#also shout out to nightmare nation i hope we get good rest soon!!!!!

[adhdandcomics]

shout out to my folks with insomnia & depression & delayed sleep phase disorder & sleep apnea & disabilities & other sleep disorders diagnosed, undiagnosed, and just my plain old night owls & night shift workers!! we r so fucking cool & exist every day in a society not made for us at all. and NONE of us are lazy bums or bad people for staying up late & sleeping in till noon or two or whatever whenever you get up!! no matter what anyone says!! you’re incredible and i love you!!!

[bokutoisbestowl]

Fem!S/O Volleyball Player gets injured in her match: Tsukishima and Kageyama

Thank you so much for the request!! I hope you’re feeling better since when we last talked and that this can cheer you up!! Also would just like to remind people that my Request’s are open and I’m happy to take them for the following schools: Karasuno, Aoba Johsai, Nekoma, Fukurodani and Shriatorizawa. If you want to request for other characters (for example Aone or the Miya twins) then don’t be afraid to ask!!

**Also, sorry if the boys seem a bit OOC!!**

Tsukishima 

You were a transfer student, coming to Karasuno in Tsukishima's second year (you also being a second year).

Known for being one of the top liberos in the prefecture, everyone was shocked when you went to the school with one of the worst girls volleyball team

It's a total and utter surprise, everyone knows the girls team isn't as motivated or determined as the boys team but hopefully, you would bring a new personality to the team

And you definitely did

The school soon learnt of your position and skill set and you were immediately put on the starting line and soon enough the girls were looking at nationals

It didn't happen just because you were there though. You certainly added confidence to the team, afterall a libero's job is to keep the ball up. The team have complete faith in you and if it weren't for the rule that Liberos can't be captains, you would have been nominated in your third year

But instead you helped the captain be the foundation and the rest of the team put in the effort

They started coming to morning practices and were almost as late as the boys after school, which was great because you could then walk home with your boyfriend

You and Tsukishima had met when Noya heard the rumours of the girls new libero back when he was  third year. Of course he used his superiority as an excuse to go check them out. 

so they boys sat in on the girls practice and were shocked at how much they’d changed, with stronger attacks and more focus on defence - they were soon going to be joining the boys club in level of skill

Tsukishima was completely taken back by your level of concentration and love for the game, watching how you’d chase after even the most difficult shots

You two bonded after a few co-ed practice sessions, you would save the balls that he would block and that turned into one big playful friendship which eventually led to dates and a relationship

You two would support each other in and off the court, thankfully some of the games didn't line up so you could watch a few of his games and visa versa. 

Currently, he was stood in the stands, watching the last game before Nationals, YOUR last chance at Nationals.

tensions were obviously high in the air, Tsukishima watched as your entire team pushed for every last point trying to push ahead

only one more point 

one more point and the Karasuno Girls Volleyball Club would be going to nationals for the first time in years,

This led to what Tsukishima thought of as one of his worst nightmares.

You watched as the ball was spiked across the court, eyes following it as you ran full speed trying to keep up. without thinking you dives, arm up in the air to force the ball back to your team, colliding with a courtside table in the process

you felt the pain of losing that point before the pain of the actual fall. The ball had been set spiked and blocked before you even got up from your position on the floor. 

you shrugged it off, sending a nod to your coach who sat apprehensively on the side. she’d ran out of time outs, so with you playing ahead, she couldn’t stop the match

but you played on, ignored the ache in the back of your head, trying to focus on the ball but your sigh as getting blurry, breathes becoming laboured as the ball hits the ground on your side. 

in a great show of sportsmanship, however, the opposing teams coach stands and calls for a time out, effectively breaking the momentum her team had just received.

almost immediately, your team surrounded you and guided you back to the coach, who walked you to the infirmary, staying with put until she heard that you had narrowly avoided a concussion but still needed to rest. 

knowing you were in good hands, the coach left, not surprised to see Tsukishima waiting outside. before the tall boy could even speak, the coach smiles

“She’s fine. She just missed having a concussion but the nurse is going to keep an eye on her for a few hours. You can go in but make sure she rests eventually okay?”

Tsukishima simply nodded, quietly stepping into the room and explaining to the nurse that the coach had allowed him in. You looked up at him and sighed slightly, knowing that you were going to receive some sort of lecture for your actions

“Tsuki-”

“No y/n. What the hell were you thinking? Chasing after the ball like that? I know its an important game, but at least look where your going! You’re lucky that the table didn't crush you! And playing on even when you knew you were in pain?! Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

As he had been talking, his voice gradually got louder and louder, resulting in the nurse clearing her throat and sending him a stern look. You both apologised before Tsuki sat on the chair beside the cot you sat on. Shaking his head he grabs you hand, seeing you shake silently.

he hadn’t noticed you were crying until he saw the tear drops on the blankets, your quiet sniffles breaking the silence.

“Y/n-”

“I’m sorry... I thought... the girls had worked so hard... I just wanted to go to nationals... I went in first year but these girls... they deserve to know what it feels like Tsuki! I got ahead of myself... I’m sorry Kei...”

Tsukishima hugs you immediately, feeling bad for shouting at you. of course he knew your intentions were good, he just wished you’d think things through sometimes. but then you wouldn’t be.... you. Your passion for the game is what entranced him in the first place

pulling back, he wipes your eyes gently and offers you one of his rare smiles, taking the ice from the nurse with a thank you before gently holding it to the back of your head

“I get it... me telling you off like that was uncalled for, especially when I did a similar thing in first year against Shiratorizawa. just... be careful next time okay?”

with a nod from you, the two of you sat in silence, with Tsukishima having moved his chair closer to sit beside you, intertwining your fingers with his free hand and wiping your eyes whenever they water again

“Does your head still hurt?”

“A little... but it’s getting better... thank you..”

The silence continued, though you had taken out your phone to watch random clips on Youtube, wanting to fill the silence with quiet noise as to not hurt your sensitive head any further. the two of you only looked up when Tsuki would lift your face gently to press small kisses to your temple or cheek. Never one for intense PDA

Suddenly coach walks in smiling happily, thankful that one of her start players were okay and happy that she had good news

“We won!”

Tsukishima couldn’t help but smile, watching as his girlfriends face brightens and the grin is soon back on her face

“Congratulations. now all you have to do is learn to look where your running.”

“Kei!”

Kageyama 

You two had known each other in middle school and just like Kageyama you were a prodigy setter, though it’s fair to say that your relationship with your seniors was a lot more healthy.

Unlike Kageyama, you had people skills. Which is why you two were close friends since childhood, that and you lived next to each other. Often times you would practice together, which meant that not only were you training with one of the best up and oming setters, you also had the personality of Sugawara/Oikawa to match. you were definitely a force to be reckoned with and everyone knew that

In first year, you weren’t put in the starting line up of the girls team, which you were surprisingly okay with. You knew the third years would want their time to shine and respected that

of course you wanted to play but you’d get your chance, for now you simply helped their current setter (which everyone found odd that a first year was helping and second year) with showing off the spikers skills

with this you ended up building a repore with the girls and soon they started to trust you and had no problem leaving. They had faith that their new starting line up would bring victory to the team after they left

In second year things went smoother, you were put on the starting line up and Kageyama eventually confessed

yes, he confessed to you in a that weird aggressive way when he asks for help

you had to laugh at him slightly, because he was normally so non-cholent around you that it was odd to see him so nervous 

you also had to admit that the blush on his face was CUTE

for a while things went on as normal, you would both go to your own clubs on the night/morning time and walk each other to and from school.

occasionally you would also walk with the boys team and Kags or who ever was buying would treat you to a meat bun because you’re part of the family now.

yes the family includes girlfriends.

it was all going well, until your passion and determination caused you to get injured.

you had been in the stands when Daichi got hurt back in his third year and had gotten worried for the captain, you knew incidents happened during games, you just didn’t think there would be a repeat of that situation involving you the year after

Kags was in the stand with Hinata, watching and supporting as his girlfriend helped lead her team to victory, making tactical decisions and celebrating each point with a high five and a smile to her teammates

honestly you were having the time of your life, and even though you were fighting for your last game, you were doing so for the third years. 

you were in a position where all you wanted was for the third years to see all the hard work they put into their practices be worth it

so when the fall came falling down marking the winning point for the opposing team, you dived for it

it didn’t matter if you couldn’t set, you knew someone else would be able to cover that for you

it was their last chance and you wanted to help make it count

unfortunately, so did the other players.

you collided with someone, you couldn’t exactly see who but the ball was in the air and spiked directly down on the opposing team in the confusion.

you could feel a hand on your shoulder, eyes opening to find you captain above you looking worried

“I’m fine, let’s keep playing.”

“Are you sure y/n?”

with a nod and a thumbs up to the coach, you were allowed to keep playing but you could feel the eyes of not only your coach but your boyfriend on you. All you had to do was make sure the next two sets were yours and no one elses

of course the other team wouldn’t let it go that easy

two sets turned into three and three into four and soon the pain in your head was too much. your sets weren’t lining up and your frustration made the pain even more unbearable. it got to the point however when you tasted the metallic of blood inside your mouth

without thinking, you cupped your mouth and spat out the blood, the taste getting too much and the umpire immediately calling your coach over

you rushed to the infirmary, tears already in your eyes as you looked to the floor, looking up only to see your boyfriend’s concerned, angry face and Hinata’s 

you looked down, avoiding his gaze before the door was shut and you were examined. it wasn’t your fault, accidents happen and you were sure your teammate felt just as bad. you’d have to make sure Kageyama didn’t try to shout at her - though you were sure he wouldn’t do something like that to a female senior, even when he gets hotheaded

Eventually, you were allowed to leave, the teams manager waiting outside with Kageyama and Hinata. After quickly thanking the nurse, you shut the door and were immediately pulls into a hug

“I was so worried you dumbass! What were you even thinking?! You wouldn’t have been able to set, you didn’t need to move y/n! You saw what happened to Daichi last year, this is what happens when theres a lack of communication!”

Hinata and your manager had tried to calm him down but were instead pushed aside, Hinata soon going to shout back at Kageyama before your sniffles stopped him. sensing this was a private moment, your manager pulls Hinata away, leaving you with your boyfriend

who had no idea what to do

you were full on crying in front of him and he just blinked before awkwardly hugging you and you were grateful for it, even if it seemed weird to passersby

“I just wanted the third years to win...” it was all you needed to say for Kags to nod and understand. Of course he understood that feeling, he had taken Sugawara’s place in his first year. Every game they won was another chance for his senior to play again.

he just wish you’d take care of yourself.

“I get it... I’m sorry for shouting at you like that-”

“It’s okay Kags... thank you for caring so much..”

that smile... just another reason why he fell in love with you. Quickly, he placed a kiss on your lips, blushing as he guided you back to the court, waiting for your team outside

“Aww Kags, are you blushing?”

“Shut it.”

●●●●

TAGLIST:

@xkokichiimaginesx @reinyrei

[miyanom]

PROLOGUE | READ CHAPTER ONE HERE

SOKKA X PRINCESS!READER

WARNINGS: Mentions of War and Death

NOTES: This is just the prologue to the series, set when Sokka and Y/N were 10 to when they’re 14 and Hakoda and the warriors had just left! Chapter one will be set in the first episode. I hope you all like this!

Living in the middle of a war against the Fire Nation, it had left a heavy weight on the Chief’s shoulders. Y/N was just a child, but she saw what protecting the entire Southern Water Tribe was doing to her father.

The Capital, which thrived before the war, had been largely abandoned. All that was standing was a small village now. But even the Royal family had left the capital, it was before Y/N’s time, before her parents' time even.

They lived further in the tundra, where waterbenders before them had constructed a small village and a palace, only those with a map or intense knowledge of the South Pole would be able to find their home.

With the decision to abandon the capital, smaller villages began to pop up all over the South Pole, in an attempt to preserve their culture. Apparently it was safer to be divided this way, rather than staying in the same place.

But it was a naive hope, and the Fire Nation had begun to raid the outer villages - capturing waterbenders. And as the years went on, the smaller villages were completely decimated. All that really stood was the old capital, and the new one.

From what Y/N could hear whenever she listened in on her father’s meetings, the Fire Nation had taken to killing Waterbenders - rather than just taking them prisoner.

As a waterbender, it struck fear in Y/N’s heart.

And while the ten year old would rather lock herself in her room and not come out till the ongoing threat was gone, her parents had other ideas. And before she knew it, Y/N was heading to the old capital. Her mother claimed it was a well needed vacation for them, but Y/N had heard that her father needed to have a meeting with the man he had placed in charge.

“Y/N, this was your mother and I met,” the Chief smiled fondly at the memories, as they approached the gate.

Her mother glanced at him. “Right, my brother had been caught in one of yours and Hakoda’s pranks.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, unable to ever imagine a time where her strict father was as carefree as Hakoda. “You tell me every time we visit.”

“Yes, well, it’s a nice story in these troubling times,” her mother grinned, reaching over to ruffle the young girl’s hair as they entered the village, immediately being greeted by various villagers.

They had visited the village a lot when Y/N was younger, and the only part of the long visits that she liked was being able to see Sokka and Katara. The siblings she had grown to adore.

And though she wouldn’t admit it, she did have a childish crush on Sokka. Something she had no doubt would go away as they grew older.

“Princess Y/N!” She could hear Katara’s shout as the eight year old came barreling in her direction, almost knocking the Princess to the ground as she hugged her. “I missed you!”

“I missed you!” Y/N smiled.

“Kya,” her mother breathed out, stepping towards the woman with her arms outstretched.

“It’s been so long,” Kya said, hugging her old friend. “Hakoda and I were starting to think we’d only ever speak through our letters.”

Y/N knew by the way her mother had turned her back to the kids, that she wasn't supposed to hear the next part. “Things aren’t too good in the other villages, we feared the same for yours. I’m glad to see it’s still standing.”

Kya frowned, her eyes flickering to Katara and Y/N. “Katara, why don’t you take the Princess to go find Sokka and the other children?”

“But-”

“Let’s go!” Y/N took the younger girl’s hand, faking a smile as she glanced back at their parents. Y/N was young, sure, but she was smart. She knew how to use her age to fake naivety, her parents didn’t need to know that she was aware of the rising conflict with the Fire Nation.

“Sokka, watch this!” Y/N called out with a grin. Waving one hand over the small hole cut out in the ice, she created a whip out of water.

In the four years since Kya’s death, Y/N and her family had a spent a lot of time in the old capital.

Most of the time, Y/N would work on her waterbending with Katara or she’d be penguin sledding with Sokka — who insisted he hated it, but the smile on his face told her otherwise.

She hadn’t improved a lot since she was 10, it was hard to improve when there were only two waterbenders in the South Pole and both of them were inexperienced children. It was also hard when Y/N’s father didn’t want her to use her waterbending, he said it was to her keep her safe.

Y/N thought it was stupid, that she could protect herself better if she was just allowed to use her bending.

“Cool,” Sokka grumbled, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he sat cross-legged in the snow.

“You didn’t even look,” Y/N crossed her arms, the water creating a slight splash as it dropped back into the hole. She glared at him for a moment, before walking over and sitting beside him. “He’ll come back, you know. They all will.”

Both of their fathers had left, alongside the rest of the able-bodied men in their tribe, to help the Earth Kingdom fight in the war.

Y/N couldn’t lie, she would often lay awake at night thinking that the last time she would ever see her father was during their goodbye. Other nights, she would have nightmares that as the only heir, she’d be forced to become Chief at just 14.

“I should’ve gone with them,” Sokka sighed. “I should be out there fighting.”

Y/N glanced at him. “You’d just get yourself killed out there, Sokka,” she pointed out, a frown tugging at her lips.

“But-”

“I don’t want you to die,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Sokka’s expression softened for a moment as he looked at the girl beside him. “I’m sorry.”

A silence loomed over them, until Y/N let out a shaky breath and began to speak again. “My mother and I are heading back home soon,” she stated. “She has duties and- and meetings she needs to attend now that Father is out there fighting.”

Sokka’s eyes widened. “Can’t you stay?”

She shook her head. “I’m their only heir, Sokka. I need to be in these meetings just in case…”

“The Chief will come back too,” he reassured her.

“I hope so… Anyways, you should send me letters while I’m gone,” she smiled at him. “I don’t know how long it will be until I can come back, at least this way we can still keep in contact.”

Sokka was silent for a moment, before nodding with a grin. “Alright. But you better reply!”

Y/N stared at the boy beside her, a blush creeping onto her cheeks when she realised he was staring back.

Quickly, Y/N raised a hand to push Sokka’s shoulder, causing the boy to laugh as he looked away from her. “Then you better send something worth replying to!”

TAGLIST (JOIN HERE)

@filipinhce @booyakasha516 @kaylove12 @tomshollandz @that-one-padme-outfit @ccosmic-illusion

[finleyfray]

Unrequited

Soo huge thanks to @captain-josslett for helping me with English and making this have more sense

TW: Suicide, mention of abuse, mention of homophobia, angst

Enjoy.

Finley ran though the DEO building to the debriefing room. She was late for her last mission this year. It was routine mission, just gathering intel.

But, Fin didn’t had the power today, she was exhausted from the lack of sleep because of her nightmares, anxiety and she had been feeling very depressed lately. Ever since her crush, Alex Danvers, decided to tell everyone that she’s dating Detective Maggie Sawyer. The same Alex that has rejected her 2 months ago when Fin asked her out, because, as Alex had said “Sorry, I’m not really into woman”.

She snuck into the common room hoping nobody will notice her. But it was foolish to think that, seeing as this mission was only for two people. Immediately Director J’onzz looked right at her.

“Good morning Agent Fray, care to explain why you are late?” His tone hard and authoritative.

Finley frowned ‘Shit.’

“Good morning Director, excuse me, the traffic was really bad this morning”

‘Well that was lame.’ Fin thought to herself. The reason she was late was that she really didn’t want to go on this mission with Alex. When she closed her eyes at night she hoped that she would actually die in her sleep. And when she woke up, she was so busy staring at the celling and contemplate if she should just shoot herself with her gun that she hides under her bed.

“Don’t make a habit out of it.” He said and went on with the debrief. “Alright, you’ll leave in 5.” He dismissed them, and Finley went to armoury.

“Hey, Finley.” Alex greeted her, picking up her gun and putting her Kevlar vest on.

“Agent Danvers.” Fin nods dismissively, not meeting Alex’s eyes. The older woman frowns.

“You know, I would feel better going on a mission with you if I didn’t get the feeling of hate from you.” Alex said annoyed. Fin took her time strapping a gun to her thigh, before answering. Trying to keep her emotions in check.

“Don’t worry Agent Danvers, we’re work partners, I can’t let anything happen to you, can I? I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate it.

“I…” The redhead didn’t know what to answer, so Fin took her chance and went to their van.

 ***

“Watch out!” Fin yells and drags Alex towards herself. The mission was a trap, and now they needed to get out immediately.

“We need to retreat, you go first, go to the van. I’ll cover you.” Finley spoke fast, making a plan for them to get away.

“You’re in no position to give orders!” The redhead snarls.

“Do you want to go home today or not!?” Finley yells “I don’t think you have a fucking choice, Danvers, just shut up and listen to me for fucks sake.”

Brown eyes look at her in disbelief, Fin was mostly a calm person, but right now anger was written all over her face.

“Look, it’s up to you, you need to go home to your girlfriend and your sister, not me. I couldn’t care less.”

“Alright!” Alex shouted “We’ll do what you say.”

The older woman went first and Fin covered for her, so Alex would make it to the door to their right. But there were too many assassins, shooting at them constantly. As Fin moved from her cover to follow Alex one of the bullets went right through Fin’s shoulder. She hisses in pain but doesn’t stop running.

“GO!” she screams as she jumps into the van and Alex slams her foot on the gas. “Ahh, shit.” Fin breathes out, and takes off her shirt to look at her wound and stem the bleeding.

“You’re hurt!” Alex yells glaring at Finley and the road repeatedly. “Why didn’t you put on a Kevlar!?”

“Yeah, no shit!” Finley snarls back. “It disrupts my movement. Just go to the DEO! I don’t need you stating the obvious now, I’m in pain!” The black-haired woman was bleeding badly and she didn’t need Alex to lecture her now. Just 5 minutes more on the road and she will be getting medical attention. But Finley’s eyes were growing heavier.

“Hey, don’t close your eyes! You can’t die now!” The redhead panics as she sees Finley’s eyes closing.

“Relax! I’m not dying yet, I’m just tired!” Fin opens her eyes, annoyed by the older woman. ‘Like she cares if I die’ She huffs.

When they arrive at the DEO, Finley goes to medic while Alex finds Director J’onzz to debrief.

 ***

Fin sits on the bed in DEO medical wing, all patched up and ready to go when Kara enters her room. While she was in a rough patch with the redhead, the blonde was her good friend.

“Hey, Fin, you alright?” Kara walks to her and gently touched her hand.

“Yeah, Kar, I’m good, ready to go home actually.” The black-haired woman gives the blonde a small smile.

“I’m happy you don’t have to stay here for Christmas. It would be really sad.” Kara smiles back. “What are you doing for Christmas? If you have nothing planned you really should join us! Our mother, Eliza, will come soon to National City, and she really bakes the best pie. There will be just 5 of us, Lena, me, Eliza, Maggie and Alex, it’s going to be fun!” Kara babbles on, and Fin does everything not to frown.

Kara doesn’t know about the situation with Alex and how awkward it would be for Finley to be around Maggie.

“Thanks for the invite Kara, but, I’m actually going to visit my family in Gotham” Finley tries to give the brightest smile she can.

“Oh, well, that’s fun! So I guess we’ll see you after Christmas, enjoy your free time!”

“I will, have fun!” Fin says cheerfully, but when Kara leaves the room Fin deflates. She sure wasn’t going to her family. The family that abused her for being gay, and threw her out at age 16. She had a hard time trying to survive on her own such a young age. She didn’t need to relive that. She’ll just have to spend Christmas alone.

Kara’s invitation sure was nice, but she didn’t want to spend time with Alex and Maggie, it was still painful to see her crush with someone else. Finley suppresses the urge to cry. The medical room isn’t the place for this. So she gathers her things and heads home.

 ***

It was 1 am the next morning and Fin couldn’t sleep. She had spent the whole of Christmas in bed. Feeling like someone had ripped her heart out.

‘Why am I even living at this point?’ She thinks. Her dark thoughts swirling around her head. ‘I’m basically a huge disappointment, my parents didn’t want me, they don’t think I’m worth anything. Alex had to lie about not being gay when I asked her out, to not make me feel bad, and now she’s with Maggie. I’m barely able to look at her without crying. How am I supposed to work with her?’ She sighs and looks around her room.

‘Everything would be so much better if I just disappear.’ Her mind is running fast of possibilities and suddenly she remembers. Her gun. She always hides her gun in her room. Under her bed. It was for safety reasons, if ever someone breaks into her apartment.

Fin reaches down and pulls the gun out of its hiding spot. It would be so easy, just load it and put it against her head.

‘It’s not like anybody would miss me.’ Finley thinks as she stares at the gun in her hands. It would be fast, bullet will pierce through her head. It would stop all her function right away. She wouldn’t really feel it. At least she hopes so.

“That’s it.” She inhales and slowly lets it out. Her hands shake as she loads her gun. Slowly Finley puts the pistol to her temple, takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger.

 ***

“Hey.” Kara greets Alex as Kara enters the training room. Alex stops punching the bag and looks at her sister. “J’onn wants to see us.”

The redhead nods and takes off the tape from her hands.

“Have you seen Finley today?” Kara asks, the crinkle appearing on her forehead.

“Hmm, no not really. It’s not like the first thing she does is come and see me anymore.” Alex frowns. Ever since she told the Superfriends that she was seeing Maggie, the black-haired woman avoided her at all cost. She can’t blame her, Alex remembers how a few weeks earlier Alex told Fin she wasn’t gay. Alex did like Finley, she just thought it was a friendly kind of like. And then she had met Maggie and everything she believed about being straight, turned out to be a lie.

But now she was stuck, cause she loved Maggie, but she also realised she liked… loved… Finley too. But it was too late now, Fin hated her.

“Maybe she’s not back from her parents yet.” Kara tried to think up different reasons why she hadn’t seen her friend. “She probably called J’onn for a day off or something.”

The sisters head to Director J’onzz office and Kara knocks before they entered.

“Alex, Kara, I’m happy to see you. I have a request, Finley didn’t come to work today. She also didn’t call me. I tried calling her, but she didn’t answer. This is unlike her, can you go to check on her?”

“She didn’t called? “ Kara frowns and looks at Alex “We thought she maybe wasn’t back from her parents yet.” J’onn looks at her surprised.

“Parents? Agent Fray doesn’t have a family.”

“B…but she said she was visiting her family for Christmas, when I asked her to come to spend it with us.” Kara looks at Alex, but she doesn’t said anything as Alex was thinking hard. ‘Why would she lie?’

“That can’t be right.” J’onn frowns. “When she left before Christmas I asked her what her plans were. She told me that you invited her, and she’s going to spend holiday with you.”

“Kara, we need to go! Now!” Alex panics and the sister’s race to Finely apartment.

 ***

“I smell blood” Kara said as they near Finley’s apartment, she superspeeds the rest of the way. Alex races after her. Kara opens Finley’s apartment door and she superspeeds through the home looking for her friend.

“FIN!” She yells as Alex runs into the apartment. But Alex was not prepared for what she saw. Her breath stops and she falls to her knees.

The black-haired woman lay there dead with a hole in her head. There was a lot of blood on her pillow, and a gun in her hand. Her blue eyes were closed, and there was a small smile on her blue lips. She looked relieved.

“No, no, no, wake up!” Her sister shakes Fin as if she was trying to bring her back to life, tears stream down her cheeks. “Alex!” The blonde looks at her sister, begging her to do something.

“F…Fin… She’s dead…” Alex chocks out.

 ***

“We have gathered here to say goodbye to our friend, Finley Fray…” J’onn begins his speech looking at the small group that came to Fin’s funeral. The Superfriend’s and a few DEO agents that were able to take the time off work.

Lena holds Kara close as she cries silently. Next to her was Eliza, and there was an empty place where Alex should sit, but she didn’t make it to the service. Next to the empty place sat Maggie and Winn. All of them listening to J’onn.

After the speech, the group gathered together.

“I can’t believe she’s dead…” Winn says sadly. “It just happened so sudden, it doesn’t make sense…”

“I wish I would see it sooner, I would help her…” Kara cries and Lena hugs her tighter. “I’m the worst friend.”

“It’s not your fault baby…” Lena says, trying to soothe her girlfriend. “We all failed to notice.”

J’onn looks down in shame. “I’m sorry… I knew she was struggling with a few things, I should’ve talk to her. I didn’t know it was that bad.” He sighs heavily. “Where’s Alex?” He looks at Maggie.

“Ehmm… she’s not really handling this well. She wouldn’t leave the apartment. I don’t think she is ready to say goodbye yet…”

 ***

Alex looks at the photo of her and Finley. It was taken 2 days before Fin asked the redhead on a date. Where the older woman panicked and said that she wasn’t gay. Everything was easier back than and Alex didn’t feel like her heart was ripped out of her body, thrown on the floor and stamped on.

She still couldn’t believe Fin killed herself.

Going to her funeral didn’t feel right, she should be alive.

The redhead took a sip from her glass of whiskey, suddenly feeling angry. She was angry at Fin for being so selfish, angry at herself for causing her pain and angry at the world that they took one of the woman she loved from her.

But it was too late now.

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

2020 Can Take My Hair, But Not My Hope

My hair started falling out on election night.

I thought at first it might be the anxiety, that I was literally pulling my hair out with worry over numbers I already knew were not going to be definitive before the night wore into morning but which I stayed up until 3:30am watching anyway. I tweeted rapidly, reassuring my jittery timeline that not only had we all known that the night would bring no results but that we had even expected Trump to lead in key states because of the greater number of mail-in ballots from urban areas that would largely count for Biden. We knew. We all knew. But we were all terrified, flashing back to 2016 and already dreading another four years of living life on high alert, in constant survival mode.

I posted a selfie with a tweet that read, "Could be the last presidential election I vote in (blah blah stage 4 cancer blah blah) and I wish it were better and clearer than this but it's a crucial privilege to have voted. Remember, whatever the outcome, the last thing they can take from you is your hope."

To me that last sentence has been a mantra for these years and for my treatment. I have consistently refused, despite overwhelmingly terrible odds, to lose hope. The story of Pandora's Box tells us that the very last thing left inside was Hope--that even once all the demons were out in the world there was that tiny, feathered creature left to hang on to. It hasn't been easy, but I am one of the most stubborn people you will ever meet (and if you doubt this just ask anyone who's ever fought me on anything!) and it has turned out to be a saving grace rather than an irritating personality trait. Feeling like the world was trying to take my hope away made me angry. And when I get angry I will fight back.

I know I'm not alone in feeling like we entered some kind of alternate nightmare timeline on election night 2016. To that point, despite periods of immense personal difficulty, nothing truly terrible had happened to me. Then, in short order, my marriage ended and I was diagnosed with and began being treated for a terminal illness, all against the backdrop of a regime so deliberately hateful that it was truly incomprehensible to me. Then, a global pandemic and national crisis swept away the small consolations I'd found in my new life with cancer. The temptation to feel hopeless was strong and I struggled with it, particularly in the isolation of quarantine. I'm struggling with it now, facing a winter of further lockdowns, social isolation, continued chemo, and the added indignity (and chilliness!) of not having any hair. But somehow the coincidence of my hair loss with election night seemed like a good omen for the future, if a sad thing for the present.

I heard the news that they had called Pennsylvania for Biden at a peaceful Airbnb in the Catskills after stepping out of a shower where lost hair in handfuls. It felt oddly like a sacrifice I had made personally. I joked about this with friends on the text chains that lit up and that (despite my promise to myself and my writing partner that we'd "go off the grid") I responded to immediately. Instant replies, with emojis and GIFs, participated in the fiction: "Thank you for your service!!!"; "We ALL appreciate your sacrifice!"; "Who among us would NOT give up their hair for no more Trump?". The feeling was real for me, though. It was as though the good news demanded some kind of karmic offering. You never get something for nothing, I thought, and really it was a small price to pay.

The rest of the weekend passed too quickly, with absorption in the novel I plan (madly, given that I also work full-time) to work on for "National Novel Writing Month" (NaNoWriMo), walks in the unseasonably warm woods, and nighttime drinks on the back deck under the stars, watching my hair blow off in fine strands and drift through the sodium porch light. My friend and I read tarot and both our layouts contained The Tower, the card for new beginnings from total annihilation, the moment of destruction in which (as the novel's title says) everything is illuminated. "This might sound dumb," he said, "but maybe yours is about your hair." It did not sound dumb.

[shaved heads, the 2020 election, and a couple pics under the cut]

There is probably no more iconic visual shorthand for cancer than hair loss. It happens because chemo agents target fast-proliferating cells, which tend to inhabit things that grow rapidly by nature (hair, fingernails), or that we need to replenish often (cells in the gut), as well as out-of-control cancer cells. But not all cancer treatments, not even all chemotherapies, cause hair loss. In my 20 months of being treated for cancer and my three previous treatments (four, if you count the surgery I had) nothing had yet affected my hair beyond a bit of thinning. This despite the fact that my first-ever treatment (Taxol) was widely known to cause hair loss for "everyone." I had been fortunate with this particular side effect in a narrow way that I have absolutely not been on a broader scale. "Maybe," I had let myself think, "I can have this one thing." The odds were in my favor too; only 38% of people in clinical trials being treated with Saci lost their hair. I liked the odds of being in the 62% who didn't. But--as we all felt deep in our gut while they counted votes in battleground states--odds aren't everything.

I had come to treat the "strength" of my hair as a kind of relative consolation (though as with everything cancer "strength," "weakness," and the rhetoric of battle have nothing to do with outcomes). I treasured still having it, not just out of vanity (though I have always loved my hair whatever length, style, or color it has been) but because it allowed me to pass among regular people as one of them. I had no visible markers of the illness that is killing me, concealed as first the tumor and then the scars were by my clothing. "You look wonderful," people would tell me, even when I suffered from stress fractures from nothing more than running or sneezing; muscle spasms in my shoulder and nerve death in my fingertips; nausea that I swallowed with swigs from my water bottle that just made me look all the more like a hydration-conscious athlete; and profound, constant, and debilitating fatigue. Invisible illness had its own perils but I would take them--take all of them at once if necessary!--if only I could keep my hair and look normal.

It was not to be. A part of me had known this, since a lifetime with metastatic cancer means a lifetime of treatments a solid proportion of which result in hair loss. But I had hoped. And I had liked the odds.

The hardest thing for me is having to give up this particular consolation before knowing whether or not my new treatment is also working on my cancer. Unfortunately, there really isn't a correlation between side effects like hair loss and effectiveness of treatment. If it is working then I will feel that--like the election to which I felt I had karmically contributed--it was all completely worth it. Yet, even in this best case scenario, there's a new reality for me which is that while I am on this treatment I will stay bald. When you are a chronic patient you hope for a treatment that will work well with manageable side effects. And if this treatment works--and if the other side effects are as ok-ish as they are now--then I will remain on it.

It's that future that I am furious about more than anything else. I want to continue to live my life, of course, but I don't want to have to do it bald! In part that is because I don't want to register to people constantly as an archetypal "cancer patient" when I know that I am so much more. It is also in part because I don't want to think of myself as being ill, and living every day having to disguise my absent hair will make that all the tougher. I have already noticed that I feel, physically, as though I am sicker because of my constantly shedding hair. How could I not, in some ways, when every move I make and every glance at myself (including in endless Zoom windows) shows me this highly visible change?

For that reason, I'm shaving my remaining hair tomorrow (Wednesday). It's a way to feel less disempowered--less like hair loss is happening to me--and wrest control of the situation back. I will try to find agreeable things about it: wigs, scarves, cozy caps, bright lipstick, statement earrings, and a general punk/Mad Max vibe that is appropriate to 2020. But I don't want anyone to think for a second that I find this agreeable, or even acceptable, or that I don't mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. My hair was my consolation prize, my camouflage, my vanity, my folly, and my battle cry.

I dyed it purple when I was first diagnosed because I knew (or thought I knew) that I would be losing it soon. I didn't, and I came to cherish it as a symbol of my boldness in the face of circumstances trying to oppress me, to make me shrink, to tempt me to become invisible. I refused and used it to "shout" all the louder in response. Because of what it came to mean to me, I'm nearly as sad about losing the purple as I am about losing the hair itself. It both symbolized the weight I was carrying and also that I would not let that weight grind me down. It was my act of resistance and my sign resilience all at once.

I sent a text to my friends, explaining this and offering, as an idea, that I could "pass the purple" to them in some way, small or large. It would feel more like handing off a torch or a weight (or the One Ring) than anyone shaving their head in solidarity. (After all, if they did that it would just remind me as I watched theirs grow back that, in fact, our positions were very different.) You're welcome to do it if you'd like too, internet friends, with temporary or permanent dye or a wig or a headband or one of those terrible 90s hairwraps or whatever. But I don't require that anyone do it because I feel support from you all in myriad ways, all the time. (But if you do, please send me pictures!)

It's November 2020. The election is over and Joe Biden has won. I still have cancer and I'll be bald tomorrow. I hope it's a turning point, both personal and global, because it feels like one. We've given up a lot in the last four years and I cannot say that I feel in any way peaceful or accepting about having to give up yet one more thing. But in losing my hair I absolutely refuse to also give up my hope.

(On our walk we did also seem to find a version of The Tower, all that was left of an abandoned house)

[popculturebuffet]

The Loud House Reviews: Ghosted!

Halloween Havoc returns! Lori is haunted by a ghost and brings in LIncoln and Clyde ot fix things.. only to find out he’s actually the beloved school mascot and must enlist Lucy and her crew of goths to help her. The bar from the overlook hotel, 1900′s disco, and Boris, the best loud house character i’d never heard of all insue. All hail boris, and prepare for full review with spoilers. under the cut. 

We’re back! I’m sorry this is a week late. This is both due to having a LOT going on.. as well as my own fault for pushign this review back to do a review of the first episode of Starkid’s “Nightmare Time”.. only to have to push BOTH back after I was unable to finish this weeks’ Ducktales on Monday because I ended up having to get off it so my mom, who works from home, can use it, and because AT&T is an utter nightmare we’re thankfully leaving, so if nothing else that will hopefully never be an issue again. 

TLDR: I kept putting this one off, didn’t realize this week’s episode was in fact on this week, and now I have to get 5 reviews done in the span of three days: I have this episode, this week’s loud house, the amphibia halloween special, and reviews of Ducktales “The Duck Knight Returns” and the first darkwing duck episode “Darkly Dawns the Duck”. 

I kid, this blog will end as I too hope to end.. taking rusty and Zach with me. But i got myself into this mess and i’m getting myself out of it. I will get these done even if it kills me.. my ghost can then take care of the two fictional children. ON with the review!

We open at Fairway University. 

I had to. Lori is practicing for the big tournament coming up.. which normally would have me super excited as tournaments are my shit... but we’re not talking two people beating the shit out of each other, wether it be for the sport of it, because their master told them to, because one of htem is a demon who will end the world, or because their loved ones will be murdered if they don’t beat people up as a team for demons, nor people playing card games for their grandpa’s soul, or a grudge caused by an abusive childhood that leads to a battle over gods inside trading cards, or because the school decided why not, or because you need to both keep your godlike dragon that’s also in a card and your friends safe, or.. you get the idea. I love Anime tournaments in what anime I have watched. Me watching or reading of those is like coke to me... a golf tournament however?

Yeah i’m not big into non-wrestling sports in general, let alone one where hte main action is a ball went really far. I mean it IS impressive a golfer can do that and accuratley no less, that’s some Hawkeye level stuff, it’s just not for me. I do HIGHLY enjoy mini golf, and mini golf episodes as both simpsons and gravity falls episodes on that are a good time. I mean any episode that gets flanders to say this is worth at least one watch. 

And thanks to fond memories of my grandpa using them to get around his carnival, yes my grandpa owned a carnival and yes it was great and yes he was a great man and I miss him every day, and carting me around in them. If it were street legal i’d have one. And finally I LOVE happy gilmore. While Adam Sandler took a turn, and hopefully Hubie Halloween is a sign that long national nightmare is over, that film still holds up and is still REALLY damn funny. And by this point your probably wondering what the hell my point is.  Well the hell my point is is that in light of me liking golf related things for weird reason despite praying for death but death won’t come at the thought of watching actual golf, I love fairway university. I love the fact that a golf based college is credible, I love the fact it goes so far in it’s theme that the text books are all golf related, the dorms are all weirdly golf themed, and students apparently can get an arnold palmer at any time of night. I also assume the dorms have on demand streaming for happy gilmore and caddyshack, and a genisis with a copy of lee carvillo’s putting challenge.  Back on the actual episode at long last, Lori is putting in some driving practice and facetiming bobby. The reason the tournament is so important is that she needs to beat the evil elf Malketh at golf or else Suryr will end all life... I may of been reading walt simsons’s thor lately but admit it you would watch that. No it’s more mundane than a fire giant trying to commit universal genocide: Being the only freshman on the team, as in that good, if she dosen’t do well, she might loose her scholarship. Granted I DOUBT they’d take it away after one game, but it’s understandable why she fears loosing it: She can’t afford college any other way. Her parents finances are spread among 11 kids who all live comofrtably and while every loud would gladly give things up so she could go to college still.. Lori wouldn’t accept it. She’d be grateful.. but she wouldn’t have her family be miserable for her sake, even if it’s her dream. This is her one shot for the career she wants and loosing this would destroy her. Even if she’d still have Bobby.  But Bobby is pulled away because his customers are annoyed.. and by customers I mean just Vito.. the rest seem fine despite the line, who complalins his spumoni is melting... because apparently he can’t just have bobby get him a fresh one as Bobby would be happy to do because he’s made of pure joy and it was nice seeing him. Though I do hope to see him in college himself next season. It is WEIRD having the casagrandes season 1 paired with a season of the loud house taking place months later.. and having the halloween episode for season 2 show up months ahead of season 2 itself. 

But soon Lori has bigger problems than Bobby having to go or crushing loss... after consulting the school gopher, because the dean apparently really loves caddyshack as ANY dean of a golfiing school should. I forgot to mention it above but I freaking love that movie too. Good stuff. Back on point, Lori soon gets stalked by a g-g-g-host! And nope this ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no fooling around.. nor is it a scooby doo esque scheme. This is an actual ghost. Represented by a ball of light but .. yup they went there. And look I get the show breaks from reality a lot: Luann acts like the silver age joker once a year and gets away with it, Lisa gets up to dexter’s lab esque shenanigans on an episodic basis, and Girl Jordan isn’t part of the group despite clearly sharing their intrests and being intrested in both lincoln and stella.  There are stretches in reality.. but mostly for humor or because it’d make a good plot. Most of the plots are grounded in reality: From Luna’s entire romance arc, with her insecurities and her and sam’s worries about each other, to Luaan’s nervousness about her first kiss, to Lincoln and friends having to learn that sometimes a girl dosen’t want to date you just because their nice to you, to Lynn learning not to be a dick and hten forgetting it overnight because this show hates me, the show grounds wacky shenanigans in relatable slice of life stuff. It’s what makes it and it’s sister show work so well. Grounding the exagerated comedy with likeable relatable characters. IT’s what works.  Why I bring this up is this and family bonding show a possible trend of the show getting into more bizzare stuff. A ghost here, a secret agent there.. it means the loud world can get as insane as it wants and the reason I bring it up is simple: Is that a GOOD thing. And my opinon, it CAN be if used right. With Family Bonding the fact there are Secret Agents is just.. casually mentioned. Like yup james bond esque spies exist and have weather dominators and an 11 year old just stopped them. It’s just.. treated like a normal thing when it’s not. Here.. a ghost showing up.. is treated like someone suddenly finding out ghosts are fucking real. Lori slowly comes unraveled a bit as the first few minutes go: She deals with seeing a ghost glow on the range, having the ghost drop books on her in the library, and having it serve her an arnold palmer.. in what genuinely looks like the bar from the overlook hotel from the shining. 

I get it’s a deliberate shout out, especially since it’s bartender is a ghost. But it just raises so many questions: Was it a concidence or did whoever put this bar in really love the shining? Did he want teenagers to murder their wives and children? Did he? Is this building haunted and not just by the genearl ghost that haunts everything? Did they take this from the overlook since it didn’t burn down in the movie? Does this mean shining and loud house are the same universe and by the same token so is community and the casagrandes? WHy is a tea with lemonade called an arnold palmer? But yeah after breaking down in her room Lori can’t take being stalked by a ghost and does what 80% of people in a paranomal activity film take too long to do and calls a ghost hunter. Specifically clyde! And to my shock this is apparently the first time the two have interacted since season 2! And it shows.. their on perfectly fine terms, to the point she has his number and they can talk like humans. I like it.. it’s subtle. Again wouldv’e appricated the episode where he got over here being more finte, but still, this is better than him either passing out in his own master roshi esque blood or trying to get her to leave bobby because bobby is a saint. The worst he’s done is break up with someone because her brother made his sister cry, when none of that makes any sense but he’s dumn and noble enough i’ll allow it, and telling sergio never to come back, which his show framed as a bad thing but really I would two after two minutes with him. 

She called Clyde because he’s the brains behind the outfit... but Clyde has her on speaker. Wah wah wah. Their watching ARRRGH! The ghost adventuers style show that showed up in an episode I never saw but read about. Wah wah wah indeed, but it was apparenlty made up. Why their still into it I dunno, but apparently argh ghost blasters ARE ACTUAL LASER GUNS. This show has gone enitrely off the rails and i’m fine with that. As long as it’s funny. But seriously who gives out actual proton packs I ask you your just asking for some kid to blast himself in the face. But yeah Clincoln McCloud is on the case. And while i’m still annoyed they didn’t bring at least two more friends to play ghostbusters, presumibly stella because she’s the compitent one and Zach because he could NOT belivie in something for a change and tha’td be funny. I know i’m beating a dead horse but it dosen’t HAVE to be all or nothing with their friend groups. You do know that right writers?

I mean I get only using them here as opposed to family bonding, but still, if you can use LIam outside of his episodes you can use the rest of them.. and I don’t even like Zach but he’d be in his element here. It’s not complicated but it is frustrating.  Anyways the boys and Lynn Sr arrive with Lynn Sr making a scene.. which embarasses Lori but i’m on his side here. His oldest went to college. She left the nest. It’s a lot. Plus she apparently hasn’t visted home yet so he misses his baby. Just accept it. She also asked the boys to be subtle about their ghost hunting which does not work at all. Lori you knew who you were asking for this. It’s like asking Sterling Archer NOT to be sarcastic, loud and slightly hammered. It’s part of the process.  Natrually hyjinks insue as our heroes chase the ghost with the most... on this campus.. and end up shaming him into leaving. Yes really. Clyde even says that’s what usually works on him. Oh Clyde.. if that were true you would’ve stopped trying to break up two people clearly in love with each other for your own benift, you twit.  So problem solved right, ghost busted, no more stalking and no lori turning into a monster and ushering in 80 sequels with no real resolution right? 

Yeah I mean this is a half hour special. Everyone at Fairway starts playing off, and it turns out because they realized the ghost was missing. Yes.. everyone knew the ghost was real. Thankfully given this is a halloween episode fairway isn’t some kind of rosemary’s baby, midsommar, herditary, paranomal activity , god a lot of movies use this death cult scenario. That we’re aware of Lori may just not be the target. The team captain takes Lori aside to explain things: They normally don’t tell freshman this until after their first game because the plot says so, but Fairway has a ghost. And again what makes this work is the guy does realize people might not belivie this and while normal for the students of fairway, it’s not normal for everyone and they might not belivie in it.  But no turns out the ghost is beloved 1900′s era Caddy, Shanks Bogey, who in the moment that cemented him as a legend singelhandidly helped Fairway to a big comeback in their first tournament ever, and was given a permanent positoin after graduation. Because they train caddy’s here too which makes sense. And now his ghost lives there too and still helps to this day. OR did anyway. Now why he coudln’t of told her this or why they don’t check to make sure one of the students dosen’t bring ghost hunters around or an exorcist or ash williams?

This episode already runs on nonsense i’m just going with it. Point is LOri’s hair’s falling out, more apparenlty, from the stress as she retreats into her hoodie.. Clyde gave her one to protect her because ARRRRGH! is really freaking shameless apparently. While LIncoln dosen’t know how to put a ghost back luckily Lucy has the mortuariy club over and LIncoln sends them over. Also Lori dosen’t want dad driving them, but Lincoln was on speaker which.. yeah Clyde I might get, the only person he’d probably want privacy with is his girlfriend, he and Lincoln have the exact same running crew but lincoln has 10 other people int he house who may eevesdrop.  But hell yeah, it’s my first Lucy episode on the blog and my first with her club period. For Lucy she IS one of the sisters I like I just haven’t checked out her episodes since season 2,a nd that’s my fault and something I intend to correct. She’s adorably, hilarious in her creepiness, and endearing in how she feels ignored at itmes.. because she is. They also ALL can apparently do her suddenly sneak up on people batman schtick as they all pop up on lincoln when he mentions a ghost. But yeah I love she has her own adams family esque group of goths, and that one of them is a Haiku from an earlier episode. While he and clyde hitting it off went nowhere it IS nice for the show to actually bring back an earlier character they entirely forgot about. It’s very rare for them. 

But yeah I already like these guys, arriving in coffisn and accidently sending my new faviorite borris flying.. a boy who talks like dracula, looks like an orlock and talks in the third person, though he ends up completing a cheer pyramid, because as an intentional joke or not, fairway , a school for a sport built on quite conversation... has a cheers squad. But hey we get boris talking about his hollow bones and cheering out of it so we’re good. 

But now the goth gang can get down to business. They try the obvious first a séance which.. yeah if bill and ted and beetlejuice have taught me anything, Seance’s can only end in friendly ghost murder. Granted unlike Otho I think Lucy knows what she’s doing, I just don’t want Shanks to die. This dosen’t quite work as while there is some bubbles it’s just Froggy 2 who apparently goes here when he’s not with adelaide. Good for him, getting some higher book learning. That’s rare for frogs. Though the faces on the Club are priceless as they are adorable. 

Plan B is to set out Shank’s faviorite food, Ferminted Bean Meal.. which yes is both to set up a fart joke and may or may not exist. He also liked pigs in a blanket, which is a good gag. Lori asks why theyd idn’t go with that I say they simply did because these are professional Goths, and they will always go for the weirdest option possible. It’s who you signed on for lori. You could’ve just called the fentons at the start of this but no, no crossover for us. And yes it’d be butch heartman free but as far as I’m concerned he can go fuck himself for, most among a LARGE pile of him being a jackass, promoting faith healing seminars that among serious illnesses.. include autisim, aka equating what I have to things like alhimers and cancer. No joke there just screw him, don’t screw danny phantom it’s great, moving on.  They intend for shanks to eat it but Lori’s teamates do instead as does the one club member who has weird hair that really unernves me. I get it’s supposed to be spider like but still, the rest of the club is really well designed, including him minus the hair. Why this why. They all get stomach poisoning and blame Lori for it despite, you know, eating strange food left in the middle of campus which is never a good idea, as it’s either someone’s elses or possibly spiked. What did you think was going to happen? Lucy’s last ditch effort is partying like it’s 1900. We do get the club and lori in top hats and canes with presumibly pocket’s full of miracles. So that’s neat. But it fails thanks to the cheerleaders coming in, boris very much included. Lori is desparing,.. until it turns out the disco ball which broke offers a mirror to the other side.. and thus where shanks is.. at the graveyard just off campus. Haiku finds this school creepy and wants to go there. Me too little sister, me too. 

Lori opts to go alone.. while this shit terrifies her, understandably, it was her mess and she needs to clean it up.. even though him not explaning himself to her or anyone else did this I don’t know if he can talk so fair enough. He can however caddy obviously as Lori gives him a heartfelt apology, and then plays a round, with him helping.. though apparently returning her ball also opens a doorway to hell. Go figure. Great gag though especially lori’s casual “that was disturbing”. He dosen’t give a sign he’s coming back though. Then we cut to the game.. with no real sign lori told anyone anything.. was.. was a chunk cut out of this episode or did they just run out of time? I dunno it’s jarring but the game is down to her, and Lori ends up in a sandtrap with the sun in her eyes. But luckily shanks returns! He llfts an umbrella for her. Again I think it’s less that he’s inconsiderate and more that he’s mute.. or maybe he’s just a jackass I dunno. We don’t know enough about him. Point is Lori wins, her scholarship is secure and her family is cheering her on.. well okay her family in terms of lincoln, clyde, because he counts dammit, and her parents the rest of the girls minus lucy are absent because they needed room for her club. Whose in the sun somehow. Lori wins, Boris does an exorcist head spin, and Lucy feels he’s lost to them. I mean.. he has to go home.. unless he dosen’t have one... which is probable. Man now I want a fairway spinoff even more.. I mean just give lori and bobby an off campus place, have leni and her two friends move in, maybe throw in carol and have boris living in a hole in the backyard and we’re good. Please nick, greenlight this. I will write it for you just give me the go ahead. 

Final Thoughts:

This one was okay. As I said the reality breaks are fine if their used for good reaosn, but I felt the episode put Lori though a bit much. She hasn’t been unsympathetic in so long, and she has a genuine heartwrenching reason to want to do well and is terrified of shanks. It’s not her fault no one told her. I mean that should be in the brochure “We have a ghost but he’s a casper ghost and not a gozer ghost so your good”. I mean the fact Jack Fenton HASN’T come blaring down the campus is only because he already did that and is banned from campus. that and he drove through the comisary.. like through both walls. The Fenton Van is thick.  Point is lori goes through a lot of pain and humilation for no reason. It also feels like a two parter put into one half hour: The first half has a problem that’s seemingly solved only to have a cliffhanger with Lucy coming in as the solution. That being said I aboslutely love the mortuariy club. Why they can’t repalce spider head with rocky I don’t know, but otherwise I love em. Especailly boris who i’m fine with him staying at fairway as long as I get that spinoff> The Clyde and LIncoln antics are just “ha ha their mech dosen’t work”.. when they still have rayguns as part of the merch, though I do appricate that them running out of power is set up: Their guns discharge as a running gag so it’s no suprise their out by the time our heroes need them. And Clyde’s line about shame and guilt “Just like me!” was gold. This dosen’t really have the missed opprtunity smell of family bonding or strife of the party, it did fine enough and the scene of lori and shanks playing golf was really sweet.  It really is just okay: Not AMAZING, but not terrible. I’ve seen much worse already this season, but the creative halloweeny premise, fun with the goth gang, and general weirdness of fairway make it a hole in two. Not a slam dunk but still fun. Just because an episode is mostly okay dosen’t make it bad.  If you liked this review follow for more, as I have weekly coverage of ducktales and loud house and ocasionally the casagrandes and later today should have, space and time permitting, reviews of the new loud house, the new amphibia, and later this weekend some darkwing duck. Until then stay safe, stay spooky and happy halloween. Play us out white stripes!

[cooltrainererika]

Alt-talia Compilation: Bloody

Greetings, everyone. It seems Halloween has ended already... but the event isn’t over yet!

So this is another fic for hetaween; or rather, another compilation! This is for 10/27: Bloody. Now, I thought I could skip that day, because I thought it had to be about Halloween specifically.   But it turns out that wasn’t the case. So I’m going to release some here. I was thinking releasing a Hetalia Emblem fic for this prompt… but man there were so many ideas for this one. These aren’t the only ones, even. I’m just posting this now so that I can get it out while I can, with more to be added in reblogs. If I can, I’ll try to do the HE one though.

Since the first story ended up being way longer than expected, I decided to put it at the end, with the shortest fic, a scene I’ve had an idea for a long while that could be considered a companion piece to “Past The Finest Hour” in a way, at the beginning, kind of like animated shorts before an animated movie. There’s also a deleted scene that is actually an alternate version of the main feature, but I couldn’t follow up on it. I might post something using the same basic idea for “Nightmare”, though.

Also, once again, I must reiterate that Alt-talia is generally a more morally grey, dark AU. Also at least a few popular relationship dynamics in canon are absolutely shattered here, so keep that in mind. And the main story references a certain... infamous historical incident. It doesn’t feature it, it just references it, but I warned you. And these will all be referencing some kind of violent incident or time period in history. I just hope I gave them the respect they deserve. And since I can’t think of any era cues, I’ll just state upfront that said fic one takes place in the 60s, after the 1963 Élysée Treaty specifically; eventually, I’ve managed to narrow it down to not long after said treaty, probably 1963 - 1965. Also, I tried making the characters speak in an accent, but since they have border languages that are similar, they’re speaking that here instead. Also accents might cause Narm.

Note: I use a word that is often classified as a slur here. However, I feel that it’s appropriate to the era.

So, without further ado...

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(Also… people who read my fics, please reblog? I’ve spent so much time on them, I want more people to see them.)

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Keep Calm

The Battle of Britain had been raging for days; and Canada was growing worried.

The bombing had just begun and it was bad; quite bad. He had finished ushering another contingent of civilians into bunkers and tunnels, following the signs that now covered the city, hopefully safe from the fire and fury that rained upon what used to be their homes.

“Ah, Canada-“

And there his father was.

His head, a good part of of his face, and neck covered in blood.

Matthew just barely held back a scream.

“Father, your head is covered in blood, can you not see that?! Please take it easy!”

“Ah, this?” He was terribly serene, but that was punctuated with a cough.

“Terribly irritating, I must say-“ more hacking coughs “-Jerry, that nuisance. The blood is stinging my eyes-“

And with a painful-sounding cough, he coughed blood.

Canada’s face paled as it stained his uniform.

“GOOD GOD! ...Sorry at the outburst, but how can you call that ‘terribly irritating’?!”

The Blitz had indeed been affecting him; however, his face, as usual, was calm, as if he had a somewhat annoying cold.

More bombs fell, and again he coughed red, making Canada flinch.

He had never seen his father this hurt; the cliffs of Dover had protected him since the time of the Norman Conquest, and he probably hadn’t experienced this much damage, especially in his capital city, in that long a time.

But yet…

“A mere few square kilometers destroyed, is all…”

“MERE?!”

“We are nations, Canada. And can you not shout? I’m quite fine, thank you.”

He took off his scarf, compressing his wound. 

“I shall get back in the air in two hours now. You need to take flight soon too, lad. Chop-chop.”

Matthew, the personification of the Dominion of Canada, sighed loudly.  

“I’m not a ‘lad’ anymore father.”

His father chuckled.

“You are finally growing up, Canada.”

Even after all these centuries, his father’s ability to seemingly be unfettered by anything always never ceased to surprise him.

“I could use an ale now, however.”

“Father! Please!”

As he had been outside, guiding the citizens to their bunkers, many had been just like him.

Maybe, the best way to spite the enemy was this after all; to show that you wouldn’t be affected by their attempts, that no matter what, they would always remain as they always had been.

After all, his father hadn’t become the largest empire the world had ever seen for no reason.

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Unbreakable

Byelorussia bled.

With every Nazi her ragtag group of partisans killed, intentionally or not, her flesh tore and burned, and her mouth tasted of choking, suffocating liquid iron.

If she were human, she would have probably died from pain alone long ago.

She was able to cover most of them by now before the others noticed, and it helped that her old, worn uniform was becoming more and more loose-fitting as her emaciated body grew thinner by the day. But the others surely knew something was wrong.  Her headscarf had become torn from use as bandages, and she couldn’t afford to use much of their already limited resources.

Unbeknownst to them, some of that blood belonged to their families, friends, and neighbors.

She knew what they were trying to do. Many of the partisans urged her to take a rest, at the very least; but her usefulness to the group never faded, much to their confusion. But her nation status, unbeknownst to them, gave her the ability to make them easily dismiss strange idiosyncrasies of her existence.

However, she was only even able to walk by sheer force of will. They had started changing their tactics; less Nazis killed, in favor of other methods of sabotage, made the massacres less frequent. Her swamps and forests slowed them down already, and she gained great satisfaction in knowing the anguish and annoyance she caused Germany and his allies. Though occasionally she pitied the clearly inadequately equipped ones, sometimes barely better than they were; usually Italians. 

Germany’s leaders had apparently told him she was more harmless than her siblings, easily subjugated; a worthy slave. Judging by their obsession with furthering their “Aryan Race”, and being a rare female nation, she sometimes shivered at the implication of that; they already treated her as less than human when they caught her and sent her to work, though so far they hadn’t done anything of that sort to her... yet. The fact that they took infants they deemed “Aryan” enough was even stronger evidence to it. But by now, they surely knew she was more than merely Lithuania’s wife waiting for his return from battle at home, cooking and praying for him, even all those centuries ago. She did not know exactly why, but she had to survive. She would not die here.

She was a nation after all. Or at least, she believed she was. 

She couldn’t be sure about her future; by the time the war was over, it was almost guaranteed she would once again be taken into the Soviet Union, an easy picking, too weak to fight back, into the strangling clutches of Stalin. Even now, most of the partisan groups she had found herself in were Red Army detachments, and as much as she hated admitting it, without them she would be almost completely at the Reich’s mercy by now, constantly under his jackboot. Or worse.

However, that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting through today. And then, the war. And she was going to see the end of it, even if it meant dragging herself there.

She looked over their supply; due to lack of resources, Petrol Bombs - or Molotov Cocktails, as Finland, their inventor, spitefully called them - had proved to be a boon to them.

Soon, an important convoy would be passing through; that would be their chance to strike.

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Now, for the main feature...

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An Uneasy Forgiveness

Blood.

West Germany’s hands dripped with red.

His lungs felt like they were on fire from the hyperventilation, his heart raced, his vision blurred.

Now, he scrubbed his hands under the cold water, raising the intensity and rubbing the soap onto his hand again, the water glugging into the basin.

“Verdammt, verdammt, verdammt!”

Tears pricked his eyes as the man continued to try in vain to get the dreadful liquid off his hands.

Simple tears became sobs as he rubbed his hands raw.

On his hands was the blood of every Jew, every Pole, every Russian, Belarusian, Ukrainian, every Gypsy, every homosexual, every so-called “traitor”, everyone else he had determined as “less than human” he had destroyed the lives of.

“Verdammt, Verdammt, VERDAMMT!”

But yet, it wasn’t something he could wash away.

“Hé! What are you doing this early, I can hear you all the way from-“

Germany didn’t notice that the other occupant of this place had woken up and spotted him, until in the mirror, he saw him.

He froze, his red, puffy eyes meeting with the other nation’s.

France.

Germany’s eyes widened, unable to move, hyperventilating, shaking like a leaf, as he attempted to speak, but all that his throat produced were pathetic whines.

He felt his cold stare on him.

“What are you doing?”

“Frankreich... the blood, it won’t...”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t care.

But he didn’t notice the concern growing across France’s face, despite himself. He saw no blood; though he wouldn’t have been surprised if they indeed started bleeding from how frighteningly red and chapped they had become.

“It won’t...”

And he saw so much... vulnerability in the young man’s swollen eyes, his tear stained face, his disheveled hair, his youth making itself painfully apparent.

“Blood?! I don’t see any blood! What’s your deal, brat?”

“Frankreich... please...”

Germany felt the water shut off.

“Stop.”

“But...”

His normally deep voice sounded so meek and frail. Despite him being slightly taller than him, the younger man might as well have become a child again in front of him. No... if this were Germany as a child, he would have probably reveled in making the little hellspawn cry harder. At the time at least.

He avoided France’s gaze, afraid to even look him in the eye.

“I... I’m sorry for waking you. I...I’m s-sorry that you had to stay with me... I... I know you hate me... I know I can’t just sign away what I’ve done to you...”

Germany knew that France wasn’t here because he enjoyed his company. He had made a point and show out of demanding he get a separate bedroom. He knew full well that even within the ECSC, everyone only cooperated with him because they were even more tired of war more than they hated him. Belgium was the only one who reached out to him; he didn’t know why, after what he had done to her in both wars, but it was most likely just realpolitik. He knew, under her meek demeanor, she most likely still despised him. The rest, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Italy, and yes, France, all of them, made no such gestures. He felt it every time they met; how Luxembourg “accidentally” blew smoke in his face, how the Netherlands spat at him as he spoke if he didn’t outright berate him, how Italy refused to look at him as he toiled on the assembly lines.

And how when they shook hands that fateful day, where they officially buried the hatchet, France’s arm seemed oh so rigid, his smile forced.

Of course they did.

After all, it was their blood on his hands too.

He crumpled to his knees, sobbing. His younger self would have probably been disgusted at how he looked now, on his knees at the feet of his former archenemy. But that didn’t matter anymore. His pride didn’t matter anymore.

France was speechless.

It was so very bizarre. Not only was this type of behavior almost unthinkable for a nation, especially for such a man as Germany, but not long ago, France would have been euphoric to witness the sight of his most hated rival pitifully crumpled on the ground in front of him, vulnerable, broken, pathetic. From the day this brat was born, he had resented him. Him and his emotionally stunted, cold-hearted, warmongering father both. His very birth had been possible because of him being humiliated, his capital starved and besieged. He would have probably kicked him in the gut and laughed, spat at him, or at least taunted him.

And to be sure, he still felt some of that.

But, like when he met him in Berlin after he surrendered, another emotion gnawed at him from inside.

Pity.

Then, sympathy.

This wasn’t the genocidal, wrathful, goose-stepping Germany who had proclaimed his people superior above all else. It was the starving, weak, scared Germany he, America, and England had delivered bread to in that Airlift over a decade ago.

He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t Prussia.

And he had come here for a reason. He might as well do what he came here for.

“Get up.”

Germany, still quivering, looked up at him.

France made his way to the door of the bathroom.

“I said, get up. I thought you were good at taking orders? Or are you trying to be an annoying brat?”

He might as well try. It wasn’t like he wasn’t guilty of anything anyway.

And after some hesitation, Germany followed.

——-

Germany laid on his bed, letting the soft pillows absorb his tears. He had calmed down somewhat, or at least to the point where he could speak coherently.

“Mind if I borrow your smokes and lighter?”

No reply.

“Then. I might as well.”

On the nightstand was a pack of HBs. They were no Gauloises, but they would have to do. 

He took out a cigarette as the younger nation began to speak again.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first. I think my mind repressed it. But... I can’t run from the truth anymore. I just don’t know what to do. What... what can even be done after something so terrible? That awful man manipulated me. But... ultimately, I fell for his words. I was naïve. We all were. Ultimately, it was our fault...”

France, his back leaning lazily against the bedframe, lit a cigarette. 

Germany squeezed the sheets in his fists.

“You hate me, don’t you?”

France took a puff; he grumbled a bit about the weak taste and aroma. A few moments passed as the smoke rose.

“Maybe.”

“...”

“But I signed that Friendship Treaty. We shook hands. We officially agreed that our past was behind us. I was sent here to spend a few days with you so we could learn to get along, and I agreed to it. I could’ve followed President De Gaulle’s orders - he’s a good man, that De Gaulle - but for once, I didn’t. I might as well try to start doing what I’m supposed to.”

Germany looked at him, his cornflower blue eyes still wet, but no longer leaking new tears. He was, once again, silent.

“...Besides.”

He took another puff, the smoke dissipating in the air.

The prisoner laid at his feet, cursing him out in his Arabic dialect on the floor of the dark, cold cell, bloody coughs staining his combat boots between pained shouts, hatred-soaked shouts that Allah would damn him to hell.

He clenched his eyes and rammed his boot into the colony’s stomach again. 

“...The truth is, I have to deal with you, no matter what. You’re my neighbor. And we’re nations. We stick together when it’s best for our interests, and we fight when it’s best for our interests. Pretty sure you know this well; your father knew this better than anyone else. And now, trying to be your ally is probably in my best interest, though not so sure about ‘friend’. But who knows. And we want it to stay that way. Might as well try not to fight it.”

He put the cigarette out, the cigarette making a quiet “pssshhh...” sound as it was pressed against the ashtray.

“I’ll try to forgive you. Can’t guarantee for the others though. Though I don’t think I’m the most important one you should be apologizing to for your latest fuck up. I wouldn’t be surprised if Israel and Poland never completely forgive you. Maybe not even in a thousand years. But know that... I’ll at least try to start over. We need to go about this together, whether I like it or not. Might as well try to help show you a different life than what daddy Preußen taught you.”

Germany’s voice hitched again. It was clear he hadn’t made his mind up about his father yet. Understandable. And France wasn’t one to talk about parenting either.

“Thank you... really...”

Now it was France’s turn to remain quiet, as he let the younger one speak.

“When I was little, I remember vater told me that my future and survival wouldn’t be decided by speeches and majority decisions, but by iron and blood. He was quoting Chancellor Bismarck, I believe. Hopefully... I won’t need that advice anymore, from now on.”

“I see, you’re pretty good at this too.”

France lit up another cigarette.

“But if you do anything silly again, remember I’m the one with the nuke.”

“Jawo... Ja.”

“Good. We could go for a smoke later. You probably need one. But I’ll be going back to bed-“

“Don’t leave. Please.”

The older man sighed.

“Fine, you damn brat.”

Their eyes met.

“...Are we friends?”

“...Hopefully. Now, stop acting like that. It’s jarring. You need rest.”

A pause.

“…But if you need a smoke now, I’ll light it for you.”

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Deleted scene

The metallic, gruesome stench of blood surrounded Germany.

Nothing, nothing but darkness and blood. He gasped for air, his feet kicking in the thick, vile liquid searching for a floor that wasn’t there.

Eventually, the blood became hotter and hotter, first merely a singing heat, then searing, blistering, until the unbearable, tortuous heat pierced its way to his bones, boiling his flesh, only his struggles to keep his head above the surface keeping him from screaming in agony.

“Hilfe! Hilfe!”

He managed to choke out, before the scalding liquid spilled into his lungs.

Finally, with that, he sunk.

Deeper and deeper, he sank, the agonizing pain never stopping.

As he sank, he thought he saw many shadows, of all sexes, ages, and sizes, staring at him solemnly, quietly.

Among them, he thought he saw the rest of the ECSC, Russia and Poland, watching his descent with what must have been contempt.

It was then everything became cold as death.

————-

 (Explanation: the deleted scene was a reference to Dante’s Inferno; according to Dante, in the 7th circle of Hell is the realm of the violent, where souls are immersed in a boiling river of blood. However, it was maybe a bit odd I was using an Italian story for Germany)

Characterization notes: England is the epitome of Stiff Upper Lip in at least this time period in Alt-Talia; he isn’t quite a tsundere, to say the least. He’d be classified more as a kuudere perhaps, but not quite due to the whole British politeness thing.

Belarus is a big one; as readers who’ve read my other fic know, I write Belarus quite different than from canon. She’s probably one of the most human-like, in that her wish is to live a peaceful existence, not power or prestige, and unlike in canon she comes off more as a victim of circumstance than an instigator. While other nations would be motivated by a lot of nationalism, here she just wants to survive first and foremost. She’s generally quiet, even well-mannered, and excluding the Jews and Roma was hurt the most in WWII in terms of proportion of population; estimates of Belarusian deaths go as high as a quarter of the population, and including deportations and displacement the number can go as high as half (!). I like writing her because she just comes across as a woman with a tough life who just gets the crap beaten out of her for no fault of her own except geography. But when driven into a corner even she will be willing to bite back, if just for her people. 

[myaekingheart]

55. Dorimuchimu

read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3

index | from the beginning | < previous | next >

I've said it once, I've said it twice, I've said it a thousand fucking times That I'm OK, that I'm fine, that it's all just in my mind But this has got the best of me, and I can't seem to sleep It's not 'cause you're not with me, it's 'cause you never leave -It Never Ends, Bring Me The Horizon

               Four days had passed before Rei had the courage to face Naru again. She awoke far too early with a fire in her belly, an anxiety, that she needed to quench. Without a second of hesitation, she slipped on her shoes and raced toward the cemetery.

               It was ANBU custom that a shinobi destroy their body before death so as to prevent the enemy from getting ahold of valuable information. After all, you can glean just as much from a dead body as you can a living one. Therefore, Naru was never even buried but rather memorialized in some sort of bogus mock grave. Quite frankly, it made Rei sick but she presumed she would rather have a fake grave than nothing at all. It took her some time to actually find it but when she did, she immediately realized how terrible of a decision she had made.

               Despite there not even being a body, she felt as if she had to tread carefully so as to not stand directly over where Naru’s corpse would’ve been. She swore she had heard something somewhere about that being bad, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was bad luck. Whatever. It wasn’t important. She knelt down before the gravestone, her fingers tracing over her etched name, and then slapped her hand hard in hopes of waking up from this terrible nightmare. It was too surreal, none of this could possibly be happening. Maybe if she just squeezed her eyes shut tight enough and said a bunch of words backwards, she would reverse time and Naru would come bounding up behind her with that new hairstyle she was contemplating. They would stop for food and laugh and gossip and everything would be as it was once more. But that was stupid. No amount of wishing was ever going to change things back. Death was finite, irrevocable. There was nothing she could do.

               She couldn’t tell whether it had been hours or mere minutes when a voice suddenly spoke to her from behind. “Fancy seeing you here, Carrots” it called, and Rei recognized it immediately. She turned slowly, catching Sekkachi staring down at her. Backlit by a blinding sun, she looked almost demonic.

               “Can I not pay my respects?” Rei said sourly as she turned back around. She caught Sekkachi approach in her periphery and set a small bouquet of flowers down before the grave. They knelt there in silence for a long while, an uneasiness hanging in the air. Without Naru to bind them, Rei and Sekkachi felt out of place and awkward. “It still doesn’t feel real” Rei murmured, breaking the silence. “None of this feels real.”

               “Yeah, well, get used to it” Sekkachi spat. Despite the hostility of her words, there was a fragile undercurrent to her tone. Defeatist, cynical, heartbroken.

               Rei shook her head, an airy laugh breaking past her lips. “To think, we were the strongest kunoichi team of our generation…”

               “The Dream Girls” Sekkachi replied, slightly bitter.

               “Dorimuchimu” Rei said. That word held so much weight to it, so much meaning both positive and negative. She wondered how Chikara-sensei felt about all of this. Losing one of your students, even if they had long ago graduated from your tutelage, no doubt stung. If they could only go back to those old days when they were young and naïve, so full of life and high spirits. The weight of other’s harsh criticism didn’t feel quite so heavy. They were destined to fail, and yet exceeded every expectation.

               An all-girls team can’t possibly get any work done, they would say. They’re so weak. That’s too much estrogen for one team. It was a wonder none of them ever quit, but they all had their reasons to pursue a career like this. And they had Chikara: a powerhouse of a woman, tall and thick and tan. She accepted them as if they were her own children. Whatever their faults in the personal sphere didn’t matter. The only thing that was important now was teamwork, and damn were they a perfect combination. The very things that people argued would destine them for failure only contributed to their success. Tiny Rei was the sly spy, chatty Naru the intelligent deceiver, and aggressive Sekkachi the brute force. Soon their names were known across the five great nations: Chikara’s Dream Girls. Short-lived ecstasy.

               “Feels so anticlimactic” Rei murmured, reminiscing about it all. “Falling apart like this.”

               “No” Sekkachi countered, “No, we fell apart way before any of this.” As much as she respected the good things, Sekkachi was not blind to the reality of their formation. They were little girls with power, but also imperfections. That was the trouble with growing up—it also entailed growing apart and growing against. The very things that strengthened them as comrades only weakened them as friends. They were destined to fail from the very start.

               It was true that their progress, as well, was a point of contention. Where Rei and Naru excelled into the ANBU, Sekkachi was never given the privilege. Lord Third only ever promoted her as far as “specialized jonin,” which for all intents and purposes didn’t mean shit. Just a coat of gold paint on a cheap plastic knock off as if to make it feel shiny and worthwhile. In the end, it didn’t mean anything.

               Rei shook her head. “Don’t say that” she whispered. “Something like that would make Naru mad.”

               “Well, Naru isn’t here anymore, Rei!” Sekkachi suddenly exploded, leaping to her feet. “It’s not like she can hear us!” Taken aback, Rei turned to her slowly, her heart pounding. Sekkachi’s face was growing redder by the second. She was teetering on the verge of madness after having held herself back for far too long.

               “Sekkachi, please….” Rei whispered, slowly standing herself. She really didn’t want to do this. Not right now. “This isn’t the right place to argue—”

               “As if it’s your place to say!” Sekkachi shouted. “If it wasn’t for you, Naru would still be here!”

               Her words were like a kunai to the chest. Rei staggered backwards, suddenly breathless. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Her entire body went numb. After a few moments of gasping and glitchy recalculating, she finally choked out, “I-I didn’t mean to…”

               Sekkachi balled up her fist and for a moment Rei was certain she was going to strike her. However, a softness slowly filled her eyes and she began to lower her hand. “That doesn’t mean anything” Sekkachi growled. Her voice quaked, and for the first time in a long time she was holding back tears. “You don’t get a free pass by saying sorry. I want you to live with the guilt of what you’ve done every single day for the rest of your miserable life.”

               Now Rei was fighting back tears. She clenched her fists at her sides so hard, her nails dug deep into her palms. A lump rose in her throat and the earth began to swing back and forth beneath her feet. “I know…I know…I wish it had been me instead. It should’ve been me…oh god, it should’ve been me…”

               “Your tears aren’t going to help you win my sympathy, Rei” Sekkachi snapped. “I refuse to sit by and watch you get everything you ever wanted while having stolen this from me.” She gestured to Naru’s grave, and a sickening fear began to well up inside of Rei.

               “W-what do you mean…?” the redhead asked, though she was terrified of the answer. She wasn’t stupid. She could make the inferences. All the pieces of this tragic puzzle began coming together in her head and it only added to the crushing weight.

               Sekkachi sniffled and tried to act tough, unaffected, but was failing. “I had plans, you know” she said. “I had things I wanted, too. A happy life. Good future. Loving relationship. But the one person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I was too much of a fucking coward to confess to. And now…now it’s too fucking late!”—here, she kicked the small bouquet of flowers she had placed by Naru’s grave. “She’s gone and there’s nothing I can fucking do about it!”

               The sky was spinning. This was so much worse than she expected. Rei gasped for breath, trying to make sense of everything. Her entire world felt like one bizarre dream where nothing made sense and everything was fake. “Y-you mean…the bookshop…and—”

               “Yes, you fucking idiot!” Sekkachi screamed. “It was Naru! It was all for fucking Naru! And now she’s motherfucking gone, and I’ll never be able to tell her how much my stupid ass fucking loved her, and there’s nothing I can do about it!” At this point, there was no holding back now. The dam had broken and tears were spilling down Sekkachi’s face. It was the most raw and gruesome display of emotion Rei had ever seen her express in public, if not in the entire course of their friendship. She gripped her stomach, tugging at the chub on her sides, and shrieked in agony. “This is all your fucking fault!”

               “I’m sorry! I’m sorry…I’m so fucking sorry…” Rei wailed, falling to her knees. She curled up on the ground, pressing a hand to Naru’s gravestone in hopes that perhaps wherever her spirit was, it would flutter down to bring them peace or reassurance or some other poetic bullshit she knew wasn’t actually attainable.

               Sekkachi knelt down and grabbed Rei by her shirt collar, a tearful anger overflowing from inside of her. Through clenched teeth, she growled, “Sorry isn’t going to bring her back to me.” Then she tossed Rei back into the ground and walked off feeling dirty and disgusting and depressed.

               Rei gripped the grass as she watched her leave, feeling the natural little bugs of the terrain crawl through her tangled hair and across her fingers. Something inside of her was dying, rancid and raw, threatening to overtake her entire body. Her forearms itched for something sharp, some way to drain herself of this darkness, but she was too worn down to move. She would just have to suffer through the hunger. She turned to the sky and stared directly at the sun until black spots clouded her vision, then pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and whispered, “It never ends…it never ends…”

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day(s) 5/6 - Iquitos-San Rafael- Iquitos again - In Which I Live Out My Genuine Nightmares

This is going to be a very special (and very long) double entry, because a) the following two days were largely spent doing the same thing b) I am so far behind with this blog that cramming two entries into one seems like perhaps the only way I will ever be able to catch up and c) I didn't really sleep enough to properly separate the two days, anyway, so functionally, they really do count as one for me.

I remember being in no more than primary six or seven, when a man came to speak to our class about the Amazon rainforest. I don't remember who he was or why having a guest speaker tell us about the jungle was particularly necessary, but I do remember in vivid detail the things he told me. More specifically, I remember the things he told me about all the things that could - and most likely would - kill, maim or otherwise damage me, should I ever be fool enough go. Poison tree frogs that can kill you with a single touch, spiders as big as dinner plates that'll snatch your toes right off you, jaguars, scorpions, snakes, wasps, venomous ants, millipedes and even trees; the list went on seemingly forever and I distinctly remember, even at that young age thinking, very firmly to myself “fuuuuuck that.” - except probably a bit higher pitched. More recently, I remember being in Budapest zoo (an excursion featured in this very blog) and there being a very big sign at the entrance to their Amazonia exhibit, describing the area as simply “the green hell”, for much the same reasons. Both of these things have stuck with me for more than twenty and more than five years respectively and, to be honest, did combine mentally to rather put me off ever going to such a horrible, godless locale. It seemed almost unreal, almost like a fever dream, then (Not least of all, because I actually was running a fever, still being fucked into a paste as I was, by my jungle flu.), as I loaded my bags into the back of a tiny little tuktuk motor-taxi, to be whisked away to this nightmarish place, which I swore I would never visit, for actuals and reals.

Before that though, I had a tuktuk to ride. These little things are basically the only way to get around Iquitos, other than a truly abysmal bus service, or just owning a bike; cars are essentially a non-entity here, being very difficult to actually transport over from other citites as they are, as Iquitos is entirely inaccessible by road. They're also quite fun – the tuktuk taxis, that is- I have to be honest, however not-in-keeping with the tone of this blog that statement is. Riding one is sort of like being the terrified non-player-character passenger in a Grand Theft Auto taxi driving side-mission, as your driver weaves carelessly through a sea of other motorcabs, paying no heed whatsoever to the rules of the road or the safety of pedestrians, hoping against hope that they don't lose interest in the task at hand and drive you off the edge of a cliff, or into a deserted field at night, to shoot you in the head with an AR-15 and take all your money.

All too soon though, we were ejected from our mental little death-wagon and ushered into a sort of garage, that appeared to be serving as the headquarters of Maniti Expeditions; the company that was due to take us jungle-side.

We took a seat and waited while the other members of our tour filed in. As it turned out, we were rather a small group. We were joined by a family of Pakistani-Americans from New Jersey, a Portuguese man, who I think was called Pedro, who was nice, though verging dangerously on the pretentious, and, of course – because apparently there is a God, but unfortunately he's just a bastard – the Indian couple from the night before. Of course they were there. Of course they were. Also, it turned out they were actually American, so that made my accidental racism one degree worse than it had even been before. Whizzer.

After a brief interlude wherein a man, whom I did not realise had just wandered in off the street, handed me a torch - which I assumed was just an extra they gave you as part of the tour, but after some time and a lot of him refusing to let me hand it back to him, realised he was trying to sell me, for a frankly ludicrous price, resulting in me having to physically force the thing back into his hands while shouting “no gracias” as politely, yet firmly as I could - we were loaded on to a shitty, rickety old bus and sent towards Bellavista Naney port with our new guide. His name was Alfredo.

Alfredo was, as you might expect a jungle tour guide to be, an interesting chap. He was a short, sturdy, sixty-five year old man, sporting a Peruvian national football shirt, a pair of quite small shorts with sailboats printed on them, a camouflage backpack with a Cannibal Corpse patch poorly sewed onto it and one hell of a coke-nail. He told us, also, not long after we had met that he had been doing Ayahuasca, that traditional Peruvian mind-fuck broth for the last fifty years or so of his life. This was our expert. This was the only barrier between ourselves and definitely dying at the hands of a cruel and dangerous jungle. A junkie death-metal-head. Great. (though, to be totally fair to Alfredo, he was only about 20% as fucking weird and unreliable as this description makes him out to be. In reality, he was very knowledgeable, friendly and really, clearly cared a lot about making sure we were all safe and happy. He was both a top lad and a ruddy good bloke)

We were rushed through Bellavista port by Alfredo, stopping only briefly to marvel at the culinary delights the small port had to offer

Like these buckets full of fucking grubs, for some reason. Apparently they taste just like butter

and before we knew it, we were boarding a small, rickety boat bound for jungletown in the least official looking dock I had ever been to.

Pictured: Not a dock

Just as I was going to take my seat, something pale darted across the corner of my eye. I quickly spun to face the movement and there it was, sitting, bold as brass, right next to where I was about to park my – frankly 10/10 – arse was a massive, white spider, about the size of the palm of my hand, staring up at me, human blood dripping from its fangs, hissing threats in some esoteric spider-language. Fortunately, I was too fucked with the flu to have any energy left to make a fool of myself by panicking and so, instead, quietly just moved down the boat, screaming myself hoarse inside. Alfredo, then noticing the spider himself, then scooped the horrible thing into his hands and very softly deposited it off the side of the boat as if it was nothing, thereby tacitly making a total bitch of me for being so scared of it. Thanks Alfredo. Prick. Fortunately, though that seemed to be the only spider that had snuck on board, as I remained unbothered by any of its kin for the duration of our (very long) boat-ride up the Amazon river.

The boat ride was, despite my malady and my intrinsic fear of ever being submerged in the Amazon river, for any amount of time and for any purpose, fairly incredible. The river is bizarrely fascinating to be on, even when nothing of any interest is happening, and once I had gotten over my terrible, terrible fear of the boat capsizing, or a piranha flying out of the water and biting my face, I settled in to really quite enjoying myself. Alfredo's talk about the river, much like the thing itself, remained interesting, even at points when he was pretty much just babbling a load of shit about nothing, and a conversation with the father of the Pakistani-American family (who was every inch the spitting image of a brown Todd, from The Last Man On Earth) revealed that he, too, was something of an absolute delight. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, after all.

We eventually pulled in to San Rafael, the little community adjacent to our lodge and, after veeeeery fucking carefully removing myself from the boat, we walked for about ten minutes through very nearly actual proper jungle

Aaaaaah!

seeing some wild tamarins on the way and everything (which are apparently very rare to spot in the wild, so that was neat). By this point though, the heat was almost unbearable and lugging around  my heavy backpack with a swirling vortex of fluey malaise sucking me ever deeper into its terrible maw was really starting to wipe me out. Before long, though, we arrived at the lodge, which was really quite nice, though perhaps a little too similar to the Others' village in Lost, for me to be totally comfortable in.

Delightful, yet sinister, like if Ted Bundy could make balloon animals

I quickly scooted off to dump my bag in our... fairly modest room

Hey, cool, I’m definitely going to die here.

before, with little to no chance for me to rest, being dragged straight back out for a short taster walk, into the actual and for reals jungle.

The walk was definitely an interesting, if very tiring excursion, especially for a gross, snotty flu-man, which I very much was. I think, though that it was largely the novelty of being in a new biome that really did the bulk of holding my attention, as, presumably due to the lovely, but very loud and panicky American family's constant hoots of fear, we didn't see a huge amount in the way of wildlife. Especially not anything that might bite, poison or constrict you. Still, though, it was quietly quite comforting to not be the most scared person there. Grow up, Americans. God.

Around half an hour later and fifteen pounds heavier in mud caked to the bottom of my shoe and trousers, we returned to the lodge for a surprisingly nice lunch of mashed potato and beef. I couldn't really enjoy it, however, as my sinuses were full beyond bursting and the room was spinning horribly around me, as I ate. We were given, mercifully, around an hour to relax before the next part of our tour, which I spent soundly asleep, not even caring that spiders could and probably would be crawling over my exhausted, broken body as I did.

The nap turned out to be a good choice. I awoke feeling slightly more human, albeit by the scantiest margin possible. It wouldn't have mattered if I was literally dying though- I'd still have gone on the next bit of the tour; was I fuck missing a trip to Monkey Island, under any circumstances.

We boarded the boat once more; one tour member lighter - in the form of Pedro who had decided to go off with another, different guide to camp in the jungle for a night, though with the new addition of Karl, another American man and weird lookalike of his namesake Karl Pilkington, arriving late - and were away to Monkey Island. Fuck yes we were away to Monkey Island.

Monkey Island, as its name suggests is a rehabilitation centre for monkeys who were rescued from the black market's pet trade, and that's all brilliant and everything, but jesus christ, it was just a little patch of jungle with all friendly woolly monkeys running around and, jumping through trees and tumbling around and playing and coming up to you to hold your hand or climb onto your shoulders and it was everything I have ever wanted and I don't expect I will feel joy like I did while being there, ever again. Or any sort of joy at all, to be honest.

L O O K A T T H E M 

It was so good that for around the hour and a half we were there, I basically forgot I had the flu. That's how good it was; it was good enough to override my body slowly shutting down through fatigue and illness, like a lemsip for the soul. It was genuinely fantastic; the only thing that marred the experience, even slightly was the American family being a bit too loud and overbearing, pushing to the front of every experience, and so taking all of the monkeys' precious attentions for themselves, for the vast majority of the time. I suppose it can be forgiven of people for being a little over-excited about a god damned island full of monkeys though, so for once, I will bare no grudge against them. But let it me known, if anyone physically comes between me and a monkey, ever again, I will cut a bitch.

Way, way too fucking soon, though, we were pulled away from Monkey Island, in much the way its inhabitants were pulled away from the still-warm corpses of their mothers by poachers (...too dark?) and loaded back onto the boat.

We returned to San Rafael and, by this point, a combination of the heat, the flu and not being allowed to spend literally forever on Monkey Island in a perpetual state of utter bliss had ruined me. I badly needed a nap, again, for fear that if I did not take one, I might actually die, but alas, I was not to be afforded such a simple pleasure. Alfredo informed us, once we were back on land, that we'd be heading out into the jungle again, for an hour long night-walk to look for spiders and shit. I couldn't think of a more terrifying sentence for him to say, to be honest, but I decided that was probably actually quite unlikely that I was actually going to die and it would be quite an experience to miss out on if I just spent the time asleep in the relative comfort of my room, and so, like the solider I am, I nutted up and just did it.

I've genuinely had nightmares about being stuck in the jungle at night. If you'd have asked me a week ago to describe my top most terrifying real-world scenarios I'd never want to be in, that probably would have ranked in the top three. Actually experiencing it, however, really wasn't all that bad. I don't know if my mind and body were just too mangled to process exactly what was happening to me (I do remember spending a lot of the time, almost asleep on my feet, not fully knowing where I was, but being quite convinced that I was in a forest in Scotland), or if the lovely, but loud American family had just spooked all the dangerous animals in a fifty mile radius away with their unforgivably loud hollers and yelps, but I didn't find myself feeling at all anxious, or frightened, or...anything, really. It was just something that was happening to me before I could sleep.

Although in retrospect, it looks fucking terrifying

The walk progressed slowly, with little of interest being spotted, other than a couple of (admittedly pretty sick) stick insects and apparently an opossum (although I didn't see it, myself) and seemed to be winding down without incident. Then, ten minutes or so from camp, Sam's left leg stated burning. Panicking, she told Alfredo what was happening, who traipsed back to her, lifted her trouser-leg and saw, to Sam's horror, but his own light amusement that a not insignificant amount of fire-ants were swarming around her calf. Apparently she had stomped her little stompy feet through their nest and was now paying the price for her murderous hubris. Alfredo swatted the ants away as best he could and we continued walking (or in Sam's case, badly limping) back to the camp.

Once back, we ducked back into our bungalow to make sure neither of us had any more of the nasty little fuckers on us, which thankfully, we did not, and everything was great,forever. The End.

Nah, just kidding; we had an entire fucking colony milling around our socks and lower trousers. We very quickly and with very very little dignity, stripped our khakis off in a bit more of a girlish panic than I'd honestly like to admit, shook the ants free from the trousers, outside and just straight up binned the socks like the unwearable garbage they now were. When we were absolutely sure that we now ant-free (which took so much more time and energy than my body could realistically spare), we headed to dinner; another fairly nice affair full of chicken legs and mashed potato, so I'm told, at least. Genuinely, I don't know, I was so far beyond physically okay that the entire thing really was a bit of a blur for me. I do remember being given a pill by the Indian couple, which they claimed was a combination of painkillers and muscle relaxant and which knocked me out almost as soon as I returned to our room. At least I was too sick to care about spending a night in the jungle- the part of the trip I was most worried about, previously – so uh. Every cloud and all that, I guess. Also, the muscle relaxant didn't even one, as I had worried it might, make me piss the bed. So that's two silver linings, which honestly, is pretty good going, as far as silver linings are concerned.

I was up several times in the night. The jungle is (shockingly) pitch black during the evening and, much like the night before, I found myself awaking with a jolt every two hours or so, to empty my bladder and perform a full and thorough inspection of my bed, using the torch on my phone, to make sure no errant tarantulas had decided to become my erstwhile bedfellows. They hadn't, to be fair, but that doesn't make me hate them any less. Furry, spindly little pricks.

Despite this, I did sleep better than I had the previous night (albeit again, only by the slimmest of margins) and actually found myself, for once, being woken up by my alarm, rather than just being awake several hours before it was due to go off, anyway. Take that, alarm.

Our morning plan was to take the boat out once more, to watch the sun rise over the Amazon and then around to go river-dolphin spotting, which, to be fair, did sound appallingly lovely. The sunrise was mostly obscured by clouds, so wasn't perhaps as impressive as it could have been, though still managed to remain fairly bloody impressive

Neat, I guess.

and what the clouds took away from the gravity of the experience, Alfredo more than added back in by uttering the cryptic, slightly frightening and just very, very metal line of “...His eye opens” as the sun just began to peek over the horizon

BEHOLD!

By the time we had begun dolphin spotting, I had once again grown weary and while I was definitely thoroughly enjoying the experience, and managed, at points, to get incredibly close and take some pretty okayish videos of the ugly, pink little jerks

I have no way of editing videos out here, but if you wait until around the 30 second mark, you should see a big splashy boy

I was definitely not enjoying my nostrils turning into a snot-faucet and my head being slowly crushed into a singularity from the inside, so by the time we packed it all in and returned home, I was super glad to be doing so, despite feeling a little guilty for thinking like this. To be honest though, as amazing as this experience was (and indeed all the experiences the rainforest had to offer thus far – save for fire-ants, which can go fuck themselves), it was hard for me to really, properly enjoy them, as each time I got close to feeling like I was, the realisation that I am a comparatively rich, white tourist who paid for this experience set in, hard, and, in what has to be the most first-world-problemy way possible, did rather make the entire thing seem a bit...plastic. Not the monkeys though; they were legit.

Once home, we took a quick break; not long enough for a recovery nap, but just about long enough to relax in a hammock for a while

So relaxed...

before being ushered out onto the river by Alfredo once more. This time to go and meet some members of a local tribe. I wasn't particularly thrilled about this part of the tour, feeling that it was perhaps a little ...colonial and exploitative; parading us around this relatively primative tribe, oohing and ahhing at their grass skirts and shitty little home-made crafts and rudimentary hunting techniques and all that, but I did pay...quite a lot for this tour and didn't really want miss any part of it; especially a bit so awkward and unwanted that it was almost guaranteed to generate some dynamite blog-content, so I bundled myself back into the boat and headed off to tribesville.

We arrived at the small village and were directed to sit down inside, what I assumed was the main hut. We had been joined by another, different tour-group for what was about to ensue, which I was uncharacteristically thankful for, as it, at the very least, would dilute some of the attention that our group would get. After a brief talk on the tribe from Alfredo, which didn't exactly blow me away with any fascinating insight into their way of life (they're farmers who grow rice and bananas, they hunt for their food and use blowdarts), we then got another small talk in the tribe's native tongue from the chieftain; short, stern and stocky man, wearing a grass skirt and a large ornamental headdress, who was, hilariously, just called Richard, who essentially just went over the same things as Alfredo, but in a language that seemed to only consist of three independent syllables.

The tribe then demonstrated two of their traditional songs, both of which were accompanied by a dance, with which we were invited to join in (an offer which every single member of our group declined)

Not this guy, though. He was fucking loving it.

and both of which, with the best will in the world, were a bit shit. After a gruelling and genuinely awkward few minutes, the music abated and we were led to a different area to try our hand at blow-gunning, which, I'll be honest, I did rather enjoy, despite myself.

P-tew!

with no time to enjoy my definitely 10/10 blowgun prowess, we were directed immediately to the tribe's market stall, in which we were expected to spend our money on various bits of, to be totally honest, absolute garbage, which the tribe had made. Sam had brought very little money with her and I hadn't thought to bring any, at all, so we had a quick look around to see what we could buy with fifteen soles that was something either one of us would actually like and we weren't just buying because it felt awkward not to. It was then that li'l chief Richard approached us, his hand outstretched, rubbing his thumb against his middle and fore-finger – the international symbol for “give me money”

“Para la musica” he told us. For the music.

Great. Now apparently we had to pay for enduring their shit music which wasn't good and which I didn't enjoy listening to. Perfect. We (Sam) handed him five of our soles and he looked disgusted with us. We (Sam) apologised for not giving more and Richard walked away, unspeaking. I don't care if you are in some jungle tribe with all different culture and everything, rudeness is rudeness. Fuck you, Richard. Prick.

Now feeling a little like what little shine the experience had possessed, previously had very much worn out, we continued being made to browse the tribe's wares, until we finally succumbed to pressure and bought ourselves some tat.

Glad I spend money on this sweet little number

With everyone's pockets now entirely emptied and the lines on who was exploiting who blurred beyond all recognition, we loaded ourselves back onto the boat. Also, a little side-note here, but it was at this point that I watched a portly lady who was on the other tour, lean out of the window of her boat to take one final picture of the tribe, though instead managed to let her phone slip out of her hands and straight to the bottom of the river; an act which I singularly enjoyed infinitely more than I had the last hour or so of tribal interaction and having my money guilted off me. They should genuinely employ someone to do that on every tour, because, honestly, I nearly enjoyed it as much as Monkey Island.

Our next stop was one I could be fucked with almost as much as the previous; piranha fishing. I'm not a huge fan of fishing, to be honest, because I don't really like killing things (although, being in the Amazon does generally make you a little kill-happier. There was no way in hell I was going to scoop up each individual fire-ant on a bit of cardboard and pop them outside on the bungalow's windowsill. It was the boot for them), but we were told by Alfredo that the lodge's chefs would cook up what we caught and we could have them for lunch, which did remove some of the grey morality which which I was struggling.

Turns out I needn't have worried about any of that, though, because I was fucking terrible at Piranha fishing and didn't land a single catch. I couldn't get them to stay on the hook, no matter what I tried and more than likely emptied our group's reserves of spare bait, single-handedly in the process, like the saint I am. Sam, however, being a salty Geordie fish woman, was great at it and caught, as she kept boastfully reminding me of, as if ending the lives of innocent little snappy-boys was something to be proud of, no fewer than four fish. Five, actually, but one wasn't a piranha and was therefore too small to bother cooking (it was, however, too badly damaged to go back in the water and so had to be stomped to death, anyway. What a monster she is.)

After a while, even Sam's bloodlust was sated and we unanimously decided to pack in this whole fishing lark and go back for lunch. I got back on board the boat, over the piranha infested waters as carefully as I have ever done anything in my life and we returned to the lodge for what would be the final time.

We were afforded enough time, once back, for me to have another nap, which, at this point were the only things making me feel even vaguely alive or human, in any sense, before being served our last lodge supper. More mashed potatoes, jungle-beans, the piranhas Sam caught and a big chunky fillet of another, different (and anyone with tastebuds would say) better fish called Pacu and which looks like this

...yummy

I am told that this all tasted quite nice, but by this point, the flu had cruelly taken away my senses of both smell and taste, so I had no idea. I could just about make out that it was very salty, though, so that was something. Small victories.

With that, our jungle experience came to a close and after a strangely intimate hug goodbye with Alfredo, we and the Indian couple (who were the only other guests not booked to stay any longer than a single night) were plopped back on our boat and ferried upstream back to Belavista. A trip which I spent nearly the entirety of asleep, which I like to think was because I had grown so comfortable with being in the jungle, at that point, that I could relax fully in it, but more likely was because I had just been crumpled into a ball of misery and fatigue by my flu over the previous three days. Overall though, being in the jungle was a surprisingly good experience and one that I might even consider doing again at some point, should the opportunity arise. A solid 9/10, except for, as I've said, the fire-ants which can go fuck themselves.

Back on terra firma, we were wizzed via tuktuk first back to the company's headquarters, where we finally parted ways with the Indian couple – hopefully actually to never see them again this time, and then to our new AirBnb, in which we would spend out final few days in Iquitos.

Our new AirBnb, as it happens, was actually a collection of luxury riverfront apartments, in which, we had unknowingly booked the nicest room. We were checked in by the receptionist, Diego, who looked the spitting image of a brown Zach Woods and who was incredibly welcoming and helpful to an almost snivelling degree (not entirely unlike every character Zach Woods plays, now I think of it.) Diego explained everything there was to explain about the apartment in frankly laborious detail and, after dropping this info-dump on us and bidding us welcome, asked us point blanc

“what's my name?”

I suppose this was as some kind of test to see if we had retained the information he had just said, rather than a test of politeness, or some weird ego-trip. Regardless, I did not remember what it was. I was hard-humped with flu and generally disregard someone's name the first three times they tell me it, even when it is someone I know I'll actually see again.

“...What's. My. Name?” he repeated.

I laughed and told him I'd just be in the jungle for two days, so I'd forgotten. This seemed to be an acceptable enough answer for him and he immediately flicked back to his friendly, helpful self, creepily seamlessly. The entire interlude was really quite odd, totally out of keeping what the rest of what I'd seen of his personality and I'm almost certain, a preamble to my own murder.

Doing our best to put whatever psychosis we had just witnessed behind us, we settled in to our new digs. This apartment, a penthouse suite overlooking the Naney river, was about as different from living in the jungle as it was possible to get, and let me tell you, the change was one hundred percent welcomed by me.

The view is spectacular

...I mean if you’re into things like that.

The bed was comfy, the fridge loaded with pre-cooled water bottles, the kitchen fully stocked and the entire apartment almost entirely bug-free, due in no small part to its remarkably effective AC system, which really did turn the flat into a little icy paradise of excess, amidst a sea of poverty and sweat.

We couldn't quite settle in fully just yet, though. Sam insisted that we make a quick outing to the supermarket, because apparently she needed shampoo and apparently wasn't willing to go alone, for fear of being “mugged” or “abducted and killed” by a “crime man”, which to be honest, I felt was very selfish of her.

For the final time that day, then, I dragged what was left of my body out through the streets of Iquitos, to the supermarket and back, before finally being able to collapse onto our exceptionally soft airbnb couch, to eat a modest dinner of a single sausage and a couple of minty biscuits, while watching the Peru episode of an Idiot Abroad - because watching someone else suffer through what I just had was really the only thing that had the capability of making me feel any better at that point – and then heading directly to our comfy, comfy bed, which I believe I must have fallen asleep in, before my head had even touched the pillow. I have never been more done.

[wolf-in-a-suit]

Advanced organic chemistry

Show: Sherlock

Summary: All you wanted to do was pass your exam, of course being the assistant of the famous Sherlock Holmes there is little time for petty little things like ‘graduate university’. Still, right now you start to regret ever having met the detective…

Okay, you could do this! Just one more exam and you were done for this semester, after this everything would be sunshine and rainbows – as much as lingering around various crime scenes could be described that way. But a certain detective would have a field day once he realized that he could drag you around London at any ungodly hour, without such ‘boring’ excuses as a math exam, or your potentially ruined future. Needless to say: You hadn’t told him yet. Your sole confidant had been John, Sherlock would figure it out soon enough and until then you hoped to get at least a good nights rest.

The heard of nervous students began flocking into the exam room like sheep to the slaughter. There was Caroline who, for weeks now, wore backs under her eyes like a fashion statement and Max who twitched every few seconds. Exams this year had been hell. Especially, as the educators had agreed on the fact that their students were lazy and had to pick up their standards. As a result the whole education plan had been overworked, rendering the old exam sheets form previous generations useless.

For many it felt like the smite of god, a punishment for their sins: Sleeping trough an eight o’clock s.t. chemistry lecture. You on the other hand, as the somewhat unwillingly assistant of Sherlock Holmes, had to conform on Sherlock’s standards for employees: Which included excellent chemistry, physics and mathematical skills, to just name a few. You were sure not even Albert Einstein would have the fitting CV. While wondering for the countless time why on earth Sherlock had chosen you, Caroline flapped into the seat next to you. Her eye started twitching when the test were passed around.

Both of you posed a humorous contrast, if one could find humor in such a dire, life threatening situation: She looked like she was going to pass out any second now, while you just peered through the grand windows at the left side of the room, slouching on the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“You have one and a half hour, starting-“ Professor Smith peered at his watch “-NOW!” The race had started and the fluttering of exam pages filled the room. First question: Derive the Van der Waals equation. Easy, though you had to admit the questions kept getting harder, and harder on the next pages. Caroline next to you had suddenly become very still after reading through each sheet, from her almost translucent complexion to her stiff posture you almost mistook her for a client – well technically not client, but ‘object of investigation’ seemed a tat impersonal.

The continuous scratching of your pen did little to ease her rigor mortis. Draw the Morse Potential, you had skimmed over that just yesterday. The diagram almost clear in your mind, but before you could picture it clearly a flash of black outside before window distracted you. However, it was gone as soon as you turned, scanning the window front. Perhaps you were a little stressed after all?

Scratch, the continually assault of bullpens on paper, or lack thereof, filled the warm, suffocating air for the next minutes. Until a new flash of black captured your attention once again. Looking back, you should have expected something like this would happen on your most important exam: Outside, waving like a madman, stood Sherlock, flanked by both John and Mary trying to capture each of his gesticulating arms – probably in order to drag him away. Just on the side, head in her hand, visibly ashamed to be part of the commotion stood Molly.

Sherlock however was oblivious to the petty feelings of his band of chaperones and started to ruck his head, black locks bouncing, mentioning you to come outside. The shuffling of papers ceased somewhat and a murmur of ‘What’s his problem?’ filtered through the room. Had it always been this hot in here? Though you supposed, no one knew that you were the sole recipient of the madman’s attention. Like always you would just ignore his antics, take your test and deal with the murder case, or whatever crime had him this anxious afterwards. Yeah, you could do this!

Just when you picked up your pen Sherlock seemed to get what you were trying to do. So, being the good friend and boss he was, he started pointing and mouthing directly at you. Now about three hundred pair of eyes were trained on you, a reminder of those nightmares were you showed up to class naked.   You looked down at yourself: Nope, not one of those dreams.

“Excuse, me-“ a somewhat snotty voice toned to your right. “- do you mind! I am trying to die here!” You faced Caroline, grateful for a reason to turn away from the window and replied sweetly: “No, I don’t. Just go ahead.” So, maybe Sherlock’s demeanor had slightly rubbed off on you, but that was the only thing enabling you to ignore the commotion outside, plus all these stares, continuing with your exam. Some poor chap of the faculty staff would try to take care of the situation outside soon enough.

Bam! The doors to the room burst open and in strode none other than: Mycroft Holmes himself.

His expensive suit and confident stroll marking him as an exotic particle in the microcosm’s of the university. Shit! What was he doing here? A sudden uneasy feeling washed over you, along with some shame. If Mycroft was here, then something was seriously wrong! Was Moriaty back!? ‘Dear god, please no!’

Professor’s Smith expression was murderous, his glare piercing the advancing man, possessing the audacity to interrupt his sacred chemistry exam. Sherlock’s brother however was, as always, ‘not impressed in the least’ and merely reacted with a raised eyebrow to the seething, small man trying to tell him off. Smith’s outburst was short lived, all it took were a few uttered words from Mycroft and the former defiant teacher folded and started nodding along with everything the British government demanded. Which of course led to: “Mrs.___, please finish your exam at once and come down here.”

At his point you didn’t care that all those eyes followed while you handed your half-finished test back, to great was your anxiety over the possible state of the empire. Judging by the short nod and worried look in Mycroft’s brown eyes it was at least national danger. An oppressive silence followed the exam room doors clanking shut behind the two of you. All you could do was watch the politicians back while walking after him through the entrance doors – that and produce a puddle of sweat. Had his shoulders ever been so hunched? They normally were set so proudly. ‘Please, don’t let it be a war!’

The cold rush of air hit your face and with it came the normal Sherlock intensity: “___, finally! None of these idiots was of any help.” With a flurry of his black trench coat the detective escaped the clutches of Mary and John, grasping your arms in a desperate manner. There was a deep concern in his eyes as well, which only resulted in your stomach making the jump of a cliff. You looked around helplessly and steeled yourself for the answer to your question: “So what is it? Moriaty is back, a hidden bomb, or World War 3?” “Nothing of the sort!” John tried to calm you. Mycroft helpfully added: “Much worse!”

“Come now, are you sure you aren’t just exaggerating?” Molly’s brow had never before been that furrowed. “For once, my dear brother”- Sherlock pronounced the word with such distaste, that by now it was an insult “- is not overreacting.” Shit, you didn’t even own a bunker, how were you supposed to survive a war? “Looks to me that the two of you just need to grow up already.” John’s sole reply was to cross his arms at the theatrical show presented to him.

“Hello! Would someone have the decency to tell me why the world is ending?” The Holmes siblings exchanged a look. “Our parents are coming to visit.”

Silence.

The only thing heard was the rustling of fallen leaves in the brisk wind.

You opened your mouth…

…and closed it again, because you were too astonished, or too angry to even compute how you felt.

Both brothers watched you with equal concern and impatience. Which soon turned to alarm, when you simply spun around and started stalking back toward the front doors.

“I told you this was a bad idea.” Mary addressed the detective who snatched your arm centimeters from the door handle and twisted you back to face him.

“They are coming tomorrow and someone-“ he send a smoldering glare to Mycroft “-promised we would cook for them!” Pushing down the black hole of hate, currently sucking at your guts, you sighed: “So, big deal! Your parents will see that they raised two adults who can’t cook! What about it?” Mycroft Holmes supported by his umbrella wore the look of a man fearing eternal damnation. “Once they realize that, Mummy will stay to remedy that particular ‘lack of skill’.” “Yes, and no one wants that!” It must have been Christmas, for never had you seen these two agree on anything before.

“Mrs. Hudson!?” you supplied. “I am not your housekeeper, Sherlock!” The detective’s impression was scarily near to the original. Your eyebrows rose when you mentioned to the band of friends shivering in the cold autumn air. Which just earned you a scoff: “You are talking about a man whose sole consolidation for his lack of cooking skills is that his wife, is as deadly in the kitchen as her former profession-” “Hey!” though Mary’s shout was rather meek, confirming the accusations “- and Molly who is in charge of the morgue, seemingly also not afraid to raise the demand for places in there, with her ‘chicken parmesan’.”

“It was just that one time, Sherlock!”

Everyone’s eyes were trained on you expectantly, while a sudden grin erupted on your features. This wasn’t going to be cheap. You turned to Mycroft and nonchalantly asked: “What exactly was my grade in that exam?” John and Molly looked somewhat confused at the sudden change of topic, while Mycroft’s eyes glinted, catching on instantly. He pursed his lips. “A C, I’d say.” A suffering sigh escaped your lungs. “So, the equivalent of pasta with plain tomato sauce, then?”

“It could also have possibly been a B.” “Hmm,-“ you pondered this for moment. “Casserole.” The British government erected itself to his full, imposing height. “Considering that we so crudely interrupted your examination an A would be in order.” You nodded at that and mused. “So we need to get all the ingredients for Coq au vin before tomorrow.” This statement was a relieve for all participants, an audible gasp going through John, Mary and Molly.

“So what are we waiting for?” Sherlock clapped his hands. “John still has to clean the dinner table from all his stuff.” “Hold up! The only thing littering the table is your chemistry set!”

And so the small band of misfits made their way through the cold wind to the next tube station. You already knew what your plan for this night was:

Googling ‘how to cook coq au vin for beginners’.

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When the Earth Bled by Sue Rovens

My name is Hallison Fischer and the first time I bent over to cut a swath in the earth, it bled. I’d never seen that before; a crimson line bubbling up from the grey dust that covered the ground. I suppose I never had the need to see such things since I hadn’t been in the position to grow anything before. I was fortunate to have had a father who would tend to such ghoulish work. He protected me from having to dirty my hands and my eyes from such labors.

Over the years, I heard tales, snippets of gossip, and pieces of conversations - what it was like before the earth ran red with blood when it was cut open by sharp implements. There were layers of dirt or mud - sometimes clay. 

I tried to imagine what that must have been like -- to feel the dirt, to run barefoot over the soil and not have to worry about accidentally stepping into a gaping wound, a festering boil hidden among sparse grasses which now cover the world. How incredible it must have felt to walk with abandon, or to run, throwing caution to the wind. 

But all those scenarios were not a part of my world. I had only seen such incredulous images in rare picture books scattered about. They could be found in abandoned schools or a dinged-up old rusty locker.

 Everything culminated around the time when vaccinations stopped working and antibiotics lost their effectiveness. People started dying. Thousands dropped so quickly, the morgues and crematoriums were overrun in a matter of weeks. The cemeteries filled up so fast, the local governments began asking anyone who owned any land, regardless of size, to volunteer it, just to keep the bodies from piling up in the streets.

I remember when my parents signed up to help bury the dead. I had just turned sixteen. I thought about offering to help since the schools were closed by then. What else could I do? Half my friends were either dead or in the final throes of dying, while the others had been whisked away to ‘safer parts of the country’ by well-meaning but naive family members. Emails and texts kept us connected for a few months, until technology proved unreliable and quit altogether. 

My mom had put her foot down. She said the job of burying bodies in mass graves was no task for a teenager, especially a girl. This was after I weakly offered. She said that she would rather have me stay home and read the few books they had squirreled away in order to soak up every bit of information that I possibly could. Such knowledge, she told me, might be useful in the future. I didn’t argue. I really didn’t want to handle the corpses of our neighbors and friends. 

My dad had been a history buff and owned a few good books which described the specifics of World War III. He also subscribed to an underground magazine that made handwritten printed issues. Defying the Impossible initially came out monthly but trickled down to about every six weeks. I haven’t seen a current issue for over four months now. 

It was a fantastical rag, full of stories about people facing insurmountable situations yet enduring and overcoming the odds. As far as I knew, the articles were true; things that actually happened to people who survived long enough to tell their tales. I suppose they could have made stuff up, but I didn’t want to believe that. The stories were inspiring. They spoke of hope and determination and an iron will, traits that we desperately needed. Traits that were few and far between these days.

One issue in particular had the most amazing piece in it. The event took place over a hundred years ago, sometime in the 1940s. A doctor named Walter Freeman used to perform lobotomies by thrusting instruments like ice picks right above patients’ eyes. He would move the tools back and forth in order to scramble the front part of the person’s brain. There were times when he worked on two people simultaneously! While some patients suffered horrific results, others were supposedly made better, going on to live normal lives.

I couldn’t believe it. If these people could live through such an atrocity, something so destructive and yet turn out okay, even better in some cases, then perhaps my family might just make it. The problem was that while no one was sticking metal rods above our eyes and swishing them around, we were dealing with our own kinds of nightmares. The kind that decomposed from the inside out and fell dead at your feet.

That was the scary thing; not knowing when death would snatch someone from the earth. I was too young to understand the details, but I remember hearing the news about medications being ineffective. They simply stopped working. After decades of being dependent on drugs for one disease or another, people had become immune. Soon after, mutations of germs and viruses began wiping out populations on every continent.

When our town and the surrounding cities’ population dropped, the National Guard was called to help maintain order, but they weren’t very effective. Within a year, most of them had died right along with the rest of us. The schools closed, the malls and shops were shuttered, mail stopped being delivered, and all the stores were looted. That’s when we tried to grow our own food.

I’m not sure what happened to all the animals. After the end of World War III, there weren’t many left – at least that’s what we had been told in school. And who were we to question such things? I suppose it would be like people from the 1500s wondering where all the dinosaurs went. It just wasn’t something most people thought about.

My dad, who had never planted a seed in his life, took to the soil, searching through our garage for tools, using rakes and snow shovels to create a garden of sorts. At first, he tried using seeds that my mom and I had dug out of moldy apples and shriveled oranges. We let a few potatoes grow eyes. My dad said that once tubers had nubs or eyes, he could plant them and they would propagate into more potatoes – something he read in one of his books.

We did okay with the potatoes for a little while, but after that first year, nothing else came up. We found ourselves dropping bouillon cubes in lukewarm water and gathering the last bits of stale cereal the bottoms of boxes. We were trying to save special foods, like hard candies and an old jar of green olives and tomato paste for a real emergency. Those didn’t last long.

My mom went first. It was right after she buried a deformed baby on the hill next to my old school. I wasn’t supposed to hear about it, but I did. I used to sit on the steps against the wall on the other side of the kitchen, listening to my parents talk about the horrific things they had seen during the day. How the gloves and masks had run out and how the skins from the bloated bodies would peel right off in their hands as they hoisted the dead from the back of pickup trucks and into the mass graves.

But it was the little baby that must have done my mom in. I heard her tell my dad how she tried to hold it carefully so as not to let any fluids touch her own scabbed and scaly skin (from lack of nutrition). But she was tired and weak and hungry and in a moment of delirium, the baby’s head rocked forward and slammed into her face. That was all it took. Its head popped like a distended pustule and my mom died within the week.

After that, my dad pretty much gave up. I couldn’t blame him. He stopped volunteering and sat in his rocker day after day, staring out the window. When I would bring some tepid water flavored with an old beef bouillon cube to him, what I called dinner, he would stop rocking and make an attempt to smile at me. The day he stopped accepting my pitiful meals was the same day I became an orphan. I don’t know – can you be an orphan at sixteen?

There was a college kid that lived down the street from us. It’s funny. I say college kid, but the universities had been closed for years at that point. Still, I guess I’ll always think of someone in their early twenties as a college kid.

I knew his name was Ethan and that he was doing okay because he shouted hello and introduced himself to me once when I was sitting on my stoop reading one of my dad’s books.

The day after my dad passed, I walked down the block to see if Ethan would help me. It’s not that I didn’t want to bury my dad by myself, because, if truth be told, I would have preferred it. I didn’t want to share my grief with anyone, especially with someone I didn’t know. But physically, I needed the help and I hadn’t seen any other able-bodied neighbors in quite some time. It wasn’t as if I could get in the car and drive somewhere – there was no gas. I hadn’t seen a working car in over seven months.

When I knocked on his door, it took two full minutes for him to answer. I mention this because I had seen him before as a strong, good-looking young man. But when he came to the door and I saw him up close for the first time, my heart as well as my expectations sank to the pit of my stomach.

He looked like an old man. His hair was now shadowy wisps of its former self and his eyes were sunken and dark. What was once a youthful complexion was now as pallid and translucent as cellophane. He clung to the door jamb, his stooped posture still rather imposing at 6’2” and asked what he could do for me.

“It’s my dad,” I said.

Ethan nodded. We didn’t need to say more.

Silently, we walked back to my house. I let him in the back door and showed him where my dad was, still in the rocker, still with a blank expression. Together, we carried him out to the backyard and placed him gently on the patio. Ethan made a gesture that implied I should go back inside the house, that he would handle it from there. Without question, I obeyed.

 From that point on, Ethan stayed with me at my house. We didn’t talk much – what was there to say – but it was good to have a companion. He helped me cut up my parents’ leather shoes into strips and came up with the idea for ketchup soup from a bottle he had at his place. It was about three days after he first came over that we made the decision to get married.

It wasn’t a real marriage, not in the legal sense. But we liked the idea of having an official bond between us. So, one evening as we were scraping together crumbs from the bottom of the toaster, Ethan took my hand and led me to the living room. We stood in front of the picture window, turned to face each other, and made a declaration about sharing and helping the other person. I told him that I considered him to be my husband, and that if he wanted to, he could consider me his wife. He smiled and kissed me on top of my head, which barely had any strands of hair left. Most of my scalp had scabbed over at that point due to all the scratching.

 Lice – another thing we shared.

It’s difficult to say exactly how long we were together. I would guess that Ethan lived at my house for another three days or so. Having only scraps to eat and pans of dirty rainwater from which to drink, I was surprised we stayed afloat even that long. On the morning he started to cough up blood, he told me that he was going into town for any supplies that might have been overlooked from past lootings.

I knew he was lying, but I didn’t say anything. I realized that he was thinking of me when he left. He didn’t want to leave me alone to bury a dead body by myself. 

 We hugged each other and he leaned down to kiss me – not out of passion, but out of empathy. Two human beings shared a hellacious experience and were now parting company. A gesture of goodwill had to be offered.

I held up a hand as he walked out the front door and down the block. I stood there, smiling my toothless grin and waving until he rounded the corner at which point, he disappeared from my life. I can’t say for certain what happened to him, my husband of days, but I thank him in my mind for the acts of kindness he showed me.

***

He left two days ago. I finished the last of the ketchup and worked my way through the remnants of an old, rotted salad dressing bottle which I had fished out from a garbage can on the next block over. I ate a spoonful of parsley flakes for dinner last night with a handful of water I scooped out of the bottom of a potted dead plant. 

Which brings me to today when I cut my first bloody swath into the ground. 

I don’t want anyone to judge this letter, if there is anyone left to find it. You might think that I was insane for doing what I was did. You have to understand. There was nothing left to plant; no dried up seeds, no withered vines, no potato eye.

But I was harvesting. I cut into the dead world. I sliced open the top layer of dusty skin in order to reap what I could. Just beneath my feet, bodies were ripe for the picking. In most cases, very ripe. As I penetrated the surface with my dull kitchen knife, a sickening primordial-like fluid oozed out from the slit. I kept hacking away until I saw the decomposing bodies that would keep my belly full. The earth was bleeding and I lapped it up like a dog.

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[RF] In the Dark

Chapter one

The engine turning over without igniting on my p.o.s truck is my worst nightmare. Especially when all the rich kids at my school love to watch the struggle. Almost as I’m a scene in National Geographic. “This fucking truck”! I shouted hitting the frayed steering wheel. I had just gotten out from 6th period at school on a Wednesday afternoon. It was hot and dry; a typical summer day in central California. I had learned to not let my poorness image affect me in any way. You see I was a loser, more importantly, I accepted the fact I was a loser. I had no skills that were worth anything. I sucked at sports, video games confused the shit out of me, and I wasn’t out on Friday nights cruising the streets, looking for teenage antics. I had about six months until graduation. I had a promising career at a grocery store or gas station in the future, as college wasn’t an option for me. But there is one thing I do that may separate me from the rest; I’m on a laser tag team. That’s right, laser tag. And tonight was a championship match that’s been 6 months in the making. I take laser tag very seriously. Its in the dark. You see, there’s no image to uphold in the dark. No judgement from others, and best of all, I can escape out of the real world. Escape into something else. Be someone else.

Chapter 2

I rolled up to the laser quest complex about an hour early. I completed my pre match ritual, and I was ready for action. Every professional athlete, performer, or entertainer has a pregame ritual. Mine has been developed, no, perfected over the past few years. I stretch my legs, you know the typical stretch you learn in elementary school. The one where you grab your foot and pull it up to your ass cheek. I eat some ramen (shrimp flavor) for some carbohydrates, and slip into a black shirt and black jeans. It’s important to wear black in the arena. Anything lighter than black will put a spotlight on your position from the hundreds of black lights lined throughout the gaming area. And lastly, I listen to a song by the band Korn, called blind. When I listen, I imagine myself as a mother fucking warrior during the game play. Flipping, bouncing off walls, having a shot accuracy of Atleast 98 percent, and then being hoisted out to the parking lot by my team mates after the win. Music has a funny way of helping you escape. I listen to music a lot.

Chapter 3

My teammates showed up shortly after I did. They’re older then me. They all had blue collar jobs, like the one I’ll probably get soon. They also loved the escape. They greeted me with fist bumps, and threw me a monster energy drink. We immediately started talking about the game plan inside. We have a play book, positions, and have even come up with our own form of communication, surely to confuse the other team. This was our life, and in a sense, this was our Super Bowl. We are all in, down to the custom titans stickers we had made down at the mall. We practice whenever we can. But unfortunately we don’t have the funds to rent out the arena to ourselves. When we do practice we typically have to play with the general public. Unfortunately not many adults play laser tag, so our opponents are typically kids that are attending birthday parties. As birthday parties are the main source of revenue for a place like this. We Annihilate the general public, all of our names appear on the game rankings at the end of a game, well before anyone else. Deep down we know it doesn’t mean much, but for a moment you feel pretty badass when you’re in the top ranks of a game. This list is displayed on a large tv screen in the lobby. Seeing your name on the big screen makes you feel as your watching a CBS sporting event, where you are the star of the show. We play in the regular laser tag league which consists of 4 teams. Our team is called the titans. There is typically a game once a month for 6 months, and a series of playoffs in the last month, determining the teams in the final. We beat the flames, and thunder hawks this year which led us to this moment. Tonight we play the beam masters. They’re good, if not the best.

Chapter 4

The beam masters were exceptional players. They seemed to have everything going for them Inside and outside of the arena. They all drove nice cars, played golf together, and seemed to be really close with one another. I don’t think they take this as seriously as us. I mean why would they? They have things to look forward to after this game tonight, they were living a great life, Atleast from my perspective. They rented out two hours of the arena every weekend to practice. That’s literally $400 a week for a private practice session. By default, they’re the best. In my head They share similarities to the jocks and popular kids in my school. We on the other hand, are kind of like the bad news Bears near the end of the movie when they started to get good. I would say we all have some personal issues, but through dedication And not really having a life outside of laser tag, we were damn good. Both teams were in the parking lot prior to the match. There’s not any bad blood, but the beam masters aren’t really talkative towards us. I have always wanted them to wish us good luck, Come over and start a conversation,help us feel normal for a brief period. But they didn’t. I guess we are outsiders in a game designed for outsiders. The irony of that makes my head hurt. It’s 20 minutes before game time now, I yelled at my teammates, “let’s get this party started”. We headed inside.

Chapter 5

The lobby of the arena smells of tombstone pizza, and burnt popcorn. It’s not the greatest smell to be exposed to, but it comes with the territory. The owner of the place stands on the concession counter and delivers instructions. He explains “its the Best of 3 matches, meaning who can win 2 out of the 3 games. Each game is 15 minutes long with a 10 minute reset. Each team will be awarded a win for most combined hits after the match.” He briefs us on safety, and stresses that no physical violence will take place of any kind. The titans aren’t physical anyways, most of us have never been in a real fight. Actually The thought of a real fight makes me want to piss my pants. However, I have a certain amount of rage within me that I’m sure will be let out someday. Maybe it’s from the rough childhood I had, maybe it’s the constant expectation of What society thinks I should be, maybe it will be a culmination of the loneliness I will endure for the rest of my life. I often wonder what form my rage would take if it ever came out? I don’t know. I’m pretty sure my teammates share the same similarities-but we never talk on that level. Probably because we are in denial, and why visit those emotions and feelings if there is no hope of changing from our simple pathetic lives. We walk into the player rooms to get geared up for the first match. We have a chest piece with Flashing lights and senors, and a gun that seems oversized for what it is. In my head it looks like armor from a medieval battle, or like we’re storm troopers ready to defend the dark side. We’re dressed, were nervous, but we are ready. A distorted announcement is heard on the speakers “You have 30 seconds to take formation in the arena before game play, starting now.” It’s our time, it’s my time. We may be the underdogs, but we’re hungry for a win.

Chapter 6

We take our station in the arena, and the game buzzer sounds. To us, it’s like the hunger games. This is life and death. The next season doesn’t start for another year. A long time to reflect on a loss, if that does happen. I sprint out and start firing. My teammates and I trade positions, using hand signals and yelling out strategic communications. It’s the longest 15 minutes of my life. I took some hits, but I know I tagged more than a few beamers. I felt good. As the first match ends, we feel we have come out on top. Entering the reset time we joked around as if we just beat the living shit out of them. However, when we got our scores, we came up short. Fuck I said. “That’s okay” I tell my teammates. We are all. Disappointed. We put everything into this, The thought of losing the only thing that we have in our life is unbearable. The second match starts, we continue to use the same tactics as before but the Beam masters are just so fluent in every aspect of the game. Every move we make they have already anticipated it. We go left they go right type of stuff. The match ends, and we wait for the scores in reset. We all know the outcome. But maybe there was a glitch in the scoring or something. Maybe we were just being too negative. Nope, They swept us. It wasn’t even close. That means it’s over. There is no third match, there are no technicalities, no options. It’s time to accept defeat. In less than 45 minutes, our small world has flipped upside down. We walk out to the parking lot, I’m not hoisted up.

Final

A full year to think about this. What do I have now? What am I supposed to dream about now? My teammates got in their cars and left. We didn’t say anything to each other afterwards, I mean what’s the point? it’s over. The beam masters stared my way but said nothing. I was hoping for some recognition from them, maybe to the affect of “you were a worthy opponent” or “you almost had us”. Sitting in my truck I started to weep. Weep like a fucking baby. It was too much to handle. For someone like me, who has so little, this is grounds for suicide. I got a sense of relief imagining my lifeless body swinging from a tall structure. Extreme? Maybe, maybe not. Ive come to realize that people who have money and lives seem to have a better chance at everything, or Atleast a head start. Or is it a level playing field? “Fuck that, it’s unfair”, I said. The truth is I have another year to bury these thoughts in my head. I thought, Maybe I can get into something else? I need something to make these painful thoughts of never amounting to anything go away. I want to be normal. I wish I had real bullets in my laser gun. I’m in the dark.

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