#and now my brain is just like. you should write horror instead of a historical fantasy romance 🤠

[fingertipsmp3]

Me: Okay I have a pretty solid idea for NaNoWriMo that I’m excited to write, great

My demon brain: But what if you wrote something different?

Me: Alright chief, I’ll bite. What’s your idea?

Brain: Wouldn’t you like to know weatherboy [punishes me for asking by removing all enthusiasm for my initial idea]

[unsafepin]

Optical Illusions: A Study of Aesthetics in Activism in Two Accounts

There’s been a particular thing bothering me about social media for a while. I should probably get a cool editing app, write it in a few bullet points and post it on Instagram. You know what I’m talking about, right? The goddamn infographics. If I have to sit through another slideshow explaining to me another military conflict, another societal issue, another existential unfairness on a baby pink background in a cheery font, I might combust. But the cognitive dissonance of aesthetics in activism has been a problem for a while, hasn’t it? So today, I want to examine the effect of focusing on aesthetics over content, or, on the flipside, not considering the optics of your activism enough, and what it does to the consumer of your content by picking apart two local activist-adjacent media projects, Tetraedras and Giljožinios.

Firstly, I want to make my own bias abundantly clear. I am personally acquainted with the teams of both projects, so obviously there will be innate personal bias involved. I highly encourage anyone reading to check both projects out themselves (@t3traedras and @giljozinios on Instagram, as well as Giljožinios’ YouTube channel) and make their own conclusions on the matter. I believe that while my familiarity breeds deeper knowledge of my subjects, it also makes me more vulnerable to assumptions about individuals involved. My insights come from the perspective of an observer, not an expert. Welcome to the circus.

The use of the word “optics” in a metaphorical political sense sprung up in the 1970s to describe the way major political decisions would not necessarily affect an average citizen, but how it would appear to them, e.g. 'U.S. President Barack Obama temporized for weeks, worrying about the optics of waging war in another Arab state after the Iraq fiasco' (Toronto Star, 19th March 2011). However, it’s become increasingly relevant in our age of social media, an age of perceptions over substance, of shortening attention spans and increased barrage of information one has to stomach daily. Social media is the great equalizer - a random person off the street can theoretically hold as much influence as a politician - thus it is becoming increasingly crucial for the average Joe posting on the countless apps owned by Facebook to be as familiar with PR terms as a firm with a six figure salary. Or at least that would be nice, seeing that more and more average Joes are becoming actively involved in politics and education, seeking to influence their newfound audience.

So, let’s see how successful average people with no media or politics degrees are at balancing their image. Both Tetraedras and Giljožinios lean into their 2010’s social media project optics: millennial pink themes, bold names, young teams. But that’s where the similarities end. Tetraedras’ brand is safety. The shades of color on the profile are calming, the illustrations are youthful and playful, their more serious posts are interspersed with more relaxing content (poetry, photoshoots, etc.). Giljožinios is confrontational. The colors electric, posts loud and to the point, they’re what it says on the box - a leftist project - and unapologetic about it. This might help to explain why audiences react as differently as they do to these two, on the surface, similar accounts. Because while you might’ve stumbled on Tetraedras organically while browsing, them having almost two thousand followers, Giljožinios crashed into the educational/political social media scene by being featured on the goddamn national news, that’s how controversial the project is. And obviously I am oversimplifying the issue, Tetraedras slowly built up to posting more opinionated content, while Giljožinios came in guns blazing accusing USA of imperialism, but you’ll have to let me explain. Tetraedras, in its essence, is a welcoming environment. They explain complicated problems in short bullet points with accompanying comforting visuals, their mascot is a inoffensive geometrical figure and their face is a beautiful girl, make-up matching the theme of the post. Giljožinios is named after a revolutionary device, their profile picture is a monarch being beheaded, their host quite infamously sat in front of Che Guevara memorabilia in their first and (as of writing) only video. It’s a lightning rod for angry comments by baby boomers, no matter what comes out of their mouth. In fact, I would argue that, if presented accordingly, the idea that the US is conducting a kind of modern imperialism is just a simple fact and personally can’t wait until Tetraedras posts that with a quirky illustration of Joe Biden to introduce the concept to the wider public.

This leads me to my next point, because despite what’s been previously suggested, I’m not here to solely sing Giljožinios’ praise. There is a cognitive dissonance in both of these flavors of social media activism, but while I can understand Tetraedras’ on a PR level, I’m kind of personally insulted by Giljožinios’. While purely personally I find aspects of Giljožinios’ radicalism distasteful, I appreciate the honesty in the youthful maximalism, of coming in strong and not backing down, but from the guys that made a communist Christmas tree once I almost expected something more stirring than “military industrial complex bad”. This leads me to ask: who is your content for? Your average breadtube-savvy twenty-something already heard this a thousand times, because they consume similar english-speaking content and I doubt any minds of the vatniks that came by to fume in the comment section are being changed. I’m obviously harking on a newborn project here, the team of which has already been bitten by authorities censoring their content, but so far there has been a lot of optical bark, but no substantial bite, especially considering the team seems to be in a safer place now. And the inverse is true for Tetraedras, while I can understand wanting to be visually interesting yet inoffensive, their visuals are sometimes laughably, morbidly light for the topics they discuss Sexily posing in Britney Spears-inspired outfits while discussing the horrors of her conservatorship springs to mind (funny how Britney’s conservatorship leads her to have next to none bodily autonomy, including her public costume choices). And, once again, your target audience is teenagers. They understand English, they’ve seen the news, they don’t need you to translate infographics filled with statistics and information that’s locally completely irrelevant. There needs to be some kind of middle ground between aesthetic cohesion and common sense, because this all signals to the viewer that the content is meant to be mindlessly consumed first and to educate second.

Which leads me to ponder what kind of consumption accounts like these encourage, which will surely lead me to an early grave as I drink away the existential dread of how social media rots all of our brains. Because yes, actually, producing funky visuals to convey an idea way too complicated for an Instagram post is fun. I myself got distracted multiple times during writing to make the first slide for my own post. Meta, I know. This is obviously more of a problem for Tetraedras, who seem to fervently resist injecting their content with a few more paragraphs and a tad more nuance, but even with Giljožinios choosing a more appropriate long-form format to educate, I still pray everyday they don’t get lost in the revolutionary reputation their group built up and forget to make a point, not just talking points.

Because what all this all inevitably leads to is misinforming the public. Again, this seems to be less of a problem for Giljožinios, as the amount of critical eyeballs they have on them leads to them being corrected on every incorrect numerical figure and grammatical mistake, I just hope all this harassment, once again, doesn’t get them all caught up in the optics of a revolution against all the Facebook boomers and forgetting to do their due diligence to the truth. As far as I know, the only factual mistake is miscalculating how much Lituania invests in NATO and there’s still a historical debate in their comment section about the existence of a CIA prison in Lithuania, if anyone’s concerned. Tetraedras, however, is safe. And safe content goes down just like a sugar-coated pill, you don’t even feel the need to fact-check it. And fact-checking is what it sorely requires, or else you’re left with implying that boxing causes men to become rapists and citing statistics of every country except the one in which, you know, me, the team and the absolute majority of their followers live in.

So what’s my goddamn point? Burn your phone and go live in the woods, always. But in the context of this essay, if you are a content creator that aims to educate, inform, incite, whatever, you need to put aesthetics on the backburner. And, more importantly, we as consumers need to stop tolerating content that puts being either pretty or inflammatory first instead of whatever message it’s trying to send, because the supply follows where the demand goes. Read books, watch long-form content made by experts, not teenagers on the internet chasing followers out of not even malicious intent, but almost a knee-jerk reaction. Because while the story of those two accounts cuts especially deep, expectations for local-, even friend-made content being much higher than that for some corporate accounts shooting their shot at activism, the problem is entrenched deep, thousands of accounts exhibiting the same problems racking up millions upon millions of followers. Having said that, my attention span is barely long enough to read the essays I write myself, so maybe do burn your phone and go live in the woods.

Also, pink is actually my brand so both of these accounts are being contacted by my lawyers and the rest of you don’t try any shit.

[jiminscalicokitten]

What do you hope for? (Two shot)

Pairing: Hoseok X Reader

Genre: Vampire!au, College student!reader, Vampire!Hoseok, smut, slight!angst.

Summary: Dared to visit the abandoned house of the town by a bunch of idiots, you don’t know that a stupid wish of yours comes to be true in the worst yet best way possible. 

Rating: 18+ (If the warnings trigger you please don’t read.)

Warnings: Virgin!reader, loss of virginity, mention of blood, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, name calling, spitting, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (stay safe kids), creampie, manhandling.

Word Count: 2.9k

Notes: I can honestly say that this is one-shot is probably my favorite of all that I’ve written in like ever. I would like to thank Hana for telling me about her preferences, I didn’t think I’d enjoy writing a Vampire!au to this extent. So I’m pretty grateful. 😊😊😊

UPDATE: So... a part two is coming. Thank you for all the support and the love this fic is receiving.

Part 1: Be Careful What You Wish For

The whole walk through this dark hallway you feel your heart is situated in the pit of your stomach. You don’t even know why you agreed to follow through with this stupid dare. 

Oh, yeah! Your stupid best friend threatened to reveal your most embarrassing secret to the group. Is she even your friend? She dares you to face your worst fear and if you’re to refuse, she’d make you the laughing stock of the campus. Fuck this whole situation. 

At the stupid sleepover that she dragged you to she dares you to pay a visit to the abandoned mansion at the end of town. You don’t even know why college kids your age even gather to a sleepover at their age like a bunch of middle-schoolers. 

Walking in this empty hallway, you had your phone flashlight switched on so you could at least not trip as you wander around. You shine some light up to the wall you see old portraits that seem to be from centuries ago. 

As a child you remember your grandma telling you about this mansion. It was in this town hundreds of years ago and no one dared to rebuild it let alone remove it. 

Why wasn’t it a historical treasure used for tourism? Every person that set foot in this place were a part of three groups, they become insane, missing or found dead. 

Remembering those details you feel your heart begin to race, probably faster than it should. God, you could’ve lived with the embarrassment. Why did you stupidly choose to listen to that toxic fucker? You are so done with her if you come out of this building alive.

Your steps slow as you begin to inhale the scent that came towards you from the farthest north. It’s of lavender. It relaxes your thumping heart. You know deep down that this is the end. Feeling one last pleasure before you die. 

“Why couldn’t I lose my virginity before I came to this stupid house? God how much I want to lose it.” You mutter, remembering all the moments that you rejected guys attempting to bed you. 

You weren’t a saint, you just wanted to find the right one as lame as that sounds. Thoughts of all the things you wish you did before dying comes rushing to you. As you feel your heart-rate picking up again, the scent of lavender becomes stronger. 

Instead of thinking like an idiot you choose logic. You start walking the opposite direction of the scent. The desire to live takes over your body. It’s stronger than the stupidity of relaxing at this moment. Feet picking up their pace you hear a growl behind you. 

When your hand reaches for the door knob you hear a screeching sound, it isn’t near you. Turning the doorknob to the side you expect to see the yard in front of you. Well, that’s an expectation, you come to realize why the people that made it out were considered insane. 

It’s a staircase that leads to a basement. It isn’t the yard… the house shifted. When you turn back you see that the hallway is way shorter with no other way to go just this door in front of you. Not wanting to lose sanity you just choose the only other option, you sit on the ground by the door after shutting. 

You refuse to move. You refuse to walk into your death. You switch off the flashlight and wait. Closing your eyes trying to sleep through this rough quality horror movie that you’re experiencing, you are not going to go straight to death. 

You’ll try to elongate the time you have. Maybe the door will return to the way it was after you wake up. Resting your head on the doorframe you try to persuade yourself to fall asleep. 

-

The sun, you thought it would be up when you wake up but it isn’t. Checking your phone for the time you see that’s nine in the morning. There is no window, probably why it’s currently dark in the short hallway. 

You lift your head to stare at the ceiling for a second, startling you a few wall lanterns fire up allowing you to have a better view of your surroundings. There’s a table at the end of the hallway that you haven’t seen before. Moving towards it warrily, you don’t smell anymore lavender. 

On the table a plate is visible, it has a piece of toast and a cup of orange juice next to it, with an envelope closed with wax. You pick up the piece of toast sniffing it for any weird smells.

 When you confirm it’s not poisoned at least you assume, you take a bite. It’s probably the best piece of toast that you’ve ever had. After taking a sip of the orange juice you pick up the small envelope. It smells of citrus. 

Carefully opening it you see a small piece of paper in it. The letters on it are intricate, almost too pretty to be seen by you. 

‘I apologize for scaring you. Miss Y/N you’re different from all the people of your kind. You are cautious and mindful of your surroundings, it makes you dear to me. I thought of hurting you but that all changed. I promise you that I will let you go if you talk to me for a while. I also will try my best to grant your wish of yesterday. I will wait for you at the bottom of the staircase. Love, J.’ 

Should you believe whoever this J is or should you just keep waiting by the door? Fuck it, your going to waste your life waiting. You either die or he let’s you go and at this point you don’t really care for either. 

As your walk down the stairs lanterns light the way for you not to trip. Hands twisting the doorknob open, you peer into the room, just to check if it’s safe to enter. Realizing how stupid that sounds you move into the dark room. 

A small white light reflects against the side of his face. He stands by the same table that was at the end of the hallway above the staircase. He’s ethereal. This man doesn’t look older than twenty-five. His facial expression tells you nothing of what he might feel nor think.

You feel a strange urge to pursue this man. Your feet take you to where he’s standing and you speak the first thing that came to your mind. You know exactly what his situation is. “How long were you locked in here for? Mister Hoseok” You glance at his name that was calligraphed at the bottom of his portrait.

“Why would you assume such a thing?” His gaze softens. “I don’t know who you do that voodoo magic stuff, you know flipping the house around and all, but why would you try to seduce me here if you can just come up those stairs and drag me back?” You mutter as you grasp his cold hand. 

He pulls you into his chest. “I didn’t think you would be perceptive to that  extent, my dear Y/N.” His arms wrap gently around your back. He’s nose buries into the side of your neck as he inhales your scent. 

“I can keep you company. If you need a friend that is.” You smile. “Oh, dear. You don’t realize that I’m not capable of having friends.” He lets you go sorrow feeling his eyes. “What do you mean? I can be your friend, it's also my choice.” You glance from his eyes to his lips. 

“You know that not many came back after coming into this mansion.” His eyes harden. “So? What does that have to do with us being friends? I am not judging you.” You attempt to grasp his hand. 

“Well, the people that I let go were allowed to leave because they became incoherent as for the others they died as my supper.” His fangs grow causing you to step back. “See… you’re scared.” He snorts in disbelief. Disbelief in himself, why did he think you’d be any different?

“Are you trying to test me?” You mutter stepping forward. “Are you that doubtful of yourself? That someone would want to be by your side? Do you really think that you don’t deserve company?” You ask, he can visibly see that you're trying your hardest to hide your shaking hand. 

You are clearly scared and he knows it, but why are you trying so hard? “I have killed thousands for hundreds of years. Why do you think I would deserve kindness from someone like you?” He growls grabbing your neck. 

“Because you’re not evil.” Fear finally leaves you. “Are you sure about that?” He pushes you against his bed ripping your shirt off of your chest. “How about I grant you the wish of losing your virginity before you die?” He chuckles as his lips latch on your right nipple. 

You feel yourself become wet in between your legs, a moan escapes your lips. “Are you scared now?” He pulls away to start sucking against your collar bone. His hands reach for your pants ripping them down your legs. 

You’re supposed to be scared… you should be. It’s simply the scent of citrus that is emitted from his skin that calms your heart. You’re supposed to hate this to hate him… you just can’t bring yourself to feel that way. 

“I want you.” You mutter almost mocking his attempts to terrify you. his hand moves from your breast to slide his fingers along your lower lips and you gasp a kiss into his lips. “I’ll make sure you don’t enjoy this.” He says while continuing to rub you teasingly. 

He teases your folds a few more times before concentrating on your clit, rubbing it in rough, torturous circles. His lips move down your jaw to your throat, leaving hot open mouth kisses. “Hoseok fuck me- please I want you to.” He growls at you. 

The combination of everything has you turned into a panting, moaning mess and you struggle to keep some logic in your brain. You slide your hand down his chest, curling your fingers around the bulge in his trousers. 

Surprised to discover how hard he was, he hisses against your neck before biting down on the skin, causing you to cry out in slight pain. Blood smears against his lips. Not being able to contain himself he begins to suck the blood out of you. 

After a while the ache in your neck subsides and you begin feeling pleasure. He runs his tongue soothingly over the now sensitive spot causing you to shiver against the top of his head. 

Lifting his head into your palm you give him a kiss. “Make me cum- I want you buried deep inside me- I don’t want to walk for days.” You growl against his lips. 

“You’re so filthy. You want to be used that badly by me- I guess a virgin like yourself would enjoy getting fucked raw.” He smirks against you causing a groan to escape you. 

He sits up, gazing into your eye and the dark predatory look on his face causes your insides to become tense. “You’re not allowed to touch me until I’m finished with you, do you understand? If you do, I’ll have to discipline you.” He pushes your hand away from his body. 

Nodding too shocked and breathless to speak back. He gazes at your face as he slowly pumps his finger in and out of you and he groans, “Are you going to be a good little slut for me? Damn, you’re already so wet.”

He slides his middle finger all the way into your hole, curling it upwards hitting just the right spot inside of you, causing you to moan. He continues to hit that sweet spot over and over again, using his palm to add friction and pressure to your clit. 

He picks up speed and your thighs begin to twitch, the stiffness in your stomach building almost unbearably. You didn’t know what to hold on to, your fingers digging into his back, “Oh- Hoseok I’m- I’m so close.” He pushes your hand away. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to touch me?” He flips you on your front. His hand lands a hit against your asscheeks. “Count.” He demands. “One-” You groan after the second hit. 

A few moments pass as he continues to spank your ass “Ten-” He finally stops. He grasps both of your reddened flesh pulling them apart roughly. He spits against your hole earning a whimper from you. 

You feel his spit slowly sliding against your pussy. Without warning his whole cock enters you. You groan as you feel the burn against your insides intensify. He doesn’t seem to care, as he pulls out and rams himself in you once more.

You whine in response, feeling the heat begin to build once more in your lower abdomen as his hips began to snap faster into you. 

His face presses into the back of your neck, biting down hard enough to nick the skin at the joint between your neck and shoulder before sucking restlessly on the sensitive area, the blood escaping your body’s making you feel lightheaded. 

“You like that slut?” He growls into your ear, changing the position of his hips so that his thrusts are sharper and forceful. 

Each snap of his hips drags a kind of guttural sound  from your throat whether you want it or not. You feel yourself growing closer to your second orgasm with each thrust and you pressed your face into the pillow beneath you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, throwing your head back as you reach your orgasm. Your cries are muffled by the pillow as he pushes your head against it “Fuck- your pussy is made for me slut. Do you like that?” He growls.

The speed of his thrusts increase and little grunts are slipping through his lips causing overstimulation to burn. You can tell that he’s close, his eyes close and brows furrow in strain. “Cum for me Hoseok, I want you to cum inside me- fill me up to the brim.” His eyes open in surprise to the sound of your voice, letting out a long groan as his hips stutter to a stop  as he finds his own orgasm.

His cum fills you up, feeling your insides expand to hold his wetness, you release a scream as tears begin to roll against your cheeks. He pulls out of you abruptly, flipping you to face him roughly. 

His hand slides down your chest to your stomach to your pussy. Three of his fingers are roughly pushed into your already filled cunt. His other hand finds itself on your clit. “What- are you doing?” You moan. 

His fingers begin snapping inside you earning a guttural scream, you start writhing under his touch. His fingers are rough against your clit. You feel your third orgasm approach and it happens. You squirt on his face. He stops immediately. 

He drags his fingers against your lips and shoves them into your mouth wordlessly. You say nothing but suck against his long digits. 

He gets up to clean himself in the bathroom. You try to get up but the ache in between your legs is preventing you from doing so. He comes back with a towel and a bowl of warm water. 

His hands are gentle against the inside of your thighs, his rubbing slowly climbs to your hole, it feels so intimate. That he’s wiping you that he’s willing to do this for you. “You know, I still want to be by your side.” You smile at him.

“Well, you can’t. I can’t have you here.” Sorrow laces his words. “Well, I’ll simply stay here. Surely you can’t drag me out of here.” You giggle pulling him into you. You place a gentle kiss against his lips. 

He smiles at you. His hand wraps around your body, encasing you. You slowly feel yourself lulling into sleep. 

-

Opening your eyes, you feel tears gathering in your eyes. Your body's laying outside the mansion with a warm blanket wrapping around you. You hear your friends screaming your name from a distance. 

You lift yourself off the ground immediately as sobs escape you. You try to turn the doorknob but it doesn’t budge. “Please don’t do this!” Your cries get louder. You feel your friend’s hand wrap around your shoulder to support you from falling. “Hoseok! Please don’t push me away!” You collapse after knocking against the door aggressively. 

“You were gone for a few days! Where were you?!” She yells at you. “It’s all your fault. I wished to leave here alive and I regret it!” You scream at her. “Leave me alone!” You shout, pushing her arm off of you. 

“Please! Please… Don’t do this.” You feel yourself collapse. 

-

The lights around you are bright, the hospital bed feels way less comfortable than Hoseok’s bed. Tears gather in your eyes recalling the way his smile appeared on his gentle face. 

Your family and friends are surrounding your bed with worry lacing their faces. You could care less about their worries, sobs begin to fill the room causing your mother to begin crying with you. She feels her heart ripping at your state. 

All that you regret at this moment is the fact that you weren’t careful when you wished to leave that mansion, you didn’t expect to meet your first love in it.

 You ponder what the possibilities are, if you didn’t make that stupid wish…

Part 2: A Wish Granted in a miracle 

(© 2020 jiminscalicokitten, All Rights Reserved)

[carljparker]

The Books of 2019

Here are the books I read in 2019. As some of you might recall, I assess books in terms of how much they affect me:

Changed my life

Deeply influenced me

Influenced me

Interesting

Wish I hadn't done that

This year, I am also including the year in which each book was first published; I am trying to think more about the historical context of the books that I read.

Lawrence in Arabia by Scott Anderson (2013)

Influenced me...enlightened me.

Note that the title is Lawrence in Arabia, not "Lawrence of Arabia". This book is a history of World War I, focused almost entirely on the Middle East--what was then known as the Ottoman Empire. T.E. Lawrence plays a key role, of course, but Anderson weaves other important actors into the story as well. The book gave me a deeper understanding of the events that led to the formation of Israel and why that has resulted in so much conflict.

Mother Night (1962) and Slaughter House Five by Kurt Vonnegut (1969) (Double feature)

Deeply influenced me.

This was the year of Kurt Vonnegut. Mother Night was written before Slaughter House Five and I read it first. However, Night is actually something of a sequel to House. They both deal with events during World War II and its aftermath. At times, Vonnegut describes events that are so bizarre that I laughed out loud. At other times, the events seem to come out of a horror novel--but I suspect they are based on actual experiences.

Eight Years in Power by Ta-Nehisi Coates (2017)

Influenced me.

After reading this book, I now know what a polemic is. Coates' book is a collection of eight essays that he wrote during the Obama administration. The essays express Coates' views on racism in America. I found the reading arduous because of the strong rhetoric. Even so, parts of the book were quite interesting. Examples are Coates' essay on Bill Cosby and Coates' stories about arguing with President Obama at the White House: the fiery Coates contending with the level-headed Obama.

The Fight by Norman Mailer (1975)

Deeply influenced me.

In 1967, Muhammad Ali was stripped of his title as Heavyweight Champion for his refusal to fight in the Vietnam War. Four years later, in 1971, the US Supreme Court unanimously overturned Ali's conviction--but he still had to fight to get his title back. In October, 1974, Ali fought George Foreman for the title. The fight occurred in Zaire (formerly The Congo), in Central Africa and became known as "The Rumble in the Jungle". Norman Mailer was sent as a journalist to cover the fight. The book is about Ali, Foreman, the physics of boxing, and the metaphysics of Africa. It is incredible.

King Leopold's Ghost by Adam Hochschild (1999)

Influenced me...Disturbing.

My friend and colleague, Marla, who I work with at Facebook, recommended this book. Having just read The Fight, I was interested in reading more about Africa, especially The Congo (now Zaire). I got more than I bargained for. The book concerns the horrific exploitation and forced labor used by King Leopold of Belgium in The Congo. The forced labor practices were essentially slavery and, historically speaking, most of the action takes place after the period of the American Civil War. Ten million Congolese were murdered by Leopold's colonial forces during this period; when I first read that number, I doubted Hochschild's credibility, but to his credit, he meticulously documents it using multiple independent sources. The events described here are disturbing.

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin (1963)

Deeply influenced me. Left me concerned.

I have never encountered anyone who wrote so incisively and authentically about racism in the United States. Although Baldwin represents his relationship with religion as ambiguous, it is clear that he views racism as a deep cultural sin that will, sooner or later, need to be cleansed. In Eight Years in Power, Coates says that he aspires to be as great a writer as James Baldwin; I think that would be difficult.

On Writing by Stephen King (2000)

Influenced me...perhaps deeply.

My friend, Michael, advised me that this book is not really a compilation of guidance from Stephen King about how to write. It is much more of a memoir about King's experiences during his writing career. That said, some of King's ideas about writing are fascinating. For example, King believes that pieces of writing pre-exist inside the consciousness of the writer and it is his job to discover and excavate them. I also very much enjoyed King’s account of how he had given up on his novel Carrie until his wife Tabitha encouraged him to continue; Carrie turned out to be the horror novel that launched King's career.

Ship of Fools by Tucker Carlson (2018)

Influenced me.

Tucker Carlson is a news analyst and commentator currently associated with Fox News. This book is Tucker's analysis of the political and social issues that led to the election of President Trump. At times, Carlson is very funny, but the book is weakened somewhat by Carlson not providing references for many of the facts that he cites. Note though that I did "fact check" some of what I thought were Carlson's more outrageous claims . . . and they turned out to be legit.

So You've Been Publicly Shamed by Jon Ronson (2015)

Influenced me...perhaps deeply.

I first became acquainted with Ronson through the podcast, The Butterfly Effect, in which he explores the less-than-obvious effects of free online pornography. In So You've Been Publicly Shamed, Ronson investigates the phenomenon of online shaming--mostly on Twitter. The book is wide ranging and does a great job of looking at the phenomenon from different angles. However, like everything I've encountered from Ronson, he left me unsure where he himself stands on the issues.

Guns by Stephen King (2013)

Interesting.

I like Stephen King. I've read three of his novels (Carrie, Fire Starter, The Stand) and I intend to read more. His book On Writing, influenced the way that I think about writing and about life. Having said all that, King and I diverge pretty much completely when it comes to gun control. King wrote this essay shortly after the horrible mass shooting at Sandy Hook and it is clear that King (who lives in New England) felt a deep need to respond. However, this essay suffers from an over abundance of passion and a shortage of objectivity. Also, at times, King devolves into snark and sarcasm.

Dancing with Elephants by Jarem Sawatsky (2017)

Influenced me.

Jarem Sawatsky has Huntington's disease, which is an incurable genetic disorder that causes slow but progressive brain damage. Sawatsky wrote this book because he felt that his strategies for living with Huntington's could help other people suffering from degenerative diseases. Sawatsky is deeply courageous, and in addition to practical advice, the book also provides indispensable perspective: In my life I contend with glaucoma, but I would choose glaucoma over Huntington's in a heartbeat.

A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle (2006)

Influenced me, perhaps deeply.

My friend and colleague, Cash, who I work with at Facebook, recommended this book. As I've gotten older, I've become more skeptical of "New Age" ideology, but based on Cash's unreserved recommendation, I decided to take this on. The book is great. Much of the material was familiar, but Tolle's delivery is excellent: articulate, well organized, and coherent. The term "best in class" comes to mind.

Churchill and Orwell by Thomas E. Ricks (2017)

Influenced me.

This book focuses on the lives of Winston Churchill and George Orwell from the rise of totalitarianism in Europe in the 1930s through the aftermath of World War II. In saving England (and Europe) from Hitler, Churchill was necessarily focused more on fascism. Orwell, in his writing, addressed totalitarianism more broadly by including Soviet Socialism as well. I am allergic to totalitarianism so I enjoyed the book immensely, especially in the way that it showed Churchill and Orwell persevering through what must have seemed like utterly hopeless odds.

An Autobiography: My Experiments with Truth by Mohandas K. Gandhi (Original: 1927, US: 1948)

Influenced me.

Now here is a guy that sticks to his guns--metaphorically speaking. Pretty much nothing in this book is what I expected. For one thing, the book stops before Gandhi launches the movement to free India from British rule; instead, the Gandhi here is deeply loyal to Britain. The book deals mostly with his religious development and with fighting anti-Indian bigotry in what is now South Africa. At times, Gandhi comes off like a fanatic, but I was still impressed by his complete unwillingness to retreat when it comes to his principles or political objectives.

How to Measure Anything by Douglas Hubbard (2014)

Influenced me.

Years ago, circa 2010, I read about 25% of this book and got so excited that I stopped reading it and began recommending it to everyone I met. This year I decided that maybe I should finish it myself. I'm glad I did, and don't regret having recommended it. The message of this book is so hopeful: That the thing that you want to quantify is almost certainly measurable in a way that is worth your time and effort. Lots of great strategies, methods, and examples.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (1953)

Deeply influenced me.

My friend, Michael, gave me a copy of this book years ago. It describes a totalitarian society in which fireman start fires rather than put them out. Specifically, they burn books. (Fahrenheit 451 is the temperature at which paper ignites.) Prescient and chilling. Required reading for our time.

Thinking in Systems by Donnella H. Meadows (2008)

Deeply influenced me.

I'm so glad I read this book. It is a straightforward introduction to systems concepts. It starts with fundamental ideas and builds up methodically without ever getting ahead of itself. I feel so informed about an area that I now realize I didn't really understand at all. At times, the writing is colored by Meadows' politics, but that is a minor consideration. I would recommend this book to anyone involved in STEM.

The Bhagavad Gita (written a long time ago)

Influenced me.

The "Gita" is part of the scripture of the Hindu religion. Because of my yoga practice, I have been feeling for years as though I should read it; this year I did. Much of the book concerns clean living and doing your duty, whatever that might be in this lifetime. (Hindus believe in reincarnation.) It resonated with what I have learned about Stoicism--which I also have an affinity for. Encouraging.

When Google Met Wikileaks by Julian Assange (2016)

Influenced me. Entertaining. Inspiring.

This book is (mostly) a transcript of a conversation between Julian Assange (founder of WikiLeaks) and Eric Schmidt (then CEO of Google, now CEO of Alphabet). So enriching. Assange opens up about all aspects of WikiLeaks: strategy, technology decisions, future vision. Schmidt is a smart guy and holds his own, seeming to ask all the right questions. Schmidt and Jared Cohen (who was also present) use some of the material in their book The New Digital Age. Assange feels that they misrepresent him in their book and is quite upset about that. That is unfortunate, but their conversation is nevertheless really great.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion (2005)

Influenced me.

The Year in the title of this book refers to the year in which Didion's husband dies suddenly from a heart attack and during which their daughter, Quintana, is hospitalized repeatedly over a period of several months with a series of life threatening medical conditions. Didion chronicles both the circumstances as they unfold and her internal state as she contends with them. The story is harrowing, but in the end, it gave me faith in how resilient people can be.

Vanity Fair: Justice: A father's account of the trial of his daughter's killer by Dominick Dunne (2008)

Influenced me. Outraged me.

Over brunch, my friend Ellie and I were discussing Joan Didion's book The Year of Magical Thinking (see above). Ellie suggested that I read an article in Vanity Fair by Didion's brother-in-law Dominick Dunne. Dunne's daughter had been strangled by her boyfriend; the article is Dunne's account of the trial. It suffices to say that justice was not served. (Didion's daughter, Quintana, and Dunne's daughter, Dominique, were close friends.)

Light in August by William Faulkner (1932)

Influenced me...perhaps deeply. Also disturbed me.

Stephen King--in On Writing--refers to William Faulkner as a genius-level writer. That sounded like a recommendation. The Internet told me that Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury was tough going and told me that I should read Light in August instead. Faulkner describes a set of characters who, despite their remarkable capabilities, are compelled inexorably toward their fates. The book is set in Mississippi during the prohibition era (1920s to early 1930s). Given the setting, I should have expected racism; when it finally arrives though, it is so disturbing, that I felt as though I had been ambushed.

The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy (1886)

Influenced me.

This short book (132 pages) follows Ivan Ilych as he contracts an obscure illness that his doctors are unable to treat and which results in his relentless decline. The book deals mostly with Ivan's inner state during this process: How his mind grapples (or fails to grapple) with his inevitable death. It also presents some dark insight into how the realization of his impending death by others changes the way that they relate to him. Dark, but valuable.

Several short sentences about writing by Verlyn Klinkenborg (2012)

Wish I hadn't done this.

Klinkenborg provides guidance about writing by focusing on the sentence as the fundamental unit. I admit that I was empowered by his thoughts on how mindfulness applies to writing. That said, I found this book agonizing because of Klinkenborg's pompous tone. I know that is strong language coming from me, but by the end of this book I felt as though I deserved compensation for pain and suffering.

Talking to Strangers by Malcolm Gladwell (2019)

Influenced me...but not so much.

I've read all of Gladwell's books and despite the considerable praise given to this one, I found it to be the weakest of all of them. I think that, in this book, Gladwell is doing his part to mitigate the animosity that is becoming pervasive in our culture. His heart is in the right place, and although the book is thought-provoking, I was left mostly unconvinced.

Introduction to Probability by Blitzstein and Hwang (2019)

Deeply influenced me.

This is the textbook for the Probability and Statistics class that I took recently at the University of Washington. I would not normally include a textbook. However, this might be the best textbook that I've ever used. Blitzstein and Hwang are great teachers. Whenever I would get lost in class, I would read the textbook and it would heal my confusion. It is what a textbook should be.

END

[blacktofade]

This was a thinly veiled excuse to write filth. My b. Hope you enjoy, you beautiful anon.

*

“Do you ever think about how dangerous this job is?” Ryan asks, camera pointed towards a dark corner of a musty basement. There’s nothing there, but the tense line of Ryan’s shoulders says he expects there to be something.

Shane laughs before he realizes it’s not a joke and not the response Ryan’s looking for. His glare says Shane should be careful what he says next.

“What danger?” Shane asks, because he’s always been immune to Ryan’s threats anyway.

Ignoring his tone, Ryan says, “There’s a risk in coming to these places.”

“Just to clarify — when you say these places you mean these beautiful historical homes?”

Ryan gives him another look and Shane tries his best not to smile.

“We never know what we might find,” Ryan continues.

“There might be cobwebs and spiders,” Shane agrees and Ryan makes a noise of annoyance.

“There might be undead horrors.”

“Dramatic,” Shane deadpans and Ryan scoffs and moves off towards the next totally-not-spooky corner.

*

After his solo shut-in, Ryan emerges, flushed and slightly sweaty. He won’t meet Shane’s stare and keeps putting his back to where Mark’s holding the camera, which is going to make editing difficult.

“Have fun?” Shane asks, stepping closer, because someone has to help the idiot out of the GoPros strapped to his body.

Ryan makes a noncommittal noise and Shane huffs a laugh.

“Scared speechless?”

“Something like that,” Ryan eventually replies and Shane figures if nothing else, the fans will enjoy it.

*

The questioning returns when they roll out their sleeping bags and crawl into them later that night.

“You’re really not worried?” Ryan asks as Shane scrolls through his phone and Shane glances over, because he’s not sure Ryan’s being serious.

“How many hunts have we done now?”

“But — ” Ryan starts and Shane interrupts.

“No, Ryan. I’m not worried.”

It falls quiet long enough that Shane goes back to his Instagram feed.

“But don’t you think about the true crime stuff? I know you don’t care about ghosts, but people scare you, right?”

Shane sighs and locks his phone because apparently this conversation is happening regardless.

“Are you trying to scare yourself? Is this a new thing for you?”

“Thing?”

“A kink,” Shane jokes, but Ryan goes quiet and Shane wonders if maybe it’s too much with the cameras still rolling.

“No,” Ryan insists and Shane would drop it if Ryan weren’t so easy to tease.

Instead, he says, “So, you don’t want to think about someone standing in the dark corner over there watching us sleep?”

“Shane,” Ryan complains, which only encourages him.

“You don’t want to think about ghosts creeping in here when you're vulnerable and not awake?”

“Shane.”

“What about a demon crawling inside you and taking control?”

Shane actually laughs at the noise Ryan lets out because it sounds like Ryan wants to die and that means Shane’s annoyed him to the best of his abilities. Except that Ryan rolls onto his side, facing Shane, and makes the noise again, but softer, a little more pained.

Shane turns on the flashlight on his phone and points it over at him, just in case he’s worked himself into a panic attack and needs the light to ground his brain. But Ryan doesn’t look scared. His face is flushed and he’s squinting into the brightness, but his expression is something Shane can’t quite place.

“You good?” he asks and watches Ryan draw in a handful of unsteady breaths through his mouth.

“We can’t keep this footage in,” Ryan tells him, voice low like he’s trying to avoid being picked up by the microphones around the room, which is impossible when they’re rigged to record the tiniest of noises.

“Too scared?” Shane laughs and Ryan swallows and shakes his head.

“Not scared,” he admits and Shane gets a sudden realization that he’s witnessing something new, something illicit. For once in his life, he thinks he might have been right about something.

Shane opens his mouth, shuts it, and then opens it again. “Are you — ?”

Shane doesn't even know what he's trying to say, or at least can't wrap his mind around the possibility that it actually is a new kink for Ryan and that he might be hard in his sleeping bag less than a foot away. He's always had a running joke that Ryan's actually turned on by being scared, but it was never meant to leave the safety of his brain or be true.

“Adrenaline can do weird things,” Shane tries instead. “I got a semi after a car accident once. It'll go away.”

Ryan looks at him, a mix of humiliation and something else in his expression, and Shane knows he should turn the light on his phone off and stop looking. But he can't.

They've reached an awkward stalemate and Shane knows he has to leave the ball in Ryan's court. He waits, listening to the sound of Ryan shifting inside his sleeping bag.

“This is dangerous,” Ryan says, voice so low Shane can barely hear.

“Does that make things worse?”

Ryan lets out a noise like a sigh and after a second, Shane realizes there's a rhythmic shifting that's probably exactly what he thinks it is.

“Ryan,” Shane says, slightly aghast and slightly impressed by Ryan's brazenness.

“Tell me how dangerous this is.”

Shane's mouth goes dry and his dick gets so hard so quickly that he thinks he sees spots in front of his eyes from the change in blood pressure. He presses a hand to his forehead and drops his phone, plunging them back into darkness which somehow makes it worse. Because he can't see, he's more aware of exactly what he can hear — which is the dry sound of skin on skin as Ryan jerks himself off.

“This is real fucking dangerous,” Shane says and it's not even just to appease Ryan. It's goddamn true. They're going to need to scrub the footage before anyone else gets to see and they'll have to blame the missing hours on technical difficulties or something.

“Yeah,” Ryan exhales and Shane is so far in over his head.

“You could be caught.”

Ryan makes a soft noise, like he's biting back a groan, and Shane slips a hand into his own sleeping bag to press against his cock. He's going to come in his PJs like a teenager having a wet dream. And maybe that's what this really is because there's no way it could be Shane's reality. He's wanted something, anything, from Ryan for so long that maybe he's begun to hallucinate.

But he can feel the air on his face when Ryan blows out a heavy breath and says, “Don't go quiet on me, Madej.”

Shane makes his own small noise then and gets the feeling that Ryan's watching him, even in the darkness.

“Anyone could see this,” Shane continues and he's not sure if he's telling Ryan or himself. “We could lose our jobs.”

“I'm close,” Ryan says and Shane doesn't think he means the physical separation between them. Shane's about to experience Ryan having an orgasm right beside him.

“Is this what today has been leading up to?” Shane asks because he has the sudden thought that maybe he should have seen the buildup to all this. “You've been talking about danger this whole time.” The memory of Ryan emerging after his shut-in hits Shane around the head like a baseball bat. “You were turned on by your solo investigation.”

Ryan exhales around a moan, the pitch of it rising and then suddenly cutting off, and Shane knows without a doubt that he's just listened to Ryan come and he's never going to be able to unhear it.

He's so hard and when he presses against his dick again, he knows he can get there. Ryan got there and so can he. He just doesn't know what he needs.

A hand lands on the side of his sleeping bag, tucked up high beside Shane's ribs.

“Shane,” Ryan says, suddenly closer than before.

The hand shifts, patting along Shane's chest, going higher and higher still until he's got Shane's chin cupped in his palm. His thumb finds Shane's mouth and Shane doesn't know what's happening until he realizes Ryan's using it as a guide in the dark as he presses their lips together.

Ryan doesn't even wait for Shane to figure out which way is up before he licks into his mouth in the dirtiest kiss Shane has been involved in since college. And, as it turns out, it’s exactly what Shane needs. It gives him something to focus on as he grinds against his own palm, knowing it’s without a doubt the most reckless thing he’s ever done.

Ryan’s hand is hot against the side of his face and he kisses like he’s trying to steal Shane’s soul, or just keep him quiet. Shane can’t figure out which and honestly doesn’t care. Ryan bites at his bottom lip and the whole situation is so surreal that Shane pushes a groan into Ryan’s mouth and comes.

He’s going to regret it later when the mess cools in his underwear and he doesn’t have a shower to wash off properly. But for now, he gives Ryan one last kiss before drawing back to take in a deep lungful of air.

“What just happened?” he asks, pressing his forehead against Ryan’s. Ryan cards his fingers through Shane’s hair.

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding honest. “Think I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

Shane shuts his eyes and thinks about how lucky he is.

“For the record, I'm not dangerous if that's what you're looking for.”

Ryan drags his lips along Shane's jaw and Shane can feel the warm air as he laughs.

“Not looking for danger,” Ryan tells him. “I'm looking for you.”

Shane turns his head to catch Ryan's lips, and Ryan hums happily. It's not how he pictured their trip going and they have a lot to talk about when the sun rises and the cameras are off, but for now, he’s perfectly okay with it.

[ginnyzero]

An Outgrown Genre. Christian Literature

I’ve read a lot of what can be termed ‘Christian literature.’ There are a lot of different types of stories under the broad umbrella of Christian Lit. I’ve read Christian Historical, Christian Romance, Christian Horror (yes, this exists), the more difficult to find Christian Science Fiction and of course Christian Fantasy, the most famous being Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. There’s Christian Western and there is Christian Mystery and Thriller. And eventually, somewhere between high school and college, I had to stop reading it. Though, there were a few books I really loved; Lori Wick’s Californian & Kensington Chronicles series, Frank E. Peretti’s horror novels, certain Gilbert Morris House of Winslow books, Lawhead’s Celtic Trilogy (which was better than his take on Arthur, I couldn’t finish the second book of that travesty), Francine River’s Mark of the Lion series, Roger Elwood’s Angelwalk Trilogy and Jane Peart’s the Brides of Montclair. (All of these should tell you how long ago I stopped reading Christian Lit.)

Of course, no one was twisting my arm and forcing me to stop reading it. I stopped reading voluntarily on my own. There were several reasons for this. One, I was growing up and I just stopped relating to the characters in the books. Two, most Christian Literature has very distinct writing style. The authors tell you the story instead of showing you the story. It was setting my teeth on edge and making my brain feel fuzzy. And lastly, I realized that in almost every Christian Lit book I read (Tolkien, Lewis and maybe Lawhead being exceptions here) the message was coming before the story.

Putting the message before the story is the last thing any writer should do. The story, the characters and their conflicts and what happens should be paramount to what the book is about. However, in Christian Lit, it felt to me that what was more important was putting in Bible verses every 50 pages and putting in some moral lesson. A lot of times, these moral lessons wouldn’t even be necessary if children and adults weren’t being taught the exact opposite moral lessons at home and in Sunday School. (My favorite of these was ‘it’s okay to love your husband and be physically attracted to him and enjoy sex.’ Really? I didn’t know that. I thought sex was a dirty thing and being physically attracted to the opposite sex is just wrong, much less loving them!) And most, if not all of the stories eventually devolved down into the protagonist discovering Jesus as their Lord and Savior (while finding true love of course with a good Christian man or woman.)

Now, I understand there is a place for these types of books. Lordy is there a place for them. They wouldn’t sell so well in the Christian community if they weren’t popular and at times necessary. However, there comes a point where I didn’t want to read yet another story about some male or female finding God. I was ready for the grown up version of the Voyage of the Dawn Treader (and even that has Eustace’s redemption story in it, but at least his turning into a dragon and back was entertaining and not obvious as ‘conversion’.) Give me a story about a protagonist that has been a Christian a long time and their being a Christian is just a background point and not the whole point of the story. What conflicts do they face in their life that it doesn’t hinge on whether or not they are a Christian?

I know a lot of people talk about the Christian life being deep and profound and I’m still not sure I get that. Deep and profound seems to me what you make of life rather than what religious tenant you hold to. I’m sure there are Buddhists and Muslims who feel their lives are deep and profound, the same for atheists, thank you very much.

Parts of Frank E. Peretti’s books almost focused on story. Then, he fell back on the whole “must redeem a protagonist” and I lost interest even if there were angels and demons and maybe Nephilim! (The giant children of demons and human women.) Even the Left Behind series, as ‘thriller’ as any Christian Lit series get couldn’t quite get away from redeeming the ‘left behind’ protagonists of the Pre-Tribulation rapture. (I didn’t get to the last book, so I am beginning to wonder if the authors believe in a Pre-Trib and a Post-Trib rapture given the titles. Yes, these are the things that Christians argue about, will Jesus take the believers before, in the middle or after the tribulation or all three! I sincerely hope before. Sincerely.)

To me, Christian Lit began to feel like ‘preaching to the choir.’ You see, Christian Lit is written by Christians for Christians and really doesn’t get much traction outside of CBD, Christian Book stores and Church Libraries. There are the rare exceptions like the Left Behind series, the Shack or the Prayer of Jabez. My personal exception is “Heaven is for Real.” There is a trap in preaching to the choir, the choir agrees with you and nothing new ever happens. (I understand the current fad in Christian Lit is still the Amish.) Or, the choir apes what the rest of culture is doing instead of coming up with something new for themselves. (If you haven’t been inside a Christian Bookstore, it is sort of a surreal experience to see the Home Depot parody t-shirts and the racks of Christian “metal” music.) The last Christian phenomena that hit mainstream culture I remember is Veggie Tales. (And now I just showed how old I am.)

Now, before someone points out the Divergent author is a Christian. I know. And knowing this and knowing how the trilogy ends it makes a great deal of sense that she is a Christian (and totally missed the point of Christianity at the same time.) Divergent sort of feels to me like Harry Potter met the Matrix complete with the same fate as Neo without Harry Potter’s triumphant return from the dead.

See, that is one thing that Christian Literature tends to do right. They have hopeful endings. Since, that is one of the primary tenants of Christianity, hope. And this is one of the prime tenants of writing as well, thou should have a happy or at least hopeful or uplifting ending. I usually didn’t come out of a Christian book feeling unsatisfied with the way it ended. It was the fact that what could be really good plots got thrown aside for preaching and Bible verses. Usually the same Bible verses in fact. The Bible is huge, yet every author used the same verses in their books. It got really weird after a while and I skimmed those sections. I wanted a gripping story with conflicted and exciting characters or at least funny characters. Not to be bored by them dithering over Biblical passages yet again or dealing with modern female issues in medieval times (and sometimes these characters wouldn’t even have access to a Bible.)

My favorite thing about Christian Lit really was the cute and fluffy romance aspects of it. Since, Christian Lit removes the sex element almost entirely (except for the ‘being attracted and wanting to have sex with your husband is okay’ bits) the books primarily focused on the relationships between the characters and why the relationships could or would work rather than how sizzling their sex lives were. There are some days I really miss that aspect of Christian Lit. I like warm and heartwarming things!

I doubt that I’ll go back to reading Christian Literature any time soon unless someone can prove to me without a shadow of a doubt that the story is about the character and the conflict rather than the message of “Love God and marry a Christian.” I say this with utmost affection. Because it’s not that Christian Literature is horribly bad. (Sort of like romance as a genre isn’t horribly bad.) It’s just no longer for me.

[elizadoolittlethings]

Mark Gatiss: I learnt my entire moral code from Doctor Who - radiotimes

The writer of Who episode Sleep No More speaks passionately about how Third Doctor Jon Pertwee guided his childhood, and why shows like Sherlock and Doctor Who should be cherished for much more than just audience ratings

Mark Gatiss urgently wants to get something off his chest. He’s a polite, affable man, but there’s a furious fire burning in his breast – about ratings. “The ratings system is insane and iniquitous. I’ve seen grown men crying because their show got 6.3 million [viewers] instead of a hoped-for 6.5. They make a difference to a person’s career.”

His scorn has been stirred by the muffled bells ringing quite audibly during this current series of Doctor Who. (He’s written Saturday’s episode starring his old League of Gentlemen mate Reece Shearsmith.)

In September, mirrors were turned to walls and curtains were drawn as observers sorrowfully/gleefully announced that so-called “overnight” ratings saw Doctor Who slump to a “ten-year low” (against The X Factor and Rugby World Cup on ITV) with fewer than five million viewers.

But Gatiss, stage, film and TV actor, documentary-maker, author and co-creator with his great friend Steven Moffat of the stratospherically successful reimagined Sherlock, is having none of it.

“These overnight figures are based on a system of 5,000 set-top boxes, which is essentially a Gallup poll and we all know how accurate they are. If they provided a thumbnail sketch of what people are watching, fine, but people’s careers and projects rise and fall with them. This is nuts. Everybody watches television in a different way from the way they did four, five years ago. Yet the people who make a fuss about overnights are the same people who go home and watch TV in an entirely different way.

“That’s the modern world we live in and I’m not being defensive, but when you add everything together – timeshifting, plus iPlayer – [Doctor Who’s] ratings are the same as they ever were. But there is no capital in saying ‘Doctor Who’s ratings remain roughly the same’, so people make a story out of it.”

‘Bake Off will never be watched again – Doctor Who will be watched in 100 years’ time’

The Great British Bake Off final was recently handed the most-watched show of the year crown with more than 15m viewers, but Gatiss won’t roll over: “There’s a huge difference between the temporary popularity of a game show or factual entertainment show and something that has a proper legacy. Those episodes of Bake Off or The X Factor, and their virtues are manifest, will never be watched again. Yet Doctor Who will be watched in 50 years’ time, 100 years’ time. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. I love things to be popular, I want things to be watched, but this sort of scrutiny is deadly.”

Gatiss is so angry because he loves, and has always loved, television. Growing up happily in County Durham, he was obsessed by Doctor Who, horror films and horror stories. They provided a refuge from hated PE lessons. In his recent Who Do You Think You Are?, where he found he’s descended from Irish royalty, he held up his career as “a long revenge against PE… children who are not necessarily sporty should take a bit of heart.”

“Television was a huge friend to me. Anything supernatural I would just hunt out, and I loved all of those great big dramas like Poldark and The Duchess of Duke Street, and that Brian Clemens series Thriller. As a kid I really wanted to be in something like The Six Wives of Henry VIII [BBC’s 1970 historical blockbuster with Keith Michell as the axe-happy monarch].”

Though Gatiss satisfied that particular Tudor ambition when he appeared in Wolf Hall as master of the dark arts Stephen Gardiner.

Dodging the eye of their PE teacher, Gatiss and a friend would walk around the football pitch talking about horror. He even made “a small living from writing unbelievably gruesome stories about murdering all the teachers we hated”.

“I learnt my entire moral code from Jon Pertwee”

Bloody tales about javelins being inserted into brains were favourites. “I used to dream of not having to go outside in the cold to play football and instead sitting in the library. I think you can do that now, so maybe the pendulum has swung too far the other way.”

Of course, Doctor Who was little Mark Gatiss’s favourite TV show – and it should still be on at teatime, he insists, not nomadically some time after 8pm: “Put it on at a proper time, put it on where it should be, when Pointless Celebrities is on. That’s where it belongs, otherwise you are almost perversely cutting off your key audience, which is children.”

This is particularly important for Gatiss: “I learnt my entire moral code from Jon Pertwee [the Doctor, 1970–74], and also what TV still should be about, which is a very Reithian thing. I learnt so much from TV in the best kind of osmotic way. I absorbed morality, I absorbed a kind of scepticism and enjoyment of story, and oddness, and narrative. These days it’s so hard to get those things through; it’s almost become a dirty word to say ‘culture’. Education should be so much more than getting a good job.”

I first met Mark Gatiss in 2000 in a chilly disused hospital in Manchester when he and his friends Reece Shearsmith, Steve Pemberton and Jeremy Dyson were filming series two of The League of Gentlemen, the one where an epidemic of nosebleeds strikes down the grotesque population of that weird northern town, Royston Vasey.

The four of them became friends and performers after meeting on a drama course at Bretton Hall, then a part of Leeds University. “We had a totally shared sensibility. Sometimes people talk about the League as if we spotted a gap in the market and filled it. But basically it was just what made us laugh, horror tinged with all of those things we loved, like Rising Damp, Porridge, Mike Leigh films and Alan Bennett, who is an absolute copper-bottomed god.

“After my Desert Island Discs I got a postcard from him. I was so touched. He said he was in a real hole and stuck on something and I’d said something about him on the show and he told me it completely bucked him up. I thought… if I’ve done that for Alan Bennett…” Of course, he doesn’t have to end that thought.

Sherlock Christmas special will be modern and period

Gatiss, who’s 49 and lives in north London with his husband, actor Ian Hallard, is currently writing scripts for the new series of Sherlock, in which he also stars as Sherlock’s ascetic brother Mycroft – but anticipation for the Christmas special, The Abominable Bride, is heady.

“It’s a Sherlock ghost story for Christmas, but that’s all I’m going to tell you.” Unless the trailers are particularly obtuse, it’s set in the Victorian era. Why take Sherlock back to his original chronological habitat? “Steven [Moffat] and I realised that now, and at no other time, we would have the chance to do what Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce did [in the Sherlock films, 1939–46], which was modern and period.”

Gatiss and Moffat’s shared love of Doyle’s books and the Rathbone/Bruce canon sparked many meandering “wouldn’t it be nice if” conversations between the two before the decision to go ahead with a modern Sherlock was made.

“We confessed that the modern-day-set Rathbones were our favourites of all, which was heretical. We talked and I said, ‘Isn’t it funny that in A Study in Scarlet Dr Watson is invalided home from war service in Afghanistan and we were going through another Afghan war. We looked at each other and the light bulb went on.”

Benedict Cumberbatch, whose star has rocketed to the highest reaches of the heavens, was their only choice. Casting Watson took a bit longer. “We saw about half a dozen people but as soon as Benedict and Martin [Freeman] were together, Steven leant over to me and said, ‘There’s the show.’ ”

[deadlyanddelicate]

"i almost lost you" for pynch please

so this is 3 months late because i’m literally the worst but HERE ENJOY THIS THING that was gonna be a short drabble but devolved into 4k of angst/fluff. sorry for the wait anon, and thanks to @adamparrush for helping me navigate the intricacies of american high school schedules!

(you told me) this is right were it begins || read on ao3

‘Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railingsAnd you clutched my brain and eased my ailing

Is There Somewhere - Halsey

The aftermath of dealing with the demon leaves behind a wake of emotional debris they were not – couldn’t have been – fully prepared to tackle. They all have a lot on their plate: assessing the damage, picking up the broken pieces, allowing the wounds to scar over.

There’s the matter of Gansey, and what exactly he is now that he’s been brought back to life. There’s the matter of Noah, who had been fleeting and barely-there for a while, but is now completely gone, leaving the group to struggle with grieving someone who was already dead. There’s the matter of Henry, and how he fits into this new, fragile balance they have.

And, of course, there’s the matter of Gansey-and-Blue, and the matter of Adam-and-Ronan.

The first couple of weeks go by completely smoothly – dreamlike, almost. Adam goes back to school, and starts picking his jobs back up, shift by shift. Ronan drops out – officially, this time – and goes back to the Barns. Declan and Matthew come back to town for a short while, and Aurora gets a funeral, the elaborately carved white coffin as lovely and vacant as she had been in life. (Adam doesn’t really understand dream people, or what it’s like to lose a beloved parent, but he understands enough to recognize the fractures in the Lynch brothers: the cracks in Declan’s politician facade, the clouds rolling over Matthew’s sunny disposition. He understands enough to see Ronan break again: quieter, this time; with less anger than when Niall was killed. But he still breaks.)

They don’t talk about it, because they just don’t do that kind of thing – they never have; they wouldn’t know how. Instead of words, Adam offers himself: a shoulder for Ronan to rest his head on, lips trailing over his cheek, a hand lightly placed on his when they’re at Nino’s. Gentle, anchoring touches to keep him from spiralling into his grief. He drives down to the Barns after work and plays with Opal when Ronan is too heartsick to manage it; he lets Ronan crash at St. Agnes at 3 in the morning, when it’s pitch black outside and the world weighs hopelessly on Ronan’s shoulders, and shields him with his body, curled around the black hooks of Ronan’s tattoo.

Sometimes it’s enough. And sometimes it isn’t.

The fact of the matter is that before being Adam-and-Ronan, they were Adam and Ronan: two satellites orbiting planet Gansey, inevitably colliding with each other over and over, and only taking stock of the damage when the impact had already left craters in both of them. Even as they’d slowly become friends, then better friends, then something more altogether, Adam had never harboured any illusions that they would ever stop fighting. So, logically, he should not have expected them to stop butting heads now just because they were… whatever they were (…together? Boyfriends? That was something else they had not talked about).

But Adam hadn’t been thinking logically ever since Ronan had kissed him in his childhood bedroom, taking reason away and replacing it with soft white light and the foreign feeling of being loved, loved, loved. If he had, he might have seen it coming when their new, unspoken peace suddenly came unspooled around them on a winter night.

As it is, though, it’s ten minutes to midnight and Adam is tired. The end of the semester is fast approaching, Aglionby teachers apparently trying their best to fit as many test as they can in the last few days; his shift at Boyd’s has been relentless today, the garage drastically understaffed because three of the mechanics are home with the flu. He stayed up until 3am last night revising for an algebra quiz, skipped today’s lunch in favour of cramming in some last-minute Latin homework, and he knows tomorrow’s schedule is not looking any better. His stomach growls loudly, the grilled cheese sandwich he had for dinner not nearly enough to make up for the meal he missed, and all he wants is to crawl into bed and catch up on lost sleep, but he has college applications to write; he has sent out most of them already, but there are still a few he needs to finalise by the end of December, and they’re not going to write themselves.

He’s so absorbed in his work that he barely hears the first knock on the door, his head only jerking up when a second round of knocks comes, louder and more impatient. There’s no question of who it is – there’s only one person it could be at this time of night – and normally Adam would go greet him at the door, kiss him, pull him inside by his belt loops. Tonight, though, he’s just so exhausted and hungry and done that he can’t even bring himself to get up. “Come in,” he calls out wearily, scratching out a mistake in the rough draft of his cover letter.

Ronan walks in, bringing with him an eddy of cold night air and a metaphorical storm cloud over his head. Adam doesn’t know what it is, exactly – but something in him picks up on Ronan’s obvious bad mood, and his own already grim mood ricochets dully off it, grating at his patience.

“God, Parrish, how the fuck are you still working?” That tone, the bored, casually dismissive one, has not made an appearance since before – before the demon, before Aurora, before the kissing and this newborn thing between them. Adam can’t say he’s missed it, and his hackles instinctively rise with the muscle memory of a dozen previous fights.

“Because I have no choice,” he huffs, dryly. “I could’ve been more ahead of schedule if I hadn’t had to spend all of lunch break on Latin homework. I tried calling you to check if I had the vocabulary right, but you didn’t pick up.” As you never do, is the unspoken but still obvious add-on to that sentence. Adam knows it’s petty, but he can’t keep the petulance out of his voice. This is another thing he had expected to change after, even though he had no logical grounds for it, and it annoys him to be proven wrong.

“I was out,” Ronan shrugs, apparently unperturbed, but he has felt the silent barb, and his own defenses rise in response, in an all-too-familiar mechanism: guilt leading to self-deprecation leading to insecurity leading to anger. His shoulders are tense as he props himself down on the floor against Adam’s bed.

Adam watches him out of the corner of his eyes. Ronan is a spring coiled tight, the black cloud trailing after him apparently only getting denser and denser as he chews restlessly at the leather bands on his wrist. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are pink, as if he’d been driving with his windows down. As if–

Adam puts his pen down with deliberate calm.

“Have you been racing?”

Ronan snorts. “Okay, Gansey.”

Adam turns to look at him more fully, and despite the fact that yes, historically it’s Gansey who’s been the one dealing with a street-racing Ronan, Adam has still seen it often enough to know the signs. The adrenaline crackling in and around him, the restless way he taps his boot against the floor, the combative glint in his eyes.

“Well, have you?”

“So what if I have?” it’s a childish response, and once upon a time, Adam might have fired back something cutting for that alone, rolling his eyes at Ronan’s antics. Now, he knows better than to do that, but he’s unable to stop his thoughts from derailing frantically in another direction.

It’s mid-December. Even in Virginia, the weather has been hostile, especially over the past week, with on-and-off spells of merciless rain, which combined with the temperature dropping at night makes for a constant chill in the air. And it makes the roads freeze over at night.

There’s ice on the roads, and Ronan’s been racing.

Adam’s heartbeat picks up speed in his chest, going faster for every mile he imagines Ronan going over the speed limit, shooting down a poorly-lit country road, trying to outmaneuver some good-for-nothing delinquent.

“Are you an idiot?” he blurts out, before he can think better of it.

“What the fuck, Parrish? Just because you’re busy applying to fancy schools you don’t get to be all high and mighty with the resident drop-out,” Ronan sneers, but there’s a beat of genuine hurt under the sarcasm. Adam hears it, but he can’t make himself acknowledge it right now. His chest feels too tight, and his mind keeps reliving the same dreadful possibility.

Gas pedal. Gear shift. Wheels on slippery ice. Crash.

“I thought you’d stopped racing,” he says, forcing his voice to remain even.

Ronan shrugs. “It’s fun.”

That’s not a lie, not exactly; Ronan does love racing. But it’s a lie right now. Because this, this isn’t Ronan racing for fun. This is Ronan racing the way he did right after Niall died, or the way he did before he could master his night horrors. This is Ronan lost and helpless and grieving for his dead mother, reeling from almost losing his best friend, unmoored with the fear of Adam leaving for college. This is Ronan racing like maybe he doesn’t care so much if he wraps the BMW around a tree.

Adam slams his notebook closed. “Yeah? How fun is it going to be when you crash the damn car because you couldn’t be bothered to check if there’s ice on the ground?”

Ronan rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Parrish, can you relax and take the stick out of your ass for like five seconds?” he drawls. Adam knows, technically, that he’s just committed his first mistake: he’s getting angry, which means Ronan will act as infuriatingly aloof as he can to balance it out. But he can’t seem to stop himself, hurtling towards anger the same way he imagines the BMW skidding along a dark road to a fiery end.

He imagines Ronan on the ground, crushed under metal sheet and debris.

He sees Ronan on the ground, blood pooling around him as the demon unmakes him piece by painful piece, gasping for air and desperately creating with every ragged breath.

He can’t stand it.

“If you’re gonna be an asshole, you can just leave. I’ve got shit to do anyway,” he bites out, getting up and gesturing towards the door.

Ronan immediately gets up as well, hurt and rejection tumbling into anger. “Of course you do. Like you have time for anything apart from your fucking homework.”

“Oh, give me a break, Lynch” Adam exclaims, his voice rising in volume despite his best efforts. “Excuse me for wanting a future. Not all of us care so little about their lives they can just drop out of school and spend all their time racing cars.”

“What the fuck is your problem, huh?” Ronan shoots back, stepping closer to him in the cramped little room. “No, really, what crawled up your ass and died? It’s none of your business what I do with my free time now I’m not stuck in that shithole of a school anymore.”

It’s a sore spot – unlike Gansey, Adam has always recognised the futility of trying to force Ronan to stay in school against his wishes, but it doesn’t mean he agrees with the choice. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss him. He can’t help himself from leaning closer, into Ronan’s personal space, matching him step for step.

“Right, of course, because sticking it out a few more months in high school was gonna kill you, but speeding down frozen roads in the dark for shits and giggles isn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, would you get the hell off my back?! I’m fucking good at driving, and I know what I’m doing! Why the fuck do you even care if I race?”

“Because I almost lost you!” Adam all but yells at him. His fists clench spasmodically at his sides, and he feels the bite of it, wondering if he’s broken skin; he wants to punch a wall, kick a chair, something, but every time the idea of violence crosses his mind he sees Blue’s frightened face, and a wave of self-loathing clamps his muscles into place.

Ronan seems to be similarly frozen into place, his eyes wide. They’re both breathing hard, despite standing perfectly still. Adam takes a shameful step back, unable to meet Ronan’s eyes, his fists still balled hard at his sides.

“You don’t know– you have no idea–” he starts, low and unsteady, his traitorous accent weighing on every vowel. “I had to watch as that thing took you apart. Watch as it killed you. I thought it was over. I thought you–” his voice cracks and he shakes his head, biting down on his lip to keep his eyes from welling up, because he’s not doing this, he can’t do this – but he is anyway, his ribs constricting around his lungs painfully, his throat working uselessly against a lump. Everything inside him is chaos, knocked asunder with the knowledge of how Ronan – this miraculous boy, this god-like dreamer – is ultimately just as fragile as any human, perhaps more so because of how much life he holds within himself.

He sees, again, Ronan unmade by the demon, but he also sees Ronan drowning in Cabeswater, sinking in acid to try to save Opal; he remembers the desperation with which he’d tethered himself to the ley line and asked Cabeswater to please save him please please save him just save him. He remembers Ronan’s dream double, lying on the floor of the church they’re standing above just now, convulsing and bleeding out, looking so much like the real Ronan that even the memory twists Adam’s stomach painfully. He remembers rushing to the hospital after getting a panicked phone call from Gansey and seeing Ronan in a hospital bed, pale as death, his arms bandaged with red-stained gauze.

He remembers his own hands clenching around Ronan’s throat to choke the life out of him.

The fear and disgust are an almost physical weight on his chest, and he still can’t bring himself to look at Ronan, even as he finds his voice.

“I know maybe you don’t care about your life right now,” he says quietly. “But if you care about me at all, even a little bit– please, please, just– stay alive.” He closes his eyes, recognising the battle as lost when he feels dampness against his eyelashes but too tired to care, sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion and emotional upheaval getting the better of him.

The next moment, Ronan’s hands are on his, taking hold of his fists and gently teasing them open. Adam looks up through slightly blurry eyes to see angry red crescent marks on his palms, and Ronan running his thumbs over them. Ronan’s face is doing complicated things, regret and confusion and grief warring with each other, his eyes still wide with something like wonder. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking helpless, like he doesn’t think that’s enough. Adam blinks back more tears and thinks somewhat hysterically that this is the first time Ronan’s ever apologised first for a fight.

“God, don’t– I’m the one who should–” Adam stumbles, then heaves out a ragged sigh. “Don’t be sorry. Be safe.”

He allows himself to look at Ronan’s face more steadily, and watches his expression shift through something like shame, then pain, his eyes very bright, like maybe he’s close to crying as well, and Adam’s heart flips over in his chest, wishing desperately he could undo the entire night, go back to before they ever fought. Ronan brings Adam’s hand up to his cheek, presses the palm there, then turns his head just enough to brush his lips to it, barely a kiss.

“It hurts,” Ronan says in a very small voice, breath warm against his hand. It’s vague, and he doesn’t offer any clarification, but Adam knows what he means. Losing Aurora, losing Cabeswater, losing Gansey without knowing how they were going to get him back, his treacherous dreams telling him he’s going to lose Adam as well.

Adam is new to love, but he thinks he’s starting to understand loss, because for the first time in his life he feels he has things to lose. He thinks about Persephone, the first adult to ever be good to him. He thinks about Cabeswater, whose absence still feels like a gaping hole in his chest. He thinks again about the possibility of losing Ronan, losing Gansey, losing Blue, losing Opal, and his hands tighten around Ronan’s.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He means it in more ways than he can put words to, his eyes dropping to the floor again. But Ronan, perceptive as he can sometimes be – and Adam knows this by now, should be used to it, but it somehow always blindsides him – seems to pick up on it anyway.

“Parrish,” he says softly, “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know,” Adam murmurs. Unlike Ronan, he’s no stranger to lying. He knows that it’s not his fault – not technically. But all he can think of is the demon using his hands to strangle Ronan, the demon using his eyes to spy on them. Ronan’s hands covered in Aurora’s blood and Adam standing by, unable to help, a useless magician.

“Adam,” Ronan says, more steady now. “It’s not your fault.” He slides Adam’s hand down, to rest against his neck, thumb pressed to the pulse point. Fear lurches deep in Adam’s gut as he instinctively recoils, trying to take his hand back. Ronan doesn’t let him.

Instead, Ronan – stubborn, impossible Ronan – takes his other hand and places it on his throat as well, an achingly tender mimicry of Adam’s worst nightmare.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats, conviction weighing in every word. “That was not you. It could never be you.”

“Ronan,” Adam tries to protest, with a note of pleading. Ronan’s throat is warm and smooth and alive, and he forces his hands to stay as limp as they can and resist the urge to touch.

“Adam.”

They just look at each other for a long moment. It probably looks stupid from the outside, Adam thinks distantly; but all he wants right now is to collapse against Ronan’s chest, to hide his face into his shoulder, to listen to his heartbeat’s constant reminder that they’ve won, they’re alive, they get to have this.

“I trust you,” Ronan says, his tone gentler than it is on most occasions. Adam is reminded fleetingly of baby mice and baby ravens, back when he was still discovering that Ronan wasn’t all sharp edges and thorns.

“What if I don’t trust myself?”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Ronan replies easily. “But it’s okay, because I trust you enough for both of us.”

Adam swallows, the motion almost painful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I trust you more than anyone.” It’s the truth, because Ronan never lies.

Adam wants to cry again, but he doesn’t. Instead he allows his hands to move, to settle more firmly around Ronan’s neck, not pushing but feeling, gently pressing his index fingertips to the spot behind Ronan’s ears, his thumbs to the pulse under his chin, all smooth skin and rough stubble.

Ronan closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale from his mouth, letting his hands fall off of Adam’s as if giving Adam control has dislodged a weight from his shoulders, allowing him to breathe more easily.

The sudden surge of love clutching at Adam’s heart right then is stronger than even the ley line coming to life inside him, and he can’t help himself from chasing that exhale, pressing his lips to Ronan’s, softly at first, then more firmly, again and again and again. When they part for breath, their foreheads stay touching, Adam’s head tilted back slightly with the height difference he pretends to be bothered by.

“Can we like, go for hot chocolate or somethin’?” He almost kicks himself for how trivial of a question that is to alight upon, his Henrietta accent making it even more prosaic, but right now, all he wants is to stay close to Ronan, to forget about demons and death and sorrow and just revel in everything they haven’t lost, sitting together like two normal teenagers in the booth of a 24 hour diner.

Ronan lets out a surprised laugh, and when Adam looks up to see, with relief, Ronan’s eyes crinkling up with a smile, he thinks maybe that wasn’t the wrong question to ask after all.

“Thought you had homework,” Ronan says, his voice rough.

“Fuck homework,” Adam replies, and Ronan sucks in a breath, only half for show.

“Parrish,” he says, “you’ve literally never been hotter to me than in this exact moment.”

“Fuck off,” Adam laughs.

“Damn, it gets better and better,” Ronan comments on a wolf-whistle, not missing a beat.

Adam rolls his eyes at him, grinning, but then a thought makes him sober up for a moment. “I think we need to get better. At this talking thing, I mean.”

Ronan makes a face of exaggerated distaste, everything in him rebelling at the idea of conversations about feelings.

“You know I’m right,” Adam says.

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” Ronan mutters, then offers: “I’ll… pick up my phone?”

“It’s a start,” Adam concedes, amusedly, even though that’s not the real problem and they both know it.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t survive Latin class without my help,” Ronan shrugs with false modesty.

“Right,” Adam drawls. “Anyway. I’ll… try not to freak out about things?”

“Sounds fake,” Ronan hums, poking his nose at Adam’s cheek.

“Your face sounds fake.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Parrish. Maybe they shouldn’t make you valedictorian after all.”

“Maybe, but your ass better stay alive till graduation, ‘cause I want you there anyway.”

“Yeah. I guess I better,” Ronan replies simply, but his tone is serious; it’s a promise, and they both know it.

Adam nods. “Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” Ronan nods back. “Whipped cream and a metric fuckton of marshmallows?”

Adam’s stomach growls at a frankly ridiculous level of decibels, which would be mortifying except for the carefree way Ronan laughs at that, which kind of makes it worth it.

“Shut up,” Adam mutters without any heat, trying to hold back a smile. His ears feel warm.

“Let’s get some marshmallows in you, Einstein,” Ronan chuckles, kissing his cheek.

The drive to the diner is quiet, and Ronan keeps carefully below the speed limit. That’s not new per se, as he’s taken to doing it more and more when Adam’s in the car with him, but it feels especially significant tonight. Like an assurance, maybe. Adam stares at Ronan’s profile in the dim light, all sharp and handsome lines, and enjoys the simple pleasure of knowing that they have each other, that moments like these are theirs and theirs alone.

“I used to wonder how long it would take before we fought again,” he says, without really deciding to. “I think maybe I thought we wouldn’t, but clearly that was dumb of me.”

“Ah.” Ronan’s tone gives nothing away, but the tightening of his jaw loudly broadcasts his fears – that Adam will decide this is too much effort, that it’s too much work, that it’s more trouble than Ronan’s worth.

“Yeah. How else are we supposed to do better if we never fuck up?”

It’s clearly not what Ronan was expecting, and as he takes the last turn for the diner, a small, almost surprised smile plays around his lips. He glances at Adam out of the corner of his eyes, the motion practiced and familiar; Adam, as always, looks back, feeling a burst of simple, uncomplicated satisfaction bloom in his chest as he rests his head on top of Ronan’s on the gear stick.

They’re going to be okay.

[this-brownie]

05.14.20

I recently read Lolita, written by Vladimir Nabokov and I have a LOT of thoughts on it. I know it’s considered such a classic, but the plot revolves around pedophilia and, therefore, was very confused by all the hype surrounding it. I decided to finally read it so that I could form a valid opinion on it.

It felt like there was no 'point' to the story or that I had somehow missed it. I read the author’s note that said there is no moral to the story and people looking for one are wasting their time. So I tried to do some research on it online to see what others have said- some people talked about how beautifully it's written and what a good job he did since he's a Russian writer and this was one of his first books in English. I thought about that-- his voice/style IS engaging, however I was utterly bored reading about the actual content, if that makes sense. The narrator/pedo would basically talk shit about these other characters for three literal pages and then MOVE ON and never. mention. them. again. I'm like...wtf was the point of that?! A lot of people called the book really funny and I was like uhhhh I didn't laugh NOT ONCE throughout the whole fucking thing. Some people said the book was amazing bc at the core of it, its a """"""loveeeee"""""" story like the fuck kind of love are you people used to?! It's literally about the descpicable narrator who.. TRIGGER WARNING ***lusts over girls ages 9-14, pursues a "relationship" with (I mean assaults) his 12yo stepdaughter, fucking bribes her w money, emotionally manipulates her (by telling her that if she goes to the police she will be taken away and will be alone forever, and wouldn't it just be better to stay with him), and abuses her daily. On top of that he acts like he's her bf and acts jealous when she starts talking to guys her age! Multiple, multiple fucking times the girl says "yeah well you raped me so the least you can do is give me money/give me this/that". She is aware that she's being taken advantage of, and attempts to exert her own agency in the matter, however she can. He sexualizes her like an object and talks about her in cringey ways like he literally says "oh this beautiful 7th grader, oh the lovely girl-child, the 12 year old with the boxy boyish torso" like ew. Why are you so obsessed with prepubescent bodies**** So fucking pathetic. And you know what? People claim that he's just hopelessly in love bc he DOES talk about her in a loving way (yeah whatever creep) but throughout the entire he book he literally ogles other children. How is that fucking love?! Just bc he found the ONE girl who was actually receptive to his disgusting behavior? Lolita is interesting for people who don’t know how to relate to real people, so they read this book about a pedophile and feel cool for “understanding” him. He’s not likable— he’s self deprecating which people enjoy because instead of having to call him disgusting, he does it to himself and it makes readers sympathize with him. They can therefore "relate" to him since we all love a self hating hero. A lot of people say that it shows us the selfish part of us, that we are willing to do whatever we need to in order to pursue what we want. That we are ultimately narcissists. Yeah maybe men feel that fucking entitled (sorry I'm being sexist) . What fucking responsible adult is willing to ruin and manipulate a child just to fulfill his own depraved fantasies? Because he succeeds in acquiring this little girl, are we supposed to applaud him? Call him smart and badass and a go getter?! He's delusional. When men read the book they relate to the narrator. And when women read it, who do you think they relate to? The female character, the girl ofc-- how to be kept in a helpless situation, keep taking abuse, and to be manipulated into staying. 

I may be looking at this book and analyzing it from a very cultural lens but isn't that the point of a classic? That it transcends time, culture, whatever society you're coming from, whatever perspective you have — it’s supposed to be relatable. In the book, the narrator/pedo brings up all the historical relationships of child brides and little girls being sexualized and he's like "it wasn't wrong then" blah blah I'm like motherfucker, have you considered that we have come away from those times for a fucking reason?! When child marriages were legal, and wherever they still are, it’s not because it isn't an absolutely horrible thing. It is just socially acceptable and that's why people dont speak up about it. When people DO try to speak up about it, they are shunned which leads to others holding their silence on it. I mean, slavery was once legal too.

Oh and another sad thing was that so many readers online were saying that yeah he knows he has a problem, but he really does love her, and what about her?! It's not like she's innocent either (bc how dare she have sex once before, as an experiment)— so basically that makes this 12yo equivalent to this 45 fucking year old manipulative, delusional, pathetic abuser. I think Nabokov also purposely portrayed the girl as extra bratty and insolent bc he didn’t want his readers to see her as innocent or child like in anyway. By making her unlikable, readers begin to sympathize even more for the pedo. People are fucking wild yo, to what extent they are willing to forgive grown ass men and blame little girls. Side note, it's not that I particularly care for the girl character, but I could see through how she was being manipulated and how badly she was trying to escape (she finally does thankfully). My opinion is that if this were a real love story, people would not have given it a second look-- fuck what they say about Nabokov’s writing, it’s BS. Ultimately, my thoughts on it are that people like the book bc they like the authors writing style OR bc they think they're fucking edgy for liking such a controversial book. They probably feel cool that they have gotten through such a taboo/challenging topic without feeling complete disgust for the book and themselves. Multiple articles online have said “if you don’t like the book/are not open to reading it, it’s bc you’re narrow minded and can’t put yourself in uncomfortable positions” like stfuuuuu. They argue that just bc it’s from a wrong/taboo perspective, it’s not enough of a reason to stop you from reading it. They compared it by saying if a murderer wrote a book, is it not worth reading bc murder is wrong? And I understand the argument but that really diminishes the point. The murderer isn't being romanticized; it is pretty clear they are unstable and that we SHOULD NOT BE LIKE THEM.  A person reading about a book that glorifies murder won’t necessarily go out and commit murder. Similarly, a person reading about sexual abuse/rape/pedophilia won’t go out and commit those things, but unfortunately by calling the book beautiful, and the idea compelling, and blaming the victim, you’ve now normalized the idea a little more. You’ve humanized the abuser and made his actions a little bit more acceptable. And that’s where the problem lies. Should a book like this have NOT been written? I wouldn’t jump to that. But the weird, obsessive fascination over it is definitely concerning. And what could have been done differently, anyway? The narrator is already ‘aware’ of his problem and constantly calls himself disgusting. Nabokov doesn’t regret writing it (and why should he, he’s made a ton of fame and money off of it). Having a disclaimer that says “rape is wrong” would be treated like a fucking joke. It’s really up to society and how they feel about it, which is the same as how society has always felt about girls/women. Nothing good. One other thing I came across is that a lot of young women (who ‘should’ hate the book, according to the article) actually really like it. I find that misguided. I know I am judging so hard here but- I feel that these women are the same ones that say they don’t need feminism and they are stuck on this boring ass yet ubiquitous trope of powerful/older/experienced men courting the innocent, dainty yet (somehow still) seductive girl. Have seen that idea MANY fucking times. Yawn. It might appeal to a high schooler but not people who can have two simultaneous thoughts in their brains. My friend Marisol brought up an interesting and valid point about this; she said that some women may have enjoyed the book because “they have been victims of [sexual abuse] and by glorifying something like that, they might subconsciously be convincing themselves that it wasn't as bad and that they're not actually victims of these horrendous crimes”. Lastly, I WILL give the author one credit (no matter how minor)— he doesn’t word the sex/rape scenes in an erotic way. I’m sure there’s a lot of people curious about reading this book cuz they think they will discover soft porn. They will be left feeling disappointed or unaffected after finishing it, which in a way is annoying as well bc youve glazed through and normalized the horror of it without feeling anything. And what’s the point of writing a book? Isn’t it supposed to make you feel? 

Thank you for taking the time to read my rant.

[gam702mjordan]

Game 1. Part 4 - Postmortem. (P.s. I hate it).

I botched it. Utterly & completely.

For the first unit of our prototype project we had to make a game (i.e. digital, board or folk) based on the theme of D.I.Y. Or more succinctly; the act of doing it yourself. Doing what? Well, that was up to us. When I first heard the theme my brain naturally went to the more universally recognised relative term usually involving the act of doing work around the house like putting up a set of shelves or fixing the leaky pipe under the sink.  Really, we were quite fortunate to get this theme as a jumping off point, the variances in what it one can relate doing it yourself to is astonishing. The depth and range of the subject was vast and doesn’t have to just mean hammer and nail business.

It can relate to crafting, such as knitting or weaving, to something like brewing beer or kombucha, or metalwork and weapon craft. D.I.Y is a vague thing, and therefore can be correlated to many fields of work.

At the beginning of this project. My first idea went for the generic meaning of the theme. I was going to make a game about a woman that had fled a rough relationship and moved into the house that had been the cause of great of a great fracture in her family after it was left to her and not her parents. Unbeknownst to her thought the house is a living thing and does not like the idea of change. The idea being that I was going to use the narrative as a vehicle to discuss the subject of change and growth. As I stated in the first post on the project: As she fixes the house, She fixes herself, and going beyond that; what happens when one party is resistant to  change, a=can someone else ever really heal another person or is it up to them to put the work in. to quote the hold steady: “I’m not saying that I can fix you, but maybe I can put you in a place where you can fix yourself”. I wanted to make a game about the redemptive power of love, and how one party can be reticent to change despite themselves. All good juicy stuff, AND relative to the theme even in a very humdrum and literal way.

Then I went and reinvented the wheel in true classic Matty fashion.

I attribute it to two key factors. Firstly, that I really felt that I couldn’t give myself enough time to get the story out and do it justice and considering the themes that I was going for. I wouldn’t have had time to do it justice. I felt it would have been too stunted and broken, I wouldn’t have had enough time to build on the story in a coherent and smooth manner. I would have ended up with something that felt like: “she gets to house, goes to bed, wakes up, starts fixing things, spooky thing happens, rinse, repeat.”. And the second reason being a mix of my own ego and idiocy, I didn’t want to something so humdrum for my fix project, and looking back on it now, it wasn’t humdrum, if I had given the time and care to it then I would have given myself enough to craft something a least half way decent toward what I was going for. It wasn’t me, it was too serious, and I wouldn’t be showing my best ability and competence. I just could get the thought out of my head that the product wouldn’t have been great, and I was so eager to impress.

My inspiration of the farce aspect of this project came from my time in the theatre, where I was introduced to practitioners of the craft of farce such as; Dario Fo, Edgar Wright and Harold Pinter. Ever since I have been fascinated by their work. The fact that they both artists work in the same field of comedy and the datum that their work is very different form one another.  Both have aspect of physical comedy, but Fo works more in the surreal- having works that are more akin to satire and parody. He tends to work more from history, taking historical figure and then using the medium to ridicule them. Whilst Pinter employs aspect of absurdist, but his style is far more naturalistic. Edgard Wright is a Master of Physical comedy, taking dire situation and then having his characters react in funny ways, usually applying music to make the scene more humorous.  Pinter tends to work more from a point of characterisation, focusing in on human flaws to create funny scenarios. Creating situations in his plays that build and build until the last act where the plot crescendos into an hot mess. As I stated in the first post, farce resonates with us as humans because it mirrors life, and through no fault of our own, situation snowball until they are ridiculous.

I felt that I had enough experience and knowledge to pull it off. I felt that I knew enough about both artists that I could blend their work into something that I would utilise the best aspect of each of these artists techniques.

Thus, begin the new project, an interactive fiction game in which I would seamlessly blend farce and horror. In which I would go for a new angle on D.I.Y and having nothing to with something as pedestrian as handywork. Opting instead to make a game about a delusional father that attempts to do an exorcism on his daughter. I’ d be playing to my strengths, I can do funny, this’ll be a cake walk…

Oh, boy was I so very wrong.

What I meant to do and what I ended up with where two completely different beasts. The piece that I ended up with was something entirely different and not at all seamless like I had intended. on finishing the project and looking back at the outline that I had created for the project I certainly overextended the project. The notes and layouts had the piece in three easy manageable “acts”, all with their own narrative branches and multiple endings. As I was writing though I kept building on them repeatedly. Getting further away form the outline that I had set out for myself. I kept reading over parts of it and then realizing that sections were not gelling chiefly well. I kept thinking about the reason why, I got hung up on the idea of naturalism, being that it was a farce I kept adding connections and filler. I became utterly blinkered in my quest to get the who, what, where and how perfect. Adding sections to make other parts of the work make sense, and before I knew it, I had spent so much time adding filler that didn’t really add anything to the piece that I had run out of time. I had filled so much of it that the ending that I had created in the planning section of the prototype would not make sense. I ran out of time and panicked, and inspired by Pinters work, I felt that I should just end the piece in a great ridiculous climax, and what I ended up with feels flat. Its not funny, and I leaned to far into the horror aspect f the piece and made one piece of work that feels utterly dissociative from each other. Both aspects are there, but they are separate from each other, like two ships passing in the night. The end work feels like it has a spilt personality and the two parts are contradictive.

Setting aside the story, which I spent far too much time working on and promptly forgot about the other aspect of making a game book. I did not look at the tool to help me make the game the first place. I had never done interactive fiction game and felt that the software would be so intuitive that I’d be able to figure it out in a day or two. This did not happen. I was complacent and arrogant that I’d be able to figure it out. Once again, I was wrong.

I ended up handing in a piece of work that I utterly hate. I spent to much time getting bogged down in filling in the gaps, and thus left myself to little time to write the narrative branches that would tie up the ending in a neat little bow. The cherry on top of the garbage sundae was not looking at the software. There are parts that repeat themselves, branches that don’t go anywhere and only one ending that has nothing to do with the any of the choices that the player makes. It is a piece utterly devoid of sense. Its not even that funny. Which is what I felt that I would be able to do.

Once again, what you plan and what occurs can really run away from you. In future I need trust in my outline and then darned well stick to it. If I had done this, then I am positive that I would have ended up with something that would have made sense, and I would have given myself enough time to get comfortable with the software. Instead made a broken game, that isn’t indictive of the quality I can produce.

Though I may hate it I feel like I needed this to happen, it has been a real eye opener. I needed it as a first attempt at art after being estranged from any form of creativity. It has also humbled me; I know I’m not at the place that I was when I last did anything creative.

That adage of use it or lose it applies to a multitude of areas. Especially creating art. For the next project I will simplify things, start small and then build from there. I am ashamed of the finished product and really do not want to have this happen again.

[bravehardts]

Day 15 - Roman Holiday

Waking up this morning, I looked outside at what I assumed was a cloudy day given the hazy light coming in the window. Instead I found that the courtyard was shrouded in a thick ethereal mist. Quickly heading outside, I snapped some surreal pictures--soon the mist burned away, but the experience verged on the supernatural, especially with the similarities to the horror film "The Others", which features a ghostly fog surrounding a British manor, not too different from our own. Happily, no ghosts here (that we know about). After breakfast, we headed into Bath for an appointment with ancient history at the Roman Baths. I had last visited this attraction 9 years ago and I remember being impressed--but seeing it again, we were all really amazed, not just by the historical significance, but also by how well the curators have crafted the experience. We first entered into a grand building and walked around an upper promenade--this is actually at ground level of the city, but the baths themselves are 4 meters underneath this, so you begin by circling the main bath from this elevated area-getting a great view, yet not quite experiencing it up close (this is on purpose). We began to learn about the history through our free audio tour, and Alex had his own "kid" version too, which stunningly kept him interested through the entire 1.5 hour self-guided tour. Heading downstairs, you don't go directly to the main bath (of course not!), but instead you learn a lot about Roman history through the artifacts found in the area--coins, columns, altars, and "curse" letters (apparently when Romans were robbed or sleighted, they would write little curse notes to the gods to smote the perpetrators--these were etched in tin, and many are still well preserved). There are great video "windows" around the area that show what it might have looked like in Roman times, with costumed characters going about their daily lives. Of course, the ruins themselves were mostly on the ground floor, but recreations of the rest of the buildings are seamless and give a sense of the scope. Where the construction could not adequately recreate the ancient Roman buildings, computer simulations displayed this even more accurately. Finally, after our brains were full with facts about Romans, we emerged into the primary bath area--the water is steaming and green with algae--you can walk fully around the bath and get a sense of what it would have been like 2000 years ago, enjoying a true historical sauna experience. Side rooms off the baths served different purposes--a cold water bathing room, changing rooms, gender specific baths--it was a full service experience apparently. And this city in Roman times wasn't even that big, population-wise. But they had a sweet natural spring hot tub. At the very end, you have a chance to taste and/or touch the water. I tasted it (hot, sulfurous water isn't that good, I learned). Alex touched it. Allison did neither. Anyway, the whole exhibit was a full success for all of us. Directly across from the baths sits Bath Abbey, a gorgeous cathedral, that we sped through. I could try to explain it in detail, but I won't because I think we are all burnt out on cathedrals and at this point, I couldn't tell the difference between this one and every other we saw. But it was grand, and we took many pictures. After the Abbey, we walked around a bit, found a shoe store and bought Alex a new pair of Converse (gold and black), and settled into a coffee shop for a quick lunch. Heading up a hill, we found the Circus--not the circus we know, but a large and completely circular intersection with a park in the middle and curved apartments in every direction. Turning west, we headed to the Royal Crescent--a much larger, semi-circular neighborhood, clearly related to the Circus, yet more impressive. Just south of this massive expanse of buildings is a green grassy park, where everyone goes to relax and take pictures. It is so large, that everyone snapping photos had to stand at the very back of the tree line just to capture the whole building. We took a few pictures ourselves and some boomerangs with Alex. Finding a cab back to our hotel was not as easy as we planned, but eventually we said goodbye to Bath and were back on the road. Arriving at Lucknam Park, we immediately changed into our workout clothes and took a family bike ride down the long entrance path. This day was absolutely gorgeous, with only a few clouds in the sky--by the time we had biked over to the soccer/football field, we were all sweaty, possibly for the first time this trip. We played a little one-on-two soccer/football (Alex and Allison versus me), and it was intense. The game ended with what I thought should have clearly been a red card on Allison, which ended in the winning goal. After review, the referee, Alex (also a player), made a really questionable call saying there was no penalty on the play (could have also been a flop on my part, to be honest), and that ended it. Hey at least nobody faked an injury. Next up was our tea time at the hotel. We intentionally had a light lunch knowing we were going to feast on sandwiches, scones, and desserts, at 3:30 in the afternoon, which just felt wrong (and yet it was so right). Our stomachs also felt a little guilty from all the mid-afternoon sugar and caffeine intake, but nonetheless it was a unique cultural experience. I still don't completely get it, but really no complaints here. Alex and I headed back to the pool for a bit of fun, then headed for dinner (we had a lot of meals today), which was delightful as usual. We ended up sitting next to a woman from South Korea with her 3 year old daughter. The mother was fluent in English and we chatted for a bit--her daughter knew a little bit but that didn't stop her and Alex from pretending to be dinosaurs, exchanging candy, and coloring together. Alex kept trying to explain how to play certain games in his little travel kit, but that didn't really go as planned--he didn't get frustrated but it was hilarious watching him try to communicate. And on another, totally effing random note, Allison spent an hour this afternoon in an online queue trying to book tickets for the "Museum of Ice Cream" exhibit which is coming to San Francisco this October. Along the way, she was telling me how quickly this thing was selling out its entire two month run--as in, it sold out completely during this one hour of ticket sales for the whole thing. So, at dinner, when we are talking to this random woman from SOUTH KOREA, she tells us her cousin just bought tickets for them all to the Museum of Ice Cream in San Francisco. WHAT IS GOING ON? It was crazy. It was random. It was crazy random. I guess this whole ice cream thing is catching on. Our evening ended with a heated game of Monopoly in the parlour, or was it the drawing room? It actually would have been better to play Clue in this building--as in playing clue for real, going from room to room, because this might as well be where the game takes place. It was the London version of Monopoly so all the properties were appropriate to this city (Leicester Square, Mayfair, etc.)--and it motivated us to try San Francisco-opoly when we get home, which is now in only two days time! Tomorrow we head into London to stay with a friend, and I get to attend the premiere of "Ruin Me", the feature film I shot in Michigan a couple of years ago. And that will be our last night of the trip!

[extraterrestrialmasquerade]

Xogue’s Letter

Transmission Sent from Pyronian Homeworld to C’rululian Homeworld.

Hello C’Etherax,

I imagine I should be telling you this in person.  But I don’t know when that will be and well…as you know I can’t leave things undone.  I’ve never been one to wait.

First off, I am sorry for racing the night before the mission.  It was stupid of me, I know.  If I had gotten hurt then that would have prevented me from providing psionic back up during the raid, and I am aware that the Major may have chosen to just cancel the mission instead of doing a last minute switch.  It was stupid.  I know.

I am not upset that you yelled at me.  I am upset that you insinuated that I am a part of the Empire’s StarForce solely for the adrenalin.  It’s not true.   And well…I guess the best way to start is at the beginning.   When I was four years old I first started manifesting what my people call Silver Fever.  On Pyronia it is believed that to be born under a triple full moon is bad luck.  Or to be conceived under a triple full moon.  Or to have your first in utero kick under a triple full moon.  Or to sneeze under a….okay I am making the last one up.  Anyhow Silver Fever is so named because it is believed to be caused by lunar interference.  I know its hard for you, who were born and raised in the Empire, to understand that.  But on Pyronia…education levels are low.  People think differently.  

I remember when I was four I was always buzzing around in at the Meeting of the Youth.  I hated standing still.  I also loved textures.  I had to touch everything.  Smooth.  Rough.  Heavy.  Light.  Slimy.  Dry.  Sticky.  Smooth.  They all fascinated me.  Then randomly on certain days I couldn’t stand to touch anything.  And, well, on the order and honor loving culture I was born in, this could cause…conflicts.  One of the Youth Trainers beat me.  I got kicked out of one Meeting for fighting.  I wasn’t trying to be violent.  I just got caught up in running and jumping and was so well..caught in the moment I couldn’t tell that the child I was roughhousing with wasn’t having fun with me. My reversals on wanting to touch everything one day and nothing the next were seen as insubordination.

  I remember Uncle Zar coming over to my families house and I would be told “Run Xogue-re and play with your sister.”  “-re” is is a term of endearment on our world, but when its said with a certain tone by your parents you know you are clandestinely being given an order.

   Eventually things got so bad that they, at Uncle Zar’s prompting, were planning on doing an antennae-rectomy.  You see the biological cause of Silver Fever is an imbalance in how our antennae relate to the rest of our nervous system. The brain expects more neural input then the antennae can give.  The running, jumping texture exploring is all a way (even though we don’t realize it) to give neural feedback so that the brain feels like it is getting the stimulation we should get.

   Sometimes when you aren’t able to move/jump/ride like your body wants to do it feels like you are about to be tickled but the tickle never comes.  Other times it feels like a deep restlessness.  Sometimes it is just feels like a deep sadness.  I don’t know why it manifests the different ways it does.  In my community the sorts of over the job athleticism we want to manifest is seeing as uncouth and even a threat to the family image.   Cutting of the antennae convinces the brain that it should be receiving no input, thus correcting the problem.  The side effects are life-long imbalance, the loss of any psionic gifts and life-long head pain.  C’therax, I loved the high of climbing up the rocks over the cool mist of the ocean.  I loved jumping from the trees to the icy river.  I loved it when I snuck out on my good Uncle Rey’s motorcycle and felt the wind in my antennae…that was life for me.  And the thought of that sharp blade cutting me, that I could only be a part of the community if part of my being was compromised…that was too much.  So I ran out.  And I even left a small prank ooze bomb behind in my room.  I was young and angry.  I guess I just wanted to leave one last invective behind at the family who hated me.  

I lived as a lone wolf.  I would take odd jobs.  And even a few…undignified…ones.  I would steel occasionally.  I would participate frequently in illegal street races.  I had a strong track record.  It gave me some cash to live on.  And then one day a competitor switched out the oil in my engine.  It was a clever formula.  For half the race my motorcycle ran just fine.  Then half way through I could smell the burning and it smelled like a cross between vomit and roadkill.  For my extrasensory senses it broke my concentration.  When the engine gave out I didn’t have the wits to handle the out of control machine.  I slid and crashed into the window of an apartment building and the bike landed on a man there.  

I was dragged to court.  My family, dishonored by what I was didn’t show up.  Accept for my bad Uncle Zar who offered to let me off if I were to become a servant(?) (I am not sure what the word for it would be in your language) for him.  I spat in his face.  By the time a police officer drove us apart I had severely damaged one of his eyes.  Neither my Uncle nor the officer pressed charges.  The officer refrained because he saw my uncle was a repulsive creature and as for my Uncle…let’s just say he didn’t want the threat of shame if there was no…benefits shall we say?…from being involved. Besides my uncle thought I was going to rot in jail anyway.  

The victim of the accident was in critical condition at the hospital and I found out we were a blood match which for our species means we are likely to be a match as well. I volunteered on the condition, and I know this will sound weird, that my donation be anonymous.  Yes, it occurred to me that if I saved the man’s life the judge might be moved for a lighter sentence.  But I didn’t want a lighter sentence.  I hated my self.  I hated my silver fever.  I hated my life on the road.  I hated not having a family.  I wanted to suffer to, rot in prison to never see the sun set.  So I gave an organ and planed for the man never to find out that I had donated it.  

Well before my trial I saw one of the nurses walk up to him and whisper in his ear.  At the trials opening he petitioned the judge for the trial to be delayed one week.  It was the longest week of my life.  When the trial resumed the man took the stand and said he had spent the week meditation upon the Immutable and recommended that I me let off “for reasons that are my own.”

And to my shock and horror the judge granted me amnesty.  The word of my donation got out.  The newspaper reporters flooded the courthouse like vultures.  I was the topic of every social media outlet on that planet and all of its moons.  Our story was an example of forgiveness and restoration.  And oddly all this made me angry.  The world had hated me when was on the streets.  It had hated me when I was a young child struggling to understand the gift and curse of silver fever.  But now after I had fallen to my lowest point, it wanted to parade me online next to the videos of cute animals and cheap DIY projects.  It wanted to be inspired by me provided that I had no needs in return and just smiled and said the things the reporters wanted to hear.  

I guess I should thank them though.  There is a military base of the Empire’s StarForce near that courthouse.  And one of the captains had Silver Fever.  He came to me and offered me a life that would be anonymous (should I wish) and give me a chance to get away and start again and even to do some good.  So I wrote a letter to the man who had let me off, thanking him and entered into the squad.  After fighting for four years and rising rapidly through the ranks I chose to be a public bounty hunter.  That brought fame yes, but it is a fame that I earned, not the result of feeling like I am in a zoo.  And I always tell the story of how my antennae were almost cut off.  Had that happened I would have lost my psionic powers and my sense of balance.  My whole career would not have been possible.  The reason why I race, why I crave the death defying stunts is not solely for fame and adrenalin C’Therax.  I can’t deny that the adrenalin makes the pain I still feel go away.  But I also know that there are Pyronian kids out there like me.  Who need to run constantly.  Who need push their psionics farther then other kids feel the need to.  Who crave adrenalin, who are addicted to it and who want to know if they are just freaks or if there personality profile can be channeled into something good.  So I collect bounties for the military and I run races.  I want to show the world that Silver Fever is not something to be ashamed of, that it can be controlled.  That it can, if used properly, be a force for good.

I am writing this to you because I believe that you will be the person to make the final decision on whether I am on the scouting mission to Earth.  I know I can be a loose canon C’therax but so can you.  And I want you to know that I serve this military with honor, and I would be honored to fight along side you on this most historic of missions.  This is who I am C’therax.  Whether you believe this letter is reason to accept or deny me, at least I can say that I said my piece.  

[vitalmindandbody]

How to get through chemotherapy: Decca Aitkenhead on cancer treatment

Before it happened to me, I never truly understood how terrible chemotherapy could be: no description can do it justice. But there are ways to ease its horrors that feature in none of the official advice, and I want everyone to know about them

If you were born after 1960, the odds that you will get cancer in your lifetime are now one in two. It is an extraordinary statistic. Even if you turn out to be one of the lucky ones, half of the people around your kitchen table this morning will at some point sit in a doctors surgery and be given the news that they have cancer. If the numbers continue in the same relentless direction, before long, it will be most of them.

Not all will have chemotherapy. The fortunate ones can be cured in other ways, while the truly unfortunate will have cancers chemo cannot treat. I met one of those unluckiest of souls only the other day. It hadnt occurred to me until then to feel very grateful for having been eligible for what was, without a doubt, the most unpleasant medical ordeal of my life.

Unpleasant is a word you hear a lot when people talk about chemo. It drove me to distraction when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer last summer, and was told I would undergo four months of chemotherapy. Like everyone else plunged into this frightening new world, I wanted to know what would happen. What would it be like?

Well, its doable, I read time and again, as I scanned online cancer forums for answers. Unpleasant but doable. It was maddening. Waiting to begin chemo is like being on medical death row; you know your body is about be attacked, but how it will feel is a sinister mystery, and unknowable dread only makes the waiting worse.

There is a reason for this inarticulacy. Human beings have had no historical need to evolve language applicable to the sensation of being systematically poisoned. Such a vocabulary has never before been necessary, so it does not exist. Chemotherapy patients are therefore obliged to deploy a limited repertoire of familiar but hopelessly inadequate substitutes; words that can only approximate to the experience, but fail to convey anything of its true essence. So we say that we are tired, and feel weak; that we have no energy, or feel somehow unrecognisably unlike ourselves. What we really mean and this doesnt capture it either, but its the best I can do is that we feel dead without having actually died. Chemotherapy strips away every last ounce of vitality or volition, until you are left only with the outward appearance of a living person. But you are a hollow husk, empty of all the essential constituents that make a person alive. It is a cruel irony that a drug designed to stop you dying makes you feel as if you have.

One of the many side-effects of chemotherapy of which Id been hitherto unaware is what it does to your brain. The medical profession was reluctant for many years to acknowledge a condition oncologists now call, with inelegant if commendable candour, chemo brain and like every other side-effect, it does not afflict everyone. But having witnessed the steady erosion of my own critical faculties, to the point where my IQ had sunk to marginally lower than my cats, I can testify that chemo makes some patients very, very stupid.

It is partly because of that that I hesitated to write this. A cancer diagnosis pitches you into a disorientating fog of confusing, alarming and often contradictory advice, which would be hard enough to navigate at the best of times. Trying to work out whats loopy and what might save your life or at least your sanity when you cant even follow the Jeremy Kyle Show can be profoundly frightening. Everyone is, of course, only trying to help, but when the stakes are so high and you cant think straight, the cacophony of advice is often counter-productive. I am reluctant to add to it.

Nevertheless, it is also the case that before I began chemotherapy I stumbled, quite by chance, upon two pieces of advice so invaluable that without them I do not like to think how I would have got through it. What is mystifying is why neither featured in a single NHS leaflet or cancer website I read. One is not cheap, and the other not easy, but both were more than worth it. I picked up some other tips along the way, which also feel worth sharing. So when anyone now asks me what advice I would offer to someone preparing for chemo, this is what I say.

Fake hair, real help

When I was first told I would have chemo, all I could think about was my hair. I would be having a double mastectomy, but losing my breasts didnt frighten me anything like as much as losing my hair. I remember feeling embarrassed and surprised by my sense of priorities. But you do not need to spend long in oncology waiting rooms to discover that the chief preoccupation of many, if not most, patients is the horror of going bald.

Some varieties of chemo dont make your hair fall out. Unfortunately, the kind I needed did. There are patients who manage to retain some hair by wearing a helmet of ice called a cold cap during every infusion but this is excruciatingly arduous, often doesnt work, and even when it does, will probably leave you with patchy wisps. I briefly considered the headscarf/turban alternative, but the futility of the artifice felt tragic. You might as well stick a sign on your head that says: LOOK! IVE GOT CANCER. A wig therefore seemed the only tenable solution but even the most ingeniously convincing one would still have to come off every night. I did not want to have to see myself bald and I wouldnt be the only one that had to. My sons were only five and four, and I knew they would hate it.

Decca Aitkenhead wearing her hair replacement system. Photograph: Shakira Kleiner

When an oncology nurse handed me a leaflet for Jennifer Effies Hair Solutions, offering an option I had never heard of, I thought it sounded too good to be true. (Other providers, I should say, are available.) If it really existed, how come no one else had mentioned it? The leaflet claimed I could have replacement hair glued to my head, which I would sleep in, wash and blow dry as normal, even wear in a pony tail, exactly as if it were my own. I read it doubtfully, in the waiting room of a private clinic. I was only there for a one-off consultation in search of a second opinion, and suspected this magical fake hair was probably a Harley Street racket to rip off the gullible rich.

But I couldnt help wondering what if it actually worked? Two days later I went to see Jennifer. A warm, smiley south Londoner, she seemed more like a therapist or nurse than a Mayfair hair stylist, and certainly nothing like a con artist. She had made it her lifes work to help women who had lost their hair, she said, by providing not wigs, they are not wigs. They are hair-replacement systems. For Jennifer it didnt sound like a business so much as a vocation, and the intent tenderness of her compassion quite disarmed me. She took three separate strands from my head, which would be sent to Russia, where human hair matching the different shades of blonde would be purchased. Then she wrapped Sellotape around my head to make a mould for a lace cap, on to which each individual strand would be hand stitched. The roots would then be coloured darker to make the hair look highlighted, like mine. As soon as my own hair began to fall out, I was to come in, and Jennifer would shave it off and glue on the hair replacement system using a special adhesive. My own hairdresser would cut and style it as normal, and no one would ever guess it wasnt mine.

The curious thing about losing ones hair is that even though you know it is going to fall out, the first clump to come away in your hand is a horrifying shock. I stared at it, in disbelief, and wept. To be so stunned made no sense at all, but is, I have subsequently learned, what almost everyone feels. I got on the train that afternoon, and went to see Jennifer to have my system applied.

To care so much about ones hair when you have cancer might seem like vanity, but really it is just a longing for normality. And the hair-replacement system made me normal. Jennifer was right no one could tell. After a month or so I told my children it wasnt my hair, and they were incredulous. A close friend I saw most days had no idea for months, until I happened to mention it. My oncologist even congratulated me for braving the cold cap, and marvelled at its success until I explained. The only difference between my hair and the system was that the fake hair, as my sons called it, looked considerably better.

It had to be removed and washed every three or four weeks, and occasionally repaired with replacement strands. These visits to Jennifer were if this is not too peculiar a word in such a context the highlight of my chemotherapy experience. The Macmillan Cancer Centre at University College Hospital in London, where I was treated, is an NHS flagship of oncology, and all the staff there work heroically and tirelessly. But they do so under impossibly overstretched conditions that make the kind of emotional support they long to give out of the question. I found it in Jennifers salon instead.

The system cost around 1,600, which will be prohibitively expensive for some. I wish everyone could get it: it bought me something I couldnt put a price on. I always made sure to face the salon wall, never the mirror, while Jennifer removed and worked on the system. I must therefore be one of the few chemotherapy patients to have lost all her hair and never once seen herself bald. That is a mercy for which I will be eternally grateful.

I discovered how it would feel to have others see me when I had the system removed before I underwent surgery. All week in hospital, I took care not to look in a mirror. But as soon as I stepped on to the street wearing a cancer bandana, strangers registered my baldness beneath it and stared with faintly repulsed pity, or quickly edged away. It was rush hour on the train home, and standing room only, but no one took the empty seat beside me. The relief to have the system re-applied after a week was indescribable.

Fasting to feel better

After nine months of cancer treatment, I still have not met one patient or medic who had heard of a hair-replacement system. Why my second piece of advice is not common knowledge either seems, if anything, even more surprising. I would never have come across it had a good friend not suffered from a chronic auto-immune condition, which the NHS treated with a drug for 20 years before deciding it could no longer afford it. An urgent search for alternative treatment strategies led my friend to an American-based Italian professor of gerontology called Dr Valter Longo, who specialises in the medical benefits of fasting. Astonished by his findings, she began to experiment with fasting for herself, and very soon felt better than she had for 20 years. Had I not witnessed this with my own eyes, I might not have paid attention when she told me to read Longos research into the benefits of fasting for chemotherapy patients.

The findings were certainly arresting. They fall into two categories. His early studies conducted on mice found that periods of severe fasting significantly increased the efficacy of chemotherapy. For example, among mice with a highly aggressive type of cancer, 20% of those in which the cancer had fully spread, and 40% with a more limited spread, were completely cured after fasting in conjunction with chemotherapy. In neither case did a single mouse treated with chemotherapy alone survive.

Further studies are ongoing, and human trials are under way. As I am completely unqualified to take a view, it would be absurd of me to wade into the scientific debate. But if I cant give a clinical recommendation, I can at least report my own experience regarding Longos second claim. His trials on humans found that fasting dramatically reduced the side effects of chemotherapy. Starvation conditions, I read, protected the bodys normal cells but not cancer cells from the toxicity. Again, further trials are under way in the US, but when I consulted oncologists at UCH, only one had heard about it. The evidence does look very interesting, she agreed. Until we can be sure it actually works, though, I dont want to tell patients to starve themselves on top of everything else theyre having to endure. But if you want to give it a go, go ahead.

The process Longo recommended sounded daunting, but fairly straightforward; you eat nothing for 72 hours prior to chemo, and for 24 hours afterwards. It doesnt have to be quite that brutal; small quantities of miso soup or steamed green vegetables are permissible. But I suspected that being tantalised by morsels of sustenance might make it harder, so opted for the nothing-but-water approach. I decided to try the first round of chemo without fasting, to find out how bad it would be, and then follow his advice for the second to see if it made any difference. If the whole business turned out to be utter quackery, at worst, all it meant was that I would have spent a few days feeling pointlessly hungry.

Had round one turned out not to be too bad, I probably wouldnt have tried fasting for the second. And for 24 hours following the first infusion, I wondered what all the fuss was about. If anything, I felt a bit of a fraud. There I was in the spare room of a friend, who had packed her family off for the weekend in order to look after me, and I was in no worse shape than she was. On day two, I suggested she might as well go to the gym, while I went for a walk.

Its a good job I followed a bus route. Twenty minutes later I hobbled back on a No 9, and it was a week before I emerged from her spare room to face the world again. What began as a recognisable sensation, like a very bad hangover, soon had me staring lifelessly at the ceiling, slack-jawed and vegetative, wondering how I would ever make it to the bathroom, which was less than six feet from the bed. This made the decision to try eating nothing for 96 hours the next time very easy.

People who fast regularly always say it gets easier after the first 24 hours. Id always assumed they were lying, but it turns out to be true. By the afternoon of day two I began to feel slightly light-headed, but was no longer hungry. The much-fabled starvation high kicked in on day three, and although by day four I was getting excited about the prospect of eating again, if Id had to go another day I would have felt surprisingly sanguine.

By then I was back in my friends spare room, braced for the toxic onslaught. I had come prepared with audio books this time, and went to bed that night assuming it would be days before I left the house again. I waited. And waited. And nothing happened. It was like lying down on the tracks for a train that never came. Eventually I got up, went out shopping, bought some trainers, and caught the train home.

What fasting could not do was spare me the cumulative devastation of chemo. Week by week, as the cycles wore on, I found myself sinking helplessly into a torpor of inertia. Each round stole more of my soul, until by the end and for months afterwards all I could do was watch Jeremy Kyle. But to have been spared the toxic intensity of the immediate aftermath of each round was miraculous, and going without food a tiny price to pay for such an astonishing dividend. I wasnt even tempted to eat. Friends assumed it must have been hellishly hard to live on water for four days, but nothing could have induced me to break each fast. To feel merely dead, as opposed to hideously ill and dead, felt like a lottery win.

Horsepower and tattoos

When chemotherapy ends, it takes at least a month before most patients even begin to feel better, and many more before you feel anything like your old self. There are, however, things you can do to hurry up the return of your old appearance.

Hair usually begins to grow back after about six weeks, but the process is painfully slow. If you want to accelerate it, my advice would be to ignore the ruinously expensive shampoos a Google search will recommend, and buy a brand called ManenTail. As the name suggests, it is actually designed for horses, but it is perfectly safe for human use, and the only product I have found that dramatically increases the pace and quality of regrowth.

For some reason, eyelashes and eyebrows grow back even more slowly. The eyebrow problem can be solved by taking pre-emptive action before they fall out, and having them tattooed. The process is surprisingly painless, and remarkably convincing; like the hair-replacement system, tattooed eyebrows were a happy improvement on my own. One important word of advice: do not wait until yours have fallen out before having them done. The tattooist wont know where your eyebrows normally lie, so you run the risk of ending up with two sets when yours grow back.

To speed up the return of eyelashes, the only product I would recommend is something called Revitalash, which you paint on to the rims of your eyelids once a day, and works. When your eyelashes are a few millimetres long, it is tempting to consider having semi-permanent extensions applied, but this is a bad idea. When they fall out they are in danger of taking your own with them, leaving you back to square one. A safer option are fibre eyelash extensions, made by a company called Cherry Blooms. The application process is just like mascara, if a trifle fiddlier, takes only two minutes, and transforms stumps into normal-looking lashes.

To any reader lucky enough to have never had cancer, none of this advice may sound terribly important. It was only when I got cancer myself that I realised how little I had understood of what friends whod had chemo had been through. When it isnt your own body that has to endure the agonies and indignities, all that really seems to matter is keeping it alive. When it is your own body, you discover how much more there is to care about.

Read more: www.theguardian.com

The post How to get through chemotherapy: Decca Aitkenhead on cancer treatment appeared first on vitalmindandbody.com.

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[viralhottopics]

YA author Mindy McGinnis returns to the book world with new epic fantasy novel ‘Given to the Sea’

Image: Penguin Young Readers

Sometimes the best way to follow a hit novel is to switch things up and try something completely different.

Or at least that’s the case with YA author Mindy McGinnis and her latest book, epic fantasy novel Given to the Sea.

SEE ALSO: ‘All Our Wrong Todays’ is your next fast-reading, mind-expanding, science fiction romance

The novel follows four intertwined characters Khosa, Vincent, Donil and Witt as each struggles to confront fate and loyalty in the warring kingdom of Stille. At the center of the story is Khosa, a girl destined to sacrifice herself to the sea to save her village. After surviving an attack on her village, Khosa is taken to safety at the royal palace in Stille where she finds herself enmeshed in a love triangle or probably more apt, love square that could alter not only her own fate but the fate of her kingdom.

“I had this idea that writing fantasy would be easy because I get to make up all the rules, no research required. Not true,” explains McGinnis. “In fantasy, nothing is a given, nothing is assumed. I have to do a lot of explaining… and keep that interesting. I’ve written post-apocalyptic, historical, contemporary, and now fantasy. Fantasy is by far the hardest.”

The book comes fresh off the heels of McGinnis’ 2016 contemporary YA novel Female of the Species. The novel followed Alex, a teenage girl who seeks vigilante justice on the sexual abusers in her town. Female of the Species was much acclaimed at the time of its release for its exploration of feminism, sexual violence and justice. (The MashReads Podcast actually recommended it. Twice.)

It’s this juxtaposition contemporary YA to fantasy that may shock McGinnis’ fans picking up her latest book. Yet McGinnis teases that Given to the Sea contains something for all types of readers.

“There’s something for everyone here – romance, gruesome deaths, magic, sword fights, scary animals, and inevitable death.”

Given to the Sea doesn’t come out until April 11. In the meantime, check out a sneak peek of the book’s first two chapters below.

Image: Penguin Young Readers

Chapter 1Khosa

It is in my blood.

It is in my bone.

It is in my brain.

One day my body will betray me, dancing into the sea, my mind a passenger only. The water will close over my head and I will drown, my death bringing a reprieve for those who are not me. This is what Ive been born and bred for. The food passing into my mouth, the clothes covering my body, every breath I drawthese are smaller offerings, each a promise that I will endure, bear my own cursed daughter, and then succumb.

How that will happen I do not know. My mother suffered the touch of another at least once, long enough to fulfill her duties and bring me about. I know it was badly done. I see it in the faces of my Keepers, these people who care for me without caring. I hear the small things in their voices. They worry I will not be pleasing to the sea, that my mother and her chosen mate created something less than perfect. I understand their concern, but cannot share it. Why should I care if the tides rise again, if I am only a corpse riding the waves?

To live aware of your own doom is no easy thing. I spend my days at lessons, my body fulfilling the expected duties, though my mind is elsewhere. The Keepers are worried that I have not prepared well, have not set my face in the appropriate response to their commands. Happy, for instance, is an emotion I cannot be expected to parade, but they tell me it is necessary. Melancholy I excel at.

My mother and grandmother had other lessons, ones to please at table and dancing. Proper chewing, proper speaking, proper walkingonly expected, of course, when we are in control of our limbs. My lessons have taken a different course, my other instructors quietly dismissed once I learned all that was expected.

All except how to contort my stone face appropriately.

The Keepers have tried, their emotions chasing through their faces so quickly I cant keep up, my own trying to mirror what I see. They say to me, Pleased, but look nothing like it themselves, and I am easily confused on this point. So I often retreat, my mind escaping the room where I learn to mimic emotion, returning itself to some well-ordered facts absorbed from a musty book, its scent still lingering on my fingers, a source of comfort.

Their pages follow me through the day, their words imprinted on my mind. I know the history of my land better than the Scribes, better than the royals who rule it. I can recite the names of my predecessors, from the woman who gave birth to me all the way to Medalli, one of the Three Sisters whom the sea gave back after the wave that took nearly all. Seaweed was pulled from their hair, their locks drying as they worked alongside other survivors to rebuild what had washed away, not knowing they would be taken again, the first of the Given.

The sea waited until the sisters had married and had children of their own before it called for them, the price of its leniency the blood of their line. For the children went too, and their children after them, the first twitches of their childhood pulling them toward the water, the final coordinated movements driving them deep into the waves, the dance of death one their kingdom deemed the will of the sea. And so it continues. Their footprints in the sand not returning, my feet now itching to follow. Medallis linemineremains strong, the other two Sisters falling short, the last names in their column females who did not produce heirs, the ink that wrote them now faded with time.

I rub my fingers together, drawing the scent of the book pages from them as my male Keeper says, Sad. Sad I can perform, closing my eyes and picturing my name, Khosa, the ink slightly darker than my mothers name before me, Sona.

Dont close your eyes, he says.

I open them again to see my Keepers, their faces so easily read.

Disappointment.

Chapter 2Vincent

Im sorry you have to wait, my lord.

Not a concern, I answer the guard, but my eyes are on my hands, the clean nails freshly clipped, the smoothness of my palms interrupted by the lines that Madda insists hold my future.

In any kingdom other than Stille, the future of a prince wouldnt need to be read in his hands. It would be clear in his actions, the preparations taken to ensure he sits the throne well, does his duty, leads his country. Somewhere else I would be wed already, the announcement of my own child eagerly anticipated, the girl I keep on the side politely excused, with her pockets lined for her trouble. Instead I sit outside the throne room at the age of seventeen, awaiting my turn to speak to King Gammalmy grandfatherhealthy, hearty, capable. At his side, my father Prince Varrick, already gray and lined, but still sitting in the lower throne.

I shift on the wooden bench, and the trapman next to me slides farther away, the smell of sea salt rising from his clothes. Im sorry, my lord. Do you need more room?

More than enough room, I insist, patting the space between us.

Hes quiet for a moment, and the lady on the bench next to ours fills the hall with the clicking of her wooden knitting needles. One foot rests casually on the ball of coarse wool beneath her feet to keep it from rolling away as she works. Shes assured, content. As a citizen of Stille, she is entitled to speak to the king, and her turn will come. Eventually.

I look back at my empty hands and the lines that Madda the Seer wrinkles her brow at. Her answers to my questions are always vague and muttered.

Am I right to say my lord? the trapman asks. Is that what youre called?

The words it doesnt matter are half formed in my throat, but I choke them back.

The womans needles continue to click. Her hands are gnarled and work-worn, but her color is good, and the hat she is knitting small. For a grandchild. Or great-grandchild. They are lucky to have her. I tell myself these things every day: Stille is fortunate. Stille is healthy. Stille is strong. Years of peace and prosperity mean that the old linger and the middle-aged flourish, while the young inherit only boredom and aimlessness.

Just Vincent, I say, finally answering the trapmans question. No title necessary.

Youre of royal blood, the woman says, not glancing up from her work. It should not be taken lightly.

No… My voice fades away. I have no words to explain succinctly, only memories from my childhood when I was called the baby prince, and then the young prince, and now theres a hesitation, a slight pause before acknowledging my rank. There is no name for the third in line, one whose hands will wither with age long before they hold the scepter.

Ive come to hate the blank space before my given name, the deferential glance of the servants as they search for a title that represents nothing. So I make it easier for them, and for myself.

Just Vincent, I reassert. The old woman makes a disapproving noise in her throat and keeps knitting. The trapman smiles at me, his teeth even, strong, and white in a face lined with wrinkles.

Im Agga. He holds out a bent hand, gnarled from years of pulling in the crab traps, the lengthy ropes rubbing it raw. Even the trapmen dont go into the water, letting the tides carry out the traps. His skin feels of age and the scars of work, years of absorbed salt water pressing back against the softness of my own hands.

How is the sea, Agga? I ask.

He shakes his head. Eating the beach with hunger. Well be needing her thats given to the sea, and soon.

I will pass that along, I say. I dont add that my voice doesnt carry in the great hall, only echoes back into my ears.

Here to do it myself, Agga says, and I wonder if he followed my thought.

I saw when the last one was given, the woman says. She danced beautifully.

They all have, Agga says.

But their faces, they do… twist, the woman adds, her own mimicking the memory, a brief mask of horror that slides off easily as she counts her stitches.

Do they want to go? I ask.

Agga shrugs. Its their own feet taking them. No one in Stille makes them go. Were not the Pietra, feeding sea monsters with the flesh of their aged.

No. The woman shudders, dropping the first stitch since Ive sat here. Were not the Pietra.

Theres laughter in the throne room. It reverberates under the closed doors, my grandfathers hearty one underscored by my fathers, which has never ceased to produce goose bumps on my skin, even in a lifetime of hearing it.

Im sorry you have to wait, my lord, the guard says again.

Not a concern, I repeat, looking back at my hands, where lifelines extend forever, marching right off the palm.

Waiting is what Im good at.

WATCH: This futuristic tiny home switches rooms by rotating like a washing machine

Read more: http://ift.tt/2ngsB3I

from YA author Mindy McGinnis returns to the book world with new epic fantasy novel ‘Given to the Sea’

[ongames]

New Year, New Phone, Same Me

In January, my iPhone was confirmed dead by the Apple Store in Saint Laurent du Var. It had gone dark the day prior, unresponsive when I woke up to a New Year in France at my girlfriend’s cousin’s house. I could’ve accepted this as some Sign Apparent, taken a healthy break from connectedness and doubled down on using the rest of my vacation as I’d halfway intended - to decompress from a year of navigating my late twenties as a sober SWM on the periphery of some insular comedy/art scene in Brooklyn. Instead, I used my credit card to get a new iPhone that I’d return for a full refund before flying back to the States, where I had faith Verizon could bring me back to life at little cost. New year, same plan.

If this was one of those self-defining, fork-in-the-road moments, I had taken the beaten path. And if there’s shame in that, I’m too far gone to feel it. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that my brain now processes sunsets better in the background of selfies than it does when they’re playing out in front of me. And let’s not forget that sunsets translate to production value. I’m a filmmaker of sorts, with a body of selfie-stick work that I’m always looking to supplement. As I ran my card in that Apple Store, it occurred to me that I may never have another opportunity to feel the cognitive benefits of a holiday off the grid, away from Timeline Culture. Was I making the right choice? Yes, I assured myself. Getting the iPhone was in line with my raison d’être - the one I assigned myself several years back: to make provocative content until something sticks. And if nothing sticks? Well, I tell myself not to think about that.

I’m a junkie with strong expressive needs, and without my iOS applications, I wouldn’t have been able to edit and post satirical videos from locations like the Pointe de la Parata in Ajaccio or the McDonald’s near the Prince’s Palace of Monaco. Projecting my brand from the field is my shtick right now, and Emilie (my girlfriend) supports that, so when I wasn’t sucking down the bread and cheese her family kept putting in front of me, she’d escort me to scenic spots that I’d feature in the background of my selfie-stick installments, behind an increasingly inflamed face. “No detox ‘til Brooklyn,” I kept saying. But I’ve been back in Brooklyn for a month now and still no detox.

  The year isn’t so new anymore, and while the to-do lists I made are losing their gravity, my wayward ambition still wakes me up at night. My big 2017 resolution was something along the lines of “Stop comparing myself to others.” I hadn’t put it into words until now because there’s no way for it to avoid sounding like a cheap hook on a site appealing to Millennials riddled with the most basic strain of existential dread. But, let’s go ahead and face it ― I am basic. I’m a creature of Timeline Culture with little to no free will, being corralled into singularity, and here we are again, teetering near the event horizon of yet more phone talk. So be it. I’m back in my motherland, the US of A, with my Verizon upgrade, a 128 GB iPhone 7 galvanized by that sweet life force, Cellular Data. The Apple News notifications are constant and they keep my train of thought from straying too far from Trump, and now that the Internet is available in all 278 underground subway stations for users of the Big Four cell service carriers, I can check in on my contemporaries’ blossoming careers while I hit up soul crushing open mics.

  Part Two of wikiHow to Stop Comparing Yourself to Others emphasizes the importance of appreciating what you have. I’m not going to keep a gratitude journal, but the luxury of “decompressing” from the year 2016 CE by traipsing around in the Mediterranean with my sweetheart, isn’t lost on me. Braving the twisted headlines as I skimmed papers in Williamsburg cafés last year was tough, sure, but the toughest part about 2016, for me, was my continuing to put a precarious amount of energy into pet projects without any assurance of recognition or profit. In one year, I’ll be 30, and that number means something. The meaning itself may escape me right now, but I’ll go ahead and assume it has something to do with money, or maybe focus.

  Currently, I sustain myself by bartending weekend brunch shifts, substitute dog walking and not drinking booze. The rest of my time goes to working on my projects with a focus that is borderline autistic and trying to maintain interpersonal relationships. In other words, life is good, and any discomfort or impatience I feel as an “underappreciated” artist in Brooklyn is as basic as it gets. If I’m starting to sound complacent here, I should note that I get itchy around success stories. When I was at the National Museum of the Bonaparte Residence in Corsica, I lost myself in the “zero fucks given” expression on one of the replicas of Napolean’s death mask and caught myself brooding on the fact that by the time he was my age, the freak had won the War of the First Coalition and the Battle of the Pyramids. Before things could get too heavy, I pulled myself away from the display case only to get captivated by a lock of his hair in another. It radiated historical significance and reminded me that I only have 226 subscribers on my YouTube channel.

  And enough of that. I have made the conscious decision to believe that feeling small from time to time builds character. A study called “Awe, the Small Self, and Prosocial Behavior” published by the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology in 2015 suggests that feeling insignificant may make you a kinder person. It could certainly benefit our President, but, alas, I have a hard time believing Trump would be able to look up at the night sky long enough to have to start grappling with his own smallness. He’d sniffle a few times, look down at the encrypted phone his staffers gave him after they confiscated his Android, and then he’d scan his personal account for new Twitter wars to be fought. Somebody would do well to lace his nasal spray with psilocybe alkaloids, strap him down in an observatory somewhere with a cervical collar around his neck and maybe some specula to keep his eyelids peeled back, then let him confront the universe for a few hours. Assuming he survived the horror, he’d come out of it a better person. But if it turns out the ends don’t justify the means, then forget I suggested that. Jeff Sessions summed it up for us last year when he said “Good people don’t smoke marijuana.” If that’s the case, we can assume they don’t jet psychedelic mist up their noses either.

  We could also just try sitting Trump down with Sandy Pearson from Chattanooga. Sandy, a 48-year-old woman studying to be a mortgage broker, is not too keen on Trump’s Twitter etiquette but says if she had just 10 minutes with him, she could get him “to straighten up and stop with this foolishness.” I don’t know her, so I can’t speak to her powers of persuasion, but I do envy Sandy’s ability to “focus on the good” if for no other reason than the science behind it suggests that positive thinking benefits your health and enhances your ability to develop new skills. I digress, but that’s customary these days. Trump has a way of bleeding into everything. And if you avoid the newsstands, he’ll get in through the screens, like that straight-haired girl from The Ring.

  Shouldn’t I be using my energy to fight for the Resistance? Shouldn’t I find some way to make my art subversive and direct it against the new regime? In a lot of ways subversion relies on the medium, so shouldn’t I start working toward becoming a Fox News anchor just to break my cover down the line and bomb the airwaves with progressive rhetoric that’s profane enough to violate FCC regulations? I have to make it a point not to lose sleep over these questions. My new resolution is to reclaim that pillar of Health called A Good Night’s Sleep. I even bought myself an old-school alarm clock, and now my bedroom is an iPhone-free sanctuary where I abstain from blue light, electromagnetic radiation and news notifications. If I wake up with a get-viral-quick scheme, I’m committed to writing it down the old fashioned way - in a moleskine on the bedside table. Whatever projects I take on this year, they will have to contend with a well-rested me. Yes, new angle, same plan. I’m joining my fellow basic people, keeping calm and carrying on, and I’m enduring that underlying fear of failure that rides me wherever I go.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

New Year, New Phone, Same Me published first on http://ift.tt/2lnpciY

[yes-dal456]

New Year, New Phone, Same Me

In January, my iPhone was confirmed dead by the Apple Store in Saint Laurent du Var. It had gone dark the day prior, unresponsive when I woke up to a New Year in France at my girlfriend’s cousin’s house. I could’ve accepted this as some Sign Apparent, taken a healthy break from connectedness and doubled down on using the rest of my vacation as I’d halfway intended - to decompress from a year of navigating my late twenties as a sober SWM on the periphery of some insular comedy/art scene in Brooklyn. Instead, I used my credit card to get a new iPhone that I’d return for a full refund before flying back to the States, where I had faith Verizon could bring me back to life at little cost. New year, same plan.

If this was one of those self-defining, fork-in-the-road moments, I had taken the beaten path. And if there’s shame in that, I’m too far gone to feel it. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that my brain now processes sunsets better in the background of selfies than it does when they’re playing out in front of me. And let’s not forget that sunsets translate to production value. I’m a filmmaker of sorts, with a body of selfie-stick work that I’m always looking to supplement. As I ran my card in that Apple Store, it occurred to me that I may never have another opportunity to feel the cognitive benefits of a holiday off the grid, away from Timeline Culture. Was I making the right choice? Yes, I assured myself. Getting the iPhone was in line with my raison d’être - the one I assigned myself several years back: to make provocative content until something sticks. And if nothing sticks? Well, I tell myself not to think about that.

I’m a junkie with strong expressive needs, and without my iOS applications, I wouldn’t have been able to edit and post satirical videos from locations like the Pointe de la Parata in Ajaccio or the McDonald’s near the Prince’s Palace of Monaco. Projecting my brand from the field is my shtick right now, and Emilie (my girlfriend) supports that, so when I wasn’t sucking down the bread and cheese her family kept putting in front of me, she’d escort me to scenic spots that I’d feature in the background of my selfie-stick installments, behind an increasingly inflamed face. “No detox ‘til Brooklyn,” I kept saying. But I’ve been back in Brooklyn for a month now and still no detox.

  The year isn’t so new anymore, and while the to-do lists I made are losing their gravity, my wayward ambition still wakes me up at night. My big 2017 resolution was something along the lines of “Stop comparing myself to others.” I hadn’t put it into words until now because there’s no way for it to avoid sounding like a cheap hook on a site appealing to Millennials riddled with the most basic strain of existential dread. But, let’s go ahead and face it ― I am basic. I’m a creature of Timeline Culture with little to no free will, being corralled into singularity, and here we are again, teetering near the event horizon of yet more phone talk. So be it. I’m back in my motherland, the US of A, with my Verizon upgrade, a 128 GB iPhone 7 galvanized by that sweet life force, Cellular Data. The Apple News notifications are constant and they keep my train of thought from straying too far from Trump, and now that the Internet is available in all 278 underground subway stations for users of the Big Four cell service carriers, I can check in on my contemporaries’ blossoming careers while I hit up soul crushing open mics.

  Part Two of wikiHow to Stop Comparing Yourself to Others emphasizes the importance of appreciating what you have. I’m not going to keep a gratitude journal, but the luxury of “decompressing” from the year 2016 CE by traipsing around in the Mediterranean with my sweetheart, isn’t lost on me. Braving the twisted headlines as I skimmed papers in Williamsburg cafés last year was tough, sure, but the toughest part about 2016, for me, was my continuing to put a precarious amount of energy into pet projects without any assurance of recognition or profit. In one year, I’ll be 30, and that number means something. The meaning itself may escape me right now, but I’ll go ahead and assume it has something to do with money, or maybe focus.

  Currently, I sustain myself by bartending weekend brunch shifts, substitute dog walking and not drinking booze. The rest of my time goes to working on my projects with a focus that is borderline autistic and trying to maintain interpersonal relationships. In other words, life is good, and any discomfort or impatience I feel as an “underappreciated” artist in Brooklyn is as basic as it gets. If I’m starting to sound complacent here, I should note that I get itchy around success stories. When I was at the National Museum of the Bonaparte Residence in Corsica, I lost myself in the “zero fucks given” expression on one of the replicas of Napolean’s death mask and caught myself brooding on the fact that by the time he was my age, the freak had won the War of the First Coalition and the Battle of the Pyramids. Before things could get too heavy, I pulled myself away from the display case only to get captivated by a lock of his hair in another. It radiated historical significance and reminded me that I only have 226 subscribers on my YouTube channel.

  And enough of that. I have made the conscious decision to believe that feeling small from time to time builds character. A study called “Awe, the Small Self, and Prosocial Behavior” published by the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology in 2015 suggests that feeling insignificant may make you a kinder person. It could certainly benefit our President, but, alas, I have a hard time believing Trump would be able to look up at the night sky long enough to have to start grappling with his own smallness. He’d sniffle a few times, look down at the encrypted phone his staffers gave him after they confiscated his Android, and then he’d scan his personal account for new Twitter wars to be fought. Somebody would do well to lace his nasal spray with psilocybe alkaloids, strap him down in an observatory somewhere with a cervical collar around his neck and maybe some specula to keep his eyelids peeled back, then let him confront the universe for a few hours. Assuming he survived the horror, he’d come out of it a better person. But if it turns out the ends don’t justify the means, then forget I suggested that. Jeff Sessions summed it up for us last year when he said “Good people don’t smoke marijuana.” If that’s the case, we can assume they don’t jet psychedelic mist up their noses either.

  We could also just try sitting Trump down with Sandy Pearson from Chattanooga. Sandy, a 48-year-old woman studying to be a mortgage broker, is not too keen on Trump’s Twitter etiquette but says if she had just 10 minutes with him, she could get him “to straighten up and stop with this foolishness.” I don’t know her, so I can’t speak to her powers of persuasion, but I do envy Sandy’s ability to “focus on the good” if for no other reason than the science behind it suggests that positive thinking benefits your health and enhances your ability to develop new skills. I digress, but that’s customary these days. Trump has a way of bleeding into everything. And if you avoid the newsstands, he’ll get in through the screens, like that straight-haired girl from The Ring.

  Shouldn’t I be using my energy to fight for the Resistance? Shouldn’t I find some way to make my art subversive and direct it against the new regime? In a lot of ways subversion relies on the medium, so shouldn’t I start working toward becoming a Fox News anchor just to break my cover down the line and bomb the airwaves with progressive rhetoric that’s profane enough to violate FCC regulations? I have to make it a point not to lose sleep over these questions. My new resolution is to reclaim that pillar of Health called A Good Night’s Sleep. I even bought myself an old-school alarm clock, and now my bedroom is an iPhone-free sanctuary where I abstain from blue light, electromagnetic radiation and news notifications. If I wake up with a get-viral-quick scheme, I’m committed to writing it down the old fashioned way - in a moleskine on the bedside table. Whatever projects I take on this year, they will have to contend with a well-rested me. Yes, new angle, same plan. I’m joining my fellow basic people, keeping calm and carrying on, and I’m enduring that underlying fear of failure that rides me wherever I go.

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