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lloydssluts · 11 months ago

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Lloyd Hansen Writing Challenge

Welcome to the Lloyd Hansen Writing Challenge, hosted by the Lloyd Hansen server.

About 2 years ago, we got our first taste of Lloyd Hansen through Netflix’s trailers. From then on, we were hooked. To celebrate this anniversary, we invite writers to join our challenge and create their own Lloyd Hansen fics!

This challenge is 18+ ONLY. Minors are not allowed to engage in any way, shape, or form. It is open to everyone—not just members of our server, although we encourage you to join us if you haven’t already.

All fics will be about Lloyd Hansen. We do not allow incest (stepcest is permitted), underage, or scat play. Fics should be reader inserts* and as inclusive as possible. Any genre (dark, smut, angst, fluff) is allowed. *For any other specifications or adjustments, reach out to one of the mods or send an ask. This is not a strict requirement.

There is no word count requirement. However, you must use a “read more” break, no matter the length. Use appropriate warnings.

The deadline for the challenge is July 22nd, 2024. This is not a strict deadline at all!

You will choose a dialogue that the character has said in the film and transform it from the original context. Certain prompts are open to changing as long as you note that somewhere. Once you’ve chosen a prompt and sent us an ask with it, it will be crossed off from the list. Prompts are on a first-come, first-serve basis! You can select up to 5 prompts.

Need feedback or advice? Feel free to message either one of the mods (@hansensgirl or @cuttlefjsh), or visit our server to discuss your fic with other members.

TAG YOUR FICS WITH THE TAG #Lloyd Hansen Server WC24

Happy writing!

Asterisks + ‘[…]�� indicates a prompt is open for change.

Should we try again?

Boring.

“Mostly, it’s loss which teaches us about the worth of things.” That’s Arthur Schopenhauer. He was a German philosopher, a pessimist. He saw the value in suffering.

Damn it. Phones on silent when I’m working, please.

Still just flirting. But… [...] getting there. *

Well, no one goes to Harvard to play football.

I like to be the exception. What’s up?

Gimme a name.

Could be fun.

Well, I’m gonna need a full green light on this one. Open checkbook.

I’d rather you punch me in the dick.

We’ll find somebody [...] loves and squeeze. *

Have I ever done you wrong, [...]? *

Professionally maybe. Lloyd Hansen, Hansen Government Services.

Aw, does it? Good.

You know my work. That’ll make this next part a lot easier.

You know what makes me sad, [...]? *

Five and a half.

Who likes cats?

Let’s talk about the mess your [...] made. *

Oh, [...] made a big one. And judging by your shallow breathing and puckered asshole*, I can only assume you know why I’m here.

But see, that’s the beauty of the private sector. I don’t care about reasons.

My guess is you’re helping [...] already. So this shouldn’t put too much of a dent in your day. *

But your file, well, that’s chock-full of nuggets, some of which might make you rethink your fussy attitude.

You gonna answer it?

Hey, sunshine. Lloyd Hansen here. I’m the one running this op.

The one where I get exactly what I want.

Okay, that’s fair. Well, why don’t you come on in, and we can chat? My assistant will get lunch. You like sushi?

Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page.

Looks like you need a new phone.

Don’t say “preternatural” to me. It’s an asshole word.

And that, [...], is exactly what bad ethics and zero impulse control will get you. *

I can kill anybody.

Well, we’ll see.

We need to ground in *Vienna.

How do you feel about your license?

Who’s up for some *Tafelspitz?

Hey, sunshine.

What gave it away?

Ballsy.

Nice try, pumpkin.

What size shoe are you?

Can someone get me a Vicodin, please?

On the run, scared shit less.

You know all those rules you guys are always trying to work your way around? They don’t mean dick to me.

Shut up and go sit in the corner.

Oh. How about that?

Forget about the Vicodin.

That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.

Goldilocks, would you be a lamb and excuse us?

Shhh. Please.

Now, whatever I just did to your *ears, it’s not even torture. I just made it up on the spot. Just came to me. And that’s how this is gonna go.

Should we try again?

Maybe we should get the *girl back in here.

Well, that was unexpected.

Make him dead.

My God, how hard is it to shoot somebody?

What I do can’t be taught.

You know what I love about you?

Yahtzee.

No, success qualifies as success.

You wanna make an omelette, you gotta *kill some people.

You know, in English, we call this a *happy ending. However, if you say one more word, you may not see it that way.

Lock everything down.

Get me eyes on the bridge.

You’re making me destroy a historic building here!

Wait! Please don’t shoot! Look what you did to my hand.

Give me that, you little shit.

Now you pick those feet up, or you’re gonna get dead real quick.

Now, listen. You shut up, and you don’t move.

Now, I’m gonna stop you right there, cupcake.

What do you say we wrap this up?

I mean, I’m having a blast, but it’s way past the kid’s bedtime, don’t you think?

You’re gonna throw me that gun, or the little one gets a new face. *

It’s really a shame this isn’t gonna work out between us.

Now normally, at this point in the night, I wouldn’t be sticking around.

With the house lights about to come on, I’d find a desperate, ugly chick to lick my wounds and split, but you have been a pebble in my shoe since the very beginning.

And now I just don’t think I can walk away.

Guess what I’m thinking right now.

I think I’m better than you.

Still getting used to it.

Let’s see if these moves fuck.

#lloyd hansen server #Lloyd Hansen Server WC24 #writing challenge #lloyd hansen #the gray man #chris evans #x reader #creator challenge #writing prompt

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wallwriterstuff · 1 year ago

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To Soothe A Soul ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child abuse and neglect. All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Implicit talk of death. Mentions of military discharge and injury. This covers many sensitive topics, Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2679

Summary: Written for @glitterypirateduck O Captain Challenge using a take on the promtps 'An unexpected visitor' and 'A Rescue Takes Place'.

Former Captain John Price can spot a dead man a mile away, and he's known enough of them to know that not every dead man dies. It's in the eyes, that dead-eyed stare that proves the body might work but the tattered soul inside has long since withered away. He's horrified to find those eyes in the gaunt face of his newest foster child. Simon Riley is a dead man walking, and he's barely 14.

Part 2: The Yes Basket

“Any medical or dietary requirements? Allergies?”

“None as of yet but a doctor’s appointment will be organised for the near future to craft a more detailed healthcare plan. Kid’s malnourished and deficient in an alphabet of vitamins I’ll wager.”

His pen tapped rhythmically against his notepad, his gut feeling tight with anxiety. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called for an emergency placement and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but the fear of the unknown still prickled at the base of his neck, licked in icy stripes up and down his spine. A career in the military had prepared him for much in life, but even the horrors he’d faced abroad couldn’t have prepared him for some of the kids that came into his care. Fostering had definitely been a good move for him after an honourable discharge due to injury had forced him out of the field. The kids he cared for needed routine and consistency as much as he did, and it filled that aching need to have someone reliant on him being at his best, gave him the motivation to keep up with all those exercises doctors had insisted would help him stay healthy and help him to readjust to civilian life. If he had someone to do it all for it was much, much easier.

“Alright then. Anything else I need to know about him?” Price asked, halting the movements of his pen and poising his hand to note down anything of significance.

“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role for him and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it right now. We’ll talk more about a family plan going forward with you to ensure they get time together but for now just expect some backlash from the decision to separate them.” The woman on the phone, Kate Laswell she’d introduced herself as, sighed heavily and added, “Also…Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the past 24 hours alone. Be mindful of his grief.”

Price couldn’t quite force his hand to move for a moment, thickly swallowing at the sympathy that clogged his throat for a second. He’d need to wipe that from his expression by the time they arrived; he doubted the boy would want to see it. Lowering his pen, he nodded slowly.

“Alright. How long?” His mind was already racing with all of the things he needed to get ready, to prepare.

“40 minutes from where we are to your address. We’re moving quickly with this one.” Kate informed him. Price internally groaned at the time limit but kept his tone calm and controlled as he agreed that it was fine and hung up. He took a moment to take a breath and then he placed his notebook away and pushed to his feet. He ran his home with just as much military precision as the barrack’s he’d been used to living in, with not a thing out of place and not a speck of dirt visible. No, no, it was the spare bedrooms that needed attention now. They were cleaned the same as the rest of the house but none were set up to welcome a teenager into. As he walked towards the stairs, he saw the fuzzy black ears perk up before hearing the click of hardwood beneath his claws. The grizzled German Shephard wasn’t the most welcoming looking dog given the scarring on his face, but he had a teddy bear heart and intellect that rivalled any human. His big head tilted in question, knowing that at this time of night Price was more likely to be sitting and nursing a glass of whisky and not traipsing upstairs. Price smiled gently and gave the lean muscles of his flank a firm pat.

“We’ve got a guest coming to stay Riley. You gonna be a good boy when he comes, hm?” he fussed him for a moment longer before gripping the railing and ascending the stairs. For the next forty minutes, the former Captain set towels in his bathroom, placed fresh bed sheets on every single bed in each of the spare rooms, and aerated each room to ensure it was fresh and prepared. In the kitchen, he set his fruit bowl front and centre and he tidied up his coat and shoe rack to ensure there was space for another set of belongings there. He tried to drag all these things out, not wanting to wait in the silence for his new charge to arrive and let the anticipation get to him. Riley settled against his side as he attempted to watch TV to pass the last 15 minutes, some mind-numbing episode of Match of The Day he could really care less about since Liverpool hadn’t been playing that day.

His own doorbell startled him like a gunshot, made Riley perk at his side. With a few firm commands and quick scratch behind the ears, he had Riley settled in his dog bed and was taking that last deep breath behind the door. I’ve met plenty like you, we’ll be fine.

Oh.

Oh no, no he hadn’t.

I’ve never met a kid like you at all.

Simon Riley clutched the bin bag full of his possessions in a white knuckled grip, his fist trembling with the effort as if scared that losing his grip meant losing everything. Every inch of him was locked up tighter than a maximum-security prison, and those eyes…those dead, dead eyes. They didn’t flinch. He’d seen SAS boys focus through glinting scopes with the same sort of resolve, unblinking, unyielding, vigilant in a way they’d been rigorously trained for. This gangly teen in tattered jeans and a baggy hoodie made a bigger impression than any he’d yet met. Dead as those eyes were they were keen, sharp, and Price knew they wouldn’t miss a trick. Overly aware now of his expression and body language, Price stepped aside to leave a nice wide gap, his smile welcoming and face soft, open.

“Hi, Kate right? And you must be Simon. Do you prefer Simon, Si, some other nickname?” he asked, gesturing for them to come in. Kate gave him a slightly strained smile and he guessed the ride over had been rather intense. Simon Riley oozed intensity in waves. When he stepped over the threshold into Price’s home it was like watching the grim reaper himself enter, an oppressive and ominous atmosphere following him, like he’d been trained to make his presence fill a room in a way his physically body couldn’t. Intimidation was something Price had dealt with for years however, gotten good at himself, and so he maintained that soft, open body language and didn’t flinch at that dead-eyed stare. I see you, but you don’t scare me, and nothing here should scare you either.

“Simon.” He grunted finally, fingers flexing around the bin liner. One bin bag. Moderately full but from the bulky way it stretched the bag Price guessed the majority of it was clothes. There was a stink that followed the bag to. Weed, he recognised, smoke, something bitter and tangy…iron-like. He filed that away as a conversation for later. Nodding, Price gestured to the shoe and coat rack.

“Simon, it’s good to meet you, I’m John. I made a space for your shoes and your coat here. House rules are that shoes always come off before we come in, please, or we’ll be forever mopping the hardwood.” He chuckled, maintaining that friendly smile as he waited to see what he’d do. Simon was already testing him clearly, because he let the silence drag out for a long while before he finally toed off his shoes and set them on the rack. His toes curled and uncurled into the hardwood for a moment. Price had seen it before both in soldiers and in previous kids, that fight or flight instinct. It was the scary unknown that did it. For some kids that came in this was the first house they’d been in that was clean and well-lit and warm. For some it was the emptiness of the open space that was unnerving after they got used to cramped bedrooms or bustling, busy living rooms filled with unsavoury visitors or simply one too many family members.

“John has offered to let you stay here for the time being, but I’ll be around still okay?” Kate assures him, “I’ll work on setting up visits with Tommy for you, and you’ve got my number saved in your phone, in case you want to talk to me.” Price knows instinctively that Simon won’t ever use that number. He doesn’t look the type to lean on anyone, least of all a stranger whose separated him from his brother.

“Actually, there’s more than just me in the house,” he pipes up, “Are you alright with dogs, Simon?” The boy doesn’t give him a single twitch of a response, simply looks from one adult to another. Buried deep beneath the layers of forced apathy Price can see exhaustion. “Riley’s an ex-service dog, worked with me on many a mission. He’s got a good temperament and likes a lot of fussing. He’s got a few scars though. You want to meet him?” his questions are met with silence once more, so John simply takes a few steps left to the archway leading into his living room, where Riley sits patiently in his dog bed near the window. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, ears perked and tail flicking in excitement. He doesn’t run, but he does lope forward a bit, curious and wanting to meet new faces, but Price makes him heel.

Simon almost rises on the balls of his feet, like a bird ready to take flight, eyes fixed on the German Shepherd in his eye line. Price takes a second to evaluate him, trying to see if it’s fear or curiosity, but the boy gives so little away. It’s the faintest twitch of his free hand toward Riley that gives Price incentive to motion the dog forward. It’s a gentle and tender display, as if Riley knows how sensitive the wounds Simon’s carrying are, like he can read the neon sign that screams HANDLE WITH CARE emblazoned on the boy’s broken soul. He sniffs gently at his pale hand, and Simon’s nose wrinkles ever so slightly at the cold, wet sensation on his bony knuckles. It doesn’t stop him from reaching to give Riley’s ears a scratch. The German Shepherd sits obediently, pushing his giant head into Simon’s hand for more. Kate gives the faintest smile.

“What’s his name again?” she asks.

“Riley.” Price replies, chuckling slightly as she goes to fuss him to. Her input causes Simon to fall back, eyes snapping to her and away from the dog, moving quickly from one fixation to the next, always hyper-aware and alert. How many times had the hand he’d not been watching for struck him? You can relax here, son, he wanted to say.

“A very good boy.” She coos. Price hums in agreement and steps up beside them.

“Living room has the TV and an old games console. I don’t have many games but if you like we can get some more in eventually. I don’t really use it often. Kitchen’s right through if you want a drink or something to eat?” His offer is met by that dead eyed stare again, but after a moment of consideration Simon gives him another quiet answer.

“Water.” His voice fluctuates with all the tell-tale signs of a boy on the cusp of puberty and Price is again hit by just how young he is for someone so alert and mistrusting. He doesn’t let the way his heart cracks a bit show on his face and simply leads them through to the kitchen, silently showing Simon exactly where the glasses are for him if he ever needs them while offering to make Kate a coffee to. Simon doesn’t contribute much to the conversation at all, just remains this silent and oppressive presence lingering in the corners of the room, anywhere that gives him a good vantage point really. He's a silent spectre, a sentinel, a ghost. Always somewhere just out of sight with everything in his watch and reach. Price lets him stand where he’s comfortable, concedes that little bit of control to him on a night he knows the boy’s had no control of anything.

“I’ve got a few different rooms upstairs, all of them are ready to move in to but I thought you might want to pick one that suits you.” He says, leading the two of them upstairs. Simon hasn’t once let go of his bin-liner and Price suspects getting him to wash anything in that bag is going to take considerable time and effort; this is all Simon has now of home, and however much a hell-hole home might have been he’s seen kids cling to the most disgustingly filthy objects purely because it’s the last vestiges of their old life and family they have left. He’s left all the doors open so Simon can explore each room upstairs at his own pace, and he waits patiently at the end of the hallway to give him time to adjust to the idea that this home is now his to.

Price can sense the overwhelm a mile away as Simon lingers in each doorway, like he’s afraid that to enter a room would be to taint it somehow, the pristine white linen looking to fine for his grubby hands. He can see the dirt under the boys nails, the slight lacquer of grease in his unkempt hair. Moving quickly indeed he thinks grimly as he watches the boy hesitantly test a mattress and peer out a window. That soulless stare focuses back on him when he’s found the room he wants, but the words won’t come. Simon never once asks if the room can be his, he’s never been allowed to want, but he acquires it through presence alone.

Price nods to the chest of drawers, “Bottom one’s got bedding in. We can talk some more tomorrow about how you want to decorate it. Take your time settling in and come down when you’re ready. Lights out at 10:00, alright?” Simon gives him a slow blink, and Price realises that’s all the reaction he’s going to get as he turns and walks to the stairs, Riley on his heels. Laswell waits near the front door, tapping away on her phone to organise the rest of Simon’s life no doubt. He clomps down the steps, absent-mindedly rubbing away the phantom aches in his leg once he hits the bottom.

“Kid doing okay?” Laswell’s question comes with a critical eye of him, and Price knows she’s really asking if he can cope with him more so than if Simon will be alright here. He gives a slight nod, glancing back up the stairs.

“Okay as he can be given the shit he’s gone through…he’ll, er…he’ll take some getting used to.” Price admitted.

“He’s not said more than five words to me since we met hours ago, and that stare…”Laswell shuddered a bit. Price hummed in agreement as he opened his front door to let her out.

“We need anything we’ll let you know, till then best to let him settle.”

“Alright then. You have my number.” Laswell lifts a hand in farewell as she walks down the front path and towards her car. Price watches her go, his mind already back on the teenage boy she’s leaving behind. Deposited in his house with nothing more than a bin-liner to his name, Simon Riley was going to require some serious care, and he felt clueless as to where to start. With a deep sigh, he closed the front door and set off towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and a game plan. He was going to make this house a home for the boy, one way or another.

#captain john price #call of duty #cod modern warfare #simon riley #simon 'ghost' riley #ocaptainchallenge #foster carer john price #teen!simon riley #john price x simon riley #tw dark themes #tw child abuse #tw child neglect #tw death #tw sibling seperation #kate laswell #might make this a mini-series #imagine the chaos of foster dad price with 3 traumatised teenagers

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h0bg0blin-meat · 11 months ago

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If you get this ask, tell us a story from the folklore or mythology of YOUR COUNTRY (e.g. if you are German, tell us a German myth). Then send this ask to ten people! Just want to see more people talking about lesser known myths ;)

Eeeee okay. So lemme tell you about the myth of Tejimola from my state (Assam).

Tejimola was a girl whose dad was a businessman, and her biological mom died when she was young, so her dad remarried, and hence, we now enter the 'horrible stepmom' trope.

So once her dad left for another business trip and her stepmom was basically making her work like a slave. But she didn't mind. Things however changed when she got invited to her friend's wedding, and begged her stepmom to let her go.

The stepmom finally gave in BUT... obviously with a hidden motive. See she handed her brand new clothes to wear at the wedding, and asked her to carry it very carefully as it was "preciously made for her" or something along those lines, I think, but placed a mouse inside them.

By the time she was ready to wear the dress she found that it had big ass holes in it and a mouse hopped off from it and ran away. She was terrified, and recalled her mom's words. Her friend(s) tried to console her saying that her mom would understand, but she knew there was a very little chance.

Still she went back home with the now-chewed down clothes and lo and behold, as planned, her mom SNAPPED. She was so mad she punished her in ways unimaginable.

So there's this threshing tool called dheki, that's used to separate rice grains from their outer husks, while leaving the bran layer.

You place your feet to the leftmost side and it raises the right side, and the pounding stand on the hole (very key part of the tool for the story) does the threshing work.

I'll give a trigger warning here, because this is about to get dark.

So as a punishment the stepmom asked Tejimola to help her thresh the rice grains. Okay, not bad, you think?

Well while she was in the right sitting with her hand below the stand to deal with the unfiltered rice grains, her stepmom pounds her hand hard, to the point that it bleeds and actually gets fractured. Tejimola shrieks, but her stepmom is like "KEEP WORKING. Use your other hand!" But does the same with the other hand. Now she don't have any functional hands.

"Don't worry. Use your feet!" But does the same to her feet, one after the other.

"Use your head!" And does the same to her head. Atp Tejimola is practically dead, but her stepmom wasn't expecting this. She calls her out but doesn't get an answer. She's terrified, and prepares for her burial. After she's buried, she cleans off any possible evidence that could give away about the murder.

Now this is where Tejimola takes various forms to haunt her stepmom. First she becomes a bottle-gourd plant. One day a beggar asks her stepmom if they can have a bottle-gourd from her tree, to which she gets a little stunned cuz she wasn't aware she had such a tree, but permits the beggar, who, when reaches out to pluck a gourd, Tejimola asks them not to in a musical manner, saying her name and that she was killed by her stepmom. The beggar gets horrified and informs the owner aka our villain immediately. She destroyes it in a heartbeat. But in that same place a citrus tree grows and she takes its form. She does the same to people who try to pluck a fruit from the tree. This is how her stepmom comes to know about the tree and uproots it and throws it into a river.

In the river now, she takes the form of a beautiful lotus. Now this gets interesting, because her dad's returning from his trip and spots the lotus, and hears it achingly sing to him claiming it's Tejimola, his daughter. Her dad gets startled and asks her to prove she really is his daughter by transforming into a mynah/sparrow.

She does so and her dad's heart wrenches. He reaches home and immediately confronts his wife. Then he asks the bird to show up as Tejimola if that's truly her, and she transforms back into her human form, while her stepmom gets kicked out :3

The end

Imma just tag some ppl here:

@dootznbootz @gotstabbedbyapen @0lympian-c0uncil @bloody-arty-myths @natures-marvel @inc0rrectmyths @chimera-tail @sleepdeprivationbutitsvaruna @olympushit @15pantheons @kulfi-waala and anyone who wants to join!

#assamese #assamese mythology #myths #myths and legends #folklore #mythology and folklore #assamese folklore #desiblr #desi tumblr #desi tag #desiposting #desi side of tumblr #desi stuff #mythology

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historia-vitae-magistras · 2 years ago

Note

Do you have any fic about the difference between how Matt is to Alfred vs Jack/Zee? That feels untapped.

Four cunts and a Kiwi walk into a trench.... Please note this is a work of historical fiction based roughly on the Kaiserschlacht of 1918, Germany's last offensive. It is not a textbook. The interactions here cannot possibly begin to represent the real motions of history. The depictions of war and empire are fictional. Everyone's a piece of shit in this, but they are fictional pieces of shit. The existing author's views do not align with that of the fictional characters or any other message you think you're gleaning from this. Everyone in the following piece is fictional and over the age of 18. Do not get your morality from fanfic. No one is happy, no one is having a good time. They are individual, fictional characters and they are miserable. If I haven't made them miserable enough its because my wrist is busted in two places and I'm not in the fucking mood. Flanders March 1918

Matt’s slicker is draped over the tent pegs, a crude shelter against the elements beating down on them. Between Matt shoved in tightly to his left and Zee wedged into his right, and the blankets still tucked in tight all around them, Jack is as warm as he’s been since he stepped foot on this bloody continent. He shifts, something uncomfortable against his back.

He mumbles something and tells Matt to roll over, but Zee says something about Matt fucking off if he was going to be an insomniac. But Zee is to his right, and Jack is on his back. She can’t possibly feel anything. He disregards it, rolls back asleep, and snuggles in tighter against her back.

There’s a rush of cold air, Matt yelling at him to get up! To get the fuck up! There’s the crack of steel on a skull. He knows the sound has driven his own shovel into enough Turkish and German heads by now to know it, as well as he knows the sound of his own voice. Matt’s grunting gets louder. Jack is on his feet, pulling Zee up with him. He may as well have not opened his eyes. It’s so fucking dark.

He snatches Zee close, and she screams at him, working something over in her hands.

“Get down,” He hisses at her.

He’s too late. She’s lit the flare. In the dark, formless under the clothes and blankets, she might have not been noticed, but in the sick light of the flare, green as gas, there’s no mistaking her form, a girl’s form even in the trousers of the men’s field uniform, permitted this near the front with the medical officers. They were supposed to be safe here, three trenches back. There’s a joyful German noise and then the swell of bodies. Not a trench raid, not a squad. This is a counter-offensive. Matt throws one into another’s bayonet, and Jack breaks another German’s neck without thinking. The world is lit in green light reflecting from the gore.

He kills three men in seconds, Matt even more. But they’re replaced. This is no trench raid. It is a punch right through the line, a blow puncturing right through the armour of the front line. Jack takes up one of the rifles, but it won’t fire. He swings it into another man’s face. Where the fuck is his gun? Where the fuck is Matt’s?

“Zee! Go!” Matt bellows. Jack spun and watched his sister’s face. There’s German blood there, splattered across her jaw and cheeks, her hand red, a knife that is not hers dripping.

“Go!” Jack says and bodily shoves her back at the ladder. “Find Dad!”

Her eyes flash with the knowledge that this is the only way to avoid the worst, but also full of loathing. She hates him, and maybe Matt, for making her go.

“Go with her,” Matt tells him. Gripping him by the sleeve and shoving him as hard as he can. “Go!”

“Matt!”

“Go!”

He’s got a German rifle to his shoulder and is already flipping back the lever and aiming. He looked up, and he was horrific in this light, face sharp, eyes narrow, lip curled back. But a flash of Matt, of peacetime. “I can slip away if they capture me. You can’t! Go!”

“He’s right!” Zee whispered. “Come on!”

“No!” Jack wrenched his arm free of Matt. They’re surrounded by his soldiers. Australians are to their left and their right flanks, awake now and fighting. Their souls come to his awareness like stars as the sun sets. Pinpricks of light he can’t leave. Too much is happening. “No! Stop!”

“Jack, Go!” Matt’s firing, and something is screaming in the distance. Five bullets, then four. “I’m right behind you.” Four bullets left, more screaming. The trenches around them are coming alive. He won’t leave them. He can’t.

But Zee’s got him by the arm and is dragging him with her.

“You know what happens if we stay!” Zee whispered. Three bullets become two. Hoarse shouts. She gripped him by the face, her own grey with terror, but her brown eyes set with certainty. She has all of Dad’s decisiveness. “What happens if I stay,”

And just like that, she’s straightened his thoughts. He won’t let Germans have her, and she won’t leave him here. So they go. They have to go.

“Okay,” He exhales his panic and shakes his entire body. “Okay.”

Matt has fired twice more. He’s out of bullets, and more are coming, more are coming now. His sister tugged him back. He snatched up his sidearm, forgotten on the floor in the mêlée.

“Be quick and be safe!” Matt tells them. It’s a benediction as hoarse as his prayers are when he thinks there is no one around to hear him. They’re just as futile, too. The time their slaughter brought them is at a standstill, and Matthew’s bullets are gone.

“Find Alfred!” Matt screams over his shoulder as if he’s on another German. The last thing Jack sees of him is the full horrific brutality of his Matt in hand to hand. The filth of his fight. Matt was a brutal bastard. He thrust his fingers into an enemy’s face, finding eyeballs for leverage and twisting heads, viscous as a wolf just before spring. Matthew gives Germans a fight the way he gave their father before Jack was born, and that’s before his fingers close around the pine of his favourite axe. Jack turns, hearing Zee say his name. Their artillery is waking now. He can hear the guns open up. They have to go.

Zee was just ahead of him, running headlong into the dark. It’s wrong. Leaving his men. But she’s ahead of him. It’s the way the world works. Zee sailed into a new day ahead of him on their spinning planet. He follows. A German must have crawled past Matt. Jack shoots.

Zee jumped, startled, and for a fucking moment, he thought his wee Kiwi-bird of a sister, flightless and round, was going to sprout wings and fly straight home to New Zealand. But she’s repeating his name, and he’s staring into the dark, eyes swimming with the gun flash, wondering if hell is a different sort of red from home, with all its bright baked clay. Zee took his hand, her bloodied fingers around his, and looked at him. He grabbed her and hauled her along, forcing her to keep up with him despite their height, as he has their entire lives, from the moment she toddled into existence and he was taller.

He can trace her in the dark as she zigzags through the bullets and is lit by the odd shell in the sky as they escape into the night. He never lets go of her, making her steps longer when her weight hasn’t completely shifted. She is not alone. He is not alone.

They slip into the night, into chaos, into darkness, and further back into the line. Jack trips when a floodlight opens on them, temporarily blind as Zee hauls him to his feet. Everywhere, everything is chaos. Horns honking on trucks they only see when their lanterns appear from nowhere upon soldiers firing up the ignitions, officers and enlisted men shouting. American rifles being broken out from their boxes, sleeping soldiers on rest, still dreaming as they take distributed weapons. The trenches give way to tents, and tents give way to the depots. Still, Zee pulls him along.

“Where—” Jack asked, panting. “Where the fuck are we going, Zee?”

“Alfred!” She huffed, breathless, like that was obvious. But he had wanted father first and figured she would, too.

“Why?”

“Father will prioritize defending the front line.”

“So?”

“So— Alfred understands defense in depth. Give up the first line easily, then they pay for driving in deep, using the salients for killing zones. The more warning he has, the more of his and ours that man those salients, the more of theirs will die.”

He swallowed. He hated it when she sounded like Dad.

“Like Ypres before Matt took the high ground. Guns on three sides,”

“Exactly,” Zee replied. She had picked up a lantern at some point, and as she raised it, her eyes, always more brown than green, glinted for a moment with father’s thrilled, satisfied cunning. “We make them pay.”

They stumble through the night, guided by the sensations of a nation so like and unlike them. They are flavours of the night jars that encircle the Pacific. They fly; they’re so much larger than their father. Matt, cold and clinging to the top of the world, his back against Alfred, with even more people. Then, Jack was warm and all alone in the Pacific in his early years. But the Tasman Sea is Zee’s hand on his elbow. He loves her so much, and he hates his father, and he hates Matt for making them go and both of them for being right and for being practical. He collapsed into the early morning grass off the road, nearly taking Zee down with him. Soldiers yelled, and more traffic roared in his ears.

“Jack?” Zee tugged him to a stop. “Jack, mate. Hey.”

He couldn’t quite seem to get his breath, and he barely avoided puking all over her as he sprawled to the side and vomited what felt like everything he’d ever eaten since stepping foot in France.

Zee made a sympathetic sort of sound, and he felt her arms around her. It’s his soldiers behind them now. He can feel hers a little, too, on the flanks and Father’s, but his own are fighting, and he is running, and he has killed again. Again. And not for the last time. What’s his count? Can he add those to his count? Matt does. Zee counts hers against the lives she saved, and now she cradles his head, gently taking him by the jaw to make him look at her. Her eyes are hers now, and it’s not her father’s words in her mouth, not his will or his brutal practicality.

“Jack,” she said, and he squeezed her, clamping his arms around her smaller body like he had when he was little, and she was all he had of home in frigid England. “Jack, Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” He said but didn’t let go. She squirmed, not escaping but looking up at him. “I’m sorry,”

“Look at me,” she said, and he finally lifted his eyes to her. “Thirty-six thousand.”

“What?”

“That’s how many you evacuated from ANZAC cove. You. Not father, not me. You and your generals planned and executed that. Your balance is still positive, do you understand me?”

“Kiwi-bird,” He said because he was trying to argue, because she could read his mind sometimes, and he didn’t want her to, not now. He wanted to get up and move again and pretend he’d thrown up his sins with his stomach’s contents. “Don’t.”

“Thirty-six thousand.” She said again.

“Those weren’t directly... that kind of number is different from the ones you put back together on the table, Zee. It’s not the same. It’s not the same and it’s blood and it’s so much blood.”

“Look at me!” She said, this time harsh and sharp. “We do these things together, right? That’s what we said. My balance is your balance. You watch my back, I cover your arse.”

“Where the fuck was that cover when I got shot in the bum at Lone Pine, eh?” Jack shot back out of spite. But then she snorted so hard he thought she might puke, too.

“It’s not my fault it’s so bloody big!” She said. “You got the birthing hips, mate.”

“You are such an arsehole.” He countered, giving his side a rub where it most certainly did not round out into berthing hips. Then he was serious. “You mean it?”

“Heart and soul, dick.” She offered him a hand up, and he let her swing him to his feet. “Your balance is my balance.”

“Except at the commissary.” Jack huffed, unsure why that was the thought that popped into his head. “They won’t let me buy oranges anymore.”

“Correct. I trust you with my life and my immortal soul, but not the money.”

They push through the busy roads of new refugees and even more soldiers towards the pull of their father and the pull of whatever Alfred is, still half a stranger. It takes Zee pulling a “Do you know who my father is?” to some Oxbridge-educated fuck she might have rubbed elbows with in her school years to get them through the guard and into the command tent, and a damn good thing she did or Jack was ready to take out British soldiers like he had German. Arthur and Alfred are together, already half aware, and Father looks relieved, openly so. Not a good sign. Alfred looks bewildered. Less empire than boy startled out of bed. Because he still tends to sleep in one of those, even now. Because he is precious and held in reserve. Zee explains what happened and what needs to happen next. Jack fills in details as they go. His soldiers are the brunt just at that moment, and his heart is banging away in his chest when Alfred rolls around on him, full of piss. Looming because he does have two inches and an empire on Jack.

“You LEFT him?” He demanded, one fist gripping Jack’s collar. “You left Matt? What the fuck is wrong with you!”

“He can get away!” Zee said, trying to wedge herself in between, struggling as much with their father’s grasp as Jack was with Alfred’s. “Matt’s been doing this for years. He’ll be fine! We had bigger things to worry about!”

“Get the fuck off me!” Jack could do nothing about Alfred’s hold. His struggle was useless.

“Like what!” Alfred practically shouted. “What’s more important than making sure Matt gets home in one piece?”

“Like the entire western front, you dumb cunt!” Zee shoves her face up at Alfred’s, willing to argue even if she is a foot shorter.

“Enough!” Arthur slammed his hands down on the map-laden table and tugged Zee away, shoving one arm between Alfred’s chest and Jack’s, curling so he was in front of her. But he couldn’t break the grip Alfred had on Jack’s collar. “Get your hands off your brother, boy!”

“Fuck you!” That was all Alfred had to say to Arthur. Zee was tugging her arm back from their father and freeing herself.

“You left him there!” Alfred rounded on Jack again, closing the distance he already commanded with the grip on his collar.

“You always do this!” Alfred tossed back at Arthur. “You always leave him to do your dirty work. No one watching Matt’s back because why would anyone watch his back! Why would anyone give a shit except about how much killing you need done! Why should anyone watch his back?”

“I was!” Jack was on his toes, the angle of Alfred’s fist the only thing keeping him from using his jacket as a hangman’s rope. He didn’t care. “I was here, watching his back while you were home turning a fucking profit! We were here when it was all for nothing! You only showed up for what? For what? To take credit? Aunt Bridgie always said you were brave, that you were brilliant. She forgot to mention what a bastard you are!

“You shut your mouth. I’m not the one who just abandonded Mattie.”

“Ah, my dear boy, but you did that first.”

One sentence. One sentence, and that’s all it took. Father looked unbothered. Alfred’s hand dropped like he’d been slapped. Jack fell back, and Zee was there, throwing off Dad’s grip and under his arm in a moment. The room was silent. Jack breathed hard. He would have probably swayed if Zee wasn’t so close, half shielding her body from Alfred, half shielding his sanity from the shouting.

“Want another first?” Alfred wasn’t facing them now. This was an argument older than both of them, conducted in shouts muffled from the other end of the house. “I took his head off his shoulders at Yorktown. I shot our dear lord father’s jaw from his fucking skull and his skull from his shoulders and the lobsterbacks surrendered. And then they left. And when the gutters overflowed, you were born.”

Zee’s hand tightened on his, squeezing, squeezing like when the hospital ship she’d been on went down, torpedoed by that kraut bastard, and he’d dragged her corpse off a beach, and the only sign of life she could give him was the vice of her hand on his. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true.

Arthur exhaled a laugh. “Goodness, I read you lot too much Shakespeare. Such a flare for drama, children.”

Alfred’s face twisted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Who’s us?” Zee countered. Jack wanted to throw up again. “What’s wrong with you? You two are the kraut fuckers, not us!” Father looked almost as shocked as Alfred. “Matt wouldn’t even be out there if someone hadn’t made mess! And it wasn’t us!”

The conversation had meandered, shot right from under them, from under Matt. Fuck.

“All right!” Dad intervened like he’d had the same thought. Hard and sharp like the furious fifties that marked the sea voyage home when Jack was small, he cut through the tension. “As flattered as your brother would be to see you defending what little of his honour he hasn’t left in a brothel, I rather think we should get to the task of finding him first, no? And perhaps, if you lot can manage more than one task at a time with the single wit I seem to have left you to inherit, we could perhaps even turn back what looks to be an entire German offensive that’s just caught us with our cocks out.” He paused and glanced at Zee. “Barring you, dear girl.”

Jack snorted so hard they almost toppled over. Alfred sighed like a martyr. A sigh to make him sound like Matt, if there ever was one, and leaned over the table. “Where’d you put your favourite knife this time, you old bastard?”

“Excuse you,” A note of laughter in a gravelly voice, still half-ruined by gas. “I am Father’s best knife. Only the finest for when the Krauts come for dinner, eh Dad?”

It was a pile-on, everyone rushing to get an arm around him. If Zee was his rock, the rest of them needed fucking mortar to stick together. Jack nearly elbowed Dad in the face as Arthur tried to look at a particularly large blood stain oozing from Matt’s shoulder but had to settle for turning his cheek and looking him in the eye a moment before he and Zee nearly got bowled over entirely by Alfred rocketing through. He practically picked Matt up.

“Let me down, for Christ’s sake.” Matt laughed. “I’ve got Gilbert brains on my shirt, bud, fuck.” But Alfred would do nothing but grip him and shake his head. He might have muttered idiot. Jack didn’t hear. Matt was looking over the Yank’s overly broad shoulders, nodding at them both with a wan sort of smile that said as much of pride as it did blood loss. Zee’s hand was on his shoulder, and he glanced at her.

“You want me to slip some arsenic his coffee?” Zee whispered, not doing half as good a job suppressing her grin as she thought she was. “They burn it so bad. It could be proper strong. Nice and quick like the cholera.” Her sense of humour was morbid like that, even if he wasn’t entirely sure it was humour.

“Naw,” Jack drawled. “Reckon I’d’ve taken it some kind of personal too if someone had left you out for the Krauts.”

He got an affectionate punch in the kidneys and a squeeze for his trouble.

“There’s nothing about you that came from a gutter.” She said, drawn tight to his shoulder. “Not a bloody thing.”

#the ask box || probis pateo #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #jack || a land of summer skies #zee || ahakoa he iti he pounamu #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #arthur || stone set in the silver sea

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midwestbramble · 3 months ago

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A Witch's Groundhog's Day

"No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to come."

Groundhog's day is a holiday that tends to be only mentioned in passing. A day when we look to a groundhog to tell us what the weather will do over the next six weeks.

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Content:

History

Cultural Events

My Personal Practice

Conclusion

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History

Groundhog Day was brought to America by the Pennsylvania Germans (from Germany) in the 1700s. As practiced in Germanic speaking countries of the day, Candlemas was used to predict the weather (as it was in many other European countries such as Scotland). In Germany, however, they looked to their local badger population to tell them how many more weeks until spring. It was called Dachstag as a folk expression (dachs meaning badger). The difference that probably made the change from badgers in Europe to groundhogs in America is that American badgers don't hibernate. Groundhogs do however. They are also shy, small, and forest-dwelling, very similar to the European badger.

While groundhog day is recognized all over the United States, it holds special sway in areas with high amounts of German immigrants and their descendants (hello), but none more-so than Pennsylvania. Beginning in the 1930s, there are groundhog lodges in the state dedicated to preserving the Pennsylvania German culture and language. These lodges held versammlinge (meetings) on groundhog day where you had to pay a fine for speaking English, as only Pennsylvania German is permitted.

There is debate within the historic and folkloric community about whether Groundhog Day has connection to the festival of Imbolc. Most of the naysayers contest that there is no written record of Imbolc before the tenth century AD, while Candlemas is described in Latin texts from the fourth century AD. I personally feel that either of these is hard to completely confirm or deny as our northern European pagan ancestors didn't exactly write things down.

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Cultural Events

Today there are groundhog day festivals all over the United States, thanks in part to people moving around the country as well as 20th century newspapers making Punxsutawney Phil famous. Each area does their festival with a slight variation but they all pull out a groundhog with a rhyming name to the town/county and watch to see if the poor whistle-pig sees its shadow (then there's six more weeks of winter). Some people will get up early just to see the livestream of the original event in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Though my favorite will always be reading about Sun Prairie, Wisconsin's groundhog biting the ear of their mayor.

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My Personal Practice

My practice on this day can look a bit different depending on if I have to go to work or not. This year, groundhog day is on a Sunday so I get to do my preferred celebration. There is a groundhog den not far from one of the trails I walk. Before sunrise, I will go out (sometimes with a hot cup of cocoa or tea because coffee is gross fight me) and wait to see the groundhog. Then I observe. I try to stay a ways away so as not to disturb it or change what it would do normally. Once I have finished, whether I've seen the groundhog or not, I'll leave an offering.

At home, I'll warm up with some oatmeal and get put on 1979 movie "Jack Frost" which has always shaped my view of the holiday (the groundhog is the narrator). If I've been prepared enough, I might have groundhog masks for me and the family and we can do crafts and play games.

Depending on what the groundhog predicts I'll do different things. If he sees his shadow and predicts there is six more weeks of winter, I'll leave an offering at home for Jack Frost (such as paper snowflakes or paintings to put on the windows to show he's not forgotten) and make candles to set in the windows (also because February has the most snow and power can go out if a storm is strong enough). If there is a prediction of an early spring, there are more offerings to Jack Frost as thanks (for his job is important) and go out to enjoy the last few days of winter.

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Conclusion

Groundhog day may seem silly to some people, but we all need some good fun this time of year. Are you celebrating anything? If so what are your plans? Please I'm craving conversation!

References:

Groundhog Day: Ancient Origins of a Modern Celebration

No, Groundhog Day is Not of Ancient Pagan Origin

#witchblr #witchcraft #traditional witchcraft #seasonal witchcraft #winter witchcraft #groundhog day #doing this research for history I also found out Canada has a groundhog day celebration

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datastuffs · 2 years ago

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The Top 10 Countries with the Best Immigration Policies and Benefits

Check out the Top 10 countries which are open for immigration with a bunch lot of opportunities. Don't miss out.

Immigration is a hot topic around the world, and for good reason. Many people are looking for a better life, and that often means leaving their home country and starting a new in a foreign land. However, not all countries are created equal when it comes to immigration policies and benefits. Some countries have strict requirements and limited benefits, while others are much more welcoming and…

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#China Skilled Workers Visa to work in New Zealand #Citizenship and Living in UK #Explore visa options for working in Australia #Highly Skilled Foreign Professional program for Japan #Highly Skilled Professional Visa for Japan #How to Apply as a Skilled Worker in Norway #How to Apply for a Residence Permit for Studies in Higher Education #How to Apply for a Work Permit to work in Sweden #How to Apply for Swedish Citizenship #How to Apply for Visitor&039;s Residence Permit for Sweden #How to Become a Singapore Citizen #How to Become a Student&039;s Pass Holder #How to become an Australian Citizen #How to create Immi Account #How to get a German Residence Permit #How to get a German Work Permit #How to get Green Card #How to get Skilled Worker Visa in UK #how to move work and live in germany #Immigration and Citizenship in Australia #Immigration and Citizenship in New Zealand #Immigration and Citizenship in Singapore #Points Calculator Tool for Australian Immigration #Study in UK on a Student Visa #Top 10 Countries with the Best Immigration Policies and Benefits #US Citizenship and Immigration Services #Work and Live in Germany

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ganondoodle · 1 year ago

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For some reason, my reblog of your Villain Rauru rewrite isn't showing up in the notes, but in case you haven't seen it, I wanted to share one possible additional idea for it: What if the reason that the kingdom 'suddenly' banned the Sheikah tech, but still has Zonai/Sonau tech, is because Rauru paints it as a regulation issue?

"Anyone can use Sheikah tech, and when you run around giving people bombs without having them go through a [gruelling, ass-kissing] vetting process, you can't possibly be certain that they'll use it responsibly! That's why royally-ordained technology is the most trustworthy. So if you don't want to face royal punishment, you should ditch these backyard projects and apply for a permit for real technology" kind of attitude.

It allows Sonau and Sheikah tech to coexist, explains why/how both can be present, gives another reason for Yiga to resent the crown, and provides an interesting halfway shift between making Sonau devices and then shifting to working with Sheikah tech. Plus, it lays the groundwork for Rauru being a control freak in a subtle-enough way that it's still a surprise later, but makes total sense in hindsight.

curiously enough, i did find your addition on the notes, but it definitely wasnt in my activity O.o

the poem you added was marvelous btw!!!!

this is a fun idea but doesnt work for my rewrite mainly for two reasons- raurus time (as of now) was still way before shiekah tech existed so he wouldnt have had any influence on that (if you meant the past)

if you mean the present day i intend to keep the shiekah tech there, just mostly non function due to the cut in power supply (which was ganondorfs stone and rauru to some degree) and sonau tech not in the game at all until the second half in which rauru summons constructs (but more akin to the guardians in skyward swords silent realms -sairen in german-) to guard to him important structures and to stop you from posing a danger- they mostly replace regular monsters with those now not hostile anymore (but might still attack you if you attack first- bc of materials and all- but i might add some sort of arena in which you can fight hordes of any regular enemy so you dont have to grind as much for materials) and they fight constructs

and i still chose to get rid of the building mechanic as a whole and with it most of the sonau tech in general, i just dont like it no matter how technical impressive it is and think it fits better in spin offs or a game truly built around it- if i kept it too much of the challenges and usage for abilities like the hookshot would all fall away too imo, i built alot around not having it and i think im gonna keep it that way :V

#ganondoodles answers #zelda #totk #ganondoodles rewrites totk #gonna tag it as this bc it kinda falls into it too #even if its not a post entirely around it #anyway #i hope its ok for you!! you idea is neat but i dont think i can make use of it :(

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bekkathyst · 11 months ago

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Tomorrow morning Antonio has his A2 German test, and if he passes, we’re on our way to having everything we need for his 3 year residency permit, which would be a huge weight off our shoulders for the next 3 years! I’m sooo proud of him for how hard he’s been working and how much he’s been learning. If any of you want to send him good luck or good vibes it would be so appreciated.

I’m trying not to be anxious but I can’t stop thinking about how anxious I would be if I were in his place 😅 I took a walk to get my anxious energy out because the last thing I want to do is make him nervous lol.

But anyway any words of encouragement or well wishes would be awesome! I’ll show him the messages/replies 🥰💜

#original

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junglejim4322 · 1 year ago

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(Udo Kier, 2010, on My Own Private Idaho) “I was in Berlin, and I saw a film by the name of Mala Noche. And I thought "Wow. Wow, wow, wow. How independent can you get?" Then I went to a party and I met Gus Van Sant. He came to me and he said, "You know, you are one of my favorite actors. I'm making a movie with River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves, and I would like that you play, if you like, Hans." Of course, if you're German, your name in films is always Hans. Simple. If you make a film in Japan, your name is Hans-man. I thought, "Ah, I like him." Very intelligent man... So I said, "Okay. Here's my address." A couple of weeks later, I got- this was not the time of e-mail, and not even faxes. So he sent me the script, I read the script, and I was scared, I was so scared, thinking, "I have to go to bed with Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix?" My friends back in Germany said, "Fuck you! They are teenage idols in America! Every American actor would love to be able to do that!" Then I wrote Gus back. I love Gus, because he's the one who got me my work permit, and he's the reason that I'm living in America... So it was very funny, and I said, "Okay, I'm coming." I wrote him saying, "I just found a suitcase at a flea market, and Hans should have a suitcase." I brought all my clothes, and I said to him, "Hans should be always dressed very high, should cover his body," because I knew I had to be naked to have sex with Keanu Reeves. Amazing to have sex with Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix! So I came to Idaho, and I was sitting in a restaurant with Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix, and Gus introduced me, and River was amazing. He said, "Hans, sit next to me!" And Keanu didn't understand anything. Anyway, to make the story short, I made the film and I had a great time.”

#‘and Keanu didn’t understand anything’ always kills me 😭#my own private idaho #udo kier #river pheonix #Keanu reeves #gus van sant #film

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kaiserkeller · 1 year ago

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Klaus Voormann writes biographies for himself and his fellow Manfred Mann bandmates for BRAVO, 22 April 1968.

"I, Klaus Voormann (26, bass guitar), am Manfred Mann's outsider. Firstly, I'm German in an English beat group. And secondly, I really am an outsider. Because I'm not a "duty man", I'm a "temporary man". This is again for two reasons.

Firstly: I don't want to stay with Manfred Mann forever. My interests continue. Despite all my modesty, I am a sought-after graphic artist. The other "men" know this - and are often angry about it. (Also about the fact that Klaus usually steals the prettiest girls from them).

Secondly: I am a "temporary husband". Yes, I am married. To a little English actress. This is how it happened: I really wanted to go to London, but it's hard to get a work permit for a foreigner in England. Unless you marry a British woman. I did it - and she did it for my sake. She's nice, a nice friend. We also live together. We eat together and talk. Unfortunately, that's all.

Love was lost, gone with the wind."

#bought this mag last night and this was just an eye opener #i always suspected it about their relationship #particularly because they never had kids together #and i read peter brown’s account about having to organise their quick wedding #but i never knew that he admitted it in public #klaus voormann #manfred mann #1960s #60s #classic rock #rnb #british invasion #article

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miraruinada · 4 months ago

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"Life is not meant to be for you to be weighed down by what surrounds you. It's not to follow the master, it's to master yourself. The world is yours, if you can grasp it. But don't forget that others exist. You have to understand they are their own masters, too."

Side A: A Chat With Iovan. Rapport-Building Chapter. Love Your Selfishness As Your Self.

"I was born in a small village called Sol en la Mar. It was named after the outcropping of rocks that had the sun framed when it set, like watching the sun fall into the sea. My mother was Almani and my father was Fusoan. That would be German and Japanese in your world. Growing up, I watched our little fishing village turn into a seaside resort. I saw how those with the power for leisure lived in comparison to the fishers of the village, and that profoundly impacted me going forward."

"Woo-hoo! I fucking love alcohol!"

"Then, looking for opportunity to fish, my father was the fisher, we moved to the islands of Aviki. I enjoyed my free time wandering the jungles there, just breathtaking tropical beauty. My father died there, and my mother remarried with a Topaxec woman. I was already a teenager by then, so I didn't really connect with her, but she moved us to the capital for her managerial work at some textile trading company. In the capital is where I finished my study on general sciences, what was back then called natural philosophy. I got a teacher's permit, but I couldn't find work as one, so I had plenty time to just spend around the city. I heard about this great wise sage, Granja, that had returned to the capital to teach at UCAT, and there I snuck into his lectures."

"Oh? You're not thinking dirty thoughts? But just from shying away, you prove you are."

"Granja considered me his star pupil, in some sense. Funny to think, since I never once paid for a lecture. Still, after classes, me and a few of his other students, the Young Farmers, would go out drinking at the local bars and get into arguments about Granja's ideas. Sometimes fights. It really hardened our ideas, but it also made us more stubborn about what we thought. Cracks started to show, differences compounded, we split apart. While Xiu and the others went to do their war, I travelled around the world for a while, married a man, got divorced, married Marie Antoinette's granddaughter, then moved into this small town called Ortiz, where I'd settle down for the rest of my life."

"I am the Great Nothing! Everything in the world belongs to me!"

"People are fucking idiots, I'll be honest. Granja was right on that. The pessimism that Granja felt stemmed from knowing that we don't really think about things. I mean, really, really think about them. I don't mean, what to do with your life, what you want to do, what you believe. I mean thinking about Things. Concepts. Ideals. Why do you want to do what you want to do, what you believe. When have you sat down and really thought about thinking itself? Granja gave that framework for me. I'm not like Xiu, I didn't go on about systems and such. I only used that framework to think about what's going on in here. The head."

"All I care about is what I feel, what I want. Don't even pretend you don't, either."

"What I discovered is that we aren't really living our lives. Not just the fishers or the peasants, but the rulers and kings, too. No, we're all haunted by ghosts. The gods, natural law, civil law, holy love, holy justice, holy whatever. They're all nothing but sanctified concepts, what I call phantasms. Do you do what you do because it's what you want, or because it's what you've been told you want? That king of logic governs not just what you see around you, but everything you don't see. When you think you've escaped reality by going into your dreams, that's just when you're even more buried in the shit stew called 'reality'. Think about it. There is nothing in this world, the physical reality, that you don't have a name for at least. That's there, but things like love? What's that, really? We name them, but they're a gap in our minds. We fill in that emptiness with meaning, so why don't we look for its meaning ourselves instead of latching on to these phantasms that chain us? The process of finding meaning is, of course, Granja's great creation. The framework he gave us."

"I'm only in it for myself, after all. I help others because it makes me feel good, it gives my life meaning."

"I'm a very passionate person. But someone's temperament doesn't mean much in the scheme of things. All I care about is pleasure. What I ended up calling 'enjoyment', that thing that gives your life meaning. I called the system of phantasms and symbols the 'big Other', after Granja's evolving idea of Subject and Other. When I declared that I am nothing, that all my ideas are created by me and therefore my property, which I can't let take control of my life, I made space for the existentialists to come onto the scene. When I studied how the mind works and why we let these ideas take hold, psychoanalysis and structuralism came into being. I would say I was pretty influential, even though my name's not as famous the others. Even Xiu took inspiration from me, after all. That brings up a point. 'I am master' doesn't mean 'you are not master'. That's not selfishness, that's solipsism. And that makes you an idiot. That, again, was Granja's biggest lesson. We're all looking to free ourselves, know ourselves, master ourselves, and that means we can't bar one another from ourselves."

"I'm bored, where's Xiu?"

"We access the world through fantasies. Reality is nothing but the phantasm you put up like a screen to escape the trauma of seeing the unfiltered real. I think the biggest misconception about my philosophy is thinking I'm insane. I mean, in some respect, I am, but I'm not saying you call yourself the Emperor and then you are, I'm just saying you should have a healthy skepticism, a bit of hysteria, about what's around you and inside you. Don't just think you're being a rebel because you're on that grindset, because you're not escaping what's keeping you in your nine to five, you're just digging yourself deeper inside it, as an example. That's what I mean when I say that in your dreams you don't escape."

"Yeah, I had a crush on Hugo. He's pretty and frail. He made me want to protect him."

"Let's take love as an example. I don't love someone because I should, I love them because I want to. I find enjoyment out of loving them, not because they're this great thing in my head, but because they're themselves, in my reality. Again, though, note that I said my reality. It's another phantasm. I just take that thought and make it mine, don't tie it down to some external meaning, it doesn't become a phantasm. We help each other because we understand we need each other, in some intrinsic level, this just gets bogged down by ideas of altruism or humanity or greater good or law or whatever. That's really my whole message, if you're looking for some life advice from me. Be selfish, but understand really why you're being selfish and what you're being selfish about. Fucking think, idiot. That's it, really."

#;parabola synthesis.

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