativity. There's a particular geometry I've become very aware taking place and spatial relation along with my presence and behavior, a constant conversation, so to speak. And it's not just spelled in the practice of bone girth and chalk dust. Therefore, I really dig this word "reflexivity" you bring into discussion. You may have helped me tap further into something about myself. Further still, when others interact and respond to what I make of life here, then that's pretty interesting, to say the least. It goes way beyond me.

09) I’ll follow up with more questions later. I’d like to have a back and forth dialogue if that’s ok with you.

Sounds great. Thank you, Luis!

-djg