#but had no real convictions beyond making everyone in the room with her uncomfortable

[abby-howard]

Part 2 of my 2023 hourlies; Part 1 here!

---CW family death (not sad)---

[quakerjoe]

"Why are people so hostile towards President Donald Trump?"

Chris O'Leary:

Before you pass my answer off as “Another Liberal Snowflake” consider that 1.) I'm an independent centrist who has voted Republican way more often in my life than Democrat, and 2.) If you want to call someone who spent the entire decade of his 20’s serving in the Marine Corps a snowflake, I’d be ready to answer the question what did you do with your 20’s?

Why Liberals (And not-so liberals) are against President Trump.

A.) He lies. A LOT. Politifact rates 69% of the words he speaks as “Mostly False or worse” Only 17% of the things he says get a “Mostly True” or better rating. That is an absolutely unbelievable number. How he doesn’t speak more truth by mistake is beyond me. To put it in context, Obama’s rating was 26% mostly false or worse, and I had a problem with that. Many of Trump’s former business associates report that he has always been a compulsive liar, but now he’s the President of the United States, and that’s a problem. And this is a man who expects you to believe him when he points at other people and says “They’re lying”

B.) He’s an authoritarian populist, not a conservative. He advances regressive social policy while proposing to expand federal spending and federalist authority over states, both of which conservatives are supposed to hate.

C.) He pretends at Christianity to court the Religious Right but fails to live anything resembling a Christ-Like Life.

D.) His nationalist “America First” message effectively alienates us and removes us from our place as leaders in the international community.

E.) His ideas on “Keeping us safe” are all thinly veiled ideas to remove our freedoms, he is, after all, an authoritarian first. They also are simply bad ideas.

F.) He couldn’t pass a 3rd-grade civics exam. He doesn't’ know what he’s doing. He doesn't understand how international relations work, he doesn’t understand how federal state or local governments work, and every time someone tries to “Run it like a business” it’s a spectacular failure. See Colorado Springs’ recent history as an example. The Short, Unhappy Life of a Libertarian Paradise And that was a businessman with a MUCH better business track record than Trump. We are talking about a man who lost money owning a freaking gambling casino.

G.) He behaves unethicaly and always has. As a businessman, he constantly left in his wake unpaid contractors and invoices, litigation, broken promises, whatever he could get away with.

H.) He is damaging our relationships with our best international friends while kissing up to nations that do not have our best interests in mind. To his question “Wouldn't’ it be great to have better relations with Russia?” The answer is Yes. But it is RUSSIA who needs to earn that, who must stop doing the things that are damaging to that relationship, or we are simply weaker for it.

I.) He has never seen a shortcut he didn't like, and you can’t take shortcuts in government. “Nuclear Option, Remove the Filibuster, I’ll change the Constitution by Executive Order…Don…what happens when you remove the filibuster and the other side retakes the majority in the Senate? Suddenly want that filibuster back? What happens if you manage to change the Constitution by Executive Order and an Anti-2A President wins the next election?

J.) He behaves and has always behaved as an unabashed racist. Yes, I’ve seen your favorite meme that claims he was never accused of racism before the Democrats…Absolutely false. Donald Trump’s long history of racism, from the 1970s to 2019 See the Central Park 5, the lawsuits and fines resulting from his refusal to lease to black tenants, the 1992 lost appeal trying to overturn penalties for removing black dealers from tables, his remarks to the house native American affairs subcommittee in 1993. The man sees and treats racial groups of people as monoliths.

K.) He is systematically steamrolling regulations specifically designed to keep a disaster like the 2007 subprime mortgage crisis from happening again.

L.) He speaks and acts like a demagogue. He sees the Legislative and Judicial branches of government as inconveniences, blows up at criticism no matter how deserved and actively tries to countermand constitutional processes, not to mention attempts to blackmail and coerce people who are saying negative things about him

M.) His choices for top positions, with the exception of Gen. Mattis, who is a gem, have been horrendous. A secretary of Education without a resume that would get her hired as a small town grammar school principal, A secretary of Energy who didn't know the Department of Energy was responsible for nuclear reserves, an EPA head whose biggest accomplishments to date had been suing the EPA on multiple occasions, an FCC head who while working for Verizon actively lobbied to kill net neutrality, and an Attorney General who thinks pot is “nearly as bad as heroin” and asked Congress for permission to go after legal pot businesses in states where it is legal. (There goes that great Republican States rights rally cry again, right? *Crickets*) An Interim AG after Firing his First AG who’s appointment is probably unconstitutional.

N.) He denies scientific fact. Ever notice that the only people you hear denying climate change are politicians and lobbyists? 99% of actual scientists studying the issue agree that it’s real, man-made and caused by greenhouse gasses. Ever notice that every big disaster movie starts with a bunch of politicians in a room ignoring a scientist's warning?

0.) He does not have the temperament to lead this nation. He is Thin Skinned, childish, and a bully, never mind misogynistic, boorish, rude, and incapable of civil discourse.

P.) He still does not understand that the words he speaks, or tweets, are the official position of 1/3 of the US government, and so does not govern his words. He still thinks when he speaks it’s good ol’ Donald Trump. It’s not. It’s the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. You have probably spread a meme or two around talking about how no president’s every word has ever been dissected before…YES, THEY ALWAYS HAVE. It’s just that every other president in our lifetime has understood the importance of his words and took great care to govern his speech. Trump blurts out whatever comes to his mind then complains when people talk about what a dumb thing that was to say.

Q.) He’s unqualified. If you owned a small business and were looking for someone to manage it, and an unnamed resume came across your desk and you saw 6 bankruptcies, showing a man who had failed to make money running CASINOS, would you hire him? He is a very poor businessman. This is a man it has been estimated would have been worth $10 BILLION more if he’d just taken what his father had given him, invested it in Index Funds and left it alone.

R.) He is President. But he refuses to take a leadership position and understand that he is everyone’s President. Conservatives complain about liberals chanting “Not my President” while Trump himself behaves as if no one but his supporters matter.

S.) He’s a blatant hypocrite. He spent 8 years bitching Obama out for his family trips, or golfing, or any time he took for himself, and what does he do? He was already on his 20th golf outing in APRIL of his 1st year in office. He constantly rants about respect for the military, yet can’t be bothered to attend the 100th anniversary of Armistice Day because of a little rain. (And that excuse about Marine One not being able to fly in the rain is HILARIOUS.)

T.) He’s a misogynist. It's not really ok in this day and age to be a misogynist, but it’s not a huge deal if you’re a private citizen. It’s a pretty big deal if you hate half the people you’re elected to lead. The disdain for women seeps out of his …whatever…. and he just can’t hide it.

U.) Face it. In any other election “Grab Em’ By the Pussy” would have been the end of that candidate’s chances. Back in the 90’s I used to marvel about how Teflon Bill Clinton was. I no longer do. The fact that he managed to slip by on that is as much a statement about how much people hate Hillary Clinton as it is about what is wrong with politics in this country right now.

V.) He has one response to a differing opinion. Attack. A good leader listens to criticism, to different points of view, is capable of self-reflection, tries to guide people to his point of view, and when necessary stands his ground and defends his convictions. Any of that sound like Trump? His default is not to Lead, its’ to attack. Scorched Earth. The Jim Acosta reaction is a good example. There was no defense of his convictions when Acosta was asking him repeated questions about his rhetoric on the caravan. His response was to attack Acosta.

W.) He takes credit for everything positive while deflecting blame for everything negative. Look at him with the Stock Market. He’s been bragging about it since day one, and to give credit where credit is due, speculation on coming deregulation early in his presidency did fuel some rapid growth, but to pretend that it’s all him, that we’re not in the 9th year of the longest bull market in history and THEN, when the standard market volatility that deregulation inevitably brings about starts to show up? Yeah. Look at yesterday. Hey! Stock Markets losing because the Democrats won! Do I need to bring out the Stock market chart for the last 10 Years again?

X.) He emboldens the worst among us. Counter-protesters are slammed into by a car while countering actual Nazi rally, and the response is there’s fault on “Both Sides” The media is at fault for a nut job sending them and Donald’s favorite targets pipe bombs. The truth is not all Republicans, not all Trump Supporters are racist, fascist lunatics. Many are just taken in by the bombastic personality and are living in an information bubble made worse by the fact that they unfollow anyone and ignore any source of information that makes them feel uncomfortable. People on the left do that too. The Biggest problem the right has right now is that the worst of the Right is the loudest and the most in your face, and the actual right, especially the Freaking PRESIDENT needs to be standing up and saying No. Those are not our values.

Y.) He seems to think the Constitution of The United States, the document that IS who we are, the document he took an oath to support and defend is some sort of inconvenience. He demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of Constitution, from believing he can alter the 14th through executive order, to thinking The free exercise clause in the first amendment somehow supersedes the establishment clause (not that he really understands either) or that the free exercise clause only applies to Christians. Or his attacks on freedom of expression and the press. He repeatedly makes it clear that if he’s read them, he does not understand Articles 1–3, and that’s something he really should have before he took the job, because they’re not going away.

Z.) I’ll use Z for something I do blame him for, but the rest of us have to carry the blame too. Polarization. This country is more politically polarized than I can remember in my lifetime. Some of you who are a few years older than I may remember how it was in the late 60’s when construction workers in New York were being applauded for beating up hippies, I think it’s pretty close to that right now, but that was before my time. And he is the cause of much of the current level polarization, but also the result. It didn't’ start with Trump. We’ve been going down this road I think since the eruption of the Tea Party in the early years of the Obama Administration. I do hope the tide turns before it gets much worse because the thing that scares me more than anything is what if that keeps going the way it has been? "

[delicrieux]

Omg I loved the last one shot you wrote with the reader being in the resistance base and taking care of Kylo! I would love to see another part for it and see what will happen when the reader discovers the truth of who he is.

OMG ur one shot with kylo and him being injured i absolutely adore it and need a continuation !! ur writing is amazing too !!

thank u everyone for ur kind words and support 🥺🧡 u be asking i be giving . i mean .... prepare for some angst? yes? 8k words baby. also, same goes as always, if u want a continuation let me know ! xx

tags ( i wasnt able to tag some people!:( ): @taina-eny -- @shesakillerkween -- @leilei-draws -- @mitsuhkai -- @olivebolivee -- @fav-fan-fic -- @punxataniunderworld

requests are open! | masterlist | part 1.

Long tendrils of smoke rise slowly, spiraling into a clear, starry sky. Jet fuel ignited by a match; angry, red sparks glittering in the dark. It’s hot. Though it’s not the familiar, comforting heat of the wilderness, of the jungle you live in, nor is it the scratchy, dry heat of the deserts you grew up surrounded by. This heat is different, molding, tangible and felt deep within you. It spreads, achingly almost. Shortness of breath, of thought; the world is too quick, too fleeting for you to catch up and everything spins so wonderfully. Desire; the world is wax dripping from your fingers; red dots, red hues, bright orange flames. But that desire twists, rags your body and grows to...

Rage. It hits you in waves and you tremble. Violent shivers and horror; anger fueled by such uncontrollable passion that it goes beyond you, reaching for something, for anything to grasp onto. It destroys. It destroys everything around you. It’s a machine coming from within you; the small specter of purity now devoured by such hate directed at no one in particular that you come undone — nothing left, not even you. Just anger and power — a combination of the most terrible kind.

But this rage is not your own. It’s borrowed. Adapted to you. Fitted perfectly for your flesh, yet still a foreign entity latched onto your bones, no, this goes deeper, latched onto whatever makes you — you.

It is so easy to slip into it that it hardly registers. That raw energy within you twists and burns and you want to hurt someone because you are so hurt that you feel like you might die. One life to save yours; then, however many should follow, anything to keep that pain at bay. You don’t consider it much, you don’t have the capacity to. Blisters; it feels like you’re standing on the surface of a sun.

Where did this anger come from? Who deformed you so horribly? There’s a pull — a gentle tug that feels like a caress from a lover — that wants to turn you back; to purge the rage, the red, the dark, and bring you back into the light. But the pain stays, persistent, at home within you. It’s trying to tell you something. To make you understand. To make you feel what he feels.

And then—

You fall out of bed, breathless and terrified and soaked head to toe in cold sweat. You scramble away from your bed in blind panic, trembling and pressing your back against the icy wall of your bedroom. Your heart beats like a wild drum; your pulse is loud and violent in your ears. You raise your hands to touch your face, to grasp onto reality, to make sure that you are still you. A sigh of relief escapes you and all your energy with it. You slump, cast your head down in shame. You had never felt so... Strongly. You had felt anger, grief, passion— but never so visceral, never so raw. It terrifies you that you are even capable of feeling so, in a dream or not.

Whatever it was that had possessed you had left you feeling hollow. Numb. All your strength had been wasted in destruction of dream worlds that were, up till now, mostly pleasant. Whatever it was you don’t want it to return, ever. The pain was too much. The hate too real. And the potential of that power... Frightening beyond compare.

Your room is bathed in pleasant morning light - dawn is always beautiful and silent. You had slept for possibly only a few hours. You get up, your knees cracking from the weight of your body. Using the wall for support you decide to get ready. You will not sleep. You cannot. The carnal fear of the darkness behind your lashes is reminiscent of that of a child seeing scary shapes in the night.

You’re early to breakfast, though the cafeteria is already festering with life. You give a few waves to your colleagues, offer a few tired smiles when they chirp “Morning, Seven!”. With your tray full you stride to your table, noting that one seat is already occupied — July. He regards you with cold indifference, quietly drinking his coffee. If he is surprised to see you up so early, he does not show it.

Suddenly you hate the silence. The stiffness. The cafeteria echoes with snippets of chatter and laughs yet your table is a crypt — stale and uncomfortable. You can’t be alone with your thoughts. They still don’t feel like your own.

“Hello,” is your lame attempt at conversation. July grumbles something, chewing on his food, “decided get an early start today.” You explain yourself, not that you need to, but you feel better letting him believe this lie and yourself, too. “Taking pointers from you.” You add, taking a sip of water. It feels like a blade going down your throat. You hadn’t even noticed how parched you had been.

“Great,” July mumbles, “congratulations. You’re finally taking this seriously.”

“I’ve always taken this seriously.” You bite back, “War is no trifling matter.”

He snorts, “Could have fooled me.”

You don’t like his tone. Then again, it is your fault for engaging him in the first place. No one to blame but yourself.

In an attempt at casualness, you shrug, “You are still mad at me for not getting rid of our guest, aren’t you?” You don’t say his name. July would find it suspicious. You don’t dare share it. It was a secret passed on to you as a show of trust. You can’t break it, not even among friends.

A frown pulls on his face, cool, steel eyes locking yours, “You’re fraternizing with the enemy.”

“He is not the enemy.” You reply coolly, chest heaving with controlled frustration, “I conducted the interview. I did what we had all agreed on. I relayed the results and you were part of that discussion as well, if you had forgotten already. No threat was detected.”

“At the time.” He says hotly, setting his cup down harsher than intended. It echoes, a cracking, unpleasant sound, “There was no threat at the time.”

The wild flame in his eyes takes you aback. He had always been paranoid and it mostly never had any backing to it. But now he speaks with conviction; grits his words and laces them with honesty. He knows something. Something you don’t.

You sit up straight, swallowing down your concern before it reaches your face. “Elaborate.”

He looks away suddenly, irritated, scowling almost. Familiar tendrils of anger slither around your throat and your grit your teeth. You know better than this, better than arguing with him, better than stooping to his level of mindless shouting. It takes all of your willpower just to keep your mouth shut.

“Ah— Someone stepped out of bed on the wrong foot, as it seems.” Q’s pleasant voice chirps as they promptly plop down beside you, “Seven. July. Do hope the arguing will at least wait till lunch.”

“Fat chance!” Vendetta grins, sitting beside July and dropping her tray on the table with a silent click, “Look at them.” She snickers, “I know who’s fighting who at combat training today.”

“Perfect timing, you two.” You blur, your eyes drilling into July’s profile, not once wavering, “July just said something interesting about our guest.” The temperature, the warmth your two friends brought with them, seems to drop as their laughter abruptly cuts off, “In fact, he was almost insistent that our only patient in the Medical Wing is a threat. Know anything about it?” You finish quietly. You almost expect exasperated stares, surprised faces, hisses of “What?!” and “July, not this again...”. But nothing changes. Nothing comes. Just quiet admission. First blossoms of guilt.

You had always assumed that if your group of four would ever break into three it would be July as the odd man out. Not for any particular fault of his, but out of pure convenience. Vendetta is charismatic; Q is adaptable; you are compassionate. July is, despite his brilliance, almost deliberately difficult. The three of you fit like puzzle pieces, harmonious. You never withhold information from them, never needed to. The four of your share everything, no detail left behind.

Though it seems that your observation was paltry. They share looks and you realize that it’s no longer a quartet but rather a triad. You are left to sink or swim on your own.

“Seven, we...” Vendetta starts, thoughtful, gentle; her hand reaches for your own across the table but you pull it away and she stills, disappointed, “We...” She glances around, “We were going to tell you, but...We...”

“—Had no proof.” Q mutters bitterly, their face uncharacteristically blank, “Besides, of course, the mystery of his past, his sudden appearance, his... Unpleasant behavior.” They squeeze out the last part with a sour little smile.

“Seven, please, listen to me.” V tries to catch your attention, yet you stubbornly stare into your plate of food, “There is just...Something not right with him. It’s like this inching in my chest, I...I think I heard him...talking in his sleep again. Something about a base, but I-” At this you look up at her, and her face crumbles into a soft frown. “I would never lie to you, you must believe me. I just--“ She sighs, frustrated, “I just don’t know what, but something is wrong. I can feel it.”

“I told you not to trust him,” July states, “I said it since you—“ He points accusingly in your direction, “decided to drag him in.” He scoffs, “Should have left him to die.”

Something cracks within you. Something that sounds close to a ceramic cup shattering on linoleum. It spills over like hot liquid all over you, scalding. You pull your chair back suddenly. It’s a knee jerk reaction that halts the chatter and the laughter and the mindless bits of gossip as all eyes turn to you. You say nothing. Just stare. The unspoken “How dare you” fizzling at the tip of your tongue that now feels too big for your mouth. Your muscles cramp up; dull pain in your upper arms, your legs, your chest. You’re trembling again, eyes wide, dry, stinging.

“July.” Q hisses, “Even if we feel something amiss, he is still a person.”

You remember it clearly — the evening you met July. He wore a hard shell, scarred from life before finding the base, before finding a purpose. He was hard to approach and those who dared to glance at him withered away into the shadows. But you saw a glimmer of hope, of light; saw something in a man that has been wronged and has done wrong and now wants to devote his life to protect. He regarded you with the same cold stare, measuring you, challenging you to turn away like everyone else. But you invited him. You were the one that said that the Resistance is happy to have you. You were the one to offer him a seat by your table, Vendetta chirping and blushing and cooing once he joined. And even if he stayed silent through the conversation, you knew that he was glad to be here. Glad to find companionship. Glad to be among those who too want only one thing: to help.

Then came Q, a year later. A group that was equal amounts tough as it was tender was formed. A group of leaders. Nothing ever felt so right as to sit among them.

Now you feel like you’re drowning.

“You’ve changed.” You rasp, boring into July’s eyes. He does not back down, he never does.

“So have you.” He says evenly, “I have never seen you as irritated as I have this week. It’s affecting you. He’s affecting you.” If you did not know any better, you would say there’s a note of worry in his voice. But you always know better. It’s pity.

You decide that you hate him. You decide that you will never be able to look at him the same way, with the same distant respect, with solidarity. You hate him and you hate that he’s right. You have changed. Everyone has. You aren’t the scared, naive girl that ran away from home in hopes of finding something greater. Greater as in friendships; greater as in happiness. It was never about riches or fame or any other form of empty opulence. You wanted to help because you knew how it feels like to be helpless. And perhaps this week had been the most trying: you had been sleeping little, tossing and turning all night, staying up past dawn as to not draw any suspicion. Had been hitting harder than necessary in training. Had been less lively in conversation. You were one of the best because you needed to be in order to protect those who could not protect themselves. It was the source from which you drew your strength. But now that had shifted subtly in wanting to win. Wanting something for yourself. You always offer everything to the world, why can’t it give you something in return?

“That’s enough, July.” Q mutters calmly, their hand landing on your shoulder, a warm, comforting gesture that fills you to the brim with sadness. “You had said enough.”

You exhale a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment to collect your thoughts. Honesty had always been your policy. Honesty is the currency of your group. You are fighters, but you are also diplomats. Vulnerability is the price of compassion.

“I feel responsible.” You finally say, “For him.” You clarify, “I brought him here. I enlisted you to help and share our resources. He is my responsibility. And if you feel that he is unfit to be here, or that he threatens our values in any way, I shall make sure to deal with him accordingly and I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions should it come to it.” You finish dryly.

“He’s not your responsibility, Seven.” Vendetta mutters, “He’s ours. We’re a team. A family.” Q squeezes your shoulder, silently agreeing with her words. Her lips slowly rise into a loving smile, “And we’re worried about you. You seem tired. Let me bring him food today.” She suggests gently, “I can keep him company. That or, I know Michel is dying for a chance to talk to him.”

“You don’t have to carry this weight alone.” Q says, “A little break can’t hurt, can it?” He glances at July, “Once our heads are cooled...We’ll discuss this in detail at dinner. No stone left unturned. If the decision is unanimous, we bring it to the Commander. All in favor?”

“Aye.” Vendetta chimes. You nod stiffly. All eyes fall on July.

“You already know what I think.” He mumbles, “But very well. We meet at twilight.”

.

The day is long. Hours pass in a slow daze and exhaustion nearly crushes by the time a little over two hours is left till dinner. Dread grows and fester; it’s hard to breathe, and the humid air is constricting. You can’t help but feel how different things had been barely a week ago, and how rapidly and uncontrollably they have changed. It should be just another day in stolen paradise; just another day in the line of days before you are, as the rest, called into the main base. Finally ready. You had felt ready. Now you feel uncertain to the brink of madness. How easily your friends had turned... How easily you had been turned. But despite their concerns you fail to see any hidden evil in the man now know to you as Ben.

But perhaps that’s the point. Evil rejoices in the presence of naivety.

You feel him before you actually see him. It’s a sort of warning bell; a presence carried by the wind. You turn your head slightly, wiping away beads of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. You’re on the porch, in the same spot you had found Ben brooding last night. His footsteps are quick and heavy and his hand latches onto your upper arm, yanking you to face him.

“Where were you?” His question is demanding and a twinge of anger burns in his hazel eyes. All thoughts rush out your head with that; you stare dumbfounded, your lips parting to speak but the words sizzle and die on the tip of your tongue. His face contorts, the prominent anger shifting to confusion, “Have they been keeping you away from me?”

An astute observation. Eerily correct.

“What? No!” You say quickly, shrugging out of his hold and crossing your arms over your chest in pretend casualness, “Just been busy today! Lot’s of shipments, new training regime, yada yada...” He traces your face carefully for a lie, but whether he catches it or not you can’t tell. “How... How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He states coldly, irritation dripping in his tone. His brows knit into a frown and he looks away, peers into the wilderness. Pensive. Something lays heavy on his mind and all your intuition born last night evaporates. Nothing. No whispers. Not even a slither of familiarity. The connection you felt had been cut like a thread with scissors.

Is he actively pretending yesterday did not happen? The thought sounds plausible: he’s volatile and prideful, after all. “What are you doing up and about?” You inquire, matching his cool tone.

He exhales through his nose sharply, “Can you take me to the place you found me?”

You blink. He looks at you, expectant. “I...Sure.” You relent under his stare, “Yea, I... Follow me.”

Silence from his part. His lips are shut tightly as he follows after you into the maze of tall trees. Birdsong; buzz of insects; dangerous hums and hisses from creatures hidden in the bushes. The sun is merely a kaleidoscope of shapes seeping through the branches and leaves. The heat intensifies. You feel a prickling in your spine -- he’s watching you intently. His guard is up and so is yours. After everything you had heard today confusion is the only palpable emotion you can name. Can he see it, you wonder. Can he tell that the tension in your shoulders is because of him. You trust him, at the very least, you thought you did. But now he’s luring you into seclusion.

Or are you luring him? You could have said no. Or you could have agreed and went to fetch your blaster just in case. But you didn’t. Obeyed blindly without question. He is not the authority here, you are. 

“That woman brought me breakfast today.” He says coldly. You tilt your head to him, inclining him to continue. That woman. Vendetta.He doesn’t continue. It’s almost like he’s complaining. 

“Yes, I asked her to.” You say softly, “I told you already I was busy.”

“You didn’t look busy.” He counters hotly.

“Ben.” You say sternly, stopping, turning to him fully to catch his gaze. He’s so much taller than you that it’s difficult to not be intimidated, “My world does not revolve around you.” He gulps at your words, glaring, “And her name is Vendetta. The least you could do is remember that.” 

You continue the trek forward. He’s silent, moody. You focus on not tripping on roots and stray branches; focus on keeping your balance once passing through small slivers of ground between sudden drops to the caves bellow. 

Finally, a clearing. Water flows and twists like a serpent, glimmering in sunlight, splashing joyously. The river is long and wide and there is no bridge connecting the two sides, just piles of slippery stones. It’s a challenge getting past it, yet you did so almost every other day. The beauty of untamed nature cannot be compared to anything, and getting lost in it is liberating.

You hop on the first rock, then the second. The water is loud; the current is strong and it splashes your feet.

“Are you angry with me?” He asks silently. You jump and feel the knot in your throat tighten. You wobble and your arms stretch wide to keep balance and you promptly still.

“No, Ben, I’m not angry.” You admit, a bit breathless, but don’t elaborate any further. You are not sure if you’re telling the truth or not. You don’t want to think about it.

“Did you really find me so far out?” He continues questioning.

“Yes.” You mumble, “Why? Do you think I’m lying to you?”

“I never said that.”

“But you thought about it.”

“Oh, so you can read my mind now?”

“It’s not that difficult to tell what you’re thinking, you know.” You state sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You still. A flare of anger rises from your chest to your throat and it take everything you have to control the frustrated sigh from escaping. Your hands ball into fists. Sweat drips from your forehead. With a dry mouth you turn to him, careful of your footing, finding him closer than you expected and just as irritated as you. His brows are kit into a frown, lips turned downward, chest heaving. A soft breeze kisses your heating cheeks, your shoulders, ruffles his dark hair.

“Exactly what you think it means,” You snap, “you’re always angry, always displeased, ordering everyone around, assaulting” You stress the word, “ or berating if something doesn’t go your way. Being secretive and malicious and just when I think I’m starting to understand you, you demand and demand and I literally can’t say anything or else you’ll be upset and then who knows what you’ll do.” You rant, “And all I wanted, all we wanted, was to help you. But you-” You jab your finger into his chest; an action eerily similar to what July did to you this morning, “-you treat us like we’re your servants. Can’t even bother to remember the name of the doctor that had been taking care of you all week. We could’ve left you to die.”

He grabs your wrist, squeezing tightly, pulling it away from his chest, “I never asked for your help.” He growls.

“But you got it anyway,” You retort, voice dripping with venom, “though I suppose you’re too arrogant to even say thank you. You spoiled, selfish, inconsiderate prick-”

“You don’t know me.” He seethes.

“I know everything I need to know about you.” 

He falters for a second, something akin to disappointment flashing in his eyes but it’s gone before you can name it, “You do?” He sounds smug, in a cold, displeased way, “Ah, you do.” His grip loosens and you yank your wrist from his hold, fire raging in your chest. What a condescending look.

You’re so heated that you feel like you might cry. Now you see what July, what Q, what Vendetta see when they look at him - a malevolent, resentful asshole. How could he have fooled you? Was it the pretty eyes and the confused puppy-like stare? His sharp handsome features? Low voice, pleasant when whispered? All a font. You feel ill. Tarnished in some subtle but irreversible way. You don’t want to take him anywhere, you just want him to leave. A part of you wants to run away and leave him stranded, or push him into the water and watch satisfied as the current carried him away.

You genuinely believed you had formed some sort of a connection, as silly as that sounds. You hadn’t known him for long, but what you felt was real and it was special. But this is not the same man that did not let go of your hand, that did not want to left alone in the rain. 

You shake your head, “You make me sick.”

He has no reply to that. He looks away, almost ashamed, and you turn back to the stones you stand on, the slippery rock unstable under your feet. The sky lights up with first shades of pink. Twilight is approaching. 

The sooner you take him there and back the sooner you can request him to be escorted out of the premises, taken where he needs to go. And then this will all be over. He will be nothing but an unpleasant memory. The thought does not make you feel any better, rather it makes you feel hollow, like a balloon, acutely aware of the emptiness within you.

You continue forward in ill-tempered steps. You just want this to be over. His presence clings to you like second skin. Electricity at your fingertips, coursing through your veins, settling in your bones. You cannot shake it, cannot shake the hurt and the discomfort and-

You slip. For a heartbeat there’s only looming dread but before you can touch the water strong arms envelope you and keep you in place. You feel him breathing behind you, his chest rising and hitting your back. He sets you down back on the rocks, letting go only after you’re out of harms way. His arms drop and the heat with them. Wordless, you continue forward, not sparing him the satisfaction of a thank you.

.

You suppose wishing for an uneventful journey is unrealistic; trekking through the dense, suffocating undergrowth, fighting through the heavy, still air, all the while a million wild souls observe and track you and wonder are you here to hunt or be hunted. The colors, deep evergreen and rich brown, mute once the sun is is orange and halfway down. Not far now, not far at all. That idea was the only thing keeping you from crumbling into the dirt. But today is not your day, nor his. Everything always happens for a reason, even if that reason is simply bad luck.

You had been lost in your head, and he lost in the maze of looming trees. He’s unfamiliar with the territory - you were his guiding star, ushering him to where he needs to go. But you were too absorbed; too preoccupied with your blossoming hurt, with the near obsessive need to feel it whole so you could never forgive him and not feel an ounce of it once he goes back to his damned life outside your base. But the jungle is an obstacle course that demands attention and worship. Each step careful, each parting of leaves intentional and gentle. It either allows you to advance, or it does not.

You have no one to blame but yourself. No one to curse at for the forming bruises and muddy skin. No one to yell at for the stabbing pain at your rib cage, and no one to shun because of one fatal mistake. A misstep. A confusion of left and right. The fall was instant and painful and long. 

Birds gawk and spill into the violet sky like ink. You lay in the dirt, your body aching with each intake of breath. Water roars; small droplets from the waterfall sprinkle on you and you wonder just how far down had you fallen. The clearing is unfamiliar to you, but right now everything is. Ben groans beside you; you see him sit up slowly out of the corner of your eye. He pushes his hair out of his face and exhales. You can’t move. You forgot how to.

You feel cold. Something hot and sticky runs down the side of your temple, pulsing down your jaw.

“...Seven?” His voice is rough and rushed and he instantly falls by your side, his hands cradling your face, “Hey. Seven, can you hear me...?”

You remember the leaf covered ground giving out; remember falling into darkness and hitting your back harshly on the steep decline and skidding through sharp rocks and branches; remember suddenly being plunged into icy water and spat out into the air before tumbling to the ground and smacking your head into something hard and blurry.

His fingers gently wipe away the dirt from your face, “Hey, you with me...?” He calls gently, his voice silent, seeping with worry. Through your haze and confusion your find his eyes - such a pretty hazel, now darker in the shade - and manage to squeeze out a painful, crooked smile.

“...Hi.” You whisper, almost voiceless. He cracks a smile, but his lower lip quivers.

“Hi.” He mutters, “Are you okay? Can you sit?”

You try to move but it proves to be too difficult. Noticing your struggle and sluggish movements, he gently eases you into a sitting position, his hold strong but not forceful, not even an echo to what it had been on the rocks. Your head spins, too heavy, buzzing. You gingerly lay it on his shoulder. Water laps by your feet. You are dripping from head to toe. The breeze makes you shiver, and he carefully wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, his fingers pushing strands of wet hair from your face.

“Do you know where we are...?”

“The jungle.”

You somehow sense he doesn’t appreciate your sarcasm.

“You’re hurt.” He laments. Weakly, you clasp onto his arm and slowly pull away from his shoulder. You’re so close your noses brush. You can feel his breath ghosting over your lips. You see worry in his eyes. You feel a twinge of life light up in your chest.

“I’m okay.” You mutter, even if it is obvious that you are not. 

“I’m sorry...” He utters, his eyes, half-lit and tender, pouring into your soul. His fingers brush your cheek, trembling lightly, lastly settling on the side of your jaw, “I’m sorry,” He repeats in a breath, “This is all my fault.”

Your heart spurs to life; the same pleasant buzz of energy flows back into you in forms of butterflies. The aching relents, the sharp pain in your side easing as if soothed by a cold touch. Your hazy vision sharpens and for a moment you can see everything in its minute detail, before all goes back to normal. The pulsing in your head stops, blood drying by your temple. You blink a few times, your brows knitting into a frown, lips parting to intake a slow breath. Your hand reaches to graze his cheek.

It’s back. What ever this fragile, beautiful thing is, it has returned to you.

“Who...are you?”

Vendetta had been right, there is something different about him, but perhaps not in the way she had intended.

“I’m Ben.” He says softly, “Just Ben.”

“No...” You observe him, “You are not.”

You feel a pull in your chest, as if you were a moon beckoned by his gravity, “How do you do it?” You ask, not quite certain what you’re referring to. A thousand questions swim in your mind and you shut your eyes, trying to focus on just one. But he still pulls you in, somehow, and gently you rest your forehead on his, each simple touch sparking a feeling of this is right and this is how it should be. Like a current of a river taking you where you need to be.

“I’m not doing anything.” He admits softly against your lips with an ache in the back of his throat.

Your eyes pry open, “Liar.” is all you say with quiet disappointment.

You untangle yourself from him and rise onto your feet, swaying a bit and he hurriedly jumps to aid you but you hold out your hand to stop him. His arms fall by his sides. The roar of the water momentarily absorbs you completely. It’s dark glimmer makes your stomach drop. You look up. The sky is already budding with stars, the last light dying by the horizon.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to return to the base now.” You mutter, a shiver crawling down your spine. Your wet clothes cling to your skin, leaving no bend and curve obscured to his watchful eye. But it doesn’t bother you, at least not as much as it should, “Before we lose light completely.”

He nods solemnly. “Why did you want to see where I found you?” You ask, knowing he will not deny you an answer. It’s that feeling, that connection, open communication that leaves him vulnerable to your prodding.

He glances away from your prying stare, his jaw locked tight. Your chest swells as you regard him — a picture of divine loneliness. You almost fall pray to it, to those whispers, to those instincts that urge you to rush to his side and comfort him. He sighs heavily, his shoulders falling. “I wanted to see if you would go with me.”

“What?” You sputter, eyes wide in disbelief, “Why?”

“Because I want you to join me.” He seems to find his voice, the first uncertain notes glossing over with purpose, “To leave with me.” The corner of his lips quirk into a half-smile, “Have you ever seen the snow?”

“No...” You admit, taking a step back, “No, I haven’t. The Rebels need me. I don’t want to leave.” You finish quietly, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s more of a comforting motion rather than a defensive one.

“But you agreed to go with me today.” He says.

“Because you asked.” You counter.

“Then I’m asking again.” He extends his hand in an offering, “Come with me.”

You stare at it, your instincts urging you to take it. But you don’t know what entails going with him; you don’t know about his life and what sort of deal you would be signing by lacing your fingers with his. A part of you wants to agree — the part which you desperately try to explain, but cannot — and the other reminds you of duty. Of your mission. It reminds you of everything you will be unable to do if you take it.

.

He watches you, half worried and half irked as you stare at his hand with distant eyes. He can’t read your mind, can’t hear snippets of your brooding thoughts, but he knows you’re considering his offer, and he knows that this is all a charade which will end in his victory. He knows you will accept — it is now impossible for you two to be apart, the consequences of that severe enough to burn out a star.

But you’re guarded. Your mind sits behind a wall that can’t tear down — he’s not close enough, and you won’t let him. It is most likely an unconscious effort, a shield of some sort that your untamed energy had built in order to protect you from the likes of him. He likes that. He always enjoyed a challenge: everyone always danced around him and to find someone actually worthy of his attention is a rare sight on its own. That being said, he could invade your mind, could hurt you, could force you to spill all of your secrets in one breath. But he won’t. He wants you to come to him by your own volition. He wants you to allow him into your mind because you want him to see and feel and hear everything that’s hidden behind those pretty eyes and tender smile. Therefore he will not be forceful or rough; instead he will open your eyes - sway you, offer you something for your kindness, because he cannot fathom the fact that some things in life have no price. But he knows that you will join him - sooner or later matters little in the grand scheme of things.

Though, it is his fault he is so terribly impatient.

It’s frustrating to think that the Force would connect him to you out of everyone in the universe. That must be why he’s feeling this tightness in his chest, this, if he wasn’t so prideful to admit it, fear festering inside him — you’re a member of the Resistance that is not only Force sensitive, but also now linked to him. If the Rebels should become aware of this sensitive information, there is no telling what they would do. In the First Order you would be hailed like royalty; showered with praise and opulence and given authority to do as you please, given the life so many in your base believe he has. But the Resistance would not be as kind, if they would be kind at all - they would use you, abuse you, transform you into a weapon or a helpless little lure. Because they would know he would come looking for you. He is now destined to always look for you; destined to follow you across the galaxy and back if it meant you standing by his side in the final battle. They would change you into something unrecognizable. The safest side is his, and his shadow is the only place you’d find solace. He could train you. Protect you. Allow you to harvest the power that is capable of so many beautiful, terrible things.

He knew you were Force sensitive when he first laid eyes on you — the silence was confusing and heavenly and at the same time oddly irritating. Everyone else was an open book full with loud, useless mussing, overloaded with trifling information of which the only value he found was the exact coordinates of your base. He could return any time he wished and destroy everything in a slow, arduous way that would break you down and rebuild you, make you see that he is doing you a favor if you were so stubborn that it would come to that: you had saved his life, and now he is trying to save yours. And despite your proclamation that you can tell what he’s thinking, he finds great difficulty understanding you. Kindness is alien to him. Kindness had been ripped out of him by betrayal and replaced by hate. It is the only real emotion, and the only source of his strength. If only he could tear you away from those people you call friends, then you could finally understand. 

But knowing you had the Force dormant within you wasn’t enough, he needed to test you, needed to know just how far your powers went.

He didn’t expect it. To be connected. It wasn’t until you touched hands did he feel your happiness as his own.

Though it’s unstable, your connection. Wild emotions sometimes ebb and flow and pass one person to the other. And he, too, in moments of surprised vulnerability forgot to keep himself tempered and in control. His anger, hatred, all things wretched and deformed have slipped into your dreams and your day to day life. A part of him, now permanently a part of you. It felt like he finally found something he had been unknowingly searching for — a missing piece of him that has returned to make him whole. Without you, he would feel like carved bark, a half-finished project incapable of reaching its full potential. To let you go is not an option anymore. 

Stronger together, he reminds himself in a scolding tone. He is not supposed to care about you, rather of what’s in you — raw, untamed power, a well of untapped potential. You are his half, and he is yours. You are connected by the Force, and there is nothing else to it. Cannot be anything else. 

The human shell is hardly his point of interest.

.

“No,” You say, taking a small step back from him, from his offer, from the temptation, and casting your gaze down into the gleaming water, “no, I can’t go with you. I have to stay here.”

You don’t dare to look at him and see just what expression he is wearing, though you guess he’s not too happy by your rejection. You cheeks heat uncomfortably - his gesture was noble yet crafted so carefully that you suspect an ulterior motive behind it. You can’t throw your life away, not before you understand what’s actually going on between you. You clear your throat awkwardly, sparing a blank look at the swaying trees and trying to think of the best route to return home, “Come on.” You utter, “We shouldn’t be standing around here. Not safe.” You add silently.

Though you can’t help yourself. You spare a glance at him and freeze up -- it looks like you slapped him, his eyes wide with hurt and pale face blotching red. He slowly retracts his hand, his motion stiff and mechanic as if he does not know what to do with it if he’s not holding yours. It feels cold again, and you are fairly certain it has nothing to do with the lukewarm water dripping from your clothes.

Snow. You see it in quick flashes -- a white, hazy storm -- that fulls you to the brim with dread. What was it that Vendetta had said? A base somewhere existing in his memories, a place he will return to, a place where he wants to take you. A palace hidden in the snow.

July, in all his brutality, was right: you had been fraternizing with the enemy. Ilum, the planet of frost and snow and home to the Starkiller Base of the First Order. And someone from that same Order had offered you to come with.

It’s a different kind of pain -- you’d prefer the headaches after a day of mental gymnastics, the dull pain of muscles after training, the sharp stabs of a sprained ankle, the pulses and red flashes of an open wound. Anything would be better than this winter in your soul. You feel tired, in an incurable, empty way. As if you lost a half of something integral that you will never have again. Love can bloom only so much before it withers.

You turn away from him and approach the trees, not entirely certain if he’s following you or not. You feel like you’re a cloud in the sky, heavy with rain and thunder but unable to release it. The capacity for that had been robbed from you. He, you realize, is the first person in the line of people that you won’t be able to save. He’s going where you can’t follow. He’s another chess piece on the board that is this war - and one day you will face him among blood and slaughter. 

It is hard to believe that mere minutes ago he had been cotton on your fingers, almost destroyed by longing he can’t explain. 

Ben...To you the name is now forever cursed.

.

It is night when you return to your room, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind you on the alabaster floor. You collapse onto your bed, your head heavy thoughts, each more confusing and cumbersome than the last. Your agreed meeting at twilight was completely forgotten after the tumble. Somewhere half-way through the jungle you recalled that your friends might be missing you.

The door to your room slides open and you look up - Q. They watch you for a silent moment, assessing the damage: messy hair, dirtied linen clothes, blood dried on your cheek, tired, deep eyes that face the world without truly seeing anything. They clear their throat, giving you a smile, “When we noticed your absence and the absence of our esteemed guest,” They start, their voice even, diplomatic, perfectly neutral, “it is suffice to say we were frightened that you had been lured to a trap. Fallen to an early grave.” They approach you easily, taking a seat beside you and landing a hand on your knee, “Though, fall you certainly did from what I can tell.” They finish with a note of amusement.

It takes you a moment to find your voice, “He wanted to see the place where I found him and we got lost.” You explain, sparing the details. They accept your answer, even if it’s full of holes. “Did the meeting commence?”

“After we unanimously decided that you aren’t stupid enough to get yourself killed.” They huffed, “V was especially eager to send out a search party. I must admit that I was, too, swayed by the idea. July, however, as always, shot us down. Had more faith in you than us. For that, I apologize.” They pause, pensive, “But you care little for that, I suppose. You want to know what we decided.”

“Yes.”

“Your vote still counts, Seven. And if you want, we can call a-”

“No.” You cut them off sadly, “No, I agree with your decision, whatever that decision might be.”

“Then first thing tomorrow morning he will be taken to the nearest station,” They say softly, “and released from our care.”

You think you could feel sorrow if you were not so exhausted - right now the only thing you want is to shut your eyes and forget the world exists entirely. You nod stiffly, replaying the dream you had this morning. Flames like hands grasping for the sky, chaos and wind and blood -- but the smoke dies down eventually, and now you stand in the aftermath. There is nothing left, just ash.

They tap your knee once for good measure and stand up, sparing you a rueful glance.

“I may not know exactly what your, ah...situation is, per se,” Q utters, “but know that if you ever wish to share it, you can come to me. Or any of us. Even July. He may be tough, but he still cares about you. In the only way he knows how.” They stand there for a beat, waiting for you to say something, anything really, but you don’t. “Goodnight, Seven.” 

Q leaves and the door shuts and you wonder if today had been real or a factitious, terrible nightmare. Perhaps you never woke up, perhaps you are still sleeping restlessly, trapped, unable to open your eyes and look at the sun with a smile while saying, “It was just a dream.”. The pain had passed leaving nothing behind. The night is dark and endless and the bleak light of your bedroom illuminates your surroundings without an ounce of warmth. Still silence, suffocating air. This blanket of loneliness lays heavy on your shoulders before it all piles and piles and--

You, laying in bed, shivering, tears crawling down your cheeks and lips red from biting, and Ben, in the Medical Wing, heaving, watching the broken glass bottles glimmering on the floor, supplies smashed, sheets thrown about haphazardly in sudden rage, feel the same scorch of heartbreak.  

.

hope you liked it!

.

[jackjots]

13 Death

Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt

(This takes place around the second half of Episode 7)

Day #13 @30daysofwayward

(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)

 Sitting in the shadows, I realized there was not much I could do at this point. Staying and listening to the werewolves while they talked amongst themselves felt so much worse than listening to them talk to Artemis and Paul. Even though both should have equally bothered me, somehow hearing what they had to say when they were ready to share their story felt better than hearing what they had to say when they thought they were totally alone. That was, if they had failed to notice me. Which now that I thought about, seemed unlikely, if they had any wolf senses. I didn’t know quite how that worked, but I didn’t want to test that theory too hard. 

Feeling quite trapped, I developed a plan to free myself from the fear of being caught by making it seem like I had been somewhere else the entire time. I stuck my notebook away and quietly made my way to the bathroom. The door was already ajar, so I slipped quickly inside. Once there, I made sure to make it very clear I was in there. Water running, flushing a couple of times. I felt a bit of regret for the waste of water, as any Californian would, but I decided it was necessary to really hit home that I was in there, doing important bathroom things. I returned to my seat and tried to give off the air that I didn’t have any idea other people were in there; seeming surprised to see them with a nice exaggerated facial expression in Paul’s direction, though he didn’t really look at me. I made my way to the bar for another beer. I hadn’t heard anything, my face said, I was totally clueless to everything going on. I knew nothing about werewolves, my casual arm against the bar declared, and the people behind me were merely a small group of people enjoying a conversation I hadn’t heard one tiny shred of. No siree, I was an innocent little barfly. Don’t mind me. La de da de day. 

I went back to my seat, and I did not pull my notebook back out. Instead, I doodled with my pen on the napkin I had grabbed with my beer. A couple of those classic elementary school Ss, next to each other. My initials. I had always been so proud that my initials were cool shapes everyone was drawing. 

After a few minutes had passed and no reaction to my presence occurred, I decided my first real attempt at deception had worked. My great master plan to feel less trapped in the hole I had put myself in. I mean, if they had known I was there the whole time, they decided I wasn’t a threat, as they weren’t acting like I was one. So either way, I was fine, everything was fine. Except that Artemis was out there by herself and it was going to be dark sooner than later. 

I decided to put my beer in the corner with a coaster on top. Desmond wasn’t at the bar to let him know I had done so, but I had a feeling no one would take my spot. And it conveyed I was just running out for a moment. I took my bag with me.

I left without looking around or giving any indication about what I was doing. 

I was pretty sure I knew where Miner Mole was, so I didn’t need GPS this time. But I had a feeling going straight there would be bad. I decided to go a weird way, and cut through some trees, so I could sneak up and watch from the window and see how Artemis was doing before I started to throw myself into situations that didn’t concern me. I was an observer, I reminded myself. I was going to observe.

This was my plan anyway, 

Until I died.

I was right about to hit the road again from the little detour I’d made when my feet suddenly weren’t under me anymore and I raised my arms against the ground as it came up and everything went dark. And that’s when I was sure I was dead. 

It started as a tingle all over, and then a great pull inside of me as I felt I was falling even farther than the ground. And then there was a vastness of depth that stretched beyond me and everything around me melted into a sort of purple mush. I tried to reach out my hands, but I couldn’t see them in front of me even as I stretched and grasped at the air. The air. Breathing. I tried to breathe, but nothing happened. The panic that would normally turn my stomach and grip my chest merely floated away as a bright orange cloud. 

I tried to steady myself, or whatever I was, and concentrate. I tried to focus on where I had just been. Dead Canary, I thought to myself, Dead Canary, werewolves. 

I was back at the bar. But my body was sitting at the booth, and I was staring at myself.  Scribbling in my book as the werewolves spoke. I couldn’t hear them talking, but I knew from the words that spilled from my pen that they were. It was weird to see myself, like looking at a fun house mirror version of myself, but more subtle. My face was wrong, and I realized I was used to seeing it in the mirror. The bruises under my eyes added to the ridiculousness of my face being not-my-face. I couldn’t keep staring, it was making me feel ill in an entirely new way that had nothing to do with my stomach. I realized as I focused on Paul’s face at the other booth that I could go over to the other table. Artemis and Paul sat next to each other, across from Rita, Sybilus, and Helen. Sybilus was speaking earnestly, and I remembered his words about silver, and wondered if this was the part I was seeing. There had been other small things he had uttered that had a stutter in the center of them, but this was the string of words that he had said with conviction and, as Rita was about to mention, no stutter. I could really stare into all of the eyes around me, as if I was perched in the middle of the table and swiveling around like a lazy susan. I stopped at Paul’s face. I stared into his eyes.

I was staring into Paul’s eyes and when I turned I was staring into Prism’s living breathing face. I pulled back and saw that Prism was putting cards down. He must have been getting a reading. The first she laid down was death. Her mouth moved. I couldn’t hear anything, but Prism seemed to be reassuring Paul as he squirmed in his chair. Another card, death. She was uncomfortable now. Another card, another card - a wolf face started to show. Another, and another. 

Someone cast a shadow and they looked. I looked up and there was-

There was Ryan bleeding on the ground.

There was Barney. Faces swam around him. Panic was bright red in the room. 

I woke up on the forest floor.

Okay so I didn’t die, but I really felt like I did.

[jonnmurphy]

147 with murven, pretty please

Okay so I’m just going through my inbox to write some drabbles and try to get back into doing fan fic. I think I know which prompt lists most of these were from, but I might be wrong. All of these are several years old tho, so idk. All drabbles are unedited and prone to many typos, sorry my dudes

147: “ I can take care of myself just fine.”

Some days, everything is fine. Well, as fine as things get. Sure, society as a whole is on the brink of collapse and they’re constantly struggling to avert the latest disaster, but there are communal dinners and picking out rooms in the farmhouse, and sometimes Raven gets to sit in the sun for a few minutes and she can pretend nothing bad is happening. They make jokes, and Indra is way too intense, and Raven sasses at Murphy who gives as good as he gets, and Clarke gets to be a mom, and it’s just... Nice.

But some days Raven wakes up with phantom pain dancing a jig hand in hand with her actual, chronic pain, and she wants to vomit as she puts on her brace, fingers shaking and tears stinging her eyes. She wants to cut off her leg, and go run away into the woods and live in the underground caves and never have to look at the people around her and remember the heartbreak that never seems to end. She doesn’t want to solve problems, and she doesn’t want to play nice, and those days her sarcasm turns to aggression, and everyone leaves her alone to work on motorcycles, throwing wrenches and cursing loudly.

And then there are the days where she can’t turn all that pain into rage. The days where she just wants to be held, she wants someone to see through every wall she’s put up, and she just wants to cry. And those days scare her most of all, because she knows how dangerous that is. She knows how much worse it gets when someone does see you, and then they leave. Taken away by the whims of fate, and the hands of her friends. 

On days like that, of which today is one, she grabs a little jar full of insects - just in case, Raven has had more than enough mind manipulation for one life time thank you very much - and she goes into the woods. Research, she says. Sometimes she does study things, sorrow held at bay temporarily by a new discovery. But, more often than not, she finds her way up a hill or a tree, straining against her own limitations to get somewhere with a view. Somewhere that reminds her of spacewalks. And when she gets there, she sits down, and she cries. The sort of crying she doesn’t do in front of the others, not anymore. The sort that tears at something inside of her, makes it raw and bloody, and is impossible to stop.

And everyone always leaves her alone.

Which is why, when Raven hear a very distinct pattern of footsteps approaching, she immediately goes on full alert. Sure, the Children of Gabriel no longer live in the woods ready to attack anyone they see, but that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily safe. There could be a new splinter cell of them, or one of the convicts deciding they’d rather not do hard labour, or some new and unknown threat. So Raven rubs the tears from her face quickly and clumsily, grabbing her gun and turning towards the noise.

“Really, Raven? I thought you and I had moved past pointing guns at each other.” Murphy’s unfortunately familiar form emerges from the tree line, hands held up in surrender. 

Just great, the one person she really doesn’t have the energy to deal with today.

“Go away, Murphy.” Raven grumbles as she turns away from him, laying down her gun and staring out at the vista beyond the cliff she’s sitting just shy of.

“Now, when has that ever worked?” Murphy chuckles as he completely ignores her, walking over and sitting next to her as if invited.

“Why can’t you ever do what you’re told?” Raven asks, wishing that it would sound more snarky and less whiny. But her voice betrays how pathetic she feels, and she can only hope Murphy is as oblivious to human emotion as he says he is.

“Oh, like you’re such a good little soldier yourself.” Murphy quips back, which, fair point. But Raven doesn’t have to admit that, at least not to him.

“What do you want, Murphy?” Raven asks hollowly. She really doesn’t have it in her for their normal back and forth.

“Other than the pleasure of your stimulating company?” She can see him turn to look at her out of the corner of her eye, but Raven doesn’t turn her own head. She keeps staring ahead, knowing how she must look, all puffy eyes and barely restrained tears. “Ugh, I guess some people are worried about you.”

He sounds so put upon by the concept, and Raven can’t help the bitter scoff that escapes her.  Where are they, then, all these people who are concerned about her? Not that she wants them, she reminds herself. She wants to be left alone, this pain is temporary, and it’s better this way.

Safer.

“So they sent you?” Raven asks the clouds, and Murphy sighs. Honestly, if it was Clarke and them, why would they send the least empathetic individual they all know to talk to her?

“Well, I-”

“Listen, Murphy, don’t bother.  I can take care of myself just fine.” She cuts him off, because she doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want him here, she just wants him to leave her alone so she can go back to crying again.

“Well that’s clearly not true,” Murphy drawls, and Raven finally looks at him, if only to glare. But he’s looking at the sky now, tapping his fingers on his thigh, either nervous, or bored with the whole thing. Either way, he should just leave if he’s so uncomfortable.

“I’m fine,” Raven retorts, and Murphy looks over to level her with a look that clearly says he knows just as well as her how bullshit that statement is. Raven shakes her head, amending her words, “Well, I will be fine. I just- I just need to be alone for a bit.”

“No, you don’t,” Murphy says, probably just to be contrary. It sparks a little bit of anger in Raven, just enough to singe the heavy blanket of sadness clinging to her.

“Listen here, Murphy, you don’t even know what I’m going through, or what I need, so don’t pretend you have any say in this, and-” Raven rants with heat, and Murphy has the audacity to roll his eyes at her, “Seriously?!”

“Raven, for someone so smart, you’re so dumb sometimes. Of course I don’t know what you’re going through, because you never told me. Or anyone, actually, from what I can tell. But I don’t have to know what’s going on with you to know that you don’t have to be alone through it.” Murphy is oddly sincere, and Raven can feel her scrap of anger fading, and she’s afraid. Afraid of what might happen when it’s gone, if Murphy’s still here and her walls don’t hold. 

“Murphy, just go back to whoever sent you and tell them I’m not in any danger, okay?” Raven tries, as a last ditch attempt, and Murphy groans in frustration.

“No one sent me, Raven. It’s me, I’m the “some people” who are worried. Because I get it, okay? I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I know what it feels like, and it sucks. And being alone? That’s even worse. So you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, you can yell at me, or hit me, or whatever you need to do, but I’m not leaving you.”

The words aren’t kind or caring, and honestly Murphy kind of shouts them at her. But they’re real, she knows, because Murphy would never lie for anyone’s benefit but his own. Which means, for whatever reason, he actually cares, and that hits Raven like a tonne of bricks. All the air leaves her lungs, the fight leaves her body, and she doesn’t know what to do. Murphy, to his credit, doesn’t say anything else. He simply shrugs, leans back on his hands, and looks up at the sky again.

Raven is left with a choice. She can get up and leave, she can pretend she really is fine, or she can just... be. And it’s hard to stand, with the weight of the world crushing her, so she doesn’t leave. And honestly, she isn’t fine. She hasn’t been fine for a long time. Which means she takes the last option, and she’s not proud of it, but she’s not really ashamed either. She hugs her knees to her chest, and she cries, and Murphy just sits there. Eventually, when her sobs become sniffles, he rubs her back a little, without otherwise looking at her or saying anything. And it’s a little weird, yes, but the thing inside of her that is raw and bleeding feels like someone put a bandaid on it. It isn’t much, it certainly isn’t enough to fix it if the thing ever can be fixed, but it’s something.

And she isn’t alone.

[theparanormalperiodical]

The True Story Behind The Amityville Horror (1979) And The 9 Other Times Paranormal Evidence Was Used In Court

I can hear the birds singing.

I can see a brilliant blue sky as it bathes my small Kentish town in the year’s first rays of light.

And I can feel the first thawe of February.

F*ck off winter, and hello spring!

As I sit on my bed, looking outside my window at the resurrection of the once-green landscape of my hometown, I am reminded of the true meaning of this season: life.

The mating season begins for most small, furry creatures, daffodils stand proudly as the first flower to mark their territory, and, like, there’s something about Jesus but I don’t think that had that much of an impact on the world, did it?

But I’m not the first person who was eager to turn their back on winter - the season of death - and look forward to a brighter year.

I’m sure the Lutz family, having fled their family home in mid-January, were just as ready to quash their terrifying experiences that were only darkened by the brutal winter months.

“Lutz… I know that name.”

Unless you were only until recently within a cult and decided to turn your back on Almighty Zarp Goddess Of Destruction, you’ll probably have heard that surname before. But who were they?

Well, to jog your memory, they were a small All-American family who lived in a small All-American town known as Amityville.

Yeah, there you go, now you know where I’m heading with this.

(Or you read the title of this post.)

Amityville is a town in New York which set the scene for probably the most famous haunting the world has ever witnessed. And with several families undergoing intense happenings - from murders to manic paranormal activity - this house has earned its place in the history books.

Oh, and on the big screen, too; 16 feature films have retold the story, including one film which featured Mr Pool himself, Ryan Reynolds.

So, as your favourite paranormal blogger, I thought I’d devote an article to the insanity that was Amityville, and dissect how real the reality shown in the films was for the 2 families that once lived at 112 Ocean Drive.

And I’m not stopping there.

What made this haunting so iconic was how it planted its paranormal feet into the legal system as a result of the murder case the hauntings are linked to. But the thing is, Amityville is far from alone when it comes to legal courts having to deal with the supernatural.

There are actually 9 other prominent legal cases from which the courts have had to debate and discuss the paranormal.

And I’m gon’ tell you all about ‘em.

*Bangs gavel*

Before We Get Spooky, Let’s Summarise What The Films Had To Say About This Haunting

(And they’ve got a lot to say.)

Like I said, there are 16 films that claim they document the events witnessed by the Lutz family in their short stay. No, really, they were there for less than 28 days.

From 1979 all the way up to 2017, we have a variety of films that explore what went down in that house, and, given they are horror films, we also get a few laughs along the way.

Like the 1992 classic Amityville: It’s About Time, which sounds like it might star Vin Diesel in a Fast and Furious crossover.

Or maybe how in the same year Amityville: Playhouse and Amityville: Death House hit the theatres.

And even the rendition of the Amityville Horror from which the realtor having shown the new occupants around the house died in the driveway when he attempted to leave the property!

So, to cut out that crap, I’ve decided to just recap what occurs in the 3 most popular movies of this franchise:

The Amityville Horror (1979), The Amityville Horror (2005), and Amityville: Awakening (2017).

The Amityville Horror (1979)

Sharing the same title as the book supposedly based on the real events witnessed by the Lutz family, this film was the first to share the story of the DeFeo family and the following inhabitants of the house. . The film starts by showing us the final moments of the DeFeo family, from which some bloke kills all of ‘em. From there we bear witness to a new family moving into the home.

And things get spooky quickly.

A visit from a priest gives us the first signs of the supernatural as he  experiences a variety of attacks from beyond the grave, whether its swarms of flies to a blistered hand when trying to warn Kathy, the mother of the family, about. An angry spirit then tells him to ‘get out’, triggering his complete mental breakdown.

The paranormal forces then encroach on the patriarch of the famalam - George - leaving him to split firewood to keep the constant cold at bay. Unexplained events begin to haunt the entire family:

The young daughter of the family mentions an imaginary friend, and a pig with glowing red eyes is seen by her bedroom window. The doggo then becomes cray-cray about the basement which is later revealed to conceal a small, hidden room that has red walls.

Things then get weirder. George begins to wake up at 3.15am every morning to check on the boathouse, and Kathy has nightmares which reveal details of what down in the first scene of the movie. A quick trip to the archives later, and she deduces that this house is built on a Shinnecock (Native American) burial ground, and that a satan worshipper - John Ketchum - once lived there.

If that wasn’t enough, she discovers the story of the DeFeo family, and notes that Ronald DeFeo - the murderer - looks uncomfortably similar to George.

It all comes to a head when blood oozes down the staircase and Jody (you know, the sweet adorable imaginary friend who is actually a pig) is seen through the window. Oh, and George tries to kill everyone with an axe.

Kathy brings him out of his trance, and they both get the f*ck outta the house.

We are told that they didn’t return for their belongings.

The Amityville Horror (2005)

For this modern retelling of the original film, the scenes are re-arranged, the hauntings are more minimalist, and just a dash of Ryan Reynolds is added.

And is he playing Ryan Reynolds? ‘Course.

But the major difference between the OG and this icon is that the basis for the hauntings is explored in a much more artistic and developed way:

We see the Native Americans that were supposedly tortured and killed by some guy called Ketchum, and we even see Ketchum himself! Well, for a very brief moment; he simply recreates his suicide and spews blood over Ryan Reynolds George.

This possesses him, and causes him to try and kill the rest of his family as they try to escape the house.

Kathy knocks Ryan Reynolds George out and takes him off the property to release him from Ketchum’s control.

Aside from the greater detail regarding Ketchum - that is, we discover that he was in a cult and was a reverend - we also see Jodie for the first time. No, she’s not the demonic pig we see in the first film. She’s a young creepy-ass girl instead.

What a trade!

The film ends just like the OG, with a title card explaining that they pissed off and never returned to the house. But once again, a divergence with the 1970s version is revealed. 

No, not the questionable hairstyles and cinematic style that looks like it was filmed with a toaster:

The final scene shows Jodie scream in terror inside the house as the furniture rearranges itself. She is then dragged beneath the floorboards by two hands, and the screen fades to black…

This confirms that this movie - alongside the later renditions of the story - don’t necessarily point to a specific haunting, but rather look at the house as the source of the haunting. In fact, they just skip out the DeFeos altogether!

This is down to the fact that the movies are directly based on the book of the same name which was released in 1977. Based off 45 hours worth of tapes from the Lutz family, this book wasn’t necessarily written with the family, but clearly had enough information to brew this highly controversial book.

The events charted in the book will be discussed later in this post.

Amityville: Awakening (2017)

The latest film in this franchise swaps out one famous face for another - Bella Thorne stars as a teen that moves into the infamous house with her family and brain-dead brother.

But instead of retelling the Lutz’s story yet again, it explores the power of the house as it slowly begins to possess the brother until he begins to carry out the murders that plague the house.

It is even revealed that the mother brought them to the house in the hope that the demonic energy would help the brother. But, with a gaggle of friends who know the story of the house - and even show the main character the 2005 film - they help her defend against the powers of the house.

The film ends with the sister dragging her brother out of the house and beyond the magic circle she drew, ending the power of the house over the brother after he begins murdering various family members.

The final scene notes that the main character is being questioned by the police, bringing us back to the main point of this post:

This haunting set itself apart by roping in the legal courts.

But how true were these films to the real claims made by the family? And what really happened on November 13th 1974?

What Really Happened At 112 Ocean Avenue?

Whenever someone mentions Amityville, someone gets sued.

Some guy writes a book? They get taken to court. Another bloke makes a film? Lawyers get pissy about the new details added in.

But obviously, this all started in 1974, when Ronald DeFeo killed all 6 members of his family at 112 Ocean Avenue. The courts definitely got involved then, and they are still are - he is currently serving time having been convicted of second degree murder in 1975.

The DeFeo’s deaths were rather peculiar though, mirroring an almost ritualistic scene; each victim was found lying in their bed, face down. At first he ran out of the house and reported that his family had been shot, only confessing days later that he was the killer.

The family had lived in the house since 1965, and thus spent a decade in what many presume to be a haunted due to the experiences of the Lutzes. Could this have caused the murders?

According to some, the paranormal forces could’ve been at the house before the DeFeos moved in as the insanity defense pedalled by DeFeo’s lawyers claimed that he heard the voices of his family plotting against him.

"Once I started, I just couldn't stop. It went so fast" - Ronald DeFeo 

I’m sure this mirrors the beliefs and actions of most murderers, but this sense of being out of control or maybe even not yourself certainly fits the bill of possession that the movies always pin on George Lutz.

The isolation of the George figure we see in the film and the voices heard throughout suggest this, but the DeFeo story is often skipped in the films and the books.  

Yet despite DeFeo’s confession, the murders are still bathed in mystery. The police were puzzled by the fact that the corpses showed no sign of struggle, and were confused by the sheer scale and speed that the killings would have required. On top of this, neighbours didn’t hear the shots despite the gun not having a silencer.

Even the motive was uncertain.

Sure, DeFeo did ask about his father’s life insurance very quickly following his death, but many didn’t think that was reason enough to kill one’s entire family.

DeFeo’s story has twisted and turned overtime, but one thing is for sure: no haunting is ever mentioned in this side of the story. 

None. Nada. Zilch.

This is why any retelling of Amityville focuses on the murders that took place there, but also tries to trace back the haunting to a satanic cause buried in the history of the house.

To this day the question still stands: what really caused the haunting of Amityville?

The book The Amityville Horror (1977) tries to answer this question, and charts each claim of the Lutz family. And unfortunately, it confirms that the films portray an uncomfortably accurate haunting.

The hauntings noted by the Lutz family are nothing short of incredible - however you interpret my use of that word..

The spooky goings-on reported include:

A priest being told to ‘get out’ and his subsequent telephone call warning the family to stay out of a room being cut short

George would wake up at 3.15am an check the boathouse - this was the estimated time of the murders

Flies would swarm the house despite their arrival in mid-winter

Kathy would have violent and detailed nightmares about the murders

The family members all began to sleep on their stomachs

Missy, the daughter, made an imaginary friend called Jodie, a pig with red glowing eyes

Green slime oozed from walls

Hoof prints similar to that of a pig were spotted in the snow

However, the most intriguing piece of the paranormal discovered at Amityville was that small room with red walls that was found in the basement - a room considered to be the source of the evil in the house. And, just like in the films, the family dog had severe reactions to it such as cowering and refusing to go near it.

It was only when they fled to a relative’s house and saw slime coming up the stairs towards them that they decided that they would not be returning to 112 Ocean Avenue.

Evidently the silver screen tapped into the nature of the hauntings, but the possession of George Lutz? According to the Lutzes, it only went as far as George noticing that he bore a resemblance to Ronald.

What about Reverend Ketchum? And the Native American burial ground?  

Doesn’t exist and didn’t happen. 

Well, okay, some bloke called Ketchum would have existed - this was a popular name for settlers from England. But there’s no evidence that he spent his spare time in a cult or murdered Native Americans there. And the Shinnecock Native Americans? Sure, they exist, but leaders claimed this was not a burial ground.

In reality, all we have is a chaotic level of activity.

Or do we?

The book has encountered a fair share of controversy, with most major details being overturned.

Hoof prints in the snow? It didn’t snow that day.

The red room? It was a closet, and it wasn't concealed.

The claims by the priest? He never said they were of paranormal origin.

"Nothing weird ever happened, except for people coming by because of the book and the movie." - The couple that lived there after the Lutzes.

The 9 Other Cases Of Evidence Of The Paranormal Being Used In Court

I love me a ghost.

The problem is, there’s a lot of ‘em.

You’d think Amityville was like the only case where the paranormal made their way into court cases, stamping the supernatural into legal files and sending shivers down the jury’s spine…

But unfortunately, that is not true.

It turns out that tales of haunting are actually clogging up legal archives. And no, I don’t mean cases where a woman would sneeze in the 16th century and they would legally have some right to burn her cause clearly she was a witch.

In fact, some of these mysterious mentions have founded laws!

“Alexa, play the Legally Blonde soundtrack.”

#1 - The Greenbrier Ghost

Woman dies. Husband acts suspicious. Husband acts more suspicious. Ghost tells mother the husband did it. Case closed.

No, seriously - that’s what happened.

Elva Zona Heaster was murdered in 1897 at the hands of her husband. Having broken her neck, he claimed complications with pregnancy killed her, and dressed the corpse to prevent people seeing the real cause of her death.

The grandmother was the first to become unsure of his story having washed the scarf that was tied around her daughter’s definitely-not-f*cked-up neck and being unable to wash out a blood stain. She began to pray, and her daughter’s spirit explained to her what occurred.

She even did an Exorcist and twisted her head round to confirm just in case her mam didn’t get the message.

She reported the sighting, and the deputies immediately questioned people of interest. The body was reinvestigated, and the husband arrested.

Boom. Ghosted.

#2 - The Hammersmith Ghost Murder

You’d expect most cases mentioned here to involve someone being murdered and their ghost being the problem, right?

This bad boy bucks the trend.

Its 1803, and we are in fair London town. A ghost is on the loose from, I don’t know, hell, and is wandering the streets. An armed patrol is in the area to protect the citizens when a figure emerges, wearing all white.

“Looks pretty ghosty to me, must shoot ghost” thinks one of the armed patrol guys. They shoot ghost, but ghost is actually a bricklayer.

F*ck.

The British courts thus debate whether attacking or killing someone out of a misunderstanding counts as a crime. It officially becomes a part of UK law that stands to this day that such an act is not worthy of a sentence as if the crime was intentionally committed.

#3 - Stambovsky vs. Ackley

Also known as The Ghostbusters Ruling, this takes us to the other side of the Pond, all the way to New York. Oh, and this time we aren’t in the 19th century, it's 1991, instead.

The story goes a buyer bought a house that was widely believed to be haunted, but they weren't aware of these claims. Thus, they asked for a recission of the contract and claimed that this sale was fraudulent as they concealed the haunting to avoid lowering the sale price.

The courts - after much mocking and deliberation - finally came to the conclusion that legally the house was haunted, and therefore houses that are supposedly haunted must be presented in this way.

#4 - The Devil Made Me Do It Case

This case does what it says on the tin, and is even set to be the basis for the next instalment of The Conjuring franchise.

The trial of Arne Cheyenne Johnson has already been covered by this blog (that awesome post about The Conjuring 3),  but for those not up-to-date on all the amazing articles I do, I guess I’ll just have to fill you in:

The story goes that whilst clearing out a house they just rented, David Johnson encountered an old man - who we now believe to be a demon - that began to slowly possess him.

David was only 12 years old, so, to protect him, Arne (his father) asked for the demon to possess him instead.

However, it was during an altercation with their landlord, Alan Bono, that the demon reportedly influenced Arne’s actions and assisted in his murder. In fact, it was Lorraine Warren that was the first to go to the police and make the initial claim that it was the demon that caused the murder.

The legal team roped in lawyers who had worked on similar cases abroad, and exorcism specialists were encouraged to speak up and defend Arne.

Their efforts did not prove successful, however, and Arne was handed a sentence of 20 years. He only served 5.

#5 - Booty vs. Barnaby  

No, this isn’t the title of the next Cardi B album. Instead, it's another historic tale from my homeland.

Our story starts in 1687, when some bloke called Captain Barnaby is on holibobs in Stromboli. When he’s not busy shooting innocent animals, he’s watching his next door neighbour from London Town getting chased by a phantom into the mouth of an active volcano.

No, I’m serious.

The neighbour’s wife thought the story sounded ridiculous too, which is why she had him arrested for slander. But then 30 of his crew supported his claims, clearing his name, and leaving a rather peculiar tale clogging up our court records.

#6 - The Haunting Of Lowes Cottage, Derbyshire

For some reason, every person buying a house in the ‘90s was using the hottest new way to bag a bargain: just say it's haunted or somethin’!

And that’s exactly what happened in fair Derbyshire. The Smith family were keen to move into their new cosy ‘lil cottage, but the oozing walls, ghostly hands sexually assaulting family members, the pig faced boy and other strange occurrences were a cause for concern.

(Obviously.)

Having withheld payment for the property due to the events noted, they took the sellers to court, saying it should be reduced by £50,000. Even the vicar threw in his two cents, offering up the evidence which sounded a lot like a little house in a place called Amityville.

Ever heard of it?

The case was eventually thrown out of court by the judge.

#7 - Reed vs. King

Before the DeFeos were murdered, and before the Lutzes even made the mistake of telling their furniture movers to head to 112 Ocean Avenue, a court case regarding a haunted house first hit the legal scene.

Our story starts in Grass Valley. A family moved into a new home, but the estranged husband paid a visit one night, and murdered 5 of the family members and injured 2 others.

Many years passed, and the Reed family shacked up here. However, it was only when they were told of the true events that transpired that the new residents became concerned. Sure, no one mentioned a haunting per say, but they claimed that the house “retained an echo”.

Small bloody footprints, blood stains smeared on the walls - no, it's not the bathroom after I’ve emptied my Diva Cup - it’s what Reed began to see throughout the house.

Reed thus decided to sue the sellers of the house, claiming that they tried to conceal the murders to avoid a wowcher.com-esque deal. But, when the case went to court, Reed didn’t mention hide nor hare of potential ghosts - instead, the potential haunting was used against them to prove how ridiculous the claims were.

#8 - The Death Of Estefania Guitterez Lazaro

It’s been discussed, dissected, and even given a Netflix contract - the death of this Madrid teen in 1992 is  officially one of the most prominent cases of possession to date.

Despite slipping under the radar, this tale is known not for its rather simple story, but because it was the first modern-day haunting that was verified by police reports.

The story goes that Estefania died following a session using a Ouija board with her friends in school. When interrupted by a teacher for trying to contact the dead, Estefania became possessed. A strange vapour began to enter her mouth and nose, and from there her seizures and hallucinations began.

After her death in hospital, the family claimed there was a variety of paranormal activity occurring throughout the family home. From the picture of Estefania catching fire of its own accord, to unexplained noises and a rather slimy, broken crucifix, the police had seen enough.

A report was filed citing the unexplained events and confirmed it was the paranormal.

#9 - The Exorcism Of Anneliese Michel

This is one of the most tragic tales I’ve ever had to write about.

Anneliese Michel’s story has been detailed on this blog many-a-time, and has received its fair share of attention in popular culture, including in the film The Exorcism Of Anneliese Michel.

But the main reason it’s been recognised as possibly the most famous case of possession is because it brought the paranormal firmly into the legal courts. Due to Michel’s extremely weak state at the time of her death - including weighing only 68 pounds at the time of her death - the priests that carried out the exorcisms were charged with negligent homicide.

However, it's not the fact that they were charged that puts the supernatural spin on this case.

To fight their corner, the priests used tapes that recorded Michel’s exorcism to bolster their claims of her possession and had her body exhumed.

Their mere 6 month stint in jail was down to the jury’s beliefs that they didn’t intend to harm her, nor neglect her. And the suspension of their time behind bars confirms that their case was backed up by their claims.

But let it not be mistaken: the jury weren’t convinced that Michel was in fact possessed - they were convinced that Michel’s belief in her possession could only be alleviated by the priests’ actions.

*Bangs gavel* What’s your verdict?

Is the jury out? Are you pissin’ on my leg and telling me it’s raining?

Or are you still awake at 3am and waiting to see the glowing red eyes of little Missy’s childhood bestie?

If so, why not fill the rest of your evening with the rest of my awesome articles on real paranormal activity just like this... Don’t forget to hit follow, too, to get a new ghost story in your feed everyday!

[seh406]

A.) He lies. A LOT. Politifact rates 69% of the words he speaks as “Mostly False or worse” Only 17% of the things he says get a “Mostly True” or better rating. That is an absolutely unbelievable number. How he doesn’t speak more truth by mistake is beyond me. To put it in context, Obama’s rating was 26% mostly false or worse, and I had a problem with that. Many of Trump’s former business associates report that he has always been a compulsive liar, but now he’s the President of the United States, and that’s a problem. And this is a man who expects you to believe him when he points at other people and says “They’re lying”

B.) He’s an authoritarian populist, not a conservative. He advances regressive social policy while proposing to expand federal spending and federalist authority over states, both of which conservatives are supposed to hate.

C.) He pretends at Christianity to court the Religious Right but fails to live anything resembling a Christ-Like Life.

D.) His nationalist “America First” message effectively alienates us and removes us from our place as leaders in the international community.

E.) His ideas on “Keeping us safe” are all thinly veiled ideas to remove our freedoms, he is, after all, an authoritarian first. He has shown that they also are simply bad ideas.

F.) He couldn’t pass a 3rd-grade civics exam. He doesn't’ know what he’s doing. He doesn't understand how international relations work, he doesn’t understand how federal state or local governments work, and every time someone tries to “Run it like a business” it’s a spectacular failure. See Colorado Springs’ recent history as an example. “The Short, Unhappy Life of a Libertarian Paradise” and that was a businessman with a MUCH better business track record than Trump. We are talking about a man who lost money owning a freaking gambling casino.

G.) He behaves unethically and always has. As a businessman, he constantly left in his wake unpaid contractors and invoices, litigation, broken promises, whatever he could get away with.

H.) He is damaging our relationships with our best international friends while kissing up to nations that do not have our best interests in mind. To his question “Wouldn't’ it be great to have better relations with Russia?” The answer is Yes. But it is RUSSIA who needs to earn that, who must stop doing the things that are damaging to that relationship, or we are simply weaker for it.

I.) He has never seen a shortcut he didn't like, and you can’t take shortcuts in government. “Nuclear Option, Remove the Filibuster, I’ll change the Constitution by Executive Order…Don…what happens when you remove the filibuster and the other side retakes the majority in the Senate? Suddenly want that filibuster back? What happens if you manage to change the Constitution by Executive Order and an Anti-2A President wins the next election?

J.) He behaves and has always behaved as an unabashed racist. Yes, I’ve seen your favorite meme that claims he was never accused of racism before the Democrats…Absolutely false. Donald Trump’s long history of racism, from the 1970s to 2019 See the Central Park 5, the lawsuits and fines resulting from his refusal to lease to black tenants, the 1992 lost appeal trying to overturn penalties for removing black dealers from tables, his remarks to the house native American affairs subcommittee in 1993. The man sees and treats racial groups of people as monoliths.

K.) He is systematically steamrolling regulations specifically designed to keep a disaster like the 2007 subprime mortgage crisis from happening again.

L.) He speaks and acts like a demagogue. He sees the Legislative and Judicial branches of government as inconveniences, blows up at criticism no matter how deserved and actively tries to countermand constitutional processes, not to mention attempts to blackmail and coerce people who are saying negative things about him

M.) His choices for top positions, with the exception of Gen. Mattis, who is a gem, have been horrendous. A secretary of Education without a resume that would get her hired as a small town grammar school principal, A secretary of Energy who didn't know the Department of Energy was responsible for nuclear reserves, an EPA head whose biggest accomplishments to date had been suing the EPA on multiple occasions, an FCC head who while working for Verizon actively lobbied to kill net neutrality, and an Attorney General who thinks pot is “nearly as bad as heroin” and asked Congress for permission to go after legal pot businesses in states where it is legal. (There goes that great Republican States rights rally cry again, right? *Crickets*) An Interim AG after Firing his First AG who’s appointment is probably unconstitutional.

N.) He denies scientific fact. We’ve all witnessed this with the latest world disaster, the Coronavirus. He was warned by scientists and doctors very early on that this could happen but he totally ignored these warnings which has had un-reversible repercussions. Have you also noticed that the only people you hear denying climate change are politicians and lobbyists? 99% of actual scientists studying the issue agree that it’s real, man-made and caused by greenhouse gasses. Ever notice that every big disaster movie starts with a bunch of politicians in a room ignoring a scientist's warning?

0.) He does not have the temperament to lead this nation. He is thin skinned, childish, and a bully, never mind misogynistic, boorish, rude, and incapable of civil discourse.

P.) He still does not understand that the words he speaks, or tweets, are the official position of 1/3 of the US government, and so does not govern his words. He still thinks when he speaks it’s good ole’ Donald Trump. It’s not. It’s the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. You have probably spread a meme or two around talking about how no president’s every word has ever been dissected before…YES, THEY ALWAYS HAVE. It’s just that every other president in our lifetime has understood the importance of his words and took great care to govern his speech. Trump blurts out whatever comes to his mind then complains when people talk about what a dumb thing that was to say.

Q.) He’s unqualified. If you owned a small business and were looking for someone to manage it, and an unnamed resume came across your desk and you saw 6 bankruptcies, showing a man who had failed to make money running CASINOS, would you hire him? He is a very poor businessman. This is a man it has been estimated would have been worth $10 BILLION more if he’d just taken what his father had given him, invested it in Index Funds and left it alone.

R.) He is the President. But he refuses to take a leadership position and understand that he is everyone’s President. Again, this has been recently demonstrated with the Coronavirus Pandemic. Conservatives complain about liberals chanting “Not my President” while Trump himself behaves as if no one but his supporters matter.

S.) He’s a blatant hypocrite. He spent 8 years bitching Obama out for his family trips, or golfing, or any time he took for himself, and what does he do? He was already on his 20th golf outing in APRIL of his 1st year in office. He constantly rants about respect for the military, yet can’t be bothered to attend the 100th anniversary of Armistice Day because of a little rain. (And that excuse about Marine One not being able to fly in the rain is HILARIOUS.)

T.) He’s a misogynist. It's not really ok in this day and age to be a misogynist, but it’s not a huge deal if you’re a private citizen. It’s a pretty big deal if you hate half the people you’re elected to lead. The disdain for women seeps out of his …whatever…. and he just can’t hide it.

U.) Face it. In any other election “Grab Em’ By the Pussy” would have been the end of that candidate’s chances. Back in the 90’s I used to marvel about how Teflon Bill Clinton was. I no longer do. The fact that he managed to slip by on that is as much a statement about how much people hate Hillary Clinton as it is about what is wrong with politics in this country right now.

V.) He has one response to a differing opinion. ATTACK. A good leader listens to criticism, to different points of view, is capable of self-reflection, tries to guide people to his point of view, and when necessary stands his ground and defends his convictions. Does any of this sound like Trump? His default is not to Lead, its’ to attack. Scorched Earth. The Jim Acosta reaction is a good example. There was no defense of his convictions when Acosta was asking him repeated questions about his rhetoric on the caravan. His response was to attack Acosta and he’s done this many times now with the

W.) He takes credit for everything positive while deflecting blame for everything negative. Look at him with the Stock Market. He’s been bragging about it since day one, and to give credit where credit is due, speculation on coming deregulation early in his presidency did fuel some rapid growth, but to pretend that it’s all him, that we’re not in the 9th year of the longest bull market in history and THEN, when the standard market volatility that deregulation inevitably brings about starts to show up? Yeah. Look at yesterday. Hey! Stock Markets losing because the Democrats won! Do I need to bring out the Stock market chart for the last 10 Years again?

X.) He emboldens the worst among us. Counter-protesters are slammed into by a car while countering actual Nazi rally, and the response is there’s fault on “Both Sides” The media is at fault for a nut job sending them and Donald’s favorite targets pipe bombs. The truth is not all Republicans, not all Trump Supporters are racist, fascist lunatics. Many are just taken in by the bombastic personality and are living in an information bubble made worse by the fact that they unfollow anyone and ignore any source of information that makes them feel uncomfortable. People on the left do that too. The biggest problem the right has right now is that the worst of the Right is the loudest and the most in your face, and the actual right, especially the Freaking PRESIDENT needs to be standing up and saying No. Those are not our values.

Y.) He seems to think the Constitution of The United States, the document that IS who we are, the document he took an oath to support and defend is some sort of inconvenience. He demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of Constitution, from believing he can alter the 14th through executive order, to thinking The free exercise clause in the first amendment somehow supersedes the establishment clause (not that he really understands either) or that the free exercise clause only applies to Christians. Or his attacks on freedom of expression and the press. He repeatedly makes it clear that if he’s read them, he does not understand Articles 1–3, and that’s something he really should have before he took the job, because they’re not going away.

Z.) I’ll use Z for something I do blame him for, but the rest of us have to carry the blame too. Polarization. This country is more politically polarized than I can remember in my lifetime. Some may remember how it was in the late 60’s when construction workers in New York were being applauded for beating up hippies, I think it’s pretty close to that right now. And he is the cause of much of the current level polarization, but also the result. It didn't’ start with Trump. We’ve been going down this road I think since the eruption of the Tea Party in the early years of the Obama administration. I was hoping the tide would turn before it got much worse because the thing that scared me more than anything is what if that keeps going the way it has been? Well, that ship has sailed given Trumps past record and the latest current events that have gone horribly wrong.

If you’ve read this far, thank you for reading my reasons which I hope has given you my insight rather than just some superfluous statement I could have made that would have been pretty meaningless of why I cannot and never will support this man as someone I respect, let alone support him as our President.

[honeychildoz]

"Why are people so hostile towards President Donald Trump?" Chris O'Leary:

1.) I'm an independent centrist who has voted Republican way more often in my life than Democrat, and 2.) If you want to call someone who spent the entire decade of his 20’s serving in the Marine Corps a snowflake, I’d be ready to answer the question what did you do with your 20’s?

Why Liberals (And not-so liberals) are against President Trump.

A.) He lies. A LOT. Politifact rates 69% of the words he speaks as “Mostly False or worse” Only 17% of the things he says get a “Mostly True” or better rating. That is an absolutely unbelievable number. How he doesn’t speak more truth by mistake is beyond me. To put it in context, Obama’s rating was 26% mostly false or worse, and I had a problem with that. Many of Trump’s former business associates report that he has always been a compulsive liar, but now he’s the President of the United States, and that’s a problem. And this is a man who expects you to believe him when he points at other people and says “They’re lying”

B.) He’s an authoritarian populist, not a conservative. He advances regressive social policy while proposing to expand federal spending and federalist authority over states, both of which conservatives are supposed to hate.

C.) He pretends at Christianity to court the Religious Right but fails to live anything resembling a Christ-Like Life.

D.) His nationalist “America First” message effectively alienates us and removes us from our place as leaders in the international community.

E.) His ideas on “Keeping us safe” are all thinly veiled ideas to remove our freedoms, he is, after all, an authoritarian first. They also are simply bad ideas.

F.) He couldn’t pass a 3rd-grade civics exam. He doesn't’ know what he’s doing. He doesn't understand how international relations work, he doesn’t understand how federal state or local governments work, and every time someone tries to “Run it like a business” it’s a spectacular failure. See Colorado Springs’ recent history as an example. The Short, Unhappy Life of a Libertarian Paradise And that was a businessman with a MUCH better business track record than Trump. We are talking about a man who lost money owning a freaking gambling casino.

G.) He behaves unethicaly and always has. As a businessman, he constantly left in his wake unpaid contractors and invoices, litigation, broken promises, whatever he could get away with.

H.) He is damaging our relationships with our best international friends while kissing up to nations that do not have our best interests in mind. To his question “Wouldn't’ it be great to have better relations with Russia?” The answer is Yes. But it is RUSSIA who needs to earn that, who must stop doing the things that are damaging to that relationship, or we are simply weaker for it.

I.) He has never seen a shortcut he didn't like, and you can’t take shortcuts in government. “Nuclear Option, Remove the Filibuster, I’ll change the Constitution by Executive Order…Don…what happens when you remove the filibuster and the other side retakes the majority in the Senate? Suddenly want that filibuster back? What happens if you manage to change the Constitution by Executive Order and an Anti-2A President wins the next election?

J.) He behaves and has always behaved as an unabashed racist. Yes, I’ve seen your favorite meme that claims he was never accused of racism before the Democrats…Absolutely false. Donald Trump’s long history of racism, from the 1970s to 2019 See the Central Park 5, the lawsuits and fines resulting from his refusal to lease to black tenants, the 1992 lost appeal trying to overturn penalties for removing black dealers from tables, his remarks to the house native American affairs subcommittee in 1993. The man sees and treats racial groups of people as monoliths.

K.) He is systematically steamrolling regulations specifically designed to keep a disaster like the 2007 subprime mortgage crisis from happening again.

L.) He speaks and acts like a demagogue. He sees the Legislative and Judicial branches of government as inconveniences, blows up at criticism no matter how deserved and actively tries to countermand constitutional processes, not to mention attempts to blackmail and coerce people who are saying negative things about him

M.) His choices for top positions, with the exception of Gen. Mattis, who is a gem, have been horrendous. A secretary of Education without a resume that would get her hired as a small town grammar school principal, A secretary of Energy who didn't know the Department of Energy was responsible for nuclear reserves, an EPA head whose biggest accomplishments to date had been suing the EPA on multiple occasions, an FCC head who while working for Verizon actively lobbied to kill net neutrality, and an Attorney General who thinks pot is “nearly as bad as heroin” and asked Congress for permission to go after legal pot businesses in states where it is legal. (There goes that great Republican States rights rally cry again, right? *Crickets*) An Interim AG after Firing his First AG who’s appointment is probably unconstitutional.

N.) He denies scientific fact. Ever notice that the only people you hear denying climate change are politicians and lobbyists? 99% of actual scientists studying the issue agree that it’s real, man-made and caused by greenhouse gasses. Ever notice that every big disaster movie starts with a bunch of politicians in a room ignoring a scientist's warning?

0.) He does not have the temperament to lead this nation. He is Thin Skinned, childish, and a bully, never mind misogynistic, boorish, rude, and incapable of civil discourse.

P.) He still does not understand that the words he speaks, or tweets, are the official position of 1/3 of the US government, and so does not govern his words. He still thinks when he speaks it’s good ol’ Donald Trump. It’s not. It’s the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. You have probably spread a meme or two around talking about how no president’s every word has ever been dissected before…YES, THEY ALWAYS HAVE. It’s just that every other president in our lifetime has understood the importance of his words and took great care to govern his speech. Trump blurts out whatever comes to his mind then complains when people talk about what a dumb thing that was to say.

Q.) He’s unqualified. If you owned a small business and were looking for someone to manage it, and an unnamed resume came across your desk and you saw 6 bankruptcies, showing a man who had failed to make money running CASINOS, would you hire him? He is a very poor businessman. This is a man it has been estimated would have been worth $10 BILLION more if he’d just taken what his father had given him, invested it in Index Funds and left it alone.

R.) He is President. But he refuses to take a leadership position and understand that he is everyone’s President. Conservatives complain about liberals chanting “Not my President” while Trump himself behaves as if no one but his supporters matter.

S.) He’s a blatant hypocrite. He spent 8 years bitching Obama out for his family trips, or golfing, or any time he took for himself, and what does he do? He was already on his 20th golf outing in APRIL of his 1st year in office. He constantly rants about respect for the military, yet can’t be bothered to attend the 100th anniversary of Armistice Day because of a little rain. (And that excuse about Marine One not being able to fly in the rain is HILARIOUS.)

T.) He’s a misogynist. It's not really ok in this day and age to be a misogynist, but it’s not a huge deal if you’re a private citizen. It’s a pretty big deal if you hate half the people you’re elected to lead. The disdain for women seeps out of his …whatever…. and he just can’t hide it.

U.) Face it. In any other election “Grab Em’ By the Pussy” would have been the end of that candidate’s chances. Back in the 90’s I used to marvel about how Teflon Bill Clinton was. I no longer do. The fact that he managed to slip by on that is as much a statement about how much people hate Hillary Clinton as it is about what is wrong with politics in this country right now.

V.) He has one response to a differing opinion. Attack. A good leader listens to criticism, to different points of view, is capable of self-reflection, tries to guide people to his point of view, and when necessary stands his ground and defends his convictions. Any of that sound like Trump? His default is not to Lead, its’ to attack. Scorched Earth. The Jim Acosta reaction is a good example. There was no defense of his convictions when Acosta was asking him repeated questions about his rhetoric on the caravan. His response was to attack Acosta.

W.) He takes credit for everything positive while deflecting blame for everything negative. Look at him with the Stock Market. He’s been bragging about it since day one, and to give credit where credit is due, speculation on coming deregulation early in his presidency did fuel some rapid growth, but to pretend that it’s all him, that we’re not in the 9th year of the longest bull market in history and THEN, when the standard market volatility that deregulation inevitably brings about starts to show up? Yeah. Look at yesterday. Hey! Stock Markets losing because the Democrats won! Do I need to bring out the Stock market chart for the last 10 Years again?

X.) He emboldens the worst among us. Counter-protesters are slammed into by a car while countering actual Nazi rally, and the response is there’s fault on “Both Sides” The media is at fault for a nut job sending them and Donald’s favorite targets pipe bombs. The truth is not all Republicans, not all Trump Supporters are racist, fascist lunatics. Many are just taken in by the bombastic personality and are living in an information bubble made worse by the fact that they unfollow anyone and ignore any source of information that makes them feel uncomfortable. People on the left do that too. The Biggest problem the right has right now is that the worst of the Right is the loudest and the most in your face, and the actual right, especially the Freaking PRESIDENT needs to be standing up and saying No. Those are not our values.

Y.) He seems to think the Constitution of The United States, the document that IS who we are, the document he took an oath to support and defend is some sort of inconvenience. He demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of Constitution, from believing he can alter the 14th through executive order, to thinking The free exercise clause in the first amendment somehow supersedes the establishment clause (not that he really understands either) or that the free exercise clause only applies to Christians. Or his attacks on freedom of expression and the press. He repeatedly makes it clear that if he’s read them, he does not understand Articles 1–3, and that’s something he really should have before he took the job, because they’re not going away.

Z.) I’ll use Z for something I do blame him for, but the rest of us have to carry the blame too. Polarization. This country is more politically polarized than I can remember in my lifetime. Some of you who are a few years older than I may remember how it was in the late 60’s when construction workers in New York were being applauded for beating up hippies, I think it’s pretty close to that right now, but that was before my time. And he is the cause of much of the current level polarization, but also the result. It didn't’ start with Trump. We’ve been going down this road I think since the eruption of the Tea Party in the early years of the Obama Administration. I do hope the tide turns before it gets much worse because the thing that scares me more than anything is what if that keeps going the way it has been? "

*snagged from a friends wall:

[jordan202]

My Boys: Beyond the Horizon - Chapter 9

Thanks @jia911 for taking her time off her busy schedule to help me out!

Previous chapters are HERE. 

My Boys: Beyond the Horizon – Chapter Nine

“Did Mom really cook those?”

Owen laughed when he heard the incredulity on Danny’s voice through the phone on the kitchen table. They were having the planned family dinner on that stormy Monday night and since the twins were away at school, Thomas had had the excellent idea to call them just as the family sat down to eat.

“I did and I can prove it,” Amelia flashed her son a smile, proudly showing off a perfectly grilled portion of salmon on her plate. “Dad just made it home so you guys can’t say I am lying. I did it.”

“I bet it was Meg who did it,” Robbie playfully nudged Danny’s shoulder with his own so he could fit in the tiny screen too. Everyone knew that aside from their father, the youngest child of the house was the only one who could successfully scrape together a recipe.

“How dare you,” Amelia replied with mock outrage, but she had to hide her smile behind the fork not to be caught so easily.

The way Megan and Owen chuckled in unison pretty much confirmed Robbie’s suspicions.

“I did everything, mom only set on the stove,” Megan confessed with a wide smile.

“Which is, of course, the most important part,” Amelia defended herself with an aura of dignity.

“No, the most important part is the part when we eat,” Lucas corrected her, reaching out for his portion. “Hey, you two dorks, are you guys making it this weekend?”

“Yeah, we are looking forward to it,” Danny answered while Robbie agreed with excitement. “We have to stay until Friday night but we’ll try to be free as soon as possible.”

Since Lucas had his first official game with the Seattle Sounders in the upcoming weekend, he had been adamant about having the whole family there. Robbie and Danny were currently living at a five hour flight distance and aware of their brothers’ difficulty to make it to the city and back in a single weekend, Lucas had decided to charter a private aircraft to pick up and later take his brothers so they could make it in time without it being too exhausting on them.

“I can’t wait to see you two,” Amelia added with a smile.

“Hey, is it okay if we bring a friend?” Danny tried to sound casual but the reddish look on his face didn’t go unnoticed.

“It depends,” Lucas asked after swallowing his food. Once he noticed the look on his brother’s face, he teased, “is she single?”

“He is kind of hoping she won’t be single anymore by then,” Robbie answered playfully.

As he heard Megan stealing the phone from Lucas’ hand to immediately start a lighthearted questionnaire on Danny’s possible date, Owen looked around and saw that while Amelia and Robbie laughed at Lucas and Megan’s quarrel and Danny’s predicament, Thomas remained in silence, observing the situation with a distant smile on his lips.

He waited until everyone was pretty much done with their meal and the twins said their goodbye following the strict hours at Westpoint to finally take action on what he’d been planning to do since the week before.

“Hey buddy, can you help me with the dishes?” he looked into his son’s eyes. “Mom and Meg already cooked,” he said in a convincing manner and then looked at his eldest son. “Can you take Peanut for a walk tonight? We’ll wait for you to have dessert.”

Lucas didn’t know how, but he understood the message that he wasn’t supposed to rush Thomas to go home or even offer to help wash the plates. With a head nod, he went outside followed by his mother and sister, eager to see the family’s loyal Golden Retriever.

“Kepner said you handled a hypertensive pneumothorax on your own today,” Owen started the conversation as soon as he and his son started arranging the dishes on the washer. “That’s pretty impressive,” he added, hoping for a positive start.

“Thanks,” Thomas shyly smiled. He’d been so used to not getting any positive feedback for the past weeks that the comment cheered him up a little.

“She said that if you had waited thirty seconds longer the guy would have most likely not made it,” Owen went on. Kepner had told him that the ER had been hit with a large number of casualties following a bus crash and by the time a supposedly low risk patient had started showing signs of instability, Thomas was the one in the room with him suturing the guy’s forehead. On the seconds it’d taken her to leave one critical case to answer the code call, the trauma surgeon had found the intern already decompressing the chest. “Not everyone would have the guts to make the call,” the chief of surgery admitted. “Especially after the rough few weeks you’ve been having. So… it was a great thing what you did.”

Thomas stopped stacking the plates and looked up to meet his fathers’ eyes.

“It’s fine, dad,” he shrugged. “It felt amazing to do it and I’m glad I had the opportunity to. I am just glad the guy made it through. He works delivering pizzas at night so he can go to school during the day. It wasn’t his time to go yet.” Thomas affirmed with conviction.

“Tom,” Owen stopped him from going back to the task his son had set to perform. Seeing he had the young guy’s attention, the surgeon proceeded, “how have you been?”

The intern seemed to think about his answer for a moment before he finally started to talk.

“Okay, I guess.”

Owen wasn’t convinced.

“I know the hours are long and…”

“They are long for everyone,” Thomas said, hoping to sound positive. “It’s a part of the job, right?”

“Why didn’t you update your charts?” Owen completely gave up on doing the dishes and looked his son into his eyes while serenely asking the question. He hoped not to sound judgmental.

Thomas hesitated, visibly uncomfortable.

“Dad, should we really be talking about this?”

“I am not asking you as your boss,” Owen assured him with security. “I am asking as your father. Nothing we discuss here will ever make it to the hospital. I promise.”

Owen had a pretty good feeling about what was happening, but he wanted to hear it from Thomas. The intern struggled a little while longer before finally admitting.

“Brown told us we weren’t supposed to do it,” Thomas admitted after long seconds. His resident wasn’t exactly the most inspiring teacher for them but they were still her subordinates and hoping to stay out of trouble with his immediate boss, Thomas had done what he’d been instructed. “She said that if we took care of pre and post ops, she would take care of the charts,” he shared, visibly embarrassed. “A few times I tried to argue that it was better that we wrote our own because we were the ones actually doing things, but she had us pick up her coffee and run labs saying she would do it and we should just focus on the tasks she gave us. I figured she just preferred to sit down and do the easy work,” he confessed. “I had no idea she was just using us to do her obligations and spending all those hours in the OR the entire time.”

Owen took a deep breath, believing every word his son had shared. Just like he suspected, Brown had failed her interns but it still didn’t mean they weren’t responsible for breaking a rule.

“Don’t beat yourself up about this,” Owen held his shoulder with his hand and looked deeply into his son’s eyes. “It was a naïve move and you fell for it, but the time to fall for it is now,” he wisely pointed out. “This is a job where most of the time we can’t afford to make mistakes, but we are not machines and we will make mistakes,” his role as father spoke louder than his role as chief when Owen added the words, “what you did wasn’t right, but it wasn’t the end of the world either. You learn from it and that’s it. Next time, you won’t swap your obligations just because it’s more convenient for someone else. I know it sounds scary, but sometimes it’s important to stand up to your resident and challenge them too, okay? They are not the infinite source of knowledge they think they are and remember that just a year ago, they were standing exactly where you are. You didn’t know better. They should.”

Thomas took in his father’s words and nodded positively, accepting them.

“I just thought…” he struggled. “I thought that this was one of those things we learn in med school but do differently in real life, you know?” Thomas confessed. “She spoke so comfortably about it that I figured it was probably one of those things they tell you that you absolutely can’t do but just as standard protocol… Kind of like having a cell phone inside the OR. Everyone does it, even though it’s not right.”

Owen chuckled, fully understanding what he meant.

“I know you’re at some awful crossroads, Tom,” he sighed heavily, feeling sorry that his son was paying the price for it. “I know you’re hesitating to come to me or Mom when you have questions or doubts because you think this will make up for special treatment or put you in a different position than your peers but just keep in mind that before being your boss, I am your father, okay?” Owen held the back of his son’s head, making sure he was listening. “I am your dad and I am always here for you if you have something on your mind.”

Thomas seemed touched by the words because his eyes sparkled with what his father considered to be unshed tears. The boy just looked exhausted and it broke Owen’s heart.

“I know it’s overwhelming sometimes,” the surgeon added. “But it helps to talk,” he shared the truth he’d learned by experience. “Mom and I are here for you,” the chief of surgery gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder before crouching down to the dishwasher again. “Always.”

Thomas heard the words of support and nodded his head with a shy smile, unable to find the right words to express his gratitude.

Owen kept silence for the following minutes, waiting for his son to process everything he was saying. He knew just how much pressure Thomas put on himself. It had always been like that, ever since he was a young boy. Even though he was particularly brilliant, Tom had always set high goals and didn’t stop until he got what he wanted. Owen admired his resilience, but just like his wife had wisely pointed out, Thomas wasn’t used to failing. And right now, looking at the way things were going in his life, it seemed like his son wasn’t in control of a lot of things. Owen could only imagine how much that was setting him off.

“I know you’ll think I’m on your back today,” Owen started out, knowing the following subject would most likely make his son even more uncomfortable, “but I think it’s past time we talk about what happened between you and Kate.”

Owen paused his speech, expectantly. This was a side of Thomas he could relate to, because to him, talking about his feelings and opening up had always been a challenge. He really admired people like his wife who, even though sometimes couldn’t quite understand what they were feeling, did a much better job at expressing their emotions than he did. And much to his own dismay, unlike his oldest brother, Thomas hadn’t taken after his mother in that regard.

“I wish I had a concrete story to tell you,” Thomas admitted after long seconds. Owen noticed that despite his son’s will to hold it together, the subject messed with him. The trauma surgeon wasn’t surprised. “But I try to look back and even I can’t make sense of it.”

Since at that point the dishes were already properly washed, Owen pulled another dishcloth from one of the drawers and handed it to Thomas, knowing by his own experience it would probably help him talk if he had his hands busy with something.

“Well, you know… Just like learning how to perform an appendectomy, talking about these things require practice…” Owen smiled, hoping to sound convincing. “So, how about we take it from the start?”

.

Megan said goodbye to Claire and Marianne in the cafeteria, hurrying to her afternoon class. Her music course was about to begin and despite engaged in a conversation with her friends, Megan didn’t want to be late. Even though Marianne was still pretty upset over the heartbreak she had experienced, she had been doing better for the past week. Megan was particularly determined to cheer her up. Even though they shared most of their classes, twice a week the teenage girl enjoyed her alone time in music class, something her two friends weren’t very fond of.

Ever since she was little, Megan had always been enthusiastic about music. She supposed it was something her father had passed onto her and her twin brothers. While they were still in school, Robbie and Danny had also been a part of the arts program and just like their sister, they’d done it mostly for their own entertainment. Megan knew she didn’t want to pursue a career in arts, but those two afternoons a week were like an outlet, a place where she could be away from the academics obligations and simply have fun enjoying one of her favorites hobbies in school.

Megan particularly liked to sing and while she knew she was no Celine Dion, the girl had also been given some pretty amusing compliments on her voice over the years. Looking forward to making the most of one her favorite classes in her senior year, the girl walked into the well-known room, spotting many familiar faces that greeted her with warm smiles.

And much to Megan’s dismay, a not so friendly companion stared right back at her as she entered the room.

Almost instantly, her smile vanished and she lost most of her previous excitement.

“What’s he doing here?” the girl grumpily asked a classmate, who shrugged her shoulders in response.

Before Megan could say anything else, their teacher walked in with her usual punctuality. Megan tried not to pay any more attention to JD Callaghan and focus instead on the warm welcomes by Mrs. Julian but for some reason, anger was already building up inside her at the mere sight of that annoying guy and just how bored he seemed.

As the teacher kindly welcomed everyone back and asked if they’d practiced over the summer, Megan couldn’t help but wonder what in the world JD was doing there. She would never think of him as someone who enjoyed music. In fact, it was hard to associate him with enjoying anything at all, mostly because he usually looked absolutely annoyed in most situations she’d seen him in.

Belatedly realizing she’d failed on her resolution not to divert his attention to the most obnoxious human being she’d ever met, Megan looked back at Mrs. Julian, being greeted by the smile of the short teacher with a powerful voice and large glasses that made her eyesight as sharp as her hearing.

“It’s good to see you have all returned for what I hope is a year of growth,” Mrs Julian warmly saluted her students. Most of them she was already familiar with, with the exception of a couple of freshmen and the boy with dark hair sitting alone in the back. “You must be JD Callaghan,” she supposed, after a quick look on her sheet. “Why don’t you come a little closer? I promise you we won’t bite,” the cheerful old lady proposed with a kind tone.

JD looked around and noticed all pairs of eyes were on him. There were about fifteen others students and everyone was engaged in conversation, except for him. He had no desire to be there, but after being forced by his coach with the risk of losing his position in the football team, the teenage boy had invariably wound up in that classroom.

Without any other choice but to approach the group, JD sunk in a chair beside the excited duo of freshmen who seemed to only giggle about anything that was said.

“Today’s class will be all about introductions, so I want you all to say your name out loud and then I am going to hand out these sheets with questions… You can think of them as a music survey that will help me guide you through the course,” Mrs. Julian informed them, already giving each student a sheet of paper.

As introductions were over, JD furrowed his brown heavily as he read the first line on the questionnaire.

Do you play any musical instruments or sing? If yes, which ones and for how long?

No.

Have you ever taken any music classes?

No.

Would you rather perform on an instrument or sing for the class, (solo or with a classmate)?

Neither.

What is your favorite musical genre?

I don’t have a favorite.

After ten minutes, the teacher collected the papers and suspiciously looked over at her students as she read some of the answers.

“JD,” she started, studying him meticulously. “Your answers were not very informative,” she opted for a lighter approach, thinking about the best way to engage the new student. “Judging by what you wrote here, I wouldn’t have a reason to think you’re interested in music,” Mrs. Julian added, hoping for some kind of response but the teenage boy simply sustained eye contact with her, without saying a word. “Did you discuss this decision with your football coach or…?”

JD picked up on the clue that she was offering him the opportunity to explain himself and purposefully replied as evasive as possible.

“He found a guitar in my car and assumed I was interested in music,” the boy shared, not really impressed by the deduction. “He told me I either enrolled in this class or was out of the team, so here I am.”

JD failed to add that the decision to bribe him into joining an arts program had come after the coach had decided he had anger issues and therefore needed something to channel his energy with. Football clearly wasn’t enough, because according to the man himself, JD was resorting to excessive force and therefore needed some other way to clear out that energy.

“Well, if you are interested in learning how to play the guitar, we can help you with that,” Mrs. Julian tried to sound encouraging, well aware that she wasn’t going to win the boy over in one day. Knowing that patience was the best approach, the teacher went on to once again engage the students in a group game, watching as most of them seemed to have fun with the activity.

After noticing they only had ten minutes before the bell rang, the teacher quickly scribbled some notes in her pad. To the students, the activities they’d performed that afternoon might have felt like a game, but to her it was rich material of observation. With many years of experience, it wasn’t hard for Mrs. Julian to figure out how to proceed.

“Okay, so I saw your answers and I think I have figured out what most of your interests are,” she cheerfully gave the class feedback. “I think for starters we would highly benefit if we could split the class in small groups and the most experienced students can help the new ones. Soon enough, everyone would be on a more leveled position and we can move forward as a group,” Mrs. Julian proposed wisely, looking at each student in the face. “Jack, you’re with Sean and Andrew,” she once again took note on her pad. “Sam and Barbara can train those high pitch notes together,” she winked at them, knowing the suggestion would please both girls. “JD, I think you’d benefit from getting some tips from Megan,” the teacher quickly turned around. “Brian, what do you think about having Tess and…?”

“Excuse, Mrs. Julian?”

Megan was shocked to hear that the same words she was about to say had already been spoken. Her surprise – and outrage – to be chosen as JD’s partner had promptly invoked her to raise her hand and protest it, but he had been quicker on the initiative to ask for the teacher’s attention.

“Yes, JD?” Mrs. Julian didn’t seem bothered with the interruption.

“Can I please switch partners?”

Megan later figured she shouldn’t be that much surprised, but at the moment, she was shocked. The girl had several reasons not to want JD as her partner, but he really couldn’t be serious.

Everyone else around them seemed to feel the same, unable to figure out why the guy would want to ditch Megan Hunt as his partner. Not only was she the best student in class, she was also friendly, kind and very generous. Many of the students there had benefited from Megan’s aid once or twice during the previous year. One would have to be a fool to…

“May I ask just why you feel like you need a new partner?” Mrs. Julian asked, finding the situation just as surprising. Megan Hunt was one of the best students and everyone in school seemed to like her. It was clear that JD Callaghan was having a hard time adjusting to the new school and judging by everything she knew about Megan, it was obvious there was no better person to help him fit in. Mrs. Julian had seen her do it to quite a few students before and it hadn’t been a coincidence that she’d paired them together.

“Sure,” JD replied unaffectedly, looking into the teacher’s eyes. “For starters, I really think I wouldn’t appreciate the company of someone who is rude, arrogant and absolutely disagreeable.”

“What?!”

Only when she heard the words Megan realized she had been the one to say them.

But despite her tone of outrage and obvious fury, JD simply glanced over his shoulder, looked at her and without a word looked back at the teacher.

“So, can I please be on someone else’s team?”

“Hmm…” Mrs. Julian had been caught off guard but following her peaceful nature, she tried to resolve the situation in the best way she could think of. “It really surprises me that you have that opinion of Megan, JD,” the teacher said, being supported by the other students in class. “I really think you are not being very fair to her.”

“Well, I am not interested in being his partner either,” Megan interfered. The flushed look on her face showed how enraged she was, contrasting with the easy, calm manners JD was showing. That infuriated Megan even more. “Why would I want to be near someone who has his head too high up his ass to actually be a decent human being?”

Mrs. Julian was left in shock. Never before had she seen one of her favorite students acting so emotional. But to her surprise, the nasty comment was enough to make the problematic student on her left actually laugh.

“See, she is a bully,” JD added, as if proving a point, even though a smile still lingered on his lips. “I don’t want her near me.”

“You are the worst kind of human being!” Megan abruptly stood up. How could he call her a bully? She was absolutely against any kind of discrimination and did her very best to make sure everyone could fit in, no matter how different they seemed at first glance! She was even…

“Enough!” Mrs. Julian cut the discussion off, using a harsher tone than she was used to.

Megan figured things had gotten a little out of control when she realized she was the only one in the classroom standing up. More than a dozen students had their eyes fixated on her, most of them holding her breath. Hoping she would just be left alone, the girl slowly took her seat back, taking deep breaths to regain control, absolutely embarrassed by her impolite display of wrath.

Much to her dismay, Mrs. Julian spent the last five minutes of class finishing dividing the class and handing out assignments. When inquired about it once again if Megan and JD could change their partners, the teacher simply said that the assignment was given and if they didn’t work together, it would reflect on their grades.

Megan felt personally offended and unjustly attacked, considering how much she looked up to the teacher and imagined that somehow, Mrs. Julian would have her back. Even though it’d become clear the teacher didn’t agree with JD’s nasty accusation, she hadn’t given Megan the way out she wanted, but rather insisted that she stayed partners with a person who obviously didn’t like her.

As she walked out of class, Megan thought about it and wondered if the anger and sadness she felt was really only about her teacher or the injustice of the situation. Today, she had been accused of things she knew in her heart she wasn’t, and yet she’d felt powerless in face of the situation. Megan knew she was well liked in school but it didn’t mean she was always right about everything. Sure, she had her own opinions and lived up to her ideals, but she respected what others think and felt too. It wasn’t often that she was antagonized but in the few times it had happened, Megan had dealt relatively well with it, because she genuinely respected that people could think and feel differently.

Yet now… it just had felt too personal. As if she had been rejected. The girl had never been so straightforwardly accused of anything like that and she had to admit, it bothered her.

She was just being silly, Megan told herself. Who cared what JD Callaghan thought of her? Even if he’d accused her of a bunch of lies, she shouldn’t mind it one bit. He was a jerk and he’d proven it many times over.

And yet, when Megan saw him walking down the empty school hallway alone, her feet acted faster than her mind could control.

“I really cannot believe you,” she stood up to him, wondering why lately that seemed to have become a habit. “What is wrong with you?”

JD stopped walking, quickly noticing how worked up the girl still seemed to be. For the first time since he could remember, she wasn’t surrounded by a large group of friends.

“You are very annoying,” he declared with a sigh of impatience. “I have football practice, can you please let me pass?”

“No!” Megan irrationally stood in the way, failing to realize he was at least ten inches taller and much wider and therefore could easily force his way through should he wish it. “You are staying right here and telling me what that little scene of yours was all about.”

“Oh, wow,” JD faked surprised. “Not only are you annoying, you’re also bossy as hell,” he added, discreetly leaning over her. “You are way too small to be this nasty. Move, you’re standing in the way.”

“Will you stop accusing me of things?” she chided, determined not to move an inch backwards even though he had approached her.

For the first time, Megan was looking straight into his eyes without any distractions and she couldn’t help noticing how strangely green they were. Not the kind of green that sometimes looked like blue, or the hazel kind with some brownish strands. But rather, a shade of green so bright and vibrant that made his eyes look like emeralds.

“You mean stop saying things about you without even knowing you like you did to me when you called me out in front of everyone last week?”

Megan opened her mouth to reply but the way he’d put the situation left her without arguments to defend herself. JD seemed to have sensed he somehow got through to her, because the guy smiled with the corner of his lips before adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

“Can you get out of the way now?” he asked, still noticing how pensive she looked. Had any of the guys done a third of what that bratty girl was doing, JD would have long before shoved them out of the way. He wondered why that hothead was able to amuse him at the same time she annoyed him. And he didn’t even like her.

“I am not a bully,” Megan childishly pointed out.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” she furrowed her brows, thinking she was being set up.

“If you say so, I believe you,” he pulled the strap of his bag, shifting it to his other shoulder.

“Really?” Megan frowned heavily.

“No,” JD smiled widely and for the first time, Megan thought he was actually being friendly. He looked straight into her eyes and added, looking more amused than she’d ever seen him be. “But I am kind of hoping you prove me wrong.”

Megan’s initial reaction was to feel flattered but she quickly regained her senses.

“Well, I don’t have to prove anything to you,” the girl folded her arms in front of her body, regaining control of the situation.

“No, you don’t,” JD agreed with a head nod, and once again Megan noticed he meant it. “Still, it would be nice if you did.”

Megan didn’t know exactly what to answer to that, so she settled for finally stepping out of the way.

JD looked at her one last time before stepping ahead but Megan’s question made him turn on his heel again.

“Were you really forced to join music class?” the girl didn’t notice her face looked more intrigued and confused than she would like to let it show.

“Yes,” JD affirmed with conviction, making eye contact with her.

“Why?” she unceremoniously asked, unaware of the confusion on her face.

“According to the coach, I have been using excessive force,” JD shrugged, uninterested. “But it was for a good cause.”

“How can any kind of excessive force be for a good cause?” she widened her eyes, still unable to believe him.

“Because that boyfriend of yours is a softie and he is going to cost us the season if he doesn’t lose his fear to be tackled,” JD calmly explained, unaffected by Megan’s horrified expression. “Yeah, the coach doesn’t want to admit that your precious Aaron despite having a good arm, isn’t exactly reliable when it comes to facing a tough opponent. The coach is failing to see that. But our opponents aren’t. They are going for him and when they do, it’s going to hurt way more than when I tackled him in practice yesterday.”

“So, is that how you justify your horrible manners?” Megan ironically asked, making sure to show her disapproval. “You hurt him, but it was for a greater cause?”

“Exactly.”

She still couldn’t believe how absolutely obnoxious he was when JD resumed his way, apparently not bothered by the situation he’d just exposed.

Megan was then suddenly reminded of a comment her twin brothers had made on the day they’d joined her to watch the school’s football practice. At the time, she had been reluctant to believe it, but maybe it was true that Aaron didn’t like taking hits.

Well, who did, she asked herself. Football was a very physical game and players were constantly being tackled. As long as Aaron did his job well – and he did – there was no reason for anyone to be on his back like that. JD was probably just being the jerk he always was, because it felt like whatever he set out to do, he eventually ended up hurting someone.

The realization scared Megan more than she would care to admit and the girl strode the hallways, ready to go home. If there was one thing she knew she wasn’t at risk for, it was being hurt by JD Callaghan. That whole music partners scenario was too cliché to be true and it annoyed her too much. She simply had no patience for it and it was better for everyone if they simply found a way to go make Mrs. Julian change her mind. JD’s rough manners and uncaring personality didn’t bother her so much at the moment though, because her biggest concern was exactly what it would take to make sure they never had to speak to each other, ever again.

–

thank you guys! 

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

By the Dim and Flaring Lamps: Part Two, Chapter Four

Part One: One | Two | Three | Four Part Two: One | Two | Three

AUGUST 3, 1863 FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA

Downstairs, two new arrivals are standing in the entrance hall, waiting for them. Standing in the parlor doorway is a grey-haired man about the same age as William Mulder, puffing away on a cigar that's filling the entire room with its stench. Across the hall from him, closer to the bottom of the stairs, is a tall, buxom young woman with shining dark hair, wearing an expensive, fashionable gown- and the exact sort of ridiculous little hat that Mulder had mentioned only moments ago. This, Scully surmises, must be Diana, a guess that's confirmed when Mulder breaks into a wide smile at the sight of her.

"Diana!" he exclaims, almost jogging down the last few stairs. Diana smiles warmly.

"Fox, Darling," she says, taking his hand and allowing him to kiss her cheek. "It's so wonderful to see you! I'm sorry that we weren't here when you arrived, but we had an urgent errand that just couldn't wait."

"That's all right, you're here now," says Mulder, and Scully resists the urge to gag. Mulder seems to remember her at that moment, and he turns back, motioning for her to come forward. "Diana, this is my good friend, Lieutenant Daniel Scully, my aide-de-camp." Diana looks down at Scully, proffering a limp hand to be kissed.

"Good to meet you," Scully says, hoping that she sounds something approaching sincere. "Mulder has been talking my ear off about you for months." Diana smiles thinly.

"Has he, now?" she asks. "I believe I remember him mentioning you, too, in one of his letters." Mulder chuckles nervously.

"More like all of them, I think," he says. Diana raises her eyebrows, looking at him with gentle reproach.

"Fox, I had no idea that you were bringing someone along with you," she chastises him. "Why on earth didn't you say anything?"

"It was sort of last-minute," Mulder explains.

"Come now, Diana," says the man with the cigar, crossing the entrance hall to them. "It's not as though we're short on space. There's always plenty of room in our house for guests. And besides, you know as well as the rest of us that Fox prefers to do everything spur-of-the-moment." Mulder doesn't look nearly as happy to greet the man as he was to see Diana, but nonetheless, he's perfectly cordial when he shakes hands with him.

"Scully, this is my father's friend, Charles Spender," he tells Scully. “This is his house.” Spender shakes hands with her, and Scully finds it difficult to keep from shuddering at the clammy, sweaty feel of the man's grip.

"Thank you very much for having me at your home, Mr. Spender. I'm very sorry about the short notice." Spender looks at her appraisingly, just long enough to make her uncomfortable.

"And are you a Virginia runaway, as well, Mr. Scully?" Spender asks her. "A rebel against the rebels, as it were, like our Fox here?"

"Father, stop," says Diana, but there's not much conviction in her voice. Scully notices Mulder clenching his jaw.

"No, my family is from Pennsylvania," Scully replies. "From West Chester."

"Near Philadelphia," Spender says. "I know it well."

"I visited Philadelphia with you once, didn't I, Father?" recollects Diana, curling her lip. "I found it such an awful, smelly place. So dirty, compared to Washington, and especially compared to Fredricksburg." Sully grits her teeth.

"I suppose I should be glad that I'm not actually from Philadelphia, then," she says, putting extra effort into keeping her smile on her face.

"Why don't we all go sit down and have some lunch?" suggests Mulder hastily, taking Diana's arm and steering her across the entrance hall. Scully follows, hoping very hard that she will not be required to sit next to Diana. She's been looking forward to a real meal for a very long time, and somehow, she suspects that relaxing enough around this woman to be able to enjoy eating will be difficult enough without being forced into closer proximity to her.

Scully needn't have worried, however; she's seated next to Mulder at the long dining room table. Samantha is quick to take the seat at his other side, and Diana is forced to settle for sitting across the table from him. She doesn't look happy about it, and even though Scully knows that she's being petty, she can't help but be at least a little bit pleased by this.

As soon as everyone is seated around the table, a veritable army of smartly-dressed, dark-skinned servants appear and begin laying out the noon repast. Scully does her best to keep her eyes from bugging out of her head, to keep herself from drooling, as dishes of foods she's long forgotten the taste of are placed before her. There's chicken, its crisped skin braised with fragrant herbs, and a bounty of vegetables, and loaves of thick-crusted bread still hot from the oven, and even butter, real butter, something that hadn't always been on the Scully table even in the days before the war. Whatever the wartime food shortages for civilians in Virginia may be- and Scully has heard that they're fairly severe- Charles Spender has clearly found a way around them. Scully loads her plate to capacity, not turning down a single thing that's offered to her.

"So, tell us about yourself, Daniel," asks Teena Mulder, as she holds up her goblet for a waiting servant to fill with wine. "Did you attend West Point? Bill so badly wanted Fox to attend, but Fox, of course, was dead-set on Harvard."

"No, Ma'am," says Scully. "I wasn't quite old enough to be attending college when the war began. I enlisted as a private about five months ago."

"Goodness, you must be quite young indeed," says Teena.

"Eighteen years old in February, Ma'am," Scully replies. That much isn't a lie; her age and date of birth had been the only part of her enlistment paperwork that had been fully accurate.

"And what does your father do?" Teena asks.

"He can't be more than a tradesman, if you only entered the army as a private," interjects Diana. "Even Fox managed to start out as a sergeant, didn't you, Darling?" Mulder looks distinctly uncomfortable at Diana's rudeness, and busies himself with spreading a thick layer of butter onto his bread.

"My father has been in the Navy since he was fifteen," answers Scully, determined not to give Diana the satisfaction of seeing her offended. "He's now a captain."

"And he couldn't secure you a better position than being a private?" asks Diana. "How strange. I would think that being the son of an officer with an honorable reputation would have helped pave the way to a better rank for you."

"Diana," says Mulder, a quiet warning in his voice. She bats her eyes at him, all innocence.

"What, Fox?" she asks. "I'm only curious. For all I know, the Yankee army does things differently than we do in the South. In our army, a father who has already advanced in rank could write a letter of introduction for his son, to help him along."

"I suppose that I could have asked my father to do something like that for me," says Scully, "but I preferred to make my own way. I would much know that rather any progress I make has come about as a result of my own hard work and determination, rather than rely on my father's reputation. I prefer to earn all promotions myself."

"And believe me, Scully has earned the one that he's just gotten," Mulder puts in, before Diana can interrupt again. The pride in his voice makes Scully smile. "I wouldn't be here right now, at this table, if it hadn't been for him."

"Is that so?" asks Teena, eyes wide. Mulder nods emphatically.

"He saved my skin more than once in July, at Gettysburg," he says. And Mulder relates the story of Scully calling for the men to stop shooting when he had ventured beyond the wall in search of ammunition, and of how Scully had shot the Confederate officer who had aimed his pistol at Mulder's head right at the end of the fight. By the time he's finished, all eyes at the table (with the exception of Diana's and her father's) have gone from suspicious to grateful, as they look back at Scully.

"It appears that we all owe you a debt of gratitude, Lieutenant Scully," says Bill Mulder gruffly, speaking for the first time since sitting down to lunch. "It's been hard enough for us to lose our son to your army. It would have been far harder to lose him for good."

"Fox, you've never told me in your letters that it's that dangerous out there," says Samantha, staring accusingly at her older brother.

"It's a war, Samantha," says Diana dismissively. "Of course it's dangerous." Samantha glares at Diana, but says nothing. Mulder reaches over and pats his little sister's shoulder reassuringly.

"I wouldn't worry too much, Sam," he tells her. "Scully does a pretty good job of keeping me in check. I don't think that anyone or anything is ever going to get by him."

"Still, Fox, you shouldn't take such chances," Samantha chastises Mulder.

"Sometimes I have to, Samantha," says Mulder gently. "It's all part of being an officer, part of looking out for the men under my command."

"But I promise you, Samantha," Scully interjects, "the more risks he takes, the tighter I'll be holding his reins. I see it as my solemn duty to get your brother home in one piece when all of this is over." Samantha smiles warmly at Scully. At the edge of her gaze, she catches Diana rolling her eyes, but Mulder, unfortunately, is looking at his sister, and doesn't notice.

When the meal is finished, the servants re-appear to clear away the empty dishes and the leftover food. It feels odd to Scully not to jump up and help- at home, clearing the table after dinner had always been her responsibility. Her mother had cooked every meal, with her daughters' help, and when it was finished, Scully had cleared the table, Melissa had washed the dishes, and Scully had then dried them and put them away. She realizes that it's likely that none of the people sitting at this table have ever washed a dish in their life.

"I think," says Diana with a weary sigh, "that I'm going to go upstairs and have a nap." Mulder is surprised.

"Diana, I just got here," he protests. "I thought that maybe we'd have some time to sit and talk."

"You'll be with us for a week, won't you, Fox?" she asks. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up. I was hoping you would take me to the theater a time or two while you're here. Father never has any interest in going with me, and he never allows me to go on my own."

"I should think not," says Teena. "A young, unmarried lady, out in the town, unchaperoned?" She shudders. "People would talk, and you know how I abhor gossip."

"Unless it's gossip about other people, that you get to pass along," grumbles Bill, and Samantha and Mulder both snicker. Teena pretends not to have heard anything her husband has said.

"Bill, dear, I think a nap sounds good to me, as well. I'm sure you and Charles have plenty to do this afternoon."

"There are some matters in town that need seeing to," agrees Charles Spender, whom, Scully suddenly realizes, has not said a word since taking his seat at the head of the table when they had all sat down to lunch. "Will you accompany me, William?"

"Of course," says Bill, pushing back his chair from the head of the table and standing. Mulder stands, as well.

"Would you like Scully and me to come with you?" he asks hopefully. Bill and Charles exchange glances, eyebrows raised, and the atmosphere in the room abruptly shifts, a definite feeling of awkwardness settling over everyone.

"No, Fox, that's all right," says Bill, with an air of forced joviality. "It's nothing that would interest you, and anyway, I'm sure you and Lieutenant Scully are tired from your ride here this morning. Charles and I will be back in time for supper tonight."

"Oh," says Mulder, deflating visibly. "All right, then." Bill and Charles leave, the latter withdrawing a fresh cigar from his coat pocket and lighting it before they've even left the room, leaving a whiff of smoke behind them as they close the dining room door.

"Come, Diana," says Teena, standing as well, and taking Diana's arm. "It's the perfect warm afternoon for a nap." She and Diana follow the men to the door. As they reach it, Teena stops and turns. "Samantha, dear, will you be joining us?" Samantha Mulder, still seated defiantly in her chair, tilts her chin up obstinately.

"I'm going to stay with Fox and Daniel," she says. "They've come all this way to see us, and it certainly doesn't seem right to leave them sitting down here by themselves." Teena chooses not to respond to this, and a moment later, she and Diana are gone. Scully can hear their footsteps on the staircase out in the entrance hall. Next to her, Mulder heaves a sigh.

"Clearly they're all overjoyed to see me," he says, shaking his head. "Why did they even agree for me to come and spend a week here, if none of them can even stand to be in the same room with me?" Samantha lays a hand on his arm.

"Forget about them, Fox," she says. "Let's you and me take your friend Daniel on a walk around the neighborhood, all right?" Mulder smiles at her, and Scully says a silent thank-you to God that her friend has at least one good, kind person in his family to come home to. She can't imagine receiving a welcome this cold at her own house, not even after disobeying her parents and running away. Certainly, they'll be angry when she finally shows up again, and there will be plenty of raised voices, to be sure, but Scully knows that there will also be joyful tears and embraces, things she's yet to see any of in this cold Fredericksburg mansion.

Samantha goes upstairs to her room to fetch her parasol, and Mulder and Scully wait for her in by the front door.

"I wonder why Father didn't want us to come along with him?" Mulder wonders aloud. "Usually, my father likes me to shadow him in all of his business dealings, so I can learn how to manage his holdings and be ready to take everything over smoothly when the time comes."

"Maybe the business he and Mr. Spender need to see to isn't related to your family's plantation," suggests Scully. "You said that Mr. Spender is active in politics. Is it possible they're attending a political meeting? Because if that's the case- if they're on their way to meet with a bunch of Southern politicians- they couldn't very well come strolling in with two Union officers trailing behind them, could they?" Mulder appears to be mulling this over.

"I suppose that could be it," he concedes. "Not to mention...." He scowls darkly. "It would be one hell of an embarrassment for Father, to be sure, to have to introduce me to all of his Confederate cronies as his son, colonel of a regiment in the Army of the Potomac."

"It's his loss, Fox," Samantha reassures him, coming back down the stairs to join them. "And your gain, really. Now, instead of spending this lovely day in a dark, stuffy room somewhere, choking on Mr. Spender's disgusting cigar smoke, you and your Lieutenant Scully get to enjoy the sunshine while escorting a bright, lovely young lady around the neighborhood." Mulder grins down at his little sister as she takes his arm.

"You clearly haven't learned all that much more about humility than you knew six months ago," Mulder observes, and Samantha's cheeky smile only widens. She pulls her brother toward the front door, and Scully follows them out onto the porch, down the brick front path, and through the gate, out onto the sidewalk. Once there, Samantha extends the arm not held by her brother, and Scully readily takes it.

The early afternoon is sunny and warm, but enough of a cool breeze is blowing to keep the day from turning truly oppressive. Even so, Scully doesn't envy Samantha Mulder her corset and heavy dress. Scully herself might be wearing a wool jacket, not to mention several layers of tightly-wound linen around her chest, but she would still wager she's more comfortable right now than any other woman out walking the streets of Fredericksburg today.

"So tell me what it's been like at home, since I left," says Mulder, as they reach the end of the block and turn right. "Have Mother and Father been complaining about me the entire time, or only during Sunday dinners?"

"They don't talk about you at all, for the most part," sighs Samantha. "I don't know if it's because they're still too angry, or if it's because they're afraid for you and they don't like to think about it any more than they absolutely have to."

"My money's on the first one," grumbles Mulder. "It took three letters home before they would even agree for me to come and visit them this week. I'm still surprised that Father didn't just retreat back to the plantation on his own and have you and Mother visit with me, without him."

"He doesn't seem that angry," ventures Scully hesitantly. She doesn't know William Mulder, but there have been none of the cold silences and cutting words that she'd thought she might end up having to sit through.

"It's early yet," says Mulder. "And also, he's just met you. He won't want to behave like too much of a bastard in front of a perfect stranger... at least, not yet."

"Fox, language," Samantha chides him.

"'Bastard' isn't a swear, Sam," Mulder says.

"No, it's not, but it's not a particularly nice word, either. And plus, it's not even accurate. Our father knows who his father was. If you want to call Father something uncouth, call him a blowhard, instead." Scully lets out a snort of surprised laughter before she can stop herself, and Mulder looks down at his sister, eyes popping out of his skull.

"Samantha!" he exclaims. "Where did you hear a word like that?"

"Eavesdropping on some of the officers that Father has had to dinner, back at the plantation house," says Samantha. "That's not the worst I've heard, believe me."

"Oh, I believe it," Mulder says, shaking his head. "Father would lock you in your room for the next twenty years, though, if he heard you using words like that, so you'd better watch yourself." The trio continues in silence a bit longer.

"Do you prefer staying here in town, Samantha, or in the country, at the plantation?" asks Scully, casting about for something to talk about.

"The plantation, to be sure," says Samantha. "It's much quieter. Whenever we're in Fredericksburg, people are constantly coming and going... and Mr. Spender is always here, with his stupid cigars. And Diana is always with him."

"It’s his house, Samantha. And what's wrong with Diana being around?" asks Mulder, clearly offended. Scully, on the other hand, suddenly wants to throw her arms around Samantha.

"She's different when you're away, Fox," Samantha tells him. "She talks to me like I'm eight years old, like I'm too stupid to understand anything that's going on."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating, Sam," says Mulder dismissively, but Samantha shakes her head.

"I'm not, Fox, I promise," she says. "Diana keeps telling me that I'm far too young to have any political views of my own, that I only say the things that I say because I've heard you say them, and you're my big brother, so I'll always believe everything that you tell me."

"Fifteen is plenty old to have formed your own opinions, I think," says Scully. "Especially when it comes to issues like slavery. Mulder, didn't you say that you were uncomfortable with the idea when you were much younger than your sister is now?"

"That's exactly what I've tried to tell Diana," Samantha says, smiling gratefully at Scully. "I've told her that even a child can distinguish right from wrong, and fifteen is plenty old enough to know how I feel about this. But she always just says that I'm being tiresome, and that I should go and find something to occupy my time, and to leave her alone."

"Sam, Diana doesn't care about politics at all, she never has. You already know that. You probably were being tiresome, going on and on about a subject that's not interesting to her when she just wants to relax and enjoy some time in the city."

"Slavery isn't a political issue, Fox! It's a moral issue and you know it! How can anyone not be interested in treating other human beings with respect and dignity?" Samantha angrily jerks her arm away from her brother's. "I don't see how you could want to marry someone like that, someone who can see a human being whipped and worked to death, and just shrug it off and go back to her needlepoint."

"Enough, Sam," says Mulder sternly. "Nobody's saying that you have to like her, but you do need to respect my choice... and if it's not too much trouble, it would be nice if you could respect Diana, as well."

"Oh, I will," says Samantha coldly. "Just as soon as she learns to respect me in return. I'm not a little child anymore, and I would like to see her recognize that." She glares at Mulder. "And it would be nice if you would stick up for me just a little bit here, Fox. Is it really all right with you for someone to talk down to me the way that she does, or is it just all right because it's her?" Mulder heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair.

"I'll talk to her, all right?" he asks. "I'll remind her that I was just as opinionated as you are, when I was fifteen, and I'll ask her to be a bit kinder."

"You can ask her," Samantha sighs, "but I doubt she'll listen. Not once you're gone again, at any rate." Mulder clenches his jaw, but says nothing. And as much as Scully's less noble side is enjoying this, she senses it's time to change the subject.

"Listen, Samantha," she says, "I was hoping that you could do me a small favor." Mulder cocks an eyebrow at Scully, confused, and she smiles wickedly at him. "I've been hoping that maybe you might be able to furnish me with one or two embarrassing stories about your brother when he was younger. You know, something that I can pass around the ranks, just to make sure that our new colonel isn't taking himself too seriously." Samantha's eyes immediately begin to sparkle with mischief, and Mulder pales considerably.

"Scully, please remember that when we get back to camp," he warns her, "I could very easily have you assigned to chopping down trees, or digging ditches, or clearing brush, or whatever other unpleasant and back-breaking labor detail I can come up with." Scully grins.

"I know that, Mulder," she says. "Which is precisely why I'm going to need ammunition on hand, just in case." Samantha, being the quintessential little sister, is only too happy to oblige, and by the time the trio has returned to the house, Scully is equipped with enough mortifying tales of a younger and more impulsive Mulder to guarantee that, if she so chooses, she'll be able to blackmail her way into all of the easiest assignments until the end of the war.

[theclaravoyant]

Oh! Oh a prompt! Fitzskimmons fic featuring FitzSimmons patching up an upset daisy after pulling her out of the gladiator arena and telling her that even though they want to get married it doesn’t take her out of the equation!

AN ~ Thanks for the prompt! If you haven’t read my other 5x06 FitzSkimmons UA coda I suggest you read that too, but I also decided to run with this prompt a little bit; it turned into FitzSkimmons + a discussion about marriage (the first bit is set at an undisclosed time, but there’s some 5x06 thrown in too). Fluffy :D though some super mild references to injury. Hope you like it!

Read on AO3 (~1300wd)

-

“Okay, you guys, no offense but if either one of you gets any ideas to propose without at least a full minute of choreography, the answer’s no.” Beaming, Daisy held her phone up above all their heads and they watched the end of another Big Ask video. “Although – writing your own lyrics is optional.”

“Good, because I don’t – I don’t think I’d be very good at that,” Fitz remarked. Daisy and Jemma snorted in unison and Daisy dropped her phone back to her chest to turn her head, facing him as best she could as the three of them lay together.

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “Please, you can’t help it. You could write a whole song from scratch with your eyes closed. If you actually knew anything about music. Unless, I mean – do you?”

“No?? I was a bit busy getting my PhD by the age of fifteen thank you very much,” Fitz retorted defensively. “But I also don’t think I’d like one of those big, flashy, public proposals. It’s too much pressure. I’d go for something classic; a nice dinner, a walk somewhere private, that sort of thing.”

“Ring in the champagne?”

“Oh, Lord no.” Jemma screwed up her nose. “Rings are nasty with germs and dead skin cells and things. I certainly wouldn’t be drinking that glass.”

“No, well, but hopefully you wouldn’t be drinking it because you’re so totally flawed by my amazing idea,” Fitz objected. “Stop making me think of dead skin while I’m trying to propose.”

“I quite like the flashy proposal, myself,” Jemma continued without heed to his squeamishness. “I mean, I don’t believe it should be the first conversation about marriage a relationship should have, but if you’re on the same page with things then you should essentially have the yes before you do the dance anyway. Then the dance itself, you make it special, individual, you put a lot of effort in. And you announce to the world that this is your person, your people. And after all, isn’t that what marriage is all about?”

“Mmm.” Daisy hummed, and it sounded hesitant. Fitz and Jemma frowned.

“You don’t like marriage?” Fitz guessed.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Daisy replied. “I mean… I like the idea of it. I like what Jem just said about commitment and all that. I just – I don’t know, marriage. It’s a lot, you know? A wedding sounds like fun. Marriage sounds like…”

“A bargain struck between men to move their women around like chattel?” Jemma put in.

“Sort of, I guess, yeah.” Daisy squirmed. “I mean that’s where it comes from but that’s not really it. I guess I’d feel trapped? Not trapped. Uh. I don’t know how to big-words-ify it.”

“Intellectualise,” Jemma corrected.

“Yeah. That.”

“I’ll take a stab,” Fitz offered. “You grew up surrounded by dysfunctional families in a messed up system based on formalized definitions and their failures. Basing ideas like love and connection on the same kind of system feels disconnected, if not downright scary. Plus, marriage is a heteropatriarchal amatonormative monogamous institution and you’re a bi poly anarchist down to your bones.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Daisy snorted. “Plus, I mean, isn’t that what lots of people say? ‘I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me I’m in love with you’?”

“I’d quite like one,” Jemma disagreed. “I’d hang it in my office so that everyone would know.”

“Although, Jemma Fitz-Simmons-Johnson is going to need a pretty big nameplate,” Fitz pointed out.

“Who says that’d be my name?”

“Well you’re hardly going to take mine, are you? But you wouldn’t make me or Daisy take yours without it being equal, so…”

“Hang on a sec guys,” Daisy interrupted, “I just wanna be clear, just... just in case. I don’t want to get married. You can, if you want, I’m not sure how that works, but – for serious, I don’t want it for myself, okay?”

“Okay,” Fitz and Jemma both agreed, and shuffled closer to Daisy in case she was feeling uncomfortable. She was, to be honest, but she quickly shook it off.

"Now, back to planning FitzSimmons’ Big Day.” She held up her phone again and started googling. “Now, would the happy couple prefer a horse and carriage, or a hot air balloon ride?”

-

Despite their brush with sincerity, the conversation about proposals and marriage was, in all honesty, one born of abstraction and jokes. It wasn’t for some time afterward that any of them put any wheels into motion, and as it turned out, none of those wheels ended up worth a damn anyway. In the end, every carefully parsed decision flew out the window of a diner 74 years in the past. In the end, the words just slipped out.

“Marry me, Fitz.”

Jemma's heart was beating hard, her head spinning. Fitz’s arms held her up, flush against him on the tiny little box, and even though they were in the middle of running for their lives, Jemma couldn’t help but feel safe. She lavished the feeling of him warm and solid and heroic and here. And him. It felt like months since she’d seen his face, his real face, and since he’d held her in his arms. He’d been so shaken, last she’d seen him, it was nice to see the colour in his cheeks again, and his chin held high. Yet, she knew how quickly it could all be ripped away and maybe that’s why they slipped out.

Marry me.

And all he said was, Absolutely. With such conviction it was as if his life’s singular purpose had led him to this moment. As if he was completely prepared to stare into his lover’s eyes in an alien gladiator ring in the ruins of Earth, decades beyond their deaths and the end of the world, and promise her his everything. Of course, he shortly began insisting that he had been preparing for exactly that and had in fact beaten her to the proposal in the first place. Even as they carried Daisy out of the arena as best they could, they were already bickering – like, one might say, an old married couple.

Jemma led them to a vacant room and began rummaging about for medical supplies, and Fitz help a slightly delirious Daisy down onto the bed. He sat beside her and stroked her hair out of her face, and out of a bloody cut on her forehead.

“Don’t mind me,” Daisy grumbled, albeit with a fond smile. “Casually dying over here, but it’s fine.”

“Sorry,” Fitz apologised earnestly. “You know Jemma. Emotional, that one. Well known for grand gestures and getting caught up in the moment.”

Daisy snorted. Fitz’s eyes glistened with tears of joy as he snuck another glance over to where Jemma was working, sterilizing something. He’d never imagined she’d be the one to pull him in by the lapels for a kiss, in the middle of a gunfight. It made his cheeks feel hot just thinking about it.

“You’re really gonna do it, huh?” Daisy wondered, prodding him with a poorly aimed finger. His eyes dropped back down to her. “Marry Jemma.”

“Absolutely,” he said again. “And you know, I would you as well, if it’s something you wanted. I mean – unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“Yes, of course we wouldn’t want to leave you out, Daisy,” Jemma assured her, bringing the tray of supplies over. “Sit up? Fitz, fix her pillows, thank you. But if we were operating on old assumptions, then, I apologise. I haven’t a song and dance prepared.”

Daisy chuckled. “’S’ okay. Talking like an old-timey princess is enough for me. You’re cute when you’re being funny.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” Jemma agreed with a smile, and shone a light into Daisy’s eyes. She pressed her lips together. “And you’re a surprisingly good patient when you’re concussed.”

Daisy made an expression that suggested – in her head at least – she was giving a nonchalant shrug. “Consider it a wedding present.”

“So you won’t be joining us, then?” Jemma checked, running her hands over Daisy’s limbs with practiced ease.

“Oh, yes I will.”

Jemma frowned, and looked at Fitz. He frowned back. Perhaps they should wait for Daisy to sober up before they made sense of this conversation. Then again, Daisy laughed, apparently entertained by their confusion.

“Come on!” she cried. “Dope dresses and cake tastings?! I’m an anarchist, ‘n my head hurts, but I’m not a rock. Do I not bleed?”

Jemma grimaced. “Yes, you certainly do. And you break bones, so you’re lucky you didn’t shatter both your tibias just now.”“You don’t have to tell me.” Daisy grimaced, and sighed heavily, leaning back into the pillows. Fitz squeezed her hand and she lamented - “But damn, it looked wicked for a second there, didn’t it?”

[my-fanfic-soul]

In This Lifetime-- Ch. 4

From the Beginning

There’s a heavy weight holding me down when I wake up the next morning.  For a moment, I come close to panicking: it’s like a nightmare has come to life until I realize that the weight is warm, breathing, and smells alarmingly like my best friend.  In a rush of sensation, I recognize the way Harry’s skin feels against mine and the curls that aren’t mine cascading over my shoulder.  It takes a few seconds for me to make sense of why I’m in Harry’s bed but then last night’s activities slowly seep into my mind.

In the spirit of preserving what I considered to be a wonderful friendship, I had always tried to not imagine what sex with Harry would be like.  It would only make me forlorn and it would read on my face like a novel.  Harry’s intuitiveness tended to have horrible timing on my end, so there’s no way I could have escaped without an explanation.  My convictions hadn’t always worked, though.  Late at night, when rainstorms or racing thoughts were keeping me awake, my mind would wander and I would think about what things would be like if Harry saw in me what I saw in him.  The way our bodies would move together and the way I would feel.

Never in my midnight wonderings had I considered that I might feel guilty.  In my idyllic thoughts, I had imagined that things would have just clicked together.  That Harry would have realized that he was in love with me before we even got as far as taking off my pants.  That it would be slow, sensual sex full of understanding about the strong feelings between us.  I had imagined feeling treasured in a way I had never experienced before.

That was about as far from reality as I could get and part of me felt like a naive thirteen year old who had just discovered smut and was reading it with a blush on her face in the darkness of the computer room after everyone had gone to sleep.  To make it worse, I couldn’t shake the uneasiness about Harry’s current mental state.  He has been improving, but he’s still not in what I’d consider a good state of mind.  My dreams unconventionally coming true or not, I felt like I had taken advantage of him.

And it was definitely hard to not attach emotions to what happened when he had all but forced me to sleep in the same bed as him last night.  Waking up with him all over me wasn’t helping anything, either.  The conflicting feelings of guilt over potentially taking advantage of him but also really enjoying having him this close to me were enough to make me seasick.

It was going to have to come to an end soon, though.  I needed to get up and ready for work.  Glancing at the clock, I knew I had overslept by about fifteen minutes in the absence of my alarm.  I should be able to get ready on time if I hurried, especially since I had showered yesterday, but that all hinged on me getting out from under Harry’s lightly snoring body.

Just as I’m trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to shift him off of me so I can get ready for work, he rolls onto his back of his own volition, leaving me free and feeling oddly empty.  “Did you oversleep?” he asks groggily, his voice husky with sleep and almost enough to keep me from rolling out of bed-- almost. 

“Yeah, but not by too much,” I assure him.  As I stand up I wince at that “I had sex for the first time in nine months” ache between my legs.  I try to cover it up by stretching, but I see Harry’s brows furrow from the corner of my eye.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, sounding a thousand times more alert and concerned than he did a few moments ago.

I shrug noncommittally in response.  “I’ll be fine.  Just a little stiff is all.”

There was still a frown on his face.  “I shouldn’t have been so rough,” he sighed.  He reached out and his fingers brushed against my arm, leaving a trail of heat on my skin. “Does your head hurt?  I know it was bouncing off the wall at one point.  Do you need an aspirin or something?”

Why does he always choose when I want to ignore something to be very aware of things having to do with me?  “I’m fine, Harry.  I’m just a little out of practice is all.  I won’t even be able to notice by the time I get to work.”

His eyes widened and he sounded shocked as he asked, “Wait, how long has it been?!”

“Harry.”

“You and what’s his face broke up like six months ago.  You haven’t been…?”

“Harry.”

He huffed and lifted himself up to follow me out of the room as I made my way to the closet in the guest room.  He watched from the door as I started getting dressed, still frowning.  “You should take a day off,” he tells me as I work at tucking my blouse into my skirt.  “You’ve worked every day since you got here, even the weekend, you said so yourself a few days ago.  You’re working too hard.”

I snorted out a laugh at that.  “There’s the pot calling the kettle black.”  His look turns to one of confusion and I sigh.  “Harry, you are the king of overworking yourself.  I don’t think you’ve ever kept a normal schedule in your life.  As soon as you could start working, you started overdoing things.”

“That doesn’t mean that you aren’t allowed to take care of yourself.  It’s just one day, Meredith.”

“Yes, it’s only one day but I’m not here for much longer.  One day is a quarter of the amount of time I’m still here to work on this project.”

Harry winced but quickly recovered.  “I know you’re only here for a few more days but you already know that someone else is going to have to take over once you leave.  What’s one more day of work for them?”

It felt like we were back in school and Harry was trying to talk me into leaving a project to come hang out with him since it wasn’t due the next day.  The more things change the more they stay the same and just like when I was fifteen, it was very hard to turn him down on the offer.  “Not today, Harry, I’m sorry.  Maybe I’ll take Friday off so I can relax before I fly home.”

The truth was that I wanted to crawl back into that bed and drag him with me to do unspeakable things with him for the next few hours.  Even if I had thought he would want to I knew he wouldn’t out of concern for my “pain.”  Furthermore, I knew things needed to drastically swerve in a different direction if I was going to protect my dumb heart.

Harry trailed after me as I finished getting ready and packed my lunch.  As I looked around for my keys (I hadn’t realized that things got so scattered last night) I felt hands grab my shoulders.  I looked up and Harry released one hand to dangle my keys in the air before tucking them into my purse.  His hand went back to my shoulder before he kissed my forehead softly and said, “Have a good day, Meredith.  Try to talk that slave driver boss of yours into letting you have Friday off, ok?”

“Ok,” I replied numbly as he smiled at me like there was nothing weird going on at all.  As I watched him walk into the main part of the house, I swore under my breath.  It was going to be difficult to guard my heart and keep in mind that his was just shattered into a million pieces if he kept acting like that.

---

When I got back from work, I was met with Harry standing in open refrigerator, poking at a ziplock bag full of liquid.  “Anne told me that you were never the type for random science experiments,” I commented as I leaned against the kitchen counter.

He chuckled and replied, “It’s not a science experiment, it’s dinner.”  Glancing around, I saw the evidence that he had, in fact, been out to the shops to buy groceries.  I was pleased to note that it wasn’t just shitty breakfast cereal, either.  “I’m marinating chicken for dinner.  You’ve done all the cooking, so I’m the chef tonight.”

Actually cooking real food was a huge step.  I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders-- I’d feel better about leaving if I knew he was at least back to cooking like a normal person again.  Peeking over his shoulder, I raised my eyebrow.  “That’s an awful lot of chicken for just the two of us, Harry.”

He got a look on his face like a child who had done something they knew was out of character and was going to get more attention than they were comfortable with.  “I talked to Jeff and Glenne earlier.”

“Oh?  How are they?”  I had talked to Jeff earlier, too.  A few days ago, actually.  Harry ignoring even him was a rarity, beyond just their professional relationship.  He knew I was here with Harry and had reached out knowing that at the least I would talk to him and let him know how Harry was doing.

“They’re good, they’re good.  They’re, uh… They’re in town.”  I nodded and made a small comment about how that was nice.  He cleared his throat and said, “I, uh… I invited them over for dinner.”

A grin spread across my cheeks, though I managed to reign in the dance party I wanted to break out into.  “That’s great, Harry!”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable as he closed the refrigerator door.  “Yeah, I guess.  It seemed like the least I could do since I haven’t answered his phone calls in ages.  They seemed pretty worried.  He wanted to meet out at a restaurant, but that sounded like the worst idea, so I invited them over here.”

“Why not a restaurant?” I asked, sliding onto a barstool so I could watch him putter around the kitchen.  I no longer fear for my life when he cooks, unlike when we were teenagers.  Just a few years ago I would have been hovering over him to make sure he didn’t accidentally misread the teaspoon abbreviation as tablespoon or mistake rat poison for salt.

Harry made a face, his eyes intent on his recipe.  “If they see me, Jeff, and you at a restaurant they’re going to think that I’m signing some kind of contract for PR with you.”  His green eyes flicked up to meet mine with intensity.  “That’s not what this is.  I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

My breath caught in my throat and I nearly fell off the stool.  There was something more to what happened last night-- he’d practically said it out loud.  While my mind raced, Harry continued, his eyes back on the recipe.  “There’s still too much attention to be gained from eating in public like that.  We won’t get a moment’s peace, so I thought it would be better if Jeff and Glenne ate here.  It’ll be easier to talk.”

I nodded, shaking my mind free from frivolous details-- getting Harry social again was more important than piecing together the puzzle from the past 24 hours.  “I can make myself scarce if you want me to,” I offered.  “So you can spend time with the two of them by yourself.”

Harry looked at me again, this time in a panic.  “No!” he said, urgency in his voice.  “Please don’t leave, I planned on having you here!”

Wrinkling my eyebrows together, I replied, “Harry, Jeff and Glenne have been your friends for years.”

“Yeah, but Jeff is going to want to talk about… things.  Things to do with Kayla and why I’ve been off the grid for so long.  I want you here so I have someone on my side that doesn’t care about the business side of things.”

“He’s your friend, Harry.  He cares about you.”

With a sigh, Harry made his way around the counter and sat beside me.  “He’s my friend, which means he’ll understand better, but he’s also going to have business in mind.  It’s almost impossible to detach the two when you’re going through a public breakup with someone who is also very much in the public’s eye.  He’s going to want a gameplan for how to deal with questions and possible statements from her team and…”

I could tell it was overwhelming him already so I reached over and squeezed his hand comfortingly.  I was surprised when he pulled our intertwined hands closer to him, but I couldn’t ignore the little flutter in my chest.  “Alright, I’ll be here.  Between me and Glenne we should be able to keep him from forgetting that you’re a human.”

Harry lifted my hand and kissed the back of it softly which hindered my ability to breathe once again.  “I know you will, Meredith.  Thank you.”

---

I had just finished changing into something a little more comfortable when the doorbell rang. I could hear the commotion of people walking inside as I headed down the hallway, the familiar sounds of two of Harry’s closest friends greeting him. “I was about to issue a missing person's report,” Jeff was saying.

“You hadn't even come here to check on me, no you weren't,” Harry replied as I stepped around the corner and saw him hugging Glenne.

Jeff had his best impersonation of a critical face on. I knew he was being serious, but I always thought he was trying just a little too hard to be stern when it came to Harry; like he was trying to channel someone with more authority. “I came by twice. You didn't answer. If I hadn't gotten ahold of Meredith I was going to have to call the police.  Speaking of, is she still here?”

I stepped further into the entryway, blushing at the thought of what he would have walked into had he come over yesterday. “Yeah, I'm still here, Jeffrey.”  His look told me that he was happy the reasonable one had shown up. Once I had hugged the two guests, I asked, “Didn't Harry give you a key?”

Harry was suddenly finding the stand with the keys to be very interesting as Jeff said, “No. Did he give you a key?”  When I nodded, Jeff rounded on Harry. “She doesn't even live here, Harry. What if there had been a real problem? You should have given someone…”

Glenne chose that moment to loop an arm through mine and steer me out of the hall. “Let's just leave him to it for now. He's been worried sick.”  She sniffed at the air as we rounded into the kitchen and asked, “What's for dinner? It smells amazing!”

I shrugged, extracting my arm from hers as I moved over to the stove. “I have no idea. Harry’s cooking tonight. Looks good though, doesn't it?”

We slipped into polite conversation for several minutes while we heard the muffled sounds of Jeff voicing his displeasure at how Harry had been acting for the past few weeks.  I was about to suggest we go separate them when they joined us in the kitchen.  My face blushed bright red as Harry moved to stand next to me, his hand sliding onto my lower back.  Jeff missed it but Glenne didn’t.  I stepped away, recovering by asking if any of them wanted wine while we waited for dinner to finish.

The small touches.  How long had I been waiting for just this?  How many times had I imagined it being me that Harry gravitated towards and touched casually at parties or when friends were over?  The answer is far too long and now that it’s happened it feels wrong and embarrassing.  It occurs to me that I’m over thinking things, but it feels like everything is out of order.

I can feel Glenne’s eyes on the two of us we all congregate in the kitchen, wine in hand, and Harry’s free arm resting on the counter behind me, visibly pressed against my back.  I know she’s as aware as I am when his hand grazes against mine just a little longer than necessary as I help him set the table.  It’s equal parts thrilling and devastating.  On one hand, the way his thigh brushes against mine as he gets settled at the table next to me is exhilarating because he’s acting this way around friends. On the other hand, it’s terrifying because what if it’s all in my head?  What if he’s just being Harry and I’m reading too far into it?  It wouldn’t be the first time a girl miscalculated his intentions.  Days earlier the small touches had seemed as casual as they always had, but today they just seemed to be more and I couldn’t explain it.

It’s not long before our attention is drawn to something else, though.  “Why did you disappear, anyway?” Jeff asked out of the blue.  Immediately Harry tensed up, pulling the arm that had been lightly touching mine away.  “It’s not because of that crap with Kayla, is it?”

When Harry didn’t respond, he demanded, “Is it?  It was a breakup, Harry.  You’ve had plenty of them.”

“It was different…”

“How was this one so different?  It’s been a bit of a nightmare, with you missing engagements and not answering emails.”

The thing with Jeff is that he’s not just Harry’s manager, but one of his best friends.  They work well together, but sometimes the line blurs and it’s hard to know where it’s appropriate to step in.  On any normal day, the answer would be never.  Harry’s an adult but today it was clear that some of Jeff’s personal concern was bleeding into the business part of it.

I was about to say something when Harry replied, “She cheated on me, you dolt.  Kayla cheated on me, what do you want from me?”

Jeff looks taken aback for a moment, and I can tell he didn’t believe the tabloids any more than I had, but that doesn’t hold him off for long.  “And that sucks, Harry, but that doesn’t mean you can just disappear for a month and pretend like there aren’t real life consequences for it.”

“I never said there weren’t, Jeffrey.  I just needed space.  Time to think.”

“Well, you’ve had that,” Jeff responds.  “So, how are we going to handle it?”

“What do you mean?” Glenne asks.

Jeff shakes his head, like he’s the only one at the table that cares anything about business at all.  “Are we going to release a counter article?  How are we going to respond to these questions when they come up?  We definitely need to get you out of the house and seen…”

Harry was shaking his head.  “No. I’m not ready for that, yet.”

He was met with rolling eyes.  “You’ve had weeks to get it together, Harry.”

“Jeffrey,” I interject, cutting them off before either of them makes it worse.  “I know you mean well, but you’re coming at this from a complete business angle.  Think about it as a friend would.  Like you never became Harry’s manager.”

“But I am…”

“Jeff,” Glenne interrupted smoothly.  “This is Harry we’re talking about.  It’s not like him to share personal information, anyway.  No one will think it’s odd if he just never mentions it.  Tell interviewers not to ask him about Kayla and everything will be fine.  There’s plenty of blacklisted hot topics, it’s not like this one will be the glaring exception.”

He grumbled something and went back to stabbing at his food.  I knew this was just his weird way of showing how worried he had been, but he wasn’t my main concern.  Harry is, and I could tell he wasn’t happy with the way the line of questioning had gone.  Things are awkward for a few minutes before Glenne asks, “So, Meredith, how long are you planning on staying here?”

I shrug softly and I can sense Harry droop more, like he doesn’t want to think about me leaving so soon.  “I was originally supposed to leave in a couple of days, but I talked to my boss today.  He offered me an extension, and I’ve decided to take it.”  I definitely don’t mistake Harry perking up next to me at those words.  “I don’t know where I’ll be staying, since it’s looking like it’s going to be a couple of months, but I’ll be close.”

Slowly, things thawed between Harry and Jeff again, enough that I wasn’t concerned when Glenne asked if I wanted to see the new coat she had bought, claiming that she thought it would be a good color on me.  I followed her out to the car and ran my hands over the material casually, agreeing that it would be a good color on me.

“How long are you planning on staying with Harry?” she asked just as casually, but my defenses threw themselves back up in the air.

I shrugged again.  “I honestly don’t know.  Probably not too much longer.  I’m looking for temporary leases in the city, closer to the office since I’ll be here for so long.”

“That’s good.”  I raised an eyebrow at her and it was her turn to shrug.  “I don’t know, Meredith.  I know you two are best friends it’s just…”  When I didn’t say anything, she shook her head and sighed.  “He’s an adult, Meredith.  He needs to take care of himself.  I don’t think he’ll heal if you’re here making sure he’s never uncomfortable.”

I glared at my shoes, angry at everyone’s opinions over me doing something kind and human and normal for Harry.  Angry at everyone acting like this was something that it wasn’t.  “So you think I should have just let Jeff bully him into something he wasn’t ready for?  You didn’t seem keen on the plan, either.”

She didn’t budge, though.  “I wasn’t happy with it, but Harry could have stood up for himself.  You know how needy he can be, Meredith.  He’s like a baby bird… He has to learn to fend for himself.”

“He just needs more time.”

I was saved from her next response by both Harry and Jeff, holding Glenne’s purse, joining us.  Jeff explained that they had somewhere else to be so we said our goodbyes and watched them leave.  I could feel the collective weight leave mine and Harry’s shoulders as they pulled out of the driveway.  Even so, I felt like it had been good for him to be around people besides me, even for a little while.

“So, you extended your job?” Harry asked as he held the door open for me.

I blushed, “Yeah, but you don’t have to worry about playing host forever.  I’m looking for a place in the city, so you can get your home back.”  I didn’t add that Glenne’s words were getting to me, he didn’t need to know.  Dad and Anne were easy to brush off, I knew Harry wasn’t using me, but part of me was terrified that I was crippling him.  That my inner desperation for him to see me as more than just his best friend was causing me to encourage him to rely on me.

Harry’s breathtaking smile shattered that concern in a heartbeat.  “Don’t be silly, Meredith,” he said, pulling me into a tight hug.  I breathed in the scent that was all Harry as he continued, “You are always welcome here.  Stay as long as you’d like.”  I was confused, but there was time to worry about that later. Right now, all that mattered was that Harry was slowly but surely turning back into himself.

Master List

Chapter 5

[newyorktheater]

Just a couple of plays are opening on Broadway this month — “Choir Boy,” and “True West” — and a handful Off-Broadway, but January is one of the most robust months for theater in New York, thanks in large measure to the January theater festivals.

Together these festivals offer more than 100 shows; most are experimental, often hybrids that redefine what theater is, and are difficult to describe; many run for only one or two performances Below is a selective list of Broadway, Off-Broadway, Off-Off Broadway and festival offerings in January, organized chronologically by opening date (or, for a festival show and some Off-Off Broadway, the first performance), with each title linked to a relevant website. Color key: Broadway: Red. Off Broadway: Black or Blue.. Off Off Broadway: Green. January theater festival: Orange. Immersive: Magenta Below that, links to the home pages of five of the festivals. (I’ve created the immersive category more as incentive for the adventurous rather than a warning, although such a show often means lots of standing, and some unusual interaction that some might find uncomfortable.)

January 2

Baba Brinkman’s Rap Guide to Consciousness (Soho Playhouse)

This latest piece by “Peer reviewed rapper” illuminates the neuroscience of human experience, from sensations to hallucinations. I’ve seen his rap guides to religion and to climate chaos; they were packed with information.

January 3

HEAR WORD! Naija Woman Talk True (Under the Radar) The show celebrates women who have broken the culture of silence, challenged the status quo, and moved beyond barriers to achieve solutions.

Manual Cinema’s Frankenstein (Under the Radar) The gothic classic, combine with a biography of its author Mary Shelley, told through the company’s signature handmade shadow puppetry, and makeshift cinematic techniques

Nature and Purpose (Soho Playhouse)

Two shows focusing on the abstract expressionist ​Jackson Pollock and the controversial performance artist ​Chris Burden​.

January 4

Tania El Khoury

Tania El Khoury’s As Far As My Fingers Take Me (Under the Radar) immersive

An encounter through a gallery wall between a refugee and one audience member at a time. The refugee will mark the audience member’s arm by drawing on it.

[50/50] old school animation (Under the Radar)

A ghost story that “flirts with the horrific and dips into the surreal. “

The Cold Record (Under the Radar) immersive A one-man show from the Rude Mechs. “The story of a 12-year old boy who tries to set the record for leaving school the most days with a fever and in the process falls in love with the school nurse and breaks his heart on the punk rock.”

Minor Character (Under the Radar) This kaleidoscopic adaptation of Uncle Vanya collages a century’s worth of English translations into one sprawling, intimate, quietly disastrous evening.

Dueted: What Holds Head (Exponential Festival) immersive  A site-specific, interactive performance on intimacy, fidelity, and desire, comprised of a sequence of one-on-one experiences between a single attendee and a performer.

January 5

Pancho Villa from a Safe Distance (Prototype)

A bilingual cross-border multimedia opera about the enigmatic general, legendary bandit, and hero of the Mexican Revolution. Created by Austin, TX based composer Graham Reynolds, librettists Lagartijas Tiradas al Sol of Mexico City, director Shawn Sides of Rude Mech, two vocalists and six instrumentalists.

4.48 Psychosis (Prototype)

Philip Venable’s operatic adaptation of Sarah Kane’s final play, with 28 fragmented episodes to reveal an individual’s struggle to come to terms with their own psychosis. A production from the Royal Opera.

Real (The Tank)  This play by Brazilian playwright Rodrigo Nogueira, tells two stories that eventually intertwine of two people living in New York 85 years apart — a working mother in 2019 who takes up an instrument she used to play and reassesses her life, and a gay immigrant composer in 1934 who in the process of writing a fugue starts to feel he’s meant to live somebody else’s life.

Ink (Under the Radar)

A mash-up of an art history lecture, personal essay, and electronic music concert, this piece is a love letter to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where it is performed

January 6

prism (Prototype)

Opera-Theater composed by Ellen Reid about a traumatized mother and daughter who attempt to escape the past by retreating into a single room.

January 7

Blue Ridge (Atlantic) In this play by Abby Rosebrock set in Southern Appalachia, Marin Ireland portrays a progressive high-school teacher with a rage problem retaliates against her unscrupulous boss and is sentenced to six months at a church-sponsored halfway house, where she attends to everyone’s recovery but her own.

January 8

Choir Boy (MTC’s Samuel Friedman)  Written by Tarell Alvin McCraney (best known for the Oscar-winning movie “Moonlight”) and transferring from MTC’s Off-Broadway theater: For half a century, the Charles R. Drew Prep School for Boys has been dedicated to the education of strong, ethical black men. Jeremy Pope reprises the role he had in the Off-Broadway production as a gay youth whose appointment as head of the school’s legendary gospel choir sparks tension.

January 9

This Bridge Called My Ass (American Realness)

Six Latinx performers – Alvaro Gonzalez, John Gutierrez, Miguel Gutierrez, Xandra Ibarra, Nibia Pastrana Santiago, and Evelyn Sanchez Narvaez – map an elusive choreography of obsessive and perverse action within an unstable terrain of bodies, materials and sound….Clichéd Latin-American songs and the form of the telenovela are exploited to show how familiar structures contain absurdity that reveal and celebrate difference.

Evolution of a Sonero (Under the Radar)

The first full-length show by poet, singer, and actor Flaco Navaja, original member of the Universes and Def Poetry Jam cast

January 10

Chambre Noire (Under the Radar)

Life-sized puppets, broken songs and video-projections come together to illuminate the hallucinatory final moments of Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol

Wendell & Pan (The Tank)  A play by Katelynn Kenney. Life’s hard when you’re 11, your only friend is the ghost of your 12-year-old dead aunt, your sister wishes she could be on the other side of her cellphone, your parents make every room frigid, and your sick grandpa wants you to kill him.

January 11

Minefield (Under The Radar) Combining theater and film, Lola Arias brings together British and Argentinian veterans of the Falkland Islands/Islas Malvinas war to share their first-hand experience of the conflict and life since.

January 15

Mortality Machine (Sinking Ship Creations at Wildrence) immersive This live-action roleplay makes each theatergoer the protagonist of the story, assigned an identity as a surviving family member of one of the five people who died in an illegal medical experiment five years earlier. The survivors have now gained access to the laboratory, and through interaction with “peculiar individuals who’ll help you tell your tale using dance and movement.

January 17

Behind the Sheet (EST)

Playwright Charly Evon Simpson confronts the history of a great medical breakthrough by telling the forgotten story of a community of enslaved black women who involuntarily enabled the discovery. In 1840s Alabama, Philomena assists a doctor – her owner – as he performs experimental surgeries on her fellow slave women, trying to find a treatment for the painful post-childbirth complications known as fistulas.

January 23

A Man for All Seasons (FPA at Theater Row)

A revival of the 1961 play by Robert Bolt: “As Sir Thomas More refuses to recognize Henry VIII’s divorce and ascendancy as Supreme Head of the new Church of England, A Man for All Seasons reveals the risk of speaking truth to power and the clash that follows when fierce political will collides with deep moral conviction.”

January 24

True West (Roundabout’s American Airlines) Ethan Hawke stars opposite Paul Dano in a revival of Sam Shepard’s play about the clash between two brothers.

10th Annual 10-Minute Play Program (The Fire This Time)

January 28

Banigold II (Exponential)

“This hybrid puppet-video performance lazily examines stoic philosophy and is live scored by Lucy Hollier & co. with original animations from Unimercial Studios.” One of five short works presented together as part of Exponential Variety 2 at The Glove experimental art space in Bushwick.

January 29

God Said This (Primary Stages at Cherry Lane) An award-winning play by Leah Nanako Winkler about five Kentuckians facing mortality in very different ways. “With her mom undergoing chemotherapy, Hiro, a NYC transplant, returns home to Kentucky after years away, struggling to let go of the demons she inherited.”

January Theater Festivals

For a complete list of Theater Festival offerings, check them out individually

Under the Radar January 3 – 13

The Public Theater’s festival is the oldest (at 15) and largest, and tilts towards international productions.

American Realness January 4 – 13 “Fifty-nine performances of sixteen performance works from seventeen artists over ten days at twelve venues in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens and The Bronx.“ It’s primarily dance.

Exponential Festival January 4 – February 3

Spread out over nine venues in Brooklyn, the festival is “dedicated to New York City-based emerging artists working in experimental performance.”

Prototype January 5 – 13

In its seventh season, it is presenting 12 works of opera-theater

The Fire This Time Festival January 21 – February 2

The festival marks its tenth year of providing “rising playwrights of African and African American descent a platform to write and develop new work.”

January 2019 New York Theater Openings: 2 on Broadway, 100 in January Theater Festivals Just a couple of plays are opening on Broadway this month -- "Choir Boy," and "True West" -- and a handful Off-Broadway, but January is one of the most robust months for theater in New York, thanks in large measure to the January theater festivals.

[sarahburness]

The Power of Waiting (When You Don’t Know What to Do)

“Waiting is not mere empty hoping. It has the inner certainty of reaching the goal.” ~I Ching 

Waiting has a bad rap in modern Western society. It’s not surprising that I had to look to an ancient Chinese text (the I Ching) in order to find a suitable quote to begin this article. We don’t like to wait! It’s far easier to find quotes on the Internet about “seizing the day” and making something happen.

I’ve been an impatient person for much of my life. I wanted things to happen to me! I had a definite agenda in my twenties: finish college, start my career, get married, and have a family. So I declared a major and started knocking off my goals. When it was “time” to get married, I picked the most suitable person available and got on with it.

I really didn’t know much about waiting. I thought it was something you did if you didn’t have courage or conviction. It was just an excuse not to take action. I know better now.

What I’ve learned since then is that waiting is one of the most powerful tools we have for creating the life we want.  

The ego, or mind, is very uncomfortable with waiting. This is the part of you that fairly screams, “Do something! Anything is better than nothing!” And, because we are a very ego-driven society, you’ll find plenty of external voices that back up that message.

The mind hates uncertainty, and would rather make a mistake than simply live in a state of “not knowing” while the right course unfolds.

There’s a term I love that describes this place of uncertainty: liminal. A liminal space is at the border or threshold between possibilities. It’s a place of pure potential: we could go any direction from here. There are no bright lights and obvious signs saying “Walk this way.”

Liminal spaces can be deeply uncomfortable, and most of us tend to rush through them as quickly as possible.

If we can slow down instead, the landscape gradually becomes clearer, the way it does when your eyes adjust to a darkened room. We start to use all of our senses. The ego wants a brightly lit super-highway to the future, but real life is more like a maze. We take one or two steps in a certain direction, and then face another turning point. Making our way forward requires an entirely different set of skills, and waiting is one of the most important!

There’s a proper timing to all things, and it’s often not the timing we want (now—or maybe even yesterday). There are things that happen on a subconscious level, in ourselves and in others, that prepare us for the next step. Oddly, when the time to act does come, there’s often a sense of inevitability about it, as if it was always meant to be this way.

Look back over your life and you’ll see this pattern. First, look at the decisions that you forced: how did those turn out? Then look for times when you just “knew” what to do, without even thinking about it. What happened then?

The key to the second kind of decision is waiting for that deep sense of inner knowing.

That doesn’t mean you’re certain that everything will turn out exactly the way you want it. Or that you don’t feel fear. But there is a sense of “yes, now’s the time” in your body that I liken to the urge that migratory birds get when it’s time to leave town. They don’t stand around debating whether to go, consulting maps and calendars. They just go when the time is right.

We’re animals too—we have and can cultivate that inner sensitiveness that lets us simply know what to do when the time is right. But to do that we have to unhook from the mind. Thinking is useful up to a point, but we usually take it far beyond the point of usefulness!

We go over and over various options, trying to predict the future based solely on our hopes and fears.

We talk endlessly with others about what we should do, hoping that they have the answers for us (and, ideally, trying to get everyone to agree).

We think about what we “should” do, based on any number of external measures: common sense, morality, religion, family values, finances, and so on.

And then usually we add this all up and just take our best shot.

A better way is to take stock of what you know (and, even more importantly, what you don’t know) and then… wait.

If there’s some action that calls to you, even if it’s seemingly unrelated to the question at hand, do it! Then wait again for another urge to move. Wait actively rather than passively. That means: keep your inner senses tuned to urges or intuitions. Expect that an answer will come. As the I Ching says, wait with the “inner certainty of reaching the goal.”

This is not the same kind of dithering and procrastination that come when we want to try something new but are afraid to step out into the unknown. If your intuition is pulling you in a certain direction and your mind is screaming at you to “Stop!” by all means ignore your mind.

There’s a subtle but very real difference between the feeling of fear (which holds you back from doing something you long to do) and misgivings (which warn you that a decision that looks good on the surface is not right for you).

In both cases, look for and trust that deep sense of inner knowing, even if your thoughts are telling you different. A friend once told me that her father’s best piece of advice to her was: “Deciding to get married should be the easiest decision of your life.” How I wish I had known that when I made my own (highly ambivalent) decision!

My head was telling me that this was the sensible thing to do, and he was a good man. My gut, however, was far from on board. I still vividly recall the many inward debates I held about whether to marry him, and even the dreams I had that revealed my inner reluctance. Unfortunately, I went with my thoughts over my instincts.

Now I know this: If you have to talk yourself into something, try waiting instead. More will be revealed, if you give it some time.

Ignore that voice in your head that says you need to make a decision now. Don’t rush through life. Linger in the liminal spaces and see what becomes clear as you sit with uncertainty. Learn to trust your gut more than your head. Have faith that the right course will unfold at the perfect time. And then, when the time comes, just do it, as simply and naturally as the birds take flight.

About Amaya Pryce

Amaya Pryce is a spiritual coach and writer living in the Pacific Northwest. Her books, 5 Simple Practices for a Lifetime of Joy and How to Grow Your Soul are available on Amazon. For coaching or to follow her blog, please visit www.amayapryce.com.

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from Tiny Buddha https://tinybuddha.com/blog/the-power-of-waiting-when-you-dont-know-what-to-do/

[its-just-like-the-movies]

Hustle & Flow (05, A-)

What film has everyone experienced recently where you walked in with positive expectations, only to have them surpassed on pretty much every level? For me that film was Hustle & Flow, the best film about a difficult musician to come out of 2005. No, this is not just a blatant dig at Walk the Line, which I found to be solidly made and amazingly stogy (though it partially is that). On its own terms and in comparison to those basic musician biopic tendencies, Hustle & Flow succeeds remarkably at digging into the world and wants of its characters, of what music means for them on a personal level and what they hope it will do for them. Specifically, it’s what DJay wants to achieve by becoming a professional rapper, and how his ambition festers into those of his collaborators. It’s hard not to think of a character in the film that isn’t sucked into the vortex of DJay’s charismatic ambition except the few who violently reject it, and who he fights back in response. Even if I expected to enjoy the film walking in, expected to enjoy the work of Terrence Howard, Taraji P. Henson, and Three Six Mafia’s miraculously Oscar-winning songwork, I didn’t expect Hustle & Flow to hit me as hard as it did, digging deeper and more comfortably into a seedier character than I had expected while still giving rounded portraits of him and the people in his orbit. I didn’t expect the film to be as earnest as it was about DJay’s dreams, his anxieties, and for everything I liked about it to be handled even more dexterously than it was. In short, I expected everything to be good, but I didn’t expect it to be this fantastic.

My very first sign that I was in for something wonderful came within seconds, as DJay tells a character we can’t see about the profound difference between mankind and dogs. It’s a killer monologue in itself, the power of it heightened by Terrence Howard’s performance of that speech, the intensity of his delivery and of his gaze at whoever he’s talking to, and the slow pan from his mouth that reveals we are inside a crappy car. I’ve never seen a black character so visibly operating on a low income saying something so weighty, let alone at the opening of the film, and not without something taking the piss out of it right after. Instead, we cut to the person he’s talking to, and find her to be in serious consideration of his ultimate question - What do you wanna do with your life, and what will you do to get it? This woman is a prostitute, played in blonde mini-braids by Orange is the New Black’s Taryn Manning, and her ruminations on that question are muddled both by DJay’s actual designs in asking the question - trying to make her more confident about working the streets - and that he cuts her off before she can think of an actual answer as a car pulls in next to theirs, and Manning’s Nola hops out of the car to take care of him.

From here we are slowly and surely introduced to the people that surround DJay and will end up assisting him as he tries to put his mixtape together. The impetus behind it, to burn a tape in time for the Fourth of July party in celebration of underground local turned platinum-album rapper Skinny Black that DJay at best kind of knows but has never met, would smack of Obviously Sad Pipe Dream, if not for how seriously and sincerely it’s handled on every side. The commitment from every contributor is palpable, and everyone involved brings their own reason for wanting to help DJay make this tape, as much for themselves as it is for him. Old school friend Key sees this as a way to make it big, get a real recording studio, and move beyond recording gospel albums and court depositions. Nola still can’t quite figure out what she wants but knows enough that she doesn’t want the life she has. Even if DJay doesn’t know Skinny Black, he’s as confident about his ability to hustle him as he is in his ability to use his music, his prostitutes, his allies, to get what he wants. We see his seriousness not just in how he commits himself to his music, but the way he removes obstacles in the way of that ambition. Neighbors are bribed, expensive equipment is exchanged for the women in DJay’s employ, two people are kicked out of his house after one belittles his ambition as a rapper and a hustler (the other can do nothing but watch and leave). His truest ally is the sweet, anxious, heavy pregnant Shug, happy to help in whatever way she can. The giving of a gift to DJay, Key, and sound-mixer Shelby is the most validating encouragement DJay receives the whole film, and one he rewards in kind soon after. In fact, Hustle & Flow is generous enough to let most of its characters end the film at a better place than where they started it, even if it’s not near the place they were expecting to finish.

Still, the most interesting steps taken in validating DJay’s ambitions is the construction of his character and his paragon ideas about Skinny Black and his tale of success. Black’s beginnings as an underground rapper whose tapes lit up Memphis inspires DJay to no end, believing their mutual talents would make them kindred spirits while nevertheless projecting a love and loyalty to Memphis onto Black that he has no way to corroborate from Black until the party. The casting of Ludacris legitimizes Black as a genuine success, but that doesn’t change the fact that everything DJay is hoping he will be is reliant on his own ideas about the man and what he can do to get his way. More interestingly, DJay’s admiration of Black’s road to success in no way leads to him considering taking the same path to break out. Yes, he wants to be on the radio, but his first and only presumed stop is to put that cassette tape in Skinny Black’s hand however he can, fully trusting Black will listen to it, and piggybacking a rise to fame off Black’s endorsement of his track. Repeatedly in the script, DJay is confronted by characters who fear he’ll use them or know he already has in order to get what he wants, and the biggest success writer/director Craig Brewer and Terrence Howard pull over us is how fully this remains true even as we’re shown DJay’s talent in the recording studio. The man is a talented rapper, but Howard plays scenes like his introductory conversation with Nola, his promise to get Skinny Black to back the album, his actual conversation with Black, all in the same kind of seductive, charismatic key. The power and conviction of his words, no matter how effective (or not) they are on whoever he’s talking to, have the slightly hollow edge of someone who knows that, more than anything, what he’s saying is what the other person wants to hear so that they’ll do what he wants. His approach is textured differently enough depending on who he’s talking to, but we’re still able to see when he’s grasping at straws versus when he knows he’s completely in charge of the situation, able to see the suggestibility of his words without always knowing his sincerity. The way he approaches his success as a rap artist is exactly the same way he approaches his success

What’s equally impressive in Howard’s performance is that DJay maintains a genuine level of unpredictability in how he interacts with people. The earlier mentioned bribing of his neighbor, the trading of a prostitute for a piece of sound equipment, his affection towards a gift from Shug, none of these scenes start with the indication that Howard and Brewer are going to be taking them there. His long conversation with Skinny Black shifts on a dozen emotional beats, each uncomfortably tense as we try and guess what DJay is thinking, watching him strategizing to hustle Black and get him what he wants. If there’s a certain level where you know his warmest reactions are undeniably sincere (most often in his interactions with Shug), it makes his most violent responses matter all the more when he unleashes them. His abandoning of a character who verbally disparages him is upsetting on behalf of everyone in the room, and the tremors where he’s clearly struggling to captivate Black are all the more troubling because we have no idea what he’ll do if Black laughs him out of the bar. It’s almost too easy to compare this to Walk the Line, but what Howard’s hypnotically charismatic, ambitious, and abusive performance does is put Hustle & Flow only a stone’s throw away from Synecdoche, New York, another film about a self-absorbed artist whose ambition is constantly threatening to collapse not just his life but an ever-growing cabal of supporters and collaborators who’ve thrown their lot in with him. We learn about DJay with every interaction he has, each one artfully weaving together a full portrait of the man inside a lowkey, charismatic interpretation by Terrence Howard that elevated the whole project for me.

And yet, like the best leading performances, his interpretation is generous enough to let other characters refract off him as much as they refract onto him, finding room for his castmates to shine in a film that nevertheless is completely in his headspace. The good-dude qualities and unearthed ambitions of Anthony Anderson’s Key are as palpable as the questioning loyalties of Taryn Manning’s Nola. DJ Qualls stoner sound-mixer Shelby registers as convincingly as Paula Jai Parker’s fed-up stripper, Elise Neal’s incredibly small arc as Key’s conflicted but generous wife, and Ludacris’s egotistical but seemingly receptive take on Skinny Black. Taraji P. Henson, a million miles away from her cat-glamour persona as the sweaty, genteel, unsure of herself Shug, does wonders in putting forward her essential goodness and decency, second only to Amy Adams’ Junebug that same year in a similar kind of part. Henson’s delicate work as Shug gives the film a tender center it at times seems inhospitable to, and does astonishing work in a long sequence where she is coached into singing the hook of one of DJay’s tracks, giving a memorably awed response to hearing how it’s been mixed into the track. Perhaps even better is her giddy enthusiasm when giving him gifts at two different points in the film, once leaving before she has a chance to respond, the other time delighted and overjoyed by his response.

If anything, Three Six Mafia gives Brewer and Howard even more support with their songs, deeply specific to DJay’s homemade rhymes and the autobiographical qualities of his lyrics. They’re the songs he for sure would write about himself, and the staging of them firmly roots the film in the world of one creating music, rather than the strange semi capital-M-musical stagings of Walk the Line. Some musical performances in that film functioned as direct commentary on the situations and relationships of the character, while others are allowed to just be performances, and on top of all that we a treated to the sight of June Carter writing Ring of Fire in direct response to witnessing another one of Johnny Cash’s meltdowns. Hustle & Flow’s are very much the creative outlet for a man writing about his own life, for better and for worse, but they’re allowed to be deeply personal and resonant while still being jams in a way that Walk the Line could never balance as deftly. The recording sessions are some of the most exuberant sequences in the whole film, bolstered by the enthusiasm of the characters and the surges of creativity and creation going on between DJay, Key, and Shelby. Egg cartons stapled to the walls are interesting visual textures and vivid signifiers of just how much DJay and his cohorts are scraping this homemade operation together from nearly nothing.

I’ve said already that Hustle & Flow leaves its characters somewhere that’s better off from where a less generous film might leave them, even if it’s not where they were initially hoping for. Still, Brewer’s smart enough to dilute the idea of just how well any character’s been left off, or what they’ve gotten out of their new lives. Nola’s go-getter, in-charge revivification still relies on her pulling the same tricks in a more business-like outfit, and probably doomed to be undone once DJay is able to step up again; Key, Shug, and Shelby are all back to the same gigs they did before, waiting for DJay to get out of limbo. DJay himself ends the film talking to two characters who have a proposition for him much like the one he gave Skinny Black, and his smirk of a response doesn’t indicate in the slightest whether or not he’ll help these men as much as Black helped him. This already on top of him giving an impassioned speech about the dreams we tell ourselves only for the ironic reveal of DJay somehow getting one step closer to achieving his, in spite of the previous ten minutes. Hustle & Flow leaves itself and its characters deliciously open-ended, signalling potential for plenty of paths for these people to follow without signalling any one, obvious road about to be taken. Then again, the film had been doing this for most of its run time, obfuscating an obvious trajectory through sheer specificity of its characters, their situation, and their performers. It’s a triumphant film, not just better than it looks at face value but stupendous on its own merit. And yet, once you start it, it’s power is undeniable. On almost every side the film delivers the best possible version of itself it can give, and damn is it a treat to savor.

[gillymg]

My Top Ten Movies 2016

Here are my top ten films of the year, though this is going from around about 2016 Oscar time to now, as last year I went Oscar to Oscar.

I saw forty-four movies in that time and only one was really terrible, an improvement on last year, though I have three other contenders to fill the bottom four. The rest were all pretty decent to excellent, and I couldn’t separate a few so have some joints in the top ten which is really a top twelve.

10 I Daniel Blake

Played well even in multiplexes, and is a story that needs to be told exposing the shameful society this (dis)United Kingdom has become.

9 (Joint) The Girl with all the Gifts and Burn, Burn, Burn

Two home-grown movies with some great performances. TGWATG more than a zombie movie and a great twist at the end throwing up some interesting moral questions. While BBB was a witty and poignant tale on love and friendship marking at long last some rebalancing in writing and directing gender (Charlie Covell / Chanya Button)

8 Nocturnal Animals

Terrific performance from Amy Adams in a classy, beautifully shot tale, expertly weaving three plot lines to reveal Amy Adams’ character.

7 Arrival

Another terrific performance from Amy Adams, surely in for a shout with the Oscars this year. Although the plot takes an unexpected turn, the central question posed by the movie leaves you thinking about it for days. It’s nothing to do with aliens and space. A terrific score from Sicario genius Jóhann Jóhannsson.

6 Mustang

A Turkish film about several daughters constrained, and eventually imprisoned for wanting to express their sexuality. Powerful, poignant and visceral, reminding me of the brilliant ‘Wadjda’ in exploration of its theme.

5 Neon Demon

After ‘Only God Forgives’ I never thought I’d be putting a Nicolas Winding Refn movie in my top ten. I wasnt't expecting Art House after a movie like ‘Drive’ but having a better sense of the Director now I had an inkling of what to expect. Anyway ‘Neon Demon’ is a brilliant exploration of ageing and death. Witty and beautifully shot, every scene is a work of art, a tableau, technicaly gorgeous. Uncomfortable, provocative at times it lingers long in the memory. Now I’m wondering whether it should be higher up the list?

4 Eye in the Sky

A great exploration of the moral dilemma to end an innocent life, to save more innocent lives. Excellent performances from Helen Mirren and Alan Rickman, and it keeps the courage of its convictions.

3 The Club (El Club)

The movie that ‘Spotlight’ should have been. The crimes of four disgraced Priests with their ‘minder’ Sister Mónica (brilliantly portrayed by Antonia Zegers), are unfurled exposing religious hypocrisy and cover up. Visceral and doesn’t pull its punches allowing us into the minds of these deeply disturbed individuals. Not a place to linger.

2 Paterson

A gentle movie, charming, witty, about a Bus-Driving poet and his slightly off the wall wife. An exploration of love at its finest. Brilliant performances from Adam Driver and Golshifteh Farahani. If only I could have a relationship like that! Maybe 2017, who knows?

1 (joint) Marguerite and Captain Fantastic

Couldn’t separate these two. Marguerite is an example of expert pace and climax. Based on the story of Florence Foster Jenkins about a woman who can’t sing but nobody has the courage to tell her. It’s set in post WWI France and has great performances by Catherine Frot and Denis Mpunga as the butler. Funny but ultimately tragic.

Captain Fantastic is just such a heart lifting movie, that despite not ending at the airport scene and tacking on what was probably a studio-induced Hollywoodish ending to make sure that deviance from the norm is not rewarded, it’s just a great story and has an emotional intensity that’s hard to resist. Throw in the best Down Dog to Crow Yoga asana that you’ll probably ever see and it makes the number one spot.

Bottom Four Movies

Now the worst four movies I’ve seen. I was going to stick to three but when reviewing the list one other came to mind.

4 Star Trek Beyond

I literally can’t remember much about this movie at all whereas the first one in this current franchise reboot was entertaining and had something to offer. So having nothing memorable to say gets it in at number four.

3 Things to Come

By rights I should have liked this movie. French, exploring themes of love and betrayal. I ended up hating the pretentious characters and couldn’t care less.

2 Everybody Wants Some

Richard Linklater the director was in the audience after the premiere at the GFT, and I guess like everyone there we were taken up by the excitement of the occasion. But on reflection the level of misogyny (unintended I’m sure) was too much to ignore. Whilst the movie is an exploration of US college culture in the eighties, after Boyhood and the Beyond Midnight series, I expected more than some exploitative tits and bums.

1 Iona

Although it pains me to say, this Scottish movie from a young Scottish Director was a real turkey. There’s nothing I can offer that mitigates that label. A terrible script, enough wooden performances to build a fleet of sailing vessels, a pretentious and daft plot, although the central premise was good. It was a series of pretentious clichés bordering on the unintentionally comic. The fault has to lie firmly and squarely with the Director. It was over-directed. At least have the wisdom to let the actors do their job. Any producer worth their salt wouldn’t have allowed it out of the cutting room, but they probably did the best they could with what they had. Cut the losses and run.