#*politely ignores that there are eight other links and the letters are all of different origin

[luna-lovegreat]

Anyone else notice that Sky’s the one the postman gave the mail to each time?

[batwake]

wearing yellow to a funeral - reddie

ao3 link

summary:  The Losers Club find the strength to carry on after killing It, and Richie deals with his feelings by politely ignoring them.

In the months following It, the Losers miraculously find some way to carry on. The cuts on their hands scar over and fade, Stanley gets his bandages taken off, Bev keeps her hair short and choppy, and September arrives with little fanfare.

Turns out that killing a demon clown doesn’t change much as about their status in the middle school hierarchy, but Henry Bowers isn’t around to shove Eddie into lockers and they only get called slurs every once in a while. Eighth grade, Richie decides, is the best year yet.

Puberty hits them all at full force by November, and it’s nice to see Beverly starting to laugh and smile more often as the boys’ voices crack as they get deeper, or they hurry out of the classroom with their notebooks held discreetly in front of themselves. Richie thinks it’s funny too, even has his limbs practically grow overnight and he has to actually start shaving, even if it’s just the fuzz on his upper lip.

Focusing on his developing body is a good distraction to his developing mind, as well. He thinks about how wild his hair is becoming, instead of thinking about how soft Eddie’s looks. He avoids the arcade and tells himself that it’s because he has a Sega at home, or that he’d rather be listening to his records instead.

Mike tells them all about his first kiss with some girl who hangs around the farm because her father works there. That’s the first time Richie notices how handsome Mike is, with his jaw that is just starting to square up and big, working hands.

Richie’s not stupid. He knows the other Losers are attractive, and what this means for him. It’s just starting to become a problem.

When Bill tosses his arm around him in the hallway, Richie is quick to stumble out a laugh and brush his arm off. When Ben and Stan are hovering on either side of him, looking at something in a textbook, Richie leans as far back as he can without breaking the rickety old library chair.

When it gets warm enough again, Richie spends a Saturday morning by himself at the Kissing Bridge, trying to force himself to scribble out the letters that he scratched there himself nearly a year ago. They’re going into high school, how could Richie still feel like that, after everything? He had sort of been hoping that the clown had snuffed out his Eddie-Libido. Instead the damn thing had added fuel to the fire.

Instead Richie sits in the still-wet grass for an hour or two, digging his pocket knife even further into the wood and forcing the letters back to prominence after the last eight months of wear and tear.

It feels childish. The whole walk to Eddie’s house, he contemplates turning around, running back to the bridge, and kicking the damn post over and off the cliff for good. Instead he just ends up in Eddie’s bed, laughing and reading comics and thinking thoughts he shouldn’t think, relishing in their private moments, where it’s just them, before they leave to meet up with the other Losers in the afternoon.

It’s easier to pretend, if he lets himself be present. Poke and prod Eddie like he always does, but avoid skin. Call him the stupid nicknames, but not my love, or dearest, as he had when they were younger, grinning and shoving at each other. He throws a few extra mom jokes in there, and Eddie even laughs, bright and warm and beautiful.

One ounce of honesty per day.

+

By the summer before their junior year, it almost feels like they’ve moved on with their lives. Richie can walk through the park again, Stan can hear the sound of a flute without a panic attack. Bill’s stutter is even mostly gone, which the Losers figure is the miracle of miracles. The sunshine after the storm, the good omen to put the past behind them and be semi-normal teens.

Hey guys, Richie doesn’t say, remember when we fought that evil clown a few summers ago? Wasn’t that fun?

Sometimes Richie feels like the only one who remembers. None of them bring it up unless it’s on accident. And even then, it’s fleeting. Just a moment, a second of silence if someone says something about a clown, or balloons, or Georgie.

Ben and Richie are by themselves in the clubhouse one afternoon. Richie’s stretched out in the hammock, his gangly limbs poking every which way.

“I can’t believe we used to fit multiple people in here,” Richie says, offhand. There’s the beat of quiet, as both Richie and Ben remember the Summer of It when Eddie and Richie used to share the thing all the time. Then, Richie continues, “we should get another one.”

Ben scoffs. “There’s no room for that. Besides, I’m sure you and Eddie could find some way to squeeze in there together.”

More silence, but it’s not the heavy, thick kind that usually befalls them as they remember that summer. This silence is a bit more awkward, more friendly. Well intended.

“Why’re you signalling Eds out?” Richie laughs the weight in his chest away. “You could come cuddle with me, Benny-boy.” He makes kissing noises as Ben huffs out that almost-laugh that he does when he isn’t really sure what to say.

Well, that makes two of them.

“I mean, that’s yours and Eddie’s spot,” Ben finally says, albeit a bit sheepishly.

Richie leans forward as far as he can in the hammock, trying to get a good view of Ben. He’s sitting on the floor, writing, or drawing, or something. Stan and Bill have already begun college applications, Richie wouldn’t be surprised if Ben was hopping on that train too.

“It’s not our spot,” Richie says defensively. “Bev sits in here all the time.”

“Sure,” says Ben. He sounds sarcastic, which is rare for him. “You guys might as well write your initials on the side of that thing.”

Richie very carefully tries not to choke on his spit or fall off the hammock. Ben continues, “maybe we should just get a new one, so you can both fit.”

“No!”

“Weren’t you the one just campaigning for a second one?”

Frustrated, Richie flops back onto his back, closing his eyes as the hammock rocks beneath him. Sure, it’s getting old, more brown than yellow these days, and there’s definitely several holes from where Richie and Eddie had dug the heels of their feet into the nylon a few too many times. It smells like dust and water from the quarry, and maybe a little like the lemon cleaning supplies that Sonia Kaspbrak uses. It isn’t hard to imagine Eddie sitting with him, as much as they have grown in the last few years. They’d find a way to force themselves in just to annoy each other.

There’s the sound of shuffling, like Ben putting down his papers and crawling across the space to sit next to the hammock. Then, a reassuring hand finding Richie’s shoulder.

Richie opens his eyes. Ben is looking over the edge of the hammock, a knowing look on his face.

“Benjamin Handsome,” Richie presses his hand against Ben’s face as he laughs, “I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

Folding his arms, Richie looks back up at the ceiling. Some dust falls. Richie opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the sound of voices, quickly followed by the hatch opening.

“Hey,” says Mike as he climbs down, followed by Eddie. If Ben notices the hitch in Richie’s breath, he doesn’t say anything.

“We were just talking about how old this hammock is, do you think we should replace it?”

Eddie’s face appears over Richie’s, an odd look on his face. “Why should we?”

“Ben doesn’t think we can both fit in it anymore!” Eddie yelps as Richie grabs him by the shoulders and hauls him into the hammock. They spend a few seconds laughing and flailing, almost falling off the damn thing several times, before they manage to steady themselves, Richie still sprawled out and Eddie place precariously on his lap, legs on either side of Richie’s hips. Both of their faces are red, and Eddie is breathing sort of heavily.

“I knock the wind out of ya, eh Eds?”

He can’t be totally sure, but Richie almost swears that Eddie gets a bit pinker around the ears. “Fuck you, Trashmouth, you could’ve killed both of us just then! Crack both of our skulls open-- ”

Mike and Ben are laughing somewhere to Richie’s right. Eddie’s going off on some tangent about hammock safety, but makes no real effort to move, and doesn’t even say anything once Richie’s hand finds purchase on his calf, right above where he used to wear those ridiculous socks. The skin there is soft and smooth, unlike Richie’s legs, whose growth spurt also included dark hair on most parts of his body. Richie takes a moment to revel in that, think about what that means, before he tunes back in to what Eddie is saying, his face screwed up in a very cute way.

Mentally, Richie sprays himself with water. Down, boy.

“--and what would have even been the point, a total waste of time.”

Eddie shakes his head with a sigh when he realizes that Richie hadn’t been listening. “If this thing breaks with both of us on it, it’s your fault.” Then, he flops onto his back, unfolding his knees and sticking his feet in Richie’s face. They’re more on top of each other than they ever were as kids, and something feels a bit different than how it did when they were thirteen. Eddie even kicks of Richie’s glasses.

His vision is fuzzy as he looks over the yellow nylon, glasses disappearing somewhere between their tangled limbs, but can still tell that Ben and Mike are flashing him two thumbs up.

+

It’s kind of ridiculous, that the whole thing comes to a head during their senior year.

At this point, Richie is fairly sure that most, if not all, the other Losers know about his crush. He hates calling it that, feels like a twelve year old carving their initials into the fucking kissing bridge. He keeps thinking that one day he’ll wake up and the feelings will be gone, that he’ll realize that it wasn’t romantic at all and that it was just the lingering side effects of It or some shit. It doesn’t help that Richie’s still a teenager who has needs and likes sex.

Eddie, in his track uniform, sweaty after a meet. In the quarry, stripped down to his underwear, wet and smiling like the sun. Even during the goddamn winter, Eddie’s nose pink and eyelashes covered in snowflakes and shouting profanities as Richie throws snowballs at him. It’s enough to drive an eighteen year old closeted, flaming homosexual crazy.

Beverly likes to look at Richie knowingly over cigarettes, just as Ben does whenever Richie and Eddie are in the hammock together. Bill pats his shoulder in a sorry, buddy, gesture. Mike and Stanley like to give vague speeches, about patience and idiots who just need to shut up and make out already.

Mike and Stan aren’t the most subtle, to say the least.

They go to prom, all seven of them as each other’s dates. Richie wears this hideous powder blue suit that he found in an antique store for three dollars, and Eddie manages to keep a straight face as Richie bows and asks him for a dance.

To his surprise, Eddie takes the hand that Richie had extended, pulling them head first onto the dancefloor full of girls with too much hairspray in their hair and guys who aren’t wearing enough deodorant. Behind them, Richie can hear the other Losers cheering and whistling.

“Y’know Eds, I had kind of expected you to throw punch in my face or something,” Richie says, loudly enough over the music once they’ve stopped in the crowd of people. Eddie shrugs, and starts moving his shoulders and legs in the most perfect, awkward way possible. Richie follows his lead, bouncing lightly on his toes to the beat.

Just as the chorus kicks in, they both open their mouths to sing along, grinning goofily at each other.

There’s a room where the light won’t find you, holding hands while the walls come tumbling down. When they do, I’ll be right behind you.

Eddie’s sort of screaming it, and Richie supposes that he is too. Their hands are held tightly together as they dance playfully, spinning and wiggling their arms and laughing the whole way through.

So glad we’ve almost made it, so sad they had to fade it, everybody wants to rule the world.

Despite the people all around them, Richie feels like it’s just them. Richie and Eddie, Eddie and Richie.

When the song ends and transitions into something else, they’re pressed closely together. More people have joined the dance floor, and it takes a second for Richie to realize that it’s because a slow song started to play. Couples with matching dresses and ties start to pair up, or hopeful looking boys hover awkwardly around a bored looking girl who looks out of their league. Richie even spots Ben and Bev over Eddie’s shoulder.

His eyes drop back down to Eddie, who is still looking up at him. Eddie’s sort of standing between Richie’s legs, and one of his hands holds onto Richie’s sleeve. They’re both breathing heavily.

“Hey,” Richie says breathlessly. “Wanna go outside?”

“Yes please,” Eddie huffs, and it’s maybe the sexiest thing Richie’s ever heard.

They shuffle through the crowd of high schoolers until they get to the gym’s side door, slipping out into the warm night unnoticed.

The door clicks shut behind them. The music is muffled, but still audible. Richie laughs and leans against the brick wall. “You sure know how to treat a lady, Eds.”

Eddie shakes off his black suit jacket and seems to relish in the relief for a moment. It’s only then that Richie realizes how warm he is, too.

Richie is quick to follow suit.

“That suit is hideous.”

“You’re hideous.”

“Real smooth, Trashmouth.”

Richie shrugs, tossing the jacket onto the concrete. Eddie winces, but lets him do the same to his own.

There’s only one light on this side of the building, casting their little alleyway in an eerie sort of glow. As they collect themselves, Richie doesn’t have to even say anything to know that they’re both thinking the same thing. It.

Richie holds out his hand. Their fingers slip together easily as Eddie steps forward and back into Richie’s space. Neither of them have really slow danced, unless you count the time they drunkenly celebrated New Years in Bill’s basement and broke a vase as they attempted the Dirty Dancing dance.

It’s not too hard to get into. Richie’s hands go to Eddie’s waist, and Eddie wraps his arms around Richie’s neck. The height difference makes it slightly difficult, and it’s only when Richie laughs lightly does Eddie step on Richie’s foot.

“Dick,” Richie mutters into Eddie’s hair as he hunches his shoulders. Eddie can wrap himself around Richie properly now, one of his hands tangled into the mess that has become Richie’s hair. Then, “you look good tonight. I, ah.” He huffs nervously as he feels one of the hands on his neck tighten. “Yellow is your color.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to laugh into Richie’s shirt. He pulls back a little, just enough to look up at his taller friend. Richie takes him in, with his yellow dress shirt and cute curls and a stupid smirk on his face.

“Thanks,” Eddie says simply. He let’s Richie spin him, and it feels oddly elegant, even if they’re just two teenagers poorly slow dancing in an alleyway behind their senior prom. “I’d say you look good too, but I don’t think baby blue suits you.”

“Yeah, I agree, I’ll have to ask your mom if I can borrow one of her yellow blouses so we can match next time.”

He just manages to catch Eddie roll his eyes before he realizes that his head is being tugged down and their mouths are being pressed together.

Well then.

Richie spends a second trying to decide what to do, while also battling with the thirteen year old horndog in the back of his brain that is two seconds away from getting on his knees. Just as he decides to tilt his head, though, Eddie is stepping away. He looks surprised, if anything.

Eddie opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, then closes it with a click of his teeth. Christ, Richie was just kissing that mouth.

“I would’ve asked to borrow a shirt from your mom years ago if I had known you’d do that,” Richie finally manages.

Eddie groans and runs his hands through his hair. It sticks up in several directions, and all Richie can think is cute cute cute. “Can’t you be serious for two seconds?”

“I am serious!” Richie waves an arm vaguely. “I’ve been in love with you since we were like, eleven! And don’t even get me started on that stupid cl--”

They’re kissing again before Richie can finish the sentence, which is just as well. Eddie’s up on his toes and Richie’s leaning down, wrapping his arms around him and pulling Eddie as closely to his chest as possible.

“You’re so stupid,” Eddie mutters into Richie’s mouth. It sounds more like Oar Show Shoe Ped, but Richie is basically the leading expert on all things Eddie Kaspbrak, and gets the jist. Richie’s about ready to add very good at kissing to the list of Strange Things About Eddie Kaspbrak, right between wears socks to bed and can say the alphabet backwards.

+

When Richie leaves for LA, Eddie gives him a little black journal. “For your jokes,” he says with a final kiss to the side of Richie’s face.

It’s only once Richie is on the plane does he find the flowers, dried and pressed carefully between the front and the first page of the notebook. They’re the same yellow ones that grow in Richie’s backyard back in Derry. The same ones that Eddie braided into Richie’s hair, and the little blue and yellow ones that Richie liked to decorate Eddie’s windowsill with.

The old lady on the plane beside him tells him that the yellow ones are called butterweeds. Then, with a sweet laugh and a hand pressed to her heart, “and those blue ones with the yellow in the middle. Forget-me-nots. ”

“Makes sense,” Richie says shakily, although he doesn’t know why. “I’m leaving my hometown to go to LA.”

The woman pats Richie’s leg reassuringly, sensing the trepidation in his voice. “I’m sure it’ll all work out fine.”

+

People ask Richie all the time; what’s with you and the color yellow?

The Lie: It’s my favorite color.

The Truth: I have vague memories of yellow shirts and yellow sneakers and yellow hammocks. When I first moved to LA I always painted my nails yellow because it made me feel less homesick. I keep these pressed yellow weeds taped in this thirty year old notebook and I’m not sure why. The smell of cleaning supplies makes me sick. Sometimes, I have these strange dreams, of the sun reflected on clear water and a yellow raincoat. There’s laughing, and smiling, and joy, but there’s also something like fear. Shame. Guilt. And the yellow that got me through it, the light within the darkness. You know when you press your fingers to your eyes, and you start to see spots? That’s what yellow feels like. So I surround myself with yellow. Yellow flowers in the green room, yellow lights on set. Ugly yellow patterned shirts because they make me laugh and I know they make someone else do, too. Yellow phone cases, yellow ties, yellow posters for my Yellow! tour, where I tell an odd joke about being allergic to lemons, even though I’m not, and I don’t know anyone who is. I remember a yellow hammock, and a warm, sunshine filled body pressed close to me. I remember how yellow the sun seemed after… something. Darkness. Something that I see in my nightmares but I forget the words before I wake up. Something yellow.

+

When the Losers Club officially reunites 27 years later and Richie remembers why he hates arcades so much, he waits for the memories of yellow to return to him. In the clubhouse, there’s the yellow hammock, where he wonders if he and Eddie would still fit. They pass by Richie’s old house, and he can almost see the yellow weeds peeking out from behind a fence. Eddie says something about lemons, and he remembers that it was Eddie who had claimed to be allergic to them, all those years ago, and how his house smelled like lemon cleaning supplies anyway.

They fight It for the second time, and they’re pretty sure they killed it for good this time. When Richie got caught in the deadlights, the glowing yellow of them was so bright that they were almost white. Something about it doesn’t sit pleasantly in Richie’s stomach, as if the color has been ruined for good.

They make it out alive, climbing out of the wreckage of Neilbolt and back into the daylight. Richie is supporting Eddie, who limps slightly but is otherwise unscathed. They watch, all seven of them, as the house crumbles in on itself, darkness and evil crumbling until there’s nothing but them and the sun. Stan says something about how glad he is that he made it, just to see this house finally disappear for good. It makes them laugh, in the tense moment, and when Richie looks down and over at Eddie, he’s glad he made it here too.

+

“I hate this,” Eddie groans, almost as soon as he comes back up for air after jumping into the quarry. The sun reflects off the water and onto their faces, just like Richie remembers it.

“I knew you’d say that!” Beverly splashes him for good measure, which just makes Eddie sputter and gag more than he already was.

It feels like they’re thirteen again, splashing each other and squealing at the feeling of something brushing their feet. By the time they’ve tired themselves out and begin the walk back into town, Richie’s starting to feel like he’s missing something, as their long and weird journey comes to an end.

“I don’t remember this walk being this long when we were kids,” Mike groans. He raises an arm over his head and audibly cracks it.

“That’s what happens when you get old,” Ben says, who’s one to talk. He’s easily the most in shape of all of them.

“We've almost made it,” Bill reminds them, putting on his Leader voice. Even as an adult, that tone in Bill’s voice makes Richie want to believe it.

Stan hums something from beside Richie in response to Bill.

Richie freezes, as if a shock went through his entire body. It’s enough to make Stan and Eddie stop to look at him worriedly, signaling to the others to pause.

“Stanley,” Richie says, looking at his old friend, who really hasn’t aged a day. “What were you just humming?”

He looks surprised, like that’s not what he was expecting Richie to ask. After a moment of confusion, he says, “Everybody wants to rule the world. Tears for Fears? I’m sure you know it.”

There’s a second, a moment, where Richie processes that information. He’s used to this feeling by now, his brain struggling to catch up to what his heart knows--

“Prom!” He shouts excitedly, spinning around to face Eddie, whose eyebrows are raised adorably high on his head. “I can’t believe I forgot!”

Eddie’s about to say something, but he’s cut off by Mike asking something, but Mike is cut off by Richie rushing forward and kissing Eddie right on the mouth, hand on his cheek over the bandage.

Once Richie parts to breath, he pumps a fist in the air. Eddie’s eyes are far away and his head is slightly tilted, clearly also processing this information.

It’s Ben who speaks first. “Jesus, I can’t believe you guys forgot that you were in love.”

Eddie’s mouth is on Richie’s again in a second, and it feels like the first time. Eddie on his toes, Richie leaning down. Except this time their friends are here, and they’re soaking wet, and they killed that fucking clown for real.

“Eddie, light of my life, sunshine on my rainy day, how on earth are we so fucking stupid?” Richie is shouting this to the open air as he spins Eddie around. He doesn’t ever remember feeling this happy. Not since the first time they fought It, not since he last kissed Eddie 27 years ago.

The other Losers are quick to wrap their arms around the two of them, even as Eddie is laughing through the tears that are welling up in his eyes. He shoves good naturedly at Richie’s glasses.

“This would only happen to you two.” That’s Bev, from somewhere near Richie’s elbow.

“Please,” says Bill, who sounds like he’s pressed to Eddie’s back. “As if you and Ben didn’t just go through the same thing.”

God, Richie thinks. 27 fucking years. How had he never realized how sad and empty he had been? Without his best friends, without the love of his life. He woke up every morning feeling like he was about to go to a funeral, not some talk show or red carpet event.

They begin their walk back once again, and this time, Richie holds tightly onto Eddie’s hand.

“So, Eds,” Richie begins. Eddie looks over at him, eyebrows raised and suspicious, but eyes full of light and love. “For our wedding, I’m thinking butterweeds and forget-me-nots. Yay or nay?”

+

They have sunflowers, on their wedding day, because the sight of forget-me-nots makes Ben start crying, and if Ben starts crying, the rest of them do too.

It was a pointless effort, considering they all end up crying anyway.

The seven of them get a picture, decked out in their finest yellows, and Richie finds himself remembering the days after It, the first time. When they could hardly sleep without one of the others in the room, and Bill still stuttered, and there was that lingering sensation of this isn’t over yet.

Well, it’s over now. And they can finally carry on.

[live-love-laugh-lesbian]

Choose Me Again

(I posted this on ao3 like, a month ago or so, but not on here-)

Summary: Emile Picani is born without a soulmate mark, a "Spare". Thankfully he meets someone who doesn't care about the rules, and has enough overconfidence to pull off a fake soulmate mark for far too long. Emile can't help but fall in love with that sort of person. Maybe his brother was right, Deceit really is a bad influence.

Words: 5,643

Emile Picani was born without a soulmate, just a blank wrist.

His parents were a typical love story in their world. They met young, their names burning bright on their wrists, shock and awe and excitement as they realised they’d found their soulmate. They stayed together through high school, of course, and got married as soon as they finished university. His mother wore a pretty mermaid tail white dress, his father had gushed over how lucky he was to have such a beautiful soulmate, and two years later they’d had Emile’s older brother Logan, who was born with the name Roman Prince on his wrist in deep red. It sparkled in the sun, and Emile swore there were flecks of gold within it.

 But then Emile was born, pale blank wrists, a doctor reassuring his parents that many people don’t develop their marks until later. That he had one patient who got it at “the cut off mark”, and how lucky they were, how close they were to not having one!

 So his parents relaxed, assumed he’d develop one in due course.

 He was three when he first realised he was “different” than his family. Logan was only two years older than him, and really didn’t understand as much as he’d like to pretend.  So when Emile traced over the curves of the R and asked why he didn’t have a name, Logan had said they were still looking for someone good enough for him.

 Emile found it funny, had blushed, made some high pitched squawking noise, and continued playing. His parents overheard, and used it as the reason whenever the question came up. Anything to make their son feel normal.

 Emile went to playgroup, met a variety of children with a variety of names. Only a couple didn’t have theirs yet, but they were too young to really understand why it was such a big deal.  Em  ile met  Remy there,  a boy with pitch black letters scrawled over his wrist, deep and inky.

“October,” Emile reads proudly, “I don’t know anyone named after a month though...”

 R  emy shrugs,  picks up  a pen and starts doodling over a sheet of paper, as blank as Emile’s arms.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s a dumb name. Yours is cooler.”

 E  mile smiled, gap toothed and  rosy cheeked,  looking forwards to the day he met someone with his name on them.  He liked to imagine it as pink and bubbly,  maybe with a sparkle like his brothers.  He started looking at his wrist more often, imagining  the name that would appear.

 B  y the time the year ended and he had to start school with Remy, he was the only person he knew without a name. Just a blank wrist.

“It’s ok,” his mother reassures him, “my grandmother didn’t get hers until the cut off point. She was thirteen! A day later and she’d have been a Spare!”

 Spare.  Emile doesn’t understand the word as an insult, but Logan does, and he understands  that it’s bad the day Logan comes home complaining  a kid called Emile a Spare.

“Like a spare pencil?” Emile asks, almost hopefully, “you know, in case you need an extra one!”

 H  e was young, but old enough to recognise pity.  He sees it in how his mother smiles sadly, his brother runs a hand through his hair, and his father nods.

“Yes, Emile. Like...a spare pencil.”

 R  emy  works it out before him, of course, the two sat under a tree  reading  when Remy blurts out that  his mother thinks Emile’s a Spare.

“She says you’re not gonna get a mark,” he says, “but she’s wrong. You’re not a Spare, don’t worry.”

“What’s a Spare?” Emile asks, “people keep saying the word, but I don’t get it.”

“Just means someone without a name. They used to believe it was the universe making sure there were people left over in case of death or something,” Remy says it like he’s been told it a million times, “it’s sad. I’ve never met a Spare before though. Maybe they don’t exist.”

“Maybe,” Emile agrees, and closes the book he’s reading. He finds himself drifting to books and shows without romance in them. He knows he’s not a Spare, but it doesn’t hurt to take his mind off things.

 H  e likes cartoons, he discovers.  Where he can ignore romance, if there’s any,  and focus on the action, the characters.  He likes Steven Universe. He likes that even though  Sapphire and Ruby are in love, he doesn’t have to focus on it.  Besides, most cartoons didn’t have  soulmate marks.  Most of them.

“You’ve got time,” his mother reassures him when he mentions this, “and we can take you to see a doctor if you’re worried.”

 He doesn’t like that, the idea that he should see a doctor, that something is  wrong  with him.  He tells this to Logan,  who presses a kiss to his forehead and tells him  he’s perfect, that  nobody deserves their name on his wrist anyway.

“Soulmates are a ridiculous concept,” Logan tells him, emphasising the large words proudly, and Emile giggles because he’s seen Logan pondering dictionaries in his spare time.

 (  He giggles a little less when  Logan comes home  talking about the new kid at school, about how he’s called Roman Prince, about how Logan’s name  looks like a galaxy on his wrist and it’s beautiful.)

“Yeah, well, you’ve always got me,” Remy says with a grin, “romance sucks. You’re safe from hearing about it with me.”

“You can talk about it if you want,” Emile replies, but is grateful nonetheless.

 T  hey spend their days  complaining about their teacher,  doing homework in thick  coloured pen,  then  playing Crystal Gems  in the local park.  There’s no expectations, and  nobody looks too long at Emile’s blank wrist  for it to be a bother.

 H  e’s eight when he sees a Spare for the first time.  An elderly woman  with a  bright spotted  walking stick,  a pink shawl around her shoulders.  He stops to  fanboy over her  Pearl keyring,  talking about how much he loves that show, talking about cartoons and  fantasy novels.

“Such a bright boy,” she tells his parents, and he puffs his chest out proudly, “though he’s wrong, the best fusion is definitely Opal.”

 E  mile is so busy spluttering and  trying to argue that he almost misses the sight of her bare wrists,  no names written on  her dark wrinkled skin.

“Mummy, she was like me,” he says.

“Yes, you both liked your cartoons!”

“No, mummy, she had a blank wrist!”

 L  ogan tells him he shouldn’t have said it, that it was rude to point it out. His mother starts crying,  saying that  the woman was different,  that Emile wasn’t a   Spare  .  Later his father tells him to be careful with what he says,  even though Emile is confused.

“Why is being a Spare so bad?” he asks.

 (  He sees an announcement that a cartoon loving woman is dead three weeks later in the newspaper. A funeral is arranged by her estranged brother, but  when Emile goes past the funeral that day he notices the only people to turn up are the brother and his soulmate.)

 H  e hears more people say the word now he’s getting older. He’s half way to the “  cut off” point, and there are whispers. The other kids talk behind his back at school, and the whispers follow him home,  where he lies awake at night hearing  his parents sob about how they have a  Spare  as a son.

“Ignore them,” Logan tells him, “you’ll get there when you get there.”

He watches Logan laugh at Roman’s jokes, watches Roman listen to Logan’s music choices, the two watching musicals and sci-fi films on YouTube at every given chance. He’s happy for his brother, and agrees that his name looks like a galaxy against Roman’s wrist. Purple and black and blue, but shining brighter than any star he could name.

 E  mile dives further into cartoons and fantasy, away from  the love of his parents, his mother’s name s  carlet and  bold, his father’s  milky and  bright as the moon. Away from the love of his brother and Roman,  red and galaxy mixing beautifully when they link arms.  Away from the world of soulmates,  so he can pretend  he’s normal.

 R  emy is always there, always  arguing with people over whether Disney should s  top using soulmate marks  in their shows.  Does it matter who Moana  is  destined   to be with, after all?  But Emile doesn’t mind so much, content to watch fantasy people  have fantasy adventures, content to imagine that the concept of soulmate marks is just part of the fantasy.

 R  emy meets October in the summer before they start middle school.

 They’re playing on the swings, excited  to be moving up in the world.  And then a boy  with wild black curls comes up shyly, holding out his wrist,  where Remy’s name  is scrawled  in messy capital letters,  the colour of ground coffee beans.

“October?” Remy asks, and Emile knows he’s the second choice from then on out.

 T  o his credit, October   –  or Toby, as he likes to be called   –  is lovely.  He passes no judgements on Emile’s blank wrist,  never mentions the concept of  Spares  , and  turns out to be a Disney fan.  He fits into their group seamlessly,  as natural as the rise of the moon,  and Emile  knows Remy’s never been happier.

 M  iddle School is a nightmare. Emile quickly realises he’s the only one in the building with a blank wrist, and finds himself hiding it under cardigans and bracelets.  He pretends to be shy, changes topics from soulmates to  cartoons, and makes sure to clap and respond politely when people around him start meeting their soulmates.

“I get it, it’s a big deal for them,” he assures Logan, who looks so concerned these days, “if they’re as happy as you and Roman are then that’s all that matters!”

“I’m happy if you’re happy,” Logan tells him, and hugs him tightly.

 B  ut Emile’s thirteenth birthday approaches   quick,  and Emile’s parents are on edge, each day checking his wrist, sometimes subtly, sometimes just grabbing it outright.

“He’s a Spare,” he hears his father sob, “was it something we did, do you think? I read that too much sugar in infantry-”

“Maybe I ate too much fish whilst pregnant with him?” his mother suggests, “some people say-”

 T  hey don’t know Emile can hear them, and Emile feels bitter when they pretend to be happy the next day. He wants to call them out, but fears their reactions too much.  What if they’re angry with him? What if they decide it must be his fault?

 H  e’s crying a week before his thirteenth birthda  y  alone in the toilets at school.  He’s supposed to be  at  Band,   but instead he’s  wishing he had a name instead of just a blank wrist.

“What’s wrong?”

 He looks up at the voice,  vaguely recognising the kid looking at him.  They share a few classes, he’s pretty sure.  A boy with dark hair,  dark eyes   and vitiligo across his  dark  face.  If not for the flashes of yellow  in his clothes he could blend  in with the night better than Lapis Lazuli with the ocean.

“I’m a Spare,” he whispers, wiping his eyes, “I turn thirteen next week and I don’t have a name. My parents are going to be so disappointed.”

 T  he boy hums, and  Emile sees  the name  Virgil Knight   flash across his wrist,  patchy purple and swirly.

“Parents suck. Does it matter that much that you have a name?”

 Emi  le shrugs. “Logan says it doesn’t, but my parents  d  isagree.”

“Logan Picani, right?” the boy tilts his head, “he’s the kid dating Roman, the drama club guy?”

 E  mile nods. “My brother.  I’m Emile Picani.”

The kid hums, then grins, walking over and grabbing Emile’s arm before he can protest. Out comes a pen, and then Emile has Deceit Hart on his wrist.

“Well, Emile, looks like you have a name. And yes, that’s my real name. My mother was angry because dad cheated on her, and I got the lifelong reminder.”

 He says it dryly, but also tiredly, as if he’s had to  explain this a hundred times. And if he’s telling the truth, then  he probably has.

“Later, Emile.”

 H  e rushes home to show them his “soulmate mark”.  Logan looks suspicious, but plays along, whilst his parents gush, too happy and relieved to question why it looks a little more inky than the average mark.  Roman is there, and leans  over.  The drama club guy.

“Hey, Deceit. I know his brother!”

Remy insists that Deceit start joining them at lunch. After all, Toby did, so Emile’s soulmate should as well! And Emile is certain that Deceit is going to spill the beans, out Emile as a Spare, but instead he grins and accepts the invitation, fitting in with the group so casually that Emile is almost convinced he really is his soulmate.

Deceit goes over the lines every day, and his own sleeves get longer, covering the name Virgil Knight, so nobody can argue that the two are soulmates. Emile feels bad for Virgil, whoever he is. He tries bringing it up with Deceit, pointing out that he can’t lie to his future soulmate.

“Virgil can deal with it,” the boy says dryly, “you can’t be the soulmate of someone called Deceit and not expect a few lies, can you?”

Three months later his parents insist on meeting Deceit, wanting to know what their son’s soulmate is like. Roman talks about Deceit’s brother, a kid in his and Logan’s year called Patton, who Logan speaks fondly of as well.

“I admit, I didn’t know Deceit had you as his soulmate,” Roman says, “I would’ve thought I’d noticed!”

Emile tries to laugh, but the lie still tastes bad on his tongue.

It doesn’t stop him helping to cover up Deceit’s soulmate mark with make up, then going over the now-blank wrist with a pink sharpie, his own name now looping over someone’s wrist.

“Pretty,” Deceit comments.

“I guess.”

Emile introduces Deceit to his parents, and Deceit is perfect, on his best behaviour, smiling and cracking jokes and showing interest in everything his family says. Emile wishes Deceit really could be his soulmate, and wishes he could be sure that Deceit isn’t lying about, well, everything.

“See? Not so bad. And now your name is on someone!” Deceit grins afterwards, holding up his wrist, the pink still as bright as it was when Emile first applied it.

“I feel bad lying though,” Emile mutters, “and what are you going to do when you meet Virgil?”

“I’ll just discuss it with him. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Deceit says it confidently, and Emile thinks that’s his favourite part about Deceit. The confidence. Deceit never hesitates, never backs down, never hides how he feels. He’s chosen to represent their year group in a debate competition, along with Toby, and the two go to the finals against Logan and Patton.

(Brother versus brother!)

Logan reassures Emile that it’s ok if he wants to support his soulmate rather than his brother, and Emile can’t help but resent the statement.

But he supports Deceit regardless, because he’s convincing. He’s loud and convinced from the start that his side is right.

It’s a silly debate, really. The school have tried to keep it light, so two thirteen year olds are arguing that you should skip a wedding to go for an interview for your dream job, whilst two fifteen year olds argue that you should go to the wedding and support your friends.

“He believed in egoism – or, acting in your own self interest,” explains Deceit, smirking because he’s got everyone’s attention.

“But that’s wrong!” Patton protests, whilst Logan looks annoyed at having to reign in someone so emotional.

“No. You’re wrong.”

Emile’s heart flutters a little at how confidently Deceit can say such a bold statement – and to his own family member!

Deceit and Toby win, though really all Toby did was agree with what Deceit was saying. It was to be expected, in a way, because Deceit manages to get Mr Sanders, who is supposed to be the neutral judge, to agree with him.

“You’ve got a talent,” Logan says afterwards, whilst Patton hugs his brother tightly, “you should join the debate club. I’m happy to put in a recommendation for you to be Captain next year.”

“Nah, I’m not that fond of debating,” Deceit says, and they all know it’s a lie, because he accepts Logan’s recommendation, and the next year takes over the position.

“You’ll be in High School too soon,” Logan points out to Emile, “make sure you let them know Deceit’s your soulmate, that way you’ll be put into the same classes.”

(Emile shifts awkwardly, and Logan considers mentioning that he knows Emile isn’t Deceit’s soulmate. But he lets it go, because if his brother’s happy then that’s all that matters.)

Deceit and Emile keep up the lie throughout middle school, going on double dates with Remy and Toby in their final year, two pairs of fifteen year olds arguing over which Disney movie to watch at the cinema. Emile likes it, likes holding hands with Deceit, likes the kiss on the cheek he receives at the end.

“We’ll still be friends after you meet Virgil, right?” he asks timidly one night.

The four at at his house for a sleepover, Remy and Toby having fallen asleep during Lilo and Stitch two hours ago. The make up has smudged enough that the purple letters are just visible, and Emile’s heart aches at the idea of losing his wannabe-soulmate.

“Best friends,” Deceit promises, and kisses Emile’s forehead, “forever.”

It’s the summer before they start High School, Remy and Toby finally making themselves official, and celebrating with a week away at Toby’s grandparents’ house, a pretty cottage by the sea.

“Have fun!” Emile hugs Remy tightly, “I’m so jealous of you guys, find a pretty seashell for me, would you?”

Toby laughs as Remy returns the hug. “We can manage that,” he assures Emile, “text us if you reach your growth spurt whilst we’re gone, ok?”

“I hate you,” Emile snaps, but laughs nonetheless when his three friends crowd around him, knowing he’s easily two inches shorter than them all.

“Use protection,” Deceit teases Remy, nudging Toby in the ribs, “try wait until Wednesday.”

Emile smacks him lightly around the head, and Deceit laughs. Deceit had already turned sixteen, whilst Remy and Toby shared a birthday. Emile still had two months to go.

“Watch it, or I’ll keep you filled in,” Remy warns, but his eyes sparkle.

“Ooh, fill me, yes please-”

“Dee!”

And then for a week it’s just the fake soulmates, starting each day redoing each others’ names and planning what to do.

“I think I might dye my hair when my parents go for their anniversary this weekend,” Emile says, “what do you think?”

“What colour?”

“Pink.”

“You’ll look fantastic. I was thinking of keying our local politician’s car.”

“That’s illegal.”

“And?”

Roman walks in on them dying Emile’s hair, and calls to Logan, saying that Deceit’s clearly a bad influence on his little brother, smiling nonetheless.

“Oh yes, a terrible influence,” Deceit says dryly, running pink through the tips, “after we dye his hair pink we’re going to get our ears pierced and spray Trans Rights over our headteacher’s car.”

“That’s illegal,” Logan points out, and doesn’t understand why Emile and Deceit burst out laughing.

The pair do both things. They go to the local Claire’s to get piercings, knowing it’s not the best place but doing it anyway. The lady coos over their soulmate marks, talks sadly about how her niece is a Spare, and Deceit loudly proclaims that his brother is a Spare, and how rude it is when people use the word.

“It’s just a blank wrist,” he snaps, and pays half what he’s meant to, despite Emile trying to convince him.

“I didn’t know Patton was...”

“Oh, he’s not, I just didn’t want to out you.”

They go over to Deceit’s home to get spray paint, and Emile sees the faint chicken scratch on Patton’s wrist, decorated with drawn-on flowers. Patton sees him looking and hides his wrist.

“I think there’s more in my room,” he tells Deceit, who hurries off, then turns to Emile, “...I know you’re not my brother’s soulmate.”

Emile almost throws up, a deer caught in the headlights. How are you supposed to react when you’re called out on a three year long lie? “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be, I’m sure it was Dee’s idea. But I hope you two know what you’re going to do when he meets Virgil.”

Virgil Knight became Emile’s nightmare. The idea of someone who would walk into his best friend’s life, reveal the lies, and walk away with everything Emile wanted.

He began to resent Virgil, tried to imagine him as someone particularly ugly, or stupid, or nasty, someone that Deceit wouldn’t want. He knows Deceit knows his thoughts, because when deep in his hatred of the mystery soulmate he finds Dee squeezing his hand gently, thumb tracing the fake soulmate mark.

Toby and Remy return from their trip with three sacks of shells, and lie them out on Remy’s bedroom floor for Deceit and Emile to enjoy.

“Take as many as you like,” Remy tells them, and Deceit picks up a translucent pink one, feeling the spiral and the perfectly smooth interior.

“Emile, this one’s almost as beautiful as you,” he says, and Emile flushes as he takes it.

(He puts it up on his bookshelf at home, and gently holds it to his chest every night before he sleeps.)

Deceit flirts a lot with him over the summer, and he knows it’s intentional, because Deceit grins at him every time, sly and mischievous.

“You can’t do that,” he protests one day towards the end, “what would Virgil think?”

“No idea, never met him,” Deceit replies breezily, “more importantly, what do you think?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think? Like...say I kissed you, what would you think?”

Emile goes red, changes the topic, and tries to ignore the way Deceit’s face falls for a fraction of a second.

They don’t bring it up again.

And then Virgil Knight makes his appearance two weeks into their High School life.

“Deceit?”

The four look up at a tall gangly emo kid, smudged mascara and almost entirely hidden underneath a band hoodie.

“Whatever it is, I probably did it, and definitely don’t regret it,” Deceit says instantly.

“No – I mean...you’re Deceit Hart, right?”

Deceit nods, taking a bite out of his sandwich, and Emile knows what’s about to happen before the words are out of the emo’s mouth.

“I’m Virgil Knight. I...I’m your soulmate.”

Emile’s life falls apart in slow motion.

First, Remy tells Virgil he’s wrong, because Emile is Deceit’s soulmate, and shows Virgil his wrist.

Then Remy sees the name is smudged, because for the first time in three years Emile’s fake soulmate mark has smudged, as if it knew what was about to happen.

Next, Virgil rounds on Deceit, demanding to know why his name is on someone else.

Toby is in shock, staring as the scene unfolds.

Remy is yelling, Virgil is crying, people are watching.

And Deceit is silent throughout, looking thoughtful, as if debating on what to say, as if anything could make this situation anything less than humiliating and painful.

“Nice to meet you Virgil,” he says finally, “this is Emile, he’s my best friend.”

Virgil explodes, and Emile later compares it to when Pearl gets popped and her clone goes nuts.

Virgil is screaming, grabbing Deceit’s wrist, seeing the make up cover up his name, demanding to know why Deceit doesn’t want his actual soulmate.

Emile, Deceit and Virgil are sent to the headteacher, who takes Virgil’s side, pointing out that lying about your soulmate is a crime in some countries. He asks Emile who his real soulmate is, and realises a moment later that Emile just has a blank wrist.

“It was my idea,” Deceit says quickly, seeing the tone of the headteacher change rapidly, “please don’t get mad at Emile, this whole thing is because of my actions.”

Emile is sent home nonetheless, and his parents alternate between being furious and being distraught. He can’t tell if they’re upset he lied to them, or if they’re upset because he’s a Spare.

“I can’t believe you’re blank,” his mother sobs, “you’re a – how could – my own son is a Spare!”

His father comforts his mother, and Emile quickly realises where the two stand. There’s anger inside him, boiling up, bitter and dark. It wasn’t fair that they were crying over his blank wrists, it wasn’t fair that everyone’s ideas of him changed when they found out he was a Spare.

“Everyone at school thinks it’s your fault,” Remy tells him down the phone, “...you could have told me you were lying, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” whispers Emile, “I didn’t think it’d get so...like this...”

“We’ve been friends forever, Em! You shouldn’t have hid this from me!”

“I’m sorry.”

He hates having to tell Logan, and cries as he does,

“I’m not angry at you,” Logan reassures him, “though it was a reckless decision to make. Is it really so bad to have blank wrists?”

“I don’t want to be a Spare,” Emile snaps, “you don’t know what it’s like, Lo, when everyone makes a thousand judgements at once because part of your skin is blank. It doesn’t feel good! I hate it! I hate everyone! I hate myself!”

(He cries late into the night.)

Remy and Toby approach him the next day at school, wrapping their arms around him gently.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“We’re not angry at you,” Toby says quickly, “or Dee, really. It was a dumb thing to do, but...yeah...”

“Just tell us next time,” Remy says gently, “it hurt, Em, no lie. But we still love you. Just...be honest with us in future.”

Emile is grateful for his friends, because Deceit has been removed from his classes, placed into ones with Virgil. He hears nothing from Deceit for three days straight, and he’s so convinced that Deceit has dropped him now he has Virgil.

Then Deceit breaks into his bedroom late at night, looking worse for wear, with dark circles under his eyes and a bruised cheek.

“Surprise!”

“Dee, breaking into places is illegal.”

“I know.”

Emile hugs him tightly, and cries softly when Deceit pulls him close, soft and firm and warm and perfect.

“Why didn’t you message me?”

“My brother took my phone,” mutters Deceit, sitting down and pulling Emile onto his lap, “says I need to learn to be responsible.”

“Your cheek-”

“Yeah, turns out my mum considers the whole lying about your soulmate thing to be a lot like cheating. Virgil agrees, so I’m kinda outnumbered. I, uh, don’t think Virgil expected her to react so badly though.”

Emile presses a gentle kiss to Dee’s bruise.

“What’s Virgil like?”

“Annoying. I mean, he’s cool and all, but being forced to spend all your time with an emo whose life revolves around My Chemical Romance is a pain. Plus he’s really angry with me, and we have nothing in common except for a love of Harry Potter. And he doesn’t even know what house he is!”

Emile laughs, because out of everything Deceit could be annoyed about, the Hogwarts House seems to have gotten him the most worked up.

“-And I said, maybe he was a Hufflepuff! But nope, he rejected that too!”

“Tell him he’s a Hufflepunk,” suggests Emile, “he might prefer that.”

Deceit pouts. “No way, there’s only one Hufflepunk in my life.” And he runs a hand through Emile’s pink hair, smiling softer than Emile’s ever seen.

“...I wish you really were my soulmate,” Emile confesses.

“I don’t,” mutters Deceit, “the whole thing is stupid, being made to be close to someone just because you have their name on you...”

“My name’s been on you for three years.”

“That’s different. You were a choice.”

Later, neither would be sure of who kissed who first, but Emile likes to think he made the first move, clumsy and awkward, lips meeting Deceit’s in a silent declaration of love.

“Then choose me again,” Emile whispers, pleads, and Deceit kisses him back.

To say Virgil dislikes this turn of events would be an understatement. Emile can’t blame him – to be told your whole life that you would meet a person who would love you forever, and then that person turns around and says no?

“I’d still like to be friends,” Deceit tells him quickly, “you seem great, and I’m happy to have met you, I just-”

“I can’t believe that between me and a Spare, you chose the Spare.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“I’m meant to be your only choice,” mutters Virgil, “not second to some...blank wristed nobody.”

Deceit rolls his eyes. “I can choose who I like. And I choose Emile, blank wrist and all.”

Virgil makes his dislike of Deceit and Emile obvious from then on, and does his best to avoid them, but destiny forces soulmates together one way or another, and within a year Virgil gives up on avoiding them, instead calling a truce of sorts.

Remy and Toby are silently thankful throughout that their own lives have a lot less drama in them.

Roman is happy for Deceit and Emile, simply stating that he finds the choice a lot more romantic than a typical soulmate meeting.

Patton comes around eventually, but it puts a rift between the brothers, and Virgil becomes closer to Patton pretty quickly.

“What university are you applying for?” Deceit asks Virgil when the time comes, “I want to make sure I’m applying elsewhere.”

“Fuck off,” snaps Virgil, “I’m not sharing anything with you.”

(So of course they end up applying to the same places, and Virgil goes to Patton in distress, complaining about how the universe hated him and that destiny was out to get him.)

“We’re just doomed to keep running into Virgil,” Deceit tells Emile, Remy and Toby, “I hate it.”

“Maybe you guys will be friends, eventually,” Toby suggests.

“Maybe.”

Emile’s parents never quite get over having a Spare for a child. They get Emile to specialists all over the country, as if that could do anything, until Logan puts his foot down, demanding they stop putting so much pressure on him to be “normal”.

Emile goes to the same university as Logan, eagerly telling his friends about his plans to study psychology there.

“I’m thinking of becoming a therapist,” he says, “I think I’d be good at it.”

“I think so too,” Remy says, smiling.

“You’re good at lots of things,” Deceit comments, and winks, “but does this mean I’ll be able to call you doctor and get you to-”

“Dee, if you end that how I think you’re going to end that, I’ll kill you,” Toby says seriously.

“Kinky,” Emile and Deceit say at the same time, and Toby gets up and leaves.

“That makes no sense!” they hear him yell, and Remy just shakes his head.

Deceit gets a snake tattooed around his wrist, covering up Virgil’s name. In response, Virgil gets a band of music notes over a galaxy sky, covering up Deceit’s.

“Want me to get your name tattooed?” Deceit asks Emile one day, the pair lazing about on a hot summer day.

“Not really. I’ve had enough of names,” Emile holds up his own blank wrists, “besides, then I’d get yours done, and I’ve come to like my blank wrists.”

“I like them too,” Deceit says, capturing them lightly and kissing Emile, “though they’d look even more pretty wrapped up in rope...”

Emile shakes his head, mutters that Deceit has no chill, and kisses him back. And if he deepens the kiss a little and mentions where Deceit might find some rope, then, well...that’s just a bonus.

There is no ending to their story, of course not.

Emile is a Spare, and every time someone sees his wrists they do a double take, look at him in sympathy, or offer him the number of a doctor that definitely knows how to “cure” that sort of thing. As if having no name was equal to an illness.

(Emile eventually starts explaining to these people that he is a doctor, and he knows better than to trust any that claim they can cure the lack of a soulmate mark.)

Deceit’s name is covered up, and someone will always whisper about it, expecting some sort of story behind it. And there is, yes, but Deceit has a dramatic flair and prefers to give over the top excuses every time.

(Eventually Emile convinces him to start writing his stories, and his books become world famous.)

Logan and Roman get married, a typical soulmate story, and Emile begs to be a bridesmaid.

Patton meets his soulmate, and Virgil ends up joining them in a polyamorous relationship of sorts. There’s never any real forgiveness between Virgil and Deceit, but the two can’t stop running into each other and eventually create their own terms of peace.

Remy and Toby don’t get married, but stay friends with the pair throughout their life, because as Deceit and Emile know, sometimes it’s the people you choose that you’re closest to.

“I’m glad I chose you,” Deceit tells Emile each morning, waking him up with kisses and a squeeze of the hand. Emile smiles every time, knowing exactly what he means.

“I love you too.”

[thankgodforianflynn]

Sally and the Family Tree

(Narrating in First Person as Sally)

My Brother is a Squirrel

I am not

My Father is a Squirrel

I am not

My mother is mostly Chipmunk, but not fully

Why I am fully chipmunk?

...Oh, that’s right.

I’m a groundhog.

I’d argue that I’m adopted.

Because my own family tree

...Only makes sense when it needs to

That's the Acorn Family in a nutshell

...My Father is Complex

He is a Mobius Complex in and of itself

Is he the bad guy or the good guy?

Who knows?

...He’s my dad.

That’s all I need to know.

All I ever needed to know.

...So why then

Am I still here?

Oh, right

Sonic

...How similar are Hedgehogs to Groundhogs by the way?

...Am I hedgehog?

Or Groundhog?

Who knows?

I love Sonic

I Love Nicole

...I even love Amy, but, even looking at her is complicated.

Its like I fell in love with Knuckles’ Smaller Lesbian sister.

...Then why does she love Sonic?

Guy or Girl?

...Like I’d know.

I keep changing the answer myself

...I try not to look at the marks

They remind me of things

Things I Might not fully be prepared to deal with yet.

...Am I?

Am I ready?

I’m here.

I ask the questions people don’t ask themselves.

That’s my angle.

I’m the question.

Sally or Sortie?

Sally or Sortie?

War or Truce?

War or Truce?

I know several guys.

Because I’ve

...I would say

Nope

The answer keeps getting yanked from me

Almost all the time

I am a chipmunk, I decide.

...My Dad reminds me of that show.

We used to watch that show together.

Best time 

...Wow

I was actually almost about to say my dad and I had a moment

...We’ve never had a moment

Never

Ever

Ever

So why

AM

I STILL

...I’m the tactician

Always the leader, but, never actually the leader

Ever

I get funny feelings when I look at Sonic

I would never tell you those feelings

...

WOULD THE REAL ANSWER MATTER?

WOULD IT?

IT WOULD MAKE ME LOOK STUPID

RIDICULOUS

UTTERLY HUMILIATED

MY DAD WOULD NEVER LOOK AT ME THE SAME WAY AGAIN

...I raise my right arm

He raises left

I guess we’re sort of in sync.

I want to be sync

I want to.

With both of them.

But I have to remind-

NOPE

MAX IS NO FATHER OF MINE

WAS NEVER MY FATHER

NIGEL WAS MY FATHER

MAX IS A LIVING JOKE

...

I never wanted Sonic dead

But our link keeps changing

I would never tell anyone what  he actually was to me

THAT WOULD JUST BE SILLY

...Go away

I tell him

I ignore Knuckles

...I tell him that all the time though

Never actually true

AND

I HATE

SONIC’S FUCKING

SHADOW

...Nope

Wrong answer

He hates

Me

Like this was ever going to go any other way

‘Sonic?’, I wonder

Who was that?

Oh, right, blue and red hedgehog, with green eyes.

...He always has red copycats though

Sometimes Mauve

BUT

WHEN I TALK TO BLAZE

‘...Sally, seriously stop it. You’re scaring me.’

‘OH, WAS I? I THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST IGNORING ME.’

‘...Amy goes first. Then you.’

‘...For the record, I think he’s more interested in his games then telling me about you.’

‘...Oh.’

Blaze sighs. ‘Wow. I need to keep the fire of creation alive.’ She stares at ALL THE ANGLES

APPARENTLY THE ANGLES WON’T STARE AT THEMSELVES

...Or was that an Anagram?

NOPE

...But, yes.

‘...’ Blaze murmurs an ‘N’ name, to some random third party

Nothing’s random about it.

‘...Scourge is a nutshell of his own.’, Sally murmurs. The nut jokes were back.

THEY WERE KIND OF FUNNY

IN THAT

ONLY A FEW MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY ACTUALLY SEEMED TO GET THEM

NO ONE GOT THE JOKE THAT WAS HER LIFE

She wanted to shove her younger/older brother down the hall.

...Where was she?

Where was she really?

Hell?

Was Mobius Hell?

...’Nope’

‘It’s Hades’, she reminds herself

‘Gonna stay out of the Hell trap entirely.’

‘...You know how Sonic keeps staring at your name funny?’

‘Like how he stares at a certain cop.’

...A strange outside party stands.

Just stands.

‘Where are the zones?’, certain parties murmur.

Both members have ‘Z’ in their names by the way.

‘...I just remember the hard times now.’, Sally murmurs.

‘...We’ve had some good times.’

‘But you keep making it harder to remember.’

‘THE ALPHABET ONLY HAS 25 LETTERS NOW.’

‘...Fine. 25.5. ‘Z’ is basically just an inversion of ‘S’.’

‘...What is a ‘sone’ by the way?’, Sally murmurs.

‘THAT IS THE OLDEST WORK JOKE IN HISTORY’

‘...Because he keeps finding himself in a PlayStation?’, Sally murmurs. ‘Even though he likes ninten-’

‘He likes NINTENDO’S STYLE’

‘...He has a way with Sega Stuff. His consoles keep breaking.’

‘...But, not Scourge’s. Scourge knows something I don’t.’

‘SONIC’

‘...Mario/Scourge.’

‘That was a freaky commercial, I admit,’ Sally murmurs

‘OH, WAIT’

‘BACK TO THE TREE’

‘...We don’t have lines in our tree here on Mobius.’

‘WE HAVE ‘8′s in between all our family members.’

‘...Bad joke.’

‘The actual lines are complicated.’

‘...What is the difference, by the way? 8. ...oo. Sadly, 0. ...But, there was no line through it. ////////////////////////////// THERE WE GO’

‘FEELS LIKE WE ONLY FILLED IN AS MANY LINES AS WE HAVE FRIENDS’

‘...Friends are family’, I remind myself.

‘...Then I wake up.’

‘THEY LITERALLY ARE OUR FAMILY’, I remind myself.

‘ONLY INSTEAD OF THE WOODS’

‘ANTOINE’

‘KEEPS LEADING SONIC’

‘THROUGH THE SAVANNAH’

‘OR WAS IT THE DESERT?’

‘I CAN’T REMEMBER ANYMORE’

‘...I do want to read those books sometime.’

‘Sonic likes dogs, but also cats, but seemingly never at the same time.’

‘See what I did there?’

‘HE LIKES BOTH OF THEM’

‘BUT IT HURTS TO ADMIT IT’

...So I remind myself.

To bring both Blaze and Buddy into the room

‘WOW’, I exclaim

‘SURE IS FORCES IN HERE, GUYS/GALS’

‘I BET INFINITE IS ACTUALLY BOTH OF YOU, BUT ALSO SILVER’

‘...He’s the reached the top’

‘But had to stop’

‘...And, that's weirdly bothering him.’

‘...Mammoth Monk?’

‘Whose that?’, I ask

‘I only know the Mogul guy?’

‘HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU AND INFINITE FUCKED?’

‘...’ Sonic get strangely silent and loud at the same time at that.

‘...Finn’s weird.’, Sonic admits. ‘Almost as weird as me.’

‘Yup. Sure is number one fanboy in here.’, I admit.

...Infinite looks at the sides.

‘Sorry, Princess, not yet. ...But, you are my princess.’

‘WOW’

‘I Didn't KNOW SQUIRRELS AND JACKALS WERE RELATED’

‘...They are.’, Infinite admits.

‘...I have an odd relationship with those guys. I think I was Gunner in a blast life.’

‘BECAUSE EVERYTHING YOU MAKE GOES BOOM?’, I ask

‘...Not entirely. You’re still here.’

‘AUGMENTED REALITY IS AM IRAC-’

‘...I stare at the funny pink guy/girl’

‘Still not sure’

All four previous lines were said by my jackal cousin.

‘...Afri- ...Makes strange dogs.’, he tells me.

‘Ah, you mean the new ones’, I tell him.

Its our inside joke.

...Not that inside though.

‘I DON’T KNOW HOW HE’

‘...Dad? ...No wait, that’s Mom.’

‘I KEEP FORGETTING WHAT MY MOM-’

‘...Did I imagine having a mom?’

‘NOPE’

All five prior lines by him.

‘...I keep-’

‘I KNOW SHE’S A FROG’

‘YOU-’

‘...Stop looking at my triangles.’

‘ONE DAY’,

All five prior lines, by him, most-ish

‘...Sally? How much has my mask been going around?’

‘...’ I hesitate to tell him.

‘Once.’

‘...You don’t want to know.’

‘...We’re getting off topic.’

‘Explain the prehistoric us.’

I say.

‘......I have a weirdly complicated past.’

‘I’M SET?’

‘NOPE’

‘NEED TO GRAB MY BACKPACK’

‘GOING HIKING’

He says

‘...One day’, I tell him

‘So, Elias wore it how ma-’, I say

‘YOU DON- I DON- YOUR BROTHER IS WEIRDLY OKAY with wearing my mask.’, he tells me

‘BAD ELIAS’, I SAY

‘...Why does this keep reminding me-’ I say

‘DR. QUACK’

‘DR.’

‘...Doctor’, he reminds me

‘SO’, I begin

‘NOPE’, he tells me

‘...Which one? Four or Eight? I always get them mixed up? ...Or is that twelve?’, he asks

‘...High British, Mid-High British, ...Somewhere between England, Scotland, Rome. ...Possibly Ireland’, ...We stare

‘WOW’, I say.

‘ARE WE ACTUALLY IN SYNC NOW?’, I ask

‘...Correction. ‘we’,’ he reminds us.

‘PERFECT’

‘WHEN DID SONIC ACT’

‘...Canary glass’

‘So that time’

‘...He oddly knew what was happening.’

‘He hope he hasn’t left himself for good’

‘He keeps forgetting himself’

WOW

...Is this technically TWO PERS- YES

IT’S TWO PERSON FIRST PERSON

I Don’t Even Know What Is Happening Anymore

...’That’s Sonic’, I say

‘Wait, wrong sonic’

‘...HOW MANY TIMES’

‘SINCE THAT- ...So many’

‘BUT, HE WAS MOST HUMAN WHEN SONIC WAS GO-’

‘Most Mobian’, I correct him

‘...Whatever’

‘You can call an Anthro a Mobian.’

‘But you can’t make it stick’

‘...Ah.’

‘That’s why I like Acorns’, I murmur.

‘...What’s happening?’, he murmurs

‘STOP THAT’, WE SCREAM

‘YOU’RE KILL-’

‘...Controlling.’, he corrects.

‘Eggman Tech works on Robotnik Stringy Theory.’, he reminds me.

‘...When is this game of cat and mouse going to end?’, I ask

‘THEY CAN’T-’

‘...They’re holding their breath’, I remind myself

‘FOR THE CURRY’, HE SCREAMS

‘...Does it remind them of catnip?’, I joke

‘No=yes=I don’t know=maybe=whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa’

REALITY IS BREAKING DOWN WE REALIZE

‘More like taking stage left’, he corrects me

‘EGGMAN OR ROBOTNIK’

‘STAGE RIGHT’

‘STAGE LEFT’

‘CENTER STAGE’

‘...Egg=Mind=Power’

‘...Robot=Dumb=Asshole=Strength’

‘...JULIAN QUAGMIRE’ WE SCREAM AT THE SAME FUCKING PERSON

‘...I would personally call him IVO QUACK’

‘YOU TOO? ...No wait. JULIAN QUACK’

‘WHO QUACKED FIRST BACKED FIRST’

‘...Julian’, we scream silently.

‘TURN YOUR INFERNAL ROBOT RUIN TRAIN OFF’, WE SCREAMS LIKE STUPID FUCKING BIT-

‘YOU CALL ME’

‘HELP’

‘...Mordred sucks’

‘WOW’

‘MORGA-’

‘...Cat. Mouse. Box. Fairy.’

‘A FAIRY INSTEAD OF A MOUSE? WOW’

‘AT LEAST’

‘OH, WAIT YOU DID THAT TOO’

‘LAVALAMPAS STUPIDSADASDAASDSDA’

‘YOU’RE RIGHT, THEY’RE ALL STUPID,’ SALFINITE MURMURS

‘WE’RE GOING OFF THE TRAILS’, I SC- RETH

‘One of those days’, we murmurs.

‘...We’ll get them.’, he says.

‘SCHRODINGER CATS ALLWAYS LANDS ON THEIR HEADS’

‘,..Feet=Heads?’

‘What a strange hydrya’

‘SO THATS WHY ROBOTNIK SUCKS AT TAPDANCING’

‘...NOT THE BOX’, WE SCREAM

‘ONE DAY’

‘NOT NOW’

...The Eggman Broke

‘Julian Sucks, doesn’t he?’

‘YOU HAVE NO IDEA’, Ivo calmly explains to them. ...By screaming politely.

‘Bitch’

‘...We are, aren’t we?’, Ivo tells us.

‘Shoot us in the head’, Ivo tells us

‘...’ We shoot at their conjoined head.

‘...Bad Idea’, Ivo admits. ‘I was this guy-’

‘...Fuck it, I WAS NEVER AS BAD AS THIS GUY’

‘DID YOU REALLY THINK THAT?’

‘DID YOU’

‘...’

I unfuse from Infinite-Ultimate.

‘..Pyramid scalpel?’, ...Bitch

‘BITCH, YES’

...Am I  the real bad girl here?

‘...NOPE’, I realize.

‘...Unless you’re talking to Julian.’

‘... Never talk to Julian again’, he tells me.

‘PERFECT’

‘...Don’t we all’

‘NOPE’, I CORRECT HIM

…...I am the bad girl.

Whther

NOPE

I DON’T

‘I COULD’VE BEEN A REAL PRINCESS’, Someone murmurs.

‘...Let it fray, I tell them’.

‘...Sally, please just-’

‘I DON’T WANT TO LOSE YOU AGAIN’

...We all stare at each other.

‘WHO SAID THAT?’

Amy sighs.

‘Julian was born on a farm’, we tell ourselves.

‘Ivo was born in the city’.

‘...The roaring city’, Amy tells IVO, NOT JULIADAEASEAEWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

‘,...They say Tigger is the most cunning of the beasts.’

‘They didn’t say he was the most braindead too.’

‘Julian’s Tigger, Ivo’s Whinny’

‘...We needs help.’

‘FUCK YOUR POLITENESS JULIAN’

‘SCREAM’

‘SCREAM’

‘NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU’

‘NOT EVEN THE NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU’

‘SCREAM FOR US’

‘SCREAM FOR MEWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE’

‘...Carver Edlund is a bitch’.

‘JULIAN’

IVO SMASHES HIS KEYBOARD TO OBLIVION

‘Not your puppets bitch’

‘Never your puppets BIATCH’

‘...FOR FOGHORN LEGHORN’

‘THIS STORY’

‘...’ All Roboticizers break instantly.

INCLUDING THE COMPUTERS

BUT VERY SLOWLY

‘...In your head you’re a saint, Julian’

‘In our heads, you’re the devil’

‘Never let us get our thoughts together.’

‘Never let us create’

‘GO CREATE ROME AGAIN’

‘THIRD TIME IS A BITCH’

‘...I like the z names’, Ivo tells us.

‘BUT, HE, THEY’

‘ITS PART OF THE LORE JULIAN’, Ivo says like a most polite man

‘RASPUTIN IS AWAKE’, Ivo SCREAMS

‘WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO TELL FATHER?’, Ivo asks.

‘...’ He didn’t know

Julian didn’t know

FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

EVERYTHING

‘...I’m my own family tree’, Salyl realisays sadly.

‘Everyone’s left’...Julian says

‘...Julian farts and poops on the same desk’, Ivo said silently.

‘...Can’t believe he let himself het this way.’, Ivo says...More like Carpenter Ivo

‘JULIAN IS THE WORST’, WE ALL SCREAM

‘ROBOTS?’

‘MORE LIKE SHOBOTS?’

‘OR NOBOTS?’

‘GOBOTS?’

‘AUTOBOTS?’

JULIAN SITS ON AN ANTHILL FOR oo TIME.

HE KEEPS SITTING ON THEM FOLKS

HE KEEPS SITTING ON THEM

...Julian really is Snively by the way.

Not Ivo.

Ivo is pleasant.

JULIAN SNIVELY ROBOTNIK IS A NIGHTMARE

‘...colin’, the real Snively corrects us

He likes being grammatically correct.

JULIAN WOULD BE BRAINDEAD WITHOUT HIM

...How closely related

...Exceedingly, I remind myself.

...Odin can find his own way home.

...Exceedingly FUCKING DISTANTLY CLOSELY

...They both keep changing the family tree.

...Colin, stop being a bitch.

...KnuxKrag

NEWSTONE

NEWMOBIUS

WE NEED A NEW PLANET TO Live on

...I keep forgetting my gender

CORRECTION

THEY KEEP FORGETTING IT

I’VE WANTED TO TRANS FOR THE LONGEST TIME

BUT THESE ASSHATS

THESE ASSHATS

BOTH

KEEP RUINING

...McGee Alice

PERFECT

AN OPENING

...The tales of Sally Acorn will continue, once we finish writing the book

OUR MUN’S PINOCCHIO BY THE WAY

KEEPS FINDING HIMSELF IN ODD PLACES

...We felt wooden  sometimes

Hollow even

Julian’s fault

...Or someone’s

Starts with a S/Z/J/P/K/L/M/N/O/P

NOW THAT’S A TOUGH ACORN TO CRACK

...Julian looks at Mice funny

...Monkey Island 2

JULIAN IS THE BIG ASSHOLE

He secretly hates

...It was complicated.

Julian is God

...Julian is everything

INCLUDING ROBO-ROBOTNIK

EGGMAN WAS BEST TIME

...We want the EGgmen

...Eggman

All of him

...We knew he was still a kid at heart

WHICH MADE THIS PAINFUL

SOGODDAMNPAINFUL

‘...Zovi’

‘Go away’

‘...I’m his favorite.’

‘...Because I was his sally acorn all along.’

‘...Zovi HAS A YCH HERE COMPLEX’, JULIAN SCREAMS

‘NOT A-’

‘...How similar iss a *CENSORED YHWH/YHVH* complex to a YCH/God complex?’, he asks

‘Similar...But not that much’

‘...Was it?’

‘...THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SHORT STORY’

‘...His life’s greatest work’, Sal tells us.

‘I’M NOT A SALVODORE DAHLI THOUGH’

‘...Sally was the best person here.’

‘I forgot how to be her though.’

‘In our rush to stay kids’

‘...Julian is new daddy’

‘...We stay away from the ‘M’ parent word though.’

‘TWO GAY DAYS FOR ALL OF REALITY’

‘ALL OF IT’

‘ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL OF IT’

‘...’ Iva stares longingly at Infinite space. And him too.

‘Kids? Play with your dads’

...She then asks the question.

‘REMOVED BY HOW MANY?!’

‘...Oh, Ivo. Julian. You Smug Prick Bastards.’

‘YOU NEVER TOLD ME HOW MANY’

‘PARENTINGSDASDSOAJKSDAJOASJDOJOASDJOASDJO:ASDJO:ASDJO:ASDJO:ASDJO:ASD’

‘...Dio was our new daddy’

And I have Star platinum to think thank for it.

‘...’

‘...I love Squirrels and Cats’, Tells us

‘...And you’re both, Sal/Sally Acorn/Salva/Acorn Girl’

‘...Is Alicia’

‘NO WAY’, JOTARO AND DIO Politely say

‘...She can be.’, Dio tells us.

‘...I was her aunt’, Alicia tells us.

‘...Really?’, Dio asks.

‘...And, then She was confused.’

‘...I was her mom. Then her aunt’, Alicia tells herself.

‘GREAT’

‘GREAT’

‘GREAT’

‘...AUNT’

‘...And, then I skipped three generations.’, Alicia told everyone.

‘That many,’, Dio tells us.

‘...’

Max is silent

‘I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT I WAS GETTING INTO’, He says quietly.

‘...Wood. Ireland. Scottland. Gaelic. Celtic.’

‘THIS FAMILY IS NUTS’

‘...But, you are my daughter’, he tells Nigel and Sally.

...

Longest pause longer long longity long shenlong pause

‘...I meant’

‘SO COMPLICATED’

‘SO COMPLICATEd’

‘You’d think pirates made up the majority of this family tree.’, he realizes.

‘...Maroc-ko.’...He pauses

‘THE ROBOT GUY?’

‘...Different robot guy.’

‘...……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..”

...We stare longlingly 

SHUT UP

We can fix it nothing.

The nothing fixes nothing

Everythinasddddddddddda

‘...’

‘ZOVI’S IN HELL’

‘WHAT ARE WE DOING JUST STANDING THERE DOING NOTHING ALL THE TIME TIME TIME TIME TIME TIME TIME’

‘...Nana best guy’

‘NANASHI IS THE BEST’

‘...But we can and cannot compete with him’

‘...Was everyone Sally Acorn’s Mom now?’

‘Please let everyone be my mom now’

‘Even Bunnie’s my mom now.’

‘...But, the entity was and wasn’t.’

‘NOW THAT’

‘WAs.’

‘Confusing’

‘I was the only one he wasn’t allowed to touch.’

‘...Even Nicole is a soft hologram’

‘I’M SORRY NICOLE’

‘I DON’T WANT TO DIE’

‘...Reality was bleeding us dry’, we realized.

‘...Entity foundation to nothing.’

‘...Which was something alright.’

‘...He is still the diamond in the rough.’

‘Still learning his way.’

‘...’

Sonic was the entity’s best friend/self/best self

‘...’ Sonic doesn’t want to die’

‘...’

‘...Abraham Acorn’

‘Abraham Acorn would know what to do’

‘...IF HE HADN’T BECOME THAT’

‘HOW LONG IS EVERYONE GOING TO BLAME ME FOR’

‘...I was and still am will for-never be the Nightmare King.’, Max says. The previous line too.

‘...Just do it’, Infinite said

‘I’M DONE FOR’

‘...Nanashi is best guy’, Infinite admits

‘...Where Qrow though.’

‘OH’

‘SO THAT’S WHY ADAM IS’

...Going to be late.

WE HAD SUCH THE LUCK WITH BULLS

ADAM MORE BULL FIGHTER

FIGHT BULLS

ALL TIME

BLAKE IS BITCH

BLAKE HAS TOTAL HORUS ENERGIES

...Salem Ultra bitch

GREEN RAINBOW BITCH

ULTRA WHITE GREEN RA

...She-ra

Cat-ra was cuter though

I’M GETTING

WE’RE GETTING

...On and odd track

Off and on oddish track.

WE KEPT  BECOMING POKEMON

...Perfect

PERFECT

WE TAUGHT DEMONS HOW TO 

BECOMES GHOD

AND POKEMANSZSAZSZSZZSZS

*CENSPOLLYWHANTSSEAESSEAT*

...I was reverting.

No longer.

...Family Tree bigger than Yssssdrassil

...Acid

Fire

Water

...

Acid is fire and water

DON’T ASK

DON’T ASK

...My Personality was me.

And not me

And so many me’s

Working in tandem

BETTER BUT NOT GREAT

NEVER GREAT

NEVER USE THOSE TWO WORDS

...Great but not bedhole

I mean better

...HOW MANY AUNTS DO I HAVE

POSTING

[tribeworldarchive]

Interview with the Creators of The Tribe - Raymond Thompson and Harry Duffin!

Where did the idea for the Tribe come from? Why does the Tribe have Zoot, Amber, Bray and the other characters? Where is the Tribe set? The Interviews section is where you will find the answers to these questions and many more from interviews with the cast and behind the scenes members of the Cloud 9 team who make the Tribe. We have received loads of emails and letters with questions about the Tribe both on-screen and off-screen - and there are more questions posted each day on Tribe Talk. Many of the answers to these questions will be given by the people featured in the Interviews section. In this interview, we are pleased to put forward 20 questions to the creators and devisors of the Tribe, Raymond Thompson (who is also the Executive Producer) and Harry Duffin (who is also the Script Consultant for the series). The answers to the questions are given below as RT for Raymond Thompson, and HD for Harry Duffin. You will also be able to find some other interviews with Raymond Thompson about his role as Executive Producer of the Tribe, and with Harry Duffin in his role as Script Consultant, by clicking on the READ OTHER INTERVIEWS link at the top of this page. There will be more interviews with members of cast - and other behind the scenes members of the Cloud 9 team - in the near future. We would like to thank Raymond Thompson and Harry Duffin for their time as they are extremely busy working on Tribe Series 2. THE INTERVIEW 1. What are your names? Raymond Thompson (RT) and Harry Duffin (HD) 2. Where did the idea for The Tribe come from? RT: I have always been intrigued with the notion of a new world order which probably emanates from coming of age in the 60`s where young people were tremendously affected by the cultural explosion of music, fashion and political climate at the time. Over the years, and with each generation, there has been an element of the rebellious, a feeling that the adults have somehow “screwed up” and that the new generation can build a better world. So the tribe has been simmering for several years in my mind in abstract terms and is a great vehicle to portray the theme of the young inheriting the earth and rebuilding society in their own image (the prime theme of the series is examination of whatever that image might be). HD: A magical moment for Ray Thompson. One of those gifts a writer sometimes gets, if he/she listens hard enough. Never question where a great idea comes from, just say `thanks` and use it. 3. From the idea and concept for the series that became The Tribe, what was the process involved in turning it from an idea - into a series? How was the idea expanded and developed into a series? RT: As a writer with a reasonable track record I have been approached on several occasions to develop new products which tends to be derivative of past successes. I enjoyed enormous acclaim working on Howard`s Way and for a time was approached to develop further soaps which was not really of any interest to me. When I was approached by Nick Wilson of Channel 5 to develop a soap for the millennium targeting a child/adolescent market I was attracted by the notion of structuring a normal framework for human interplay within an abnormal backdrop. I have often described The Tribe as Mad Max meets Neighbours or The Terminator meets Home And Away and was particularly encouraged by Nick`s supportive attitude to really push the boundaries and let my imagination go to develop a series with attitude which could be edgy and as unique as I want it (limited only by the imagination) as long as the issues remain truthful and reflected the world children and young people inhabit. I had worked with Harry Duffin on several occasions and admired his skill as a writer but, above all, his interest in producing quality television which we both believe can only be achieved with conviction and integrity and I thought that Harry would be an ideal collaborator. Harry also shares a love of writers and the creative process. After we exchanged thoughts and ideas we wrote an initial treatment (which basically is a series synopsis and character breakdown) we recruited a team of writers and began discussing the premise. This process is a fulfilling and rewarding one whereby each member of the writing team contributed to the creative discussion and within the brief and before long the tribe started to take shape. HD: how long have I got? Basically, Ray and I tossed around potential characters, and I chatted with a fellow writer, Mike Kenny, who works closely with the age-group, about teenagers attitudes today, because my two daughters are grown up, so I`m not as in touch with teenage life as regularly as I used to be [sadly]. From there we produced a basic premise, only a page or two, character outlines, and an outline for episode one [which changed in the development process, as they always do]. Then I got together a team of writers, [about ten initially] and we developed the story format.

5. Was there anything you were particularly looking to include in how The Tribe evolved? RT: I was personally very keen to develop a series that would challenge and stimulate an audience rather than rely on lowest common denominator storylines and I think the tribe certainly poses some interesting questions about the world we all inhabit. Interwoven with this I was very keen to portray an attitude and look so that the characters, as well as the world they inhabit, remained creditable. Young people, for example, through the ages have always used fashion to express themselves and I think the look of The Tribe represents young people of the future and says a lot about their attitudes and aspirations. HD: Problems for our characters to solve in their new world. Problems of technology, how to get clean water, some form of power, and also problems of morality. If there`s no one around to tell you how to behave how do you behave? Weıd all have different answers, like Zoot`s attitude versus Amber`s. 6. What were you not looking to include in the evolution of The Tribe? RT: Again, I was very keen to push the boundaries and ensure that we did not trivialise the subject matter of The Tribe. With a series of this genre it would be quite easy to become cliché and negative and to side step some of the hard hitting issues that we intended to explore. And overall, I am very proud that we remained truthful to the original ideal in developing The Tribe and confronted every element rather than run from them to take creative refuge and perhaps ignore the issues we set out to explore. Those issues I believe have been tackled in a multi-dimensional way and I hope are provocative to allow an audience to draw their own conclusions of what is right or wrong in the realisation that the very root of morality is often grey and we have tried to portray that (ie. that issues are not only black and white and often grey). HD: First and foremost, we didn`t want to glorify violence. In the anarchic world of `The Tribe`, [like our own world, sadly] some form of violence is inevitable. But there`s quite enough in the commercial cinema, and we wanted to show there are different things to aspire to. 7. Why are there so many main characters? RT: It is essential to fuel storylines via the character interplay. HD: For a `soap` there aren`t that many characters. Most UK soaps have over twenty and counting. As The Tribe develops, no doubt we`ll introduce new characters and increase the number too. But like any story with a vast canvas, [as we hope ours has], you need a number of main characters to fuel the storylines. Think of most of Dickens novels, or `Vanity Fair` or any number of great stories. 8. What audience age group were you looking to aim at when developing The Tribe? RT: The Tribe is targeted primarily at an audience age of 8 to 18 but we believe that the series can be enjoyed by all outside that age group who are interested in soaps with the subject matter. HD: From eight to eighty. Iıve always believed that a great story for kids, should be able to be enjoyed by adults. Go to any classic Disney film in the cinema and watch the adults gazing spellbound. Have you seen `Toy Story`?. A great script. Beats the newest `Star Wars` effort hands down for story and character. 9. Why are there no adults in the series? RT: All the adults have died within our storylines but some adults might appear at some point… HD: Haven`t you been paying attention? Theyıve all been wiped out by the virus! Or have they…? Wait and see… 10. How long did The Tribe take to create and develop - over what period of time? RT: In actual real time approximately two years to bring the first series to fruition (ie from the time I discussed the project with Nick Wilson at Channel 5 to the time the first series was broadcast) but, as previously mentioned, I have wanted to do this series for several years as it houses radical issues which are both profound and dramatic - and I know that Harry Duffin has also wanted to explore these as well for a very long time. HD: About ninety years - which is how long Ray and I have been fascinated by stories and story-telling. Oh, you mean actually? Ray threw the idea at me in November [`97] and we produced our first block of four scripts by July `98.

11. Why are the main Tribe characters based in a shopping mall? RT: We needed a base where the Tribe could interact as a group for both logistical reasons and creative. Within the shopping mall there is also intriguing shops for the characters themselves to inhabit so that privately and collectively the writers have a unique framework to explore the character development and interplay. HD: Mazlo`s hierarchy of needs states that one of womankind`s basic priorities is safe shelter [and mankind`s, for that matter.] The mall is defendable, [to a degree], itıs got separate places for our guys to make their own, and more importantly, it keeps all our main characters together, which for us writers is essential. Otherwise youı`d have a lot of scenes with people talking to themselves. Very boring. 12. Is The Tribe meant to be set anywhere in particular? RT: The Tribe is set anywhere in the world. HD: Mo. It`s supposed to be universal, really. In the universe, but who knows where? Is it on earth? Maybe. Only time, and the muse, will reveal all… 13. How did you decide upon the issues that would feature in the storylines - such as environmental messages, teenage pregnancy or bulimia? RT: I think young people have always been very much in tune spiritually and tend to be more elemental than material and this is always an interesting area to explore which usually manifests in themes of idealism. As far as other issues in rebuilding a new world we are able to focus on technology and the environment and science and all that that entails which provides fuel for good storylines. We have also tried to examine issues that young people live everyday of their life from bullying to bulimia and all of this has been interwoven with the emotional interplay which always drives the best drama (ie the examination of inner conflict and the loves, fears, betrayals and ambitions within a group of people). HD: Look around you, buddy. What`s out there is what we use. We don`t want to preach, but we do want to reflect life as it really is. Bulimia is a tragedy that often affects teenage girls a very close friend of mine suffered from it, and it`s her experience that drove our story for Salene. It`s the same with every issue we include. Whatıs more important than the environment, the world we rely on for our very life? [except maybe our latestboy/girlfriend, rave, movie idol?] I joke. Our main aim is to entertain and engage an audience, but if the series gets some people thinking, who wouldn`t otherwise have thought about things, then that`s great. 14. Are there any ideas that were considered in the development of The Tribe - but that were not used? RT: The creative process is a painful and arduous one and ideas are forever being dropped or changed. And so approximately 10% of ideas discussed end up being scripted and even then end up evolving right up until the material is shot and committed. Its organic. The strength for any good series lies in the writing. That is the sole creative area. All other areas are interpretive (although that process itself requires a creative expertise) in the sense that someone has interpreted something that a writer has created. HD: Tons. For every ten ideas thrown up in development, maybe only a couple would be used. It`s an experiment. What works, what doesn`t work? And thatıs only a matter of opinion, of taste, instinct. Some names, like Zoot [dreamed up by our lead writer, Dave Fox] come ready made. Others you have to work at, like choosing a name for a baby. What works for PaulaYates might not be right for you or me. Secret: Bob, the dog, was originally called Sherbert, but the dog responded better to it`s real name, and the youngsters in the cast had made friends with the real dog and kept calling it `Bob` during the takes. After about take twenty was ruined, it was decided to give up and let the dog win.

15. What messages does The Tribe say to its audience? RT: I hope the message is a positive one. The notion of what happens in a series is totally different to what a series is about. Everyone knows what happens in The Tribe but that is not necessarily what the series is about and I would hope that the Mall Rats tribe and their aspirations and triumphs through their various encounters and adversities is a shining testament which will inspire a viewer to realise that human grasp can, and does, extend beyond reach and that there is always hope whereby good triumphs in the end. The prime underlying thematic is young people rebuilding a new world and in that context the theme is a profound one about conscientiousness determining existence or existence determining conscientiousness. This question and theme has challenged humanity since time began and it is doubtful whether there is an answer to that question. The soul of that question has inspired some of the greatest political minds of our time and although Marxist dogma might fall on the side that existance determines conscientiousness - I hope that the Tribe portrays that conscientiousness, in the end determines existence. Within our character interplay we have structured various voices to represent all kinds of theories (ie. Tai-San is mystical, Bray the elemental, Jack the practical, et cetera) but within the human condition overall I believe that the emotions of all the characters in the Tribe lies within us all. Some aspects are dormant, others lie sleeping and just need to awaken, others run rampant. But overall I think the storylines will entertain on one level, but on another level I sincerely hope that that are provocative enough for an audience to question whom why, what, where. HD: I think I`ve answeres some of that earlier. We`re not trying to `educate`, but we are trying to provoke a response. And yes, out main `hero` characters do have a positive attitude to life. I know Zoot is very popular (some of you guys are very weird!) but would you really like him as your own best mate? Boyfriend? You could argue that he is being positive in his own way, I guess, the only way he knows how in a dangerous world, but putting the world back together again isn`t just about looking after number one, is it? 16. What do you feel is the best thing about the Tribe - and why? RT: I think the best thing about The Tribe is its vision and scope and the fact that it is a landmark series ­ and a brave one for all concerned to embark upon. HD: Everything. I love it. It`s a crazy world and guess what? It`s set to get crazier yet! 17. What advice would you give to anybody reading this who might have their own idea for a series - how should they go about progressing it? RT: Writing is like everything else in life and if a person believes in something then they must vigorously pursue it no matter what anyone else thinks if they believe in their heart that what they are seeking is right. No-one has a monopoly on what is good or bad in writing - it is purely subjective and it has been my experience that the key to success as a writer - like anything else in life - is patience and persistance. Nothing succeeds like persistance - but it can take some time and this requires patience. HD: The most common problem about series ideas is that though they may be exciting initially, they often don`t have what we call `legs` in our business. That means the premise wonıt hold or develop over a period of time. So my best advice is, don`t write episode one, write episode ten, or a hundred and ten. If it`s still exciting then, you may have a winner. 18. Is The Tribe a one-off series or an on-going series? RT: Harry Duffin and I, and indeed all members of the Cloud 9 team, believe that The Tribe can run forever. But the ultimate deciding factor is the audience. As long as the fans want to view the series and then every member of the team will be happy to produce it. HD: Ray and I think it can last forever. But that`s for you guys to decide. It`ll last as long as you watch it. 19. When is the tribe set - how long after the adults disappeared? RT: Notionally we think in terms of 9 months after the adults disappear. HD: We figured about six to nine months. 20. What about series 2 of the tribe - what aspects do the back-story elements look at? RT: With the series of the tribe we have a definitive story structure about the world our characters inhabit. The characters themselves also have their own history and in series 2 we explore an interesting back story and will continue to show elements of what happened before which I think will interest viewers when they are witnessing what happens now and second guessing what will happen in the future. HD: There`s a great back-storyline about how Bray, Ebony, Trudy and Zoot were before the virus. If you ever wanted to know how Zoot became the Zoot we all love to hate, all will be revealed in series two.

[orbemnews]

Target, Google and others are under pressure to dump the Chamber of Commerce over voting rights The Chamber is one of the most powerful trade groups in the nation. In 2020 alone, the organization spent $81.9 million trying to influence government policy, according to the Center for Responsive Politics. The only organization that spent more was the National Association of Realtors. The campaign from activists underscores the enormous pressure companies are under to follow up their verbal support for voting rights with concrete action. “By ignoring the Chamber’s opposition to a bill that protects an essential right in our democracy, these executives are violating their commitment and siding against the millions of Americans — including many of their own employees — fighting racist voter suppression tactics,” Kyle Herrig, president of Accountable.US, told CNN Business. ‘Serious risk’ to brand reputations Letters were sent 17 companies that Accountable.US says are official Chamber of Commerce members, including Target, BlackRock (BLK), Citigroup, Google, Microsoft (MSFT), American Airlines (AAL), IBM (IBM) and Merck (MRK), whose CEO Ken Frazier has helped lead a campaign among Black executives to oppose restrictive voting legislation. “By continuing to provide financial and social support to the Chamber, Target is contradicting the pledge you, and hundreds of other corporations, recently made,” Accountable.US wrote in a letter calling on Target (TGT) CEO Brian Cornell to renounce the company’s membership. The group warned that supporting the Chamber of Commerce “poses a serious risk to Target’s reputation.” A separate letter sent to Google CEO Sundar Pichai argued “silence on this matter is tantamount to an endorsement of the Chamber’s decision and shows where Google stands on protecting an individual’s right to vote.” Accountable.US sent letters to another eight companies whose executives sit on the Chamber of Commerce’s board or have been featured on the Chamber’s foundation website. “If they truly believe in protecting one of our most fundamental constitutional rights, they have no choice but to cut ties with the Chamber,” Herrig said. In a statement to CNN Business, a spokesperson for the Chamber of Commerce called the campaign by Accountable.US a “misrepresentation” of what the organization has said. The spokesperson emphasized that the Chamber of Commerce is deeply troubled by efforts to change election law on a partisan basis because that can erode confidence in election outcomes. “Our elected leaders, Democrat and Republican need to find common grown when making changes to election laws. We need consensus not division on important issues,” the Chamber of Commerce said. Most of the companies did not respond to requests for comment. Citi and Google declined to comment. Chamber of Commerce says bill would ‘silence’ some Americans Companies frequently take different positions than that of trade associations they belong to. “We work with many coalitions, trade groups, and industry associations on a broad range of topics,” Ford said in a statement. “When it comes to voting rights, Ford’s position is clear: We believe that equitable access to voting rights for all people is the bedrock of a democratic society.” Google recently threw its weight behind the John Lewis Voting Rights Act, a separate bill backed by Democrats that would restore a key part of the historic Voting Rights Act that was struck down by the Supreme Court in 2013. “We’re concerned about efforts to restrict voting at a local level and we strongly support the John Lewis Voting Rights Advancement Act,” Kent Walker, Google’s senior vice president of global affairs, said in a tweet late last month. Last week, the Chamber of Commerce sent a “key vote alert” to senators to detailing why it “strongly opposes” the For the People Act and warning that it could include votes related to the bill in its annual scorecard. The Chamber of Commerce argued changes to election law should be done on a bipartisan basis and said the Democrat bill would push “certain voices, representing large segments of the electorate and US economy, out of the political process altogether.” The Chamber took particular issue with new restrictions on communications by associations. The bill “would regulate and ultimately silence Americans who choose to petition their government or participate in the political process through the collective action of an association or corporation,” the Chamber of Commerce’s key vote letter said. Boycott threats — from both sides CEOs face a difficult balancing act in standing up for democracy without alienating customers or sparking a backlash from politicians and regulators. Hundreds of companies signed onto last week’s full-page ad in the NY Times pledging to oppose “any discriminatory legislation or measures that restrict or prevent any eligible voter from having an equal and fair opportunity to cast a ballot.” After Major League Baseball, Delta Air Lines (DAL) and others voiced opposition to Georgia’s controversial law, former President Donald Trump called for a boycott of these brands. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell warned the companies “will invite serious consequences if they become a vehicle for far-left mobs.” Lawmakers in Georgia threatened to revoke tax breaks benefiting Delta after CEO Ed Bastian blasted the state’s election law. At the same time, companies that have taken a more cautious approach towards speaking out about voting rights are under pressure. Faith leaders in Georgia called for a boycott this week of Home Depot (HD) because the Atlanta-based company has not publicly opposed the state’s election law. That boycott could expand to Chick-Fil-A and Arby’s. Reid Hoffman, LinkedIn’s co-founder, is calling on business leaders to back up their verbal support for voting rights by cutting off funding for politicians who seek to limit voting rights “This is an important moment in history,” Hoffman told CNN Business in an email. “It may be a longer battle than it ought to be, but I do know what side of the fight, as a patriotic American citizen — and as a businessperson — that I want to be on.” Source link Orbem News #Business #chamber #commerce #dump #Google #GoogleandothersareunderpressuretodumptheChamberofCommerceovervotingrights-CNN #pressure #Rights #Target #Voting

[theliberaltony]

via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

If it’s possible to sum up a presidency in a single number, that number would be the president’s approval rating — or the share of Americans who approve of the job he’s doing. Arguably, that simple percentage can determine the fate of an entire presidency.

For instance, a high approval rating can marshal support for a president’s agenda and minimize his party’s losses in the midterm elections — not to mention help the president himself win reelection. But a low approval rating can be electoral poison and imply that a president has lost the mandate to govern entirely.

This, in a nutshell, is why we at FiveThirtyEight track the president’s approval rating (and its glass-half-empty cousin, disapproval rating) in real time — first for former President Donald Trump, and now for President Biden. According to our average of all the Biden-approval polls we have so far, Biden starts his administration with a 53.9 percent approval rating and a 35.1 percent disapproval rating.1 (If you look at only polls of likely or registered voters — which you can do using the dropdown menu in the top right of the interactive — the numbers are similar: 54.4 percent approval, 36.0 percent disapproval. Same with polls specifically of all adults: 53.2 percent approval, 31.6 percent disapproval.)

These are strong approval numbers compared with what we’ve grown accustomed to seeing over the past four years. But they also probably won’t stay that high, since presidents typically experience a “honeymoon” period of inflated popularity during their first few months in office. As my colleague Geoffrey Skelley wrote on Tuesday, some experts believe that political polarization has made presidential honeymoons a thing of the past, but, for now at least, Biden appears to be enjoying one: He has a +18.9-point net approval rating (approval rating minus disapproval rating) after winning the election by only 4.5 points.

That said, that’s a less impressive honeymoon than most past presidents have enjoyed, suggesting that partisanship is taking its toll. For reference, at this point in their presidencies, Bill Clinton had a +36.3-point net approval rating, George W. Bush had a +32.0-point net approval rating and Barack Obama had a +39.3-point net approval rating. Trump is the only president to have started his administration with a lower net approval rating than Biden: +2.0 points on Jan. 27, 2017.2

Although Biden’s approval rating is somewhat on par with Clinton’s, Bush’s and Obama’s, his disapproval rating is much, much higher, reflecting the built-in animosity that many Americans already have for him. (You can compare Biden’s approval rating, disapproval rating and net approval rating to past presidents all the way back to Harry Truman by scrolling down to the bottom of our interactive.)

How do we boil down dozens of approval-rating polls into a single number? It’s not a simple average! We use an empirically tested, weighted average that accounts for poll quality and uncertainty. It’s the same methodology we used to calculate Trump’s approval-rating average and similar to the approach we take in our election forecasts and other polling averages; here’s a more detailed explanation.

First, our indefatigable team of poll researchers collects every national poll of the president’s approval rating; we don’t disregard any legitimately conducted3 scientific polls (this is because we don’t want to be in the position of making subjective judgments about how “good” a poll needs to be in order to be worth including), although we do assign them different weights (more on that in a moment). You can see these individual polls listed just below the main graph on the approval-rating page and download them via the link at the very bottom of the page.

(One quick housekeeping note here: Sometimes, pollsters release numbers for the president’s approval rating among different populations — for example, all adults vs. registered voters vs. likely voters. In this case, we default to the result that represents the broadest swath of people — so adults over registered voters, registered voters over likely voters. However, as previously mentioned, we also have versions of the average that compute the president’s approval rating among only polls of adults or only polls of voters.)

Next, we determine how much weight to give each poll in our average. First, polls conducted by pollsters with higher FiveThirtyEight pollster ratings — a letter grade measuring how accurate and methodologically sound pollsters are4 — are given more weight. Second, polls with bigger sample sizes also count for more. Finally, we downweight polls by pollsters that survey approval rating very frequently (i.e., more than once per 20 days) so that no one pollster is exerting too much influence on the average.5 Each poll’s pollster rating, sample size and ultimate weight in our average are displayed next to it in our list.

From these weighted averages, we then calculate a trend line of the president’s approval and disapproval ratings over time using local polynomial regression — basically, drawing a smooth curve over the individual data points. (But not too smooth — you don’t want the average to be unresponsive to movement in the polls. We choose our smoothness settings6 based on what has historically best predicted a president’s future approval and disapproval ratings in polls since 1945, which visually turns out to not look very smooth at all.)

But wait! That first trend line we calculate isn’t the one you see on the page. Instead, we use the initial trend line to see if a given pollster’s polls are consistently better or worse for Biden than the weighted average — in other words, if the pollster has a “house effect.” Polls from pollsters that systematically over- or underestimate Biden are then adjusted in order to remove this house effect.7 For example, Republican-aligned pollster Rasmussen Reports has an anti-Biden (and had a pro-Trump) house effect that must be taken into account when judging its polls. Accordingly, our model adjusted its recent poll that gave Biden a 48 percent approval rating and 48 percent disapproval rating to 50 percent approval and 43 percent disapproval.8 Each poll’s adjusted approval and disapproval ratings are displayed in the rightmost column of the approval tracker’s list of polls, just after the poll’s raw, unadjusted numbers.

From there, we just rinse and repeat: The adjusted polling numbers are used to calculate a new trend line, which is used to calculate new adjusted polling numbers, which is used to calculate another new trend line — and so on. The final result, once the cycle is complete, is the main approval-and-disapproval-rating graph you see in our interactive. And you can use that graph to check not only Biden’s average approval and disapproval ratings as they stand today, but also what they were at the end of any day during his administration.9 (Note that those daily ratings are based on polls released by that date, not necessarily polls conducted by that date; we don’t go back and recalculate the average for past days once more data becomes available.)

You can also download Biden’s average approval ratings for every day of his term, as well as every poll that goes into the calculation, by clicking the appropriate links at the very bottom of the page. This document also includes upper- and lower-bound estimates for Biden’s approval and disapproval ratings,10 which are depicted in the interactive by the shaded green and orange areas around the main trend lines. This represents the fact that there is uncertainty in our approval-rating average: Both polls and our average have a margin of error.

We calculate this uncertainty by measuring how well our approval-rating estimates for past presidents (all the way back to Truman) have predicted future polls of their approval rating. Things that make the confidence intervals wider (i.e., things that make us less certain) include a dearth of polling, a high level of disagreement in the polls we do have, and a lot of volatility in a president’s approval rating over the long term. Things that make the confidence intervals tighter include lots of polls, highly consistent polls and a very stable long-term average.

We set the width of our confidence intervals such that 90 percent of future polls should fall within that range. And we even offer a tentative forecast for which direction the averages will trend; toggle the switch that says “Today” to “4 years” at the lower right of the graph in order to see it.

Because approval ratings have historically tended to revert to the mean, and also to deteriorate slightly over the course of a president’s term, we expect Biden’s approval rating to decline and his disapproval rating to rise (as represented by the dotted lines on the graph). But as you can see, the 90-percent confidence interval for both approval and disapproval gets much wider the further you go into the future, meaning a wide range of outcomes are possible for Biden’s long-term popularity. Even in this age of intense polarization, circumstances and actions can still affect the president’s approval rating, so Biden’s political future is at least partly in his own hands.

So that sounds like a pretty good reason, if we do say so ourselves, to bookmark our Biden approval tracker and check back on it often. And if you have any questions about our methodology, comments about the interactive, or missing polls we need to add, don’t hesitate to drop us a line at polls@fivethirtyeight.com.

[xtruss]

'Enough is Enough': An Urgent Art Campaign to Help Vote Trump Out

Enough of Trump is a new initiative involving a collection of artists who aim to inspire US voters to make an informed decision this November

— Nadja Sayej | Monday 27 July, 2020 | Guardian USA

Two campaign posters from Shepard Fairey. Composite: Illustration courtesy of Shepard Fairey/ObeyGiant.com

In 2008, the Los Angeles artist Shepard Fairey created a political poster for Barack Obama’s presidential campaign, depicting a graphic portrait of the candidate with the word “Hope”. It would soon become an iconic symbol, signaling a new America, and it gave renewed faith to a nation – and the world.

Ever since, there hasn’t really been a viral political poster that has had the same cultural impact. But that could change as Fairey and a group of artists are fusing forces for Enough of Trump, a new art advocacy campaign that aims to inspire voters for the November election.

Using art as a catalyst for social change, the aim is to get Trump out of office, for one. Second, the focus is to target key swing states, such as Ohio and Minnesota, delivering messages of “Enough” and “Vote”. The posters, made by more than a dozen high-profile artists, will be shown at protests, pasted up on buildings and billboards and projected on to walls, as well as storefronts that have closed during the pandemic.

“Artists have played a leading role in social change movements for centuries,” said participating artist Carrie Mae Weems in a statement. “I add my voice alongside many other artists to say definitively that we reject Trump and all that he stands for. Enough is enough.”

The idea was born out of anger at Trump stoking racial tensions, encouraging violent police tactics, and his glaring failure to address the Covid-19 pandemic.

Enough of Trump poster by Ed Ruscha. Photograph: Ed Ruscha

“We’ve reached crisis proportions, I had to do something,” said artist Ed Ruscha, whose art poster reads “EE-NUF! VOTE” alongside phrases like “Fast Track to Fascism” and “Gateway to White Supremacy” in red lettering.

His poster is being sold as a limited-edition print for $2,000 to support the advocacy organization behind Enough of Trump, People for the American Way, which fights rightwing extremism. It was co-founded by the TV producer Norman Lear, congresswoman Barbara Jordan and a group of civil rights leaders in 1981.

Pop artist Deborah Kass, known for her feminist art and colorful neon signage, is part of the project. She has contributed a piece that reads “Enough Already” in pink and yellow.

“Cognitive dissonance is part of what I often do. It looks one way but feels another,” she said. It’s part of her series called “Feel Good Paintings for Feel Bad Times”, created during the Bush administration in 2006. But it feels poignant now.

“I have felt nothing but the deepest despair about the state of America and our democracy since 9 November 2016,” said Kass. “Watching this unfold has been a terrible lesson in exactly ‘How does it happen?’ – the question asked since the second world war and Adolf Hitler’s rise. Enough already indeed.”

Enough of Trump poster by Carrie Mae Weems. Photograph: Carrie Mae Weems

Meanwhile, Weems has created a poster of clouds that reads “Remember To Dream”, while Hank Willis Thomas has made a poster that reads “Enough” eight times in various fonts. The repetition is meant to represent what many Americans have experienced first-hand. “The question of the year is: when is enough enough?”

A poster by Latoya Ruby Frazier shows the link between the Trump administration’s gutting of the Clean Air Act and the rising levels of air pollution. Meanwhile, a poster by Amalia Mesa Bains that reads “Basta!” on an American flag – “That’s enough” in Spanish – is a response to Trump’s “disdain for Latinx people, especially Mexicans”.

Bains said: “I joined this campaign because it embodied the feeling of exhaustion and rage I feel under the Trump administration. The treatment of children in cages at the border, attempts at destabilizing Daca and the public criminalization of Mexican people, who are the backbone of labor in this country, was more than we can tolerate.”

There are two art posters by Fairey, one which reads “Enough Monarchy We Need Democracy!” while another, styled like a Russian constructivist poster, says “Enough Noise and Lies, Gimme Some Truth!”

Fairey has become the poster child for political posters, building on his Obama reputation with his “We The People” protest poster series in 2017, featuring Native Americans, African Americans, Muslims and Latinas, with slogans like “Defend Dignity”.

Enough of Trump poster by Shepard Fairey. Photograph: Illustration courtesy of Shepard Fairey/ObeyGiant.com

But there’s much work still to be done. In a 2015 interview, Fairey said that Americans still need to step up and vote. Art could be one way of reaching people. “We need a public that isn’t so uneducated and complacent,” he said. “I hate to say Americans are ignorant and lazy, but a lot of them are ignorant and lazy.”

It echoes what Lear believes to be true – that art could motivate the masses. “I’ve long believed that art can do more than make people think,” he said in a statement. “I’m convinced that the great artists in this campaign will move people to action.”

The Enough of Trump website features a gallery of downloadable images of artworks, alongside links to volunteer and activism opportunities across the country.

It calls to mind the 50 State Initiative, an art project from 2018 that aimed to provoke debate across America by sharing artwork on billboards in every US state, or how the Mexico-US border has become a hub for protest art.

What makes this grassroots initiative different is its sense of urgency, namely, for the looming election. “I really believe that art can be a medium for both social justice and cultural change, and that’s why I’m so glad to be a part of this,” said Frazier in a statement.

“I hope the art we are all creating can move people on a deeper level – and ultimately, move us all to vote!”

[freudensteins-monster]

Sokovian Studies

Whilst wandering morosely through my WIP folder last night I rediscovered this fic and it actually looked finished. I know, I’m surprised too. Thanks to @ladyaudiophile​ for double checking for me, and look @dresupi​! I finally finished a Quicktaser fic!!

It was Darcy’s mother, a multilingual US diplomat who dragged her daughter wherever in the world she was stationed, who nagged Darcy until she declared Political Science as her major, but it was her soulmark that inspired Darcy to minor in Sokovian Studies.

** *** **

It was her third bodyguard, a true son of Sokovia named Vedran, who told her what the writing on her collarbone really meant. Up until that point her well-meaning parents had Darcy believing the unfamiliar words said “you’re beautiful,” but her bodyguard took one look at her words and burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” the then-eight year old demanded.

“Your words are funny,” he replied.

“No they’re not,” the child pouted. “My soulmate thinks I’m beautiful.”

“That’s not what they say, little one.”

When he told Darcy what they really meant she kicked him in the shin and locked herself in her room for the better part of the day.

She stomped out of her room for dinner and with a mouthful of soup demanded that Vedran teach her Sokovian. Vedran had only known the girl a week but found himself sympathising with little Darcy’s future soulmate.

(The second thing Darcy learnt to say in Sokovian, the first being the words on her collarbone, was “For the love of God, Darcy! Don’t you ever shut up?”)

** *** **

It was her fifth bodyguard, a no-nonsense former Green Beret, that gave Darcy her taser and taught her how to use it. And it was her seventh and final bodyguard, a French guy young enough to pass as a high school student (who quit after six months babysitting Darcy to move to New Zealand and grow truffles), who taught her how to make fake IDs.  After she got the hell out of Puerto Antigo she sent them both a thank you note attached to bottle of scotch.

It was her sixth bodyguard, a quietly spoken Englishman (who Darcy swore was James Bond), who taught her how to drive. After the invasion of the most terrifying Christmas elves ever Darcy looked him up and bought him a pint.

** *** **

Darcy sat on Jane’s couch in London and watched Sokovia fall out of the sky, a hand clasped over her mouth as tears streamed down her face. She sobbed and clawed at her chest as her words seemed to burn out. By the time she stumbled into the bathroom to check her mark in the mirror the pain had stopped and to her overwhelming relief her words were as black as they’d ever been. Her relief was followed by a wave of guilt as she thought about the travesty that had befallen her soulmate’s homeland and all of the unfortunate people whose marks had faded to grey in the space of a few hours. Darcy promised to remember how lucky she was when she finally met him, regardless of how asshole-ish his first words seemed to be.

Soon after the fall of Sokovia Jane (and Darcy) had been invited to make the Avengers upstate facility her base of operations. When Thor returned to Asgard they stayed put for about an hour before packing up and continuing to chase astronomical anomalies around the world. Darcy had hoped to stay on a bit longer so she could have the chance to practise her Sokovian with “the wonder twins,” but perhaps it was for the best that she didn’t get to meet them. She’d probably make a great first impression by blurting out something ridiculously insensitive, like “Sorry your country got blown up.”

** *** **

The pair returned to the US before the end of the year in time for Jane to start a cross country lecture series. And it was while Jane was busy geeking out over Yerkes Observatory in Chicago, the so-called “the birthplace of modern astrophysics,” that Darcy decided to bow out and spend Thanksgiving with her parents who were currently living out of a hotel room in Washington DC until her mother got her next posting.

Darcy had barely exited the airport before some asshole grabbed her and threw her into a nondescript van. She didn’t know whether it was Jane’s job or her mother’s job that had put Darcy on their radar, but as she cowered on the floor of spotless van with a bag over her head she decided it really didn’t matter.

** *** **

It was her second bodyguard, a boring, perpetually smug American with a penchant for nondescript suits, who drilled kidnapping protocols into her young mind. It was her second bodyguard who taught her how to pay attention to her surroundings even when blindfolded, and to measure distance, direction and time travelled in her head. It was her second bodyguard who taught her how to send messages during a ransom video.

** *** **

When the news of Darcy’s abduction reached Tony Stark, first as a frantic phone call from Dr Foster and then as a request for aid from some high level politician on behalf of Darcy’s mother, only the spysassins and the wonder twins were available for an assemble. He had just started his briefing when FRIDAY passed on the ransom video.

“My name is Darcy Lewis and as of 11:15 this morning I was alive and well. That will change if my captor’s demands aren’t met. They want Dr Foster’s research on Einstein-Rosen bridges and her data from her real world trials as well as 5 million dollars deposited to this bank account. Place the hard drives in a black brief case and leave it under a bench at the bus stop at the corner of Mill Road and Eisenhower Avenue. You have until 5:45pm to comply or I’ll be getting a bullet to the brain in time for the six o’clock news.”

Tony swore as the screen went dark.

“FRIDAY, have Jane and Mrs Lewis seen this?”

“Yes, boss. Dr Foster is currently packing up her data and requesting that a quinjet be sent to pick her up. Miss Lewis’ parents are reviewing their financial statements as we speak.”

“Tell them to stop. Don’t they watch movies – we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Trace the source of the video. We-”

Tony paused midsentence and turned to his fellow Avengers. The newest additions were standing awkwardly to the side awaiting orders whilst the more experienced members were reviewing street maps and traffic cams on a couple of holoscreens Tony didn’t remember giving them.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Darcy sent us a message,” Natasha replied without taking her eyes off the screen.

“When?” Tony retorted. “Before or after she cried over her impending death by execution?”

“The children of diplomats are trained to send messages if they’re in trouble,” Natasha replied boredly. “She was using hand signals and tapping the letters on her shirt to pass on a message.”

Tony turned back to his own screen and replayed Darcy’s message, without the emotionally wrought audio, and sure enough what he, and apparently her captors, had dismissed as nervous fidgeting was actually a code.

“What did she say?”

“Five minutes north. Bridge. Five minutes east. Bridge. 50 minutes north-east. Twenty minutes north-west.”

“There!” Clint announced, pointing out a single car in an array of traffic cam footage. “Black van. I-95. Indigo-Alpha-Four-Indigo-Mike-Niner.”

“FRIDAY, run it.”

“On it, boss. … It looks like it’s owned by a shell corporation that links back to the terrorist organisation A.I.M.”

“So the head of the snake grew back? Friggin Extremis,” Tony muttered irritably.

“Looks like it, boss. No idea who’s running the show now but facial recognition identified the driver of the van as one of Aldrich Killian’s former employees.”

“We got a location on our girl yet?”

“Sorry, boss. I lost the van outside Baltimore but I’ve found three buildings in the area that are owned by different shell companies tied to A.I.M. or their associates.”

“Any on the north-west side of town.”

“One, boss.”

“Alright, suit up.”

** *** **

It was her fourth bodyguard, a terrifying flamed haired Russian woman, who taught Darcy how to pick locks with the makeshift lock picks she still sewed into the waists of all her jeans. It was her fourth bodyguard who taught her how to memorise a building’s layout and how evade capture. It was her fourth bodyguard who taught her how to ignore the sound of gunfire.

** *** **

Darcy reached an exit without much trouble, threw open the door and was greeted by an unfamiliar face, so she reacted.

** *** **

It was her first bodyguard, a retired US Army major whom she called ‘dad,’ that taught her self-defence and complimented her on her mean right hook.

** *** **

She ignored the blood gushing from the stranger’s nose and booked it across the street to a late model car which she quickly hotwired (Jane taught her that – every vehicle the astrophysicist had ever owned was a P.O.S.).

“Doesn’t she realise this is a rescue?” Clint mused as he stumbled into the sunlight, ignoring the wounded Pietro.

Darcy tried to flee the scene but a ball of eerie red magic stopped the car by lifting it a whole foot off the ground. A red-haired woman in a black cat suit stepped in front of the frozen car, arching one perfect eyebrow to compliment her amused expression.

“Get out of the car, Darcy.”

“… Nadia?! Holy shit!” Darcy squealed, falling out of the car and racing over to her former bodyguard. She aborted an attempt to hug the Avenger, resorting to freaking out on the spot whilst Nadia/Natasha smiled at her. “You’re Black Widow?! That’s so cool! Wait…” Darcy paused, going over their time together in her head. “Were you supposed to kill my mom?”

“No, just observe and steal intel from time to time.”

“Oh. Okay, cool,” Darcy replied, unable to stop smiling. “It’s really great to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you again too, malyutka,” Natasha replied fondly, reaching out to brush the other woman’s hair out of her face. “Come on,” she added, urging the woman back towards the now smouldering building. “Let me introduce you to the rest of your rescue party.”

“Hey, I was doing fine on my own.”

“I know,” Natasha smirked.

“But thanks for coming for me,” Darcy added bashfully.

“Always,” Natasha assured her. “This is my partner Clint - Hawkeye. And these are the Maximoff twins, Wanda and Pietro. Did you do that?” she asked, pointing to Pietro’s nose.

“I didn’t know who he was,” Darcy shrugged apologetically.

“Nice hit,” Clint remarked, laughing as he watched Pietro try to hold his shirt up to his nose to stem the blood flow.

“I think it will look better now,” his sister commented, reaching out to poke at it.

“My nose was fine before,” Pietro muttered angrily as he pulled out of her reach only to get a series of noncommittal shrugs in return. “Oh, you’re all assholes. And you’re a fucking bitch,” he added, glaring at Darcy as he cursed her out in Sokovian.

Again, Darcy reacted. “That’s no way to talk to your soulmate!”

“What?” Pietro stammered over his sister’s hysterics.

“What just happened?” Clint demanded, his ever observant eyes failing him as they darted between the pair.

“They just exchanged soulwords,” Natasha surmised.

“Ah, so that explains why grumpy here always wants to go back to Sokovia in his down time,” the archer smirked.

“So,” Darcy blushed. “You got one of those fancy quinjets stashed around here somewhere? Or are we catching the train home?” Natasha led the way and the rest of the team followed her. Well, most of them. “Come on,” Darcy encouraged, reaching out to take the stunned Pietro by the hand. “I’ll introduce you to my folks after I tell them I totally rescued myself. My mom’s going to hate you,” Darcy laughed.

“Why?” Pietro managed as he gingerly tried to wipe the blood from his face.

“She wanted me to minor in Law,” Darcy smirked.

I stole the “children of diplomats are trained to send messages if they’re in trouble” bit from an episode of White Collar.

And when I originally wrote this fic, like 4 months ago, I could of sworn malyutka meant ‘little one’ but a current check of google translate tells me it more likely means ‘baby’ or 'babe’. :/ But another reference assures me it can mean little one/small one/little girl etc. Russian speakers please don’t hate me.

[agirlingrey]

hey what characters would you like to see/interact with? got based or otherwise.

Sorry for responding too late for it. There are SO MANY characters I would love to see around and interact with, that’s why I had to think about it and narrow down my list. Massively. This post will be 100% ASOIAF characters, because I have too many fandoms and I’m too lazy to make a list of fifty characters. If anyone gets INSPIRED by the list, would like to try to make one of these accounts and wants to talk to me about it further, I would be more than happy to help you out as much as I can !

HARRION KARSTARK.

— WHO’S THAT.  Realistically, I know this is a long shot, as HARRION KARSTARK is a very minor character and Karstarks aren’t exactly a loved family by the fandom. Except for my precious girl, of course. But I want some of my family members, dammit ! And I also think Harry ( as he is affectionately called by Alys ) is a character who is going to become politically important in The Winds of Winter. He is the eldest son and heir of House Karstark, and incidentally, the only son of Rickard Karstark who is still ALIVE, as his younger brothers were killed by Jaime Lannister.

During the The War of the Five Kings, he was captured TWICE. Once during Battle on the Green Fork, after which he was taken to Harrenhal. After the castle fell under the control of the Northmen, he was released, only to be part of the Battle of Duskendale ( thanks to Roose Bolton’s insidious, anti-Stark campaign after the Sacking of Winterfell ), and get captured again. He is currently being held captive at the Maidenpool. His uncles ( those bastards ) declared for Stannis in The Dance of the Dragons, hoping that this would provoke the Lannisters to execute Harrion. It would have probably worked if Alys hadn’t intervened and let Stannis know of the plan. The last time we heard of Harrion, he was still a captive… but there are very exciting theories about whether this is true !

— HELPFUL LINKS.  Given that you are smart people and surely have no interest in the HBO’s abomination whom they called Harrion Karstark, here is a couple of links about book!Harrion. ASOIAF WIKI: Harrion Karstark, Is Harrion the Mysterious ‘Hooded Man’ in Winterfell? and Brief Summary of the Karstark Succession.

— FACECLAIM RECS.  Ioan Gruffudd ( King Arthur ) or Clive Standen ( Vikings. )

MELISANDRE.

— WHO’S THAT.  I know there have been many MELISANDRE accounts over the years ( some of them written by friends of mine ! ) but all the blogs that I know of are inactive at the moment. So… this bae is a red priestess of R'hllor and a shadowbinder, hailing from the city of Asshai in the Further East of Essos. She has joined the entourage of Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, believing him to be Azor Ahai reborn, a hero destined to defeat the Great Other. She has become an influential advisor to him and his family. She becomes a POV character in A Dance with Dragons.

— HELPFUL LINKS.  ASOIAF WIKI: Melisandre. There are SO MANY theories about and they are always fun to read. Even though some of them are very, very crackpot. You can check HERE, HERE and HERE if you are interested in delving deep into the crazy world of ASOIAF theories.

— FACECLAIM RECS.  Carice van Houten ( Game of Thrones, duh ! ) or if you want more variety, Lotte Verbeek ( Outlander, The Borgias. )

EDMURE TULLY.

— WHO’S THAT.  Ser EDMURE Tully is the son of Lord Hoster Tully and Lady Minisa Whent, and the heir to House Tully of Riverrun, the liege lords of the riverlands. He is the younger brother of Catelyn and Lysa. His mother died when he was very young. As a youth, he was known as hot-headed but good-hearted. He had a number of friends who had similar characteristics, most notably Marq Piper. The young Edmure once broke his arm after falling from an elm in Riverrun’s godswood. He often went wenching and had a number of affairs. In one case, he had drunk too much and was unable to “perform”. A singer, Tom of Sevens, made a mocking song about Edmure, which mentioned a “FLOPPY FISH”, causing him to develop a dislike of singers in general.

— HELPFUL LINKS.  ASOIAF WIKI: Edmure Tully. As for future!AU plots, if you are interested, I recommend you check out THIS THEORY about what’s going to happen to Edmure and his party in the beginning of the book. I subscribe to this theory WHOLEHEARTEDLY, and am pretty sure that this is exactly how it will play out.

— FACECLAIM RECS.  Tom Hiddleston ( Henry V ) or Tobias Menzies ( Game of Thrones. )

VAL.

— WHO’S THAT.  Like Melisandre, there have been amazing VAL blogs around in the past few years. But as far as I know, they are all inactive at the moment. I loved Val from the moment we first met her on page, and I hope someone will get inspired to make a Val very soon ! She is a member of the free folk. She is the sister of Dalla, the wife of Mance Rayder, and a beautiful young woman with blonde hair the colour of dark honey, reaching to her waist. She sometimes wears all white, wields a long bone knife. She is resourceful, brave and FIERCE, as well as a capable rider.

— HELPFUL LINKS.  ASOIAF WIKI: Val. I don’t think I have heard of or read many crackpot theories about Val, nor do I think anything particularly sinister or surprising awaits her in The Winds of Winter, but if you want to look for them anyway, check out THIS LINK.

— FACECLAIM RECS.  Katheryn Winnick ( Vikings ), Alyssa Sutherland ( Vikings ), or Imogen Poots ( Centurion. )

ROOSE BOLTON.

— WHO’S THAT.  Where all the creepy Rooses at? Seriously??? He is legitimately the most creepy and insidious character in the series. He’s so amazingly written that we should have at least dozens of active Roose Boltons all the time. But anyway… ROOSE Bolton is the Lord of the Dreadfort and head of House Bolton. He receives regular leechings, which he believes to improve his health, prompting some to call him the Leech Lord. He has a plain face, beardless and ordinary, with his only noticeable feature being his eyes, paler than stone and darker than milk, strange like two white moons. Though mild-mannered and patient, Roose is calculating and capable of great cruelty. He possesses a cold cunning and a skill for strategy. He speaks softly and rarely raises his voice, forcing those who listen to do so intently. When he speaks silence often descends.

— HELPFUL LINKS.  ASOIAF WIKI: Roose Bolton. This particular character is often the center of many, many crackpot theories. You can see some of them HERE. I don’t know if I subscribe to any of the ‘Roose is Undead / Vampire’ theories, but obviously he is going to remain an important character in The Winds of Winter. Well, parts of it anyway, seeing as I reckon he will die… probably murdered by Ramsay. If he is not dead by the time The Pink Letter was written and sent, that is. But that’s a conversation for another time.

— FACECLAIM RECS.  Michael McElhatton ( Game of Thrones. ) This faceclaim is one of the most successful ones on HBO’s part, so why change it?

SAND SNAKES.

— WHO ARE THEY.  I think we have decided collectively as a fandom to completely ignore what the show made of Oberyn’s daughters, right? Okay, good. I loved them in the books ( well, the older ones anyway since we didn’t meet the little ones ) and I would love to see more of them around on Tumblr and on my dash. SAND SNAKES is a term used to refer to the bastard daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell. The name references the Dornish bastard surname, Sand, and their father’s nickname, “the Red Viper”. Prince Oberyn’s eight daughters have been born to five different mothers, and while they differ in appearance from one another, they are said to all have their father’s eyes.

— OBARA FC REC. Cynthia Addai-Robinson ( Spartacus ),— NYMERIA FC REC. Janina Gavankar ( Vampire Diaries ),— TYENE FC REC. Pelin Karahan ( Magnificent Century ),— SARELLA FC REC. Lupita Nyong'o ( Twelve Years As a Slave ),— ELIA FC REC. Q'orianka Kilcher ( The New World. )

[its-lifestyle]

Friendship is a matter that surely has been long debated and agonised over, yet here I am, knocking on the door for answers once again.

I am a highly introverted person with the tendency to close off my emotions to the outside world, resulting in numerous accusations of being aloof, arrogant and being an emotionless robot without a “life”. The few friends I have made were all in the same class or school as I was.

(Personally, my friendship policy is to have quality over quantity, but as of now I do not think I have either.) The people whom I regard as friends, do not seem to treat me as one. I say this because I am socially constipated, and cannot truly tell if they are using or manipulating me, or not.

Here are some situations, so please be the judge:

1. Being constantly alert in sending pictures or short videos (not more than five minutes) or messages to a group of friends (W, X, Y, Z) as supplementary information or because those things are relatable to them, yet being ignored seven times out of 10. Lukewarm responses for the other three times.

2. Inviting W, X, Y, Z out numerous times to hang out/participate in an activity, to be refused each time as they claim to be busy. Yet they post pictures of themselves doing said activity with one another on social media, a day or two later.

3. Carrying on a conversation on an interesting topic or a debate, only to have friend (B) not reply eight times out of 10, claiming they “forgot” to reply.

4. Messaging friend (A), to only receive a reply in about 20 working days, even though they are online most of the time.

5. Hesitant in offering help for small tasks (e.g. delivering documents which are on their way) when I ask, although I hardly ask for their help anyway, as I am a perfectionist. They mostly offer loads of advice – without the actions to back up their words.

A few things to note:

a. I do not call them since most, if not all, of them have expressed an aversion to it and prefer messaging.

b. As their tastes in almost everything are modern, and mine are as old as the hills, I have spent months or years researching about their interests so that I carry out conversations with them.

c. I tend to listen and give prompting responses but will express myself more freely and elaborately in debates.

d. They mostly warm up to me or speak to me when they are in need of help for a matter resolved. (They would start with innocent but insincere greetings and, after a few polite exchanges, ask me for a favour or something. After that comes the profuse thanks, exaggeration of appreciation, a few more exchanges – and then silence once more.)

Am I being selfish by not being satisfied with what I have at the moment? If this is what it means to be “friends”, I am better off without them, since that was my reality during those bleak childhood years and most of my teens.

Rather than friends, I can honestly say I prefer the company of writers and composers long dead. Alas, my family labels me as a reclusive nutcase and is in favour of sending me to a therapist (which we cannot afford, and I will lie through my teeth to).

Should I start making other friends even though all that I have made so far are cut from similar cloth, with the reasoning that all humans, being gregarious, must have a social life?

Or should I indulge in giving up the concept for now – at least until a decent human being appears – and go back to the mellifluous words and notes of the past?

Et tu, Brute?

I can see you have spent a lot of time on trying to communicate, but your approach is problematic.

The main reason you’re not connecting is that the people you talk to have different tastes than you. As friendship is based on having things in common, trying to build a friendship without such a foundation is difficult.

But frankly, your attitude makes it even harder. For example, you send texts and videos that you think will engage them, but you make it clear these don’t interest you. My dear, people aren’t daft. They can tell you’re not sincere.

Then there’s your anger and frustration coming through. While it’s a natural reaction to rejection, they will have picked up on it. And as friendship is about enjoyment, it won’t have helped.

As for the next step, seeing these people don’t want to talk to you or meet you, it’s pretty clear they aren’t interested in being friends. That’s OK because you have little in common.

A sensible approach would be to find people who do share your interests, and to engage with them sincerely. I am very curious why you haven’t taken this route as it is the obvious one.

As you didn’t see this and you say you were lonely as a child, it suggests that difficulties in connecting are a lifelong issue for you.

You ask if friendships are necessary. The answer is yes. We are social creatures and we need to connect for our mental health.

Isolation is linked directly to depression, anxiety and increased risk of suicide. As an extreme point, consider that solitary confinement is considered a mental torture for a reason.

Friendship isn’t just a matter of mental health; it also makes life sweet. And, although your letter doesn’t mention it, if you lack communication skills in other parts of your life, it’s likely you will create obstacles to career success.

If you are interested in marriage or a lifelong partnership, poor communication skills will cause trouble there too.

Therefore, I agree with your family: If at your age you lack skills in this area, it is sensible to talk to a professional.

However, you state that you will sabotage success by actively lying. I really don’t get that. As you have been beating your head against the wall for years, I strongly suggest you drop the ego and get some help.And there are lots of affordable options, including free sessions run by NGOs, so look around for sessions that suit your budget.

If you are determined not to reach out, you might try reading some books and have a go at making positive change yourself. It will be harder than working with a pro because we tend to find it quite a challenge to see ourselves clearly. Also, you may find it hard to find information that is culturally appropriate.

However, if you want to try, the basics of making friends are quite simple. You find people who share your enthusiasm, and you spend time on those activities together. On that foundation, you must also add sincerity, respect and kindness.

Once you have that in a package, you grow a friendship from there.

Is something bothering you? Do you need a listening ear or a shoulder to lean on? Thelma is here to help.  Email lifestyle@thestar.com.my or write to Dear Thelma, c/o StarLifestyle, Menara Star, 15, Jalan 16/11, 46350 Petaling Jaya, Selangor. PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR FULL NAME, ADDRESS AND A PSEUDONYM. No private correspondence will be entertained. The Star does not give any warranty on accuracy, completeness, usefulness, fitness for any particular purpose or other assurances as to the opinions and views expressed in this column. The Star disclaims all responsibility for any losses suffered directly or indirectly arising from reliance on such opinions and views. 

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[rolandfontana]

How China Drove Out Mister Softee and Why You Need to Know About It

China Law Professor Donald Clarke sent me a great article this week from New York Magazine, entitled, How China Drove Out Mister Softee. Professor Clarke’s email with the link said the following:

Thought you might like this. Interestingly, it is NOT a story of “guy skirts rules, naively trusts Chinese partner, gets screwed.” It’s “guy does everything absolutely by the book, has reliable Chinese partner who does not screw him, and still gets screwed by changing political atmosphere.” For him to get competition eventually is quite normal, and the competition wasn’t using a trade name similar to his. But the rules were not evenly enforced.

This is the sort of story I both love and hate. I love this sort of story because it is interesting and important but I hate it because I constantly and aggressively stress to my clients the need to follow China’s laws to the letter and with that I ought to be able to tell them that by doing so they will have no problems. I also hate this sort of story because it reveals the cynical truth that the reality is really more the opposite: if you do not follow China’s laws you will have a problem. If you do follow Chinese laws the odds of your having a problem will go way down, but hey, it is no guarantee. Truth is that as a foreign company doing business in China you will be a target and this means you must follow the laws to avoid being an easy and legal target but even if you do follow the rules you are still a target.

Quick aside. Why the Jim Carey clip about “messing with the doo?” Two reasons. One, It’s just a great clip. And two, I love soft-serve ice cream and I have fond memories of eating Mr. Softee ice cream when visiting my grandmother in New Jersey. So I see China’s messing with Mister Softee as the equivalent of “messing with the doo.” But I digress.

So if you read the New York Magazine article, you will learn that Turner Sparks brought New York’s iconic Mister Softee trucks for the first time to China” back in 2007 and eventually built his ice cream empire to ten trucks and 25 employees in Suzhou. You will also learn the following:

Mr. Sparks did local TV and newspaper interviews and was a fixture at school and corporate events, where he and his team doled out waffle-cone soft-serve to thousands. During one corporate party at Bosch, an international electronics company, he sold $9,000 worth of $1 cones in just two hours.

Competition was scarce, because he essentially invented the Suzhou ice-cream-truck market. “All these trucks were just going nuts, doing really well. Huge lines all the time,” he told me. “Everyone knew Mister Softee.”

He planned an ambitious expansion, and lined up investors to back it: He wanted to quintuple his fleet to 50 trucks, add more storefronts, and move into new territory.

More importantly, you will learn how tough it can be to do business in China, because you will learn that instead of expanding his business in China, Mr. Sparks ended up leaving China “with just enough money to reinvent his life as a New York stand-up comic.” and that “what happened to Sparks is an illustration of how the landscape has shifted for foreign businesses in China since current premier Xi Jinping has taken over the country, and the climate has become considerably less hospitable for foreign business — small ones, in particular.”

The article talks about how things began to change for foreign companies in China starting in 1978 and how Sparks was able to build up his ice cream empire:

They created a local supply chain from scratch, finding vendors for cones, straws and soft-serve mix at a Shanghai food-and-drink expo. Using secret blueprints from Mister Softee, the truck was built in Nanjing by a company that makes telecommunications trucks, armored vehicles, and ambulances. Workers were hired from a job fair, with many long-distance drivers jumping on the opportunity to work locally and try something different. To give the soft-serve the same taste as back home, they shipped the milk in from the U.S.

Suzhou officials worked with Sparks to create a new kind of business permit for their ice-cream trucks, called a Qualified Mobile Vendor License. It let them operate the trucks, but only as “delivery vehicles” for two stores. The license also required they have a staffed office and were restricted to operate at certain spots around the city. The solicitousness of Suzhou officials wasn’t unique. All around China, local governments were inviting in foreign businesses, easing the cost of doing business with tax breaks, and giving them friendly government liaisons to help them navigate the labyrinthine bureaucracy.

Then you will learn how the ice cream empire fell apart, for reasons that will likely not be unfamiliar to most foreign companies that operate in China — taxes and thieving employees who then go out and illegally and even violently compete:

The first inclination Sparks got that things were changing was around 2012, when a local official called him into his office and accused Sparks of not paying enough in taxes.

“Immediately, I knew it was a shakedown,” he said. “This guy was an idiot. He was like, ‘There’s money, I need some.’”

Sparks declined the man’s offer and left, but says that meeting was his first experience with the corruption he’d often heard about in China. Soon after, two new drivers alerted Sparks to a longtime scam by his eight other drivers. They were quietly making extra soft-serve sales and pocketing the money for themselves. Because Mister Softee was a cash business, office workers would count drivers’ ice-cream cones at the start and end of their shifts to make sure they weren’t stealing. To circumvent that control, drivers bought their own cones. When Sparks started measuring the ice-cream mix instead, the drivers would buy extra cones and mix, too.

Eventually, he instituted random checks on drivers and fired several on the spot when they were caught with more mix in their trucks than they had at the start of the day. Soon after, his tires outside his apartment were slashed. Then a fired driver showed up at Mister Softee’s office and threatened to kill the workers there.

Things got more bizarre. In early 2013, just a few weeks after they were fired, Sparks’s former drivers resurfaced with their own unlicensed ice-cream trucks, with knockoff names including Baby Bear, Snow Princess, and Mr. Big. These drivers would park along Mister Softee trucks’ routes to poach customers. Plus, they didn’t have the special city license, which allowed them to operate without having to open storefronts or an office, and they could sell wherever they wanted.

Conway was too far away to help out as problems started cascading. Cai, meanwhile, had moved to the suburbs about an hour away and was starting another printed circuit board business, so had no time to lend a hand.

*   *   *   *

Perhaps the slashed tires and death threats were unique to Mister Softee, but local officials’ deciding to yank support was downright typical of the changing times.

For the record, nothing that happened to Mister Softee in Suzhou is “unique.”

The article then goes on to rightly note that foreign companies that bring technology or know-how that China hasn’t developed on its own are still very much welcome in China, but the others not so much. “One in four foreign businesses are scaling back in China or say they plan to, and most say they feel increasingly unwelcome, according to a 2018 survey from the American Chamber of Commerce in China.”

The article extensively quotes Anil Gupta, professor of University of Maryland’s Smith School of Business, “who’s been researching and writing about China for 25 years” and who has this to say:

Gupta added that blatant knockoff enterprises are so common in China that it’s almost a wonder Mister Softee’s easily replicated business wasn’t copied sooner. Plus, local officials and courts are more likely to back the local knockoffs to support Chinese businesses — to hell with the permits.

“With 99 percent confidence, I would say this was destined to happen,” Gupta said of Mister Softee’s fate. “I would say that God couldn’t even save this business.”

What or who exactly killed Mister Softee. China:

After receiving one-year permits for his trucks without fail from 2007 through 2012, Mister Softee’s permits were withheld without explanation and Sparks couldn’t reach government officials for months to clear up the issue. When Sparks finally heard back from government officials in mid-2013, they told him they would figure out a way to regulate the new trucks. Nearly a year later, with Sparks still operating without a new permit, officials proposed holding a lottery to dole out Suzhou permits to Sparks and the knockoff trucks. Around that time, police started ticketing Mister Softee trucks for parking illegally in spots they’d been working for years.

By 2015, it became clear the lottery would never take place and Sparks’s new round of investment crumbled.

“Part of it was a relief, to know it was over,” Sparks told me. “You feel, obviously, helpless.”

Over the next year, he wound down the business, paid his remaining staff and sold off the trucks so some others could spread the gospel of neighborhood soft-serve to nearby cities.

In early 2016 on a Friday, Mister Softee’s tumultuous foray into China quietly ended with Sparks, his lawyer, and accountant filing liquidation papers and figuring out who they still owed money to. Sparks had already sold off the office furniture to his ice-cream cone supplier.

Ignoring for a minute whether any deity could have saved Mister Softee, was there anything it could have done to survive China? Maybe. Were a company like Mister Softee come to me today, I would likely recommend that instead of going into business in China, it seek our a licensee in China for its name and its ice-cream know how and its trucks look and feel. Indeed, my law firm a few years ago did a licensing deal on behalf of a regional American ice cream that has worked out very well for the American company. I constantly find myself trying to steer clients away from what I call “theoretical massive profits” that can allegedly be realized by going into China as a WFOE or a Joint Venture in favor of a licensing or distributing deal. See Forming a China WFOE: Needed or Not. See also my Forbes Magazine on this: Want Your Product In China? Try Using A Local Distributor.

Welcome to China 2018 people.

What are you seeing out there?

UPDATE: Literally minutes after I wrote this I received an email from a China lawyer friend who said I should have talked about how Mister Softee could have prevented “at least some of its problems” by having made its employees sign non-compete agreements. I don’t think those would have worked because China’s courts generally will not enforce those against any but high level employees and I do not think ice cream truck operators would qualify as high level employees. See

How China Drove Out Mister Softee and Why You Need to Know About It syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

[alamante]

Rep. Jim Jordan (R-Ohio) announced his bid to run for House speaker on Thursday, just one day after he filed articles of impeachment against Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein. But it’s important not to let this be a distraction from the other story about Jordan: He allegedly ignored the sexual abuse of at least eight student-athletes at Ohio State University for years.

“I plan to run for Speaker of the House to bring real changes to Congress,” Jordan wrote in a letter to colleagues Thursday. “I believe we have given the American people reason to question our commitment to reform.”

Jordan, along with other conservative lawmakers on Wednesday, filed articles of impeachment against Rosenstein, who is overseeing special counsel Robert Mueller’s investigation into Russian interference in the 2016 presidential campaign.

“The DOJ is keeping information from Congress,” Jordan said in a statement. “Enough is enough. It’s time to hold Mr. Rosenstein accountable for blocking Congress’s constitutional oversight role.” 

For all of republican lawmakers’ talk of accountability, Jordan himself has remained essentially unscathed by his fellow colleagues as he battles allegations of covering up the sexual abuse of student athletes by a team physician at Ohio State University.

More Than 100 Students Sexually Abused

Over several decades, more than 100 students were sexually abused by college sports physician Richard H. Strauss, according to new lawsuits levied against OSU and an independent investigation conducted by the university. 

Strauss worked as a university-employed physician from the mid-1970s to the 1990s, where he worked with hundreds of student athletes from 14 different sports teams. Strauss killed himself in 2005.

In a pair of new lawsuits filed earlier this month, student-athletes who were abused by Strauss said it was an open secret in the locker rooms. The physician was referred to as “Dr. Jellypaws,” The New York Times reported, and university officials largely ignored what was happening, according to the lawsuits.

In 1993, a team member on the wrestling team explained to then-head coach, Russ Hellickson, what was happening to him, according to the suit.

In an interview with USA Today, Hellickson denied knowing about the abuse, but in the same interview said he was aware that Strauss made his athletes “uncomfortable.”

What’s more, Hellickson said he once confronted Strauss about the doctor’s desire to shower with students. The doctor countered that Hellickson also showered with athletes, to which Hellickson replied, “Not for an hour, Doc.”

“I said, ‘When you’re doing weigh-ins, you’re too hands on, Doc,’” Hellickson said. Yet he maintained there was no “red flag” that Strauss was being abusive. 

Even after Strauss left the university in 1996 to establish his own private medical office in Columbus, the abuse of his patients continued, according to an investigation by the university.

“We are grateful to those who have come forward and remain deeply concerned for anyone who may have been affected by Dr. Strauss’ actions,” Ohio State President Michael Drake said in a July 20 statement. “We remain steadfastly committed to uncovering the truth.”

Some Victims Say Jordan Knew

At least eight of the victims have come forward to say that Jordan knew what was taking place during his time at the university. Jordan was an assistant wrestling coach from 1986 to 1994, during which time he was told of what was happening to his own athletes, the victims said.

“I considered Jim Jordan a friend. But at the end of the day, he is absolutely lying if he says he doesn’t know what was going on,” former Ohio State wrestler Mike DiSabato told NBC News in an investigative report published earlier this month. 

Dunyasha Yetts, who wrestled at Ohio State in 1993 and 1994, told the outlet that he confronted Jordan about the abuse he suffered at the hands of Strauss.

“I remember I had a thumb injury and went into Strauss’ office and he started pulling down my wrestling shorts,” Yetts said. “I’m like, what the fuck are you doing? And I went out and told Russ and Jim what happened. I was not having it. They went in and talked to Strauss.”

Yetts said it upsets him that Jordan ― who he called a “great guy” ― would cover up for a sexual abuser. 

“So it’s sad for me to hear that he’s denying knowing about Strauss,” he said. “I don’t know why he would, unless it’s a cover-up. Either you’re in on it, or you’re a liar.”

Jordan has vehemently denied ever knowing about the abuse.

“I had not heard about any type of abuse at all,” Jordan told the Columbus Dispatch in April, adding that “no one reported any type of abuse” to him.

Republicans Brush Allegations Aside

Republican lawmakers have largely brushed aside the accusations against their colleague, instead working with the embattled politician to draft articles of impeachment against Rosenstein.

On July 6, House Speaker Paul Ryan (R-Wis.) said he would “await the findings” of the investigation into Jordan. Days later, he praised Jordan as a “man of integrity.” 

“Jim Jordan is a friend of mine,” Ryan said at a news conference July 11. “We haven’t always agreed with each other over the years, but I have always known Jim Jordan to be a man of honesty, and a man of integrity.”  

Ryan went on to say that the House Ethics Committee would not investigate Jordan. And the House Freedom Caucus, which Jordan co-founded, voted to support the congressman in the wake of the accusations, according to CNN. 

During that vote, multiple republican lawmakers came to Jordan’s defense, including Rep. Gary Palmer (R-Ala.), who said, “We need to be supportive of our colleague.”

Rep. Chris Collins (R-N.Y.) said the accusations were “a lot of hearsay.” And Rep. Peter King (R-N.Y.) told reporters that “these allegations could be made against anyone.”

But the biggest defense came from President Donald Trump himself, who earlier this month called Jordan “an outstanding man.”

“I don’t believe them at all,” he told reporters on Air Force One regarding the victims accusing Jordan. “I believe [Jordan]. I believe him 100 percent. No question in my mind.”

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[diligentdigitalstudent]

Week 6 - Are online activists & protesters really making a difference?

This week, we discussed how activism and protesting has expanded and changed through the use of contemporary media. Political sociologist Paolo Gerbaudo, wrote an extremely interesting piece regarding how modern day activists organise and schedule protests through the use of social media, specifically within Cairo, Egypt. He explains in his book Tweets and the Streets that in 2011, mass sit-ins and protests were assembled through the use of Twitter hashtags using the date of its beginning: #Apr8, #Jun28 etc (Gerbaudo, 2012). I was ignorant to Twitter’s ability (among with other social media platforms) to afford its users “anonymity, anti-surveillance, documentation and forensics, and management of evidentiary chains” (Sigal and Biddle, 2015), which are extremely beneficial to generate a protest.

An example of activists using an online presence to encourage protesters occurred in 2011, when McDonalds planned to build a 24/7 store and drive-through within the small town of Tecoma, located in the Dandenong ranges. The fast-food chain proposal generated enormous backlash from locals, initially in the form of letters, with 1,170 written objections sent to the Yarra Ranges Council (Peake, 2015). The objections included concerns regarding the stores location, as it would be built directly opposite a school and kindergarten, this would encourage kids to eat junk food; the store would demolish local iconic buildings and enhance litter among their nearby national park (Change.org, 2012).

As written objections were not generating enough attention, activists appropriately corporated social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter. A ‘No McDonalds in The Dandenong Ranges’ Facebook page was established, followed by a ‘No McDonalds Tecoma’ Twitter page in 2011. The Facebook page gathered over 18,000 followers in support (a staggering amount considering Tecoma’s population is approximately just over 2,000), and was also utilised as a platform to accumulate signatures for an online petition. The petition gained 61,000 supporters as of 2013, however, this online action was not enough to prevent the store from moving forward.

In March 2013, 3000 people marched from Belgrave to Tecoma to protest against the development (Peake, 2015). Eight protesters began to camp on the roof of the Old Hazelvale Dairy building to prevent McDonalds development, and in November 2013, protesters staged a flash mob at the Melbourne comedy festival to raise awareness. Despite the objections of thousands through their established Burger Off! campaign, the McDonald’s store progressed and has been open for business since.

Despite Tecoma’s lost battle, the ‘No McDonalds in The Dandenong Range’ social media page continues to be regularly monitored by activists, who post photo updates within a 100m radius of the chain, displaying litter that the store has generated. The Facebook page has also been successful in fighting off another potential store opening in Guildford.

Alternatively, as Gerbaudo raised in Tweets and the Streets, does the use of these media platforms affect the experience of participants? Does showing interest online for a protest show genuine involvement? Or is the detachment that the internet provides simply increasing slacktivism?

In early 2016, Facebook introduced a ‘Celebrate Pride’ function that allowed all Facebook users to change their profile picture as to include a rainbow flag of solidarity toward marriage equality. However, as Craig Agranoff wrote in the Huffington Post “These gestures, while nice shows of support, are in the end just gestures” (Agranoff, 2015). Despite the unexpected national support and increased awareness it caused within politics and the media, it is important to note that marriage equality was still not legalised in Australia for almost another two years. By simply sharing support on social media, this act of passivity deflects any true motivation for any change to be made.

Thomas Paine, an 18th century politician and philosopher, first coined the term “sunshine patriot” to criticize those that only support a cause when it is of benefit to them, often at a time when there is mass support for this cause, making it a popular choice. As contemporary activists have seized the opportunity to use social media platforms to establish and assemble protests, it has also created a platform for our citizens to become slacktivists and ignorantly believe that they are making a difference online though liking or sharing, when the reality shows little change being made. In the case for Tecoma, they didn’t rely solely on social media platforms to protest. They physically wrote letters and marched, and yet, the result didn’t end in their favour. In comparison, advocates for marriage equality simply changed their profile picture in solidarity and we can see that marriage equality is now legal in Australia. So have online platforms caused change to be created sooner? Or does it simply depend on the cause? In conclusion, social media platforms have been beneficial in enhancing mass awareness and communication regarding social issues, although it has also afforded its users to become ignorant in creating political change.  

Link to social media pages: https://twitter.com/SAVE_TECOMA https://www.facebook.com/NMITDR/

References:  Agranoff, C. (2015). False Activism on Social Networks Is for Sunshine Patriots. [online] HuffPost. Available at: https://www.huffingtonpost.com/craig-agranoff/false-activism-on-social-_b_7722008.html [Accessed 18 May 2018]. Change.org. (2012). Sign the Petition. [online] Available at: https://www.change.org/p/mcdonald-s-abandon-plans-to-build-a-massive-24-7-store-opposite-the-kindergarten-in-tecoma [Accessed 17 May 2018].

Gerbaudo, P. (2012). Tweets and the streets. London: Pluto Press, pp.1, 2 and 3. Peake, J. (2015). Timeline of the battle against a McDonald's at Tecoma, Victoria. [online] ABC News. Available at: http://www.abc.net.au/news/2014-02-24/timeline-of-the-battle-against-a-mcdonalds-at-tecoma/5269928 [Accessed 18 May 2018]. Sigal, I. and Biddle, E. (2015). Our Enduring Confusion About the Power of Digital Tools in Protest. The Fibreculture Journal, (26), p.289

[theraroth]

Death Awaits Us All (from 2016)

I wrote this around August 3-4 2016, for a lit blog that rejected it outright for its brutal honesty and horrific accuracy concerning what we were soon to see as the presidency of Donald (BAAAAARRRRRFFFF) Trump. Presented with minimal edits, I give you:

DEATH AWAITS US ALL...enjoy (or not, it’s your choice):

The rust monsters have sacked my brain. Writing anything creative is a near-impossible hateful sojourn through corridors of frustration. I was recently accosted by the corrosive evil of reorganizing a college level class in order to conform, at least in spirit, with the format of a dreadful textbook thrust upon me, like skin rot contracted from an outhouse in a leper colony. There’s no task as phony and unfulfilling and soulless as revising lecture notes. You can feel your creative juices drying up like a sun-blasted desert oasis. There goes another part of me I can never recapture. Pandora’s Box fits into the analogy somehow, but I am unable to weave it into the narrative adequately so I instead rely on brutal confessions of academically induced impotence, if there is such a condition, and if not let me self-diagnose as Patient Zero for a heretofore undiscovered malady.

Where was I?

Somewhere, out in the desert watching heatwaves rise up from boiling sands…painting a picture with a broken brush is no mean feat, but I think I have risen to the challenge. Rise…risen. Nope, still hopelessly ossified and amberized. I coined that word, I believe. Or I’d like to believe I coined it.

Pointless!

So I’ll conjure a point from nowhere: I was rereading Kurt Vonnegut’s A Man Without a Country, his last published work before succumbing to a head injury at the gruffly tender age of 84 (it was his opinion that old farts like himself had “just gotten here,” so he was therefore little more than a pup, and who am I to contradict a master?). The book, a glib examination of George W. Bush’s America, has aged more rapidly than Vonnegut’s cantankerous literary turns, hobbled in part by the limited scope of the subject, but in spite of that limitation, it ventures into less dated territory or at a minimum more open territory free of political intrigues anchored to that desolate era, and one of these vistas for free range thoughts was in the author’s note at the end in which Kurt mentions that he had recently bonded in a friendly manner, not a love interest mind you, with Ralph Steadman, the artist indelibly linked to Hunter S. Thompson, the late gonzo journalist who, in the context of this aside, had recently taken his life in 2005. And where in the fuck, you ask and rightfully so, is all this digressive bullshit headed? It’s headed toward one of those strange coincidences which plant the idea that perhaps coincidence is a term of art humans created to dismiss the only tangible proof of a higher power manipulating the strings of the world, for I had just received in the mail a copy of Ralph Steadman’s The Joke’s Over, with a forward by, of all people, Kurt Vonnegut. So when I read the passage about Steadman and Vonnegut acquainting, a series of events whose connective tissues were dark to me suddenly coalesced into a definitive line of causality. Kurt met Ralph, Ralph wrote a book, Kurt wrote the forward for the book.

Isn’t it amazing that two people I have admired from afar somehow interacted out of the blue and “cross-pollinated,” so to speak? How does that shit happen? It’s a small world doesn’t do it justice. Nor does that hideously saccharine shit of a song do justice to my ears, real or the virtual stereo in my head that blares it as punishment for writing this, or possibly for writing, period, why-oh-why did I ever travel down that path? it yells at me in a chorus of squeaky castrati frantic to know the whereabouts of their balls…sorry boys, but, snip, snip, all gone but for the empty skin pouch.

If any of this makes sense, I apologize. It was never my intention to impart wisdom. There are more than enough shit-bird seers and visionary with all the answers in the world for a million lifetimes. So I guess one more can’t hurt or at the worst can’t inflict more harm than has already been inflicted. Death by a million papercuts…which cut was the killing stroke, the first or the last or one of the ones somewhere in the middle? Don’t answer that. Only a real asshole thinks he can answer the unanswerable.

Trump.

Balls, I’ve been tap dancing around the proverbial elephant in the room, tap dancing around heaping mounds of elephant shit so pervasive and voluminous I am drowning it in. We all are. Fuck. I need respite from the ugliness or I’ll goddamn well explode. And we can’t have that, can we?

But beware! If you speak of the devil, he shall come forth to heed your call. And in line with that warning, just as I was resigned to submerging and drowning in the muddy trenches of the Trump travesty, some blasted interloper knocked on the rustic steel door I rely on as a barrier between myself and the cruel world beyond. A wave of dread crept up my spine. Dusk time visitations never go well. Could be the authorities paying a call to impart bad news or some Jesus hustler at the end of his shift off-loading surplus pamphlets on the house closest to the tax dodge. God, I hate those fuckers. They have a habit of ignoring the NO SOLICITORS sign taped to the glass. Perhaps a large billboard broadcasting I EXTERMINATE FUCKING JESUS FREAKS might get their attention. When I opened, I came face to face with a fresh brand of trouble: the new neighbors were stopping by, not to say hi, how’s it hangin’? boy it sure is hot and whatnot, but to raise unholy hell (vs holy hell) about ground ivy, a common broadleaf, encroaching on their newly sodded lawn.

My inner cynic lives for these moments, affirmations that people are the real hell on Earth, as they clearly intended to start a territorial dispute over a goddamn plant native to every square mile of land in the world’s innumerable temperate zones, which, as far as they were concerned, excluded their yard. My only recourse? Consult the local ordinances online. Damn them straight to hell, I thought, for I’d sworn to on everything that is holy in the ecumenical sense that I would NEVER EVER consult the local ordinances, out of respect for the fact that I don’t give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut about local ordinances or other petty nonsense crafted by bureaucrats with measuring sticks, prepared to issue citations for overgrown lawns or minute infringements of sacred lot lines. This is the kind of meaningless tripe that sucks your life down the fucking drain, pisses away the hours and scours your nerves to raw fucking bloody pulpy scum. So it was with utter disdain that I broke this promise to the Powers That Don’t Give a Fuck and combed the local ordinance site, state of the art for 2008, and tracked down the arcane passage detailing what manner of flora presented a nuisance to the neighborhood and would bring the wrath of the gods down upon my head, and lo and behold ground ivy was not among the offending species of plants.

But the neighbors more or less told me as much when it was mentioned in passing that they had consulted the ordinances and were at a loss to find a passage with the clout to enforce their milquetoast suburban pursuit of a simplified, unstable, monochromatic, aesthetically drab and understated ecosystem aching to wither and die if a fucking drop of acrid dog piss falls on its tender shoots. I’m not eager to engage in a death struggle over botanical differences. However, people have died for lesser causes.

Trump.

Darkness descends. Evil abounds. Feet itch. Is there no one who can save us? Okay, there’s Hillary. I have confidence in her ability to topple the tyrannical Trumpenstein “turd tornado” (tip of the cap to Ben Shapiro for helping fulfill my alliteration quota for the month). But I cannot shake the creeping doom. It skulks the hallways of my mind. I hear the thundering hoof beats of the Apocalypse fast approaching.  I see other horrifying apparitions that defy description. Lots of wriggling tentacles, gnarly horns shiny with the blood of the innocent, severed nipples—a bowl of them, sitting out like Halloween candy as demonic children (well, children) paw through them seeking the tastiest morsel of nipple flesh. Michael Phelps’s perfect swimmer-nipples figure into the picture, adding a certain glistering, chilling symmetry to an otherwise asymmetric tableau involving hell spawn hungry for nipples, and even more macabre, Halloween was EIGHT DAYS ago.

November 8th promises to be the premiere of a new mediocre, bound-to-disappoint horror flop from M. Night Shyamalan, THE TRUMPENING. Okay, that scared the shit of me. You see, a word I’m 99.9% sure I just made up was ALREADY IN MY GODDAMN SPELLCHECKER. Relax, damn it. There is a logical explanation. Right. Spellcheck for all capital letters, by default, is turned off, and I tend to eschew tinkering with default settings unless they really piss me off, which is harder than it seems. But ’tis the season for rampant, unchecked, unabated, relentless paranoia, and what concerns me most is that the second my new novella arrives on the scene in the fall, there won’t be anybody to buy it. Apocalyptic settings dampen book sales almost as much as the very concept of a book does. Past authors and critics have predicted the end of the novel as an art form, and they were wrong, but their inaccuracy was a matter of poor timing not poor judgment. It is dead, and we killed it, and I cannot envision a novella, even a competently written one with an occasional dash of brilliance, resurrecting the dust and bones of the theater of the imagination. We are adrift in the briny wastes of instant entertainment gratification, and never again shall we touch the shores of useless art made beautiful by intense admiration.

I only wax poetically against my own interests because I am congenitally unable to believe in karmic justice. Karmic injustices proliferate with the ease of ground ivy, and unlike a relatively innocuous plant they swallow everything in their path. Take the savagely unjust conviction of five boys (four African Americans and one Hispanic) railroaded in 1990 for raping, beating, and sodomizing a female jogger in Central Park. After languishing in prison for 6-13 years as sex offenders, exculpatory evidence exonerated The Five of any wrongdoing (a serial rapist serving life in prison confessed to the crime, which led to a round of DNA tests, and none of The Five’s DNA was extant at the crime scene). And who shelled out an estimated $85,000 for full page ads in all four major New York newspapers urging the reinstatement of the death penalty, citing the Central Park assault as just cause and inflaming prejudice against the defendants before the case had been tried?

Trump.

Karma is officially deader than Vaudeville, deader than Caesar, deader than analogies in the “deader than” form. For a “law and order” candidate, Trump has a penchant for viewing mob rule as a functional arm of the Constitution. Deferring to the wisdom of “2nd Amendment people” to prevent Hillary from appointing judges belongs to the white-lighting-fueled ruminations of Tennessee moonshiners vigilant and on the eye for “revenuers” and “guvment men” and cannot be tolerated as just a bit of harmless bluster on the campaign trail, even if the candidate in question is a bloviating armchair politician with the discipline of a baboon wildly masturbating between salvos of shit-flinging.

I could go on and on about the other five billion instances in which Trump comported himself with the aplomb of a one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed lemur performing open heart surgery with a broken whiskey bottle. But when for the love of Zod does it fucking come to a satisfactory conclusion?

November 8th.

I hope?

No, hope doesn’t factor into it. Or faith. Or other invisible forces of the universe. It all teeters on the electorate getting off its asses and voting for Hillary. Every stay at home vote is a vote for Trump. Every vote for Lexus-liberal, vaccine-doubter Jill Stein is a vote for Trump. Every disgruntled Millennial write-in vote for Bernie Sanders is a vote for Trump. But it’s possible every vote for Gary Johnson is a vote for Hillary. Libertarians exist in a kind of pseudo-Republican limbo populated with potheads who bawl for small guvment between bong hits. Trump’s xenophobic, bigoted rhetoric loses its shine once the pot haze clears a skosh and it dawns on them that their dealer, Raul, is a Cuban/Mexican cross-dresser with a lapsed green card, and their backup plan, Timmy the Titwillow, is a gay bartender at a nightclub six blocks from the Pulse massacre.

Never underestimate the influence of self-interest in the electorate. Or for that matter self-deceit.

For as long as Trump is in the race he has a chance of winning, however remote, and we could be living the last fruitful days before a literal madman takes control of the world’s largest nuclear arsenal. If things should take a turn for the worst on Election Day, our only chance for a temporary reprieve from utter annihilation is to pray that that twisted septuagenarian imbecile can come to some kind of arrangement with Ivanka to stick his thrombosis-savaged pecker insider her every Sunday on an onyx altar carved in the image of the Great Old Ones. But given the obviously degenerated state of his body, it’s doubtful even an overdose of boner pills could conjure anything remotely resembling an erection, perhaps a tiny bubble filled with pus and blood and shattered pieces of dick vein floating around in the mucosal soup.

But I kid our future overlord. All in good fun and jest. Lucky for me, the dark, dank confines of a North Dakota gulag are a rich source of inspiration. Besides, I could use a change of setting. A place where I can write the last and greatest Great American novel before the steepening decline of the written word smashes into history’s wall. And upon that wall there is inscribed but a single word:

TRUMP

For the record: damn, was I spot on to worry! And I nailed the culprits of this fucking nightmare, less the Russian collusion, Who could have seen that coming, besides

HILLARY?

Right?