#Speaking as a religious Rage player myself

[kumaradosha]

I’ve noticed a lot of people seem to get the Rage aspect cringily wrong.

Like, probably more wrong than people tend to get other aspects. There’s a decent reason for that, though. People seem to forget that the only references for Rage that we have seen in characters are those whose classes represent the subversion of their aspect, tending to display either the negative or the opposite of what would be expected in that aspect generally. We’ve only seen a Bard of Rage and a Prince of Rage.

According to “word of god” in its description, Rage is not just chaos for its own sake. It’s not wanton destruction or fear/anger over nothing. It’s not even believing that nothing matters (on the contrary, Rage tends to be overreactive--everything matters...often negatively). It’s about truth. Specifically, despising and eliminating what isn’t. A rage player would rather live in uncertainty--if the only other option were living in delusion. Rage’s disruption and destruction has a purpose. Its fear and anger have a purpose. Its rejection of ideas has a purpose. It opposes the notion that simple faith in something false makes it real or true and finds that taking solace in comfortable delusion is harmful and dangerous. There is ultimate truth, but we as limited and fallible beings are incapable of finding or comprehending it fully. Therefore, the best possible goal is to eliminate what isn’t real or true in order to stay on the path to truth as closely as possible.

Of course, eliminating what is wrong isn’t nearly the entire route to a fulfilling reality. It’s simply Rage’s specialty. We need all the other specialties, a diversity of skills, to create a whole and useful society/existence. And we do still need Hope. We need creativity and ideas, specifically ones that are right and true; don’t worry, we’ll shoot down the ones you have that aren’t. We need to be able to trust some things and bridge the gaps in our understanding with faith in the interim between fallibility and perfect discernment. Even scientists have to guess at things before they are proven right or wrong (or at least the evidence suggests such--absolute proof isn’t technically a purview of science).

Speaking of which, lots of people seem to wrongly think Rage represents religion. It doesn’t. Hope represents faith, has themes of magic and religion. Rage’s themes include doubt and skepticism. The mistake is made, because it is Gamzee that is religious. But Gamzee is a Bard. He represents the negative, harmful permutation of religion (generally seen as profane and toxic to other religious people). The same way Eridan is an antitheist of sorts (technically a magic-denier) and represents the negative, harmful permutation of atheism/skepticism (rejecting the concept of things that clearly do actually exist just because they don’t fit his already-established belief system). They are extremes in the direction opposite to their aspect, because they cause destruction in/of that aspect. Hope has a similar, but somewhat lesser, problem of being misunderstood, because its only character representations are a Prince, a Bard, and a Page (somebody who starts out especially unskilled or clumsy at their aspect).

So just as Rage players recognize Hope players run the risk of supporting and perpetuating useless/harmful falsehoods. Rage players would grow to admit they themselves run the risk of proverbially throwing out the baby with the bathwater. We are so focused on eliminating anything that even might be fishy or that doesn’t make sense to us at the time, that we might unintentionally shoot down good ideas and reject actual truth. Hypothetically, what if a certain religion actually were true--or if magic/supernatural things actually did exist? Should we not accept and pursue that truth? At the very least not reject it? Something to think about.

The key to being a whole and healthy person is recognizing and strengthening your weaknesses as you grow more powerful at what you’re good at. Respect that our opposite aspects are important, even if they rub us the wrong way. Every skill is helpful as long as it is used responsibly and doesn’t extend its reach beyond its purpose. The key is to find where those boundaries lie and knowing exactly when Hope is okay or when Rage is too much. And that is very difficult.

Edit: I have not progressed in Hiveswap very far (even though I intend to eventually), so please forgive me if I’ve said anything that’s proven untrue because of my limited knowledge. Sorry about that.

[sirenofthetimes]

tw: religous trauma,self harm mention,suicide mention (i’m fine, this is stuff from my past) 

the more i read into religious trauma the more i start thinking about how poorly my parents handled my mental health issues and how much of that was due to religion and faith

like when i was in middle school i started self harming because i was full of rage all the time but i didn’t want to get in trouble for hurting anyone around me. so i hurt myself. and that escalated into me wanting to kill myself because i felt that i was ignored at school and treated poorly at home and if i died people would finally be nice to me.

i hid it really well for a while but eventually i just got so tired of feeling that way and i decided to tell my parents what i’d been going through. and their first course of action was to pray over me and then my mom said that maybe i was feeling so bad because i listened to so much secular music and needed to start listen to christian music that would “feed my spirit” so she took me downstairs to the family computer so i could delete all the secular music off my mp3 player (#just2007things) and replace it with christian stuff, which began my angsty christian rock phase but i digress. and then i was in christian counseling for a hot minute but i remember nothing from that.

i remember one night when i was 14 i couldn’t sleep and was super jumpy and paranoid and felt like something was chasing me, which had been happening occasionally since i was a kid but this particular night was too severe to hide. and of course to my parents it was a spiritual attack and they sent me back to my room to read psalm 91 out loud and play worship music until i finally fell asleep.

or the time my friend died suddenly of an aneurism when i was 15 and my mom caught me taking way too much melatonin after a fight about my sleep schedule and thought i was trying to kill myself so after guilt tripping me (don’t you remember mary’s funeral??) and having a knock down drag out fight with my dad over whose fault i was, i got sent to, you guessed it, more christian counseling, which i do remember. it was a few weeks of “nooo, don’t kill yourself, you’re a child of god haha” and i didn’t even get to talk about my friend when that was the one thing i wanted to talk about

and like,all those times? i needed help. psychiatric help. secular help. but my parents were so convinced that what i was experiencing was supernatural, that my body was a battleground for spiritual warfare, that i couldn’t get the help i needed. and i love my parents and they’re able to acknowledge all the other ways the evangelical church messed me up:the purity culture, the media supression, the rapture obsession, the racism. but they just can’t get past this issue, the biggest one! in college i had to fight with my mom to use her insurance to get one month of secular therapy (and my therapist turned out to be not great so :/) and to get on anxiety meds (which were good for me at that time in my life). the last fight we had before i left the country was when i was intensely down on myself about something and hearing all these negative voices in my head and she was upset with me for not calling on the power of god soon enough. when i tell either of them about my mental health stuff today the both of them, divorced yet somehow speaking in the same voice, offer prayer and platitudes. my mom offered virtual counseling from someone she knows, and i said yes at the time because i was desperate, and it hasn’t panned yet but i’m terrified it’s going to faith based and i just can’t take it. i’ve been made to feel ashamed my whole life for wanting the people in my life to be there for me instead of relying solely on god and i can’t take it any more.

[like-twilight]

The Last of Us 2 thoughts eyyy longgg and spoilers

This is my opinion before hearing anybody else’s opinion about it.

I only want to discuss the story as it is the only thing I can really speak of since I didn’t play it for myself. All I can say is I wish I could’ve and I’ll always regret not being able to because I really wish that could’ve been my experience as it was with the first game that I could play myself. It’s also probably noteworthy that the first game was the first video game I’ve played in my life so I’m probably biased.

So I’ll go all over the place because why not.

The false advertisement is extremely scummy and I don’t really know what to do with it, I blame it all on the No Spoilers Culture we currently have going. I don’t think anybody would’ve watched any of the promotional stuff a better marketing team could’ve put together and said “ah you can’t see old Joel in action, I bet he dies early in the game, I won’t fucking play this”. There was plenty of buzz around the game and there was no reason whatsoever to falsely market it. That part’s bullshit and I condemn the company for this.

From the story side though, Joel dying was honestly not that huge of a surprise or shock to me. TLOU is a game that has you watch a kid die in the first section of it then does more than enough to establish itself as a game without taboos. Now whether that’s something you like or not is not important, what cannot be said about the game is that it didn’t establish itself as a game that would do this.

I also think arguments like “Joel wouldn’t go out like a bitch” are silly. The beginning told me Joel, the badass and smart survivor he is, was very quick to adjust back to a small town life with a now pretty much surrogate daughter. I’m not saying that excuses the unceremonious death but to me Joel is not a gun-blazing badass hero, not even an anti-hero. He’s just a dude. He got overpowered and then he died.

See this is where the game could never win. If you leave Joel alive and he’s in the story then it’s just a repetition of the first game. If you leave him alive but he’s not in the game much then you underutilise him and people miss him. Also if you leave him alive then people will just say you’re a little bitch because it’s fanservice that Joel is technically invincible because he’s the face of the game. But if he dies, people riot. The creators couldn’t win either way and so I’m glad they made up their mind and stuck to it. It’s also very useful to get people talking.

Before I tie that into the rest of the story, I also have to mention that one of the few things I heard about the game was the expression “torture porn” and maybe I’m just desansitised but I didn’t feel like it was that overwhelming or unjustified. I didn’t watch too much of the promotional material but I saw what I think was the gameplay reveal where the devs said in this game enemies would call each other by name when you kill someone or they find someone dead. And I think that’s a neat detail but I think it also has a lot to do with what the game is... about.

That the hundreds of faceless people you slaughter during the game all have a video game or more worth of story behind them. They are people with their own twenty plus years of survival in a world gone to hell whose story ends the way Joel’s did. By meeting a person who just... wins the fight over them.

So that the deaths are really personal and intimate in that way feels justified. You also have this crazy technology that allows them to animate people very realistically. This is the last big game for the PS4 and they really just brought the technology to its limits, I feel. For them to then say “oh a sledgehammer to the face doesn’t look that bad” or “we just won’t add more types of weapons and have one type of death animation just cause we don’t want to overdo it” is just. It’s not gonna happen.

I never felt like those were glorified, I think they all added to that feeling that bubbled to the surface towards the end of Ellie’s first stretch of the story where I just couldn’t stop shaking my head, going Ellie... Ellie, what are you doing, look at yourself... look at what you’re doing. So to me that wasn’t really an issue.

I can imagine some people, maybe even most people would play the first stretch of the game in revenge mode. You know, let’s get this bitch. But in the same time, I also couldn’t really deny that Abby was like... kinda right to want revenge. I’m not saying I’m glad she killed Joel I’m just saying she had a reason to. (On that sidenote, Abby being that surgeon’s daughter did nothing to enhance this feeling. I could’ve imagined Abby in a settlement much like Jacksonville where they’re all hopeful because they found a surgeon who’s leading research about the cordyceps, maybe he’s a super good leader, inspires the Fireflies to keep up their spirits, all that. Maybe Abby’s group could’ve been his super close-knit group of soldiers taking care of him and running errands for him, even then the rage would’ve been justified.

I get they wanted to draw the parallel between Joel-Ellie, surgeon-Abby, dad-daughter relationships but that added nothing to the story for me. It didn’t take anything away either, I just kinda rolled my eyes like okay, whatever.)

So when Ellie was on her revenge quest, I liked that she and Dina were in Tommy’s footsteps, I thought that was a nice touch and kinda foreshadowed another section of the story where we would meet up with Tommy eventually. 

Now, Dina and Jesse, I found nothing wrong with Dina or her being pregnant (except that it reminded me of Aniara and I hate that movie with my whole being). I thought it was a good enough source of conflict and I really liked Jesse being around. When he shows up and they’re just saying they’ll get Tommy and then get the fuck outta there you can already tell Ellie is obsessed but you’re still holding out hope that Dina will be enough to get her mind off of it but she’s just too far gone.

So the shift to Abby and the scars.

Jacksepticeye said it while he was playing that Abby’s part should’ve been like a DLC or something but I honestly don’t agree. I mean I don’t disagree but I think it worked the way it was. I definitely think most problems people have with this switch that doesn’t stem from the fact that people disliked Abby or that they can’t admit to themselves that they were caught off guard by the changed narrative style, could’ve been solved with different pacing. Now I don’t know if they would’ve had to constantly switch between Ellie and Abby for it to work or figure some other way out because I’m no expert but still. 

I liked the beginning when it switched to Abby, the whole atmosphere was so eerie like you could tell they were on a collision course and it was going to get ugly. Maybe something like that could’ve worked but it could’ve just been either too suspenseful and tense the whole way through that it draws the attention from the gameplay or it would’ve been even more on the nose than it already was with the parallels between Abby’s group and Ellie’s group.

Now I honestly really liked that Abby’s story was so different because when she returns to the stadium, the part of her story that involved Joel is over. She got her revenge then she goes on with her life. She had a life before Joel entered it, she has one after she killed him. And it just so happens to be a good opportunity for the game to showcase some of the shit that goes on outside of what we’ve known so far and what Ellie knows.

I didn’t mind the religious aspect, I think it makes sense, like enough time passed since the apocalypse that the then grown up generation is distant enough from their old lives, and the generations after them are growing up in the ruins of the old society, that a messiah figure like that lady could emerge. That it just had to be transphobic and shit sucks of course and I do understand the frustration with it. I can imagine better writers coming up with a way to make the Scars despicable without them having our current society’s problems. They could still have the trans and the Asian characters still of course, but without them having to face the struggles trans characters do in our current world.

So that Abby only realises Ellie’s just one step behind her when she still has the climax of her individual story to get through was just. To me it worked so well. Like here we play as Ellie for half the game, this girl is consumed with rage and then Abby’s just fucking off and doing something entirely different because that’s... how little... it affected her. Or at least she personally got her closure and is ready to move on.

I personally liked the conflicts she had in her group, it was believable, it felt reasonable for the kind of life they lived. Of course we already spent one full game with Ellie so Abby was never going to catch up, but if you’re thinking like me then by less than half of Abby’s story you already don’t want Ellie to kill her.

The confrontation in the theatre was messy but since it’s not the end of the story I sort of don’t mind. I know some people don’t like how Jesse died or how little time we have to process certain deaths and story beats and of course it can just be bad pacing but that was again something that to me just brought the player’s world on the same level as an NPC’s world. That for one enhanced the experience for me.

Okay. Let’s talk about the last part that starts with Dina almost dying at Abby’s hands, especially after she says “good” when Ellie tells her she’s pregnant. Of course there’s the callback to dead Mel. But I liked that Lev was there and his presence sort of switched Abby’s role. Up to that point Abby had been Ellie. But then when she has Lev, and she acknowledges him as “her people”, she becomes Joel. And then she becomes a better version of him. Or at least a version of Joel that has mercy.

And you’d think being this close to losing Dina is where Ellie would snap back to it. And she does, for a while.

Here’s when I admit the pacing definitely needed some work regardless of anything. Up until that point we go through three days, albeit twice, but three days. Then suddenly we’re nine plus months later and the setting is different and we don’t get enough time here before Tommy shows up with the end of the story...rope... we got cut in half in the theatre.

I’ll take some time here to genuinely express my what the fuck at Tommy here.

My memory is a little fuzzy here but wasn’t Tommy on board with returning to Jacksonville when they return to the theatre? I actually just checked, Tommy says “they got what they deserved” to which Ellie says “but she (Abby) gets to live” and Tommy says “yeah”. And then when he visits Ellie and Dina suddenly he’s a dick about it saying Ellie made a promise? Is that something that was supposed to happen off-screen or a plot hole? Did that conversation in the theatre have more versions they went through and the wrong reaction got included? Maybe I just didn’t pay enough attention but it felt out of the blue for me and I can safely say that’s the character moment I’m disappointed in the most, especially because we never see Tommy again.

One could argue that the choppiness of time is supposed to symbolise the dissociation and out-of-body experience you can have when you’re living with trauma but I truly just have it down to bad pacing here. I get that they wanted to show the baby but I truly believe with enough polishing they could’ve come up with a scenario that works better and flows better.

I truly could’ve had Ellie maybe leave with Dina and Tommy and then have her turn back before they leave Seattle and then they have the conversation with Dina and then Ellie starts tracking Abby. Here we could’ve had more of what was in the beginning of the story, sort of switching between the two, maybe slightly altered gameplay, etc. Even though the last level as Ellie was really cool and once again I liked how we just barely got a glimpse of how other people live, you know. Those prisoners in those cells have a hell of a 25 years behind them and being freed by this stranger might be the best thing that will have ever happened to them, but to Ellie they’re just a background noise to her mission.

I truly liked those parts.

I could imagine Ellie being kidnapped similarly to Abby but they are treated differently and somehow still end up escaping together, maybe even helping each other the way Ellie almost did with cutting Abby down and letting her get Lev to the boat. And then you’d have Ellie still be consumed by her rage.

The whole time I wanted her so much to just scream everything at Abby. Because look, life for these people is a whole ass trauma. Some people like Dina might handle it differently, or it’s easier with a community around you, but Ellie’s life has been very strange, with her immunity, with the realisation that Joel killed and lied for her, all that. She would need a fucking good therapist. I wanted that catharsis, for her to scream at Abby, to sob until she can’t even breathe, for Abby to do the same, except she realises she got her closure while Ellie never did, and then maybe for Abby to give some sort of... forgiveness to Ellie. For her life not having meant anything in the end.

I don’t know, I wanted that for her.

If there never is a last fight, if Ellie never so much as punches Abby, that would’ve been fine for me.

Two more things that I liked were that Ellie actually started down a path of forgiveness before Joel died. You know, when we see the scene where Ellie tells Joel off you’re like “oh that’s the last thing she said to him, no wonder she feels so guilty” and then you realise, oh no wait, they were actually eventually going to be alright. They just never got the time. To me that hit so much, that was a good scene.

The other thing I liked is Dina leaving. Once again this could’ve been something like, Ellie goes back to Jacksonville and there they tell her Dina left or sum shit idk how that could’ve worked, I’m just saying that losing that farm life didn’t really make me feel anything because we didn’t get the time to grow attached to it.

So Dina leaves, and suddenly you’re back in the room with Sam in the first game when this bitten boy asks Ellie what she’s most afraid of, and she says she’s scared of ending up alone. And this immune girl Joel killed and lied and died for, eventually ends up alone.

So I understand that a lot of TLOU’s fanbase that belongs to a marginalised group, especially those part of the LGBT+ community would be hurt by this ending. By this interpretation. The LGBT+ community, as far as I know, at least a huge part of it, seeks to heal. We use fiction as escapism in a way people who don’t know, who can’t know our struggles will never be able to sympathise with. And as such, we as a community in a large part, have moved on from stories of pain. Not necessarily in that we turn a blind eye on it or anything, but I think it’s a mostly universally agreed thing that after so much suffering we’re ready to see ourselves, and people like us end up happy. And as such the demand from this community towards creators have shifted to not necessarily fully happy endings, but some sort of relief. And as such, this ending is cruel.

It is heartbreaking. My heart breaks for Ellie because I can practically feel the weight in my chest that she carries around when she walks away. She lost everything and she never got the closure. She never got that relief and neither did we.

Once again, if you personally have a problem with this ending and it ruined the game for you, I understand it completely. That’s your own experience with the story, and even though I feel much of the same things, I’m once again left here thinking this is the way the creators wanted to do this and that they did it like this makes sense. It makes sense for the story, the characters, it just does. If it had happened differently in a way that also makes sense, I would not think “oh this should’ve had a heartbreaking ending, this is bullshit” but I do think the ending makes sense.

Overall, I’m pretty much pleased with most everything, except fuck false advertising, fuck Tommy, and fuck uhhh, I’m pretty sure I mentioned something else too. Oh yeah, pacing. Jack actually offered a really great alternative to the beginning, where the museum scene of Ellie’s birthday should’ve been the first scene, and then you could’ve had Ellie wake up four years later at the end of the countdown. That Joel told Tommy about the hospital could’ve been implied through dialogue and interactions.

I also don’t think Joseph Anderson’s theory is hurt by this, he said personal decisions and morality aside, the Fireflies were fucking idiots and they couldn’t have come up with a cure even if they had given Ellie the chance to say yes, because of how unprofessional they’d been and how much they rushed into the surgery. Just because Abby’s dad was a good dude and a good surgeon doesn’t mean shit when you’re dealing with something you’ve not seen before, such as Ellie’s immunity. And I think knowing that wouldn’t have mattered to Ellie either to change her mind about forgiving Joel. And this is what I’ve always said. Like the Fireflies or not, believe in them or not, taking a choice like this away from Ellie because you can’t stand losing your daughter again (and that is why Joel kills the Fireflies, not because he shares Joseph’s opinion) is objectively wrong and borders on the same obsession we see consume Ellie. Joel is just as unhinged by that point as Ellie is, he’s just more... mature about it, I guess.

That could’ve been even more painful, sort of, to not have Abby be the surgeon’s daughter but just for her and her group believe in this doctor that might just be talking out of his ass so much that them avenging his death sets off this terrible cycle of vengeance. I think that could’Ve been very “gritty” and shit, that would’ve hurt because it’s even more pointless. People killing over lost hope.

So, pacing, Tommy, false advertising, bad points, everything else, yeah alright. 7/10 sounds good to me. I will play this one day >)

[mo-mo-and-porkchop]

Umbrella academy fiction

Chapter 1

Canon and OC; Deigo x OC, Klaus x OC platonic

*as always I do not own any part of the canon characters or show. I am merely writing my own adaptation to the storyline. Nor do I own any gifs/gif credit.

**I do own all things related to the OCs and additional story elements. And apologies, I couldn't find any "young" gifs of them, but they are all meant to be young adults to show age in this fic.

Tagging: @imcrowley , @wicked-bitch-of-the-west

On a typical sunny day in 1989 a girl was born under extraordinary circumstances - her mother beginning the day not pregnant and ending it with a newborn girl. Reginald Hargreaves was unable to purchase their gift from God, but as fate would have she would still become linked to the obsessive billionaire through Klaus, his disappointing Number Four.

One fateful night in her bar thrust the two into each other's life and they soon became close friends, their tragic pasts a common denominator. Emily tried to aid her friend and his family in thwarting the apocalypse, but her life ultimately lost when the shit inevitably hit the fan.

This is not that story.

Our story takes place five years after the Hargreaves family jumped back in time after unsuccessfully saving the world; bringing with them all the knowledge gained from their first chance at life.

-----

"I'm telling you Diego. We can do this," Klaus said pleadingly to his brother. "She said if she had only gotten out a few years earlier, she would have had a better chance at life. We can give her that chance."

Diego stopped just outside his room. He eyed Klaus as he begged for him to agree.

"Please Diego. She is...was my friend," he corrected himself. This time travel thing was hard to get used to. "I owe it to her to at least try."

It was true that Emily had been as good a friend as someone could to Klaus back then. He'd beena raging drug addict who brought nothing but chaos. There weren't many people who could handle something like that. She'd been one of the few; even managing to get him into rehab a few times.

Not that it had mattered. Klaus had a standing bed there back then and the staff a running pool on how short his next break would last.

But it had been obvious she at least cared for him. And that was more than Diego could say for himself. Klaus was his brother and he had given two shits at the time if he lived or died.

"Fine," he finally agreed.

"Yes!" Klaus said quietly, but triumphantly.

With his second time around, he wanted to get it right. Make amends for his previous infractions.

Starting with this.

"But we do this my way. You got it," he said definitively, getting close enough to stop Klaus' little victory dance. He wanted to make sure his brother understood just how serious he was.

"Got it," Klaus said with a mock salute. "If I remember correctly, right around now would be the 'Halloween lockdowns' as Em liked to call it," Klaus said with a small smirk Diego's way.

His brother looked at him confused "Lockdowns? Where is she? A prison?"

Oh, that's right. He doesn't know.

It had taken Klaus awhile to pull what nuggets she had revealed of her past. He knew, without a doubt, Diego hadn't gotten shit out of her. The few times they'd met his brother was partial to being an asshole to anyone who even remotely took Klaus' side and she had been no different.

"She's at a religious boarding school," Klaus explained quickly. "A real scared straight kinda one. From what she told me though, the night before Halloween the nuns do one final sweep of the grounds, leaving the front door unlocked."

"Pfft. Morons," Diego huffed, the fact that he was speaking of godly women lost to him completely. "So it's a dash and grab. Easy."

"Yeeaa...about that," Klaus began tentatively. Diego had only just agreed to spring Emily from Hell.

"What?" Diego asked lowly. He knew he shouldn't have gotten his hope up so easily. Nothing was ever so cut and dry with Klaus.

"She's also, sort of, kinda in her own lockdown. We may need Five to help us too," he added reluctantly. "Which is fine," he quickly continued, keeping Diego from immediately changing his mind. "Ever since we got back Five has really been a team player. I'm sure if our little heist idea came from you he'd be on board. A hundred percent."

Diego couldn't take this shit with Klaus a second go 'round. He wanted to break Emily out of school? Fine. He needed Diego's help? Also, peachy fuckinf keen. But if he insisted on keeping secrets along the way then Diego would walk his happy ass on out the door and Klaus could go fuck himself.

He grabbed hold of his brother, who flinched more from shock than fear, and drug him into his room, away from listening ears. He tossed his brother onto his bed as gently as he could. Klaus watched as he pulled his desk chair over, sitting on it backward and leaning against it.

"Before I ask Five anything you are gonna spill your guts and give me all the Intel you have on Emily. Otherwise, I'm out and you're on your own."

Klaus groaned with Diego's ultimatum. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll tell you everything. But you have to swear you'll get Five to help no matter what," he countered holding up his pinky.

"What are you, six?"

"Nothing is more binding than a pinky swear," Klaus said, wiggling his fingers enticingly.

"You never quit do you?"

"Nope," Klaus said with a satisfied grin.

"Jesus Christ." Diego sighed with a roll of his eyes, but nevertheless he linked pinkies with his brother.

"No matter what," Klaus reiterated.

"No matter what," Diego reluctantly agreed before immediately letting go of him.

"Good," Klaus said clapping his hands together and rubbing them conspiratorially. "Now. What do I know about Emily?" he asked himself, feigning an attempt to really dig deep into his thoughts. "Em, Em, Em."

"I'm losing my patience Klaus."

"Alright, fine," Klaus said with an exasperated sigh. Nothing much had changed with Diego this time around - he was still far too serious for his own good. "I know she was one of the few dad couldn't buy, obviously. I deduced that one myself," he admitted proudly.

Diego rolled his eyes and sighed. Even without drugs Klaus' mind still ran a million miles a minute. "Focus," he said keeping his brother on track.

"Right," he replied forcing himself back to their present storytelling session. "She was unbuyable. Her parents were religious and pure," he said mockingly, throwing up the the scouting sign of three fingers. "When Em didn't fit it to their perfect life, they shipped her off and forgot about her. To St. Christopher's School for the Misguided to be exact."

"You mean that old school convent on the outskirts of the city?"

"That's the one," Klaus said in agreement. "She's been there..." he checked his wrist as if a watch sat upon it. "Twelve years now," he added looking back to Diego.

"Twelve years?! What the Hell Klaus?? I thought she was just sent there."

"Yea. When she was six," Klaus said with a snort. "That was after all the exercisims failed," he added nonchalantly.

"Exorcisms!?" Diego was beginning to regret his decision to help. "Look. I don't know what kind of "school" you're taking me to, but how do we know Emily even wants to break out?" he asked in a half-hearted attempt to back out.

"Because she makes it out on her own after another three years anyway. But she always said if she'd got out just a few years earlier she'd have gone farther in life. Between you and me, I thought she turned out just fine the way she was," he added leaning in conspiratorially.

"I don't know about that. She was friends with you."

"Hey! Unfair!" Klaus said feigning offense. "Trust me," he continued, shrugging off the insult. "Once Five is on board, everything will be fine," he said reassuringly, but with little affect. "Then it really will be a dash and grab. Five will just do his little time warp thingie and..." He sucked air through his teeth and gestured for in-and-out. "We'll have Em out and free as a bird in no time," he added with a sigh and a smile.

Diego stared at him, only reacting when his wide grin faded. His mind had already been made up, but it was sti fun to see him sweat. He promptly grabbed him up and pulled toward the hallway - and all the way to Five's room.

------

"Klaus has something he wants to ask you," he said pushing past their brother when he answered the door.

"And what might that be?" he asked, confusion evident on his face as he shut the door behind them.

Once through the threshold doego released his grip on Klaus and took solace off in the corner, waiting to see how well he did with Five. Their brother would be a much tougher sell. He'd never even met Emily.

"Well," Klaus began with a nervous laugh, glancing back to Diego hoping to get some backup. His brother simply urged him on. Klaus sighed and his entire being deflated with his refusal.

"Klaus, what the hell is going on? I don't have time for another one of your ridiculous pranks," Five complained impatiently.

"I need your help rescuing a friend," he admitted freely, turning back to Five.

Five laughed freely at his request. "No," he said letting his facial expressions fall flat. "The last time I tried to help you I ended up having to warp out of police custody."

"But you did get out," Klaus cut in trying to avoid a retelling of their most recent mishap.

"And I had to be the one to explain it all to dad. Alone," he added with rising anger.

Klaus grimaced. "Yea. Sorry about that. I wish I could have been there, really, but something important came up. Real now-or-never type stuff."

"What? Like avoiding the inevitable end of the world? Because last I remember we've already fixed that problem and I can't think of anything more "now-or-never"," he threw back at him.

He knew Five was right. "I guess when you put it like that, I could have made it," he admitted almost sheepishly.

Five merely scowled at his admission.

"But this is different," he added quickly, pushing past Five when he went to kick them out of his room. Klaus shut the door and leaned on it for added security he would finish hearing him out.

"How so?"

Klaus' smile returned. His interest was piqued. "Because we...are gonna..."

Diego rolled his eyes. His sales pitch was quickly dying. "Because you're gonna have me," he stepping forward.

"Not that I don't doubt yoir abilities, but how does that any different? Other than your presence of course."

Their brother's smile widened. "Yes!" he exclaimed before Diego could answer, outstreching his arms toward him and crossing to be by his side. "Because Diego here is an extra set of eyes and ears," he added, cradling his shoulders and endearingly placing his hand on his chest.

Diego glared at Klaus. "Because I will make sure Klaus doesn't screw anything up this time," he answerd shaking himself free.

Five remained silent, considering Klaus 'mission'. He had become anxious lately to do more than just train and follow daddy's orders - even if it was what they all agreed to before their jump back. Not that he would ever admit that to Klaus, but he supposed it could be worth it of Diego was on board.

Klaus stated expectantly and his brother who eyed the two of them. "Say I help you. What is your grand plan to save...who exactly?"

Klaus smiled widely at Diego, ecstatic that things might actually go his way for once.

"Emily," Diego answered, ignoring Klaus.

"Emily?" Five asked surprised with a slight laugh. "You mean the bartender psychic?"

"Telepathic," Klaus corrected him. "But yes. Her. So will you help me? Please?"

Diego rolled his eyes at the duo. "Just say yes already. I can't take much more of this," he added exasperated, dropping down onto the chair at Five's desk.

"Alright fine," he finally agreed.

Klaus began to shower his brother with thabks. He sure hadn't been as appreciative of Diego's allegiance. He huffed to hide his offense. "Klaus!" He pointed at his wrist when he had his brother's attention.

"Oh right. So. Now that I have the best two brothers on board..."

"Klaus," Diego warned.

"Alright, alright. Stop getting your panties in a bunch."

Diego jumped up ready to strangle him.

"Hey! Calm down!" Five intervened. "Don't make me regret helping you," he scolded his brothers. "Now," he continued once the two had parted ways. "When and how are we supposed to save Emily? And from what?"

"I'm glad you asked," Klaus responded slyly before repeating the plan to Five

------

"There it is," Klaus whispered to his brothers, pointing out their entry point.

They crouched hidden among the bushes just outside the point of no return. A nun came out of the front door, followed by two others, and just as Klas said left the door open. Diego huffed quietly to himself and rolled his eyes. Klaus smiled widely.

"Okay," Five said shifting his jacket and bit and readying to jump. "Where is her room?" he asked staring at the building.

It was your typical, old-school convent turned boarding opp. The layout would be easy to figure out.

Klaus shut his eyes and mimicked going over a map with his fingers. "It should be, if memory serves me right, last one on the left, second floor," he said opening his eyes and looking toward the building too. "She always said one of the only good things she remembered about this place were the sunsets," he said quietly to himself with a sad sigh. "West side," he added.

And just like that Five was gone.

-----

He reappeared with a small pop in a girl's room. She was sound asleep, her back to where Five now stood. He crept to her bed and gently tried waking her.

"Emily," he whispered. "Emily wake up."

The girl began to stir, turning toward him. The sight of a boy by her bed had to be a dream. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, sitting up to wake up further. The realization that he was real hit her. Her eyes grew wide in terror and she screamed.

Five quickly covered her mouth. "Emily, please."

She quieted her screams realizing who he was and the fear in her eyes grew to confusion. She mumbled something into his hand.

"What?" he whispered, uncovering her mouth.

"I'm not Emily," she managed to stammer out quietly.

[iseutz]

Chapter One

The girls all thought that Julian Devorak was a loonie, but also that he was really handsome. That was the exact word; not hot, dreamy or sexy: handsome. He appeared to have the strongest bad boy charm, with his leather boots and auburn hair, and –apparently- a smile so sweet you would have sold your mama to buy him smokes. Despite his glamour, tho, I never met a girl who actually had any first-hand experience of the boy: he was too much, they said, with his coat that looked like a cloak and that pirate eyepatch. The kid tried too hard. And he was a junkie, everybody knew that.

I knew for a fact that he wasn’t, because my best friend was his sister Portia and thanks to her I had a much less romanticized image of him: it’s hard to find intriguing someone when you hear him constantly being referred to as “Dummy” and “Banana boy”. Quite surprisingly, though, I had never seen him. I wasn’t a “going out” girl (we lived too far from the city center) and he was bigger than us, went to med school and wasn’t simply around the time that I was. When I met him, anyway, he managed to make the whole thing unforgettable.

I was fifteen, almost sixteen and in full high school flow: I started my first year as a quiet wallflower, just like I spent the whole secondary school, to avoid bullies. I gave off extraordinary punching ball vibes and the last three years had been nothing short of atrocious, so I was prepared to keep the lowest profile possible at Vesuvia High. But then, something happened; or rather it didn’t: kids acted normally with me. Even the bunch that came from my old school, once in the bigger pond became neutral to me. Everybody was too nervous for the new environment, too eager to get into its game, to care about me. And I cautiously raised my head and started too look around. I allowed myself a personality and, even though I never became popular I escaped the “nerd” label for this time (and I’m talking about the late ‘90s, when nerd wasn’t really in). That’s when I met Portia, in literature class; she was, bluntly speaking, the sole properly alphabetized person in the class, and she enjoyed books, too: we bonded over a copy of Of Love and Other Demons and by the end of the hour we were pretty sure to be soulmates. I spent a lot of afternoon at her place, with the excuse to study, watching videos on Mtv. They still had music videos… good days. In all this, I never ran into Julian; there had been signs of his presence, of course- a door closing when I arrived, music playing from his room, a lot of bands t-shirts drying on the rack in the bathroom, but all in all in all he looked like a guy who liked to guard his personal space, and he kept religiously away from our girl time.

When I finally met him, I was into band t-shirts myself: I was well halfway my second year, and the times were ripe for me to dive headfirst into my rebellious phase: I wore a lot of black kajal, black clothes and leather cuffs, and I tried with every mean to look different and mysterious. It wasn’t a bold choice: grunge was still all the rage and a lot of girls wore torn pants and Dr Martens. I tried to look more on the gothic/punk side, but back then spiked collars and velvet dresses were harder to find than you think, and I didn’t have a lot of money. In the pictures from those years I look decently ridiculous, but I was sixteen and those clothes were my armor.

The t-shirt I was wearing that night sported a full-body Marilyn Manson wearing a guepière and a collection of bleeding cuts. My mother hated it with a passion, and I hadn’t permission to wear it at school, but this evening it boldly adorned my otherwise scrawny chest while me and Portia lounged on the velvet sofa of her living room, listlessly zapping from channel to channel. It had been pouring for hours and I was cringing at the thought of the half-an-hour-by-bike that awaited me on my way home; I had been pushing the thought away hour after hour, delving in a long and detailed discussion concerning the Guns ‘n Roses members and their most probable bedding habits: Portia had a thing for Duff McKagan and the unwritten rule of our friendship was to always enable the other part’s fantasies, especially those about rockstars or fiction characters; we could happily spend hours sorting all the characters from The Lost Boys from best to worst musicians. Today we’d call it headcanoning.

7 PM and I had no more excuses. I sat up, every inch of my body dripping reluctance “Well, I have to go”.

-But it’s raining cats and dogs- Portia looked up from her mandala coloring book. Man, were we into that shit. -I  know, but I have to be home for dinner. I wouldn’t say no to a little flu… maybe I can skip math test tomorrow. -Are you sure?- Portia followed me into the doorway. I smelled the dinner that Mazelinka had already started cooking. Mazelinka was a family friend; Portia called her “aunt”, but she wasn’t a relative, just a friend from Granma Devorak, and when the kids had moved to the city they had come to live with her. Portia and Julian came from Nevivon, and it was common that young people were sent from their families to Vesuvia to attend high school or college. Hopes on education as a gateway for a better future appeared well founded, back then.

Judging from the smell, it was some sort of goulash; I’ve never seen Mazelinka cook anything that wasn’t floating in a pond of soup, but all of her creations were delicious.

-Selendri! Are you staying for dinner?- She shouted at me from the kitchen.

-No, thank you Mazelinka, but I have have to be home for dinner and I have to leave now with the bike.

-Nonsense! It’s raining. Ilya will drive you. ILYAAAAAAAA!- she shouted without awaiting for my answer.

-But… my bike…- I weekly objected while Mazelinka shouted instructions over my voice. An unintelligible grumble came from the other end of the doorway.

-I will bring it to you tomorrow at school- smiled Portia. She walked to school, so it wasn’t a big deal to her. Oh well, my father would have driven me for one day. I moved towards the coat hanger to get my jacket, testing the wall with my hand to find the light switch. When I turned it on, Julian was standing by the coat hanger, froze in a hunched position while he was putting on his cloak, blinking like an owl in the sudden brightness.

He was as tall as the hanger, probably taller, with a wild tuft of hair falling on his right eye. He was wearing his black eyepatch and a pair of bright red tartan pants and home slippers still on. Sid Vicious in soft pants. I smiled awkwardly covering the distance between us. While I played with enthusiasm the role of the entertainer amongst my handful of friends I was still extremely uneased meeting someone for the first time, and spending the long trip home with my best friend’s ill-reputed brother was going to be demanding on me. However, I was also curious of such a subject, and I did want to make a good impression.

He gave me half a smile in response, hopping on a foot as he was putting on one boot. We spent some time in silence as he tied a couple of yards of shoelace up to his calves, then we moved to the kitchen to wave our last goodbyes.

-You never met Ilya before, did you?- asked Mazelinka, pointing at him with a wooden spoon. –Don’t let him scare you just because he’s in a pirate phase.

-See you later, Mazelinka- Julian talked over, and he turned to open the main door. I hurried after him as he went down the outer stairs. Mazelinka’s house was a two-story old house; the proper apartment was at the first floor, while the ground floor was a single room full of tables, old chairs and sofas and an even older kitchen counter covered in mason jars. Mazelinka spent all of her time there, making jam and possibly liquor and going upstairs only to cook and sleep. The house had a private garden-slash-parking lot, I really don’t know how to describe it: there were flower bushes and fruit trees, but it was mainly gravel and the only car of the family – Julian’s car – slept there. It was an old Volvo, the kind with pop-up headlamps, predictably black. We got inside as quickly as possible.

-When she says pirate phase- Julian said abruptly. –She means that I don’t want to wear my prosthetic eye.

I said nothing; it was a debut too personal and couldn’t find a word to say. Julian continued, unfazed by my silence.

-It’s not even correct: I am wearing my prosthetic, even now. I don’t like how it feels without it. But it doesn’t move… well, it does, but it’s never really in sync with the other eye, and it looks weird. I prefer to wear the eyepatch, and if that makes me a pirate, then so be it – he turned to look at me. – I’m telling you because I know what people say and… well, now you know it’s not an act. Spread the word, ok?

-Ok… uhm, wanna know my address?

-It might be useful, thanks.

I explained him how to reach my condo while he fumbled with the CD player and turned on some music. I didn’t know the song, but the singer’s voice sounded familiar, so I ventured a guess:

-Nine Inch Nails?

-Oooh- he grinned. –Glad to know that you’re into some actual music.

-Got a problem with Mr. Manson? – I was ready to fight whoever dissed my beloved reverend. I had a serious crush on the man; I’ve always had a soft spot for lanky guys with big noses.

-Mmmmh. The music itself is not that bad, but he’s… too loud. Too much make up, too much provocative shit. I just don’t buy it.

-Many good artists have flashy looks. Think about Kiss.

-Hah!- a raucous bark of a laughter. – You like Kiss? How old are you?!?

-I’m old enough to appreciate good music, thank you very much. And what about Bowie?

-Are you seriously comparing Marilyn Manson to David Bowie?

He had a point. –No, I guess I’m not.

-You’re forgiven. Want a cigarette?- he fished a packet from the pocket of his coat, squirming in the car seat to get it. He was really, really tall. His legs looked never ending.

-They would smell it at home- I replied unhappily.

-Don’t worry, I have gums. Mazelinka never found out I smoke. Or perhaps she doesn’t care. Here – he moved the packet in my direction and I helped myself. He also tried to light it up for me, but I was sitting on his blind side, so I had to steady his hand in mine to complete the task without accidents. He didn’t seem to notice; his attention was elsewhere.

-Do you hear it too?- He asked.

-Hear what?

-A rattling noise… it comes from your side of the car.

Sure enough, something was rattling and tumbling and it came from under my seat.

-There must be something underneath…- I reached my arm and felt around with my hand. – It’s a beer can. A full one- I announced pulling it out.

-Marvellous! This is a gift from above and we must honor it- his hand extended in my direction and I put the can into his grasp before he grabbed something else by mistake. He opened it with a hand, keeping it beneath his thighs, and took a long gulp.

-Wow- I giggled nervously. –Smoking, drinking and driving in the rain. You like to live dangerously.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

-You’re right – he said, and for a while he just drove in silence. I busied myself feeling stupid and childish until he steered the wheel unexpectedly, entering a small parking lot.

-What are you doing?

-I refrain from putting our lives in danger – before I could find something to say, he had parked, reclined his seat and eased himself with an arm under his head and the beer in his hand. The glint of his cigarette danced in the halflight as he happily sighed:

-That’s life. God, I love simple things.

Well, here it is: first chapter of my 90′s nostalgic Modern AU. Nothing really happens in this chapter, but that’s an introcution, for you. You still get to meet Ilya, tho. I couldn’t find a title, so suggestions - as well as feedback- are welcomed!

[weshallc]

Nonnatun Christmas Card Exchange (FF4 Chapter 4)

Thank you so much for your continued support for these stories.I have made a lot of new friends through this experience and I am so grateful. The best Christmas present ever! Merry Christmas to you all. :0)

The most valuable thing I have learnt from writing and posting these stories is Keep Calm and @eatapinkwafer  ( thanks for that @rhianonscott-blog )

CHAPTER FOUR: The Rescue Centre

Patrick was still staring at her, from the driver’s seat. It was as If he knew where her mind had wandered too and was waiting for her to return home. Shelagh turned to him as she opened the passenger door of their car, “ We better hurry up, it looks like snow.”

Patrick met her at the boot and quickly stole a kiss. Shelagh’s head spun round in all directions. Patrick laughed, “Are you worried Constable Noakes will arrest us for indecent behaviour?”

“ If we are going to do this, I must insist on best behaviour at all times, Dr Turner.” She even managed a sly wink, the one she had been practicing of late in the bathroom mirror.

Shelagh wanted Patrick to lead the way up the institute stairs, but he insisted she went up ahead of him. Blissfully unaware of her companions true motives, not for the first time Shelagh remained unconvinced that gentlemanly conduct was always appropriate. Perspiring from a day spent in the over warm London and Patrick’s love of the car heater, Shelagh had left her coat in the car. 

Suddenly she felt very exposed and vulnerable. She froze on reaching the main hall door, she could hear music and feminine chatter. Patrick leaned over her to reach for the heavy hall door. Before pushing it open, he whispered in her ear,

“They love you, we all do.”

The momentum of him leaning against her, propelled her gently forward through the open door. He announced their arrival with a corny, “We come bearing gifts.”

Nat King Cole on Trixie’s record player didn’t miss a beat, but everyone else fell silent and turned their attention to the door. Patrick moved swiftly, very aware of the tension in his sweetheart. He dumped his packages on the nearest flat surface and returned to Shelagh taking her burdens from her and belatedly returning her wink. 

Patrick wasn’t the only one to notice the fear in Shelagh’s eyes and Sister Julienne was soon across,fussing over the donations and welcoming the couple in.

Shelagh suddenly found herself in a bubble of protection from the 2 people,who loved her the most. Her confidence returned as she started to help with the unpacking.

Suddenly she felt warm hands in hers, the grip was tight and she turned to find herself face to face with Trixie. The young midwife pulled the ex-nun aside. It was only then, that Shelagh realized the girl whose firm grip she was in, had tears in her eyes.

“I have missed you, I will never forgive myself! You needed a friend and I was blind to it. You could have told me! You could have confided in me! You could have trusted me! You were never really alone, you just thought you were.”

Trixie gave one last squeeze of her friends hands before she let go. “Tell me, are you happy?” Shelagh was still reeling from Trixie’s unexpected welcome and just managed a smile and a nod.

Trixie had lowered her voice during her conversation with her old mentor, but it was not lost on the rest of the gathering, that the friends reunion had deeply affected them both. Help came from an unexpected source.

“Now enough of all that, you two! What we really want to know is,how is the boy?”

Patrick’s Voice was shrill and overly bright, as he tried to reassure everyone that Timothy was doing just fine and making a splendid recovery. The wise Sister grabbed the doctor’s arm. “ He will be alright Dr Turner, remember what his mother said when I brought him into the world.”

It was now Patrick’s turn to be wrong footed. He didn’t know whether it was being reminded of his promise to Marianne or the identity of his reminder. Patrick had to admit since the announcement of his and Shelagh’s engagement, he hadn’t actually relished working with Sister Evangelina. The nun although never discourteous or disrespectful, hadn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine either.

Trixie had now regaining her composure. Feeling a little insecure at revealing her true feelings to her long lost friend, she tossed her hair in defiance. 

Shelagh was starting to find her feet chatting to Jenny about the Nonnatus closure.Nurse Lee was explaining that she had received forewarning about the impending demolition of the convent, prior to the recent events that had hastened it.

“ Alec?” Queried Shelagh.

“Oh Sweetie, you are so behind in all the gossip? Alec! I told you about him in that beastly sanatorium, Jenny’s latest conquest. I suppose you had your mind on other things.” Trixie was definitely feeling better and wanting to regain some sense of control.

“Yes, recovering from Tuberculosis.” A protective Cynthia interjected. Trixie ignored her.

“ You know, you are not the only one to have had your head turned in the last few months.��� She continued as she dared a sly glance in Dr Turner’s direction.

Chummy gave Trixie a stare the Poplar Cub Pack were only too familiar with. She handed baby Freddie to Shelagh to try and divert the current trajectory of the conversation. 

Trixie opened her mouth and Cynthia in a quiet but forceful tone whispered, 

“ Don’t you dare Trixie, don’t say it.” 

Trixie shrugged her shoulders,” All I was going to say, was how much I like your outfit, Shelagh. That skirt is simply to die for, it fits you perfectly.” 

Shelagh coloured, but Cynthia let Trixie continue, her previous colleague did look attractive and she would have to probably get used to compliments about her appearance.

“ You are simply divine, Sweetie.Who knew what you were hiding under that habit all those years?Well obviously someone had an idea.”  

Cynthia couldn’t apologize enough for her friends behaviour, blaming it on too many babychams at Alec’s earlier in the day and dragged Trixie away for a strong cup of Nescafé.

Shelagh handed Freddie back to his mother, her eyes searching for Patrick.It was definitely time to be going. He seemed to be mediating between Sister Evangelina, Sister Monica Joan and a newly delivered Christmas cake.

Sister Monica Joan peevishly turned her back on her sister and the cake, but not before secreting a mince pie up her habit sleeve. Shelagh smiled, she realized how much her self imposed exile had cost her these magical moments. 

The senior nun noticed the lovely young woman smiling kindly at her. “You have returned to us once more, I see.”The nun moved towards Shelagh, “It is also fortuitous that you arrive in time for Evensong.”

The older woman had both of Shelagh’s hands held together and cocooned in her own. As if in the state of conjoined prayer. Both women for most of their working lives had suffered from dry chapped skin on their palms and fingers. Without the need for constant washing, the use of harsh disinfectants and the sparse use of hand cream, both women’s hands were now soft due to the change in direction both their lives had afforded them.

Shelagh tried to catch Patrick’s eye, while trying to explain to the nun, that she couldn’t stay.

“Why do you look to him, for permission?” Suddenly there was a tangible tension in the room. Trixie’s tears and subsequent teasing were one thing, but Sister Monica Joan’s comments had the ability to cut right to the heart of the matter on occasion, without censure.

“ You answer to no-one. You have renounced your religious vows.” Shelagh stiffened and Sister Julienne moved towards the pair. Sister Monica Joan continued, “ If I am not very much mistaken, you have not yet repeated different vows to your new Lord and Master.”

Mouths opened, fingers twitched, feet shuffled, no-one dare look at Dr Turner.

“ You will never find yourself again as free as you are on this blessed day. You are under no obligation to anyone. Why not rejoice in that fact, my dear. Before you surrender yourself again to a destiny you will never again chart alone.”

Shelagh blinked the tears back. Sister Monica Joan smiled, “ Partake in the privilege of free will, while you can,my Sister.”

Patrick was the first to speak,“Stay Shelagh.” Sister Monica Joan shot him a look of defiance. “ If that’s what you want?” He swiftly added. 

“ Why don’t you both stay?” Sister Julienne suggested.

Patrick Turner was used to being the only man in a room full of women, but at this particular moment, all he wanted was to be heading down the institute stairs. It had been Shelagh who had been reticent in coming, but he knew it was imperative for her to stay and for him to take his leave.

Shelagh walked Patrick to their car she flung her arms around him, unconcerned that PC Noakes or anyone else might see. He promised her he would return in an hour, in a way that made an hour sound like a lifetime. On opening the car door he threw her a cheeky grin, 

“Don’t you be setting off on your own and make me come and find you in the snow.”

“ Don’t keep me waiting then,” she called after him and he was gone. She knew he would back for her, but that sensation of being lost, gripped her again.

Patrick had meant well, Sister Monica Joan had meant well, they had all meant well. None of them could understood the inner turmoil raging inside her at this moment.

Could she really go back in there and join the Sisters in lifting their voices to praise God. Would He understand, would He think her a hypocrite. No,not think, He would know. She would make an excuse and take her leave.

As Shelagh aimlessly climbed the institute stairs, alone this time. Flicking the lighter she had worked all day to master. She studied the words engraved on it ‘Completely Certain.’

‘Completely Certain,’ had not so long ago been such a clear statement of romance, clarity, intent, truth and faith. Now these concepts seemed hazy, unreachable at best. She now was more familiar with desire, impulse, craving, necessity, endurance and fight. She was now completely certain only of these things.

At the top of the stairs stood a solitary figure.“He loves you very much, everyone can see that,” remarked the kindhearted Cynthia.

“And you him?” 

“Yes”

“ Do you mind me asking?” Cynthia paused. Shelagh let her to continue.

“ How could you be so certain that this is what He meant for you?”

The introverted nurse was the first person to ask Shelagh that question. Patrick had never asked her, even Sister Julienne had not asked that question. It had been the only question, Shelagh had asked herself for 3 long months.

She knew the answer now, “ His meaning is love.”

The young midwife linked her friends arm and asked, “Shall we go in now and offer up our thanks to our Lord.”

Shelagh smiled. “ I think that would be most appropriate.”

[beheadingofmakai]

“Let’s Be Their Coincidence” -- Design Document

This post is meant to divulge a bit of trivia, things that were part of the characters but that weren’t revealed so as to not derail the narrative, and other such extra things that, while relevant in the creation process, weren’t made explicit and/or implicit in the story. I believe it is always good to make a comprehensive summary such as this in a document to always keep in mind where it is you want to take your narrative and characters, and how to go about it consistently, and since I have no plans on continuing this particular story, I might as well reveal everything that didn’t see the light. This blog is a writing blog as much as it is a repository of ideas and a love letter to the joys writing, so I do believe this might be of interest to anyone who wants to see the “behind the scenes” process, so to speak, of the Valentine’s One-shot. Future One-shots ideally will also have an accompanying Design Document post. It is simply something I believe to be a good idea and also a fun and useful to keep everything you need about your cast in order so you don’t end up being inconsistent in their execution.

Also, I am a huge hedonist, and I am doing this for myself as well. 

Let’s begin.

Astrael

Astrael’s real name is Azrael, better known as the “Destroying Angel” or “Angel of Death”.

Astrael used to be a simple Archangel (this is a good reminder that Archangels are the second lowest rank of the Choir, just above Angels) who happened to have been born a rare genius in techniques of erasure. She always found it too easy to learn how to ‘remove’, whether that be information or lives, and while that lead to a mastery out of curiosity, she herself never liked actually using her skills. Her job in the Choir of Angels was minor stuff, ranging from recordkeeping to delivering minor omens to devoted followers under the guise of “apparitions”.

When Moses and Ozymandias’ confrontation brought the Ten Plagues to Egypt, God ordered the Plague of Death. Jehoel, the Seraphim of Fire who knew of Azrael’s rare but underutilized talents, ordered her to accomplish this job. Azrael, hesitant but aware that she couldn’t refuse a direct order from a Seraphim, begrudgingly accepted the job. She was informed to kill every firstborn from every house, unless that house’s door was marked with lamb’s blood. Using her knowledge to remove her own physical form, she became a fog that blanketed Egypt, removing the specified lives. The sheer efficiency with which she accomplished this surprised her superiors in the Choir, and for years, she was the go-to person take lives, be it from religious opponents or from other such accursed earthly matters, matters that Azrael had no personal interest in. Being the Tenth Plague of Egypt was the “big job” she commented to Nahoko about.

As time passed, she began to detest her job more and more, for she began to see herself more as a “spearhead” than a person; the Choir needed someone death? She would be the one thrown at them. Time and time again, she was sent to remove life, and never to remove the misery or suffering of the people devoted to God. She eventually had enough and deserted the Choir. Whenever Angels desert, they usually do so to become Fallen Angels and ally with Demons, or simply because they have become immersed in earthly matters and have decided to leave, but none do so without repercussion. Azrael saw no pursuer, for they knew what she was capable of.

During one of her ‘jobs’ for the choir, she fought the Shinto goddess Inari Okami. She was not able to terminate her, not with any of her removal techniques. Inari Okami, however, saw the sheer pain behind every single one of her motions, and offered a shoulder to cry on and an ear that was willing to listen. Azrael considers Inari Okami as the one person she truly respects, and the two have remained in contact ever since. Inari Okami, the goddess of fertility and agriculture, among other things, is the one that offers Azrael a commission in Japan after she deserts the Choir.

Azrael changed her name to Astrael after deserting, as a reference to her passion for Astrology and stargazing. She loves reading the Zodiac as well, especially the sections that have to do with romance.

Ever since her time in the Choir, Astrael has been interested in romance, and loved to get assigned Omen jobs because that meant she could go to Earth and observe the wild romantic lives of humans, who give themselves to emotion much more than the more stoic and cold Angels. She had a ‘human phase’ when she was a kid, where she wrote many self-insert stories of herself as a human and her adventures on Earth.

Astrael is a lesbian.

Her Cupid’s Bow’s form is that of a sniper rifle. A Cupid’s preference shapes their Bow. As she considers herself a consummate professional and a Cupid is ideally not seen by their ‘target’, a sniper rifle was the ideal choice for her and her steady hand. She also thinks it’s cool. She can morph her Bow into a pair of semi-automatic pistols, but that doesn’t have much use, considering Cupid is supposed to stay out of sight.

Her master of Scenario Witchery comes from her vast experience. The specific Scenario Witchery she uses in Coincidences is called “Lovermaker Park - Graveyard of Indecision”. Since her talent lies in removal, she’s not actually bringing forth feelings of emotion from her targets, rather, she’s effectively removing, that is, killing the hesitation in those who are in her Scenario. By ‘killing’ their indecision, she brings forth their true underlying emotions to surface. Aimi felt the magic as “grim” because the source of Astrael’s power is indeed grim and ruthless, but the way she’s using it is truly and honestly benevolent.

Astrael’s decision to become a “freelancer Cupid” comes from her lifelong admiration for the Earthly emotion of love and how passionate it can be expressed. She means every word of her wanting to see clumsy couples come together and be happy.

Aside from Astrology and love, Astrael enjoys texting with Inari Okami, hiking, and rollercoasters.

Nahoko

Nahoko used to be a Mount Ooe henchwoman. A bit player who never was anything more than “a troop”.

When Minamoto no Yorimitsu and his Four Heavenly Kings came a-knocking, she was immediately knocked out by Sakata no Kintoki right hook. She was sent flying through a cave wall so hard that everyone just assumed she died. She was, in fact, unconscious, making her one of the few survivors of the Extermination of Mount Ooe.

After becoming a vagabond following this event, she settled next to a certain rural town, living by the mountainside and lying low. She mostly hunted to survive, but really missed being able to drink sake on demand. The townspeople eventually learned of her, and approaching the mountainside was forbidden due to her dangerous presence.

One day, a young man intentionally approached her. “Whatcha think yer doin’?” she inquired. “I want to be strong. Please teach me how to be strong.” he replied. She laughed and mockingly said she’d consider it if he brought her sake, but that if she didn’t like it, she’d kill him on the spot by removing his spine. He brought exactly one keg and it was the best she’s ever drank.

She mostly saw him as a little toy, but humored his requests to train with him. She taught her how to fight and how to condition his body to reach higher and higher heights of strength. He would never, ever, become as strong as her, for she was an Oni and he was merely Human, but he insisted that he’d love the look on her face when the day came and he proved her wrong. She liked his guts.

However, Oni are fundamentally mischievous, and with the massacre of Mount Ooe fresh on her mind, despite legitimately growing to like him, she was first and foremost using him to eventually get back at Humans, starting with that village.

Little by little, she had him tell him about his village as idle conversation. Eventually, she learned of where the livestock and the main stash of the village’s rice for taxes and such were. One day, she went and stole everything, eating and killing the livestock, ransacking the rice.

Everyone immediately pointed their finger at Nahoko, but the young man, by now an adult in his mid-20s, defended her. She had indeed done it, but he defended her over and over, not allowing baseless accusations without evidence to be thrown at her. Nahoko felt immense guilt for the first time in her life, having utilized her “little toy” like this, not realizing just how much the two had bonded over the years, and how she spat on his trust.

The very next day, she had come to realize that she couldn’t bear it, so she went to the village to confess, just to find the man beaten and bruised. He had been lynched for siding with the Oni. As rage filled her, she uprooted a tree with a single hand and swung it around as a club, smashing house after house, striking villager after villager, until she noticed that the roots of her makeshift weapon tried to capture her.

The village had brought an experienced Onmyouji to deal with her. It was him that had beat the man to a pulp, and so, she threw herself at him, aiming to crush him to dust. Alas, the Onmyouji was too powerful, and a single incantation launched her away with the power of the earth: He was a nature specialist. The Onmyouji shot several seeds at her, but before she was hit by them, the man shielded her with her body, standing up one last time before being riddled with the seeds. He only managed to miss a single bullet seed, which hit Nahoko in the left leg.

Seeing her chance, Nahoko escaped with the man, leaping away with all of her strength. As he lay dying, the man expressed how happy he was that she was ok, and asked her to find the culprit, so she could clear this misunderstanding. Crying her eyes out, Nahoko begged for him to hold on, but the bullet seeds were already acting, and thorny vines were growing from beneath his skin, torturing him from within, feeding on his own insides to grow. Truthfully, this was nature magic of the most malicious and cruel kind. 

Nahoko couldn’t bear to see the man she had come to realize she loved to suffer like this, and after their first and final, sorrowful kiss, she snapped his neck to save him the suffering. His death was painless, but Nahoko couldn’t forgive herself for doing this to someone she loved and who loved and trusted her back in the way he did. She cradled his body, hugging him tightly, impaling herself with his thorns to atone. 

Nahoko entered a long period of deep depression, disappearing for many years in mountain caves, until she finally could bear to forgive herself enough to see the light again. She saw a different world from before, full of industrial life, urban cities, and peace. Youkai like her were now considered not real.

After this, she simply became a vagabond, going where she pleases, doing as she pleases. Her boisterous nature returned to her, but she was a changed person, and much more mild and civilized than before.

The “curse” of her left leg is indeed the seed of the Onmyouji that hit her, causing a thorny vine to have embedded itself inside her leg, coiling her leg bone. Her unnaturally high magic resistance kept the vine localized entirely to her left leg, but her immense guilt prevented her from removing it, and now, she couldn’t do so even if she tried.

Nahoko is bisexual.

Astrael’s job offer looked like something to kill time with, as well as a way to start making amends for playing with the man’s feelings, so she took it, believing that she has a duty to help others get the warm and loving future she denied the man and herself of.

Nahoko’s specialty lies illusion magic. Aside from her shape-shifting abilities and immense strength that come with being an Oni, she’s always had a knack for illusions, a rarity among Oni. This is how she turns into the ghoulish Oni beast of Lovermaker Park, and how she disguises a regular branch into the Branch of Amenonuhoko. She’s also the one that spread the rumors of Lovermaker Park prior to Coincidence, shapeshifting into several different people to gossip about it in Meguro. Lastly, she’s the one that came up with the “oddly colored bench” idea, as, in her own words, “a landmark or some weird shit of some sort, not too mystic, just out there enough, hooks kiddos into rumors somethin’ fierce!”. Astrael liked the idea, so they went with it.

Nahoko loves handicrafts and is a hobbyist carpenter. She likes to carve geta clogs in particular.

Nahoko has always been eccentric when it comes to fashion; her mix-and-match wardrobe, tacky warpaint, bells, bones, feathered glove, and on-and-off sarashi mix isn’t an Oni thing, she just enjoys dressing weirdly.

Actually a really good singer and loves karaoke.

Aimi

Aimi is actually the around same age as Michiko, not a Kitsune pretending to be a high school girl. Aimi is 18.

Aimi is originally from Kyushu, but her family moved to Tokyo when she was younger.

Aimi is a Yako, or Nogitsune, a specific kind of Kitsune that is known to be malicious, cruel, and harmful to humans. She comes from a long line of Nogitsune, and her family is practically Youkai nobility. She’s the eldest daughter of the current generation.

She can go toe to toe with an old Oni like Nahoko because of her raw power and potential as part of a powerful and ancient family of Nogitsune. Her specialty is spontaneous combustion.

She met Michiko when she was 13  and Michiko was 12. As stated in Coincidence, she wanted to lead her to her death, as a Nogitsune does, but she grew to genuinely like, and then love, Michiko.

Her bond with Michiko has led her to reconsider a lot of things as a Nogitsune with such grand pedigree. This has led to many fights with her family, and at some point, there was even talk of offing Michiko so Aimi would stop with this nonsense. Aimi made it clear that if anything happened to Michiko, she’d bring an era of torment to their household and end the lineage’s prosperity as Youkai with her own hands. They relented.

She’s a troublemaker and a problem child. Aimi gets in trouble practically all the time, and is seen as a loose cannon that not even delinquents mess with. Teachers, fellow students, random passerbys, her own family,  no one is safe from her pranks, no one, except Michiko, her steadfast companion in mischief, and Michiko’s family. She does prank Michiko and her folks here and there, but it’s always magnitudes more lenient than her usual, malicious pranks. Nogitsune are just like that.

Actually very intelligent. She gets some of the best grades in her class.

Not only does she get along very well with Michiko, her best friend and girlfriend, she also gets along swimmingly with Michiko’s parents and Michiko’s older brother. They love it when she comes to visit.

She loves techno, 90s rock, industrial metal, and future funk. She does not like enka.

Aimi loves accessories and has a bunch of them. She’s very stylish and knows she is beautiful, so she tries to keep up with fashion to look good. She doesn’t enjoy wearing traditional clothes too much, preferring modern and more urban trends.

Aimi is pretty good with technology, in stark contrast with her traditionalist home and its denizens. She plays a couple time sink mobile games and loves making silly ASCII art in her free time, which she sends to Michiko.

In Michiko’s own words, “Aimi is the kind of girl that takes silly photos of stuff and launches them your way at 4:30 AM with a funny caption”. This is entirely true and she does this very, very frequently to Michiko and her older brother both.

Michiko

Michiko is 17 years old and comes from a middle class family.

She’s always lived in Meguro, Tokyo.

Michiko is a completely regular and ordinary human form the new era, who prior to the events of Lovermaker Park in Coincidence, did not know about the supernatural.

Her first friend that isn’t her brother was Aimi. She used to be a quiet and very shy person until she met Aimi. After that, she’s been much more outgoing and outspoken. Her family loves this, but also laments the fact that she now gets in trouble practically all the time thanks to Aimi.

Her brother’s name is Kenta (23). They’ve always gotten along really well, and Kenta is also friends with Aimi. Kenta practically adores Aimi because his precious kid sister has only been smiles and joy since they became friends.

Michiko’s parent’s, ‘Auntie’ and ‘Uncle’, are a hard working couple of loving parents. They sometimes lament that they work too much and haven’t been able to truly be there for Michiko as much as they should, hence why she used to be quite and very shy, but since Aimi came into Michiko’s life, they’ve relaxed a bit in this regard. They love Aimi like their own child due to her positive effect on Michiko.

Michiko used to be bullied. Aimi put a stop to that with her own hands, but Michiko didn’t come to realize this until years later.

Gets average grades, Aimi helps her study.

Surprisingly athletic, despite her appearance. She’s only realized this recently, when Aimi remarked that it was actually kind of incredible how she could keep up with her when running away from teachers, jumping out of windows, and in general getting in trouble.

She likes wide frame glasses because they are tough. She hates having to wear glasses, however, because she always ends up touching them with her fingers by accident and she hates having fingerprints on them. In her own words, “this happens to me at least 93 times each day and I want to drink napalm each and every single time”.

Loves video games. Her favorite genres are shmups and fighting games.

Her favorite styles of music are techno and 90s rock. She’s the one that introduced 90s rock to Aimi, and in turn, Aimi introduced her to techno. She also loves video game OSTs.

She used to dress very plainly, but now she tries to accessorize more so she doesn’t look too plain next to the natural beauty and great fashion sense of her best friend and girlfriend. Aimi loves dressing her up.

Actually quite cunning sometimes. She loves the expressions of people when they realize they’ve been bamboozled by her. Michiko never really does mean pranks like Aimi does when she’s by herself, but she HAS helped Aimi take her pranks to the next level of nasty by chiming in ideas, especially if it involves teachers she doesn’t like.

After Coincidence, she requested for Aimi to let her touch her ears, to which she accepted. She immediately bit an ear lightly instead of using her hands, prompting a very cute and startled yelp from the fox girl. She was summarily executed via tickling for this crime.

[marilynngmesalo]

JONESTOWN SURVIVORS: Where they are 40 years later

JONESTOWN SURVIVORS: Where they are 40 years later JONESTOWN SURVIVORS: Where they are 40 years later https://ift.tt/2B5ReKt

WARNING: GRAPHIC IMAGES

OAKLAND, Calif. — Jonestown was the highlight of Mike Touchette’s life — for a time.

The 21-year-old Indiana native felt pride pioneering in the distant jungle of Guyana, South America. As a self-taught bulldozer operator, he worked alongside other Peoples Temple members in the humid heat, his blade carving roads and sites for wooden buildings with metal roofs. More than 900 people lived in the agricultural mission, with its dining pavilion, tidy cottages, school, medical facilities and rows of crops.

“We built a community out of nothing in four years,” recalled Touchette, now a 65-year-old grandfather who has worked for a Miami hydraulics company for nearly 30 years. “Being in Jonestown before Jim got there was the best thing in my life.”

JONESTOWN 40 YEARS LATER: Mass suicide shocked world

Amanda Knox to host new true crime podcast: 'I tend not to be a fan of the genre'

Jim was the Rev. Jim Jones — charismatic, volatile and ultimately evil. It was he who dreamed up Jonestown, he who willed it into being, and he who brought it down: First, with the assassination of U.S. Rep. Leo Ryan and four others by temple members on a nearby airstrip on Nov. 18, 1978, then with the mass murders and suicides of hundreds, a horror that remains nearly unimaginable 40 years later.

FILE – This November 1978 file photo shows the bodies of Peoples Temple mass suicide victims led by Jim Jones in Jonestown, Guyana. Dozens of Peoples Temple members in Guyana survived the mass suicides and murders of more than 900 because they had slipped out of Jonestown or happened to be away Nov. 18, 1978. Those raised in the temple or who joined as teens lost the only life they knew. They have journeyed over the past 40 years through grief over lost loved ones, feeling like pariahs, building new lives and, finally, acknowledging that many had a role in enabling the Rev. Jim Jones to seize control over his followers. (AP Photo/File)

But some lived. Dozens of members in Guyana slipped out of Jonestown or happened to be away that day. Plunged into a new world, those raised in the temple or who joined as teens lost the only life they knew: church, jobs, housing — and most of all, family and friends.

Over four decades, as they have built new lives, they have struggled with grief and the feeling that they were pariahs. Some have come to acknowledge that they helped enable Jim Jones to seize control over people drawn to his interracial church, socialist preaching and religious hucksterism.

With their lives, the story of Jonestown continues, even now.

CHILD OF BERKELEY

Jordan Vilchez’s parents were Berkeley progressives in the 1960s — her father African-American, her mother Scotch-Irish. They divorced when Jordan was 6.

When a friend invited her family to Peoples Temple’s wine country church, they were impressed by the integrated community. And when her 23-year-old sister joined, Jordan went to live with her at age 12.

“The temple really became my family,” she said.

Devotion to its ideals bolstered her self-worth. At 16, she was put on the Planning Commission where the meetings were a strange mix of church business, sex talk — and adulation for Jones. “What we were calling the cause really was Jim,” she said.

Instead of finishing high school, Vilchez moved to San Francisco, where she lived in the church. Then, after a 1977 New West magazine expose of temple disciplinary beatings and other abuses, she was sent to Jonestown.

Grueling field work was not to her liking. Neither were the White Nights where everyone stayed up, armed with machetes to fight enemies who never arrived.

Vilchez was dispatched to the Guyanan capital of Georgetown to raise money. On Nov. 18 she was at the temple house when a fanatical Jones aide received a dire radio message from Jonestown. The murders and suicides were unfolding, 150 miles away.

In this March 5, 2018 photo released by Kevin Kunishi, Jordan Vilchez sits at memorial for mass murder and suicide victims at the Jonestown settlement in Guyana. Vilchez returned to Jonestown for the first time in 40 years. (Kevin Kunishi via AP) ORG XMIT: FX412

“She gives us the order that were supposed to kill ourselves,” Vilchez recalled.

Within minutes, the aide and her three children lay dead in a bloody bathroom, their throats slit.

For years, Vilchez was ashamed of the part he played in an idealistic group that imploded so terribly. “Everyone participated in it and because of that, it went as far as it did,” she said.

Vilchez worked as office manager at a private crime lab for 20 years and now, at 61, sells her artwork.

This past year, she returned to long-overgrown Jonestown. Where the machine shop once stood, there was only rusty equipment. And she could only sense the site of the pavilion, the once-vibrant centre of Jonestown life where so many died — including her two sisters and two nephews.

“When I left at 21, I left a part of myself there,” she said. “I was going back to retrieve that young person and also to say goodbye.”

THE JONES FIRSTBORN

Though he waved and smiled at Peoples Temple services, seemingly enraptured like the rest, Stephan Gandhi Jones says he always had his doubts.

“This is really crazy,” he recalls thinking.

But Stephan was the biological son of Jim and Marceline Jones. And the temple was his life — first in Indiana, later in California.

“So much was attractive and unique that we turned a blind eye on what was wrong,” he said, including his father’s sexual excesses, drug abuse and rants.

As a San Francisco high school student, he was dispatched to help build Jonestown. It would become a little town where people of all ages and colours raised food and children.

Stephan helped erect a basketball court and form a team. In the days before Ryan’s fact-finding mission to the settlement, the players were in Georgetown for a tourney with the Guyana national teams.

Rebelling, they refused Jones’ order to come back. Stephan believed he was too cowardly to follow through with the oft-threatened “revolutionary suicide.”

FILE – In this Nov. 13, 2008 file photo, Stephan Jones, son of Rev. Jim Jones of the Peoples Temple, poses for a portrait near San Rafael, Calif. Dozens of Peoples Temple members in Guyana survived the mass suicides and murders of more than 900 because they had slipped out of Jonestown or happened to be away Nov. 18, 1978. Those raised in the temple or who joined as teens lost the only life they knew. Now, Stephan Jones is father of three daughters, ages 16, 25 and 29, and works in the office furniture installation business. He says his daughters have seen him gnash his teeth when he talks about his father, but they also have heard him speak lovingly of the man who taught him compassion and other virtues.

But after temple gunmen killed the congressman, three newsmen and a church defector on the Port Kaituma airstrip, Jones ordered a poisoned grape-flavoured drink administered to children first. That way no one else would want to live.

Stephan Jones and some other team members believe they might have changed history if they were there. “The reality was we were folks who could be counted on to stand up,” he said. “There is no way we would be shooting at the airstrip. That’s what triggered it.”

He went through years of nightmares, mourning and shame. To cope, he says he abused drugs and exercised obsessively. “I focused my rage on Dad and his circle, rather than deal with me,” he said.

More than 300 Jonestown victims were children. Now, Stephan Jones is father of three daughters, ages 16, 25 and 29, and works in the office furniture installation business.

He says his daughters have seen him gnash his teeth when he talks about his father, but they also have heard him speak lovingly of the man who taught him compassion and other virtues.

“People ask, ‘How can you ever be proud of your father?”‘ he said. “I just have to love him and forgive him.”

//<![CDATA[ ( function() { pnLoadVideo( "videos", "JNNUHERrdjY", "pn_video_56559", "", "", {"controls":1,"autoplay":0,"is_mobile":""} ); } )(); //]]>

NINTH GRADER FROM FRESNO

Eugene Smith recalls how his mother, a churchgoing African-American, bought into Jim Jones’ dream after they attended a service in Fresno. She gave her house to the Peoples Temple and they moved to San Francisco.

He was 18 and running a temple construction crew when the church sanctioned his marriage to a talented 16-year-old singer, Ollie Wideman. After Ollie became pregnant, she was sent to Jonestown; Eugene remained behind.

When Smith reunited with his mother and wife in Jonestown, Ollie was 8 1/2 months pregnant.

The reunion with Jones was not as joyous. Jones berated three other new arrivals for misbehaviour on the trip; they were beaten and forced to work 24 hours straight.

“He made a promise — once we get to Jonestown there is no corporal punishment,” Smith said. “In an hour, that promise was broken.”

In this photo taken Monday, Oct. 22, 2018, former Peoples Temple member Eugene Smith poses for a photo in a park in San Francisco. Dozens of Peoples Temple members in Guyana survived the mass suicides and murders of more than 900 because they had slipped out of Jonestown or happened to be away Nov. 18, 1978. Smith recalls how his mother, a churchgoing African-American, bought into Jim Jones’ dream when he opened a new church in Fresno. She gave her house to the Peoples Temple and they moved to San Francisco, where Eugene ran a temple construction crew. He was just 14.

Life became more tolerable after the couple’s baby, Martin Luther Smith, was born. Ollie worked in the nursery, and Eugene felled trees. But he said his discontent festered.

When he was ordered to Georgetown to help with supply shipments, Smith said he concocted an escape plan: Ollie and other temple singers and dancers, he believed, would soon be sent to Georgetown to perform, and the family would flee to the U.S. Embassy.

But the entertainers stayed in Jonestown to entertain Ryan. And Smith’s wife, son and mother died.

“All I could do is weep,” he said.

After more than 22 years at California’s transportation department, Smith retired in 2015. He’s 61 now. He’s never remarried, and Martin Luther Smith was his only child.

BORN INTO TEMPLE FAMILY

When John Cobb was born in 1960 in a black section of Indianapolis, his mother and older siblings already were temple members. But in 1973, John’s oldest brother and a sister, along with six other California college students, quit the church and became its enemies. When the prodigals visited, the Cobbs kept it secret from Jones.

John was attending a San Francisco high school when he was allowed to join his best friends in Jonestown. There, as part of Jones’ personal security detail, Cobb saw the once captivating minister strung out on drugs, afraid to venture anywhere for fear of his legal problems.

In this Nov. 5, 2018 photo, John Cobb poses for a portrait at the the Jonestown Memorial at Evergreen Cemetery in Oakland, Calif. John was attending a San Francisco high school when he was allowed to join his best friends in Jonestown. There, as part of Jones’ personal security detail, Cobb saw the once captivating minister strung out on drugs, afraid to venture anywhere for fear of his legal problems.

“If anything, we felt pity for him,” he said, “and it grew into a dislike, maybe hate.”

He too was a member of the basketball team. His biggest regrets revolve around the team’s refusal to return to Jonestown. “I believe 100 per cent that not everyone would have been dead,” he said.

Cobb lost 11 relatives that day, including his mother, youngest brother and four sisters.

Now 58, he owns a modular office furniture business in the East Bay and is married with a daughter. 29. One day, when she was in high school, she came home and told her parents that her religion class had discussed Peoples Temple; only then did her father share the story of how his family was nearly wiped out.

She wept.

JONESES’ ADOPTED BLACK SON

The Joneses adopted a black baby in Indiana in 1960, and Jim gave the 10-week-old infant his own name. “Little Jimmy” became part of their “Rainbow Family” of white, black, Korean-American and Native American children.

In California, he was steeped in temple life. Those who broke rules were disciplined. At first it was spanking of children. Then it was boxing matches for adults.

“To me the ends justified the means,” he said. “We were trying to build a new world, a progressive socialist organization.”

The church provided free drug rehabilitation, medical care, food. It marched for four jailed Fresno newsmen. When Jim Sr., a local Democratic Party darling, met with future first lady Rosalyn Carter, Jim Jr. proudly went along.

After the temple exodus to Guyana, he was given a public relations post in Georgetown — and was part of the basketball team.

He was summoned to the temple radio room. In code, his father told him everyone was going to die in “revolutionary suicide.”

“I argued with my Dad,” he said. “I said there must be another way.”

FILE – This November 1978 file photo shows the Peoples Temple compound, led by Jim Jones, after bodies were removed, in Jonestown, Guyana. Dozens of Peoples Temple members in Guyana survived the mass suicides and murders of more than 900 because they had slipped out of Jonestown or happened to be away Nov. 18, 1978. Those raised in the temple or who joined as teens lost the only life they knew. (AP Photo/File) ORG XMIT: FX403

Jim Jr. would lose 15 immediate relatives in Jonestown, including his pregnant wife, Yvette Muldrow.

In the aftermath, he built a new life. He remarried three decades ago, and he and his wife Erin raised three sons. He converted to Catholicism and registered Republican. He built a long career in health care, while weathering his own serious health problems.

Of course, even if he wanted to forget Jonestown, his name was an ever-present reminder.

He has taken a lead role in a 40th Jonestown anniversary memorial to be held Sunday at Oakland’s Evergreen Cemetery, where remains of unclaimed and unidentified victims are buried. Four granite slabs are etched with names of the 918 people who died in Guyana– including James Warren Jones, which deeply offends some whose relatives perished.

“Like everyone else, he died there,” his son said. “I’m not saying he didn’t cause it, create it. He did.”

——

Tim Reiterman, AP environment team editor, covered Jonestown for the San Francisco Examiner and was wounded when temple members fired on Rep. Leo Ryan’s party in 1978. He is the author with the late John Jacobs of “Raven: The Untold Story of the Rev. Jim Jones and His People.”

//<![CDATA[ ( function() { pnLoadVideo( "videos", "945HEp8YXic", "pn_video_136492", "", "", {"controls":1,"autoplay":0,"is_mobile":""} ); } )(); //]]> Click for update news Bangla news https://ift.tt/2B6JV5D world news

[theliterateape]

American Shithole #10 — Sports and Politics

By Eric Wilson

I don’t know how I am supposed to treat Trump supporters anymore.

I can’t even bring myself to talk about hoops with an old friend — because he supports this bucket of turds we have for a president —when all I really want to do is grind his shitty conservative ideas and dangerous religious beliefs into the fairy dust from whence they came.

Basketball and politics dominated this past strange weekend, beginning with more crazy in the already looniest NCAA Men's Division I tournament ever, and ending with the tropical Stormy Daniels deluge into an already filthy Washington D.C.  

We witnessed Loyola’s improbable run to the Final Four, with their chaplain, the adorable 98-year-old Sister Jean leading the charge. Look at how adorable she is! It almost makes me forget how much I despise organized religion! Almost! Still love you, Jean!

Then America tuned in as an adult film actress told her horror story about the terrible sex she had with a soft, foppish, sexagenarian man-child that would somehow years later, fail upward to the presidency.

This is a horror story people, it was a dark and stormy Daniels telling her frightening tale, with America gathered around the campfire. Yet, it’s a horror story being told while the forest is burning down around us. Relevant only as it speaks to character, and the shitty way women are treated by men of power.

Even the venerable news program, Sixty Minutes, focused on both politics and basketball this past Sunday, offering up the much-anticipated aforementioned porn star confessional, followed by a feature on Giannis Antetokounmpo — the NBA player who is accomplishing things on the court that no one has ever seen before.

It is strange to me, but telling, that we value these two stories similarly enough that they would share equal time in an hour long news program. Presidential sex scandal, unparalleled in American history. New guy, that can possibly bounce a ball slightly better than anyone that has ever bounced a ball before him. 50/50.

I used to think that sports talk offered the best, safe haven for conversation in politically mixed company. It serves as an icebreaker, or an easy way to pass a short amount of time. Now I just think it’s where the largely silent, sane by comparison, wholly embarrassed, old school republicans have been hiding out in shame.

I was a casual sports fan in my younger days. I spent my teens in the Chicago suburbs in the early eighties, where kids didn’t have a lot to do or talk about — so we watched the Bears, and talked about them. My friend, Pete B., lived across the street, and his family really loved the Blackhawks, and we would talk about the team while we played schlock hockey in his family room on game nights.

I also played soccer in high school, as well as on various park district and traveling teams in junior high. I was forced into organized sports by my mother’s second husband — Wayne — and I’m grateful for it. I don’t know if I ever thanked Wayne personally, they divorced when I left for college, and I haven’t seen him since.

One of my favorite soccer memories is from an away game on the traveling team. The right-wing crossed the ball from the corner over the front of the goal, near the other side of the field. Hell of a kick for a 12-year-old. The goalie came out, but the ball was just out in front of me — too far for a header, and what should have been too high for a kick. I somehow managed a sideways, in air, lofted, arcing shot over the keeper.

As I ran back to my team, I had to run by the opposing fans, and they had this look of awe and respect. And they were quiet, it was kind of weird. Coach said in the huddle, “now that is how you score a goal.”

It was an amazing feeling — not just that moment, but many of the moments competing, and I cherish them, and I thank you Wayne, for making me play some sort of organized sport. You made an effort with an awkward boy you didn’t understand, and that should be commended.

Also, I once stole two of your three cases of shitty Olympia beer for a party sophomore year, and you never noticed — probably because you were an idiot.

In fairness to Wayne, he was not equipped to deal with the level of dork I was bringing to the table. If I could have avoided all lifeforms until college, and just hibernated in my own private nerdery with my Vonnegut books and my Dungeons and Dragons miniatures, I would have.

I left for Syracuse University after high school, and the Carrier Dome was my first experience with Division I NCAA men’s basketball. Going to your first college basketball game at the Carrier Dome is a bit like going to your first bonfire at Burning Man. 35.000 fans at a basketball game is unheard of outside a precious few programs. I loved it so much I got a brother from the engineering fraternity to get me a job in the hot dog room, just so I could watch games for free.

To this day, I get angry watching Syracuse players miss free-throws. I get it, sports can be awesome. I understand that organized sports can be a character building experience that instills the importance of teamwork. Sports require discipline, and competition teaches some truths.

But do we really need to value professional sports to the degree in which we do? I know it’s a tired gripe from the left, but it feels a bit barbaric to me that we still worship sports like football and boxing in the 21st century. Post-Trump republicans do not deserve a safe place to hide. Besides, I want to be a member of a society that overvalues benevolent scientists and misunderstood bloggers that need more hugs.

I used to spend a great deal of time back in Chicago in the 90's with my friend Scott E., a huge sports fan, whom I had met as a player on an opposing team in the APA — a national pool league a bunch of friends and I played in once a week. We stole him for our team that season.

I haven’t seen him much in the last twenty years, but Scott is one of my few friends I still have contact with that voted for Trump. He is also the one I am angriest with, and the one I feel most betrayed by, for his continued support of a lying, stupid, sack of filthy shit.

I had written a scathing rebuke a day after the election back in 2016 focusing on my friend Scott, which I shared in a private group for feedback purposes. Literate Ape editor, Don Hall, had recently been invited to this group, and he might even remember this particular screed of mine, as it was dripping with vitriol. He was also a minority voice supporting the posting of that piece. Those who also knew Scott advised restraint.

My attitude has changed a lot over the past year, so in retrospect, perhaps my decision was for the best.

In the end, I never made that particular piece public, and with the exception of my near daily frustrated statements about this administration, my friend never received a message from me expressing my anger with him personally.

I hadn’t heard from Scott in a while, but he responded a few days ago to a rare sports related post of mine on social media, which prompted me to write this week’s column.

Again, I am faced with a situation where I am not really sure where I stand. I have been back and forth over the last year and some months, on how I should treat people that still support Trump, friend or not. I was so angry — I still am — but my anger is different now; more focused on efforts for change, less on retribution.

I don’t know how to talk to Trump supporters any more, even an old friend responding to my innocuous post about the craziness of this year’s NCAA tournament. I do know this though; I’m done with this lodestone of rage consuming me. I must remember to begin from a place of empathy. If I cannot, how can I expect others to do so?

So I find myself ruminating lately on how best to navigate our friendships, relationships, and online contacts in a post-Trump world. What framework do we have, what precedent is there to guide us? I want to affect positive change, so I want to stay engaged, but I have no idea how to connect with these people — via sports or otherwise — that appear to me, to be completely cut off from reality.

Shared interest in a sports team is a great way for two disparate people to find common ground. In America, many fathers and sons have relied on this fact for more than a century. At the end of the day though, it’s still a bunch of folks playing bouncy ball, or batty ball, or kicky ball, or throw that ball, and I’m not going to make small talk about sports with you, just to save you the embarrassment of defending your shitty ideas about the current state of American politics.

Which sort of leaves me back where I started. 

How have you been dealing with the Trump supporters in your lives?

B.S. Report

I think we all knew the March for Our Lives demonstrations across this country this past Saturday were going to be massive, but the turnout exceeded expectations. Those attending in Washington D.C. staged the largest protest gathering since the Vietnam War. I think the past month has shown us things are different. This is something new. This is not going away.

[coffeeshopreads]

When Ellis Earnshaw and Heathan James met as children, they couldn’t have been more different. Ellis was loud and beautiful – all blond hair, bright laughs and smiles. Heathan was dark and brooding, and obsessed with watching things die.

The pair forged an unlikely friendship, unique and strange. Until they were ripped apart by the sick cruelty of others, separated for years, both locked in a perpetual hell.

Eleven years later, Heathan is back for his girl. Back from a place from which he thought there was no return. Back to seek revenge on those who wronged them.

Time has made Heathan’s soul darker, polluted with hatred and the thirst for blood.

Time has made Ellis a shell of her former self, a little girl lost in the vastness of her pain.

As Heathan pulls Ellis out of her mental prison, reviving the essence of who she once was, down the rabbit hole they will go.

With malice in their hearts and vengeance in their veins, they will seek out the ones who hurt and destroyed them.

One at a time.

Each one more deadly than the last.

Tick Tock. Dark Contemporary Romance. Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, disturbingly sensitive and taboo subjects, offensive language and very mature topics. Recommended for ages 18 and over.

Please note : this is excerpt is unedited and subject to change.

I placed the foot of my cane on the floor and looked to the left. The sound of light breathing came from around the corner. I made to move, but my heart slammed into a fast beat, stopping my feet in their tracks. My nostrils flared as I closed my eyes and tried to suck in deep breaths. I never did this, never had this kind of reaction to anything. Not in eleven years. Not when I was trapped in darkness. Not even when the guards came to “meet the young kid.” Not when we got out—bloodily, savagely, darkly. Especially not when my knife plunged into the guards’ hearts and I watched the life fade from their eyes, the pure fascination of losing one’s life essence occupying my mind.But this was Dolly. The only person I’d ever given a shit about.A slick tar pumped through my black heart as I thought of her. She was the blood that gave me life.I had no idea what state I would find her in. Whether or not her fragile mind had been destroyed. Whether or not her glass heart had been shattered. No hope of salvation.I had no idea if my only reason for living could be saved. I shook with venomous anger when I let my mind imagine the hell those sadistic cunts would have put her through in my absence. But Chapel’s words rang in my ears . . . Unleash the anger only on those who deserve it. Let it build within your heart like a well swelling with water . . . then unleash hell on those who took your freedom.Opening my eyes, I breathed through my rage and silently rounded the corner . . . I stopped. There she was, sitting in a chair. I sucked in a breath and heard it rattle in my ears. Her hair. Her hair was pulled back into a long braid, the woven strands falling to her lower back. And she was dressed in black. Long, baggy sleeves covered her arms.Motherfucking black. Dolly didn’t belong in black. Only color. Blue and white and gold and motherfucking pink.I edged around the perimeter of the room until I faced her. My heart tore down the center and I had to hold back a loud snarl when I saw her curled up on the seat, a thick blanket over her thin legs and waist as she stared lifelessly out of the window. The window that overlooked the once-manicured lawns, now nothing but high-reaching weeds and too-bushy trees. I looked across at what she was watching, in the direction of what held her so captivated.My heart was severed completely, the two parts of its flesh repelling the other, trying to escape the rage and pain and fucking consuming darkness.She was staring at the spot where we used to play as kids. Where she had found me all those years ago, ripping the colorful butterfly apart in my hands. I moved into her line of sight, but her blue eyes didn’t lift to meet mine, just stared through me as though I wasn’t even there. I crouched down and studied her face. Porcelain skin. Full lips. Fucking perfection.But there was no life left in her.I had never felt fear before, but I imagined the sinking hole I felt dropping in my stomach was something like it. A sinking feeling that Dolly had gone to a place from which there was no escape, a prisoner in her own mind.Fragility consumed.“Dolly darlin,’” I rasped, my voice fucking breaking.Twenty-one. She was twenty-one and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.Perfection.My living doll.A strand of hair lay over her face. My fingers clenched and unclenched as I tried to force myself to touch her. But I couldn’t. I hadn’t touched or been touched in years. I didn’t know how to anymore. Allergic to human affection. Repulsed by the degrading feeling of touch.I . . . I . . . I couldn’t.As I opened my mouth to speak to Dolly again, a loud gasp sailed through the air behind her. I straightened, gripping my cane, to see a familiar old face appear. I watched, the sinking hole quickly replaced by dark satisfaction as the blood drained from her face. “Good Lord,” she whispered as I smoothed down my black cravat and vest.I glared at the bitch. Leaning casually on my cane, I said, “More like Lucifer, I would think.” I nodded in her direction “To you, anyhow.”Mrs. Jenkins swallowed and tried to back out of the room. “Ah-ah,” I tutted and shook my head. She immediately stilled, eyes fixed on mine.“He . . . Heathan James . . . it’s . . . it’s not possible . . .” she stammered and ran her eyes over me. Every inch of me.“Rabbit.” The bitch flinched at my correction. “I am Rabbit. The motherfucking White Rabbit. So never fucking utter that peasant name to me again.”Her skin paled, and her eyes fell to Dolly sitting on the chair. Dolly still hadn’t moved. I shifted my grip on the box I had brought inside, about to hold it out to Mrs. Jenkins when she asked, “How are you here?”I threw the box across the room. It landed right at her feet. “Dress her.”“Wh-what?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.I pointed to the box at her feet. “Dress her. It wasn’t a request.” Mrs. Jenkins shook as she picked up the box and moved to where Dolly sat. Dolly didn’t look at her either. Mrs. Jenkins opened the lid of the box and gasped again.Her old, wrinkled eyes snapped up to mine. “No—”Before she had even finished the sentence, I had reached into my pocket and pulled out my knife. I ran the flat side of the blade down my cheek. Slowly. Controlled. Watching her terrified gaze track my every move. “You’d best do as I ask, Mrs. Jenkins. My patience and tolerance for you appear to be at an all-time low.”

Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.

Author Links

Web  Facebook  Twitter   Instagram  Amazon  Goodreads