#big day for she/theys everywhere

[dash-n-step]

HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK

[rewiredthethirdblog]

Comment by pepperjones926 on Reddit

The New London School Explosion. On the afternoon of March 18, 1937, the shop teacher at the school in New London, TX turned on an electric sander. Unbeknownst to him, there was a massive natural gas leak under the school. The sander sparked, which ignited the gas and caused a massive explosion that killed almost 300 students and teachers. It was absolutely horrific. The force of the explosion was so great that a two ton block of concrete crushed a car parked 200 feet away. This event is actually why natural gas has a smell now. They started adding it after the explosion so that something like this couldn’t ever happen again.

My grandfather was actually one of the survivors of the explosion. He never talked about it, even to his own family, so I didn’t really know too much about it (other than the fact that he’d survived) until after his death. Toward the end of his life, he’d suffered a series of strokes that left him pretty physically incapacitated, so my dad had given him a voice-activated tape recorder and suggested maybe he could record his memoirs for his grandkids to listen to someday. As it turns out, he did. We have hours and hours of cassette tapes of him telling the story of his (actually very interesting) life, including a big section on the New London school explosion. For the sake of everyone’s privacy, I’ll call my grandfather Papa and use an initial for anyone else.

Papa was in eighth grade when it happened, in his English class at about 3:00 PM on a Thursday afternoon. At the beginning of class, Papa and his buddy T had been messing around and being loud in the back of the classroom (as eighth grade boys often do). His teacher, Miss M, had enough of their disruptions and made Papa switch seats with another student. He moved into the girl’s desk in the front row, and she moved back into his desk in the back of the room. When the school exploded, they were taking a test on the book Ivanhoe. Papa was knocked out for a short time, and when he woke up, he couldn’t see anything because the dust was so thick. He looked down and saw that his pencil had blown clear through his hand. When the dust cleared, he saw that the whole back of the room was gone. I won’t go into details, but there were bodies (and parts of bodies) everywhere. The students in the front half of the room survived. The students in the back half did not. That included Papa’s friend T and the little girl who’d been forced to take Papa’s desk because of his misbehavior at the beginning of class. If he hadn’t been acting up, he would have been killed and she would have lived. He carried the guilt of her death until the day he died.

Papa’s classroom was on the second floor. There wasn’t any way to get to the room other than the open cavity of the explosion. After the few seconds of initial shock wore off, he and another classmate jumped into action. They were the only two kids in the class who hadn’t been badly injured. They made a tourniquet out of a sock and a shoelace for a girl with a severe injury to her arm and dug out their teacher, who was alive, but badly injured. By then, men were running up underneath the hole, so Papa and the other boy started lowering the injured to them. Then those who could walk, including Papa, climbed down. He ran off to look for his older brother, B, to see if he was OK.

As it turned out, B had been supposed to be in Geometry class. However, he and his buddy had snuck out to go fishing. The explosion happened as they were opening the door to head out to the parking lot. The force of the blast sent them tumbling head over foot across the lot. They were both banged up and dazed, but they survived. The rest of their Geometry class was killed. I don’t know that there’s a moral in the fact that both my grandfather and his brother survived because they were misbehaving that day. I do know that it weighed very heavily on both of them for he rest of their lives.

There’s a lot more to his story about the day and the aftermath (most of it absolutely horrific), but I won’t go into all of it here. A few small tidbits though:

- Papa and the boy who helped him rescue the other students from their classroom were both awarded medals and certificates of valor for their actions that day.

- Nearly every family in town lost a child - some all of their children. I’m sure you can imagine the extreme toll this took on everyone’s mental health. Papa described New London in the months following the explosion as a “town with no children.” To help with the healing process, the oil companies actively recruited families with kids to transfer in, so that there was some sense of normalcy when school started again in the fall.

- Papa had played French horn in the school band. However, when school started up again, he was asked to switch to trumpet, as the entire trumpet section had been killed.

A few years later, my grandfather went on to fight in World War II, and he saw some of the worst conflict in the Pacific (including Peleliu and the liberation of Manila). But he said that nothing he saw during the war was ever as bad as what he saw the day of the explosion. I’m always amazed that more people don’t know about it. It was major international news at the time.

EDIT: Holy cow! I’m overwhelmed by the amount of interest this has brought. Thank you for all of the awards and comments! To address a couple of things people mentioned in the comments:

- There is a small museum at the site of the explosion in New London. If you’re ever out that way, I do recommend checking it out. It is very well done and incredibly moving. My grandfather’s story, while amazing, is just one of many that day.

- A couple people mentioned the telegram from Hitler. Yes, it’s there at the museum. This was a few years before he came into full power, but he was an up-and-coming political figure in Germany at the time. I looked it up online. The original is in German, but the translation reads, “On the occasion of the terrible explosion at New London, Tex, which took so many young lives, I want to assure your Excellency of my and the German people‘s sincere sympathy. - Adolph Hitler, German Reichs Chancellor.”

- I don’t know the details, but I do know from some things my grandmother said, that Papa had some PTSD, both from the explosion and the war.

- We did get the recordings converted to digital files, which we have stored in several safe locations. A number of years ago I under took the project of transcribing everything and putting together a book of my grandfathers total memoirs. In addition to the school explosion, he really lived a fascinating life. As a little kid, he was present for one of the most famous circus disasters of all time (the Corsicana elephant rampage), and he saw some of the fiercest action in the Pacific as an engineer for the Army Air Force during WW2. He also went from being the dirt poor son of an oil field worker to a pretty successful salesman. Later in life, at the same time my dad went to graduate school, Papa decided to go back to school and get his masters as well, which led to a career shift to become a college professor, and he taught in both Louisiana and Hong Kong. He was really a very interesting guy. Sadly, he had his two strokes when I was pretty young, and he died when I was 14, so all of my memories of him are of a pretty ill man in a wheelchair. Working on transcribing his memoirs, I feel like I got to know him better after his death than I ever did in life. I am so thankful for that. I compiled the memoirs into a book that we published just for family members. In addition to my grandfather’s personal photographs (he kept a camera with him all throughout the war), there are a number of pictures that I pulled from online, so we couldn’t publish it as it is due to copyright issues. But maybe someday I will go back and reformat everything to submit to the Library of Congress or for wider distribution.

- You want a happy story about him to help counter the explosion? This is a good one. :-) At the start of WW2, while he was in basic training, a girl named Kitty sent her brother Keith a goofy picture of herself splashing around in the creek behind their family farm in TX. The picture of Kitty caught the attention of Keith's bunkmate, Papa, who decided to write Kitty a smart alecky note of his own, jokingly criticizing her manners for showing her ugly bare feet in public. Kitty was not amused. She wrote him a scathing letter, and received a very apologetic note from Papa in response. This began a written correspondence that continued throughout the war. Papa wrote faithfully from some of the most remote, dangerous locations in the Pacific. She sent him news of the home front and taunted him with descriptions of fried chicken dinners. He sent her pictures of crocodiles and told her of the orphaned children he cared for after the Liberation of Manila. When Papa came back to the US in 1946, he made a trip out to the farm to see his old friend Keith and to finally meet Kitty face to face. That was on a Friday. They were engaged the following Wednesday and were happily married for over 50 years.

Edit #2 for a typo.

Edit #3 - u/The_Essayist_8 brought this video clip to my attention, and it’s a pretty good account of the event. There are firsthand survivor stories, including one quite similar to my grandfather’s situation, only this man traded seats with another student so that he could sit near the girl he liked. He survived, the other student did not. Worth a watch, but be warned that it’s pretty heartbreaking. https://youtu.be/aKt01p3DJRw

[mamichigo]

Fic: new and old things (1.7k)

Pairing: Tanjirou/Inosuke

Tags: Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Ten Years Later

Summary: They are no longer children, they haven't been for a long time. With spring comes a fresh beginning, the start of something new. Tanjirou couldn't stop the wave of nostalgia.

A/N: This was for @yue-luna-brilante’s request: “ "inotan- in nezuko’s wedding (she’s human again) - they act like an old married couple" (which was followed loosely). It’s a bit redundant to post it here now, but oh well.

*

A strong gust of wind has Tanjirou staggering on his feet, and he had to clutch the circular tray in his hands before the carefully balanced cups of tea tumbled to a tragic death. After a second, he was able to walk again, though his steps were careful on the diagonal line of the hill. The wind still blew with great fury, but Tanjirou was ready for it this time, and treaded on without too much trouble. 

He could see the branches of the cherry blossom tree peeking down at him, always watchful; reaching the top of the hill, however, brought him face to face with the dancing pink petals, carried over by the wind. One almost flew straight into his eye, but Tanjirou was lucky enough to successfully step out of its direct trajectory.

It was a beautiful day, he had to admit—though he could do without the wind—, as the sky was perfectly clear, the few passing clouds being small, fluffy ones hurrying along. There were flowers blooming everywhere, and their fragrant scent reached Tanjirou's nose at every turn he made. He thought he could smell lavender in the distance, but he wasn't sure (Tanjirou never got the hang of differentiating between flowers).

It wasn't the scenery that caught his attention, however, but the sleeping body of a man sprawled gracelessly on the grass. His hair was a mess of long locks all around him, and his chest rose and fell with the serenity of someone deep in their dreams.

Tanjirou set the tray down, then lowered himself to crouch next to the man, observing the shift of the faded scars across his chest.

"You're going to catch a cold if you don't cover yourself, Inosuke," Tanjirou chided to his sleeping partner. "Not that you ever listen to me when I say that."

When his voice didn't succeed in alerting Inosuke to his presence, Tanjirou proceeded to poke his cheek once, then again, and just one more time for good measure. Inosuke grumbled and, instead of opening his eyes, rolled to the side—away from Tanjirou's fingers.

"Don't think you'll escape from me that easily. You made a grave mistake, you know," Tanjirou said as he bent down until his lips were close to Inosuke's left ear.

Now within the perfect range, Tanjirou proceeded to blow harshly into the ear, causing Inosuke to jump back and scramble to sit up at the same time, looking like a graceless chicken attempting to escape.

Tanjirou laughed as Inosuke blinked at him in confusion.

"Sleeping outside again, I see," Tanjirou commented innocently.

"What's the problem with that? The house is too hot," Inosuke replied, rubbing at his ear with some aggravation.

Tanjirou shuffled closer to pluck a twig out of Inosuke's hair, and a flower petal fell along with it. There were still blades of grass and leaves in it as well, and Tanjirou raised his eyebrows at it meaningfully.

"You could at least bring a blanket, or put on a shirt. I wouldn't be surprised if you got sick in this wind."

Inosuke clicked his tongue. "I don't need it, I don't get sick anyways."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't!"

Tanjirou stared at him for a long moment. "Then next time I'll leave you to puke all over yourself without any assistance, as you're obviously not sick."

Another long pause.

Inosuke silently extended his hand, and Tanjirou didn't hesitate to take off his own haori and hand it to him, smiling all too smugly. Inosuke didn't bother putting his arms through the holes, but at least he had it wrapped around his shoulders.

"There, happy? I'm going back to sleep," Inosuke grumbled and fell back on his side, not even waiting for a reply.

"Ah, wait, wait, I brought us some tea!" Tanjirou nudged the tray a bit closer. "Don't you want some?"

Inosuke took a glance at it over his shoulder and promptly lost interest, closing his eyes. "Nah." He paused, then perked up once more. "Did you bring honey?"

As a matter of fact, he did; Inosuke had taken the habit of filling one third of his tea with honey before drinking any of it, to the concern of Tanjirou and the disgust of literally every single one of their friends.

"I did. So, will you have some?"

Inosuke hummed, appearing to think it over. Then, before Tanjirou could do anything about it, he quickly snatched the honey bottle and the dipper, coating the latter in a generous amount of honey to then shove it directly into his mouth. Tanjirou cringed at the sight.

"Are you trying to get yourself to puke?" Tanjirou asked.

"No, I'm eating, can't you see?" Inosuke waved to dipper in his face to make his point. "You're being naggy today, it's annoying."

"Naggy?! I'm trying to look out for you!"

"Nagging old man."

"I'm the same age as you!"

They stared down at each other, but Inosuke was the one to look away first: not because he was backing down, but because he most likely got bored. He even had the audacity to drop his head on his arms and shuffle around like he was getting ready to fall back asleep.

Tanjirou opened his mouth to complain, but let it go with a sigh, instead leaning his back on Inosuke's body and looking up at the sky. Since Inosuke didn't stir, he assumed he actually went through with his desire to take a nap.

Tanjirou retrieved his own teacup and cradled it into his hands, blowing the steam away and taking a hearty sip. Alone with his thoughts, he found himself sighing again before taking another sip.

"Are you gonna tell me what's bugging you or what?" Inosuke suddenly asked, voice low and laced with exasperation.

"Oh, uhm. Is it that obvious?"

"No shit it is."

Tanjirou bent his leg up at the knee to rest his elbow on top and lean his cheek into it, head tilted to the side so he could see just the edge of Inosuke's profile.

"You do know me really well, Inosuke. How couldn't you, it's been a long time since we've met each other, after all."

Inosuke hummed a low "uh huh", which might seem rude to anyone else, but Tanjirou knew well it was an invitation to keep going.

"We were pretty young, weren't we? You, me, and Nezuko and Zenitsu, not to mention everyone else like Genya and Kanao." Tanjirou scratched at his cheek at the same time Inosuke let out a jaw cracking yawn.

"When we were even younger, and Nezuko was just a tiny child, she would get scared by the shadows of the trees outside, or the noise of them shaking in the wind. With dad sick, she didn't want to bother him, or mom for that measure." Tanjirou rotated his teacup, watching the ripples appearing on the surface of the liquid. "So she'd come to me instead, and I'd hold her hand and tell her a story, or sing her a lullaby. Her hand was so was small, I could hold all of it in my palm."

Tanjirou fell back, spine curved around Inosuke's body, his teacup raised high above his head. A stray flower petal made its way into it.

"Sometimes I realize I still think her hand is that small."

Inosuke raised himself up to his elbow, twisting to the side in what looked like a painful position to get at look Tanjirou. His eyebrows were raised, almost comically so.

"You really are the sentimental type," Inosuke pointed out. "Are you freaking out about the wedding again?"

"I'm not freaking out!" Tanjirou protested, sitting up to level a glare at Inosuke. "Just because I'm thinking about it doesn't mean I'm freaking out. It's just that Nezuko is so happy and it's all she talks about, so it gets me thinking about… Stuff."

Inosuke snorted. "You're trying not to cry about it, aren't you?"

Tanjirou vehemently slammed his teacup back on the tray. "I'm not! I'm not crying about it!" He huffed and crossed his arms. "Listen, just because Nezuko will look the most beautiful she's ever looked in her wedding attire, and her smile will be all big and bright, and she's getting the happiness she deserves after suffering through being a demon, and… And…"

Tanjirou paused. His voice was wobbling. "Inosuke?"

"What?"

"I'm crying about it."

Inosuke shot up, murmuring curses under his breath, frantically reaching for whatever he could find of Tanjirou first (which turned out to be his right pants leg) to tug him closer. Inosuke rubbed his palms against Tanjirou's cheek, getting rid of each tear that fell from his eyes.

"She's all grown up now…"

"Yup."

"And she found someone to love her like she deserves."

"Uh huh."

"She really is gonna be the prettiest, you know?"

"Sure."

They continued to go back and forth like this for a few minutes until Tanjirou had gotten the tears out of system. He was grateful for Inosuke's attempt to help, though his cheeks were starting to get red from all the rubbing.

Tanjirou cheese on his bottom lip. "Mom would be so proud of her. I… I wish she was here to see it," he confessed, something he rarely let himself say out loud in fear that the sadness might consume him whole.

When he felt like he would cry fresh tears, Inosuke roughly pulled on both his cheeks, stretching it far enough that Tanjirou couldn't even speak through it.

"She's already proud, dumbass. Just like my mom," Tanjirou gasped at that, but Inosuke didn't relent. "They're watching over us, everyone is. You told me that, didn't you? Don't be a wimp about it now."

Tanjirou nodded as much as he could when Inosuke was still pulling on his cheeks; he had, in fact, said that to Inosuke many years ago, murmured against the curve of his shoulder. That night, Tanjirou had given one of his earrings to Inosuke, who never took it off since then. He smiled at the memory, and that was what made Inosuke let go. Now free, Tanjirou pressed their foreheads together, then their noses, gently nuzzling against the other.

"Sorry for the sudden freak out," Tanjirou whispered.

"Hah! Called it, you were totally freaking out! Just like I said."

Tanjirou hit him lightly on the chest. "Shut up," he ordered, but the laughter in it wasn't in any way persuasive.

[the-real-comically-insane]

Yancy x reader

(Sorry it’s not the best. It started out stronger than it ended so I hope you all like it.) @shaydeevee33

So I promised a fellow Yancy stan a fanfic and I really hate to disappoint so here we are. 

Warnings: Super fluffy and lovely ft. our prison gang and our lovely little DA. 

Yancy hated to get his hopes up for anything, especially when it came to people. He had been taught from a very young age that the only one he could rest complete faith in was himself. But there was just something about you. He didn’t know how to describe it but something about you was so alluring to him. The way you looked sweet as sugar but could put up a serious fight if need be. The way your eyes sparkled when you heard his musical number. It made him want to trust you in a way he had never trusted anyone but himself. 

So when you tried to break out he decided to help you, even if the last thing he wanted was to watch you go. Of course you had promised to come and visit him on visitation day, and for the first time in a long long time he had allowed himself to trust. Now he sat here in line for visitation ringing his hands nervously and looking anywhere but the curious stares of his family. He had never been in line for visitation and all he had to say was that right now he hated it. He hated feeling the aura of curiosity from those around him, he hated their stares that seemed to penetrate his skin like a laser.  For the first time since he was first brought here he felt nervous.

It came in waves really smaller at first then growing larger and larger as time went by. He felt the waves begin to wash over him and consume him. He suddenly felt as if his lungs were empty, he tried to take a deep breathe but all he could get was a shallow sharp inhale. He suddenly felt his body start to get tingly. It was an almost buzzy feeling as if tv static had somehow manifested itself into a physical feeling. He felt it first in his toes, the tip of his nose and his fingertips. 

Then suddenly it was everywhere as it got harder and harder to breathe. He felt himself go from short silent breathes to heavy gasping. Still despite all of his breathing his lungs felt empty as if someone had a vacuum and was sucking out all the air he was taking in.  

“.....YANCY!” was the last thing he heard before it all seemed to go dark 

Your POV 

I walked into the doors of happy trails penitentiary giving the Director and guards a quick smile before ducking into the cafeteria where visitation was happening. I sighed a breathe of relief when I wasn’t immediately recognized and arrested. I mean unlike Mark I had been smart and temp dyed my hair and wore colored contacts to the heist. Coupled with that and my fake name and I.D. (courtesy of a friend who owed me a favor) I would be surprised if Mark himself recognized me. Which now that I put more thought into it was kind of the point. I glanced down at my watch checking the time 10:15, good I should have around three hours to talk with Yancy now I thought as I leaned back in my chair watching the door as the guard walked over. 

As he opened the door prisoners filed in one by one, some rushing with sheer joy towards their family or friends. Others making their way to tables with a seemingly rehearsed statuesque composure. I waited for Yancy to come in impatiently, my foot tapping the ground rapid fire. I scanned the faces like a security camera looking for any hint of the bombastic over the top musical nerd with the cute accent and cool greaser style that I had come to see. The last people started to trickle into the room and I felt my heart sink into my stomach. Did he not want to see me? Had I done something to annoy him last time and that was the real reason he wanted me gone? 

I know I had hurt him during our fight but I honestly hadn’t meant it I had been reacting on pure instinct and adrenaline. As soon as I felt the familiar panic start to set in a small package with a sticky note on it was placed on the table in front of me. I turned to say something to the person but thy were gone. I picked up the package and read the note ‘We know it’s you change into the uniform and wig. Heapass will help you from there.’~Tiny

I felt the panic rise in my chest as I shuffled my way into the rest room and changed. I knew that this was dangerous, I mean this could land me back in here permanently but I had to check on Yancy. I walked out of the restroom to be greeted with a young man with a slightly sinister smirk and a hidden tattoo. “I take it your the Y/n loser who put Yancy into the infirmary?” He said with a dry chuckle and a sneer. 

“HE’S WHERE?!! I shrieked once we had made it into the cells part of the building. “Jeez woman hes in the infirmary like I said calm down.” Heapass said to me shrugging as if it was no big deal at all. I grabbed him harshly by the shoulders turning him to me quickly. “Take me to him right now.” I grumbled harshly probably scaring the poor man senseless. “Ah jeez sure lets go.” he said as he grabbed my arm and dragged me to the infirmary. 

Yancy’s pov again 

I woke up in the infirmary bed with tiny sitting next to me looking disappointed. “You know you would have saved us all a lot of trouble if you had just told us how nervous you were getting.” I looked away ashamedly “I’m sorrys I worieds youses.” (And i’m sorry for my terrible attempt at writing accents) I said awkwardly feeling terrible for causing them any kind of trouble. “Wait whats about Y/n? Theys didn’t show up did they?” I let out a defeated sigh as I looked to her for confirmation of my fears. 

However before she could answer the door was flung open and I was tackled into a hug. I looked down confused to see someone I didn’t know with their stomach buried in my chest crying their eyes out. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were hurt I came to see you and when you didn’t show I thought maybe you never wanted to see me again.” came a muffled comment from my stomach. Then they looked up and I knew exactly who it was. “Y/n Youse came to see mes?” I said as I felt tears rise to my eyes. I leaned down pulling them up into my arms hugging them close. “I’m so glad yous came I thoughts that yous didn’t wanna come sees someone as bad as me.” they grabbed onto me tighter as they lifted their head and looked at me with beautiful (E/c) eyes. “Yancy I could never not visit you I…. I have kind of fallen for you I guess.” They said with an adorable pink blush coating their cheeks. “I’ve fallen for yous too.” I said pulling them into a sweet kiss forgetting about the other people in the room. That was until I heard a door shutting and locking. At that moment I thanked them silently for letting us talk in peace.  

(I hope you all like it I hope it’s enjoyable sorry it’s not longer.) 

[roman-writing]

two, across (3/?)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia

Rating: T

Wordcount: 6,415

Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It’s absolutely aggravating.

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

Lysithea forgets to bring her mug back. She had even seen it at Hilda’s that morning, hidden behind a stack of cups and sauce pans, when she had gone hunting for where Hilda kept her plates. The urge to tidy everything in the cupboards into an orderly fashion had been so strong, that Lysithea had instead channeled her energy into trying to figure out the logic behind where Hilda kept everything in her kitchen. And by that point, she had completely forgotten about grabbing her mug and bringing it home with her. 

So it is that at two in the afternoon, Lysithea arrives back at her own apartment, because Hilda had engaged her in lively conversation about new reference material she could use in her thesis, which made Lysithea miss two trains. By the time she fishes the keys from her bag, it has begun to rain. The sky above is a cloudbank of iron grey. Lysithea rushes to stick the key into the lock and get the door open. 

The apartment inside is partially obscured by shadow. It's messy, but it's a far cry from Hilda's apartment. And Lysithea is comforted by the fact that none of this is her own mess. Indeed, it would have looked a great deal messier had it also included the usual football gear heaped into the entryway corner, but Raphael is out at practice on Sundays until five.

At the sound of Lysithea shutting the door behind her, Marianne drifts into the living room from the kitchen. She is holding a cup of something warm, and wearing her faded blue scrubs. "Oh, Lysithea. I was wondering what had happened to you."

"Sorry," Lysithea toes off her shoes and lines them up neatly on the rack by the door. Numerous other pairs are propped against the wire shoe rack as well, belonging to the various flatmates she shares the apartment with. "I spent the night at a friend's house."

Marianne leans against the kitchen doorway, looking as though she is on the verge of falling asleep where she stands. It’s her perennial state of being, as far as Lysithea can tell. A product of her ungodly work hours as a resident at the local hospital. “Is Edelgard in town?” 

“No,” Lysithea slips her bag off her shoulder as an excuse to not meet Marianne’s questioning gaze. “It’s - It’s a different friend. Her name is Hilda.” 

“Oh,” Marianne says. “Okay.”

“It isn’t like that. She’s a colleague at the university. We’re not - We’re not dating or anything.”

Marianne blinks, slow and languid. “I never said that. I’m just glad you’re alright. You usually tell one of us when you’re not going to come home. That’s all.”

Lysithea’s stomach sinks. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

“I’ll be sure to text you next time.” 

The words pop out before Lysithea can even comprehend that she has thought them. She had not intended for there to be a next time at all, but clearly that is not the case. 

Marianne doesn’t seem to notice Lysithea’s moment of aporetic self-reflection. “Okay. Do you want some cocoa? I made a bit extra here, thinking Ignatz was still around but he’s gone to the studio for the afternoon.” 

“Thanks. Cocoa sounds great.”

--

Hilda sends her the notes on the latest thesis draft the next week, and Lysithea returns the favour with her own laborious notes on Hilda’s article. Whereas her notes are typed and colour-coded, Hilda's are scrawled across margins with whole sections circled and arrows pointed to other pages.

It's early morning before Hilda's first class. The two of them are crowded over the newspaper. They sit so closely that their knees are pressed together, and Lysithea can feel the jitter of Hilda’s foot against her ankle. It had stopped bothering her ages ago. She doesn’t even notice it now.  

Lysithea points to a section of her thesis that Hilda has scrawled across, trying to decipher the notes there. "What's this one here say?" 

"AMATEUR," Hilda says.

Lysithea jerks her head up. "What?"

"Fifteen down. It's 'AMATEUR'." Hilda pens in the answer to the crossword.

Relief sweeps through Lysithea, and her shoulders relax. "Oh, that."

When Hilda has finished writing in the word, she sets the pen down and leans closer to look over Lysithea's shoulder. She reads her own notes, then points to the arrow in question. "This means you should move this whole section to the beginning of the chapter. You have a bad habit of waiting to tell the reader the point. Probably because you like the drama of the big reveal."

"I do not!"

"Listen. I'm into it. Like, a lot."

Lysithea can feel her cheeks warm, and then Hilda continues.

"But -" Hilda taps the circled section with her finger. "You gotta tell the audience this stuff way earlier. It's the right wording. You've just put it in the wrong place. Rearrange some stuff where I've indicated, and it'll flow way better. Trust me."

Lysithea deflates. "Thanks."

Hilda taps the underside of Lysithea's chin. "Hey, now. Chin up! You just know so much about this topic you forget that the audience isn't clued in yet. You're going to smash this last draft out of the park."

"Mmm," Lysithea says, unconvinced.

"Thesis notes away," Hilda scolds, prising the pages from Lysithea's grasp and setting them aside. 

"But -!"

"Do the crossword with me." Hilda replaces the pages with the pen she had been wielding earlier, pressing Lysithea's fingers around it. "It will make you feel better. And if you don't do it, I know you'll have a bad day. So, c'mon."

With a huff of irritation at the fact that Hilda is right -- for nothing is so aggravating as Hilda being smug in her knowledge of anything -- Lysithea takes the pen and sets herself to task on the crossword. 

"FASCINATOR," she writes in the word for fourteen across.

"Nice one! That's what I'm talking about!" Hilda bumps their shoulders together. 

They are still wearing their coats. Outside, autumn has well and truly settled in, and the air is crisp as a good apple. Hilda has begun to dress in stylish black peacoats with gold buttons and pink scarves, while Lysithea stashes extra hand warming packets into her bag in anticipation for the coming winter. 

As they steadily work their way through the crossword, Hilda's phone alarm begins to beep at her. Groaning in dismay, Hilda turns it off. 

“This sucks,” Hilda leans her elbows on the table and props her chin in her hands. “I have to stay after hours today, too. They have a big assignment due at the end of the week, and I told them I’d be in my office this afternoon to answer any last minute questions. Who actually takes up professors like me on office hours?” 

There’s a pause while they both think about the answer to that question, and then in unison they say, “Flayn.” 

“She is my best student, though,” Lysithea adds.

Hilda is running her hands down her face. “I know. I know. And I like the little runt, but she asks way too many questions, and I just want to go home.”

“How many grandmothers have you killed this term?” Lysithea asks idly. She taps her ballpoint against the newspaper margin and chews on her lower lip until the answer for fifteen across comes to her. 

“So so many. I am the bane of octogenarians everywhere. I haunt rest homes.” Hilda angles herself so that she’s facing Lysithea instead of the desk. “Wanna bet I’ve killed more than you?” 

At that, Lysithea glances up from the crossword. “What are the stakes?”

A triumphant grin has already spread across Hilda’s face. “Loser takes the winner out to dinner next Friday.” 

“Deal. How many of your students have claimed a grandparent died this term?” 

“Four,” Hilda announces, as though she’s won.

Lysithea smiles. “Five.” 

Hilda’s face falls. “What? Bullshit. What?” 

In answer, Lysithea only shrugs. 

“Okay, backup, backup. What kind of hardass assignments have you been giving out that killed five grandmothers?” Hilda cuts herself off with a gasp of realisation. “Oh, you’re one of those professors.”

“Because I’m nice,” Lysithea says pointedly, returning to the crossword, “I’ll let you take me to my favourite gelato place instead of a full dinner. We can get takeaway at your place after.” 

“Pfft. ‘Nice’. Thank god I’m not one of your students, and you actually like me.” 

Lysithea doesn’t debate that. She simply gestures to Hilda’s phone. “You’re going to be even later than usual.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Hilda stands up, then points to fourteen across. “ASPIRANTS.”

--

Lysithea finishes the crossword that morning, and she’s only mildly irritated that Hilda was right. Her day goes far better having ticked off one of the steps in her routine. Plus, she gets free gelato, dinner, and another evening spent at Hilda’s apartment, which is starting to become a regular occurrence. 

This time she makes sure to text Marianne. She receives a thumbs-up emoji in response, and nothing else. Marianne has probably only managed to send that in between patients. 

It's not weird, Lysithea tells herself the next Friday when she's unwinding her scarf in Hilda's messy living room. It's an opportunity to work on her thesis some more. She even brings her laptop with every intention to do just that. And she does manage to get some extra work done despite Hilda's best efforts to derail her progress, which means that it is definitely alright for her to put her laptop away at seven in the evening and finish off the serving of takeaway she had left in the fridge. 

"Lysithea," Hilda calls, her voice drifting from the bedroom. "Hurry up! I wanna put on the next season!" 

"Just a minute!" 

Lysithea is searching for a fork to no avail. Her carton of takeaway sits on the counter. She begins to systematically open up every drawer in Hilda's kitchen in her efforts. She hadn’t seen Hilda pull out their forks earlier that evening, and has no idea where they might be kept. No matter how much Lysithea understands that Hilda has a System, she cannot shake the feeling that things seem to be stored completely at random. She nearly has a crisis of faith when she opens up a cupboard to find a three piece bamboo steamer stowed alongside the cutting boards. 

Finally -- after opening and closing nearly every drawer in the kitchen -- she finds what she's looking for.

"Hilda, who puts cutlery in the second to last drawer by the refrigerator?"

"Legends and kings."

Exasperated, Lysithea heads back to the bedroom. She nearly trips on the step down from the kitchen to the living room. The long hems of the black-branded sweatpants she is wearing are still too long even after rolling up the waistband. Hilda had lent her a set of clothes to sleep in, and Lysithea couldn't even pretend that she did not want to use them since she had forgone bringing her own set of pajamas to Hilda's apartment.

Bringing her own pajamas would be admitting that this was far more than what she was willing to label it. Not that she thought Hilda would have minded. Indeed, Hilda had made a show of handing Lysithea a brand new toothbrush still in its packaging, when they had entered the apartment earlier that evening. 

Using one hand to tug at the waistband of the sweatpants, Lysithea plods into Hilda's bedroom and sits on the bed. Hilda already has another episode ready on the laptop screen. 

"No spilling on the bed, please." Hilda says without looking up from where she's fiddling with her tablet. 

"Your sheets are safe from me."

"Shame," Hilda sighs.

Shooting her an unimpressed glare, Lysithea hits the spacebar to play the episode. She defiantly ignores Hilda's smirk, and focuses instead on finishing her dinner and enjoying the show.

The evening occurs much like the last time she had spent the night, except this time when they fall asleep Hilda steals most of the blankets, and Lysithea is forced to wrestle them back. Hilda whines and mumbles something, but is clearly still fast asleep even as her back presses up against Lysithea's side. 

Lysithea doesn't push Hilda away. She is, after all, cold.

She wakes to rain lashing the window overshadowing the side of Hilda's bed that Lysithea has begun to frequent. The sky is dark enough that she cannot determine what time it is. Lysithea clambers from the end of the bed so as not to disturb a slumbering Hilda, and grabs her bag from where it sits in a corner. 

When she enters the bathroom and locks the door, she notices two things. One: Hilda owns a washing and drying machine, which she had not noticed on her first visit because they had been hidden under a mountain of laundry. Two: Hilda's bathroom is probably the tidiest room in the apartment, in terms of actual clear floor space.

Lysithea performs the same morning routine as ever. She takes out her hard-lined med case. She lines up all her pill bottles on the ledge of the sink. She twists off the first cap. She shakes a small round white pill into the centre of her palm. This time however, when she reaches for the sink tap, prepared to cup the water in one hand, she pauses. 

Blinking, she has to rub at one of her eyes, thinking that she is seeing things. And yet there, clear as day, nestled alongside Hilda's various makeup and hair products on the sink sits her travel mug. Gingerly, Lysithea reaches out and picks it up. The mug has been cleaned. Its pastel purples and whites and cartoon kittens stand out among a sea of vibrantly coloured bottles and jars. 

She sticks it under the tap and uses it to take her meds. She leaves it where she had found it. She does not put it into her bag to take it away. 

There is the muted shuffle of bare footsteps through the door. Lysithea emerges from the bathroom, clutching her bag, to discover that the bed is empty and Hilda is nowhere in sight. Something clatters in the kitchen. Lysithea sets her bag down in the same corner as before, and wanders into the hallway.

Hilda is making breakfast, and Lysithea watches in bewildered fascination as the event unfolds. Just by walking from one side of the kitchen to the other, Hilda is somehow miraculously able to do everything needed to cook breakfast without ever needing to retrace her steps. What Lysithea had initially assumed was completely random turns out to have alien logic when Hilda does it. Indeed, the placement of everything is because that’s what is the most efficient layout for her to save time when doing set tasks, so that she can perform actions with as little effort as possible.

Hilda notices her presence, and yawns around one hand while maneuvering a frying pan with the other. “Morning. Sleep well?” 

“Yeah,” Lysithea says. 

She continues to watch Hilda move about the kitchen, arrested by how easily she seems to be able to move from one action to another until, finally, Hilda is seated atop one of the counters with a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in her lap, drumming her heels lightly against one of the cupboards that has been strategically draped with a soft towel to cushion the blows. Another plate of food has already been set aside for her, without Lysithea needing to ask for it. 

Hilda is -- much to her absolute horror -- beginning to make sense. 

--

Despite the increased time spent in one another’s company, it remains a mystery how Hilda can do so much in her day. Slowly, Lysithea incorporates all of Hanneman's and Hilda's latest notes on her thesis. And at the same time she does her best to uncover the secret behind Hilda's System. 

She has never met a person so dedicated to being lazy, that it means she is that much more efficient with every task. Nobody else Lysithea knows can automate their routine troubles the way Hilda can. Lysithea has known marketers and sales people of the highest calibre -- thanks to El's vast family network -- and none of them compare to Hilda, whose powers extend to the realm of uncanny. She can convince anyone of doing things for her so that she doesn't have to do them herself. Most bizarrely, they always seem to be pleased that they are doing it.

Case and point: she often sees Hilda's TA, a beleaguered young man who doesn't seem to actually have a name and whose face is as forgettable as his personality, running amok doing Hilda's grocery shopping and dry cleaning, on top of grading the papers turned in by her undergrad students. 

Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t seem absolutely thrilled at the prospect of pleasing his professorial overlord, because he does. And which also isn’t to say that Hilda never does work, because she must. 

Not that Lysithea has ever actually seen Hilda doing work -- thesis notes and lectures notwithstanding. The woman avoids work like it’s out of fashion. 

It’s a further mystery how Hilda manages to have time to go to the gym when Lysithea knows her schedule must be crazy. But sure enough, she sees Hilda walk by her office one day in her gym clothes looking sweaty and wearing nothing but black tights and a pink sports bra with a small black towel draped around her neck like a stole. Her long pink-dyed hair is pulled back; it's damp at the temples.

She pauses in the doorway to Lysithea’s office, tilting her head back to drink from a water bottle, then says, “You doing anything tomorrow?” 

Lysithea takes a moment to answer. Her finger is pressed down on the ‘J’ key of her laptop, sending a spiral of letters down the email she had been penning to Hanneman. Jerking her hands from the keyboard, she clears her throat. “Actually, I’m - uh - going out with my flatmates tomorrow for my birthday.” 

“Oh, nice! Happy birthday!” Hilda glances around the floor for a moment, then gestures to the office with her water bottle. “No live pony as a gift from your mystery millionaire?”

In answer, Lysithea pushes her chair slightly out of the way to reveal the enormous box that had been shipped in earlier that afternoon, and which she had stashed under her desk to keep out of the way. 

“Of course.” Hilda snorts with laughter, but it sounds genuinely amused. Had it been anyone else, Lysithea might have worried she was resentful, but not Hilda. “Want to come over tonight, then? We can bake you an early birthday cake, and then I can leave you alone tomorrow to hang out with your other friends."

Cake is a more than adequate method of bribery for Lysithea on any occasion, and these days she doesn't require much convincing to go to Hilda's apartment.

“You can come along if you -?” Lysithea begins to offer, but Hilda shakes her head. 

“Nah. I’m a terrible third wheel. And you should chill with them.” 

Lysithea thinks about her workload for the week. “I can do tonight.”

Hilda’s smile blinds like the midmorning sun. “Great! Just swing by anytime after four.”

She turns and walks into her own office before Lysithea can even respond. Lysithea watches, half twisted around atop her chair, as Hilda hums to herself while she rifles around her office. Hilda finds whatever she had been looking for, then turns off the lights and locks the door, and as she starts off back down the hallway, she waves in Lysithea’s direction with a parting wink.

Lysithea cranes her neck to watch Hilda swan away. It takes her a whole minute to remember that she had been writing an email.

-- 

Lysithea is digging into a sack of flour when her phone rings in her bag. “Can you get that for me?”

Behind her she can hear the zipper of her bag being opened. Hilda doesn’t mention the medicine case, and puts the bag down once she’s found the phone. 

“Sure thing. It’s -” Hilda turns over Lysithea’s phone to check the name. “- ‘Mom’.” 

“Oh, it’s not actually my mother. That’s Edelgard. It’s a joke,” Lysithea explains. “Just text her that -”

But Hilda has already pressed the green answer button, and is lifting the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom!! Lysithea can’t come to the phone right now. How can I help?”

Lysithea hisses Hilda’s name, and puts down the sack of flour and measuring cup she had been holding. She tries to jump up and take the phone, but can’t reach it when Hilda straightens to her full height.

There is silence on the other line, and then Edelgard’s distinct, cultured voice. “You must be Hilda. I’ve heard so much about you.”

A wide grin splits Hilda’s face. “Oh, you have, have you? Tell me more.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Lysithea holds up her flour-smeared hands in a threatening manner. “I will put handprints on everything in your closet.”

Hilda makes a face at her. “Booo!”

“We’re making a cake,” Lysithea raises her voice so that Edelgard can hear through the mic. “Actually, I’m making a cake. Someone -” she aims a pointed glare at Hilda, “- isn’t helping very much.”

“It’s called ‘supervising,’” Hilda interrupts in her defense. “And let it be known that I got everything down from the high shelves for you.”

"Just -! Put her on speaker phone please."

“Fine, fine.” Hilda hits a button on the phone, and puts it down on the counter between them.

Edelgard’s voice issues from the speakers. “Is this a bad time?”

“No.” Lysithea continues to sift in flour to a large steel-brushed bowl, raising her voice a little for the phone’s mic to pick up. "My hands have stuff all over them because someone doesn't own a mixer."

"I own a perfectly good mixer! It's right here!" Hilda opens up a ground level cupboard with her foot and gestures to, admittedly, a very nice mixer.

"For which I can't find the paddle attachment," Lysithea counters.

"That's what -"

"Do not say: 'That's what she said.' Do not!"

“- the spatula is for,” Hilda finishes, trying and failing to look innocent. “You see? I didn’t say anything of the sort. Now what must your friend think of me?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true, I imagine,” is Edelgard’s dry response. 

Lysithea wipes off her hands and snatches up her phone. “Hilda, can you -?” she gestures to the beginnings of the cake batter.

Hilda waves her off. “I’m on it. Shoo.”

Hitting the button to turn off speaker, Lysithea moves out of the kitchen. The only place that has a door between her and the kitchen is either outside or Hilda’s bedroom, so Lysithea wanders into Hilda’s bedroom and closes the door behind her. It feels odd being in this space without Hilda there, like she’s wandered into the forbidden temple of an ancient fashion deity. 

“Sorry about that,” Lysithea says once the door is shut behind her.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear you two actually get along.”

“Yeah. We do. She’s - ” Sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinks beneath Lysithea’s weight. “- nice.”

“I didn’t think you’d like her if she wasn’t. You’re awfully sensible about things like that.” In the background, Lysithea can hear Hubert’s low voice murmur something unintelligible. Edelgard pulls the phone away from her ear momentarily, before relaying the message. “Hubert says he can’t say much for your taste, but that Dr. Goneril does not pose a significant threat on your life unless you happen to be a clay pigeon. Hubert, I don’t know what that means.”

Lysithea screws up her face in bewilderment, but all she says is, “Tell Hubert to keep his nose out of my business.”

“A futile effort, Lys. You know that.” Edelgard switches topics, and there’s the sound of footsteps, as though she too is leaving for another room. “I have meetings all day tomorrow, so I figured I would ring to wish you an early happy birthday, rather than a belated one. Did you get my package?”

“Thank you. And yes. It’s too much, as usual.” 

There’s a huff of amusement down the line. “Nonsense.” 

“You really do spoil me, you know. You don’t have to -”

“Lysithea,” Edelgard interrupts, her tone firm. “We’ve already had this discussion.”

Lysithea bites her tongue, but she can’t stop the guilty squirm in her gut at being unable to properly reciprocate Edelgard’s lavish generosity. For years, Edelgard had insisted her kindness and friendship was enough in return, but it had never sat well with her. 

“Yeah, I know,” Lysithea relents. 

“Don’t go eating everything in the box all at once.”

“That,” Lysithea says primly, “would be physically impossible.”

“No, not you. That message was for Raphael.”

At that, Lysithea laughs softly. “I’ll be sure to tell him to keep his paws off my birthday haul. He and the rest of the flat are taking me out to dinner tomorrow.”

“The usual place?” 

“Mmm,” Lysithea’s answer is a wordless hum of affirmation. Then she frowns. “Hang on. What time is it over there?”

“Not that late,” Edelgard says, but she sounds cagey, like an animal that has been cornered. 

“When you have meetings all day tomorrow, too,” Lysithea scolds. 

“I always have meetings.”

“Go to sleep, El.”

A sigh crackles through the speakers. “Has anyone told you you’re rather bossy?” Edelgard says not unkindly.

“Hilda does. All the time.”

“She really does know you, then.”

“Good night, El,” Lysithea says in a warning tone. 

She can almost see the smile down the line when Edelgard says, “Good night. And again -- happy birthday.”

Lysithea lingers on the bed for a moment after the phone call ends. The bed has an extra mattress stacked beneath it, and she is too short for her feet to touch the ground. For a long moment, she looks down at the phone in her hands, before hopping off the bed and making her way back to the kitchen. 

Hilda is finishing up the cake batter, when Lysithea walks in. "Is she gone already? I didn't get to tell her how much I admire her for trying to dress you in Valentino, and also maybe if she could send a few things in some bigger sizes."

“Good luck with that. She doesn’t trust easy.” Lysithea checks that the oven has been preheated, and then takes over from Hilda.

Hilda gives up control of the cake batter without complaint. "How did you meet mystery millionaire, anyway?"

"We were admitted at the same hospital when we were kids. Turns out having the same rare disease since childhood is a bonding experience."

Hilda hums a contemplative note at the back of her throat, but does not pry. Even so Lysithea can feel Hilda's eyes upon her. She can't bring herself to meet Hilda's gaze.

"It's -" Lysithea scrapes the cake mix into the baking tin, and levels it out with the spatula. "It's manageable. I'm managing it. I just don't like to talk about it much, because then it becomes the only thing people ever talk about. And I like talking to you about other things, so we should just -"

Hilda places a hand over hers, stopping Lysithea's fiddling. She takes the spatula from Lysithea's fingers, and sets it aside on the counter. "Lysithea, I need to ask you something."

Swallowing past a nervous lump in her throat, Lysithea looks anywhere but at Hilda, who has stepped closer, trapping her against the counter. "Wh-What?"

Hilda turns their clasped hands over so that she can run her thumb over the back of Lysithea's knuckles. She seems to take an age to inspect Lysithea's fingers before she says, "Will you let me do your nails while the cake is in the oven?"

Lysithea’s answering laugh is relieved. She puts the cake into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then allows herself to be led into Hilda’s room. There, Hilda starts excitedly rummaging through a drawer of her workstation. She sets out a plethora of colour options on the bed, and allows Lysithea to pick one. No sooner has Lysithea pointed at a pale lilac colour, than she is on Hilda’s bed, and one of her hands has been pulled into Hilda’s lap.

Hilda bows over Lysithea’s wrist, directing Lysithea’s fingers this way and that while she first files her nails back. Her own fingernails are perfectly shaped, blunt half-moons of bold red polish. On anyone else, they might have clashed with pink, but Hilda somehow makes it work.

Hilda fills the silence with chatter, pausing at one point to put on some music from her tablet on the bedside table. She crosses her legs atop the bed and shuffles closer so that she can get a better angle on Lysithea’s nails. Her hands are warm yet calloused, as though she had spent years wielding a woodman’s axe. 

“Do you play sports?” Lysithea wonders aloud.

Hilda dips the tiny polish brush back into its bottle -- this is the second coat of colour after a clear coat, which Lysithea had never known was a necessary step until now. “Okay this is going to sound a little weird, but you know skeet shooting? The sport with shotguns where you shoot clay targets that are flung into the air?”

“Yes?” 

Hilda shrugs. “My family’s kinda famous for it. My brother’s an Olympian. He got bronze a few years ago or something, and now he’s, like, a hometown hero or whatever. I used to compete until I was, like, fifteen and then decided that it really wasn’t for me, thanks.”

“That is,” Lysithea thinks back to her phone call with Edelgard, which suddenly makes sense, “probably not the strangest thing I could have learned about you. Though I can’t imagine holding up a shotgun requires you to do much lifting at the gym.”  

“I would make a ‘guns’ joke, but I know you’d yell at me.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

“No, but in the past I wasn’t doing your nails, and I have priorities. Besides,” Hilda finishes the final coat and takes a moment to blow on Lysithea’s nails. “If I’m very very good, you might let me show you how to apply makeup, too.”

Lysithea leans over to glance at her phone on the bedside table. “Only if it takes less than fifteen minutes.”

Immediately, Hilda bounds off the bed, and goes racing to the bathroom, from which she emerges clutching a small velvet bag. Her eyes are alight. When she jumps back onto the bed, she says in excitement, “I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

Lysithea eyes the bag warily. “I’m suddenly nervous for some reason.” 

“I just have that effect on people.” 

Hilda starts pulling out various bottles and brushes, and gets to work. She explains each and every step of what she’s doing with the familiarity of someone who has worn makeup nearly every day since the age of fourteen. She directs Lysithea with soft touches to her jaw and cheek, and it does not take long for Lysithea to become utterly distracted. 

She is saved by the timer going off, and Hilda pronouncing her nails and makeup finished just in time to pull the cake from the oven. While Lysithea starts on the frosting, Hilda puts together a separate makeup case for her, stuffing it into Lysithea’s bag beside her laptop with specific instructions to use it. 

They barely wait for the frosting to be applied before pulling out forks and digging in. They don’t bother with cutting slices. It isn’t the worst cake Lysithea has ever made, but it certainly isn’t the best. And yet, she is hard pressed the remember the last time she had enjoyed a cake as much. 

Eventually, Lysithea leans to one side to get a better look out the window. “It’s getting late.”

Licking the frosting off her fork, Hilda shrugs, as unflappable as ever. “You can stay the night again, if you want.”

For a moment, Lysithea pauses. She cannot tell if Hilda seems almost too nonchalant, or if that is just how Hilda always was. 

“I should head back to my apartment,” Lysithea says slowly.

Hilda smiles around the fork before removing it from her mouth and saying, “Next time, then.”

“Next time.” 

--

When Lysithea returns to her own apartment later that evening, Ignatz looks up from where he's reading on the couch. "Oh! Lysithea, you look nice!"

Her hand tightens around the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder. "Thanks."

She stays up later than she normally would. She tells herself it’s because she wants to hang out with her flatmates, and not because she knows that when she goes to bed she’ll have to wash her face. 

--

Lysithea has been twenty-five for three weeks, and still the oddest thing about living to be a quarter of a century is that she has miraculously finished a final draft of her doctoral thesis. Twelve years ago, she might have said living to be twenty-five was the miracle, but those days are long behind her.  

It’s Friday, and it’s the first day of snowfall after a week of crisp autumnal weather. Lysithea reads and re-reads her thesis document for any changes she might need to make, even though Hanneman has already responded to her email saying that if he were an examiner he would be more than pleased to pass it. 

For all intents and purposes, it is ready to submit. Subject to Tomas’ approval. 

Her fingers tremble slightly with adrenaline as she types up the email to Tomas. She goes back multiple times to re-word sections of the email, even though the end result is functionally the same. Finally, Lysithea closes her laptop in triumph, and then immediately pulls out her phone, brimming with excitement. Her fingers fly across the screen, dialing the first person she can think of. 

She wants to tell someone. She wants someone to know and share in this feeling. She wants -

“Hey there, short stack! How’d it go with Professor Handyman? He give you the all clear?” Hilda’s voice comes through the receiver, clear and bright as day. 

Lysithea feels her mouth curve into a smile despite herself. “You know he hates it when you call him that.”

“Then he should pay the eighty six dollars to get a legal name change. I’ve given him the paperwork before.” 

Lysithea snorts in amusement. “He thinks my updated draft is great, by the way.”

“And -?” Hilda drawls, waiting for more. 

“And -” Lysithea bites her lower lip. “I’ve given the final version to Tomas for approval. I just need to wait for his sign off, and I’m done.”

Hilda crows down the line, and Lysithea has to hold the phone away from her ear. “Now that’s what I like to hear right before the weekend! You still at the office?” 

“Just packing up now.” Lysithea pushes at the floor with her feet so that her office chair spins slowly. She stops herself after one rotation. 

“Good.” There’s the distinct sound of a breeze cutting across Hilda’s phone, as though she has just stepped outside. “Meet me downstairs in five minutes. This calls for victory ice cream at that favourite gelato bar of yours downtown.”

“Hilda, it’s negative two degrees outside.” 

“Yeah, and I want an ice cream sundae with warm brownies and an espresso. Get with the program!”

Lysithea shakes her head, but she can’t keep the grin from her face. She hasn’t been able to ever since she had hit the send button on that email. “Alright. Five minutes.” She stands up to pack her laptop away.

“Maybe make it ten.”

Lysithea rolls her eyes, and sits back down. “Just text me when you’re a block away from campus.” 

“You got it.”

The text arrives eleven minutes later, and Lysithea has been sitting with her bag in her lap, ready to depart for four minutes. A quick elevator ride downstairs, and Hilda is striding towards her on the ground floor. As if to spite the light dusting of snow on the pavement, Hilda is wearing black high-heeled shoes with blood red undersides, like she’d walked across a valley of dead men to arrive at her destination.

It shouldn’t send a thrill skittering up Lysithea’s spine, but it does anyway. 

Where Lysithea is wearing woolen gloves that Ignatz had knitted for her birthday, Hilda rubs her hands together and blows on them for warmth when they step outside. 

“Fuck. It’s freezing.”

“Here.” Lysithea reaches into her bag, and pulls out a pocket hand warmer. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thankyou.” 

“I can’t believe you still want ice cream.” 

“This won’t be a problem once we’re done with the sundaes and back at my place with a hot toddy.” 

“I shouldn’t have to explain to a molecular biologist the reason why drinking alcohol in freezing weather is a bad idea.”

“Unless you’re planning on abandoning me on the bleak wasteland that is high street, I think I’ll take my chances.” Hilda walks in such a way that Lysithea’s shoulder brushes up against her arm. “Thanks for the handwarmer.” 

“Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.”

Vaguely, Lysithea wonders if she is turning into one of those patsies that Hilda unloads all of her work onto, but in that moment Hilda is smiling softly down at her, and she can’t bring herself to care. She has only a mind for the promise of a warm brownie and Hilda’s company. Together they walk down the street to the nearby train station while fresh snow gathers at their footsteps. 

--

NOTES

I swear the Olympic skeet shooting thing didn’t just come out of nowhere. Hilda’s relic is called “Freikugel” which is from a medieval German legend about a Freischütz. A Freischütz makes a contract with the devil, and in return receives seven magic bullets (called “Freikugeln”). Six of these bullets will hit their target without fail, whereas the seventh bullet belongs to the devil, and which he can use at his discretion.

Now, I went back and forth about making Hilda’s family a military one because of Holst, but then after doing a bit of digging I decided to run with the Freischütz legend and make it a joke about Hilda’s guns instead.  

Also I can’t be bothered to try to work out what season Lysithea’s birthday actually falls in, so it’s late autumn now. Because reasons.

[yourflygirlslittlegenital]

Transgender Day of Remembrance - Some thoughts

Well, some years ago I organised a Tdor demonstration in Berlin, Brandenburger Tor, legally, with fuckin cop protection (what an irony) and today it is also time to remember some things which are always coming between us activists.

If I want to talk about my discrimination experiences, it is always hard to find a language. I know which words are wrong and I also know which definitions are bad and wrong. This is a result of my discrimination experiences. And I want to use this.

So I don´t use the words “trans” and “cis” and “inter” anymore. My experience is that people assosiate the “right” things with them, the things that the media tells them - mentally disturbed ugly men who want to become women by starting to cloth and style different, strange gay people in coloured bad choosen outfits dancing with unicorns in worn out hillybilly 80s discotheques. Sometimes even I am associate this. You know, all this is not my style. It´s not my life nor what I want to become. I fley the “lgbtiq*” community because I made just worse and worse experiences there. Exploitations (of the discrimination and “outsider” experiences and “identity”), exclusions, foreign determination and other forms of hierarchies and disrespect seemed common there, the music was shite and boring and the “artists” mostly untalented, uninspiring and really bad in what they did.

I never enjoyed these “queer parties” doesn´t matter if it were these typical “homo parties” with terrible 80s sound and German pop folk music or these black leather and whip parties where half of the crowd was having these exaggerated kajal & mascare “designs” while praying for some catholic punishment and ketamine in front of some always the same sounding heavy dark electro/dark techno that was yet banned out of the real club discos for several years nor these “lalalala i am a sweet pink riotgrrrl with a guitar” singsangsong concerts with always the same riffs, paroles and attitudes. “We” weren´t really accepted there ... hell no. Worst were these hippsterish feminist parties where half of the crowd was wearing these boring “don´t beat me” glasses which I am calling “career glasses” where you have to discuss anything about what you “may” do and what not including to define yourself while boring nasal voiced radio music is played in the background and no action is allowed because this is attended to be “unqueer” and therefor ... sexistic and patriarchal.

Anyhow, my taste in music and style was always (made) a problem in these scenes and to different to them and their collective taste in these seemed always to be the evidence of a crime. So I quit these scenes. And their language.

Also my experience is that feminists never really show distance from “cuntists” which disguise themselves as “(terf-) feminists” just to exclude and mock other women for this or that physical attribute, a very sick and ugly form of repeating mistakes you suffered from yourself before. These cuntists, as also the big and never really overcome reference to the cunt as the “core of all feminine” in feminism passed finally to bring me far away from this little sweet pseudoposition called feminism. And I think its more a form of a mask/identity nowadays than a real position. Because most things regarding stereotype genders are nowadays so clear that no one needs to build an ideology or position around it. Sure, this is also a result of the painful process of mass mind assignment and the bourgeoise education technics, but sorry, I can´t take anyone playing the fulltime macho/machista OR feminist serious. Both positions are quite too exaggerated, dumb and unhuman because so many evil shit has taken place in the last time in the name of feminism (also, especially against wrong assigned, inter and trans and other disadvantaged ppl.) while beeing/acting as a macho / machista is a selfevident thing to be wrong, stupid and to avoid for thousands of reasons.

So I am doing my activism just with a bunch of friends who have the same or similar claims, ideas and fights - we are all aware of the fact that the word “trans” f.e. is not only poisoned by the media and nothing to take or even be proud of - it is yet wrong and derrogative in its meaning.

Take the chemistry of old greek language - if two things are “cis”, it means they are on the same side while “trans” means in f.e. a molecule that the second thing is “on the other side”. There is also ortho (next side), para (two sides away) and so on. But only cis means “both together”. Yet this shows how stupid it is to repeat calling yourself (a) “trans” / “transgender” / “transsexual” while not having any serious problem with the shape of your body. Accepting the word “trans” means accepting the ideology of the “right” and the “wrong” body and therefor the theory that you and you body (in general) would be a problem that has to be treaten as a problem. Fuck that.

This is f.e. one thing why I am not connecting really with most other activists anymore. Another is that many/most are believing in strange and often stupid things like that society would just reject them and their existance and human rights for beeing mistaken while ignoring the psychodynamics of power.

I am also fed up with activists who believe in a peaceful revolution for their rights and acceptance - as if Stonewall Riot and all the other important and necessary processes would ever have happened just in a painless and peaceful way - Come back to reality and fight with us, pls!!

Another thing is that we live in a state of permanent oppression, including violence, stigmatisation and taking away our life quality with that. You can hide from seeing this, but anyhow - I don´t want to lie about that any longer.

The media is a bullshit - this is why I don´t read newspapers anymore. All the propaganda and stigmatising articles about the “strange beings who change their gender and where born as a man” and so on, you find em everywhere and in every of these shitpapers, so I will run or find my own press or die without knowing perfectly what is going on. This culture is not my culture, it is cutting away my experience, it is cutting away my life, my style, my knowledge, my ideas and my sexuality - while sexualising me and my sisters in a stupid, ugly and unsuppotably exploitative manner.

I say fuck you to a culture, society that is defining itself as an integrative, democratic dialogue culture while it is in reality a fucked up senseless powerplay and projection of some bunch of poison-filled, stressed and greed controlled human shit disguised in either sexy dresses or boring suits told to be sexy and/or neutral. I am not a part of this and I will never be.

Every nation that has laws which force me to be described as “male” in official documents for being born with a penis can suck my dixk and suffocate. So I don´t want to be part of any state, group or collective that is going with the actual madness of genitalistic assignments - I want to fight for having a place without gender assignments - not at birth nor ever! No fucking laws no fucking “she was born as a man” articles, slander and wikipedia mockings! I am fighting for a place with clean without all walls and media full of this privilegued repressive hatespeech propaganda.

This fight is not a fight for human rights, a bit of respect or beeing heard - I want to fight for having my own territory free of cops, genitalistic media, ugly fetishistic chasers and doctors who shall tell me who to be and what to do and how to hate my body by law and claiming that reproduction is the essential thing in life while justifying laws which demand the permanent castration or other forms of mutilation of my body just to be accepted as a woman. I want to kill all people who are and were involved in this. And never again live in a society that justifies them and their work while telling anyone in the media they would be “experts” about what and who I am while I would be a “transperson”. No. Fuck yea.

Still looking for people having the same in mind. And in their guts. Sorry, you peaceful feminist and queer community embracing activists... but your “riot” is not mine.

I am just still living for revenge. And for a change. Not a repeat of the same walls, prejudices and clichees under the sign of “diversity” “rainbow something” or collective “lgbtiq harmony”. I am just a woman. Not LGFUILHSDLUKADZBKub and not even proud to be a woman. My rainbow -flag is a burning authority with a choped down head -flag, my diversity is the diversity of anyone. Not I am special - everyone is. So I refuse to be categorised as “a little bit different”. Fuck that. Don´t make me a stupid fool. All these representations of “queer” and all the other mainstream “deviant sexuality” bullshit just makes me vomit. I want to break down the walls - not to tighten them.

Also I want to tell my pain and fight to anywhere and not just to find it in a “rainbow corner” of some special nice magazine or in a “safe space”, so I don´t exclude from the mass and the people who don´t want to listen. It is a political,. necessary and social thing, just as the election of any government, the Arab Spring or the next 20 Mio trade of the Coca Cola Company is. And I have the impression that many other activists see this different. These are some reasons why I stopped to interact in ordinary activism. I know that I am not alone with that. But mostly no one is talking about it.

Today I dared to. My last suicide attempt is 8 years ago. I almost passed to die. And wake up in a hospital 3 days later. Especially the sexual herrassment and abuse of the psychotherapists I was forced to communicate with regulary just to be able to juristically change my legal name took away the most power I needed to survive in a world full of genitalistic hate, prejudice and normative propaganda of a culture that is defining itself by excluding, killing and ignoring us and our ancient sisters and brothers and their knowledge, language and experiences. Will they also iradicate us and our words and images? Like our ancestors?

This is what and why I am fighting. At the moment it still seems to be a real small minority within a small minority fight. But I don´t give up now anymore. Read more about our small activist group in

http://antigenitalistischeoffensive2013.tumblr.com/post/64452337251/about-genitalism-and-our-mission

&

https://stopgenitalism.tumblr.com

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot - “Easy, Not So Easy” (Rated PG)

Kurt tries to enforce an important rink rule, but an irritating mom is just not having it. (1952 words)

Okay, so I know you're all still waiting for Kurt and Sebastian's first time. And I am writing it. I promise. Romantic sex scenes take me a while. I want to get it right. Many of these one-shots are a reflection of things that happen while I'm down at the rink every day, and this happened just yesterday. And seeing as Kurt is my kindred spirit, I had to write this xD Also, you guys wanted me to write some run-ins with bad parents, so here you go :)

Part 16 of Outside Edge

Read on AO3.

“EZ-Skaters on the other end of the ice, please.”

The boy holding the device in question – a blocky walker-looking thing made of PVC pipe and held together by copious amounts of silver duct tape – looks at Kurt blankly. “What?” he grunts, barely even opening his mouth.

Kurt sighs. Yup. That’s usually the response he gets when he tries to enforce this rule. What’s the point of posting signs up everywhere if you still have to tell people when they get on the ice?

“EZ-Skaters, like the one you have right there,” Kurt says, pointing to the walker with a rigid finger, “need to stay on the far end of the ice, on the opposite side of the orange cones. You can’t take it to the center of the ice. Rink policy.”

“Yeah, well, my mom rented this for me, so …” the boy mumbles as he takes off, probably assuming that Kurt won’t bother following him. Kurt sighs again because now he has to go hunt down the boy’s mother.

Kurt avoids dealing with parents when at all possible. Even the parents of the kids he coaches can sometimes be pains in the ass, especially when the behaviors of their “precious angels” come into question. But they usually see reason over time, especially since, in the case of competition hopefuls, reputation comes into play. Nobody on the competition circuit wants to deal with a prima donna.

The days when that sort of drama was considered interesting went out with the likes of Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding.

Customers, however, can be the worst. They notoriously try to get away with everything, as if the all of ten bucks they spend to get into the place for one afternoon gives them carte blanche to act like entitled jerks. And nine times out of ten, the kids that parents rent the EZ-Skaters for don’t actually need them. They’re just too scared to fall on their butts to buck it up and do the work it takes to learn how to skate.

But this rule about the EZ-Skaters isn’t petty. It’s necessary. It was created to protect the kids who use the EZ-Skaters after a hockey player tripped and fell on a little girl awhile back, obliterating the EZ-Skater and crushing her in the process. She was fine, thank goodness - nothing on her but a few scratches and bruises - but it almost meant a huge lawsuit for the rink.

Kurt just wants to practice today without breaking a limb.

Kurt looks around outside the ice. The rink is fairly empty except for the hockey players running drills on the far side, and him and Sebastian practicing for Kurt’s upcoming Grand Prix. On the sidelines, he spots a woman about the same age as his mother, watching from the penalty box as her little delinquent tools around with his EZ-Skater as if it were an Arctic dog sled. Kurt skates over, stops in her field of view, and clears his throat.

She makes it a point to stand from the bench she’s sitting on and look over his head.

“Excuse me,” Kurt says, “but is that boy with the EZ-Skater your son?”

“Yes,” she says with a proud smile.

“I’m sorry, but he can’t take that EZ-Skater out onto the ice. It has to be used over there” – He points dramatically to his right even though he knows she probably won’t look – “where the cones are.”

“But I rented it,” she says, eyes tracking her son intensely in her attempt to completely avoid looking at Kurt.

“I know that,” he says.

“So why can’t he use it?”

“I’m not saying he can’t use it,” Kurt says calmly, calling upon years of practice at keeping his temper in check in the face of argumentative bullies. “I’m saying he can’t take it out to the center of the ice. He has to use it over where the cones are. Rink policy.”

“I didn’t know that,” she says, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest.

“There’s a sign on the box office window up front where you paid for the rental.”

“Didn’t see it.”

“The gentleman at the rental window would have told you when you picked it up.”

“He didn’t.”

That answer steams Kurt because yes, he did. Kurt knows he did. The man behind the rental counter has been with the rink for over a decade. He knows how important this rule is to the skaters’ safety, and he’s as vigilant as anyone there. There’s no way he’d forget to mention it this one time.

“There’s a sign right there on the ice.” Kurt gestures to a white sign not five feet from the entrance to the rink, with big black letters that say EZ-Skaters are required to stay on this side of the cones.

The woman has the gall to not even look.

“I’m sorry, but do you work here?” she says, her lips twitching with a condescending smile.

It would be easy to tell the lady that, yes, he does indeed work there (and, to a degree, he does), but he looks young. He knows he looks young. And because he looks young, he could be the frickin’ general manager of the rink and that still wouldn’t make any difference. So Kurt gives her his fakest polite smile and says, “If you’d like to talk to someone else about that policy, you can speak to that lady over there. We call her Coach Beiste.” Kurt points in the direction of the actual general manager and head hockey coordinator, Shannon Beiste, pacing outside the wall, watching three aisles of hockey players run drills. “But whether you do or not, if your son doesn’t follow the rules, the EZ-Skater needs to be returned to the rental window.”

The woman scoffs at Kurt, rolling her eyes when he doesn’t just leave and remains rooted in her line of sight. “Alright,” she says in an I’m only doing this to humor you sort of way. She grabs her purse from the bench behind her and walks out of the penalty box. Kurt follows her with his eyes as she approaches Coach Beiste, making sure she actually goes and doesn’t walk past to the restrooms or the Snack Shack.

“Another parent giving you trouble, babe?” Sebastian asks, skating over from the far side of the ice to find out why his boyfriend hasn’t returned to practice after leaving to get a drink of water over five minutes ago.

“Of course.” Kurt leans in to Sebastian’s side and puts his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Or else it wouldn’t be a day ending in y.”

***

“Excuse me, Coach … uh … Beiste?”

“No, no, no, guys! Cut left! Left! Then push him out of the way!” Beiste screams, directing the kids on the ice with both hands. Her left hand, clutching her clipboard, swings out wide, grazing the head of the woman beside her.

“Excuse me,” she says a bit more loudly, hands shielding her scalp, though she’s determined that if she doesn’t get the burly woman’s attention this time, she’s going to give up and leave. The nerve of that kid trying to tell her, a paying customer, what her son can and cannot do. Whatever happened to the customer’s always right? Well, Yelp is sure as hell going to hear about it if this woman can’t give her a good reason why her son shouldn’t be allowed to skate on the entire ice like everybody else.

“Yes?” Beiste stops flailing when she registers a voice talking to her. “How can I help you?”

“It seems I’m having an issue with some kid telling me that my son can’t use his EZ-Skater.”

“What?” Beiste makes a face. “Of course, your kid can use his EZ-Skater. You paid for it, you use it. End of story.” Coach Beiste glances down the ice in search of the woman’s son. “Uh, where is he?”

“Over there,” the woman says, smugly pointing out her twelve-year-old boy hunched over a too-small-for-him walker and sliding with it across the ice.

“Oh, no,” Beiste says. “No, no, no. The EZ-Skaters need to stay on the other end of the ice, hun. Where the orange cones are. It’s a rink policy.”

“I see,” the woman huffs, put out at hearing that same excuse twice. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well” – Beiste chuckles – “there is a sign up front.”

“I---I didn’t see it,” she claims, not quite as firmly as she had with Kurt.

“There’s also a sign right there,” Beiste says with a nod of her chin.

“I … may have overlooked that one.”

“And the guy at the rental counter would have told you.”

“He didn’t,” she insists.

Beiste turns to face the woman beside her, fixing her with a significantly unamused look, and says, “Yes, he did, hun.”

Floored by Beiste’s sudden seriousness, the woman takes a step back. “Uh ...”

“It’s a liability issue,” Beiste continues as if her mood had never changed. “You see, if those EZ-Skaters get away from your kid and hit another skater, that could result in a serious accident. Someone could trip and fall, bones could even get broken. You see our figure skaters out there?” Beiste points to the center ice, where the woman’s kid speeds past a girl practicing a camel spin. “Some of them pay a helluva lot of money to train here. I can’t risk any of them getting hurt, no more than I can risk your kid getting hurt, neither.”

“Y--yes.” The woman swallows and nods. “Yes, I see. That makes sense.”

“I mean, you wouldn’t’ve rented the EZ-Skater if your kid didn’t need one, would you?”

“No. No, I wouldn’t have.”

“Good. Well, then. I’m glad you understand.” Beiste claps the woman heavy-handedly on the shoulder. “Now, I have to head over to the other rink. But if you need anymore assistance, we have staff all over. You’ll know them by their red jackets that say staff on the back.”

“Gr---great,” the woman stutters. “That’s …”

“We also have two junior coaches on the ice today who can help you out.” Beiste sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles loud enough to make half the rink jump. “Hummel! Smythe! Give us a wave over here!”

Kurt and Sebastian wave their way, bright smiles on their faces as if they haven’t been paying attention to this exchange the whole time. Kurt’s smile in particular grows even brighter when the woman stares at him, her face drawn.

“Come on, team!” Beiste bellows, a hand cupped to the side of her mouth that she doesn’t really need to amplify her voice. “Let’s head on over to the other side!”

Kurt and Sebastian watch Beiste saunter away, leading her troupe of hockey players to the other rink like a mother duck herding her ducklings. Somewhere along the way, both the combative mother and her obnoxious son disappear, the EZ-Skater abandoned beside the orange cones.

Kurt shakes his head at the ridiculousness of it all and sighs - with relief this time.

“I love the way it feels to watch someone get called out when they really deserve it,” he says. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” Sebastian agrees, snaking an arm around Kurt’s waist now that there’s no one around to see.

Kurt turns to him slightly and cocks an eyebrow. “Better than making out?”

“Mmmm … close.” Sebastian looks up at the puck-riddled ceiling and thinks. “But maybe we should go to the locker room and check. You know, just to make sure.”

“Yes,” Kurt says, giggling as Sebastian puts his hands on his hips and pushes him toward the nearest exit. “Let’s.”

[up-sideand-down]

Strings of Fate: Chapter 3

Zack gives up on his honor and dreams when Cloud dies on their way to Midgar. However, not everything in the Lifestream intends to stay there. As Zack tries to put his life back together, two of his old friends are planning their own revenge on ShinRa, and death cannot stop them.

AO3 Link Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Zack stood beside Jessie, looking at the merchandise in Wall Market. They both agreed that she was the brains of this operation, willing to haggle and get what they needed for the mission, and he was the brawn...and her bodyguard. He now knew more than he ever wanted to about how to make a bomb big enough to take out a mako reactor and she had a good idea about what constituted as a decent sword. This would be the fourth shop they stepped into today. 

Jessie scoured over some of the smaller stuff, keeping the shop keeper’s attention, while Zack poured over the bigger weapons. He didn’t have the highest expectations for them, but there had to be something halfway decent that wouldn’t break the first time he used it. 

He almost didn’t believe when he saw it. The hilt was familiar, almost achingly so, reminding him of a time when the world seemed simple...or at least he was more naive. 

A Standard Issue SOLDIER Second Class Broadsword. He hadn’t held one since...since Angeal gave him the Buster. He sniffed once, his cue to Jessie. 

“Anything you want dear?” she asked. Zack was relieved she didn’t call him “snookums” this time. He shrugged noncommittally. 

“It’s not terrible,” Zack said, obviously trying to be nice. The shopkeeper came out from behind the counter as Jesse came to cling to his arm, all starry-eyed and wanting to please. She gave him a wink as they started their slow walk through the blades until Jessie sweet talked them into selling them the sword, plus a few knives and nails, for nearly a third of the price, well under the allowance Barret gave them. 

Zack resisted the urge to clip the sword on his back. He hadn’t made a new magnet for it yet anyway. But his blood froze a little when he saw people parting for someone wearing dark blue. He didn’t recognize them, which was a small relief, but he still locked eyes with the ground, searching for the quickest way out of their line of sight. 

He didn’t realize he had been running until Jessie caught up to him, huffing and puffing. 

“Sorry,” Zack said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“What happened?” she asked, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Zack scrubbed his hand through his head. 

“I thought...nothing,” Zack said, “I’m just paranoid is all.”

“You don’t like Turks either,” she said. Zack smiled. He did like Jessie, she always gave you an easy way out. 

“No,” he said with a nod, “no I don’t.”

Aerith waited for Zack at the bar. She stood awkwardly on the front porch for a while. She jumped when the door opened. Tifa, the bartender, stepped beside her. 

“You can come inside you know,” she said, leaning against the door frame. 

“Oh,” Aerith said, “I don’t mind...I just ran out of flowers and thought I’d wait for Zack. I didn’t want to bug you.” Tifa laughed. 

“I wouldn’t mind...and Marlene has been dancing at the window hoping you’d come in.” Aerith looked behind Tifa and waved back at a wide-eyed Marlene. 

“Where do you find flowers in Midgar?” Tifa asked, “I haven’t seen any since I got here.” 

“I found them growing in a church over in Sector 5,” Aerith said, “I made it a hobby to take care of them...and then Zack gave me the idea to sell them.” 

“Maybe you could show me sometime,” Tifa said, “me and Marlene.” 

“Sure,” Aerith said. 

“Can I get you something to drink,” Tifa asked, “We got a good water filter at the bar. Sometimes we can get news on the TV...until Barret starts yelling at it.” 

“Water sounds good,” Aerith said, following Tifa inside. She beamed at Marlene as she came in. 

Barret was fretting. Tifa knew that look on his face well enough. Their mission was tomorrow. Jessie said they were ready. Biggs and Wedge had the plan memorized, and Zack had all the weapons he needed. 

Barret was running through all the ways it could go wrong...and if she was being honest, there were many. Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge all looked confident still. Zack looked a little concerned. 

“No one is going to get hurt,” Zack reiterated. 

“Just the guards,” Jesse said, “and us if we don’t get out fast enough.” Zack nodded, looking relieved. Tifa turned to Aerith, who was biting her lip. She reached over and touched her free hand. Aerith didn’t pull away.

“Can Marlene and I visit tomorrow?” she asked quietly. Aerith blinked. 

“I’ll come show you guys over tomorrow morning,” Aerith replied. They shared a smile. 

Zack kept himself in the back, covering their tracks and making sure Biggs and Jessie could handle whatever guards this reactor had. The train had been easy, but he had no doubts it was going to get harder the further into the reactor they got. 

Barret waved at him impatiently for him to catch up. He was getting more and more irritable as the mission wore on, but Zack figured it was his way of fretting over them. He cared about his people. Zack could recognize that. 

They climbed into the elevator together. Barret ran through the plan one last time. 

“Jessie, the new guy, and I go into the reactor,” Barret said, “Biggs and Wedge, you-”

“Guard outside,” Biggs said, “We know.” Barret humphed and crossed his arms. 

“The bomb has to go just above the manual controls,” Jessie reminded them, “whoever sets it...you’ll have to run like hell.” 

“I’ll do it,” Zack said. It felt like instinct to say it. He had his sword on his back and a good mission plan. It almost felt like the good old days. Barret eyed him. 

“Like hell,” Barret said, “My operation, remember.”

“Then I’m going with you,” Zack said. Barret stared at him for a long time, but said nothing. The elevator beeped and they filed out. 

Tifa stared all around the run down church, feeling like a child. It reminded her of Nibelhiem...but in a gentle way. An old memory of being in the valley a few miles below with her mother. It was summer...flowers were blooming everywhere. 

“It’s not much,” Aerith said, snapping her out of her reverie. Marlene was bent over the hole where the floorboards were pried up, staring at buds ready to bloom below. 

“It’s beautiful,” Marlene said. 

“I’m behind on weeding,” Aerith said, “and watering. Sometimes some girls from this Sector take care of them for me. I tell them not to worry their parents by running here.” 

“Can I help?” Marlene asked. Aerith laughed. 

“Sure, but it’s pretty boring work,” she said, “nothing too glamorous here.” Aerith gave Marlene a hand into the flowers. Tifa looked at the windows a moment longer, then walked over to join them.

Zack knew there was something up thei the alarm that rang once the bomb was set. He pulled Barret away before the robot could pin him. He eyed it. Whatever these were...they looked a lot better than what ShinRa was making when he was a SOLDIER. 

He pulled his sword out as Barret raised his gun arm. Barret nodded at him in thanks. Zack gave a small grin before making his first move. 

“Do you really fight people with this?” Tifa asked, picking up her staff. 

“Usually just little monsters,” she said, “Most people leave me alone...I had a reputation of having some tough bodyguards so most people don’t bother me.” 

“Where did you learn to use it?” Tifa asked. 

“Zack taught me a little,” she said, “I kinda taught myself a little more. What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Not many people don’t know how to fight here,” Aerith said. 

“Oh...Hand to hand,” she said, “I started training when I was a little girl.” Aerith looked up. 

“Really?”

“Do you want me to show you,” Tifa said putting her hands on her hips. 

“Kind of.”

Zack knew Jessie was stuck just by the way she was standing. He rushed over, hoping they still had a minute or so left. 

“Pull it back, and--there you go,” he said. 

“Thanks,” she said. She ran ahead of him, rejoining with Biggs and Wedge. They had made it to their escape slide when it went off. There was a horrible creaking sound and then the ground rumbled beneath them. Jessie’s eyes got wide. 

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Barret said patting her shoulder. The green glow slowly died replaced by a black smoke as the reactor shuddered and died. 

“Alright, now split up before you get on the train,” Barret said, “one at a time through the pipe.” 

Tifa had gone through one hand drill when they heard the sirens. All of them got quiet. 

“They’re okay,” Aerith said, “I just...I have a feeling.” Tifa nodded, but rubbed Marlene’s shoulders reassuringly. 

“Show me how to do this,” Tifa asked the child. 

Zack had his back turned from the troopers milling through the station. He pretended to be fiddling with the identification kiosk, and tried to look casual. Bored. 

He could hear them questioning some of the people on the train. He smacked the machine once, like the guy next to him was doing. He breathed out when they filed out.

“Hey,” Zack turned at the voice. The trooper’s eyes widened a little when he saw Zack’s face. 

“Don’t I know you from someplace?” 

“No,” Zack said. 

“I never forget a face,” the man said, “Can I see your identification?”

“Lost it,” Zack said, too quickly it seemed, “Got mugged a few days ago. Can’t get these machines to work.” 

“I swear I’ve seen you,” the man said, “want me to try and help you out.”

“It’s fine,” Zack said. 

“You’ll be able to get on the train with it,” the man said. Zack felt panic closing in and with it came either the stupidest or most brilliant snap decision of his life. 

Only a day later would he decide it was totally worth it. 

Tifa and Marlene left Aerith at the church to make their way back to start opening up the bar. Tifa kept on her bright face for the girl, part of her worried sick. Another part, as strange as it was, believe Aerith’s words. All of them were okay and they would be walking up to the bar in a few moments. She had lived long enough to know that most of the time her intuition was right. 

She still breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the group walking up. Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge were surrounding Zack. 

“You seriously jumped on a moving train,” Biggs said, pulling at his hair, “that was...amazing.”

“It was stupid,” Barret corrected him. 

“It was stupid,” Zack said, “and fun.” Zack returned the high-give Biggs offered him. 

“It would have been perfect if my ID hack had worked,” Jessie said with a sad smile. 

“You’ll get it right next time,” Zack said, “to be honest, it was probably the glitchy system that threw you off more than anything. I tried using one of those kiosks...it kept giving me the same prompt over and over.” 

“It went well?” Tifa asked as they filed in. 

Barret gave an annoyed sigh as Zack and the AVALANCHE trio came in...then his face smoothed back out. 

“Yeah,” Barret said, “It did. He earned his keep, I’ll give him that. Still kind of a dumbass though.” 

Aerith walked a little closer to Zack as they made their way home from the church. He still had that aura around him...the sad crushing guilt. But she felt some remnant of the real Zack in him, like it woke up for a little bit. 

“It go okay?” she asked. 

“The bombing did,” Zack said, “I...I messed up a little getting back. Someone...almost recognized me and I panicked.” Aerith waited him out. 

“I jumped on the train when it started to move,” Zack said. 

“You...what?” 

“I made sure I was out of sight before I did it. I just had to get out of there, but the train was the only way back...so I jumped...and it was kind of fun.” Aerith knew he was waiting for her to tell him it was stupid...but he was smiling at her. 

He hadn’t smiled in...

“Show off,” Aerith said, leaning closer to him. 

Just outside of Kalm, the Buster Sword was pulled roughly from a Fang. He frowned at the gore on the blade and wiped it off clumsily. He still wasn’t quite used to this body, this sword. It frustrated him to no end. 

Patience, patience and practice. He growled at the voice in his head. He knew what needed to be done. 

Good. 

He kept moving, towards the dark clouds in the distance that shrouded Midgar. He narrowed his eyes at it, at the part of ShinRa tower he could see. He’d be there soon. 

Yes, but rest first. You need that body to last you until we finish the first strike. He knew it was right, even though he didn’t want it to be. 

Hold on to your anger. It will serve you well in the days to come. It will make you strong. 

“I know,” he snapped at it, “It worked well enough against you didn’t it?” Instead of anger, he felt a dark humor settle over him. Like maniacal laugher on the other end of a phone call. 

I will see you in the tower. Now get some rest, Cloud. 

[rewiredthethirdblog]

Comment by pepperjones926 on Reddit

The New London School Explosion. On the afternoon of March 18, 1937, the shop teacher at the school in New London, TX turned on an electric sander. Unbeknownst to him, there was a massive natural gas leak under the school. The sander sparked, which ignited the gas and caused a massive explosion that killed almost 300 students and teachers. It was absolutely horrific. The force of the explosion was so great that a two ton block of concrete crushed a car parked 200 feet away. This event is actually why natural gas has a smell now. They started adding it after the explosion so that something like this couldn’t ever happen again.

My grandfather was actually one of the survivors of the explosion. He never talked about it, even to his own family, so I didn’t really know too much about it (other than the fact that he’d survived) until after his death. Toward the end of his life, he’d suffered a series of strokes that left him pretty physically incapacitated, so my dad had given him a voice-activated tape recorder and suggested maybe he could record his memoirs for his grandkids to listen to someday. As it turns out, he did. We have hours and hours of cassette tapes of him telling the story of his (actually very interesting) life, including a big section on the New London school explosion. For the sake of everyone’s privacy, I’ll call my grandfather Papa and use an initial for anyone else.

Papa was in eighth grade when it happened, in his English class at about 3:00 PM on a Thursday afternoon. At the beginning of class, Papa and his buddy T had been messing around and being loud in the back of the classroom (as eighth grade boys often do). His teacher, Miss M, had enough of their disruptions and made Papa switch seats with another student. He moved into the girl’s desk in the front row, and she moved back into his desk in the back of the room. When the school exploded, they were taking a test on the book Ivanhoe. Papa was knocked out for a short time, and when he woke up, he couldn’t see anything because the dust was so thick. He looked down and saw that his pencil had blown clear through his hand. When the dust cleared, he saw that the whole back of the room was gone. I won’t go into details, but there were bodies (and parts of bodies) everywhere. The students in the front half of the room survived. The students in the back half did not. That included Papa’s friend T and the little girl who’d been forced to take Papa’s desk because of his misbehavior at the beginning of class. If he hadn’t been acting up, he would have been killed and she would have lived. He carried the guilt of her death until the day he died.

Papa’s classroom was on the second floor. There wasn’t any way to get to the room other than the open cavity of the explosion. After the few seconds of initial shock wore off, he and another classmate jumped into action. They were the only two kids in the class who hadn’t been badly injured. They made a tourniquet out of a sock and a shoelace for a girl with a severe injury to her arm and dug out their teacher, who was alive, but badly injured. By then, men were running up underneath the hole, so Papa and the other boy started lowering the injured to them. Then those who could walk, including Papa, climbed down. He ran off to look for his older brother, B, to see if he was OK.

As it turned out, B had been supposed to be in Geometry class. However, he and his buddy had snuck out to go fishing. The explosion happened as they were opening the door to head out to the parking lot. The force of the blast sent them tumbling head over foot across the lot. They were both banged up and dazed, but they survived. The rest of their Geometry class was killed. I don’t know that there’s a moral in the fact that both my grandfather and his brother survived because they were misbehaving that day. I do know that it weighed very heavily on both of them for he rest of their lives.

There’s a lot more to his story about the day and the aftermath (most of it absolutely horrific), but I won’t go into all of it here. A few small tidbits though:

- Papa and the boy who helped him rescue the other students from their classroom were both awarded medals and certificates of valor for their actions that day.

- Nearly every family in town lost a child - some all of their children. I’m sure you can imagine the extreme toll this took on everyone’s mental health. Papa described New London in the months following the explosion as a “town with no children.” To help with the healing process, the oil companies actively recruited families with kids to transfer in, so that there was some sense of normalcy when school started again in the fall.

- Papa had played French horn in the school band. However, when school started up again, he was asked to switch to trumpet, as the entire trumpet section had been killed.

A few years later, my grandfather went on to fight in World War II, and he saw some of the worst conflict in the Pacific (including Peleliu and the liberation of Manila). But he said that nothing he saw during the war was ever as bad as what he saw the day of the explosion. I’m always amazed that more people don’t know about it. It was major international news at the time.

EDIT: Holy cow! I’m overwhelmed by the amount of interest this has brought. Thank you for all of the awards and comments! To address a couple of things people mentioned in the comments:

- There is a small museum at the site of the explosion in New London. If you’re ever out that way, I do recommend checking it out. It is very well done and incredibly moving. My grandfather’s story, while amazing, is just one of many that day.

- A couple people mentioned the telegram from Hitler. Yes, it’s there at the museum. This was a few years before he came into full power, but he was an up-and-coming political figure in Germany at the time. I looked it up online. The original is in German, but the translation reads, “On the occasion of the terrible explosion at New London, Tex, which took so many young lives, I want to assure your Excellency of my and the German people‘s sincere sympathy. - Adolph Hitler, German Reichs Chancellor.”

- I don’t know the details, but I do know from some things my grandmother said, that Papa had some PTSD, both from the explosion and the war.

- We did get the recordings converted to digital files, which we have stored in several safe locations. A number of years ago I under took the project of transcribing everything and putting together a book of my grandfathers total memoirs. In addition to the school explosion, he really lived a fascinating life. As a little kid, he was present for one of the most famous circus disasters of all time (the Corsicana elephant rampage), and he saw some of the fiercest action in the Pacific as an engineer for the Army Air Force during WW2. He also went from being the dirt poor son of an oil field worker to a pretty successful salesman. Later in life, at the same time my dad went to graduate school, Papa decided to go back to school and get his masters as well, which led to a career shift to become a college professor, and he taught in both Louisiana and Hong Kong. He was really a very interesting guy. Sadly, he had his two strokes when I was pretty young, and he died when I was 14, so all of my memories of him are of a pretty ill man in a wheelchair. Working on transcribing his memoirs, I feel like I got to know him better after his death than I ever did in life. I am so thankful for that. I compiled the memoirs into a book that we published just for family members. In addition to my grandfather’s personal photographs (he kept a camera with him all throughout the war), there are a number of pictures that I pulled from online, so we couldn’t publish it as it is due to copyright issues. But maybe someday I will go back and reformat everything to submit to the Library of Congress or for wider distribution.

- You want a happy story about him to help counter the explosion? This is a good one. :-) At the start of WW2, while he was in basic training, a girl named Kitty sent her brother Keith a goofy picture of herself splashing around in the creek behind their family farm in TX. The picture of Kitty caught the attention of Keith's bunkmate, Papa, who decided to write Kitty a smart alecky note of his own, jokingly criticizing her manners for showing her ugly bare feet in public. Kitty was not amused. She wrote him a scathing letter, and received a very apologetic note from Papa in response. This began a written correspondence that continued throughout the war. Papa wrote faithfully from some of the most remote, dangerous locations in the Pacific. She sent him news of the home front and taunted him with descriptions of fried chicken dinners. He sent her pictures of crocodiles and told her of the orphaned children he cared for after the Liberation of Manila. When Papa came back to the US in 1946, he made a trip out to the farm to see his old friend Keith and to finally meet Kitty face to face. That was on a Friday. They were engaged the following Wednesday and were happily married for over 50 years.

Edit #2 for a typo.

Edit #3 - u/The_Essayist_8 brought this video clip to my attention, and it’s a pretty good account of the event. There are firsthand survivor stories, including one quite similar to my grandfather’s situation, only this man traded seats with another student so that he could sit near the girl he liked. He survived, the other student did not. Worth a watch, but be warned that it’s pretty heartbreaking. https://youtu.be/aKt01p3DJRw

[shelbiegiles11]

Annotated Bibliography

Annotated Bibliography

BYU B2 Dance team: I used this ballroom team to explain how teamwork can help reach success, and the difference other people make in our life. As a personal experience, this helped me relate to my subject from the beginning of the text and be able to expand to others later on. The biggest way it will help the reader to understand, is by showing from a team perspective why people can change our lives. Not only does it bring a sense of foreshadowing at the beginning of the paper, but it slowly helps the reader look into empowerment created by other intuitions. The coach inspires the dancers, the dancers inspire their coach, the dancers inspire each other, and the dancers can even inspire a crowd. The whole sense of accomplishment from the start talking about starting from the bottom and working their way up together creates a feel-good story that people will continue reading to understand how they can find that themselves, or even just to learn how the story ends. Hearing more from the author personally, allows the author and reader to create a friendship, a bond where they care about what is going on. I wanted to captivate my audience, but not run out of things to talk about. I didn't find that hard at all because I could relate to the personal story I could find more things to write about, and I'm not sure personally if the story was captivating, but I hope that the reader found it at least entertaining.

2. 

Quote from Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi: The quote I use from Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi is: “ The best moments usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile. Optimal experience is this something that we make happen.”I used this quote because it shows the reader in which ways we can benefit from being alone or together. If we have a better output of success when we are alone then that may be how we accomplish the difficult and worthwhile things. But others may feel that if we as people have the same goal that we can push each other and make one another feel almost peer pressure to finish our goals and push past the difficult times in our lives. We as people must find certain things that make us tick. The things that push us passed our limits, and whether that be to have help from family and friends pushing you to do what they know you can, or just working on being self-reliant and accomplishing your goals for you we must find what works. There will always be challenges in our lives, we will have to stretch our minds VOLUNTARILY. The word voluntarily is a big part here because even if we do have people pushing us to accomplish our goals, we must do it voluntarily. Not being forced, we will feel more accomplished and ready to face bigger problems if we can just choose to really work on accomplishing those difficult and worthwhile tasks. 

3.

Moore, Emily. “How to Look Out For Yourself While Still Being a Team Player.” Glassdoor Blog, 6 June 2017, https://www.glassdoor.com/blog/how-to-look-out-for-yourself-while-still-being-a-team-player/.

This article by Emily Moore on how to keep ourselves individualized while still on a team was helpful for what I was writing because it put the topic into a norm everyday aspect. It took the view of a company and how teamwork plays a huge roll on employees and how the collaboration well done can build a company vs. collaboration that is broken can eventually lead to a company breaking down. The imagery used from a company being lifted by cylinders, each cylinder is either a unit of the company, or can potentially be the individuals themselves. In the article, she says, "If you aren't your own biggest advocate, odds are that no one else will be." You can advance your own personal career while still helping colleagues. Working as a team can be difficult in very many ways. In the first scenario she uses she talks about how we can exceed our expectations for a team, we may work harder than anybody else but because it was a team effort the whole group is recognized for your hard work. The advice she has is to not brag, but do mention your own accomplishments. Presenting the idea as a whole may not be the right time to talk about your personal efforts, but performance reviews are the perfect time to bring up what you accomplished individually. If you work for a good employer they will see what you have done and take that information well. Make sure that you keep lifting your team and lifting yourself, that's the best thing we can do.  

4.

Kurzgesagt-In a Nutshell. “Loneliness.”

Youtube, 17 June 2019, 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3Xv_g3g-mA

This video proves loneliness is bad for you. It makes you age quicker, Alzheimer's advance faster, and weakens your immune system. It is 2x as deadly as obesity and as deadly as smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. It can become chronic and then it becomes self-sustaining. You become more defensive when you're lonely and you start seeing danger and hostility everywhere. We meet people less often today. In 1985 you had 3 close friends, and in 2011 the number dropped to 2. When you are an adult you can't make time to make friends. You have your spouse, children, and your job. The easiest thing to sacrifice is your friends. Chronic loneliness is one of the most unhealthy things we can experience. Even though everyone feels lonely from time to time the percentage of people has raised. In the US 46% of the population become lonely regularly. Even though we live in the most "Connective" time in life. Social skills don't even make a difference. Nothing can protect us against loneliness. The best way we can protect ourselves against loneliness is to find friends, keep our social networks open. Becoming a "lone-wolf" just because we believe we are too busy, or because we think we can handle it is not a good enough reason to lose friends. Chronic loneliness is a serious condition where depression plays in and that makes life dangerous. We can stay out of chronic loneliness by just staying social and living our lives the best to our abilities. 

5.

Smith, Mark A., et al. “The Effects of Social Learning on the Acquisition of Cocaine Self-Administration.” Drug and Alcohol Dependence, vol. 146, 2015, DOI:10.1016/j.drugalcdep.2014.09.645.

This article was written after an experiment to find the difference between drug use and addiction. The base of the experiment was to give a rat drugged water with the drug being cocaine. But then instead of giving the rat just one water with the cocaine, they gave it water without and water with cocaine. The rat immediately picked the drugged water, craving the drug more than water itself. They tried two different types of socialization with these drug-addicted rats. When they put them with other drug-addicted rats the rats would still go for the drugs, but when they put the addicted rats with more "naive" rats, they were able to socialize the whole experiment without using the drug. This experiment shows us many views of individual strength and strength with others. When we have others in our lives who are just like us, and who are addicted to the same things as us it doesn't help us overcome our obstacles. But, when we have people in our lives as good examples for us to follow and can push us in the right direction. If the addicted rats didn't have the naive rats, they would have fallen back into their addiction, but because they had a good example they stayed away from the drug. But the sad thing is most of us have people around us who are exactly like us. We must find people in our lives who will help us reach our goals, and who will help us be better people! 

6. 

HENKES, KEVIN. CHRYSANTHEMUM. GREENWILLOW BOOKS, 2020.

Chrysanthemum. A child's book written by Kevin Henkes, also a flower. In the book a little mouse, a perfect little mouse was named Chrysanthemum. In the book, at first she loves her name, but later on in the book, people begin to make fun of her. Her classmates say that her name is too long and that she it didn't fit on her name tag. This made the little mouse feel sad. Her parents helped her regain her confidence as well as her teacher. In the end, Chrysanthemum realizes that her name is perfect and that she loves her name. There are two main things we can take out of this text. One being the individual side of the book. Chrysanthemum is very unique in her own way. She learns throughout the book to not care what others think and to love herself for who she is. This is important because the judgment we receive from others can affect our opinion, but if we can push passed that on our own we will be able to have more confidence and self-love.  The problem in the book is that Chrysanthemum needs help from her parents and teacher to push passed the judgment. With people telling her to keep going and to stay herself she was able to push past the bullying and find who she truly was. Now remember, this is a children's book. We were taught these lessons as children. We were taught to self-love, but to also turn to the people we trust and tell them not only what's going on but to take their advice and love and use it. 

7.

Brown, Daniel James. The Boys in the Boat: Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Penguin Books, 2016.

1936, Germany vs America. Adolf Hitler’s rowing team versus a small-town American boys team. Who will work better as a team to get the gold medal in the end? Emotions, physical strain, and the pressure to win surrounds the topic of teams and how they work great together, or will not work at all. One quote in the book is from George Yeoman Pocock that says, “‘pull your own weight,’ and the young oarsman does just that when he finds out that the boat goes better when he does.” This is where we see individuality in a team pulling through. In a boat especially on a rowing team, the boys must all row together at the same time if they want their boat to go in the right direction, and as powerful as it can go. But, each rower themselves has to find their motivation to keep rowing even when they get tired, they can't stop and rely on their team. There is always power in numbers, but if those numbers are weak on their own their power declines. The other thought I got out of this source is when Mr. Pocock says, "Just as a skilled rider is said to become part of his horse, the skilled oarsman must become part of his boat." This stuck out to me because of our individual motivation and determination to become skilled at something must come from ourselves. We have the team to push us, and we have a coach to tell us how to improve, but if we ourselves do not practice, and put in the devotion and time into the thing we want to succeed in, we will not be as skilled as we could be.  

8.

“Nursing and Health Care Partnership Building for Sustained Team Results.” Team Leadership and Partnering in Nursing and Health Care, doi:10.1891/9780826199898.0011.

There are few things that we cannot do without teamwork, and this article talks about nursing in the medical field, and how without teamwork we would fail. Me being a nurse myself was able to relate to this topic pretty well. One quote in the article says, "Nursing care provided by teams that are not healthy results in delivery of a lower quality of patient care and poorer patient outcomes compared with care provided by healthy teams." And I couldn't agree more, without all the nurses and doctors working together with the same goal but it is hard to meet patients, or a facilities needs. Each person plays a special role in this world and without each individual doing what they are assigned to do places such as hospitals, nursing homes, or anything else may not function in the way they properly should be. But roles are another thing this article specifically looks at. "The team must be recognized as a team and each team member must have a clear role in the team." Without a clear view of what role a person plays the necessity for each person is not met. When we have certain roles that are clear and know that is when progress is made, and yet each individual can contribute and feel included. Without teams companies could not function but, different perspectives are valued and encouraged" each person is unique and different opinions can make the ultimate decisions better for everyone involved. So overall this article taught me that being unique and independent is just as important as the whole team has the same goal. 

9.

Chesler, Phyllis. “The Crisis of Individualism.” Fox News, FOX News Network, 21 Dec. 2014, https://www.foxnews.com/opinion/the-crisis-of-individualism.

Opinions. Opinions are key when talking about individualism. Opinions are key even when you talk about working together. Two of the same opinion can create joy, but two of the opposite opinions could ruin something whether that be a friendship, a career, or even just a project. This article from Fox News talks about speaking your opinion and the risks it can have today. Because we cannot speak our minds without being ridiculed or teased we are losing independent thinking. We no longer get to believe what we want because, if it's not what the government, your neighbors, friends, or family want, you're probably scared to speak about it without feeling judged. This is the norm of today. The article even brings up exact examples where this is shown. "Last week, in Russian Georgia, a priest-led mob of 20000 attacked a small gay rights march, injuring at least 14 gay rights activists." Even if they thought they were being God's tools or thought it wouldn't affect anyone because it was in "God's name" doesn't mean it didn't have an affect. These people were having their march in peace to show what they believed, but because it was potentially "wrong in someone Else's mind" We can not speak freely like the constitution said we should be able to. We can not write, or post what our ideas are without being attacked. And the attackers are everywhere. In person, or over social media it's hard. I wish yall the best of luck with the world out there have a great day.

10.

Tracy, Brian. Master Your Time, Master Your Life: The Breakthrough System to Get More Results, Faster, in Every Area of Your Life. Penguin Books, 2017.

“The time you spend with other people, and the way you spent it determines perhaps 85 percent of your happiness, success, or failure in life.” Every day I find this quote to be more and more true. Brian Tracy is just a Canadian motivational speaker, but I have never heard a quote that makes more sense in my mind. I love spending time with my family, or my boyfriend, but the time we spend together is what makes the time a success or failure. If I'm spending time with my siblings and we are just watching TV on the couch that's not a bonding experience with them, and then we only have the memory of being bored together. But if I'm spending time with my boyfriend and I meet his parents and then we go carve pumpkins those memories will last forever, and meeting his parents is an important step in a relationship. Making sure that you make memories with people, and work together with them is very important. If you both have homework, studying together can make a huge difference in your success, but at the same time having fun memories can make a huge difference in your personal happiness. This is where being alone is on the downside. When you're alone there aren't many memories you can make on your own, if you go on a vacation alone even the people you meet wherever you vacation make a difference in your joy. People are the reason behind memories and real happiness.

[rewiredthethirdblog]

Comment by pepperjones926 on Reddit

The New London School Explosion. On the afternoon of March 18, 1937, the shop teacher at the school in New London, TX turned on an electric sander. Unbeknownst to him, there was a massive natural gas leak under the school. The sander sparked, which ignited the gas and caused a massive explosion that killed almost 300 students and teachers. It was absolutely horrific. The force of the explosion was so great that a two ton block of concrete crushed a car parked 200 feet away. This event is actually why natural gas has a smell now. They started adding it after the explosion so that something like this couldn’t ever happen again.

My grandfather was actually one of the survivors of the explosion. He never talked about it, even to his own family, so I didn’t really know too much about it (other than the fact that he’d survived) until after his death. Toward the end of his life, he’d suffered a series of strokes that left him pretty physically incapacitated, so my dad had given him a voice-activated tape recorder and suggested maybe he could record his memoirs for his grandkids to listen to someday. As it turns out, he did. We have hours and hours of cassette tapes of him telling the story of his (actually very interesting) life, including a big section on the New London school explosion. For the sake of everyone’s privacy, I’ll call my grandfather Papa and use an initial for anyone else.

Papa was in eighth grade when it happened, in his English class at about 3:00 PM on a Thursday afternoon. At the beginning of class, Papa and his buddy T had been messing around and being loud in the back of the classroom (as eighth grade boys often do). His teacher, Miss M, had enough of their disruptions and made Papa switch seats with another student. He moved into the girl’s desk in the front row, and she moved back into his desk in the back of the room. When the school exploded, they were taking a test on the book Ivanhoe. Papa was knocked out for a short time, and when he woke up, he couldn’t see anything because the dust was so thick. He looked down and saw that his pencil had blown clear through his hand. When the dust cleared, he saw that the whole back of the room was gone. I won’t go into details, but there were bodies (and parts of bodies) everywhere. The students in the front half of the room survived. The students in the back half did not. That included Papa’s friend T and the little girl who’d been forced to take Papa’s desk because of his misbehavior at the beginning of class. If he hadn’t been acting up, he would have been killed and she would have lived. He carried the guilt of her death until the day he died.

Papa’s classroom was on the second floor. There wasn’t any way to get to the room other than the open cavity of the explosion. After the few seconds of initial shock wore off, he and another classmate jumped into action. They were the only two kids in the class who hadn’t been badly injured. They made a tourniquet out of a sock and a shoelace for a girl with a severe injury to her arm and dug out their teacher, who was alive, but badly injured. By then, men were running up underneath the hole, so Papa and the other boy started lowering the injured to them. Then those who could walk, including Papa, climbed down. He ran off to look for his older brother, B, to see if he was OK.

As it turned out, B had been supposed to be in Geometry class. However, he and his buddy had snuck out to go fishing. The explosion happened as they were opening the door to head out to the parking lot. The force of the blast sent them tumbling head over foot across the lot. They were both banged up and dazed, but they survived. The rest of their Geometry class was killed. I don’t know that there’s a moral in the fact that both my grandfather and his brother survived because they were misbehaving that day. I do know that it weighed very heavily on both of them for he rest of their lives.

There’s a lot more to his story about the day and the aftermath (most of it absolutely horrific), but I won’t go into all of it here. A few small tidbits though:

- Papa and the boy who helped him rescue the other students from their classroom were both awarded medals and certificates of valor for their actions that day.

- Nearly every family in town lost a child - some all of their children. I’m sure you can imagine the extreme toll this took on everyone’s mental health. Papa described New London in the months following the explosion as a “town with no children.” To help with the healing process, the oil companies actively recruited families with kids to transfer in, so that there was some sense of normalcy when school started again in the fall.

- Papa had played French horn in the school band. However, when school started up again, he was asked to switch to trumpet, as the entire trumpet section had been killed.

A few years later, my grandfather went on to fight in World War II, and he saw some of the worst conflict in the Pacific (including Peleliu and the liberation of Manila). But he said that nothing he saw during the war was ever as bad as what he saw the day of the explosion. I’m always amazed that more people don’t know about it. It was major international news at the time.

EDIT: Holy cow! I’m overwhelmed by the amount of interest this has brought. Thank you for all of the awards and comments! To address a couple of things people mentioned in the comments:

- There is a small museum at the site of the explosion in New London. If you’re ever out that way, I do recommend checking it out. It is very well done and incredibly moving. My grandfather’s story, while amazing, is just one of many that day.

- A couple people mentioned the telegram from Hitler. Yes, it’s there at the museum. This was a few years before he came into full power, but he was an up-and-coming political figure in Germany at the time. I looked it up online. The original is in German, but the translation reads, “On the occasion of the terrible explosion at New London, Tex, which took so many young lives, I want to assure your Excellency of my and the German people‘s sincere sympathy. - Adolph Hitler, German Reichs Chancellor.”

- I don’t know the details, but I do know from some things my grandmother said, that Papa had some PTSD, both from the explosion and the war.

- We did get the recordings converted to digital files, which we have stored in several safe locations. A number of years ago I under took the project of transcribing everything and putting together a book of my grandfathers total memoirs. In addition to the school explosion, he really lived a fascinating life. As a little kid, he was present for one of the most famous circus disasters of all time (the Corsicana elephant rampage), and he saw some of the fiercest action in the Pacific as an engineer for the Army Air Force during WW2. He also went from being the dirt poor son of an oil field worker to a pretty successful salesman. Later in life, at the same time my dad went to graduate school, Papa decided to go back to school and get his masters as well, which led to a career shift to become a college professor, and he taught in both Louisiana and Hong Kong. He was really a very interesting guy. Sadly, he had his two strokes when I was pretty young, and he died when I was 14, so all of my memories of him are of a pretty ill man in a wheelchair. Working on transcribing his memoirs, I feel like I got to know him better after his death than I ever did in life. I am so thankful for that. I compiled the memoirs into a book that we published just for family members. In addition to my grandfather’s personal photographs (he kept a camera with him all throughout the war), there are a number of pictures that I pulled from online, so we couldn’t publish it as it is due to copyright issues. But maybe someday I will go back and reformat everything to submit to the Library of Congress or for wider distribution.

- You want a happy story about him to help counter the explosion? This is a good one. :-) At the start of WW2, while he was in basic training, a girl named Kitty sent her brother Keith a goofy picture of herself splashing around in the creek behind their family farm in TX. The picture of Kitty caught the attention of Keith's bunkmate, Papa, who decided to write Kitty a smart alecky note of his own, jokingly criticizing her manners for showing her ugly bare feet in public. Kitty was not amused. She wrote him a scathing letter, and received a very apologetic note from Papa in response. This began a written correspondence that continued throughout the war. Papa wrote faithfully from some of the most remote, dangerous locations in the Pacific. She sent him news of the home front and taunted him with descriptions of fried chicken dinners. He sent her pictures of crocodiles and told her of the orphaned children he cared for after the Liberation of Manila. When Papa came back to the US in 1946, he made a trip out to the farm to see his old friend Keith and to finally meet Kitty face to face. That was on a Friday. They were engaged the following Wednesday and were happily married for over 50 years.

Edit #2 for a typo.

Edit #3 - u/The_Essayist_8 brought this video clip to my attention, and it’s a pretty good account of the event. There are firsthand survivor stories, including one quite similar to my grandfather’s situation, only this man traded seats with another student so that he could sit near the girl he liked. He survived, the other student did not. Worth a watch, but be warned that it’s pretty heartbreaking. https://youtu.be/aKt01p3DJRw

[rewiredthethirdblog]

Comment by pepperjones926 on Reddit

The New London School Explosion. On the afternoon of March 18, 1937, the shop teacher at the school in New London, TX turned on an electric sander. Unbeknownst to him, there was a massive natural gas leak under the school. The sander sparked, which ignited the gas and caused a massive explosion that killed almost 300 students and teachers. It was absolutely horrific. The force of the explosion was so great that a two ton block of concrete crushed a car parked 200 feet away. This event is actually why natural gas has a smell now. They started adding it after the explosion so that something like this couldn’t ever happen again.

My grandfather was actually one of the survivors of the explosion. He never talked about it, even to his own family, so I didn’t really know too much about it (other than the fact that he’d survived) until after his death. Toward the end of his life, he’d suffered a series of strokes that left him pretty physically incapacitated, so my dad had given him a voice-activated tape recorder and suggested maybe he could record his memoirs for his grandkids to listen to someday. As it turns out, he did. We have hours and hours of cassette tapes of him telling the story of his (actually very interesting) life, including a big section on the New London school explosion. For the sake of everyone’s privacy, I’ll call my grandfather Papa and use an initial for anyone else.

Papa was in eighth grade when it happened, in his English class at about 3:00 PM on a Thursday afternoon. At the beginning of class, Papa and his buddy T had been messing around and being loud in the back of the classroom (as eighth grade boys often do). His teacher, Miss M, had enough of their disruptions and made Papa switch seats with another student. He moved into the girl’s desk in the front row, and she moved back into his desk in the back of the room. When the school exploded, they were taking a test on the book Ivanhoe. Papa was knocked out for a short time, and when he woke up, he couldn’t see anything because the dust was so thick. He looked down and saw that his pencil had blown clear through his hand. When the dust cleared, he saw that the whole back of the room was gone. I won’t go into details, but there were bodies (and parts of bodies) everywhere. The students in the front half of the room survived. The students in the back half did not. That included Papa’s friend T and the little girl who’d been forced to take Papa’s desk because of his misbehavior at the beginning of class. If he hadn’t been acting up, he would have been killed and she would have lived. He carried the guilt of her death until the day he died.

Papa’s classroom was on the second floor. There wasn’t any way to get to the room other than the open cavity of the explosion. After the few seconds of initial shock wore off, he and another classmate jumped into action. They were the only two kids in the class who hadn’t been badly injured. They made a tourniquet out of a sock and a shoelace for a girl with a severe injury to her arm and dug out their teacher, who was alive, but badly injured. By then, men were running up underneath the hole, so Papa and the other boy started lowering the injured to them. Then those who could walk, including Papa, climbed down. He ran off to look for his older brother, B, to see if he was OK.

As it turned out, B had been supposed to be in Geometry class. However, he and his buddy had snuck out to go fishing. The explosion happened as they were opening the door to head out to the parking lot. The force of the blast sent them tumbling head over foot across the lot. They were both banged up and dazed, but they survived. The rest of their Geometry class was killed. I don’t know that there’s a moral in the fact that both my grandfather and his brother survived because they were misbehaving that day. I do know that it weighed very heavily on both of them for he rest of their lives.

There’s a lot more to his story about the day and the aftermath (most of it absolutely horrific), but I won’t go into all of it here. A few small tidbits though:

- Papa and the boy who helped him rescue the other students from their classroom were both awarded medals and certificates of valor for their actions that day.

- Nearly every family in town lost a child - some all of their children. I’m sure you can imagine the extreme toll this took on everyone’s mental health. Papa described New London in the months following the explosion as a “town with no children.” To help with the healing process, the oil companies actively recruited families with kids to transfer in, so that there was some sense of normalcy when school started again in the fall.

- Papa had played French horn in the school band. However, when school started up again, he was asked to switch to trumpet, as the entire trumpet section had been killed.

A few years later, my grandfather went on to fight in World War II, and he saw some of the worst conflict in the Pacific (including Peleliu and the liberation of Manila). But he said that nothing he saw during the war was ever as bad as what he saw the day of the explosion. I’m always amazed that more people don’t know about it. It was major international news at the time.

EDIT: Holy cow! I’m overwhelmed by the amount of interest this has brought. Thank you for all of the awards and comments! To address a couple of things people mentioned in the comments:

- There is a small museum at the site of the explosion in New London. If you’re ever out that way, I do recommend checking it out. It is very well done and incredibly moving. My grandfather’s story, while amazing, is just one of many that day.

- A couple people mentioned the telegram from Hitler. Yes, it’s there at the museum. This was a few years before he came into full power, but he was an up-and-coming political figure in Germany at the time. I looked it up online. The original is in German, but the translation reads, “On the occasion of the terrible explosion at New London, Tex, which took so many young lives, I want to assure your Excellency of my and the German people‘s sincere sympathy. - Adolph Hitler, German Reichs Chancellor.”

- I don’t know the details, but I do know from some things my grandmother said, that Papa had some PTSD, both from the explosion and the war.

- We did get the recordings converted to digital files, which we have stored in several safe locations. A number of years ago I under took the project of transcribing everything and putting together a book of my grandfathers total memoirs. In addition to the school explosion, he really lived a fascinating life. As a little kid, he was present for one of the most famous circus disasters of all time (the Corsicana elephant rampage), and he saw some of the fiercest action in the Pacific as an engineer for the Army Air Force during WW2. He also went from being the dirt poor son of an oil field worker to a pretty successful salesman. Later in life, at the same time my dad went to graduate school, Papa decided to go back to school and get his masters as well, which led to a career shift to become a college professor, and he taught in both Louisiana and Hong Kong. He was really a very interesting guy. Sadly, he had his two strokes when I was pretty young, and he died when I was 14, so all of my memories of him are of a pretty ill man in a wheelchair. Working on transcribing his memoirs, I feel like I got to know him better after his death than I ever did in life. I am so thankful for that. I compiled the memoirs into a book that we published just for family members. In addition to my grandfather’s personal photographs (he kept a camera with him all throughout the war), there are a number of pictures that I pulled from online, so we couldn’t publish it as it is due to copyright issues. But maybe someday I will go back and reformat everything to submit to the Library of Congress or for wider distribution.

- You want a happy story about him to help counter the explosion? This is a good one. :-) At the start of WW2, while he was in basic training, a girl named Kitty sent her brother Keith a goofy picture of herself splashing around in the creek behind their family farm in TX. The picture of Kitty caught the attention of Keith's bunkmate, Papa, who decided to write Kitty a smart alecky note of his own, jokingly criticizing her manners for showing her ugly bare feet in public. Kitty was not amused. She wrote him a scathing letter, and received a very apologetic note from Papa in response. This began a written correspondence that continued throughout the war. Papa wrote faithfully from some of the most remote, dangerous locations in the Pacific. She sent him news of the home front and taunted him with descriptions of fried chicken dinners. He sent her pictures of crocodiles and told her of the orphaned children he cared for after the Liberation of Manila. When Papa came back to the US in 1946, he made a trip out to the farm to see his old friend Keith and to finally meet Kitty face to face. That was on a Friday. They were engaged the following Wednesday and were happily married for over 50 years.

Edit #2 for a typo.

Edit #3 - u/The_Essayist_8 brought this video clip to my attention, and it’s a pretty good account of the event. There are firsthand survivor stories, including one quite similar to my grandfather’s situation, only this man traded seats with another student so that he could sit near the girl he liked. He survived, the other student did not. Worth a watch, but be warned that it’s pretty heartbreaking. https://youtu.be/aKt01p3DJRw